Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As far back as Corazon could remember, he’d always been painfully clumsy.

It started with his first steps—putting one foot in front of the other felt like torture. Speaking came just as hard. He had a strange reluctance to talk, so much so that his entire family feared he might be mute. Perhaps it was the stifling environment—wealthy, cold, wrapped in golden walls where silence was more acceptable than emotion. A childhood lived in a gilded cage, one that smothered both his personal growth and any chance at social ease.

Then his mother fell ill. And he, the clumsy child who had clung to her every move, kept insisting she’d get better. He believed it. Hoped for it. But reality hit him like a slap: she died. Her death shattered his world—and broke his family along with it. Things only got worse when, in a desperate attempt to save her, his father threw everything away—money, name, reputation. Until there was nothing left. Two children sent to a group home because their father was ruined and could no longer care for them.

Later came Sengoku. The man who would become his foster father. And it was through him that Rosinante learned the devastating truth: his real father had been murdered. A tragedy that made headlines. A brutal killing that left the man, once noble, to die alone and destitute. The culprit? Still unknown. But all signs pointed to his own brother—already deep in the underworld—as being somehow involved.

And that same clumsiness—always his curse—led Rosinante down a path no one expected: into the special forces. The military. Espionage. Him, the man who couldn’t even walk straight. But life’s irony didn’t stop there. That same clumsiness brought him back to the very person he should have run from: his brother, now the feared head of a global mafia, known only as Joker.

And once again, his clumsiness betrayed him. He broke cover to save a dying child. That choice—foolish, noble—brought him here: wounded, bleeding, crouched behind a snowy hangar… facing down the barrel of a gun held by the man who shared his blood.

To say Rosinante had lived a quiet life would be a lie. But he had no regrets. Not for betraying Doflamingo. Not for lying to Sengoku. And certainly not for giving Law—just a boy back then—a chance to escape.

Now, that same brother stood before him.

Rosinante knelt in the shadows of an empty warehouse, hands pressed against his bleeding side. Cold dripped through the cracked ceiling, each drop a ticking clock counting down the seconds. He’d already stopped fighting. He knew this was the end.

Footsteps echoed. Slow. Inevitable.

He didn’t need to look up.

Doflamingo.

The towering silhouette emerged under the pale neon glow. Black coat. Tinted glasses. That smile—the one that always meant disaster. In his hand, a pistol.

Rosinante’s heart froze. He had never feared death. Just not this death. Not at his hand.

The voice dropped like ice:
“You really betrayed me, Rosinante. My own brother. My blood.”

Doflamingo walked closer, each step a sentence. He knelt, his shadow swallowing Rosinante’s broken frame, and pressed the cold barrel to his forehead.

“You stole something from me,” he said quietly. “And not just that kid. You stole my loyalty. My family. You chose a stranger… over me.”

Rosinante looked up. His face was a mask of blood, but his eyes… hollow. Law was alive. That was all that mattered.
He whispered, voice barely audible:
“Kill me.”

Silence.

Then, a bitter laugh.
“You think it’s that easy?”

Doflamingo tilted his head. His grin widened, but his fingers… they trembled.
“You were all I had too, you know?” he spat, voice cracking. “And you… you picked that brat over me.”

The words struck deep. Rosinante wanted to speak. To explain. But no sound came. Only a whisper:
“He had… no one.”

The gun stayed there, unmoving, so long that Rosinante thought death had finally come. He closed his eyes. Thought of Law. Of his haunted eyes and rare, fragile laugh. Let it all be worth something.

But nothing came.

No shot.

Only a sentence, sharp as a knife:
“Dying would be too easy.”

The barrel lifted. Doflamingo stood, towering again. A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
“No… you’re going to live. You’ll live with me. You’ll watch everything I build. Watch me become king of the underworld. And you… you’ll stay chained to me. Because we share the same blood.”

Rosinante’s body slumped. He felt nothing. No anger. No hope. Just one rusted nail lodged in his mind:
Law.

Had he escaped?

Was all this pain worth it?

He prayed so.

Because to live like this—in a prison made of strings, under the mercy of a monster wearing his brother’s face—was worse than death.

“You’ve always had a talent for making things complicated, Rosi,” Doflamingo said, voice snapping like a whip.
“But not this time. This time, you’re going to be useful.”

Rosinante didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But he knew that smile—twisted, deranged—meant nothing good.

Doflamingo leaned in close. His sunglasses glinted with something cruel.
“I should’ve killed you. But you gave me an idea… and trust me, you’re going to love it.”

A low laugh rolled from his chest. Cold. Cruel.
Then the words fell like a guillotine:
“You’re getting married, Rosinante.”

Rosinante blinked. Surely he’d misheard. The wind. The blood loss. Maybe his brain had finally given up. But before he could react, his body gave out—collapsing into darkness before the full weight of those words could settle.

The fallout from Corazon’s betrayal had shattered the Donquixote Family.
But Doflamingo—ruthless tactician and self-proclaimed king of the shadows—was not one to go down quietly. He knew that if he wanted to survive the fallout and rise even higher, he needed to forge powerful alliances. Alliances made of blood and control.

And in the underworld, few names carried more weight than the Charlotte dynasty.

For decades, under the iron rule of Big Mom, the Charlotte family had built an empire masked behind the sweet smile of Totto Land—a sprawling network of bakeries, restaurants, and food industries. But behind that façade was something far more sinister:
A booming black market built on the trafficking of rare ingredients.
A money-laundering empire that ran clean through respectable storefronts.
A monopoly over trade routes that ensured global dominance in food distribution.

But Big Mom’s true weapon wasn’t sugar or steel—it was marriage.
Every union she arranged was a calculated strike, a blood pact meant to expand her influence and bury her enemies. Her children weren’t just heirs—they were sacred bargaining chips, pawns in a criminal chessboard.

She was the ultimate Donna.

At her side stood her deadliest lieutenants:
Katakuri, her unshakable right hand.
Smoothie, queen of liquid trades.
Cracker, ruler of territories.
Together, they controlled not just the underworld, but politics, ports, and power.

It was into this web that Doflamingo cast his final piece:
His own brother.

A marriage.
A vow. A golden cage that would save the Donquixote Family—and set the stage for something even greater: A coup in Dressrosa.

All at the cost of Corazon’s freedom.
_____

Big Mom had summoned the bulk of her lieutenants.
The Sweet Commanders—her most powerful children—gathered around the throne of their mother in the grand hall of the castle that served as their stronghold.

A few days earlier, an unusual conversation had taken place between Charlotte Linlin and Donquixote Doflamingo. An alliance with the most unpredictable and dangerous empress in the criminal underworld.
Under normal circumstances, Big Mom would’ve ignored such a proposition. But Doflamingo wasn’t just anyone.

The Donquixote family bore the blood of the Celestial Dragons—a rare and coveted lineage in the eyes of the aristocracy. Their wealth had once been astronomical, their lifestyle almost cult-like, entirely self-contained. The Donquixote family’s downfall had cast them out of that gilded world, but their name still held weight—respected and feared in equal measure.
And Big Mom had never had that blood in her collection.

That absence, that flaw in her empire of legacies, became an obsession the moment Doflamingo uttered the forbidden words.
He wasn’t offering himself—he was too valuable, too deeply entangled in the underworld.
He was offering his brother.
Rosinante.
A fallen noble alive.
And, most importantly… marriageable.

Big Mom understood why he was discarded—his history as a spy his betrayal. But she didn’t care. Mentioning that to her children served no purpose. She kept those details to herself.

Seduced by the chance to merge her lineage with that of a true noble, Big Mom didn’t hesitate long.
She accepted.
But she set the terms.

A wedding. A sacred union Doflamingo’s brother would marry one of her daughters and not just any obscure Charlotte. No.
Someone formidable a Sweet Commander.

Smoothie.

Her voice cut through the silence like a gavel on judgment day, leaving shock in its wake—even among the hardened members of her family: Katakuri, Perospero, Daifuku, Oven… even Amande and Cracker were caught off guard.

“Mama! Smoothie, my darling girl… it’s time for you to show a different kind of loyalty.”

Around the banquet table, the murmurs ceased.
Katakuri narrowed his eyes. He knew that tone too well.
This wasn’t a request.
It was an order from their Donna.

Smoothie, tall and still as a blade, felt a crack form inside her. She understood.
She understood everything her mother had decided to hand her over to a Donquixote.

A political marriage.
A sacrifice dressed up as duty.

Big Mom continued, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction:

“You will carry our name into the Donquixote family. A Celestial Dragon in our bloodline! No one’s ever dared to attempt that. And he’s no lapdog he’s the real deal. Pureblood.”

A poisoned murmur swept through the room.
The name Donquixote reeked of tragedy and madness Doflamingo. The Joker. The Tyrant of Dressrosa.
And his brother? Likely just as rotten.

Katakuri placed a firm, reassuring hand on his sister’s shoulder. She didn’t move—frozen like a statue carved from ice but he felt the tension in her muscles, the silent pain she swallowed whole.
She would obey. Out of duty. Out of loyalty out of a love so self-destructive it burned inward. And Katakuri knew—it would slowly tear her apart.

In the castle’s shadowy corridors, Katakuri gathered Oven and Daifuku.

“She really did it…” Oven growled, fists clenched, eyes alight with quiet fury. “She made the call again. Alone. Without a word to anyone.”

Daifuku, arms crossed, muttered, “And handing Smoothie to a Donquixote? Seriously? That lunatic! ”

Katakuri remained composed, almost stoic.

“He’s not just a lunatic. He’s nobility. A rare piece a living trophy for Mama.”

Oven slammed his fist against the wall with a dull, thunderous crack.

“So Smoothie pays the price?”

Daifuku lit a cigar, exhaling bitter smoke.

“Mama never marries off her high-ranking children without reason. This marriage… means something to her.”

Just then, Brulee burst in, breathless, pale as death.

“Smoothie… collapsed.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“She locked herself in her room. She won’t stop crying. She’s shaking, and her hands are covered in blood.”

Without a word, Oven turned and stormed off, his fury trailing behind him like fire.
Katakuri felt something twist in his chest.

He climbed the stairs toward Smoothie’s chambers, each step heavier than the last.
He entered without knocking.

The room was dim, shrouded in soft twilight behind drawn curtains.
Smoothie knelt before a shattered mirror, gloves stained with dried blood.
Her white hair fell like a veil over her face, hiding her red, swollen eyes.

“I don’t want your comfort, Katakuri,” she murmured, voice cracked and low, refusing to look his way.

He knelt beside her gently, respectful and quiet.

“They’re dressing me up like a prize for a monster…” she whispered.
“You know what nobles like him do to the people they own. I’m supposed to smile, pretend to be the perfect bride—when I’m being handed off to another Doflamingo.
Me. A Commander of the Underworld.”

She trembled, her voice faltering under the weight of her anguish.

“I’m being punished for being born a woman. They ask me to be strong, to lead… so why is my own mother doing this to me?”

Katakuri placed a steady but tender hand on her shoulder.

“No. You’re not being punished. You’re being sacrificed.Not by a mother by a boss.”

Silent tears slid down Smoothie’s pale cheeks.

“Am I not enough? Not as a daughter, not as a Commander?”

He shook his head slowly, his voice warm and certain.

“Mama chose you because you’re exceptional because she trusts no one more.This is an honor in her eyes, not a punishment.”

She curled in closer, her voice barely a breath:

“Death… would be kinder.”

In Katakuri’s heart, something hardened—unshakable, resolute.
He couldn’t just stand by and watch his sister be extinguished for a cause she never chose.
He couldn’t reverse Mama’s will but he could change who would pay the price.

Katakuri walked with a grave, deliberate step through the vast, golden halls of Whole Cake Château.
Each echo of his boots sounded like a verdict.
The atmosphere was heavy, weighed down with tension.

Reaching the grand throne room doors, he drew a slow, deep breath and stepped inside.

Charlotte Linlin sat on her grotesque throne in all her twisted majesty, a wide, mocking grin on her lips, a massive chunk of cake in hand.
She looked up at him.

“You’ve come alone, Katakuri?” she asked, amused.

He knelt, head held high, gaze unwavering.

“Yes, Mother. I come as your second-in-command.”

She raised an eyebrow, entertained by his solemn tone.

“That sounds important. What is it you wish to tell me?”

He lifted his head, eyes burning with cold determination.

“It’s about Smoothie. She won’t last. She’s breaking. And it’s eating me alive. As her elder brother, I can no longer stand by and watch.”

Big Mom looked at him, curious—and a little mocking. “So? What do you propose?”

Katakuri clenched his fists. “Let me take her place. I’m willing to accept the marriage.”

A heavy silence fell.

“My eldest son wants to play the hero…” she whispered, almost entertained.

“I’m your strongest child. The one who carries your name to the highest heights. If I unite with a Donquixote, your influence will grow far more than it would with Smoothie.”

Linlin burst out in a harsh, raspy laugh.

“You’d give up your freedom, your future, your name… for her?”

He stared straight into her eyes.

“For her. And for the rest of them. I was born to protect my siblings, Mother.”

She slowly descended the steps of her throne, eyeing him for a long moment, then smiled with fierce greed.

“Deal. I pity your fiancé the day he sees your scarred face—what a hideous sight! MAMAMAMAMA!”

And in that moment in the silence filled Katakuri’s fate was sealed.

This sacrifice he was about to make wasn’t only for his sister it was to preserve what little was left of their family.
A silent war had just begun and he would be the first to stand on the front lines.

No one would know…
Until the announcement was made.

_____

A metallic taste filled his mouth.
Each breath came with a painful wheeze.
Rosinante slowly opened his eyes, his eyelids heavy as lead. The light was dim, filtered through thick curtains that shut out the outside world. He was no longer in that snowy warehouse.

A hospital.
Then a voice—warm as poison.

“Ah… there he is at last.”

Rosinante turned his head, his neck protesting even that simple effort. In a chair, legs crossed, flaming pink sunglasses catching the low light, Doflamingo waited. A glass of wine in his hand. His smile cut like a blade.

“Did you sleep well, little brother?”

Every word dripped with sarcasm.
Rosinante struggled for air. His throat was dry, lips cracked.

“…Why am I still alive?” he whispered. His voice was a faint breath, but he knew Doflamingo heard everything.

The mafioso chuckled softly, rising with calculated slowness. Each step of his heels on the wooden floor echoed like a funeral bell.
He set the wineglass on the nightstand and leaned down.

“Why? Because you forced my hand, Rosi.”
He brushed his brother’s bandaged cheek with his fingers—almost tender.
Almost.

“You could’ve just stayed in line. Played the loyal little soldier at my side. But no… you wanted to play the hero. Save a brat who, frankly, isn’t worth the bullet I almost put in your skull.”

Rosinante closed his eyes.
Law…

Doflamingo chuckled again, louder this time.

“So now you’ll pay. But not with death—that’d be too easy. No, no, no… Death’s a mercy. Fufufu.”

He grabbed the file resting on the chair and tossed it onto the bed, beside Rosinante.
Photos slipped out, scattering across the sheets:
A woman’s face. Elegant. Cold. Eyes as dark as a moonless night. Wavy white hair.

“There. Your future bride. Beautiful, isn’t she?”

His smile widened—almost inhuman.

“The Charlottes. Ever heard of the name? A dynasty as old as ours. Power, weapons, influence. You marry her, and our empire becomes untouchable.”

Rosinante felt his heart clench.
An arranged marriage… Me?
He had never even considered marriage let alone this kind.

He tried to protest, but Doflamingo grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up. His glasses reflected a glint that was anything but human.

“You’re going to say yes, Rosi. Because you have nothing left. You belong to me now. And I’d rather have a brother at my side than a corpse in the ground.
If you even think about embarrassing me suicide, or any other bullshit—know this: I’ll double the effort to hunt Law down. My men are already after him.”

He let go of Rosinante’s face and straightened, adjusting his sunglasses.

“Enjoy your rest… Tomorrow, we talk preparations. With Linlin.”

And with that, he left. The door slammed shut like a verdict.
In the silence, Rosinante lowered his eyes to the scattered photo.
The woman’s face stared back impassive.
Another victim of his brother.
A stranger who would become his prison, his punishment.

The day of the meeting arrived sooner than expected. Rosinante still struggled to stand. His ribs throbbed with every breath.
His face bore the bruises of his defeat, and each step echoed like a silent torture but he had no choice.
All his thoughts were with Law.

Doflamingo had ordered him into this ridiculous suit and demanded no scenes.
An order—not a request.

The black car stopped in front of a massive manor.
The place was enormous, sprawling over several estates and massive villas. Located in Whole Cake City, Big Mom’s domain was more than a hideout—it was a fortress drenched in obscene luxury, a sugar-coated village where the scent of pastries masked the stench of blood and power.

Everyone walked around, minding their own business, too impressed by the rare access to the Charlotte family's heartland.
The Donquixote Family strolled casually. Doflamingo was deep in an animated discussion with Perospero, who guided him to the reception hall.

The younger ones Buffalo, Baby 5, and Dellinger—were losing their minds, hypnotized by the mountains of sweets on the banquet trays.
It was a light moment, and Corazon used it to slip away, fleeing the noise and chaos.

He walked toward a cliff, away from the commotion. From up there, he could see the city glowing below. In the far distance, Dressrosa and even Punk Hazard were visible.

One step, he thought, and it would all be over.
No one would know.
He’d spare himself the pain—and put his brother’s shady business in jeopardy.
He’d also spare a stranger from being forced to marry a nobody like him.

The more he thought, the closer he got to the edge.
His eyes stared at the horizon, as restless as the wind that whipped his face and tousled his hair.

“If you jump from here, you’ll survive.”

A deep voice echoed behind him, just as Rosinante had placed one foot over the edge.

“There’s a better spot further north, in the garden—if nothing’s holding you back.”

The unexpected voice startled him. He fell back, landing on his backside, gripped by fear—suddenly aware of what he’d almost done.

Still facing the glowing city, he turned to see who had spoken…
No one.

Only a candy, resting on a nearby rock.

His heart pounded so hard he nearly forgot why he’d come.
The man’s words—or the ghost’s?—lingered in his mind.

“Something is holding me back,” he whispered to himself, hands over his face.

Shame surged through him. How could he have forgotten Law?

Seeing him again was his only reason to keep going. His source of survival. He couldn’t give up—not now. Even if this forced marriage muddied everything.
He slipped the candy into his pocket and turned back toward the Family.

_______

At the same moment, Katakuri—too perfect to ever admit doubt, even to himself—was troubled.
A big announcement was only minutes away, and he had no idea how his sister would react.

Thanks to his sharp instincts, he had already spotted Doflamingo’s luxury vehicles.
Several media outlets and underworld bosses had arrived at their secondary estates for the upcoming events.
In recent days, watching the comings and goings from a high vantage point had become his new routine.

Reaching his lookout post, he saw an unfamiliar man—clearly about to jump. Blond. Taller than average (though not taller than himself).
Wearing a white suit with pink heart accents.The man’s face was turned away, but his intent was obvious despair.

It wasn’t Katakuri’s style to judge the weak—especially not those who contemplated the end in silence.
At first, he considered walking away, letting the man hold his own funeral.
But as he turned, he couldn’t help but mutter something subtle—imagining one of his own brothers in that position.

Then he vanished, just as silently as he came. He had his own battle ahead.
The time to inform Smoothie was now. There would be no turning back.

Chapter Text

In the grand hall, both families were already seated.
On one side, shrouded in cold menace, sat the Donquixote Family: Trebol, Diamante, Pica — all in tailored suits, their gazes sharp as blades. Behind them, a few loyal followers stood stone-faced. And at the center, Doflamingo himself, draped in an immaculate white suit, a smug smile curling on his lips, as if everything here already belonged to him.

On the opposite side, the Charlotte lineage.
A sea of familiar faces from the criminal underworld. The Sweet Commanders were seated at the front: Katakuri — towering and silent; Cracker, smug and bored; Oven, Daifuku, and Smoothie in her evening gown, surrounded by a dozen of their siblings. And above all of them, Charlotte Linlin, Big Mom, seated on a velvet-drenched throne, a thick laugh rumbling in her chest like a coming storm.

Rosinante entered last — the center of attention.
Many expected someone just as flamboyant as Doflamingo, but the man who walked in was far more reserved. He shared his brother’s imposing height — close to two meters — but there was something gaunt in him, as if illness had whittled him down. His suit was too tight, barely concealing his weakened state. His limp betrayed a wounded shoulder. Lips pressed tight, eyes dimmed with fatigue and obscured by a long fringe.
He could feel the weight of every gaze in the room — some curious, others openly hostile. From afar, he spotted his future bride. That glimpse was enough. Nothing else mattered but that woman with white hair and sad eyes… eyes that only deepened his guilt.

Katakuri, watching quietly, was surprised the man who had once tried to kill himself had clearly failed. He kept the thought to himself, instead listening in on his siblings’ whispers.

"Well, judging by the faces around him, Smoothie’s getting off easy. He's even kinda cute... if he’d just move that damn hair out of the way, haha."

But Katakuri wasn’t fooled. He knew better than most that appearances lied.
This man — this noble — couldn’t possibly be much different from his infamous brother.
Still, it was clear no one in Doflamingo’s mafia seemed close to him. Rosinante stood apart, like an afterthought, barely acknowledged.

Smoothie stood tall, statuesque in her ivory gown.
Chin held high, though Katakuri, standing beside her, could see the tension in her neck, the subtle tremor in her fingers. She still believed she was the one being sacrificed. That this whole alliance would devour her, piece by piece.

A toast was called. Glasses raised. Smiles forced.
Then Doflamingo spoke — his voice sharp as a blade:

“Today marks a new era for our families. A union… for the ages.”

Big Mom’s laughter boomed, shaking the walls.

“Yes! An alliance that will bend the underworld to its knees! None will dare defy the names of Charlotte and Donquixote united! MAMA!”

Smoothie inhaled deeply, bracing for the axe to fall.
But then, Doflamingo turned slightly, placing a firm hand on Rosinante’s injured shoulder — drawing a visible wince.

“Here is the man who will honor our alliance. My younger brother… Rosinante Donquixote.”

A harsh silence fell. Then polite applause.
Rosinante looked like he wanted to vanish. Head lowered, he hadn’t spoken a word since entering. A puppet in someone else’s theater.

Smoothie’s eyes widened slightly. He looked so… out of place. Fragile, even. A lamb in the lion’s den.
Katakuri clenched his jaw. For the first time, he understood the scope of the grotesque game being played here.

Then Big Mom inhaled sharply.
The room fell silent. Whispers died in throats. Even Doflamingo raised an eyebrow behind his rose-tinted glasses.

She raised a massive hand and pointed —
Not at Smoothie.
At Katakuri.

The entire room recoiled in shock.

“This marriage will be even stronger than any of you imagined. Because you, Katakuri, will be its guardian.”

A wave of stunned murmurs swept through the hall.
Katakuri didn’t flinch, but his stare sharpened like a blade. If it meant protecting his siblings from his mother’s monstrous whims… he would see this through.

Big Mom’s voice crushed the room like a boulder:

“Not as a witness... But as the groom.”

The world tilted.

All eyes snapped to Katakuri.
Smoothie blinked, her mask of cold dignity shattering — her terrified eyes turning to her brother, who remained frozen. Even Doflamingo twitched, just barely, a vein rising at his temple behind his ever-present grin.

Rosinante's legs buckled slightly, his eyes darting to the man in question.
Katakuri — tall, with violet hair and a dark punk style, spikes and studs glinting under the lights — even here, at such an important event.
Rumors of his ruthlessness echoed even through law enforcement. He was the second-in-command to the world’s most dangerous woman — always five moves ahead, as if he could see the future.

“My sweet Smoothie, you will always be my precious daughter… But you, Katakuri — my jewel — will carry our banner in the blood of the Donquixotes!”

She burst into laughter, clapping her enormous hands, delighting in the chaos. All eyes turned to Katakuri.

He didn’t move a muscle.
Still and towering, his face half-hidden behind his scarf, expression unreadable. But under the table, his clenched fists turned white, a single vein pulsing at his temple — a quiet tremor betraying the storm within.

He hated being the center of attention. He always kept to the shadows.
But his mother didn’t care. This was never about him — it was about her spectacle.

Oven was the first to snap.

His chair scraped violently against the marble.

“WHAT?!”

His shout startled several servers. “You’re joking, Mama?!”

He shot to his feet. Daifuku let out a nervous laugh, dragging from his cigar.

“...This has to be a joke. Right? Mama…?”

Smoothie blinked, still processing.
She had braced herself to be sacrificed… but it wasn’t her. It was him.
Her brother. Her rock. The one who shielded her from everything.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her knees buckled slightly. But she stood firm. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood.

A ripple of dread ran down the table.
Even Doflamingo — usually unflappable — froze for half a second.
His predatory smile stiffened. His sunglasses caught a sharp glint.

This was not part of the plan.
Not at all.
But his mind spun fast. Katakuri as an ally? Or a lifelong enemy under his roof?

No matter.

He kept up appearances, laughing and toasting with Linlin, pretending to celebrate.

But behind his smile, the game had changed.

Forever.

________

The door slammed shut behind them.
A heavy silence followed... until Doflamingo’s laughter erupted — guttural, unhinged, echoing like a thunderclap through the room.
He laughed until his throat nearly tore apart, a sinister sound that even made Trebol — long used to his outbursts — instinctively step back.

“Fufufufufu… HAHAHAHA!”

Doffy arched backward, veins bulging in his neck, chest heaving with each twisted chuckle.
When he finally calmed, his glasses gleamed with something cruel.

“That old hag… she switched the bride without so much as a warning.”
His voice was sharp now, like a wire stretched to snapping point.
“That witch knows exactly what she's doing.”

He grabbed a bottle of wine, yanked the cork out with his teeth, and drank straight from it — red liquid spilling down his chin like blood.

“...This was her way of showing who's really in charge. That we don’t get a say in this alliance.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a mad grin still carved across his face.

Pica spoke up, his voice still shrill despite the tension:

“Doffy… I don’t get it. Why Katakuri? Corazon isn’t… powerful. He’s got noble blood, sure, but that’s it.
We’re the ones gaining from this marriage. So why sacrifice a monster like Katakuri? It makes no sense!”

Silence again.

Doflamingo turned to face his brother.
That wolfish smile returned — slow, savage — stretching his features unnaturally.

He walked toward Rosinante with slow, feline steps, still holding the bottle.

When he reached him, he extended a hand — and with disturbing tenderness, brushed the younger man’s hair back, revealing his eyes.
The sharp, fermented stench of wine wrapped around Corazon like a threat.

“My dear brother…” Doffy murmured, honey-sweet but venomous underneath.
“You might have the face of a fool… but do you really think that is enough to seduce a commander of the world’s most powerful crime syndicate?”

Rosinante clenched his jaw but said nothing.

Gladius, tense in the corner, spoke up hesitantly:

“M-maybe… maybe he did it to protect his sister?”

Doflamingo barked a laugh — short, brutal, cutting like a whip.

“Protect his sister? Hahaha… You think that family even functions like one?”
“Linlin doesn’t care about her children. Let them tear each other apart for all she cares.”

His glasses flashed cold steel as he leaned over the metaphorical chessboard of his ambitions.

“No… If Katakuri agreed to this, then he’s hiding something.
He has a plan…”

______

In the Charlotte family apartment, the tension was of a different kind —
Explosive.

Oven slammed his fist through the coffee table, sending cracks along the marble and a tremor through the walls.

“This is madness! She’s lost her damn mind!”

Daifuku crushed his cigar into a nearby tray with a violent gesture, his face twisted in fury.

“Lost her mind? She was never sane! But this… this is a damn insult.
Brother, say something!”

Katakuri stood still, facing the wide window that overlooked the city cloaked in darkness.
Far in the distance, the glowing silhouette of the Alabasta Casino, owned by Sir Crocodile, flickered like a mirage.
His massive frame was outlined in shadow, seemingly calm.
But he wasn’t.

He had hated every second of that meeting.
From the moment they stepped in, everything about the Donquixote Family stank of betrayal. Their arrogance, their disregard for the codes of the underworld — like vultures circling a carcass without shame or fear.
And then came the announcement… his mother, broadcasting her decree like an executioner’s blade.
Stripping him of dignity. Reducing him to a bargaining chip.

He had never felt more like a pawn in her twisted game.

Smoothie stepped forward, her voice trembling despite her effort to control it.

“Katakuri… tell me you’re not really going through with this.
It was supposed to be me marrying him. I could’ve handled it… I swear I could’ve…”

Her eyes shimmered with a despair she no longer tried to hide.
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

Katakuri said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the city below — as if he could bury his fury in the distant lights.
His face settled into that calm, stoic expression — the one he always wore when the world around them cracked.
The face of the elder brother who had to stay strong… even when it burned.

Then, he spoke — voice low, steady, immovable:

“This isn’t about what I want.
I did it to protect you. All of you.
Maybe to her, our family means nothing… but to me, there’s nothing more important.”

The silence that followed was suffocating — broken only by Smoothie’s stifled sobs.

Katakuri turned and moved toward the door.
His stride was solid, reassuring — betraying none of the storm inside. He paused by Smoothie, crouched on the floor, and laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

“It’s alright, Smoothie. I’ll handle everything.”

Dinner was approaching.
Katakuri stopped again, this time before the large bay window overlooking the garden.
The city lights in the distance flickered like malevolent stars.
His reflection in the glass looked like a shadow — twisted by anger.

He heard footsteps behind him.

A slender figure entered the room, cloaked in a dark cape.
Brulée.
His closest sibling. The only person in this house he trusted completely.

She didn’t speak at first. She simply observed him — her soft gaze a stark contrast to the cruelty that echoed through the halls of their home.

Then, with a gentle sigh, she broke the silence.

“You’ll break yourself if you keep carrying this alone.”

Katakuri didn’t turn around.
His voice was calm, but razor-edged.

“I’m not carrying anything. I’m just doing what must be done.”

Brûlée stepped closer, her heels barely making a sound on the marble floor.
She could see what the others could not — the cracks beneath his surface.
He wasn’t perfect. Just... determined. Beyond reason.

“She forced your hand. I know it.
You did this to protect us. It's the only explanation that makes sense.
And she knows it, too. This marriage…
It's just her way of tightening her grip on us all. But you, Katakuri…”
She hesitated.
“You don’t have to be a pawn. You’re powerful enough to choose what comes next.”

For the first time, he turned to face her.

His eyes showed the weight he carried.
Exhaustion. Pressure. The ache of sacrifice.

“If I refuse… she’ll use you. Smoothie. The younger ones.
I won’t let her tear this family apart any more than she already has.”

Brûlée clenched her fists, throat tight.
She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his burden alone.
That marriage didn’t have to mean ruin.

But she knew her brother.
Nothing would shake his sense of duty — especially when it came to family.

So instead, she placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“Listen to me… Rosinante isn’t like the others. From what I’ve heard… he looked forced, trapped.
Maybe he’s not like Doflamingo. They say he’s the Corazon of the Family… Maybe he still has a heart, too. Even if he hides it.”

Katakuri raised an eyebrow, dry amusement flickering in his eyes.

“A heart? In a world of criminals? I couldn’t care less.”

Brulée gave him a sad smile.

“Maybe he’s not your enemy, Katakuri. And maybe… just maybe, he’s your way out.”

A heavy silence fell again.
Katakuri lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening on the window’s edge.

“I’m not afraid of him.
He’s nothing. He’ll always be nothing more than a parasite in my life.”
He spoke quietly.
“What I fear… is what she wants from this marriage.”

Brulée embraced him briefly — not as the warrior he had to be, but as the brother he rarely got to be.

Then she slipped away, leaving behind the faint scent of comfort —
of a home that had ceased to exist long ago.

Katakuri remained still, lost in thought.
From somewhere outside, a bell rang in the distance.

Dinner was near.

As Brulée made her way toward the grand hall, the chill in her chest deepened.
She had only been half-invited to this dinner — her mother preferred to keep her “imperfect” face away from the guests.
The daughter of Big Mom, hidden in the shadows… again.

But this night was too important.
Her brother — her anchor — was at the center of it all.

She needed to witness it herself.

As she moved down the hallway, her thoughts still tangled in Katakuri’s pain, something suddenly made her stop.

A bitter, acrid smell.

Smoke.

Her gaze turned toward the neighboring terrace, where the silhouette of a man stood outlined by the soft golden light.
Tall, blond, leaning casually against the railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

But it wasn’t the smell of tobacco that caught her attention…
It was something else.

Fire.
His coat was on fire.

“Sir—! You’re burning!” she called out, panicked.

“Huh?” He looked down. “Oh, wow!”

He immediately started slapping at the flames with clumsy urgency. Within seconds, the small fire was out.
He let out a shaky breath and turned toward her with an apologetic smile.

“Thanks… I was distracted. Really sorry if I scared you.”

He stepped forward, offering a slightly trembling hand.

“Rosinante. Nice to meet you.”

Brûlée froze for a moment.
So this was him.
Katakuri’s fiancé. She had expected a cold shark, eyes as cruel as the rest of the Donquixote clan.

But the man before her was a paradox.
Tall, imposing, yet… his face bore the weight of someone who had lived too long.
His eyes were ringed with exhaustion. His hands, covered in scars, told stories without words.

She recovered quickly, placing her fingers in his.

“Brulée. Nice to meet you too. I’m… um… a servant here.”

A small lie, delivered smoothly.
If she wanted to learn more about him, it was best not to reveal she was the groom’s sister — especially given his noble blood. His reaction might reveal more than his words.

Rosinante offered a tired smile.

“A pleasure, Brûlée. Do you smoke?”

She shook her head.

“No. Not for a long time.”

Immediately, he crushed his cigarette against the railing, as if not to inconvenience her.

“Sorry about that. I’ve got awful manners, especially when I’m stressed. Honestly… I’m probably on my second pack today. Haha…”

Brûlée studied him, intrigued.
This man… wasn’t the monster she’d imagined.
But he was hiding something. Of that, she was certain.

She returned a polite smile.

“So, Mister Rosinante…” she said casually, adjusting her shawl.
“Are you finally meeting your… fiancé tonight?”

He let out a soft, nervous laugh.

“Yeah… Looks like word travels fast around here.”

Brûlée tilted her head slightly, feigning curiosity.

“Have you met him before?”

Rosinante shrugged, pulling out another cigarette — but didn’t light it.

“Once. From afar… And of course, there are the stories. In our world, rumors are currency.”

She stepped a little closer, her eyes sparkling with a curiosity she hid behind practiced serenity.

“Ah… And what do they say about him?”

He took a deep breath, searching for the right words.

“They say he’s…”
He paused, a faint smile curling his lips.
“A wall.”

Brulée raised an eyebrow.

“A wall?”

“Yeah.” He finally met her gaze. His dark orange eyes reflected a quiet sincerity.
“The kind you don’t get past. They say he’s never lost a fight, that he’s a soldier made to kill. Loyal to the death. But…”

He glanced away. His smile faded slightly.

“They also say he never shows his face. Like he’s hiding something. Maybe he’s not as perfect as the legend claims.”

Brûlée felt her heart tighten.
Even the rumors touch that wound…

She kept her mask in place, but her fingers gripped her shawl a little tighter.

“And does that… worry you?” she asked gently, still feigning innocence.
“I’m just a servant, but I like to think everyone deserves someone who’s kind.”

Rosinante gave a soft laugh — humorless, hollow.

“No. Not really. I can live with someone ignoring me.”

He stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped slightly.

“What worries me… is being too much of a burden.
The kind he might want to eliminate at the first misstep.
That would be a death sentence in our world.
And I’d rather not have to survive that.”

Brûlée was surprised.
She had expected suspicion — perhaps even arrogance.
Not this… quiet vulnerability, buried under layers of apathy.

She dared a bolder question.

“And what if I told you… he is everything they say — but worse?”

Rosinante looked up. His smile widened, tinged with bitterness.
But his eyes were tired. So, so tired.

“Then I hope he can put up with me.
I’m probably worse than he is.
And I’ve run out of pleasant surprises in my life.
I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

Brulée observed him, unsettled.

This man wasn’t a threat. He was a mystery.

Behind them, the massive doors to the hall opened with a crash of voices and thunderous laughter.
Dinner was beginning.

Rosinante took a long breath and, with a small ceremonial motion, slid the cigarette pack into his coat pocket.

“Well then…
Time to meet the wall, I suppose.”

He gave her a tired smile.

Brulée returned it, hiding her concern beneath the surface.
She followed him with a tight chest.

At the end of the corridor, the massive figure of Katakuri had just appeared.
And for the first time, two worlds were about to collide.

At the far end of the great hall, Big Mom sat on her monumental throne, her massive fingers, heavy with rings, brushing the rim of a glass of red wine — which looked comically small in her hand. Her laugh burst out in waves, booming and thunderous, filling the room like rolling thunder.

To her left and right, only her “most presentable” children were seated, forming a vibrant wall of elegance: Smoothie, Oven, Compote… and Brûlée, seated slightly off to the side, as always.

Across from them, Donquixote Doflamingo lounged with the arrogance of an exiled king. Legs crossed, pink shades flashing under the chandeliers.
Beside him sat Trebol, Diamante, Pica — dressed like walking parodies of mafia wealth, absurd and terrifying in equal measure.

The atmosphere reeked of forced diplomacy:
smiles too wide to be sincere, wine glasses clutched not out of thirst, but to keep hands from trembling.

And then… they entered.

Katakuri was the first to step through the doors. His imposing silhouette silenced the room for a brief second. A perfectly tailored black three-piece suit, a pristine white shirt, matching leather gloves. His broad shoulders seemed to absorb all the light in the room. His face remained partially concealed by a sleek scarf draped over his mouth.

Behind him, Rosinante followed — tall, but not tall enough to match Katakuri. He had a kind of messy elegance: a coat thrown carelessly over his shoulders, clashing with a slightly wrinkled suit. His tie was loosened, as if it had started to choke him hours ago. A rebellious blond strand fell over his forehead, softening the sharpness of a face marked by dark circles and faint scars. His hands trembled slightly — just enough to betray the tension he struggled to suppress.

They took their seats side by side, as protocol demanded, at the center of the long table. Rosinante threw a brief glance toward Katakuri. And in that moment, he understood why people called him a wall. The man’s presence was… suffocating. Katakuri didn’t move. Not a word, not a twitch. He turned his head slightly, his gaze falling on Rosinante like a blade at the throat — a silent assessment.

Big Mom broke the silence with a laugh that exploded like a cannon blast.
“Maaaamaamaama! Just look at these two fine young men! One as solid as a rock! And the other… as nervous as a lamb being led to slaughter!”

The Donquixote family roared with laughter, Doflamingo leading the charge, his grating chuckle slithering through the air:
“Fuffuffuffu… Come now, Mama, don’t scare them off so soon! I do hope I get my brother back in one piece, fufufu…”

The first plates arrived: bloody cuts of meat, sauces so rich they practically screamed excess. Big Mom’s laughter echoed in steady bursts — loud and thunderous. Every laugh, every clink of silverware rang like a dissonant note in a forced symphony.

Katakuri didn’t join in the laughter. Didn’t raise a glass. He was a shadow carved in steel — a silent fortress in the midst of a circus. He hadn’t touched his food, Rosinante noticed.

Rosinante, for his part, played a delicate role. A polite smile on his lips, a posture meant to seem relaxed. His voice was low, calm, almost gentle. He looked like a tired man, but not a weak one.

Big Mom shattered the fragile calm with a voice drenched in false sweetness:
“Maaaamaamaama! So, Rosinante… I’ve heard you’re quite the quiet one. Perfect match for Katakuri — he only speaks when it’s absolutely necessary! With a bit of luck, maybe you’ll manage to share a full sentence together… in a few years of marriage! MAMA!”

Doflamingo burst out laughing, leaning toward her with that grin that never left his face.
“Fuffuffuffu… I’d say they’re a perfect pair. One won’t speak, the other doesn’t want to listen!”

The Donquixote crew snickered. A few of the Charlotte children chuckled too, but Katakuri didn’t react. Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward Doflamingo, his stare heavy. But before he could say a word, another voice cut through the laughter — soft, almost a whisper.

Rosinante.

His tone turned razor-sharp, slicing the room into silence.
“Maybe that’s for the best. Talk too much, and you usually end up saying something stupid.”

He stared straight at his brother, the jab unmistakably aimed.

Silence. Even Big Mom paused, eyes bulging with interest as she looked at the blond. Doflamingo, still grinning, now had a slightly wider smile — but his fingers tightened around his glass.

Katakuri slowly turned his head toward Rosinante. And for the first time that evening, he seemed to truly look at him.

Big Mom’s laugh exploded again, louder than ever:
“Maaaamaamaama! Now that’s what I like to hear! You’ve got some bite, kid! Maybe this marriage won’t be so boring after all!”

Dinner neared its end. Katakuri had barely said a word, but his gaze alone was enough to shut down the boldest guests. Rosinante stuck to short, well-placed phrases — flashes of clarity that stood in contrast to his seemingly detached demeanor. Yet under the table, his hands still trembled. His leg bounced, begging for a cigarette.

Satisfied, Big Mom dabbed her lips with a silk-embroidered napkin, then placed her massive hands on the table with a thud that made the silverware rattle.
“What a lovely dinner! And what a charming couple you make… I look forward to our alliance, Joker. The wedding’s already planned — everything down to the last detail, by yours truly. It’ll be held before the week’s out.”

A shiver ran down the table. Rosinante lifted his head slightly, his tight smile snapping back into place like a mask. Katakuri didn’t move, but a heavy shadow veiled his eyes.

Big Mom went on, her laughter bursting like a cannonade:
“And this is only the beginning, isn’t it? Alliances aren’t built over a single dinner. They must be nurtured.”

She leaned forward, her enormous face casting a grotesque shadow across the tablecloth.
“Katakuri.”

Her voice cracked like a whip. The room froze.
“You’ll escort our dear Rosinante to his quarters. Make sure he’s… well taken care of.”

The snickering came instantly. The Donquixote side first — Diamante snorted behind his hand, Pica let out a muffled wheeze. But the Charlotte family wasn’t far behind: a few subtle smirks, while Brûlée, sitting apart, gripped her glass so tightly she feared it would shatter.

Doflamingo savored every second. His laughter soared above the rest, dragging out like a twisted lullaby:
“Fuffuffuffu… How adorable! Now be good, children — and remember, no mischief before the wedding.”

Katakuri slowly turned his head toward him, his gaze so icy it could reduce a man to ashes. Doflamingo’s smile froze instantly. Then he stood up—slowly, imposing—the scrape of his chair echoing like thunder through the room. Rosinante followed suit, a bit more clumsily.

Without a word, Katakuri circled the table, his steady steps betraying a rage he compressed so tightly it felt like his bones might break. He stopped in front of Rosinante, towering over him.

“Let’s go.”

Two words. Nothing more.

Rosinante nodded quietly and without hesitation followed Katakuri out of the room, under a barrage of mocking glances.

The door slammed shut behind them with a dull thud. The silence that followed was almost more violent than the laughter that had come before.

The hallway stretched out before them, silent, its walls adorned with priceless paintings. Katakuri’s heavy bootsteps sounded like drumbeats, each echo carrying the sting of anger he struggled to contain.

Katakuri strode forward with commanding steps, while Rosinante… just tried not to trip over his own feet.

And, of course, he did.

A treacherous corner caught the tip of his shoe.

Damn it.

His body pitched forward in a clumsy motion that shattered the silence.

“A-att—!” By some absurd miracle, he managed to catch his balance—grabbing the first solid thing within reach. Katakuri’s forearm.

The giant froze, his eyes slowly dropping to the hand clenched on his arm near his spiked bracelets. Rosinante panicked like a kid caught red-handed, a look new to him since arriving, and immediately let go, raising both hands in a gesture of innocence.

“Sorry! It’s… the rug. I’ve… never liked rugs! Those things are dangerous.”

Katakuri blinked, expression unreadable. Was this idiot for real?

He resumed walking without a word, leaving Rosinante muttering awkwardly to himself.

After a silence that felt like miles, Rosinante dared to speak again:

“Nice decor… very… very symmetrical.”

Katakuri answered without looking back:

“I didn’t choose it. I don’t live here.”

Rosinante nodded sharply as if it were a major revelation. Then he started fumbling through his pockets, probably to calm his too-nervous hands and shake off the awkward encounter. A cigarette appeared.

“Do you mind if I…?”

Katakuri shot a sharp side glance:

“Yes.”

Rosinante snapped the pack shut so fast he almost dropped it.

“Got it. No smoking. Fine.”

A heavy silence resumed, broken only by Katakuri’s footsteps and the soft rustling each time Rosinante stumbled but caught himself at the last moment.

When they finally reached the door to the apartments, Rosinante let out a quiet sigh, relieved as if he’d survived a suicide mission. Katakuri, relentless, opened the door—internally counting the number of times the man nearly fell: at least five.

“Here are your quarters.”

Rosinante stepped in, then abruptly turned to give a slightly nervous smile.

“Thanks… for… uh… the walk and dinner. Very… secure.”

He spun around to enter—and bumped his shoulder hard on the doorframe.

“Ouch—damn! I… have a good evening!”

He disappeared into the room in a hurry, slamming the door shut behind him.

Katakuri stood frozen for a few seconds, arms crossed, before turning silently on his heel. Of all the people Mama could have chosen… him? He was no noble, no Donquixote. People like him didn’t survive in the underworld. He was a clumsy fool—it was an insult to his status to marry him.

He walked slowly down the hall, jaw clenched, still seething over the evening’s events. Then, despite himself, an ironic breath escaped him. At least his future husband was mostly silent and discreet. Maybe he wouldn’t have to pretend to make conversation. With any luck, the two of them would remain perfectly silent strangers.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

Big Mom had the unfortunate habit of deciding everything—about her husbands, her family, the underworld, her meals, and even her children. Their wedding day often had nothing personal about it, not only because it was arranged, but also because the decorations, the food, and even the guest list were all decided by her. She was omnipotent within the family, allowing only the briefest freedom to enjoy their engagement days, such as choosing their own attire.

That was the reason why, just a few hours before their wedding, Rosinante and Katakuri were forced early in the morning to go to the tailor. They had been at Big Mom’s mansion for a few days; everything had happened so quickly for Rosinante—his own brother had tried to shoot him two weeks before he found himself in a groom’s suit.

The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of the shop, casting golden reflections over the neatly arranged fabrics. Precious silks, gold-embroidered cloths… the kind of place where each thread cost more than a house. Katakuri stepped in first, his imposing silhouette casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the room. Behind him, Rosinante entered—only to nearly get the door slammed into his back.

“Everything’s fine,” he muttered to himself as he straightened up, fingers nervously fiddling with the edge of his coat.

The seamstress, an elegant woman with a severe bun named Kalifa, approached with a professional smile.
“Gentlemen… congratulations. It’s not every day one witnesses a wedding of such importance.”

Katakuri didn’t flinch, arms crossed, looking visibly bored to be there. Rosinante let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like a hiccup.
“Ah… thank you. Yes… it’s… a lovely… occasion.”

Katakuri shot him a sidelong glare without even moving his head, channeling all his frustration at the situation into Rosinante—his only way to keep from snapping.

“We’ll start by taking your measurements; you can keep your clothes on,” announced the seamstress.

Rosinante nodded too quickly. She pointed to a small platform. Katakuri stepped onto it firmly, silently. Rosinante put one foot up, lost his balance, and was caught by Katakuri—by the back of his shirt. The latter seemed to have developed a knack for predicting when Rosinante was about to fall, as if he could see the future.

Katakuri slowly turned his head, his murderous gaze locking onto Rosinante, who swallowed hard. Their only interactions so far had been neither words nor eye contact—just Katakuri catching him whenever he stumbled, when he felt like bothering.

“Up.” His deep voice cracked like a military order.

Rosinante obeyed—too quickly. He nearly slipped again, but managed, this time, to keep some shred of dignity. The seamstress began taking Katakuri’s measurements, winding the tape measure around his massive shoulders.

Rosinante watched… and that was perhaps the worst idea of his life. The fabric clung to that broad torso—he had never had time to notice, with the stress of the wedding, but Katakuri was huge. His spouse was far from unpleasant to look at, which, at that moment, might have been the only positive point of the union. His style suited him—towering well over two meters—while Rosinante probably only reached his chest, a chest that was impressively muscular, seeming enormous even under the shirt.

Don’t think. Don’t look.

“Your turn, sir.”

Rosinante jumped so hard at the words that he almost fell stepping down. Katakuri didn’t react, but his lips tightened—Rosinante’s constant clumsiness was starting to look less comedic and more like a real handicap in his eyes. How did this man survive without dying from his own incompetence? Was he really the biological brother of someone like Doflamingo?

The seamstress wrapped the tape around Rosinante’s smaller, slimmer waist, then over his shoulders. He winced at the closeness to his injury and let out a nervous chuckle. Katakuri didn’t miss the reaction.
“I… had a little accident a few weeks ago. A quarrel with my brother, nothing serious.” He tried to joke, but the wound seemed far worse than he let on. Had Doflamingo been violent? Katakuri made a mental note—he would have to investigate. Any information could be used against them.

The seamstress raised a brow, then it was time to choose the outfits.

Katakuri picked a strict, sober black suit, perfectly tailored to replicate the rose tattoos he had hidden. Rosinante hesitated between two fabrics: garnet red and white with heart embroidery.

“Take the red one,” Katakuri said flatly, leaving no room for argument.

Rosinante looked up, surprised.
“Oh… because it… suits me?”

Katakuri stared without emotion.
“No. Because it’ll hide the stains better when you spill wine.”

Rosinante blinked, feeling both insulted and embarrassed, then mumbled something under his breath before picking the white one out of sheer defiance.

The door suddenly opened, and a woman with a graceful stride entered, her eyes sparkling with barely contained amusement.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted with a slight bow.

Rosinante looked up, visibly relieved at the interruption—he didn’t want to share more air with Katakuri.
“Ah, the best maid in the world! How are you, Brûlée?” he said with a sincere smile.

A chilling silence fell. Katakuri froze, his shoulders tensing. His gaze dropped to Rosinante, and the shadow of a murderous impulse crossed his eyes. He had just called his sister… a maid? For a moment, Katakuri wanted to smash this Donquixote against the wall.

But Brûlée, unbothered and amused, gave a small, sly smile before he could act.
“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “Your humble servant… at your service.”

Katakuri inhaled sharply through his nose, his fists clenching discreetly. Brûlée, you’re lying. And you want me dead. But he quickly realized Rosinante had no idea about the misunderstanding, and exploding here would only make things worse. He locked himself in an icy silence.

Brûlée, for her part, seemed to be enjoying herself like a child—since she wasn’t actually Katakuri’s sister, she could afford such liberties.
“You two look adorable! A real little couple.”

Rosinante quickly waved his hands.
“Oh no, we’re not!… I mean… we don’t have that kind of relationship! Our alliance is purely professional!”

Katakuri cut her short, his voice cold as steel, not letting her play along any longer.
“Brûlée. Come with me. Now.”

Rosinante frowned, uncomfortable, and dared to say:
“Don’t speak to her like that. She’s just doing her job—show some respect for your staff, for goodness’ sake. There’s a way to speak to people; they’re human beings.”

The silence became brutal. Brûlée blinked in surprise before a smile bloomed on her lips—he had surprisingly good manners for a noble, and a mentality quite different from the Celestials.

Katakuri slowly turned toward Rosinante, his shadow seeming to swallow the light. His voice, low and resonant like a growl:
“This is my home. This territory belongs to the Charlotte family. Every stone, every breath, every life under this roof belongs to us.” His gaze burned with icy coldness.
“You know nothing about life here. And if you value yours… never correct me again.”

He turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him like a cannon shot.

Rosinante remained frozen, throat dry, heart pounding. He may have been an intruder, but he hadn’t expected this kind of pressure or fear here. His trembling hands and the few interactions he had had with Katakuri made him conclude that the man was cold and heartless.

Farther down the hall, Brûlée sighed before letting a wicked smile curl on her lips.
Katakuri strode through the corridor, his boots striking the floor like hammer blows.
He hadn’t killed that damned Donquixote. He hadn’t even touched him. By some miracle. Nothing enraged him more than disrespect toward his brothers and sisters—especially Brûlée, his beloved sister, who already endured enough mistreatment in her own family.

The door to his quarters slammed shut with such force it nearly tore from its hinges.
A heavy silence settled in the room… until a soft, teasing voice rose behind him.

“Honestly, you’re overreacting.”

Katakuri turned. Brûlée was there, leaning against the doorway, a smile hanging on her lips like a deliberate provocation.
He clenched his jaw.
“Why? Why did you tell him you were a servant? This marriage is already hard enough for me without you adding your ridiculous lies!”

She arched a brow, feigning innocence.
“Oh, relax. It was amusing. I wanted to see how he’d treat someone supposedly beneath him—the noble that he is. And besides… your little fiancé is interesting. So… clumsy. It was a way to get closer to him.”

Katakuri took a step toward her.
“Amusing? You think it’s funny for him to humiliate me in front of you? He called my sister a servant. I don’t find that acceptable.”

Brûlée held his gaze, unshaken, though her smile softened a fraction.
“He didn’t know. And… admit it—it was interesting to see how he reacted.” Her eyes narrowed, amused. “He even stood up to you, didn’t he? Not bad for someone who’s supposed to be Doffy’s puppet.”

Katakuri turned his head away, his jaw tight.
“Don’t you dare do that again. We don’t know him—he’s a complete stranger in this family. God knows how violent I could’ve been if he had truly disrespected you. He’s still a noble.”

Silence. Brûlée gave a small shrug, entertained by his excessive anger.
“But he didn’t, did he? You know, you could try being a little less icy toward him. It wouldn’t kill you. You’re stuck together now. Taking out your frustration on him won’t change anything.”

Katakuri froze, his eyes flashing toward her.
“This marriage is an order, nothing more. We each stay in our place.”

Brûlée’s lips curved into a sly smile.
“…If you say so.”
She turned on her heel, her muffled laughter echoing down the hallway.

______

 

The icy handle trembled under his fingers.
Rosinante stood frozen for a moment longer, his forehead resting against the wooden door, trying to smother the chaos roaring in his mind. A wave of sweet perfume, strong liquor, and smoke was already seeping through the cracks.

Breathe. Go in.

He opened it. Polished wood-paneled walls, expensive carved chairs, bottles worth more than some ships glinting under the warm light.
At the center—Doflamingo.
Reclined in a low armchair, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in one hand, a newspaper in the other. His tinted glasses caught the light, hiding his eyes, but his smile… Rosinante knew it far too well.

“My little brother,” he said, the words coated in venomous sweetness. “How touching of you to come see me, on the eve of such… a grand occasion.”

Rosinante walked forward slowly, stopping on the thick carpet that swallowed the sound of his steps. He did not sit.
Doflamingo raised a brow behind his glasses.
“What, sulking? No congratulations? No kind word for the brother who’s giving you a place in history? We could still have a bachelor party if you’re in the mood!”

Rosinante swallowed, his throat dry.
“Why… why me?” His voice was hoarse, strangled. “You could marry anyone to that monster. To that… family.”

Doflamingo burst into a deep laugh that filled the room like shattering glass.
“Because you’re worth more than any other pawn, Rosinante.”
He rose with a fluid, deliberate motion, each step making the parquet groan. Shadows stretched around him—long, predatory.
“You carry my name. You are my blood. You’ll be living proof that Donquixote and Charlotte are bound by chains of steel. An alliance no one will dare break.”

He stopped just in front of him, tilting his head, the cruel smile widening.
“And admit it—you love to sacrifice yourself, don’t you? It’s your favorite role. You’ve played it so many times… just like Father. Pathetic.”

Rosinante’s fists clenched involuntarily at the mention of their father—Doflamingo never taking responsibility for what had twisted him into what he was.
“This isn’t a marriage…” he breathed. “It’s a prison.”

“Everything’s a prison, Rosinante. Of course… you could refuse. Break the deal. Disappear… again.”

Rosinante’s stomach knotted.

Doflamingo tilted his head, his smile stretching into something monstrous.
“But you know what I’d do, don’t you?”

Rosinante gritted his teeth, his breath quick.
“…?”

“Law.” The name cracked through the air like a slap. “My little brother playing father to a dying child. So touching.”

Rosinante froze, a chill crawling down his neck. Doflamingo chuckled—low, almost gentle.
“You think I don’t know? You think you can hide something from me? I could…”
He picked up the phone on the table, spinning it between his fingers like a gold coin.
“…send the order tonight. And tomorrow morning, his little bones would be scattered in some alley.”

Rosinante’s world tilted. His nails bit into his palms until the skin broke, the pain sharp, warm blood pooling. His breathing turned ragged, uneven.

Doflamingo leaned in, his glasses reflecting the image of defeat on Rosinante’s face.
“So… tomorrow you smile with that idiot husband of yours, Katakuri. You say ‘yes.’ And you play your part like the obedient little puppet you are. Because if you miss a single line… he pays.”

Rosinante closed his eyes for a second, lungs screaming for air.
In the darkness, he saw Law—his rare smile, his ink- and blood-stained fingers, his weak but living voice.
I have to protect him.

A rough breath escaped his lips.
“…I… I’ll do it.” His shoulders sagged, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll do it.”

Silence. Then a booming laugh.
Doflamingo exploded with manic joy, spreading his arms as if to embrace his brother, savoring the victory. He almost spun him in the air.
“That’s better! Tomorrow, you’ll be magnificent. Shame our parents won’t be there to see your union—our idiot of a father would’ve been thrilled.”

Rosinante turned slowly toward the door, each step echoing in his skull like a freefall.

On the way back to his room, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Sitting by the window, he lit a cigarette with slow, deliberate movements. The flame flickered, briefly illuminating his tired features before he drew in a long breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs with the air he so desperately needed.

He exhaled slowly, watching the gray spirals rise and vanish into the shadows—like his drifting, untethered thoughts.

Tonight was his last moment of freedom, before the chains of an arranged marriage would close for good.

His gaze wandered beyond the glass, into the silence of the night, where he saw Law again—fragile, stubborn, carrying a rare light in his tired eyes.
And then, on the other side, Doflamingo—not the monster he had become, but the boy he once was, an almost-innocent child who had given Rosinante the last piece of bread at dinner, whose dreams had been crushed under the weight of a merciless destiny.

Another drag, the smoke tangling with his thoughts. Tonight, in the quiet of his room, Rosinante still hoped for a miracle—that the light buried somewhere in all three of them wasn’t completely extinguished.

But dawn crept closer, cigarette after cigarette, relentless. The wedding approached.

_________

 

Katakuri hadn’t slept a wink.

From the first hours of the morning, he had locked himself in one of the training halls, striking the targets again and again until his muscles burned. Each blow landed like a purge for the pressure building inside him.

He was a man without freedom, starting from that very morning—a ticking bomb: frustration, anger, grief… all buried beneath the flawless image he was expected to maintain.

The image of the strong commander. The protective brother. The unshakable heir he had been sculpting for so many years.

Taking out that anger on Corazon would have been unfair—and Katakuri knew it. But having to endure his presence… this man, at the root of so much pain for his family, and of the problems still echoing today… as if none of it had ever happened…

It was unbearable.

He was nothing but a stranger.
A stranger forced into their lives.
And only God knew what he was truly capable of.

______

The first ray of daylight slipped through the curtains, tearing Rosinante from the meager refuge of the night.
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray among the others, as if burying fragments of freedom.
His reflection in the mirror stared back at him—a man he barely recognized: hollow eyes, chapped lips pressed tight, dark circles deep under his eyes.
Servants were already swarming, arranging the final details with chilling efficiency.
The mafia wedding of the century. A union between two empires.

Rosinante adjusted his collar, trembling fingers unable to quell the nausea rising in his throat. He longed desperately for another cigarette.
Every button he fastened was another noose tightening around his neck.
Every breath reminded him of the threat hanging over Law.
His hair had been slicked back for the occasion—making him look disturbingly like his brother—and if not for his tragic expression, he might almost have looked presentable.

The door swung open without warning.
A massive silhouette filled the doorway—Katakuri.
Immaculate in a dark suit, features carved from stone, calm eyes… not unpleasant to look at, the lower half of his face hidden behind his scarf.

"Ready?" he asked in a monotone.

Rosinante nodded, forcing a strained smile. They left the room, Rosinante formally taking Katakuri’s arm. The hallway felt endless, like the walk of a condemned man toward the gallows.
On either side, black-clad figures, weapons hidden under silk jackets.
The entire underworld was here, holding its breath. Sengoku would surely have felt shame seeing his son in such a predicament.

When the doors to the ceremonial hall opened, a solemn silence fell.
Hundreds of eyes turned toward them—mafia journalists, the most notorious powerhouses in the country: the fallen son of the Donquixote family and the titan of the Charlottes, united.

Rosinante’s knees wavered, but he forced a fragile smile as a voice rang out:
“Let the ceremony begin.”

The hall overflowed with opulence—gold, velvet, and flowers heavy with intoxicating perfume.
It seemed Linlin had poured half the family’s treasure into this wedding.

The guests were a sea of powerful, impassive faces: Bege and the Vinsmoke family, Stussy, even legends whose mere names could stir fear—Mihawk, the world-renowned swordsman, aloof, glass of wine in hand; Sir Crocodile, both friend and lover of Doflamingo, his smile sharp as a blade; Morgans, the most influential journalist alive, sitting in the front row.

The mafia priest opened a book.
“We are gathered here today to seal the union of the Charlotte and Donquixote families…”

Rosinante stopped hearing.
Each word was a distant murmur, muffled by the frantic pounding of his heart.
Law. His thoughts kept circling back to Law.

Beside him, Katakuri stood impassive, as if carved from rock. Yet Rosinante could feel the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness of his jaw—completely withdrawn to preserve himself.

This marriage was no more desired by him than by Cora.
And yet, he obeyed, without resistance, as if nothing could pierce his armor.

Then came the moment. The vows.

“Mister Charlotte Katakuri, do you take as your husband—”
“Yes.”
A single syllable, cold and sharp as a blade.

The priest turned to him.
“Donquixote Rosinante, do you take—”

Rosinante felt all eyes piercing through him.
His breath caught. His lips parted… and he met Doflamingo’s gaze. That smile. That promise to go after Law.

“…Yes.”

Applause erupted, thundering, hiding the prison that had just closed around him.
Katakuri turned to him, his impassive mask lowered just enough to reveal a shadow—of annoyance, perhaps pity. Impossible to tell.

They were ordered to step forward for the official photograph.
Rosinante felt nausea rise again when asked to stand close to Katakuri, shoulder to shoulder.

At the back of the hall, Doflamingo raised his glass toward them, laughing.

Then came the fatal words:
“And now… the wedding kiss! Fufufu.”

A chill ran through Rosinante. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Katakuri stiffen almost imperceptibly. His mother had made it clear—he must not disgrace her by revealing his hideous scars, with what she deemed a monstrous face.

His gloved fingers clenched.
In an instant, Rosinante understood—he refused to show his face.
Perhaps no one here had ever seen it, not even his brothers.

A coarse laugh erupted from the crowd.
Rosinante, pale, felt Katakuri frozen like a statue.
Shame, humiliation, and hatred hung over them—as if the marriage itself were not punishment enough.

Then, without thinking, Cora did what he always knew how to do—redirect the spotlight.
Slowly, he took Katakuri’s gloved hand, lifted it with a courtly bow, and placed a light kiss on his knuckles, eyes lowered like a gentleman from another age.

A murmur rippled through the hall—surprise, fascination.
Then, renewed applause.

“How refined, a true noble!” Linlin cackled.

Katakuri didn’t know how to feel about the gesture. Part of him was grateful the problem had been diverted without his direct involvement. Another part was suspicious of such help—but the noise, the tension, and the stress kept him from thinking clearly.

The wedding had only just begun, yet he was already praying for it to end.

______

The chaos of the wedding roared back to life after the exchange of vows.
They were seated at the head table, surrounded by an ocean of glasses, exotic dishes, and booming laughter.
Rosinante’s palms were slick with sweat as he downed the first glass handed to him. Then a second. Then a third.

Each swallow blurred his thoughts, drowned his panic, smothered Doflamingo’s predatory smile that kept slicing into his nerves.
The room throbbed with laughter, music, and clinking glasses, but all Rosinante heard was a low, steady buzzing.
His hands trembled as he set down his glass—only to pick up another—before finally rising unsteadily to his feet.
He could barely stand sober; with alcohol in his blood, he was swaying.

He couldn’t bear the suffocating atmosphere any longer—the stench of power, the weight of eyes on him, the veiled threats hanging in the air.
Cora needed to breathe he staggered away toward a secluded cliff—the same one he had nearly crossed earlier—searching for even the flimsiest refuge.

And that’s when he saw him.

A boy. No older than twelve, maybe Law’s age when they first met.
A delicate face, almost angelic, but marred by a strange X-shaped scar.
Large, calm eyes fixed on him without blinking.

“…Hm?” Rosinante blinked. Was the alcohol playing tricks on him?
He shook his head, tried for an awkward smile.
“Where are your parents, kid? It’s dangerous here…”

The boy stepped closer at a measured pace, hands clasped behind his back.
And in a clear, steady voice, he said:
“I’m here to deliver a message, MC-01746. My name is X-Drake.”

Rosinante choked, spraying the last traces of wine from his tongue.
His heart lurched. That number… it was his. His secret identity. An undercover agent.

“Wh… what?” he breathed, throat dry.

The boy continued without a flicker of emotion, as though reciting a report:
“The espionage division is aware of your situation, and of the fact that you’re alive. Sengoku and the entire unit know you’re currently being held by the network.”

A bead of sweat slid down Rosinante’s neck. The sounds of the party became muffled, as if sealed under a dome. Hearing these words from a child’s mouth… Was he hallucinating?

The boy pressed on, leaving no room for doubt:
“However, command is clear—no extraction is possible at this time. Your cover remains the top priority. Katakuri is considered too dangerous for direct confrontation, especially after the failure of the initial agreement with Smoothie.”

Cora slapped himself lightly, trying to make sure he wasn’t losing his mind. His heart was pounding like a war drum.
“How… how did a kid like you even get in here?!” he hissed in a panicked whisper.

The boy merely shrugged.
“Linlin adores young children. She invited dozens of orphans to ‘decorate’ her celebration, being one herself in spirit. I simply slipped in among them.”

He handed over a small, folded piece of paper. Rosinante took it with a trembling hand.
A number. A familiar handwriting.

“Contact Smoker as soon as possible. And hold out. Special forces are already in motion, looking for a way to separate you.”

He turned on his heel as if he’d merely announced dessert, and called back over his shoulder:
“Oh, and Sengoku sends you… his encouragement, and congratulations on your marriage.”

The childlike irony hit like a slap. Rosinante stood frozen, the paper clutched in his sweaty palm, throat tight. Before he could reply, the boy had melted back into the crowd, laughing with other children, a lollipop in hand as if nothing had happened.

Cora took a step back.
Sengoku knows.
Law is still in danger.
And I… I’m trapped in this cage.

In the distance, Katakuri was chatting with underworld big shots, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward Rosinante, wary of another suicidal impulse.
But Cora’s thoughts were cut short by the approach of others—his new brothers and sisters.

From across the hall, the laughter swelled again, voices calling:
“Where’s the groom?! Bring back our handsome blond!”

Applause rose, heads turned toward him.
He barely had time to sit before a coarse laugh erupted nearby.

Three imposing silhouettes, identical in bulk and arrogance, closed in—Oven, Daifuku, and Perospero.

“Well, well, here’s the star of the hour!” boomed Oven, his cheeks flushed with drink.
“it’s not so bad for Kata he could’ve married worse… just look at Trebol!”

The three of them burst into hyena-like laughter.
Rosinante forced a stiff smile, his fingers trembling around the stem of his glass.

“So, Rosana—” Daifuku began.
“Rosinante,” he cut in sharply, his voice colder than he’d intended, downing his drink in one swallow.

“Him too. Tell us, how do you feel? You know, you’re lucky.” His teeth gleamed in a grin. “None of us ever thought Katakuri would marry.”

“Especially before Perospero, huh?” Daifuku roared, earning a mocking grunt from his eldest brother.

“You’re a lucky man,” Oven went on, clapping a heavy hand on Rosinante’s shoulder. “Plenty have tried to win Katakuri’s heart… but he never gave anyone the time of day. Marriage disgusts him to the core.”

“He’s a loner. Even with his brothers and sisters, he can only stand his own company.”

A smooth, languid voice slipped in from behind. Smoothie—tall, icy, a glass in hand, which she drained before refilling Rosinante’s without asking.

“It’s true. Very… curious, don’t you think?” Her piercing gaze slid toward him. “Katakuri—so perfect, so envied—and yet, he’s turned down every engagement proposal.”

Rosinante’s heart skipped a beat. He could feel the interrogation closing around him like a vice.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know your family well enough to… say.”

A beat of silence, then laughter erupted. Oven slammed his fist on the table, spilling his drink.
“HA! The little bird’s shy!”

“You’ll learn soon enough what ‘family’ means here,” Perospero said around a mouthful of cake.

“Or maybe it’s his plan,” Daifuku murmured, eyes glinting, “to play spy in our family… for his dear brother.”

Katakuri, who had been silent until now, slowly straightened and approached the group. His massive shoulders commanded instant silence. He cast a hard stare at his siblings, enough to wipe the smirks from their faces.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice as sharp and cold as a blade. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

But Smoothie, unmoved and spoiling for more, reached out again and topped off Rosinante’s glass, the dark red liquid sliding into the crystal with cruel slowness.
“You must be thirsty, Donquixote,” she said sweetly. “I hope the setting is… satisfactory. I’ve heard you were once part of the nobility. Tell me… doesn’t it bother you? Being surrounded by thugs? Outcasts?”

Rosinante, already far gone, blinked as if each word had to fight its way through a fog. His cheeks were flushed, the alcohol firmly in control. He lifted the glass without thinking and drained it. His head nearly hit the table afterward.

“Hm… I—uh…” His face was red, his eyes glassy, but he forced a crooked smile. “I was… noble… when I was very young. I… I don’t think I liked that part of my life. Me, I prefer living… simply. This wedding is already… hic… far too fancy for a man like me…”

He all but collapsed onto his arm, cheek pressed to the gold-embroidered tablecloth, his breath reeking of alcohol from ten paces away. Smoothie arched an eyebrow, amused, ready to finish him off. She swirled the wine in her carafe, tilted her head slightly.

“Interesting… there’s more wine—don’t hesitate to help yourself,” she murmured. “Tell me, Donquixote… what are you really here for? To spy on the Charlotte family? If that’s the ca—”

She never finished. A broad, firm hand closed around her wrist, halting the pour.
Katakuri hadn’t raised his voice, but the tension in his grip spoke for him.

“He’s had enough to drink,” he said coldly, and the surprise interrogation came to an abrupt end.

The hall still pulsed with laughter and the crash of clinking glasses. Musicians played at full volume, voices tangling in a kind of orchestrated chaos. Yet all that noise seemed to wash over Katakuri. He simply watched, impassive, as the scene unfolded: Smoothie exchanging a sly smile after her interrogation, Oven roaring with laughter, Daifuku betting on how long “the groom” would last before collapsing.

Rosinante had completely slumped over the table, chin resting on his arm, a faint, absent smile on his lips, cheeks flushed deep red from the alcohol. His fingers toyed lazily with a table knife, as if he no longer remembered what the thing was for.

A sharp clap of hands made the whole room jolt. Linlin—radiant and monstrous—had risen to her feet, her thunderous laugh booming over the din.
“Ooooooh! Enough talk! It’s late, and these two have a whole night to… honor!”

A wave of coarse laughter swept the table. Glasses were raised, voices sang out crude insinuations.
“Enjoy yourself, little brother!” Doflamingo called, sending his entire Family into hysterics.

Rosinante lifted his head slightly, eyes hazy. He half-understood. His cheeks burned even more, and a foolish little laugh escaped him.
“Ah… yeah… wedding night…” he mumbled, staggering to his feet and nearly tipping over his glass.

Katakuri rose as well, slowly. One look from him was enough to smother the loudest jeers—though he knew full well they’d resume the moment he was gone. His presence intimidated, but it didn’t reform anyone.

He took Rosinante by the arm—not roughly, but with a firmness that left no room for argument. In truth, he was almost grateful for the excuse to leave. The man could barely walk; it was almost pathetic.

The heavy doors shut behind them, cutting off the laughter and mocking applause. At least the celebration ended there. The corridor stretched ahead, silent, lit by a warm glow. Rosinante staggered like a puppet with cut strings, his long legs nearly tangling beneath him.

“I… hic… didn’t think… you were so…” He made a vague gesture toward Katakuri. “Tall.” Then burst into an idiotic laugh that dissolved into a coughing fit.

At last, they reached the room. Vast, richly decorated, with a bed so enormous it seemed built for giants. Katakuri closed the door slowly behind them. He was about to tell Rosinante to get into bed and sleep while he took the bench—but he didn’t get the chance.

Rosinante had just grabbed his belt buckle. The sight of him kneeling so close startled the older man into stillness, his flushed face a clear mark of the alcohol.
“What are you doing?” It wasn’t a question.

Rosinante looked up at him, eyes blurred.
“Well… you know… hic… marriage… obligations…” He fumbled with his own shirt, pulling away and nearly tearing off a button. “I’ve done it with a man before… don’t mind doing it with you… you’re pretty sexy, hahahaha.”

If Katakuri’s face had been capable of showing emotion, it would have been cold, stunned disbelief.
“Put that back on.”

But Rosinante carried on, oblivious—or simply too far gone to care.
“Don’t worry… I won’t bite… unless you want me to.” He licked his lips in a way that left no ambiguity.

His jacket fell to the floor. His shirt followed, clumsily torn open to reveal a muscled torso marked with old scars. Some were long and fine, like the cut of a blade; others were wide, gnarled, and puckered like burns. Every mark was a story carved into flesh—a lifetime of violence and survival. Not what Katakuri would have expected from a so-called noble.

Katakuri glanced away, more out of decency than shock. One scar in particular—a deep one—looked exactly like a gunshot. The thought of a brother firing on his own blood filled him with disgust.

Rosinante suddenly collapsed onto the bed, half-naked, unable to keep his balance. He lifted a limp hand toward Katakuri, a foolish grin on his lips.
“You’re… you know… you don’t have to… be gentle… Why don’t you come over? …you a virgin? Hahaha.”

Katakuri closed his eyes for a moment. Drew a deep breath.

He wanted to shout.
Shout at Brûlée. Shout at his mother. Shout at every guest at that damned wedding. And most of all—shout at this idiot to stop his nonsense.

Instead, Katakuri stepped forward silently and pulled the blanket up over him.
“Sleep,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I will not touch you. Ever.”

Rosinante mumbled something unintelligible, already half-asleep, his scarred torso glinting in the candlelight. Katakuri stood there for a moment, gaze fixed on those marks, lost in thought.

Then he turned, sat in the armchair, and crossed his arms.
He would not sleep. Not tonight. Not beside this walking disaster.

 

 

 

 

 

________________

 

This is only my personal design — it is not canon to the story! All readers are free to imagine their own designs or appearances for the characters in the story!🚨

 

As for me, here are a few excerpts and dumb sketches from the wedding!

Plus a spoiler that isn’t really a spoiler: in my universe, since it’s meant to be somewhat realistic, I needed a justification for Katakuri’s hidden face. Since I couldn’t include his teeth, I figured he must be seriously scarred (hence the scars), which would push him to hide himself so much. So here are some small drawings and ideas of what might be behind that scarf in my story !

 

 

okay byeeee

Chapter Text

Rosinante groaned as sunlight pried its way under his eyelids. His head felt like it weighed a ton. His mouth tasted like an ashtray soaked in rum.
“…ugh…”
He pushed himself halfway upright—and immediately regretted it. The room tilted like the deck of a ship in a hurricane. Instinctively, he grabbed at the sheet to keep from toppling over.

And that’s when it hit him.
He was bare from the waist up.

His heart skipped a beat. Then another.
He glanced down. His shirt lay crumpled on the floor. His jacket too.
“…Oh… no…”

“You know… marriage… obligations… you’re actually kind of sexy… wait, are you a virgin?”

Oh. No. NO. NO.

Rosinante yanked the sheet tighter around himself, wrapping up like a panicked cocoon. His face burned so hot he half-considered throwing himself out the window. What a freak I must’ve looked like! Smoker had always told him he couldn’t hold his liquor. Damn it…

He finally dared to turn his head.
Katakuri sat in an armchair, perfectly straight, arms folded. Like a living statue. His gaze fixed on Rosinante—impassive, as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

“Good morning.”

Rosinante swallowed hard, unable to meet that stare.
“Uh—h-hi…”

He waved awkwardly, which made the sheet slip just enough to expose part of his chest. He yanked it back up, ears flaming. Dear God, why didn’t I just jump off a cliff?

Katakuri didn’t move. He seemed to be studying him calmly, as if reading his thoughts.
Rosinante fumbled for words.
“I… I guess we… you and I didn’t… y’know…” He made a vague hand gesture.

“No,” Katakuri said flatly.

The relief that hit Rosinante was so intense he almost laughed inappropriately.
“Oh. Well… great. I mean… thanks…?”

Katakuri stood, his towering frame casting a shadow across the floor. He picked up Rosinante’s shirt and handed it over without a word. The blond took it with awkward gratitude, fingers trembling slightly.

As he slipped it on, Katakuri watched, arms still folded. His expression—if anything—was a little exasperated, but his gaze didn’t waver, much to Rosinante’s discomfort.

Once the shirt was buttoned, Rosinante dared to look up.
“Uh… you must think I’m an idiot.”

Katakuri tilted his head slightly.
“Yes.”

Rosinante’s mouth opened, then closed again. He tried a weak smile to cut the tension.
“I don’t usually drink! It was… you know… the party, the atmosphere… I honestly just wanted to forget I existed last night.”

Katakuri cut in, voice cold:
“If you want to survive here, don’t make a fool of yourself in front of them. They’ll take any weakness and use it against you. You don’t just represent your brother now—you represent me, and the Charlotte family.”

Rosinante blinked, startled by the sharp tone. Katakuri moved to the door, opened it, and added:
“Get dressed. Breakfast is waiting. We’re going to my place.”

He left, shutting the door behind him without another word.

My place…
Rosinante repeated the words silently, his chest tightening. It wasn’t “our place.” Not by a long shot. Over there, he’d just be a tolerated guest—an intruder, nothing more.

He gathered his few belongings, taking one last look around the gilded bedroom where he’d slept. He didn’t bother with his full makeup; the thought of wearing his Corazon mask again made his stomach twist.

As he walked through the halls, he gave absent nods to the few Charlotte family members not still passed out from the night before. Most returned the gesture with bleary, barely polite stares.
One piece of good news—his brother had left at dawn. Perfect. No need to face that predatory grin or his cutting remarks. Still… a small, shameful part of him felt abandoned. Not even a goodbye. He was the one who had dragged Rosinante into this mess—was a farewell too much to ask?

Outside, Katakuri stood beside a sleek black luxury car, face as unreadable as ever. Today, he wore a black mask with pale pink markings covering the lower half of his face. Rosinante swallowed, gripped his suitcase handle, and followed without protest.

The engine purred softly. Rosinante slid into the back seat, the cold leather pressing against his back. The silence felt heavy, like wearing a coat two sizes too small.
“So… you don’t live in Lady Linlin’s estate?”

The question slipped out just to break that suffocating quiet, his fingers tightening on the door handle.

Katakuri’s gloved hands—likely fine leather—moved over the wheel with precise control.
“No. Few of the children live here. We’re spread across the country… sometimes beyond. Only my mother and official gatherings are held in Whole Cake Chateau.”

Rosinante turned his gaze to the road. His chest tightened as he recognized the route—they were skirting the edge between the north side of town and Whole Cake. Dressrosa wasn’t far. A bitter taste rose in his mouth. Memories of his failed mission clawed their way up—how it had wrecked that city and its people, all because he’d passed the wrong message to the wrong man. Damn you, Vergo. Probably the only person he hated more than his own brother.

Katakuri’s deep voice cut through his thoughts.
“You know how to drive?”

Rosinante jumped.
“Yeah! I mean… I can manage. Never driven anything like this, though.” Too expensive for me anyway.

“It’ll be at your disposal if needed. I prefer to ride a motorcycle.”

Of course he does, Rosinante thought. A fast, solitary machine for a fast, solitary man.

“We should also discuss the terms of this marriage,” Katakuri said, voice like steel. “You can do whatever you want, with whoever you want—I don’t care about your tastes or your… adventures—but not in my home. And you come back every night. Don’t sleep elsewhere. Now that you’re tied to our family, if the underworld comes for you, they come for us. You’re an easy target.”

“I think I can handle myself. I know how to fight.”

Without a word, Katakuri took one hand off the wheel and drew a pistol from the back of his waistband. The motion was so smooth, the car didn’t swerve an inch. Rosinante’s eyes widened.

“Take it. You know how to shoot?”

Rosinante hesitated, then took the weapon, cold against his fingers.
“Yeah. I learned with the—”

He froze. His throat tightened. Did Katakuri know about his past in the Cops ? Linlin certainly did. Had she told her son? If he found out, Katakuri could easily cut him off from the outside world—crippling his search for Law.

The silence dragged on. Katakuri glanced at him in the rearview mirror—a silent order: finish the sentence.

Rosinante forced a stiff smile.
“I just… learned with the Family,” he lied.

Katakuri said nothing, his eyes back on the road. Rosinante felt the sting of the rules being laid out—aware he was disturbing this man’s peace, yet the sense of being in the way gnawed at him. He took a breath to steady himself and froze.

That feeling. That weight on the back of his neck. The instinct Sengoku had drilled into him.

He frowned and glanced at the side mirror.
A black sedan. Low profile. Too low profile.

His heartbeat kicked up. A short, nervous laugh escaped him.
“So… we’ve got friends following us?”

Katakuri didn’t answer right away. He simply tilted his head slightly, as if the question was pointless. Then, without raising his voice:
“Since we left the estate. Two cars, same make, tinted windows.”

Rosinante blinked. Two? He’d only seen one.

Unfazed, Katakuri adjusted the wheel just enough to take a secondary exit. The sedan followed. Then a second one appeared from a cross street up ahead.
“Keep the gun,” he ordered, his tone like a military command.

The blond obeyed, palms damp.
“You want me to… call the cops?”

“No. We’ll handle this ourselves.”

And suddenly, Katakuri floored the accelerator. The engine roared, pinning Rosinante against the leather seat. The trees outside blurred into streaks of green. Behind them, the sedans matched their speed.

“But— but that’s not exactly subtle!” Rosinante stammered, gripping the door handle.

Katakuri’s red-pink eyes stayed locked on the road, his black gloves tight around the steering wheel. A sharp push on the gas, and the car shot into an empty tunnel, headlights cutting sharp white blades through the darkness. Rosinante risked a glance behind them—the enemy car was still on their tail.

Katakuri braked hard. The seatbelt bit into Rosinante’s chest, making him grunt from the pain in his injured shoulder. Before he could react, Katakuri was already out of the car. The door slammed like a gunshot.

Rosinante opened his mouth, but the words died. Katakuri walked into the harsh glare of the headlights—towering, his leather coat flowing behind him, calm as if time itself had stopped.

Two men stepped out of the first sedan, guns drawn.

They didn’t get a chance to speak.

Katakuri was on them before they could even lift their weapons. One swift, clean move—and the first man slammed into the car with a sickening thud, his head shattering the side window into a spray of glass. The second man barely widened his eyes before his wrist was snapped in a vicious twist, his own gun turned against him. A single shot cracked through the tunnel. Silence followed.

Rosinante, pale, felt his stomach twist. No screams, no chaos. Just the cold precision of an executioner. Katakuri let the body drop like an empty sack.

The second car tried to reverse out. Too late. He picked up the gun and fired two shots—dead center, through tinted glass. Driver and passenger slumped instantly, a perfect kill.

Rosinante had seen death before. He’d watched Doflamingo slaughter people on a whim, even torture them. But this… this was different. It was almost art. A freezing efficiency, no wasted motion, no wasted words. The work of a consummate professional.

Katakuri returned, gloves streaked with red, his grip firm on the pistol he’d reclaimed. He opened the driver’s side door as if nothing had happened.
“Buckle up.”

Rosinante obeyed without a word, throat tight. His eyes flicked toward the motionless silhouettes behind them—shadows sprawled in the glow of the headlights. The car pulled away. Rosinante glanced at Katakuri and, for the first time, he understood.

This wasn’t just the son of a queen. Or a rich heir to a mafia empire.
This was the chief executioner—and now… he was Rosinante’s husband.

Some time later, a colossal gate loomed out of the dark, guarded by two armed men who bowed without a word. Beyond it, a vast estate appeared, bathed in floodlights that carved its steel-and-glass silhouette against the night.

The manor was rather pretty, though not very personal. Not far away stood another building, still lit despite the late hour.

The car rolled to a stop under a monumental porch, and two men immediately stepped forward to take charge of it. Katakuri killed the engine, silently removed his bloodstained gloves, and got out. The interior matched its master—cold, impeccable. Shining floors, neutral-colored walls broken up by a few understated accents—everything breathed order, control, and a total absence of personal life.

No objects that spoke of intimacy, memories, or warmth. Nothing. It was as if Katakuri’s entire life revolved around obedience to his mother through missions that left him no room for a true home.

Katakuri set down his coat slowly, the dark fabric sliding like a shadow over the back of a chair. Without a word, he drew the gun from his belt and placed it on the coffee table. The sharp clink of metal echoed through the room. Rosinante flinched in spite of himself.

The giant finally looked up at him, as if remembering his presence.
“Your room is at the end of the hall. First door on the left.”

Katakuri went to sit by the bar, his back straight, his gaze fixed in an unsettling calm. Rosinante remained standing there, bag in hand, hesitant to even breathe too loudly.
“As for… the terms of the marriage,” he ventured, voice a little rough. “Is there… anything I should know here?”

Katakuri turned his head slightly toward him, features impassive.
“At four o’clock, it’s time for my merienda. I’ll be in the second kitchen. You don’t come in. You don’t talk to me. You don’t exist.”
He paused, his words falling like hammer blows.
“That room is off limits to you.”

Rosinante blinked, thrown by the almost absurd precision of the rule. He was about to reply when Katakuri continued, lower this time, as though a crack had opened in his icy tone.
“I don’t want to be your jailer. I’ve seen how your brother treated you. I’m not a cruel man like him, but your very existence is a source of problems in my life.”

He ran a heavy hand through his violet hair—a tired, almost human gesture.
“I know neither of us wanted this union. I’m sorry if I take my frustration out on you. But…” His pinkish-red eyes locked onto Rosinante’s.
“I don’t want my life disrupted because of some idiot noble I never asked for. I have no proof you’re someone I can trust—with my family or myself.”

A bitter smile tugged at the blond’s lips.
“I’m the idiot noble, huh?” he said with a quiet chuckle.

Without a word, the taller man began meticulously wiping away the droplets of blood left on the edge of the table. Every movement was precise, obsessive.

Rosinante blinked.
“…You do that often?”
Katakuri stopped, turned his head toward him.
“I hate stains and anything unnecessary.”
The way he said it made it sound like he was describing Rosinante himself.

Rosi hesitated, lips pressed tight to stifle a laugh.
“…Want me to take off my shoes before coming in, or are we not there yet?”
Katakuri’s eyebrow twitched ever so slightly.
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

Rosinante looked down at his dust-covered boots and let out a long sigh.
This was going to be a long one.

“I’m going to smoke,” he muttered, heading to his room. There, a small balcony overlooked the building he had noticed earlier. He needed to investigate that, and—most importantly—contact the number X Drake had given him.

This life was bound to be a trap for both of them. From what he had seen so far, his background as a spy helped him read Katakuri’s psychology—this man craved total control over his life, from his immaculate public image to the smallest speck of dust in his home. The mere fact that Rosinante had been added into those precise calculations made his very existence a constant disruption to manage.

The smartest move would be to stay out of sight—but that would mean never finding Law, and that he could never accept.

_______________

 

A few days of keeping a low profile passed, and he hadn’t crossed paths with his husband since moving in. His heart beat faster with every turn as he explored the house: living room, training hall, a locked office… nothing breathed conviviality. After making sure he was alone—Katakuri had gone off God knows where without a word, probably to work—he went up to his room, shut the door, and pulled out a burner phone he had hidden in his coat lining. Old special-forces habits die hard.

The line rang. Once. Twice.
“…Hello?”
A gravelly voice, unmistakable from too many cigarettes. Smoker.

“Smoker, it’s me… Rosi.”

A silence. Then a curse on the other end.
“Holy shit, Rosinante?! We thought you were dead or hiding in hell! Do you know the mess you left when you vanished?! X Drake—Sengoku’s nephew—had to get in touch with you!”

“What? That kid’s his nephew ! like...my cousin?! huh ? Never mind.. Listen… I can’t talk long, I’m in Charlotte territory.”

“Damn it, Cora… you’re playing with the devil. You disappear for a few months and now you’re married to a crime boss?! Nobody believes it—Tashigi nearly had a heart attack when she found out who your monster of a husband is! You know he’s one of the most wanted names in the underworld?!”

Rosinante clenched his fists.
“I didn’t have a choice, Smoker. If I keep quiet, I can gather intel—but I need you. Please, check every hospital, shelter, and orphanage in the region for Law. I have no damn clue where he is—Joker’s after him. Make that your top priority—saving me is secondary, got it?”
His voice had taken on the firm, disciplined tone of a police officer.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, idiot… Fine. But you better survive, damn it—Katakuri? You couldn’t have picked anyone else?! That guy’s a monster, from what they say!”

Children’s cries suddenly pulled him from his thoughts. They came from the distant building he’d seen before.

Ending the call quickly, Corazon was drawn by the noise. The place looked like a massive boarding school, right there on Katakuri’s property. A little girl, younger than Law, clung tightly to his leg—light plum hair and bangs framing her face.

“Pudding, let go of him, young lady!” called a familiar voice.

“Brûlée?” Rosinante blinked, surprised.

“Rosinante, I didn’t expect to see you so soon. So—how’s the move going?”
She was surrounded by a swarm of tousle-haired children.

“You work as a servant here?” the blond asked, curious.

“Servant?!” an indignant child named Anana exclaimed. “Big Sister Brûlée isn’t a servant, insolent! We should execute him!”

“Big Sister…?” Rosinante repeated, startled.

“I may have lied a little about myself…” Brûlée chuckled.

They spent most of the afternoon together, talking about her not-so-credible lie and her life here. Rosinante quickly realized that this Charlotte daughter was not one of Linlin’s favorites—apparently ever since an accident that had left her scarred. She had been pushed into the role of nanny, caring for the youngest, since Linlin produced children but never raised them. While her siblings worked directly in the mafia world, Brûlée had no real power or influence—her very life didn’t seem to matter much.

But not to Katakuri. He had chosen to live close to the boarding school partly to keep watch in case of an attack on the younger ones, partly because he adored his little sister above all else. Living beside her made life simpler for him—a man with so little social interaction, even in their façade of a family.

From Rosinante’s analysis, Brûlée was perfectly respectable—genuinely admiring his husband and showing one-way loyalty to her mother and the mafia. She wasn’t involved in shady dealings, aside from a little candy-based blackmail with the younger kids.

Beside him, Pudding had remained glued to his arm, without saying a single word.

“Sorry again for lying to you—my hatred for nobility made me want to test you. Rumors fly about the way your kind treats people beneath them,” Brûlée admitted.

“No harm done—if my father chose to leave that caste, it was because of their vile behavior. I probably would have acted the same way myself. I understand now why Katakuri looked ready to kill me on the spot when I called you a servant.”

“Yes—big brother loves his family above all. He would have seen that as disrespect. Still… you passed my test with flying colors! No more lies now!”

Katakuri’s motorcycle roared in the distance, its deep rumble tearing through the quiet of the neighborhood. For Rosinante, it was the signal — time to return to his “husband.” After giving the children a polite smile and wave, he climbed the steps to the door. Katakuri appeared almost at the same time, imposing in his dark coat.

“I see you’ve familiarized yourself with the place,” he said in a neutral tone, tossing his keys onto the console. Then his gaze, as cold as a blade, locked on him. “I’m warning you: don’t do anything stupid involving my brothers and sisters.”

Rosinante raised an eyebrow, an ironic smirk curling his lips.
“Who do you take me for? I’d never harm a child.”
Yet his mind drifted to a vivid memory — Law. Their first meeting, that reckless act of throwing him out the window to save him. It had been for a good cause back then… Thinking about Law filled him with a certain ache.

They entered the dining room together. A long table, perfectly set, bathed in the soft glow of hanging lights. Rosinante sat down, surprised to see Katakuri do the same. He never ate with him. Katakuri didn’t touch his plate, sitting upright, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on Rosinante, who began eating with palpable unease — it was the first time they’d seen each other since the wedding, at least a few days ago.

“So…” Rosinante cleared his throat, trying to find something casual, “...I wasn’t expecting to have dinner with you.”
Katakuri didn’t respond. He kept staring, expressionless, as if analyzing him after his encounter with the siblings. Rosinante tried to force the conversation.
“How was your day? You… what is it exactly that you do for work?” Cora silently prayed he wasn’t some kind of hitman, torturer, or worse — a shady doctor who drugged children. His imagination knew no limits.

“Powder,” Katakuri answered flatly.

Rosinante choked, spitting out his food.
“You mean…?”

Katakuri leaned forward slightly, his calm tone contrasting with the weight of his words:
“White powder.”

Rosinante practically jumped out of his chair, knocking over his glass with a loud crash.
I’m dead. Sengoku is going to kill me. I’m married to a drug lord — he’ll never forgive me.

“HOW CAN YOU SELL COCAINE SO CALMLY?!” the blond yelled, on the verge of a panic attack.

A silence, then Katakuri said, perfectly composed:
“Flour, Donquixote.”
If he hadn’t had that scarf covering half his face, Rosinante would have sworn there was a smirk underneath.

“That’s what I just said…?” he muttered, slumping back into his chair, heart pounding.

Katakuri crossed his arms, his deep voice tinged with subtle irony.
“The Charlotte family is involved in the underworld, yes. But the Totoland company is real. We run tea rooms, luxury pastries… and, yes, we export rare and luxury goods. Our main product is flour — the one that brings in the most profit. I’m the head of that branch, the most influential in our empire.” He paused. “Real flour, from wheat.”

“Oh… I… I thought… well, you know…” Rosinante looked down, embarrassed. He didn’t have time to add anything before Katakuri continued, more serious:
“Our illegal network is known to the authorities — money laundering, arms trafficking, control of sea and land routes. But me… I don’t touch that poison. Ever. I’d rather be an enforcer when needed, to fight, put pressure, or execute orders. Nothing more.”

A grin tugged at Rosinante’s lips as he recalled their arrival at the estate.
“Hence the training room…” he chuckled.

Katakuri nodded without denying it.
“Daifuku handles the little amount of drugs we circulate.”

Rosinante immediately spat out his food a second time, toppling backward with a loud crash, under Katakuri’s amused gaze.
“YOUR BROTHER DOES WORSE THAN YOU?!”

For the first time since dinner began, Katakuri let out a sound resembling a stifled laugh.
“Your brother does far worse in the underground. You’re overreacting a bit.”

Rosinante got up clumsily, his head throbbing from hitting the floor.
“I’m completely against my brother’s ideology! … it’s… complicated, he wasn’t always like this… he’s not the man I once called brother.”

Rosinante sighed, thinking the conversation was over. But then Katakuri’s voice fell like a blade:
“Your turn to talk.”

Rosinante looked up, startled.
“I dug, but there are gaps in your life. Both parents dead… one while you were still in foster care, under sordid circumstances — decapitated, the killer never found, but your brother is one of the suspected sources. Who adopted you afterward? What did you do before returning to your brother’s Family? What was your role? Why did your brother shoot you? And above all… why did they sacrifice you? Normally, finding information on people is easy with our network, but with you… it’s like everything’s been deliberately erased.”

The light tone of dinner had shifted into a cold interrogation. The air between them seemed heavier.

Rosinante gritted his teeth, shoved his chair back, and stood abruptly. His tall figure loomed over the seated Katakuri.
“I… wasn’t expecting this kind of interrogation.” His brief laugh sounded hollow. Then he locked his orange eyes on Katakuri’s reddish ones.
“My name is Donquixote Rosinante. I belong to no one… and I have no biological family left. Except my brother. Nothing else matters or attaches to me — I’m a blank page.” His voice carried a bitter edge. “I… betrayed my brother to protect someone I cared about. And I paid the price.”

His hand went to his shoulder, where a poorly healed wound still marked the bullet he’d taken.
“This marriage… I guess it’s part of Doffy’s punishments,” he said with a bitter smile.

Katakuri stayed silent for a few seconds, then slowly pulled something from the inside pocket of his coat. A photo.

Rosinante glanced at it absentmindedly… and his heart stopped.

Law.
A boy with a dark gaze, surrounded by Baby Five and Buffalo. An old photo, probably from his arrival in the Family.

Panic surged through Rosinante. He snatched the photo from Katakuri’s large hands with violent force.
“HOW DID YOU GET THIS?!” His voice cracked like a gunshot, terrified that Katakuri might take an interest in his ward.

Katakuri’s expression stayed calm, but his words cut like steel:
“I wasn’t going to marry a stranger. This boy was part of your group. And he disappeared… overnight. He also wasn’t present at the wedding, unlike the others.”
A pause.
“What’s his connection to you?”

This time, Rosinante exploded. Rage, pure and raw, replaced his fear. He stepped forward, his shadow falling over Katakuri, his face morphing into something no one would want to meet — an expression so terrifying that, for the first time, the resemblance to Donquixote Doflamingo was unmistakable.

Without thinking, he grabbed the front of Katakuri’s leather jacket, pulling him with surprising strength.
“Don’t you DARE talk about him or go near him, bastard. I can endure living in isolation, not speaking all day, the psychological or physical violence if you ever feel like it.” Every word vibrated with barely contained fury. “I can accept many things in this vile union… BUT NOT anyone laying a hand on MY SON. Understood?!”

The silence was crushing. Katakuri didn’t flinch — though the word vile hit him deeper than he’d expected, a term often used to describe him for much of his life. He had anticipated a violent reaction… but not this revelation. His pupils shrank sharply — he hadn’t seen this coming.

“…Son?”
The word dropped between them like a bomb. Rosinante realized too late what he’d just blurted out.
Shit.

He took a step toward the hallway, ready to flee to his room, but an unyielding grip closed around his wrist so tightly it would leave a mark. Katakuri’s sharp eyes bore into him.
“Talk. I should’ve been informed much earlier. Who’s the boy’s mother? Where does he live?”

Rosinante tore his arm free.
“I’ve got no damn idea!” he spat, almost at breaking point. He inhaled sharply, his voice trembling with nerves.
“He’s not… he’s not my biological son. I just consider him mine. He joined the Family and…”

His fingers shook. He ran a hand through his hair, revealing his entire face at last. This time, Katakuri saw everything — the dark circles, the scars, the exhaustion etched into his features.
“He was sick… dying… alone… no one wanted to go near him. I did everything to save him. I traveled across every country on this earth. In return, I swore I’d pull him out of this damn mafia life and away from my brother.”

His voice rose, raw with anger and pain:
“Doffy wanted to make him his second-in-command… or worse, a black-market doctor. He’s so talented — his skills in medicine shouldn’t be exploited by my brother for profit.” His eyes burned. “I made the whole world my enemy for him… and I’d do it again and again. My whole life belongs to him… he’s my only family.”

His ragged breathing broke into sobs he tried to suppress.
“The problem…” His voice cracked. “The problem is, I have no news of his condition. I don’t know where he is, or with whom… not even if he’s eating enough.” A tear slid down his cheek, then another. “And all the while… Doffy’s hunting him. Damn it… I can’t… I can’t play the perfect husband while my boy is out there, alone, in danger. Shit!” His voice fell to a strangled whisper: “Damn it…”

Suddenly, unexpected warmth enveloped him. Katakuri’s powerful arms closed around him, solid as a fortress. A sweet scent, almost sugary — mochi?

Rosinante froze, his heart pounding. This gesture… so out of character for his husband, left him completely disarmed.
“You care about him as much as I care about my brothers and sisters… don’t you?” Katakuri’s deep voice was strangely calm, as if this kind of weakness wasn’t foreign to him.

Rosinante let out a broken laugh.
“Even more.” His lips formed a bitter smile. For a split second, he considered returning the embrace… but Katakuri had already stepped back, as if nothing had happened.

“Go rest. We’ll talk about this again.”

That night, something new took root in Katakuri. The perfect man, always above everyone else, had for the first time in his life seen one of his own vulnerabilities reflected back at him — through his husband. He had never thought about family, not with a brother like Doffy, but this sudden declaration of fatherhood had, for an instant, sparked a new interest in the Donquixote brother. Seeing a parent devote their entire life to a child… that would almost certainly never happen in the Charlotte family.

_________

 

In the days that followed, Katakuri was almost absent.
Not a word about what they had said to each other the other night.
The manor seemed too vast, too empty for Rosinante.

So he had found refuge elsewhere — at the boarding school, with Brûlée and Praline.
The children’s presence had something reassuring about it… more so than those cold walls.

That day, he was helping to put books away when a melodic voice called out to him:
"Young Corazon…"

He turned around. Praline — one of Katakuri’s sisters — was smiling softly at him. She too had been cast aside, helping Brûlée.

"My question might be a little indiscreet… but I think you need to understand something about our family. Anyone could see the kindness in you, so I must share this after the days — soon weeks — we’ve spent together."

She stepped closer, her face sad.

"Do you know why some of Linlin’s children… are pushed aside?"

Rosinante raised his eyebrows.
"Now that you mention it… I noticed little Pudding… she’s never seen her mother, has she? The other little ones often go visit her at the manor, but Pudding is kept away. She barely ever leaves the boarding school."

Praline gave a sad little laugh.
"Linlin likes surprises… but only beautiful ones. She hates failed dishes, mistakes… and above all, anything she considers… hideous. So sometimes… she rejects her own children. Over a scar…"

She cast a tender glance toward Brûlée, who was playing with some children in the distance — her face cruelly slashed, leaving one to wonder what had happened to her.

“…or for a handicap. Pudding, for example, her shyness cripples her daily life to the point where she was even rejected by Mother. Her mutism has distanced her from her own family.”

Rosinante clenched his jaw. He weighed his words, but his thoughts were far harsher than his tone:
"What a cruel way to think… for a mother."

Praline sighed, clearly hesitating before continuing.
"So… don’t be too hard on Katakuri… he lives under that same rule. He must remain perfect. Always. For her… for us. Our family isn’t really a family."

Those words echoed in Rosinante’s mind for a long time. He couldn’t understand how the perfect Katakuri could possibly have any sort of hardship in a life that must surely resemble a fairy tale — thanks to his status.
Perhaps it was just an appearance… something he would have to dig deeper into.

He left the boarding school at nightfall… without noticing the small figure that was following him in the shadows.

At the manor’s entrance, a huge shadow approached, and a deep voice split the air:
"You don’t tail people, Pudding."

The little girl burst out laughing, throwing herself into Katakuri’s arms.

"Damn, she followed me?" Rosinante exclaimed, almost proud. "We’re very close, she and I — I must not have paid attention. I can take her back to the others."

Katakuri didn’t answer. His gaze was colder than usual. This new closeness Rosinante had with his family — especially Brûlée — he didn’t like it. His brothers and sisters were his weakness, and he didn’t like seeing this man — a stranger — getting too close to them.

Pudding, snuggled against Katakuri, moved her hands energetically. Quick, precise gestures.

Katakuri frowned.
"What’s she trying to say?"

"She wants you to spin her around," Rosinante explained calmly.

Katakuri turned his head toward him, one eyebrow raised.
“…Excuse me?”

Rosinante shrugged, a gentle smile on his lips, slightly out of sync with the tension. Then, without waiting, he made a few hand gestures himself.

Pudding burst out laughing.

Katakuri stared at him, surprised.
"You… know sign language?"

Rosinante lowered his head slightly, a bit embarrassed, his voice tinged with pride:
"Yes. When I was a kid, it took me so long to speak that my parents thought I was mute. I’ve always been a quiet man, so out of fear that I’d stay silent, my dear mother taught me sign language."

He chuckled to himself, remembering his late parents — especially his closeness with his mother.

For a second, silence fell. Then, for the first time since their marriage, Katakuri wore an expression one could almost call… a sincere smile.

His eyes lifted, settling on his radiant little sister.
"I understand now…" he murmured. "Pudding can finally communicate with someone. That’s… wonderful, what you can do."

The raw, genuine compliment hit Rosinante like a jolt. His cheeks flushed despite himself. And Katakuri… seemed to notice, because his face quickly returned to its marble mask.

Rosinante placed little Pudding into Brûlée’s arms when she came to collect her, waving her goodbye before catching up to Katakuri in the hallway. The sweet smell of the kitchen lingered in the air, but something in the atmosphere had changed.

Lighter. Almost pleasant not to be alone like every other night.

Katakuri walked ahead, his steps echoing like drumbeats on the marble floor. Rosinante tried to break the silence:
"You know… she adores you. It’s obvious."

 

Katakuri didn’t answer. He stopped in front of a large window, a gust of wind making the curtains snap and his short hair shift. He looked thoughtful — as if the words about to leave his mouth would change the course of his life.

Then, without warning:
"Law."

The name hit like a slap. Rosinante felt his stomach tighten.
“…What about Law?” he asked, his voice trembling despite himself, afraid of terrible news.

Katakuri slowly turned, his steel eyes locking onto his.
"I’ve given you time to breathe. But I’m not stupid. That kid means everything to you. Enough for you to risk your life… If I keep you here, one day you’ll do something reckless to find him. And I don’t want your presence — or your life — weighing down the Charlotte family."

Rosinante clenched his fists. If he had to find his son, he couldn’t care less about their reputation.

"I already know where to start."

He tossed an envelope onto the coffee table. A photo slipped out of the kraft paper — Law, hood pulled over his head. Behind him, the neon sign of a speakeasy.

Rosinante’s heart stopped.
"Where… did you get this?"

Katakuri ignored the question.
"He’s in Capone’s territory. Locked-down zone — that’s all I could get. If Doflamingo learns he’s there, he’ll have him brought back… or killed. And believe me, Bege won’t let him go just because of your pretty face if the kid’s working for him."

A heavy silence filled the room, each word clearly something Katakuri had been calculating for days. Then came the bomb:
"I can help you find him. But at a price."

Rosinante swallowed hard.
“…What price?”

Katakuri stepped closer — so close Rosinante could feel his breath brush his skin. His voice dropped to a deep growl:
"You become my eyes and ears in the Donquixote network. I can’t stand your brother, and I don’t trust the Family. From now on, you don’t work for him… you work for me. I want to find a way to remove your brother from Mama’s game board. He’s a ticking time bomb, and my opinion alone doesn’t matter to her — I need solid proof to take him out of the equation… and end this absurd alliance that led to our marriage."

Katakuri didn’t mention that recognizing part of himself in the blond man had likely influenced his choice.

Rosinante stepped back, heart pounding.
"You want me to be a traitor again — to my own brother — just to bring him down… and with him, our marriage? Need I remind you that I nearly died last time I played that game?"

"You’ve already done it once — for that kid. So why hesitate?"

Rosinante looked up at him. He thought of Law. That boy he had pulled from hell.
“…If that’s the price to save him…”

Katakuri held out a hand, large as a weapon.
"Then deal. But remember this, Donquixote — if you betray me…"

His eyes glowed with a crimson light.
“…I’ll break you.”

Rosinante grasped the hand. His grip trembled, but his gaze didn’t waver — too determined to find his son.
"We leave as soon as possible. If you need time—"

"Tonight," Rosinante cut in without hesitation.

Katakuri looked pleasantly surprised at the blond’s new determination.
"Fine. I can’t promise in what state we’ll find him… but I can give my all to save a kid."

Rosinante’s entire worldview took a hit. A mafioso might be about to help him far more than justice itself ever could. He’d have time to think on that during the trip; Katakuri’s true motivations were still unclear, but time was short — and the desire to see Doflamingo fall was motive enough to trust.

He rushed to pack a bag with the bare essentials: a few clothes, his makeup kit, a burner phone hidden among his belongings, and what was left of his cigarettes.

Coming downstairs, he stopped at the top of the stairs, surprised to see Brûlée at the door, speaking with Katakuri. The latter handed her the house keys.
"If Mama asks, tell her we’re on our honeymoon. She won’t question it."

Rosinante, despite being a grown man, blushed slightly at the lie.
"Are you sure, big brother? I adore Cora and truly think he’s good… but he’s still Doflamingo’s brother. We’ve only known him a few weeks."

Though the remark stung, the point was fair.
"That’s for me to decide. Be brave, little sister. Take care of our family while I’m gone, and contact me as much as you can. We won’t be away long."

Corazon finally came down the stairs, happy to see his new friend. She hugged him to wish him a safe trip, whispering in the embrace:
"Please, Cora… I know this marriage is a punishment for you, but I beg you — take care of my brother."

The younger Donquixote’s heart cracked at the plea. He gently patted the back of her head. He and Brûlée couldn’t be far apart in age, but inside, he saw her as a little sister.
"Promise… he’ll come back in one piece."

Their budding friendship was perhaps the best thing to come from this marriage so far.

Outside, they found Katakuri — wearing a pink-and-black motorcycle helmet, tank top, leather jacket, gloves, and studded pants. Imposing… maybe even sexy, if Corazon dared listen to the tiny voice in his mind he tried to push away.

Katakuri handed him another helmet.
"Please tell me this isn’t our ride?"
"…"
"We can’t just take the car?!"
"Get on."
"Behind you? Can’t I have my own bike?!"

He was going to die right there, in front of Brûlée, who was smiling faintly in amusement.
"Get on… and shut up."

Katakuri started the bike — a low growl rumbling through the air. Corazon’s chest ended up almost pressed against Katakuri’s broad back.

Katakuri tilted his head slightly toward him.
"How exactly do you plan on holding on? You’ve never ridden a bike before, have you?"

Rosinante, tense, stammered:
"I… I’ll… hold on to… the seat."

A heavy silence. Then Katakuri exhaled sharply.
"Do what you want, but if you fall, I’m not picking you up."

"Goodbye, you two," Brûlée called, laughing. She couldn’t help finding the situation delicious — seeing her usually perfect and unshakable brother dealing with a nuisance like Corazon was pure joy.

Rosinante, determined to keep his distance, tried to make himself as light as possible — but quickly gave up. The engine suddenly roared like a beast, and the bike shot forward at full speed.

Rosinante screamed in panic, instinctively searching for something to hold on to. Without thinking, he grabbed Katakuri, his arms wrapping around the giant’s torso with near-desperate strength. Heat rushed through him, feeling every tense muscle under his fingers — the warmth of Katakuri’s body intense and oddly reassuring despite the dizzying speed.

"HOLY SHIT!!! I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS!!!" he yelled, fear and excitement blending in his voice.

"Hold on — we’re just getting started."

 

 

______________

Katakuri is so sensitive when it comes to family...
Okay, a little bonus sketch. i wanted to draw the little hugs but iam tooo lazy

Chapter Text

Every vibration of the engine seemed to push Rosinante closer against Katakuri, pressing his chest to the giant’s back. A soft, sweet scent—mochi, unmistakably—hung around them. Rosinante caught himself thinking that of all the qualities he could list about Katakuri, his scent surely ranked among the most unexpected.

The road stretched on before them, empty but tense. Katakuri could feel Rosinante’s body pressed against him, the blond’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He said nothing, keeping his focus on the winding asphalt ahead, but he couldn’t ignore the tension in every one of Rosinante’s movements—like the man feared breaking him. Ironic, considering the difference in their strength.

The motorcycle roared through the night, its growl echoing off the deserted buildings. Behind him, Rosinante let his eyes fall shut, his thoughts drifting away from the road, far into the past.

The first time he had decided to take Law under his wing.
Back then, the boy had already been lurking around the Family for weeks. Rosinante had tried everything to scare him off—playing the cruel lieutenant, putting on a mask of brutality, hoping the child would run. But Law hadn’t. And when Rosinante had finally learned the truth—the murder of Law’s parents, two brilliant surgeons, and the sudden loss of his sister—he’d understood. The boy wasn’t just wandering; he was walking down the same dark path Rosinante had once taken. Or worse: Doflamingo’s.

He remembered that night vividly. Law, shaking with rage, stabbing him. He hadn’t cried out. He hadn’t fought back. Because deep down, he knew what that gesture meant. That silence, that refusal to betray him, had changed everything. From that night on, their relationship had shifted. More than a mentor, Rosinante had become his protector—almost a father. He had done everything in his power to spark a little light back into that broken child: encouraging his love for medicine, for learning, for anything that could keep him away from the shadow of Doflamingo.

And now… now he couldn’t help but wonder if it had worked. If Law had managed to escape, or if he’d slipped right back into the dangerous world Rosinante had fought so hard to shield him from.

Still with his eyes closed, Rosinante felt the cold night air bite at his skin. His eyelids grew heavier, so heavy… and he didn’t notice how close he leaned toward the edge, toward the rushing blur of pavement.

A strong hand suddenly seized his arm. Before he could react, Katakuri yanked him back with crushing force, pulling him firmly against his chest. Rosinante let out a strangled gasp, his heart exploding in his ribs, clutching at Katakuri’s torso like a drowning man clings to a lifeline.

“Are you out of your mind, falling asleep on a motorcycle?!” Katakuri’s voice cracked through the night, sharp with real worry.

“S-sorry… I just… I’m clumsy, I—thanks, damn it…” Rosinante stammered, throat tight.

Katakuri said nothing for a few beats, his hands steady on the handlebars. Then he slowed, feeling Rosinante’s trembling fingers press tighter against him.

“You’re tired,” he said simply, his deep voice rumbling.

“No,” Rosinante lied, far too quickly.

They were still at least half a day away from Bege’s territory. Katakuri’s eyes flicked briefly to the mirror, catching Rosinante’s reflection slumped against him.

“We’ll find a place to stop. We’ve been on the road for hours. You’re not used to riding like this.”

A weight settled in Rosinante’s chest. The truth was, he was exhausted. Between the stress, the wedding, and his brother’s attempt on his life, he hadn’t had a single real moment of rest. Even a dingy hotel bed sounded like a luxury now.

Katakuri pulled off the road and stopped in front of an isolated building, half-hidden behind a row of pines. A flickering red-and-gold sign buzzed weakly: Tesoro. Hardly welcoming, but it had lights.

They dismounted in silence, the cold air stinging Rosinante’s cheeks. He still trembled, from fatigue as much as the earlier shock. He followed Katakuri into the empty lobby, where a towering woman with scarlet hair sat behind the desk. She barely glanced up before saying in a drawl:

“Only one room left.”

Rosinante’s stomach twisted. Of course. The universe loved its cruel little jokes. He shot a quick look at Katakuri, silently praying the man would refuse. But the giant didn’t even blink.

“That’s fine.”

Rosinante opened his mouth to argue, then froze when Katakuri’s eyes flicked to him, cool and unreadable. This was not the time to act difficult.

Key in hand, they climbed the stairs in heavy silence. The room was plain: a double bed, a tired lamp, and the faint scent of old wood. Rosinante froze on the threshold, his throat suddenly dry.
“This is… uh… pretty spacious,” he lied clumsily.

Katakuri dropped his bag without a word and shrugged off his coat. Then, without warning, he pulled off his tank top. His massive shoulders came into view, followed by his broad chest, muscles shifting under skin a shade darker than Rosinante had expected. His breath caught when his eyes fell on the pink tattoo etched into Katakuri’s left side—four lines, perfectly tracing the ridges of his torso.

He’s… tattooed? He hadn’t expected that. And yet, it suited him perfectly—his style, his presence. Too perfectly. Rosinante snapped his gaze away, cheeks burning. Goddamn it… why are you freaking out? He’s just shirtless. Just a man. If Bellemere saw me like this, she’d never stop laughing.

The man with violet hair didn’t seem to notice the blond’s discomfort—or chose not to show it. Without a word, he slipped into the bathroom. As the sound of running water filled the silence, Rosinante leaned back against the wall and dragged a hand down his face.

It’s just a room. Just for sleep. I’ve shared beds with worse, on missions.

To steady his nerves, he lit a cigarette. Then another. Drawing fast, shallow breaths of smoke, as if the nicotine might slow his pulse.

When Katakuri reemerged, at least he’d had the decency to put on a dark shirt… though it hung open halfway, just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his torso, the lingering warmth of his damp skin. His mask remained in place, hiding the scar Rosinante could only imagine.

“You planning on sleeping standing up?” Katakuri asked without looking up, toweling his hair.

Rosinante startled. “H-huh? No… I’ll, uh… take the floor. We’re both over two meters tall, so…”

At that, Katakuri finally lifted his gaze. His eyes locked on Rosinante’s, sharp as blades, as though staring at an absolute fool.
“Out of the question. We sleep in the bed.”

Rosinante’s throat tightened. “You… you’re kidding, right?”

A brow arched beneath the lieutenant’s fringe. “Do I look like I’m kidding? We wake up early tomorrow. I don’t care about sharing space with a man like you—I care about being efficient.”

The silence thickened, broken only by the faint drone of a television in some distant room. Rosinante opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when Katakuri let out a long, weary sigh.

Without a word, the giant grabbed a pillow and dropped heavily to the floor beside the bed. The wood groaned under his weight.

“What?! No, wait, stop—I’ll take the floor! You don’t have to—”

“We’re getting up early.” Katakuri’s voice was low, firm, leaving no room for debate. “Donquixote. Rest. Stop wasting your energy.”

Rosinante froze, his chest tight. He stared, speechless, at the man lying on the ground. That respect—for his boundaries, for his space—was so rare in their world it stunned him. Slowly, he lay back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his heart hammering too fast. Every breath Katakuri took beneath him seemed to echo through the room, a constant reminder of his presence. It had been years since Rosinante had shared a night with anyone besides Law.

The silence stretched—long, suffocating. Thoughts screamed in Rosinante’s mind until, without thinking, he whispered:
“Why are you helping me?”

A quiet rustle from the floor—Katakuri had shifted slightly.
“…What?”

Rosinante swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“Why are you helping me find Law? You’ve got nothing to gain, except maybe a little intel to take down Doffy. You don’t even know Law… and you don’t really know me, either. I… indirectly forced you into marriage, so why? Why get involved for a stranger who only slows you down?”

Silence. Rosinante almost wished he could swallow the words back. Then Katakuri’s deep voice broke through, lower than before:
“I’ve always had… a knack for staying a few steps ahead. My family, our allies… our enemies. Some even say I can see the future. A rumor I don’t mind keeping alive.”

He shifted onto an elbow, his face turning slightly toward the bed above.
“But I don’t predict anything. I follow my instinct. And my instinct tells me… I have everything to gain by helping you.”

Rosinante frowned in the dark.
“Gain what?”

Katakuri paused. Then, softer:
“…I don’t know yet. That’ll be decided when our mission ends—what I’ll walk away with. But… your bond with that boy struck me. You don’t even see it, but you wear it on your sleeve. That connection—it isn’t foreign to me. If you’re ever ready… I’d like to hear more.”

Rosinante’s heart stuttered. That tone—this wasn’t a threat. It was a request.

After a long pause, Katakuri’s voice returned, quieter still:
“That weakness you show so openly, out of nothing but love… I have cracks like that, too. Behind the perfect mask the underworld paints of me. Mine are… about my family too.”

The words hung in the dark like an admission of guilt, or something far more fragile. Charlotte Katakuri, had just exposed his greatest weakness.
The silence that followed was no longer suffocating, but steady. Rosinante, lying still in the dark, felt his breath even out. And for the first time in days, sleep came to him without nightmares.
_____

Dawn filtered through the poorly drawn curtains, painting the room in pale shades. Katakuri had been awake for a long time. Sleep had been short—he was used to that—but not for the usual reasons.

He lay on the carpet, hands crossed behind his head, his dark eyes gliding toward the figure sprawled above him on the bed. Rosinante. The man slept as if he had crossed a battlefield, all disheveled, one arm dangling into the void, mouth slightly open. His face, half-buried under tousled blonde strands, had something singular about it. It wasn’t smooth beauty, no. It was… rough, marked by years and difficult choices.

And yet, Katakuri found himself… tolerating it. That slightly strong, straight nose, the relaxed mouth in sleep, and especially those dark circles that told of too-short nights, the sleeve of his half-open shirt hinting at the pale line of a scar.

Being forced into marriage… it could be worse, he thought with a dry humor he would never dare voice aloud.

A silent sigh escaped him, but before he could look away, disaster struck.

A dry rustle, then a sudden topple: Rosinante’s arm slipped, pulling his torso, then his entire body, in a catastrophic roll off the bed. Katakuri only had time to lift his head slightly before BAM—90 kilos of blond literally fell on him.

Breath caught in his throat. Rosinante let out a strangled groan, eyes still half-closed, his face pressed against warm pectorals. His legs tangled in the blanket, one knee pressing against the giant’s thigh, and his hands were somewhere between his shoulder and chest.

Their bodies were completely on top of each other.

“…What…?” he muttered, his voice thick, before panic hit. His eyes snapped open like a cat’s, meeting Katakuri’s dark gaze just inches away.

Silence. Katakuri could have simply pushed him away. Gotten up and ended this ridiculous farce. But he remained still because a foolish thought had crossed his mind: Corazon could not sense only tobacco—there was a hint of jasmine floating in the air.

Rosinante, for his part, turned pale, panicking as if he were about to be executed on the spot.

“F-FUCK—” he flailed like a fish out of water, tangling further in the sheet. His knee almost struck a sensitive part of Katakuri mal anatomy before the giant firmly grabbed his wrist with one hand, immobilizing him.

“Stop your ridiculous nonsense.”

Rosinante froze, panting, his face only inches from Katakuri’s. Slowly, Katakuri lifted his torso, hoisting Rosinante as if he weighed nothing, and placed him back on the bed with a sharp motion. He rose in turn, dominating the room with his full height.

“If you wanted an excuse to sleep with me, you should have asked.”

Rosinante stayed frozen, mouth slightly open, unable to tell if it was a joke or a threat. Katakuri calmly picked up his jacket from the chair, ignoring him. Rosinante, still curled up on the mattress, blanket tangled around his legs, felt his face burning.

“On the bike in three minutes.” Katakuri opened the door, letting in a gust of cold air and pale light. “Try not to fall this time.”

Without waiting for a reply, he left, his boots thudding heavily down the corridor, while Rosinante, alone in the room, muttered a muffled curse as he pulled on his shirt backwards. Katakuri seemed in a good mood today; maybe that would work to his advantage.

The icy wind whipped Rosinante’s face, forcing him to cling to the dark coat ahead. Katakuri hadn’t spoken a word since leaving. To break the silence, he tried:
“Y-you know… uh… if I… well, this morning… I didn’t mean—”

“I figured,” Katakuri cut him off, his deep voice carried by the wind.

Rosinante bit his lip. Okay. No need to insist—Katakuri seemed to imply that such closeness would never be voluntary between them.

The motorcycle roared, devouring kilometers under a gray sky. The closer they got, the more the landscape changed: the pines gave way to low buildings, watched over by armed figures. Eyes lingered on them, wary. They had entered Bege’s territory.

Katakuri slowed. “You don’t speak until I tell you. Here, every word counts. Bege is an ally of Mama; getting on his bad side could create serious problems for the Charlotte family.”

Rosinante didn’t care; he was used to infiltration missions. Lying about objectives or who he really was had been daily life with the Family, so if he just had to stay silent to find Law, he could play the obedient little soldier with Katakuri.

Katakuri stopped the bike in front of a hangar converted into a private club. Red neon slashes cut across the façade; two men in suits waited, hands in pockets but fingers clenched on their gun triggers.

Rosinante felt his stomach tighten. He dismounted, pulled up the collar of his coat, and followed Katakuri, trying not to stumble under the hostile gaze of the guards.

They immediately recognized Big Mom’s lieutenant. Their expressions froze, a mix of fear and respect. Without a word, they stepped aside. But their black eyes stayed fixed on the blond, cold and wary.

Katakuri cut off any assumptions with a neutral tone:
“He is my husband.” A pass, just for the blond.

Then he entered.
The heat, the smell of cigars and alcohol hit them like a wave. The music rumbled, making the red-paneled walls vibrate. Inside, a sea of faces: men in pinstripe suits, tattoos snaking up their necks, glasses of whiskey in hand. Laughing women, adorned with flashy jewelry, circled the tables. Some were mesmerized by Katakuri’s beauty, though he didn’t even glance at them.

At the back, in a private room guarded by two armed men, sat Capone Bege himself. Cigar perched at the corner of his lips, eyes sharp beneath thick eyebrows, he lounged on a leather sofa like a king in his kingdom.

His eyes scanned the room before settling on them.
“Katakuri,” he finally said, his deep voice cutting through the noise.
“I didn’t expect to see you in person. Your appearances are rare… it’s an honor to have Charlotte’s second-in-command under my roof.” A faint smile stretched his lips; he was already savoring the bragging rights. His gaze drifted to Rosinante. “Oh… and what do we have here, hiding in his shadow? Could it be… Doflamingo’s brother?”

“Hello to you too, Bege,” Katakuri replied calmly, without a trace of emotion.
“Hello,” Rosinante simply said, forcing a tight smile.

Bege chuckled, a dry laugh that echoed in the room.
“Sit down What brings me the honor of receiving two newlyweds? My clubs aren’t usually the place for wedding celebrations!”

A few underlings burst out laughing at his joke. Rosinante looked away for a moment… just enough to catch a glimpse of a pink-haired woman holding a baby, discreetly passing down the corridor behind the glass. A fleeting image, yet one that etched itself in his mind.

Katakuri placed a photo on the table. Law.
“We’re looking for someone.”

Bege raised an eyebrow and drew a long puff from his cigar.
“Hm… doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe if we talk a bit, my memory will come back…”

Katakuri didn’t flinch. Of course, he could have threatened him. But Bege was Mama’s ally: no blood should be shed here. Not tonight.

“Very well,” he said coldly. “Let’s talk business.”

Bege snapped his fingers. Immediately, the laughter ceased, chairs scraped the floor, and the room emptied. Silence fell, heavy. Capone’s gaze then fixed on Rosinante, heavy, full of suspicion.

“I’ve never trusted Doffy’s family,” he said slowly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “That guy steps on my weapons business too much… So knowing one of his lieutenants—worse, his brother—is wandering around my clubs… Makes the conversation complicated.”

A polite warning: he was asking him to leave.

Katakuri didn’t waste a second.
“He’s no longer a Donquixote, Bege. He’s a Charlotte. If my husband is a problem for you, say it directly to me.”

The words struck like a gunshot. Bege flinched ever so slightly, a cold sweat forming at his temple.
“Absolutely not! …I was present at your wedding myself,” he said with a forced smile. “Beautiful ceremony, by the way… I just… have a few disagreements with Doflamingo, you understand…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll step out,” Rosinante cut in with a light smile. He gently placed a hand on Katakuri’s shoulder, as if to calm him while playing along, and added:
“I’ve never liked talking business. I won’t be far.”

Without waiting, he left the room, disappearing into the crowd. Behind him, the two men locked eyes.

Rosinante pushed further into the club, determined to follow his instincts. He wandered, trying to eavesdrop, catch a scrap of information, a name, anything that would lead to Law. But nothing. Just fake laughter, clinking glasses, and meaningless conversations. Each passing minute weighed heavier on his heart.

Eventually, he gave up. The noise gave him a headache. He slipped to the back, passed through a service door, and found himself outside, in a damp alley where the air reeked of oil and smoke. His fingers trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette. The first puff burned his throat but eased the turmoil in his head a little.

“Law… where are you, kid…” he murmured to himself. Law was smart, far smarter than him; he could handle himself.

A sharp sound pulled him from his thoughts. Like a muffled scream. He turned and saw, at the other end of the alley, three figures—big guys in black suits—surrounding a woman with bright pink hair.

She struggled to break free, but one of them gripped her arm roughly.

Without thinking, Rosinante moved closer, silently enough that no one noticed before he spoke.
“Hey!” His voice cracked through the night. The men turned, surprised. “Back off!”

They exchanged a coarse laugh.
“Go away, clown, this ain’t your business,” the tallest one snapped, cracking his knuckles.

The first didn’t have time to react: a well-placed hook smashed his jaw, sending him rolling into the trash cans. The second tried to grab him from behind, but Rosinante pivoted and drove a knee into his stomach before throwing his cigarette into the side of his head.

The last came at him from behind as well. Rosinante turned, but not fast enough: a violent hit to the face made him stagger. His vision blurred, a dull pain exploded in his head. His fist collided with the man’s jaw with brutal force. The attacker grunted before collapsing next to the other two.

Rosinante stayed still for a moment, leaning against the wall, hand sliding over his sweaty temple.
“Damn… I’m rusty,” he muttered, an ironic smile on his lips.

He looked up at the woman he had just pulled out of trouble. She was no longer trembling; her gaze had regained a strange, vivid glow, tinged with a blush.
“Are you alright?” he asked, wiping the trickle of blood running down his cheek.

She nodded, then gave him a sly little smile.
“I should be the one asking you that.” She stepped forward, elegant despite the chaos, and extended her hand. “My name is Lola.”

“Rosinante,” he replied, shaking her hand, intrigued. “Those guys… what did they want with you?”

“They mistook me for my twin sister,” she sighed, “and thought they could kidnap me to extort a ransom from my brother-in-law.”

Rosinante smirked faintly.
“What a sordid idea… Marriage only ever brings trouble.”

“You don’t say!” Lola shot back while helping him back to his feet. Her tone was light, almost theatrical. “My mother tried to force me into marriage. Just like she did with my sister before me. I refused, and ever since then… I’ve been dead to her.”

“Charming woman… I’d rather not meet her,” Rosinante commented, lighting another cigarette.

“I want a marriage of love.” She spun around on her toes, arms spread wide like a heroine in a musical. “A marriage I choose. Because the person opposite me is worth it.”

“Like in fairy tales?” Rosinante asked with a crooked smile.

“Exactly!” Lola’s eyes shone. “In an arranged marriage, there’s hardly any room for love—even if your husband’s name happens to be Loki.”

Rosinante raised an eyebrow.
“Loki… the prince from Elbaf?”

“Yes, he was supposed to be my fiancé!” She stuck her tongue out in disgust, then rolled her eyes. “Young prince charming, if you want to marry me, I say yes. After all, you just saved my life!”

Rosinante nearly choked on his cigarette and almost lost his balance.
“Wha—?! I—sorry… I’m already married. A marriage of… let’s say… convenience. No love there either.”

“Oh…” Lola sighed, a bit disappointed, before giving him a mischievous look. “You know, my sister Chiffon eventually fell in love with the man she was forced to marry. Now they’re happy, with a child… Maybe fate knows what it’s doing, who knows?”

Rosinante gave a nervous little laugh. Fate, huh? It would take all the magic in the world’s fairy tales for Katakuri and him to… He shook his head. No. Impossible.
____

Meanwhile, inside, Katakuri was in the middle of a conversation with Bege when the private room’s door suddenly slammed open. A pink-haired woman stormed in, a crying baby in her arms, followed by armed men. Her eyes flashed like lightning.
“HONEY! LOLA’S GONE MISSING!”

Katakuri lifted his head immediately, recognizing Chiffon and his nephew.
“Hello, Chiffon,” he said calmly.

She almost threw herself at him when she saw him.
“Big brother, it’s so rare to see you! We need you! They say someone tried to kidnap Lola to use her as a hostage!”

At those words, Bege jumped to his feet, his cigar nearly falling from his lips.
“WHAT?!”

Katakuri stood slowly. Two men, two prides, had just been trampled on.

An armed troop stormed into the club, following Katakuri and Bege into the hall. And there, right in the middle of the chaos—just as a battle was about to explode—Rosinante reappeared. Slightly disheveled, his shirt stained, a bit battered, a cigarette hanging from his lips… and Lola, alive and well, clinging to his arm.

A murmur spread through the room. Weapons lowered slightly; the tension dropped. Chiffon nearly dropped her baby as she rushed to her sister.
“LOLA! By the heavens, I thought I’d lost you!”

The two sisters embraced feverishly, their tears mingling with the lingering stench of gunpowder and alcohol in the club.

Katakuri stepped closer to Rosinante, his eyes trailing slowly over him: his wrinkled shirt, reddened knuckles, a gash on his forehead bleeding down his temple.
“What the hell did you do?”

Rosinante looked up at him, his usual clumsy smile plastered on his face.
“I… had a date. With three guys.” He paused, grimacing slightly. “They weren’t my type.”

He shrugged, though the tension in his face betrayed the pain.
“You’re bleeding.” The taller man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the wound with surprising gentleness.

Rosinante blinked at him, caught off guard by the almost tender gesture.
“Yeah… but they’re not moving anymore. Let’s call that a win, shall we?”

Before Katakuri could respond, a voice rang out:
“KATAKURI!”

Lola appeared like a whirlwind, throwing herself at him while Rosinante froze in shock at such closeness.
“It’s so rare to see you, big brother!”

“Big… brother?!” the blond nearly choked.

“Oh yes! My mother is Linlin. Matriarch of the Charlotte Family. I’m Chiffon’s twin sister—the wife of Bege.”

Rosinante blinked, stunned.
“You could’ve started with that! Linlin’s the one who disowned you?!” He suddenly remembered Praline’s words about how Linlin classified her children.

“For such a petty reason, she no longer exists… hardly any of the Charlottes have contact with her,” Chiffon said sadly.

But Lola was no longer listening. She turned back, her fingers shamelessly gripping Rosinante’s strong arm.
“I told you Loki wasn’t my type… but you are exactly my type—very gallant. Come on, marry me, forget your wife!”

The whole room seemed to freeze… a long silence before bursting into laughter. Bege, Chiffon, their men—everyone doubled over. Even Katakuri raised a hand to hide his face, shoulders shaking with a rare, quiet laugh.

Rosinante turned scarlet.
“What?! There’s nothing funny about this! He saved my life, it’s the least I can do!” Lola protested sincerely, which only made the laughter louder.

Even Rosinante ended up laughing awkwardly.
“I… unfortunately, like I told you… I’m already married.” His smile grew more amused as he pointed at Katakuri. “And besides… I’m already a Charlotte. This is my husband. Your big brother.”

“WHAT?!” Lola nearly fainted. “Katakuri… married?! And Mama didn’t even invite me?! What a witch!”

She then threw herself at her elder brother, hugging him tightly.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there… Congratulations, big brother. You chose the right person.”

The admission brought a flash of red to Katakuri’s cheeks—he hadn’t chosen this marriage, it had been forced on him. Still, when the laughter finally died down, Bege’s deep voice brought everyone back to reality.

“Rosinante… thank you for defending my family’s honor and saving my wife’s sister. The least I can do is give you what I have… about Trafalgar Law. Your young doctor was spotted in the East District a few days ago. He was hanging out with two kids—local punks, seventeen at most. Names Sacchi and Penguin. They’ve been sticking to him. Since then, nothing. Looks like he’s trying to gather a crew…”

Katakuri crossed his arms.
“That gives us a starting point.”

Rosinante felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders. Law was alive. He wasn’t alone. But what kind of mess had he gotten himself into now?

Lola, meanwhile, still hadn’t let go of his arm, smiling ear to ear.
“You know… my proposal still stands if your marriage falls through!”

Rosinante rolled his eyes, only to feel Katakuri’s burning stare on his back.

“You can sleep here for the night.” Bege’s gravelly voice cut through the lingering laughter as he puffed on his cigar.

“I can make you dinner or pour you a drink, Rosi-dear!” Lola winked.

“No thanks… alcohol’s not really for me. We’ll eat in the room.” Rosinante tried to stay neutral, acutely aware of two amused female gazes fixed on him. “I still need to dig for information on Law.”

“Then start with Sacchi and Penguin,” Chiffon suggested, rocking her child, her eyes warm with tenderness. “Those two talk too much—go through them, and you’ll find your young doctor.”

Lola planted a loud kiss on Rosinante’s cheek.
“You’ll find him, I’m sure of it!”

Katakuri’s deep voice cut everything short.
“Enough. Let’s go we need rest.”

No one dared comment on his sharp tone, but Lola and Chiffon exchanged a glance… before bursting into laughter the second the two men left the room.

Chapter Text

The room they had been given was spacious, yet strangely suffocating. On a low table, two trays of food awaited them, still steaming. Rosinante froze on the threshold, a cold sweat running down his back. Plates neatly set on the table, a carafe of water… and a bottle of red wine glinting under the dim light.

“It looks like they thought of everything…”

Katakuri remained by the door, massive, arms crossed, his scarf pulled high over his face. His sharp gaze followed Rosinante’s every move, as if deciphering an invisible threat. After all, the man had just helped one of his sisters without asking anything in return—enough to put Katakuri on edge. What could he possibly gain from being kind?

Rosi forced a smile out of habit, trying to cut through the silence.
“I guess we should eat. If you want, I can step out so you don’t… you know…” He gestured vaguely at the scarf with his hand. “If you want to be comfortable, we can take turns eating.”

A breath—not quite a laugh, not really an answer. Just enough to say he wouldn’t be eating tonight either. Rosi knew by now the man had hardly eaten since their departure two days ago.

At last, Katakuri moved, his tall frame making the floor creak under his weight. He pulled out a chair and sat down without a word. His arms stayed firmly crossed, unmoving, as though refusing to admit his hunger. Judging by his demeanor, he had likely eaten very little before the journey began.

The blond scratched the back of his head.
“Well… we shouldn’t let it get cold. Unless you’d rather not…”

As expected, Katakuri didn’t touch the food. He only stared at Rosinante, watching him eat, just as he always did. God, someone had to tell this man that staring at people during meals wasn’t normal social behavior. He was definitely not gifted with human interaction.

Rosinante bit his lip, racking his brain for a way to make his fake husband eat something—anything. Katakuri always bore it in silence, never complaining, making it impossible to read his true feelings. Then, a ridiculous idea struck him.

“Hey… what if…” He dragged his chair around and turned his back to Katakuri, smiling over his shoulder. “What if we ate like this? Back to back. That way I don’t see you, and you can eat in peace.”

“You expect me to turn my back on you and risk you turning around?”

Rosi shrugged, amused despite himself.
“You’ll just have to trust me on this one. Unless you think I’ll stab you with my fork.”

A long silence followed. Katakuri was more than capable of defending himself from an attack, even from behind. Finally, fatigue and hunger seemed to win out. Slowly, he pulled his chair and set it behind Rosinante.

Back to back.

Rosi felt the heat of his body press against him, solid and overwhelming, making his own spine arch involuntarily. His heart sped up without warning. He tried to joke, to lighten the heavy atmosphere.
“There we go… feels almost like a team exercise. Think of it as one of your training drills.”

A faint rustle of fabric answered him. No words. Then came the discreet sound of a plate shifting, a fork being lifted. Katakuri was eating at last. The tight knot in Rosinante’s chest loosened a little.

“You okay?” Rosi asked softly, a smile tugging at his lips.

“…Keep eating.” The reply came smoother, warmer than usual, unfiltered by the scarf. His voice vibrated through his back.

They stayed like that. Every small movement of one sent a shiver through the other. Rosinante, despite himself, felt something unexpected: safety, comfort in the solid warmth at his back. And something far more unsettling—the urge to turn around. To see his face. To discover what Katakuri was hiding, what shame made him cover himself so stubbornly. Just a glimpse. But he didn’t. He respected this boundary, just as he respected all the others their strange marriage had forced between them.

A comfortable silence settled in, broken only by the clink of cutlery. Then, to his surprise, Katakuri spoke.

“Smoothie would’ve hated you as a husband.” His voice was clearer than usual, freed from the fabric, and surprisingly pleasant to hear.

Rosinante let out a laugh.
“Huh? Why? I’d make a fine husband! I may not be the most charming gentleman, but honestly, she would’ve had an easy life with me.”

“You can’t hold your liquor… and my sister…”

There was something subtle in his tone—a shadow of longing. He missed her. Their last words had been over Katakuri’s marriage, and she must have felt terribly guilty for imposing it on him. Not knowing that, in the end, the union wasn’t as unbearable as she had feared.

“…My sister loves to drink. Anything, really. Mostly alcohol. She can outdrink most of our brothers… maybe even me.” There was a faint, almost teasing note in his voice. “She wouldn’t have tolerated a man who gets drunk off stress.”

Talking about his family softened Katakuri, made him almost… pleasant.

“Well… I think the wedding night alone was enough to humiliate me for the next ten years.”
A faint blush rose to Rosinante’s cheeks as the memory of that cursed evening came back to him.

A laugh—low, quiet—escaped the giant. It was his only reply.

Rosinante froze. That laugh didn’t belong to the cold, distant colossus he’d always known. It was soft. Human. Against his will, he found himself wanting to hear it again. It stirred a memory—of the first time he had ever heard Law laugh. A sound so rare, so precious to him.

Back then, the boy had been so withdrawn. Years of living with the family (in this AU, Law had joined them as a child and stayed—not just for a few months as in canon, but for several years, four or five at least—until his illness worsened) had slowly thawed his silence. And yet it had been something as ridiculous as Rosinante’s clumsy fall that had broken the ice and earned Law’s first laugh. Their bond had grown stronger after that, once Rosinante realized the boy wasn’t going to escape his brother’s shadow, no matter his violent acts.

Katakuri and Law shared that same strange particularity—that their laughter was often drawn out by Rosinante’s awkwardness. And in that moment, Rosi couldn’t help but be grateful for his own clumsiness.

“I never thanked you… for the vows.” Katakuri’s voice brought him back to the present.

Rosinante blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“The kiss. It would have been… difficult for me, with my face. But you… you improvised. That gesture, kissing my hand…” He paused, his breath reverberating faintly along Rosinante’s spine. “I hadn’t foreseen it.”

Something tightened in Rosinante’s chest. He had never imagined such a small detail could have meant anything to Katakuri. To him, it had only been instinct—a way to spare them both public embarrassment. But hearing it now… he realized the gesture had touched Katakuri deeply. The fact that the man himself was bringing it up, long after Rosinante had dismissed it from his own mind, created a strange warmth between them. Perhaps saving Lola had softened Katakuri, who seemed less guarded, less sharp-edged than usual.

A wave of warmth—almost pride—washed through Rosi. His lips curved into a genuine smile.
“It was nothing. I’d do it again, if needed.”

The meal ended. Katakuri set his plate down with military precision, then, without a word, pulled his scarf back into place. He rose soundlessly, took a pillow, and went to settle against the wall, sitting cross-legged on the floor, back straight.

“You’re planning to sleep there again?” Rosinante asked, surprised.

“Yes.” The answer was curt, final. “I’ll stay alert, in case something happens.” He didn’t want to push boundaries with the blond—their relationship was nothing more than cordial. Sharing the bed might have been practical, but for Rosinante it would have felt like a trial, and Katakuri wasn’t about to impose.

A smile tugged at Rosinante’s lips.
“Always on guard, huh? You’re making me feel guilty for sprawling out on the bed.”

Katakuri said nothing. His arms crossed, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead, as though weighing the entire situation in silence. Rosinante sighed softly and got up. He picked up a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and walked over. Katakuri lowered his gaze as the blond’s shadow fell over him.

“Here.” Rosinante leaned down, draping the blanket across Katakuri’s broad shoulders.

“No way I’m letting you freeze on the floor all night. I’m only doing this so I don’t feel guilty,” he joked.

The warmth was almost alien to Katakuri… and unbearably gentle. He had never known this kind of tenderness—not from a mother, nor from an elder sibling. He didn’t reply, but his fingers curled slightly into the fabric, betraying his emotion. For a fleeting moment, he felt like a child being tucked in, though his own mother had never once done such a thing.

“Good night, Katakuri.”
Rosinante’s voice was low, almost tender.

“…Good night, Rosinante.”

The blond returned to the bed, lying down with his back to the towering figure. And in the darkness of the room, Katakuri stayed awake a long while, his gaze fixed on the silhouette only a few steps away… the blanket clutched against him, weighing strangely heavy on his heart.

Maybe simple courtesy between them could make this marriage more bearable. There was no affection, no sentiment. Only the search for a way to cooperate—until the day they could end it.

__________

The sun had barely risen when Katakuri started the motorcycle, his long legs and massive shoulders dwarfing the machine. He held out a small band-aid in his huge hand, catching the blond off guard.
“...That’s for me?”

Katakuri didn’t even look at him, almost embarrassed by his own childish gesture. Was this his way of thanking him for the other night?
“Take it. It’s all I had in my first-aid kit. I don’t usually get injured, so… I’m not sure if it’s the right kind for your wound.”

It took Rosi a moment to process before the man’s gloved fingers gently lifted his fringe—an unfamiliar tenderness in his touch—as he carefully placed the bandage over the shallow cut on his temple, a wound that hardly deserved it.

“Thanks for helping my sister.”
In the morning light, Katakuri looked almost regal, and the gesture went straight to Rosi’s chest.

This new idea of cooperating without tearing each other apart seemed like a good decision. Katakuri was sure of it, judging by the enormous smile Rosi gave him in return, thanking him a thousand times over—though it did hurt his ears. After much thought, Katakuri decided to treat him like a clumsy child rather than a burdensome dead weight. It would only make the mission easier. After all, he was used to being pestered by his younger brothers. This wasn’t so different… if you forgot the part about the other man being his husband.

They were stuck together anyway—might as well make it simpler. Or so he thought. The rest of the morning proved him wrong.

Because Rosinante, for all his clumsiness, sentimentality, and kindness, was still a grown man. A man he didn’t know. A man with a past he was hiding. A man who had already betrayed his own blood brother.

The tension began when they needed a new lead on Law. The blond refused to use the Charlotte network’s information. Katakuri’s mood cooled instantly; he only wanted to help, but instead he felt pushed aside—or worse, that his efficiency was being questioned. Sure, the method wouldn’t have been exactly legal, relying on Perospero and his men as informants, but the results would have been guaranteed.

“So where do you want us to go if we’re not using the mafia’s intel?” he asked, faintly irritated. Katakuri wasn’t used to bowing to methods other than those dictated by his mother—or himself.

“I–I’ll make a call, if that’s alright. I might have a… slightly more legal way to track them.”

“With who?” Katakuri asked sharply, putting on his helmet. His voice suddenly felt much colder than yesterday, like a cat bristling with suspicion.

“An old friend.”

The answer didn’t convince him one bit. Rosinante was far too vague about his past for that “friend” to be just a friend.

The air between them turned heavy, the tender moment from last night now feeling like a distant memory, drowned by Katakuri’s growing mistrust. Rosinante stepped aside and pulled out his burner phone, which only had two numbers saved. After a few moments, the line connected.

“…Smoker? It’s me.”

A shocked silence—then a deep, incredulous voice barked back:
“Rosinante?! Damn it—you could at least answer my calls! Sengoku’s gonna kill me if you don’t call him back soon!”

A small smile tugged at Rosi’s lips.
“Long story, I promise I’ll explain. I need a favor. I’m guessing you haven’t found anything on Law yet—the kid’s too smart to leave a trail. But we’ve got another lead. Two kids—Sacchi and Penguin, a couple of loud little punks running around with him.”

Smoker grunted.
“Yeah, I’ve heard rumors about those two. Why the hell are you looking for them?”

“They’re probably with Law right now.”

Heavy bootsteps sounded behind him. Katakuri had moved closer, his cold eyes fixed on Rosinante through the visor, his senses sweeping the parking lot. He caught every word of the conversation without shame, his entire body taut and alert. He didn’t like this change in Rosinante at all—the shift was too sudden, too suspicious. Especially when Katakuri had been making the effort to cooperate.

Smoker’s voice broke through again, a faint smirk audible in his tone:
“You wanna meet? I can get that info for you real fast. Just say where.”

Rosinante glanced at Katakuri.
“Thirty minutes. Old gas station on the road toward Wano City.”

“Got it. And Rosinante… you’d better not be bringing company!” Smoker hesitated, as if torn between laughing and warning him.

“Too late,” Rosi chuckled, hanging up before turning to the tall man with purple hair.
“We might have a lead. Let’s go meet my informant!”

Katakuri said nothing. He only stared, the kind of silence that told Rosi he’d regret keeping him in the dark. But it was too soon to reveal everything about his past as a police spy. Would Katakuri even stand by him if he knew? He had been kind last night, yes—but would that kindness hold once he learned the rest? Rosinante couldn’t risk it. Not when Law was still out there. Not when the mission came first. Even if it meant upsetting his husband.

The ride was silent, but Rosinante could feel Katakuri’s entire body tense in front of him. He was holding himself back, not intruding, but clearly he hated being excluded. He wasn’t used to being out of control—of anything in his life.

The motorcycle screeched to a halt in front of the old gas station, rusted and covered in faded graffiti. Rosinante immediately spotted a familiar silhouette moving between the abandoned pumps. Tall, broad-shouldered, white-haired, smoke curling from his half-open jacket: Smoker.

A bright grin broke across Rosi’s face. After everything, it was such a relief to see an old friend again. He almost leapt off the bike, taking quick strides forward.
“Smoker!”

The man raised his eyebrows, surprise flickering in his eyes before a rare smile cracked his face.
“Well, well… for a guy they said was on death’s door, you don’t look too bad.”

He crushed out his cigar and opened his arms. Without a second thought, Rosinante dove into the embrace, laughing like a child, his hands patting the shoulder of his former colleague—under the dark gaze of his driver. Katakuri, still helmeted, stood motionless, but every line of his massive frame betrayed a cold tension. He didn’t like this closeness with a stranger, though he kept it to himself. Obviously, it was only the mission that bothered him—nothing else.

“Damn, how long has it been?!” Rosinante exclaimed.
“Too long. And you… still living dangerously, I see.” Smoker gave a short laugh, then his eyes flicked toward Katakuri.

He frowned slightly.
“… And that’s your husband? That giant? The right hand of the country’s most powerful matriarch? So the rumors were true. He’s… impressive.”

“Yeah… let’s just say it wasn’t exactly planned.”

Katakuri slid a hand into his pocket, discreetly tapping out a message to Perospero, the family’s informant. That Smoker… he’s a cop. I’m sure of it. My instincts never fail. Need confirmation.

Katakuri had harbored suspicions from the very start of their marriage. He wasn’t stupid, nor was he Mama’s second for nothing. A background that spotless? Unnatural. Either the man was a wanted fugitive or directly tied to an intelligence service. Neither possibility sat well with him. Rosinante’s habits didn’t match those of a mafioso, either. Unlike his brother, he worked clean, methodical, with an almost irritating sense of justice and legality.

Smoker’s presence only deepened the unease. If he was police, others could have followed him. Even if Corazon was on his side, an ambush could happen in an instant. Nothing about this situation pleased him. He wanted to end this detour, return to the mission—but he held himself back. Doflamingo was still the target.

Smoker’s voice broke the silence, half-mocking, half-serious:
“You’ve always had… surprising taste in couple. Remember Belle-Mère? What was it—a week before you two figured out neither of you was straight? Honestly, your friendship works a lot better. That was already a shock, but this guy… as your husband?” He shook his head. “Anyway. Enough of that. Let’s talk business.”

He pulled a folded file from his jacket and handed it to Rosinante.
“Listen carefully. I dug through the databases, leaned on my contacts… Your two kids, Sacchi and Penguin—they’ve been spotted stealing minor explosives. But not alone.”

Rosinante’s breath caught.
“… Law?”

“Worse. According to my guys, they’re running around with a certain Monkey D. Luffy. Ring any bells?”

The blond’s eyes went wide.
“… Luffy? Wait… Garp’s grandson?!” Garp—the loyal lieutenant, his father’s most faithful friend.

Smoker let out a dry laugh.
“Exactly. The old man must be tearing his hair out. Discipline was never his grandkids’ strong suit. And Luffy… he’s a damn hurricane.”

Law, running with Garp’s grandson? Rosinante would have preferred being told he had to remarry than hearing this.

Katakuri, silent until now, lifted his head slightly. Monkey D… That name echoed even in the darkest corners. Garp was a legend from his mother’s era. And this tie between Rosinante and law enforcement only deepened Katakuri’s icy mistrust. A simple policeman might have been tolerable. But names like these? That was no coincidence.

Smoker’s tone grew heavier:
“Here’s the problem—they were last seen in Wano. And you know what that means.”

Rosinante froze.
“… Kaido’s territory.”

Smoker nodded slowly, his eyes hardening.
“Exactly. Kaido owns everything there. His men see and hear it all, especially with that new drug—Smile—spreading like wildfire. If Law and those two brats are running around with Garp’s kid, they’ve picked the worst viper’s nest on the map.”

He paused, then dropped the blade:
“And from what I’ve heard… your brother’s got business there too.”

The silence grew heavy. At last, Katakuri stepped forward, his helmet still locked in place, speaking to cut short a meeting that had already dragged too long for his taste.
“Wano is Kaido’s domain… Mama’s direct rival. Together, they’re the two most powerful mafia heads on the continent. Compared to them, Doflamingo is just a small-time player.”

Smoker narrowed his eyes at the massive figure looming before him, the sight alone making his skin prickle.
“Then do me a favor, monster. If you step foot in Wano, tread carefully. Otherwise, you’ll trigger a war between the two biggest syndicates alive. And trust me—no one walks away from that unscathed.” He had no desire to be civil with his friend’s jailer. To him, this man was a criminal, likely holding Rosinante against his will. He despised him, but lacked the strength—or the proof—to provoke or arrest him.

Katakuri hated the word monster. If it were up to him, he’d send Smoker flying into the nearest wall. People often used it as a synonym for his name, but for him, the word carried a deeper weight, tied to the face he always hid. Before he could act on the anger boiling inside, Rosinante inhaled slowly, breaking the tension before it exploded. Part of him wanted to defend Katakuri. Smoker meant well, but pushing the giant would only worsen things.

“Thank you, Smoker. Really—I couldn’t ask for a better ally. But I’ll handle the rest. I’m not alone. Say hi to Belle-Mère and her girls for me. And if you can send me everything you’ve got on Wano…”

“I’ll send it,” Smoker replied, lighting a fresh cigar. His eyes locked onto Rosinante’s, deadly serious.
“But watch yourself. Wano… is no playground.” He pulled him into another rough hug.

The blond nodded silently before heading back to the bike, trailed by Katakuri—who looked even more irritated by their closeness. Moments later, the roar of the engine tore through the air, carrying them away toward the horizon.

Rosinante clung to Katakuri’s solid frame, but the atmosphere had shifted. A heavy, icy tension clung to the giant’s silence. He hadn’t said a word since their departure.

Finally, his deep, implacable voice cut through the rushing wind:
“You’re going to have to give me more information about the Family. And about your brother. That was the agreement. I need it—to put an end to this.” His tone was the same as when they’d first met: cold, authoritative. From behind, his shoulders looked even broader.

“I’ll get my hands dirty for your brat… but you hold up your end of the contract. Don’t forget—we’re not on some honeymoon. We’re partners on a mission. After this, we go back to the way things were before.” He stressed the word before, as if it carried some hidden meaning.

Rosinante fell silent for a moment. The sudden distance hit him like a physical blow. He had thought… maybe they’d crossed a line the other night. A foolish impression, perhaps. But Katakuri had just rebuilt the wall between them—the wall of duty. He had become stone again, frustrated by Rosi’s secrecy. Corazon felt guilty, but he couldn’t bring himself to reveal everything. Not yet.

He sighed, eyes fixed on the blur of asphalt rushing beneath them, sadness clouding his gaze. Maybe he should have been more discreet about Smoker. Or used another contact. But that would have looked too suspicious. All he wanted was to find Law as quickly as possible. Disappointing Katakuri was secondary. At least, that’s what he told himself. But the thought hurt for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

“… Fine,” he finally murmured.

So, for the rest of the ride, he talked. Listing Doflamingo’s lieutenants one by one—their roles, their histories, their places in the network. Explaining the coup in Dressrosa, the trafficking webs, the Donquixote Family’s reach. It wasn’t so different from the long debriefings he used to give Sengoku, back when he still lived between two worlds. He laid it all out, omitting only the parts about Law—or his life as a cop.

Katakuri remained silent, distant, his questions sharp as blades whenever they came. He clearly had many—too many—for Corazon to answer.

Rosinante realized he had misstepped, that he had angered him somehow. But it didn’t matter. The mission, Law, always came first. Even if it hurt.

Then a thought struck him—fleeting, terrifying. What if he knows?
What if Katakuri had guessed about his ties to the police? About his past?

Maybe that would explain the sting in his silence—not Smoker’s presence, but Rosinante’s own lack of transparency, his fear-driven half-truths.

 

___________________ bonus dumb sketch

Chapter Text

The motorcycle came to a halt in a narrow alley, heavy with red lanterns. Vertical signs, covered in gaudy neon, stacked one over another like a chaotic skyline. The city had preserved much of its traditional character, except in its seedy districts.

Rosinante straightened his collar, drew in a deep breath, and slipped into the noisy crowd. Katakuri followed a few paces behind, his massive frame drawing lingering stares. But that wasn’t what worried Rosinante.

“We need to find an information hub. A bar, maybe…” he murmured, leaning slightly toward him. “But whatever you do, don’t let anyone see your face. If one of Big Mom’s sons is spotted here—worse, a Sweet Commander—our infiltration will be blown. Keep your helmet on.”

Katakuri didn’t reply. His silhouette seemed to swallow the neon light around him.
“And how do you plan to manage alone?” His voice was low, carrying the same heavy distance that had hung between them since the encounter with Smoker.

Rosinante flashed an amused smile, trying to ease the tension.
“All I need is a mirror.”

From his bag, he pulled out a red-patterned beanie, an enormous black feathered coat—how it even fit in his bag was a mystery—several brushes, and a vivid red lipstick.

Minutes later, his face was transformed: a grotesque smile painted in crimson, blue streaks under his eyes, the strange hat fixed atop his head. It was the same makeup he had worn the first time they’d met. Katakuri hadn’t seen it since Rosinante began living alone—only faint traces of it on rare occasions. Usually just the blue, or the red, but rarely both. Katakuri always found that a shame.

He watched in silence, immobile. He had to admit—even ridiculous, the lipstick somehow drew attention to the blond’s lips in a way that he secretly liked. But he kept that to himself, ashamed.
“You look like a sad clown,” he said flatly at last. “I don’t see how this disguise will help you here.”

Rosinante shot him a sidelong glance, his smile never faltering.
“Because people don’t know me as Rosinante. But Corazon…” He tapped his painted cheek. “Corazon is Doflamingo’s brother. And that face… everyone remembers.”

Katakuri narrowed his eyes.
“Why hide behind that mask—especially in front of your own brother? Couldn’t you have just stayed yourself?”

The irony in his words hung between them, unacknowledged. Of the two, it was Katakuri who lived perpetually hidden, his scarf shielding his face from the world.

Rosinante averted his gaze.
“I… never liked what Doflamingo became. Maybe this makeup was my way of not facing the truth—that the brother I once knew was gone. That I could only endure my role in the Family with a painted smile. Doffy himself said I shared our late mother’s face. He couldn’t stand to look at me for long… so he gave me this grotesque smile for his own comfort. With time, I grew to accept it. After all, it was with this face that Law finally came to trust me. That made it bearable.”

Katakuri said nothing. A man who hid his own face day and night needed no further explanation. He simply gave the faintest of nods and followed as Rosinante moved forward, silent as a shadow.

His cold demeanor, ever since their run-in with Smoker, remained intact. But he had to admit—he missed speaking to the blond without walls between them. Being a wall himself was no fun. Still, he knew better than to grow too attached to someone who might well be an undercover agent.

When they entered Wano’s most exclusive restaurant-bar, the atmosphere shifted completely. Rosinante transformed. He laughed, shook hands, exchanged greetings with everyone around. Patrons asked after Doflamingo—so popular in Wano—and Rosinante played his part with unnerving ease. Katakuri, leaning against a shadowed wall, stiffened. He didn’t like how natural the performance looked, as if this persona had always been part of him. He preferred the awkward man he spent his days with.

Rosinante finally sat at the counter. Moments later, a tall figure slid into the seat beside him. A long purple coat, red hair slicked back, lips curled into a predatory smile. His pale face, too, looked painted—almost like another clown.

“Well, well… Doflamingo’s brother, here, alone? Has the bird fallen from the nest?” the man drawled, lighting the cigarette Rosinante had just placed between his lips. “They call me Kanjuro.”

Rosinante tilted his head, feigning indifference as his blond hair swayed.
“And you are?”

The other man’s smile widened, sinister.
“A servant of Orochi. Puppet ruler of this rotten country—though we both know whose hand pulls the strings. Fufufu. But you… you brighten the room. Foreigners are rare here. The borders are tightly guarded.” His gaze slid over Rosinante like a scalpel. “So tell me—what’s a Donquixote doing in Wano, all by himself? Your family doesn’t usually stray far from its own turf…”

Rosinante let out a quiet laugh, mocking the suggestion.
“Sometimes, one needs a change of air.”

Kanjuro arched a brow, amused.
“Really? I’m not convinced.” He motioned for the barman to bring an expensive bottle of sake, which he set between them. “Come on—drink with me.”

Rosinante played along, filling a glass. At a distance, Katakuri did the same, though his helmet made drinking impossible. He didn’t take a sip—too busy watching the performance unfold a few meters away. If he had doubted Rosinante’s past as a spy, now he was sure. The man was a master actor. How many years had he spent pretending to reach this level?

“And you, Kanjuro… working for Orochi, then?”

The man chuckled darkly.
“I run errands for that decrepit, corrupt fool. Everyone knows who truly rules. Let’s just say… I have connections. Bigger ambitions under Kaido’s shadow. But you—you’re not here for the sake. Tell me, pretty blond… what is it you’re looking for in Wano?”

Rosinante only smiled, mysterious.
“If I were searching for someone, do you think I’d shout it from the rooftops?”

Kanjuro leaned closer, his perfume heavy in Rosinante’s nose.
“I like discreet men. They appeal to me. I myself am quite the theatrical type. And your makeup… it suits you. Brings out your lips beautifully, fufufu.” He toyed idly with one of the heart-shaped tassels on Corazon’s hat. “But you know… nothing in Wano comes free. You want information? Maybe I can help. But only if you give me a good reason…”

Rosinante felt his heartbeat quicken as the man toyed with a strand of his blond hair. He could have sworn he heard the sound of a glass shattering somewhere behind him. He was used to this—enduring provocations like these was part of his job. Espionage often demanded sacrifices, and some missions had forced him to endure acts that scraped against his dignity, things he regretted still.

Kanjuro’s voice slithered closer, laced with mockery:
“People talk in this city. Foreigners, petty thugs… trailing after a certain Monkey D. Strange, isn’t it? So many outsiders in Wano all at once. But I don’t give away secrets for free, Corazon.”

He leaned in, his fingers almost brushing Rosinante’s cheek.
“Drink more… and stay with me tonight. We’ll talk business… out there, or perhaps in my bed. Your choice.”

“So you know my name. The Family’s famous here… hm. But tell me—what’s the point in staying?” Rosinante replied softly, almost playfully, though inside disgust gnawed at him. “Trying to keep me around so I’ll spill something? Bad luck. I’ve got nothing to give you in return.”

Kanjuro leaned closer still, his red hair brushing against the blond’s temple, his lips only inches away.
“Make you talk… or make you scream. Your choice.” His breath ghosted over Rosinante’s painted skin, far too close. “I have a thousand ways to negotiate… especially with beautiful birds like you. You could offer other services.”

His hand slid slowly down Rosinante’s back, stopping at the border of his trousers too close to his buttocks. A shiver of revulsion ran down the blond’s spine. Around them, the bar’s laughter seemed to fade, like someone had muted the world. Everything narrowed to that hand, that cloying perfume that made him want to recoil.

A brutal silence fell. Heavy, suffocating—so dense a falling ember would have echoed. Patrons froze. Some lowered their heads.

Katakuri’s massive silhouette approached, each step punctuated by the creak of leather, each sound a sentence. His fists were clenched tight. Even behind the visor of his helmet, the weight of his stare seemed to pierce the air.

No one moved. No one dared breathe too loud.

Kanjuro barely had time to yank his hand away before Rosinante’s chair was dragged back, his body swallowed into the shadow of a towering figure that stepped between them like an unbreakable wall.

“No one ever taught you not to touch what doesn’t belong to you? Keep your filthy hands off my husband.”

The word detonated like a gunshot.

Husband. Rosinante’s thoughts stumbled over it. That hadn’t been part of the plan.

Heads snapped up. Shock, curiosity. Murmurs stirred at the edges of the room, quickly smothered under the crushing tension.

Kanjuro froze, his bravado cracking.
“Oh… interesting. I didn’t know Doflamingo’s brother was… already taken.”
He was lying. Their marriage had made headlines across neighboring cities—Morgan’s paper had splashed it on the front page.

Katakuri stepped closer, his looming shadow swallowing the neon glow. His gloved hand clamped down on the back of Kanjuro’s chair and shoulder, pinning him, wood splintering under the pressure of his fingers. He could have crushed him with one hand.

“If you want to keep painting with those pretty hands of yours… keep them far from what’s mine.”

A shiver rippled through the bar. Some patrons looked away; others, too frightened, slipped out the door.

Rosinante, stunned, felt his face heat with an involuntary flush. What was this? A bluff? A strategy? Or something else entirely?

Kanjuro’s eyes narrowed, pride bruised, but he didn’t move. Katakuri let the silence stretch until it weighed like stone. Then, in a jarring contrast to his earlier violence, he took Rosinante gently by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
“We’re leaving.”

The colossus didn’t release him until they had crossed two deserted alleys, hidden from prying eyes. Only then did his grip fall away—rough, almost abrupt. Rosinante rubbed his wrist, his heart still hammering.

“What the hell was that? Your husband… seriously?”

Katakuri stood still, arms crossed, helmet hiding his expression. He looked like a sulking child despite his massive frame.

Rosinante gave a wry, almost nervous smile.
“That was my cover. To find Law. I had a lead. Now we’ve got to start from zero again because of your little scene. You’ve been acting weird lately—weirder than usual, and that’s saying something! First you freeze me out, reminding me this relationship is nothing but a pact to take down my brother—and then you sabotage the plan! I was doing my job—”

A sharp sound escaped Katakuri’s throat. Not quite a laugh, but something darker. He stepped forward, and the red glow of a neon cut like a scar across his visor.
“Your job is to flirt with the first snake who buys you a drink?”

“That’s what bothers you?!”

Rosinante shrugged, hiding his surprise. Why should it matter to him? The tension between them vibrated like a wire ready to snap.
“If it gets me closer to Law, then yes. You’ve made it clear this is just a mission, a deal. Nothing more. So I hold up my end.”

Katakuri’s gloved fist tightened, knuckles whitening under leather. His voice dropped, darker still:
“You’re playing with people who have no limits, Donquixote. And you—letting someone like that touch you, like your life’s worth nothing. How far would you have gone for information? That guy was a depraved bastard. I’ll remind you we’re married ! ”

The words struck Rosinante deep, where he hadn’t expected to feel anything.

“We signed a contract, Katakuri. A role. That’s all. You don’t love me, and I don’t love you. We’re strangers—you’re the one who never lets me forget it.”

Silence. Thick. Suffocating.

Then, slowly, Katakuri lifted a hand and removed his visor, revealing the upper half of his face. His eyes locked onto Rosinante’s—dark, framed by long lashes that only made the hurt in them sharper, harsher.

“You’re right. I never thought otherwise about you. Or us. But in that case—don’t humiliate me in public while you wear my name.”

Rosinante felt his lips press into a thin line.
“I thought I could do whatever I wanted? You were the one who told me, on the very first day, that you didn’t care what I did or who I did it with.”

Katakuri closed his eyes, pulling back into a calm he hadn’t realized he’d lost.
“That man… his behavior wasn’t right. You don’t owe me anything—emotionally, or otherwise. I’m just a stranger forced into your life, and you into mine. We’re not even close.” His voice caught, as if weighing every word. “But at the very least, don’t put on a show like that in front of me, not with scum like him. I wasn’t going to just stand there and watch you be groped like bait. That bastard could have done worse. We’ll find another way—one that doesn’t mean you getting assaulted. Protect yourself.”

Rosinante froze. No one—neither his brother nor the cops—had ever told him that. Every mission he had ever undertaken demanded his body, his life, his very identity as expendable. To preserve himself? No one had ever demanded such a thing.

“But… but now I have no chance of finding Law…” His voice cracked. “He had information about Luffy… and me—my life, my damn body, everything I am—it’s worth nothing if I can’t get him back! You don’t understand what a parent’s love is… that kind of love, it’s—”

Before Rosinante could finish—words that would have crossed the line—Katakuri moved. With a violent jerk, he grabbed Rosinante’s arm and shoved him aside. The blond slammed into the wall, the impact knocking the breath from him. He thought it was an act of fury—until he saw the glint of steel.

A blade had cut through the shadows, embedding itself into the bricks exactly where Rosinante had been standing. He would have been dead.

“Your guard dog… has quick reflexes. Let’s see how long he lasts,” Kanjuro’s mocking voice hissed.

Katakuri stepped forward, his shoulders filling the alley, shielding Rosinante completely.
“Stay behind me.”

Metal clanged. Two men armed with bats and knives rushed them. Katakuri lunged into the first, catching the bat in one hand before slamming his fist into the man’s chest. The attacker collapsed like a broken doll. His knee rammed into the second man’s plexus, folding him in half before a brutal kick sent him crashing into the wall. More poured in.

One of them went for Corazon, swinging a steel pipe. Rosinante parried clumsily with his pistol, the shot grazing the man’s shoulder—enough to stagger him. Rosinante drove an elbow into his temple. But the thug pushed up again, knife raised, lunging. Rosinante stumbled back, tripping over a trash bin. The blade arced down.

Shit.

A massive arm intercepted the strike. Katakuri had taken the blow meant for him—while still fending off the others. The knife bit into his side. Blood spilled hot and dark. He didn’t even flinch. His face stayed carved from stone as he tore the weapon from the attacker’s hands and hurled the man across the pavement with a savage backhand.

Rosinante, frozen, could only watch. Katakuri was bleeding—yet he moved like a machine. Every strike efficient, animal, devastating.

Rosinante scrambled to his feet. He saw the spreading red across Katakuri’s shirt. Panic surged, drowning out the mission, the argument, even his past. Nothing mattered but that wound.
“Fuck, Kata—you’re hurt—”

“Shut up.” The order cracked like a whip. “You want to find Law? Then stay alive.”

The last attackers went down under his fists.

Behind them, a ragged groan. Kanjuro, beaten in a single blow, was still conscious, crawling through the dirt. Katakuri stalked forward, boots grinding gravel, crouching like a predator over prey. His hand clamped down on Kanjuro’s neck, slamming him against the wall.

“Now…” His voice was a blade. “You’re going to talk. And believe me—you’ll tell me everything.”

“Where is Law?” The words fell like a death sentence.

Kanjuro laughed, strangled and weak.
“And if I’d rather die? What you’re doing will only bring ruin to the Charlotte name.”

A sickening thud. Katakuri’s fist drove into his abdomen. Blood and bile erupted from Kanjuro’s mouth. The second blow shattered his hand with a crisp, breaking crack.

“I asked you a question.” His tone remained terrifyingly calm.

Kanjuro gagged, his legs kicking weakly in the air. Katakuri held him aloft with one hand, fingers digging into his throat like iron claws.
“Fine…” he gasped, broken. “Garp’s grandson… we saw him with Law… and others… foreigners stand out fast here… They want to take down Kaido… and more than that… Joker.”

His face purpled, breath whistling. He coughed blood onto Katakuri’s collar.
“That’s all I know… people say… tomorrow… they move… to Punk Hazard… maybe… if you’re fast enough… on the road…”

His words dissolved into a wet gurgle.

Katakuri’s gaze stayed cold, unblinking. Then, without warning, he squeezed tighter. The air left Kanjuro’s throat entirely. A sharp crack split the night. The body crumpled into the dust, lifeless.

Rosinante stared, chest heaving. An execution with one hand. Katakuri’s strength was monstrous, inhuman. For the first time, Rosinante wondered why this man hadn’t already crushed him.

But when his gaze fell lower—on the spreading crimson at Katakuri’s flank—everything else fell away. The blood was real. He was hurt. And yet he stood straight, unflinching, as if steel had pierced nothing.

A dizzying rush overcame Rosinante. For beneath all that armor, Katakuri was… human.

“Katakuri… I’m sorry…” His voice cracked more than he wanted. “You’re—”

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? You’re bleeding out!” Rosinante stepped closer almost against his will, his fingers brushing the soaked fabric as he tore part of his own shirt to press against the wound. He felt the heat beneath his hands, the body tight with pain that Katakuri refused to admit.
Katakuri stared at him, unmoving, then turned his head away, almost embarrassed, like a child. His profile was carved by the neon light. He looked shy at the thought of being wounded, though nothing in him showed pain.
“We move. This place will reek of trouble soon.”

Rosinante gathered their things and followed the towering silhouette to a motel.

The door slammed shut behind them. Rosinante leaned his back against it, as if trying to block the world outside. Katakuri remained standing near the bed, head lowered, shoulders drawn tight like a bow. Blood was still dripping, soaking his dark coat and the floor.

Rosinante couldn’t stand that sight—or Katakuri’s calm—any longer.
“Sit down.” His voice snapped sharper than he had intended.

Katakuri obeyed, almost hesitantly, like a scolded dog, as though the simple act cost him more than the battle itself. He placed his gloved hands on his knees, head bowed, breathing steady.

Rosinante grabbed the first-aid kit from the dresser. When he turned, he finally saw Katakuri without his coat—and his stomach lurched.

The giant had stripped off the soaked fabric. His white shirt clung to his skin, stained crimson. Under the flickering light, he looked almost unreal. Muscles carved by years of discipline, raw power held down beneath forced calm. Adrenaline made them look even more imposing.

Heat flushed Rosinante’s face. Damn. He hadn’t signed up for this—he wanted to touch him everywhere, feel his skin against his own.
“Stop staring.” Katakuri’s voice dropped with a nuance Rosinante had never heard from him, cutting his fantasy short.

“I’m not staring!” Rosinante shot back too fast, turning his eyes away, fumbling nervously with the kit.

He knelt before him. The damp cloth slid through his fingers as he cleaned the wound. The blood was warm. His own hands trembled slightly as they brushed Katakuri’s hot, hardened skin.

Katakuri, meanwhile, kept his gaze fixed on the wall, jaw tight. But his ears… turned faintly red. A shadow of blush on a man carved from stone—it was almost cute. He seemed just as flustered about the whole situation, starting with his jealous outburst at the bar.

“You… you should take off your shirt,” Rosinante muttered.

Wordlessly, Katakuri slid the fabric away, revealing his chest fully.

Rosinante’s heart jumped stupidly. He coughed to collect himself, forcing his eyes onto the wound—not on the rest, far too sexy, marked with tattoos.
“This is going to sting.”
“Do it.”

The cotton pressed into the cut. Katakuri didn’t flinch, but his breath deepened, rougher. Rosinante felt it brush warm across his face as he leaned close.

For an instant, he looked up. Their eyes met.
Brief, but enough—Rosinante was struck by the beauty of his eyes, his lashes. Both turned away, red as fire.

Rosinante forced words out just to break the silence:
“Why… why’d you take that hit? I was armed. I could handle it.”
Katakuri stared at him for a long time before answering. His voice came out lower:
“Because you carry my name. And I’m not the kind to watch innocents get hurt, no matter what the rumors say about me.”

Something burst in Rosinante’s chest. He pulled back slightly, cheeks burning.
“You’ve been… unbearable these past hours.”

Katakuri tilted his head, curious.
“Where’d you learn to stitch people up?”—genuinely impressed by his efficiency.

Rosinante smiled faintly, almost shy.
“I patch myself up a lot. I’ve got plenty of scars—ugly ones. I don’t like that part of me… my chest is full of burns and cuts. Mostly my own clumsiness.”

Katakuri raised a brow.
“You find scars ugly?”

A surge of emotion rose in Rosinante. He realized the question wasn’t entirely meant for him—knowing what Katakuri hid beneath his mask.
“Only on myself. On others… they can be very attractive.”

Katakuri’s eyes widened like a startled cat. Both of them flushed bright red, silence thick between them.

The wound was cleaned, roughly stitched. But Rosinante wasn’t satisfied.
“Not enough.” He frowned at it seriously. “You’ve still got dried blood everywhere. If we leave it, you’ll risk infection.”

Katakuri arched a brow under his mask.
“And what if I do?”
“Then… you need a bath.”

“…In the shower?”

Rosinante ran a hand through his hair, suddenly uneasy.
“No, in the tub, but…”

His mind betrayed him, picturing Katakuri—huge, shirtless, in steaming water, with him at his side. His throat knotted.
“But what?” Katakuri asked, tilting his head innocently, far too close.

“You can’t go alone. If you fall and reopen the wound—”

Katakuri replied calmly, as always, not grasping the undertones of human relations:
“Then come with me.”

Rosinante’s mouth fell open, ready to protest.
“What the—? Me, I—”

“You’re my doctor for the night.”
Katakuri’s tone was teasing as he moved toward the bathroom, as though that alone were argument enough.

The tub was already filled with steaming water, mist curling into the air. Katakuri undressed slowly, keeping only a pair of black briefs, revealing his powerful chest, the pink tattoo tracing the swell of his muscles, his thighs, his legs. Rosinante tried to avert his eyes… but his gaze slipped, inevitably, tracing the line of his abdominals, sinking lower to where the dark fabric barely hid what he should not be looking at.

At last, he wrenched his head away, his cheeks burning, heart hammering in his chest. Damn… everything about him was perfectly proportioned. Katakuri was big everywhere. What a thought…

He cleared his throat, hoping to mask his unease, though the heavy, humid air was suffocating—and not only from the steam.
“I’ll… stay shirtless too,” he mumbled, realizing his own shirt would be ruined by the water. He slipped it off, revealing a leaner but still muscular torso, crisscrossed with scars, mementos of old mistakes.

Katakuri gave a silent nod, lowering himself into the bath with a slowness that felt almost ceremonial. Rosinante knelt beside him, a damp washcloth in hand.
“Here, lean forward a little.”

He dabbed gently at the wound, the warm cloth gliding over Katakuri’s bronze skin, careful not to linger too long. Every accidental brush of his fingers sent a spark through the charged air.
“Does it hurt?” Rosinante murmured, eyes downcast.

Katakuri glanced at him, a faint smile curving beneath his mask.
“No. It feels… nice, to have someone taking care of it.”

A shiver ran through Rosinante’s spine. He wanted to hide, to curl in on himself—or maybe, give in to that gnawing urge to lean closer, press against him. The heat of the water, the bareness of their bodies, the weighted silence… it exposed them to one another in a way neither had ever known.

Katakuri stretched out as best he could in the small tub, his size making it look absurdly cramped. A damp towel covered part of his face, veiling his expression. Rosinante, sitting nearby, kept stealing glances, knowing Katakuri must feel his stare, though he didn’t call him out on it.

“Happy to see Law again?” Katakuri finally asked, breaking the silence.
“Huh? Oh—yes, very.”

A soft smile tugged at Rosinante’s lips. “Feels like I can finally breathe again… After the constant stress, since I got shot… and the wedding… I still need to contact my brother. He tried calling me but… it’s complicated.”

He fumbled out a pack of cigarettes, his fingers trembling slightly. After a day like this, he needed one badly.
“Mind if I…?” he asked, lifting the pack.

“No. But only this once. I think it’s stupid to wreck your health like that.”

Rosinante barked out a laugh, the words reminding him oddly of Sengoku scolding him the first time he’d been caught smoking. He had made him scrub half the base that day. The memory almost hurt—it made him realize how much he missed the old man. He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, then exhaled a thick plume of smoke that mingled with the steam.

A moment passed before Katakuri spoke again, his voice rumbling behind the towel:
“Smoker.”

Rosinante raised a brow, surprised.
“He’s a cop. High ranking. How did you get his number? Don’t lie to me. I looked into it. And frankly, I find it degrading to involve a policeman in our business. You could have at least warned me… it stings, being treated like a fool.”

Rosinante finally understood the cold edge in Katakuri’s attitude earlier. But those last words… they revealed something else, something deeper. For his own safety, this close to the end, he kept things vague. Maybe it was the atmosphere, or the fact that he’d see Law tomorrow, or because Katakuri had taken a blow for him—whatever it was, he felt a surge of reckless courage.

“He helped us in the end. I… he’s a friend. A real friend, for years now. We met when—”
“If you’re not ready, don’t tell me now.”

The weight of those words hung in the air. Even without his foresight, Katakuri always seemed one step ahead of Corazon when it came to ties with the Special Forces. He knew more than he let on.

“And Bell-mère? Was she only a friend too? Smoker mentioned her.”
“Oh, her? Haha…” Rosinante laughed awkwardly, caught off guard. “She’s a friend now. We used to be… exes, I guess. But really, more like close siblings in the end.”

A low “hm” escaped Katakuri, hidden behind the towel. His face twisted, but nothing showed outwardly.

“You’re talkative tonight… Is it the blood loss making you vulnerable?”
“I could beat you in my sleep.” His voice carried quiet amusement from beneath the cloth.
“I don’t doubt it. I’m just glad you’re not cold anymore. I didn’t like it.” Rosinante exhaled another stream of smoke.

Katakuri finally rose from the bath, water dripping from his bronzed skin, the faint wound stark against the expanse of taut muscle. Droplets trailed down his arms, over his torso, disappearing into the dark fabric of his soaked underwear, leaving little to the imagination. Rosinante jerked his head away, face flushed, heart pounding far too fast.
“You… you should dry off before you catch a cold,” he muttered, covering his eyes with both hands.

Katakuri didn’t answer, simply slinging a towel over his shoulders and pulling on dry clothes in the bedroom. Rosinante followed soon after, snuffing out his cigarette and closing the door behind him.

In the darkness, Katakuri—still in his briefs—sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Rosinante lingered, uncertain.
“You should sleep,” he whispered. “I’ll just… lie on the floor.”

A brow arched.
“The floor?”
“Yes. You’re hurt, you need rest. I’ve managed nights on the floor before, I’m not made of glass.”

Katakuri studied him a long moment before answering calmly:
“Come here.”

Rosinante blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The bed’s big enough. I don’t mind sharing my space. And… you’re my husband, aren’t you?” His tone was teasing, throwing Rosinante’s own words back at him. “I’d make a poor spouse if I let you sleep on the ground.”

Heat flooded Rosinante’s ears instantly. “Am I… for having put you through all this?”

A faint smile tugged at Katakuri’s hidden lips. He shifted slightly, leaving room beside him.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m joking with you. We owe each other nothing. But if you want to sleep, you’re welcome. Do as you like.”

Rosinante hesitated, then gave in. Still bare-chested, he lay beside Katakuri, feeling the man’s warmth radiating like a furnace. Too close. His breath hitched.

Katakuri closed his eyes, silent. But Rosinante could have sworn he saw, just before, the ghost of a smile beneath the mask.

He shut his own eyes, trying to make sense of it all. Katakuri was terrible at human relationships, that much was clear. After his little flare of anger over Smoker—justified, honestly—he had somehow managed to set it aside, to focus on the mission, on his safety. The man was a mystery. How could someone so breathtaking be such a complete idiot about feelings?

Chapter Text

The air was warm, heavy with that peculiar stillness that only came with late awakenings. The sheets had loosened during the night, revealing a tangle of bodies closer than either of them could ever have imagined.

Rosinante drifted slowly out of sleep, first lulled by the heat—human warmth, almost burning. His back was pressed against something… no, against someone. A chest, hard and hot, molded to the curve of his bare back. And more startlingly, a heavy arm rested not at his waist, as he might have expected, but lower—on his thigh, the hand slack in the crease of his hip, in a comfort far too intimate for a man who’d known so little physical closeness these past years.

His breath caught.

He didn’t dare move right away. He could feel every detail of the body against his—the solid muscles of Katakuri, the steady rhythm of his breathing, even the rough texture of the bandage around his wound brushing against Rosinante’s side. The man’s hips fit a little too perfectly against him; if he concentrated, he could feel far too much of Katakuri’s anatomy pressing there, which only made his body react faster. His leg was slightly pinned beneath Katakuri’s, caught in an almost unconscious embrace.

And it was… embarrassing. Terribly embarrassing. But not unpleasant. Maybe that was the worst part—that neither Rosinante nor Katakuri had slept this well in years.

Rosinante dared to tilt his head just enough to glimpse Katakuri’s face in profile, still asleep. His strong jaw was softened in slumber, the mask covering only part of his features now seeming strangely out of place. He was… beautiful. Long lashes, short tousled hair, and a look of unexpected gentleness, almost vulnerable.

Suddenly, Katakuri shifted, as if sensing eyes on him.

His arm slid lower, slipping from Rosinante’s hip to rest fully on his thigh, his massive hand nearly covering it entirely. The blond froze, cheeks aflame. He was about to protest, say something—anything—but the warmth, the human closeness, felt so good. He had slept so well. He was about to carefully pull away so that this moment could remain nothing but a secret buried in his memory—when Katakuri’s eyes opened. Slowly. One lid, then the other.

His gaze, hazy with sleep, took a few seconds to focus… and then to realize where he was. Against whom he was.

Their eyes met.

A long silence, neither of them moving, neither daring to speak.

Katakuri straightened suddenly, stiff as a soldier. He pulled back just enough to leave space between them, not roughly, but with obvious awkwardness. His voice came low and hoarse from sleep.

“…Sorry.” His ears were red.

Rosinante, meanwhile, had turned scarlet. Realizing he hadn’t moved, that he had almost enjoyed it, he flailed his hands in panic.
“No! No, it’s not— I mean… we must’ve just… moved during the night… that’s normal, right? I mean, I don’t usually sleep with… someone, but I know I tend to roll around.”

An awkward silence. Two men, red to the ears, like statues.

Katakuri averted his gaze to the wall.
“I don’t move. Normally.”

That revelation cast a whole new light on his panic.

“Oh. Great,” Rosinante blurted, completely flustered. “Me neither. I mean, I do—well, not like that—but… I don’t usually sleep with people. I mean, apart from you, it wasn’t even that unpleasant—I mean, no, that’s not—”

He covered his face with one hand. “I’ll shut up now.”

They parted without another word, each retreating to a different room, as if needing distance to put their thoughts in order. Rosinante locked himself in the bathroom, letting hot water cascade over him while he tried—unsuccessfully—to quiet the storm in his head.

Katakuri, meanwhile, sat alone on the now-empty bed.

He was a man of war, seasoned, older than Rosinante. He had crossed harbors, cities, battlefields, known fleeting adventures and empty bodies in every port—physical encounters that meant nothing, faces forgotten before the dawn. It had always been mechanical, obligatory, hollow—never tied to real desire, never emotional. Even his first time had left him unmoved, like going through the motions of adulthood without ever grasping the meaning of pleasure or intimacy.

Yet now, after a single night sharing a bed, he found himself unsettled, like an embarrassed schoolboy. Never had a simple closeness, an accidental embrace, rattled him like this. Not even his first time had stirred him so. So why, then, did lying beside Rosinante feel almost sacred? Why had it been so unbearably good—the best sleep of his life?

This mission to find Law was nearly over. Soon, mercifully, it would end. Katakuri didn’t know what this strange interlude had awakened in him. This bond with Rosinante—a man who wasn’t truly family—stirred a buried fear: the fear of weakness. A weakness born of closeness, of unintentional tenderness, of shared quiet. A weakness he couldn’t name, and one that terrified him.

Soon he would return to his routine. His walls. His room. Separate. The makeshift crew would dissolve, each going their own way, and the divorce would follow. That had always been the plan. And yet, the idea of Rosinante moving on, of him ever sharing this kind of closeness with someone else, made his stomach turn.

Rosinante, for his part, stepped out of the shower almost trembling at the thought of seeing Law again, of reuniting with their companions. He hadn’t thought much about what came after—about the return to coldness, to silence, to the polite distance they had kept before everything shifted.

He would have liked—though he would never admit it—for the adventure to last just a little longer. A few more days, perhaps.

He knew that sharing so many intimate moments with a man like Katakuri—so strong, so striking—had not left him unaffected. But he’d rather die than confess it. And even less imagine that it might have been mutual.

This would end here. And maybe… that was for the best.

 

_________

Without many words, the two men stepped out, bags slung over their shoulders, determined to find Law. Yet the silence dragging in their footsteps spoke louder than anything—neither of them truly wanted this journey to end here.

On the road heading from Wano toward Dressrosa, a small group of teenagers trudged along, backpacks bouncing, sneakers squeaking on the hot asphalt. A noisy, restless bunch.

“Traffy! We should’ve gone after Kaido instead—he’s the real boss of the local mafia!” Luffy whined, hands behind his head, looking completely carefree. “If we’d just taken him down, everything would’ve been solved!”

“We could’ve at least bought souvenirs too… all we grabbed were weapons, info, and explosives. Nothing fun!” Penguin panted, out of breath from running.

“Yeah, like swords. They’re kind of a specialty here. You could’ve picked one up for yourself,” added Zoro, who was from the region and had tagged along with Luffy’s crew of friends.

Law half-turned, face dark, exhausted from corralling this pack of hyper children.
“Shut it. We’ve got bigger priorities. We finally have a lead on the dealer making the SMILES. If Kaido’s going down, this is where it starts. Caesar Clown. He’s the scientist behind the drug fueling their business.”

The others quieted down—Law’s plans were always meticulous, even if they sometimes fell apart. The young man had shadows under his eyes, hair messy and half-hidden under a beanie. The only thing missing from his look—something he intended to fix once their mission was done—were tattoos.

Sachi and Penguin, the most loyal to Law, immediately went back to roughhousing, tossing rocks at each other, while Bepo, a chubby boy with white hair, laughed nervously. They had bullied him once, long ago, until Law stepped in, calmed them down, and claimed the role of leader. From then on, they had stuck to him like glue.

Luffy, meanwhile, was crouched at the side of the road marveling at bugs. His group was much bigger than Law’s little band, and no one knew how the two had even gotten along. But Luffy had taken a special liking to Law—ever since the day they met, when Luffy, wounded, had been saved by Law medical help. One thing had led to another, and now Luffy had rallied his own friends to aid him, forming a ragtag but solid alliance.

Then came a sound—deep, mechanical, wrong. Like an engine far too close, far too loud.

Law froze.
“…Shit. Hide.”

Too late.

A pickup truck screeched out from a dirt road, tires spitting gravel onto the asphalt. More vehicles followed, surrounding them in seconds. Men in black jackets and helmets piled out. On their backs, a bloody paintbrush emblem—Kanjuro’s mark. Sawed-off shotguns, machetes, bats. They weren’t here to scare kids. They were here to kill.

One stepped forward, cigarette dangling, machete in hand.
“Road’s closed, brats. You’ve seen too much.”

Law pulled a pocketknife from his coat. Pathetic against the guns, but it was all he had.
“Sachi! Cover, now—”

But the words were cut short. A baton cracked against his temple. He dropped to the ground, dazed, barely able to push himself up. Chaos erupted.

Zoro launched forward, kneeing an attacker and ripping the bat from his hands. With a snarl, he spun three weapons at once like extensions of his rage. Luffy threw himself barehanded at another, screaming with wild energy. Sanji struck out with brutal kicks, his heel smashing ribs. Sachi and Penguin threw rocks desperately. Usopp, Nami, and Bepo hid in the bushes, shrieking.

But the bullets rang out. The beatings landed. They wouldn’t last.

And then—

A gunshot ripped the air apart.

A shadow burst through the enemy line, massive and unrelenting.

The first thug never saw it coming—a brutal knee to the jaw sent him flying into his own car, the metal crumpling like paper. Another man had his throat crushed underfoot, his weapon shattering as he hit the ground.

Katakuri.

His coat whipped in the wind, his stance solid as stone. He advanced steadily, methodically, eyes sharp and cold. His scarf slipped, revealing a clenched jaw. One truck revved, trying to flee—Katakuri braced, kicked the bumper, and with one devastating push, tipped the whole front end into the dirt as the engine screamed.

And in the distance, another figure moved like smoke between gunfire—Rosinante. His identity blurred, too far to recognize. But his shots were clean, surgical, cutting down the men inside the vehicles with terrifying precision.

It was reckless for a Charlotte son to join a fight like this. Every bullet he fired, every life he took, would echo back to him. Enemies would remember. This would have consequences.

The mafiosi shouted, panicked.

Then Rosinante broke cover, slimmer and quicker than Katakuri. He rolled across the ground, dodging a bullet, sprang to his feet, and drove a fist into an enemy’s throat. The man collapsed, gasping.

“Law!” he shouted.

Law’s head snapped up. Dizzy, bleeding, he blinked hard. That voice—too familiar. That face—lit by morning light.

Rosinante. Alive.

And beside him, Katakuri carved through men like a storm.

In barely two minutes, the fight was over. The last thug hit the ground. Katakuri stood still, barely out of breath. Law, trembling, stared without moving, his eyes locked on Rosinante. His legs wobbled as he forced himself up.

“You’re… not dead, Cora…? Am I dreaming? Joker shot you, I—”

And then he moved. No hesitation.

Law threw himself forward, crashing into Rosinante, arms locked tight around him, as if the world might vanish again if he let go. He sobbed into him, broken, desperate, clinging with every ounce of strength. His friends stood frozen, torn between shock and awe.

Rosinante stiffened in surprise—but only for a second. Then his arms wrapped around Law, pulling him close. A laugh escaped him, strangled by years of held-back grief, mixing with the tears he couldn’t hide. He would never let go again.

“I’m here, kid. I’m here.”

Sachi, Penguin, Luffy, Zoro, Usopp, and the others all stood frozen before the scene. None of them fully understood, but they all felt the weight of this moment. No one dared to break it.

Until Nami stepped forward, carefully.

“Mr. Rosinante… is that really you? I’m Bellmere’s daughter. I—I knew Law had a father, but I never knew it was you! It’s been so many years… I was still a child the last time!”

At last, he noticed her—the young girl Bell-mère had adopted. It had been years since he had last seen her during his infiltration missions, and now she had grown into a striking young woman with short orange hair.

“Pinch me, I must be dreaming, Nami! How’s your sister, and your mother? My God, it’s been so long—your mother’s going to kill me for not visiting all this time. Look at you!”

“Mom and Nojiko are still taking care of our orange grove!” she said proudly.

“I need to visit them sometime! I’m so happy to see you all again… it feels like I’m dreaming.”

Law clutched Corazon more tightly, almost possessively, as if to pull the attention back to himself.

“But…” Law slowly pulled away, his eyes wet.

“Why did you disappear? I left you in the middle of that fight with your brother, when I escaped—when you told me to smile as fast as I could. I… I heard gunshots, I thought—” The tears kept flowing, his body trembling as though facing a ghost. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was terrified something happened to you… I searched everywhere for information. Morgan’s paper mentioned you, but I never found a copy. People said strange things about you, I—”

“Because if I had moved too soon, Doflamingo would have eliminated me… and you with me. I had to bend to his ideas first, before I could come looking for you. But you’ve always been my priority, my Law.”

“What?! Did he torture you, threaten you—did he force you into something?”

Law clenched his fists, his gaze dropping, then slowly lifted his head to meet Katakuri’s eyes.

“And him… who is he? Don’t tell me the rumors are true…” he asked in a low, guarded tone.

Rosinante followed his stare, then exhaled softly.

Katakuri, impassive as ever, stepped forward. His sharp eyes met Law’s, not hostile, but with a silent intensity—an almost animal stillness. Law glared at him as if he could kill with his stare, still clinging to Cora.

“Katakuri,” Rosinante simply said. “He helped me. Without him, I’d never have found you.” He smiled tenderly at the truth.

Law studied him, suspicious, but the sincerity in Cora’s tone left no room for doubt. This man really had helped him. Finally, he gave a reluctant nod.

“…Thanks,” he muttered coldly, as if it cost him.

Katakuri dipped his head slightly in silence.

Luffy suddenly bounced up beside them, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Waaaah, he’s super strong! I wanna fight him! He was so cool knocking those guys out!”

Katakuri raised an eyebrow, faintly amused.

“I doubt you’re at that level yet, kid… but I see a future where you might even surpass me—with training.”

Luffy burst out laughing. “You’ll see, I’m gonna be stronger than everyone!”

Rosinante raised his hands toward Law, trying to calm the tension.

“Law… what are you doing here? With… everyone?”

“Okay, you’re not gonna like this, so don’t get mad… We’re trying to take down Doflamingo’s ‘family’—and Kaido’s underworld network at the same time. I’ve got a solid strategy for it, I just need men. And intel. And—”

Rosinante stiffened. “That’s dangerous! You should leave it to the authorities. You know better than anyone how unpredictable and sick Doffy is. You should stay away from all this and focus on your own life, Law!”

Law grit his teeth, fists trembling.

“He nearly killed you, Cora. That’s why I’m doing this. Believe me, Cora… my revenge has only just begun. I just want to carry on your mission. I spent too many years at their side not to know how twisted your brother really is—how dangerous he is to the world.”

A silence fell, and suddenly Rosinante pulled him into a quick, almost desperate embrace.

“I know what my brother is. I studied him, I tried every possibility to save him—nothing worked. He’s a lost cause. Law, don’t waste your life chasing revenge against him like I did, please…”

“Cora, I’m not a kid anymore. If I’m doing this, it’s for me… I missed you, idiot. But—how did you survive? That bastard Doflamingo shot you. After your betrayal, he’d never leave you alive. He kills anything that threatens his world. Even if you’re his brother, that’s not enough to keep you alive against someone as insane as him!”

Rosinante paled slightly. “Uh… I might’ve left out a small detail about why I survived. You really didn’t see the papers…?”

Katakuri sighed, almost resigned.

Rosinante continued, hesitating. “Only the top figures in the underworld knew about Morgan’s article, after all… I—I’m actually… married.”

The entire group froze.

“You WHAT?!” Law’s eyes went wide, on the verge of a heart attack before he toppled backward.

“Married. It was… a marriage of formality.”

“And to WHO?!”

Katakuri calmly stepped forward, arms crossed. “Me.”

“BIG MOM’S SECOND-IN-COMMAND?!” Law looked stricken. “YOU MARRIED THE SECOND STRONGEST MAN IN THE UNDERWORLD—A RIVAL TO KAIDO?! AND YOU’RE TELLING ME I SHOULDN’T DO ANYTHING STUPID?! YOU’RE THE IDIOT HERE, CORA!”

“He’s not just Big Mom’s ‘second,’ he’s a… strong and reliable man,” Rosinante muttered, blushing, realizing how bad it sounded.

“I LEAVE YOU ALONE FOR A FEW MONTHS AND YOU GET MARRIED?!” Law looked ready to faint—it was so rare to see him lose his composure like this.

Penguin whispered to Sachi:
“He’s gonna have a stroke if he keeps yelling.”

“Just slap him, it’ll calm him down.”

The Vinsmoke son lit up a cigarette, despite his young age.
“It seems my father was at the ceremony, but since he ruled over me, I don’t know much more.”

Law stepped closer to Katakuri, his gaze cold and tense. He pressed a finger against his chest, without hesitation, ready to fight.
“I’m warning you—no matter how strong you are, I don’t trust you one bit. At the slightest hint of trouble, I’ll strike. Don’t touch Cora.”

Katakuri stared back, unmoved.

Law continued, jaw clenched:
“Damn… what kind of horrible brother would do that? Sell his own little brother just to forge an alliance with a woman as powerful as Big Mom?”

He froze, struck as if by lightning.
“Speaking of alliances… wait, there’s something off. Doflamingo works directly with Kaido, in case you didn’t know. Your direct enemies—he’s both a pawn for the Charlotte family and Kaido, secretly. Does your mother know he’s playing both sides?” Law said, looking down on Katakuri.

Katakuri raised an eyebrow, expression still impassive.
“Not to my knowledge. Doflamingo always claimed to work independently. Officially, he represents ‘the Family,’ and recently the Charlotte family, nothing more.”

Law sneered bitterly.
“Yeah, right… He’s the one supplying Kaido with Smiles. He’s behind this mess. Caesar Clown is the scientist behind the drug… and it’s your brother-in-law Doffy who’s hiding it and distributing it exclusively to Kaido.”

Katakuri narrowed his eyes.
“Caesar is wanted by my mother. He extorted funds from her, promising biological weapons… but delivered only unstable junk. So it’s Doflamingo who’s covering for him?”

Law crossed his arms.
“You may be married to Cora… but you still have scores to settle with Doffy, right? If you really want to help, start by taking him down with us.”

Katakuri remained silent for a moment. Taking down Doflamingo was already his initial plan, but being lectured by a smart, insolent teenager annoyed him.
“I don’t need your orders, kid. Trafalgar, I can handle this on my own—then the marriage would also be canceled… But if what you say is true, Doflamingo isn’t just betraying his brother. He’s betraying my family too, exploiting advantages from both our mafias.”

He briefly turned to Rosinante, his gaze darkening.
“And that, I will not tolerate.” His instincts as a son and loyal soldier took over.

“What’s the plan, then?” Sachi asked, stroking Bepo.

Law turned slightly.
“Simple. We start by neutralizing Caesar. Without him, the Smiles stop. Without Smiles, the trade collapses. And with it, Kaido and Doflamingo’s power. Then we go to Dressrosa. We remove that monster from his throne, weaken him, and restore the kingdom to the surviving Riku family—the rightful rulers. And there, without Doflamingo or his drug… Kaido’s mafia will have a massive weakness, and that’s the end of them.”

“You’re talking about taking down the biggest criminal organizations in the world?” muttered Sanji, one of the fallen Vinsmoke sons, eyes wide.

“Exactly.”

Rosinante stepped forward, tense.
“Law! This is way too dangerous! You’re not taking into account how sick Doflamingo really is. He’s a predator, not just a mafioso. Your group is young, inexperienced… and still too weak.”

“Maybe,” Law said, standing firm, “but we’re strong enough to take down a mad scientist. And the rest… we’ll handle it.”

Rosinante clenched his fists.
“Law, don’t sacrifice your life for revenge. You’re worth so much more than that. You could accomplish everything if you didn’t let yourself be consumed—your studies and your medical skills should be your priority at your age.”

Law’s voice broke.
“Cora… I didn’t even know if you were alive. Nights I woke up imagining your lifeless body under that madman’s bullets. I abandoned you, cowardly fled from your cage… right after you found an antidote. I left you in that monster’s hands with only the memory of gunfire. So no, I can’t live normally—not without justice. Maybe my rage starts with you… but what Doflamingo did to so many, starting with your father and Dressrosa’s people… it has to stop. I’ve lived in hell for ten years of indoctrination to become Doffy’s second. The only light in all of that was your presence. The Family has to end.”

He locked eyes with Rosinante.
“That’s why you joined the special forces, right? To neutralize him. You were even younger than me when you joined the police under Sengoku? It was your only reason to live, this mission—you gave up everything, even sacrificed your life, to stop your brother. So let me finish your quest, I owe you that. Otherwise, I could never be happy or face myself in the mirror.”

Katakuri raised an eyebrow. His gaze fell on Rosinante, heavy with unspoken meaning. He finally understood that Rosinante hadn’t told him everything about his past, as he had suspected since Smoker—but the mention of Commander-in-Chief Sengoku immediately chilled him.

A heavy silence settled.

Law continued, softer now:
“Whether you like it or not… I’m going to launch this plan. But you, Cora, I want you safe. I forbid you from dying again. When it’s all over… we’ll meet again. And finally, I’ll have a normal life, resume my studies, and become a surgeon like my parents. Just as I always wanted.”

He looked away, a tear sliding under his hat, which he tilted down with pride. He just wanted to stay near Cora—abandon his friends, his plan, his life—but already, at such a young age, he understood the responsibility entrusted to him. There was no turning back.

“I’m so… so grateful you’re alive. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here to guide me.” He wanted to thank Cora from the depths of his soul—this mission wasn’t even enough in his eyes. He wanted to mark his gratitude like a tattoo on his skin forever.

Rosinante immediately pulled him close, embracing him with all his strength.

“Oh, my little Law… please, take care, don’t break my heart, I beg you.”

“You too, Cora…”

“Don’t worry, he’s in good hands, shishishi!” Luffy chimed, his signature laugh sparkling with admiration at Katakuri.

The young group set off down the road after too-short farewells, Law at their head. He didn’t look back—he knew if he did, he might abandon his entire plan while people were counting on him. He couldn’t be selfish, even though all he wanted was to stay with Corazon.

Rosinante stood frozen, arms crossed, heart heavy. He watched him until he disappeared behind the trees, the silence of departure lingering in the air. His exhausted eyes could not cry anymore. His parent’s heart was torn, having to let his child go, but he knew he could not stop him.

His blonde hair blew in the wind, worry gnawing at his stomach.

Katakuri approached slowly, his steps almost silent on the damp gravel.

They stood there for a long moment, side by side, staring down the empty road. Nothing moved, save for the light breeze lifting dust.

“He’s insolent, your kid,” Katakuri finally said, his deep voice softened with almost a hint of admiration. “Good.”

Rosinante offered a tired but genuine smile. He seemed to want to say something, then thought better of it. His fist slowly clenched.

Katakuri turned slightly toward him, his gaze seeking Rosinante’s.
“So the real reason for our marriage… was that you were undercover. In your own brother’s empire.”

It wasn’t a question, more a confirmation. He had understood long ago, but waited for Rosinante to admit it himself—such a huge hidden secret was not easy to bear.

Rosinante took a deep breath.
“Yes. I was a special agent, and Linlin is likely aware of my past. That’s also why I sacrificed myself in this marriage. My role was clear: infiltrate one of the most dangerous criminal empires in the world… as the brother of the monster at its head.”

A heavy silence fell.

“It destroyed me. Physically. Mentally. I don’t know how many times I wanted to stop everything, end this mission, end my life…” He touched his wrist instinctively. “But I did what I believed was right, for the good of everyone, for Dressrosa… for Law.”

He lowered his head, eyes shadowed beneath his bangs.

“I betrayed my family. My own blood. But I saved a child. Just one, out of all the innocents shattered by Doffy… he was my only victory. You know what it’s like… carrying a loyalty that crushes you. Wanting to protect, even if it tears a part of you apart. Your mother doesn’t treat all her children equally—I can see that. But for Law… I could give him my life. Like a father.”

Katakuri stared at him, long and silently. His gaze was neither cold nor mocking, but there was a deep intensity—his mother would never sacrifice her life for a child.

“Say no more. I’ll wait for you to tell me yourself, in full detail. And know this: I consider it a betrayal, Donquixote. Even though I suspected it and more or less accepted it, my protocol cannot let such critical information slide.” He was using his family name again—a bad sign.

“Serving my mother already forces me to betray my own principles, given her behavior toward my family… I never wanted to hurt my brothers and sisters, but the mere act of obeying her hurts them. So imagine what I think of what you did, betraying your own brother, however flawed he may be.”

“It’s different, and you know it! Stop thinking like a soldier, mechanically, and think for yourself, Kata! Doflamingo had to be stopped, brother or not, and you know it!… And—what now? You want to execute me because that’s how you deal with traitors?” spat Rosinante.

Katakuri straightened slightly, slightly vexed by the tone. He didn’t know how to approach someone as human as Corazon.

“Now, I must inform my mother. She is preparing a grand Tea Party and expects her dear noble and her son by her side. My loyalty compels me to inform her… about your brother and his dealings with Kaido.”

Rosinante grabbed his arm, pressing against his sleeve as hard as he could.
“That could put Law in danger—don’t do it. Wait until he finishes his mission!”

Katakuri lowered his gaze slightly to his hand, then fixed Rosinante with a calm stare.
“You’ve been in contact with another agent recently, Smoker, if I’m not mistaken? Yet you’re still alive, while involving the police in our mafia affairs is even more dangerous. Who knows what could have happened to Law?” He withdrew calmly.

“Let me do my job. You did yours by keeping me out of your secrets, son of Sengoku. Didn’t you think this information was crucial? Then do the same. The very reason for our marriage wasn’t what I thought. I hate being treated like a fool.”

He stepped back a few paces. For a moment, everything they had shared—the healed wounds, the silences, the nights side by side—seemed to collapse under the weight of reality.

When he returned a few minutes later, his gaze carried the fatigue of the responsibility he still bore on his shoulders as the eldest.
“Heading to Whole Cake. We do this Tea Party. You reveal what you know about your brother, fulfill your side of the contract. I’ll inform my mother at the end of the Tea Party. Then I’ll drop you off at Punk Hazard when everything is destroyed. You’ll reunite with your kid after Caesar’s arrest. And after that? You do what you want. Live. Die. That’s no longer my concern. Our divorce will follow Joker’s arrest, as planned by Law.”

Rosinante gently adjusted his helmet, a bitter taste in his mouth, shrugging. From his own perspective, Katakuri, despite being slightly wounded by the new information, couldn’t really be blamed. But he hated that when Katakuri was hurt, he retreated into that image of the perfect, methodical soldier, leaving no room for dialogue—only loyalty, the only way to earn a parent’s love.

“I never intended to die…” Rosinante replied after a few minutes, like a sulking child.

He seemed not to hear Katakuri’s answer, whispered into the wind:
“Yet that’s what you were about to do during our first meeting on the cliff.” The too-human, hurt phrase escaped on its own.

“Huh? Did you say something?” Rosi couldn’t hear over the wind and the helmet.
“No, nothing. Forget it. Get in. We’re in a hurry.”

For Katakuri, that image of Rosinante on the cliff still haunted him. Now that he knew the man, traitor or not, he would never want to see him in such despair or sadness again. He never wanted to see Rosinante ready to die—that was the one certainty he had in their strange relationship.

Without another word, the two men set out for Whole Cake City, where the matriarch awaited.

________________

 

The motorcycle came to a stop in front of the massive gates of the central mansion in Whole Cake. Soft classical music drifted from the speakers… accompanied by an oddly familiar chuckle. Soldiers in pastel uniforms, armed to the teeth, snapped to attention.

Rosinante lifted his eyes to the massive entrance, memories of his first time here flooding back—none of them good. Everything, from the floor to the columns, gleamed with excessive opulence. Golden sweets formed the pillars, and fountains spewed a syrupy liquid vaguely resembling caramel. It wasn’t just kitschy—it was… grotesque.

“Try to keep a low profile. Our honeymoon and our closeness have to look believable to my mother and the family. It’s our alibi. If you don’t want her scrutinizing Law too closely, play the part, Mr. Actor,” murmured Katakuri, his voice firm as he adjusted his sleeves.

He stepped out first, imposing and calm, like a mafia prince on his own territory.

Rosinante followed reluctantly, hands in his pockets.

Two figures awaited them on the marble steps. Smoothie, majestic in a lilac gown that hugged her frame, and Oven, arms crossed, wearing a sharp smile.

“Well, well. The star couple,” Oven said with ironic emphasis, loud enough for several guests to turn their heads.

“Mama has been boasting about your arrival to the guests… not too exhausted, Kata?” he added.

A third voice, sly and dripping with sarcasm, joined in behind them: Perospero, sucking on his lollipop.
“What a torment, this marriage… I’ve had dossiers to hand you for days! Can’t you work anymore since you got married?”

Smoothie stepped forward to give Katakuri a kiss on the cheek.
“How are you, big brother? Not too worn out from all this? he hasn’t mistreated you, has he? His behavior is acceptable, I hope?”

Rosinante immediately caught the subtext. None of them were addressing him directly. Worse: their gaze oscillated between silent disdain and outright contempt.

To them, he was a parasite. An imposter who had stolen their brother.

“All is well. I’ve already told you, Smoothie. I’ll take care of this union. Rosinante behaves very properly; he’s a good man.”

The blond felt a small shiver at the overly sincere compliment.

But his sister pressed on, visibly shaken:
“Still… Kata… I feel guilty. You should never have been the one forced into this. This… arrangement should have been mine. My punishment, or my choice. It’s my fault if—”

She seemed on the verge of collapsing into a crisis, words stumbling over her tongue, when Rosinante cut in calmly:
“If it reassures you, Kata is far more to my taste than you are.”

“Huh?” Smoothie choked.

And in the next second, Oven, Daifuku, and Perospero burst into laughter, caught off guard by Donquixote’s audacious remark.

Rosinante didn’t smile. He fixed Smoothie with a disarming calm, as if he had simply stated an inconvenient truth.

Katakuri glanced away, slightly amused, having appreciated the compliment.
“Done feeling guilty, Smoothie? Don’t make me repeat myself. I chose this union. And it could have been far worse in many ways. So consider it the best outcome for everyone.”

His gaze briefly met Rosinante’s, a fleeting acknowledgment.
“Let’s go inside.”

Upon entering, Katakuri was immediately swept up in a wave of hugs and greetings. Brothers, sisters, mafia allies… all crowding around him.

Rosinante stayed back, silent. This mansion, this family, this life… it was too vast, too loud, too alien for the former policeman he had once been.

He stepped away from the commotion, seeking a bit of air. Cigarette between his fingers, he followed a quiet path, hoping for a few moments of peace.

That’s when he spotted some of Big Mom’s youngest children. They seemed determined to escape the socialities… and just have fun with each other.

He almost stumbled upon Anana, a tiny pink-haired girl, busy stacking hard chocolate blocks into a wobbly tower. She looked up at him, surprised but not afraid.

“Want to play king and princess? Oh! You’re the man who lives near the orphanage! I’ve seen you there before.”

Rosinante stopped, lowered his eyes, then crouched slowly, putting out his cigarette.
“I’m not very good at ruling, you know. I don’t think the king’s place is deserved. Ah… yes, yes, that’s me. I remember each of your little monstrous faces, to be honest.”

She laughed, unsure if he was joking.

“That’s okay, then you can be the big bad guy!” Dragée called, appearing behind him, chocolate smeared on her cheeks. “But if you lose, we burn you at the stake. That’s the rule.”

Rosinante smirked, amused.
“Hm… This will be tricky. I think your mother has been expecting me for days.”

Other children gradually joined them: Flambé, in a wrinkled ball gown, and Normande, the quietest of all. Flambé jumped onto his lap unannounced, as if it were entirely natural.

She looked up at him, dead serious.
“I’m very sad… Mister Corazon… what do you do when you’re sad?”

Rosinante hesitated, then shrugged.
“Hm… I smoke. — Well, I probably shouldn’t say that. Uh… I think about something that makes me feel better. Maybe… my father? Something worth it.”

She frowned, displeased with the answer.
“That won’t help me. What makes me happy… is my big brother Katakuri. But he also makes me sad.”

Rosinante raised an eyebrow.
“What did he do…?”

She crossed her arms theatrically.
“He’s the only one in the whole family who doesn’t put me first among the favorite sisters. Who knows why. If I ever find out who his favorite sister is… I’ll kill her. A proper mafia execution.”

Rosinante stayed silent, slightly worried. She had a strong character for such a young age, clearly like Pudding. As if summoned by name, he asked:
“By the way, isn’t your sister Pudding here for the Tea Party?”

A rough yet melodic voice answered from behind.
“She’s not allowed to come.”

It was Brûlée, emerging from the shadow of a tree with a tray of pastries in hand.

Rosinante smiled broadly.
“Brûlée! Hello! What exactly did you just say?”

She offered a polite but empty smile.
“Pudding isn’t invited. Events like this are for children who don’t embarrass Mama. Her silence makes her angry. And Mama hates showing anything that doesn’t shine. I myself wasn’t supposed to come, but they needed help organizing the little ones’ games.”

She said all this lightly, as if it were obvious and not grave.

He stood slowly, carefully setting Flambé down.
“But Pudding is just a child?”

Brûlée looked up at him, not understanding this tone she had never heard before.
“Yes. She knows to stay out of the way. It’s better this way. Mama controls everything in her family, Rosi. We can’t do anything about it.”

“Your own sister is kept away just because she doesn’t shine enough to satisfy your mother’s sick ego, and there’s nothing we can do?”

“You’re not part of this family. You can’t understand what we endure to satisfy Mama. That’s how it is. Some children are useful, others aren’t. Mama has her preferences—even Katakuri experiences them.”

“No. I’m not part of this family, and thankfully. I’d rather be with a brother who’s completely mad than normalize cruelty in front of children.”

“You owe your life to Mama’s whims—don’t be insolent here, Rosi. Not in these halls. She’s killed her own children for less. When you’re like me, Lolla, or Pudding… you survive.”

Rosinante stepped closer, without threat, without weight.
“I’m sorry. For her, and for you too…”

Brûlée frowned, unsettled.
“I don’t need your pity. This scar… the one that makes people look away, that relegates me to reflections, to the shadows… I wear it proudly, even though it caused my exclusion.”

“It isn’t pity, I mean. Your scar—I find it… beautiful. I like these kinds of marks on people. It’s part of their story, something they don’t need to hide. Proof they’ve been through something. And that they’re still here. I have plenty myself.”

Brûlée froze. For a fraction of a second, she seemed… beautiful. Fragile. Alive. Then her eyes turned to the children running around the garden. She smiled. A small smile. Rare. And in a barely audible breath, she said:
“You’re the first person out of big brother to think it’s pretty.”

A few steps away, hidden behind a column, Katakuri had heard it all.

He hadn’t planned to stay. He’d come simply to remind Rosinante that the meal was about to start, and he had to play the honeymoon couple.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t know what unsettled him more: Rosinante’s tender words, or the fact that his favorite sister had smiled like that for the first time in years at someone other than him.

He felt something twist inside him—the eldest brother unable to protect his own family from their mother. Rosinante seemed like a breath of fresh air in his life. He needed him—he didn’t yet know in what form or way—but he needed his presence, to speak to him, to feel him near. Finally seeing him so integrated felt… right.

 

 

_________________

little draft of these big shy ones

 

Chapter Text

At the far end of the table, Big Mom sat enthroned like an empress. Her booming laughter drowned out the whispers of her guests. Her eyes gleamed with a feral light as she observed the crowd — a mix of her closest children, mafiosi with predatory stares, and notorious figures from the underworld. The Tea Party would take place the next day, but already this evening banquet had the air of a theatrical prelude, a stage where every glance and every smile might spark an alliance… or a betrayal.

Cutlery clinked, hushed conversations overlapped. Some guests, already tipsy, laughed louder than the rest. Others remained silent, content to study every movement, every detail, as though they were playing chess.

When Rosinante and Katakuri entered, heads turned instantly. Their appearance as a “couple” did not go unnoticed. Some smiles widened; others tightened. Rumors had already spread like poisoned perfume: the strange union, Doflamingo’s brother married to Big Mom’s son… an alliance as improbable as it was unsettling.

Katakuri, stiff in his immaculate coat, cast a discreet glance at the blond at his side. After the tense exchange with Brûlée earlier, he had quietly reminded Rosinante, in a voice only the two of them could hear:
“Remember. Tonight, you have to be convincing. The baroness and her guests don’t tolerate hesitation.”

Rosinante’s heart clenched, but he forced a fragile smile. He knew that here, a single misstep could raise suspicion. So, taking a steadying breath, he tightened his grip on Katakuri’s arm, like an actor stepping into his role… though it was a role where he was already starting to lose his bearings.

“MAMAMAMAA! At last, my darlings arrive!” Big Mom’s laughter shook the table. “Come, come, sit down, my little lovebirds! Tell me everything! I want juicy details of your honeymoon — I can’t wait until tomorrow’s Tea Party for that!”

Katakuri clenched his jaw almost imperceptibly. Rosinante kept up a calm exterior, though his fingers dug into the back of his chair. What could they possibly tell her of their so-called honeymoon, aside from the havoc they’d left in Wano — if the news hadn’t yet reached Linlin’s ears? He would have to improvise, say anything, but above all remain consistent.

They sat side by side, exchanging a fleeting glance: they would have to make it up as they went.

Big Mom clapped her hands, her eyes shining with excitement.
“I’ve heard you’ve had… a few mishaps, hmm? You even made a detour to that scoundrel Capone Bege. Risky, risky… but I hope it brought you closer, yes? Like visiting an old friend, perhaps?”

Rosinante smiled faintly. Leaning forward, he placed his hand on Katakuri’s bicep — a calculated gesture that caught even Katakuri off guard. Of all places, his bicep? Rosi found the firmness strangely pleasant, though he kept that thought to himself. After all, he was a good actor.

“Oh, more than you can imagine, Mama. It was… quite a colorful honeymoon. We nearly got cut in half more than once. But I had the chance to truly appreciate the exceptional strength of your son.”

A few muffled laughs rippled through the table.

Katakuri said nothing about the false — or perhaps half-true — compliment. He couldn’t decide whether to take it seriously. Instead, he slipped his arm behind Rosinante’s chair, brushing lightly against his back — an unusually soft gesture for him, one he performed only out of necessity. He tried to ignore the distracting sensation of Cora’s solid back beneath his fingers, his hand moving almost naturally in slow, steady passes.

“Bege welcomed us… in his own way,” Katakuri added in his neutral tone.

“But we managed just fine. His wife and son are delightful,” Rosinante continued, briefly leaning against Katakuri’s shoulder. He played the role with such natural ease it unsettled Katakuri, who both appreciated and dreaded the game. Deep down, he knew: Corazon was a former spy, a masterful actor who had even deceived his own brother. None of this meant anything. And yet, Katakuri’s heart beat just a little too fast for gestures that were supposed to be fake.

Around them, siblings watched closely.
Oven raised an eyebrow, skeptical — it was the first time he had ever seen Katakuri tolerate someone invading his personal space.
Smoothie crossed her arms, her expression more guarded than mocking.
Daifuku leaned toward Galette, whispering something that made her laugh while staring intently at Corazon.

Big Mom, however, seemed delighted. Delighted that her new plaything clung so well to her most loyal son. She would keep this noble close so long as love — or something like it — tethered him here. She clapped her massive hands, spilling cream onto her dress.

“Marvelous! SPLENDID! Love is born in adversity, isn’t it? Just ask my ex-husbands, MAMAMAMAMA!”

Rosinante bowed slightly, keeping his carefully controlled smile. Then, almost instinctively — or simply to cut off the oncoming wave of questions — he caught Katakuri’s hand on the table and laced their fingers together. The size difference was absurd; Cora’s scarred hand, surprisingly soft, contrasted with Katakuri’s gloved one, hardened by years of battle. Katakuri couldn’t feel the texture, but the thought of it unsettled him more than the gesture itself.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he gave the smaller hand the faintest squeeze, wondering — against his better judgment — what Cora’s hand would feel like without the barrier of fabric. The thought alone made a faint blush creep beneath his scarf.

Perospero dropped his spoon at the sight. Even Compote, the eldest sister who had known Katakuri since birth, lifted a skeptical brow.

Big Mom roared with laughter.
“Oooh, look at them! Adorable! Do you see it now? Even a noble finds love in my family! Love makes even my most impassive, undesirable child all soft inside! I’m so pleased with your closeness, my children!”

Rosinante, inwardly, wanted to flee the room.
Katakuri, for his part, seriously considered stabbing himself with a butter knife. Neither of them was disgusted by the other’s presence — only by being paraded as entertainment before this ravenous crowd. It was humiliating. But it was bearable… only because the other was there.

And so, they kept up the act.
Silverware clinked, glasses chimed, and the conversations flowed, centering around the preparations for the following day. Rosinante managed to answer most questions about their supposed honeymoon with surprising ease, his tone a blend of diplomacy and cheeky insolence. Big Mom seemed greatly amused, though her children were far less convinced.

Deep down, Cora could feel it—they didn’t believe their story for a second. Whispers of the events in Wano drifted through the conversations.

They had to… strike harder. Put an end to the doubt once and for all.

The two men spoke in hushed tones.

“I hate being the center of attention. This is horrible. I feel like I’m going to die,” Katakuri muttered through clenched teeth.

“You’re literally the prodigy son—you don’t need me for this! Everyone’s already staring at you, you’re a legend to them!” Rosinante whispered back.

“We have to look more credible… once and for all. But I— I don’t know how to do things like this…” Katakuri admitted, his voice quieter, almost shy. And that vulnerability, strangely, Rosinante found… cute.

Rosinante had just cut a small piece of cake. He stared at it blankly, then, in a sudden flash of inspiration—half genius, half idiocy—he scooped up some cream with a spoon. Without warning, he extended the utensil toward Katakuri’s mouth. A tender, romantic gesture: feeding your partner. In many cultures, such a thing was highly regarded. Surely, this would make people believe in their love.

“I’m not eating this alone. We share, in a couple.”

He said it with such cheerful confidence, so proud of his idea that it bordered on ridiculous. His smile was an unstable mix of forced naturalness and absolute terror at what he was about to do.

Katakuri froze. Spoon midair. Eyes narrowing. So many things were wrong. The humiliation of being fed like a child. The fact that Rosinante was a clumsy fool. And worst of all: Katakuri never ate in public.

Cora realized too late the enormous mistake he’d just made. His hand trembled in panic, and cream slipped down onto his fingers. Suppressed laughter rippled around the table—several guests had noticed. What was supposed to be their romantic highlight was turning into a public disaster. Katakuri would surely resent him for this.

Mortified, Rosinante reached for a napkin—but a gloved hand suddenly seized his wrist.

Katakuri slowly pulled Cora’s hand toward him, lowering his scarf slightly—never removing it, never revealing his full face. Without a word, he drew the cream-covered fingers to his mouth and, with maddening calm, began to lick them clean.

His scarf still covered his features, but his eyes fixed on Rosinante’s with unnerving steadiness.

A warm tongue traced a deliberate line along the blond’s index, then his middle finger. Each slow, wet stroke sent shivers racing up Rosinante’s spine. It was too soft. Too intimate. Too much.

Rosinante couldn’t breathe. Every nerve lit up. His chest burned, his heart hammered, and the heat pooled low in his belly.

Around them, silence fell. Guests froze, some blushing deeply at the sight.

At last, Katakuri let go of his wrist, his face neutral once again—save for the faintest flush hidden by his scarf. His tongue passed briefly over his lips, savoring not only the cream, but the subtle taste of Rosinante’s skin.

“It’s true,” he murmured, glancing around the table with cold calm, silencing the whispers. “In a couple, you share.”

Rosinante could only nod mutely, scarlet to his roots, clutching his own hand to his chest as though to steady his racing heart.

Dinner continued in a strange atmosphere. Big Mom laughed louder than ever, her booming voice covering the charged silence, clearly delighted. But the two men exchanged no more words. Even glances were too much—they only made them blush harder. The act had worked. Perhaps too well.

Every time their hands brushed while passing a dish, a spark shot between them. Rosinante nearly overturned his glass more than once.

At last, Katakuri muttered quietly, near the end of the meal:
“We… we should go. I think we need air.”

Rosinante nodded quickly, too flushed to reply.

They thanked the hosts politely and slipped out through a side corridor. Lanterns glowed faintly, the door shutting behind them, cutting off the feast’s noise.

Seconds passed. Heavy. Neither spoke. Neither looked at the other. Then, at the same time:

“Sorry.”
“Sorry.”

They glanced at one another, then away.

Katakuri ran a hand nervously through his violet hair, silently cursing himself. What had come over him? He never acted this way. He wasn’t that man. He always had control. But there, at that moment… instinct had taken over.

“I panicked,” Rosinante whispered, fumbling. “I just wanted to play along. I didn’t think you would—”

Katakuri cut him off, his voice deeper than intended:
“Neither did I. I… I don’t know. It was instinct.”

Silence. Then, cheeks still faintly red, he lowered his gaze.
“It was foolish. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable… They probably all think we’re—”

“Married? That’s the story. And it was convincing. Too convincing. I think I almost believed it myself, haha.” Rosinante’s face went scarlet as he realized his words. “I mean—not like that! More like—uh—you know?! We’re just really good actors! I didn’t know you could act like that, actually.”

“I don’t act,” Katakuri admitted, too honest, too embarrassed to think clearly. “Like I said… I just followed my instincts.”

A beat.
Too long.

Katakuri’s gaze lingered on him. Too intensely. Too long.

Rosinante’s heart skipped. He turned away with a nervous laugh.
“Next time… let’s stick to holding hands. Or maybe a kiss on the cheek. I don’t want to make you that uncomfortable again. Okay?”

Katakuri nodded slowly, though he didn’t answer. What unsettled them wasn’t the gesture itself, but the audience. Neither dared to say it.

The night stretched, quiet, star-filled.

And then—Brûlée, in all her chaotic energy, burst out of nowhere, seizing Rosinante by the arm like a hurricane.

“Ah, lovers, am I interrupting? Oh well! Cora, I need a word with you, haha! I’ll borrow him, big brother!” Brûlée chirped, grabbing Rosinante’s arm and dragging him away from Katakuri with surprising force.

“We weren’t finished talking!” Rosinante protested, already being pulled halfway down the corridor.

“You can finish your little chat in your shared bedroom later!” Brûlée shot back over her shoulder, smiling from ear to ear.

Katakuri watched them go. For once, seeing Brûlée smiling like that wasn’t unpleasant. It was a rare softness in his day. But duty called. He turned toward the private chamber where he was expected. Experience told him that whenever his siblings used the word urgent, it rarely meant anything good.

He entered to find his closest brothers and sisters already gathered, official papers strewn across the table. Katakuri already felt weary before the meeting began.

“What is this about?” he asked, his voice flat, already bracing himself.

Cracker was the first to snap, arms crossed.
“Big brother, what the hell was that? At the table?!”

“Nothing dramatic. I acted as Rosinante’s husband. To please Mama, nothing more.”
Technically, it wasn’t a lie. They didn’t need to know how much more the act meant to him.

Smoothie stepped forward, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and cold.
“So… all of this is just for Mother’s sake? We were worried that—well, that maybe it was more than that. That you and him… whatever it is, might be real.”

Katakuri closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to his room. To eat a donut. To train. Or—perhaps—just to hear Rosinante’s complaints, his senseless laughter, the way he filled silence with warmth these past days.

But his twins clapped him on the shoulders with too much cheer, yanking him back to reality.

“Good news, Kata! You won’t need to pretend much longer!”

Katakuri’s eyes snapped open, a chill crawling down his spine. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Perospero grinned, stepping closer with papers in hand.
“Our charming sister Galette is looking for a husband. When she heard about your heroic sacrifice for Smoothie, and when we described your dear Rosinante… she found him utterly delightful. Quite her type, from what she saw at dinner.”

Daifuku chimed in, beaming:
“She’s willing, even enthusiastic about marrying him! You wouldn’t have to carry the burden anymore. She’d be honored to take your place.”

Oven followed suit, cheerful as ever:
“Exactly! You’d be free of that clumsy noble and could return to your normal life, your routine, your habits!”

Amande lit a cigarette, blowing smoke lazily.
“Look. The divorce papers are already filled out. Just waiting for your signature. Not bad, eh?”

Smoothie, almost relieved, added quickly:
“We even started the formalities. Mama can falsify the records with her network—Charlotte stays a Charlotte. Everything will be simpler. Galette and Rosinante will marry, Mama will get noble-blooded children, and you—”

“No.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. Katakuri’s voice was low, heavy, and absolute. The very air seemed to freeze.

Smoothie stiffened, as if struck.
“…Excuse me?”

Katakuri opened his eyes again, scanning the room one by one, his stare hard enough to burn.

“No. Rosinante will marry no one but me.”

Perospero recoiled, genuinely caught off guard.
“But—Kata, you don’t have to keep sacrificing yourself for us! Galette is voluntary! This isn’t a duty anymore, it’s an opportunity. You can finally live for yourself again!”

“You’ve always been… distant, even from us, your own twins,” Daifuku added, uneasy. “We thought you’d be relieved. That you’d want to return to what’s normal for a man of your standing—”

Katakuri stood abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. He turned to leave, but Smoothie, desperate, reached out and clasped his hand. Barely holding him, but trembling all the same.

“Big brother…” her voice shook, raw with guilt. “I’ve been carrying the weight of this union for weeks. We moved heaven and earth to find you a way out—a dignified exit, a peaceful future. Why do you fight us? Why cling to him? To a clumsy noble, blood of Doflamingo himself?! Is it because of him that you refuse our help?!”

The name struck like a slap, like an insult hurled into the silence.

Katakuri didn’t flinch. Not a twitch of his brows, not a flicker of his tone. Only he knew how profoundly wrong that comparison was. To place Rosinante beside that man was an insult beyond measure.

He lowered his gaze to Smoothie’s hand on his own. With deliberate gentleness, his gloved fingers slipped free, loosening her hold without force.

“I don’t need you to understand this marriage. It is reason enough for me not to abandon it. This life is mine. He is mine. And as for me—consider me his. Those were our vows the day of our union.”

The room stilled.

Then—his aura flared. Killing intent radiated off him, suffocating and sharp. His siblings froze where they stood, stunned—none of them had ever seen Katakuri turn that edge against his own family.

_______

 

On Brûlée and Rosinante’s side, the atmosphere couldn’t have been more different. It was lighter, almost playful, as they wandered through one of the estate’s sprawling gardens. Rosinante was still visibly shaken from the infamous spoon incident.

“That was art, seriously! Hand in hand, then the cream scene—” Brûlée burst out laughing. “I think I even saw Smoothie widen her eyes, and that never happens.”

“Oh, stop, please! I’m mortified enough as it is!” groaned Rosinante, burying his face in his hands. “I’m just a clumsy idiot… my father would disown me if he saw me like that!”

“You might not be a genius…” Brûlée tilted her head, still amused, “but I’ve never seen my brother react that way to anyone. And trust me, I’ve seen plenty of people try to flirt with him.”

“That wasn’t flirting!” Rosinante yelped—right before tripping on his own feet and sprawling face-first onto the ground. Brûlée laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes.
“Huh, so Katakuri did have partners before…?” Rosinante asked cautiously, curiosity outweighing his embarrassment.

“Oh? That piqued your interest, huh?” Brûlée teased, smirking. Then, more seriously: “Not really. At least, nothing serious. Never anything… romantic. He’s always only had us—his family—and…”
Her face darkened, her voice trailing off. “…and a boy named King, when we were kids. I—” She cut herself short, visibly shaken, before regaining her composure. “Anyway, the point is: he’s never had an ex, not properly. But countless people—men and women—have tried to marry him. And he always, always refused. Protecting his peace was more important to him than anything else.”

Rosinante frowned. He had noticed it already—how heads turned when Katakuri walked down the street. How impossible it was not to notice him. And yet, somehow, it felt like he was the only one Katakuri didn’t seem to notice noticing him.

“Anyway,” Brûlée clapped her hands together, changing the subject, “onto something real. Did you find your son?”

Rosinante’s expression softened instantly. “Yes. He… he looked well. Surrounded by new friends. I’ll see him again soon.”

Brûlée’s sharp grin melted into something gentler. “I’m truly happy for you, Cora.” She pulled him into a sudden hug, her long violet hair catching the wind.

“It wasn’t easy,” Rosinante admitted. “Katakuri… he’s a monster of strength. Without him, I wouldn’t have made it out alive. I knew he was powerful, but watching him fight… it leaves you speechless.”

“My brother is the strongest!” Brûlée declared proudly.

“He even took a hit for me,” Rosinante continued, his tone softening. “Didn’t even flinch. Makes you wonder if he even feels pain, or—”

Brûlée’s hands shot up, clapping over his mouth. Her eyes widened in alarm.
“Not so loud! Katakuri got hurt?!”

“Mmmph! Wha—?!” Rosinante stammered when she released him. “Nothing serious! He just… took a blow for me, that’s all!”

“You haven’t told anyone else, right?”

“…No? Why?”

Brûlée let out a sigh of relief, shoulders dropping. “You don’t realize it, Cora. Katakuri has a legend to uphold. Saying he was injured—even if it was to protect someone—would be seen as a stain on his image, on our family’s pride. Out there, people believe he’s never lost a fight, never even touched the ground. Not even in his sleep.”

Rosinante gaped. “That’s absurd! Who could possibly sleep standing up?!”

“Of course it’s false. But that’s the point: Katakuri has to be perfect. Our flawless elder brother. Never weak. Not in public. Not even to breathe. It’s the weight of the Charlotte family’s name.”

Rosinante clenched his jaw. “He’s flesh and blood. Like us. He feels pain. He has emotions. He lives. He’s not just an empty myth for your family to worship.”

Brûlée’s smile faded into something fragile, almost broken. “Sadly… most of the family doesn’t want to know that version of him. That’s why he hides his face. Can you imagine what it does to him? Being loved for an image that doesn’t even exist?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Rosinante thought of the man he had been forced to marry.
The one he’d slowly come to understand when no one else was watching.
The one who barely spoke, but always listened.
The one who sometimes curled on the edge of the bed at night, as if he didn’t deserve to take up space.

And Katakuri, for his part, doubted Rosinante’s sincerity—because wasn’t Rosinante a good actor? And Rosinante, in turn, doubted Katakuri’s—because how much of him was genuine, and how much was the mask his family had forced him to wear? Did either of them truly know the other, or only the versions they allowed the world to see?

Later that night, when Rosinante entered their room, he found Katakuri already lying on the bed, back turned to the door. As if asleep. Or pretending.

Closing the door quietly, Rosinante slipped off his shoes and approached. He lingered there for a moment, studying the massive silhouette stretched out in the shadows.

“You’ve always been a little decorative, huh? Perfect. Upright. Silent. Almost like a statue.”

A dry laugh escaped him.
“You know… I never asked for any of this. Not the marriage. Not chasing Law. Not my brother’s games. Not pretending at dinner with your family like some awkward clown. But…”

He dropped into the chair beside the bed, lit a cigarette, and stared at the ceiling.

“…you took a blow for me. To you, maybe it was nothing. But to me… it meant everything. You didn’t hesitate, not for a second. You risked the image you’ve spent your whole life protecting—just to save the parasite forced into your life.”

The room went quiet again. Smoke curled into the shadows.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you do everything for your mother. Maybe you’ve been programmed to be perfect, untouchable. But I see something else. I see a man who clenches his jaw so no one hears him scream at the injustice of his own family. A man who hides his face because he doesn’t think he deserves to be seen. And yet…” Rosinante’s voice dropped lower, more tender, “…it’s you I want to see. Not the legend. Not the flawless hero. Just you. The one who sneaks food in secret.”

He leaned closer, his hand hovering over the blanket near Katakuri’s scarf. Katakuri, very much awake, didn’t move. If Rosinante wanted to lower the fabric and see his face, he could. Katakuri wasn’t going to stop him. One small gesture—that’s all it would take.

But Rosinante didn’t.

“Goodnight, Katakuri. Rest. You’re allowed to, you know.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, turned off the light, and slipped into the other side of the bed. Silence fell.

In the darkness, Katakuri kept his eyes closed. The fist clenched beneath the blanket slowly, almost unwillingly, loosened. The night had been long for both of them, unveiling a side of Katakuri that neither Rosinante—nor even Katakuri himself—had ever known: human, awkward, impulsive… and painfully real.

______________

The Next Morning

The mattress was still warm, hollowed by a recent absence.
Rosinante slowly opened his eyes, his eyelids heavy from a deep sleep where he knew he had felt a warm presence at his side all night. He blinked several times, then reached into the empty space beside him, searching for the person responsible for that comforting rest.

But Katakuri was no longer there.

He sat up at once, his mind still foggy. Katakuri was seated cross-legged on a thick rug, bare-chested, his hair still damp, leaning over a pile of documents. Among them, divorce papers — the ones Smoothie had discreetly slipped to him earlier that morning as an apology for the day before, insisting he keep them as a precaution. They were buried beneath stacks of other files: family reports, business strategies, underworld movement records — impossible to tell with the sheer amount of papers.

But Katakuri was clearly focused, attentive… and strangely calm. A pair of reading glasses perched on his nose gave him an older, wiser look.

Beside him, balanced precariously on a tray, was a plate of steaming, homemade donuts.

Still lying in bed, Rosinante squinted at the sight, his gaze shifting between the donuts and Katakuri.
“You… cooked?”

Katakuri barely looked up, a flicker of hesitation flashing in his crimson eyes.
“I made the only sweet thing I know. I can’t cook savory anymore.”

The blond, hair tousled, let a crooked smile tug at his lips. The gesture was clumsy but endearing — and clearly, there was enough for the both of them.
“Well… what a charming surprise, coming from mister ‘I only eat when no one’s watching.’”

Katakuri didn’t answer, though something close to amusement flickered behind the scarf. Rosinante, meanwhile, let his gaze wander — almost involuntarily — over the man’s tattooed chest. He wore only trousers, glasses, and his scarf. He’d already seen him shirtless several times in recent days, but the effect was always the same: Katakuri was… striking. A raw, intimidating kind of beauty, and he didn’t even seem aware of it himself.

“Eyes up.”

Katakuri hadn’t lifted his gaze from the papers, but he had felt the weight of Rosinante’s stare first thing in the morning.

Rosinante jolted, caught red-handed.
“I— I was just looking at your wound! It healed so quickly. There’s almost nothing left… nothing at all.”

Katakuri shrugged lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly under his scarf.
“I have a fairly… sturdy body.”

Rosinante turned his head away, cheeks faintly pink. He drew in a deep breath.
“I… I’d like to talk to you about something.”

Katakuri calmly set the files aside, removed his glasses, and gave him a small nod. He was listening.

“I want to tell you about my past. About my time with the special forces. I— I feel ready. I just hope that one day you’ll feel the same. Anyway… After my parents died — especially my father, in… terrible circumstances… Sengoku adopted me. He raised me as his own son.”

Katakuri frowned.
“Sengoku? The Admiral? Everyone in the underworld knows his name. He’s a feared strategist. And he… raised you?”

“Yeah. He’s a grumpy old man, a little senile, but he cares in his own way. I grew up with him. And with our goat.”

Katakuri raised an eyebrow.
“Your what?”

“Our goat. Don’t ask. She probably has more medals than some officers.”

Rosinante licked his lips before continuing:
“The logical next step was joining the military. And given my profile… quiet, discreet, a little odd — espionage suited me perfectly.”

Katakuri fixed him with a look.
“You’re a clumsy clown.”

“A clown who carried out dozens of missions,” Rosinante shot back, a touch defensive. “I lived entire lives under other names. Until the day I was sent to infiltrate my brother’s organization. Under the name Corazon.”

Katakuri straightened slightly, his expression hardening.

Rosinante gave a melancholy shrug.
“You know the rest. There, I terrified the children — but among those who resisted, Law was one of them. He was sick, innocent, and Doffy saw him as an extension of his madness. I had to save him. My double betrayal led me here, to this exact moment, in this room.”

Katakuri was a good listener, for any kind of story. Seeing Rosinante’s unease, he didn’t dig further. What he had heard was more than enough, especially coming from Cora’s lips. Instead, he reached for the plate of donuts, offering them as an unspoken answer.

“This afternoon’s Tea Party will be Mama’s chance to introduce you officially as a member of the family. Prepare yourself. You’ve already been through difficult things, and I’m sorry to impose this on you. She expects a lot from this… presentation. And we’ll also have to discuss Kaido and Doffy.”

Rosinante, still half-asleep, ran a hand through his messy blond hair.
“Great. I’ve become part of the show. Does your mother even realize I’ve only lived as a noble for a handful of years?”

He yawned, stretched, then tried to stand — but too abruptly. His foot snagged on the rug. He stumbled forward, reaching for the edge of the bed… but missed.

He crashed straight into Katakuri, sending half the papers and the plate tumbling down around them.

The impact left them almost pressed together. Rosinante, off-balance, ended up on his knees, his hands braced on either side of the Sweet Commander’s thighs. His face was dangerously close to Katakuri’s bare torso — so close he could feel the heat of his skin, see the button of his trousers. Papers fluttered down around them.

Katakuri froze, stunned by the fall. His wide eyes betrayed a silent panic, as if his entire body refused to process what had just happened.

Rosinante lifted his gaze slowly, realizing the very compromising — and extremely suggestive — position he was in.
“I…” He scrambled for words. “I can explain! I fell. I swear it wasn’t on purpose! I’m not kissing your abs, or— or ANY part that would make it seem like I’m between your legs, I mean—”

Katakuri still said nothing. His gaze shifted away, faint color brushing his cheeks despite his otherwise frozen expression.
“I know. Get up. Now.”

Rosinante obeyed instantly, scrambling to his feet — and nearly tripping a second time on the cursed rug.

Katakuri stood as well, still silent. He crouched down to gather the scattered documents with rigid, controlled movements, his back held stiff toward the blond.

“I’m really sorry… I didn’t mean to invade your space.”

Without waiting for an answer, he headed straight for the bathroom, his ears burning red with shame. He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, releasing a breath he’d been holding for what felt like an eternity.

The moment the latch snapped into place, Katakuri’s icy composure shattered. He straightened abruptly, face flushed scarlet, hands pressed to his burning forehead, panic etched across his features.

He paced the room in frantic circles, unable to stay still.

The scene replayed in his head on an endless loop: Rosinante, his hands braced against his thighs, his face far too close between his legs. Hair still tousled from sleep, cheeks pink, breath quickened—too close, far too close.

It wasn’t the stumble, nor the clumsiness, that shook him. It was his own reaction. His body had betrayed him—without permission, in a way far too suggestive. He prayed the blond hadn’t noticed the shameful immediacy of it.

Running a trembling hand through his hair, he felt dangerously close to suffocating. Rosinante had unsettled him before, but never like this. Never with this intensity.

And what terrified him most wasn’t what he had felt. It was that, for the briefest instant, he had wanted it to last longer.
One touch too much, one second more, and he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted.

From the other room, water still ran. Katakuri had never felt his self-control unravel so completely. He was supposed to be strong, unshakable. Yet it felt as if all his senses had been thrown into chaos.

By the time both had calmed themselves, they had changed into elegant clothes for the tea party. But since leaving the bedroom, Katakuri’s thoughts hadn’t given him a moment’s rest, leaving behind a dull ache of unease. On the way, he’d avoided speaking to Rosinante—except when forced to steady him after yet another stumble. He needed distance. Space. Anything to keep control.

After all, he had an image to uphold: the cold, impassive, flawless commander.
Especially on an occasion like this.

Conversations around the room slowly faded, eyes turning toward them. Smoothie raised a brow, Daifuku frowned, while Oven chuckled, clearly amused by the blond’s discomfort.

Big Mom burst out in a booming laugh that shook the walls.
“Katakuri! At last, our watchdog has arrived! And oh! Come closer, my dear son-in-law.”

Rosinante bowed with a practiced awkwardness, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their slight trembling. When he straightened, he forced a tense smile at Linlin.
“Madam. You look… radiant.”

“Come, sit beside me. Now that the guests are tending to their own affairs, I’d like to speak with you, Corazon.”

He obeyed silently, swallowing hard. On his left, Katakuri sat down without a word, his back straight, posture rigid. Big Mom, meanwhile, delighted herself with cakes as if savoring peace itself, her sharp eyes fixed only on the young couple.

Rosinante kept his hands neatly on his knees, not daring to touch a single dish. His stomach was far too tight. Linlin leaned toward him, her gaze locking onto his with a false maternal gentleness.
“So, Corazon… oh! Would you prefer I call you by your real name?”

“Do as you wish, Madam. ‘Corazon’ is the name my brother gave me.”

“Do you think he chose that name because of the place you hold in his heart? Mamamama! If that were true, he wouldn’t have married you off to my wretched boy, now would he?”

The word wretched, directed at Katakuri, made Rosinante flinch—he was the only one who reacted. He cast a glance at his husband, but Katakuri’s face remained unmoved, fixed forward. His siblings, too, kept their silence.

“I… I never really had a brotherly relationship with him. Not since we became adults, at least.”

Linlin arched a brow.
“Hm. And what about Sengoku? Oh… how silly of me. Bringing up a Admiral here, in the middle of such fine company, must be delicate, isn’t it?”

“You knew, Mother?” Katakuri suddenly interjected, his voice low and heavy.

She turned to him with a sly grin.
“Why else do you think a noble like him would marry into the Charlotte family, if I weren’t already aware, son?”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy as a threat. Katakuri’s siblings exchanged looks—curious, wary, some even openly hostile toward the blond.

Katakuri spoke again, lowering his tone.
“Mother. I’d like to take advantage of this intimacy to inform you of something crucial. Reliable sources confirmed that Doflamingo still maintains close ties with Kaido. He will never be loyal to us. Never. Should we eliminate him?”

Rosinante immediately noticed the omission—Katakuri had deliberately avoided mentioning Caesar and Punk Hazard. He was protecting Law. A genuine smile tugged at his lips: his husband had shielded his son without hesitation.

Rosinante almost choked in shock. He had expected many things… but not *this*.

Linlin remained unfazed. She plucked a piece of cake, brought it calmly to her lips, and spoke in an almost casual tone:
“I already know. His SMILE trade and dealings with Kaido profit him far too much for him to swear loyalty to me. What I want are real proofs… Don’t meddle too deeply in their business. You know exactly where your own curiosity toward Kaido led you, years ago. I have nothing to expect from Joker… except…”

Katakuri stiffened slightly at her words.

She suddenly leaned toward Rosinante, pressing a lacquered finger beneath his chin, forcing his gaze upward.
“…you, CO-RA-ZON. Mamamama! Why do you think I want to see you even more in love with my pitiful son? Your life is nothing but a trophy for me to display to the underworld. We, the tainted ones… have at last a pureblood noble among our ranks.”

Rosinante opened his mouth, stung to the core.
“Your children are trophies too—”

But he didn’t get to finish. A chunk of bread was shoved roughly into his mouth, cutting his words short. Linlin had already turned her head away, bored with the exchange.

Katakuri immediately seized his arm and rose, bowing his head slightly toward his mother in respect.
“Thank you for the hospitality.”

Out in the garden, Rosinante spat the bread out with a furious gesture.
“Why’d you do that? I hate bread! I was in the middle of a conversation, I was about to put her in her place with her ridiculous ‘trophy’ nonsense!”

Katakuri froze. Then, without warning, his voice cracked through the night—cold, sharp, unforgiving:
“Do you want to die, you fool?!”

Rosinante stiffened. That tone… He hadn’t heard it since their very first mission together. And it froze him in place.

“I know you’re clumsy. But are you stupid enough to provoke the wrath of a queen of the underworld? Do you think about the consequences? About yourself? About Law?!”

The blond’s mouth trembled open.
“I… I just wanted to remind her what kind of monster she is. You heard her, didn’t you? You saw how she spoke of you?”

“I know all of that! I know she’s nothing like a mother. I know she only sees people as tools—useful or disposable. I live with that truth every damn day, Rosinante! All I can do is, at best, shield my brothers and sisters from her madness… or at worst, stop you from getting yourself killed!”

“You want the truth? Fine.”
Rosinante turned his face away, his features hardened by frustration, by the grotesque performance of that fake family, those fake rules, that fake love.

“She doesn’t love you. She despises the children who disobey her, like Lola. She scorns the ones too unimpressive to stroke her ego, like Pudding. And what she hates most of all are the things she deems hideous. Guess what? You’re one of them! If you didn’t have your charisma and your strength, she would’ve treated you exactly like she treats Brûlée!”

The words escaped before he could stop them—too loud, too cruel.

Katakuri, usually unreadable, looked truly pained to hear those truths spoken aloud. Realizing the weight of his outburst—and that he had just wounded the man who trusted him most, just as their bond was finally beginning to heal—Rosinante reached out carefully and slid his hand into Katakuri’s.

“I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out. You’re the victim here. Brûlée told me about your mother, about the crushing weight you’ve carried your whole life. I can take being nothing more than a trophy in her eyes… but you… your entire existence is built on a false image of who you really are.”

“She sees what she wants. But me… I see you. Not a trophy. Not a pawn. And I hope not an actor. Just you, Cora. And that’s enough.”

Rosinante slowly lifted his eyes toward him. He wanted to answer, but nothing came—nothing that could steady the tremor running through his chest. How long had it been since they crossed that barrier? Since when could they speak so openly, without fear that Katakuri would reject him… or kill him?

“Thank you for wanting to defend me. My mother is, above all, a baroness. That won’t ever change. Even if her words are cruel, I can endure them. But don’t risk your life for me again, understood?”

The blond nodded silently, then turned his gaze toward the Tea Party. A stage had been erected, and influential guests poured in from every corner of the underworld. The two husbands were swept into the crowd, separated until the sun began to set.

When the orange light fell upon the manor, Rosi was approached by two men who flanked him with a too-familiar ease. Oven and Daifuku each slung an arm over his shoulders.

“I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself!” Oven declared, grinning wide. “I’m Oven, Katakuri’s brother. Daifuku and I—we’re triplets. Funny, right?”

Rosinante blinked at their faces, then gave a cautious smile.
“You don’t look anything alike… but I suppose that is funny.”
He stayed on guard at their sudden closeness.

“Ah, sharp eyes, blondie,” Oven teased.

“Not at all!” snapped Cracker, stomping over. “We’ve told you a hundred times already, you idiot!”

“That’s our younger brother, Cracker,” Daifuku explained with forced patience. “He runs most of the luxury bakeries in town. Especially the chains in Alabasta.”

“Pleasure, Rosinante.”

“I know who you are,” cracker replied, his tone sharper than he intended. “Everyone’s been talking about you for weeks. Married barely two months, and already you’ve thrown the whole balance into chaos.”

Daifuku smacked him across the head. “Show some respect, fool! He’s still Katakuri’s husband!”

“Ow!” Cracker winced, rubbing his head.

Daifuku leaned closer to Rosinante with a sly look. “So tell me… what exactly is your relationship with Kata?” He jerked his chin toward their brother, who was deep in conversation with Linlin and Jinbei, one of the most powerful harbor guards.

“Oh, well, uh… I…” Rosinante stammered, quickly downing the last of his drink.

“If it’s just sex, you can say it,” Oven chimed in casually. “Katakuri’s never cared much for men or women one way or the other in that department…”

Rosinante nearly choked, spraying what little liquid was left in his mouth.
“What?! No! Absolutely not! We don’t have that kind of relationship!”

But even as he denied it, his face flushed scarlet. His mind betrayed him, spinning down suggestive paths he had no business wandering.

“Ha! He’s blushing!” Cracker howled. “Oven might be right after all!”

“You can be honest, you know,” Oven insisted with a mischievous grin. “Katakuri’s never shown this kind of possessiveness or closeness with anyone—unless that person offered him something of real value. So if it isn’t your body… or your skills in bed… what is it, really?”

“I… I don’t know myself,” Rosinante admitted, his voice small but sincere. “I’m clumsy, not especially strong, nowhere near as clever as him. Why don’t you just ask him directly?”

Daifuku groaned, exasperated. “Katakuri’s ridiculously private. But fine… if there’s nothing to dig up from you, then we’ve got no reason to be hostile anymore, little blond. If trouble comes, don’t hesitate—we’re family now.”

Oven smirked. “And since you’re family, let me share a little story about our brother. Katakuri’s president of the flour branch of our food empire. Did he ever tell you that?”

“Hmm… not really,” Rosinante admitted honestly, remembering the time he’d mistakenly assumed Katakuri was trafficking cocaine.

“Katakuri’s a ruthless businessman, but also… absolutely obsessed with his field. He’s mad about flour. He can talk about it for hours. And donuts… donuts are his Achilles’ heel.”

A deep voice resonated behind them.
“Nothing strange about that. Wheat and flour have existed as long as civilization itself. A universal resource, reinvented in countless ways across cultures. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

The three brothers froze.
“Ah! Katakuri! How long have you been there?!”

“Long enough to suspect you were trying to make Rosinante—or me—uncomfortable with your little remarks.”

Cracker lifted his hands quickly. “You’re wrong! Corazon’s your fiancé, at least for now. That means we’re obliged to cooperate with him!”

Katakuri’s frown deepened. “Cooperate… or spy?”

Oven gave a mock-innocent smile. “We’re just gathering information. Nuance.”

Caught in the middle of this tense sibling standoff, Rosinante raised his empty glass like a white flag.
“If it helps, I promise I’m not plotting to infiltrate the flour market…”

Katakuri stared at him for a few seconds, then exhaled sharply under his scarf.
“Good. Then stay at the table. Dinner’s not over.”

Oven, Cracker, and Daifuku exchanged a surprised look at his reaction.

Without waiting for further comment, Katakuri returned to Linlin, who was now surrounded by her youngest children, brought in especially for the occasion. As the Tea Party neared its end—a sign that freedom was close, after the grueling ordeal these past two days had been—an earsplitting crash suddenly echoed through the manor, followed by bursts of gunfire.

An attack.
For Rosinante, his police instincts immediately took over. He guided the most vulnerable to safety, moving with swift, precise gestures.

Katakuri, having already taken down half the attackers by himself, focused fully on the fight. He had to assess each mercenary: their leader, their strategy, their demands.

A man lunged at him, knife raised—but he hadn’t counted on the superhuman strength of Big Mom’s Fourth Son. Katakuri caught the man’s wrist in an iron grip before he could lower the blade. A sharp crack echoed, followed by a scream. Without missing a beat, Katakuri threw the assailant against a table; the man’s feet lifted off the ground before he hit, lifeless.

Another attacker tried to strike from Katakuri’s blind spot. Bad idea. Katakuri pivoted with surgical precision, his trident tracing a perfect arc before smashing into the man’s chest. He collapsed, flying two meters back.

Katakuri had to think like the soldier he had always been. His top priority: secure his mother first, then protect important guests like Jinbei. Survival and guest protection were protocols etched into his mind.

Across the hall, Rosinante guided a group of terrified guests—especially Linlin’s children—toward a hidden exit. Despite the panic, he moved with that strange mix of clumsiness and efficiency. Two gunshots rang behind him; he dropped to the ground, pressing the very young Flambe against him to shield her. Spinning, he disarmed a masked man, slamming him violently against a column.

“I didn’t want to be saved by you!” Flambe protested, still pressed against him.

“Stay low!” he barked, his voice firm—surprising even himself with its authority.

A masked waiter charged at them, gun raised. Rosinante, startled but resolute, assumed a clumsy fighting stance, ready to risk his life unarmed. But a few meters away, Katakuri raised his weapon and fired without hesitation. The bullet pierced the attacker’s head, blood splattering across Corazon, who froze, immediately realizing where the shot came from.

Their eyes met amid the chaos—a silent, almost unreal connection in the middle of the battlefield.

Flambe, thrilled beyond measure, bounced in place, utterly unconcerned by the body at her feet.
“Kata, big brother, saved me! This is the best day of my life!” she cried, her smile radiant.

Corazon blinked, regaining his composure, and ushered the girl and the other children to safety.

Katakuri remained still for a moment, unsettled by what he had done. He, the programmed soldier, knew a mission could not deviate. By protocol, neither Corazon nor the children were top priority… and yet.

He replayed the scene in his mind. This wasn’t a calculated decision; it was instinctive, almost animalistic, defying his own protocols. He had left the heart of the battle to save this man he barely knew, this “fake husband” with whom he had no concrete connection.

He couldn’t explain the impulse—and that was exactly what frightened him.

The battle wound down around him. The last attackers were neutralized. Silence slowly returned, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the clinking of weapons being stowed. Katakuri drew a deep breath, forcing himself to refocus on the mission.

He surveyed the remnants of the fight like one surveys a field after a fire: overturned tables, blood-stained linens, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the sweet aroma of still-warm pastries. Even his normally steady hands felt heavy.

Why had he fired?

He acted to protect Rosinante—without calculation, without orders. Pure instinct. For a soldier like him, it was a weakness. Every action had to be measured, every bullet justified. But in that moment… he hadn’t seen a “political fiancé” or another variable in family schemes. He had seen… Corazon, the clumsy man he had endured these past days.

Ridiculous, he thought. This attachment was unnecessary. Dangerous.

He would regain control, return to the coldness that served as his shield. Scanning the uniforms of the seated guests, he spotted the Orochi insignia—the straw man of Kaido. This attack was likely retaliation for Kanjuro’s death. If Linlin found out, a full-scale war could erupt. He would never have provoked Kaido’s territory like this under normal circumstances.

Then Linlin’s thunderous voice cut through the hall, shattering his thoughts. She had remained seated the entire time, calmly sipping her tea.

“Very well! They’re all dead! Now, let’s resume the party! Bring me the pièce montée!”

All eyes turned toward her. The guests, still in shock, froze. Bodies still lay sprawled between the tables, and she was talking about… cake. The disconnection in this woman was terrifying—but everyone here knew that crossing her path, especially over her cake, would have been an instant death sentence.

Everyone knew it—except perhaps Moscato, one of the family’s more reckless brothers. Pale but upright, he stepped forward, his voice soft.

“Mother… this isn’t the time. Many have died, we must—”

He didn’t get to finish.

A sharp shot rang out. Moscato toppled backward, a clean hole in the center of his forehead. A frozen silence fell over the room.

Big Mom’s smile was fixed, but her eyes gleamed with murderous light.

“We do not ruin MY tea party. I said we continue.”

Katakuri felt a knot form in his stomach. He knew how badly this would end. Around him, his siblings averted their gazes, some trembling, others on the verge of tears; the seasoned guests feigned indifference.

It wasn’t the first time their mother had given in to her impulses, but seeing Moscato—her own son—killed so swiftly, so coldly, in the middle of the party… was unbearable. How could a mother kill her child with such calculated, chilling calmness? He, who had sworn to protect them all…

And yet, despite the horror, the servants obeyed. The musicians resumed, hesitantly, a cheerful melody, and the pièce montée was rolled to the center of the room as if nothing had happened.

Katakuri stared at the floor, seeing his brother’s blood flow, unable to act out of loyalty to his mother. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles whitened, digging into his own palms until they bled with rage. Each breath was an effort to contain the storm raging inside him. Moscato… a brother. Not a soldier, not a pawn. A brother. Laid low like an insect, all in the name of a grotesque celebration.

His jaw tensed, teeth grinding beneath his mask. Every fiber of his being screamed to speak, to rise against this madness. But he knew: even the smallest rebellion would be crushed… and it wouldn’t just be him paying the price. And yet, he wanted so badly—so desperately—to kill his mother right then, to end the suffering of his brothers and sisters. That was his role.

Across the room, Rosinante had seen everything. Even considering himself a paternal figure, he could never imagine killing Law. The cruelty required to kill a child you had raised, carried in your own blood, for something as trivial as a cake, made the blonde shudder.

He noticed the tension in Katakuri’s shoulders, the darkness clouding his eyes. He knew that look: a man on the brink of breaking. He understood where the weakness lay.

Without a word, he ran toward him. The guests whispered, the musicians played as if their lives depended on it; the party continued as if nothing had happened, accustomed to surprise attacks.

Reaching Katakuri, he gently placed a hand on his scarred cheek.

“Come.”

His voice was low. Katakuri didn’t respond, eyes fixed on Moscato’s body, now being covered with a pristine tablecloth.

Rosinante leaned slightly, rising onto the balls of his feet, tilting his tall frame toward the masked colossus so their faces were almost level. He looked directly into his eyes, guiding him away from his brother’s corpse.

“This isn’t the time… come, let’s go at your home, Katakuri.” The use of his name sounded soft, almost intimate.

The rage burning in Katakuri’s gaze met the insistent gentleness of Rosinante. He wasn’t giving orders, just offering a way out, a moment of reprieve before his anger betrayed him to their mother. He had saved Corazon’s life twice today—it was his turn now.

After a long silence, Katakuri finally stood.

“Yes… let’s go at our home.” His voice sounded so weary. The words “home” made Corazon shiver. Beneath his scarf, Katakuri had bitten his lip in contained fury, bleeding slightly as if from his clenched fists, aware he had come frighteningly close to committing the irreparable in front of his mother. He cast a final glance at Moscato, then at his mother, and followed Rosinante out of the hall, holding his hand like a beacon through the surrounding chaos, unable to see anything but the rage, leaving behind the forced music, the sweet scent… and the terror of that bloody tea party.

Chapter Text

Back at their hideout, not a single word was exchanged between them. Both were exhausted—not only from the journey, but mostly from that cursed Tea Party, which had drained more energy than all their other misadventures combined.

Katakuri stormed straight into his training hall, clearly needing to vent his rage. Corazon, powerless in the face of his new ally’s despair, acted on impulse: he reached for Katakuri’s hand, hoping to hold him back, just like he had done during the Tea Party.

“Katakuri, please… take a moment to breathe.”

But this time, it didn’t work. Without even looking back, Katakuri shoved Rosinante’s hand away violently, breaking their contact.

The blow had been so harsh that Rosinante staggered, clutching his wrist, which was already starting to swell. He watched helplessly as the broken man stormed off—away from the noise, away from everyone—toward the only thing he still knew how to do: being a weapon.

Katakuri didn’t leave his training room from the moment they came back. Day and night, the steady rhythm of punches, heavy breathing, and the occasional crack of splintered wood or shattered targets echoed through the walls.

Rosinante often paused in front of the door, hand raised, ready to knock—only to hesitate, pulling back, remembering the last time he’d tried to interfere.
He had never been good at comforting people. And patching up someone like Katakuri? He didn’t even know if their relationship was close enough for that kind of intimacy.
But the silence… the immobility… it was suffocating. He had to try something.

Thinking back to their recent journey, Rosinante remembered one small, precious detail: Katakuri loved donuts. Maybe a simple gesture… something sweet… could stop him from shutting himself away. Surely he hadn’t eaten in days, probably too obsessed with training to allow himself even a snack. A donut would be the perfect excuse to barge in.

And Rosinante was never the type to leave someone in distress—especially not someone who had become so dear to him.

He scratched the back of his neck, standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.
He had never made donuts in his life.
But really, how hard could it be to fry a piece of sweet dough shaped like a ring?

Apparently… very hard.

The first batch glued itself to the countertop as if it had sworn allegiance to the wood.
The second batch rose so much it looked like a disfigured cloud.
The third one burned to cinders in the oil, releasing a sharp, acrid smell that stung his eyes.

After an hour, the kitchen looked like a battlefield.
Bowls were stacked dangerously on the counter, flour dusted the curtains, and a trail of sugar stuck to the floor underfoot. Rosinante himself had more dough on his clothes and hair than in the pans. White flour clung to his messy blond strands and stained his jacket. The batter, far too runny, pooled in shapeless puddles at the bottom of the pan, burning instantly. The acrid smoke mixed with caramelized sugar, an unpleasant cocktail that made his eyes water.

And when he tried flipping one, he burned two fingers, yelping out a curse that echoed down the hallway.

Rosinante sighed, utterly defeated, ready to give up—until a voice spoke behind him, soft yet firm:
“Are you trying to feed someone with this… or poison them?”

He spun around and found Brûlée leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

She glanced over the war zone that was the kitchen, arched a brow, then stepped inside.
“You’re about to ruin the Charlotte family’s reputation with those disasters you call pastries. Move over. I’ll help you—but you’ll owe me a favor.”

Without waiting, she rolled up her sleeves and grabbed a bowl.

“He hasn’t left his training room since the Tea Party, has he?” Brûlée asked, pouring flour without looking up.

Rosinante rubbed awkwardly at his flour-covered hair.
“It’s been days… I got used to being alone in this place, but this? This is just sad. He’ll kill himself if he keeps going like that. This isn’t how you deal with grief.”

“Tch.” Brûlée shook her head, voice unusually sharp. “He’s far more sentimental than he lets on. More than me, more than anyone else in this family. Behind all that posturing, he’s just… one massive marshmallow. I can’t even imagine how filthy, how useless he must feel, not being able to protect his brothers and sisters from Mama. Seriously though, Rosinante… how the hell do you even burn a frying pan? That’s a talent.”

Rosinante rubbed his bandaged wrist, still sore after days—the imprint of Katakuri’s hand still bruised beneath.

“If he could just talk about what he feels, it would help. I know he’s family-oriented… but he treats his life like an obsession. Especially when it comes to appearances.”

Brûlée’s expression softened, turning almost bitter.
“He never had a choice. Nobody would ever choose to be Katakuri. For most of us, he was the only parental figure we had. Poor guy had to act like the head of the family since he was a kid. He failed only once in that role… and he’s never forgiven himself. Ever since then, he’s kept that perfect image alive, no matter the cost.”

Rosinante frowned.
“What do you mean, Brûlée?”

She stopped stirring the dough, turned around, and pointed at her scar with the whisk.
“It’s big, isn’t it?”

“And not unpleasant. I already told you—it actually adds a certain charm to your beauty.”

Brûlée blushed faintly, though she’d gained a little more confidence in herself over the past few days. She pretended his compliment hadn’t struck her, even as her ears burned.
“I got it when I was a child. Even back then, we were dragged into shady places and surrounded by dangerous people. Mama was building her empire, and we were taken along into the ugliest parts of it. We saw and lived things no child on earth should ever go through.”

The words pulled Rosinante straight back to thoughts of Law. He too had lived through a terrible tragedy… and the very idea of children being hurt, innocent and unprotected, filled him with a deep, burning rage.

“In short, something happened to Katakuri when we were little… but it’s not my story to tell. After that, he became the target of mockery. Which I couldn’t stand. My brother was strong—too strong, even as a child. Strong enough to annoy the underworld adults themselves. And, as it usually happens, one thing led to another… Some men, low-level mafiosos, disfigured me out of petty revenge after I tried to defend him. Katakuri was only a boy. I tried to make him understand it wasn’t his fault… but our mother, she—”

Her jaw clenched, and she turned her face away, hiding the tears from Rosinante while she kept working on the dough as if nothing had happened.
“Mother blamed my ruined face on Katakuri, held him responsible for my exile from the family and every misfortune I’ve suffered since. From that day on, when Linlin made him carry the weight of the family’s horrors just because of his face… because she deemed it monstrous… Katakuri has always hidden it. He hasn’t been the same since. He controls everything, down to the tiniest details: the length of his scarf, the slightest speck in his home, the people he interacts with…”

She let out a short, bitter laugh, wiping her eyes.
“So… seeing this kitchen in such chaos, it feels strange. He’s never this forgiving. Your very existence is like a soft, pleasant anomaly in his life. Moscato’s death must be eating him alive, even if it wasn’t his fault. Katakuri is a man who strives for perfection, and the moment he realizes perfection doesn’t exist… he fills himself with pointless guilt.”

Rosinante clenched his jaw at her words. If his brother and the Family hadn’t existed, he knew exactly who would sit at the very top of his hatred. That woman—Linlin—had to be stopped.

“That’s… horrific. Honestly, your mother is a monster. Whatever praise she gets is far too kind for what she really is. There’s no world, none, where I could ever do that to Law.”

He straightened up, his gaze darkening as he toyed with the sugar sprinkles scattered across the donuts on the table.
“Law was sick… a nasty illness. When he joined the family, God only knows how quickly I grew attached to that cold, strange kid. We spent months searching together for a cure, across the whole country. White lead disease isn’t contagious, but ignorant people treated him like a plague. The illness leaves visible marks on the skin, condemning you little by little. They mocked a poor child’s appearance, treated him as if he were poisonous. I burned down hospitals, smashed quacks’ skulls—men who dared call themselves doctors—because of what they did to him.”

His voice dropped lower.
“My point is… the way a mother—or doctors—can treat a child because of how they look, or for something beyond their control, is unforgivable. The thought of you all enduring that, inside your own family, and for so long… it disgusts me.”

Brûlée gave him a small smile. Deep down, a quiet voice inside her was curious to meet this “Law,” given how tenderly Rosinante spoke of him.

Little by little, the kitchen regained some order.
The dough had the supple, elastic texture Rosinante had failed to achieve on his own. Brûlée cut out perfect circles, dropped them into hot oil, and pulled them out golden, puffed, and already delicious to the eye. Rosinante, for his part, handled the glazing and scattered sugar decorations with his usual clumsy flair — far too many sprinkles, but Brûlée only rolled her eyes and said nothing.

Hours later, night had fallen. A plate piled high with freshly glazed donuts sat in the center of the table. Rosinante stared at them as if they were a masterpiece.
“It’s… perfect.”

The training hall door finally creaked open, deep into the night. Drawn by the sweet smells that had been haunting him since the afternoon, Katakuri stepped into the hallway. He was a man weak against his favorite pastry, no matter how much he denied it. His face was hidden behind his scarf, his tall frame heavier than usual, bowed beneath invisible weight on his shoulders. He hadn’t expected to smell… this.

A strange mixture—sugar, hot oil… and something faintly burnt.

His brow furrowed. The scent wasn’t coming from the professional kitchen, but from the one in the salon.

When he reached the doorway, the sight froze him.

The kitchen was a warzone.
Flour smeared across counters and floor, oil stains marking the walls, bowls piled precariously in the sink, a still-smoking cloth abandoned in a corner. For someone as meticulous as Katakuri, who demanded spotless precision in every corner of his life, it was like an explosion had gone off. Chairs had been shoved aside as though a battle had taken place.

“Who… did this?” His voice was low, with nothing calm in it—the kind of tone that warned this mess might be the final straw on nerves already stretched to breaking.

Brûlée, leaning casually against the doorframe with a donut in her mouth, crossed her arms.
“Rosinante.”

Katakuri’s eyes darkened. Did that fool really think Katakuri needed this on top of everything else?
“And why?”

“For you.”

He stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

“He wanted to make you donuts. On his own. Except… well, it’s obvious the kitchen and him aren’t on speaking terms. I helped clean up the disaster and finish the batch. But in the end…” She smirked. “It worked. You came out of your cave.”

Katakuri opened his mouth to snap back, but his eyes caught movement behind Brûlée.

There, slumped over the counter like a drunken sailor, Rosinante slept soundly.
His head rested on his arm, his coat dusted with flour, a lock of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and sugar. Next to him sat the plate of perfectly glazed donuts — untouched, as if he hadn’t had the strength left to bring them over.

Something inside Katakuri loosened, almost against his will.

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come.
He took in the slope of Rosinante’s shoulders, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath, the fatigue etched into his features. He looked… almost adorable.

There was something absurd in the scene—clumsy, chaotic, yet so rawly sincere—that it tightened Katakuri’s throat.

It wasn’t a brilliant gesture.
Not even a successful one from beginning to end.
But it was… for him. And that alone painted the faintest blush across Katakuri’s cheeks — someone other than his sister had thought of his well-being, of how he must be feeling.

Brûlée, quietly observing her brother’s reaction, gave a small nod to herself as if confirming her own conviction.
“I’ll let you handle the rest. He owes me for this,” she murmured before slipping away down the hallway.

Katakuri was left alone with the scene: the ruined kitchen, the steaming donuts, and Rosinante fast asleep, dusted with flour like a child after a snowball fight.

He stepped closer, wordless, moving as though afraid to wake the sleeper. One hand pressed against the counter beside the plate, he lingered there for a moment, eyes fixed on the man who — without even meaning to — had cracked through the armor Katakuri had been carrying for days.

Donuts, the training hall, Moscato’s blood, the forced music, his mother… all of it slipped away, replaced by the sweetness in the air and the quiet warmth rising from the still-warm pastries.

Then, with deliberate care, Katakuri slid an arm under Rosinante’s legs and the other around his back, mindful not to bump him against the edge of the table.

He hadn’t expected Rosinante to be so… light. The warmth radiating from him startled Katakuri. As his body lifted, Rosinante shifted faintly, still too deep in sleep to open his eyes. His fingers tensed against Katakuri’s vest before relaxing again, sliding until they clutched weakly at the fabric near his shoulder.

His head lolled forward against the giant’s chest, his forehead brushing the scarf.

Katakuri tightened his hold, steadying him, adjusting his shoulders to carry the weight properly. The floorboards groaned under each step, but Rosinante remained still, his breathing evening out until it matched almost perfectly with Katakuri’s own. Flour clung to his hair, flaking off in small white specks that dusted Katakuri’s scarf and gloves like snow.

At the bed, Katakuri lowered him carefully, laying him against the mattress as though the smallest sound could shatter the fragile peace.

Rosinante’s fingers slid reluctantly from his vest, brushing the fabric before falling onto the sheet. The blond sank deeper into the pillow, a faint sigh escaping his lips, untouched by any of the chaos surrounding them.

As Katakuri straightened, he felt a burden ease ever so slightly from his own shoulders. Perhaps it wasn’t much… but the fact that this clumsy, flour-covered man had gone through so much trouble for his sake had widened the crack in his walls more than he wanted to admit.

His gaze caught on Rosinante’s wrist — the faint discoloration beneath the bandages. For an instant, panic surged through him. Had he been hurt while baking? No… the truth struck harder. That bruise, that swelling, was his fault. His own loss of control.

A wave of guilt swelled in him. Silently, he swore he never wanted to see Rosinante hurt by his hands again.

Katakuri lingered, staring for several minutes in the soft silence of the night… then, with hesitant fingers, he reached for his scarf.

His gloved hands tightened on the fabric.
To remove it in front of another person was more than risk — it was a boundary he had never crossed.

But Rosinante… was asleep. Vulnerable, unaware. And Katakuri knew — somehow knew — that this man had no morbid curiosity, no cruelty waiting behind his gaze.

Slowly, he inhaled, gathering courage. He loosened the knot. The scarf slipped down from his neck, sliding across his shoulders with a soft whisper of fabric.

Cool air brushed against his face.
The scars, deep and jagged, ran from his cheekbones down to the corners of his mouth. On the left, the flesh had been torn away so violently that a strip of sharp teeth and inner cheek was exposed — a wound frozen in time.

He stayed there, letting the air wash over skin he always kept hidden, almost savoring the forgotten sensation of letting his face breathe.

His eyes returned to Rosinante.

The blond shifted faintly, a soft sound escaping him. Katakuri instinctively flinched back — but Rosinante didn’t stir.

For the first time in years, Katakuri allowed his face to remain uncovered in someone’s presence. And strangely, he felt certain that even if Rosinante woke, he wouldn’t turn away in disgust.

A dangerous thought flickered through him — he almost wanted Corazon to wake, to see him like this. Almost.

But after lingering in silence, he slowly wrapped the scarf back around his face, the motions precise, ingrained since childhood.

As he left the room, one thought struck him with terrifying clarity:

Since the day Corazon had entered his life, every choice Katakuri had made was reckless.

Searching for Law, shattering his strict schedule for the sake of a boy he barely knew.
The fight with Kanjuro, born of uncontrollable jealousy, that had spiraled into chaos in the territory of a gang lord where he should have remained discreet.
His rash decision during Galette’s proposal, the reckless rescue of Corazon at the tea party, jeopardizing everything.
And now… this. This unthinkable act of removing his scarf — the only barrier that had protected him all his life.

His control was slipping. For the first time, Katakuri felt the weight of his flaws. And it terrified him.

But at the same time… he hadn’t felt this alive since childhood.

____________

Brûlée had always been a sensitive soul, despite her fiery temper. She loved to lose herself in the forest building huts, assembling strange structures with mirrors — even though she hated having them in her home — and spending time with the very few members of her family she truly valued. Among them were her closest brothers and sisters, older or younger.

And if there was one thing Brûlée had sharpened over the years, it was an almost supernatural ability to sense Katakuri’s distress. She knew how to recognize that silence that was too heavy, that tension in his shoulders. She had her own methods of pulling him out of it.
The latest one? Rosinante.

If Katakuri could, he would have the wagging tail of a giant dog, shaking happily at the slightest interaction with the blond. Neither of them realized it yet, but each had already taken up far too much space in the other’s life.

And for Brûlée, the best way to close this silent mourning and this guilt over Moscato was to drown the air in life and noise. Her plan? To bring in the youngest of the clan: Anana, Normande, Flampe, Pudding, Décha, Anglais, Wafer, and the twins Dolce and Dragée — for a parenting session between those two.

That very morning, Rosinante stepped out of his house to pick up the newspaper, still half-asleep. He didn’t even have time to open the first page before a veritable tide of children surged down the path, running straight into him like an uncontrollable wave. Under Brûlée’s supervision, they crashed into him in joyful chaos, some clinging to his legs, others tugging at his coat.

“I’m being invaded! What honor do I owe this attack, you little monsters?!” he exclaimed, feigning scandal.

“It’s Brûlée who sent us!” squealed Anana, slipping between his legs.

“We’re supposed to spend time with you… and especially with Big Brother!” added Flampe, already climbing onto his back as if he were a mount.

“Babysitting duty, huh? I guess that’s my service for the day.”

The commotion didn’t take long to draw Katakuri out of the house. One could guess he hadn’t slept much in days, judging from the dark circles under his eyes. He stopped short on the porch, frozen, discovering the little army squealing and swarming around Rosinante… and already turning toward him with a mix of admiration and excitement.

The children invaded the house like a miniature army storming an entrance. Dolce and Dragée were already fighting over a pillow, Pudding was rummaging through drawers in search of chocolate, and Wafer had decided to climb onto Rosinante “to see if you’re as tall as Katakuri.” Chaos reigned, while the two men wanted nothing but calm after the previous night.

“Brûlée will pay for this…” Katakuri muttered as he observed the scene from the doorway.

“Come on, relax,” Rosinante replied, trying to peel Wafer off his shoulder. “They’re just children.”

At that precise moment, Anana and Normande ran past them, carrying a bucket of water.

“No! Not in the kitchen, it’s just been cleaned!”

Too late.

The rest of the afternoon was a mixture of chaos and failed attempts at organization. Katakuri, true to himself, tried to enforce military discipline:
“Dolce, Dragée, no more than two meters from each other! Flampe, put that tape down! Pudding, that drawer is off-limits!”

But Rosinante constantly broke his authority by laughing, suggesting games instead. Katakuri, tired of being forced into babysitting, proposed an activity where he would feel more at ease: combat training.

Katakuri’s training hall had never seen so much life, especially after the last few days. Rosinante noticed that several punching bags and weapons lay broken in a corner, the violence of the blows suggesting Katakuri had truly gone all out in his grief. Dolce and Dragée were attempting to climb a punching bag, Flampe was trying on a glove twice her size, and Pudding had disappeared somewhere under a training mat.

“Stay together,” Katakuri ordered gravely. “We’re going to do some exercises. At your age I was already fighting adults.”

Rosinante, as he had done cheerfully all day, signed so that Pudding could understand.

The training hall echoed with a mixture of children’s laughter and the dull thuds of fists against punching bags. Katakuri tried to channel the little troop by proposing a “basic initiation exercise.” Rosinante, curious and a little mocking, had agreed to play the demonstration partner. The light atmosphere was bound to do Katakuri good.

“We’ll just show them a few simple moves,” Katakuri said, handing him a training staff.

Rosinante raised a teasing eyebrow. “I remind you that I don’t stand a chance against you.”

“Exactly. That’ll make the perfect example.”

They squared off. The children gathered in a circle… more or less. Dolce and Dragée had already begun shoving each other with floor mats, and Pudding was rummaging in a corner as if searching for treasure.

The fight began, light and almost choreographed. Rosinante dodged with a mix of clumsiness and theatricality, drawing bursts of laughter. Katakuri, meanwhile, stayed in impeccable control… until, without warning, he hooked Rosinante’s leg to simulate an imbalance.

Except the imbalance was real.

Rosinante toppled backward. Katakuri caught him by the hip on reflex, afraid he might get hurt… but the momentum dragged them both down onto the mat. The dull thud drew the children’s immediate attention.

Katakuri found himself above him, one hand braced on the mat beside his head, the other firmly on his hip to keep him from sliding. He felt the heat of the body beneath his, the rapid breath brushing against his skin. His eyes fell on the blond’s face… far too close.

His mind went blank. Not a sound filtered through from the outside, not even the children. Just the brutal pounding of his own heart. Never… never had anyone made him feel like this. Maybe it was the exhaustion of the last few days, maybe something else — but why did his chest hammer so violently whenever they were this close? He didn’t know how to handle it, but in that instant he only wanted to sink into Rosinante, forget his mother, his family, Moscato, everything… and curl up against the man beneath him.

Rosinante looked up at him, catching that crimson gaze rimmed by long lashes that almost softened the colossus’s intimidating aura. His irises seemed to shimmer in the light.

“Your eyes… they’re beautiful,” he whispered without even realizing it, as if hypnotized.

Katakuri gave a small jolt, his fingers tightening slightly on the blond’s narrower hip, brushing bone at the compliment. He abruptly turned his gaze away, acutely aware that his breath had gone short and his ears had flushed red.

“Kiss already!” Anana shouted, snapping them both back to reality.

Katakuri straightened up, almost too quickly, breaking the contact, but still offered a hand to Rosinante to help him back up. Their palms lingered together a second too long before parting.

“Lesson over,” Katakuri said, his voice deeper than usual.

Behind them, Pudding shook an old bell she had found who knows where, declaring the end of the fight like an improvised referee. The children clapped, convinced they had just witnessed something spectacular.

But the real battle was taking place elsewhere: in Katakuri’s conflicted heart. A heart stirred by Rosinante, yet unwilling to admit it. He didn’t care about his own life—but the idea of Rosinante risking his, of seeing him with someone else… that twisted something inside him. His mind, usually so orderly, had been in permanent contradiction since their paths had crossed.

Katakuri averted his gaze, fixing it on some invisible point as if trying to chase away the unfamiliar sensation tightening his chest. Since coming back from their journey, he had to admit he’d grown used to—no, he had appreciated—sharing his space with the clumsy blond. But now, all of a sudden, every little moment between them became harder to handle, his composure threatening to break with every too-close proximity.

Rosinante, meanwhile, lived his emotions as they came, too human, too pure to lie about them. He controlled nothing, and simply let his heart lead the way while he waited for the day he could see his son again.

_________

The bright afternoon light had faded, replaced by a softer, golden glow that bathed the room.

Most of the children had collapsed after their chaotic day: Anana rolled up in a blanket, the twins Dolce and Dragée fast asleep on the mats, Flampe still awake but curled against a cushion, fiddling with the morning’s newspaper.

Rosinante sat cross-legged on the floor, with Pudding nestled against him. He showed her a few simple hand signs, his movements fluid.
“Look, this means corazón—the heart,” he explained slowly. Pudding copied the gesture, deeply concentrated.

Katakuri observed in silence as he put away the leftover training equipment. He had never paid much attention to sign language before—an insult, in truth, to his poor sister. Yet his eyes were fixed on Rosinante’s fingers, moving with surprising precision, guided by that soft, calming tone.

“Want to try?” Rosinante asked, glancing up at him, noticing how intently the man seemed to absorb each movement of their exchange.

Katakuri hesitated. “…I’m not sure I’d be any good at this.”
“It’s not a competition. It’s just so Pudding can talk with you too.”

Finally, he sat down opposite the blond. Rosinante gently took his large hand, positioning the fingers. Without thinking, he slipped off Katakuri’s glove for practicality, revealing skin rough and warm, scarred by years of combat and days of relentless training. Rosinante noticed the damage immediately: reddened knuckles, scabs, cracks where the skin had split under the strain. His chest tightened at the sight—this man was broken not just inside, but physically too.

The contact, simple as it was, sparked something. Katakuri forced himself to stay impassive, but his focus lingered on the smaller hand guiding his own. Softer, warmer, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“There… now bend this part a little more,” murmured Rosinante, adjusting his fingers carefully so as not to hurt the raw spots.

Pudding giggled at her brother’s stiff seriousness. When Katakuri finally managed the sign, Rosinante nodded approvingly.
“Perfect. Now you can say hello, and ask how she’s doing—without a word.”

Katakuri repeated the motion slowly. Pudding’s eyes lit up as she answered in kind. A faint smile curved beneath his scarf. Rosinante saw it—and thought to himself that this smile, the real one, was worth more than all the words in existence.

______

Later, Katakuri and Rosinante rose quietly, careful not to wake the little ones sprawled across the room. Rosinante had taught him several words, hand in hand, gesture by gesture—the last one meaning heart, for corazón.

Katakuri gathered stray toys and tucked them neatly into a basket, while Rosinante folded up the mats in silence.

“You know,” Katakuri finally said, “learning these signs… it’s harder than I thought.”

Rosinante chuckled softly. “You’re doing better than I did my first time.”

A rare laugh escaped Katakuri, low and quiet. “It's not comparable, you learned that when you were a child.”

Rosinante raised his brows in mock offense. “That’s not fair, you’re a fast learner. Don’t downplay it.”

Katakuri lifted his eyes, something raw flickering in them.
“Thank you. For today. For… everything. I don’t really know how to react to this kind of kindness.”

Rosinante looked genuinely surprised by the honesty in that confession. “It’s me who should thank you. You saved my life at the Tea Party. And besides, this is thanks to your sister—she’s incredible. I would’ve loved to have that kind of bond with Doffy… It’s obvious she cares deeply about your happiness.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t heavy. It was warm, still, as if time itself had slowed down for them.

“You know,” Katakuri murmured, “I didn’t think… these kids would make me feel this much better.”

Rosinante nodded, resting his hands on his knees. “Sometimes, family comes from those you choose… not just the ones you’re given.”

Katakuri didn’t answer right away, but a flicker of light stirred in his eyes—like he was turning those words over. The ones we choose, not the ones forced upon us… The thought struck him with both fear and beauty. And in that moment, he realized something terrifying and wonderful: if he could choose a member to call family, without hesitation, his choice would be Cora-

“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” Brûlée’s voice cut through the quiet, shattering the moment.

Corazon stumbled backward in fear, while Katakuri had already sensed his sister’s arrival, waking the children in the process.

“Well, looks like the day wore them out,” Brûlée said cheerfully. “Thanks, they’ll sleep wonderfully tonight! Are you two alright…?”

“Oh yes, it was a great day—the best I’ve had in this mansion! They even decorated, look at all these works of art!” Rosinante beamed.

“Hm. Ugly children’s drawings. Let me know if you manage to win anything with those. At least they’ll brighten up this gloomy house, won’t they, Kata?”

Katakuri rolled his eyes, helping the children get to their feet and guiding them toward the door. Meanwhile, Flampe was rummaging through her bag, looking troubled.

“Did you lose something, sweetheart?” Brûlée asked from the doorway.

Flampe pouted. “Hmm… yes. It was a cute boy on an old newspaper page I wanted to keep.”

Brûlée burst into laughter. “So young and already in love? Perospero is going to have a hard time, that old bachelor—this should be fun!”

“Come on, let’s go,” her big sister coaxed, tugging her toward the exit.

But Flampe dug her heels into the ground, throwing a small tantrum. “No! I want to keep the cute boy named Punk Hazard!”

Katakuri and Rosinante froze instantly at the mention of that name.

“What? The city of Punk Hazard?” Katakuri asked, frowning.

Rosinante hurriedly searched his belongings and pulled out the morning paper he hadn’t yet read. The bold headline leapt out:

“Punk Hazard Liberated: Caesar Clown, Scientist of Horror, Captured by a Group of Fugitives.”

The photo showed the power plant and Caesar’s lab in ruins, with a blurry image—likely from a security camera—of a ragtag group of troublemakers. Even if unfocused, their silhouettes were recognizable: Luffy, Law, and their crew.

Rosinante literally fell backward, his mouth agape. “Tell me I’m dreaming…?! Law actually pulled it off! And he didn’t even warn me!”

Katakuri frowned deeper, his eyes flicking to the date. “This is Morgan’s paper, isn’t it? He always gets the scoop before most of the underworld networks.”

“Look at the date—it happened this morning.”

Corazon’s eyes lit with a renewed determination.
“That means I have to find Law. That’s the plan,” he said firmly. “His next target will surely be my brother… Shutting down the SMILE drug production is going to throw the underworld into chaos. If we don’t stop him quickly, it could spiral out of control.”

Without hesitation, he rushed to his room, grabbed his small bag of belongings, a pack of cigarettes, and, on his way back down the hall, snatched Katakuri’s motorcycle helmet.
“I—I have to go, I’ll borrow this, I—” He cut himself off mid-panic, took a sharp breath, and turned to Brûlée. “Thank you… sincerely. I thought I’d hate this marriage and this new life, but you’ve made it so much harder to despise. Take care of these kids… you’re a true parent to them, Brûlée.”

Then his gaze shifted to Katakuri, standing frozen, as if struck by the realization that their adventure ended here: Katakuri would return to his mad family, and Corazon would go back to tracking his brother, determined to finish the mission he had started. Their paths had come to a split. Seeing the towering man again reminded Corazon of the fear he had felt the very first time they met.

“And you, Katakuri… I think I’m grateful—for your sacrifice with Smoothie, and for marrying me. If you hadn’t, I never would have known you—not the rumors, not the mask, but you. Thank you for everything. But I don’t want to hold you back, or intrude further into your life. That would be selfish. I’ve already caused you too much harm in a story that was never yours. You’ve helped me so much already in finding Law… I can’t use you any further. The rest shouldn’t affect you anymore.”

He gave a nervous little smile. “Oh, and… I made donuts last night. I hope you’ll like them.”

Rising on tiptoe, he did something foolish—something he knew he’d regret if he didn’t. He pressed a quick kiss to Katakuri’s scarred cheek. The taller man froze at the contact, stunned. Rosinante then lifted two fingers in a peace sign, wearing that ridiculous grin, before turning to leave—so at least his smile would remain in memory.

Katakuri stood motionless. He could still feel the lips on the visible part of his cheek just above his scarf. Empty now, with the realization: this had always been the plan. And he had known. It was better this way… After all, their marriage had only been a convenience. Once Doffy was deposed, divorce would follow. And yet—his carefully built routine, his iron control—had all been rattled by that clumsy blond fool. He could at least let him keep the motorcycle, a token of the time they’d shared.

He turned sharply, ready to bury himself once more in training, to let Corazon chase his destiny without a farewell. But a tap on his shoulder stopped him. He turned to find Brûlée holding out his black-and-pink motorcycle helmet.

“I know you want to,” she said calmly.

“It isn’t reasonable. This mission isn’t mine, I have nothing to gain. I should focus on our family, on Mother’s success. Corazon and I are not—”

“For someone with the reputation of seeing the future,” she cut him off gently, “you’re very bad at seeing your own. Live without regret, big brother. Your life has always revolved around our family… Live for yourself, at least this once.”

Outside, Rosinante swung himself onto Katakuri’s massive motorcycle. Sitting in the driver’s seat intimidated him far more than he wanted to admit. He started it clumsily, nearly tipping over, trying not to think about the weight in his chest and the sting in his eyes. He hated goodbyes, so he always forced a smile.

They were nothing to each other—not even truly friends… And yet, Katakuri had touched him. His presence, his story, his personality, his beauty—it all finally made sense. Riding the rest of the way alone… made his heart ache horribly. But he didn’t want to be selfish; he couldn’t force himself further into Katakuri’s life than he already had, nor impose this adventure on him. Katakuri already carried so much with his own family; adding the blond’s problems would feel wrong.

He placed his hands on the handlebars, ready to go… but Rosinante sensed a shadow behind him before he even heard the voice.

“You’re really going to drive this bike poorly. I should’ve taught you how to use it.”

The blond jumped and turned his head. Katakuri was there, helmet under his arm, travel bag in hand. There was an intensity in his gaze unlike his usual calm—something new driving him.

“What are you—”

“Move over. I’m—I’m sorry about your wrist injury. You might have trouble riding because of me…”

Caught off guard, Rosinante obeyed. Katakuri put on his helmet, settled in front of him, and without hesitation, revved the engine.

“I’m coming with you to make it right.”

The blond blinked, unexpectedly happy. “But… you have no reason—”

“Yes, I already helped you once, driven by instinct. And now… I want to continue. I couldn’t forgive myself if I read in Morgan’s paper about your death—or your son’s.” Katakuri didn’t look back. “You said this story shouldn’t involve me. But… you’ve already changed so much in my life, Rosinante. Too much for me to let you go alone, putting your life at risk.”

The blond felt his heart tighten. Before he could respond, the motorcycle lunged forward. The wind whipped across their faces, and Rosinante, off balance, instinctively leaned closer, his hands pressing against Katakuri’s massive chest. Under Brûlée’s gaze, it felt like the first time he’d ever left—except now he enjoyed the contact, no longer afraid of the man in front of him.

He felt the muscles tense under his palms. This closeness had been missing without them realizing it. Katakuri said nothing, but his breathing changed slightly, becoming shorter. This sensation was unknown territory for him, and it unsettled him more than he dared admit—finally able to let go and live for himself.

A new emotion neither of them had named yet. But Rosinante decided to stop thinking, rested his head on the other man’s back, and simply appreciated the embrace forced by circumstance. He had missed it without knowing it the muscle the smell of mochi. He felt calm, ready for whatever adventures lay ahead. Because from now on, they would face it together, no matter the outcome.

 

_______________

 

sketch and drawing from the previous chapter : 

 

 

Chapter Text

Back on their journey, fate seemed almost playful as they neared Dressrosa, just as Law’s plan had foreseen, after several hours on the road. The rain began to fall—first a few drops, then a heavy, relentless downpour that hammered against their helmets. Even the motorcycle, powerful as it was, began to lose stability. Katakuri frowned behind his helmet and slowed, his soaked gloves tightening on the handlebars.

"We can’t keep going like this," he said, his voice barely carrying above the roar of the rain.

Rosinante, already freezing, nodded without argument. It would slow them down, but they had set out in such haste, with so few supplies, that risking their lives on the road would be foolish. His hands tightened around Katakuri’s waist, instinctively searching for warmth. The icy drops had already soaked through his clothes, plastering the fabric to his skin. Behind Katakuri, he pressed closer, arms wrapping around his torso without meaning to. The warmth radiating from the man contrasted sharply with the biting cold of the storm. He could feel each muscle move beneath the drenched shirt, each strong, steady heartbeat.

Katakuri, focused on the road, said nothing—but beneath his helmet, his ears flushed red. That had never happened before, despite all the rides they’d taken together.

"Of course… it had to be us. I swear, if anything happens to Law—"

"Hold on," Katakuri muttered before he could stop himself.

A few hundred meters further, he spotted an old, abandoned building by the roadside—likely a farm left to rot. The weathered sign read Merry, warped and damp with time. Katakuri guided the bike beneath a crooked awning, the engine growling one last time before cutting off.

Silence fell, broken only by the pounding rain on cracked tiles. Rosinante climbed off clumsily, his boots splashing in muddy puddles. He pulled off his helmet, blond hair plastered messily to his face, almost covering his eyes, and gave a tired smile.

"We’ll wait it out here."

"I just hope it doesn’t last long… every minute is precious if we want to rejoin the others."

"I know, Corazon, but we didn’t really have a choice. We left in such a rush, without clothes, without even checking the weather."

The stress of waiting with no answers knotted the blond’s stomach. But neither he nor Katakuri could fight against the will of the universe.

Rosinante shivered, his soaked clothes clinging to his skin. Rain dripped from his blond hair down to his lips and jawline, his makeup smeared into messy streaks. His white shirt, now nearly transparent, revealed his thin frame, the scars, his trembling shoulders, his nipples—and more. Nervously, he tugged at the fabric stuck to his chest where the cold had made his nipples stand out, as though trying to peel it away, but it only drew more attention to him, the faint pink visible through the wet cloth.

Katakuri stood frozen, forcing his gaze away so as not to be caught staring. For a fleeting moment, he imagined what that fragile chest would feel like in his massive hands—then quickly banished the thought. His own dark tank top clung to him as well, the rain outlining every curve of his torso, every detail of his powerful build, his abs pressed against the fabric. His short, soaked hair clung to his forehead, giving him a wilder look than ever. His jaw was tight, as though he were fighting not to reveal the obvious discomfort he felt under Rosinante’s gaze. Both felt strangely exposed.

"Well… I’ll try to make a few calls, so we don’t waste too much time," the blond said, aware he’d been staring a little too long. Who could blame him? Katakuri looked like some untamed beast—dangerous, but undeniably attractive. His neck still burned, and he turned away quickly to hide the blush rising to his cheeks. After all, who could really blame him? He had never shared his space with a man this imposing. Normally, Corazon would have already tried to sleep with someone so perfectly his type—but Katakuri, and everything between them, was far too complicated for something so frivolous.

Katakuri said nothing. His silence was far from neutral, though: his ears had turned a faint red, betraying unusual unease. He turned his face aside, but his dark eyes lingered, despite himself, on Rosinante’s slimmer figure. A disturbing thought crossed his mind—what would that fragile body look like, held in his hands that were too large, too strong? Ever since their babysitting conversation, intrusive thoughts like these had haunted him, clouding his focus for the rest of their mission.

Meanwhile, Rosinante stepped back, the phone clutched tightly in his hand. Every call failed. Neither Law nor his team picked up. After what had happened at Punk Hazard, it made sense they would stay hidden… but the silence gnawed at him. Panic rose in his throat: if Doflamingo got to Law before he did, he would never forgive himself. It would mean death.

In his desperation, an old reflex made him dial a number he had never truly forgotten—the only one he still knew by heart, buried deep in his mind from his days as a policeman. The number of another family. His first.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Hello…?" His voice trembled.

"Who is this? I don’t have time," answered the voice of an older man.

A faint smile crossed the blond’s lips. He closed his eyes briefly, whispering the word like a prayer.
"Cake."

Silence. Then, suddenly, the other voice cracked in a shocked gasp, recognizing that codename instantly.
“…That codename… ROSI?!”

Rosinante felt his heart leap in his chest. A nervous, almost childlike laugh escaped him.
"Hey, Sengoku."

A genuine smile tugged at his lips as his gaze drifted instinctively toward Katakuri. The man, crouched a little farther away, was watching the rainwater trickle down the pavement with a calm almost childlike—like a giant dog. His massive frame, sitting so still under the storm, had something oddly reassuring about it.

Sengoku’s voice, on the other hand, exploded through the receiver:
"You want to kill your poor old man, is that it, you fool?!"

"I—" Rosinante stammered.

"I find out you’re married to some thug from the worst kind of crew, that your brother sold you off like some cheap bargaining chip to Big Mom… and I don’t even get a single call?! Just kill me now, it’d be simpler!"

"…Isn’t that a little dramatic?" Rosinante replied, amused. "I’m fine. I’m healthy. Smoker gave you my message, didn’t he?"

"Hmph. Smoker, yes. And Bellemere has a few things to say to you too, though out of courtesy I won’t repeat her choice of words." A sigh followed, a mix of frustration and relief. "We miss you, Rosi. What trouble are you dragging yourself into now? Your life isn’t a game."

"I miss you too. All of you… so much. But you know—"

"Yes, I know," Sengoku cut him off, his tone calmer now. "You’re being reckless for your son’s sake… the way I was reckless for you."

Rosinante’s eyes stung.
"Thank you… it feels good to hear your voice."

"I trust you, son. But for heaven’s sake, take care of yourself. And that giant brute… he isn’t rough with you, is he? He wouldn’t dare, I hope! I could still pull some strings with my superiors and—"

"He’s kind."

A heavy silence, broken by a skeptical snort.
“…We’re talking about Katakuri, right?!”

"Yes, father." Rosinante’s smile widened despite himself. "He’s considerate, attentive… he’s taken care of me, and he’s saved my life more times than I can count. Honestly… I don’t know how I would’ve managed without him."

He glanced back at him again—this time catching Katakuri wringing out his shirt, his broad back turned toward him. Heat rushed to Rosinante’s face and he spun away quickly.

Sengoku went silent for a beat, then gave a gruff, ironic grunt:
"Hmph. I’ll pray to Buddha for you, my son. Because clearly, you’ve lost your mind." His voice softened at once. "But no matter… if you’re alive and safe, that’s all that matters to me as your father. The fear of losing you for so long destroyed me—I felt so powerless. If there’s anything I can do to help you… anything at all… don’t ever hesitate again."

"I will." Rosinante swallowed hard, tears stinging his eyes. "I’ll call you again soon. Take care of yourself—and of the goat, old man."

"And you too, unlucky bird."

The line cut off just as a bolt of lightning split the sky. Rosinante stood frozen for a moment, the phone still pressed to his ear. Sengoku was a just man, strong and loyal… Rosi admired him deeply, and loved him sincerely like a father—even if his strict sense of justice often clashed with Rosi’s humanity. They had always butted heads ideologically, but being the son of a Admiral was never easy. Expectations weighed heavily on his shoulders since childhood.

He turned back toward Katakuri, who pretended he hadn’t heard a word, fussing with his tank top out of sudden modesty. He’d had no problem going shirtless before, yet now he seemed oddly self-conscious under the blond’s eyes. Katakuri, who had caught fragments of the conversation, kept repeating that one word in his head—kind. Was that really the word Rosi had chosen? Coming from a former cop, it sounded almost unreal.

A comfortable silence settled, broken only by the intensifying rain. Maybe it was the stress, maybe the cold, maybe the call with Sengoku… but Corazon was visibly trembling, worn down both physically and emotionally.

Seeing this, the tattooed man thought bitterly of how unbearably lonely Rosinante must feel. No real family but a father who was also his commander… how hard must it be, having no siblings, no monstrous children, no one truly by his side? Katakuri rose awkwardly, shrugged off his heavy leather jacket, and draped it over the blond’s narrow shoulders.

"You’ll catch a cold," he murmured, his voice deeper than usual.

Rosinante lowered his gaze to the oversized garment that nearly swallowed him whole. The lingering warmth of the leather sent a shiver down his spine—the bigger man really was like a walking furnace. The faint scent of mochi and sugar clung to the jacket. The cold made him hesitate, almost panic, as he prepared to refuse the gesture.

"And what about you?" he asked, worried.

Katakuri shrugged, as if the cold couldn’t touch him.
The blond lifted his eyes toward him, raindrops glittering on his lashes like tiny pearls.
"You know… Sengoku asked me if you were violent with me."

Katakuri’s eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth, ready to protest—but then remembered what he had done to the blond’s wrist. The guilt still gnawed at him every time he caught sight of the bruise. He bit back the words before they could form. But before he could find an excuse, Rosinante cut the air with a sincere smile:
"I told him you’re a good man. And I’m rarely wrong about people. I’m actually quite good at recognizing kind souls… the simple fact that you’ve followed me again and again since the beginning of our marriage is already proof enough of your goodness."

Katakuri froze, then looked away, trying to hide the faint blush coloring his cheeks. He wasn’t a man accustomed to compliments. The few he ever received came from fanatics who idolized his image—or from his mother, emphasizing his worth as a weapon. But strangely, compliments sounded… different when they came from Rosinante. They fit. He wanted to hear more, to hear the blond shower him with words of praise endlessly.

The two sat side by side in silence, unsure of what to say. The atmosphere was heavy, a little awkward—they were together, yet also two unbearably lonely souls. The need for warmth was beginning to win over their shivering bodies.

A stronger gust of wind made them shift closer, their shoulders brushing, seeking comfort in the quiet night. They savored each other’s presence as darkness fell, doing their best to keep warm despite their drenched clothes. Rosinante’s craving for a cigarette faded almost entirely in that peaceful closeness—their shoulders pressed together, though Katakuri’s was much broader and higher.

And as the last light drained from the sky, the blond noticed something strange: Katakuri’s scarf was still soaking wet, unlike the rest of his clothes. A soft voice, almost a whisper, broke the silence:
"You’ll get sick if you keep that on," Corazon said in his parental tone—the same one he used to scold Law or Baby 5.

"Hm?" Katakuri murmured, startled, dragged out of his thoughts. He’d simply been enjoying the smaller man’s warmth.

"I can turn around if you want—we can sit back-to-back like usual. But take that wet thing off your face. You’d have to be crazy to keep a soaked cloth against your skin. I won’t look, I promise. We’re stuck here anyway."

To prove it, Rosinante closed his eyes, underlining the trust he wanted to extend. Katakuri almost withdrew into his usual coldness—why did Rosinante have to bring up his scarf in such a quiet moment? But then he thought of his sister… of every foolish choice he’d made so far, especially in that bedroom.

He told himself he had nothing to lose. Just for once, he could enjoy a moment of solitude… bare-faced. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt the outside air against his skin. In his head, he whispered: Live for yourself, just this once.

Slowly, he tugged the fabric down. The sound of wet cloth tearing away merged with the rain. The weight lifted. He could finally feel the wind, the damp night air caressing lips long imprisoned. He parted them slightly, inhaling fresh air, droplets sliding into the scars that marred his skin. It was like a dog having its muzzle removed for the first time.

Rosinante kept his eyes shut, though the urge to peek almost burned. Minutes slipped by. At last, Katakuri spoke in a low voice:
"Open your eyes… it’s dark now."

He felt comfortable enough to allow it—the sensation of freedom making him feel, at last, like someone real.

The request startled the blond. He hesitated; he didn’t want to impose. But when he finally cracked his eyes open, he realized Katakuri was right. Shadows had devoured everything. He couldn’t see a thing—only sense the presence beside him and the rain around them.

"I’m proud of you," Rosinante murmured, truly aware of the mental weight it must have taken for Katakuri to dare such a step.

Katakuri didn’t reply. He was too embarrassed—even though it wasn’t the first time they’d been close without the scarf. Heart pounding too fast, he simply leaned forward, resting his head against the blond’s, like a huge, exhausted dog, drained by the effort of exposing himself.

Rosinante flinched lightly but didn’t pull away—offering in return the warmth of his smaller body.
"It’s just to keep us warm," he insisted, pretending.

"I can’t see a thing," Rosinante added quickly, trying to reassure him. "You don’t have to be ashamed with me. I already think you’re beautiful, even with your face hidden… so if I saw all of it, I’d probably fall for you right away, haha."

He stopped dead in his tracks. Had he really just said Katakuri was beautiful? His heart skipped. He immediately felt the other man’s body tense, as if he’d imagined the words.

"I mean—! I meant you’re handsome in general!" Rosinante blurted, fidgeting. "Everyone stares when you pass, obviously! You’re… very attractive, even sexy when you want to be—well, no! Not that I mean I want anything from you like that, or that I was staring earlier! Ha ha ha… imagine that… or no, don’t imagine—"

Katakuri’s laugh cut him off. Clear, unrestrained, it echoed without the barrier of cloth. His laughter was so powerful it filled the air, and it was the only sound Rosinante could hear—pure, unguarded. The blond’s heart and ears sparkled with happiness. He’d heard it before, but just like with Law, making the stoic man laugh always felt like a victory.

"You’re funny, Donquixote. Thank you for trying to reassure me… but my looks have never been something I could rely on. Not now, not ever. If anything, they’re a curse."

"I don’t agree…" Rosinante replied softly.

"Hm. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t say that without ever having seen it."

Without thinking—maybe pushed by the starless night, maybe by the rain whispering all around them—Katakuri decided to take one step further. He knew, now, he could trust Rosinante.

So he reached out, caught the blond’s smaller, freezing hand, squeezed it gently to warm it, then guided it slowly toward his face. 

Rosinante felt his breath catch. He couldn’t see a thing, but he could feel everything.
Beneath his fingertips, he traced the sharp lines of Katakuri’s powerful jaw—square, unyielding. His scars rose like ridges on either side, deep and carved, certainly agonizing when they first formed. The skin was stretched, almost like fractured glass. With trembling hands, Rosinante mapped each groove, each secret, until he found his way to the man’s lips.

There, his fingers brushed against a deeper cut—a slash that split his mouth, revealing fangs sharper than most. Hesitantly, almost reverently, Rosinante touched the exposed teeth, grazing them as though sketching their outline. Guided by instinct alone, his fingertips wandered back to Katakuri’s mouth. His lips were surprisingly full, impossibly soft—so untouched they seemed to have never been claimed by anyone.

Katakuri’s heart pounded wildly. He hardly dared to breathe, too aware of how much control he was losing—but Rosinante’s reaction mattered far more than his own restraint. No one had ever touched his scars like this, as if the blond were charting his face in the dark, honoring every line he kept hidden. A knot of anxiety mixed with unfamiliar warmth twisted in his chest.

And when those trembling fingers pressed a little too directly against his split lips, Katakuri gave in. Without thinking, he lowered his mouth and pressed a fleeting kiss against them. Just a brush, instinctive, his lips grazing the blond’s skin—driven only by the surge of emotion rising uncontrollably within him.

The blond froze—then shuddered. Shock gave way to something rawer, needier. The touch of Katakuri’s lips against his fingers sent lightning through his body, shaking him to his core. He wanted more. He wanted to feel that mouth against him—everywhere. On his skin, his face, the most intimate parts of him. He wanted to taste it, to claim it, to know how wide his tongue could spread, how sharp his teeth could graze, what marks this mouth might leave on his body.

But then a flash split the sky, thunder roaring overhead, jolting them both back to reality. The storm tore away their shared dream. They pulled apart reluctantly, leaving a hollow ache where the warmth had been.

"I—"
"I—"

They spoke at once, flushed red like awkward teenagers.

Rosinante was the first to recover, his voice trembling but lighter—teasing, to mask the storm of thoughts crashing inside him.
"I’d really like to see your face… when you’re ready. I want it to come from you, sincerely It must have been extremely painful i mean for you'r scar. I’m sure you’re beautiful."

Katakuri froze. In his entire life, no one had ever said such words to him. Not even his own mother—never once. He turned his face slightly away, unable to hold the weight of them, unable to believe they were truly meant for him. He didn’t deserve that kindness.

Minutes later, exhaustion claimed them. The rain had eased, the air grown softer. Rosinante, wrapped in Katakuri’s jacket, slid down against his shoulder with a peaceful smile, falling asleep without realizing it. Katakuri sat stiffly at first, but slowly allowed his massive body to lean into the blond’s smaller frame, a silent wall of protection. And though he closed his eyes, he stayed awake most of the night, adjusting the jacket when needed, shielding him from every imagined danger. Deep down, Katakuri prayed this night wasn’t just a dream—a fragile escape from the prison of his life.

___________

When Rosinante finally stirred, morning light had already broken. Katakuri was standing tall, his broad silhouette outlined against the pale sky. His scarf was back in place, tied neatly across his face as though nothing had happened the night before.

Cora stretched sluggishly, rubbing his eyes, craving a cigarette.
"… Have you been up long?"

"Long enough," Katakuri answered, his voice once more steady, distant, professional. He didn’t turn. Rosinante studied him, his heart tightening. The barrier was back, but something had shifted between them. They both knew it—an invisible line had almost been crossed.

Katakuri tugged on his gloves, checked his belt, then nodded toward the motorcycle.
"We should move."

Rosinante glanced down at the jacket still draped around him.
"Oh… I should give this back."

Katakuri froze for just a second before turning away.
"Keep it. You’ll need it more than I do on the road."

The thought struck him—clothes far too big for the blond somehow looked… fitting. As if they claimed him in their own way.

Rosinante blinked, surprised.
"Are you sure?"

"Wear it while we ride. I don’t want you catching cold." Katakuri’s tone was firm, but not cold. It carried something else—something protective.

A timid smile curved Rosinante’s lips. He pulled the jacket tighter around himself, breathing in the man’s scent. It clung to him like a secret he had no intention of letting go.

The engine roared to life, breaking the morning hush. The road ahead stretched between cliffs and pines bent by last night’s storm. In the distance loomed Dressrosa—the root of Rosinante’s nightmares, a city carved into cliffs like an immense coliseum. His chest tightened at the sight, failure and pain woven into its very stone.

Pressed close against Katakuri’s back, Rosinante instinctively tightened his hold. The air grew warmer the closer they drew.

They’d been riding for a while when a row of cars appeared around a bend—stalled, waiting. Further ahead, figures in uniform. Soldiers. A blockade.

"… Katakuri," Rosinante whispered, tapping his partner’s shoulder.

The tall man slowed immediately, scanning the scene.
"A checkpoint. Your brother must be on edge after the Punk Hazard incident."

Rosinante leaned forward, peering past him. A barricade of wood and steel sealed off the road, soldiers searching each vehicle.

"We can’t be seen," he muttered, throat tight. "I’m far too recognizable there—and not in a good way. Being the tyrant’s brother doesn’t exactly earn me friends."

"I know," Katakuri replied quietly.

He killed the engine, guiding the bike backward into the cover of the forest lining the road. They dismounted without a word.

Katakuri killed the engine and rolled the bike back, hiding it behind the trees lining the roadside. They dismounted in silence, Rosinante quickly stuffing the jacket into a bag. The hush of nature around them was broken only by the distant shouts of soldiers.

"They’re searching everything," Rosinante murmured. "Those aren’t local guards. They’re Doffy’s men."

"They’re hunting someone," Katakuri said, his gaze narrowing. "Could be Law. Could be his group."

A cold bead of sweat slid down Rosinante’s back.
"So… what do we do? We can’t just force our way through—it’d be suicide."

Katakuri stayed silent for a long moment, scanning the terrain. His eyes settled on a steep slope leading down toward the river. An idea began to form. The cliffs weren’t impossibly high. None of the guards were watching that side—all eyes were fixed on the main gate.

"There’s a parallel path. Risky, but possible," he decided.
"Risky how?" Rosi asked, already dreading the answer.
"If we slip, we die at the bottom."

Rosinante went pale. "…Oh. Very reassuring. You really know how to motivate people."

He leaned over to peek at the cliffside, sheltered from the guards’ sight. His face drained further.
"Oh no. Nope. Not a chance. We’ll never make it down alive. I’m not built for this—I’m just human! What about sneaking up on the guards at night instead? That seems far more reasonable—"

"Too risky," Katakuri cut him off. "If we’re spotted, it’s over. Your kid is inside. Every hour counts, Rosi."

A heavy silence followed. Katakuri studied the wall again, noticing old rope ladders hanging from the cliff’s edge—an abandoned path once used by locals. For Rosinante, with his clumsy legs and graceless balance, it might as well have been a death sentence.

"You won’t make it that way," Katakuri finally declared.

"Excuse me?! And what, I just sit here and wait while you play the hero? It’s my son we’re talking about. If I fall, so what—I’ll take my chances." Rosinante’s brow furrowed. "I’ve survived worse. I’m not made of glass."

"You’d fall before three meters," Katakuri said flatly. "Be realistic. Your body isn’t built for this. Your muscles can’t support it—I’ve analyzed you."

Rosinante flushed at the blunt, clinical assessment.

"And if you fall, you’ll scream. If you scream, we’re both dead." Katakuri’s tone was sharp, methodical, cold.

Rosi bit his lip, stung but unable to argue. He followed Katakuri’s gaze, unease growing in his gut.
"… What are you saying? I’m not just waiting here."

Katakuri turned toward him. "I’ll carry you."

Rosinante blinked. "…You’re joking."

Katakuri stared.
"…"

The silence stretched, broken only by the rustle of grass in the wind. Rosinante’s ears burned red with embarrassment and outrage.
"Wait, wait, wait—you mean carry me? Like… a sack of potatoes? On your back? What am I, a koala? You can’t just—"

"I don’t see another option." Katakuri cut through his flustered rambling without blinking. "You’ll be silent. You’ll be still. You weigh nothing to me."

"This is ridiculous!"

"And yet, I’ve carried you before. You were a lot less annoying then."

"That doesn’t count—I was asleep! I’m not a child you can just haul around, Katakuri!"

"No. You’re my partner. And I refuse to lose you—or let you risk yourself—just because of pride. I’ve got my own pride too. Helping you get your son back alive is part of it."

Rosinante opened his mouth to argue… but shut it again. The steel in Katakuri’s voice left no room for protest. He grumbled at last, cheeks burning crimson:
"…Fine. But you swear you’ll never tell anyone this happened, or I’ll kill you."

Katakuri almost smiled. "Understood."

He crouched low, inviting him onto his back. Rosinante hesitated, mortified, then wrapped his arms around the man’s neck, his awkward legs locking around Katakuri’s solid waist.

"…My god, this is humiliating," Rosi muttered, hiding his face against Katakuri’s massive shoulder. His nose filled with the blond hair scent—cigarettes, faint jasmine.
"Shut up and hold on."

And with that, Katakuri began to climb.

The wind whipped along the cliffside, carrying with it the distant echo of soldiers’ shouts. Katakuri moved with calm, measured precision, his gloved fingers finding solid holds in the rock as if the mountain itself obeyed him. On his back, Rosinante dared not move, vertigo threatening to steal his breath. Instead, he pressed closer, forcing himself to focus on the man who carried him, on the steady rhythm of his body against the storm of his fear.

His chest was pressed against the broad shoulder and powerful back of the colossus, his cheek brushing against the rough fabric of the too-tight shirt. Through it, he could feel the raw heat of his skin, the muscles shifting and contracting with every pull upward. With each movement, Katakuri’s solid hips rose, forcing Rosi’s clumsy legs to tighten around him, the blond’s thighs grazing along his sides. Rosinante had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle any embarrassing sound—something that would have come far too close to a whimper, or worse, in the silence where they could not afford to be noticed.

"Rosi. Breathe slower—you’re trembling too much." The deep voice vibrated so close against him that his whole body shivered.
"Easy for you to say…" he choked out, his mouth dangerously near Katakuri’s ear. His arms had locked around the man’s neck, fingers gripping instinctively at the exposed skin of his collar. "…You think I’m used to being carried several meters above the ground? Law is going to pay for this!"

Katakuri said nothing. But the warmth of Rosi’s breath so close to his ear had already brought color to his face. He kept climbing in silence, though Rosi felt his shoulders twitch as if stifling a laugh at the mention of Law.

The blond grit his teeth, humiliated at how hard his heart was pounding against the other’s back. What if he could hear it? What if Katakuri could feel it, thundering against him? His warm breath ghosted over the exposed nape of Katakuri’s neck in shallow bursts, and sometimes his lips brushed the man’s skin by accident. Each time, the larger man’s skin prickled despite his iron control.

Rosinante couldn’t deny it anymore—something new was threading itself between them. This craving for physical closeness, this need to make Katakuri laugh, to talk with him, to stay pressed close. Last night had proven how far those emotions might go, though only he knew just how far. A part of him hoped that these moments—where their bodies pressed so tightly—weren’t just clumsy accidents born of the mission, but a shared, deliberate desire. That both he and Katakuri wanted to share breath, space, and maybe more—just as they had last night.

He tried to justify it to himself: it had simply been too long since he’d been this close to anyone. Could he be blamed? Katakuri was strikingly handsome—and Rosinante was no monk. Lost in his thoughts, his awkward shifting nearly made him lose balance, until Katakuri’s hand caught him firmly, careful not to brush his injured wrist.

Seeing the blond’s panic, Katakuri remembered the comical moment when he’d almost fallen off the motorcycle. His voice, low and reassuring, cut through the fear:
"Hush. You’re safe. As long as I’m here, you won’t fall again." His words carried a weight far beyond the moment, a promise that encompassed more than just the climb.

Rosinante’s breath caught. That simple vow, murmured almost intimately, unsettled him more than the near fall. He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face against the giant’s neck, wishing to vanish so no one—not even the birds—could notice his burning blush.

Katakuri continued the ascent, slower now, mindful of his partner’s panic. Finally, they reached a wide enough ledge to rest. With one final, powerful movement, Katakuri pulled them up and crouched to let Rosinante down.

The blond slid shakily to the ground, his legs trembling, his face flushed crimson. Blond strands clung damp to his forehead, his hands still clenched tight. Katakuri, by contrast, stood solid, his body glistening faintly with sweat, skin flushed where the sun had caught it, muscles pulsing from the exertion.

"…Well," Rosi muttered, trying to mask the quiver in his voice. "We survived. Thank you… really."

Katakuri raised an eyebrow over his scarf, his chest still rising with measured breaths.
"If you ever want me to carry you again, just ask properly. You weigh nothing to me."

Rosinante let out a nervous laugh that echoed softly against the rocks.

A silence followed, their eyes meeting longer than either intended. Then Katakuri abruptly looked away, his tone snapping back to professional:
"We’re not in the city yet. We’ll need to blend into the crowd. Wait here for me a moment."

The two descended the stairs leading them to the city.

He arrived at a shop not far from there before slipping out as discreetly as possible. He handed a canvas bag to Rosinante, where there were simple, civilian clothes, in plain colors.
"Change. These are the only clothes we have—I didn’t have time to grab more."

Rosi blinked. "…Here? In front of you?"

"Do you want us to waste another hour? We’re safe from prying eyes like this. I have to change too." Katakuri fixed his gaze into his, unblinking.

The blond felt his ears heat up. He grabbed the bag with a mutter, turning his back to the other man… but fully aware that Katakuri, behind him, could see every movement, every centimeter of skin—it was a test from the universe to measure what little self-control he had left.

He breathed in deeply.
"Fine… I’ll change."

Katakuri crouched a few steps away, looking impassive. His eyes, however, never left the blond’s silhouette.

Cora bit his lip, then set his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. One button popped, then another. The fabric clung to his chest as it peeled off slowly, revealing here and there the paleness of his skin, the subtle line of his collarbones, his nipples stiff.

The blond strands stuck to his forehead, his slender neck exposed, the light scars scattered across Rosi’s chest… his lean abs, his faintly visible ribs… and that scar from his brother running across his shoulder. Kata was changing too, but he didn’t miss a thing from the scene before him. He was like a cat, eyes wide. He had never been attracted to bodies—a human was just a human, the true importance lay in strength—but facing this scene, he found Corazon strangely pleasant to look at.

Rosinante, embarrassed, finally threw a glance at him—only to see the other man shirtless, which did nothing to leave him indifferent, his muscles pulsing from the exercise they had just done.
"You could… at least turn your head, you know?" the blond joked awkwardly, pulling on his pants that caught slightly at his round backside.

Katakuri blinked, surprised by the request. Then he shrugged.
"If you want."

Rosi burst out with a nervous little laugh, hurrying into the new shirt. The dry fabric slid over his skin, but his clumsy fingers kept fumbling with the buttons, and he cursed softly.
"Tss… these things…"

After a few minutes, unable to close his shirt properly, his lack of skill tested Katakuri’s patience.

A large hand suddenly seized his wrists, moving them aside gently, carefully. Rosinante started, raising his eyes. Katakuri had drawn close without a sound, his chest pressed to his back, and now he was guiding his hands, his massive fingers covering his to button the shirt in his place.

He could have sworn he felt something else, more intimate, brush against him for a fraction of a second, coming from the man—was he getting hard? No, he had to be dreaming. Cora sometimes had perverse thoughts—there was no reason for him to have that kind of physical reaction!

Each button fastened was a torment. The touch of Katakuri’s calloused knuckles brushing his electrified him, giving him the urge to… give in. To lean back, asking for just more friction, feeling his own body react very significantly in his lower belly to all their closeness so far. Damn, if anyone was going to have a problem with intimacy, it was going to be Rosinante if this contact continued.

A faint breath of pleasure escaped Corazon’s lips at that thought—he was an adult after all, with his own desires. Katakuri blinked slowly, as if struck by lightning, realizing how much the whole scene had unsettled him, before pulling back. He stepped several meters away, putting his own shirt back in place, clearing his throat red.

Both were apart now, trying to regain control of their minds and bodies. Even though emotionally Katakuri had managed to control himself, it had been a physical waste—seeing Rosinante almost naked was clearly an idea to banish in the future for the good of their mission.

When Rosinante saw him, his lips parted.
The immense silhouette, in that too-tight garment, looked even broader, more imposing… dangerously seductive, the buttons ready to burst.

Katakuri broke the silence at the sight of Rosinante staring at his chest:
"From now on, we are two strangers in the crowd, understood?"

Rosinante nodded, but his mind and body were elsewhere.

He approached the crowd as if nothing happened, as if all the awkwardness of their closeness didn’t exist.

Katakuri was so grateful he could control his facial expressions, because clearly he had been shaken—never had a fight made his heart beat as fast as what had just happened. He had protected Corazon, then shamelessly devoured him with his eyes, then his body reacted on its own, then he wanted more so he drew closer and—what kind of absurd behavior was that, purely driven by arousal? He wasn’t a man of small morals; he didn’t even know what kind of feeling or desire had pushed him to that kind of reaction, so far from his usual control. Did he no longer have self-control?

The two of them were certain of one thing: they needed to put as much distance between them as possible before this escalated very quickly, given their latest closeness. They had to keep their focus—Law, Doflamingo, and the mission. Nothing else.

Dressrosa was an explosion of colors: buildings with pastel facades, flowered balconies where passersby sat to observe the street, fountains where children laughed and splashed in the clear water. The shiny cobblestones reflected the golden and red signs of the small shops, while fruit and candy stands filled the air with a sweet, tangy scent.

Rosinante took a deep breath, trying to blend into the crowd. Katakuri, motionless behind him, was observing everything.
"I hate myself so much… seeing this beautiful city fall under the authoritarian regime of my own brother."

"What do you mean?" asked Katakuri, now blending into the crowd himself, wearing glasses and a surgical mask, his scarf tucked away in his bag.

They moved slowly, weaving between tourists, avoiding any gaze that lingered too long. Rosinante cast nervous glances around, elbowing his way carefully to keep a respectful distance. At every small stumble, Katakuri instinctively stepped closer, steadying him without a word—it had become a habit.

A sad smile crossed his unpainted face.
"When I worked for Sengoku, I passed him a great deal of information about my brother. But when I finally understood his true plan—a coup d’état—I had already been gone for at least two years, traveling with Law across countries searching for a cure to his illness."

His eyes drifted for a moment over the sea of people.
"The happiest day of my life was when I found that cure, thanks to an underground doctor of immense talent… Dr. Hiluluk." His voice darkened, grew harder. "But that same day was also the most tragic. My brother had found me. He had uncovered my double life as a spy… and decided to shoot me while announcing my future marriage."

Katakuri clenched his teeth, his anger palpable in every movement, disgusted by how an older brother could act this way.

"In the chaos, Law had to deliver a military officer to whom I was supposed to pass all the information about the coup in Dressrosa… That bastard Vergo was no man of justice. He was the former Corazon, working for my brother. And because of that, the message to save Dressrosa was never delivered. The result: a coup straight out of a nightmare took place right where we stand. The poor Riku royal family… was murdered in cold blood."

Silence fell. Katakuri studied every micro-expression of Rosinante, every twitch of his muscles.

"Innocents… women… children… victims of my incompetence and my brother’s cruelty. To be here today is a shame for a man like me—"

Kata placed a firm hand on his shoulder, cutting him off gently.
"You did your best. You were alone on a mission of this scale. You could get close to victory in many ways, but believe me—the ending would have been the same. There is nothing to question. You saved the life of a child you cared for… don’t be ashamed of that."

The blond shook his head slightly, unable to hide his guilt.
"But… maybe it cost the lives of so many others. It’s not as methodical as you make it sound…"

"You saved the life of a dying child." His voice grew firmer, his hand pressing the blond’s shoulder. "There is nothing more to add. You did what felt right. You nearly gave your life for it. Don’t torture yourself any further… That Vergo—I hope he never crosses our path, for his own sake."

Rosinante wanted to believe his words, but shame weighed on him like a soaked cloak draped over his shoulders. Dressrosa unfolded in all its bright colors: pastel-painted facades, flowered balconies, sunlit plazas where street dancers spun their capes. The music, cheerful on the surface, sounded like an insult to Rosinante’s ears. Behind every laugh he heard muffled suffering, behind every freshly painted wall he saw a wound left open, a family surely broken.

An entire city, hundreds of lives shattered, for the sake of one sick child—his selfishness and incompetence made him want to leave the city immediately. But Katakuri’s hand was still on his shoulder. He couldn’t run, couldn’t flee, couldn’t risk his life recklessly. He wasn’t alone on this mission. not anymore.

_________

Chapter Text

Dressrosa was renowned for its extraordinary women.
Among them stood Viola, a figure of almost unreal elegance. Her long violet hair framed a gentle face, marked by the nobility and gravity of a princess who had grown beneath the crushing weight of responsibility. Her eyes, tinged with melancholy, reflected a subtle intelligence and a quiet determination.

Behind her apparent fragility lay a hidden strength: the mind of a strategist, skilled at weaving her way through the webs of conspiracy that choked Dressrosa, all while protecting those she loved. Together with her young niece Rebecca, she was one of the few survivors of her fallen royal family. Her presence inspired both respect and sympathy, each of her movements betraying the delicate balance between grace and vigilance that had defined her since childhood.

To safeguard what little remained of her family, she had once joined Doflamingo’s court under the guise of a concubine—stealing secrets from him in the desperate hope of one day changing the world.

That night, the marble halls of the palace still pulsed with a sinister glow. Smoke, iron, and gunpowder hung heavy in the air—the stench of blood and betrayal that never truly left the walls of the Donquixote Family.

Leaning against a column, a teenage girl with her back weighed down by firearms flicked a lighter. The flame wavered before catching the cigarette she pressed between her lips. She inhaled shakily, then exhaled a nervous cloud of smoke.

“That’s the fifth time you’ve done that!” Baby 5 snapped, her voice torn between anger and despair.

The man seated at the center of the hall slowly raised his hand, wiping blood from his knuckles. His tinted glasses caught the reddish glow of the chamber.

“And I’ll keep doing it… as long as you keep bringing me those pathetic little ‘boyfriends’,” he murmured.

Baby 5’s breath hitched.
“That’s not fair! You’re not my father!”

The man’s laugh rang out, sharp and cruel.
“I raised all of you in the Family. Don’t be ridiculous, Baby 5. Your blood means nothing to me. Your obedience… that is all that matters. Marriage will only slow you down. And if you do marry, it will be an arrangement of convenience—for us. Hmm… so? Did your mission succeed?”

The girl dropped heavily to the floor, crossing her arms like a sulking child.
“Tch… no. Still no news from Mister Corazon. He refuses to answer you, doesn’t he?”

A wet, revolting chuckle filled the air. Trebol lounged on a chair, thick mucus dripping from him.
“Heh-heh-heh… Seems his little marriage has satisfied him so much that he’s already forgotten who his real family is.”

A twisted grin stretched across Doflamingo’s lips.
“Fufufu… That idiot Katakuri his house is still nowhere to be found. No matter how many men I send, no matter where I search… hunting someone like him isn’t so simple.”

A harsh cough cut through the room. Metallic, ragged, and wet. Blood splattered onto the shining marble.

At the center of the hall, chained and bruised, Trafalgar Law knelt. His wrists were raw from the shackles, his lips blue from the pain, each breath a trembling whisper.
“You… you’ll never find him, fool. Your brother isn’t as stupid as you think.”

A vein throbbed on Doflamingo’s temple.
“Tch… Shut your mouth, Trafalgar. I need to find him. The attack on Punk Hazard directly benefits Big Mom—she’s now the strongest woman operating from the shadows. I’m convinced the Charlotte Family had their hands in it, at least in part… convenient for my traitor brother if Kaido were to fall.”

“I told you—it was me!” Law rasped, his voice breaking under the weight of his injuries.

Diamante, who had been silent until now, suddenly slammed his boot into Law’s stomach, forcing a gasp from his battered lungs.
“Shut up, vermin. Ending the SMILE production puts the young master’s empire at risk. Kaido is weakened… Big Mom profits. That witch, and that other monster, would never tolerate Rosinante—not just for his noble blood. No. They must have had a plan: marrying him to a second-in-command, tolerating Doflamingo’s own blood traitor, embracing him? Impossible. The fall of Punk Hazard fits too perfectly. It benefits the Charlottes… and your precious Corazon.”

Law spat blood, his chest heaving. His voice cracked, but his conviction burned:
“Idiots… Don’t blame Corazon. He’d never do this. He isn’t cruel… and knowing I was safe, he wouldn’t need to act. I take full responsibility. Alone.”

Doflamingo’s forehead vein bulged, his jaw grinding beneath the weight of his rage. He rose slowly, each step echoing through the marble hall like a death knell.

“Fufufu…” The laugh that spilled from his throat now was no longer theatrical—it was warped, unstable, seething with venom.
“Monet is dead because of that pathetic attack… and you expect me to believe a boy—barely strong enough to be captured by the only man who wants him dead—could have done this alone? How pathetic.”

He crouched, his glasses flashing as he seized Law’s chin between two gloved fingers, forcing the young man’s head up.

“You expect me to believe… her death lies on the shoulders of one weak little brat? Without help? Without backing?”

From the start of the interrogation, Law had repeated the same story over and over. It was him. Only him. He had led the assault on Punk Hazard.

He never once mentioned Luffy or the others. Not Shachi. Not Penguin. Not a word about their movements, their roles, their escape. Every detail of his account had been carefully spun to shield the only people he called friends.

But that choice came at a price: his story sounded hollow, unbelievable. The witnesses—especially Straw Hat Luffy’s testimony—didn’t align with it.

A teenager, acting alone, sabotaging an entire island and ending SMILE production? Absurd. None in the room believed it.

The silence grew heavier, suffocating. If Law was lying… then someone else was pulling the strings.

And in their eyes, that “someone” already had a name: an ally of Big Mom, the hated traitor.

“Rosinante…” Diamante hissed the name like a curse.

Law’s heart clenched. No. That wasn’t what he wanted. His vision blurred with tears, shame burning in his chest. This wasn’t the outcome he had fought to protect.

But his silence—his refusal to betray his comrades—delivered his savior straight into Doflamingo’s paranoid hands.

The young surgeon dropped his head, sweat and blood dripping into the marble. His stomach twisted with nausea. The one person he loved most… his mentor, his father in all but blood, his only family—the man he would gladly die for—was now painted as the culprit for crimes Law had tried to bear alone.

He wanted to scream the truth. To shout that Corazon had nothing to do with it. But his lips stayed shut. Because to confess meant condemning his crew.

And that, he would never do.

_________

At that very moment, not far away, Katakuri discreetly slipped a barquillo—a crisp wafer, a local specialty—behind his mask.

“Hmmmm…” The muffled groan of pleasure escaped his throat before he could stop himself, betraying the rare indulgence of a man who almost never allowed himself a proper merienda.

Rosinante raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading across his face as the two of them strolled side by side like tourists—or like a couple on holiday—pretending to sightsee while, in truth, hunting for Law.

“You’re like a giant dog,” Rosinante laughed. “Honestly, you love sweets way too much. With a body like yours, can you really afford to eat that badly?”

Katakuri puffed out his chest with quiet pride.
“I train a lot.”

Rosinante sighed, his smile fading.
“I really wonder where Law is… Maybe we should check a bookstore? He loves to read. I’d love to see him taste these pastries too…”

“He’s not a child anymore,” Katakuri replied flatly.

Rosinante shook his head.
“To me, he always will be. I’ll always carry him with one hand, just like I used to.” His laugh broke softly, a thread of tenderness in his voice. “It’s complicated… We grew up together. At first, I was like a parent to him. But now that our ages have caught up… I’m not sure what I am anymore. I just hope he still—”

Katakuri crossed his arms, thoughtful.
“You could be his big brother. That’s the only kind of family bond I know… But I’ll warn you—it’s a heavy responsibility. Especially when you end up first in the popularity polls.”

Rosinante blinked.
“…I’d rather be a father but—wait. Popularity polls? You actually do that?!”

Katakuri gave a solemn nod.
“Hm. Flampe always comes first. She’s everyone’s favorite sister.”

Rosinante burst out laughing.
“…And not you, I suppose?”

The towering man stiffened instantly, turning away in embarrassment, his ears and neck flushing red.
“H-Huh! How did you know?!”

Rosinante nearly choked with laughter.
“You live right next to your favorite sister, idiot!”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Rosinante laughed without restraint—full, loud, unguarded. Despite their differences, he and Katakuri shared the same deep awkwardness: one clumsy in speech, the other clumsy in life.

They were about to continue their wandering when the crowd suddenly shifted. People scattered aside as a patrol cut through the street.

Katakuri’s senses snapped awake. Without hesitation, he seized Rosinante’s wrist and yanked him into a narrow alley, pinning him against the wall in the shadows.

The blond gasped, stunned by the sudden force. He felt the crushing heat of Katakuri’s massive frame press into his own. His face burned, smothered against the other man’s chest, while Katakuri’s firm hand pinned his torso in place.

Their bodies brushed against each other. Their hips had collided in the rush, and the suffocating heat seeped through their clothes. Rosinante felt his forehead pressed against the other’s muscular chest — if he rose on tiptoe, he could almost bite the collarbone peeking from the man’s shirt… The thought flickered absurdly through his mind, but with their hips pressed so close, he could feel the shape of the other against him. Just a slight movement of his waist would bring a spark of friction, of fleeting pleasure. The very idea shook him, and already he felt the uncomfortable stir of arousal growing in his pants.

“…Don’t move,” Katakuri murmured, his eyes fixed on the patrol passing by like soldiers on a mission. At the front was Pica. Katakuri recognized him immediately: he had been present at their wedding.

Rosinante froze, lips sealed, unable to reply. His legs trembled, tangled with those of the colossus. The scent of mochi rose to his nose, the pressure on his chest crushed him, and he felt swallowed by the sheer bulk of the giant.

When the threat finally passed, Katakuri took a few seconds to step back, as if only just realizing their dangerous closeness — as though his usual discipline had slipped. He adjusted his surgical mask with a sharp motion, clearing his throat awkwardly. His eyes met the blond’s with relief — happy to see him safe — but when his gaze wavered, Katakuri’s face had flushed pink, nearly matching his eyes.

At that reaction, Rosinante nearly jumped backward, retreating several steps in panic, praying the other hadn’t noticed what had clearly affected him. It was just a natural reflex, he tried to tell himself. But when he met Katakuri’s eyes… he almost collapsed.

The man’s face was scarlet, his massive hands covering his cheeks like a startled maiden hearing of sin for the first time.

Rosinante’s gut twisted, and a grimace pulled at his lips. If Katakuri had noticed his… physical embarrassment, he would rather die here and now, struck by lightning, than continue the mission.

The silence pressed heavy, almost suffocating. Rosinante, red to his ears, coughed loudly, as though to shatter the tension.
“…You almost crushed me, you know? You’re really heavy…”

He spoke too quickly, as always when trying to cover his nerves.

Katakuri, however, stayed rigid, his mask slightly lowered, eyes fixed on the ground. His jaw was tight, his cheeks still glowing bright red. Charlotte Katakuri — the man whose very name made emperors tremble — undone by one clumsy moment of closeness.

“…I… I didn’t have a choice,” he finally said. “Pica would have recognized you.”

A silence. Then a nervous laugh slipped out of Rosinante.
“If you wanted a hug, you could’ve just asked. No need to slam me against a wall.”

Katakuri’s blush deepened.
“…Shut up. Why would I want that?”
“That’s not what your face says!”
“You’re worse than your brother.”

The awkward humor eased the tension slightly — but another disruption erupted: shouting in the distance.

“I didn’t steal any meat!”
“He’s lying, officer! I saw him take one piece!”
“There were two, actually "
" see? He admits it!”

A crowd gathered around the commotion, soon followed by the awkward pair.

“Come on, maybe the kid hasn’t eaten in days… be gentle, sir,” the police man tried.
“Easy for you to say! Hey—he’s running away!”

A boy with a straw hat bolted. At once, Cora and Katakuri recognized him and dashed after him, the policeman trailing behind.

“Luffy!” Corazon cried, panic rising at not seeing Law by his side.
“Huh?! I didn’t steal anything! Oh—eh…” The boy stopped short. “The strong guy! And Law’s mom!”
“I’m a man!” Rosinante barked back.
“Sorry, Rosianta!”
“Rosinante!”
“Rosi?!” the policeman echoed, chasing after them as the four of them ran like characters in a cartoon. Law’s absence was worrying enough — and Luffy drawing this much attention in the worst city possible only made it worse.

The officer chasing them bore strange scars across his eyes, his posture radiating rank and experience. Katakuri’s instinct screamed that the man was dangerous — blind or not.

“Stop right there! Registration number MC-01746!”

Rosinante froze at once upon hearing the code — a reflex from his soldier days. Behind him, Luffy and Katakuri looked confused.

“It’s you! The man Sengoku has been talking about for months!” the officer shouted, finally catching up to the blond.
“Uh… and you are?” Rosinante asked, wary.
“Fujitora. The admiral overseeing Dressrosa. Pleased to meet you — and sorry for not recognizing you sooner. As you can see, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be,” he joked lightly, though clearly blind.

Rosinante’s eyes widened. “You work for my father?”

“Your father was the superior of many men — an emblem of Justice. And you were the man once assigned to the Dressrosa case, before the coup. I know more of you than you realize…” Fujitora’s tone grew solemn.
“I inherited the post after your failed mission, but Doflamingo was already in power when I arrived. It is… difficult to serve under Joker.” He paused. “Your desertion of the mission — disobeying orders to save a child — directly shaped this city and its current chaos. Do you even know how many lives—”

“He knows,” Katakuri cut in sharply. “I think he knows Dressrosa’s situation better than anyone. You can leave now. If this is about the meat, I’ll pay. Now go.”

The giant’s cold tone left no room for debate.

Fujitora stood still for a moment, hands folded, his blind face turned toward Katakuri.
“You are quick to judge, Mr. Charlotte. I presume that’s you, given the union. But I am not here about meat — and neither are you.”

Rosinante, still tense, glanced at Katakuri nervously.
“Then… what do you want from us?”

A pause. Fujitora let out a quiet sigh.
“Your presence in Dressrosa is hardly a surprise. The death of Kanjuro by Katakuri’s hand has spread across the nation. For a second-in-command to act so openly… it borders on a declaration of war. I’m surprised Big Mom has not reacted yet. And then, the destruction of the SMILE factory… Now you’re searching for your boy — about to be executed.”

Luffy blinked, confused.
“Wait, he’s not dead! Don’t disrespect Law like that!”

The three others turned toward him at once, tension snapping tighter. Katakuri’s brows furrowed, Rosinante went pale, his breath quickening.

“…What did you just say?” Corazon asked in a trembling voice, afraid of the answer.

Luffy raised his hands nervously, caught in his own slip.
“Uhh… I didn’t say anything! Well… I did… but not like that!”

Fujitora tilted his head slightly toward the boy, his clouded eyes fixed on him despite his blindness.
“You’d better choose your words carefully, young man. What you reveal—or don’t—about this coming execution could very well change the face of the underworld.”

Rosinante stepped forward, his voice far too grave to match his usual personality.
“Luffy… speak.”

The boy bit his lip, visibly uneasy, his hands nervously twisting the brim of his straw hat.
“I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. Law’s crewmates are better suited to explain everything about Traffy’s plan, but…”

The silence thickened, and suddenly Luffy’s face grew serious. His eyes left the ground and locked onto Rosinante’s.
“Law… he got captured by Doflamingo, and the rumor is that the punishment for traitors is…”

“Death,” Katakuri finished.

The word fell like a guillotine.

Rosinante staggered, his breath knocked from his lungs. His lips parted, but no sound escaped. He stumbled back a step, as if struck in the gut. His hands dug into his own hair, pulling, his throat tightening painfully with panic.

Katakuri turned his gaze aside, his jaw clenched so hard it seemed it might break.
“…Tch. We wasted too much time.” He pulled the blond man into his arms, shielding him from the world outside.

Fujitora, meanwhile, remained impassive.
“So that’s the truth… Joker already has the upper hand.”

Luffy lowered his head, almost ashamed.
“I’m sorry, Law’s mom… I didn’t want you to find out like this. But from what he said, it was part of his plan…”

At last, Rosinante lifted his head. His eyes, red with emotion, burned with new determination despite the hate and guilt gnawing at him.
“Then… we don’t have a choice. Take me to your friends. We have to save him.”

Katakuri turned toward the admiral, his voice ice-cold:
“Stay out of our business, government dog.”

Fujitora didn’t waver.
“You want Doflamingo removed, don’t you? Then we may have common ground. Our goals are the same: to bring him down. After that, each of us will return to our own lives. Mr. Rosinante, contact me through your father if my help can be of use.”

Corazon wasn’t in any state to negotiate. His thoughts spun only around Law. He cut the conversation short and followed Luffy to their hideout: a sunflower field where the group had concealed themselves.

“Luffy! Do you not understand the concept of a secret hideout?! Oh—hey! That’s… that’s Law’s dad! Sorry, I didn’t recognize you!” Usopp blurted when he spotted Rosinante.

“There’s even a Charlotte kid here…” Sanji muttered, cigarette hanging from his lips despite his young age.

The moment he arrived, Penguin, Shachi, and Bepo threw themselves at Corazon, sobbing.
“We’re sorry!” they shouted in unison.

“I… it’s all right, kids,” Corazon tried to reassure them. But his hands trembled despite his words, something Katakuri noticed.

“What happened?” asked a man with purple hair, sticking close to Rosinante as if to support him. The blond, without knowing why, felt oddly soothed by that nearness at his shoulder.

Zoro, ever the serious one, spoke up:
“He let himself get caught on purpose.”

Penguin and Shachi nodded, continuing the explanation.
“His plan was to infiltrate the castle while minimizing civilian casualties. His diversion was supposed to let us slip in directly. But we didn’t count on the police being there on top of Doffy’s men.”

“We managed to shake off the Donquixote Family,” added Shachi, “but against the law enforcement, it was a whole different story.”

Penguin gritted his teeth.
“Result: Law got captured before we could breach the castle. The plan’s the same… but we’ve lost any chance of sneaking in.”

A heavy silence followed their explanation. Nami wrapped Rosinante in a hug, heart aching at his state.
Rosi stood frozen, fists clenched, his breath ragged with rage and fear.

“…So he hasn’t changed,” he whispered at last, his trembling voice cutting the air. “Always ready to sacrifice himself for everyone else.”

He raised his gaze to the group, and despite the fear devouring him, a spark of resolve flared in his eyes.
“This time… it’s my turn to take his place. I’ll be the diversion.”

The words cracked like thunder.

Luffy blinked, stunned.
“Huh?! But… that’s dangerous! Your brother doesn’t like you at all, at all!”

Bepo growled, “No! You already risked your life for him once—no way you’re doing it again he would be furious!”

Katakuri stepped forward, his face dark. His jaw clenched so tightly it seemed on the verge of shattering.
“You’re insane. You have no idea what you’re proposing. The Family and your brother will show you no mercy. They’ve already fed you to my mother once—they won’t spare you this time.”

“Exactly,” Rosinante answered calmly. “I’m the one they’ve always wanted dead. If I give them what they’re after… you’ll have a chance to reach Law.”

“That’s suicide.” Katakuri’s fist tightened, veins bulging with anger. “You think it helps us to lose you? Throwing away your life isn’t supposed to be a solution to all your misery.”

Rosinante flinched at those words, startled. His eyes met the colossus’s, which carried a wounded look: a clumsy, almost painful flicker of worry. Katakuri immediately looked away, as if he’d said too much.

Usopp, trembling, tried to break the tension:
“M-Maybe if we all team up, we can improvise a big infiltration plan together, right?!”

Zoro shook his head.
“Not with police reinforcements everywhere. The only way is for a decoy to draw all the attention, and for outside support.”

“And that has to be me. The police will be on your side if I contact my father and Fujitora for help,” insisted Rosinante, his voice steady again. “I failed to protect Law once. I don’t have the right to stand back.”

Luffy, who had stayed silent until then, pressed his straw hat against his chest.
“…You’re not wrong. But if you do this, we’ll cover you to the end. We won’t let Mingo take you without a fight.”

“Thank you, Straw Hat. I’m glad to see my son has friends like you.”

“Shishishi! Traffy saved me from death, after all—he’s crazy good at medicine!”

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Rosinante smiled. “Well, since the police work under the orders of the current head of state—my brother—they’ll hand me over. That way, they’ll be complicit, and you’ll be able to infiltrate and bring down the Family and my brother without interference.”

Suddenly, the slim silhouette of a woman appeared, running almost breathlessly. Her violet hair streamed behind her as she rushed through the crowd. Viola, panting, all but collapsed in front of him, nearly tripping from the force of her sprint.

Rosinante’s eyes widened.
“The daughter of King Riku… I thought you were all dead?”

She lifted her tear-streaked face toward him, her hands clutching at his coat. Her voice shattered the group’s silence:
“You can’t do this! If you go in there as bait, you won’t come back—I heard your brother, he’s waiting for you!”

Rosinante faltered, searching for words, but Viola cut him off, her voice vibrating with an almost painful intensity:
“Dressrosa has suffered all these years. You risked your life for Law, for strangers, and today you’re talking about sacrificing yourself again. I’ve listened and followed closely what’s been said about you… So from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I’ve lived in the shadows with Rebecca for so long, waiting, searching for hope—and now here you are.”

Rosinante shivered, unable to withstand the burning sincerity in her gaze. He turned his eyes away, but a deep warmth swelled in his chest.
“Viola… thank you. But I can’t turn back. Not while my brother keeps crushing lives. If I have to be the decoy… then that’ll be my role.”

Viola stepped back, lips pressed tight, unable to argue. Yet her eyes spoke for her: fear, gratitude, and a pain she’d never dared show until now.

Unable to bear the silence, Luffy suddenly slammed his fists together.
“Then we’ll all cover you! And if anyone dares lay a hand on you, they’ll have to deal with us!”

Katakuri inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the blond.
He knew Rosinante wouldn’t back down. And for the first time in years, Big Mom’s general felt a new kind of fear—not of losing a battle or a sibling, but of losing this man whose presence soothed him in ways he didn’t yet understand.

 

After devising a plan that required the least violence possible, and discreetly arming themselves, Corazon had warned Sengoku. As expected, the admiral had been completely against it. But the decision was made—the police would be on their side.
Fujitora was in on it. And as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of orange, Rosinante joined the old man to set the plan in motion, not without having bid his complicated farewells to the crew.

“And above all, take care of your lives. These weapons are of a different caliber—I’m counting on you, Usopp,” insisted Corazon gravely.

“I’m a super sniper!” Usopp declared joyfully, puffing out his chest, his long nose pointing skyward.

“Don’t worry about us, Cora!” Nami added with a mischievous wink. “Worry more about the face your brother will make when he sees you.”

The blond let out a bitter sigh. “I’ve been dodging his calls for months… Trust me, he’ll know exactly how to welcome me.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping one last time over the faces gathered. “Farewell, kids. And…” He turned to Katakuri, throat tight. “See you soon, Katakuri… please.”

Without thinking, he threw himself into the giant’s arms, startling the colossus for a moment. His voice, trembling but firm, resonated against Katakuri’s chest.
“Be careful. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. You still have people to protect in your family… Don’t risk everything for mine.”

Katakuri let out a short breath, quickly masked by a brief laugh.
“You’re truly a noble idiot if you think I’d listen to a man of your caliber,” he teased, resting a massive hand on the blond’s head—an unexpectedly protective gesture.
“You think I’ll let you sacrifice yourself alone? These kids never included me in their plans, and that’s fine by me: I fully intend to throw myself into the fire with you. I could never look myself in the mirror if I let my… husband… face such danger without me.”

The word hit like a silent bomb. Rosinante flushed violently, unable to respond, while Luffy leaned toward Nami to whisper—far too loudly:
“But I don’t get it! I thought they didn’t love each other, and that it was just a fake marriage! Why’s he calling him his husba—”

Nami, lightning-fast, clapped a hand over the boy’s mouth, glaring daggers at him.

Sanji calmly lit a cigarette, resting his chin nonchalantly on Zoro’s shoulder. “That’s the power of love.”

The scene ended in that strange mix of gravity and awkwardness, and already Rosinante resumed his walk, his face taut with worry. But Katakuri followed in steady stride, unshakable, the invisible chain binding them seeming stronger than ever.

“And if something happens to you?” Rosinante whispered for the hundredth time, almost pleading.

Katakuri only gave him a sidelong look, his impassive features softened by a touch of irony.
“There’s far more chance of something happening to you, Donquixote.”

Fujitora planted his cane, his face tilted toward the sky as if questioning the stars he could not see.

“The die is cast,” he declared calmly, his voice resonating like a gong. “But I must ask you one last time: are you truly certain you wish to be the bait?”

Rosinante drew a deep breath, every fiber of his being screaming that he was walking to his death. But his pale eyes gleamed with fresh resolve.
“I can’t remain a spectator. It’s my fault Law is in their grip. My brother, my name, my history are what chain him. So yes… I must be the one to step forward.”

Katakuri placed his hand firmly on his shoulder, unshakable.
“If you fall, I fall with you—for better or for worse. So stop talking about sacrifice. We are two now. Do you understand? And I don’t intend to die.”

The old admiral sighed. He then raised a pair of cuffs and, without waiting, snapped them onto the wrists of the colossus and Cora. With a sharp clink, their arms were bound together, side by side, forced to share the same restraint.

“I have to make you look like captured criminals. After all, I represent justice—and you’re a couple of outlaws. This way I can hand you over to Doflamingo, creating a diversion within his ranks.”

Rosinante shivered, his shoulders brushing Katakuri’s. Their fingers brushed too, sending shivers down both spines.

Katakuri cast a sideways glance at the blond, their hands nearly joined by the shackle.
“I don’t like it. But if it’s the only way to see this through…” He found himself smiling faintly behind his scarf at the forced closeness.

“You realize we look like a pair of fools? Tied up like rowdy kids, delivered straight to my brother…”

“Maybe,” Katakuri replied, his shoulder unconsciously pressing against his. “But you won’t face this nightmare alone.”

Fujitora turned away, leaving them that brief moment of silence. His voice, deep and low, rang out like a final warning before their descent into hell:
“Play your parts well, gentlemen. For once you’re face to face with Doflamingo… there will be no room for mistakes.”

Under the heavy twilight sky, the two men, bound by chains and by a crueler fate still, were dragged together toward the gaping maw of the enemy.

Our duo appeared before the palace, hand in hand, surrounded by a few of Fujitora’s men to make the arrest look credible. They held themselves tall like clowns giving each other courage.

“We’re delivering these two individuals, suspected of shady dealings. One is said to work for a rival gang to the Family… as for the blond beside him, we have no idea of his origins.”

Doflamingo’s men escorted them to the head of security, a colossus as wide as a mountain: Pica.

“Hm… you here? What are you doing in Dressrosa? And how did customs let you through without a word?!” he screeched in his high-pitched voice.

“Good to see you too, Pica. Been a few months since the wedding, hasn’t it?” Rosinante replied, feigning detachment.

“You brought Big Mom’s son? Tch… he let himself get cuffed like a rookie!”

“Yes, I’m weak and fragile,” Katakuri mocked, before getting a light elbow jab from Rosi.

“The plan, Katakuri… act like you’re submitting!” he whispered.

Without another word, and still in his grating voice, Pica led the shackled duo toward Doflamingo. Taking advantage of the walk, Rosinante leaned closer to his false husband.

“He’s not planning to remove these cuffs… they were only to make the arrest look real.”

“What? Does being chained bother you?” murmured the taller man, his tone oddly suave, almost intimate. Corazon, ever unhinged, had spoken through him again. Rosi felt his cheeks flush.

“If it’s with you… it’s fine.” He hoped he didn’t sound like he was answering a provocation.

The heavy throne room door opened. Doflamingo sat there, a stunning brunette perched on his lap—Viola, their ally. He was idly stroking her thigh, but dropped his hand the instant his “guests” entered. The young woman, able to move freely through the palace, had the mission of finding Law.

“Rosinante!”

“Doffy…”

“What a surprise! What a string of coincidences!” Doflamingo exclaimed, rising to his feet.

He approached and pulled Rosi into a suffocating embrace, nearly crushing Katakuri’s cuffed hand.
“This marriage made you forget your priorities, I see! Not a message, not a letter, no word from you in weeks! Is this how you treat your brother?”

“We… we were on our honeymoon.”

“So that’s it… and Kanjuro was your lover? Which would’ve driven your dear husband to kill him? Don’t take me for a rookie, little brother, it’s insulting.”

He seized Rosi’s jaw, forcing him to look straight into his eyes. Katakuri, furious, clenched his fist, ready to strike, but a single look from Rosi held him back. He had to stick to the plan. His knuckles whitened under the tension.

“Kanjuro… then Caesar Clown, Punk Hazard… I thought you were a pathetic spy. But if you managed to figure out who I was really working for, then maybe you’re not completely stupid.”

Doflamingo’s grip tightened, wrenching a grimace from Corazon, to Katakuri’s great torment.

“Law… and then you. Charming. All it took was me laying my hands on that brat for you to show up. It’s insulting, really… I’m your brother, after all, Rosi. You should visit me more often.”

Rosinante kept his gaze fixed on Katakuri, as if forbidding him from doing anything reckless. But Doflamingo caught the gesture.

“What’s this? Your guard dog—your husband—doesn’t seem to like the way we handle family conflicts. Ironic… coming from a man born into a family that slaughtered itself. Haven’t you learned to submit with your mom?”

Doflamingo burst out with a sharp laugh, a laugh that rang like shattering glass at the sight of Katakuri’s dark glare.

“So, tell me, Rosinante… what drove you back here? Don’t tell me it’s just to introduce me to your… husband.” His smile stretched, venomous. “Not that I can do much to you anyway. You’re under Big Mom’s protection. If I kill you here, I might cause myself some… trouble.”

His gaze slid toward Katakuri, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

“Try me,” growled the taller man.

Rosinante frowned, but kept his composure.
“I came for Law.”

A heavy silence fell across the hall. Katakuri’s fists tightened, ready to spring. Doflamingo, meanwhile, gave a cold, lifeless smile.

“Law…” He spoke the name with sadistic slowness. “You mean my guest? How tragic… It took that unruly brat just to lure my brother back to me.”

He snapped his fingers. Two men dragged a limp figure into the center of the hall. Law, shackled, his face battered, too weak even to open his eyes. His ragged breathing was the only proof he was still alive. Viola’s horrified gaze followed him.

Rosinante’s heart shattered. Without thinking, he stepped forward—dragging Katakuri with him. But a hand slammed down on his shoulder. Doflamingo’s fingers dug into the fabric of his coat, pinning him in place, crushing him.

“I knew you’d come crawling back,” he sneered. “You think I don’t see through your little game? Undermining my alliance with Kaido benefits your darling husband’s family directly. And in Wano… I have witnesses. You both sowed chaos.”

His glasses flashed under the harsh light, reflecting his cruel smile.

“Shut up, bastard! Why did you put him in that state?!” Rosinante burst out, beside himself.

Katakuri lifted his head, his icy gaze locking on Doflamingo’s.
“You always prey on the weak, like the coward you are.” His voice was low, resonant. “And for your information, we weren’t responsible for Punk Hazard’s destruction… though I almost wish we had been.”

“And you think I’ll buy that, mutt?” Doflamingo chuckled. “César had his quarrels with Linlin!… His arrest worked in Mama’s favor. But the real question is: how did you find out I was behind the SMILE imports? Certainly not thanks to you, little brother—this spy isn’t worth a damn.”

His smile widened, cruel. “You’re as much an idiot as Father. Never could’ve figured it out on your own.”

Rosinante clenched his teeth, voice trembling with rage.
“Law! Can you hear me?” His eyes stayed locked on his brother. “Let him go, Doffy! He has nothing to do with your schemes!”

Silence. Then Doflamingo laughed again.
“Oh, but of course he has everything to do with my schemes. On the contrary—he’s at the center of all my problems since the day he joined the Family.”

He snapped his fingers. Guards seized Katakuri and Rosinante, forcing them back. The two let it happen. Chains clinked sharply. Doflamingo turned slowly toward Law, still half-unconscious, who was about to be dragged off to a cell—with Viola secretly following to tend his wounds.

“You want to know what I’ll do with him?” His voice rose, theatrical. “I’ll make an example of him, like the traitors you are.”

Rosinante’s eyes widened.
“What…?!”

Doflamingo’s laugh rang out again, his glasses flashing like blades.

A deadly silence fell. Rosi clenched his jaw so hard he nearly drew blood from his own lips.

The guards snapped heavy chains around Rosinante and Katakuri, shoving them back-to-back toward a massive door at the rear of the hall.

“Lock them up,” he ordered, under Viola’s helpless gaze.

The cell was narrow, dark, damp. They had been thrown inside, chained back-to-back. Their wrists still bound by a single cuff, forcing them into unwanted closeness despite the cold stone between them.

Rosinante stayed silent. Head bowed, he stared at the ground without really seeing it. The image of Law, half-dead, and Doflamingo’s words looped endlessly in his mind. His hands trembled slightly, but he struggled not to show it.

At his side, Katakuri watched. He could see Rosi’s shoulders sag under an invisible weight. And it tightened his chest more than he’d admit. Gently, he tugged on the chain linking them, trying to draw his attention.

“Rosi.” His deep voice resonated softly in the cramped space.

No response.

Katakuri sighed, then spoke again, lower this time:
“The plan hasn’t even started yet. Everything’s going to work out—I can feel it. The future’s on our side. You know that, don’t you?”

Rosinante slowly lifted his eyes, rimmed with fatigue. He looked broken, yet still clung to a shred of dignity in his gaze.

Katakuri turned his head briefly, almost embarrassed by the surge of emotion within him. He hated seeing Rosi so sad—he was usually so joyful, and he never wanted to see that again. Then he added, with rare sincerity:
“Don’t let him get to you. That’s exactly what Doflamingo wants. You have to… keep living, Rosi. Not just for Law. For yourself too…” He wasn’t skilled with words, but he forced his voice to be soft, more human than usual.

Their backs were pressed together, ironically given their usual relationship, because of the chain binding them, their wrists still linked by a single cuff. Every breath Rosinante drew was sharp, constrained by the metal pressing against his chest whenever he moved.

Katakuri, still until now, felt Rosi’s tremors, sensing his discomfort and the lack of guard around them. Without warning, he yanked on the chain.

The metal groaned and protested… then snapped with a dry, inhuman crack. Katakuri immediately closed his large hands around the broken pieces, muffling the sound. With a deft twist, he coiled the shards as if they had always been a simple piece of cable. By the sheer strength of his hands, he had broken the chain around them—for Rosinante’s comfort.

Rosinante flinched, turning his head slightly, startled by the force of his husband.
“What… what did you just do? Are you even human?” he whispered, astonished.

“Nothing,” Katakuri replied with feigned calm. He gently placed the broken chain behind him as if it were still intact. Then, softer, almost tenderly:
“I just wanted you to be able to breathe.”

Rosinante looked away slightly, touched by the simplicity of the gesture—the sentence itself spoke volumes.
“You didn’t have to… You didn’t hurt yourself? At least your hands are okay?” he murmured.

Katakuri shrugged ever so slightly, a faint, almost invisible smile at the corner of his lips.
“If I don’t do it, who will?”

At those words, Rosinante gave in. Slowly, almost shyly, he leaned in, resting his head against Katakuri’s shoulder, silently seeking warmth, seeking comfort.

Katakuri froze. His cheeks colored against his will, his heart racing. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, nor how to breathe properly. His entire body was tense, unsure whether to move or stay still. The contact of their hands—still bound together—amplified the forced intimacy, turning every second into a trial.

“Thank you… thank you so much for being here,” Rosinante whispered, almost inaudibly.

Time seemed suspended. For Rosi, this closeness felt strangely natural, as if it had always been there, hidden in the shadows of their bond. For Katakuri, it was a true upheaval: he had never known such proximity, and it pushed him to the brink of inner chaos.

In this silence, Rosinante let slip an unexpected remark:
“You smell like mochi… I don’t know if I’ve ever told you.”

Katakuri blinked, caught off guard. Rosi had probably noticed this for a long time—maybe during their motorcycle rides, or in those stolen moments of closeness—but had never said it aloud.

A clumsy breath escaped him:
“I… thank you?”

His ears burned, his words ridiculously short, but it was all he could manage.
“You shouldn’t… do that to me.” Katakuri looked away, embarrassed, and added in an almost inaudible whisper:
“I don’t know what to do when you’re this close.”

He was speaking the truth aloud for the first time since the incident with Moscato. Katakuri struggled more and more with this closeness—a feeling he had never experienced before. He, the unshakable soldier, was losing ground against a simple touch.

Rosinante let out a small, nervous laugh. His cheeks turned pink as well, but he didn’t move. The silence returned, soft, almost comforting this time. One could imagine them falling asleep like that—two awkward fugitives, bound by a cuff and something even more invisible.

Then Rosinante broke the silence again, in a breath that almost sounded like a confession:
“You know, you reassure me… even when you don’t say anything. There are perks to being married to a man this strong.”

Katakuri felt like a large dog being praised and petted. He loved hearing such words from the blond and found himself thinking he would like to hear them in other contexts—away from chains, away from lies.

Silence returned, but it was no longer heavy. Katakuri still felt the warmth of Rosinante’s head against his shoulder, and despite all his soldierly discipline, he couldn’t get used to it. His heart pounded harder than in any battle. He needed to express these feelings—scary and new for him—either thought or spoken. Alone, he let slip a phrase without thinking:
“…It’s strange. You’re the first one I can let get this close without wanting to push you away.”

Rosinante blinked, surprised, then lifted his head slightly to look at him.
“Ah… so I’m an exception? It’s probably because we’re married,” he said with a small teasing smile.

Katakuri immediately looked away, embarrassed.
“I didn’t say that… I appreciate my siblings too, it’s just—well… with you, it’s different.”

His ears were red, his body tense as a drawn bow. Rosinante, cheeks flushed, noticed how expressive Katakuri had become when alone. He kept a gentle tone:
“You know… it feels good to hear that. Because… you impress me so much, sometimes I feel like I’m… in your way. I mean, you’re skilled at everything, stronger, smarter… so knowing I can unsettle you is almost ridiculous.”

Katakuri turned toward him suddenly, almost shocked.
“No, there’s nothing ridiculous about what you represent right now.” His voice was firm, more sincere than he intended.
“And above all, you haven’t been in my way for a long time.”

Katakuri realized what he had just said and added awkwardly, as if to recover:
“Well… like a coworker. A very good, kind, and gentle coworker…”

Rosinante stayed speechless for a moment, caught between laughter and emotion. They had struggled so long to tolerate each other, to hide their feelings, that finally being able to express them felt awkward but freeing within the narrow prison. He lowered his gaze, a faint smile on his lips, his worry easing.

“You always find strange ways to say kind things, Katakuri. But… I like it. Thank you. I don’t feel in your way either. I think, in hindsight, it never really was the case.”

Katakuri remained stiff, unable to respond. His heart thudded in his chest as if he had just revealed a secret he shouldn’t have. Perhaps they both realized they had finally admitted—without saying it outright—that they appreciated, even needed, each other’s presence. After a long path of doubts, suddenly, a possibility opened: living side by side without fear of bothering the other.

Rosinante’s orange eyes were lost in Katakuri’s vast pink ones. His long lashes accentuated the contrast, far more visible than Corazon’s almost invisible ones, softened by his light blond hair. Rosi didn’t know what to do except drown in that restrained gaze. He wanted to kiss him this thought was stupid dangerous.

Then a growl from the back of the cell abruptly shattered their fragile bubble.
“…Disgusting. If you’re going to fuck, do it somewhere else.”

They both jumped like guilty kids. Reflexively, they jerked apart, twisting their still-cuffed arms into a completely absurd position.

“Huh?!”
“Is someone there?!”

From the shadows emerged a young man, barely out of adolescence. His hair dyed bright red, punk frayed style, and missing arm gave him a look both insolent and fragile.

“Sorry to ruin the mood, but for the sake of my mental health as a single man, I’d rather not watch a married couple getting it on right in front of me. Name’s Eustass Kid ”

"..."

_____________________

Chapter Text

Back in the prison — where, apparently hypnotized by the budding chemistry between them, neither of the two had noticed the condescending teenager in the cell — the kid hit them like a bomb. He took them to task.

“…This is disgusting. If you’re going to fuck, do it somewhere else. Sorry to kill the vibe, but for the sake of my single sanity, I’d rather not watch a married couple rolling around in front of me. My name’s Eustass Kid.”

Rosinante pushed Katakuri away as best he could despite the handcuffs keeping them in place.
“We weren’t going to do that!” Rosinante protested, red as a peony.
“And we’re not married, either — well, not completely… I think,” Katakuri corrected dryly.

The kid broke into a smile, his lipstick-stained lips widening like a provocation — something Rosinante found oddly amusing, being a fan of that sort of makeup himself.
“Oh, really? Because you sure look like it. Maybe I’m just terrible at social cues or too perverted — my bad.”

He bowed a little, theatrical in his punk clothes.
“Eustass Kid. Nice to meet you, old-timers. So what’s the story? Why are you locked up here? Exhibitionism?”

Rosinante moved forward cautiously and shook the young man’s hand with his free hand; seeing such a one-armed kid so young tugged slightly at his father-heart.
“Donquixote Rosinante.”

Katakuri rolled his eyes silently — Rosinante was an idiot. Why on earth give his full name?

Kid’s eyes widened.
“…Donquixote? Like… Donquixote Doflamingo?”

Katakuri intervened, colder now, trying to dispel the astonishment.
“Charlotte Katakuri.”

Kid whistled through his teeth, a bead of sweat pearling at his temple.
“Hey, you’re not small fry! What the hell is going on, what are you doing here?”

“You first,” Katakuri replied with weary impatience, feeling again like he was back at babysitting duty.

Kid rolled his eyes, grimaced, but finally spat out:
“Tss. I got caught because I tried to attack Kaido. I’m part of a little biker crew — we were trying to save a mate Killer who got addicted to SMILEs. I got my face blown to shit in Wano. Bad luck, I ran into two weird dudes who helped me out there — an emo and an idiot. They talked about a half-baked plan; we swapped intel about the guy behind the SMILEs… but I wanted to move faster than them. Their plan was simple: I give them the info on Punk Hazard, we go, then we hit Dressrosa. But I’m not a follower — I left ahead of them, went at Joker straight on. Result: locked up here for days.”

Rosinante raised an eyebrow.
“Young people these days are either a bunch of suicidal maniacs or don’t have parents!” Rosinante remembered, however, that he himself wasn’t the best example when it came to mental health — he’d tried to end his life multiple times because of his brother’s actions.

“Wait —” the blond repeated. “An emo…? Black hair, little goatee — COULD HE BE A DOCTOR?! Law?!”

“You’re slow to catch on,” Katakuri reproached.

“A doctor? Yeah. He treated me. I owe him. But he’s still an emo teen and arrogant.”

“No doubt, that’s him,” Katakuri replied, amused despite himself.

Rosi inhaled sharply, shaken by the idea that Law had managed to get that far.
“Doflamingo is my brother. And he wants to execute him. We… we’re allied with the Straw Hats too.”

Kid stopped dead, his eyes flaring with more honest light. Then, as if to himself, he let out a relaxed breath and crossed his legs.
“…Ah. Now that makes sense. We can negotiate, then.”

Kid squatted in a corner of the cell, his single arm folded on his knee. He watched them with a mix of provocation and curiosity. He’d heard a lot about Big Mom — if it were up to him he would have taken her out long ago — but seeing the monster in front of him made the scale of the family obvious.

“Honestly… I didn’t really see how I was getting out of here. But after what I saw earlier…” His predatory grin widened toward the other punk. “…I think I might have found my way out.”

Katakuri raised an eyebrow, wary.
“And what did you see, exactly?”

Kid burst out laughing.
“Don’t take me for an idiot, big guy. When you snapped those chains like they were paper, I got it. You’re a living weapon. And me? I don’t want to rot here.”

Rosinante sighed, unconvinced, and couldn’t help but clarify.
“Katakuri isn’t a weapon. What exactly are you proposing?”

Kid straightened up, his reddish eyes sparkling with excitement.
“An alliance. You, me, and your… husband — not really your husband, I guess? At your age being in a situationship is dodgy…” He shot a mocking look at Katakuri, who flushed instantly.
“We’re not really married!” they both protested in unison, red-faced.

Kid raised his hands, feigning innocence.
“Okay, call it what you want — lovers, whatever. Bottom line: we team up, cover each other, and get the hell out before your brother rips us to pieces. After that, we find your doc. I’m decent with computers; I can rig some shit for your grand finale.”

Katakuri crossed his arms, his expression icy again.
“And why should we trust you?”

Kid stepped closer, his boots clacking on the stone. Despite his modest size, he towered over Katakuri in insolence.
“Because I’ve got zero reason to stay. I already lost an arm in a motorcycle accident thanks to your pretty brother, friends scattered, another hooked on SMILE… If I fight, it’s to survive. I’m not going to let myself die like some of you. And believe me, I’d rather die outside, free, than like a rat in this cage.”

A heavy silence followed. Katakuri studied the young man for a long moment.

Rosinante, still half-curled against Katakuri’s shoulder because of the handcuffs, finally exhaled:
“…He’s not wrong. The three of us have a better chance.”

Kid snorted.
“Finally, someone thinking straight. See, Katakuri? Your blondie gets it.”

“Stop calling him that,” Katakuri growled, the other raising both hands to the sky in a gesture of peace.

“All right — how do we get out?” Rosinante said, suddenly far more motivated than at the start.

“Katakuri, can you break the metal bars?” Kid asked, his eyes bright with impatience.

The masked colossus answered with an almost-cold calm, as if someone had asked him to open a jar:
“Hm. No. I’m still human. At best I can weaken them by bending them enough to give us access to the latch.”

He said it with disarming matter-of-factness, as if he were talking about an everyday chore, and Rosinante couldn’t help widening his eyes. This man was a force of nature.

“…As if that were normal,” he breathed, half admiring, half nervous.

“Perfect!” Kid cried, a wide predatory grin on his face. “Do that, and I’ll unlock the door. I may only have one arm, but I’m a damn good tinkerer — even with one less arm, if only I had it.”
“One less arm?”
“Yeah, I have a mechanical arm, a prosthetic, but your idiot brother took it from me!”

Without waiting, Katakuri shoved his huge hands into the gaps between the bars. His muscles bulged under the strain, and a high-pitched screech echoed through the cell as the metal protested. The bars vibrated as if about to give, small cracks forming where he clenched. Even for someone like Katakuri, the maneuver looked painfully hard.

Rosinante, still cuffed to his arm, was pulled forward despite himself; his shoulder popped slightly.
“Hey— careful! I’m not built like a pillar!” he groaned, wincing.

“Shut up and press your weight against me,” Katakuri replied, focused, brow furrowed.

Rosinante flushed to his ears but obeyed, pressing his forehead against Katakuri’s back like a kid clinging to a tree.

Kid knelt at the lock, producing from who-knows-where a twisted piece of metal. He spun it between his fingers, pride shining in his eyes.
“Watch closely… You’re looking at the best lockpicker in the land!”

A thunderous CLANG cut him off: Katakuri had bent a bar, making it groan like a rope about to snap. He was red and sweating, powerfully attractive even in the situation. Rosinante cursed himself for enjoying so much expression on that impassive face.

Kid blinked, mouth open at the feat.
“…Yeah, okay, forget I said anything. One smack would be enough to kill me.”

Rosinante stifled a little nervous laugh, while Katakuri, impassive, said:
“Hurry. I don’t want us to be surprised.”

The lock gave and left a large enough gap for them to slip through quietly. The trio escaped — Katakuri and Rosinante still cuffed to one another, forced into intimacy at times; they even held hands to keep the same pace, Katakuri’s hand entirely enveloping Rosinante’s in the effort. Once out of the cell, Kid asked:

“What’s the plan now?”

“We have allies scattered through the castle. First we must save Law — that’s my priority. Then we lure Doflamingo to the time and place the plan specifies, but we have no way to signal his departure.”

“You sure you know all the crazies in the Family?” the redhead said, as if Rosinante had announced the weather.

The trio moved silently down the left wing of the castle. The narrow, winding corridors seemed designed to trap anyone unfamiliar with the exits. Rosinante and Katakuri, still cuffed, had a hard time walking in step.

The awkwardness became a real ordeal when they entered a passage so narrow to exit the prison that their shoulders nearly scraped the walls.

Katakuri clenched his jaw. His massive arm already brushed Rosi’s side. To continue there was no easy option: he had to press even closer.

“…Move,” he whispered, voice rougher than he intended.

Rosinante didn’t dare turn his head, afraid his nose would bump into Katakuri’s chest. He felt the heat radiating off him, and the forced proximity made every step clumsy. His ears burned, and he prayed the other wouldn’t notice his unease.

Their hips eventually collided — Rosinante’s round butt bumping awkwardly against the other’s pelvis. Katakuri found himself, despite himself, noticing the curve, but kept silent. The warmth emanating from Katakuri, a sweet, faint scent, filled him. The more he tried not to think about it, the more his mind clung to it.

“…Move,” Katakuri muttered again, low and hoarse, the sound oddly close to Rosinante’s ear.

Rosinante obeyed mechanically, but his legs wavered. Each step pushed him deeper into a proximity he’d never imagined, and yet the sensation intoxicated him. He felt trapped between the cold wall and Katakuri’s nearly burning heat. His heart pounded so hard he feared the other could hear it. Even in such a critical moment, his teammate managed to make him forget the mission, despite the danger.

He attempted a nervous laugh to defuse things:
“You… you take up the whole space.”

Mistake. His voice trembled, too soft, almost intimate. He immediately bit his lip, regretting the stupid remark. Katakuri turned his head slightly, his eyes shining — he liked hearing the other’s voice, even broken.

Their hips bumped again with a rustle of fabric. It took every ounce of Katakuri’s self-control not to grab the blond’s butt.
“…Sorry,” Rosi blurted apologetically, as if he’d committed a crime.

“No, it’s me,” Katakuri replied, stiffer than a beam at the sensation of flesh rubbing against him. But beneath his scarf his cheeks were tinged with a heat he hadn’t felt in years: round, muscular — oddly curved to him — the blond’s hips seemed surprisingly slim by comparison.

Rosinante tried to focus on anything else: the rough texture of the stones, the distant echo of their footsteps… the scrape of Katakuri’s muscles against his flank; the metallic jangle of the cuff that bound them like an intimate chain. He was close to panicking. Panic, or… give in to something he dared not name. The mission felt far away; they had even forgotten why they were here as temptation from their recent closeness became increasingly dangerous.

Behind them, Kid watched with a mocking eye and finally burst into a derisive laugh, psychologically done with these two virgins.
“Seriously?! You’re pathetic. You look like two kids. I’m going to puke.”

Rosinante snapped his head around, red to his ears.
“That… that’s not what you think! We’re just trying to get by, but with these cuffs it’s not simple!” he protested, far too quickly to be convincing.

Katakuri, for his part, just growled a low “Shut up” as he shot Kidd a death glare. It ruined the moment, but his stride grew sharper, almost as if he, too, wanted to escape the burning embarrassment suffocating him.

They finally stepped out of the narrow passage, but Rosinante felt like his heart was still back there, pounding between those walls. His skin still tingled, his thoughts spun out of control. How could he be this rattled? And yet… as he breathed easier, he caught himself regretting the warmth of that cramped hallway.

“Well, this is where our paths split… for now.”

Kidd smirked, almost bashful yet sly.
“I’ll deal with Gladius—the freak who handles all the tech and security in this damn castle. I’ll also grab my arm while I’m at it. If things go the way you described, a surprise blackout should screw the cameras and buy us time. Once it’s done, I’ll give you and your group the signal. Try to find each other before the real fight begins.”

Rosinante’s face hardened at the mention of his brother.
“Good. We’ll move closer to Doflamingo and wait for your signal. On the way, I’ll check if everyone’s in position.”

“Then this is where we split, lovebirds!” Kidd barked with a laugh, already dashing off. “When I give the word, you take down that damn flamingo and rescue your idiot kid. He’s too cute to die in some dumb way.”

He disappeared down the hall, still laughing at his own joke.

Rosinante’s cheeks went crimson with fury.
“Don’t even think about it! Law is way too young for that hormone-driven nonsense!”

To his shock, Katakuri let out a deep chuckle.
“… Overprotective dad, huh?”

“I just don’t wanna die a lonely old man!” Rosinante grumbled, folding his arms like a sulky child. “No way Law gets a friend before I do!”

Amused, Katakuri took the lead again, scanning the hallway. His voice was calm but tinged with irony.
“For that, you’d need a partner first. Or at least a crush. Otherwise, your poor kid’s doomed to grow up just as pathetic as Perospero.”

Rosinante froze, then slowly lifted his gaze to Katakuri’s broad back. His thoughts wandered despite himself. What kind of man could actually draw him in? Protective, a little awkward… strong, impossibly strong, but tender with his family. Sweet, charming, reassuring. Someone who made him want to live—who made him think he could finally stop running toward cliffs.

His eyes lingered on Katakuri’s massive shoulders, his towering frame. A gentle warmth bloomed inside him, tugging a small, secret smile from his lips.
“… Yeah. You’re right,” he whispered to himself.

He quickened his pace to walk alongside him.

Soon, they reached a chamber guarded by a scarred blond man. Rosinante stiffened, his stomach dropping.
“Bellamy…” he murmured. “One of Doflamingo’s fanatics.”

Katakuri leaned close, his sharp eye glinting.
“What’s the plan? Knock him out?”

Rosinante shook his head quickly.
“No, we’ll get spotted. We’re not close enough to take him down quietly… I could maybe—”

A thunderous crash cut him off.

Luffy had appeared out of nowhere, his fist slamming Bellamy into the wall. Zoro, unfazed, dragged the unconscious body into the shadows.

“…Or we could just do that,” Katakuri muttered, almost amused.

Rosinante buried his face in his hand, torn between relief and despair.
“They’re all going to get us killed…”

“Hey! Rosana!” Luffy shouted, waving enthusiastically.

“That’s STILL not my name, you idiot! And stop yelling!” Rosinante hissed, panic flaring—this wasn’t about his pride, this was Law’s life on the line.

“And Katakuri’s here too! Law’s mom’s new husband!” Luffy grinned, pronouncing the name with exaggerated clarity.

Katakuri raised a brow but didn’t comment. Rosinante stammered, flustered.
“H-he’s not— I mean— it’s not like— oh, forget it!”

They regrouped in a shadowed corner, where the lights still burned too bright for comfort.

“You all managed to slip inside while we were captured?” Rosinante asked, forcing himself back into focus.

“Thanks to you!” Luffy beamed. “Your distraction worked perfectly!”

Nami puffed out her chest proudly.
“Of course. I told you it was a brilliant idea.”

Rosinante sighed.
“Fine. We ran into Kidd… a rude redhead.”

“Ah, the spiky guy!” Luffy cackled. “He looks weird, but he’s nice once you get to know him!”

Katakuri straightened, soldier once more, scanning the reckless teens before him.
“This mission is high-risk. Honestly, at your age, I doubt I could’ve handled it. So stay sharp. Don’t throw your lives away—if you can’t fight, be useful another way.”

The words lit a fire in Rosinante’s orange eyes as he pushed his hair from his face.
“Kata’s right. If anyone should risk their life here, it’s not you. Don’t forget—my brother’s Family will throw themselves away like pawns. Don’t fall into their trap. That’s not your role.”

Katakuri’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Nor yours. No one dies tonight—unless it’s by my hand.”

“Not you either, moss-head!” Sanji snapped, glaring at Zoro. “Try not to get lost in the hallways or throw yourself into death, yeah? Want me to hold your hand so you don’t lose your way?”

“Say that again, curly-brow bastard!” Zoro snarled, already drawing his swords.

“Oh no, not you two again!” Nami exploded, smacking them both. “You’re like an old married couple who can’t stop bickering!”

Rosinante sighed, rubbing his temples. At his side, Katakuri watched the scene unfold with faint, amused perplexity. Behind his scarf, his gaze softened for just a second—the noisy chaos reminded him all too much of the constant racket of his own siblings.

“Alright… let’s go over the plan one more time,” Rosi declared, trying to wrestle back control.

“I’ll take care of Diamante. They say he’s a swordsman, right?” Zoro grunted, resting a hand on his blades.

Penguin and Sachi raised their fists at the same time, almost theatrically.
“We’ll handle Lao G and Dellinger!”

“Me and Nami will take Señor Pink,” Bepo announced timidly, before hiding behind his crewmates.

“Don’t be so shy, Bepo. You feel ready to face him, right?” Corazon asked softly.

“S-sorry…” the white-haired boy muttered, bowing his head awkwardly.

Rosi gave him a tender smile, but before he could say anything—

“And meee!” Sanji cried, puffing out his chest. “I’ll deal with that slimy creep Trebol! That man is disgusting. You’ll be proud of me, right Nami?! If I beat him, you’ll be proud, won’t you?!”

The redhead rolled her eyes.
“Yes, yes, wonderful.”

Katakuri finally spoke, his tone heavy and precise:
“I’ll take Pica and Vergo—I have my own scores to settle there. And you,” he turned toward Luffy, “you’ll fight Doflamingo. I’ll back you up. Rosinante… save Law. Don’t throw yourself into a fight. Please.”

Rosi’s chest tightened at those words. He nodded quickly, almost too fast, as if trying to hide the lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t risk his life recklessly—not tonight.

“At the signal… when the punk cuts the lights… we move,” he said, his voice steadying. His eyes flicked toward Luffy and the younger ones. “Don’t risk your lives needlessly. We have a plan. Stick to it. Especially since we’re up against Doflamingo—vermin of the worst kind.”

“Got it!” Luffy answered brightly, leaving no doubt he’d do the exact opposite.

“Usopp’s still at his post outside?” Rosinante asked for reassurance.

“Yeah, he’s just waiting for the right moment!” Penguin and Sachi chorused.

Their voices softened almost immediately.
“… Mister Cora, we’re really sorry about Law.”

Bepo nodded gravely.
“Yeah… we couldn’t protect him like real friends should.”

Silence fell heavy, until Rosinante bent down and pulled the small group into his arms. His voice trembled, but stayed warm and reassuring.
“Don’t blame yourselves. I’m grateful—truly grateful—that my son has friends like you. Thank you. And when this is over… I’ll make sure to punish him properly for dragging you all into one of his reckless plans.”

Their faces lit up with renewed courage—and amusement. For a fleeting moment, Katakuri, watching quietly from the side, felt something stir in his chest. Something he had never known in his own family. None of these people shared blood, yet they were ready to risk their lives for someone completely outside their kin.

The group split, each heading toward their assigned post.

Moments later, a horrid metallic roar split the air, followed by a shrill siren echoing through the castle. Torches ignited along the walls, flooding the corridors with light.

“Shit… was that the signal?” Rosinante muttered, sweat already prickling his brow.

Footsteps thundered above. Shouts barked orders. Soldiers of the Donquixote Family scattered into every corridor.

“Run,” Katakuri ordered flatly, already sprinting toward the hall where Viola was tending to Law’s wounds.

Rosinante started to jog, but the chains of his cuffs clinked and dragged, slowing him down. His long legs stumbled awkwardly over the floor.

“Faster!” Katakuri urged, his voice sharp—the plan depended entirely on timing, and the moonlight wouldn’t wait.

“I-I’m trying! But these damn cuffs—”

His foot slipped on a wet tile. He nearly fell, jerking Katakuri backward with a rough tug. The towering man caught himself instantly, his jaw tightening beneath his scarf.

“…You can’t even run properly.”

“Hey, I’m just clumsy! It’s not—” Rosi started to protest, but the words died in his throat.

In one smooth motion, Katakuri slid an arm beneath his knees and hoisted him up effortlessly. Rosinante let out a strangled gasp, his arms wrapping instinctively around the giant’s neck.

“K-Katakuri!! What are you—”

“Shut up. You’re wasting time.”

And before Rosi could sputter another word, Katakuri broke into a full sprint. His strides were long and powerful, carrying them down the corridor as if Rosinante weighed nothing. The man’s heavy breath brushed his temple, his broad chest pressing firmly against him with each pounding step.

Rosinante’s face burned red. His heart hammered violently, his hands gripping tight with no idea where to settle. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, desperate not to meet Katakuri’s gaze.

“… You didn’t have to carry me like a princess…” he mumbled, half-mortified, half secretly savoring the safety of those strong arms.

Katakuri’s voice came out calm, almost detached:
“It’s the most efficient way. You’re less of a burden like this. Besides… you weigh next to nothing. I think I don’t mind carrying you.”

He said it as if delivering a tactical report, but behind his scarf, his ears burned red. His arms tightened unconsciously, holding Rosinante closer, as if protecting something precious.

They sped down the corridors, every jolt, every stride from Katakuri making Rosinante bounce lightly against his chest, forcing him to notice the closeness all the more.
Katakuri kept running, relentless, his long, powerful strides barely disturbing the air. Rosinante, trapped in his arms, felt each muscle contract with effort, each vibration echoing through him.

At first, he’d wanted to protest. But his lips had sealed themselves shut. His eyes, betraying him, lingered on the wide collar of Katakuri’s coat, on the firm line of his jaw he could just glimpse beneath the scarf. Even the steady rhythm of his breathing—deep, controlled—was strangely calming, and… unbearably attractive. For the second time, he found himself wanting to kiss him.

“… This is ridiculous. What’s wrong with me?” Rosi swallowed hard.
His fingers, clenched around Katakuri’s neck, brushed by accident against the warm skin at the base of his hairline. The contact sent a shiver shooting down his spine.

Closing his eyes only made it worse. His mind betrayed him, tracing every detail he’d tried to ignore: the iron strength of the arms holding him, and yet the gentleness with which they cradled him; the heat radiating through layers of fabric, almost scorching; the faint sweetness of his scent. Worse still, his thoughts turned perverse—imagining Katakuri’s heavy breaths in another context. Would he be noisy? Silent? Would he talk? Would he like praise in bed? The intrusive thought jolted him straight to Corazon Bottom belly, and he prayed desperately for anything to distract him before disaster struck.

He forced out an awkward laugh, his voice lower than he’d intended.
“… You’re seriously… too solid. Not even human. I’m doomed.”

Katakuri didn’t answer, too focused on their escape. But his grip tightened, pulling Rosinante closer. His massive hands locked around his thighs, heat searing through the fabric, pressing into his skin. Rosi choked out a strangled breath, caught between fear and a burning shame.

God… his hands… He tried not to think about it, but there was no escaping the unyielding strength of that hold. And with every step, his mind slipped further into places it shouldn’t.

Then suddenly, everything stopped. The alarms, the clamor, even the pounding boots above them. Kidd had struck—darkness swallowed the castle, broken only by the pale, cold light of the moon.

It was the signal. The battle had begun.

When they reached the window, realization struck: the right building wasn’t to the left but across the courtyard, still far.

Rosi’s eyes widened.
“Shit… it’s too far. The building’s across from us—we’ll never make it like this!”

Katakuri stared at the gap in silence. His stillness dragged on just a little too long.

“Kata—” Rosi’s voice cracked.

“I might have a plan. But you won’t like it.”

Rosinante’s blood ran cold.
“No… no, no, no! Put me down, now! Find another way, just—”

Katakuri didn’t listen. His grip only tightened, fingers digging into Rosi’s thighs, sure to leave marks. Panic shot through Rosinante as he clung desperately to Katakuri’s neck, face buried against his skin.
“Don’t do it! Don’t you dare! Stop with your damn reckless plans!”

But Katakuri was unyielding. He leaned toward the open window. Cold night air whipped against their faces, and in that suspended moment, Rosinante felt every inch of the man holding him—every line of muscle, every breath, every thundering beat of his heart. His lips brushed against Katakuri’s scarf. His own heart screamed in his chest.

If he jumps… I’ll die. And yet—why does part of me want to cling to him tighter? Why do I already know I won’t fall tonight?

“Hold on.” Katakuri’s deep voice rumbled in his ear like a promise.

Before Rosinante could protest, they leapt.

The world dropped away.

Wind roared, tearing a strangled cry from Rosi that vanished against Katakuri’s shoulder. The void yawned beneath them, but it didn’t feel like falling—it felt like flying. Arms unbreakable held him fast, a chest solid as stone pressed him close. Katakuri’s heartbeat thundered, a rhythm that echoed in Rosinante’s bones. I’m here. You’re safe.

Rosinante closed his eyes, letting warmth chase away terror. Images flashed through him: Bege, Wano, the barn, the night climbs, the narrow corridors, their clumsy escapes, avoided glances, silences too heavy… and now this mad leap, with nothing left to hold onto but him.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t want to run.

His grip eased. His face nestled deeper into Katakuri’s chest—not out of fear, but choice. Heat flushed his cheeks. Maybe… maybe I can stop living only for Law. Stop surviving in the shadow of my sins. Maybe… I can live for myself, too.

Barely audible, his lips brushed the scarf.
“… I trust you.”

Katakuri’s eyes lowered, gleaming faintly in the dark. His lips parted as if to answer, but no words came. Instead, his arms tightened, a vow without language.

The crash came—glass shattering, the ground slamming beneath them. Katakuri took the brunt, knees bending, shielding Rosi from every shard. His own arms and coat were cut, but not a scratch touched Rosinante.

Still clinging to his neck, Rosinante didn’t move. His cheeks burned, but for once his eyes didn’t dart away. Katakuri hadn’t let go either; his hands hovered, hesitant, as though setting Rosi down was suddenly the hardest task.

“… You can put me down now,” Rosi whispered with a sheepish smile, making no real effort to move.

Katakuri turned his gaze aside, heat crawling up beneath his scarf. His deep voice rumbled low, almost unsure.
“… Hm.”

Rosinante’s heart stuttered. His trembling fingers curled tighter around Katakuri’s neck, a small, teasing smile ghosting his lips as he whispered into his pierced ear—half mocking, but painfully sincere:
“… You act so tough, but you’re worse than me.”

Once set on his feet, Rosi’s eyes widened suddenly, an absurd thought hitting him even in the middle of battle.
“Wait… you broke prison bars, but you can’t break these handcuffs?”

For a beat, he looked utterly dumbfounded.

Katakuri only gave the faintest shrug.
“I never said I couldn’t.”

Rosinante blinked at him, incredulous.
“Then why the hell didn’t you take them off?!”

The answer fell, simple, disarming:
“…I like being close to you.”

The giant—who had nothing of a child about him—flushed crimson like a boy caught in mischief. Rosi burst out laughing, shaking with tremors at the sheer absurdity of the contrast.
“You’re going to drive me insane… hahah!”

Katakuri, already moving to snap the cuffs, did so a little too quickly, like the embarrassment was crushing him—but there was something in his chest that tightened at the sound of Rosi’s laughter. Maybe even something sad at the thought that this forced closeness was ending.
“So?” he asked stiffly, “You want me to leave them intact… or break them?”

“Leave them?!” Rosinante frowned. “Why the hell would I want to keep handcuffs?”

“I don’t know… as a reminder of the day you finally stop your brother?” Katakuri replied with the most deadpan seriousness. “I have no idea what adults usually do with things like these.” He tilted his head, almost innocent.

Clack. The cuffs shattered like glass in his hand.

Rosinante went scarlet to the roots of his hair. Katakuri was… too pure sometimes. So pure he didn’t even realize the unintentional double meaning of his words. And of course, Rosi’s mind went elsewhere. Way too far.

He imagined, despite himself, those same cuffs used differently. On Katakuri… or on him. Twisted, forbidden images burned through his head: that massive body restrained, his deep voice cracked into shameless moans, broken down into a wreck of sweat, drool, and uncontrolled fluids. His breath came fast and sharp. Fuck, stop it, Rosi. Get your head out of this.

He slapped a hand to his face, trying to hide the crimson burning across his skin.
“You’re… way too innocent sometimes, Kata.”

Katakuri tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with confusion beneath the scarf—like a hound failing to understand its master’s command.

For a moment, the colossus only stared, fists flexing as if searching for composure. Rosi looked away, fighting off the searing images in his mind. Silence stretched, heavy, almost suffocating—until it shattered under a voice leaking through the adjoining chamber.

“Vergo is a just and loyal man…” Pica’s high-pitched tone clashed with the weight of his words. “The true Corazon. Ironic that he’s the one to kill the fool who calls himself his son.”

Rosinante stiffened. That name, that wound—it all came rushing back.

“He was nothing more than a cop undercover, an insect in disguise,” Vergo added, a cruel smile tugging his lips. “Good for nothing but marriage and selling his body in exchange for obedience.”

Doflamingo’s laughter rolled out—hoarse, dripping with disdain. He stepped closer, wine bottle in hand, raising it to his lips. Dark stains of red ran down his chin and shirt.

“Corazon…” he drawled, grin stretching. “Nearly died a thousand ways over. If I hadn’t taken him under my wing, that idiot would’ve been dead ages ago. Too clumsy to survive on his own. I gave him everything—the seat of Heart, money, power, even women—so he could thrive. Don’t tell me sex, money, and power can’t buy someone’s loyalty?”

Vergo poured a glass for Viola, who had clearly played intermediary, bringing Law into the chamber as planned.

“Your brother’s nothing like you, Doflamingo,” she said flatly. “He has no ambition.”

Rosinante’s stomach twisted. He knew these words, but hearing them again burned like a red-hot blade. His fists knotted in his shirt, his gaze flicking to Katakuri—silent, but his eyes frozen on Doflamingo with icy fury.

Then another voice cut through—hoarse, but sharp with rage.
“You’re aiming at the wrong target… bastard.”

Law.

He was barely standing, wrists bound, lips dry and cracked—but his eyes still burned with a spark chains could never smother. Viola had tried to tend his wounds, but he looked one breath from collapse.

Rosi lurched toward him, but Katakuri’s hand pressed firmly to his shoulder. Their eyes met, the silent message unmistakable: Wait.

He understood. The moment hadn’t come. Not yet.

Doflamingo slammed the bottle down, glass shattering under the blow. His grin slid toward Law, sharp as a knife.
“You’ve got the same eyes as Cora. With your talent and ambition, you could’ve been stronger than anyone in my Family.” He licked stray wine off his hand. “That same insolent stare that thinks it can defy the world. You dragged my brother down from his true potential—and wasted yours in the process.”

Law gritted his teeth, but his body trembled, wrists bleeding raw against the ropes. He felt powerless—like he had failed his father’s mission, and would die carrying the guilt of hiding the second chance Cora had given him.

Rosi burned, his heart hammering, ready to fling himself forward. But Katakuri’s grip pinned him, the mountain of a man scanning the guards stationed in every corner. They were many, armed, and the element of surprise wasn’t theirs yet.

“We’ll only get one chance,” Katakuri murmured, voice low and commanding. “Wait for Kidd’s signal.”

Rosi swallowed hard, nerves churning. Then chaos struck—the doors rattled, the lights snapped out. Shouts erupted, followed by the dull thud of fists pounding flesh.

“Who dares—” barked one guard, before his body was hurled into the chamber like a rag doll.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway, dripping with sweat, straw hat shadowing his eyes.

“Luffy…” Law whispered, his pupils widening with painful hope.

The boy shoved aside the last guards, fists clenched, gaze locked onto Doflamingo.
“You…” His jaw tightened, voice a growl. “You’ll pay—for what your drugs did to Wano, and for the people of Dressrosa.”

The moment froze. Doflamingo burst out laughing, entertained by the sight of the lone boy. With communications cut, the Family had been left in the dark.

“What a comedy. And what honor do I owe the runt? Garp’s brat of a grandson, a gutter punk, hanging around with a doctor.”

It was at that exact moment that Katakuri finally released Rosinante—a sharp sound of breaking glass ringing in the chamber.

The blond threw himself forward into the room, darting past two guards distracted by Luffy’s sudden entrance. His fingers trembled, but he managed to grab the knife clenched between his teeth and slash through the ropes binding his adoptive son. He had only one mission: save Law, take him out alive, and stay out of the fight.

“Law, hang on, you idiot!”

Law all but collapsed into his arms, his weight surprising Rosinante, who clutched him tighter, desperate to feel that he was still in one piece. Viola rushed to their side, her small frame spreading itself like a frail shield in front of them.

“Cora… you… I’m sorry—” Law’s voice broke, his eyes blurred with tears and exhaustion.

“Shhh. Talk later,” Rosinante whispered, his tone firm, though his hand still trembled against the boy’s back.

“Doflamingo, your reign of terror ends tonight. Dressrosa will be freed—here and now.”

Doflamingo’s eyes narrowed when he realized the woman who had shared his bed, his nights, was nothing more than a traitor. Just like his brother, she would never bend to him.

Katakuri stepped forward, his shadow spilling across the floor like a tidal wave. He planted himself in front of the group, immovable, his crimson gaze locking on Doflamingo.
“You’ll never lay a hand on either of them again. I swear it on my honor.”

With a single brutal motion, he sent the first line of guards crashing away, his colossal body cutting through them like a storm. Chaos detonated in the chamber—Luffy charging head-on, Katakuri tearing through the enemy ranks, Rosinante shielding Law and Viola with his own body, ready to take any strike meant for them.

The room became a battlefield. Steel clashed, wood splintered, screams shook the walls.

Pica, massive and snarling, burst from the side, a huge axe in his hands. His shrill, grating voice cut through the noise:
“You won’t pass!”

Katakuri didn’t answer. His cold eyes fixed on him, fists rising like anvils. Pica charged, bellowing as he swung down the axe—but Katakuri caught the blade in his bare hands, muscles corded tight. The chamber shook with the impact. They matched in size, in raw force. A clash of titans.

“You’re nothing but an insect with a squeaky voice,” Katakuri growled, hurling Pica against the shattered table. Their duel erupted—one relying on armed brutality, the other on sheer, brutal precision.

On the other side, Luffy hurled himself straight at Doflamingo. The man in the pink coat sneered, flashing a thin blade and a gun.
“So this is how you’ve decided to settle our family disputes, Cora?” he mocked, sidestepping the boy’s first charge.

“I won’t let you hurt my friends!” Luffy roared, his fist slamming into Doflamingo’s torso with bone-rattling force, using nothing but raw will and scraps of wood. Doffy staggered back a step, laughter twisting into a cold snarl.

Meanwhile, Rosinante dragged Law and Viola into the shadow of a fallen column.
“Viola, find Usopp!” he barked. She nodded, darting away despite the chaos.

He propped Law against the stone, his hands trembling as he ripped his own shirt to press against the boy’s bleeding wounds.

“Rosi…” Law’s voice cracked, thick with pain and guilt.

“Don’t talk.” Rosi leaned close, blond strands plastered to his sweaty forehead. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

He clenched his jaw, forcing a smile through the rage tearing at him. His hands were clumsy, bloody, but he kept working, patching Law as though stitching up his own heart.

“You know, kid…” His voice faltered. “I’ve never been good at protecting anyone. My whole life’s been a disaster of failed sacrifices. I’ve failed more times than I can count. But you… you, I’ll never let you fall. Don’t waste this chance. Don’t become me.”

A warmth Law hadn’t felt in years flooded his chest. Shame twisted inside him—he’d wanted to save everyone, yet here he was, being saved again. His trembling fingers clutched Rosi’s sleeve, refusing to let go.
“You already saved me… more than you’ll ever know. Without you, I wouldn’t even be here. I never would’ve met my friends. My life—everything I have—I owe it to you,” he whispered, throat tight.

Rosinante cupped his cheek, a soft smile cutting through the storm around them.
“As long as I breathe, you’ll never be alone again. Never.”

Law’s vision blurred, lips quivering with words he couldn’t form. He’d lived through genocide, the deaths of his parents, his sister, his whole world—but for the first time in years, he felt like a child again. Safe.

A sharp crack shattered the fragile moment. Vergo had crept close, weapon raised. Instinct drove Rosinante forward, throwing himself in front of Law. The bullet grazed his shoulder, tearing a cry from his throat, but he held his ground.

Staggering, but unbroken, he rose again, eyes burning with fierce resolve.
“You’ll have to go through me before you touch him.”

The battle still raged all around. Katakuri absorbed Pica’s blows, returning them with devastating counterstrikes—unable to come to Corazon’s side, his chest tightening with a fury he forced down. Luffy, panting, pushed back against Doflamingo’s, their shouts and steel clashes echoing.

But at the heart of it all, Rosinante stood tall, arms spread wide like a human shield in front of Law.

Luffy faltered, his breath ragged, every inhale a stab of pain. His fists were raw, scraped bloody from hammering against Doflamingo’s steel-like body.

Doffy laughed, blood trickling from the corner of his lips.
“Fufufu… You’re just a brat. What did you expect?”

With a vicious swing, he sent Luffy crashing against a pillar. The thud cracked stone, and the boy slumped to his knees, arms trembling.

“Luffy!” Rosinante cried, powerless, Vergo’s grip crushing his wrists as he tried to hold him back. Too strong—Vergo dwarfed him in raw strength. Rosi fought, desperate, but it wasn’t enough. Law, summoning the last dregs of his strength, shoved Vergo back, even unarmed, forcing him away to give his father air.

Doflamingo loomed closer, blade raised, ready to finish the idealistic parasite.

A roar split the air.

Pica’s body flew across the room, crashing like a broken doll. Behind him, Katakuri emerged, blood streaking his torso but unbothered, his chest heaving like a beast. His eyes were pure ice, his presence monstrous, almost inhuman.

“Doffy,” he rumbled, voice deeper than thunder. “You won’t touch him either.”

Doflamingo froze, a flicker of doubt twisting his grin. He was smart enough to know—facing that brute head-on was suicide.

Katakuri grabbed Luffy’s shoulder, hauling him upright with one massive arm.
“You still standing?” he asked flatly.

Luffy, gasping, raised his head. A bloody, exhausted grin spread across his face.
“Yeah… I can still fight…”

Katakuri’s eyes glinted with a flicker of respect. He stepped in front of him, a living wall.

Doflamingo’s teeth clenched.
“You think you can stop me? You’re nothing but Big Mom’s dog, obeying her orders. The opposite of my brother—just a puppet. Do you even know who you’re supposed to fight? Do you even see the irony—traitor and slave standing side by side?”

He lunged, blade first. But this time he didn’t hit a boy on his last breath. His strike met Katakuri’s forearm—stopped dead, the giant unmoving.

“You talk too much,” the colossus muttered.

His fist shot forward, fast as a hammer, smashing into Doflamingo’s face with a sickening thud. The fallen king staggered, blood splattering across his pink coat, his glasses cracking under the blow.
Behind him, Luffy wavered on his feet but clenched his fists again, courage surging at the sight of such an unexpected ally.
“We’ll get him, Katakuri! Together!”

The two of them charged side by side—one staggering but unbroken, the other towering and relentless. Every strike Doflamingo threw met a wall; every opening was punished, either by Katakuri’s crushing fists or Luffy’s ferocious persistence.

For the first time, Doffy’s arrogance faltered. His grin wavered, tightening into a grimace. The tide had turned. Katakuri and Luffy were striking as one.
And just when victory seemed within reach—Law’s voice cracked through the chaos, betraying them.

“Cora!”

Both Katakuri and Luffy spun around. Time froze.
There, under Vergo’s massive fist, Rosinante lay sprawled across the stone, his face already slick with blood, one tooth missing, his skull slammed against the floor. Law, weak and trembling, screamed himself hoarse, powerless to move, powerless to stop it. He had seen too much suffering already in his short life. And now, forced to watch helplessly again, it ripped him open like a child trapped in sickness.

Something inside Katakuri shattered.

His eyes widened, pupils contracting in a shock of raw pain. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, Doflamingo ceased to exist.
There was only Rosinante. Broken. Beaten.

“Rosi…” Katakuri’s voice cracked, raw.

And then something snapped.
Hadn’t he been raised to be a perfect weapon? Fine. Then that’s exactly what he would become.

He abandoned Doflamingo mid-fight and tore toward Vergo—the enemy he had wanted to crush from the moment he stepped foot in the castle.
It wasn’t strategy anymore. It was animal violence. He left Luffy behind, forgetting the mission itself.

“NO! Get back here, Kata—!” Luffy shouted, reaching out.

But Doflamingo was already back on his feet, blood dripping from his mouth, his glasses cracked, and a wide grin splitting his face.
“Fufufu… love makes you weak. Too bad for you.”

His kick slammed into Luffy’s gut, launching him into the wall. Stone cracked with the impact, and Luffy crumpled to his knees, arms shaking.

Law staggered forward, every step a torment. In a desperate surge of will—or perhaps his endless curse of self-sacrifice—Rosinante’s bloodied hand reached for Law’s arm.

“Go… help him… doctor.” His voice was ragged, muffled with blood.

It broke Law’s heart further, but he obeyed—because if it was Cora’s will, he had no choice.
“Move… Luffy…” he hissed through clenched teeth.

His legs shook, but they carried him. “I can’t… let you die, idiot…” His trembling hands pressed to Luffy’s injuries, the doctor in him refusing to yield even as Doflamingo drew closer, himself bloodied but regaining ground.

Katakuri didn’t hear a thing.
Not the shouts, not the clash of blades, not even the pain in his own flesh. There was only that image—Rosinante sprawled in blood.

A roar tore from his throat as he crashed into Vergo. His fists fell like meteors, each strike rattling the walls, each impact turning flesh and bone into pulp.

“YOU DARED TO TOUCH HIM!”
BAM.
“YOU MADE HIM BLEED!”
BAM.
“YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD CRUSH HIM?!”
BAM. BAM. BAM.

The stones cracked, drowned in blood. Vergo, long unconscious, couldn’t even scream anymore. His face was unrecognizable, nothing left but a mangled ruin. But Katakuri didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was gone—lost to something inhuman, something monstrous, exactly what his mother had always wanted him to be.

He kept swinging. As if every strike could erase the memory of Rosinante broken on the floor. As if breaking Vergo into dust could silence the unbearable ache in his chest. As if violence could rewrite reality.

His fists split open, his knuckles cracking, blood mixing with blood. But Katakuri didn’t stop. Rage and terror drove him. Terror of having almost lost the one thing that was finally his.

And then…
In a final twitch of defiance, Vergo’s trembling hand reached up, clawing weakly at whatever it could catch. His fingers latched onto Katakuri’s scarf.

But Katakuri didn’t notice. He was blind, deaf, consumed. His fists kept falling, even as the fabric tightened at his throat, cutting off his breath.

From the ground, Rosinante stirred, vision blurred, consciousness struggling back. He saw the scene through a red haze. His heart twisted.
Katakuri—his Katakuri—the giant he knew to be so disciplined, so proud, was destroying himself in a frenzy of hatred.

That man was so emotional, Cora thought dimly. So repressed, so convinced he was nothing but a weapon. A soldier. A tool.
And now, finally living for someone, Katakuri was burning alive in feelings he didn’t know how to control.

He wasn’t meant to become the monster others demanded of him. Not for her, not for anyone.

Rosinante saw the scene through a red haze as consciousness clawed its way back. His heart twisted. Katakuri—his Katakuri, the giant he had always known to be so dignified—was destroying himself in a rage he had never let free before. That man was so emotional, Rosi thought dimly. He had repressed everything for so long, living only for orders, only for what others told him he should be. He had only just begun to live for himself these past few days. He couldn’t fall into this—he couldn’t become the monster everyone expected him to be. He wasn’t that. Corazon knew it.

“Kata… stop…” he whispered, but the other didn’t hear. Suddenly, Rosinante’s focus shifted to his brother, and the two desperate teenagers still fighting for their lives.

Shit… at this rate, he won’t last until the end. He had to make a diversion, even if it meant letting his husband spiral deeper into his rage. Choosing between Katakuri and Law—he hated it, but he was no longer alone. Even through the fog of half-consciousness, he knew Katakuri could be trusted. That was why he strat to loved him.

So he forced himself up, staggering, and moved toward the two struggling boys. Time to finally settle accounts with Doflamingo.

Katakuri, meanwhile, heard nothing but the hammering of his own heart. Each beat screamed a single name: Rosinante.
Every punch he threw was for him.
Every ounce of fury was born from the fear of losing him.
Every drop of blood proved how much he loved him—too much to ever say out loud.

But the scarf was slipping loose, inch by inch, and he didn’t even notice.

Doflamingo, his pink coat stained with blood, watched with a cruel smile, catching Vergo’s last act of defiance. The massive moon framed him through the shattered window, casting him in a divine silhouette. But Rosi knew better. He was no god—just a demon.

And when Doffy slammed his fist against Law’s arm, the crack of pain was enough to rip a scream from the boy’s throat. It sounded like his bones were about to snap apart.

Rosinante’s heart made the choice for him. He stepped between his brother and his son.

The monster here isn’t Katakuri, Rosi thought bitterly. It’s Doflamingo. Always Doffy—the wolf dressed in silk.

He clenched his teeth against the pain crushing his skull and ribs. Law was trying to tend to Luffy even with his mangled arm, his tearful eyes begging his father not to do this, not to throw his life away again. But Rosi knew he had no choice. His son’s arm was so damaged he couldn’t even feel his fingers anymore.

So Rosinante had to hold on. Long enough. Strong enough. Long enough to draw Doffy’s gaze away from those two exhausted boys and wait for the final signal. He had no weapon, no money, nothing left to offer but his own life. And Katakuri would hate him forever for such a stupid choice.

One step. His legs nearly buckled.
Another step.
And then a smile—soft, almost childlike—spread across his broken teeth. He moved into his brother’s line of sight, forcing Doflamingo’s attention on him.

“You know… Doffy…” His voice cracked, but he forced a light tone. “You always loved the moon when we were kids. It was the only comfort we had in our poverty. You used to say that in its light, everything looked richer, more beautiful… even our filthy slums.”

Silence fell. Only Luffy’s ragged breathing, Katakuri’s dull roars as he tore Vergo apart, and the faint clash of battles elsewhere filled the air.

Doflamingo arched a brow, his smile twitching. He turned his full attention on his brother, pistol in hand, the moonlight pouring over them through the ruined window.

“You still remember that? What a surprise. You, my traitor of blood. You’ve always run from me since Father’s death. I could feel it—you weren’t the same anymore. His death was justified; he was a fool, an idealist. And look at you—repeating his mistakes. Father’s weakness with Mother’s face. What a waste.”

Rosinante straightened, his eyes glinting with moonlight.
“I never wanted to run from you. I only wanted us to stop. Stop hating. Stop burning everything down. You decapitated him—how could I not turn away from you after that? You think we’re cursed, Doffy… but look at me. I’m still here. Despite everything. Unlike you, I didn’t choose hatred and corruption as excuses for my pain. I faced it. I embraced it.”

Doflamingo’s laugh was sharp, cruel, but less steady than before.
“And you think that matters? You worked as a cop, an infiltrator, against your own family. Which of us is more rotten? Look around you, Rosi. Everything I touch, I break. I tried to make a family because you never fit my expectations.”

The blond dropped his gaze briefly, fists trembling, then raised his face again. His amber eyes burned with fragile, unshakable resolve.
“Maybe. But if I have to be broken, then I’d rather break standing between you and them.”

For a heartbeat, Doflamingo froze. His smile twitched, his fingers trembled on the trigger.
Behind him, the moon loomed, a silent witness to this fraternal tragedy.

Law, pinned on the ground, felt his chest split apart. Rosi—his protector, his savior—was ready to throw himself away yet again.

“You think a little light can save a monster?” Doffy sneered. “Everyone in this room is monstrous. Your selfish son wasted the second chance life gave him. You? You’re monstrous for betraying your own brother, your only purpose in life. Me? I’m monstrous because I forced every choice on you when you were under my thumb. We’re all monsters here. But if you want my opinion, the worst of us all… is that guard dog you call a husband.”

In the shadows, Katakuri stirred. His breathing was ragged, his body trembling with adrenaline, fists split and dripping blood. Slowly, he rose, crimson eyes locking on Doflamingo with icy intensity. He understood now exactly who he was facing. And who he had to protect.

“…If you so much as raise a hand against him… I swear…” Katakuri’s voice was a growl, every word trembling with contained rage. He knew he might be about to watch the only person worth anything to him die.

Doflamingo faltered, just a step, caught off guard by the raw force behind the warning. He feared Katakuri. But he also knew the giant couldn’t act—not with Cora out of reach.

“Katakuri… wait!” Rosinante pleaded, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Don’t do anything… please… not now…”
His gaze drowned in the long lashes of the other man, and he remembered the time he had once complimented him on his eyes—and he was grateful to have been able to do it one last time.

“What? You think I’m lying when I say he’s the most monstrous one, little brother? Fufufu…”
Doflamingo seized his brother’s face in his powerful hands, gripping it so hard Rosi grimaced, and forced him to look straight at Katakuri.
“The true monster here isn’t me, no matter what your simple mind tells you. It’s the son of that vile woman, born incapable of real emotion, raised on nothing but violence and strength like a weapon. The real monster is that disgusting son—the one you share your bed with at night.”

As if on cue, in one final, desperate spasm, Vergo—half-dead and barely conscious—threw himself to the ground. His fingers clawed at Katakuri’s scarf, yanking with the last shred of strength left in his body.

The fabric slipped. It fell away.
And Katakuri’s face was suddenly bare—exposed not only to his enemy, but to his husband.

The face he had hidden every single day of his life.
The face he had only ever wanted to preserve for himself, revealed in the worst, most brutal way.
But Katakuri didn’t even realize it. Blinded by the terror of losing Rosinante, he couldn’t care less. His most guarded secret was stripped away, and all he could think of was Corazon.

The most important thing in his life had always been protecting his face. But now, with Rosinante in danger, that mask meant nothing. His attention, his mind, his very heart knew only one name: Rosinante. Everything else—even his own life—was nothing compared to that absolute priority.

His Corazon. His heart.

The features usually hidden beneath his scarf and mantle appeared in full, unforgiving light.
A hard jaw. Cheekbones taut with tension. Skin carved with two enormous scars that tore the corners of his lips apart, splitting his face in ways that must once have been agonizing. His left side, permanently exposed from the wound that had ripped his mouth, bared his teeth—teeth strangely sharper than normal, giving him a monstrous air. And his eyes, a deep rose-red framed by long dark lashes, trembled with worry so raw it seemed unreal.

To Rosinante, despite the scars, despite the harshness, despite the fatigue etched into his face—there was something stunning in his expression. Fierce, and yet so vulnerable. For the blond, in that instant, Katakuri became more human than ever.

Rosinante froze, unable to look away. He had never imagined Katakuri like this: beautiful in a raw, imperfect, painfully human way. The fear in his eyes made him softer, more fragile. Rosi’s heart thundered. The truth struck him like lightning: this was the face he wanted to see for the rest of his life. Not the mask, not the shame, not the rumor of monstrosity—this face, fragile and sincere. He wanted to hear this man’s laughter, see this man’s smile, for as long as he lived.

His eyes shone with admiration and tenderness, and the words slipped out, unstoppable even in the urgency of the moment—the only thing Corazon could think of:

“You’re beautiful.”

Silence.
Time itself seemed to stop, their gazes locked together, drinking each other in.

Doflamingo immediately realized his ploy—his cruel attempt to ruin what intimacy they had—had failed. His brother had already slipped from his grasp, bound irrevocably to the human feelings he despised. Too attached. Too in love. Too lost in the illusion of what he dared call love. Just like with Law. Too human.

“Tch… you’re just like Father,” Doflamingo spat, a cruel grin twisting his face as he raised his gun.

Katakuri’s insides knotted. He was ready to leap, to throw everything away, even his own heart, to shield Rosinante. neither of them had been able to confess to the other.

But it was too late.

Luffy and Law screamed, their cries tearing through the night.

And then—
One single gunshot split the air, echoing against the broken window and the full moon.

_____________

 

Chapter Text

The moon was at its zenith.
Katakuri hurled himself forward, his arms closing around Rosinante with the desperate fury of a man willing to defy fate itself. He crushed him to his chest as though holding the most precious treasure of his life. His heart had nearly torn itself apart when he heard the gunshot. Images of the worst atrocities had assaulted his mind, his whole body trembling at the thought of Corazon bleeding out in his arms. Yet his hands were clean, and when he dared to look at the body beneath him, no blood, no mortal wound revealed itself.

Rosinante was unharmed.
Glass shattered into a rain of diamonds in the dark, Katakuri’s broad back shielding him as shards drove into his flesh without leaving visible damage. The bullet had not struck Rosinante. Instead, it had flown from farther away and lodged itself in Doflamingo’s shoulder, hurling him to the ground—bleeding, furious at his failure. Katakuri realized then: Doflamingo had not been the one to fire.

High above, perched on a rooftop in Dressrosa, bathed in moonlight and guided by Viola’s sharp eyes and knowledge of the palace, Usopp screamed in triumph.
“Bull’s-eye! Sniper Usopp to the rescue! Rosinante was right at the window we planned for! Genius! Pure genius!”

“It’s over,” Viola whispered, her voice trembling.

Suddenly, silence fell upon the palace. Nothing remained but ragged breaths and thunderous heartbeats. Doflamingo spat one last curse before finally losing consciousness.
“You… I… wasn’t the target…” His words broke apart, and he collapsed instantly.

Katakuri trembled, on the verge of panic, refusing to release Rosinante, horrified by how close he had come to losing him. His heart pounded too fast, too violently—it was agony.It was the first time he felt so pathetic. He had been so afraid. Never before had he felt such helplessness, such terror. The idea of losing that smile, that man, that fragile universe he had come to love in silence chilled him to the bone. Never again. He would never let him go again, never expose him to such danger, never consign him to this wretched life of mafia and blood. Never again would he silence what his heart screamed before he had the chance to confess it. He should keep him away from all this..

Luffy, battered and bleeding, raised a triumphant fist and clapped Law on the shoulder, drawing a hiss of pain as the boy’s arm hung in a terrible state.
“We did it, Traffy! Hahaha! Your plan worked! You’re a genius!”

Law collapsed to his knees, one hand hiding a smile drowned in tears. He was exhausted, far too young to endure such torment and fear, blood streaming from his arm. Yet even so, his attention turned instantly to the two great men on the ground.
“Cora… are you alright?” he asked, voice trembling.

Rosinante forced a smile, drawing breath, raising one hand in a sign of victory while still held tight in Katakuri’s arms like a child’s toy.
“If neither Vergo or Doffy managed to kill me tonight… then maybe it’ll be Katakuri’s hug that finally finishes me off.”

Katakuri panicked, loosening his grip but never letting go. Without his scarf, every emotion lay bare across his face. His eyes shimmered, almost wet—for a man of his stature, it was heartbreakingly endearing. And Rosinante, despite his exhaustion and blood loss, flushed scarlet, turning his gaze away—Katakuri was too handsome to bear.

“You terrified me,” the colossus breathed, unable to mask the crack in his voice. “Never risk your life like that again… it was unbearable. I never want to feel that again. promise ?”

Rosinante burst into laughter, moved by such clumsy vulnerability. Katakuri, the iron wall, had turned into an emotional storm, unable to conceal the intensity of his attachment. That raw sincerity was achingly sweet.

And still Katakuri clung to him, unable to restrain the thing he had no name for. He needed the physical contact, needed the proof that Rosinante was here, alive, in his arms.
“I am not made for begging,” he murmured, low and tense. “But if it’s about you, I’ll beg again and again. Because without you… I have nothing left. So I beg you—even if I look pathetic—never gamble your life like this again. Please.”

Rosinante’s face flamed, heat rising to his ears. To hear Katakuri—this giant of a man, this silent lover, this indestructible fortress—beg, openly and without shame, was unbearably sexy… and in his exhaustion, in his blood-loss haze, indecently alluring. If such pleas were the reward, he would fight the same battle again and again, just to hear them once more.

He turned his gaze away, dizzy with this new closeness. Everything about Katakuri felt overwhelming: the raw strength of his arms refusing to release him, the steadying scent of his skin, and that face… that uncovered face, laid bare in spite of him, a face Rosinante had never thought he’d see—those full lips, never claimed.

Rosinante’s heart thundered so violently he feared Katakuri would hear it. He pressed his lips together, struggling to regain composure, refusing to yield to the fever clouding his mind. For despite the delicious turmoil within him, he also saw the pain in Katakuri’s eyes, the fear that had stripped him so bare—all because of him.
“I’m sorry… but it was worth it. Dressrosa is finally free. My mission is complete,” he said, carefully avoiding Katakuri’s beautiful lips.

“Why are you so red?” Katakuri asked, worried, his hand brushing Rosinante’s scratched forehead. “Do you have a fever? Is it from your wounds?” His voice trembled with concern.

Rosinante wanted to vanish—or light a cigarette, whichever came first. He turned his eyes away, caught out.
“No, no… I’m fine. It’s just—you look very handsome like this,” he admitted softly.

Katakuri froze as if struck by lightning, suddenly aware that his face was exposed. In a rush, he slapped his hands over his mouth in adorable panic before scrambling to recover his scarf, caught between embarrassment and worry. Damn it—he had been uncovered all this time! How had he not realized?!

Rosinante, lying back, amused by the sight, felt his breath grow shorter as his eyes drifted to the broken figure of his brother. In that instant, a savage fury seized Katakuri. He rose, trembling with the urge to finish off the man sprawled at his feet, to strike him again and again until nothing about him would hint at the blood he shared with Corazon. This traitor — to his family, his brother, the Charlottes — deserved no mercy.

Yet the killing intent evaporated as a fragile weight pressed against him. Corazon had drawn him into an embrace, his breath shallow, a thread of blood escaping his lips from a broken tooth. The sight snapped Katakuri back to the reality of the body in his arms. All at once, his focus shifted; the rage that had driven him ebbed, replaced by the raw need to protect.

“Stay with me, Kata ” the request was both physical and metaphorical. The plea cut through him like a blade. At those words, he obeyed, his hands stilling. He did not kill Doflamingo — an act of restraint that would haunt him for a long time to come.

Doflamingo lay collapsed, his cruel smile extinguished, shoulder pierced, unconscious at last. A king dethroned—not by sheer force, but by the love he had mocked, the humanity he had despised.

Rosinante turned his head, blond hair in disarray, clinging to his face, and spoke with a trembling voice:
“Law… heal him a little. He must not die.” He gestured toward Doflamingo.

Law grimaced, furious. “Not a chance!”

His eyes blazed, torn between the desire to let the man who had ruined his childhood rot in agony, and the command of the one who had saved his life again and again. His hands shook, poised to refuse outright. But Rosinante, wounded and exhausted though he was, fixed him with that gentle yet firm gaze—that gaze that brooked no denial. The difference between them and Doflamingo was their humanity. That, they could not forget.

Before Law could argue, heavy footsteps echoed through the ruined corridors of the palace. The door burst open: the rest of the crew stormed in, covered in blood and dust. Usopp, still trembling from his miraculous shot, staggered forward, supporting young Bepo with Nami’s help, bepo arm in a sling. Penguin and Shachi stumbled in after them, while Sanji dragged behind him Zoro—bloodied, but still standing, blades in hand.

And then… a massive silhouette emerged from the shadows: Eustass Kidd. His new metal arm glistened beneath the moonlight, grinding with every movement. His wild, arrogant eyes swept across the scene until they settled on Doflamingo’s unconscious body.
“Tch… didn’t waste any time, did you? You could’ve waited for me to have some fun,” he sneered with a feral grin.

Luffy, leaning on Law, managed a faint smirk despite his battered state. “We got him… together.”

But amidst the uproar, Katakuri still refused to loosen his hold. Rosinante, trapped against him, could feel the thunder of his heart pounding against the giant’s chest. Katakuri, despite the presence of the others, showed no intention of letting go. His usual restraint was gone—as if every second he clung to Rosinante was proof that he was alive, that none of this was an illusion.

________

A few hours later, the halls of Dressrosa’s palace were nothing but a field of ruins. The moon still hung high, the night not yet over. Silence, at last, returned—broken only by the steady footsteps of the reinforcements arriving on the scene.

The blue uniforms of the local police—led by Fujitora himself—surrounded the grounds under Sengoku’s command, dragging Doflamingo unconscious, his wrists locked in reinforced cuffs. His flamboyant pink-feathered coat was torn, stained with blood and dust. The shadow of Dressrosa’s king was finally extinguished.

Fujitora, cane in hand, inclined his head slightly toward the small group of survivors, his white eyes hidden behind closed lids.
“You have accomplished what justice itself could not. From here, let us carry the burden.”

“In the name of my father, the Riku royal family, and all the lost souls…” the entire royal family bowed low before the small band of outlaws, followed by the freed people of Dressrosa, a human tide of prostration before the ruined palace.

“We thank you from the depths of our souls.”
In the streets, the people celebrated. The police rounded up Joker’s allies, while Morgans pushed himself to the front, already hungry for stories for his paper.

No further words came from the police. They withdrew, Doflamingo in their custody, and an odd stillness settled in the shattered throne room.

Inside, each survivor tended to their wounds as best they could with the help of a few doctors. Makeshift bandages were slowly replaced by more precise treatment from the rare medics the police had brought, along with Law’s talents—though his own arm was encased in plaster, nearly lost if not for the first aid he had applied to himself. A long scar would remain.

Luffy was already snoring in a corner, a satisfied grin plastered across his bruised face. Usopp, still euphoric from his shot, repeated for the hundredth time, “Right on target!” to anyone willing to listen—until Sanji, acting as Zoro’s unwilling pillow, silenced him with a sharp, ironic remark. Kidd sat apart, scowling as he examined his new arm, though a smirk of pride tugged at his lips. With Joker’s fall, Killer would finally be freed of his addiction—the end of Doflamingo meant the end of SMILE.

At last, calm settled over the ruins of the palace. Rosinante, leaning against a wall, still held Law close. The young man had refused to move away, too anxious that a single blink might steal Cora-san from him again. Yet his dark eyes kept sliding toward Katakuri, seated across from them, arms crossed, keeping watch like a sentinel over his husband.

Every time the giant’s gaze flicked toward Rosinante—and a faint smile softened the blond’s tired face—Law felt a sharp, unpleasant pang in his chest.

He muttered through clenched teeth, barely audible:
“…I don’t like this.”

“Hm?” Rosinante looked down at him.

Law jerked his chin upward, black eyes sparking.
“Him.” He nodded toward Katakuri, his tone ice-cold. “Hovering around you like… like you’re actually married.”

Katakuri raised an eyebrow, voice calm. “I’m sitting two meters away.”

“Too close,” Law shot back instantly, tongue sticking out like a twelve-year-old.

Rosinante’s eyes widened, torn between laughter and exasperation. “Law… are you serious? After everything we’ve just survived, this is what bothers you?! He saved our lives!”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Law’s tone cracked like a blade.

Katakuri tilted his head slightly, curious as a predator, then answered evenly:
“You don’t need to worry. I’m not going to steal your Corazon, you rude little brat.”

Rosinante, mid-sip, choked, nearly spitting into his sleeve.
“Excuse me?!”

Law’s eyes went wide. “MY—?! He’s not mine! And he’s not yours either, for the record!”

Katakuri blinked slowly, then shrugged his broad shoulders. “Perhaps not… but by law, he belongs to me, and I to him. That’s what our union dictates. So no—he’s technically more affiliated with me than with you.”

“With you?!” Law nearly leapt from his chair, forgetting his wounds, veins standing out on his forehead. “What the hell do you mean, ‘with you’?!”

Katakuri didn’t flinch, crimson eyes locked on the teenager. “Exactly what you think. Everything that a marriage contract implies.”

Infuriated, Law dove headfirst into the provocation. He ripped off his shirt, baring his chest.

Kidd, seated nearby, burst out laughing and whistled like a spectator at an impromptu strip show.
“Damn, Trafalgar, you sure know how to entertain.”

Rosinante nearly fainted. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets as he saw the tattoo sprawled across Law’s chest and arms: a great heart, crowned by a clumsily etched smile.

“WHAT?!” The blond nearly collapsed, a cigarette slipping from his trembling lips. “Since when do you have a tattoo?!”

Law puffed out his chest, proud. “Maybe the law says he has you—but me? I’ve got you carved straight into my skin, Cora-san!”

“WHAT KIND OF NONSENSE IS THAT?!” Rosinante clutched at his hair in disbelief. “When did you even do that?! That’s irresponsible! You didn’t even ask my permission!”

Law turned toward him with a tender, almost childlike look.
“…It’s a tribute. For you, Cora-san. I owe you my life. Don’t you like it?”

Rosinante froze, torn between pride, emotion, and the urge to shake him senseless. His heart squeezed tight—this boy was so devoted, he had branded his very skin for him. It was beautiful, but also… incredibly foolish.
“I… I… We’ll talk about this when I’m calmer!” he stammered, cheeks burning red.

“See? I’m the one who loves him more,” Law teased, a provocative smile curling his lips.

Katakuri fell into the childish trap without meaning to, his eyes flashing with quiet amusement. But before he could respond, Rosinante raised both hands in surrender, overwhelmed:
“Enough! Both of you, enough! Not here, not now! Law, you and I are going to have a very, very long discussion. And you—cover that tattoo! The other idiot is staring!”

Kidd, howling with laughter, slammed a fist on the table.
“I love this kid! Seriously, Rosi, don’t let him hang around me too much i don't what other trouble we can make together”

But Law, sulking, clung stubbornly to his Cora-san’s sleeve ignoring the other.
“You don’t love him, right? Right, Cora the Charlotte’s son? Now that Doffy’s down, you can divorce—you know that.”

Rosinante turned toward the window to hide his smile, hardly able to believe the scene. His “son,” jealous like a child, Katakuri unshakable, Kidd gleefully stoking the fire… It was absolute madness. But deep down, he didn’t want it to stop.
Good grief… after all this carnage, this is what’s on their minds? he thought, fond despite himself, trying not to think about divorce, exhaustion weighing him down too heavily.

Law hissed through clenched teeth, jaw tight with anger and pain:
“By the way, brute—know that Doflamingo’s been sniffing around where you live, for some reason I can’t fathom. If I were you, I’d make sure everything’s alright.”

At those words, Katakuri felt a sharp twist of unease he hadn’t expected. He had never truly shared his “home”—that tightly locked place, known only to a select few—out of fear that any weakness might drag his family into chaos. The idea that Doflamingo might have been investigating his addresses made his shoulders tense at once.

Without hesitation, his massive fingers moved deftly across his phone. He despised panic, but knew when to act. In a clipped voice, he dictated:
“Cracker—watch over Brûlée and the siblings. Double the patrols around the district. No action unless there’s a clear sign. Call me at the first hint of trouble.”

There was no exaggeration in his tone—just the crisp command of a man who knew how to organize defense like a battle line. Rosinante, still reeling from the tattoo scene and the storm of emotions from the day, watched him with a mix of admiration and worry.

Suddenly, Viola appeared, accompanied by young Princess Rebecca. She bowed gracefully before the group.
“Honored heroes, the most luxurious chambers in the city are yours. May they serve as a humble recompense, but above all, grant you rest and healing for your wounds.”

At her words, the younger ones lit up with joy, bouncing like springs, already squabbling over who would claim which room.

A little apart from the others, Katakuri—despite his towering frame—grew timid. He wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many people. He stepped closer to Rosinante, still wrapped in bandages, and asked in a low voice:
“Do you remember… when I took that blow for you?”

Rosi’s lips curved into a tender smile, the memory feeling both distant and achingly close—just like that first night they had spent together, and the sight of Katakuri bare-chested, etched forever in his mind.
“Of course I remember…”

Katakuri lowered his eyes slightly, awkward like a shy boy.
“Then let me return the favor tonight. I want to take care of you.”

Rosinante’s heart leapt too fast. Overcome with joy at the thought of not sleeping alone, he blurted out, far too eagerly:
“Then we’ll share our room, in that case.”

The declaration dropped like a stone into silence—before Law immediately burst out, scandalized:
“No way! Absolutely not!!”

His outcry triggered laughter all around, especially from his comrades, always quick to tease him and his shameless jealousy.
“You two are not sleeping together without someone else keeping watch!”

Kidd, smirking, slung an arm around Law’s sore shoulders and chuckled darkly:
“Relax, Trafalgar. If you’re so upset about not sleeping with your Cora, you can always crash in my room. Plus letting someone watch them is risking voyeurism given their sexual intentions” He nipped suggestively at Law’s ear before the younger man jumped a full meter away.

“No way, absolutely not!” Rosinante exploded in turn—like father, like son.
“My boy is not sharing a room with some punk covered in tattoos, pierced ears, and shady business!”

A stunned silence followed… and then the entire hallway erupted into roaring laughter. Corazon himself became the punchline.

Law, red as a tomato, buried his face in his hands, dying of shame at his “father’s” over-the-top declaration.
“Speak for yourself!” he shouted back. “The only one guilty of that here is you, idiot! Let me remind you—your husband’s tattooed, pierced, and dresses in black leather covered in spikes!”

This time, the laughter doubled, everyone bent over at the look of horror dawning on Rosinante’s face, suddenly confronted with the embarrassing truth of his own choice of partner.

In the end, despite every protest, Law ended up sharing a room with Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin.

As for Rosinante and Katakuri, at last they found themselves alone, in a quiet chamber, far from battles, shouting, and chaos. For the first time in days, they could finally breathe. Just the two of them, wrapped in the precious calm of a night that was finally theirs.

The room, vast and richly decorated, glowed under a soft, dim light. Heavy curtains muffled nearly all outside noise, leaving only stillness and their uneven breaths, still ragged from so much turmoil.

Rosinante, seated on the edge of the bed, fumbled at his shoes, his hands trembling with exhaustion. Katakuri stood near the window in silence, visibly drained—both body and soul—by everything they had endured.

At last, the blond raised his eyes toward him, hesitant. His voice, weak but sincere, broke the quiet:
“I’m sorry, Kata…”

Katakuri turned slightly, surprised.
“Sorry? For what?”

Rosi clenched his fists on his knees, eyes lowered, heavy with frustration.
“For everything. I’ve never seen you like that before—you looked like you’d really lost yourself because of me… And Doflamingo, he stole that moment from you too. The moment of choice. You had the right to reveal your face when you wanted—not like that, not under pressure, not in front of everyone. It was your secret, your intimacy… and he trampled it. Doflamingo never cared for approval, or anyone’s consent.”

His fists tightened until his nails dug deep into his skin, nearly drawing blood. His eyes grew wet, but he lifted them, fixing Katakuri with disarming tenderness.
“And I hate that you didn’t get the chance to decide for yourself—at least for that, in your life.”

A heavy silence fell. Katakuri finally turned toward him, crimson eyes clouded, his breath uneven, almost trembling. He didn’t want to bring up the fit of rage he had suffered—not now. He was too ashamed, too afraid of frightening his Cora.

Slowly, each step echoing against the floor, he approached. Once in front of Rosinante, he laid a massive, hesitant hand on his shoulder.
“You stole nothing. You destroyed nothing. Believe me—tonight, for the first time in my life, I chose for myself.”

The giant lowered his gaze, a faint blush coloring his cheekbones.
“If anyone had to see… if anyone had to be the first… I’d rather it be you.”

Rosi froze, throat tightening under the weight of those words. A fragile, awkward smile broke across his lips.
“…You’re going to make me cry, you idiot.”

Katakuri turned his head aside, embarrassed, but his fingers tightened slightly on the blond’s shoulder—silent proof that he had no regrets.

Unable to resist the swell of emotion, Rosinante lifted a trembling hand and gently brushed the man’s scarred cheek.
“Thank you… for letting me see. Even if it wasn’t the way you planned.”

He was about to look away, still shaken, when suddenly Katakuri caught him with unexpected gentleness. His huge hands slid down to his hips before Rosi could process what was happening. Strong arms lifted him effortlessly from the bed, cradling him as if his weight were nothing, and set him down delicately across his muscular thighs, straddling him.

Being perched astride such a dangerously attractive man was too much for Rosinante’s poor heart. Honestly, he had already lost enough blood—now he was at risk of a nosebleed thanks to this socially inept brute.

“K-Katakuri…?” the blond stammered, cheeks flaring scarlet. Exhausted and overwhelmed, his mind failed to make sense of anything. The colossus, however, kept his gaze fixed on him—an intensity that silenced him completely.

Katakuri drew a slow, deep breath. His massive hands rested firmly at Rosinante’s waist, anchoring him there as if afraid he might vanish at any moment. His voice, low and rough, finally broke the quiet:
“Close your eyes.” he ordered.

Rosinante blinked, wide-eyed, hesitant.
“What… why?”

A faint smile curved over Katakuri’s scarred face beneath his scarf.
“Because this time, I want it to be me who decides. Not my family, not my mother. Not Doflamingo. Not fear. Not violence. Just me—choosing for my own life. So please… close your eyes.”

Rosinante’s heart leapt violently in his chest. Trembling, he obeyed, eyelids lowering as he nearly lost balance on the other’s lap. His breath came quick and shallow, as though awaiting a sentence.

Then, with a tenderness almost timid, Katakuri guided his smaller hands to his face. The blond’s fingers traced along the scars, brushing the roughness of the marks, the heat of his skin, the raw strength hidden beneath this newly revealed vulnerability.

“There…” Katakuri whispered. “This is me. Not the mask. Not the scarf. Just… me.”

Rosinante felt his heart explode in his chest. The texture of the scars, the strangely sharp teeth, the warmth radiating from him—it was raw, unvarnished… and achingly beautiful. A tear slipped from beneath his closed lashes, yet he smiled all the same.

“…You can’t imagine,” his voice trembled, “how breathtaking I find you.”

Katakuri froze, unsettled by words spoken so plainly, but the flush that spread across his cheeks betrayed him. His hands tightened faintly around Rosinante, holding him closer, as though hiding his own fragility.

In that embrace, he was no longer the ruthless warrior, nor the husband on paper, nor the masked man—only Katakuri, stripped bare in his truest self, finally choosing to be seen. And Rosinante, clumsy in his tenderness, received him as though he were a fragile, precious gift.

Katakuri kept Rosinante’s hands cupping his face, then exhaled softly, mustering what courage he had left after the fear of battle.
“You can open your eyes.”

Rosi obeyed slowly. The room seemed to grow quieter still, as if the air itself held its breath. Katakuri’s face was right there, unguarded, no scarf, no mask—offered. The scars cut two firm lines, his lips still held a fragile tension, and his eyes—that deep, pinkish red—met his with shy defiance.

Rosinante’s chest tightened, not from fear, but from the violent sweetness of truth: they were no longer strangers bound by paper. Something had shifted.

Katakuri didn’t move. He let himself be seen. He let Rosinante choose. His warm breath brushed against Rosi’s mouth, and his fingers, resting at the blond’s waist, trembled almost imperceptibly, as though silently asking: Is this okay? Do you accept me like this?

Rosinante said nothing. Words fluttered and vanished—gratitude, fear, joy, longing, the absurd happiness of seeing him like this. He thought of the arranged marriage, of plans, of accidents, of how none of this was supposed to resemble a meeting. And yet… everything in him screamed that this was real.

Without rushing, he slid his hands from Katakuri’s face down to his nape, nails just grazing the warm skin at the base of his short hair. He felt the giant shiver, heard the awkward swallow, the shortening breath. Rosi leaned in a fraction, just enough for their foreheads to touch. He closed and opened his eyes once, twice, fixing the moment in memory.

Then he kissed him. Their lips finally touched.

A chaste kiss, tender, suspended in time, lips only barely brushing.
Not hurried. Not forceful. Katakuri’s mouth was warm, softer than Rosinante had ever imagined, tinged with salt from exhaustion, with a faint sweetness that recalled messy kitchens and failed donuts. The massive body beneath him tensed instantly in shock, then yielded—not a surrender, but a deliberate opening—and Katakuri’s wide palms slid up his back, careful, holding him as though he were something priceless.

Rosi inhaled against his mouth, feeling the hesitation melt, the way Katakuri finally responded—so gently, as if terrified of crushing the moment. Their breaths fell into rhythm. The world outside the room faded. This had to be Katakuri’s first kiss; the thought only made Corazon’s heart plummet further, helplessly attached.

When they parted, it was only by a breath. Rosi’s forehead stayed pressed to his. He felt the giant’s heartbeat against his chest—steady, solid, grounding. Katakuri blinked, disoriented and soothed all at once, his cheeks touched with shy warmth.

Rosi smiled—a short, trembling, but genuine smile—and let his hands frame again the face he had just memorized. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. In his eyes lay everything: the gratitude of being chosen, the silent promise of staying, and the undeniable truth that their story was no longer just an arrangement.

Inside Katakuri, something snapped. He had just had his very first kiss. He had never allowed anyone to kiss him, to see him, to touch him like this. That rupture left only one need behind: he wanted more.

He crushed his mouth back onto the blond’s, hands clinging to his hips like those of a drowning man. Rosinante jerked in surprise, then immediately gave in, abandoning all logic.

Katakuri tasted of everything sweet he loved—cream, donuts, sugar—while Rosinante carried the faint tang of cold tobacco, strangely enticing.

The second kiss unraveled quickly. Rosinante was the first to part his lips, inviting the larger man, but the answer didn’t come. The blond had to push slightly, sending his tongue forward to guide him toward the kiss he wanted, with someone so unaccustomed. Katakuri caught on alarmingly fast: his enormous tongue pressed into Corazon’s mouth, claiming it, making the blond clutch desperately at his short violet hair. He felt as though he could choke on its sheer size.

The kiss devolved into something obscene—saliva, muffled breaths, light bites at Rosi’s lips. Katakuri had been right to be obsessed with them: they were full, plush, and every nibble dragged a sigh from the blond. He wanted to taste them again, next time painted with lipstick, wanted that red smeared all over his body. He only released him when breathlessness forced him.

Panting, spit trailing his chin, Rosinante was a flushed, trembling mix of need and desire. Their size difference, more glaring than ever, seemed to heighten his arousal—knowing a man like Katakuri, who could kill with a single hand, was kissing him so desperately only set him aflame further.

When Rosi finally drew in air, Katakuri moved to his neck. Overcome with hunger, he needed to mark him, to taste every inch of skin offered. That slender throat yielded quickly beneath his sharp teeth, faint marks blooming. Rosinante, noting dimly that he liked being bitten this way, barely stifled a moan when the first bite landed:

“Hmph!”

Katakuri froze instantly at the sound. He wanted to hear it again, to carve it into memory. He wanted more from the blond.

Breath ragged, he dove back in, devouring another patch of Rosinante’s neck, desperate to draw out that noise that tasted like honey in his ears. He ached to give him pleasure, to hear him moan again. His mouth sucked, licked, nipped the skin with eager restraint, for even in the heat of arousal, he refused to be rough—his touch carried an odd, gentlemanly softness.

Rosinante had long since lost his grip on restraint. His hips rocked back and forth against Katakuri’s thighs, chasing friction where he needed it most. That was when he felt it—the enormous bulge swelling against his partner’s trousers. He swallowed so loudly Katakuri heard it.

That cock, far too massive to be hidden, stretched and distorted the fabric, making its presence impossible to ignore. If that thing ever goes inside me, I’ll never recover… Rosinante thought, half-serious, half-amused. He could only stare; even for a man his size, he’d never seen such a gift.

His own desire, more modest in appearance but still well above average, caught Katakuri’s attention in return. The giant lifted his mouth from the blond’s neck, both their gazes dropping almost simultaneously to their straining erections, pressed against each other as Rosinante straddled him.

A silent accord passed between them before they fell back into a kiss—messier, hungrier than the ones before. Their mouths were nothing but spit and broken moans. Rosinante ground his hips against Katakuri’s, desperate for more friction.

Katakuri, for his part, felt his cock crying for release. Never in his life had he truly known this kind of primal need. But here, now, he would have given anything for time to stop—especially when Rosinante’s hand brushed over him through the fabric of his pants.

Fuck… his hand is so delicate compared to the size of my cock. If he held me properly—it would be a sight to burn into memory.

Driven by the thought, his hands roamed Corazon’s back. The blond arched into the touch, as if inviting him further. That curve of his body awakened a savage desire in Katakuri: the image of taking him from behind, watching him arch on all fours like a good boy.

The thought gave him the confidence he hadn’t yet found. As their kiss grew filthier and Rosinante’s grinding more insistent, his hands finally traveled down, bolder with each second. At last, his palms landed on the ass he had stolen countless glances at in silence—ass he’d stared at too long, too close, never daring to touch. Now it was his. He could feel it, firm, full, perfectly molded for his massive hands.

Katakuri grabbed greedily, squeezed, spread, kneaded—drunk on a sensation he had never dreamed of claiming. He could drown here, bury himself and never come back. Never in his life as a soldier had he allowed thoughts this perverse.

Rosinante’s moans spilled out louder, betraying the pleasure he could no longer contain. Katakuri, obsessed with the sound, drowned deeper in the contact, consumed by the need never to let go of this flesh in his grasp.

“I’ve wanted you for so long…” Katakuri confessed when their lips finally broke apart, a string of saliva still tethering them.
“I’m all yours.”

He nipped at Rosinante’s collarbone, then lifted him effortlessly, pressing his body against the nearest wall in raw desperation for more contact. The blond, delighted by how easily he was handled, leaned toward Katakuri’s pierced ear, nipping at the lobe, toying with the metal.

The giant’s cheeks ignited, a long groan slipping past his lips despite himself. He was sensitive there—far more than he liked to admit. He seemed to try suppressing the reactions he thought improper, but that only set Rosinante ablaze further.

“So damn cute… let me hear more,” Corazon breathed with a smirk, continuing his teasing while Katakuri smothered him with kisses.

But as Rosi clumsily fumbled with his shirt, eager to move forward, a sharp pain flared in his injured shoulder from the battle. His body stiffened involuntarily. Katakuri noticed instantly, freezing, then adjusting his grip to hold him more gently, terrified he had caused it.

“It’s nothing, we can keep going, really,” Corazon insisted, forcing a joking tone, far too aroused to want to stop.

He’d known worse—had endured encounters he hadn’t chosen, his body used as a tool too many times. A wound wouldn’t stop him now—not when he finally wanted this, wholly and freely. He leaned in for another kiss, but Katakuri lowered him gently to the floor.

Corazon lifted his head to protest, but the words caught in his throat: Katakuri had dropped to his knees, taking his hands in his own. The sight of the giant kneeling before him sent blood rushing to his face. The image alone filled his head with filth—how easily he could grab that hair, force him down, choke him on his cock—

Fuck… even on his knees he’s so tall. I’m already leaking, I can feel it dampening my underwear.

“I want to make you feel good, Corazon.” His voice trembled, almost desperate. “I want nothing more than to feel you, to hold you against my cock, to explore every inch of your body… to know how hot and tight you are inside. I want to fuck you until the only thing on your lips is my name.”

If Rosinante hadn’t already been losing his mind, that sealed it. Katakuri clearly had no filter when it came to sex—his raw, blunt honesty was lethal to the blond. He didn’t even seem aware of the effect.

“I don’t want you to give yourself to me while you’re hurt. I want you to feel good. To feel no pain—unless it’s pain you choose. I’ll do anything for you, to make you feel good… I’ll be a good boy for you. I’ve never wanted anyone this much in my life.”

“Woooah, slow down—haha, you—” Rosinante all but exploded, as if a cloud of smoke had burst above his head. Katakuri tilted his head, confused by the reaction.

“Do you realize you’re talking really dirty right now?” the blond laughed, flustered, half-amused, half-overwhelmed, nose nearly ready to bleed.

“Hm? What do you mean? what is that ? I just want to be a good boy for you and make you feel good.”

Rosinante nearly toppled backward.
“Katakuri! If you really don’t want us to fuck tonight, then stop talking like that—because I swear, I’m going to pounce on you if you keep it up!”

Still blushing fiercely, Corazon let his fingers intertwine with the giant’s, caught between embarrassment and fascination. Katakuri’s sheer presence scrambled his thoughts—every gesture, every breath, every look only fueled the heat building inside him.

“You’re… so damn cute,” he murmured, unable to look away from the massive hands holding his own, gentle and possessive at once.

Katakuri said nothing. He only leaned closer, his massive frame casting its shadow over Rosinante, their foreheads nearly brushing. Words weren’t necessary anymore—the closeness, the pounding of their hearts, the tension thick in the air said everything.

Rosinante let out a nervous laugh, then a long exhale, as though trying to muster the courage to be reasonable for the night. But instead, he leaned in, closing the distance, reaching instinctively for the warmth and safety only this giant could give. After a brief kiss, both of them realized quickly that the heat between their legs hadn’t disappeared—it burned fiercer than ever.
Rosinante’s fingers brushed over the massive bulge straining against Katakuri’s pants, unable to resist, desperate to know what it looked like.

Katakuri flushed crimson at the touch, instinctively covering himself with one huge hand as if he could hide the sheer size of his shaft.

“I… I’m sorry. This isn’t appropriate,” he stammered, suddenly looking so timid, as if he hadn’t whispered filthy things just moments earlier. This man was a mystery.

Rosinante burst out laughing.
“Why the hell are you apologizing? It’s normal. I’m hard too. I just… can’t compete with whatever you’ve got hiding down there.” He gestured awkwardly at Katakuri’s lower half. “That monster you call your… reproductive organ.”

Katakuri almost fell backward from the bluntness of the remark. Heat shot through his body, leaving him even more aroused—a blend of embarrassment and desire he couldn’t control. He realized, to his shameful delight, that he liked hearing Rosinante compliment him.

Mortified, his gaze darted to the bathroom, then back to Corazon. The blond, however, looked enchanted by the way Katakuri’s face betrayed everything—shyness, need, vulnerability. Without his scarf, he was so expressive, and it was devastatingly adorable. Rosinante’s chest ached with affection he couldn’t contain.

“Sorry to leave you like this… but I need to, uh, handle this. Maybe take a shower, calm down, sort myself out…”

“Without me?” Corazon teased.

Katakuri’s brain nearly melted under that laugh. His pride crumbled under the blond’s shameless teasing, and he bolted for the bathroom, red to the tips of his ears, unable to string together a coherent protest.

He locked the door, turned the water on full blast, and stepped under the spray. His massive body trembled, his dick straining, begging for release. He tried to calm himself with cold water, to wrestle back control, but nothing worked. His body refused to obey.

Alone in the bedroom, Rosinante had one more reason to curse his brother—because once again, he’d ruined the night of his dreams. He clenched his fists and swore into the empty air. He was alone, painfully aroused, trapped with the man who embodied every inch of his physical ideal… the man he had a hopeless crush on.

In the mirror, he caught sight of his own neck. He could still feel Katakuri’s mouth there, the rough scrape of his teeth, the suction, the sharp nips that had marked him. Just thinking about it made his shaft twitch violently. Fuck, he was still hard.

On the other side of the wall, Katakuri wasn’t doing any better. The shower hadn’t cooled his hunger. Normally, he never touched himself—not for pleasure, not with lustful thoughts. If he did, it was clinical, mechanical, a forced release when he doesn't imagine anything. But now, under the hot spray, one hand pushing his soaked hair back, he couldn’t stop himself. He needed it.

Taking advantage of the water’s noise, he wrapped his large hands around his throbbing length and started stroking slowly, veins bulging as if they might burst. His eyes squeezed shut, muscles flexing. Every memory returned—the blond’s warmth, his muffled moans, the taste of his skin on his tongue. Each thought slammed through him like a jolt of lightning. His hand moved faster, his hips thrusting into his fist, a growl tearing from his chest.

Meanwhile, Rosinante was no better off. Stripped down to his underwear, he finally gave in. His cock pressed achingly against the thin fabric, so he freed it, gripping himself and stroking at a steady rhythm while his other hand toyed with a nipple. “Fuck… if only Katakuri were here… with that damn tongue…”

The thought of him on his knees, mouth stretched around his dick, made Rosinante whimper. With a mouth that big, the giant could swallow him whole without effort. That was the advantage of being with someone his size.

The sound of the shower only fueled him further. He bit his lip, perversely pressing his back against the bathroom door, shamelessly fantasizing about Katakuri naked. He’d wanted to jerk off to the man for days now. Any lingering guilt vanished when he heard it—Katakuri’s deep, broken voice through the poorly insulated wood:

“...Fuck… ah!”

Rosinante went scarlet. He’s… making noise? His dick throbbed in his hand, precum slicking his palm. Hearing that desperate, guttural moan sent him spiraling. He pumped faster, breath ragged, licking his hand for extra slickness before daring to whisper:

“Every- ah..Everything okay in there, Katakuri?”

Katakuri froze in horror, realizing Rosinante was right outside the door—and that he’d been groaning, panting, jerking off loud enough to be heard. Shame burned through him, but hearing that soft voice, so close, only pushed him deeper into madness. His grip tightened around his thick shaft. Rosinante… is touching himself too?

“Y-yeah… why are you there, Rosi?” he rasped.

Rosinante slid a hand lower between his thighs, sinking down against the door, dangerously close to the edge just from the thought of Katakuri’s voice dripping with need. “Hm… I missed you. I hated being alone. I just… want to know how you’re feeling.”

Katakuri stumbled out of the shower without even turning off the water, drawn to that voice like a moth to flame. Hair plastered to his forehead, he pressed it against the door, his other hand still pumping his aching dick with frantic strokes. Fuck… I never knew it could feel this good. But more than the sensation, it was the voice. That sweet, sensual voice whispering his name.

“I… I feel good. Especially now that I can hear you. I love your voice…and how you say my name-” Katakuri admitted, breath ragged.

A moan slipped from Rosinante, one finger pushing into his tight hole, unused for too long. The stretch bordered on painful without lube, but he needed it—needed to be ready. If Katakuri ever took him, raw, he’d be torn apart.

“Just hearing you… it drives me insane…” Katakuri groaned, banging his forehead against the door.

“Don’t tell me you’re touching yourself in there? So needy…” Corazon moaned as he pushed a finger inside himself, the sound slipping through the door and hitting Katakuri’s cock like a shockwave.

A battle for dominance had begun. Katakuri’s other hand was braced against the door, claws digging so hard into the wood they’d leave marks.

“Don’t play me for a fool, Donquixote. I know you’re the one who’s the most desperate between us. You were grinding on me like you were in heat. You were already trembling before I even started touching you… ah—” His voice was low, rough, primal.

That raw honesty electrified Rosinante. Katakuri didn’t even realize how filthy his words were, and that only made it hotter. His unintentional dirty talk sounded like pure truth, his finger working his tight entrance while he cursed—damn, Katakuri’s hand would be so much bigger—

“I’ve wanted to feel every inch of you inside me for days… It’s unbearable… I want you to fuck me so bad, Kata…” Rosi whimpered, legs spread, on the brink of release.

On the other side, Katakuri pressed his palm against the door, perfectly aligned with where Rosinante was kneeling.

He was stroking his thick shaft so hard, so needily, he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming. Fuck… I want to tell him everything. That I need to mark him. That I belong to him. That I never want another hand on me but his.

“Every… every moan you make, I want to hear it again and again. I want to stretch you wide, take you deeper. Your taste is still all over my tongue, Rosi… it’s—it’s driving me insane…” His voice broke into ragged pants, breath rushing through his teeth.

Rosinante shuddered from head to toe, finger pounding into his hole in rhythm with his hand on his dick. Katakuri would be so huge inside him he was afraid he might tear apart.
“Ah… keep going… please, Katakuri… it feels so fucking good!”

The praise made Katakuri lose what little control he had left. The words tumbled out, fueled by raw lust, his massive hand tightening, strokes slamming faster, his body imagining that damned door wasn’t there.

“I want to ruin you until you can’t walk. I want you screaming my name like it’s the only fucking word you know. Ah— I want to bite you, mark you, cover you in bruises so the whole world knows no one makes you cum but me… ah—!”

“Katakuri—hmph!” Rosinante was shaking, eyes glassy, legs spread, body pressed against the door as if trying to push through. He grabbed a piece of discarded clothing and shoved it into his mouth, knowing his orgasm was seconds away and it would be loud.

“Cum for me, Corazon… I’ll follow right after you… like a good boy… please… please, I’m begging you…”

That plea shattered Rosinante. His back arched, every hair on his body standing on end as his orgasm ripped through him, spilling hot cum in an uncontrollable wave, stars bursting behind his eyes.

Hearing the blond’s muffled cry as he tried to choke it back, Katakuri finally snapped too, swearing through gritted teeth as his release tore out of him, spilling violently against the door, his hand dripping with seed. The cold, disciplined Charlotte son was nothing but chaos and lust now, emptied and burning.

On the other side, Rosinante slumped to the floor, drenched in sweat and cum.

Never had a battle destroyed them like what they’d just done to each other. And fuck… this was only the beginning. They hadn’t even seen each other naked yet.

Silence crashed down like a guillotine. Only the sound of running water remained, hammering the tiles in the bathroom.

Rosinante’s breath was still shattered, his body drained. His heart pounded like a drum. Fuck… what the hell did I just do…?

Minutes later, realization hit him like a stone. He and his future—or maybe soon-to-be-ex—husband had just jerked off to each other’s voices.

Shame flushed through him as he wiped his stomach with the back of his hand, cheeks blazing. Never in his life had he acted like this. His fingers still trembled. No matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t calm down. I… I came at the same time as him. And I told him I wanted him to fuck me. Holy shit.

On the other side of the door, Katakuri stayed frozen, sticky hand still pressed against the wood, his forehead leaning there, breath erratic, throat dry. Shame twisted his face.

Never in his life had he lost control like this. He, the ice-cold, disciplined soldier—had just emptied himself against a door, begging for another man’s voice.

He jerked back as if the door had burned him. Rinse. He had to rinse it away—the proof, the shame.

He nearly threw himself under the shower, scrubbing his hand, chest, stomach with frantic urgency. But the scorching water couldn’t wash away the image of Rosinante moaning his name, or the sound of his broken voice.

In the bedroom, Rosinante sat with his face in his hand, drenched in sweat. Okay… breathe. Just breathe, idiot. It was… just an accident… well, no… fuck! His ears glowed red, giving him away. He couldn’t face Katakuri right now.

And yet, in the bathroom, Katakuri was thinking the exact same thing. How the hell am I supposed to walk out there? Look him straight in the eye? His flushed cheeks were hidden by the water, but he knew he was redder than ever.

The tension was no longer sexual. It was panic, pure and dizzying. Two idiots trapped in the same room, flushed, trembling, both praying the other would break the silence first.

Rosinante eventually cleaned himself quickly, then slipped under the covers. His heart still raced, but he forced his eyes shut, breathing evenly like a kid pretending to sleep. There. If I’m asleep… he won’t ask questions. Easy.

The bathroom door finally creaked open minutes later. Katakuri stepped out, hair still damp, sticking to his neck. He froze in the middle of the room before cautiously moving to the bed. But not too close. He left a measured gap, a careful barrier of modesty.

Once again, back to back.

Silence weighed heavy. Droplets still fell from his hair onto the pillow. Katakuri lay stiff as stone, but turned his head slightly toward the blond, eyes stubbornly shut.

The corner of his lips twitched into a foolish smile.
“…You’re breathing too fast to be asleep, Rosi. You’re actually a terrible actor.”

Silence. Then a muffled groan from the blond, burying deeper into the pillow to hide his burning face.
“…Shut up.”

Katakuri let out something like a strangled laugh, and turned his eyes away just as quickly, embarrassed at breaking the silence. Their shoulders were too close, their bodies too aware of one another.
They stayed like that, unmoving, two grown men red to the ears, each trapped in his own panic. For once, Katakuri looked nothing like a confident colossus. And Rosinante was simply praying he wouldn’t burst out laughing nervously, because he knew perfectly well: neither of them was going to sleep a wink that night.

Rosinante squirmed a little, unable to keep up the act any longer. Finally, he cracked one eye open, catching the taller man’s gaze in the dark. They froze, like two kids caught doing something they weren’t supposed to.

“…That was… new…” the blond whispered, a nervous half-smile tugging at his lips, not knowing how to approach the elephant in the room.

Katakuri averted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck with uncharacteristic awkwardness.
“Yeah… new, but… not unpleasant.”

The colossus’s brutal honesty knocked the air right out of Rosinante. There was something good about a man with no filter. His heart skipped a beat, and he found himself laughing softly, nervously.
“Not unpleasant, huh…? It was… actually really good.”

The air seemed to suspend for a beat. Then, hesitantly, Rosinante shifted his hand over the sheet, brushing against Katakuri’s fingers. Their hands lingered there, clumsy and close, like a silent promise caressing the space between them.

Katakuri cleared his throat, searching for words, his expression open and unguarded.
“…You drove me insane, Rosi. I… I’ve never felt that before. I’ve never gotten any pleasure—especially not when I was touching myself alone. This was a real discovery for me.”

The blond turned a little more toward him, daring a tender smile despite his flushed cheeks.
“Same here. I’ve never been able to let go like that, honestly. With no one. No partner I ever had—if I can even call them that—ever made me feel like this.”

A peaceful silence followed, but this time it was lighter, softer. As if the weight of shame had just cracked and fallen away. In a sudden surge of courage, Rosinante edged closer, until his nose pressed into the other man’s chest, inhaling the faint scent of mochi. Katakuri stiffened for a moment, then gave in, his body finally relaxing.

“…You’re still not asleep, huh?” Katakuri murmured, amused.

“No. But now… it might happen real quick, with such a comfortable pillow.” Rosinante breathed against his chest.

A timid laugh escaped the taller man, who finally slipped a hesitant arm around the blond, fingers toying gently with his soft hair. Rosinante melted into it, sliding against him with disarming ease, as though this closeness had always been natural.

Their bodies quickly found a rhythm together, breaths mingling in the dark. Their frantic heartbeats slowly calmed.

“I liked… what we did.” Rosinante confessed in a low, nearly inaudible voice.

Katakuri inhaled deeply against his hair, tightened his embrace just a little more, and answered in a deep but gentle tone:
“So did I.”

For the first time in years, Katakuri felt his shoulders truly relax. All his life, he had been shaped into a weapon: Big Mom’s perfect soldier, the infallible brother, the meticulous man who could never afford a mistake or a weakness. Every move, every word, every thought had to be calculated, controlled, frozen behind his mask. But here, in the shared darkness with Rosinante, he was none of that. He wasn’t a legend, or a weapon, or an example to follow. He was just a man—trembling, clumsy, wanting, alive. And for the first time, that role felt infinitely more precious than the image of perfection forced on him.

And this time, neither of them needed to pretend to sleep. After everything—the marriage, Doffy’s tea parties, the endless burdens—they could finally allow themselves to appreciate life. They drifted off for real, pressed against one another, flushed and awkward… but sincerely happy. A happy ending to one mission, and perhaps the beginning of another that no longer involves the family but Donquixote but the Charlottes, and a divorce to come.

Chapter Text

The morning had barely begun. Soft light filtered through the curtains, gilding the rumpled sheets in pale gold. Rosinante stirred, his body heavy with fatigue, and felt the solid warmth pressed close beside him. Katakuri hadn’t moved all night, his massive arm still wrapped around him like an anchor, as if refusing to let go.

The blond tilted his head upward—and froze. Katakuri’s face was bare. His breath caught in his throat. The longer he looked, the stronger the pull became, and before he could stop himself, his fingers brushed against the sharp line of the giant’s jaw. Katakuri flinched at the touch, his eyes snapping open—burning, crimson, with an intensity Rosinante wasn’t ready for.

Silence thickened between them, heavy with words neither dared to speak. Their bodies said enough: ragged breaths, desire brimming just beneath the skin. Rosinante’s heart thundered in his chest as he leaned in. Their lips brushed—not with last night’s hesitant innocence, but with hunger. Urgency. Katakuri gave in, his hand fisting in Rosinante’s hair, pulling him closer with a force that betrayed how much he’d held back for far too long.

Rosinante felt his nape ignite under Katakuri’s palm, his body pressed against a wall of muscle, those possessive hands roaming his sides. He yielded in turn, clutching Katakuri’s shoulders, their breaths tangling in intoxicating disorder. The line blurred—every brush of skin, every shift against the sheets threatened to drag them under.

Then—

BAM!

The door slammed open, shattering the moment.
“CORA-SAN!!!”

Law’s voice cut like a blade, followed by the thunder of hurried footsteps—Kid, Bepo, Penguin, Shachi, even Luffy crowding the doorway.

Both men jolted violently, their momentum broken. In the chaos, they tumbled from the bed in a heap of sheets. Rosinante hit the floor with a groan, while Katakuri rolled with a thud—but his first instinct was panic. His hand shot to his face, shielding his mouth and scars like a beast caught in daylight.

He had shown them fully to Rosinante—just him—but to the others? Not yet. He snatched his scarf from the table, his movements frantic, the leap to acceptance still a step too far.

“What the hell were you two… DOING?!” Law roared, eyes sparking fury.

“They were about to fuc—”
Kid didn’t finish; Penguin and Shachi smacked him hard on the head.

“Sorry!” Bepo blurted nervously.

Rosinante, red as a poppy, scrambled to gather the sheets around himself. Words failed him, but his swollen lips and the flushed marks on his neck told the story too clearly. Katakuri stayed crouched, silent, still covering his face—but his silence screamed louder than any admission. Interrupted.

Law stepped forward, fists clenched.
“You think I’ll just stand here and watch MY Cora-san in the arms of Big Mom’s lapdog?! You’ve got energy for this nonsense after what happened yesterday?!”

Rosinante opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He had never seen Law so fiercely protective. The boy had grown. Katakuri, meanwhile, lifted his head slightly, crimson eyes glowing with defiance. He had no words yet—but one thing was certain: he had no intention of letting Rosinante go.

“We came to treat your wounds, Mr. Cora!” Bepo stammered. “Law was worried about your condition—he wanted to be sure you were alright!”

“They look fine to me,” Kid muttered, smirking.

Heart swelling despite himself, Rosinante suddenly lunged forward, sweeping Law into a suffocating hug.
“Ooooh, my son cares about me! You were worried—it’s so sweet!”

“Get OFF, old man!” Law barked, squirming furiously.

“Cora isn’t old…” Katakuri rumbled, incredulous, as he rose to his full height. His towering presence pulled every gaze to him instantly. Luffy, wide-eyed and grinning, circled him like a fascinated child.

“You were AMAZING yesterday! Teach me that move you used on Pica! Come on—breakfast is ready! There’s croissants, pancakes, waffles—”

“I’ll stay with Rosi—” Katakuri began, amused.

“Donuts! Bananas! And—”

“…Very well,” he conceded with a small sigh, tugging on his shirt and trousers, ready to follow.

The chaos of breakfast gradually ebbed. The great hall still echoed with Luffy’s laughter, Kid’s banter, the Straw Hats friends, and even Viola and Rebecca’s voices—but Rosinante had quietly slipped away.
______

Seated in an armchair on the balcony, his coat draped over his shoulders, he lit a cigarette and gazed at the sunlit city below. Peace, after so much chaos, tasted almost unreal. To see this place finally freed from his own incompetence…
Law joined him, a steaming cup of tea in hand. He sat quietly at his side, letting the warm wind ruffle their hair. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, in a voice low but trembling, Law finally said,
“Cora-san… you should quit smoking. It’s not good for you.”

Rosinante slowly turned his head toward him, surprised.
“You’re not gonna start nagging me too, are you?” He sipped the tea and burned his mouth, falling back with a grimace that made his boy smile despite himself.

Law gripped the cup with both hands, as if to hide the slight tremor in his fingers.
“You never take care of yourself—your health, your situation… When are you going to finally choose yourself, Cora?” He leaned his head against Rosinante’s shoulder. “You have to stay away from that family. From the Charlottes. From Big Mom. From all of it.”

He drew in a deep breath, the scent of smoke clinging in the air now that he was alone with him.
“Katakuri may… not be like the others, if that’s what you want to believe. But it doesn’t change anything. You deserve better than being trapped in an arranged marriage with a monster from that bloodline. You already gave too much with your brother—why tie yourself to more of the same? You should be free, for once. You don’t know—he could turn violent, or—”

Law’s voice grew distant as Rosinante instinctively hid his wrist behind his back. Shit. If Law saw the bruises there, he’d be furious—and likely decide to kill Katakuri outright. The blond’s silence was already suspicious, so he forced himself to break it, heart heavy under the raw sincerity in Law’s voice. Then he smiled faintly.
“You talk like you’re my father. You’ve grown up way too fast.”

“…I’m serious, Cora!” the young man snapped, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“You almost died yesterday. What if it happens again?! I… I don’t want to lose you again. Do you know what it’s like, living with someone who has so little regard for his own life? Do you know the feeling of living for a person that unstable?”

The blond chuckled softly, though his eyes burned too. He reached out and ruffled Law’s hair, earning a quick protest.
“You stubborn kid… You’ll never change. Need I remind you that your capture and that arm of yours prove you’re no better than me at taking care of your life?”

His smile softened, his voice dropping into something almost confessional.
“You think it’s so easy to walk away from a marriage… when you’ve started to care despite yourself?” He exhaled a thin cloud of smoke, acutely aware of the fragile new feelings tugging at him for Katakuri. Deep down, he knew the truth. But the foundation of their bond—the marriage itself—was so shaky, so unhealthy, that it was bound to twist into something else one day. Was he ready to live with a Katakuri prone to storms of emotion, like Vergo had been?

Law furrowed his brows, his cheeks flushing faintly.
“…You’ve got a crush on him, don’t you?”

Rosinante averted his gaze, unable to answer outright—but his silence said more than enough. Law was far too sharp not to see it.

The boy let out a long sigh, anger dissolving into something almost painful in its tenderness. His Cora was too kind, too quick to give away his heart, always drawn to broken souls and hopeless causes. A true magnet for trouble. He placed his small hand over Rosinante’s, a rare gesture, almost solemn.
“Then… just be careful. Promise me. If you want to stay, stay. But not at the cost of your life. Are you sure it’s mutual? That man doesn’t seem like the type for… this kind of relationship. I don’t even know if he can feel anything at all.”

Rosinante nodded slowly, squeezing Law’s hand with warmth.
“I promise I’ll be careful. The worst that could happen… is he says no. And I’ll survive that.”

Their eyes met, filled with an unbreakable familial love. When Law finally pulled his hand away, he noticed the bruise on Rosinante’s wrist. He froze. Rosinante broke into a cold sweat—shit. If Law asked, he and Katakuri would never have a chance, not now, not after admitting to the boy that he was his crush. Law’s fingers brushed the mark, his frown deepening.
“…Who did this to you?”

“The handcuffs,” Corazon lied, clumsy.

He had never been a good liar—this was only the second time he had ever lied to Law. The first had been about his ties to the Marines, something the boy despised. But his decision was made: he would cover for Katakuri. Explaining the Tea Party and what had truly happened would’ve been useless. Law wouldn’t have listened.

The younger one, despite himself, let a small smile slip at the sheer stupidity of the plan that had led to those handcuffs.

To change the subject, Corazon’s expression hardened.
“And you? What’s with those tattoos in my honor?! Do you realize they’ll be with you your whole life, you little airhead?”

Law glanced away, his fingers tugging nervously at his sleeve before answering.
“I know. That’s why I did it.”

He lifted his gaze, eyes sharp with rare seriousness.
“Cora… you’re the first person who ever believed in me. You saved me. So yeah… I want it permanent. Even if you’re not always there. Even if one day I have to go on alone. You’ll always be marked right here.”

Rosinante’s chest clenched painfully. He swallowed hard, at a loss for words. A rough, nervous laugh slipped out.
“You damn brat…” he murmured, his voice overflowing with tenderness.

But his expression soon shifted. The smile vanished, replaced by heavy gravity. His grip tightened on Law’s tattooed arm, his fingers brushing down to the still-healing scar.
“Law… do you even realize that stupid plan of yours nearly cost you your life?”

The boy scowled, stung, but couldn’t deny it. His injured hand still trembled faintly—a reminder of how close he’d come.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he muttered, defensive.

Cora clicked his tongue, squeezing his arm—not harshly, but with a force that betrayed his fear.
“No choice? Do you think I could live with that? With the thought of you losing an arm—or worse—because you rushed in headfirst?!” His voice cracked, caught between rage and terror.

Law clenched his teeth, jaw tight. “I had everything calculated…”

“Calculated?!” Rosi repeated, incredulous, his eyes blazing. “Calculated what? How to bleed out in under five minutes?!” He leaned in, gaze dark as stormclouds. “You’re not just some pawn in a half-baked plan, Law. You’re my son. My family. Do you understand what that means?”

The boy’s breath hitched. He had heard many things from Cora before, but never that. That word—family—hit with a force that shattered his carefully built armor.

Cora’s voice dropped, rough, almost breaking.
“You’re brilliant, Law. But sometimes… you forget that life isn’t an equation. That not every decision is just a risk to calculate. It’s your body, your heart, your future you’re gambling with. And me… I refuse to watch you destroy them for some fucked-up plan.”

Silence fell, heavy and vibrating with emotion. Law lowered his head, ashamed. His fingers twitched, his lips trembled. Finally, in a broken whisper, he muttered,
“…I get it.”

Rosinante let out a long sigh and ruffled his hair again, a tired but tender smile tugging at his lips.
“Promise me you’ll never pull a stunt like that again. An arm, a life… they’re not negotiable. Got it?”

Law nodded, eyes shining with a mix of shame, wounded pride… and silent gratitude.

For a moment, there was no war, no wounds, no forced marriages—only a son and his father, bound in quiet, unshakable love.
_____________
The great square of Dressrosa, still scarred by the battles of the day before, bustled with civilians and officers working to restore order. Katakuri strode forward in long steps, unwillingly dragged along by Luffy, who clutched his wrist with boundless energy toward the breakfast stands set up near the palace.

“Come on! There’s a meat stand over here!” the Straw Hat shouted.

Katakuri, who would have much rather returned to Rosinante’s side, let himself be pulled along with a resigned sigh. The kid had developed a strange fondness for him—and the feeling, against all odds, was mutual. This boy was a whirlwind of vitality. Passing by a makeup stall, Katakuri caught sight of a lipstick the exact same shade Rosinante had worn on rare occasions. Without thinking too much, he bought it, only to notice Kidd browsing the same stall nearby. So he wasn’t the only one with that idea, apparently.

It wasn’t until he received the purchase in hand that reality hit him. What the hell did I just do?
It was true—Rosinante’s lips looked beautiful in that red, and he wanted them everywhere on his body. But buying lipstick? That was insane. If anyone questioned him about the impulse buy, he’d just say it was for one of his sisters. Yes. Perfect excuse.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Luffy was already yanking him toward a candy stand when a deep, commanding voice resonated behind them. Katakuri’s instincts surged, and he immediately fell into a fighting stance. He was, after all, a wanted man, surrounded by far too many officers.

“Charlotte Katakuri.”

Their steps halted instantly. Luffy looked up, recognizing the massive silhouette advancing through the crowd. White beard gleaming, justice cloak billowing at his back—the man’s presence alone sent civilians scurrying out of the way.

Sengoku.

The white beard, the mantle of justice—it was enough to silence even the chatter of the market.

“Grandpa Sengoku! How’s my old man doing?!” Luffy yelled, grinning and waving like a child.

Katakuri’s stomach twisted. Rosinante’s adoptive father. His… father-in-law, if that cursed arranged marriage were to be believed. A man of immeasurable power—said to spend half his time in a monastery praying to Buddha when he wasn’t at the precinct. Katakuri turned stiffly, posture rigid as a soldier. For the first time in years, he felt like a child caught red-handed before an authority he had no choice but to respect.

Sengoku stopped in front of him, arms folded, eyes scanning him from head to toe.

“So you’re the one. The so-called ‘husband’ of my son.”

Luffy burst into laughter.
“Hahaha! You’re blushing! A giant guy like you, embarrassed—it’s hilarious!”

Katakuri clenched his fists, praying either to vanish or for Luffy to choke on his food. His voice came out low, awkward:
“…Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sengoku.” He extended a stiff, uncomfortable hand.

One of the old admiral’s eyebrows arched.
“Mr. Sengoku? Hm. At least you’ve got manners.”

A heavy silence fell before Sengoku continued, his tone neutral, detached:
“Well, you didn’t try to attack me. Already better than half the men Rosinante’s been involved with—or the criminals of your rank.”

Katakuri lowered his head slightly, caught between shame and relief. But Sengoku wasn’t done. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching over the towering Charlotte.

“Tell me, Katakuri… what do you actually want for Rosinante? A man like you should be marrying a wealthy businesswoman, building a lineage, or at least living with someone of your world—not an ex-cop.”

The words hit harder than any punch. Even Luffy, usually noisy, froze, intrigued. Katakuri hesitated. His instinct screamed to stay silent, to repress what he felt as he always had. But Sengoku’s gaze gave him no escape. This wasn’t the admiral speaking—it was the father.

He swallowed, his voice quiet but firm:
“…I want him alive. Free. And… happy. Even if it costs me everything else.”

Sengoku narrowed his eyes, studying every word, every breath, as if hunting for cracks. Then, with a voice like stone:
“Free, in a forced marriage? That’s a contradiction. We’ll see if your actions measure up to your words. You claim you want his happiness. But do you even know what he likes?”

Katakuri blinked, thrown off.
“…Excuse me?”

Sengoku’s arms stayed folded, unyielding.
“Rosinante. His tastes, his quirks, what makes him smile. Do you truly know the man you claim you’ll protect?”

Red crept up Katakuri’s cheeks. Behind him, Luffy exploded with laughter.
“Hahahaha! This is like a real interrogation!”

Katakuri inhaled deeply.
“He hates coffee, pizza, and bread—which is ironic, considering my ties to flour. But he can’t live without cigarettes, and he loves lettuce. Despite being clumsy, he sees everything, and he’s lethal in combat. And…” his voice dropped, almost tender, “…he always smiles when leaving or saying goodbye. So people remember it.”

Silence. Even Sengoku seemed briefly shaken by the sincerity, though his expression didn’t waver.

“…And if I ordered you to leave him, for his safety? What then?”

Katakuri froze, fists tight at the thought of being separated. His want was selfish, not thought through, but undeniable. He was already on the verge of divorcing and yet—
“…I’d disobey. Because living without him would mean nothing.”

An answer like that from Katakuri startled even the old man. Sengoku adjusted his glasses.
“Final question. If you ever betrayed him… do you think I’d let you breathe for a single second longer?”

At last, Katakuri held his gaze, jaw tight, replying with a hidden smile:
“No. And I wouldn’t expect less from you, sir. But… between us, I’d win that fight.”

To everyone’s surprise, Sengoku’s lips tugged into the faintest smile.

When they rejoined the square, welcomed as heroes, officers already swarmed around them. Sengoku, delighted to see his son, moved forward—beside Katakuri. The sight nearly made Corazon stumble.

“Father!”
“Rosinante!”

Sengoku crushed him in a bear hug despite the ridiculous size difference.
“I’ll kill you!” he barked, squeezing him tighter. “What part of ‘don’t risk your life’ don’t you understand, you reckless fool?!”

“You’re suffocating me!” Rosinante wheezed.

Katakuri rolled his eyes and sat down with the younger ones, enduring Law’s sharp glare.

“Tch… You’re branded a criminal because of your nonsense. You’re lucky I’m high enough in rank to bail your sorry hide out!”

Rosinante gave a mock bow.
“Ah, favoritism—it has its perks. Thanks, boss.”

Sengoku pressed on, unrelenting:
“Smoker’s been chain-smoking twice as much since your wedding was announced. Have you seen your face in those photos? You looked like a suicidal wreck!”

The remark left both Corazon and Katakuri stunned.

“…I wasn’t exactly at my best that day,” Rosinante admitted sheepishly.

Law took the chance to kick a pebble at Katakuri’s leg—but the man had already predicted it and didn’t even flinch.

Rosinante, horrified, stammered:
“Wait… you two have met before, haven’t you?”

A tense silence fell. Katakuri crossed his arms, impassive. Rosinante forced a weak smile, caught red-handed. Sengoku sighed, stepping forward.

“Hmph… That man…” He raised his eyes to Katakuri—or rather, to his chest, given the height difference. His tone was gruff, but softer than before:
“…he’s too tall, too serious, with a nasty habit of predicting people’s moves. He’s a wall—and a killer without equal. But…” he paused, arms folded tighter, “…at least he had the guts to protect you in that final fight without asking anything in return.”

Rosinante flushed scarlet, protesting:
“Father! Not in front of everyone! I can handle myself!”

Katakuri stood straight, though his ears betrayed the faintest red.

Even Law looked away this time, torn between annoyance and reluctant embarrassment. He wasn’t convinced at all—and sooner or later, he’d confront Katakuri himself.

Sengoku lifted his hands, cutting the scene short.
“Enough of this romantic comedy. Back to serious matters.”

His tone shifted sharply, silencing the crowd around them.

“Rosinante. You need to know—it’s over for your brother. Doflamingo is being sent to Impel Down. The transfer is already decided. He’ll never come out again.”

Rosinante’s eyes widened.
“…Imp… Impel Down?!”

That prison was infamous. A place of darkness and chains, where light barely pierced the stone. The damp chill, merciless guards, and the beasts prowling its lower levels made it a nightmare carved from rock. Even for a hardened criminal like Doflamingo, it was unthinkable.

Sengoku exhaled heavily, his gaze steady on Rosinante.
“Yes.” His voice was grave, final.
“You’ll say goodbye to him. It’s your right—but also your duty. After that, you will likely never see him again… unless I make a special request.”

The words struck like a sentence, and the air turned glacial. Rosinante’s breath caught in his throat. His normally playful eyes dimmed with sorrow. Relief clashed with unbearable grief: the comfort of knowing his brother was neutralized, but the agony of losing the last blood tie to his past.

His head bowed slightly, shoulders trembling, when a massive hand—firm, yet strangely gentle—rested on him. Katakuri, silent, steady, was there. A fortress against the storm inside him.

Sengoku’s eyes never wavered. His stern face stayed carved in stone, though a flicker of something—almost imperceptible—crossed his gaze.
“It’s hard, I know. But sometimes… protecting someone means letting them go.” His eyes shifted briefly toward Katakuri, the implication clear: those words weren’t only for his son.

Rosinante drew in a shaky breath and murmured, heavy with resignation:
“…All right. Then I’ll say goodbye.”

He straightened, his heart tight, though his face remained calm. Yet no one could ignore the shadow of grief etched into his features. That was Rosinante’s greatness: able to laugh at anything, yet incapable of remaining indifferent in the face of losing a brother.

This man was so deeply human that he could still weep for the one who had shattered his life.

Law, silent until now, stepped forward. He placed a hand on Rosinante’s other shoulder, his dark gaze steady, yet tender.
“It's for the best, Cora. Your brother is a danger to the world—you know that. But he won’t be alone where he’s going. And you… you need this to be free. To finally spread your wings.”

Rosinante closed his eyes for a moment. The words rang true—painful, but true. He gave a faint smile, sad yet grateful.
“…I love my brother, Law. Deeply. In spite of everything. But… thank you. Thank you for reminding me why I must move forward.”

He laid one hand over Katakuri’s, then over Law’s, as though sealing this circle of support. Then he straightened his back, bearing the crushing weight in his chest with dignity.
“I’ll go see him. Before it’s too late.”

Without another word, Rosinante stepped forward. Every movement betrayed the heaviness of his heart, yet also his determination. He walked tall, proud, like a man ready to face the shadow of a past that refused to die.

Behind him, Sengoku watched. His jaw was tight, his fist clenched in silence, and at last he let out a low sigh.
“…Be strong, Rosinante.”

The convoy rattled down the cobbled road, escorted by a dozen soldiers. The metallic rattle of chains echoed with every jolt. Inside the prison cart, seated against the cold wall, Doflamingo kept his head low. His hands and ankles were shackled in seastone cuffs, his wings broken beneath the weight of defeat.

When the door suddenly swung open, his bare eyes were forced to meet daylight. He had lost sight in one eye long ago, in a street brawl where he had shielded himself and his brother—ever since, he had never gone without his tinted glasses. Without them, he felt exposed, vulnerable. He turned his head sharply away, unable to bear the stares.

But it wasn’t a guard who stepped in.
It was Rosinante.

He climbed into the cart, his boots scraping against the iron floor. For a moment, silence fell. The brothers faced one another, two broken destinies meeting again.

Rosinante swallowed hard. Words failed him. So he did the only thing that felt natural.
From his pocket, he pulled out a pair of sunglasses—the same ones Doflamingo had worn for years. The ones that, though he never admitted it, were a part of him.

Gently, without asking, he slipped them back onto his brother’s face.
“There… better like this.” he whispered.

Doflamingo blinked behind the restored glass. His mask had returned—his pride, his mystery, his armor. A short breath escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a bitter laugh.
“…Always the same fool, Cora.” His voice was rough, though not sharp. “You ruin my life… and still, you take care of me.”

Rosinante lowered his head, unable to meet that strange mix of bitterness and gratitude.
“You’ll always be my brother, Doffy—the boy who shared scraps of food with me under the moonlight, when you were starving too. Even if you don’t deserve it, I’ll hold onto that memory. Even if you hate me.”

A heavy silence lingered. Behind the dark glass, Doflamingo’s eyes were unreadable. But his chin lifted, proud, though his voice cracked with something raw.
“…I never hated you. I always loved you as my brother. Don’t you remember how I welcomed you into my family?” His words slipped out, low, almost too faint to hear. “But I couldn’t love you fully either—you were too much like Father. Too human. A wasted potential. I tried to mold you, to dress you, to privilege you with more money, more carnal pleasures, more power than my own men. But it was never enough. I never managed to own you completely—because of that damned sick child you chose over me. Even when I wanted to kill you, it was for your own good. Traitors cannot live in this world. You will always be seen as one. I suppose you’re as stubborn as I am.”

“That’s how it is,” he finished flatly, as if it were eternal truth.

Rosinante clenched his fists, his chest aching, tears threatening to spill. His brother would never understand: control was not love. And yet, to Doflamingo, it was the closest thing to it. Stepping back, Rosinante’s voice trembled, yet carried steel:
“You forced me into marriage. Humiliated me in bonds I never chose, just to control who I could love. You threatened to kill me if I disobeyed—and Law, too. You decapitated Father in the worst way possible. You used Law as a pawn, destroyed families, ravaged this city… And you think you’ll walk away unpunished? Do you have any idea the courage it takes to still say—I love you, as the brother I once knew?”

Doflamingo let out a sharp, mocking breath.
“And even after all that, you don’t see it… I’m no longer the greatest enemy in your life.”

Rosinante blinked, unsettled.
“…What?”

A predatory smile curved beneath the dark lenses.
“Once, when Law was all you cared for, I was the one you longed to destroy—and rightly so. I hated that child for taking you from me. But now…” He paused, his laugh scraping raw in his throat. “…now your weakness is turned to another man. My jealousy no longer belongs to Law. I’m just a piece on the board. Your true enemy sits elsewhere.”

Rosinante’s breath caught.
“You mean… Katakuri? That’s not it! I don’t have feelings for him, I—”

Doflamingo’s laughter split the silence—distorted, hysterical.
“Fufufufu… ahahahaha!”

Chains rattled as his body shook.
“You’re such a child…! We are not schoolboys, Cora. You are my brother. I know you better than anyone alive. You devoured him with your eyes, in front of me. That arranged marriage… may have been one of the only good things I ever gave you—though it surprises even me.”

Rosinante turned away, pulse hammering, unable to deny it. The truth stood naked, brutal.

Doflamingo tilted his head, cruel smile curling.
“But… that man doesn’t belong to you. He doesn’t even belong to himself.”

The words hit like a slap. Rosinante’s chest constricted, sharp with pain.

“You want a place in the life of someone who doesn’t even know he’s supposed to live for himself. The real question, Cora…” Doflamingo’s voice dropped to a razor whisper. “…is whether you’ve fallen for the soldier who fights at your side—or for the chained soul of a son bound to his mother. Either way, it isn’t truly Katakuri. You’ve fallen in love with a façade… and you’re not one of its priorities.”

Silence pressed down, thick and heavy. Rosinante’s stomach knotted at the revelation, this truth he hadn’t wanted to face. Yet… at the Tea Party, hadn’t Katakuri chosen him? Could he have been wrong?

Doflamingo leaned back against the cart wall, his chains clinking softly. Behind the glasses, his eyes remained hidden. But his lips twisted in that smile Rosinante knew too well.
“Hm… The future will prove me right. You’ve aimed at the wrong target, little brother. Wrong choice.”

He dipped his head slightly, as if to close the subject, and muttered, almost amused:
“…Thanks for the glasses.”

Lifting his head again, he fixed Rosinante with a steady look. Behind the dark glass, something glimmered—contained emotion, almost invisible. No smile, no tenderness… yet a silent recognition.

Rosinante crouched down, lowering himself to his brother’s height.
“Doffy…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Even if you are what you are… you’ll always be my brother.”

The blond stared at him for a long time. Then, barely moving, he touched the edge of the glasses Rosinante had restored to his face.
“Thanks for that… idiot.” His voice came out short, ragged. “And… bring me Morgan’s newspaper, once in a while.”

“…I promise. If I can, I’ll reach out to Crocodile in Alabasta—he’ll pass it on.”

Doflamingo let out a sharp laugh, unable to speak further, and gave a small nod—enough for Rosinante. That gesture carried more than words: pain, pride, and the unbreakable bond time and crime could not erase.

Rosinante rose, his eyes burning.
“Goodbye… for real, this time.”

Doflamingo gave no answer, but his fists clenched unconsciously behind his chains—a silent echo of what his brother had just spoken.

When the cart door closed, Rosinante lingered for a moment, breathing slowly. His chest heavy, yet strangely at peace.

At the same moment, Law, still with the group, approached the prison wagon in silence, Katakuri walking at his side. The two of them waited by the door, like watchdogs terrified of the confrontation inside. The towering man said nothing, but his eyes missed nothing.

Law finally looked up at him, a crooked, almost provocative smile tugging at his lips.
“...You’re not planning to divorce him, are you?”

Caught off guard, Katakuri raised a brow. Still cold and impassive, he replied:
“And why would that concern you?”

Law shrugged with feigned nonchalance, though his eyes gleamed with sharp intent.
“Tch… Rosi’s like a father to me. I just want to know who he’s stuck with, that’s all. This marriage was forced on him. Even if—let’s suppose—he develops feelings, it’d be like Stockholm syndrome, don’t you think?”

Katakuri folded his arms across his chest, rigid as ever, though his eyes betrayed the hint of amusement.
“Except I never kept him captive, doctor.”

Law sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Doesn’t matter. Neither of you chose this marriage in the first place! He’s always had family issues with that monster of a brother of his. You really think he needs to add the chaos of the Charlotte family on top of that? You don’t have to be a seer to understand how twisted your powers and family ties are. Rosi doesn’t need more of that weighing him down.”

Katakuri ran a hand through his hair—a gesture oddly human, clashing with his imposing figure. The brat has a point, he admitted to himself, horrified at the thought of burdening Rosi with his own family’s shadows.
“You’re so hostile toward me… If I didn’t already like you, I might almost be offended.”

Law’s lips curved into a sad but sincere smile at that sharp remark. The old man had some bite after all.
“I just want Cora safe. I owe him too much… far too much for someone like you to understand. If you truly care about him, then leave. Let him live without the constant threat of the Charlotte mafia hanging over his head.”

Silence stretched between them. Katakuri lowered his gaze, thoughtful. When he finally spoke, his voice—usually deep and cold—was softer, hesitant:
“You owe him your freedom, don’t you?” He let the words linger in the air. “When I’m with him, I feel like I’m brushing against freedom myself… touching something outside my title, outside expectations. You’re not the only one for whom he matters. I owe him that too. My freedom—or at least something close to it.”

Law’s chest tightened at that confession, so startlingly similar to his own feelings. For a fleeting instant, he was back in that nightmarish past, hearing Rosi’s voice whispering, You’re free now. In Katakuri’s murmur, he recognized an unexpected truth: despite their differences, the two men weren’t so far apart. Each wanted to protect Rosinante in his own way, each carried his own burden—and both were bound by that silent, complicated, unshakable bond.

Law breathed deeply, and for the first time in a long while, he truly smiled.
“Maybe… maybe we just want the same thing. But that doesn’t erase how I feel.”

Katakuri gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if in agreement, before turning his gaze toward the wagon, where Rosinante was finally stepping into the freedom he’d been denied for so long.

The creak of the door interrupted them. Katakuri and Law waited outside. Rosinante joined them, his eyes still glistening.
“…It’s over,” he whispered.

Law wrapped his arms around him.
“Yes… and now you can finally spread your wings, unlucky bird.”

Rosinante nodded, a sad little smile playing on his lips. Despite the pain, despite the loss, he was moving forward at last—carrying with him the impossible love for a brother who would never change, yet whom he had never stopped loving.

“Namiii? Nami, I was kidding! I’m not really going to sell you off, delinquent—come back to your old mother, Nam—”

Their emotional scene was torn apart by a loud yell, a red-haired head bursting into view. At the sight, Law bolted, sprinting to join his crewmates, swearing under his breath, terrified by the woman’s overpowering energy.

Before Rosi or Kata could react, a familiar but terrifyingly determined figure threw herself straight at the blond, pinning him to the ground like a tackling dog—under Katakuri’s furious glare at this sudden proximity.

“ROSINANTE!”

Before he could even breathe, he was flat on his back, pinned by… Bellemere. Arms crossed, eyes blazing, she stared down at him as though he’d stolen her last coin. She was perched right on his hips, to Katakuri’s great dismay.

“But seriously!” she snapped, shaking him. “No news? NONE?! I thought you were dead, you bastard! You called that chimney of a guy but not me?!”

Rosinante threw his hands up, startled, his shirt being yanked in all directions.
“Belle, wait, I can explain! You’re… kinda heavy, I can’t breathe here!”

But she wasn’t listening. Her finger jabbed at his forehead like a bullet.
“At the police academy—WHO covered for you when you hid in the bathroom to smoke, huh? WHO slipped you answers during the shooting tests? WHO warned you about surprise inspections?! ME! And you vanish without a word? You think I wouldn’t worry? I turned the world upside down looking for you!”

Katakuri, standing back, watched the scene with a face as stoic as a statue… except for the vein throbbing at his temple. Bellemere? …His ex?! Should I be worried about her? He didn’t like this. Too many “reunions” in too little time.

Bellemere kept scolding, though a quick smile of complicity flashed across her lips before she hid it behind her dragon’s mask.
“Fine. You’re lucky, Rosinante darling—I love you too much to kill you. But if you pull another stunt like this, and drag my daughter into it too, I swear I’ll toss you straight into prison with your psycho brother!”

Rosinante laughed despite himself, embarrassed yet relieved.
“Promise, promise! It’s just… things got complicated with the marriage and Law—”

Bellemere folded her arms, unimpressed.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Still laughing nervously but sweating bullets, Rosi rubbed the back of his neck.
“Okay, okay… but could you maybe get off me now? I’m getting flattened—I’ll end up sterile if you keep this up…”

She hesitated a second, then stepped back… only to freeze when her eyes traveled up and locked onto the towering figure beside him. Her mouth fell open.
“…Pinch me, I’m dreaming… THAT’S your husband, Cora?! The one who gave you all those hickeys?!”

Katakuri froze, arms crossed, glare sharp enough to cut steel. His jaw tightened ever so slightly, but his discomfort was clear. He measured the woman who had barged into their fragile bubble.

Bellemere, of course, had no intention of shutting up. She stepped past Rosi, hands on hips, to stare the giant up and down.
“So YOU’RE the famous husband? Well damn… Cora, you could’ve given me a warning! You bagged yourself a real hunk—look at those muscles, he’s drop-dead sexy.”

Katakuri didn’t know whether she was trying to flirt with him or taunt Rosinante. Either way, he hated it.

Rosinante, dying of embarrassment, tried to intervene, already knowing just how blunt Bellemere could be.
“Belle, please, stop—”

But Bellemere only laughed louder at his desperation. She circled the massive man, even stealing a glance at his leather-clad backside.
“What, your husband doesn’t talk much? Quite the change from you, Cora—you could never shut up on a mission, always spouting some dumb joke.”

Rosinante gave a strangled laugh, ready to bury himself six feet under.
“He’s just… uh… reserved. Yeah. That’s it.”

Katakuri tilted his head slightly, his deep voice clipped and formal:
“I don’t see why my personality concerns you. Who are you, exactly?”

Bellemere raised an eyebrow, amused by his stiff tone.
“Ohhh, so he DOES talk! And he’s territorial, too—I can almost see your hackles rising. Cora, you’ve been hiding a real treasure. Damn, this man’s so fine he’s making me question my orientation!”

She reached out to squeeze Katakuri’s arm, testing his muscles. If it had been anyone else, he’d have shoved them away in a heartbeat—but since she was Rosi’s friend, he forced himself to stand rigid, like a statue.

Rosinante squeaked in protest, tugging on Bellemere’s sleeve to stop her groping.
“What? Can’t I say he’s hot? Honestly, you’ve had some questionable taste in partners, but this one—he’s easily the best of the lot! Doesn’t it make you happy, big guy, knowing you’re top tier among his conquests?” she teased, winking.

Katakuri turned away, his cheeks faintly red despite his icy mask.
“…The past doesn’t matter. What matters is the future.” Ironic, considering my ability, he thought.

Bellemere snapped her fingers triumphantly.
“Ha! I saw that blush! Cora, your hubby isn’t as cold as he looks—he’s a total softie!”

Rosinante covered his face with both hands, tugging at his blond hair in utter mortification.
“…You’re gonna kill me with embarrassment…”

Katakuri, more uncomfortable by the second, shot Rosi a look begging for rescue. He wanted to shut this circus down but couldn’t find the words.

Bellemere, delighted by her discovery, gave Katakuri a hearty slap on the back, even tracing idle circles with her fingertip.
“Well, old man, I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve it. Even if you were a coward with me. Damn, the sex must be amazing with a guy like this—”

Katakuri wanted to disappear.

“BELLE, STOPPP!” Rosinante jumped between them, bristling like a cat, blocking any further contact.
“Leave him alone—and don’t touch him! Y-You wanna go yell at Nami instead? She still needs punishment after what she pulled!”

Bellemere burst out laughing.
“Guess what—he’s not the only jealous one. Relax, Cora, no one’s gonna steal him from you. No worries. Have fun, lovebirds—and no funny business!” She lit a cigarette, still chuckling, before finally backing away.

Katakuri averted his gaze again, though something in his eyes softened. He didn’t understand this woman, but one thing was clear: she cared for Rosi. And in his own way, he respected that.

Rosinante and Katakuri hadn’t moved. They sat side by side, yet an invisible gulf stretched between them.

Rosinante cleared his throat nervously.
“Sorry… She’s always like that.” He gave a sheepish smile, fiddling with his fingers. “Overbearing. But… she means well.”

Katakuri didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed straight ahead, calm, unflinching. But Rosi, after all this time, knew how to tell the difference between the mask and the man beneath. His stillness wasn’t coldness — it was restraint.

Rosi drew in a long breath.
“You must think I’ve got… a complicated life. And you wouldn’t be wrong. I don’t know what to do after this mission. I won’t be working for the police anymore, Law will go study medicine with his friends, and me… I’ll just be there, with no real purpose. Doflamingo’s been arrested, and I…” He gave a small, awkward laugh.

Katakuri lowered his eyes, almost imperceptibly.
“…I’m not used to this kind of… situation. I have my routine, and I’ve been content with it. But since this mission, I… strangely, I don’t miss it. At least, not as long as I’m with you. I like that you broke it.”

Rosi smiled softly. Then, lower:
“I think I’m starting to get used to being at your side.”

A silence stretched. Rosi felt his cheeks heat up. He looked away, staring at a cracked tile on the floor as if his life depended on it.
“When the mission ended… I thought everything would go back to how it was. We’d sign the papers, go our separate ways, and… that’s it.” He shrugged clumsily. “That was logical. That’s what we wanted, wasn’t it?”

Katakuri finally moved. Not much — just his fingers tightening on his knee before relaxing again. A tiny fissure in his armor.
“That’s what was planned,” he corrected in a low voice.

Rosinante turned his head toward him, surprised. Their eyes met. One second. Two. Too long to be meaningless, not long enough to be a confession.

His heart jumped in his chest. To fight against that strange impulse knotting his throat, he spoke too quickly:
“I… I mean… it wouldn’t be so bad, you know. If we… well… I’d like to see Brûlée and your brothers and sisters again… before—” He cut himself off, unable to finish.

Katakuri looked away. But his cheeks, half-hidden by his scarf, had turned faintly red.

Without thinking, Rosinante leaned slightly to the side, letting his shoulder brush against Katakuri’s. The contact was tiny, almost accidental. Yet it felt enormous. His heart raced.

Katakuri froze, but didn’t move away. Instead, he let his head rest lightly against the blond’s hair.

Rosi felt the warmth of his body, solid, steady. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if to carve it into memory.
“…I think I don’t want this to end,” he murmured, so low he wasn’t even sure the other heard.

Katakuri didn’t reply for a long second. The silence between them felt almost pleasant, wrapping around Rosinante like a blanket.

“I want to kiss you.”

The words burst from Katakuri’s mouth without warning, raw and honest. Corazon nearly toppled backwards; neither of them had truly addressed what happened the night before.
“Wha—?!” stammered Rosi, red as a beet.

Katakuri didn’t flinch at his reaction. He leaned forward slightly, closing the space between them. His voice, usually calm and restrained, was rougher now:
“I want to kiss you. I don’t know yet if I really want this divorce… but I know I want to feel your lips on mine. I want to hear your laugh. I want to play with children, learn sign language with you, see you completely naked, taste your tongue—” His voice caught, too weighted with desire. He shook his head sharply, unable to put it all into words.

“Katakuri!” Rosi yelped, clutching his chest. “What did I tell you about not saying out loud every thought you have?!”

Katakuri slowly pulled down his scarf, letting him see his face — proof that he was serious. He then took Rosinante’s small hand and pressed it to his chest. The simple contact made something flicker alive in Rosi’s own.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Katakuri murmured. “I feel like… something new is growing here. I don’t want to live without that anymore. It’s thanks to you, Corazon. You taught me this. So if you feel the same…”

Rosi was so moved by that confession he didn’t wait another second. He threw himself against Katakuri and kissed him hard, as if words weren’t enough. The kiss wasn’t just desire; it was gratitude. Rosinante had spent his life sacrificing for others, never asking for help. To finally have a pillar, someone to lean on, laugh with, sleep beside — of course he wanted more.

When Katakuri kissed back, it grew deeper: his massive tongue brushed the blond’s lips, his hands held the curve of his back. The desire was so fierce it was almost painful — but a sweet, necessary pain.

“Cracker is with Brûlée,” Katakuri said at last, trying to force his voice back to its usual calm but failing slightly. “We should go to my place, so you can say goodbye properly.”

He wore the mask of the pragmatic again, but his tone betrayed that he no longer believed in this talk of rupture and divorce.

Still shaken, Rosinante dared to ask the question gnawing at him:
“And after… can we keep in touch? I have to admit, with everything that’s happened, I’ve never had the time to build a life of my own. I never had a real home, never chose a profession for myself… I just lived for others.”

Katakuri smiled — a rare smile that set Rosi’s heart ablaze.
“What job would you have wanted? Baker?” he teased softly.

“What?!” Rosi sputtered, laughing nervously. “No, no — I’m not a flour fanatic like you. I don’t even like bread that much. And I’m nowhere near as good in the kitchen as you; you’d make an excellent baker.”

That made Katakuri chuckle despite himself, his pride swelling.

“No… I think something simpler,” Rosi said more seriously. “Like working with children. I love being around them. They’re more honest than adults, and after all the cruelty I’ve endured, I think I’d rather keep their company.”

A gentle warmth spread through Katakuri.
“I understand. And I agree. I hope you can make that your life. In the meantime… until things settle, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, you could live with me?” The invitation trembled on his lips, but it was sincere.

Rosi nodded in silence, firm. His smile shone like sunlight. They hadn’t said “I love you” yet, but their actions and their closeness spoke it for them.

Later, they rejoined the group. Nami was getting a half-serious, half-teasing scolding from Bellemere, who forbade her from going out or seeing her girlfriend Vivi for a while. Everyone else promised to get their studies back on track. Law, relieved, could resume his medical research; Penguin, Shachi, and Bepo, rootless but determined, chose to follow his example, deciding to pursue medicine too.

Rosinante, stepping in as guardian of the small group, quietly offered to watch over them if needed, though he preferred to stay in an apartment Sengoku provided — one he could drop by whenever.

“I’m so frustrated we can’t share a place,” Law grumbled, half-serious, half-dreamy. “I love my crew, but still, Cora… we were supposed to get a dog, remember?”

Katakuri turned his head, surprised.
“A dog? I didn’t think you liked dogs.”

Rosinante chuckled. He didn’t even bother making the obvious joke of comparing Katakuri to a giant dog; he just gave him a smile full of affection.
“You’re not as perceptive as they say, then,” Corazon teased. “He was supposed to be called Onigiri. One day, I’ll have that dog with my son. Isn’t that right, Law?”

Law smiled and came closer.
“One day, we’ll all live together with Bepo and the others, Corazon. I refuse to let a bunch of idiot teenagers keep me from you. Aren’t you coming? Will you live with Katakuri, or with us, Cora?”

The promise floated in the air, soft and real. Law already knew the answer, but felt compelled to ask.

Rosinante’s throat tightened — not with fear, but with hope, seeing his child becoming a young man.
“Living with him?” he murmured, glancing at his husband.

Katakuri simply answered:
“If you’ll allow it, I’d very much like to shelter you. I understand your need to leave, but… just until everything settles.” His voice was raw but sincere, holding the hope of more.

Rosinante lifted a hand to the giant’s cheek — a small but daring gesture. Katakuri didn’t move away. He let it rest there, heavy and warm, a silent acceptance.
“…We can try.”

The air still smelled of dust and smoke, but for the first time in a long while, there were no screams, no threats. Just a fragile silence, like after a storm.

Rosinante knelt before Law, gripping his shoulders. The boy had regained some of his pride, though his features were still tight, as always.
“You did well, Law,” Rosi said softly, his rough voice cracking despite him. “I’m… I’m proud of you. Except for that tattoo, brat.”

Law shrugged, his eyes bright anyway.
“Tsk. I just followed your example, idiot.” But when Rosinante ruffled his hair like he used to when he was a child, he didn’t pull away. Instead, he closed his eyes for a second, accepting the gesture he pretended to hate.

“Promise me one thing,” murmured Rosi, his throat tight. “Live. For yourself this time. Not to prove anything to me. Not to avenge anyone. For yourself. Become the doctor you always wanted to be, Trafalgar.”

Law exhaled, nervous, before replying:
“…I’ll try.” And for him, that was already enormous.

A few steps away, Luffy had been watching the scene.
“Hey!” he shouted, his cheerful tone making Katakuri jump. “Next time we meet, I wanna fight you, okay?!”

Katakuri raised a brow, caught somewhere between annoyance and faint amusement.
“… Hn. Maybe. But you might just end up outpacing me in that department.”

Luffy burst out laughing, while Kid—who hadn’t missed a single beat—threw a meaty arm around the blond’s shoulder, chuckling with a wicked grin.
“Oh, would you look at this! Big, mighty Cora, tearing up over his kid—and don’t worry, he’s in good hands with me.”

“Shut it, Kid, and back off! All of you better get serious about your studies instead of diving headfirst into delinquency!” Rosinante barked, his cheeks flushing red.

The redhead only laughed harder, folding his arms. “Tch. Cute. But tell me, little doctor…” He leaned toward Law, grin sharp as a blade, fingers brushing a strand of his dark hair. “Ever thought about riding a motorcycle?”

“Hah?!” Law blinked, utterly thrown off, a faint blush rising to his face.

Rosinante nearly choked. “KID—get away from him!!” he yelled, scarlet from head to toe.

Kid pressed on mercilessly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “If you ever get tired of your old man’s lectures and want some real fun, call me.” He winked shamelessly and slid a slip of paper—his number—into Law’s hand.

Law stared, dumbstruck. “… You’re insane.” But a faint pink spread across his cheeks nonetheless, and Kid caught it instantly as he tucked the number into Law’s pocket.

“See you soon, pops,” Kid crowed, flashing a grin at Katakuri and Rosinante alike. “I’ll be following your boy to uni, just to bug the hell out of you, blondie!”

Rosinante nearly lunged forward, arms spread like a shield in front of Law. “DON’T YOU DARE GET NEAR HIM!”

Law heaved a long, weary sigh. “… You’re all idiots.” Yet despite himself, a tiny smirk tugged at his lips, betraying the fact that maybe, just maybe, all this attention wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

And so the farewell unfolded: half raw emotion, half ridiculous chaos—a scene Rosinante would never, ever recover from. There were still a thousand words left unsaid, a thousand fears unshaken… but for the first time in years, Rosi let himself hope for something brighter ahead.

________________________

Hours later.

The ride had been long. Clinging tight behind Katakuri on the massive bike, Rosinante eventually let his forehead rest against the giant’s solid back. The steady hum of the engine, the rush of wind, and the warmth of his companion—together, it was strangely calming. Almost hypnotic.

When the headlights caught the tired glow of the Tesoro Motel sign, Rosi blinked and let out a startled laugh.
“… Oh. You remember this place?”

Katakuri slowed the bike to a gentle stop, his gaze lingering on the flickering neon.
“Yes.” His voice was low, steady, though a faint shadow of memory softened his features. This was where it had all begun—their clumsy fights, awkward silences, the very first fragile trust.

They parked in the cracked courtyard. Rosi slid off unsteadily, legs tingling, and gave Katakuri’s arm a playful smack.
“… Feels like it’s been a lifetime.”

At the reception, the bored hostess barely glanced up from her paper. “Room? Same as last time?” she droned.

Rosinante nodded a little too quickly, his smile wide and nervous—though this time, it wasn’t embarrassment so much as eagerness just to fall asleep beside his crush again. Katakuri, as always, wordlessly handed over the money.

The room hadn’t changed: one single beds, worn furniture, curtains too thin to keep out the lamplight. Rosi dropped his bag with a sigh. “Well… back to square one.”

Katakuri didn’t move at first. Still cloaked in his long coat, he surveyed the space, his crimson gaze finally landing on the far bed—the same one he’d taken that first night.
“Strange,” he muttered.

“What is?”

“…Feels like another lifetime. Like we were two completely different people.”

“True… but at the same time, it feels like I’ve always been here with you. Like it’s just… natural.”

Rosi collapsed back on his bed, drained from the ride, still warm from hours pressed against Katakuri’s back. He shut his eyes for a moment, savoring it.

The quiet was strange—not heavy, but not easy either. Every creak of the bedsprings, every rustle of fabric, magnified the intimacy between them.

“… I’ll take a shower,” Katakuri announced, calm as ever.

Rosi startled slightly, as if yanked from his thoughts. “Ah—yes, of course.” His voice cracked higher than usual.

He tracked him out of the corner of his eye—husband? partner? whatever he was—already undoing the first buttons of his shirt with zero hesitation.

Rosi’s face lit up scarlet. He jerked his gaze away, staring fiercely at the ceiling—but his eyes betrayed him, sneaking glances back like magnets. The scars, the muscles shifting under skin, the sheer natural power in every movement… it was too much.

“You—you could at least wait until you’re in the bathroom! Why do you always strip halfway across the room?!” he blurted, covering his face with his hands.

Katakuri arched a brow but didn’t pause.

“Why? It’s only a body. You’re a man too.”

The blunt honesty, the sheer ease with which he said it, left Rosi floundering.

“Yes, but… but I—” He bit his lip, unable to explain how his pulse pounded so hard he feared the walls would hear it. Or how every glimpse of Katakuri’s tattoo sent a thrill straight through him.

By then, Katakuri had shed his pants, left only in underwear that left painfully little to the imagination. With nothing more than a towel slung in hand, he spared Rosi one brief glance before disappearing toward the bathroom.

Rosi had thrown himself under his pillow like a guilty schoolboy, nose bleeding furiously, excitement spiking at the sight.

A tiny smirk flickered across Katakuri’s lips. Too easy, thought the towering man with violet hair as he shut the door behind him.

Alone at last, Rosi finally peeled the pillow off, breath coming short. His hands trembled as he let out a shaky laugh.
“… I’m gonna die. Literally die.”

He ran a hand through his messy hair, trying in vain to calm his racing heart. It was just a hotel room, merely a stop along the way… yet he already knew he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

Were they supposed to sleep together tonight? He hadn’t been able to the night before, but with Law’s carehe was certain no injury would ruin the moment. Damn… what if Katakuri didn’t want to? What if he was just psyching himself out, panicking over a night that might never even happen?

His mind spun, every scenario more catastrophic than the last. Would he finally do it…? Damn… what if it was all just a trick his brain was playing? No… no. Rosinante, you’re just a huge pervert.

He hastily opened his bag, intending to change into pajamas for the night, to just sleep—despite the obscene urges gnawing at him. As he opened it, he spotted the handcuffs he had used during the mission. He had kept them after explaining to Katakuri the double meaning they could hold—it was ridiculous. Katakuri absolutely must not know he had kept them.

A tender memory flooded his mind despite himself: that ridiculous moment when Katakuri had forced contact, awkward but sincere, while he’d kept the handcuffs. It had been soft, gentle. Yes… that’s how their relationship should remain. That memory deserved preservation. Not his stupid perverted obsession with the object.

Desperately trying to shove the handcuffs back into his bag, steam from the shower began to fill the room. Katakuri had opened the bathroom door. Shit, this was bad for Corazon. As quickly as he could, he stuffed the cuffs into his bag—but his clumsiness betrayed him. His legs gave out.

He cursed himself inwardly as he heard Katakuri’s surprised voice, and cursed again when he tumbled with a somersault, landing on his knees, the handcuffs clutched in one hand, his ass pointed straight at Katakuri like a cartoon.

His clumsiness would be the death of him someday.

It was the most humiliating fall Corazon had ever experienced—and all in front of his crush. He prayed Katakuri wouldn’t notice what he held. The silence became unbearable; the thought of simulating a sudden death or a concussion from the fall suddenly seemed incredibly tempting.

The silence stretched on forever. Rosinante remained frozen on all fours, ass in the air, cheeks blazing scarlet, praying for the ground to swallow him whole. Maybe if his heart raced a little faster, it would stop entirely, and that would solve everything.

A low, throaty clearing of the throat came from behind him. Katakuri, leaning against the bathroom door, chest still steaming from the shower, stared him down. His gaze flicked from the handcuffs back to the blond’s tight, raised ass.

One second too long passed. Then a muffled sound. Was that… laughter?

“…You have a very… creative way of making proposals, Rosi.”

Katakuri’s voice, deep but trembling, betrayed as much embarrassment as amusement. His ears were red, confirming what Rosinante feared: he had seen everything.

“N-no! It’s not… I mean… I didn’t…!” the blond stammered, waving his arms as if denying it could erase the scene.

Katakuri crossed his arms, a faint, arrogant smile playing on his lips.
“So… you hide handcuffs in your bag. And then you fall, right as I step out of the shower, waving them like a trophy.”

He tilted his head, eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Gotta admit… if your goal was to get my attention, you couldn’t have picked a better way.”

Rosinante, crimson to the roots of his hair, collapsed onto the rug, utterly crushed by humiliation.
“…I’d rather die,” he muttered into the floor.

Slowly—so slowly—Katakuri approached. His heavy steps echoed against the wooden floor, each thud hammering in Rosinante’s chest like a drum. The blond gritted his teeth, trying to crawl discreetly toward his bag.

Too late.

A massive, warm hand landed on his, stopping him. Katakuri leaned down, effortlessly retrieving the handcuffs and spinning them between his fingers with cruel nonchalance.

“…So these are your preparations for tonight, cop?” he breathed, his face only inches from Rosinante’s.

His tone was teasing, almost light… but his eyes burned with dangerous intensity.

Rosinante felt his ears burn.
“Give them back, Katakuri… it’s… it’s not what you think!”

A low, rough laugh rumbled from the giant.
“Oh? And what should I think then? That you’re keeping them for… your personal collection, or for someone else? Careful—I get jealous.” His grin was wide and playful.

Rosinante froze. His heart thumped so hard he thought it might burst.
“I-I… I…” He rose and stepped back, bumping into the bed as Katakuri closed in like a predator.

But Katakuri gave him no chance to stammer. With deliberate slowness, he let the handcuffs dangle from one finger, like a promise.

His smile widened, half-arrogant, half-provocative.
“You should have asked me directly, idiot.”

Then, in a low, heated whisper:
“Because if you think I don’t want it… you’re dead wrong.”

Rosinante didn’t even have time to catch his breath. Katakuri was already on top of him, the immense shadow of his body pressing down. One hand on his chest was enough to pin him against the bed where he had fallen. No violence, just that calm, unrelenting force that left no escape. The thought that Katakuri could crush him with one hand only fueled Rosinante’s growing desire—a battle of dominance had begun, Katakuri’s knee now on the bed as well.

“Shh… you’re squirming too much, Rosi…” Katakuri murmured, smirk still teasing. Rosinante opened his mouth to protest, but a single brow raise silenced him. Damn… why did this feel so ridiculously exciting?

Katakuri, unyielding, slid the handcuffs along his finger until they brushed the blond’s wrist. Not to lock him—not yet—just to let the cold metal graze his skin. The shock made Rosinante jump. His face burned crimson, but his eyes betrayed the trembling anticipation, the willing submission he had never given anyone.

Katakuri released just enough of his chest to let him breathe, then captured his chin between his massive fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“What exactly do you want from me, CO-RA-ZON?”

Damn, he was already rock hard, Corazon realized. He knew their relationship was going to become a game of domination, each taking turns, and for once he was happy to submit—but announcing it aloud was too much for his pride. So he provoked Katakuri silently, like a soldier refusing to betray his country.

Katakuri paused for a moment, letting his gaze roam over Rosinante. Then, with the slow, deliberate motion that made every movement unbearably intense, he snapped the handcuffs closed around his wrists. The metallic click echoed in the room like a signal, and the blond jumped, a heat wave rushing to his cheeks.

“Pretty ironic, a criminal like me arresting you, Mr. Policeman.”

Rosinante shivered from head to toe. He knew that with a single gesture, Katakuri could break his arms or throw him against the wall. His strength was colossal, merciless… lethal. Yet this monster held him there, just within reach, as if to remind him he didn’t need handcuffs to control him. Just… because he loved him.

“Now…” Katakuri whispered, low and commanding, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You’re mine, my tender husband,” he teased.

The giant leaned closer, his burning hands brushing along the blond’s cuffed arms before gliding up to his shoulders, pinning him lightly. The contact was firm, possessive, as if to remind him he already belonged to him. Their lips met in a long kiss—too short for Corazon, who wanted more. Katakuri pulled away deliberately, stoking his frustration.

Rosinante gasped, heart hammering too fast to deny.

Katakuri lifted his t-shirt with a confident sweep, wrists still pinned overhead. His massive hand glided over his chest, tracing the sculpted muscles, carved abs, and numerous scars. Pale, almost fragile compared to his brother’s tanned skin, it seemed to glow under his touch.

Then, when his eyes fell on his full, rounded pecs, something in the giant’s brain snapped. He had glimpsed them before—an unbuttoned shirt, a stolen moment on the day of the forced marriage—but this time he could feel them. Their warmth. Their firmness. The soft color of his nipples. And it drove him insane.

He leaned down, kissing one pectoral slowly, almost reverently. His lips traveled over each scar, sanctifying the marks of the past. Corazon’s blush deepened, each kiss making him lose a little more control.

The giant lavished slow, tender kisses across his chest, the blond daring not to breathe, wrists still bound.

“You… you like it, don’t you?” he asked shyly, trying to meet his lover’s burning gaze.

Katakuri simply lifted his eyes, locked onto him… and bit without warning, leaving marks to claim his territory.

“—Hmph?!”

Caught off guard, Rosinante let out a sharp cry, his body jerking against the embrace. A violent mix of pain and pleasure shot through him, and to his surprise, he loved it.

But Katakuri gave him no time to think: bites and sucking followed in methodical, possessive succession. He focused on the already-hard nipple, taking it into his mouth, licking, sucking, tasting. Rosi moaned loudly, unable to keep his legs from folding around Katakuri’s massive body.

Katakuri sucked on his nipple with an almost disturbing dedication, like he’d discovered a new drug. His teeth sometimes grazed, sending a shocking mix of pain and pleasure that made Rosinante tremble all over.

The blond moaned, head thrown back, arching his back despite himself. It was humiliating to be reduced to this—a weak, sensitive body—but god, it felt so good.

“The rumors about you are completely wrong…” he breathed, voice trembling as he tried to regain some semblance of control. “You’re… far too gentle, actually.”

He had tried to provoke him. Bad idea.

Katakuri’s gaze immediately hardened. He bit down harder, tugging Rosi’s nipple between his teeth before releasing it with a sharp snap. Rosinante let out a high-pitched moan, thighs squeezing the giant’s hips as if to protect himself. But Katakuri didn’t stop.

“Don’t worry…” he murmured, mouth still pressed against his skin. “I’m just taking my time.”

His fingers finally left the blond’s wrist, just enough to pinch the other nipple, rolling, torturing. Cora, already hyper-sensitive from his upper body stimulation, couldn’t stop his back from arching further, a muffled cry escaping his lips. Shit. He wouldn’t last long if this kept up.

The Charlotte heir lifted his head, a nearly cruel smile playing on his lips.
“You’re incredibly sensitive… I bet I could make you come just by playing with your pretty nipples.”

His warm tongue spread over the left nipple, licking in slow, deliberate circles, tracing increasingly wicked patterns. Corazon, already rock hard below, could no longer bear the lack of friction. He desperately tugged at his handcuffs, wanting to free his hands to touch himself. But all he managed was pathetic moans, his entire body trembling under the flood of sensation.

Katakuri pulled back just enough to grasp both of his pecs in huge hands, squeezing as if he wanted to mold them. His large palms fit perfectly around their curves, sending a torrent of heat straight to Rosi’s groin.

The blond let out a small whimper of frustration as the mouth finally left his skin. His cheeks and ears burned bright red.

“You’re so beautiful…” Katakuri whispered, brushing his cheek, voice rough. “I could never have dreamed of a better husband.”

Before Rosi could answer, a bite on his ear made him moan again. Then a massive knee forced his legs apart. Katakuri knelt between them, eyes dark and shining with desire.

The blond gasped, nipples red and sore from the relentless biting and sucking. He didn’t have time to protest or catch his breath before Katakuri grabbed his pants with an impatient tug.

The fabric was yanked down in one swift motion, sliding along his thighs to his ankles, and tossed aside. Rosinante was naked, fully exposed, arms still bound, unable to cover himself. His face burned with shame, but his body betrayed him: his cock, already swollen, stood proud and throbbing.

Katakuri froze for a moment, red eyes locked on the sight. Cora turned his head, unable to bear the burning gaze on him. His embarrassed moans echoed through the room, thighs trembling slightly, yet nothing could hide his state.

“Fuck…” Katakuri breathed, throat dry, nostrils flaring. His heart skipped a beat. He had always believed he could control himself, but right then he could devour him whole.

He brought a massive hand—huge compared to the blond’s cock—down to wrap slowly around the base. Despite its size, Corazon’s shaft felt almost fragile in his grip.

The noble gasped, breath caught. “K-Katakuri…”

A smile split the giant’s lips. To punish him for moaning so quickly, he lowered his head without warning, engulfing Rosi’s cock in one motion, all the way to the base. His throat opened deep, swallowing every inch effortlessly.

“Hmphh—!”

A strangled cry escaped Corazon, head snapping back. His eyes rolled slightly, a tear forming at the corner from the sheer shock. The suffocating heat of that mouth enveloped him instantly, every nerve on fire.

Damn, damn, damn… this is too good, it’s impossible… he thought, biting his arm to keep from screaming.

Katakuri’s tongue wrapped around his cock, curling perfectly to its shape, spiraling lasciviously. Each stroke of his throat pressed his nose against the blond’s lower stomach, drawing loud, wet sucking sounds. The obscene noise filled the room.

Rosinante trembled, thighs looping around Katakuri’s shoulders. He wanted to grab onto something, anything, but his bound wrists only rattled against the metal. His hips twitched uncontrollably, desperate for more contact.

Katakuri groaned low, the vibration pressing directly against Rosi’s cock, making him squeal like a whore.

“Oh fuck, your mouth… it’s so hot… ah, Katakuri, I’m… I’m not gonna last!”

His words were a mix of moans and incoherent pleas.

To finish him off, Katakuri let one hand leave the blond’s thigh to plunge into his own towel. Rosinante looked down and felt like he was dying on the spot, watching the giant jerk off, fingers wrapping around a massive cock still half-hidden beneath the fabric.

The sight made him dizzy. His own cock throbbed in Katakuri’s mouth, pulsing with pleasure.

Shit… he’s even bigger than me… Rosi thought, a wave of shame and desire burning his insides.

Katakuri pulled back just enough to catch his breath, a thin string of saliva connecting his mouth to the red, swollen tip of the blond. Then, with a predatory grin, he dove back down, swallowing harder, deeper. His tongue whipped, pressed, caressed every vein.

Rosi screamed, unable to hold back, voice ringing through the room. His cock was so sensitive that orgasm threatened immediately, neck arching violently, legs trembling on the verge of cramping.

“Fuck, keep going! I’m… I’m so close—!”

But just as the climax built, Katakuri stopped cold. He kept the tip in his mouth for a moment, sucking slowly, then withdrew completely.

A thin strand of saliva dripped from his lips down to Corazon’s tip, falling onto his abs.

The blond, nearly in tears, shook his head frantically.
"No, no, why are you stopping? I was so close, damn it… don’t be cruel, Katakuri… keep going, please… I’m begging you…”

His pleading eyes, flushed, sweaty face, legs spread wide—everything screamed vulnerability and lust.

Katakuri licked his lips slowly, eyes locked on Rosi’s. Then he spread his legs wider, lowered his face, and without warning, pressed his hot, rough tongue directly against his tight hole.

“A-AH?!!”

Corazon screamed, eyes rolling back, body convulsing violently. The sensation was brutal, intimate, overwhelming. The tongue probed deep, merciless, tasting every fold.

The blond erupted immediately, unable to hold back. His body arched so hard the chains of his handcuffs rattled against the bed, and his cum shot in long, white streams over his own stomach, even splattering onto Katakuri’s face, who continued his relentless assault with his tongue.

He collapsed onto the sheets, gasping, drained, trembling all over. But the tongue didn’t stop moving, relentless, already pushing him toward unbearable over-stimulation.

Corazon lay there, body shaking with spasms, stomach still covered in his own hot cum. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he’d just survived a fight. But there was no time to catch his breath: between his legs, Katakuri hadn’t stopped for a second.

The giant’s tongue still plunged into his wet hole, spreading him with devilish patience, heat driving him to moan without pause. Every flick sent an electric wave up his spine, jolting his body into another convulsion.

“K-Kata… stop… it’s… it’s too… I can’t…!” stammered Rosi, tears in his eyes, wrists twisting desperately against the metal.

He’d already come; his body should have been exhausted, numb. But no. His cock was already hard again, pulsing, standing at attention under the relentless assault of that fucking tongue.

Katakuri lifted his head for a moment, lips and chin slick with saliva and the musky scent of his husband. His red eyes glowed with predatory intensity. Then, slowly, he clicked his tongue before sliding his fingers into his mouth, deliberately coating them in spit. He circled them around, licking them thoroughly, then pulled his slick fingers out, eyes fixed on Corazon’s trembling hole.

Rosi watched, stomach tightening with a mix of fear and arousal.
“Wait… no… it’s too big… you— you can’t…”

But Katakuri didn’t give him a chance to protest. He pressed the pad of his index finger against the tight entrance. The resistance was strong, burning, but he gently forced it, millimeter by millimeter, until the entire finger disappeared inside him. Corazon’s fantasies hadn’t lied—Katakuri’s fingers were long.

“AH! Shit!!” screamed Corazon, head tipping back, sheets wrinkling under his desperate movements.

The sensation hit him all at once: not the soft, wet tongue, but a hard, thick finger stretching him from the inside, pressing against the sensitive walls. Each movement pulled an uncontrollable moan from him.

Katakuri moved slowly, in and out, savoring the sight of Rosi’s body arching with every push, discovering a side of the cute, clumsy man now utterly debauched.

“You’re so tight…” he groaned in a low, vibrating voice. “Your body’s begging already and I’ve only put in one finger… shit, this will never fit.”

Corazon sobbed almost, face burning, blond hair plastered to his temples with sweat.
“I want you so badly… fuck…”

But his hips betrayed him, rolling involuntarily, seeking more depth.

The giant added a second finger. Without warning.

“NGHH—!”

The blond’s scream tore through the air. Mouth open, unable to form words, the sharp pain mingled with a scorching wave of pleasure that twisted his gut. His thighs clamped around Katakuri’s hips, trying to close off the entrance, but the giant gently pried them apart, tears streaming from the over-stimulation in both eyes.

“Shhh… relax… let me open you…” murmured Katakuri, his rough tone more commanding than gentle.

His two fingers began to move, slow and deep, stretching the narrow entrance, rubbing against spots never touched like this before. Each motion made Corazon arch his back, handcuff chains rattling again.

Then Katakuri crossed his fingers inside, changing the angle.

“HHHHAAAHH!!”

Rosinante screamed, cock erupting a drop of pre-cum. He’d found that spot, that fucking spot inside, sending uncontrollable waves of pleasure that made him see stars.

Katakuri smiled, eyes half-closed, proud of his accomplishment. Corazon was like a toy he needed to make come over and over. He pressed again, harder, fingers massaging that sensitive button relentlessly.

“Look at yourself…” he breathed, deep and warm. “You’re moaning like a whore, just from me pressing there…”

The blond shook his head frantically, unable to resist.
“N-No… it’s… it’s not… oh shit… Katakuri!”

A third finger slid in suddenly, stretching him even further. The pain made Corazon wince, but it was immediately drowned by a wave of pure pleasure as the three fingers rubbed mercilessly against his prostate.

His body arched violently, throat letting out a guttural cry. Legs shaking like they might break.

Katakuri licked his lips, watching the scene with a hunger that twisted his gut.
“Your hole’s taking me… look at how you take my fingers… you want more, don’t you?”

And Rosi, unable to lie, unable even to speak, only nodded weakly, face red and wet with tears, cock already ready to come a second time just from that.

“Ahhh—!! Haaa— fuck…!”

His voice cracked, derailed, caught between screams and sobs of pleasure. Sweat covered his face, lips red and parted, moans pathetic and unrecognizable as his own.

His wrists, raw from the metal, pulled again and again, eyes misted as they lifted to Katakuri.
“Please…” he moaned, voice strangled.
“Take them off… take off these fucking handcuffs… I… I want to touch you…”

He gasped, chest heaving in frantic rhythm, thighs still shaking from the uncontrollable spasms of the orgasm to come.
“Kata… I need you… let me… let me put my hands on you, I want to touch you so badly…please”

Katakuri’s fingers plunged relentlessly, merciless, as if marking every inch of Rosinante’s body. Three full fingers stretched him, rubbing him from the inside, opening him with sadistic precision.

Katakuri leaned over, warm breath brushing across his sweat-drenched chest. His eyes never left the blond’s expression: every convulsion, twitch, and cock spasm made him even hungrier.

“Look at yourself…” growled the giant, deep voice vibrating straight into Rosi’s belly.
“Your body twists just from my fingers… You want to come like this again, don’t you?”

Katakuri violently spread his fingers, sliding them back inside and pressing his sensitive spot with ruthless precision. Rosinante screamed, his head smashing against the pillow. His cock erupted again, thick ropes of cum splattering over his already-messy stomach. Completely drained, trembling all over, he felt like his heart was about to give out.

A scorching silence fell, broken only by the blond’s muffled moans. Katakuri stayed still for a moment, his fingers still slick with Rosi’s release, eyes boring into him with intense focus. His red eyes narrowed, as if weighing every desperate plea, every shaky breath, like it was all a mess he could savor.

Then, slowly, he leaned in, whispering against his mouth:
“If I let you go… you’ll never be able to pretend you don’t want me like you tried to lie to me earlier.”

Rosinante moaned louder, chains rattling under his frantic movements, tears streaming harder.
“I don’t care! I’m already yours, damn it… just… just take them off and fuck me! I want to feel your skin… I want… to touch you.”

A hungry smirk curved Katakuri’s lips. He grabbed the chain and snapped it sharply, breaking the metal like it was a toy. Rosi’s wrists fell onto the mattress, free, red and raw from the marks.

The blond didn’t hesitate: trembling hands dove onto Katakuri, clutching his neck, chest, massive shoulders as if he feared the giant might vanish. His fingers traced every inch of hot skin, gripping and kneading with desperate hunger.

“Finally…” he sighed, nearly in tears, burying his face against his lover. “Fuck, finally I can touch you…”

Katakuri groaned, nostrils flaring at the sensation of Rosi’s tiny hands exploring him. His entire body shivered under the eager caresses. Part of the blond’s pride told him to take charge—seeing Katakuri’s towel stretched from his erection, and knowing he’d barely touched himself, made Rosi ache for a little revenge now that he was free.

Katakuri groaned again, eyes half-lidded, teeth nibbling his lower lip, savoring every contact. Rosi’s hands roamed over his sculpted chest, abs, drifting down to his hips and perfect, firm ass. The giant couldn’t hold back a low roar of pleasure, mixed with impatience.

“Fuck…” Katakuri breathed, deep and low. “Your hands… you’re driving me insane…”

Corazon, flushed to his ears, felt his body quiver from the closeness. His mouth sought Katakuri’s lips, teeth brushing, hands clutching his sides, sliding lower, following the line of his body until they pressed against the giant’s hard, impatient cock.

“Kata… I want to see you naked…” he stammered, gasping, throat dry, eyes wide with lust.

Katakuri responded with a low growl, pressing his hips against the blond’s, showing him he wanted that heat, that closeness.

Then a sharp tearing sound froze them: Katakuri’s towel split under the pressure.

Rosi dared to look down… and his breath caught.

Katakuri had freed his cock. Thick, long, veined, already slick with pre-cum. Just seeing it made Rosi’s insides clench with fear and arousal.

“Fuck…beautiful” he whispered, unable to look away. It was huge. Way too huge for him. His throat tightened, his sore hole clenched at the thought.

Katakuri noticed his panic and leaned down, placing a huge hand on his thigh to hold it open. His red eyes gleamed, but his voice, rough, grew lower, almost tender.

“Breathe, Donquixote…” he murmured, his slick fingers tracing a wet line across the blond’s cheek.
“I won’t break you… not when your body is begging me to enter. We can stop anytime—my pleasure doesn’t matter. I’m not squeamish about this, but with you… I feel like this is all I want.”

“You’re joking?! Sex is for two, idiot! Just adjust the size, I’ll handle the rest.”

Without waiting, he pressed the head of his cock against Rosi’s still-dilated, glistening entrance, slowly rubbing the swollen tip against his sensitive hole.

The blond moaned instantly, hips jerking as if to pull away, but the giant pinned him to the mattress. Shit, this is going to hurt, Rosi thought breathless, torn between raw fear and the animal heat already gnawing at his lower belly.

Katakuri smirked crookedly, forehead brushing his.
“You can do it. I trust you. I’ll open you slowly… and you’ll beg me to go deeper as soon as the size fits.”

With those words, he began to push gently, very gently, his head brushing against the tight entrance, savoring every resistance. If Katakuri could have frozen time, he would have—he’d never felt pleasure like this before: more intense than any battle, more exhilarating than any previous sexual encounter, more electric than anything in his life. He closed his eyes and sank a little deeper, letting out a long, shuddering moan, face flushed and burning.

Rosinante, watching Katakuri’s face twist with the stretch and pleasure, felt his heart race.

Shit… I’m in love, he thought, but the thought vanished immediately as Katakuri thrust deep suddenly. The blond felt split in two as Katakuri’s head tilted back, letting out an almost animalistic growl:

“Fuckinn—” was all that could escape, distorted by pleasure.

Yet, despite the intensity, Katakuri maintained minimal awareness, waiting for Corazon to catch his breath before moving slowly again. He could see the blond’s abdomen swell beneath him, each movement driving him so deep he was sure no one had ever penetrated Rosinante like this before.

"you take me so well-"

Corazon, feet curled beneath him, body exhausted but burning, found himself still turned on, the sight of Katakuri’s hips and that perfect tattoo driving him insane. Every thrust was calculated, their bodies fitting together, the rhythm growing more and more ravenous, almost unbearable.

“Fuck, Kata… you should’ve told me! I would’ve gotten lube… ah!” moaned Corazon.

Katakuri tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded, breathing ragged:
“hmph… told you… what for?”

“That your cock feels so good… and so big… fuck, it’s perfect inside me…” Corazon breathed, voice trembling with desire.

The giant’s already-overheating mind seemed to explode at the praise, his face flushing deeply. My Corazon… he loves my body… he loves being inside… he loves what I do to him… Katakuri thought, stunned by the effect of his words.

Suddenly, Rosinante’s eyes widened. The stretch returned—and it felt even more intense. Katakuri thought he must be dreaming. The compliment had clearly amplified his desire… and the size of his cock.

“How… how is it getting even bigger… ? you’re going to kill me…” he gasped.

“Your fault—…”

Katakuri answered by driving his hips faster, ravenous, losing all restraint to the combination of pleasure, desire, and compliments overwhelming him.

Rosinante gasped, nails digging into Katakuri’s broad shoulders. Every brutal thrust had him screaming, but in the middle of this storm of pleasure, an idea hit him. His wrists were finally free—and he intended to use them. Seizing a moment when Katakuri slowed, still focused on restraining himself, Cora flipped them with a sharp movement, taking the giant by surprise, who went along willingly.

He straddled the colossus, thighs trembling but eyes brighter than ever. His bare, sweat-slick chest pressed against Katakuri’s, who looked momentarily confused, having seemingly forgotten how to fight back as Rosi impaled himself fully on the monstrous cock, eliciting a deep, guttural groan from the giant as his head fell back.

Seeing a man of Katakuri’s strength completely at his mercy, Corazon wondered just how far he could reverse the power dynamic, and how docile the giant could become.

“Tchh… look at me, Katakuri…” he breathed, one hand sliding over his chest to rake mercilessly across his abs, the other wrapping around his throat. “
I’m in charge now… I’m going to show you exactly how I can make you cum…”

Katakuri, completely caught off guard, let out a strangled moan. His massive hands clenched the blond’s hips, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it was too late: Rosinante moved above him with controlled savagery, alternating slow, grinding rolls with brutal drops that forced uncontrollable growls from the giant.

“Hhhh—fuck… Rosi… wait—” Katakuri gasped, breathless, unable to hide how every movement destroyed him. His burning gaze locked onto the blond’s face, that wicked smile, the flush making him look even more beautiful.

Rosi leaned toward his pierced ear, nails scratching red streaks across Katakuri’s chest—Katakuri, surprisingly, loved the scratches—and whispered in a low, trembling but confident voice:
“Do you feel that?… You’re so fucking perfect inside me, I—ah, fuck… I’m going to make you addicted, Katakuri. You’ll beg me to use you like this every night of your life.”

A long moan escaped the colossus, his back arching involuntarily, teeth clenched to keep from screaming.

Enraged by his reaction, Corazon dug his nails violently into Katakuri’s back, leaving deep marks that made the giant’s body shudder. The guttural sound escaping Katakuri’s throat made the blond grin.

“Yes… that’s it… growl for me look hot for me… you’re perfect when you lose control. That’s your real perfection.”

And with a brutal motion, he slammed down again to the hilt, screaming his own pleasure, while Katakuri, face red, eyes half-lidded, was utterly defenseless under this reversal of power.

Rosinante began to pick up speed, hips rolling with sadistic precision. Every violent drop swallowed the giant’s massive cock to the root, forcing guttural groans from Katakuri he never thought he could make him utter. Their bodies slammed together in increasingly brutal rhythm, sweat sliding down their pressed torsos, breaths mingling in a wild cadence.

“Fuck, Katakuri… you’re filling me so good…” Cora gasped, voice broken but tinged with dominant pleasure. His nails raked across the giant’s hard chest, leaving new red marks, then down to scratch his abs, savoring every shiver it produced. “You’re massive… I feel like you’ll tear me apart… and yet… I want more.”

Katakuri tried to maintain control, hands gripping Rosinante’s slim hips, but his fingers trembled from the intensity. His eyes rolled back at times, ragged breaths breaking into humiliating moans he could no longer contain.

“Hhhh… Rosi… you… you’re going to drive me insane…” he managed to choke out, voice strangled.

The blond let out a harsh laugh, leaning forward to press his forehead against the colossus, dominating him with his gaze. Their lips collided in a brutal kiss, a mix of saliva and gasps, before he pulled back to moan into Katakuri’s ear:
“I want to hear you beg…” His hips dropped sharply, swallowing the full length, triggering a strangled cry from Katakuri. “Tell me how much you love it when I use you like this… tell me you’re dying for me to keep going…”

Katakuri, face on fire, could no longer think clearly. His cock throbbed violently inside Cora’s tight walls, each movement pushing him closer to the edge. His hands slid involuntarily to the blond’s back, clutching his shoulder blades as if to hold onto reality.

“F…fuck yes… I love it…” he finally breathed, voice broken, almost pleading.

Rosinante grinned, teeth bared, nails digging into the giant’s shoulders as he resumed a furious rhythm, rising slightly to slam his full weight onto the swollen cock, over and over. The wet, slapping sounds of their bodies filled the room, mingling with their uncontrolled moans.

“That’s it…” the blond groaned, eyes sparkling with lust. “Say it again… let me hear you, Katakuri… your voice is so hot when you break under me…”

Every word, every filthy compliment, made the giant shiver harder, his cock rubbing against Cora’s most sensitive walls, triggering screams of pleasure that made their bodies quake together. Rosinante threw his head back, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his neck, riding with a desperate intensity, as if he wanted to erase every barrier between them.

The sensation of impaling himself over and over made him tremble, but it wasn’t enough. His nails dug into the giant’s skin, leaving deep, burning scratches that made Katakuri growl.

Katakuri, unable to hold back a guttural moan, gripped his hips like he could anchor him in place. His face was red, twisted in pleasure, eyes locked on the blond’s body bouncing wildly on him.

“Cora… please… keep going…”

Rosinante laughed harshly, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He leaned down, lips brushing the colossus’s ear before biting his lobe.

“Look at yourself… you’re already begging. I’m the one making you cum, not the other way around.”

At that, he slammed down hard, brutal, ripping a guttural scream from Katakuri he’d never let himself release before. Their hips slammed together, flesh on flesh, wet, loud, obscene. Katakuri’s massive cock crushed his prostate with every thrust, sending scorching sparks of pleasure through his body, but Rosinante refused to slow.

The giant was on the edge, every compliment exploding in his head, every filthy word feeding the unbearable pressure in his lower back. His cock throbbed violently inside the blond, swelling even more, as if his body reacted directly to the obscene declaration.

“You’re… so tight… so hot… Cora… i cant old it- ” Katakuri moaned, voice broken, strangled.

Rosinante arched his back, chest pressed to the giant’s, fingers digging into his massive shoulders. He sped up, every wet smack of their bodies hitting like an explosion.

“Come for me…be a good boy I want you to flood me… fill me up, Kata… show me I’m the only one who can make you this way…”

The colossus snapped. He grabbed the blond by the waist, guiding his thrusts, and together they slammed into a desperate, brutal, savage rhythm. Their moans merged, turning into raw screams, uncontrollable groans.

Rosinante felt his prostate pounded with each drop, fire shooting up his spine, and suddenly his body tensed, back arched like a bow ready to snap.

“Ahhh… fuck, you’re so good for me, Katakuri!” he shouted, voice broken, possessively calling the other’s name over and over. His cum erupted between their stomachs, shooting violently across Katakuri’s chest, each pulse harder than the last.

The sight pushed the giant over the edge. His eyes rolled back, hips jerking violently, and he exploded too, burying his cock deep inside the blond. Burning heat flooded Rosinante, entire waves of cum spilling inside him, so much he could almost feel it trickling out despite the monster still buried in him.

Their bodies trembled, dripping with sweat, stuck together. Rosinante gasped, grinning at Katakuri, completely lost, eyes half-closed, face twisted with pleasure.

The silence—or what could be called silence—was only broken by ragged breaths and the pounding of their hearts. Their bodies stuck together, soaked in sweat and cum, a total mess across the sheets.

Rosinante let out a short, harsh laugh, still straddling Katakuri, body shaking, thighs sore, unable to pull away. His hair stuck to his forehead, chest smeared with cum, looking like a castaway clinging to his colossus.

“look at us…” he said, catching his breath, voice cracking. “We’re a complete mess…”

He tried to sit up, but his legs gave out immediately. He fell heavily back onto Katakuri, who growled softly, still too sensitive, cock buried deep inside him.

“Hnngh… Cora… don’t move… too… sensitive… I might get hard again if you keep going—” Katakuri breathed, voice broken, eyes half-lidded.

Rosinante snickered, biting the giant’s shoulder provocatively. He rolled his hips slowly, just to tease, pulling a desperate groan from Katakuri, hands clutching the sheets.

“Stop… ahhh… you’re trying to kill me…” the colossus groaned, unable to hide the mix of pain and pleasure.

Before Rosinante could even respond, Katakuri snapped his torso upright with a brutal motion, grabbing his husband by the waist. With a sharp, forceful flick, he reversed their positions: the blond was pinned against the mattress, on all fours, wrists firmly held above his head.

Rosinante let out a strangled laugh, cheeks still flushed, thighs trembling.
“Hah… so the big Katakuri finally wakes up? I thought you’d be too sensitive to—”

He was cut off by a sharp, driving thrust. Katakuri sank his entire length inside, ripping a guttural scream from the blond as his back arched, nails digging into the giant’s skin despite himself.

“Hhnngh… I could go all night if you wanted…” Katakuri growled, warm breath brushing against his neck. “You wanna play the tough one? I think in that department… endurance is mine.”

Each thrust hit his prostate perfectly, measured yet merciless, and Rosinante turned into a tangle of broken moans, unable to hide how much his body begged for more—though he barely felt himself anymore.

“Fuck—! Kata—ahhh! You… you’re doing it on purpose…” he gasped, tears brimming in his eyes.

Katakuri fixed his burning gaze on him, face flushed but determined. He pulled out slightly, watching the disappointed pout on his husband’s face before pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. Katakuri looked at Rosinante, still red and trembling, a small, soft smile tugging at his lips. The blond was literally a mess—legs shaky, covered in bites and marks everywhere—the older man’s favorite version of him. Yet he couldn’t hold himself up, hands grasping for anything to steady himself.

“You… you okay, Cora?” Katakuri asked, surprisingly soft, almost hesitant, sliding his hands under the blond’s back to support him.

Rosinante let out a faint whine, eyes half-closed. “I… my legs… I think… I can’t even walk…” he murmured, voice shaky and ashamed. He’d never been in such a state before.

Katakuri leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of his head, fingers threading through his blond hair. “Tsk… you noble idiot…” he murmured, chuckling softly.

He carefully lifted Rosinante into his arms. The blond’s body was still warm, burning, vibrating from the aftermath of their ecstasy, unable to support itself. Katakuri carried him like a fragile treasure, every movement deliberate and careful.

“You… hmph… you’re so gentle…” Rosinante murmured, hands fumbling over Katakuri’s broad chest, slipping over firm muscle. “Kata… you have no idea… I’m… a complete mess…”

Katakuri let out a soft, amused, affectionate laugh. “Ridiculous… you’re perfect like this,” he said, running his hands over the blond’s back. “Completely mine… and it’s not a problem. We’ll get you back on your feet.”

When they reached the shower, Katakuri gently set Rosinante under the hot water, letting the stream soothe their still-vibrating bodies. He carefully lathered the blond’s back, shoulders, and chest, tending to every muscle, every scar, with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with their previous intensity.

“You smell so good… even completely wrecked, you smell amazing…” Katakuri murmured, lips brushing Rosinante’s ear. The blond shivered, still caught between pleasure and exhaustion.
“You’ll feel better… I promise…”

Rosinante could only whine softly and nuzzle against the giant, letting each touch calm him, each caress soothe. Even at the edge of total weakness, his mind was filled with gratitude and desire, every breath pressed against Katakuri reminding him how vulnerable and loved he had been.

Katakuri smiled, pride and tenderness shining in his eyes. He loved seeing Rosinante like this—completely submissive yet still playful in those mischievous glances. “You know I could keep you like this all day, right?”

Rosinante blushed, panting, murmuring between breaths: “
No doubt… you’re still hard… happy that my naked body has this effect on you i love your scars as well.”

Katakuri flushed violently, hiding his face in his hands almost childishly.
“It’s just I—I love your scars. And… leaving my marks everywhere… it’s… hm… it feels like I’m finally leaving my own trace too, you get it?”

His large palms then glided over the blond’s chest, tracing each scar with meticulous, almost possessive care, as if he were redrawing Rosinante’s story with his fingertips. His tender smile clashed beautifully with the strength of his body.

“You know… every mark tells a story. And I… hm… I like being able to take care of them.” His voice was low, flushed with shyness.

Rosinante let out a small laugh between breaths.
“Wow… such a declaration… might as well get on your knees and propose under the shower too… ah!—” He slipped on leftover soap while stepping out, almost toppling if Katakuri hadn’t caught him in a swift motion.

“Huh ! We’re married already!” the giant insisted, almost offended, grabbing a towel to wrap him up as if nothing had happened.
Rosinante, still trembling slightly, lifted his eyes to Katakuri with a teasing smile.
“Hm… you’re such a hopeless indecisive, my darling…” he murmured softly. “About… marriage… and your own scars.”

His fingers traced Katakuri’s face with infinite gentleness, caressing the line of his jaw, brushing over the marks he usually hid. At those words, the giant froze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide.

He barely heard anything else, except that nickname slipping so naturally from Rosinante’s lips: my darling.
A simple word, yet it struck him harder than any compliment or teasing ever had.

Katakuri helped the blond out of the shower, wrapping him carefully in a towel. Every movement was deliberate, attentive, almost possessive, as if he wanted to ensure Rosinante’s still-burning, exhausted body wouldn’t have to exert itself another inch.

“Hold on to me… I’ll carry you,” Katakuri murmured, voice low but tender. Rosinante, legs still shaky, let himself be lifted, hands brushing awkwardly over the giant’s chest.

Katakuri hoisted him up effortlessly, locking eyes with Rosinante, a soft smile curving his lips before pressing one to the blond’s forehead. Rosinante, breath short, head resting on the giant’s shoulder, couldn’t resist teasing:
“Hmm… I should start charging for the maintenance of this body, huh? You carry me like I’m a feather every time!”

Katakuri let out a low, amused groan and pressed the blond gently against him. They reached the bed, and Katakuri carefully set Rosinante down. The blond collapsed onto the sheets, completely spent, still damp from the shower and lingering post-coital shivers.

Katakuri sat beside him, taking his hands into his own, massaging his shoulders and arms gently, tracing slow circles over each scar as if to soothe every remaining tension.

He smiled, both amused and tender, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Rosinante’s head.
“I could keep you like this all night… just cherishing you.”

Rosinante, already half-asleep, looped an arm around the giant’s torso, lightly grazing his ribs.
“Mm… I could get used to this… but you’re going to have to put up with me for a long time.”

Katakuri laughed softly, heart full of pride and affection, stroking the blond’s back with care.
“I’m not going to get tired of it… not as long as I can see you smile like that.”

The following silence was sweet, comforting, filled with the warmth of two bodies still connected after the intensity of their moment. Rosinante let himself fully relax in the giant’s arms while Katakuri draped a blanket over him, making sure he was perfectly comfortable before lying down beside him.

Every uneven breath. Rosinante, still exhausted, surrendered completely, head resting against the giant’s shoulder.

“You know…” Katakuri murmured, voice low but uncertain, “I… I’m scared. Scared that… the world I live in… my family…” He sighed, fingers tracing light circles on the blond’s soft skin.
“I don’t want it to touch you… to hurt you.”

Rosinante, eyes half-closed, gave a small, awkward smile.
“Idiot… I’m not some fragile little plant…” He tried to push Katakuri away slightly, but the giant’s hand pressed to his chest, stopping him.
“…but I get it. You want to protect me.”

“This world… what my family does… it’s not something I want you to have to face.”

Rosinante turned his head slightly, a tired smile on his lips.
“I know… but I’m not naive, Kata. I knew what I was getting into.”

Katakuri sighed, hand hovering over the blanket between them, hesitating.
“It’s not about whether you’re naive… it’s about whether I can protect you. I’ve never… felt this for anyone. Not like this.”

The blond furrowed his brow, intrigued.
“Because I… make you vulnerable?”

“You make everything… different.” The words came slowly. “My choices, my limits… everything seems to narrow down to protecting you.”

Rosinante let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh.
“And I should apologize for being the one who makes you… human, huh?”

Katakuri nodded slowly.
“And I thought my siblings… everything else… was all I could protect. But you… you change that. And it’s dangerous, but I…” He stopped, searching for the words.
“I can’t bring myself to push you away… even if I should.”

Rosinante looked at him, feeling the weight behind every word, every gesture.
“So… we keep this… we continue. Even if it’s complicated, even if it’s dangerous.”

Katakuri took a long moment before whispering, almost hesitantly:
“Yes… we continue. But you have to promise… to stay careful. Because I can’t protect you if you don’t protect yourself at least a little.”

The blond leaned in slightly, placing a shy but loaded kiss on the giant’s strong jawline, breath still shaky and uneven.
“…and you know what? I don’t want a divorce anymore.”

Katakuri blinked, shock crossing his usually impassive face.
“What…?” His voice was low, almost breaking, as if afraid he’d misheard.

Rosinante, exhausted but resolute, let out a trembling breath.
“I don’t want a divorce… even if I’m still a sentimental fool… I want to be with you. Even if your family is… a nightmare. Even if I’m weak… I want you.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Katakuri, heart pounding wildly, pulled the blond close, as if he wanted to fuse with him, to protect him not just from enemies, but from everything that could hurt him. His eyes shone with a desperate intensity, revealing a part of him no one had ever seen.
“Corazon…” he murmured, voice choked with emotion.
“You… you understand what you’re saying… you mean staying with me…?”

He rested his head against Rosinante’s, feeling every breath, every shiver of his body against his own.
“I… I’ll do anything. Anything to protect you… from this world… from my family… from… myself.”

His arms held him tight, a silent but absolute promise, as if the world could collapse around them and they would be the only ones standing. Yet neither had said “I love you” aloud—sometimes feelings go beyond words.
____________________________

The next morning, the soft light filtering through the window revealed the two of them still tangled together. Rosinante slowly opened his eyes, muscles aching as a harsh reminder of the night they had just endured. He turned, meeting Katakuri’s gaze—half-asleep, features softened by slumber, a faint, almost shy smile curling his lips.

“Eh…” Corazon murmured, voice still rough with fatigue and lingering pleasure. “You… you’re still asleep?”

Katakuri shifted slightly, his large arms instinctively curling around the blond.
“Not really… I… hm… I just wanted to stay here a little longer…” His voice was soft, hesitant, as though savoring every remaining second.

Already buzzing with energy despite exhaustion, Rosinante grabbed one of the giant’s hands and pressed it to his chest.
“Come on, we have to go… I want to see Brûler, Crackers, and Pudding!”

A light laugh escaped Katakuri, still groggy, but his eyes sparkled with clear determination at the mention of his family.
“You… you’re in a hurry, huh?”

“Yes!” Rosinante replied, smiling as he struggled upright, guided by Katakuri’s steady hands.
“The sooner we get there, the better.”

Minutes later, they were ready. Katakuri had taken care of the bare essentials while Rosinante clambered onto his motorcycle, still slightly clumsy from exhaustion. The colossus mounted behind him, and together they roared down the road, hair and wind carrying away the last remnants of the night. No matter the dangers ahead, they were together—together to reunite with their family, together to face this complicated world, together to never be torn apart.

Rosinante pressed against Katakuri’s back, inhaling his scent, feeling the strength beneath him.
“You’re riding too fast…” he murmured, half protest, half amusement.

Katakuri glanced back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile crossing his lips. Rosinante blushed, pressing his hands against the giant’s chest.
“I just… want to be sure you’re okay… and that… hm… the family’s okay too.”

“Brûler and the others…” Katakuri let out a deep sigh.

Rosinante rested his head on the giant’s shoulder.
“Do you think… they’ll be happy to see us like this?”

Katakuri nodded, serious but protective.
“They’ll probably be surprised. Brûler will jump for joy and cry a little… and the others, well, you know them… but they won’t get a word in. i will not lets them”

Rosinante let out a soft, muffled laugh.
“I can imagine Law… he’s probably going to yell at us for our decision… or tug my ears again.”

He nestled against Katakuri’s back, a tender smile on his face, imagining the life they could have together, and the children he might guide.
“And if one day… I could take care of the little ones… like I take care of your siblings?”

Katakuri exhaled softly, hand firm against his chest.
“You’d be perfect for that.”

Katakuri nodded gently.
“I’ll make sure everything goes right, for them and for you.”

Rosinante closed his eyes, savoring the warmth and safety of the moment. For a brief instant, he forgot the fatigue of the road, almost the tension of their mission finally complete.

“And you… what would you like to do later, Kata?”
No answer.
“…?”
“Katakuri?”
Still nothing.

Then, suddenly… Rosinante’s motorcycle helmet smashed violently to the ground, striking his skull. Katakuri was gone. The bike toppled dangerously onto one of Rosinante’s legs, nearly crushing him. A piercing scream and a deafening ringing tore through his head. Katakuri… had jumped from the moving vehicle, just as they arrived at the estate.

Disoriented, Rosinante scrambled to his feet, ready to shout at Katakuri for what he’d done. But as he lifted his dizzy helmet, a burning red-orange light seared his eyes, and sudden heat surged around him. Something was wrong. A smell… the same one that had consumed his childhood home, the same scent that hung around the fires he’d seen before—hospitals, burned clothes… the smell of destruction.

It wasn’t the manor. No. It was worse. Far worse. The orphanage where his siblings lived—the most vulnerable place in Katakuri’s heart—was engulfed in flames.

...

Powerless, he watched. Katakuri, desperate, was already running toward the building and the flame as distant fire sirens blared.

Rosinante stared at the towering inferno, paralyzed by horror, fear, and revulsion.
“Doffy… what the hell have you done…?” he murmured, throat tight, unable to look away from the catastrophic finale of their mission.

Chapter Text

Rosinante barely had time to understand what was happening before he rushed after his husband.
The flames devoured the boarding school like a wild beast. Each window shattered in an incandescent crash, every crack of timber echoed like a scream of agony.

Katakuri ran, breath ragged, eyes wild. His legs seemed ready to break as he forced his body forward. Each step pounded like an explosion in his skull. He heard nothing—neither Rosinante shouting his name behind him, nor the sirens wailing in the distance, nor the sinister crack of beams collapsing.

There was only one thing left in his mind:
the voices of his brothers and sisters.

“Brûlée! Cracker!” he roared as he reached the entrance, his fists hammering against the burning doors. The scorching wood tore at his skin, the heat lashed at his face like a molten whip, but he didn’t back down an inch.
“Answer me!”

All around, Praline had gathered most of the younger ones—Anana, Normande, Flampe, Décha, Anglais, Wafer, and the twins Dolce and Dragée. They cried, trembled, clung to her skirts screaming for comfort. They were alive, but broken, their traumatized gazes fixed on the burning house.

Rosinante, heart close to bursting, stumbled toward Katakuri. His wide eyes couldn’t leave the blaze. It was too much… too big, too violent. Too unreal.
“Katakuri!” he shouted, his voice torn apart.

He hurled himself at him, arms wrapping around the giant’s torso, holding him back from charging into the flames.
“Stop! You can’t—”

“LET GO OF ME!”
The beast roared, its power shaking the ground. He grabbed Rosinante by the shoulders and shoved him away so violently that the blond rolled several meters, his back scraping against the dirt.
“DON’T STOP ME!” he bellowed, veins bulging, gaze feral. “They’re still inside! Brûlée! CRACKER!”

His eyes were bloodshot, red with fury and fear. Katakuri wasn’t a man anymore, not even a companion. He was a wounded animal, ready to burn alive to drag his pack out of the flames.

“Katakuri!” Rosinante coughed, throat scorched, his face smeared with soot. “You’ll die in there!”

But Katakuri heard nothing. He slammed his fists and feet against the walls, each blow exploding like thunder. Stone shattered, beams cracked, flames rushed through every breach he made. His skin blackened in places, already marked by burns, but he didn’t slow down. Not until he found his sister.

Then—
A crash.

The side door gave way in a rain of embers.

Cracker stumbled out, staggering, breath broken, skin covered in burns. His clothes hung in tatters, his face twisted in pain. On his back lay Brûlée, unconscious, her long hair stuck with soot, her face blackened. And in his arms, clutched like an irreplaceable treasure, Pudding screamed, her tiny hands weakly beating against his chest.

“BIG BROTHER!” Cracker cried, his legs wobbling, refusing to give out. “HELP ME!”

The world stopped.

Katakuri shifted in an instant from maddened rage to absolute despair. He leapt forward, tore Brûlée from his brother’s back, and held her against him as if to shield her even from the air itself. His lips trembled, his huge hands—already shredded and burnt—shook even harder.
“Brûlée… BRÛLÉE! Wake up!” His voice broke into an animal scream.

Cracker collapsed to his knees, choking, Pudding curled against him, her childish cries piercing the night. Rosinante froze, stomach twisting, eyes filling with tears. The smell of burned flesh, the roaring flames, the screams… it all crashed down on him. His chest tore with pain. This was his fault—his brother’s fault—for taking too long to come back from Dressrosa.

He ripped off his coat, wrapped Pudding inside and held her close, whispering empty words to soothe her sobs. Then he pressed his hands against Cracker’s burns, his heart racing violently.

He dared to look at Katakuri—
but the man’s murderous aura did nothing to help the situation.

“Kata… listen to me, it’s not your fault, okay?” His voice trembled, cracked. “We’re going to save her. They’ll all make it…”

The firefighters arrived, already calming the flames. Katakuri’s ragged breathing echoed, each inhale like swallowing fire. His chest heaved as if it were about to burst.

“… No one knew…”
His voice was no longer human. It was a guttural growl, almost monstrous.

Rosinante blinked. “What…?”

Katakuri finally turned his head toward him. And what Rosinante saw in his eyes froze him to the bone: betrayal. As if Katakuri suddenly remembered that the man who shared his bed carried a power he had always feared—the power of his blood, his name, his origins. That of a spy, an infiltrator, a born deceiver.

“No one ever knew where I lived…” he repeated, the words spat like poison. “Only my family. It was always like that. Only my family.”
And his silence hinted it should have stayed that way.

His gaze slid to the firefighters carrying Brûlée and Cracker away. Then it came back to Rosinante. And his voice shattered into a terrible whisper:
“… And you.”

Rosinante’s eyes widened, breath stolen from his chest. It was true he was the only one who knew—
but to accuse him of this?
That made no sense.
“You think… I’d do that?!” he shouted, his voice raw and breaking. “Katakuri, it’s me, damn it! Look at me! I was with you the whole time! Why would I ever do that?!”

He reached out, trying to touch his shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. But Katakuri sprang back like a wounded dog ready to bite, his eyes wide with rage and fear. Not even at Moscato’s death had he reacted like this.

His breathing hissed through his teeth, his whole body vibrating with despair too big to contain. The flames danced behind him, throwing light over features twisted by anguish.
“It’s him… it’s Doffy. I should have killed him when I had the chance, damn it,” he spat, his voice shattered. “He knew. He must have known… I should never have gotten involved in this.”

His gaze fell back on Rosinante, black with doubt and pain.
“And you… you’re his brother. You’re HIS damn brother. A traitor. You’ve betrayed your own blood, betrayed the police, you’re a born actor—how am I supposed to know if—if you even deserve this? If you’re who I think—”
He slammed his fist into the ground, clearly in a state beyond reason. “Damn it! If I’d been there I would’ve protected them!”

Rosinante felt his stomach turn, an invisible knife twisting in his chest. He wanted to go to him, but Pudding was still wailing against him. Katakuri had always defended him against those who compared him to his brother Doflamingo, and now he was doing exactly the same. But Rosinante couldn’t let go. He had to be the one who stayed calm.

So he stood there, anchored in his role as support but shattered by the mistrust striking him like a blow. A few hours ago Katakuri had trusted him completely, and now he was comparing him to the monster that was Doflamingo.

“Katakuri…” he murmured, his voice low, trembling. “I’m not Doffy. I’m with you, and I always have been. I chose to be with you.”

Katakuri didn’t answer. You could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to think. His other siblings arrived in a rush, taking the remaining children into their care. He refused treatment, isolating himself in his own bubble of distress. Rosinante hovered near him like an invisible support, not knowing what approach to take.

The chaos around them had eased a little. The firefighters were working, the flames beginning to retreat, but the air was still heavy with smoke, the smell of burned flesh and charred wood. Rosinante’s hands, blackened with ash, still held Pudding curled against him, half-asleep, before he gently set her under the porch of Katakuri’s still-intact house.

A few meters away, Katakuri stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the ravaged boarding school. Years of loyal service, of protecting his family day after day. He had kept them as close as possible to his home, his one and only weak point, protected from all, no one ever knowing where they were. He had no tears left, no screams left. Only that terrifying emptiness in his eyes, the emptiness of his own failure to prioritize his family.

Rosinante moved closer, slowly, heart tight.
“Katakuri…” he whispered, his voice broken by smoke. “Listen to me. Brûlée is alive. Cracker too. Pudding’s unharmed. They’ll make it.”

Silence.

“Kata… look at me, please.” Rosinante raised a hand, hesitating to touch his face, to turn it toward him.
“You’re not alone. I’m here.”

Katakuri finally turned his head, and Rosinante felt a chill run through him. In that gaze there was no longer the tenderness he’d seen the night before, no longer the shared vulnerability of their embraces and their bed. Nothing but cold rage, raw pain searching for a target. And they both knew the person Katakuri would end up blaming was himself.

“You.” Katakuri’s voice was hoarse but implacable. “Since you came into my life… I’ve lost all control. You’re a weakness.”

Rosinante stepped back, thrown off balance. “What..?”

“I wasn’t there for them the way I should have been. It’s not because of Doflamingo, or the quest to find your son. It’s because of you. Because of what you represent to me.”
Katakuri rose slowly, massive, his fists clenching so tightly his gloves creaked under the strain, stepping dangerously close to Cora.

“I let myself get distracted. I lowered my guard. Because I…” His voice cracked for an instant. Then it hardened, colder than ever: “Because I made the mistake of feeling something for you.”
His finger jabbed violently into Rosinante’s chest, forcing him to keep backing up.

Rosinante’s heart clenched to breaking. It was unbearable—Katakuri blaming himself for the human feelings he’d let in.
“Katakuri, no… that’s not—”

“Shut up!” The order cracked like a whip, the same voice from their first encounter. “I let you get close, and look. My brothers. My sisters. Their home… burned to ash. And me? I protected nothing. Nothing. I was too busy being chained to you! I’m good for nothing except obeying and protecting my family, that’s my only purpose on this earth—not the one you’ve tried to show me! I let myself get distracted and now I pay the price.”

He slammed his fist into the wall behind Rosinante, the blond trapped between him and Katakuri. His body trembled but his face stayed hard, as if he were forcing himself to steel up for the harsh words he was about to speak.

“So listen to me, Donquixote Rosinante.” He pronounced each word with cruel detachment. “I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. You pull me away from what I’ve always been trained for. You’re a danger—a distraction too strong for my soul and my heart.”

Rosinante’s breath stopped dead, as if a blade had pierced his chest. He thought fleetingly he would’ve preferred to be shot by Doflamingo. His arms wrapped around himself, the only anchor in this nightmare.
Rosinante took a step toward him, his hand outstretched, trembling.
“Katakuri… please…” he whispered, heart pounding, throat tight. He wanted to place a kiss, something—anything—that might silence the storm of words and violence pouring from Katakuri’s mouth. But the instant he entered his personal space—worse, near his scarf—Katakuri stiffened, his dark eyes blazing like embers.

Before Rosinante could touch him, he was shoved back with a sharp, violent gesture. The back of Katakuri’s hand struck his arm so hard that Corazon grimaced and stumbled sideways to the ground.

Damn, that hurt… he thought, clutching his shoulder, certain it had been wrenched from the blow.

“Don’t come near me!” Katakuri roared, his voice echoing through the silence of the charred manor.

The shock sent Rosinante sprawling in pain on the floor. He curled instinctively around his injured arm, pressing himself into the ground as if to shield against another strike. One hand came up to guard his face from an expected blow, the other clenched into a fist, ready to retaliate if he had to. He knew Katakuri couldn’t control his emotions—he had seen it before, with Vergo. His eyes burned with a mixture of fear, tears, and confusion. The man who had kissed him tenderly only hours ago… could he truly turn violent against him now?

But no other blow came.

When Rosinante finally lifted his gaze, what he saw shattered him. Disgust. Pain. Accusation—in the eyes of the man he loved. Katakuri looked terribly stricken, retreating a step. Not only by his own gesture, which sickened him, but by the fear he saw in Corazon’s eyes. The fear that the man he had placed so high on a pedestal would cower before him, fearing deliberate harm. Katakuri had been rough to push him away before, yes—but never, never to truly hurt him. No one would ever be allowed to hurt Corazon. He had proved that time and time again. And yet—

“You’re… that afraid of me?” His voice was weak, a whisper. The sight of Corazon shielding himself from a possible strike seemed to break Katakuri’s heart further, his tone barely audible. He looked more wounded by that than by the fire, the loss, the accusations.
“…You’re like everyone else. You see me as nothing more than a violent beast.”

“That’s not true!” Rosinante cried, as though his life depended on it. “You can’t say that…! Not after everything we’ve been through—I forbid it! I was just—”

“I can. And I will.” Katakuri turned his eyes away, unable to endure Rosinante’s gaze. But his fists, clenched so tightly they shook, betrayed the torment inside. He had to make a choice. For Corazon, who deserved better than a dangerous family. For himself, who did not deserve the joy of living at Rosinante’s side. This man was too good, too pure, for a life tied to a possible monster. He had to cut him off. After all, he was the one who had agreed to marriage in the first place.

He had to protect them both. Return to what he had always been. He had to pull away—for his family, for Rosinante.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his house. Rosinante thought he had gone to calm down, to isolate himself, perhaps even to sleep it off and return as the gentle man he knew. But only moments later, Katakuri came back down, carrying divorce papers already filled out—the very documents Smoothie had given him at the last tea party.

Rosinante’s heart broke as he saw him like that, shut tight, impenetrable, as though every fragment of their shared past was burning out before his eyes.

Breathless, Rosinante stepped closer. “Kata… what is that?”

Katakuri hurled the file to the floor, papers scattering, some already smudged with ink and signed. Rosinante recognized them instantly. His orange eyes went wide.
“…Divorce papers?”

The silence pressed down heavier than the smoke or the shouts around them.

Rosinante picked up one sheet with trembling hands. Katakuri’s signature already marked the page. His chest constricted to breaking.
“You… you’d already filled these out?” His voice cracked. “Why? Why go this far if you… if you said you loved me? I thought you— you were against the idea of divorce, you can’t—”

Katakuri turned his head away, unable to meet his eyes. His pink gaze was filled with shame, his jaw clenched so hard his lips whitened, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He said nothing. Rosinante, on the edge of tears, crushed the paper against his chest.

“…And you think this is the solution?! To erase me, as if I never mattered? As if everything we endured together meant nothing?!”

The strongest man in the land could not even look him in the eye. Too ashamed to watch the man he loved cry because of him. Anyone else who made Corazon cry deserved death, Katakuri thought. But this was his duty. He had failed—failed as a soldier, failed as a lover. He had to cut off what weakened him.

“Kata… you can’t say this. Not now. Not after everything we—”

Katakuri finally raised his gaze to him. It was no longer just empty—it was sharp, icy, blurred with the sheen of unshed tears.
“Enough.”

The blond froze at the commanding tone.

The colossus drew in a deep breath, each word tearing a piece of his soul as he spat them out with merciless finality:
“You need to leave. Now. Don’t ever come back.”

Rosinante felt his heart shatter into pieces. “What…? After what you told me yesterday—after everything we lived—you…?”

“You heard me.” Katakuri’s voice cracked faintly, but he forced his face to stay hard, the taste of blood on his tongue. “It’s over. I never want to hear you again. Never see you again. You don’t belong here. Not with me. Go—be with your son.”

Rosinante staggered, his fingers clenching around the crumpled sheets. His eyes blurred with tears, his voice taking on the sharpness of the policeman he once was.
“You don’t mean that, you idiot—”

“I do.” Katakuri cut him off, tone like iron.
“I don’t love you. All you bring is chaos into my life, into my mind—a constant storm of new wants, new feelings I can’t control. Since you came, I’ve lowered my guard. And this is the result. Brûlée unconscious. Pudding terrorized. My family in flames. I don’t love you, and I never will. I can’t. I bite.”

Each word struck Rosinante like a slap. Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable. Katakuri stepped back, as though building an invisible wall between them. His voice grew colder, almost estranged.
“If you stay… they’ll keep paying for me. And you will too. Who knows what could happen? We come from worlds far too different. So go. Find someone who can love you, who can embrace all the love you carry.”

Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of dying flames and the distant sirens.

Rosinante opened his mouth, unable to breathe, unable to form a reply. Every part of him screamed it was a lie, another mask Katakuri was using to protect himself. But the words had been too harsh, too final to fight.

Katakuri turned his head, refusing to meet his gaze. If he looked at him again, he would take it back. Neither the blood in his mouth nor the nails digging into his palms could betray him now.
“Leave, Corazon. For good… I beg you, don’t make this harder than it already is… please.”

This time, there was no tremor in his voice.

Rosinante stepped back, the crumpled papers still in his hand. His breath broke in ragged sobs, a bitter, broken smile twitching on his lips, but no words came. His eyes stayed fixed on the man he had loved—the man who had torn him out of his life with a single sentence.

He turned, walking away with forced pride, expecting nothing. But the injustice of this separation was too much for his heart. He spun back, their eyes locking one final time, both red and wet with tears.

“You’re nothing but a coward, Katakuri. Afraid of your own emotions. You never lost control because of us—because you never had control of your own life to begin with. And you never will, as long as fear dictates your choices.”

For the first time in his life, Corazon didn’t say goodbye with a smile.

He left. He waited until he was far enough away before breaking down, sobbing, choking on tears and snot, unable to breathe under the crushing weight on his chest.

Katakuri hadn’t moved. The smoke stung his eyes so badly that tears had been streaming for minutes, his hand pressed against his face. But the fire had long gone out, the smoke had long since faded… and still the tears would not stop.

 

...

..

.

 

Three weeks had passed.

Click. Click. Click.

The sharp snap of a lighter echoed in the silence. Rosinante leaned against the balcony railing of a spacious apartment overlooking one of the main avenues of a New World city. Down below, the streets bustled with life.

He drew in a drag and exhaled slowly, his eyes following the crowd without any real focus. A girl in a gothic outfit—pink hair, tall boots. Hm, not bad. A little further down, a freckled black-haired kid skated alongside his blond friend. And further still… an odd couple: a redhead and a clown shouting at each other like fishwives before one planted a loud kiss on the other’s forehead.

Rosinante grimaced. A clown in love? Seriously? Pathetic. I hate couples.

He slid the glass door shut with an irritated gesture and moved back inside. The apartment was spacious, a gift from Sengoku. The old admiral had used part of his retirement money to furnish it before retreating into a monastery, where he now prayed to Buddha all day long. He had left the place to Rosinante and Law—mostly so the boy would have a stable home while attending New World Middle School.

Routine had become his new reality.
The man who once loved eccentric makeup, flashy clothes, and standing out now dressed in plain, neutral outfits with no sparkle. He smoked far more than before, stuffing drawers and cupboards with cigarette packs hidden carefully so Law wouldn’t nag him about it.

Every day, the same walk. The same streets. Always that small detour to the strange greengrocer—a tall, pale man who looked like Dracula but sold the best lettuce in the district. Rosinante bought it every time, more out of habit than need, but it gave his walk some flimsy sense of purpose.

It was absurd.
The man who had spent half his life running from death, from the mafia, from the police, from his brother—now spent his days filling the fridge, checking Law’s homework, sneaking cigarettes in secret. He often saw Belmere. She’d come for tea, sometimes bringing her two daughters—girls who were no longer children but not quite women either. Rosinante took care of them with awkward kindness. They weren’t his, but they clung to him like a substitute uncle. He tried not to disappoint them. Tried to stay useful, discreet, there when needed.

Sometimes, he caught himself wondering if he deserved this quiet.
An ex-spy. A fallen noble. A shadow soldier.
And now? Just a washed-up man who smoked too much, woke up too late, and built a cardboard version of normality to cover the emptiness inside. As if the smell of a pastry shop, or a glimpse of mochi, was enough to set him burning all over again. It was unbearable.

Katakuri’s last words still echoed like an open wound, the bitter taste of their breakup returning with every breath. He regretted not saying goodbye differently. Regretted not managing to smile one last time. Damn it.

Like every morning for the past three weeks, he headed to the precinct—the meeting point with Belmere and Smoker. As he walked in, he gave a curt nod to the tall man holding the door open: Kuzan, the regional chief of police. The man held it politely, preventing Rosinante from bumping into it.

“Back again, Rosinante? Planning to rejoin the force or what?” Kuzan asked with a lazy grin.

“I’d rather die,” Rosinante muttered with a grimace, which drew a raspy laugh from the other man.

“I get it. This place is too corrupt for a soul like yours. Smoker’s in the back room.” Kuzan gestured casually, and Rosinante nodded, strangely touched by the rare compliment before moving on.

He nearly slammed the door off its hinges as he barged in, surprising the two smokers inside.
“Smoker! Well? What did they say?”

“You’re supposed to say hello first,” belmere replied without even looking up, peeling a mandarin as she passed slices to their friends.

Smoker took a drag, chewed on his response before letting it out.
“They refused visitation. Not surprising. Corazon, they’ll never let you near Doflamingo this early in his sentence. You’ll have to wait at least a month.”

The blond let his chin drop to his chest and collapsed into a chair. Three weeks—three weeks of digging through the ashes of the fire with his circle, and still nothing: no usable footage, no reliable witness, no clear alibi. The only half-decent witnesses were Cracker, still burned and bedridden in the hospital, and a swarm of kids who had been asleep when it all happened. Nothing. Absolutely nothing they could work with. The anger and helplessness gnawed at him. He lit another cigarette, searching for calm in the ritual.

“Goddammit.”

Smoker exhaled a long stream of smoke from his twin cigars, the air thick with haze.
“Cora… you need to be realistic. We’re running in circles. That fire—it wasn’t an accident. We all know it. Someone gave away the address.”

Rosinante lifted his head, dark rings under his eyes.
“No one… no one was supposed to know. Except his family… and me. I saw what he could do the first time I came to his place—we were chased, he killed his assailants in a single blow.”

His hands trembled slightly; he forced himself to inhale deeply on the cigarette to hide the shiver running down his spine.

The red-haired woman set down her half-peeled mandarin, her dark eyes locking onto Rosinante’s.
“Then why the hell did you cut ties with Katakuri? Do you even realize what a mistake that was? That man was made for you. You could’ve investigated together, found out who went after them. Instead, you left him alone.”

The blond tensed, the words slicing into him like a blade. He jerked upright, his voice louder than he meant against his friend.
“You think I wanted this?! You think I chose it?!” His breath broke, words choking in his throat. “He threw me out… like I was a traitor. He doesn’t trust me—because of my past.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the crackle of tobacco. He brushed his blonde fringe back with a sharp movement.

“Sorry. I’m just… on edge. Just—don’t bring up Katakuri again. He was very clear about wanting me out of his life. I just want to avenge Brûlée and the kids. I’ve got nothing to do with him anymore, whether I like it or not.”

belmere leaned in and wrapped him delicately in her arms. She had known him since adolescence. She could read every crack in his armor, and better than anyone, she knew how hard this had to be for a man as sentimental as him.

Rosinante rubbed his face, his palms burning hot. His heart pounded wildly, thoughts looping endlessly. Katakuri, his cruel words. The charred manor. The terrified children. And above all—that one detail. A chink in the armor.

Suddenly, an image resurfaced in his mind. Law had mentioned it clearly: the one who had uncovered Katakuri’s residence was Baby 5. Thinking about it now… she hadn’t been at Dressrosa. Neither she nor Buffalo had been caught.

“Has Baby 5 been found yet?” he asked abruptly.

“The kid?” Smoker frowned. “We’re tracking her. But there’s no way she could’ve disabled the cameras or pulled off that kind of destruction on the Baroness’s turf all by herself.”

It made sense. But at this stage, with no access to the main suspect, Baby 5 was the only lead left. From now on, every effort would turn toward finding the girl.

 

...

..

.

Three weeks had passed.

Click, click, click.
The sharp sound of a pen echoed in the hall, barely cutting through the murmur of ongoing discussions. Katakuri twirled the object between his fingers, the tip occasionally digging into the wooden table without him realizing.

“…As for weapons production, we hold the upper hand.”
Perospero continued his report, his voice steady, though his eyes kept straying toward his younger brother, seated at the far end of the table.

“Isn’t that right, Katakuri?”
No answer.
“Kata?”

A faint start. Smoothie laid her hand gently on his forearm. The touch dragged him back from wherever his thoughts had gone, and his eyes finally lifted. They were rimmed with red, hollow with exhaustion. His gloves were gone, and his knuckles, blackened with dried blood, pressed into the wood.

Everyone waited.

“…Yes.” His voice was rough, strangled. “Whatever.”

Perospero’s brows rose, but he went on with his speech. No one dared push further.

But Smoothie never stopped watching him. Her brother had always been a pillar, a steady presence whose strength reassured them all. Now he looked like a shell, shoulders wound tight under a crushing, invisible weight. His eyes weren’t seeing the room, nor the family gathered around him. They stared through them all, fixed on some distant, unreachable place.

He wasn’t taking notes. He wasn’t listening. When someone spoke, he sometimes gave a mechanical nod, but his pen never touched paper—it carved into the table instead, leaving deep, angry grooves.

The scent of donuts, once inseparable from this wing of the manor, had vanished. In its place hung a heavy, frigid air. Even Perospero, hardened by years under their mother’s wrath, avoided looking directly at him, unsettled.

Smoothie leaned closer, her voice hushed.
“Brother… do you want to step outside for a while?”

No response. Not a word, not a movement. Only silence. Sitting there wasn’t Katakuri anymore—it was a shadow wearing his shape. His bare hands bore the half-healed cracks of raw wounds, evidence of nights spent training until he bled.

“Thank you for your report, Perospero.”
Big Mom’s voice cut through the room like a blade. She rose, circling the table. Each of her children straightened immediately, spines stiff, frozen by the weight of her presence.

“Thanks to Katakuri’s ingenuity in driving off Kaido, we are now the most powerful mafia branch on the continent!”

She stopped behind him, her hand falling heavily onto his shoulder. Katakuri didn’t flinch.

“But…” Her tone darkened. “…I was deeply disappointed to hear of all the schemes you involved yourself in, without so much as consulting me.”

What should have been a gesture of solidarity became a grip of steel. Big Mom pressed her palm down hard, pouring her strength into the contact. Fingers dug into flesh; muscle strained beneath her grasp. The pain rippled down the table—some of her children recoiled, others swallowed grimaces.

Katakuri didn’t react. He sat straight, anchored, his face blank but his jaw locked, the tendons in his neck standing out. His skin whitened under the pressure, yet he neither cried out nor moved.

“And what if I had wanted to ally with that fool Kaido?” she growled, lifting her head. “You stole that choice from me. You’ve grown a little too fond of freedom… because of your marriage.”

Crack.
The pen in his fingers snapped clean in two at the word.

Laughter burst from her, manic and echoing against the stone walls.
“Mama-mama-mama! A sore subject, is it? What a mistake I made in allowing that union. And now I hear… there might be a divorce?”

The silence that fell was glacial. Eyes dropped, darted, fled.

Big Mom seized Katakuri’s face in one brutal motion, wrenching his gaze to hers. The shock rattled the entire table.

“You wouldn’t have dared, would you? My precious Katakuri, incapable of disobeying me… surely he wouldn’t make such a foolish decision.” Her voice thickened, rumbled. “We’ll discuss this later.”

She shoved his head away like a broken toy. Katakuri wavered, but stayed mute, motionless. Even his breath seemed absent.

“Now… where is your brother Cracker? Did that fool skip another meeting?”

A shiver rippled across the room. They all knew it wasn’t forgetfulness—it was forced convalescence. Katakuri didn’t move, but the icy aura leaking from him was enough to freeze the air.

It was Oven who finally gathered the courage to answer, each word chosen carefully to avoid provoking their mother.
“Mother… Cracker is still hospitalized. The fire—”

Big Mom shrugged, indifferent.
“Ah, very well.” Her tone sliced the moment flat, devoid of emotion. Then, suddenly standing:
“This meeting is over! Mama wants to eat!”

Her booming voice slammed through the hall like a hammer strike. All of them bowed instantly, some too quickly, hearts hammering. When the door slammed shut behind her, silence fell again—thick, suffocating.
Her thunderous voice rang like a hammer blow. Everyone bowed instantly, some too quickly, hearts pounding as if they might burst. When the heavy door slammed shut behind her, silence fell once more—thick, suffocating, impossible to breathe through.

The children of Big Mom exchanged uncertain glances. They all understood it now: Katakuri was no longer the same. Once, his reputation and his perfect image had been enough to cover the cracks, to keep his wounds hidden beneath an unshakable façade. But now… now he was nothing more than a shadow, a specter haunting the family table.

Smoothie, pressed close beside him, dared to break the silence.
“Brother… what do you have planned for today?”

He didn’t even look at her. His voice was low, flat.
“Training. Becoming stronger. After that… I’ll visit Brûlée.”

“Cracker’s being discharged today!” she tried, forcing a smile to her lips. “Isn’t it wonderful he’s recovered so quickly?”

Katakuri gave the faintest of nods. His answer was cold, mechanical, as if spoken by a man elsewhere.
“Yes. But Brûlée remains hospitalized. Out of danger, perhaps… but the scars—psychological, not just physical—on her, on the children…”

Smoothie’s smile faltered. She pressed her lips together, unable to find a reply. It was the twins who tried next. Oven placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder, with Daifuku quickly following suit.

“Come on, Kata… you can’t run to the hospital again. You were there already this morning. Even Brûlée said you’re practically smothering her, showing up so often.”

“Oven’s right!” Daifuku added, his tone too bright, too eager, like someone forcing cheer into a funeral hall.

Katakuri’s fists clenched, his jaw tightening until the muscle jumped.
“I don’t care. I don’t want to stop.”

Daifuku gave his arm a small tap, a nervous attempt to lighten the air. Oven, however, sobered, his voice gentler this time, weighted with something close to pleading.
“Brûlée gave us a mission, brother. She asked us to make sure you don’t shut yourself away. If it’s her will… who are we to disobey?”

At last, Katakuri lifted his gaze to meet theirs.

And what stared back at them wasn’t anger, nor kindness. It was something worse—an abyss. His eyes were voids, dark pits swallowing all light, all warmth. The sight chilled the room more than their mother’s outbursts ever could.

_______

Rosinante came home, his phone still in his hand, eyes tired from combing through every lead on Baby 5 and any possible cause for the fire. He’d bought everything to make delicious onigiri for his son, who must be worn out from studying.

“I’m home—” he called as he opened the door.

But the sentence died in his throat. His heart stopped.

In the living room, Law was pressed against the wall, lipstick smudges all over his face, his T‑shirt half‑hiked up, while Kidd… was literally devouring him.

The sound Rosinante let out wasn’t even human. It was a scream ripped from his gut that sent him stumbling backwards. His phone slipped from his hand and bounced and hit him in the face.

“…Oh shit, I forgot Cora was coming home!” Law blurted, completely caught off guard.

He immediately recoiled while Kidd hurriedly readjusted himself, breathing fast, cheeks scarlet.
“You okay, old man? I think we almost killed your dad there…” Kidd said.

“Shut up!” Law barked, shooting Kidd a murderous look before turning, panicked: “Cora, are you all right?”

But Rosinante couldn’t hear a thing. Eyes wide, he clapped both hands over his face as if that could erase the traumatic image. He clumsily sprang to his feet and backed away, stumbling, bumping into the living‑room walls as he made a desperate dash for his bedroom.

“I’m fine!” he stammered in a broken voice. “Well… physically. Psychologically, uh… that’s another story! I’ll leave you—”

“Cora‑san, wait—” Law tried.

But the door slammed violently.

On the other side, Rosinante slid down the doorframe, panting, his face burning.
Damn… living with my son isn’t so simple… he thought, burying his face in his hands.
Kidd and Law… since when have they been… doing that?! I clearly missed some episodes…

He wasn’t the most comfortable sharing a student flat with younger people — he’d much prefer some independence and to follow his dream of working with children — but for now it was the best option. He didn’t want to be a burden to Law so the boy could live his own life.

“Cora, open up please, Kidd left—I’m sorry, I should’ve gone to my room,” came a voice.

“You promise you’ll be dressed? I have zero desire to see you naked—especially with that awful tattoo,” someone teased.

When Cora came out, Law gave him a kick.
“My tattoo is awesome, idiot, and Kidd loves it,” Law shot back.

“I don’t want to know, lalala,” Rosinante covered his ears, trying to protect himself from the trauma. He smoothed a hand into the future doctor’s hair.

“More seriously, I’m sorry, Law. I think at your age you should live on your own sometimes, have some privacy. I’m actually looking for my own place to live on my own,” he added.

Law was sulky like a pouty child. “No! We said we’d be roommates and—”

“And get a dog,” the blond cut in. “I know, I know, but actually letting you live the student life is easier for me.”

“Cora, can’t you see you can’t live alone! You’re the brother of one of the world’s greatest criminals — you helped bring down Kaido and his mafia, you helped kill Kanjuro, your ex‑husband is the second‑in‑command of the world’s most powerful woman! How many men want your skin, do you realize?” Law shouted.

Cora grinned like an idiot and made a V sign with his fingers. “How many men want me? Hmm, lots! I’m very attractive.”

“Shut up, idiot!”

At that moment, someone knocked on the door.

“You expecting someone?” the older man asked, lighting a cigarette.

“No…” Law answered, suspicious, not at all social. “Be careful, it’s weird for anyone to come at this hour.”

“Oh please, you’re going to say there’s an assassin outside my door trying to kill me,” he joked as he opened it.

But, to his surprise, he was wrong — it was Cracker, one of Big Mom’s commanders, standing on the doorstep. The shock made the blond drop his cigarette, which fell and sparked.

“Oh shit.”

Rosinante had barely regained his composure when the metallic sound of a drawn blade made him start. Law, eyes glittering with rage, pointed his sword at Cracker as if ready to cut at any second.

“What?!” Rosinante choked, leaping between them to defuse the situation. “Law! Put that sword down! This is not the time — where did you even—!”

Cracker, surprisingly calm, raised his hands with a smile: “I— I come in peace.”

Law blinked; the tension in his muscles eased fractionally. Rosinante planted himself between the two, breathing deep, trying to temper the young man’s flames of anger.
“Law, calm down. This is not the time to threaten a guest. We need to understand what happened that night.”

Cracker nodded, features set but not aggressive.
“I know I’m no longer part of the family, but I need to explain what happened that night. Neither Mama nor any Charlotte bothered to investigate, much to big brother’s dismay.”

Rosinante felt the weight of tension pressing down — every breath heavy with anger, fear and confusion.

“Speak, Cracker,” he said at last, his voice calm but firm. “Tell us everything about the fire. We need to know what really happened.”

Cracker nodded and drew a deep breath before beginning, and Rosinante stood at Law’s side, ready to rein in the boy’s anger and listen to every word, aware that this moment would define what remained of their family and their safety.

Cracker still trembled as he sat on the couch, breath shallow, his burned hands still bandaged.

“That night…” he began, his voice hoarse, “I was watching over the boarding school because Katakuri wasn’t there—he’d put me in charge that night. The children were asleep… everything seemed calm.”

A chill ran down Rosinante’s spine.

“And then…” Cracker’s voice broke, “the smoke came. So fast. So fierce. We barely had time to understand what was happening. Fortunately the majority of the kids were able to be taken out in time. Pudding…” Cracker clenched his teeth, eyes misting. “She came to wake me… in tears… unable to speak, just screams. I… I barely managed to get her into my arms with Brûlée… one more minute, or if Katakuri hadn’t smashed the front door open, it would have been over for us.” He paused, letting the horror hang in the air.

His words trembled on his lips. “I… I nearly died in that building. If someone… something… had moved differently—. The worst is that the alarms and surveillance were working that same night, but we have no footage.” His voice broke.

Rosinante ground his teeth, a mix of anger and fear, while Law stood motionless, his hand white around the sword, every muscle taut like a drawn wire.

“No one knows… who…” Cracker whispered, voice shaking, “…did it.”

The oppressive silence that followed was heavy until Rosinante cut through it, voice steeled but choked with anguish:
“I don’t understand… the motive? If the alarms didn’t go off, it means the person knew the place. Who would have betrayed them…”

Law grimaced, chewing on a cookie with the edge of his teeth. “Especially if it was meant to weaken Big Mom… failed. She doesn’t even seem interested in this matter.”

“Mother didn’t come to the hospital, neither for Brûlée, nor for Pudding or the other children…” Cracker continued in a low, trembling voice. “No… she wasn’t the target. One could have thought it wouldn’t have made a difference: this weakness is only known to Katakuri’s inner circle. He was the real target, by weakening his siblings.”

Rosinante nodded grimly. “Doflamingo must have been gnawing at his restraint after his defeat…”

Law, neutral but focused, bit into a cookie. “You think it’s your brother…?”

“It’s the only lead we have.”

Law added, “And I heard he was trying to find out where Katakuri lived… after Kanjuro’s death and Caesar’s arrest, which he held you responsible for. Probably a way to take revenge…”

A heavy silence fell, almost soothing in its relative calm. Law rose, grabbed a notebook and a book, and settled at the table to consider solutions, evaluate leads, and possible suspects linked to Doflamingo.

Rosinante and Cracker stayed on the couch, the conversation slowly resuming.

“How’s Brûlée…?” Rosinante asked, his voice softer. “I’ll go see her tonight.”

“Very well… she misses you, actually!” Cracker replied. “Big Brother only comes by… she really needs to see others. Call her first, to make sure you don’t run into any Charlottes.”

Rosinante blushed slightly, nervously playing with his hair—a gesture that surprised Cracker, who found himself staring a little too long, thinking he looked kind of cute.

“And… um…” he murmured timidly, “how’s… Kata…?”

Cracker closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh. “Honestly? Bad. Terrible… It feels like he’s suppressed all emotion in his heart. He’s just an obedient dog now, with no real purpose in life…”

Rosinante sat frozen on the couch, silent, eyes empty, lost in images of Katakuri and how badly he’d already struggled with his emotions after Moscato’s death. Leaving him alone had clearly been the worst thing to do.

“Hey, you look depressed,” Cracker said with a mischievous smile.

Rosinante barely looked up, sighed, and muttered, “I’m not in the mood…”

Cracker shrugged, unimpressed. “Oh, come on… it’s been three weeks with your face like a wet cat. You could at least pretend in front of your son.”

Rosinante sighed more heavily, massaging his temples. “I’m not interested… I’m already dealing with enough problems without…” He stopped, shooting a dark look at the young commander, who tilted his head, amused. “Without adding a squatter here—you can leave. I’m not even a Charlotte anymore.”

“You want to be again? I’m single if—”

“Shut up,” both Law and Cora growled simultaneously.

“Okay, okay… but you know, I could crash here for a bit. Just to… watch over you and Law. Not because I’m bored, or anything.”

Rosinante rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Do as you please, just don’t cause me any trouble. I’m going to the hospital to see your sister—are you coming with me?”

_________

Katakuri’s side

The room was closed off, heavy with a silence that promised nothing good. Big Mom and Katakuri stood face to face; she had demanded explanations. He, motionless, knew exactly what would follow—Morgan’s reports had probably reached his mother. Her anger didn’t need to explode: it seeped from every gesture, every breath, though she had the decency to let him recover from the fire first.

“You think I don’t see?” Her voice, low at first, rumbled like a rising wave.
“You think I don’t understand what you’ve done? Removing Kaido, handling Caesar without consulting me, the fall of Doflamingo… all these idiotic decisions as if you had the right to decide. As if you were smarter than your own mother—are you the head of this family?”

Katakuri didn’t respond. He stared at an invisible point, jaw clenched, trying desperately to think of anything else to avoid breaking.

She stepped closer, her massive shadow almost crushing him.
“And this divorce…” she spat, voice dripping with contempt. “I arranged this marriage to strengthen our family’s power. A noble, Katakuri! You shattered a balance that took me years to establish. Do you realize his blood is rare?! I don’t care that he’s Doflamingo’s brother or that my alliance with him no longer holds.”

Her fingers clutched his scarf, yanking it sharply.
“Take that off.”

A moment of hesitation, then slowly, he obeyed. The fabric slid, revealing his fangs, his face hidden from the world. Big Mom snickered, a laugh without warmth.

“So this is what you really are. Hideous. Broken. You still think anyone could love you like this? You’re only good for obeying. Shall I remind you how you got these scars? Didn’t you learn anything from king ?”

She raised her hand, and the slap landed, dry, brutal. Katakuri’s head snapped from the impact. A trickle of blood ran down the split side of his lip, but he stayed upright, stoic, frozen in the discipline she herself had taught him: never respond, never defy. He thought of Corazon, his blond hair, everything he could to remain serious.

Big Mom crouched slightly, forcing his eyes to meet hers.
“You belong to me. Understand? Not Rosinante, not your illusions, not your ridiculous feelings. It’s your love for him that made you falter, that weakened you. You’re not made to love. You’re made to obey.”

Her voice softened, almost caressing, but the venom flowed like poison.
“You’ve destroyed everything, Katakuri… listening to your futile feelings, people like you don’t need that. You only need to become what you were always meant to be: a docile dog. My weapon. My perfect son.”

Katakuri lowered his head slightly. His fists trembled, teeth sinking into his flesh, but he said nothing. This silence was no choice—it was a prison.

Big Mom smiled, satisfied. She had broken him again.
“I was so angry when I learned what you did in Dressrosa in Morgan paper… you have no idea.” Her voice struck like a blade on stone. “But regarding your divorce… I’ll be more lenient. It was my mistake to believe that marrying my right hand to a noble would give me better control over you two.”

Katakuri’s heart raced. For the first time since the meeting began, he raised his eyes to his mother, fangs clenched at the mention of his ex-partner.

Big Mom chuckled, savoring the crack she had reopened.
“Rosinante is still a Charlotte. Whether his brother is a traitor or not changes nothing. His blood is noble, and his blood must remain in my family. No matter if it’s through him… or through offspring.”

Katakuri felt the air leave his lungs. “Mother… what are you saying…?” His voice was barely audible, choked, terrified at the thought of seeing Corazon with someone else—or his mother laying hands on him.

She slammed her fist onto the table, the wood cracking under the force.
“Silence!” she growled. Her massive hand then struck his already bruised shoulder, forcing him to lower his head once more. “You have nothing to say. I need my trophy for the next Tea Party—figure it out if you don’t want me to take matters into my own hands.”

Katakuri absorbed the blow, his body unmoving by a single millimeter. But his eyes clouded again. Everything he had dared to raise in his mind was extinguished by that single word: dispose.

Big Mom turned away, settling heavily onto her throne, her booming laughter filling the empty room.
“Mama-mama-mama! Never forget, Katakuri. You can lose your honor, your siblings, your marriage, your illusions. But you will always remain my creature.”

He bowed mechanically, a puppet whose strings were pulled too tight for any hope of escape.

Katakuri left the room like an automaton. His heavy steps echoed through the corridors, but inside, it was a stifled scream. Every fiber of his body burned. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles bled again, bandages already soaked.

Arriving at the wing reserved for his brothers, he could take no more. The door slammed behind him with such force it nearly flew off its hinges.
“FUCK!” he roared, smashing the wall with all his strength. The stone shattered, sending shards flying like a rain of blades.

Oven and Daifuku, waiting in the corridor, jumped back. They had seen Katakuri angry—but never like this. His breath was short, animalistic, eyes bloodshot.

“Big Brother, calm down—” Daifuku tried to approach.

The response was another strike, this time against a table, splintered to pieces.
“SHUT UP!” Katakuri bellowed, veins bulging in his neck, his voice almost unrecognizable. “YOU TOO! ALL OF YOU!”

Oven immediately stepped in front of Daifuku, hands raised.
“Kata, calm down! You’re going to—”

Katakuri’s fist grazed his face, shattering the wall behind. The twins exchanged a frozen glance. This wasn’t Katakuri. Not the one who protected them, not the one who always stayed calm, not the perfect brother—they were seeing someone broken, psychologically at the edge.

The commotion drew Perospero, who arrived on the scene.
“What the hell is going on now…” he began, only to freeze at his brother’s wild eyes.

He frowned, the weight of the family lineage heavy on him, and approached slowly—but with authority.
“Enough,” he said firmly. “That’s enough, Katakuri.”

The colossus turned toward him, trembling, fists red with blood. For a moment, Oven and Daifuku thought he might even strike him.

But Perospero held his gaze without flinching.
“You think destroying walls will get you through this? You think it will bring your blondie back?”

Katakuri growled like a wounded beast, then let his fists drop to his sides. The silence that followed was almost more terrifying than his screams.

Perospero sighed and nodded to the twins.
“Take him. He’s going to destroy himself if left alone.”

“He already is… do you want us to take him somewhere?” Oven asked, still shaken.

A thin, cold smile twisted Perospero’s lips.
“Take him out, distract him. That’s what you do best.”

Daifuku’s eyes widened.
“Seriously?! In his state?”

“Exactly,” Perospero said, icy. “He needs to spit out what’s in his gut before he blows us all up.”

Katakuri didn’t resist. He let his brothers almost drag him, a broken giant, until the lights of the harbor and the neon signs of the mafia city appeared before them. With Smoothie by their side, he had calmed slightly, keeping his composure in front of his sister.

The bar was smoky, loud, filled with boisterous laughter and the clinking of glasses. The stench of strong liquor and tobacco nearly overpowered the faint scent of sea salt drifting in from the nearby harbor.

Katakuri sat at a table in the back, a bottle of rum before him, untouched at first. Now, several empty glasses surrounded him. But he wasn’t drunk. His body absorbed alcohol as it absorbed blows—without flinching, without wavering.

His eyes, however, remained fixed on nothing. Not on his brothers, not on the fights around them. Somewhere else. Always elsewhere. In his thoughts, there was a cigarette, a slightly awkward laugh, a voice calling his name with that warmth that made him weak.
Rosinante.

Perospero watched his younger brother warily. Oven and Daifuku were already drunk, laughing, singing, interacting with everyone in the bar. Smoothie handled alcohol better than anyone in the family. Finally, Perospero spoke, his voice hoarse, as if talking to himself:
“…She knows.”

The three brothers turned toward him.
“Mama… she knows. About Rosinante. About… what I felt.”

His fingers clenched the glass so hard it cracked.
“She could come after him. After Law. Anyone connected to him… if she wants to break me further.”

Perospero frowned.
“You really think she’d waste her energy on that?”

A heavy silence fell.

In the distance, through the smoke and dim lights, a blonde figure appeared. A young woman, sitting alone at the bar, a glass in hand. Her piercing blue eyes studied the Charlotte table with near-surgical focus.

Daifuku followed her gaze and frowned.
“You see that?” he murmured. “The blonde over there… she’s not taking her eyes off us. I hope it’s for me.”

Oven crossed his arms.
“Another one trying to make a name for herself by cozying up to Mama’s kids. No chance she’s interested in you!”

“Come on, come on… we’re not spending the evening watching Katakuri ghost around! Drinks all around!”

“Yeah!” Oven slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses tremble. “Katakuri, you’re not killing the vibe tonight! You enjoy yourself!”

Daifuku snapped his fingers, signaling the servers to bring a full bottle from their VIP corner.
“We’re toasting Cracker’s recovery! Strange he’s not here tonight, though.”

Katakuri didn’t flinch. His glass hung between his fingers, jaw clenched.

Smoothie, sitting slightly back, sighed, her perfect face half-hidden by her hand.
“You’re pathetic… You really think a little alcohol will make him forget… all that?”

“He already looks pretty drunk,” Oven snickered. “Surprising coming from you.”

“And what’s your solution?” Smoothie shot him a look that would freeze anyone—but not her brother, too thick-headed to catch the nuance.

At that moment, the blonde at the bar stood. Her heels clicked softly against the worn floor as she strode toward their table with near-defiant confidence. She was tall for a woman, standing strong.

Perospero noticed her approach first.
“Oh, looks like the local fauna’s taking an interest in us…” he muttered, a twisted smile at the corner of his lips.

The young woman, slim and elegant, set her glass on the table without asking. Her gaze swept from brother to brother, before resting on Katakuri.

“You all look bored,” she said, her voice clear, slightly amused. “Maybe I can help.”

Oven burst out laughing.
“Oho! Now this gets interesting!” He elbowed Katakuri in the ribs. Katakuri finally lifted his eyes to her. His dark, almost wounded gaze made her hesitate for a split second. But she didn’t look away; on the contrary, she smiled at him—soft, yet confident.

Smoothie rolled her eyes and massaged her temples.
“For God’s sake…”

Perospero chuckled.
“Seems our Katakuri still attracts butterflies, despite his funeral face.”

Katakuri didn’t respond. His fists still trembled, but this time… it wasn’t just anger.

“Hey, Blondie!” Daifuku said smugly, arms crossed on the table. “Wanna come sit next to me?”

Oven snickered, beating his chest like a proud peacock.
“No way! I’m the bigger one here!”

The young woman raised an amused eyebrow, quickly scanning the two twins… and finally placed her hand on Katakuri’s arm, which tensed automatically.
“Thanks, boys, but I prefer your brother’s company.”

Oven was dumbfounded.
“What?!”

Daifuku almost choked on his glass.
“You’re joking, right?!”

Perospero burst into a guttural laugh, shoulders shaking.
“Oh, what a monumental slap you just got, my dear little brothers! But our brother isn’t one for that kind of relationship… rarely. Is tonight the exception…?”
Smoothie, exasperated, rolled her eyes. Katakuri, on the other hand, tensed under the touch of the blonde. He tried to pull his arm away, but she held it gently, as if anchoring him.
“You don’t look like you’re in the mood to laugh… maybe I can change that,” she whispered, almost tenderly.

He turned his gaze away, teeth clenched. The warmth of the alcohol already clouded his thoughts, dulling his focus. His inner mask, usually unshakable, began to crack.

“Katakuri,” Oven sang, laughing hysterically, “you’re not seriously going to stay silent when a girl like that chooses you?”

“Exactly!” added Daifuku, refusing to lose face. “This is a golden opportunity! Take it, bro!”

Perospero snapped his fingers, amused.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let our dear Katakuri enjoy himself… he’s a grown man, after all.”

Silence fell for a moment. The young woman’s clear gaze drilled into Katakuri’s, insistent, certain. She wasn’t here for the others, not to play games: she wanted him.

Under the pressure of the voices around him, the alcohol clouding his mind, and the soft hand that refused to let go, Katakuri felt his armor fracture further. He inhaled deeply and finally raised his eyes to hers.

The alcohol hammered his brain. His brothers’ laughter was loud, rowdy, almost blending into the bar’s chaos. Katakuri no longer really heard them. He saw only this woman, the heavy scent of cold tobacco filling his nostrils. That scent… too close to one that had haunted his nights.

Rosinante.

He blinked, and for a moment, it was as if he could see him: the awkward figure, the rough laugh, the cigarette always at the corner of his lips, those beautiful blond hair. Only here, it was a laughing blonde with bold lipstick, drawing him in.

He hadn’t thought. His fingers closed over hers, heavy, hesitant. She pulled him upstairs, away from prying eyes. Smoothie frowned, seeing her brother clearly not in the right state, but Perospero restrained any protest with a single gesture.

In the dim light, Katakuri let himself fall against the wall, breath short. The young woman approached, brushed his cheek, her scarlet lips leaving an almost unreal mark on his visible skin.

He closed his eyes. He sought another scent, another taste, another warmth. But all he found was that cheap tobacco scent that burned his throat, and the haunting memory of a vanished laugh.

His hands trembled as they slid over his hips. He wasn’t fully present; his body didn’t feel like his own, his hands unable to adjust. It was the alcohol, the fatigue, and the gaping wound Rosinante had left. Maybe it would be enough… maybe it would erase, if only for a moment, the emptiness in his chest.

But every move from the woman, every kiss, only dug the absence deeper.

He clung on regardless. Because he was drunk. Because he was stupid. Because he believed that this way, he might forget. He hated this kind of intimate contact; he felt no pleasure, but this time it was pure torment, almost like assault by his own will.

The woman laughed softly, her scent saturating the air around him. Katakuri let himself be guided more by inertia than choice. His hand brushed his scarf and clutched it abruptly, gripping her wrist.

“Stop…” His voice was hoarse, strangled.

She arched an amused eyebrow, assuming modesty.
“You like it hidden? Why not.”

She pressed closer, her fingers sliding the fabric of his coat, then his shirt. Katakuri’s massive chest appeared, covered with his huge tattoo. His muscles trembled—not from desire, but tension.

He clenched his fists. Closed his eyes. Searched in his drunken haze for a memory that could help him endure this contact. And he found it.

Rosinante.

The first time he had felt those clumsy hands graze his skin, a mix of hesitation and raw tenderness. The bitter taste of tobacco on his lips, which had annoyed him before obsessing him. The muffled laughter against his neck. The way he had nibbled his ear and whispered.

All of him wanted to feel that again. To feel him. But it wasn’t him.

The woman kissed his chest, pressed her lips against his scars as if to devour him. She seemed triumphant, showering him with compliments. Katakuri stayed frozen, eyes lost on the ceiling, waiting for time to pass. Every kiss was a cruel reminder: this wasn’t Rosinante. It never would be.

The more she insisted, the more he felt assaulted, trapped in an invisible prison. He let her act, unable to react, drained of his own will. His thoughts screamed:
This isn’t him. Not his scent. Not his warmth. Not his laugh. Not his love.

A bitter taste rose in his throat. When the woman stripped completely, his hands dug into the wood behind him until it cracked.

She kissed him again, trying to break him. But with every move, Katakuri felt more absent. She shed her clothes without hesitation, revealing herself with raw confidence. She was beautiful, undeniably. But to Katakuri, she was just a woman—an anatomical entity. Perfect even, in her flawless curves, smooth skin, without scars or blemishes.

Too perfect. Too smooth. He missed Rosinante’s scars; even from behind, the texture of his blond hair would have been different.

Katakuri watched without really seeing. His eyes swept over her like a painting hung in a room he had no wish to enter. She moved closer, exploring, trying to elicit a reaction from the immobile giant.

“Relax…” she breathed seductively, lips gliding down his torso to his navel, undoing his belt.

A shiver of disgust ran through him, so he closed his eyes and clenched his fists, still thinking of his mother’s words. What had she meant by Rosinante or his lineage? Was she speaking of Law? Or some noble biological offspring? But Cora had no child, and clearly didn’t seem to appreciate a woman’s presence in intimate matters.

He gritted his teeth. Every touch sent a wave of discomfort through him, as if his skin rejected the intrusion. She moved downward, pressing closer without waiting for a response. Her delicate fingers slipped beneath his clothing; her breath grew warmer, more insistent.

“Wow… you’re really… big naturally,” she murmured, pressing against him, trying to provoke any reaction.

Katakuri closed his eyes, seeking refuge in his memories. Nothing worked. This wasn’t Rosinante. There was none of that clumsy charm that had made him smile. No raspy yet gentle voice that had once grounded him.

When she tried to go further, lowering herself to take him, clearly aroused, he instinctively reached for her blonde hair as if to anchor himself—but as soon as she tried to remove her stockings, Katakuri recoiled violently at the thought of being exposed. His stomach twisted, disgusted with his own behavior as the alcohol ebbed. A burning nausea clawed its way up his throat.

He was colossal, standing there, but he felt crushed, defiled, foreign to himself. And the sensation was unbearable.

“Stop.” His voice snapped, icy and sharp.

She looked up, surprised, but attempted a seductive smile, as if she still thought he was playing hard to get. He stepped back again, fists clenched, breath ragged. His eyes no longer held the glaze of drunkenness—they were the eyes of a condemned man, cornered by his own solitude.

Air seemed to vanish; the room closed in on him. Without a word, without even glancing at the naked woman, he grabbed his coat, bolted down the stairs under the astonished eyes of the other Charlottes, and pushed open the door, nearly running into the night.

“That was quick,” Oven remarked before Daifuku smacked him lightly.

Smoothie followed, having known from the start that this would end badly.

The freezing night hit him like a wall, but it was a relief. The violent contrast with the suffocating heat inside made him feel like he could finally breathe. He leaned against the bar wall, head thrown back, eyes closed, breath shallow.

The intoxication swirled in his veins, heavy and treacherous, clouding his thoughts but leaving intact the disgust knotting his stomach. His hands still trembled, feeling tainted.

He hated himself. Not for the woman, not for the aborted act, but for the weakness he had exposed. For that betrayal, small but real, committed in the shadow of Rosinante.

The memories returned. The words. The breakup. The flames. That trembling voice begging… and him, plunging the knife in, repeating that he never wanted to see him again. He had chosen the divorce. He had trampled on their promises.

So why did the emptiness still devour him, as if his heart had been ripped out?

He curled in slightly, arms crossed over his chest, throat tight. The alcohol blurred his bearings, but not enough to quench the shame. Not enough to silence that name, haunting him with every breath:

“…Rosi…”

Smoothie came to him, a bottle in hand. Katakuri sprang up like a startled animal. He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not him. Not “perfect” Katakuri. But deep down, he knew tonight he had fallen lower than ever.

“Sit,” Smoothie ordered gently. She settled beside him on the step and handed him a glass.
“How do you feel?”

“…Dirty,” he rasped.

She raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve never been that kind of pervert. I’m surprised to see you try this kind of thing.”

Katakuri averted his gaze, ashamed.
“I thought I wanted it… but I really didn’t like it.”

“You shouldn’t force yourself, big brother,” she said calmly. She knew that Katakuri often acted out of duty, without true desire, when it came to intimacy. Except for one person. A ghost that still haunted him.

A silence hung. Then Smoothie exhaled, staring at the horizon—after all, she was his betrothed.
“You know… the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I might have actually enjoyed marrying Rosinante.”

Katakuri spat out his drink, stunned.
“WHAT?!”

She chuckled at his reaction.
“Let’s ignore the fact that he would never have had any attraction to me, and that he’s terrible at handling alcohol… I think I would have appreciated his presence. Seeing how much you miss him… he must have been someone really extraordinary.”

Katakuri, completely disarmed, finally rested his head childishly on his sister’s shoulder. Rarely drunk, he was normally an icy fortress. But Smoothie was the only one who could see him like this: vulnerable, gentle, almost innocent. The image of “perfect Katakuri” had vanished, and she finally saw her brother as he truly was.

He smiled foolishly.
“He’s incredibly clumsy… at first I thought he was just stupid. But actually, no, he doesn’t do it on purpose. Every touch came from a fall or an accident. It’s a miracle he’s still alive… and don’t even get me started on his cooking—total disaster.”

Smoothie ran a hand through her purple hair, touched.
“Well… you’ve been through a lot, big brother.”
He shook his head sharply, almost like a puppy wagging its tail.
“Even my predictions… nothing can keep up with his clumsiness. But… yes, there’s something else I love about him!”

His face lit up.
“He’s an incredible father! I wish I could have tons of children with him.”

Smoothie burst out laughing, nearly tipping her glass.
“And… exactly how are you planning to do that? Because biologically, it’s impossible.”

Katakuri made a grimace, suddenly despondent.
“I know… and it makes me sooo sad…” he whimpered, eyes glistening, almost on the verge of tears.

“Come on, come on…” Smoothie murmured, running her fingers through his hair, trying to calm him like a child.

“But it’s okay!” Katakuri continued in a thick, slurred voice. “He’ll take care of other children, or our younger siblings. They’re like mine anyway… and… he has that habit of adopting every sad kid he comes across… so he’ll have plenty to do with the Charlottes and this damn traumatic life.”

Smoothie smiled. Her brother, drunk, had laid himself bare. He was no longer the invincible giant, no longer the perfect soldier. Just a man in love, broken, but still capable of tenderness.

Smoothie helped him walk as best she could, one arm around his waist, though his bulk and muscles made it difficult. Katakuri, usually so upright, shuffled his feet like an exhausted child. His face, hidden beneath his scarf, betrayed an unusual vulnerability, flushed from the alcohol.

They found a quieter corner, away from the bar’s noise. Smoothie made him sit on a bench facing home. She stayed silent, knowing that with the alcohol, the words would come on their own.

And indeed, after a few moments, Katakuri sighed.
“You know why… I broke up?”

Smoothie studied him for a long moment.
“…No. But I suppose you’ll tell me.”

He ran a hand over his face, as if trying to scrape something invisible away.
“I was scared. Not of him… never of him.” His voice cracked slightly. “But of her. Of Mama. She could’ve… gone after him. Broken him. Killed him. Just to remind me that I’m her dog.”

Smoothie lowered her gaze, fingers clutching the bottle between them. She knew it was true. She knew how cruel their mother could be, especially toward Katakuri, her second, her ultimate weapon.

He continued, his voice rough:
“With Rosinante… I was… uncontrollable. I forgot everything. Rules, roles, image. I was no longer the monster she wants… I was just… me. I had learned who I was. And Mama… she could never have accepted that. She wouldn’t even have stopped herself from hurting you.”

A heavy silence followed. Then, drunk, Katakuri rested his forehead against his sister’s shoulder like a child seeking comfort.

“So I let him go. I told myself it was better… that I’d stay what I’ve always been—a shield for this family. That it was safer. But…” His hands trembled. “I miss him so much… it’s like I ripped a part of myself away. And for what? Because I have no control over anything, unlike him. Rosinante can decide his life, his death… and even that I cannot. If I disappear tomorrow, the family collapses.”

Smoothie gently lifted his chin so he could look at her.
“Big brother… listen to me. You can’t spend your life giving up. I know you love us more than anything. You don’t have to step away from what you love just because Mama wants it. She doesn’t control your heart.”

Katakuri let out a broken, half-sob laugh. He looked pathetic, red-faced, teary-eyed, his scarf half-fallen.
“My heart…? Smoothie, I think I left it in his hands. And I’m too cowardly to take it back.”

She wiped the single runaway tear from his eye. Then, with rare tenderness, she placed her hand against his face.
“Then stop running. It’s so rare to see you without your scarf… you’re so obsessed with him that you don’t even realize you’re exposing yourself. Stop letting her win. If you keep going like this, you’ll lose the only thing that’s ever made you happy.”

Drunk, Katakuri closed his eyes. He leaned against her like a child cradled by his big sister. His breathing gradually calmed; his scarf fell completely.

“He made me love my face… I don’t want to hide anymore…” he admitted. It was probably the most surprising thing Katakuri had ever said in his life. If Smoothie repeated it, no one would believe it—except Brûler.

She thought to herself: he’s really in love, to come to this.

In his half-sleep, he whispered in a low, fragile voice:
“Rosinante… I’m sorry…”

Smoothie hugged her brother tighter. It was the first time she had ever seen him so human, so bare in his pain. And deep down, she wished that one day, he would have the courage to go back to the one who had freed him.

Katakuri returned home alone. His footsteps echoed through the hallways as if he were walking through a mausoleum. The house, vast and silent, suddenly felt too big for him alone. Every room was an open wound.

In the kitchen, he stopped short. The table, still marked by an old burn, reminded him of Rosinante’s disaster when he had tried to cook “to please him.” A bitter laugh escaped—short, strangled, nothing like a real laugh. He still remembered the smell of burnt food after Moscato’s death.

He moved into the living room. The walls seemed to hold the echoes of his siblings’ screams and wild running, encouraged by Rosinante. Katakuri could still see his youngest siblings racing around the couch, the blonde tripping over a rug and crashing with a deafening thud, making the youngest laugh.

Then, he climbed the stairs slowly. Each step felt heavier than the last. His mind clung to a bittersweet memory: Rosinante sitting beside him, patiently teaching him sign language. His big, clumsy hands fumbling through the gestures, Corazon trying not to smile as he corrected him. “Like this,” he would say, nodding, sincere and focused despite the blunders.

Finally, he opened the door to his room. The silence was total, almost oppressive. He stripped off his scarf and jacket until he was in his underwear. His muscles, tense from alcohol and exhaustion, relaxed for a moment; his body felt hot.

Then, suddenly, he stopped.

A scent. Light, yet undeniable. Not some figment of his fractured mind—no, it was real, clinging to the fibers of the jacket he had just set down.

He lifted it, bringing it to his hands. Tobacco mixed with something indefinable… jasmine?—a half-faded perfume he knew all too well. Rosinante.

Katakuri pressed it to his face, almost feverish. In an instant, he was back in Dressrosa. Back to the days when the blond had borrowed this oversized jacket, slipping it on with a laugh before awkwardly climbing onto the back of his motorcycle. He remembered the arms around his waist, the warmth of his chest against his back, and how Rosinante, never able to stay still, pressed his cheek to him the entire ride. It made sense he’d kept it—after all, whenever they rode together, Rosinante rubbed against him.

The giant drew a deep breath, eyes closed. Even faint, the scent made him feel as if the blond were right there, close. His chest tightened painfully.

He sat on the edge of the bed, jacket pressed to his face, unable to let go.
“…Corazon…” he whispered, voice breaking.

He had thought alcohol would knock him out, but it did the opposite: every flush of heat in his head awakened something lower, darker, more urgent. Katakuri lay back, clutching the jacket to his chest like a talisman. His eyes burned, but nothing came out—no tears, no sobs. He stayed frozen, breathing ragged, convinced that if he shut his eyes hard enough, he could almost feel him—his presence, his scent, his skin.

And it was killing him.

The alcohol, the suffocating heat of the room… Katakuri inhaled again, hard, ashamed. The jacket reeked of cigarette smoke, cold tobacco, the scent he associated with the blond. Every whiff twisted his mind like a drug, and his body responded against his will. A familiar, intimate tension coiled in his stomach, swelling his pants. Pathetic. Miserable. Yet he let himself sink into it.

Memories surged. Their last night together. The scratches, erased too quickly by his regeneration, but ones he had loved to show off, to keep. The blond’s panting pleas, muffled moans, the way he’d lost control in his hands. Katakuri bit his lip—just thinking about it, he was already hard.

Shame flickered, but not enough to stop. His fingers traced his chest, along his tight abs. This was only the second time he’d truly touched himself for him—not to test, not to understand his body—but to feel pleasure, from longing. And that longing had a name.

“…Cora…”

The alcohol made everything spin. His thoughts went wild. He imagined the blond on his knees, mouth wrapped around him, eyes wet with tears. He fantasized about those adorable expressions, flushed cheeks, throat clenched from desire. He knew he’d have choked, struggled to take him fully—but fuck… just the image, that mix of fragility and courage, it drove him insane.

His hand slipped lower, pressing his aching cock through the fabric. A rough, drunken moan escaped.
“…ah…”

He inhaled again into the jacket, as if to draw Corazon into himself—his scent, his warmth, his memory. Every breath was agony. Every movement of his hand, torture. And all that filled him was the void he had carved himself.

Corazon. On his knees. Red lips, smudged makeup, clumsy hands clutching his thighs. Katakuri imagined his warm breath, wet tongue, throat tightening around him. His stomach twisted with want.

The rough leather of the jacket against his face made it feel like he could sense his hair, his skin, his scent everywhere.
“…harder…” He imagined his pleading voice.

He groaned, speeding up despite himself. He saw that throat struggle, those trembling hands—and it nearly made him moan.
“You… you’d be beautiful… like that…” he whispered into the air, unable to stop.

His palm moved over the burning skin of his cock, each stroke sending shivers through his hard abs.

He imagined Corazon straddling him, long fingers fumbling over his chest, nails grazing his skin. Just thinking about it made him pump faster, jaw clenched. The heat surged, heavy, unbearable, coloring his face like his hair.

The jacket smelled of cold nicotine, tobacco-soaked leather. It aroused him so much he let out a low, guttural moan he had never made before, not in front of anyone but Rosi.

His hips moved on their own, seeking more friction. His hand squeezed harder, pumping relentlessly, as if he were truly fucking the blond’s mouth. In his drunken haze, the images hit him raw: Corazon, mouth open, drool sliding down his chin, lipstick smeared over his face and cock, begging him not to stop. Rosinante choking on him, cheeks flushed, eyes wet, breath ragged…

His mind revolved entirely around him, his body calling out.
“…fuck… Cora…” he whispered, voice broken, body on fire from the alcohol.

He pinched the tip with his thumb, letting a violent surge of pleasure shoot through his spine. He arched, taut as a bow, back against the bed, free hand clutching the crumpled jacket, now soaked with some of his release. Veins throbbed, muscles bulging from the effort. Spurts splashed across his abs and fingers; his hand moved out of reflex, unwilling to lose a drop, every pulse drawing a guttural growl.

Then, slowly, his body collapsed onto the mattress. Panting, drenched in sweat, chest rising with each heavy breath. His fingers, still sticky, clutched the jacket as if letting go would make him lose it forever. Too drunk to care, he sank, realizing for the first time that he had just masturbated while fantasizing about someone. The same person who, that night, would surely appear again in his dreams, as he had for days.

_____________

Rosinante shivered as he stretched, still groggy from sleep, a sudden chill running through him for no reason.
“Brr… I feel like someone’s talking about me…” he mumbled, rubbing his arms.

“Huh?” came the hoarse voice of the young Charlotte, sprawled on the couch. The night had left his back in ruins, and he looked like a resurrected corpse.

“Nothing… I just felt like someone was thinking of me.”

Cracker half-sat up, his long hair in wild disarray, and gave him a look that was meant to be charming.
“That was probably me,” he said.

Rosinante rolled his eyes.
“Shut up. You’re not sleeping here tonight. Law wouldn’t stop complaining that you snored all night, and he needs his rest, you know. If you try to sneak in again, I’ll report you.”

Cracker grimaced, mimicking Rosinante’s drawl with a pout, which drew a small, reluctant smile from the blond. He lit a cigarette, took a quick drag, then stubbed it out under his heel, knowing he wouldn’t be allowed another inside the hospital.
“Alright… let’s go.”

Rosinante’s heart raced at the thought of seeing Brûlée again. She was better, her condition stabilized, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. A quiet shame, a guilt that clung to him. Deep down, he knew: his brother’s shadow lingered behind that fire. He felt it in his bones.

But it wasn’t just that which made him step through the hospital doors. It was Brûlée herself. Their strange friendship, born of shared chaos, was still intact. And Rosinante wanted to be there—not as a spy, not as a soldier, not as a Donquixote. Just as a friend.

He entered the hospital room, dragging his feet slightly. The disinfectant stung his nose, but he forced a clumsy smile when he saw Brûlée propped against the pillows. She looked tired, sure, but alive—and that alone was already a victory. Cracker had gone to get some food.

“Cora…” she whispered, her shy but sincere smile disarming him instantly.

He approached silently, awkwardly lowering his large frame onto a chair far too small for him. His hands trembled slightly, so he hid them in his coat pockets.
“You scared me, but I knew you’d hold on,” he finally said, voice low, almost broken.

“Oh, you’re missing a tooth!” Brûlée looked down, fiddling with the blanket between her fingers.
“I’m pretty tough,” she forced a small laugh, but her eyes glazed over. “Katakuri… he thought he was going to lose me. I’ve rarely seen my brother like that.”

Rosinante’s heart jumped, a reaction neither of them missed.
“Katakuri…” He swallowed hard. “How… how is he?”

Brûlée hesitated, as if weighing her words.
“He’s standing. As always. But… he’s pale, quieter than ever. He’s forcing himself to be the rock for everyone, but I know him… he’s in pieces.” She lifted her eyes to Rosinante, glistening with held-back tears. “He’s scared. Not just for me, but… for everything.”

Rosinante looked away, throat tight.
“I should’ve been there. I should’ve done something…”

“You had nothing to do with it, Cora.” Her voice softened. “If you came today, it’s not to blame yourself. It’s for me. For us. And… for him too, right?”

The blond shrugged, uncomfortable, then lit a cigarette he didn’t quite inhale. His fingers trembled.
“You know… every time I get close to you, I feel like all I do is bring trouble. Maybe staying away is the answer.”

Brûlée gave a faint smile and shook her head.
“No, Cora. You bring something else. To Katakuri, you brought… light. And to me, you bring warmth. Even when you think you’re a burden, you do the exact opposite.”

Rosinante finally took a proper drag, the first since entering the room, glancing out the window between smokes. He blew the smoke toward the floor, as if hiding his nerves, then managed a small, awkward smile.
“You know… I might… have a lead. About the fire.”

Brûlée blinked, surprised. Her serious expression softened a bit.
“A lead? Really? I… I don’t remember much. Do you think it was planned?”

Rosinante nodded, his smile softening, almost childlike.
“It’s still fragile. So, keep it to yourself, okay? Promise me. I have a meeting with Smoker right after.”

Brûlée raised a hand, like sealing a childhood promise.
“Promise. But you shouldn’t take risks alone, Cora.”

“Oh, I think I’m a better actor than you, madam servant,” he joked, standing up and almost knocking over the chair behind him.

Brûlée let out a muffled laugh, quickly covering her mouth to avoid attracting attention. But already, hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway.

“Brûlée! Brûlée!” Cracker’s voice, breathless, rushed closer.

Cracker was coming back from the vending machine when he spotted a massive, motionless silhouette in the corridor: Katakuri, walking. People turned as he passed, imposing in stature and presence.

His heart nearly stopped. He dashed into the room to warn them.
“Cora! Stop what you’re doing! Quick. Hide!”

“What?! Where?!” he whispered in panic, searching desperately for an escape in the too-small, too-white room.

Katakuri’s footsteps grew louder, more insistent. Rosinante swallowed, heart hammering, torn between the instinct to flee and the desire to stay.

Panicked, he had no other idea than to dive into the large storage closet at the back of the room. He banged his head on a shelf, closing the door halfway, stifling a curse. The sharp smell of disinfectant mixed with polished wood stuck to his throat.

The door opened. Brûlée sat up in her bed, and Cracker positioned himself in front of the closet. Behind him, Pudding’s discreet silhouette stood, wide eyes scanning the room silently.

“You holding up, little sister?”

“As best I can,” Brûlée replied lightly, but her gaze flicked to the closet. “And you..? I heard you went out yesterday.”

Katakuri rolled his eyes. His brothers could never keep anything to themselves.
“Yes, it was dreadful.”

In the dark, Rosinante held his breath. His heart was pounding so hard he feared it might echo through the wooden boards as he heard that deep voice again—the one that had followed him for so long. Had he gone out last night? That didn’t sound like him at all.

Katakuri approached the bed, one hand resting on Pudding’s shoulder. “She wanted to see you too.”

The little girl nodded quickly and stepped forward, holding a notebook. She scribbled a few words before showing him: I’m glad you’re alive.

Brûlée gave a tender smile. “Thank you, darling.” She patted the girl’s hand.

Meanwhile, Cracker scanned the room with a wary eye. Their older brother wasn’t stupid—he must have forgotten a detail, and oh… damn.

Katakuri sniffed, detecting a familiar scent in the air. He thought he was dreaming; he had smelled it everywhere since yesterday—the scent of Corazon’s cigarette. Maybe that shameful masturbation session from the night before was playing tricks on him. He had hated the mess of hangover and chaos that had greeted him that morning.

“Was someone here with you? There’s… a smell.”

“Besides you? No!” Brûlée replied too quickly.

“Cigarette,” he concluded.

A heavy silence fell. Behind the wooden door, Rosinante was drenched in sweat, crammed against a broom, his heart racing as if it would leap out of his chest.

Katakuri, however, seemed oblivious to the tension. He stared at Pudding with unusual softness, absentmindedly stroking her hair. “Never mind… I must be dreaming… See, Pudding? Your sister is strong. As always.”

But when he turned his head toward the window, he saw it—a cigarette burning. Thank God Rosinante wasn’t wearing lipstick today, or their little lie would have been blown.

Brûlée forced a small laugh. “You’re all overprotective, the three of you! I’ll get used to it eventually.”

Katakuri ignored his sister’s comment, his tone turning icy:
“Who smoked this?”

Rosinante thought he was going to die. His throat tightened, his heart pounded so hard that even the wood seemed to vibrate. The suspicion in Katakuri’s voice was unlike anything familiar: no softness, just a coldness that chilled the blood.

Cracker forced a smile. “It was me!”
Brûlée, without hesitation, added, “Barely out of the hospital and he’s back to another addiction! I’m trying to quit—what an idiot, smoking in my room!”

Katakuri stared at them both for a long moment, his heavy, piercing eyes likely trying to detect lies. The silence was sharp, like a blade hanging above them.

Finally, he turned his gaze to Pudding, who was doodling in her notebook, breaking the tension with her innocence. After all, the hangover must have been playing tricks.

“Hm. Very well. Don’t fall into that. Smoking’s dangerous, Cracker. And what a stupid idea to light up in a hospital room of a sick person, idiot.”

In the closet, Rosinante closed his eyes, pressing a hand over his mouth to keep silent. He had survived countless stakeouts, miserable hiding spots—but never had danger felt this close, this intimate.

It was absurd. Katakuri was not an enemy. And yet, one misstep could make everything explode.

“I’ll come back tomorrow with Pudding. Rest,” he added.

A collective sense of relief swept through the room. Brûlée nodded with a smile, Pudding waved goodbye, and Cracker let out a slightly overenthusiastic, “See you tomorrow.”
But Katakuri said nothing more. He opened the door and left, his figure disappearing into the hallway like a shadow too heavy to linger.

Once Katakuri finally left the room, Rosinante stepped out of his hiding place unsteadily. His legs felt like they might give out; each trembled as if refusing to obey. He reached the bed slowly, breathing short and shallow, throat tight from the lingering smell of smoke in the air. His eyes glimmered—not with tears, not yet, just that fragile light betraying his imminent collapse.

“God…” he gasped, voice choked, more to convince himself he was still breathing than anything else.

Brûlée grabbed his shoulders, holding him firmly with a gesture both harsh and protective. Her hands were warm and dry; her gaze, hard yet tender, anchored Rosinante in the present and pulled him back from the edge he was ready to throw himself from.
“You shouldn’t have risked anything,” she said sharply. “You know that.”

The blond shook his head, unable to form words. His lips trembled; he realized his cheek was wet. Too quickly, he wiped his face on his sleeve and looked away. It felt like his sobs were being drawn back into him like a blade being pressed against an unhealed wound—painful, unfinished.

Cracker, attempting a clumsy normalcy, rolled his eyes and bit into a cookie loudly, as if to mask the heavy silence. “Honestly, you two, it’s pathetic…” he muttered, half joking, but the words rang hollow.

Rosinante drew a deep breath and made a decision that felt almost inevitable:
“I have to find Smoker.” His voice trembled, but there was a raw determination born of fear and urgent necessity. He turned to Brûlée, giving her a quick, fragile smile.
“Thank you… for everything.”

Without waiting for a reply, he left the room almost running, the suffocating feeling still pressing on his chest. The motorcycle he had seen earlier roared in the distance, a faithful, salvaging signal. Getting on it was almost a relief—the engine’s roar drowning out the thoughts threatening to consume him. Yet deep down, he knew—each turn of the wheel brought him closer to a possible collision.
At the meeting point, Smoker was sitting on a bench, cigarette perched between his lips, his glasses crooked like a shield against the world. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Rosinante approaching, eyes red and face still marked by terror and exhaustion.
“You’re all red. Crying or something?” he asked casually, as always.

Rosinante groaned, straightening up awkwardly. “Shut up. Any news on Baby Five?” His words hit like gunfire—impatient, nervous, desperate.

Smoker didn’t answer immediately. He nodded toward a nearby bench where a young girl sat, hands folded on her lap, a loosely tied bow in her hair. She looked small, tense, but her eyes shone with sharp intelligence. Smoker smirked slightly and gestured toward her. “Better than news. I brought her to you.”

A nearly childlike hope bloomed in Rosinante’s chest. For the first time in hours, something sharp—a possibility—cut through his anger and anxiety. Suddenly, he felt lighter and yet foolish, as if the solution had been under his nose all along. The anger that had consumed him seemed to sigh: maybe now he could understand the origin of the fire, maybe he could deliver justice for the children, maybe he could atone for his guilt by stopping the one who had destroyed so much.

“You’re a genius, Smoker,” Rosinante blurted, throwing himself at the man like an overjoyed child. He hugged him awkwardly, gratefully, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Smoker, not one to be easily softened, pulled back with a grimace, rubbing his cheek as if horrified—but a faint blush betrayed him.

Baby Five, sitting stiffly on her bench, nervously fiddled with the poorly tied bow in her hair as Rosinante approached. She inhaled sharply, preparing to introduce herself formally.
“Mr. Coraz—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish. Rosinante literally lunged at her, wrapping her in his long arms and pressing her against his chest, his voice breaking into hoarse sobs.
“I’m so sorry!” he whimpered, his cheek wet against her shoulder.

Baby Five froze, arms raised, eyes wide. She expected a cold confrontation, maybe accusations—but certainly not a grown man, huge, sobbing like a lost child.
“…Huh?” she whispered, completely overwhelmed.

But Rosinante gave her no reprieve. Words tumbled out in a waterfall, punctuated by sniffles and hiccups.
“I’m sorry for you, for Buffalo, for Dellinger… I couldn’t protect you from Doffy!” His shoulders shook, and he almost shook her without realizing. “What you endured so young in the Family… the indoctrination… I could have prevented it. I only managed to save Law—I hate myself so much!”

He lifted his head, red eyes shining with shame and despair.
“I should have saved you. I should have been there! Look at what you’re doing now—you’re going to spend your life hunted by the mafia!”

Baby Five blinked, completely bewildered. She had never been held like this, let alone by someone crying over her misfortunes instead of accusing her directly. She blinked again, mouth slightly open, and said:
“…Mr. Corazon—”

Rosinante sniffled, eyes red but locked on hers with feverish intensity.
“You were a broken girl, under the influence of the Family… you know what the mafia is! But why… why commit such a crime against the Charlotte family?! Do you realize what you’ve done?! If Katakuri finds you, he will kill you without hesitation! You should have used Doflamingo’s arrest to start a new life, Baby Five! Not continue obeying him like a puppet!”

He trembled, almost beside himself.

The young woman blinked, lost. Then, as if her thoughts suddenly shifted, she raised a hand under her nose, a sudden spark in her eyes.
“…I did!” she replied proudly. “I got married three weeks ago!”

Rosinante, frozen, grabbed her small hand in his rough, scarred palms as if to check she wasn’t hallucinating.
“Tell me I’m dreaming!” he cried, staggering backward, almost toppling onto the gravel. “You’re all insane! My word… Between Law tattooing himself and you getting married—what is this generation?! You’re just a kid, Baby Five! What the hell is going on?!”

She yanked her hand back, offended.
“I’m of age! And… and the guy is a decent man! Thank goodness young master is in prison, otherwise he’d already have killed him! His name’s Sai, he comes from a good family and—”

Her cheeks flushed, eyes dreamy, almost heart-shaped in her pupils… before Rosinante exploded again, throwing his arms to the sky.
“BUT THAT CHANGES NOTHING!” he shouted. “You’re putting him in danger too! Do you realize you tried to kill Charlotte Linlin’s children?! You can’t just get married like nothing happened! The police, the mafia… everyone will be after you!”

Baby Five opened her mouth. “Uh, Mr. Cora—”

But he didn’t give her a chance to speak. His voice rose, desperate.
“You could have walked away from that damn Family, taken another path!” His face twisted in grief. “But no… you’re going to get crushed. Katakuri would surely kill you. Or worse… other members would force you into marriage, torture you… you don’t understand!”

“What are you even talking about?!” she snapped, red with anger.

Rosinante froze for a second, then glared at her.
“About your last mission, assigned by my brother, obviously!”

She widened her eyes. “…Oh! That?” she said, as if reminded of a forgotten duty. “Yes, I’m sorry, I know it wasn’t very polite… especially since the man in question was your husband. But really, no one’s going to kill me over such a trifle—”

The word polite pushed Rosinante over the edge. His eyes hardened, his features set as they did when confronting doctors with young Law.
“Polite?! Baby Five, you almost killed innocent children!” His voice trembled, cracking. “Damn it, the Family’s brainwashing made you completely idiotic, or what?!”

The jab made the young woman react; she clenched her fists, offended.
“What are you talking about?!” she shouted back.

Rosinante exploded, nearly losing control.
“THE FIRE, IDIOT!” His voice broke along with his rage. “You’re going to be hunted by the Charlottes who will want to kill you! Do you not understand the harm you’ve caused… the level of distress and horror you’ve left behind? Among those children, one was mute, unable to raise the alarm… two others ended up in the hospital! And I… I lost Katakuri because of my brother’s decision!”

His scream turned into sobs, shoulders shaking. The frustration, buried too long, poured out violently. But when he finally looked up…

…he saw nothing on Baby Five’s face. No shame. No regret. Just complete incomprehension.

His heart froze.

“…What fire are you talking about?” she finally asked, genuinely perplexed.

Rosinante felt the ground give way beneath him.
“Well… Katakuri’s mansion! The one Doffy ordered you to destroy while he was away!”

Baby Five froze for a few seconds, then shook her head sharply.
“I never found it, Corazon.”

The blond was left speechless, lips trembling, unable to utter a word.

She continued, serious this time, her tone firm and clear.
“Young Master sent me with Buffalo, yes. We were supposed to find where he lived… but we never did. I never found it.” She held his gaze, standing tall, unwavering. “His domain is impossible to locate unless he brings you there himself. The protections around Charlotte’s second son are… incredible. Even with all the Family’s resources and Kaido’s, we found nothing. Ever. So when your brother was arrested… I abandoned the mission. That’s when I met Sai.”

She didn’t seem to be lying, and Rosinante’s world collapsed in an instant. His lungs tightened, his heart clenched painfully.

So… it wasn’t Doflamingo. Not Baby Five.

He lifted his eyes, dazed, blood pounding in his temples. If it wasn’t them… then who? Who could have committed such a crime? Who would have been close enough to Katakuri to know where he lived, to know his deepest vulnerabilities? Who could have had an interest in hurting him, in breaking Totto Land’s most loyal man?

Sinking heavily onto the bench, Rosinante felt his chest tighten. Only one name rose in his mind. One name he had never wanted to speak, for speaking it meant stepping into troubles far beyond him. A woman too powerful to confront alone, who had not hesitated to kill her own blood. A name he could never accuse openly, because the Charlotte family existed only through her.

______

“MAMA!” Linlin’s booming laughter rolled like a thunderstorm through the castle walls.
“This tea party, in honor of our ascension, will be unforgettable, my children! Grandiose!”

The top commanders were already scurrying about, rushing to make the celebration perfect. In the shadows of their preparations, Linlin cherished her youngest children, clutching them like porcelain dolls.

All of them—or almost all.

For the past three weeks, Pudding had kept her distance. She no longer joined the embraces, avoiding the contact of the woman she was supposed to call mother. Terrified. Rejected by her siblings because of her sudden muteness, and even more so since the fire. The trauma had trapped her in a silence she could not escape.

Her only chance was to remain invisible. To avoid drawing Big Mom’s attention.

She continued to obey, docilely preparing dishes, setting tables, offering her hand when ordered. But behind that façade, she was the only witness. The only one who had seen what no one dared believe: her mother’s shadow in the flames of the mansion.

And the only person who had ever understood her silences was gone. Corazon was gone. So, to whom could she entrust this burden? To whom could she tell the truth?

No one.

She knew the walls had ears. That any confession would be turned against her. Deep down, she knew that to her mother, she had never had value—except for her silence and her smile. So Pudding sealed herself in silence, letting fear and secrets consume her.

Chapter Text

Katakuri controlled nothing in his life — or at least, that’s what he liked to tell himself.
The truth was, he’d never had the luxury of controlling anything.
As a child, his mother had placed impossible expectations on him and his older siblings. Linlin didn’t raise her children — she forged them. And when you grow up under the gaze of a parent who only values success — academic, physical, or otherwise — you start to believe that love is something you earn through perfection.
That was Katakuri’s reality.

His strength, his obedience, his sense of duty — all of it came from that obsessive need to be worthy of his mother’s approval. He became her favorite — or rather, her most useful child. He almost never failed. And the one time he did, it left a permanent mark on his face: a deep, brutal scar, a reminder of a childhood where cruelty wasn’t just a concept — it was a fact of life.

It was back when Linlin was still allied with Kaido, serving under an old crime lord named Rocks D. Xebec. Katakuri had only been a boy, but he’d already learned that failure, in that world, was unforgivable.
After Rocks’ death, Linlin broke free. She founded her own empire — Totoland — building her reign and even turning it into a food industry empire.

That complex, that sick need to earn motherly love through performance, drove Katakuri to train beyond any human limit. Since the day of the scar — and the injury his sister suffered trying to protect him — he had never disobeyed again.
You could say Big Mom owed much of her success to her most devoted son.

But as the family grew, so did the weight on Katakuri’s shoulders. He had to protect more and more siblings, fill roles their mother ignored. Linlin despised her husbands, seeing them only as tools — bodies, means of reproduction.
And so Katakuri ended up believing he’d follow that same path: never get attached, love only out of duty, have relations only when nature or his mother demanded it. If she ever ordered him to produce an heir, he’d obey — without even looking at the woman chosen for him.

Gender, orientation, desire — none of it mattered to him. He could’ve slept with anyone, as long as he didn’t like them.

But all that collapsed the day Katakuri took Smoothie’s place in an arranged marriage.
He thought he’d meet some arrogant noble, a man without worth. He didn’t expect to fall — so hard, so deep.
So deep he would’ve dropped to his knees just to beg that man — Rosinante — to look at him once more with those golden eyes.

Rosinante wasn’t classically handsome.
Not like Katakuri — carved, perfect, terrifying in his beauty. No.
Rosinante’s face was angular, lined with fatigue, light shadows under his eyes, scars that life had carved without mercy. His lashes and eyebrows, almost white-blond, could barely be seen unless you were close — hidden beneath a fringe that fell over his forehead like a curtain between him and the world.
But to Katakuri, he was perfect.

Where others saw a worn-out man — too tall, too thin — Katakuri saw the only person he could ever kill for, just for the privilege of waking up beside him, of seeing that face before sunrise.

Days passed.
Not seeing Rosinante ate him alive. He stopped touching his snacks, grew irritable, detached. Nothing brought him joy anymore.
Nothing — except maybe today.

His dear sister was finally leaving the hospital. Her condition had stabilized, and of course, he’d insisted on taking care of her himself. Most of the family hadn’t even bothered to visit. Too insignificant, too unimportant in their mother’s eyes.

“You can let go of my arm, you know,” she laughed softly as they stepped outside. “I’m not made of sugar.”

Katakuri gave her one of his rare smiles.

The automatic doors of the hospital closed behind them with a metallic hiss.
The air outside was heavy, thick with humidity. Brûlée took a deep breath, savoring the taste of freedom, before glancing at her brother.

Katakuri walked beside her — towering, silent, jaw clenched tight.
He hadn’t said a single word since she signed her discharge papers.

“You could at least try to smile,” she grumbled, crossing her arms. “You look like you’re the one who just had surgery.”

The giant didn’t answer. His steps echoed on the pavement — steady, too controlled.
Brûlée sighed, then stared at him for a long moment.

“You think I don’t see what’s going on?”

“Brûlée.”

“No, don’t pretend. You’ve been off ever since Rosinante left. You can act like it’s all fine, that it’s ‘for the good of the family’… but your eyes give you away.”

He froze.
The wind tugged at his scarf, and for a brief moment, Brûlée thought she saw a crack in his mask.
A human crack.

“It was the right thing to do,” he finally said, voice low, almost breaking.

“The right thing for who?”

Katakuri looked away, eyes fixed on the ground as if the truth might be hiding there.

“For him. And for us.”

“And you? Where do you fit in all that?”

“Me… I’ve never had the luxury of choosing for myself, and you know that’s just how it is in our family.”

Brûlée frowned. She’d never heard her brother sound so soft — so tired.
For a moment, she thought maybe Dressrosa really had changed him.

“Mama won’t give up — you know that,” Katakuri said, his voice tight with worry. “This marriage… she wanted Rosinante’s blood, his name. That was the whole reason for our union in the first place. She’s ready to do anything to have him in the family — she wants a noble among the Charlottes, no matter what it takes. Those were her exact words. I had to push him away to avoid any trouble. Doflamingo’s a threat too, just like Linlin. Look what that bastard did to you.”

“Even if it destroys you?”

He let out a dry, bitter laugh, barely more than a breath.
“She built me to be destroyed in her place.”

“Stop saying that. You’ve given her enough, Katakuri. If there’s even the smallest chance you could see him again, I could try reaching out and—”

“No.”

The word cracked like a whip — sharp, final.
But his voice trembled.

“No,” he repeated, quieter this time. “If I go back to him, she’ll destroy him. She’ll find a way to crush him, to own him. Rosinante deserves peace, after everything he’s been through — not my mother. Not this world. I don’t want any of you trying to reach out to her. She’s… unstable. I just—”

Brûlée stepped closer, resting her hand on his arm — that arm that looked strong enough to hold up the world, yet felt so unbearably heavy in that moment.

“Katakuri, you’re not telling me everything. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah… it’s just… Mother hasn’t been clear about everything. Did she mention an heir to Rosinante? Does she even know Law isn’t his biological son, that he doesn’t have noble blood? I doubt she does. Maybe I’m just overthinking it…”

A long silence fell between them — thick, heavy.
Katakuri’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the sky was streaked with pink.

“If only I could hate him,” he murmured at last. “That would make things so much easier.”

Brûlée gave a sad little smile.
“That’s the thing about love, big brother. It makes everything harder… especially for people like us — we weren’t born for it.”

Katakuri didn’t reply.

“You think Mama will notice if I don’t show up to that stupid celebration for her ‘ascension’ after Kaido’s defeat?” she asked.

“Don’t count on it — you’re coming. No way I’m enduring that damn masquerade ball alone. Besides, she’s expecting Cora to be there so she can brag about it. She’s gonna be pissed at me enough as it is. I need my dear sister’s support — and people will be glad to see you back on your feet.”

He said it half-teasing, trying to remind her of the worth she’d never been given in this family, despite how essential she truly was.

“A masquerade ball?” Brûlée repeated as she settled into Katakuri’s luxury car — he hadn’t touched his motorcycle since that last time; it reminded him too much of Cora.

“That’s what she said. She wants something ‘royal’ — like those grand old French monarchies, where the Vinsmoke family line comes from. To mark the occasion.”

Brûlée burst out laughing. “She really sees herself as a queen, huh? Throwing a gala like that?”

The engine roared to life, drawing the jealous stares of passersby.

“Most likely,” Katakuri said dryly. “A high-society masquerade ball to celebrate her victory — ironic, isn’t it? Especially since she punished me for keeping Kaido out of the public eye… and now she wants to flaunt her success. No matter how noble her party may look, it’ll still be missing the main piece of her little game.”

He smiled faintly, remembering the nickname — one Brûlée didn’t miss, and it sent a wave of sadness through her.

“She’ll be missing the only real noble in this family,” he said softly. “A foolish one.”
The name burned her lips.

And that absence, they both knew, would do nothing to calm their mother’s rage.
__________

The apartment was bathed in a soft, dusty orange light.
The curtains barely moved, stirred by a warm breeze from the port.
Rosinante sat on the couch, a cup of cold coffee in his hands, watching Law sprawled on the floor, nose buried in an anatomy sketchbook.

The boy was drawing in silence, tongue caught between his teeth, fully focused. His foot tapped lightly to the rhythm of the opening theme from his favorite show — Sora, Warrior of the Seas.

Rosinante smiled faintly. Despite everything — the fear, the loneliness, the emptiness — this moment felt strangely peaceful.
He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, and thought again about the news that had been eating at him for days now.

Big Mom.

It had been her. She was behind the fire.
Not Doflamingo, like everyone believed.
But Linlin herself.

What reason could she possibly have to burn down the estate where her own children lived — her youngest ones, no less?
It made no sense. His theory felt fragile, even absurd — yet something deep inside him refused to let it go.

“Hey, Cora! You planning to cut your hair or what?”

Law’s voice yanked him out of his thoughts.

“Huh? Where’d that come from?” Rosinante said, running his fingers through the messy blond strands that now reached past his neck. He hadn’t trimmed them since the wedding — months ago.

Yeah… I’m starting to look rough, he thought. He’d been avoiding cutting it himself — to prevent any disasters, or worse, accidents involving sharp objects — but so much had happened lately he hadn’t even had the luxury of caring about his hair.

“Hey, Cora — I’m talking to you!”
Rosinante blinked, snapping back to reality.
The boy was showing him a diagram in his sketchbook, looking proud of himself.

The kid looked so much happier now.
He’d never know how much that sight eased Rosinante’s heart. His skin had regained some color, his cheeks had filled out, and he’d put on a few pounds — just enough to finally look like a healthy teenager.
A faint shadow of a beard was starting to grow on his chin, something Corazon loved teasing him about — mostly because he himself had never managed to grow one.

Law was going out more lately, hanging with friends — something that made Rosinante genuinely happy.
They all liked having Cora around, even if he tried to keep a bit of that “responsible adult” distance.
Still, he couldn’t help but enjoy their company. The apartment had slowly turned into the group’s unofficial HQ, full of laughter, noise, and scattered snack wrappers.

For someone who’d once been a broken, sick, wild little kid… Law had come a long way.
Rosinante couldn’t have asked for more — well, except maybe for a boyfriend who wasn’t so punk and reckless. But somehow, that redhead fit him perfectly. He challenged Law — emotionally, intellectually — always pushing him, matching him blow for blow. They clashed constantly, like two magnets that couldn’t decide whether to repel or attract each other.
And Rosinante loved watching it. Loved seeing them live.

Law still carried the marks of his past — the dark humor, his distrust of shallow relationships, that strange fascination with human anatomy — all traces of the wounded kid he once was.
But for someone with such a heavy history, he was doing incredibly well.

Rosinante sighed — proud, and tired. At least I got that part right, he thought.
He reached for a cigarette, then remembered Cracker was already outside on the balcony, talking to who-knows-who.

“Hey, Cora!”

Rosinante flinched a little. He realized he’d been staring at Law in silence for a while.
The teen raised his sketchbook again.

“Yeah, Law?”

Law frowned, noticing the weary look behind his adoptive father’s smile.
“See this part here, on the chest? Those are the intercostal muscles. Look how tight they are — it’s kinda fascinating.”

Rosinante chuckled softly.
“If that body part wasn’t on a person, it’d almost look tasty,” he joked, sticking out his tongue.

His lips, once always covered in bright red lipstick, had long since gone back to their natural color.

Law gave a small, odd smile.
“I think that’s right where I stabbed you. When I was a kid.”

Without thinking, Rosinante’s hand went to his chest — feeling the old scar beneath the fabric.
It wasn’t pretty, but he cherished it. Maybe it was the most precious one he had.

“You stabbed me clean through, and I still didn’t rat you out to Doffy,” he said quietly. “You really surprised me back then. I think that’s when I started to actually like you.”

“You insolent brat,” Rosinante added with a teasing shake of his head. “Didn’t even hurt. You were already in way worse shape than me with that illness of yours. Besides… I couldn’t risk Doffy’s anger. He was… a little possessive, let’s say. Wouldn’t have liked that one bit.”

Law’s lips twitched.
“I might believe that if you hadn’t literally thrown me out of a window when we first met.”

Cracker, leaning on the balcony door, burst out laughing so hard he nearly lost his balance.

“Hey! That doesn’t count!” Cora protested. “You know I didn’t mean to hurt you! Well… technically I did, but—”

“And what about all the punishments after that, huh?” Law shot back, grinning.
He loved poking that wound — knew exactly how guilty Cora still felt about it.

“They were to keep you away from my brother!” Cora said, flustered. “Sometimes you’ve gotta be rough with the people you love, for their own good!”

Law laughed even harder.
“You’re such a cheater. You know if I ever punished you, it was just to—”

But the words caught in his throat.
To bring you closer to me.

He couldn’t say it.
The thought just spun inside his head, over and over.
Hurting someone you love… to protect them like him for law.
Or to keep them close.

And suddenly, it all clicked.

That was it.
That was exactly it.

Big Mom had done the same thing.
She’d started the fire to punish Katakuri — because he’d drifted too far from her, because he’d betrayed her by siding with Corazon and Dressrosa.
It was her twisted way of saying: You still belong to me.

Rosinante’s breath caught.
His hands trembled — the empty mug slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the table.
The whole room seemed to fade.
The TV’s sound, Law’s voice… everything turned into a dull buzz, like the world itself had gone quiet.

That was exactly what she’d done.

A woman like Linlin — proud, narcissistic, a queen who couldn’t stand being defied — she’d never accept seeing cracks in her perfect image.
Katakuri had always been her most loyal son, her strongest weapon. But his loyalty had shifted — toward Corazon.
And that, she couldn’t forgive.

Dressrosa had been the breaking point.
Katakuri had acted behind her back, dragged Cracker into his lies, let Doflamingo fall with Kaido, wrecking the balance of power.
Finding out through Morgans’ papers instead of her own son… that must have been unbearable humiliation.

And Linlin didn’t do humiliation.

Her children’s lives had never meant anything to her. They were pawns — soldiers, trophies, bargaining chips.
The forced marriages, the exiles, Moscato’s death — all proof of that.

So to punish Katakuri, she’d gone for what would hurt the most.
Not him directly.
But the people he loved.
She wanted to remind him he was hers.

Rosinante’s stomach turned.
The memories of Doflamingo, his punishments, his twisted affection — it all came flooding back.
He knew that kind of cruelty.
It made too much sense to be wrong.
The surveillance footage, the details of the fire — only someone close to Katakuri could’ve known those things.
Who better than his own mother?

But… who would believe him?
Who, in that family, would take the word of Doflamingo’s brother?
Katakuri hadn’t even listened to him once.
His voice meant nothing — not against a goddess-mother like Linlin.

He rubbed his face, exhausted.

“Hey, you good, man?”

Cracker’s voice pulled him back.
The soldier stood in the doorway, phone still in hand.
Law had quietly sat down next to Rosinante, watching him with worried eyes too big for his face.

“You okay, Cora?” the boy asked softly. “Did my jokes bring back bad memories? I didn’t mean to—”

Rosinante suddenly laughed — that breathless, nervous kind of laugh — and ruffled Law’s dark hair.

“Bahaha! Don’t be dumb! I’m fine,” he said, forcing his usual crooked grin. One of his teeth was missing — made the smile look even more tired.
“I was just… lost in thought. Actually, you kinda helped me out.”

Law blinked, confused.
“Helped you? How?”

Cora turned toward Cracker, who had stepped inside, long violet hair glinting in the warm light. His face, for once, was deadly serious.

“Helped me figure out who caused the fire,” Rosinante said quietly.

Cracker froze.
The grin vanished from his face.
A chill swept through him as his eyes met Cora’s.

He didn’t say a word.
“Your mother started the fire, Charlotte Cracker.”
Rosinante’s voice was low, firm — the tone of a man who used to be a cop.

The Charlotte son didn’t answer right away. His lips moved without a sound at first, like his brain refused to process what he’d just heard.
Then, slowly, he laughed. A dry, nervous laugh that sounded all wrong.

“Haha, you’re joking, right?!” he barked. “This is a joke. It’s gotta be one of your twisted tricks to make Katakuri feel guilty — just so he doesn’t kill your psycho brother.”

Rosinante didn’t reply.
His stare was heavy, deadly serious — and that silence alone wiped the smirk off Cracker’s face.

“You’re kidding… right?”

No response. Just Rosinante’s hand moving absently through Law’s hair, the boy letting him.

“No, no, wait, Corazon — you’re not telling me you believe that? You think my own mother, the woman who carried me for nine months, would set fire to our own school? To her kids?!”

Rosinante didn’t flinch. He lowered his head slightly.
“I think that’s exactly what she did.”

Cracker’s laughter died instantly.
He froze, his face empty for a moment before anger boiled up to the surface.

“Don’t you dare insult Mama!”

The word cracked through the air — sharp, raw, almost animal.
Law jumped where he sat.
Cracker, meanwhile, had lost that cheerful mask he always wore like armor. His eyes burned; his hands shook.

“Do you even realize what you’re saying? That’s our mother, Rosinante! She built everything for us — for them — so no one could ever walk over us again! You think she’d sacrifice her own children? Her whole empire runs on us!”

“Yes.”
The word hit like a gunshot — flat, cold, certain.

Cracker’s mouth fell open.
Rosinante took a calm step toward him, while Law tensed behind him, ready to react if things went bad.

“You know as well as I do what she’s capable of when it comes to keeping people under her control. You’ve seen it, Cracker — the forced marriages, the kids she’s banished, the executions for speaking out of turn. You really think an arson would bother her if it got her what she wanted? She’d burn the world down just to send a message — to remind Katakuri who he belongs to.”

Cracker shook his head violently, stepping back.
“No… no, you’re wrong. You don’t get to talk about my mother like that! I could kill you for that!”

“Open your eyes.”

Cracker’s breath grew short, ragged.
His back hit the balcony rail. He clutched it like a lifeline, as if holding on could keep the truth away.
His pupils trembled — somewhere between fear, rage, and a child’s helpless panic.

“You think you know everything just because you spent a few months around us! Doflamingo was a freak, sure — but my mother’s not like him! Keep your damn trauma to yourself! You think you can spot monsters? Well, Mama’s not one of them! She loves us! She just… she just wants everything to be perfect, like she always has…”

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

“She wants everything to belong to her,” Rosinante murmured. His tone softened, almost pitying.
“And everything she can’t control… she destroys. Katakuri, you, even Brûlée. You’re all pieces on her board. Only my husb— I mean, Katakuri — he’s the most valuable piece of all. The favorite. The one she’d rather break than lose.”

Cracker’s eyes went wide — then he laughed again, hollow and unhinged.
“That’s bullshit! Total bullshit! If she wanted to destroy us, she would’ve done it already!”

“She has!” Rosinante snapped.
“Why do you think one of her sons hides his face from the world? Why do you think one of her daughters went mute from trauma? Lola couldn’t even attend her own brother’s wedding because she refused a forced marriage! Damn it, she killed Moscato — in front of everyone!”

The words landed like a verdict.

Cracker staggered, one hand pressed to his mouth, eyes wide with horror.
His gaze flicked to Law, then back to Rosinante.

“…What the hell do you want us to do, huh?!” he shouted, voice cracking. “You want us to tell her? You want us to accuse Big Mom of trying to kill her own kids — with no proof?! You want us to die? Is that it?!”

Rosinante stayed quiet.
He knew that tone — it wasn’t rage. It was fear.
The kind that gets carved into your bones when you grow up under someone like Linlin.
The kind every child in that family learned never to disobey.

Cracker dropped his head, shoulders trembling.
When he finally looked up again, his eyes were wet — not from sadness, but from the realization that his mother could’ve killed him just to pull Katakuri back to her side.

“You don’t get it…” he whispered. “If she ever finds out we talked about this… she’ll erase us. You, me, Brûlée, the kids…”

Rosinante sighed, a faint, weary smile ghosting across his lips as he lit a cigarette.
“I know.”

“Then why the hell push it?”

“Because someone has to know. Because she’ll do it again. Cracker, the real problem with your whole empire — your whole family — is sitting right at the top. The best thing you could do for yourselves… is admit it.”

Silence.
Thick. Suffocating.

“…If that’s true,” Cracker murmured finally, voice barely audible, “then we don’t have a mother anymore.”

Rosinante placed a hand on his shoulder — firm, but gentle.
“No,” he said softly. “You haven’t had one for a long time. Maybe you never did.”

He blew out a thin stream of smoke in Law’s direction. The boy flushed red.

Cracker trembled again, then let out a broken, shaky laugh — the kind that hurt more than crying.
“Katakuri won’t survive this…” he whispered.

Rosinante didn’t answer. He let him process it, quietly turning back toward the kitchen.
Law followed, helping him chop vegetables for dinner.

Outside, night had already fallen.
The apartment was half-lit by the neon glow from the harbor. The sound of waves lapping against the docks echoed softly — a rhythm that might have been calming, if the silence inside wasn’t so unbearably heavy.

Cracker hadn’t moved in hours.
Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, he stared into nothing.

Rosinante spoke quietly — half to himself, half to the other man — while doing the dishes.
“We have to do something. If she tries again, it’ll be a bloodbath. And this time, no one’s gonna believe it was an accident.”

Cracker let out a hollow laugh.
“You talk like we could actually do something about her. It’s Big Mom, Rosinante. You think we can go against a woman who made the Government bend — and she’s just a damn mob boss?”

“I’m saying we’ll never beat her head-on. Not while she sits on top of your whole syndicate.”

Cora dropped down into a chair, exhausted.
“There’s gotta be a way to reach her. A weak spot. Someone in her circle, in her alliances, who could open a door for us. But I can’t even set foot in Whole Cake anymore — I’d be dead before I hit the main street. I doubt a divorced man from the Charlotte family is still welcome.”

Cracker nodded slowly, eyes half-shut.
“You can’t show your face there again. Mama put a bounty out for you right after your ‘divorce.’ She didn’t take it well — losing the only noble she had on a leash. If you go back to Whole Cake, you’ll end up in a sugar coffin before you even hit the first gate.”

Rosinante gave a faint smile.
“Touching, that she still wants me.”

“She just wants your blood. You’re lucky you don’t have biological kids — she’d have had them kidnapped by now.”

“Charming woman.”

Silence fell again — heavier this time.
Law had fallen asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. His steady breathing was the only thing in the room that felt human.

Rosinante glanced at him for a moment, then murmured,
“I can’t let her get away with this. She’ll hurt Katakuri again — maybe through me, or through Law.”

Cracker finally looked up at him.
The usual bravado was gone; his voice, when it came, was small and uneasy, almost childlike.
“And what exactly do you plan to do, huh? You and me sneaking into her mansion with torches? Kill my mother and pretend no one noticed?”

Rosinante shrugged.
“If that’s what it takes for peace — why not.”

Cracker went pale.
“You’ve gotta be joking. You can’t even set foot in that damn city.”

Silence again — until Cracker suddenly sat up, struck by an idea. His eyes flickered with a strange mix of clarity and madness.
“Wait…” he muttered. “There might be a way.”

Rosinante turned toward him, curious.
Cracker leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves could be listening.

“In a few days, there’s supposed to be a masquerade ball at Whole Cake. Mama’s throwing it to celebrate her rise in power after Kaido’s fall. You know how she is — it’s like one of her tea parties, just… bigger. Every ally, every family head, every guest shows up. No one knows who’s who — everyone wears masks, even her kids. It’s her favorite game.”

Rosinante frowned slightly.
“A masquerade ball…”

“Yeah. And if I show up with a guest, no one’ll ask questions. It’s the only time security gets loose — since it’s ‘for the family.’ You could come with me as my plus one.”

Cora’s lips curved into a thin, dangerous smile.
“So we could sneak in under masks? Not the dumbest plan I’ve heard… except everyone there knows me. I was married into that circus, remember?”

Cracker shook his head, nervous — clearly seeing the same flaws.
“It’s insane. If she recognizes you, you’re dead. If she recognizes me helping you, I’m dead! We’ll be corpses before the first dance even starts!”
He ran a hand through his pink hair, practically yanking it out, brain overheating.

Rosinante leaned closer, his gaze suddenly sharp and intense — way too close. Cracker flushed despite himself.
“Maybe. But you’re forgetting one detail.”

“And what’s that…?”

“I used to be a spy. Which means I’m better than anyone at handling infiltration missions.”

Cracker stared at him, chewing nervously on a biscuit he’d pulled from his pocket.
“I doubt that’ll help — everyone there knows your face… but fine. Surprise me, pretty blond.”
He sighed. “I must be completely insane… because I kinda wanna say yes.”

Rosinante smiled — really smiled this time.
“You’re not insane, Cracker. Just brave.”

The man perked up, smirking through his exhaustion.
“Then I guess I’m your lovely partner, huh?”

“…Wait. Why the feminine form?” (there is no feminine conjugation in english shit)

_________

The Big Mom Manor exuded a kind of cold grandeur.
The gilded hallways shimmered with a brightness that always seemed to be hiding something beneath their shine. Everywhere, the scent of sugar and Linlin’s opulent perfume filled the air — sweet and suffocating all at once.

Katakuri stood upright in the main hall, as still as a statue. His gaze, usually sharp and focused, was closed off — as if behind his calm face, a silent war was raging.
He was sure of one thing: Doflamingo had orchestrated the fire.
It had to be him — his network, his shadow games. A twisted revenge for everything Katakuri had taken from him: his influence, his “Corazon,” Vergo and Monet’s deaths, his pride.
Rage boiled beneath Katakuri’s skin, but he kept it buried — all method, all discipline, all honor. He wanted to end his life once visits to “Joker” would be allowed.

Linlin watched him from her velvet armchair, a cup of steaming tea resting on the low table beside her.
She’d invited him here — not out of affection, but because she needed her pieces visible, always under her gaze.
He didn’t even live in his own home anymore, the one he’d left to Pudding. He stayed close to his mother — and therefore close to his family.

“My dear Katakuri,” she purred, her voice sickly sweet. “Why that dark face? Still brooding over that fire? Is that what keeps you so preoccupied?”

“Yes, Mother. I must avenge your name — by eliminating the culprit, Donquixote Doflamingo.”

Linlin tilted her head, as if listening to a song she didn’t quite know the rhythm to.
“Doflamingo…” She rolled the name over her tongue and let out a short laugh.
“A clever man, always stirring up trouble. But you know such accusations must be handled carefully, don’t you? You mustn’t let yourself be carried away by… emotion.”

“It’s not emotion, Mother. No one — not you, not anyone — is investigating what happened. So I’ll deliver justice myself.”

“You have responsibilities, my son. We have a family to protect. If you start spreading rumors without proof, it weakens your position — and ours. You knew the risks when you decided to help your dear husband and meddle in Joker’s affairs. You’ve always known. What happened is entirely your fault. You’re the one who provoked that noble’s wrath,” she lied smoothly.

“I protect this family — that’s always been my role,” he replied coldly.
“To protect doesn’t mean to look away from injustice.”

“Oh, and what fate do you think befits those who harm the Charlotte family?” she asked, her tone syrupy but cutting. “Tell me, what sort of punishment do they deserve?”

The word punishment echoed through Katakuri’s chest.
He knew this game. Linlin was testing him, probing how far his resolve went — especially when the man in question was the brother of his ex-husband.
But beneath that motherly logic, another phrase slid from her lips, cold and sharp as a knife:

“…And besides, my dear son, we must consider the bond that ties us to Joker. I doubt your precious Corazon would appreciate you killing his brother just out of vengeance. And having a noble’s blood close to us is no small asset. I intend to keep it. I need noble blood, whether it runs through that clumsy fool or another — I want a noble Charlotte.”

Katakuri’s fingers twitched, almost imperceptibly.
Her interest was clear: Linlin coveted Rosinante, not out of affection, but for his blood, his prestige, the alliance he represented.
She desired the man — or at least, what he symbolized — and she had no intention of letting him go, divorce or not.

In the shadowed corner of the room, Brûlée stood pale but composed, her eyes glowing with a worry she refused to let turn to hatred.
She knew too well that speaking of Corazon as a “family trophy” was meant to provoke her brother.

“What do you mean by ‘his blood’ — or ‘another’s’?” Katakuri asked, voice cold as steel.

Linlin simply rolled her eyes, not even bothering to answer. Then, in that falsely gentle but deeply menacing tone, she said:
“Bring him to me, divorce or not — that’s your only task. If you wish to soil your hands by killing his brother, then by all means, do it. If that’s how you choose to punish those who wrong the family, I’ll call it loyalty. Keep walking that path. But I want Corazon — whatever it costs you.”

Katakuri and Brûlée left the room together, stepping into the vast gardens of the manor.
They wandered into one of the many rose mazes — a refuge where Katakuri often came to be alone, one of the few places where he could still breathe.
Here, among the fragrant alleys, far from the weight of gold and the judging eyes, he could almost feel peace again.
But coming back to the place where he’d grown up — where his mother’s presence still haunted every inch — only made his mood darker.
And with the masked ball set for the next night, he felt an overwhelming urge to vanish — maybe even to return to Dressrosa and disappear for good.

For Brûlée, witnessing that meeting had chilled her to the bone; she would almost rather be back in the hospital than have heard those words.

“Well!” she sighed bitterly, leaning against a rose bush. “She didn’t even wish me a good recovery. Guess she didn’t miss me that much after all. Without us, who would take care of her brats? You’d think she could be a little more grateful.”

Katakuri barely listened.
He was turning a jellybean between his fingers — the same kind he’d given Rosinante when they first met on that cliff.
He tapped the candy against his palm, trying to keep his mind busy, ignoring the frantic preparations for the next day’s ball.

“Do you remember how I got my scar?” he asked suddenly, voice distant.

The question caught Brûlée off guard.
She glanced around to make sure they were alone before answering. “Uh… yes? I was little, maybe too young, but it caused such a scandal that even Perospero talked about it. Why are you asking, big brother?”

He pulled down his scarf for a moment — exposing his neck to the cool night air, a rare act of freedom that made his sister blink in surprise.
No one but Smoothie knew that the scarf was slowly suffocating him — that if he kept it up much longer, it might kill him.

“I didn’t remember it until much later,” he said quietly.
“I remembered the surgery — my jaw nearly torn in half, the pain, Mother’s speech blaming me for it. But the event itself… I’d buried it so deep I almost forgot it ever happened.”

Brûlée waited, resting her head against her arm near him.
“That’s normal. After trauma, the mind often hides what it can’t bear.”

“No. That’s not what I mean,” Katakuri replied sharply. “What I mean is — Mother never wanted to know what really happened that day when I was alone with King. Just like with the fire. She never asked me to explain, never tried to find out who was responsible. She just accepted whatever story Perospero and the others gave her — that I was playing with King while she was in a meeting with Kaido and Xebec, and something went wrong.”

“Yes…” murmured Brûlée, listening closely.

“And that’s the real problem,” he went on, his voice lowering.
“She’s never looked for the truth. She never even asked me how I got it. I buried it so deep I nearly forgot — and maybe that’s exactly what she wants. If she doesn’t question the younger ones about the fire, it’s because she wants them to forget. She hopes the children will bury their trauma without ever getting answers, just like I did. She didn’t avenge me — she chose the comfort of forgetting. And now, with the fire, she’s doing the same: no serious investigation, no culprit, nothing. She’s letting them believe it was an accident, waiting for the kids to forget.”

Brûlée’s heart tightened.
Katakuri gave a faint, sorrowful smile.

“I just don’t understand why. Why, when the culprit’s so obvious, won’t she seek vengeance or even the truth? Why is she acting the same way she did with my scar — pretending it’ll all fade away?”

His mind had been turning endlessly for a month since the fire, but even he was beginning to see cracks in the story — especially the missing security footage, the silence, the gaps.

Brûlée knew they were stepping onto dangerous ground. She had to protect him. Katakuri mustn’t doubt Linlin — he was the pillar of her loyalty. If he started to question her, who would still obey Mama?
And if Linlin ever realized her most loyal son was wavering… what would she do to him? Or worse — to Cora?

“You’re overthinking,” she said softly, trying to bring him back.
“The real question, big brother, is — why did she mention getting ‘noble blood’ through another means than marriage? Why suggest that Rosinante could enter the Charlotte line another way?”

In the quiet heart of the garden, far from the golden laughter of the manor, the siblings fell silent — weighed down by the brutal logic of family power, where love and loyalty were always paid for in blood.

Silence thickened like fog.
The wind rose, stirring petals around them, and Katakuri looked up at the gray sky.
Brûlée watched her brother’s tense face, the same expression she’d seen long ago — when he’d been hurt protecting their younger siblings.
That mix of helplessness and barely restrained fury.

“Katakuri… do you think she… she really wants Rosinante?” she asked quietly.

“It’s not about him as a person,” Katakuri said in a low, muffled voice.
“It’s about what he represents. Noble blood. A name with ancient prestige. Someone she could bend in her image to strengthen the lineage. When she says she wants to ‘bring him back,’ she’s not talking about love or alliance — she means possession. Just like she did with me.”

His face took on something almost animalistic, his teeth bared.
“But Rosi will never belong to her. He belongs to no one. And if he ever does, it’ll be to me — and no one else.”

Brûlée frowned, thoughtful, a chill running down her spine.
“But then… when she said, ‘bring him to me — or else’… what did she mean, if not marriage? You know Mother — she’s always had unconventional ways of getting what she wants into the family.”

Katakuri suddenly lifted his head.
His eyes — usually calm — darkened with a light Brûlée had never seen before.
“You’re right about that,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “When Mother wanted someone in the family, she didn’t go through marriage… she went through conception.”

Brûlée’s breath caught.
“You mean…?”

“In other words,” Katakuri continued hoarsely, “if she can’t have him as a husband or a son-in-law, she’ll have him as a… resource. A breeder.”
He froze as the word left his mouth — every muscle tightening, his red pupils narrowing to slits.

Brûlée covered her mouth, horrified. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
“She… no, Katakuri… she wouldn’t dare. Not with someone you’d die for. Not with… him.”

“You forget what she’s already done to create her lineage, Brûlée!”
His voice was hard now, icy with disgust.
“She’s had children with kings, knights, warriors, criminals, slaves — all chosen for their names, their blood, their strength. She never asked for consent. Never. She built her crew like breeding war stock. And now, she wants a noble. Not a title — blood. Pure blood to polish her name. And if Corazon refuses marriage, she’ll—”

He stopped mid-sentence, fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white, breath sharp as if he’d just taken a blade to the ribs.
“If she gets her hands on Rosinante… she’ll break him. She’ll force him. I swear, I’ll never let her—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The thought alone made him sick, his uncovered face twisting in anguish — imagining his Corazon, his Rosinante, being forced into something that vile, without his consent.

Brûlée stood up, catching his arm in a desperate attempt to calm him — after all, it was still just a theory.
“Katakuri, please — calm down. You can’t talk like that. Not here. If someone hears—”

But he shook his head, panic rising.
“You don’t understand, Brûlée! She doesn’t need him as a man or a husband — she only wants what’s in his veins!”
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, as if trying to hold a scream inside.
“And if she dares lay a single finger on him — on the man I love — I swear on everything I have, I’ll—”

Brûlée cut him off gently, covering his mouth with her hands.
He couldn’t say it. Not him. Not Katakuri.
She stopped him before the horror in his throat could take shape.

“She won’t do it, Katakuri! Our mother’s insane, cruel, and heartless, but she’s not that stupid. She’d never force that kind of thing just to get a noble Charlotte. Still…” She exhaled shakily. “You did the right thing sending Corazon away. As long as he stays out of here — away from Mama, away from the Charlotte family — he’s safe.”

Katakuri didn’t answer. His anxiety didn’t fade — it only settled deeper, colder.
Brûlée stayed close, doing what she could to steady him, though she knew it was useless.
The garden, their only refuge of freedom, felt suddenly smaller, darker.
Yes… everything would be fine, as long as Corazon stayed far from the Charlottes.
Katakuri had made the right choice keeping him away.

___________

“Ta-dah! Here are the ones who’ll help me infiltrate the Charlottes!” Rosinante announced dramatically in the middle of the living room.

In front of him, Kidd was sprawled on the couch with his head on Law’s lap, while Cracker sat nearby, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“Seriously? Clowns? They look like drag—” Cracker started, before one of the flamboyant figures in front of him kicked him square in the shin.

“I’m a drag queen, you insolent brat!” declared Ivankov with flair, striking a pose while Bon Clay looked at her with starry-eyed admiration.

“Madame Iva is so fabulous!” Bon Clay chimed in, his voice musical.

He wasn’t as famous as Ivankov — more of a freelance performer working in a big Alabasta casino under the name Mr. 2, for a man called Crocodile.
A brilliant stage artist, he was someone Rosinante had met back when he still served in the police.

“All right, all right…” Rosinante raised his hands, trying to calm the scene as the teens’ skepticism grew by the second.
“Bon Clay and Ivankov are going to help me disguise myself for the masquerade. I’ve got some basic makeup skills, but they’ll need to hide my scars completely. Every detail matters. These two fairies are here to transform me, head to toe.”

Kidd lazily raised a hand, half-smirking.
“Uh… yeah, question.”

“Yes, Kidd?” Rosinante replied, patience already wearing thin.

“If it’s a costume party… why bother hiding your skin? Isn’t the whole point to wear a disguise anyway?”

Ivankov whipped around, hairbrush in hand, eyes wide with theatrical offense.
“Idiot!” she boomed. “The point is to make her unrecognizable! Even to those who’ve seen her up close!”

“Her?” Kidd and Law repeated in unison, exchanging confused looks.

Rosinante sighed, a weary smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah. Her. If I want to get near the Charlottes without losing my head, I can’t be myself. If I show my face, Linlin will recognize me instantly. So… I’ll change everything — even gender, if that’s what it takes. I’m an undercover agent, not a saint. I’ve survived worse than this — hell, I survived that family.”

A silence fell — only the rustle of fabrics as Ivankov pulled out a suitcase full of costumes broke it.
Bon Clay’s eyes sparkled as if he were watching the first act of a grand play.

“Don’t worry, my dove!” Ivankov cried, fanning out an array of wigs and jewelry. “With a little powder, a few inches of heel, and the right attitude, you’ll be irresistible! Even your own brother wouldn’t recognize you!”

“He’s in prison,” Rosinante muttered dryly — a morbid joke that only made Law snicker.

Cracker groaned, slumping in his chair.
“We’re gonna get caught in under two minutes…” he muttered, then shrugged. “But if that’s the only way to get close to Mama — fine. Let’s go all in.”

Ivankov stood back, hands on hips, eyes gleaming as she studied her soon-to-be masterpiece.
Bon Clay circled Rosinante, clapping excitedly, while Rosinante stood in nothing but a long undershirt, his tall frame making Cracker blush despite himself.

“No, no, no, my dove! The posture, darling!” Ivankov barked. “Grace, fluidity! You’re a mysterious duchess, not a soldier choking on his corset! We’re sculpting a goddess here! Bon Clay — the ribbons!”

“At once, Madame Iva!” Bon Clay replied, handing over a shimmering black corset reinforced with metal ribs that looked more like medieval torture gear than clothing.

Cracker raised an eyebrow. “Is this a disguise or an execution?”

Rosinante sighed, hands on his hips. “As long as I survive, I’m not asking questions.”

Ivankov snapped her fingers. “Stand tall! Chin up, stomach in, butt tight! Let’s create perfection!”

Before he could even react, Bon Clay slipped behind him and wrapped the corset tightly around his waist with military precision.
The laces were pulled once, hard — Rosinante’s chest lifted sharply, his face twisting into a comical grimace.

“Ow— no, wait, I think my ribs—”

“Breathe, darling!” ordered Ivankov, tugging even harder.
A sinister crack echoed — maybe the corset, or maybe Rosinante himself.

Kidd, sitting nearby, watched the scene with morbid fascination. “Dude… I can’t tell if I should be laughing or turned on.”

Law shot him a murderous glare. “You’re disgusting. That’s my dad, asshole.”

Cracker couldn’t tear his eyes away. “This is… unsettling. I think I finally get why Katakuri wanted you to replace Smoothie.”

“Tighter!” shouted Ivankov, relentless.
“If I pull any tighter, I’ll snap his spine!” Bon Clay panted.
“Then let him die beautiful! He’s way too muscular to pass for a woman!” Ivankov cried passionately.

Rosinante tried to breathe, but no air came in. He weakly raised a hand. “I… think… I see… the light…”

“Silence! We’re approaching perfection!” Ivankov declared.
One final yank on the laces, and Rosinante shot upright, frozen solid, unable to bend anything below his collarbone, his chest rising softly in a way that looked disturbingly… feminine.

Bon Clay stepped back, awestruck. “My God… look at that waist! You could loop a curtain ring around him instead of a belt!”

Kidd let out a low appreciative whistle. “Not bad! Actually kinda sexy! Hey, can I take a photo? It’s for a friend in need—”

Law yanked his boyfriend’s hair, slammed him to the floor, and kicked him in the ribs, furious.

“Damn, Katakuri’s one lucky bastard!” Cracker muttered, his cheeks pink.

Rosinante, bright red, tried to take a step — the corset creaked ominously.
“I… think I just lost the ability to breathe and think.”

“Perfect!” cried Ivankov, beaming. “That’s exactly the effect we want!”

Bon Clay moved to the next step: silk stockings, gloves, then the gown. With every new layer, Rosinante looked less like an ex-spy and more like a melancholic duchess.
But the moment he tried walking, disaster struck — one heel got caught in the rug, and he tumbled forward, dragging Bon Clay down with him.

Even though he’d cross-dressed for missions before, it had probably been a decade, and watching a man that clumsy in heels was pure comedy.

Law buried his face in his hands, utterly done.
Kidd was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he wheezed. “P-Pardon, but this… HAHAHA… this is the best thing I’ve ever seen!”

“If that’s our plan’s future, we’re screwed,” Cracker muttered.

But after hours of yelling, adjusting, and painting, the result was… breathtaking.

Ivankov stepped back, hands trembling with emotion. “Behold! An apparition! A muse! A living tragedy!”

Rosinante turned to the mirror. A tall, slender figure stared back — with his heels, he was a whole new kind of giant. His hair, long enough now to frame his face, fell in soft blond waves. His lips were painted blood-red, perfectly balanced, not overdone. The corset sculpted a chest that didn’t truly exist; at best, he looked like a flat-chested but athletic woman, his toned muscles reshaped into something strangely graceful.

The scars were gone, hidden beneath layers of makeup; his red eyes looked almost too beautiful to be real.
No, she wasn’t “beautiful” by classic standards — too tall, too built, too sharp-featured — but there was an otherworldly charm to her, an angelic magnetism, as Bon Clay whispered.

Her golden hair and pale skin contrasted beautifully with the blue makeup and crimson lips.
All at once, Corazon’s noble bearing returned — back straight, proud, eyes commanding. The mascara darkened his lashes into something striking. A hint of nail polish glimmered, and somehow, his chest now looked nearly believable.

He turned shyly toward his audience.

“…Holy shit. I take it back. I think I’m officially in love with your dad, man,” Kidd said, mouth agape.

Law looked away, deeply uncomfortable. “That’s… disturbing, Cora.”

Cracker took a solemn tone. “If Mama saw you like this, she’d marry you off to one of her sons on the spot.”

Rosinante sighed, raising a gloved hand toward the ceiling.
“Then let’s pray she doesn’t recognize me. Because the second she does, she’ll want a lot more than just my blood.”

Ivankov raised a dramatic finger.
“And that’s where it all begins, my dove! Tonight, you will be irresistible! Dazzling! Unforgettable!”

“Suffocating, more like,” Rosinante muttered under his breath.

Kidd leaned toward Law, smirking. “You think all his organs are still in place, doc?”

“It’s gonna cause permanent damage,” Law grimaced.

“Maybe. But that waist though.”

“Thanks for everything, both of you,” Rosinante said, voice softer. “I owe you one.”

Bon Clay suddenly frowned, tugging lightly at Rosinante’s arm.
“My favor, darling,” he murmured gravely, his eyes flicking toward Cracker.
“Don’t speak at the party. Your voice… it’s way too deep, and you won’t be able to disguise it. Everyone will know immediately you’re a man — or worse… that you’re Corazon.”

Law, sitting off to the side and watching, nodded seriously. He knew his father’s voice — low, rough, instantly recognizable — could ruin everything.
He quickly dug through his satchel and pulled out a notepad and pen, handing them to Rosinante.

“Use this to talk to Cracker. Write everything. Avoid speaking out loud as much as possible.”

Corazon, beautiful as a dream under his disguise, nodded in agreement. “Thanks, kid,” he murmured with a faint, knowing smile, taking the notepad with a sigh of relief.

Yes, Rosinante was beautiful — in every way that mattered. But tonight, he’d be more than that: a woman of aristocracy, walking straight into the lion’s den to expose Big Mom’s crime, driven by that same relentless sense of justice that had always burned inside him.

The road to the manor felt endless.
Under the trembling glow of the lanterns, Rosinante moved forward with uncertain steps, one arm linked through Cracker’s. Together, they made quite the picture — the perfect fake couple, ready to deceive an entire empire.

The black feather mask, delicately carved and edged with silver, covered the upper half of Rosinante’s face. Stray golden curls slipped out naturally, brushing his shoulders in a way that was almost too convincing. The gown clung perfectly to his torso, his ribs crushed tight beneath the infernal corset.
Every step on those damned heels echoed inside his skull like an alarm: Don’t fall. Don’t trip. Breathe—if possible.

Cracker, walking beside him, kept sneaking sidelong glances at his “escort,” lips pursed and cheeks faintly pink with embarrassment. His retro purple suit gave him the air of an overdressed nobleman—making the sight of him arm-in-arm with a towering blonde duchess even more absurd.

At last, he muttered through clenched teeth, noticing how the heels made Corazon taller than him now.
“You realize you’re looking down at me like I’m some kind of bug, right?”

Rosinante turned, raising one brow beneath the mask, halfway between exasperation and suffocation. The corset was killing him—he didn’t need commentary on top of that. He pulled out his notepad and scrawled quickly, his handwriting shaky:

I can barely breathe. I’m not grimacing on purpose.

Cracker read it, sighed loudly, and muttered,
“Well, try harder. You look like you wanna strangle me with your eyes. We’re supposed to be in love, sweetheart.”

Rosinante lifted the notebook up to his face, showing a new message in bold letters:

- I’M SMILING.
PS: Don’t call me that.

Cracker raised an eyebrow, fighting back a snort.

Irritated, Rosinante straightened his back, smoothed down his skirt, and walked forward with the regal grace of someone born into nobility. It paid off—until one heel sank slightly into the gravel.
He wobbled.

Cracker just managed to catch him by the waist, the motion spinning them around once. Their masks bumped together with a ridiculous clack. Then Cracker cleared his throat, pressing his lips into a mock kiss.
“If madame permits—muah!”

Rosinante yelped silently and shoved him off, nearly falling again.

He scribbled furiously:
Do that again and I’ll drive this heel into your foot—and somewhere else too.

Cracker burst out laughing, unable to stop himself, just as the grand doors of the manor swung open.
The sounds of the ball—the music, the perfume of flowers and sugar, the whisper of masked guests—all washed over them like a wave.

Their eyes met one last time before stepping inside. There was no turning back.

The entrance hall, bathed in golden light, felt unreal: a sea of silk, masks, murmured conversations, and dizzying fragrances. The orchestra hidden behind a velvet curtain played a haunting waltz that wrapped around everything.

Rosinante’s throat tightened; his gloved hands trembled as he forced his back straight. He could feel the weight of every stare. The slightest slip—a wrong gesture, a single word—could destroy him.
Calm down, Cora. Breathe. Walk. Smile. Don’t speak.

Cracker, meanwhile, had regained his usual theatrical confidence. He tugged gently at his “lady’s” gloved hand, striding forward with exaggerated nonchalance—though, in truth, it was to steady her trembling. And maybe, just maybe, because holding her hand wasn’t unpleasant.

“Brothers!” he called out with a grand smile, arms wide as they approached the cluster of Charlotte siblings by the entrance—Mont d’Or, Opera, and Compote.

Mont d’Or, as stiff and meticulous as ever in his striped suit, barely looked up from his ledger, already tired of his brother’s antics.
“Cracker…” he sighed, “I thought you were still recovering?”

“Exactly!” Cracker shot back with his trademark grin. “And look—I even brought the one who nursed me back to health!”

He gestured grandly toward Rosinante.
All eyes turned to the blonde.

Rosinante froze. Sweat trickled down his spine. He managed an awkward curtsy, his gown rustling like leaves.

Mont d’Or’s eyebrow twitched upward. “And… who might this lady be?”

Cracker chuckled nervously, slipping an arm around Rosinante’s waist with exaggerated affection.
“Ah, my companion! Every child was allowed one guest, wasn’t it? My dear, sweet… uh… Mademoiselle Rosaline!” He struck a pose. “A nurse from the hospital—poor thing tended my burns these past weeks and fell hopelessly in love with my muscular body! A devoted, talented woman with a heart of gold!”

He finished with a wink.

Rosinante blushed furiously beneath his makeup. He nearly choked in his corset. Rosaline? Seriously? he thought. You might as well call me “Corazon” and get it over with.

Mont d’Or shut his ledger with a snap and crossed his arms. “A nurse, you say? And you invited her here? Mother forbade you from bringing… outsiders, especially after your last little escapades.”

Cracker forced out a higher laugh. “Come on, brother! A little open-mindedness! Mama always says we must care for the wounded, no?” He thumped his chest dramatically. “And I’m simply taking care of the woman who saved my life. Isn’t that right, Rosaline darling? The poor thing was dying to see what high society looks like!”

Rosinante nodded rapidly, digging into his purse for the notepad and pen Law had given him. He wrote quickly:

- Pleased to meet you, Lord Mont d’Or. I’m honored to be here.

He handed over the notebook with a fixed smile.

Mont d’Or read the note, frowned, and looked back up. “She writes, but doesn’t speak?”

“Ah, yes!” Cracker improvised instantly. “She… uh… lost her voice from a bad cough! Occupational hazard, you know! Happens to nurses all the time!”

“You’re lying badly, little brother.”

Shit, think fast.

“Alright, alright—fine!” Cracker raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s embarrassing, you see? She’s a shy girl… I might’ve made her scream too loud in bed, lost her voice because of me. Totally my fault.”

Rosinante wanted to die on the spot. His soul nearly left his body. It was the worst excuse possible—yet somehow, the sheer audacity made it believable enough that no one dared question it.

Compote, standing off to the side, let out a small laugh.
“Charming, though. You’ve got good taste, Cracker. Long legs, too—I don’t doubt it.”

Rosinante dipped his head with what dignity he had left.
But inside, each word, each smile, felt like walking closer to the edge of a cliff. If even one of them recognized him… it was over.

Fortunately, Opera—distracted by a dessert tray—broke the tension. “Well then, enough formalities! Let the festivities begin! The buffet’s open!”

Cracker seized the moment, grabbing Rosinante by the arm and gently steering him toward the ballroom.
“Looks like we survived the first test, my lovely Rosaline,” he whispered teasingly.

Rosinante shot him a murderous glare and scribbled furiously:
If we make it out alive, I’ll strangle you with this corset and tell Katakuri everything.

Cracker immediately shut up. He knew that threat was serious.

He stepped ahead, arm out, leading Rosinante—no, Rosaline—into the grand hall, her corset creaking vengeance with every breath.

Around them, guests turned to stare. Some whispered in admiration, others in jealousy.
The floor shimmered with gowns and masks; laughter floated like champagne bubbles. The air was thick with sugar, fruit, and perfume—an overwhelming luxury, so typical of Linlin’s gatherings. It reminded him painfully of his wedding.

Cracker bowed with exaggerated confidence to a servant wearing a rabbit mask, declaring in a booming voice:
“Lord Cracker, Commander of the Alabasta Branch of Totto Land’s Trading Company… and his companion!”

The word companion rang across the room, half-mocking, half-dismissive. Heads turned. A few snickers rippled through the crowd—another of Cracker’s ridiculous whims.

Rosinante’s stomach twisted beneath the corset. His body wasn’t built for subtlety; his frame drew eyes no matter what. So he relied on what he knew best—his noble upbringing, the etiquette drilled into him long ago.
He clenched his jaw, lifted his chin, and nodded gracefully, just as one would at court.

The music softened. Time seemed to slow.
The hall was immense, a vast ocean of mirrors and gilded ornamentation. Tables overflowed with cakes, sparkling glasses, sugar sculptures, and chandeliers. At the center, a grand ivory staircase led to the upper balconies, from which members of the Charlotte family descended slowly, adorned in their finest attire.

Rosinante briefly caught sight of Smoothie at the bar—her dress perfect, her face partly hidden by her bangs, so no mask was needed. Jumeaux Oven and Daifuku were surrounded by elegantly dressed women, scantily clad but at least masked. Perospero looked utterly dismayed by the organization, wearing a tasteless costume that did him no favors.

No sign of Katakuri, Rosinante noted with a tight chest. Every masked face reminded him of ghosts from the past—children’s laughter, overly sweet meals, Linlin’s icy stare.

“Breathe, my dear. If you keep clenching your teeth, that corset will explode,” Cracker murmured.

Rosinante shot him a dark glare but forced a smile for the crowd. He scribbled almost inaudibly in his notebook:
- Pretend to adore me, and stop talking, okay?

They descended the few steps toward the dance floor. Whispers gradually faded, replaced by violins. Masked couples twirled slowly beneath golden light, and for a fleeting moment, Rosinante allowed himself to forget the mission. But Linlin was still absent; he had to wait.

“Well, Mother’s not here yet, I suppose… I’ll get us a drink. Don’t move, Rosinante—uh, Rosaline, I mean!”

His clumsy partner went off to the bar, leaving the blonde alone in mounting anxiety.

For a moment, he let himself be absorbed by the strange beauty of this world he had fled, a beauty that reminded him of happier years with Doflamingo, his father, and his mother. He had never cared for bourgeois life, yet luxury had shaped him subtly; Sengoku had often pointed out that his noble origins gave him a slightly spoiled air. Before joining the Family as Corazon, he had always carried himself with impeccable posture, proper manners at the table, and enough small talk to weave convincing facades—a skill invaluable on missions. That noble training would be crucial tonight, he realized, with the dance ahead.

Then his gaze caught a figure he could recognize among a thousand.

There, at the far end of the hall, standing near a crystal column: Katakuri.
Straight, immobile, in a dark suit embroidered with soft pink lines mimicking his tattoos, his mask covered only the lower half of his face. Its design—demonic, toothlike shapes—was reminiscent of those from Wano. He radiated cold elegance, quiet power. The black suit clung too tightly to his muscular frame, and the dark cloak only amplified his magnetism. Even through disguise, his strength was evident. His violet hair, intense red eyes framed by long lashes—though now dimmed and shadowed—still drew Rosinante’s gaze like a lodestone.

Damn. He had missed him so much. He was… breathtaking.

Rosinante’s heart skipped a beat. The warmth of the ball seemed to close in around him—the crowd, the laughter, the sweet, heady scents. Everything faded. Only Katakuri remained.

His eyes followed Rosinante instinctively, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Every gesture, every movement of the dark cloak, every glint of violet hair under the golden chandelier made his heart race.

He had come for a mission, to uncover the truth, to confront Linlin—not to lose himself again in the figure of the man he had loved.

But his body betrayed him.

Cracker, engaged in conversation with one of his brothers, didn’t even notice as Rosinante took step after tentative step. The violins played a slow, almost melancholic tune, and the crowd naturally parted, forming an invisible path.

The feathered mask lent him the look of a shadow gliding through light. Every step burned with fear, yet something stronger compelled him forward.

Finally close enough to sense the familiar scent of leather, sugar, and dried blood on Katakuri’s gloves, he froze.
So close.
So painfully close.

He lifted his eyes. Katakuri, lost in thought, was looking elsewhere—toward the stage, the door, anywhere but him.
But at that precise moment, Rosinante knew.
The emptiness in those eyes, that silent pain—it was not anger, not disdain.
It was longing.

A few women moved around him, and from where Rosinante stood, he might have melted on the spot. Undoubtedly beautiful, far more than a mere man in disguise, they were clearly guests hoping to bask in the prestige of Katakuri Charlotte, the one who had bested Joker.

Rosinante’s chest tightened with another emotion—jealousy. None of these women knew the real Katakuri. How dare they approach him so brazenly? Katakuri’s oblivious charm, born from his own self-restraint, was killing Corazon—one glance at those admiring eyes was proof enough.

Yet his Katakuri was no longer his. They owed each other nothing. He had to swallow the jealousy, suppress the possessiveness, and simply watch him charm these women.

But nothing happened. Katakuri didn’t even look at them. His gaze was absent, almost cruel, as if he had just had a bitter conversation. And paradoxically, that only delighted Rosinante’s possessive side.

His chest ached. Every part of him wanted to reach out, whisper his name, tell him he was there, that leaving had been a mistake. That he wanted to become them again—a singular, impossible entity woven from tenderness, violence, and redemption.

But he could not.
Not here.
Not now.

________

A little later in the evening.

Katakuri hated social gatherings—worse, he hated the hypocrisy. Even this party: his mother had shouted the worst insults at him, given him the most impossible tasks to punish him for his behavior toward Kaido, all so she could throw a stupid celebration in honor of her promotion, as if she had anything to do with Doflamingo’s defeat.

Katakuri thought of the poor group of young people who had, unwittingly, benefited someone like her. Luffy surely wouldn’t have approved. They were the true heroes.

The chandeliers poured golden light over the crowd of Charlottes, mafias, and invited guests, and everything seemed to spin in an artificial harmony. Katakuri stood apart, back straight, arms crossed. His black mask only partially hid his impassive expression. He hadn’t chosen his outfit, just something simple and black, with a cape draped over one shoulder. He hated these kinds of gatherings, and if Brûlée weren’t accompanying and supporting him, he would never have shown up.

The noise, the forced laughter, the flattery disguised as compliments, these women demanding his attention—it all irritated him. He wanted to disappear, even the shabby room at Tesoro would have been a luxury compared to this.

Brûlée, on the other hand, displayed a feigned lightness, as if to compensate for her brother’s silence. She was obviously invited solely to watch over the younger brothers and sisters.

“Honestly, big brother, you could at least smile a little. It’s a ball, not a funeral.”

Katakuri merely raised an imperceptible eyebrow, his eyes fixed on the dance floor where masked couples twirled.

“These people are strutting around waiting for Mother to make her entrance. Nothing more.”

His voice, low and sharp, retained its restraint, but Brûlée noticed his irritation, his fatigue—and above all, that particular tension he had carried for weeks.

She sighed, softening her tone. “You know, maybe you should enjoy yourself a little… think about something other than work or responsibilities.”

He didn’t answer.

She frowned, then a thin smile appeared on her lips, provocation shining through.

“Unless… you’re still thinking about him.”

Brûlée was the only one who knew that Rosinante and Cracker were in contact at the moment, even if she didn’t know about the mission for the ball. It was good to have someone watching over Cora.

Katakuri slowly turned his head toward her; his dark red eyes hardened.

“This isn’t the time, Brûlée. Don’t speak of him.”

“Oh, stop! I’m not saying this to hurt you, you know. But… it’s been weeks, Katakuri. Weeks since your separation. And you haven’t stopped being… elsewhere, sad.”

She twirled her fan in the air, as if to lighten the conversation, her mask perched on her hooked nose.

“He may have moved on already, you know? People change. They move on. Even tragic lovers.”

She needed to provoke him; gentle words didn’t work on her brother.

A brief silence fell. A glass shattered, almost splashing Brûlée. Katakuri felt his jaw clench.

Moved on? The very idea sparked a cold fire in his stomach. Selfishly, he hoped that Rosinante would be too heartbroken to try anything, too broken by their separation to start a new life like he had. But even that thought felt hypocritical, recalling the woman at the bar.

Rosinante, with someone else? Not just unthinkable. Unbearable.

He clenched his fist, the leather of his glove creaking under pressure.

Images haunted him: the gentleness of the blond’s voice, his scarred hands, his laughing eyes even in pain—all offered to another.

He had done everything to forget him. To bury his feelings under layers of duty, loyalty, obedience.

But he couldn’t. Every night, he saw that face, that body, that scent.

And every day, he had to remember that he had been the one who let him go.

“He won’t do that. I forbid it.”

“He owes you nothing, you know? He may start a new life, maybe even marry, have children with someone else and forget, while you end up a lonely, sad bachelor,” his brother grumbled beside her, already reluctant to be here, yet enraged by these cruel thoughts. Imagining a child who would never be his, with the eyes of the man he loved.

“That guy… the policeman… uh… Smoker? He could end up with him and—”

“Brûlée, if you don’t want me to throw all these guests out, you should seriously think about the next words coming out of your stupid mouth. Life or death.”

He wasn’t joking.

Brûlée watched the tension in his features, biting her lip, feeling slightly guilty for provoking him so much. She was the only one who could say such things without risking her life, and she knew it, using it to elicit a reaction from her brother.

“I was just joking…”

“Not funny. Don’t do it again.”

His voice was low, rough, almost animalistic.

“You still love him, admit it.”

Katakuri turned his gaze away.

The violins played a slow tune, and his reflection in a glass column showed him a man he no longer recognized—the perfect soldier, cold, impeccable, yet hollow inside.

He inhaled deeply.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Mother keeps him safe after everything she’s said.”

Brûlée nodded slowly.

She knew he was lying, trying to convince himself.

Yet when he lifted his head, he had that rare look—of a wounded man, walking the line between duty and desire.

“And he hasn’t moved on,” he murmured, more a prayer than certainty.

“He can’t. Not him. Not without me.”

He looked almost like a wounded animal.

Brûlée wanted to respond but saw in his eyes that possessive, desperate glint she feared. He said it to reassure himself, to comfort himself, telling himself that Corazon loved him as much as he esteemed him. Of course, he hadn’t moved on, but she couldn’t admit it and had to prepare him for any possibility—after all, the blond was free now.

She knew one thing: if fate reunited them, neither would come out of it unscathed.

Katakuri remained still for a long moment, arms crossed, eyes lost in the crystal reflections. He had always been good at standing straight, appearing masterful, impassive.

But at that instant, the façade cracked.

He cannot have forgotten me.

The thought returned, insistent, almost painful.

Not him. Not after everything they had been through.

Katakuri closed his eyes, breathing slowly, trying to suppress the strange heat rising in his throat, seeking the scent of cigarettes.

He remembered everything—the way Rosinante laughed a little too loudly, his distracted expression when pretending not to understand a jab, his clumsy gestures when trying to be tender.

He had forbidden himself from thinking about it, yet every night, he relived that smile—the one he thought was only for him—and other nights he indulged in shameful memories of the man’s expressions, sounds, body.
He cannot give him to another.

The mere idea tightened his chest with visceral jealousy.

He imagined—despite himself—other hands on the blond’s pale skin, other arms around him. And it made him want to destroy everything.,He had never been possessive… not before him.
But Corazon was no ordinary lover. He had taken root in his soul without warning, leaving an immense void when he left.
His thoughts made him ignore the women trying to surround him. You are not his, he told himself.
He tried to reason: it was only weakness. A remnant of attachment he needed to control, to stifle. Mother had said: emotions make you fragile. Love makes you vulnerable.

But… if loving Corazon was a weakness, then he accepted it Because he had never felt anything so real, so human.I don’t want him to suffer… but I don’t want to lose him either.

That was the contradiction gnawing at him.

He wanted his safety, yes but he also wanted him to remember. To still think of him, to fear him a little, to desire him still—even in flight. He would never allow a child with the eyes of the man he loved.
His gaze involuntarily drifted toward the main staircase, where guests continued to enter, their masks sparkling in the light—a familiar presence, a strange warmth in his chest.

From the beginning of the evening, he had felt like a stranger in this setting—under the golden chandeliers, among the elegant masks, to the music offering only a veneer of perfection. The world continued to spin around him, slow, bright, empty.

Katakuri straightened, senses alert.

His breathing slowed, measured.

Something—or rather, someone—had settled beside him.

He didn’t even bother turning his head, indifferent to the presences around him. He was used to people trying to talk to him, flatter him, or merely admire the man he had become.
So he remained motionless, impassive. Until a small slip of paper quietly slid near his glass.
He looked down, intrigued despite himself.

- Would you like to dance?

The handwriting was awkward, slightly trembling.

He sighed, a tired, almost imperceptible sound, and slowly raised his hand.

Without turning, he removed his glove, letting the silver ring on his ring finger catch the light.

“No, I don’t dance with anyone.”

Silence.

“I’m married.”

His voice, cold and low, fell like a blade.

The bastard.

Beside him, Rosinante felt his stomach twist. He shouldn’t have been surprised, yet hearing those words took his breath away.

He had dared to say he was married. As if it wasn’t him—Katakuri—who had destroyed everything, asking for the divorce that had caused their separation as if it wasn’t him who had let him go and yet… despite anger, despite grief, his heart clenched painfully.

Because Katakuri still wore the ring.

Their ring. The same one he kept in a drawer, unable to part with it. And despite the sadness, Corazon felt a wave of possessiveness at this fidelity.
The familiar scent of mochi floated in the air, sweet and warm. It enveloped him completely, and for a second, Rosinante forgot where he was.
It was so familiar, so comforting… he wanted to bury his face in that neck, just to breathe the scent he had missed so much. But he recovered, remembering his role.
Hands trembling, he grabbed his pen and wrote in his notebook:

- Congratulations. Your wife must be lucky.

Katakuri remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed ahead. He didn’t want to speak tonight, least of all to a stranger but something in that sentence unsettled him.

A resonance.
A warmth.
A style of writing, perhaps…

So he answered, without thinking:

“No. He is not lucky to have me as a husband.”

He deliberately stressed he, to correct what he imagined was a mistake and at that moment, he turned his head toward the sender.

Their eyes met.

Rosinante felt his entire body freeze. His breath caught.
What if he recognized me? Katakuri was intelligent, extremely perceptive—quick to guess things.
His heart pounded so hard he feared it could be heard beneath his gown.
Katakuri, for his part, remained momentarily stunned.

Before him stood a woman he had never seen—at least, he believed.

Tall. Slender blond hair barely brushing her bare shoulders.
A black feathered mask covered half her face, but he could already guess the deep orange eyes and the discreet, almost shy smile tinged with red.
Her figure corresponded to the only person he had ever found beautiful until now, her blond hair long, her skin flawless, her scent too feminine—and he cursed himself for searching for Corazon in every person he saw.

She was beautiful.

Not perfectly, no—but a rare beauty, full of confidence and mystery, enough to make the ball’s guests question themselves.
And, for some reason, Katakuri felt his chest tighten.There was something strangely familiar in her presence, in her manner, even her breathing. Never before—except with Rosinante—had he dared call someone beautiful.
And it unsettled him more than anything.

“Do… we know each other?” he finally asked, hesitant, almost as if hoping.

Rosinante wanted to laugh—or cry.

His fingers clenched his notebook, forcing a smile behind his mask.

He was too close. Too near. Katakuri’s warmth, his voice, his mere existence just centimeters away—everything threatened to blow his cover.
He wanted to hit him, hold him, beg him—all at once.

But he stayed there, silent, on the verge of losing everything, simply grateful to see him alive.

Katakuri remained perfectly still, his scarlet eyes fixed on this strange woman.
His heart, however, refused to obey reason. Every fiber of his being screamed that he knew this person, that something in her had always belonged to him.
Her silhouette, her voice—or rather, her silence—her gestures… it all felt like a hallucination.

I’ve been losing my mind since the separation, Brûlée had been right.
That was the only explanation.
Since he had lost him, everything had been nothing but mirage, pain, and obsession.
So why, tonight, in the middle of this masquerade, did fate force this vision upon him?

He couldn’t help himself. Slowly, with a hesitation almost painful, he made a hand gesture.
A hesitant, awkward motion he hadn’t made in a long time.

In sign language.

“Are you mute?” he articulated softly, tracing the words in the air.

Rosinante felt her throat tighten.
He had remembered.
Even after all this time, he remembered the signs she had given to Pudding—Katakuri had not forgotten.

She lifted her hand timidly to respond at the same height.
Her fingers trembled slightly, but the fluidity of her motion betrayed an old familiarity:

“Yes… mute.”

Katakuri nodded slowly, a little unsettled, unable to tear his gaze away from her.
The curve of her neck.
The slight tremor of her fingers.
Every detail chained him further, urging him to lay his hands on her, yet he resisted, out of respect for Corazon.

And in a barely audible breath, like a prayer, he murmured:
“You remind me of someone.”

Rosinante felt her entire being tighten with fear. This was a bad idea.
Every word, every intonation awakened a storm inside him he no longer had the strength to contain.
She had to flee, to pull away before he recognized her.
But her legs refused to obey.

And when Katakuri’s gloved hand gently extended toward her, inviting her to dance anyway—as if drawn by a force he could not resist—the blond knew he had crossed the line.

“Dance with me.”

It was not an invitation.
It was an order, soft yet absolute, carrying that quiet authority that defined him.

And Rosinante, despite the panic rising within her, could only bow slightly and place her hand in his.

The contact was electric.
Under the gloves, warmth.
Beneath warmth, recognition.

Katakuri inhaled sharply, as if he had just brushed against a flame.
That hand… he would have recognized it among a thousand.
But no, impossible. He refused to believe it, to search for Cora in the arms of an unknown woman.

They moved slowly to the dance floor. Golden lights reflected off masks, fabrics, crystal goblets. All eyes were on them—but nothing mattered to them.

Katakuri placed a hand on her slender waist, and Rosinante flinched: the corset made it hard to breathe, but it was nothing compared to the burn of contact.
Every movement awakened a memory, a whisper of the past.
Do not tremble. Do not speak.

Couples turned slowly, mask against mask, in a choreography of whispers and secrets.

At the center, Katakuri guided his partner effortlessly. His large, firm hand rested on her waist; the other held hers with unexpected gentleness.
Strangely, he was a skilled dancer, but it was nothing compared to Rosinante’s noble origins, which made her glide elegantly and erase any awkwardness.
It had its benefits, playing the woman in childhood dance lessons with Doflamingo.

Each step, each breath, each infinitesimal movement seemed to return him to a time when she had still belonged to him.

Their eyes met. One beat. Two. Then the world ceased to exist.

Katakuri tilted his head slightly toward her.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured. “Am I frightening you?”

Rosinante looked away, grabbing her notebook with a trembling hand, freeing herself slightly from the dance to scribble quickly:
- The corset is a little tight.

Katakuri let out an amused, nearly imperceptible breath—he hadn’t laughed since the incident.

“Such weapons should be banned,” he replied calmly, his rare humor peeking through.

Rosinante stifled a silent laugh, which died almost instantly—her voice could not be heard. Even feigned, this complicity tore at her.
She forced herself to meet Katakuri’s gaze, but the warmth reflected there burned her cheeks.

The music slowed, deepened. They pivoted cora feel the man's powerful muscles under his fingers.
Their shadows glided across the marble. Their bodies knew each other too well.
Rosinante’s noble posture, perfectly straight, accented every move.
Katakuri realized he knew every gesture of hers without even trying. That sway, the hesitation before each step… he, who had only danced in youth, found himself wondering if she was a recurring guest.

He felt his own breathing falter. A violent, strange sensation gripped his stomach: as if a memory tried to take form inside him.

He leaned closer, letting his voice brush her bare neck.
“Forgive my frankness, but… have we danced together before?”

Rosinante felt her blood freeze. She shook her head too quickly at the proximity.
After all, it wasn’t a lie—they had climbed cliffs together, raced motorcycles until their bodies almost merged in close combat—but not danced. Their bodies were merely too familiar with each other.
Their movements synced with the violins.
One guiding, the other following.
A glide, a step, a breath.

Katakuri no longer watched the other dancers—he watched her, as if every second touching her erased a little of the distance between them.

His fingers traced her back just enough to feel her shiver.
A wild, irrepressible urge surged through his mind: to pull her close, to feel her without this mask, this absurd barrier he hated, feeling ashamed for even thinking it.

At the end of the dance, Rosinante began to step away, but a clumsy, rushed step broke the flow.
She stumbled—one heel caught in the fabric of her dress—and everything tipped.

But before she could hit the floor, a strong hand caught her, as always.
Katakuri held her by the waist, sure, protective, almost desperate.
The world vanished around them.

Their faces were only inches apart.
Katakuri’s breath brushed her bare neck. Their eyes met, and time seemed to shatter. The violins had fallen silent, yet no one spoke.
In that suspended silence, everything spoke what neither dared confess.

Katakuri tightened his hold imperceptibly, as if letting her fall would mean losing her for good again.
When his voice finally rose, it was only a whisper.

“You are… dangerously clumsy.” like him.

Rosinante straightened, forced a tense smile, grabbed her notebook with a trembling hand, and wrote:
- I prefer when we fall together.

A rare, hoarse laugh escaped Katakuri—Cora was definitely the only one who could make him laugh like that, or fall in love a second time.
A laugh he hadn’t shared in days. Seeing the man he loved smile made Rosinante’s heart melt—he wanted to kiss him.

Rosinante felt his heart capsize.
That laugh… it was his. The one he had once elicited with a foolish joke, in the quiet softness of their room, between battles, oaths, stolen kisses.

He looked at him, and his entire being drowned.
A smile, uncontrollable, escaped him.
Not the forced, cautious smile he reserved for others—no, this one was real.
The one that revealed all his teeth, the one Katakuri loved, calling it radiant, sunny, almost childlike.
And at the sight of Katakuri, he hadn’t expected them to be so terrified. His small eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, and he even took a step back at the sight of Corso smiling.

Damn it—his missing tooth.
How had he forgotten such an important detail?

Katakuri, initially frozen, took a step back.
His gaze locked on that tiny, ridiculous, impossible detail—
and yet, he felt his entire world tilt.

That emptiness, there, in the smile caused by Vergo.

“No…”
The word slipped from his lips in a barely audible, almost painful whisper.
His mask was useless now: his face betrayed all the fear, all the confusion of a man seeing a ghost.

Rosinante felt panic wash over him, icy and burning all at once. He wanted to look away, hide—but it was too late. Katakuri was already stepping toward him, slowly, magnetically.
His gaze grew sharper, hungrier, almost mad.
A hand rose—not to strike, not yet, but to touch.

He was going to recognize him.
He knew it.
Another moment, and everything would shatter.

But suddenly, a scream rang out from the dance floor. Young Flampe leapt onto Katakuri, who was too distracted, and nearly ended up in a wrestling hug on the ground.

“Big brother! I haven’t seen you since boarding school! Look at me, I’m all better now! I’m even more beautiful than before, don’t you think?”

Katakuri turned toward his sister—a soldier’s reflex—and that was all it took.

Crackers appeared, feigning panic.
“Rosaline! Over here!”
He grabbed his “partner” by the waist and yanked her toward a corridor without any gentleness. Rosinante barely had time to breathe, let alone turn around.
Her mask tilted, heels clacking against the polished floor, heart hammering.

Behind them, Katakuri froze in the middle of the dance floor, eyes lost in the crowd.
Laughter, cries, music resumed—but he heard nothing.
He saw only that fleeing silhouette vanish. He could have sworn he still felt, on his skin, the warmth of a hand he had never stopped waiting for.

He was losing his mind. This “woman” was nobody important—and yet, that smile, that posture, that laugh… Katakuri would have recognized it among a thousand.
Desperate, he scanned the crowd of dancers, trying to guess where she could have disappeared.

Meanwhile, Crackers was out of breath, planted near the buffet where Oven and Daifuku debated, clearly too drunk to think.

“ARE YOU CRAZY?!” Crackers yelled, making the glasses tremble. “I step away for five minutes and you start dancing with KATAKURI?! Do you want us to die or what?!”

Corazon shrugged and scribbled furiously in his notebook:
Stop yelling!

“No! I’m not stopping, you love-struck lunatic! Do you realize he was about to figure out who you are?! You’re his… damn wife—”

Before he could finish, Corazon punched him square in the stomach, so hard the dress nearly tore across his muscles, silencing him instantly.

“Ouch!” Crackers groaned, clutching his belly. “That really hurts! Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that… But seriously, you’re so stupid!”

You wouldn’t understand! I just want to go smoke.

“And THE DAMN MISSION!” Crackers shouted, exasperated. “I should’ve come to the ball with a prettier woman!”

The drunken laughter of their two older brothers, Oven and Daifuku, erupted in the room.

“Well, what a way to talk to a woman, Crackers! Wow, look at that!” Daifuku sneered, eyeing him up and down.
Oven grunted: “Way too tall and muscular for my taste… I prefer small, delicate women. But nice neckline and pretty face, good job, little brother.”

Corazon rolled his eyes. In this family, they definitely had a problem with blondes.

“Ah… um… let me introduce my nurse and dance partner for tonight.” Crackers gestured theatrically, taking Corazon by the arm.
The duo looked genuinely embarrassed. If either of these idiots realized…

“Hey, but it’s Rosinante!” Oven exclaimed.

Crackers and Corazon wanted to collapse on the spot, mouths gaping. Mission compromised in an instant.
Daifuku, still drunk, stepped forward to punch him in the face, but Oven restrained him.

“That’s not how you talk about a lady!” Daifuku protested. “You don’t compare such an elegant girl to a man, idiot!”
“Hey!” Oven spat, breath reeking of alcohol. “I’m telling you she’s not a woman! It’s Corazon!”
“Not all cute blondes are Corazon!” Daifuku shot back, eyes narrowed.

Crackers scooped Corazon into his arms, looking devastated, hiding his face on his shoulder despite the size difference:
“Shame on you, you drunkard! Look at what you’re doing to him with your stupid comparisons! Shh, my dear, don’t cry.”

Oven blushed in shame. “Ah… um… I didn’t mean… You’re very sexy, madam… or um, sir…?”

“Oven!” Daifuku yelled, dragging him away, clearly furious. “Excuse my brother, miss! He’s completely drunk and the dumbest of the triplets! You’re charming, don’t listen to this rude man!”

The comedic duo finally dispersed, letting Corazon and Crackers catch their breath.

“He’s the dumbest in the family… how was he the only one to make the connection?” Crackers muttered, shaking his head, half amused, half exasperated.

Rosinante definitely needed a cigarette—but right then the music stopped, and a distant voice announced Linlin’s imminent arrival. Damn, he had to move fast to cross paths before everyone else.

Immediately, Corazon grabbed Crackers’ hand, dragging him through the palace corridors, running on heels, without a moment’s pause.

___________

Katakuri was pale, seriously questioning his sanity. His gloved hands clenched almost unconsciously. All his life, nothing had ever shaken him—neither battles, nor fear, nor conspiracies. And yet, there, just a few steps away, two mere presences were enough to throw his heart into chaos: Corazon and… this dance partner, supposedly unknown, who bore the face, the stature, the scent, and that smile—that smile—that resonated within him like a forbidden melody.

Shame and fury twisted together. He felt weak, vulnerable, almost ridiculous for having lost his composure over… a façade, a costume, an illusion. And yet, his mind refused to let go. His entire being wanted to know, to tear apart, to understand.

He stayed close to the children, wedged between Brûlée and Pudding, eyes sharp as he monitored the movements of the crowd. The announcement of their mother’s imminent arrival only heightened his tension. He had not yet found his target—the one who mattered most, the one who could endanger his younger siblings. So he focused on protecting them, staying vigilant. Pudding, innocent, laughed softly with Brûlée, unaware of her eldest brother’s inner turmoil.

How had he dared put Pudding, his younger siblings, his blood, in danger? Each thought pierced him like a dagger, rage mingling with worry, anger with guilt. And then there was the mission: to kill Corazon’s brother. The dilemma gnawed at his bones. Rosinante loved Doflamingo—which meant he could never explain, never justify his actions without breaking something precious between them. No turning back was possible.

Katakuri, the man of ice, the relentless shadow of the mansion, the one nothing could shake, felt trapped in a chaos he had never known. The coldness that served as his armor was cracking bit by bit. His anger at Doflamingo, his instinctive protection of his family, the visceral need to keep Corazon safe… all swirled into a storm that made it hard to breathe, each inhale a struggle against himself.

Finally, he turned his gaze to Pudding. The little girl tried awkwardly to communicate with Brûlée, her timid gestures betraying her worry. Katakuri felt his heart tighten. No one. No one touches my family. Ever.

“Linlin’s coming.” The voice rang through the salon, sharp and unyielding.

At the mention of the name, Pudding stiffened immediately. Her entire body trembled, and Brûlée frowned, surprised by such a strong reaction.

“Are you cold, dear?” she asked softly.

But Pudding did not respond. Her eyes were fixed, staring at some invisible point with silent terror. Her ragged breathing betrayed a fear she could not voice. No one knew that their mother had orchestrated the fire. Even Katakuri and Brûlée were kept in the dark, either to protect the little girl or to preserve their own fragile balance against Linlin.

“Pudding?” Katakuri called, his deep voice betraying concern.

But the terrified child simply bolted, racing toward the nearest balcony. Brûlée froze for a moment, shocked. Katakuri felt strangely powerless. He knew Pudding as a calm, thoughtful child, not as this small bundle of panic. But her disability had always revealed a vulnerability he instinctively protected.

Finally reaching the balcony, he saw her curled against the railing, muffled sobs shaking her small frame. She emitted quiet cries, silent pleas only Katakuri and his sister could recognize as calls for help. His heart clenched. The fear in Pudding’s eyes mirrored the one he had felt as a child, every time their mother unleashed her cruelty.

He knelt gently before her, closing the distance but never invading her space.
“Pudding… look at me. It’s nothing, you’re safe. I’m here.” His voice, deep but reassuring, resonated in the balcony’s silence.

The child slowly lifted tearful eyes to him. In that gaze—a fragile mix of fear, relief, and unreserved trust—Katakuri read everything that mattered in the world. A lump in his throat stopped him from speaking. For a moment, he thought of nothing else—neither hierarchy, nor propriety, nor even Rosinante. He only wanted to erase the anguish twisting this small body.

Rage rose, raw and white-hot, up to his jaw. How had Doflamingo dared? Setting fire to his domain, exposing Pudding, his siblings, his blood—it was a declaration of war. The desire for vengeance burned hotter than anything else; hatred mingled with the shame of ever thinking he could tolerate such actions.

He stayed bent toward her, still, breathing at her pace to calm her. Then, in a voice vibrating like heated steel, he said:
“I’m going to kill that bastard Doflamingo.”
The words fell, hard, without appeal. “To hell with whatever Corazon feels. No one has the right to traumatize my sister. No one.”

Brûlée flinched. Her brother’s anger startled her—not because she found it unjust, but because she grasped the weight of its cost.

“Kata…” she began, her voice trembling. “Katakuri, we have no proof.”

He cut her off, fists clenched, as if logic alone could give way to something more visceral:
“I don’t care about proof!” he roared, pain raw beneath the surface. “He left children to burn! I will never forgive him. I will make him pay for his madness.”

Brûlée placed a hand on his arm, gentle but firm.
“Katakuri, think of Rosinante. How will he react if the man he loves kills his brother?”

The question made the fury waver. A sharp silence fell. Katakuri felt his heart split in two: on one side, the family that needed him; on the other, the man he loved and the possible betrayal his act would entail. Pudding’s terrified face reshaped his resolve.

“He’ll understand,” he whispered, more to convince himself than anyone else. His voice was hoarse, clinging to something as ancient as himself.

Brûlée opened her mouth, ready to plead again—“Kata, please…”—but he erupted in a curse, as if all limits had just shattered:
“Enough, Brûlée! I was born to protect this family, that is my role, the very meaning of my existence! If that’s all I’m good for—I have nothing else. My voice broke, as if a dog straining at its leash sought freedom: “If I’m good for nothing else, then at least I’ll excel at the only thing I’ve ever been praised for. I must prioritize my family. I will kill Doflamingo with my own hands. I love Corazon, yes, but I’m willing to make him hate me if it keeps him away from my family. He’ll despise me—so be it. I must avenge my family and strike down the bastard, that—”

A tiny voice cut through his torrent of thoughts.
“…Mama…”

Katakuri turned, eyes wide, toward his sister Brûlée, questioning.
“Mama? What are you talking about, Brûlée? You know something?”

Brûlée raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything, Katakuri,” she stammered, but they were alone on the balcony.

“…Mom… it was her…” murmured a soft, almost invisible voice. Katakuri turned toward the source.

Pudding was curled up, her face red from crying. Her long-held selective mutism—a product of her family, her home, her life among the Charlottes—had cracked like a miracle. Her voice emerged, weak but clear:
“…I miss Mister Cora…”

Both adults felt stunned, even Katakuri was too shocked to fully comprehend what had just happened, unable to process her confession.

“P-Pudding? You’re speaking?!” Brûlée exclaimed, rushing to the child and hugging her without thinking.

Pudding rested her head on her sister’s shoulder, sobs and little sounds mixed, as if her confession was both a relief and a reopened wound.

Katakuri remained motionless for a moment—empty gaze, jaw tense. Then he knelt slowly, so as not to frighten the child further. His gloves brushed Pudding’s trembling hands to reassure her; he even dared to remove his mask, revealing his face to his young sister. That simple contact melted something bitter inside him.

“Pudding,” he said softly, voice lower than a secret. “Look at me.” His enormous hand rested near hers. The little girl lifted her tearful, shining eyes, and for the first time that evening, they saw something in her gaze—something like courage, or perhaps just the resolution demanded by fear. She had fled at the news of her mother’s arrival.

“Are you… afraid of Mama…?” he signed in gestures. To everyone’s surprise, she took a deep breath as if it took all her strength, and in a tiny voice, between gasps, she stammered:
“It… it was smoke. I saw… flames near the dorms. I woke Cracker… And then… people running… And Mama was there…” Her words broke, each one coming with effort.

Struck like lightning, Katakuri remembered the terror he had felt from the flames of the explosion that had cost part of his face.

“So…” Brûlée said, as if the words that would follow might change the world, herself a victim of that fateful night. “Mom caused the fire…?”

The little girl merely nodded. For Katakuri, it was too much.

The truth imposed itself, cold and relentless, like a verdict he had always feared but never dared: his mother. Linlin. His mother had ordered the fire.

Everything inside him collapsed at once: logic, sense of priorities, the excuses he told himself to continue obeying. He felt a terrible shift in his chest—shame, betrayal, rage, and something even more brutal, more intimate: the recognition that he had been manipulated even in what he believed to be most sacred—his family.

She had punished him. Because he had dared to turn away, because he had taken liberties in Dressrosa, because he had loved Corazon. His disobedience was not a fault to correct; it was an offense to crush. And how do you crush a son who drifts away? By touching what he loves most. By striking at his weakness: his siblings.

The pieces fell together like blades: the fire, the household’s feigned indifference, the lack of a proper investigation, the surveillance footage, the knowledge of the place. All this time, she hadn’t sought the truth because the truth would condemn her own hand. She preferred to shape the pain like a necklace—bend it, take it back, tighten it until the child yielded.

A black, simmering rage boiled inside him. Not just the anger of a brother seeking justice. No. The anger of a man betrayed by the only person who should have protected him. She had set their lives ablaze to bring him to his knees, to make him return obedient and silent, ready to sacrifice his feelings to fall back in line—a docile dog, a beast trained for one purpose: to serve her sugar empire.

He closed his eyes and remembered Corazon, who had tried to confess that he had acted for nothing, a victim that night too, the sadness in his eyes facing the false accusation. He put a hand to his mouth, feeling filthy, disgusted, horrified; then he remembered the physical violence of that night, which made him want to vomit again, tears of revulsion forming in his eyes. He thought of Pudding, curled up, eyes wet, who had finally found the courage to speak. And bile rose. He had explicitly decided what fate awaited the traitor in front of his family. He would uphold it.

It was the end of a choice: continue being the puppet Linlin could twist, or become the force that would defend his family against his own mother. He realized, with blinding clarity, that his loyalty had to change its target. His fidelity could no longer belong to a house that sacrificed its children for a power game.

He recoiled, almost physically, spitting with disgust at the idea of a mother who had tried to kill her own children as a lesson.

Mother had thought she could break him by touching his children. She had misjudged the consequences. By pushing him into that fire, she had unknowingly ignited another flame: the one that would make him dangerous to her, and this time, it would not be extinguished until the source of evil was destroyed.

He opened his eyes, cold, like a man who had realized an immense weight and now knew exactly what to do with it. Around them, the ball continued, shining and carefree. The railing trembled under his fingers. He inhaled slowly, and the promise formed, sharp and clear: no one, ever, would touch his family again with impunity—not even Linlin.

“I have to kill Mother.”

The words were carved into time so deeply that even Pudding clutched Brûlée tighter in response to Katakuri’s fury. He rose so abruptly that Brûlée jumped, and Pudding curled further into her sister. His whole body vibrated with a primitive urgency—the need to rush from the mansion, to cross Totto Land at full speed, to reclaim what he had let slip and put words to what pride had silenced too long.

“Kata… calm down,” Brûlée whispered, herself a survivor of her mother’s attempts on her life, but her voice could not reach the storm raging inside him. She placed a hand on his forearm; he pushed it away unconsciously, his face twisted with resolve.

“I’m leaving,” he said sharply. “Now.”

He waited for no response. In a few precise steps, he crossed the golden corridors, ignoring stares and questions. He removed his mask. The chandeliers, the servants, the music—everything became noise to erase. In the courtyard, he found his bike—a black, massive machine, resting like a beast. The metal was cold beneath his trembling palms; he mounted without properly adjusting his helmet, letting the wind already lash his face as he started. The night swallowed his silhouette.

Katakuri guided the machine like one wields a blade: straight, fast, without detour. All he wanted was to find Corazon—to hold him, babble foolish apologies, plead for him to return, to stay safe. He didn’t care about looking pitiful; the priority was his mother, vengeance, and ensuring the love of his life was out of harm’s way.

But as he sped along, panic changed form. He had left the mansion with no plan, no address, no clue where to search. Corazon was not an object to retrieve. Corazon never had a fixed address; he lived in crevices—hideouts, friends’ places, shadowed corners. Katakuri faced reality: he didn’t know where the man he loved would be.

His heart beat like a heavy drum; anger had given way to a rawer fear: the fear of not finding the man he would do anything to protect.

He dismounted, shaken, and remained still, as if the city itself awaited his decision. Boat lights blinked in the distance, and for the first time in hours, he admitted his ignorance: no lead, no ally, no clue. No name to question, no address to hit.

Shame struck him—the shame of a warrior who sets out without a map. Suddenly he remembered a certain stubborn child who would kill to see him again. He mounted the bike again, fingers tight on the handles, letting the night decide.

_____

Law’s apartment was bathed in the warm glow of his desk lamp, the light catching his eyes with a tired golden gleam. On the table, biology and mechanics textbooks lay stacked, half-open, long forgotten. Kidd tapped his pen against a notebook cover, brows furrowed.

“You’re not even listening, Trafalgar,” he grumbled, tone grumpy but with a smirk.

Law barely lifted his eyes from the computer screen, a dark strand falling over his calm gaze.
“I’m just trying to concentrate despite the racket your brain makes when it thinks too hard.”

A short laugh escaped Kidd’s lips. He set down the pen, leaning slightly toward Law, their faces mere inches apart. Law felt the warmth of Kidd’s metallic-red hair, the scent of cherry alcohol he always wore “to look cool.”

“You gonna tell me to back off again?” Kidd breathed.

Law finally lifted his head, his gaze sliding slowly toward him.
“If you don’t, yeah.”

But neither of them moved.

Their breaths mingled as they kissed, tongues locked in a playful battle. A suspended heartbeat, a moment outside time. Kidd smiled against Law’s lips, beginning to undress him with only his good hand.

“What’re you afraid of, huh, Doc?”

“An idiot who’s gonna ruin my study session,” Law replied.

Kidd opened to retort, a nervous word or laugh on the verge, when a loud banging at the door made both jump.

BAM. BAM. BAM.
“LAW!!! Open up, it’s urgent!!”

Luffy’s voice. Followed by another, deeper, calm, almost icy.
“Luffy. Could you try not to wake the entire building?”

Kidd’s eyes widened.
“Holy… don’t tell me—”

“Katakuri,” Law whispered, already on his feet, hand running through his hair, on the verge of exasperation.

The door shook again.
“LAW! It’s super important! Something’s going on with your mom and—”

Kidd collapsed onto the table, groaning.
“Seriously… right now.”

Law tried to hide the flush creeping onto his cheeks.
“Get dressed, Einstein. And try to look like a student, not a guy caught in the act.”

Kidd chuckled softly.
“Too late for that, Doc.”

He opened the door, surprised to see Katakuri trying to make himself small due to his towering presence, accompanied by an overexcited Luffy who barged in without waiting.

“The big guy didn’t know where Rosi lives, so I brought him here, shishishi!”

The redhead laughed hysterically.
“HAHA! Don’t do that, you brainless idiot!”

“What brings you here? Last I heard, you weren’t married to Cora anymore,” Law said, voice sharp, noting how Katakuri’s eyes scanned the apartment like a predator seeking someone.

“I don’t have time for your childish games. Where’s Cora?” Katakuri’s voice was short of breath, lacking its usual composure. “And watch out—you’ve got lipstick on your neck, idiot.”

Trafalgar turned bright red, Kidd and Luffy mocking him behind his back, panic overtaking the future surgeon.

“Cora’s not here. He’s supposed to be at Whole Cake, just so you know!”

“Excuse me?” Katakuri’s face drained of all color.

“What? He went with your other brother, Cracker…? He was supposed to speak with your mother and—”

Katakuri’s ears could hear nothing else. It was the worst possible scenario. Even though he wasn’t far from the mansion, Rosinante, the noble soul cherished by his mother, was alone in the lion’s den. Inside, even the trap his mother had planned for marriage—or worse, for offspring—loomed if he didn’t hurry. He hadn’t even realized how close the love of his life had been… oh no.

It was worse than anything he had feared.

Cora was with Cracker. Cracker was with a young blonde woman—a stunning woman who had captured his heart, tall, strong, missing a tooth… Damn, she was a good actor, he hadn’t lied. Katakuri had literally let the love of his life slip from his grasp, while he was only a few feet away and certain he had recognized him. And now… Cora was about to face Linlin.

The tattooed young man shook him relentlessly, despite their size difference.
“Hey! Giant! I’m talking to you! What’s going on?! Why does a guy like you look so terrified?!”

“Cora… is in danger,” were the only words Katakuri could force from his mouth.