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He woke up right when the sun came up. No particular reason. He lay still for a moment taking the room in.
He felt extraordinary.
Well-rested. The forgotten quality of a body that had completely, fully rested. His muscles relaxed. His head clear. The tension living behind his eyes for the past months simply absent.
He stared at the ceiling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this.
He turned his head.
Rosinante.
On his side, facing him, mouth slightly open, hair everywhere, deeply and completely unconscious in the way of someone who had drunk their way through a party and then been put to bed by force. One hand curled between them on the pillow.
Doflamingo had been sleeping badly. He had always slept badly. Nightmares tormenting him since he was a child.
But it had gotten worse. It started getting worse right after Rosalia arrived, which was expected. That was what children did, he had read about it in the books.
What was less expected was that it had continued. And continued. And quietly, incrementally worsened.
He had fallen asleep in his bathtub.
He had discovered this by waking up in the tub, the water cold, in the middle of the night, with no memory of having decided to stay in the tub.
He had fallen asleep at his desk. Three times. He had woken up with document creases on his face and had examined them in the mirror and considered them deeply unacceptable. Had to delay meetings to let the creases ease out.
The sofa. Twice.
And then the meeting.
The Family had been talking about something. Logistics, a shipment, something Diamanté was managing.
He had been listening, fully present.
Then he fell asleep.
Then he had been awake again, lurching forward, one hand catching the edge of the table.
The room was very quiet.
Everyone was looking at him. Then, in unison, everyone looked away.
"Doff—Young master," Diamanté said, clearing his throat. "We are awaiting your confirmation on—"
"I know," Doflamingo said. "I was considering it."
Nobody said anything.
"I was considering it," he said again, with complete authority.
He had given himself ten chances.
After the tenth incident, which had been the tub again, he had gone to see Dr. Tegata.
Dr. Tegata had examined him. Had asked questions. Had taken his blood pressure and looked at the results with a frown.
Had told him, in a flat efficient voice, that his body was not doing well.
He needed significantly more sleep than he was getting. The pattern Doflamingo described of being unable to sleep at night yet falling asleep involuntarily during the day was his body collecting a debt.
He had also said, in a lower voice, with the look of someone who had already decided how much of this would be ignored.
You are a father now. Rosalia is still a baby. She needs you.
Doflamingo had said nothing and left.
The words had been sitting in his mind.
And then two weeks ago, he had taken Rosinante's sheets. Just to breathe them in and had somehow fallen asleep without meaning to. Those few hours of sleep were better than what he'd had in weeks.
He came back from his morning meeting only to find them gone. The servants had taken them to be washed. Which was fine. He didn't need to be walked in on with the sheets for a second time.
He did not sleep well that night, or for the nights after.
And then last night. He had gotten into this bed because of his drunk brother who had said I wish you'd stay into a pillow. He had slept immediately, completely, without interruption.
He stared harder at Rosinante's sleeping face.
It couldn't be him. Just a coincidence.
The bed, he thought. It was the bed. This bed was simply more comfortable than his.
Different construction, different materials, something in the mattress. That was the obvious and logical explanation and he was going to pursue it.
Or the pillows. Rosinante had a specific arrangement of pillows. He could reconstruct it in his bedroom.
He would have the same bed delivered to his room. He would arrange the pillows from memory. The matter would be resolved.
Rosalia woke up. She announced this in her usual method of immediate sharp crying.
Doflamingo got up to make the milk.
Behind him, from the bed, came a sound.
A low groan. The sound stretching out for a moment.
Then silence.
Silence of someone very hungover lying very still, hoping it would help.
Doflamingo carried Rosalia and went to the chair. He brought the bottle to her lips and she took it eagerly.
"The eastern shipment," he said, conversationally, "moves on Thursday."
Silence from the bed.
"Our contact in the North Blue has confirmed the route. There's a secondary window on Saturday if the weather—"
"Why," Rosinante said. His voice came out wrecked, muffled by a pillow he used to cover his face from the morning light. "Why are you telling me this?"
Doflamingo looked at him.
"I thought you found shipping interesting," he said.
A long pause.
"I hate you," Rosinante groaned, into the pillow.
"That’s not what you said last night."
The problem was the floor.
Rosinante was tall. He had always been tall.
Inconveniently, impractically tall. The kind of tall that meant doorframes were a recurring hazard and furniture was never quite right for him.
He used to live in a world that hadn't accounted for him. Still, it was manageable.
Then he moved into Doflamingo’s palace and discovered what it felt like to live somewhere built for people his size.
He was comfortable for the past two years.
Then a baby happened. And apparently babies need this thing called tummy time.
Tummy time was on the floor.
Tummy time was on the floor four times a day, for increasing stretches, because the books said so and Dr. Tegata confirmed it.
Which meant Rosinante was on the floor four times a day, folded into whatever configuration allowed him to be at her tiny level, encouraging her to lift her head and push up on her arms while his back burned.
She was also, increasingly, everywhere.
Not mobile yet, that was still months away.
Dr. Tegata said she needed toys and books and things that kept her attention and Doflamingo had gone home after that appointment and ordered everything immediately.
She needed to be held differently, facing out, her head now steady enough to take in the room. The weight of her, noticeably more substantial every week, combined with the floor time and the constant holding and repositioning, had begun to make itself known in his back and arms and neck.
He loved Rosalia.
He was also exhausted. He didn't say anything about it. There was nothing to say. This was just the new shape of things. He was fine.
Doflamingo noticed anyway.
"I have a meeting tonight," Doflamingo said. "Peterman wants to see me."
Rosinante was folding one of Rosalia's blankets and his hands slowed.
Peterman.
He knew that name. He knew exactly what that name meant and what trade he dealt in.
Human trafficking.
He didn't say anything. He kept folding.
Doflamingo looked at him for a long moment.
"Weapons," he said, looking away. "He found a shipment of weapons he thought I’d like."
Rosinante's hands stopped.
Doflamingo was in the chair with Rosalia on his knee, doing the thing he had recently discovered she enjoyed. A slight bounce, his hands at her sides. Her face lit up and she raised her arms and squealed.
"I won't do—," he paused, "those anymore."
He didn't look at Rosinante when he said it. He looked at Rosalia.
Those.
The word sat heavy in Rosinante's chest.
Rosinante looked at him. At his hands steady at Rosalia's sides. At his eyes and the way they softened when he looked at her. At the small smile on his lips before he pressed them to her forehead.
That was what he believed. Not the words. The face.
"Okay," he said quietly.
Doflamingo nodded once before bouncing Rosalia again.
The books arrived on a Tuesday.
Fourteen of them. A full order, expedited, from a publisher in the Grand Line that specialised in early childhood development. Doflamingo had gone through the catalogue with the same thoroughness he applied to everything and had selected across categories. Picture, Sensory, Language, Motor.
They came in a decorated bookcase with rounded corners. Pages thick, built for chewing, grabbing, and rough handling.
He placed the bookcase in a corner of the room near the cot. A large floor cushion right beside it. The baby book corner, as it had become.
He picked up one of the picture books.
A duck on the cover. Large, yellow, extremely delighted. The title was in large rounded letters. He opened it.
Each page had four words. Occasionally three. The illustrations took up most of the space. Bright, thick lines, exaggerated expressions.
He looked at it for a moment.
Then he crossed the room and sat down beside Rosalia, placing the book in front of her.
Rosalia was on her stomach, working through tummy time. She waddled in place, eyes fixed on the newly bought fabric cube in her grip.
She ignored the book.
Doflamingo tapped the page.
"Rosalia," he said, "Focus on the book."
He pointed at the duck. "Quack quack quack." His voice was flat, like he was presenting a document.
Rosalia looked up at him and furrowed her brows.
Doflamingo flipped to the next page. Two ducks now.
Rosalia glanced at the ducks briefly then returned to examining the stitching on the corner of her cube with complete absorption.
"She doesn't like reading," Doflamingo said.
Rosinante looked up from the chair by the window. "What?"
"She's not interested in the book. She's ignoring it." He looked at Rosalia. "She must get that from you."
Rosinante put his tea down. "Doffy, just read it properly."
Read it properly
Doflamingo picked up the book. Turned to the first page. The author's note.
Reading aloud to your infant in an animated, warm voice helps develop language pathways and emotional connection. We encourage caregivers to use varied tones, sound effects, and yes, a little silliness! Your baby will love it.
He closed the author's note.
"Of course," he said softly to himself. "A stupid voice."
He had read about it. Higher pitches. Exaggerated tones. It helped infants differentiate sounds. Aided language development. A crucial tool for early brain connections.
None of that made him want to do it.
Rosinante looked at him.
"Doffy. It's not stupid. It's child development. You know that."
"Obviously. I know that," Doflamingo said, with finality, and turned back to the first page.
He cleared his throat.
"This," he said, in a voice approximately two octaves higher than his own, "is a duck."
Rosinante's tea froze halfway to his mouth.
"Quack quack quack!" Doflamingo continued, in the same horrifying tone, his face completely straight.
Rosalia's head turned slowly toward him. Her face scrunched in confusion.
Then it changed. She squealed, eyes disappearing into half-moons, the tiniest toothless grin lighting up her whole face.
Doflamingo turned the page, his face utterly blank. He continued in the same bright and deeply disturbing voice.
"This is a cat. The cat says meow. Meow meow meow!"
Rosinante had to put his tea down before he spilt it all over himself from laughing.
Doflamingo closed the book.
"I'm done reading this," he said.
"You just started," Rosinante said.
"I'm done."
"Doffy—" Rosinante got up from the chair and came over. Sat beside him on the floor cushion. Placed a hand on his thigh. "Sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed."
He didn't look sorry at all. His lips had to be forced into a thin line.
Doflamingo scowled. "You do it," he said, pushing the book toward him. "Let's hear your voice."
Rosinante looked at Rosalia, who had gone back to her cube. "Fine," he said, and opened to the first page. "This is a duck. Quack quack—"
Rosalia looked at where the voice came from. Then looked up at Doflamingo. Her face creased. Then she screamed loudly.
"She's screaming at me." Doflamingo said.
"She wants you to read it," Rosinante said, over the screaming.
The screaming continued.
Doflamingo took the book back. "This," he said, in the animated voice, "is a duck."
The screaming cut off. Rosinante bit his lip to stop the smile.
Doflamingo let out a sharp breath and turned the page. Read her the cat. The dog. Then page with what he believed was either a rabbit or a kangaroo. The illustration was ambiguous and the text unhelpfully only said hop hop hop, which resolved nothing.
He read it anyway.
A frog. Green with huge bulging eyes and a long twirly tongue. Below it: ribbit ribbit ribbit.
"This is a frog," he said. "Ribbit ribbit ribbit."
Rosalia's face changed. It happened fast and sudden. Her eyes widened and she dropped the cube. Then she laughed. A full belly laugh, her whole face in it. Her hands came up and hit together twice. Clap. Clap.
The room went completely still. Doflamingo stared at her. Rosinante's mouth opened in shock.
Rosalia looked between them, apparently pleased with the response, and clapped again. Once this time, a little less coordinated, her face still lit up with whatever had struck her as so funny about ribbit ribbit ribbit.
"Doffy—" Rosinante said.
"Yes."
"She clapped."
“I know. And that laugh—” he paused, still watching her. “That was new.”
Rosalia made a sound. Grabbed at the book. Doflamingo held it slightly closer and she got a fist around the corner of it and seemed satisfied.
He looked at Rosinante.
"If she does something like that," he said, "I am to be informed immediately."
"Even if you're in a meeting?"
"Even if I am in a meeting." He looked back at Rosalia, who was now attempting to eat the corner of the book. "Immediately," he repeated.
The evenings changed first.
Doflamingo had always worked late. That was not new.
What was new was how Rosinante felt about it. The empty hours stretching out, his mind drifting to where Doflamingo was. When he was Corazon at least he would know who he was with, what rooms he was in. Now he had none of that.
Doflamingo was hardly around the palace anymore. The contacts from the party that had become ongoing business. He traveled often and returned smelling like other people's cigarettes and expensive whiskey.
He always came home. Sometimes ten, eleven. Sometimes one in the morning, two.
Rosinante knew because he stayed up waiting for the footsteps.
One night he was at his desk when he heard them. The heavy sound of Doflamingo moving through the corridor, slower than usual. The careful movements of someone trying to navigate in the dark.
He set his pen down.
The door opened quietly. Doflamingo came in and moved towards the cot before stopping two feet away.
Rosinante watched him.
Doflamingo stood there for a long moment, just looking at his daughter.
"Why are you standing so far," Rosinante asked quietly.
Doflamingo looked at him. All Rosinante saw were the heavy bags under his eyes.
"Smoke. Alcohol." A pause. "I don't want it near her."
Rosinante looked at him. The coat half off his shoulder. The looseness in his posture that wasn't quite Doflamingo's usual posture. The way he was holding himself upright like it required concentration.
He got up.
"Come on. I'll run you a bath."
"There's no need."
"Doffy—"
"I'm fine," Doflamingo said, with certainty, and started moving toward the bathroom. Rosinante followed. By the time they reached the door Doflamingo had already shrugged his coat off and was working on the buttons of his shirt. Rosinante reached out to help.
"Rosinante. I said I'm fine. You were doing something." He got the shirt off. Looked at Rosinante. "Go finish it."
Rosinante looked at his back moving towards the shower.
He went back to the desk.
He finished the letter while listening to the shower run.
My love,
You are sixteen weeks old today. Your hair is getting longer. It curls a little at the back when it’s damp from the bath. Your father has not commented on it but I noticed him staring at it. I even caught him twirling it with his fingers once. You’re getting so big. My back hurts sometimes from carrying you so much but I cannot seem to put you down. I love the feeling of you in my arms.
You started tummy time this week and you’re not enthusiastic about it but you’ve been doing well. You even stopped crying when I put you on the mat. You do not cry as much anymore. You smile and squeal and make all these cute little noises. You have even started to laugh. Actual full laughs that make your whole body shake. The most adorable thing I have ever seen.
I love seeing you so happy, Rosalia. Your father does too.
He reads to you in the most ridiculous voice I have ever heard him make. He hates doing it. I can see it in his face every single time, but the moment you smile at him, he does it again anyway. Over and over. Just to hear you laugh. He bought you lots of new toys and books. A fabric cube, a stack of rings. The rest are still sitting unopened because you saw the cube first and decided it was your favourite immediately.
Your father has been busy lately. He comes home late. Sometimes very late. The moment he comes home, he goes to check on you before he does anything else. Tonight he stood across the room because he did not want the smell of smoke and alcohol near you. He just stood there watching you sleep.
No matter how exhausted he is, no matter how late he comes home, he still finds his way back to you first.
I think that says everything you need to know about him.
Your father,
Donquixote Rosinante
He folded it. Put it in the book with the others.
He picked up a few books from the bookcase and settled in bed. He flipped through them idly, deciding which one he might read to Rosalia next, looking over illustrations and small bits of text.
The shower had stopped. He was looking at a book about farm animals when the bed dipped.
Doflamingo.
Hair wet. Skin still warm from the shower. Naked except for the towel hanging loosely around his shoulders. He lowered himself carefully onto the pillow before pressing his palms against his temple.
"You're in my bed."
"I have decided to sleep here tonight."
Doflamingo turned onto his side and pulled the blankets over himself like the matter was already settled.
Rosinante went still. His chest tightened.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He looked at the wet blond hair peeking out from beneath the covers.
Things weren't resolved between them. There was still so much that hadn't been said. The weight of everything that had happened sitting somewhere underneath the ordinary rhythm of days.
But Doflamingo had announced himself into Rosinante's bed. Had made a choice to spend the night here instead of his own bedroom.
He's just drunk and exhausted. It doesn’t mean anything.
Rosinante forced himself to look away. He turned a page.
The farm animals stared back at him.
The woman appeared on a Thursday.
Rosinante was in the chair with Rosalia on his lap, facing him. He was talking to her, filling the quiet with a steady stream of casual conversation. The books had recommended it for language development.
A knock came from the door.
“Come in,” Rosinante said.
The woman was unfamiliar. Young and composed. She entered with her hands folded in front of her and stopped a short distance from him.
She bowed politely.
“Cora-san,” she greeted. “My name is Mila. I’ve been assigned to assist with Lady Rosalia.”
Rosinante looked at her. Then down the corridor, toward Doflamingo’s office.
His brows furrowed slightly.
“He didn’t mention this,” he said.
She said nothing. She kept the smile on her face and stayed silent.
Rosinante looked at her for a moment. Rosalia strained in his arms, trying to see the new person in the room.
She had neat dark hair pulled back and kind eyes that softened her whole face. Her smile was small and shy. Her hands remained folded in front of her.
There was something gentle in the way she looked at Rosalia.
“Rosi,” he said, a small sigh in his voice. He turned Rosalia in his lap so she faced the room. “Say hi to Mila.”
He found Doflamingo at his office desk.
"You hired someone," Rosinante said.
"Yes," Doflamingo said, without looking up.
"Without asking me."
"You needed help."
"Doffy—" Rosinante stopped. Tried again. "You know how I feel about—"
"She is not what you think she is," Doflamingo said. He looked up now. "She's paid fairly. She has days off. She can leave whenever she wants."
His jaw was tight. Eyes narrowed as he held Rosinante's gaze.
“I’m not a fool, Rosinante. You’d think I know you better.”
He looked back down at his papers.
Rosinante looked at him. Thought about the palace. About the people in it. About all the conversations he had never been able to have and the exhaustion of loving someone whose world was built differently than his.
He thought about Mila's kind eyes.
"I can manage Rosalia fine," he said.
"Yes you can." Doflamingo set the documents down. "You can also stop looking like you're about to collapse."
His hand settled over Rosinante's on the desk.
"You're exhausted, Rosinante."
Rosinante looked at their hands. He knew there was no point arguing. Doflamingo was right.
"Okay," he said. "Fine."
Doflamingo's hand moved away. He picked up his pen.
"I ran checks," he said. "She knows what she's doing."
Rosinante believed him. He knew Doflamingo would never put his daughter in danger.
He went back down the corridor toward the sound of Rosalia making her morning complaints. Mila was already there, talking to her softly, her finger tracing Rosalia's cheek. Rosalia squealed, her body wriggling excitedly at the unfamiliar face above her.
He stood in the doorway. He was still tired. That wasn't going to change overnight.
But he leaned against the frame and watched Mila play with her, and felt something in his shoulders loosen slightly.
The bed arrived together with the pillows.
It was, to his precise specifications, identical to the one in Rosinante's room. Same construction, same dimensions, sourced from the same supplier. Delivered and assembled by staff who had learned not to ask questions about unusual requests.
He had overseen the final placement himself.
The pillows he arranged from memory.
He had a good memory. An excellent memory. He retained spatial information well, had always been able to reconstruct the layout of a room from a single observation, and he had observed Rosinante's pillow arrangement on multiple occasions.
One behind the head, angled slightly left. One beside it, lower. One further down that served some purpose he didn't fully understand but had noted. He replicated it exactly.
He lay down.
He stared at the ceiling.
He was still awake at three in the morning.
The second night was the same.
The third night he rearranged the pillows twice, incrementally adjusting positions. He lay in the dark and thought about nothing in particular for four hours and then it was morning.
He fell asleep in the meeting room while waiting for the others to arrive for the morning briefing.
He became aware of it with his cheek against the table. Diamante stood in the doorway, hand still on the handle, maintaining a very dedicated interest in the middle distance between them.
Doflamingo straightened, folded his arms, ignored the deep creases in the documents beneath him.
“Doffy.” His voice was carefully neutral. “Shall I have someone bring in coffee?”
Doflamingo exhaled through his nose. Nodded.
Diamante left to find a staff member.
Doflamingo sat at the desk and put his heavy head in his hands. His eyes burned and he rubbed at them with the heels of his palms. When he opened them, the room was slightly blurred.
This was unacceptable.
He was the King of Dressrosa. He ran this country. He was the captain of a pirate crew. He had a palace and staff to run. Underworld businesses. Politics. Everything needed his managing.
He had a family. He had a daughter who had recently clapped at a frog and who was, according to Dr. Tegata, growing extremely well but also needed her father to be functional.
This required correction.
He called for a staff member to send a message to Rosinante.
My office. This afternoon.