Work Text:
Kaido woke up because someone was using his skull as a drum.
This was, objectively, not the worst way he had ever woken up. He had been set on fire once. He had been almost thrown into the ocean. He had been woken by a sixteen-year-old Shanks carving a line down his chest with a sword that should not have been able to do that. A drumming headache was, comparatively, survivable.
He opened one eye.
The ceiling of his throne room swam into focus. It was cracked. Why was it cracked? He didn't remember cracking it. He remembered drinking. He remembered Linlin arriving with a fleet and enough sake to drown a Sea King. He remembered telling her about Wano, about the smile fruits, about the factory, about the plan. He remembered her laughing, that great booming MAMAMAMA that rattled the walls, and saying something about the old days.
Then he remembered more drinking.
Then he remembered nothing.
"Mrmph," said a voice. A very large voice. A voice that vibrated through the floorboards.
Kaido turned his head. The motion sent a spike of pain through his temple, but he ignored it. He was Kaido of the Beasts. He had endured worse. He would endure this.
Big Mom was sprawled across a pile of cushions that had not been there last night. She was snoring. Her mouth was open. One hand clutched a turkey leg the size of a small tree, now cold and slightly burn, probablt Prometheus. Her hair had escaped its bun from last night and was fanned out around her head like a pink explosion.
She looked, Kaido thought, exactly like she had forty years ago on the Rocks, passed out after a victory feast while Whitebeard sang shanties and Shiki tried to set Captain's cape on fire.
He grunted. "Linlin."
No response.
"Linlin."
A snore.
"LINLIN."
The throne room shook. Big Mom's eyes snapped open. For a moment, she looked genuinely disoriented—a rare expression, fleeting, gone almost before it appeared. Then she sat up, smacking her lips, and squinted at the turkey leg in her hand as if it had personally offended her.
"Kaido," she said. Her voice was hoarse. "Why is my mouth dry."
"Because you drank half the island."
"Hmph." She bit into the turkey leg. It crunched. It was not supposed to crunch. She did not seem to care. "Worth it."
Kaido pushed himself upright. The room tilted. He ignored it. He surveyed the damage: sake bottles, overturned barrels, at least three unconscious gifters, a homie that had somehow gotten stuck in a chandelier and was whimpering softly, and—
He frowned.
Something was missing.
"Where's my first mate?" he said.
Big Mom paused mid-chew. Her brow furrowed. "Katakuri was here last night."
"He was. I saw him. He was standing in the corner looking constipated."
"He always looks constipated. It's the scarf."
"It's not the scarf. It's his whole face. He looks like he's calculating the exact distance between him and the nearest exit at all times."
Big Mom waved the turkey leg dismissively. "He was having fun. I told him to have fun. I told him, 'Katakuri, if you ruin this party by standing in the corner like a decorative pillar, I will be very disappointed.'" She paused. "Where is he."
"That's what I'm asking you."
"Don't take that tone with me, Kaido."
"I'm not taking a tone. I'm asking a question. Your son is missing. My first mate is missing. This is either a coincidence or an incident."
Big Mom heaved herself off the cushions. The floor groaned. She surveyed the room with the bleary intensity of a woman who had been drunk for twelve hours and was not entirely sure she was done.
"They're both tall," she said.
"What."
"They're both tall. And—" She gestured vaguely. "—responsible. They probably went to do something responsible together. Count supplies. Discuss battle formations. Boring things." She took another bite of turkey leg. "My son is very boring, Kaido. I love him, but he's boring. He doesn't do anything spontaneous. Do you know what he does for fun? He sits. In his room. Eating mochi. Alone. For decades."
"King sits in his room alone, too," Kaido said. "He's very dignified about it."
"Exactly! They're perfect for each other."
"For—" Kaido stopped. "Linlin, are you trying to set up our first mates."
"No, I'm trying to find them. There's a difference." She paused. "But now that you mention it—"
"No."
"An alliance—"
"We already have an alliance."
"A stronger alliance."
"Linlin."
"Fine. Fine!" She threw her hands up. The turkey leg hit the chandelier. The homie whimpered louder. "We find them first. Then we discuss."
Kaido grunted. It was, he decided, too early for this. It was not early. It was well past noon. But time was subjective when you had been drinking with Charlotte Linlin for twelve hours, and he was declaring it too early.
"Let's go," he said, and began kicking gifters out of his way.
The search began inefficiently.
Kaido's method was to walk through Onigashima bellowing "KING" at irregular intervals. This was not effective. It woke up several hundred Beast Pirates who had not been part of the original search. It caused three separate false alarms where someone thought they were being attacked. It did not produce King.
Big Mom's method was worse.
She had acquired a new turkey leg—where from, Kaido did not ask—and was wandering in the opposite direction, calling "KATAKURI, MOMMY WANTS TO SEE YOU" in a voice that was half maternal affection and half existential threat.
"He's not going to answer that," Kaido said.
"Why not."
"Because you're calling yourself 'Mommy' and he's a grown man."
"He's my son."
"He's forty-eight."
"He's still my son." She bit into the turkey leg. "He'll answer. He's a good boy. Unlike some first mates I could mention."
"King is an excellent first mate."
"Is he answering?"
Kaido's eye twitched. He did not dignify this with a response.
They searched the main hall. Nothing. They searched the training grounds. Nothing. They searched the armory, the kitchens, the observation deck. Nothing. The trail was cold. The trail was nonexistent. The trail had apparently vanished into thin air, taking two of the most powerful warriors in the New World with it.
And then Kaido saw the feather.
It was small. Black. Tucked into the corner of a corridor that led to the guest quarters. A single feather, curved and sleek and unmistakably Lunarian.
"Linlin," he said.
Big Mom followed his gaze. She bent down—a monumental effort, her knees creaking—and picked up the feather between two massive fingers. She examined it. She sniffed it. Her face broke into a grin that was entirely too knowing.
"Kaido," she said. "Is this what I think it is."
"It's a feather."
"It's a trail of clues, Kaido. Like a treasure hunt. Your first mate left us a treasure hunt."
"King doesn't leave treasure hunts. King is efficient. King would leave a note."
"Maybe he was too busy to write a note."
"Too busy doing what."
The silence that followed was the silence of two Yonko reaching the same conclusion at slightly different speeds.
"No," Kaido said.
"MAMAMAMA—"
"No, Linlin."
"KATAKURI!"
"He's not—"
"MY LITTLE MOCHI BOY! FINALLY!"
"LINLIN, YOU DON'T KNOW—"
But Big Mom was already moving, following the trail of feathers with the unstoppable momentum of a natural disaster. Kaido had no choice but to follow. He was Kaido of the Beasts. He did not follow anyone. But he was hungover, and curious, and honestly, if King had finally done something interesting after decades of stoic silence, he wanted to see it.
The feathers led to a door.
It was a guest room door. Unremarkable. Closed. A faint smell of sake drifted from underneath it, along with something else—something warm and smoky, like the aftermath of a fire.
Big Mom put her hand on the door. Kaido put his hand on his kanabo. Not because he expected a fight. Because he wasn't sure what he was about to see, and he wanted to be holding something solid.
"You ready?" Big Mom whispered. It was not a whisper. It was the stage whisper of a woman who had never whispered sincerely in her life.
"Just open the door, Linlin."
She opened the door.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of King's residual flames, banked low in sleep. The curtains were drawn. The air was warm and heavy with the smell of sake and skin and something faintly sweet, like mochi flour.
The bed was large—it had to be, to accommodate even one of the room's occupants—but right now it looked almost small.
King was on his back, wings spread across the mattress in a sprawl of black feathers. His mask was still on. His upper body was bare, the dark skin of his chest and shoulders covered in marks that were not—Kaido realized, his hungover brain slowly catching up—normal.
They were bite marks. But not human bite marks. Not even close.
The impressions were massive, spanning entire sections of King's shoulder and the curve of his throat. Each one was a jagged perimeter, a zigzag ring of deep triangular punctures where the teeth had sunk in—colții lungi, ascuțiți, lăsând perforații adânci în carne. Inside that perimeter, the flesh was scored with parallel vertical cuts, deep and precise, like the bite had been made by a jaw full of blades rather than blunt molars. Some of the marks were shallow, just faint indentations in the skin. Others had broken through. Dried blood—dark and crusted—traced the edges of the deepest punctures, trailing down King's collarbone in thin, rust-colored rivulets that had long since stopped flowing.
The bite radius on his left shoulder was so large it could have covered Kaido's entire hand. The jaw that made it must have unhinged wide, far wider than any human mouth should open. The teeth that made it were not flat. They were not even serrated. They were fangs—eel-like, blade-sharp, arranged in a jaw designed for ripping and tearing.
Kaido stared.
"What," he said, "are those."
Big Mom clasped her hands together. "Those are my son's teeth marks, Kaido."
"Your son has teeth like that?"
"Many of my children have unusual teeth." She wiped a tear from her eye. "Katakuri's are the sharpest. I'm so proud."
But the bite marks were only half the story. Below them, layered over King's ribs and stomach and the solid muscle of his chest, were other marks—fingernail impressions, but deeper than scratches. These were grip marks. Wide, splayed impressions where hands had dug in and held on. The fingers had been long enough to wrap around King's shoulders from front to back, leaving crescents of punctures at the pressure points—deep divots where the nails had broken skin, surrounded by the broader bruise of a grip that had been strong enough to anchor a man in place.
Those were Charlotte hands. Charlotte strength. Charlotte fingers digging into Lunarian flesh with enough force to leave the imprint of every knuckle.
Katakuri was on his side, his head tucked into the curve of King's shoulder, one arm flung across King's stomach. His scarf was still on. Of course it was still on. But the rest of his upper body was bare, and the pale skin of his chest and shoulders was a different kind of ruin.
Claw marks. Long, raking lines, parallel and precise, dragged down from his shoulders to the base of his ribs. Some were shallow—surface scratches, just deep enough to raise welts. Others had gone deeper, the skin split open in clean lines, dried blood tracing each furrow like rust-colored calligraphy. The marks wrapped around his shoulder blades onto his back, vanishing under the blanket's edge. The deepest ones crossed over his collarbone in a set of four perfectly spaced lines, each one beaded with dried blood that had run down toward his chest before stopping.
His right shoulder had a different kind of mark—a cluster of punctures, not scratches, where fingernails had gripped rather than raked. The bruises there were darker, more concentrated, the kind left by a hand that had held on tight. The kind left when someone was being pinned.
On his throat, just above the edge of his scarf, there was a single bite mark. It was nothing like the ones on King. This was a human bite mark—or close enough—a neat oval of tooth impressions, shallower, smaller, the teeth that made it blunt by comparison. No triangular punctures. No parallel blade-cuts. Just the simple, recognizable mark of a mouth that had pressed hard enough to leave a souvenir.
King's mouth. King's teeth. King, apparently, had bitten him too—but King's bite was almost tender compared to the devastation Katakuri's jaw had wrought.
"Linlin," Kaido said slowly. "Your son bit my first mate so hard he left triangle holes in him."
"Those are his fang marks. He gets his bitey from me."
"His fang marks. He has fang marks. Plural. He has an entire jaw full of fangs and he used them on my first mate."
Big Mom beamed. "MAMAMAMA! I know! Isn't it beautiful? Your first mate looks like he got mauled by a sea king. A very affectionate sea king. A sea king that wanted to—"
"Finish that sentence and I'm leaving."
Big Mom pressed both hands to her cheeks like a debutante receiving a marriage proposal. Her eyes were shimmering. She looked, for the first time in decades, genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.
"My little mochi boy," she whispered. "Leaving bite marks that look like a shark attack. I'm so proud."
"Don't say shark attack."
"What would you call it."
On the floor beside the bed: three empty sake bottles. One of them was the vintage Kaido had been saving for a special occasion.
Kaido stared at the carnage— bruises. At the jagged rings of punctures. The dried blood. The bruising. The one massive bite that covered half of King's shoulder, the individual tooth-prints visible as distinct triangular holes in the dark skin—and felt, for the first time in decades, something approaching genuine respect for a Charlotte.
"Comprehensive," he said finally.
"MAMAMAMA! COMPREHENSIVE!"
The sound shook the room. King's wing twitched. Katakuri's brow furrowed in his sleep. Neither woke.
"We should leave them," Kaido said. "Let them sleep it off."
"Leave them?" Big Mom looked at him as if he had suggested setting the ocean on fire. "Kaido. Your first mate is covered in my son's dental records. This is the most exciting thing that has happened in my family in years. I'm not leaving. I'm planning the wedding."
"There's no wedding."
"Yet."
"There's no wedding, Linlin."
"Katakuri is my son. He's the strongest of my children. He's been alone for forty-eight years. Do you know how many marriage proposals I've arranged for him? Do you know how many he's accepted?" She didn't wait for an answer. "None. Zero. He stares at them until they leave. He doesn't say anything. He just stares. I've had to explain to seventeen different diplomatic delegations that my son is not threatening them, he just has a very intense face."
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen. And now—" She gestured at the bed, at the wings, at the savage geometry of the bite marks. "He goes and does this. Without my help. Without any help. He got drunk and found a Lunarian and bit him so hard the tooth marks are still bleeding. I'm not letting this go, Kaido. I'm planning the wedding."
Kaido rubbed his temples. The headache was coming back. "What if they don't want a wedding."
"They're naked in a bed covered in each other's blood, Kaido."
"That's not—"
"King's hand is on my son's hip."
"Under the blanket."
"Under the blanket, Kaido."
Kaido opened his mouth. Closed it. He had no counterargument. The evidence was, unfortunately, compelling.
"Fine," he said. "But I'm not paying for it."
"I don't need your money. I need your first mate."
"You can't have my first mate."
"Not permanently. Just for the wedding. And the honeymoon. And—"
"Linlin."
"Fine. Fine!" She waved a hand. "We'll negotiate terms later. Right now—" Her eyes narrowed, focusing on the bed with predatory intensity. "—I need to know who made the first move."
"How would you possibly determine that."
"The bite marks. Count the bite marks. Your first mate looks like he was mauled by a sea king. My son has a few scratches and one very polite love bite on his throat. The math is not complicated."
"I'm not analyzing the sexual dynamics of my first mate, Linlin."
"Coward."
"I'm not a coward. I'm maintaining professional boundaries."
"He's unconscious and covered in triangular puncture wounds. I think professional boundaries have been thoroughly—"
"Don't say it."
"—penetrated."
"LINLIN."
The argument that followed was conducted at full volume, approximately four feet from the bed, and involved Big Mom attempting to count the individual fang marks on King's chest while Kaido physically blocked her with his kanabo.
"You're going to wake them up!"
"They're clearly exhausted, Kaido! Look at them! Your first mate has a bite mark that covers his entire left shoulder! That's a three-day recovery minimum!"
"Then stop trying to get closer!"
"I'm his potential mother-in-law! I have a right to inspect the goods!"
"Inspect the—Linlin, he's not a turkey leg!"
"He's a Lunarian! They're even better!"
During this exchange, King's wing twitched again. One of Katakuri's fingers curled slightly against King's stomach. Neither woke. The sake had been very, very strong.
Eventually, Kaido and Big Mom reached an unspoken truce. They would not wake them. They would not inspect them. They would stand in the doorway and watch, like parents at a nativity play, and Big Mom would whisper her wedding plans and Kaido would pretend to be annoyed.
"I want the cake to be red velvet," Big Mom murmured. "Five tiers. No, ten. With mochi filling. And little flame decorations for the top. And maybe some triangular tooth-shaped candy pieces, to commemorate—"
"Linlin."
"What."
"Your son is waking up."
Katakuri's return to consciousness was a gradual, terrible thing.
First came the headache: a dull, throbbing pressure behind his eyes that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. Then came the awareness of temperature—he was warm, warmer than usual, and the warmth was coming from an external source pressed against his side. Then came the awareness of texture: feathers, soft and smooth, draped over his body like a second blanket.
Then came the awareness of pain.
His chest burned. His shoulders ached. There were lines of fire across his skin, shallow and sharp, and when he shifted slightly, the pain flared in distinct, parallel tracks—the unmistakable signature of claws dragged across flesh. His collarbone throbbed where the deepest set had broken skin. His shoulder pulsed with a duller, deeper ache, the kind left by pressure rather than tearing. A handprint bruise, probably. Fingers that had gripped and held.
Then came the awareness that someone was watching him.
His eyes opened.
His mother was standing in the doorway, her hands clasped together, her eyes shimmering with tears of joy. Kaido was standing next to her, his arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and existential resignation.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Big Mom said. "Did you sleep well?"
Katakuri's mind, still sluggish with sake and sleep, attempted to process this. He was in a bed. He was not wearing a shirt. There was a warm body next to him. The warm body had wings. The warm body's hand was on his hip. His mother was looking at him like he had just won a prize.
He looked down.
King was still asleep, his mask tilted slightly, his breathing slow and steady. His upper body was a disaster. A map of violence, charted in tooth and nail. The marks were so numerous, so varied, that Katakuri's hungover brain took several seconds to categorize them all.
The bite marks, he registered first—because they were unmistakable. Jagged rings of deep triangular punctures, each perforation a neat, blade-sharp divot in the dark skin. The largest one covered nearly the entire curve of King's left shoulder, a massive oval of zigzag impressions that could only have been made by a jaw unhinging wide, biting down with fangs designed for tearing. Inside that perimeter, the flesh was scored with parallel vertical cuts—deep, clean slices left by teeth that were not teeth so much as an array of kitchen knives arranged in a gumline.
Dried blood traced the edges of the deepest punctures, dark and crusted, trailing down King's collarbone.
Those were his teeth. His bite. His jaw.
He had done that.
His gaze moved lower. Below the bites, layered over King's ribs and stomach, were grip marks—broad, splayed impressions where large hands had grabbed and held. The finger spans were long, the nail punctures deep crescents at the pressure points. Those were his hands. His grip. He had held this man hard enough to leave the imprint of every knuckle in his flesh.
King had clearly been pinned. And bitten. Repeatedly.
Katakuri looked at his own chest.
Claw marks. Long, parallel, raking lines dragged down from his shoulders to his ribs. Four lines per set. Some shallow, just welts. Others deep enough that the dried blood still traced each furrow. The deepest set crossed his collarbone in clean, evenly spaced tracks. His shoulder blades, he realized as he shifted, stung with matching lines—the claws had raked down his back as well.
His right shoulder had a different set of marks—a concentrated cluster of punctures, not scratches, where fingernails had gripped hard. The bruises were darker there, almost purple. A hand that had held on. A hand that had been holding him in place when—
He stopped the thought.
On his throat, just above the scarf's edge, there was a single bite mark. Smaller. Neater. An oval of human-adjacent tooth impressions, blunt and shallow, nothing like the savagery he'd left on King.
One polite little love bite. A signature. A claim.
King had bitten him exactly once. Gently. Almost tenderly.
He had bitten King like a sea king.
Katakuri closed his eyes.
"I don't remember anything," he said.
"I know, sweetheart." Big Mom wiped a tear from her eye. "That's what makes it beautiful."
"I'm going to kill Perospero."
"Perospero wasn't here, darling."
"Then I'm going to kill whoever gave us the sake."
"That was me." Big Mom paused. "And Kaido. Mostly Kaido. He brought out the special vintage."
Katakuri's gaze shifted to Kaido. Kaido shrugged. "You looked like you needed to loosen up."
"Loosen—" Katakuri's voice cracked. He never cracked. "I am going to—"
King stirred.
It was a small movement—a flutter of wings, a shift of the hand on Katakuri's hip—but it silenced the room. Big Mom stopped breathing. Kaido leaned forward slightly. Katakuri went very, very still.
King's eyes opened.
They were hazy, unfocused, clouded with sleep and sake. He blinked once. Twice. His gaze traveled from the unfamiliar ceiling to the unfamiliar bed to the very familiar scarf-wearing face inches from his own.
He looked at Katakuri.
Katakuri looked at him.
Neither spoke.
Then King noticed his own body. The pain must have registered—a dull, full-body ache, the sting of punctures, the burn of claw lines. He lifted his free hand and touched his left shoulder, where the largest bite mark had left a ring of deep triangular divots. His fingers traced the jagged perimeter slowly, following the zigzag of punctures, the parallel cuts inside the bite radius.
"I have bite marks," he said. His voice was rough.
"You do."
"A lot of them."
"Yes."
"They're shaped like triangles."
Katakuri's eye twitched. "My teeth are triangular."
"I noticed." King's flames flickered. Orange to yellow to something dangerously close to pink. "The bite radius on my shoulder is larger than my entire hand."
"My jaw unhinges."
"I noticed that too." King touched one of the deepest punctures, where dried blood crusted the edge. "Some of these drew blood."
Katakuri said nothing.
King's gaze traveled down his own torso, cataloging the grip marks, the nail punctures at his shoulders, the handprint bruises on his ribs. Then his gaze lifted to Katakuri's chest—the raking claw lines, the parallel scratches, the dried blood tracing each furrow. The cluster of grip punctures on his shoulder. The single, gentle bite mark on his throat.
"I scratched you," King said.
"You did."
"A lot."
"Yes."
"And bit you once." King's flames flared pink. "On the throat."
"Above the scarf."
"Above the scarf," King repeated. "I was—" He stopped. "Respectful."
"You were very respectful," Katakuri said, and something in his voice was almost dry. Almost amused. "One bite. Small. Tender. Compared to—" He gestured at King's shoulder. "—the entire left side of your body."
"I don't remember it."
"Neither do I."
A pause.
"But the evidence is compelling," King said.
"The evidence is damning."
Another pause. King's flames flickered through three colors in rapid succession.
"Your scarf is still on," he said.
"It never comes off."
"I noticed. Last night. I think. I remember—" King stopped. "I remember feathers. And mochi. And teeth. A lot of teeth." His hand, still resting on his own shoulder, traced the triangular punctures again. . "You bit me."
"Apparently."
"Twenty-three times."
"Twenty-three—" Katakuri's eye twitched. "You counted?"
"My mother counted," Big Mom supplied helpfully. "She's very proud. So am I."
"MAMA."
King looked down at his chest again. He touched another bite mark—this one on his pectoral, a near-perfect ring of triangular punctures. "Your jaw opens wider than I expected."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." King's voice was thoughtful. Almost analytical. "I've never been bitten by a Charlotte before. It's... distinctive."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I'm not sure yet." King's hand moved from his own chest to Katakuri's, his claws—claws, Katakuri noted again, very sharp claws—hovering just above the scratches he had left. "I did a number on you, too."
"Claw marks."
"Yes."
"They're deep."
"Yes."
"You were holding on."
King's flames flared pink, then orange, then pink again. "I don't remember."
"The evidence suggests otherwise."
"The evidence is circumstantial."
"The evidence is carved into my ribcage."
They stared at each other.
In the doorway, Big Mom sniffled loudly. "They're arguing about the evidence. Like an old married couple. Kaido, are you seeing this?"
"I'm seeing it," Kaido said. "I'm trying not to see it, but I'm seeing it."
"Are you blushing?" Big Mom demanded, leaning down to peer at King more closely. "Can he blush? Linlin, can your son blush? I can't tell with the scarf."
"The scarf hides everything," Big Mom said. "That's the point. But look at his eyes. Those are blushing eyes."
"Blushing eyes isn't a thing, Linlin."
"It is for my son."
Katakuri, for his part, had closed his eyes. He appeared to be meditating. Or praying. Or calculating the exact distance between the bed and the nearest window.
"Katakuri," Big Mom said, and her voice had shifted into something softer, something almost gentle. "Are you happy?"
Katakuri opened his eyes. He looked at King—at the bite marks, at the wings, at the hand still on his hip, at the flames flickering pink and orange and pink again. He looked at his own chest, at the claw marks raked across his skin, at the evidence of a night he didn't remember but couldn't deny.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't remember enough to know."
"Well," Big Mom said, "we'll just have to do it again. Sober this time. For science."
"MAMA."
"MAMAMAMAMA!"
"Are you two done?" Kaido demanded. "Because this is both the most romantic and the most horrifying thing I've ever witnessed, and I need to know which one it's supposed to be."
"Both," Big Mom said, wiping her eyes. "It's both. My little mochi boy, leaving permanent dental records on a Lunarian. I'm so proud."
"MAMA."
"MAMAMAMAMA!"
The rest of the morning was a blur of chaos, negotiations, and King desperately trying to find his shirt.
The shirt was not found. It had apparently been torn off with sufficient enthusiasm that it was now in at least three pieces, scattered across the room. King had to borrow one of Kaido's, one of few shirts that Kaido actualy has. It was too big. It hung off his shoulders like a tent.
The collar gaped open, exposing the full extent of the bite marks on his shoulder and throat. The fabric did nothing to hide them. If anything, it framed them.
"This is humiliating," King said.
"You're a Lunarian wearing a Yonko's shirt after spending the night with a Charlotte commander who bit you so hard your shoulder looks like a pincushion," Kaido said. "Nothing about this is humiliating. This is the most interesting thing you've done in decades. I'm proud of you."
"Don't be proud of me."
"Too late. I'm proud. I'm telling the whole crew."
"Please don't."
"King, you have triangular puncture wounds from Charlotte Katakuri's eel fangs. The crew deserves to know."
King's flames flared orange, then yellow, then pink. "This is a nightmare."
"This is entertainment. Linlin, is he always like this?"
"Katakuri?" Big Mom was still beaming. "Oh, yes. He's very dignified. He's been like this since he was three. Very serious baby. Never cried. Just stared. We thought something was wrong with him, but no. That's just his face. The teeth came later. The first time he bit someone, it was Perospero. We still have the scar."
"I'm not talking about your son. I'm talking about my first mate."
"Oh, King? I don't know him well enough. But he seems lovely. Very responsible. Nice wings. Good claws." She leaned down to King's eye level. Her smile was all teeth—blunter than her son's, but no less numerous. "You take good care of my son, little bird, or I'll eat your flames. Understood? He may have done the biting, but those claw marks tell me you weren't exactly passive. He's never looked this relaxed in forty-eight years. If you ruin that, I will be very disappointed. And I'm told my bite is worse than his."
King, to his credit, did not flinch. His flames dimmed slightly, but his voice was steady. "Understood."
"Good!" Big Mom straightened up. "Now. Wedding planning. I'm thinking spring. Whole Cake Island. Red velvet cake with mochi filling and little flame decorations. Kaido, you'll handle the alcohol, obviously. Katakuri, you'll wear white—"
"I'm not wearing white."
"White suits you, sweetheart. It brings out your eyes. And it'll make the bite marks on your groom stand out beautifully in the wedding photos."
"There are wedding photos?"
"Perospero is handling photography."
"PEROSPERO ISN'T EVEN HERE."
"The transponder snail, sweetheart. Keep up."
King, who was still drowning in Kaido's borrowed shirt, stared at her. "We've been conscious for twenty minutes."
"Plenty of time! Kaido and I will handle the venue, the catering, the guest list. You two just focus on—" She gestured vaguely. "—bonding. Alliance building. Whatever you want to call it. Preferably with fewer teeth next time. Those marks are going to take weeks to heal."
"MAMA."
"KATAKURI."
They stared at each other. Big Mom's grin did not waver. Katakuri's eye twitched.
"I'm going to kill Perospero," he said again.
"Perospero wasn't here, darling."
"He had something to do with this. I know he did."
"Perospero is on Whole Cake Island."
"Then he orchestrated it remotely."
"MAMAMAMA! That's my boy! Blaming his siblings for his own decisions!"
"I didn't make any decisions! I don't remember anything! I woke up covered in claw marks next to a Lunarian I apparently bit two dozen times!"
"Twenty-three," Big Mom corrected. "Twenty-three that we can see."
"That's not better!"
"Exactly! Which means you made the best decisions of your life and you don't even know it! Now!— Wedding planning. I'm thinking spring. Whole Cake Island. Red velvet cake with mochi filling and little flame decorations. And little triangular candies. To commemorate the bite."
"I'm not commemorating the bite," Katakuri said.
"The bite is the best part, sweetheart."
"The bite is evidence of a drunken mistake."
"The bite is evidence that you have working instincts and excellent jaw strength." Big Mom crossed her arms. "You're commemorating the bite."
"Mama—"
"The bite stays on the wedding cake."
Katakuri stared at her. Big Mom stared back. Her grin did not waver.
"The scarf stays on during the ceremony," Katakuri said finally.
"Obviously, darling. We'll match the cake to it."
"White cake with red filling?"
"No, no. The scarf will be burgundy. The cake should be burgundy. We'll do a dark chocolate sponge with raspberry filling. And the little triangular candies will be white chocolate. For contrast." She was already pulling out a transponder snail.
The snail, faintly, emitted a long-suffering sigh.
King, still drowning in Kaido's borrowed shirt, turned to Katakuri. "She's planning our wedding."
"Yes."
"We've been conscious for twenty minutes."
"Yes."
"We don't remember anything."
"Yes."
"And we're getting married."
Katakuri looked at him. The claw marks on his chest were still visible above the blanket. The single, tender bite mark on his throat was fading but present. His eye twitched once—and then stopped.
"The bite marks are thorough," he said quietly. "The claw marks are deep. I don't remember anything, but the evidence suggests—" He paused. "—that we were enthusiastic."
King's flames flickered. "That's one word for it."
"Perhaps," Katakuri said, and the words came slowly, like he was testing each one before releasing it, "it's worth finding out. What we were so enthusiastic about."
King stared at him.
"The scarf stays on," he said.
"Obviously."
"And the triangular bite marks—" King's hand drifted to his shoulder, touching the punctures again. "—will probably scar."
"Yes."
"Good," King said, and his flames settled into a steady, warm orange. "I want them to."
Katakuri's eye twitched. But the twitch was different this time. Smaller. Almost imperceptible.
"Deal," he said.
They shook hands.
In the background, Big Mom shrieked "THEY'RE HOLDING HANDS, KAIDO, LOOK, THEY'RE HOLDING HANDS" and Kaido replied "That's a handshake, Linlin" and Big Mom said "A HANDSHAKE OF LOVE" and Perospero, on the transponder snail, could be heard laughing with the exhausted hysteria.
Katakuri closed his eyes. King's wing extended, almost unconsciously, and brushed against his shoulder—carefully avoiding the claw marks.
This was, they both knew, going to be a very long engagement.