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Sengoku woke to the sound of his door sliding open. He sat up, ready for a fight, but the tension faded as soon as he saw the tiny figure backlit by the night light in the hall.
Even after ten months, the number of times Rosinante willingly interrupted Sengoku’s sleep were a precious few. Whether it was nightmares or insomnia, Rosinante was more likely to curl up in bed by himself than come to Sengoku, no matter how much Sengoku tried to encourage him otherwise. Often, it was Sengoku’s Observation that woke him, as sensitive as it was to Rosinante.
“Rosi? What’s wrong?” Sengoku asked, reaching for his glasses. He turned on the lamp, filling the room with a warm glow.
“I don’t feel good,” Rosinante said. He stared at the floor. His shoulders were hunched, making him look even smaller than usual.
Concern deepened in the pit of Sengoku’s stomach. “Come here,” he said, holding out an arm. Rosinante didn’t hesitate, and Sengoku wrapped his arm around his trembling shoulders, brushing a hand through Rosinante’s bangs. This close, it was easy to feel the feverish heat radiating off of Rosinante’s skin. “You have a fever. How else are you feeling?”
“Cold,” Rosinante mumbled, shivering again and pressing against Sengoku's side. His voice was muffled. “My head hurts.”
Sengoku made a sympathetic sound. “Does anything else hurt?” he asked.
Rosinante shrugged, which meant yes, but he didn’t want to admit it. It wasn’t surprising. The doctor had to pointedly ask if Rosinante was in pain before he reluctantly said yes. Unfortunately, there was little they could do about it. At best, they could manage the pain and prevent it from worsening. Sengoku had spent hours over the last few months with heating packs and warm blankets, trying to ease what he could. Being sick likely made it worse.
“Alright,” Sengoku said. “Why don’t I make tea and find something for your headache?”
When Rosinante nodded, Sengoku picked him up with the ease of a much younger child. Rosinante didn’t complain. He rested his head against Sengoku’s shoulder for the short trek to the kitchen.
“Sit here for a bit,” Sengoku said, lowering Rosinante into one of the chairs surrounding their small table, blanket and all. He made sure Rosinante was settled before filling the kettle.
The cabinet he stored his tea in was well stocked. Sengoku often bought a bag while travelling to enjoy later. After becoming Rosinante’s guardian, he started making sure he always had chamomile on hand. Sometimes, a cup of tea and an open ear was all he could offer Rosinante. During the day they usually drank green tea together, but at night, it was always chamomile.
He went about preparing two cups, with enough honey in one that Sengoku found it sickeningly sweet. He never commented on it. It was Rosinante’s preferred taste, and the last thing Sengoku wanted was to somehow discourage it. There were so few things Rosinante willingly admitted to enjoying.
Rosinante watched wearily, his eyes lingering on Sengoku’s back. He never liked being alone when he felt unwell. When he first came to Marineford, he was still so terribly sick and terrified of everything. He clung to Sengoku, better behaved than any child Sengoku had known, like he was afraid his continued presence was conditional. It was something he still struggled with, and that Sengoku hoped would fade with time.
When the tea was finished, Sengoku brought it over alongside a bottle of small white pills usually kept above the fridge. They were a prescription from the doctor for those days when the pain was too much. Rosinante reluctantly sat up from where his head was resting in his arms and accepted both, swallowing the medication without so much as making a face, which told Sengoku all he needed to know.
After that, they sat in silence. Sengoku drank his tea and, in the better light of the kitchen, eyed the bags beneath Rosinante’s eyes. They were darker than usual. Nightmares, probably. He should have seen this coming. Rosinante always did worse after too many days with too little sleep, but it wasn’t always easy to tell. Besides, there was often little rhyme or reason why Rosinante’s nightmares returned. Sometimes they just did, and usually with a vengeance.
He wished he knew what Rosinante was thinking. Were children usually so difficult to read, or was that a special trait of Rosinante specifically? At this point, Sengoku wouldn’t be surprised. He rarely knew whether Rosinante was upset or in pain or simply tired. Was it worth pushing to try to find out? Usually not. Rosinante was exhausted enough as it was.
They finished their tea and Sengoku gathered up the mugs. “Feeling any better?” he asked.
Rosinante shrugged, but he wouldn’t meet Sengoku’s eyes. So scared of being a burden, this boy. Sengoku resisted sighing as he put the cups in the sink to deal with tomorrow.
“Back to bed, I think,” he said. “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
That, at least, got an eye peeking out from beneath Rosinante’s bangs, followed by a small nod. Sengoku smiled softly. “Come on then. Let’s see if we can’t get any more sleep.”
Rosinante followed him back to the bedroom and crawled onto the bed. He looked so small in it. He was small, only nine years old. At least he was closer to a healthy weight than he was when Sengoku found him, starved, sick, and all alone.
Sengoku turned off the lamp and put his glasses aside. He lay down beside Rosinante, shifting the blankets until they covered them both. In the darkness, Rosinante once again shifted closer, and Sengoku wrapped an arm around him. He was still too warm.
If he wasn’t feeling any better by tomorrow, Sengoku would probably have to take him to work. There was a small couch in his office that Rosinante could rest on, but it wasn’t ideal. Rosinante was still nervous around the high-ranking officials Sengoku worked with. He would rest better at home, but Sengoku couldn’t take time off just because Rosinante was sick.
He sighed and brushed a strand of hair behind Rosinante’s ear. “Sleep well, Rosi,” he said, and pressed a kiss to the crown of Rosinante’s hair.
Unfortunately, morning was no better. Rosinante fell into a fitful sleep sometime after midnight and woke crying only an hour later, a cycle that repeated twice more before Sengoku picked him up and started pacing the length of their home. That, at least, seemed to settle Rosinante a bit, but his fever only continued to rise. By the time the first rays of dawn rose over the treetops, Sengoku was fraught. He’d tried water, medicine, and damp cloths to no avail. The pain was worse too. Rosinante didn’t say as much, but Sengoku felt it in the way Rosinante held himself, tense and clinging when awake.
Still, taking today off wasn’t an option. Sengoku forwent his usual morning run to pack a bag for Rosinante, doing his best to manage with one arm occupied holding a sick child. He filled it with a change of clothes, a few books, snacks, and Rosinante’s medication.
Rosinante woke when Sengoku put him down to get dressed, but didn’t complain about spending the day at headquarters. He didn’t say much of anything, which wasn’t unusual. Rosinante hadn’t spoken at all the first few weeks and still rarely did when he was unwell.
Once in his uniform, Sengoku wrapped the blanket snugly around Rosinante and picked him up, slinging the bag over his shoulder.
It was easier to carry Rosinante the whole way than risk him falling. Rosinante was always clumsy, thanks in large part to his damaged joints, but it was worse when he was in pain. Sengoku had seen him struggling to walk on bad days, unable to hold a pencil. Unfortunately, all they could do was continue Rosinante’s various therapies and hope it helped.
They passed a few other Marines on their way to HQ and up to Sengoku’s office. Nobody interrupted them, thankfully, but they were given sympathetic looks. It seemed even others coulld tell that Rosinante was unwell. Beyond the fever still radiating from Rosinante’s skin, Rosinante kept his head buried in Sengoku’s shoulder and his arms tight around Sengoku’s neck.
When they reached his office, Sengoku gently put Rosinante down on the couch. “You can rest here, alright?" he said.
Rosinante nodded, pulling his legs toward his chest. He watched as Sengoku set out some water, snacks, and books on the small table nearby, all within easy reach.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Sengoku said, ruffling Rosinante’s hair.
“Okay,” Rosinante muttered. He laid down, curled up beneath the blanket. At least he was still small enough to easily fit on the couch. The nights Sengoku used to spend there were far less comfortable.
Sengoku sat at his desk and got to work. People came and went at various volumes until somebody stuck a note that read Quiet - Child Sleeping on his door. Sengoku didn’t know until he stepped into the hall to answer a den den call. The handwriting was only vaguely familiar. He left it there, if only to keep Rosinante from being disturbed by somebody (Garp) crashing through his door.
He still let out an annoyed breath at the sound of yet another knock not long after. Commander Kuzan stepped into the room with a sheaf of papers.
“Sir,” Kuzan said with a salute.
Sengoku put his head in his hands. Kuzan only came when Garp did something, and Sengoku decided did not have the energy to deal with that today.
“Is it urgent?” Sengoku asked.
Kuzan tilted his head. “Not especially,” he said.
“Right. Put it there then. I’ll get to it tomorrow,” Sengoku said, nodding to a basket of papers on his desk, filled with things he needed to look over first thing tomorrow.
Kuzan did as he was told but made no move to leave. Sengoku raised an eyebrow.
“You’re free to go if there’s nothing else,” he said.
Kuzan hesitated for a moment. He put his hands in his pockets, slouching a bit. Sengoku didn’t call him on it. “The kid is sick?” he asked, glancing toward Rosinante.
Sengoku sighed. “He woke up last night with a fever.”
It wasn’t meant to be permission to check on Rosinante, but Kuzan seemed to take it as such. He took a few steps towards the couch and leaned over it, looking at Rosinante’s pinched expression. Then he reached out, his hand brushing Rosinante’s forehead. “He has quite the fever,” he said, but he didn’t move his hand. He put his other on Rosinante’s shoulder.
“He does,” Sengoku agreed. The anxiety he’d felt all morning came rushing back. “Do you think I should call for a doctor?”
Kuzan gave him a blank expression, which was, admittedly, fair. Children weren’t common in HQ. This was probably the closest Kuzan had been to one in years.
“I can ask Garp,” Kuzan offered, but judging by his flat tone, he already knew that wasn’t truly an option.
Sengoku winced. “I’d rather ask Tsuru,” he said. He could reach her from here, but she’d probably call him an idiot for doing so. Still, he’d rather that than waste a doctor’s time or miss something deeply wrong with Rosinante.
Kuzan shrugged. “Let me see if this helps first,” he said, his hands still held against Rosinante. It took a moment for Sengoku to realize what he was doing.
Of course. Kuzan was an ice logia; he was made of ice. Even his touch was cool, and the temperature would remain steady despite Rosinante’s fever, which would normally turn any cool compress lukewarm far too quickly.
Rosinante stirred, shifting a little, but didn’t wake. Sengoku’s concern grew. It wasn’t like Rosinante, who was usually a remarkably light sleeper.
Before he could comment, there was a knock on Sengoku’s open door. “Sir, Fleet Admiral Kong would like to speak with you. It’s urgent,” the officer said.
Sengoku cursed, glancing at Rosinante. He couldn’t take his sick son into a meeting with Kong.
“Go,” Kuzan said. “I can watch him for a while.”
“Thank you,” Sengoku said with a rush of relief. He trusted Kuzan more than most, even if Kuzan was trained by Garp. That tended to give people a warped perception of danger, but Kuzan was one of the most grounded students Garp had ever turned out. Still, Sengoku hated to leave. He stood and picked up his jacket from the back of his chair. “Call for a doctor if he gets any worse.”
Kuzan nodded. “I’ll send you a message if anything happens.”
At least there was that. Sengoku straightened his uniform and put on his coat, then forced himself to follow the officer from the room.
The meeting with Kong included the two other Admirals and members of Marine intelligence. Dragon’s so-called Freedom Fights were becoming a growing pain in the World Government’s side. They’d yet to accomplish anything too extreme, but if they went unchecked, it was only a matter of time. Sengoku tried not to be distracted, but every time there was a knock on the door bringing information or refreshments, Sengoku worried it was a message about Rosinante. If anyone noticed a lack of Sengoku’s usual focus, they didn’t comment on it.
When the meeting was finished, Sengoku briefly checked with Kong’s secretary to make sure no messages came for him. Then he returned to his office.
The door was closed when he arrived, but he could sense both Kuzan and Rosinante awake inside. He let out a breath before straightening his back. When he got closer, he heard the muffled sound of Kuzan’s deep voice, though he didn’t hear Rosinante reply.
Sengoku didn’t bother knocking. He opened the door and then paused. Rosinante was indeed awake, though he didn’t look like he would be for much longer. He was bundled up in his blanket and leaning against Kuzan’s side. Kuzan had an arm wrapped around him and was currently reading one of Rosinante’s books. They both looked up. Rosinante blinked a few times before he sat up.
“Dad?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
Sengoku’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, he didn’t know how to react. Rosinante had never called him that before. Should he be worried? Was Rosinante delirious, mistaking him for a man long dead?
Kuzan coughed. He looked faintly amused. That, if anything, made Sengoku start moving again. “Yes. I’m sorry I had to go,” he said, hoping Rosinante couldn’t hear the lump in his throat.
Rosinante shrugged. “It’s okay.” He didn’t seem upset at least.
Sengoku knelt in front of the couch and rested the back of his hand against Rosinante’s forehead. “Your fever has gone down,” he said, relieved. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired,” Rosinante admitted.
Well, better tired than sick or hurting. “Why don’t I finish reading that story to you?” Sengoku asked. “Then you can rest a bit. I shouldn’t have too much work to do.” He glanced at his desk. He did have more work, but none of it was so urgent it couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
“Okay,” Rosinante said, moving away from Kuzan.
Kuzan stood and stretched. He handed the book to Sengoku.
“Thank you,” Sengoku said.
“Anytime. Beats paperwork,” Kuzan replied. “I’ll see you around, kid. Hope you feel better soon.”
Rosinante ducked his head. “Thanks,” he muttered quietly.
Sengoku took Kuzan’s spot. Rosinante immediately cuddled against him, leaning on Sengoku and getting a better view of the pictures in the book. He could read more complex stories, but he had a fondness for picture books.
“Are you a fan of Kuzan, then?” Sengoku asked, already adding Kuzan to the short list of people Rosinante liked.
“He’s nice, and he does funny voices,” Rosinante said.
Sengoku laughed. He ran his fingers through Rosinante’s hair and turned his attention to the last few pages of the book.