Chapter Text
This is the seventh lollipop in the span of an hour and Rosinante is slowly starting to lose it.
Slowly, yet surely, because he is a man of conviction and undying resolve, and if his mind steadily heads in its chosen direction, Rosinante will see the end of it one way or another, he’s quite sure.
The trembling hands and growing pulse in the right side of his temples tell him the inevitable breakdown will come sooner rather than later. Which is just lovely, and not at all frustrating. The tongue, numb and heavy from the cheap, cherry-flavored sugar, gives him hints of incoming caries eventually invading his abused tooth enamel, and the cuts from the chipped and crunched hearts he's munching prays for the misery to end. Lollipops stopped working half an hour ago, now Rosinante is just being obstinate and spiteful.
This is clearly not the way, he thinks, legs dangling from deck, eyes hung on the horizon of water. Seagulls are lurking for the lollipops’ sticks he's gripping in hand as a token of his commitment. He briefly considers letting them have the disappointment of snatching something that is clearly no-longer-a-snack, but the birds would either drop them wherever or straight up choke, and Rosinante doesn’t need to deal with a heavy conscience on top of what he's already going through.
The last crunch of cherry he cannot even taste anymore is dying in his throat, just as his hopes at an easy solution to the multiannual habit. Rosinante eventually stands up, resigned, with just a tiny bit of slipping and tripping, as a treat. Sticks slip from his fingers and roll on deck as he falls, stolen in seconds by the eager beaks and the storm of swirling feathers. Birds’ screeches are loud enough to cover up the children's laughter, almost but not quite, and the sound of their giggles at Rosinante's well-known acts of misery brushes some dust off of his downed spirit.
The sky is bright and blue and beautiful from this perspective. Rosinante loves it. The clouds are lazy and fluffy and how he wishes he could make one of his own-
He smacks himself, mentally. Nuh-uh. Nasty. Bad Rosinante. He didn't sacrifice his taste buds for nothing, so no thinking about the- no thinking.
The pain blossoming in the bruised hip is insignificant in the grand scheme of things, he thinks, hauling himself up, past the cackling Buffalo and Baby 5, and down to the lower deck, muscle memory dragging him into where he remembers his cabin to be.
Lollipops not working? It's fine. Time for the heavy caliber.
Doflamingo has to say, Rosinante's new intimidation tactic is, indeed, revolutionary.
Everytime those tense hands squeeze the silly little rubber ball, their business prey jumps at least ten inches into the air, completely forgetting the matter of today's bargain. An overall gloomy mood with just the right amount of nervous energy radiating from his brother does a splendid job at making everyone around exceptionally on edge and Doflamingo is delighted. The terms of agreement, the come-and-go of cargo and fees are flying back and forth heavily in the Family's favor. They can stammer the prices all they want - one silent glare from Corazón, one single very slow squeeze of that stupid toy and Doflamingo pushes the Family's generous offer of protection all the way through with little to no effort.
When one of the unfortunate souls tries to smoke the nerves away, the ball snaps in half, sending the man through all stages of grief with a speed of the swiftly cut throat, and Doflamingo cackles his ass off, almost dying from howling laughter right there and then. This is golden, he thinks, getting Corazón to count the Belli, to give those trembling hands something other to do than nibbling at the remnants of chipping rubber. He relishes the anxiety lingering in the air and watches Rosi's fingers flicking through the banknotes in an even rhythm of rustling money.
Doflamingo was skeptical at first, he had to admit. Not really a frightening sight - clown makeup and the bright yellow ball peeking from between the feathers? A rather silly tandem, at par with his brother's silly personality. Sparse glance, and one could think his trusted second-in-command will start to juggle. Rosinante looked a little bit like he was going to swallow a lemon whole, when he pulled the brightly colored toy out of his pocket during the first meeting. His focus was all in the wrong places from the very beginning of today's early transactions too, but in the end? It mattered none. His Corazón proved to be as effective as always, even exceeding the expectations as a solid bogey by his side, and Doflamingo wasn't the one to withhold his Family's antics anyway. By all means, Corazón, be my guest at scaring the sh*t out of everybody with a piece of poorly shaped polymers.
Doflamingo knows Rosinante is trying to slow down, and eventually also cease, that lung-damaging habit of his. Of course he knows. The whole ordeal was plain to see from miles away in the form of a bouncing leg drumming the amusing accelerando into his onboard office floor. Pilling up tea cups on the galley's counter (both those shattered into pieces and the ones miraculously salvaged) were also a giant exclamation to the ongoing drama; so were the lollipops dangling from souring crimson lips all morning instead of the usual smoldering buds.
Very interesting form of self-inflicted torture indeed, his brother’s feats of will were truly impressive. Funny to watch from the sideways too, Doflamingo is quite grateful for the free entertainment, and bets are already circulating around the crew's hands on how long exactly the whole thing will last this time.
The last attempt took three weeks and half, the longest one - three months, two days and seven hours to the dot. Break of dawn and Buffalo’s first scout out mission near a pirate stronghold crumbled Rosi's nerves enough to make him chug the whole packet in minutes. (Doflamingo won thirty-one thousand Belli that day, and now he's eager to make that pleasant prize double.) After that his brother was full back into smoking like one of Spider Miles’ chimneys, even more so after Law came to them with the charming grace of strapped grenades and ‘burn the world’ agenda. A sentimental moment, truly. The kid would push anyone into jamming their lungs with every iota of smoke they could muster, so Doflamingo didn't blame his brother for diving full-force into the habit. He would too, but his refined throat and the aftertaste of smoke rarely coincide with one another as of late, so he leaves the progressing habit in Corazón's reliable hands.
The sound of flipping papers ceases and the wards of Belli are stuffed back into the suitcase. Rosinante clips the lid shut and nods in his direction.
All good, his eyes say. Can we finally get the hell out of here? convey tense shoulders and Doflamingo smiles.
“Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen,” he purrs, smile widening all the way up to the glinting canines, then just a tad more at the sight of the gentleman leaving the warehouse in a beautifully inelegant hurry.
Corazón stands up and looks somberly at the crust of rubber falling from his trousers. Remaining halves are tossed to the first garbage bin they pass.
When they go back to the ship Doflamingo strays to the street vendor and buys Rosinante a quacking rubber duck to squeeze, just for the heck of it.
The next invention is not working.
Well, it is, but not exactly. Which is… yeah, a shame.
Rosinante swallows down the remnants of another carrot and calmly assesses the damage.
Hand cut in four places - a thing to be expected. The knee slashed two times, because of course a knife loves gravity more than it loves sticking to Rosinante's fingers - not expected that much, but it still fits into the criteria of his luck's terrible modus operandi, so no. No surprise here too. One (1) throbbing toe. Anticipated. Again - courtesy of a falling utensil and mortifying ordeal of being incurably clumsy.
For those he is prepared, the band-aids rest on a permanent standby, tucked safely in his coat's pocket and ready to use anytime. ‘Anytime’ means ‘pretty often’, which in turn toes on ‘at least once in a few days’ frequency, but that's neither here nor there. Playing with semantics lies in Doflamingo's domain, not his, no need to dive into such unnecessary details. Overall? Not bad, could be worse, he'll take what he can get.
The problem stems from the lack of desired outcome.
Rosinante read once, in a yellow paper of an old leaflet he found in an equally (if not more) worn-out pub, that carrots prove to be a good substitute for nicotine cravings and cigarette needs. Probably because if you're holding one, you're not using your hands to desperately dig into your pockets for leftover cigs and your teeth have something to chew on. Changing a habit for something similar and more healthy. It sounded like logic. It also sounded like a thing someone printed ages ago and left literally everywhere to boost their greengrocer business, otherwise why would such a thing be found in a place like a sleazy boozer, Rosinante had no idea.
He also heard something similar coming out from the mouth of someone smelling like a shovel of tobacco and poorly aired basem*nt, but not holding any smokes, so. Giving the idea a go is what he did. Nothing to lose, much to gain and stomach would thank him for changing the hardened sugar and corn syrup for a slightly better replacement.
Although, here came the hard truth. The clash of the inevitable. With all the mighty crunchiness the carrots possess, they are ultimately free both from the scratchy clouds of smoke and the power to completely snuff out the itch. Understandable, nothing is able to do that, not that quickly, not so soon, he tried. Yet, everytime the force of habit makes him pick up a carrot stick with his smoking hand Rosinante physically jolts with a grimace. It happens way too often for his liking.
They are also, quite like the lollipops, challenging after the initial first few bigger chunks, flavor going boring and clogging rather quickly. He peeled the whole bucket in a strike of sudden inspiration (not to confuse with desperation, not yet) and now he's stuck with tiny carrots forever. Walking around and giving them away like birthday candy shapes up to be a pretty solid backup plan. Gladius could use more potassium and Buffalo could use more everything in general, that kid absorbs more ice-cream than average number of summer carnival attendants, combined and doubled. Rosinante makes a mental note to talk about this matter later with Doffy.
Nothing works at once, patience is key, remains his mind with the iron perseverance that is certainly not thinning, although it sounds more like a moan, if he's being honest. No complaining, Rosinante. Conviction. Undying. Resolve. Chew on, chomp chomp.
Maybe he should switch to lettuce?
He probably should switch to lettuce.
They have some time to spare, the loading of cargo not being done yet. Sprawled on the deck, he lets Baby 5 dutifully color the band-aids on his fingers pink, because they were tinted a little from all that carrots and ‘Cora-san's color is pink, not orange’, also ‘pink is pretty and Cora-san needs more pretty things’. Rosinange nods along, trying to hold his hand as still as possible and not fidget too much with the other one holding the squeezy rubber duck. It makes sense. A reasoning like that needs to be taken with utmost seriousness, so he does exactly that. Lies still as an overgrown coloring book. And he’s determined to nail it.
Besides, hands working as canvas significantly reduces probability of smoking, motionless as they have to be. A win-win. He tries to focus on that and not look at the clouds above too much.
Sun-heated planks warm up his back, sun on his face, sea by his side, it's pleasant. So much that Rosinante finds himself dozing off, lulled by the warmth and a dull headache that never quite stopped being an issue since he decided to quit. ‘More air,’ they say, ‘less shallow breath.’ He did feel light-headed after a while, that’s true enough, blood unclogging itself from the nicotine quickly enough to give almost immediate effects baffles him every single time. Rosinante suspects the constant throbbing has a different source though. Stress is a tough cookie to crack, and he’s a high officer of the Donquixotes. Do the math. It’s basically in the job description to worry, if your family is composed of homicidal strays with grudges and literal children. Also with grudges. And abandonment issues. Incurable diseases. Rosinante sighs.
Being the alleviating buffer between Doffy and those unfortunate enough to poke at his anger too much (which roughly sums up to the vast majority of the world) is just a bonus at this point, walking in tune with Rosinante like a second nature.
A part of him notices dimly that the repeated feeling of a marker moves from the band-aids to hands, careful scratch scratch on bare skin in familiar shapes he's too comfortable at the moment to even try to recognize.
He wakes up to Doffy's pointy shoes nudging his side and orders to ‘cast off all lines!’ being shouted around, they're sailing off to the next island. Rosinante pulls up his sleeves when they're trimming the sheets, new marker-tattoo hearts on his hands and arms shining in a blinding sun with all their pink, doodled glory.
Huh. That's certainly a development.
“You look hideous,” Law compliments him, when the course is set and they can slow down the pace. The kid's eyeing the scribbled hearts like they personally offended him. Unfair, Baby 5 did an excellent job in the Executive's opinion.
Rosinante's hand itches for a smoke, for a job well done, it hisses, so he grabs the bucket he left on a barrel and goes back to munching the veggies. He bites the carrot in half and pulls the sleeves up some more, opting to display the hearts further for Law to understand the fatal error in his judgment. That just twists Law's face even more into a grimace of sheer disgust and Rosinante's ankle ends up being a direct victim of a rather vicious kick. It does nothing, obviously, not even stings, the bare difference in size puts the kid at a certain disadvantage difficult to cross. To even things out, Rosinante offers him the contents of his private bucket of goods.
Not a good move, it turns out. It seems to just anger the little gremlin even more, if the growl building up in his tiny throat is any indicator. Law shoots a heated glare first at Rosinante's hands full of carrot sticks, then his face, and storms off, stomping all the way down to the lower deck.
Rosinante watches him go, wondering if carrots somehow ended up on Law's ‘hated with passion’ dish list as of lately, right beside the infamous bread. The thought just makes him frown. That wouldn't be good, the kid needs all the nutrients he can get.
Later he learns Baby 5 used the permanent marker.
Which actually explains why the cheerful pattern hasn't been washed away by the spraying waves by now.
Between this, carrots and lollipop disaster Rosinante shouldn't be surprised. He accepts his new reality fairly quickly, skilled in that sort of thing by the years spent sailing upon his brother's flag, or even longer than that, if he's being honest. Doffy has always been unhinged, one way or another, now his brother just rushes wherever his mind pleases, no foot hitting brakes whatsoever.
Rosinante ruffles Baby 5's hair as he passes by her and leaves the sleeves up for the rest of the day, making her giggle every time she sneaks up a glance at his arms. Art needs to be displayed, that's just common knowledge drilled into them by Giolla at least once per week, and he is the Heart Executive, after all.
Corazón. It fits.
That evening they are all served cold turkey1 for supper, because Doflamingo's humor is fantastically, extraordinarily tasteless and full of silent jabs. Tactful beyond comprehension, Doffy grins and personally places a massive slice of meat on Rosinante's plate, crushing beloved salad into a bunch of sad, flat leaves. The wishes of ‘Bon appétit, Corazón’, are just a sneering cherry on top of the regular mocking Doflamingo graces the world with day by day, nothing new in that department.
For his part, Rosinante doesn't even blink.
He waits a bit, lurks as usual and steals a baked sweet potato from Doffy's plate when his brother's not looking, because being out of cigarettes also means being out of patience, and he's not beyond spite and petty acts of theft at the moment. He munches the veggie like a trophy it is, revenge does indeed taste sweet. Like a baked potato.
Doffy being his usual nefarious self is one thing, but, by the seas, Rosinante has to admit - the meal smells and tastes delicious. Maybe it’s the hunger talking, or maybe his taste buds are finally waking up from the forced slumber the tons of cherry sugar and carrots brought upon them in an overwhelming rush - doesn’t matter. He’ll consume everything the plate has to offer and he’s going to feel extraordinarily good about it, as the first stage of quitting smokes intended. A symptom easily recognizable, as it loops back into hunger during every single meal and the times in-between since the decision has been made, but Rosinante won’t look a gift appetite in the mouth. Especially since it doesn’t even scratch at the lid of what other wonders of cutting off a habit do to both body and mind.
Law is glaring at him from across the table, full of the usual murder intentions, which is fine. If the kid has enough energy to glare, he has enough energy to eat and drink and that is more than fine in Rosinante's book. He reminds himself to leave some extra carrots on Law's plate next time, to test out the hate theory.
Rosinante stays after the meal and wedges himself into unexpected dish duty, easing Gladius from today's shift. The choice raises a few eyebrows and a couple of sneers too, since the crew’s rich in assholes, not abstaining from making fun of you at any given moment in the slightest.
He pays them no mind. Needs something to busy himself with, occupy, needs something to do. Dishes are challenging enough on the regular day, should be more than enough for now.
Half an hour later Rosinante is scrubbing a tin plate from the hardened gravy and rosemary bits, thinking about the elaborate peculiarity of concentrated dish soap. The substance being both better and worse at erasing huddled leftovers than just water from the river and scouring sand resides somewhere out of comprehension. Rosinante has experience in both, so he can tell. Hangnails ripping further from scrubbing don't like that specific duality in dishwashing nature, and he's close to back up the opinion. At least the skin smells more like citruses now, well, wet and overly chemical citruses, than how he usually smells, that's a plus. It is a plus.
Sour breath appears from behind his shoulder.
“You're a vengeful little sh*t, did you know that? I wanted to eat that potato.” Doflamingo walks from behind Rosinante’s back, swirling the wine in a bottle, then takes a long sip. “This is how you thank me for my little encouragement?”
Rosinante wants to kick him in the shin. Just a tiny little bit. That would require eye-to-leg coordination though, which, between remaining upright on the rocking ship and balancing the dishes, lies somewhere out of Rosinante's current level of skill. He says nothing then, carefully placing another washed bowl onto the dish rack and reaching for the next random tableware from the pile, a cup.
But a pointed gesture to the pieces of turkey clogging the drain is a must, Doffy started it first.
That earns him nothing but a shrugged shoulder and quipped ‘I don't know what you mean’ rubbed right into his face with an unfair amount of smugness. Not even a snickered ‘touché’ - the closest thing to a half-assed apology one can usually squeeze out of his brother, Rosinante takes a mental note to flick some foam into his glasses later. If it’ll transform into a petty fistfight after that, so be it.
Doflamingo hops onto the countertop without a care in the world and sits right next to the piling up dishes, bottle touching lips already. Leg taps an unknown rhythm on the shelf, so do fingers on a wooden counter. Rosinante almost expects his brother to hum along.
Band-aids are wet by now, thoroughly. Squelchy, sliding off more than sticking, irritating the skin even more, it's awful. Bearable for the first half an hour, now they're not. Rosinante pulls them off one by one and throws them to the side, for later cleanup, when he's not busy with the cups and scraps of turkey’s bones.
Doflamingo's head turns towards him, a beginning of a sentence rumbling on his tongue in the same exact moment Rosinante reaches back for the pile and the cup slips.
It does an impressive acrobatic flip, complete with the aerial pirouette and a few remarkable spins around its own axis and lands gracefully on the bottom of the sink in all shattered-into-pieces finale.
They stare at the mess.
Doflamingo snickers.
“You're doing great.”
Rosinante really wants to kick him in the shin.
He leaves the dishes, the newly made mess promptly labeled ‘deal with later’, dries hands on whatever washcloth is lying the closest and takes out a notepad and pen from the back pocket.
How much did you bet?, he scribbles and shoves the notepad into Doffy's hands.
Doflamingo reads the note, dim light doing him no favors, then smirks. “As of yet? Not enough,” he replies, giving the notebook back. “Worry not, you're doing great,” comes the repeat and a cheerful tip of the already half-drank bottle.
Isn't family a precious concept? Supportive and mindful of your needs?
At least he doesn't have to bully him into helping to take the shards out. Rosinante watches the strings carry the ceramic specks with lightness and precise easiness like dancing leaves on a summer breeze, and wonders if he had his brother's powers would they help him in situations like this, or would he just tangle himself in the strings instead and that would be it. Mind wants to believe in the former, experience and that part of him that's humble knows the answer falls ungainly on the latter.
At least he can break things in absolute silence. Reassurance deriving from the possibility of making completely private messes brings a certain kind of peace impossible to reconstruct elsewhere. Silence grew fond of him over the years, now Rosinante wouldn't trade the gentle hug of calm for anything.
Even the ability to clean those messes faster.
What are you doing here?, he asks, when they're done with dumping sharp pieces into the bin. Last Rosinante checked he didn’t need a supervisor breathing down his neck.
Doffy drops the threats and snorts. “Checking if the galley’s still standing, obviously. Last time we had to scrap the soot from the whole ceiling. One more incident like that and I'd have to child-proof the whole place, Rosi, and that costs money.”
It… does, Rosinante has to admit. Giolla looked through the options and prices first thing Dellinger came into view, before it turned out the kid proved to be not only nearly invincible by human standards, but also full of very sharp teeth helping him to chew through most of the obstacles with great, and sometimes also painful, success. His ankle still remembers that fateful encounter. But Doffy didn't have to phrase it like that.
Part of Rosinante’s mind weighs the benefits of being offended. He settles on a displeased huff, which, predictably, ends up thoroughly ignored.
“Although you do seem to burn less as of lately, fancy that,” Doflamingo muses, glancing up at Rosinante’s unusually soot-free feathers and offering him a sip. “Who would have thought the benefits of quitting would reach that far?”
Rosinante takes the bottle from his hand, not bothering to even sniff the content. It’s sour, flowery, undoubtedly lined with a rich fragrance his undignified tongue can’t place quickly enough, it all points out into a bottle taken from the higher shelf, but not the top branch. Not a celebration then, clearly, just the usual stuff his brother likes to pour down his throat on a regular basis.
“Tasty?” Rosinante shakes his head but takes another swig, for morale and spite. Doflamingo snorts. “Figured. You wouldn’t recognize a good beverage if it outright slapped your taste buds.”
Rosinante sends his brother the flattest stare a face can muster, expression - or rather the lack of thereof - coming to him easily and almost instinctively by now, Doffy has that effect on people.
‘Another addiction? No, thanks,’ he mouths, not bothering to do that distinctly enough to actually convey the message. If Doflamingo wants to be a jerk, by all means, may he carry on a one-sided conversation. Although, in truth, it has never been an issue for the glib chatterbox of his brother's caliber. Schmoozing easy as breathing and all that jazz, put into use as a silver-tongued ace up his feathered sleeve no less.
At least the dynamic somehow works between them - puzzle a talker with a mute, see it click.
Doffy doesn't let on that something's amiss of course, a cheerful smile not showing whether the meaning slipped from his notice or not, unsurprisingly.
“Keep it up,” he just says blithely, patting Rosinante's shoulder with one hand and taking the wine back with another. He didn't specify whether he was referring to dishes or quitting smoking. Rosinante generously bets on both.
He watches Doffy go to resume the drunkenness elsewhere - probably the upper deck, judging by the faint laughing coming from the ceiling’s general direction, volume slipping a bit too much into out-of-control experience to be the work of sober vocal chords. A good thing then, maybe, being stuck here on his own regard, instead of sitting through all of that noise. He eyes the mountain of dishes towering on the counter and turns back to the mundane work.
Rosinante goes to sleep late, feeling the purple rims of exhaustion already forming under tired eyes. Fingers rub at one another, pruney and wrinkled from water and dish soap, cuts stinging in the rhythm of pulsing veins.
Dreams are about lighted cigarettes and smoke filling up his lungs, and when he wakes up, it's way too early. Mouth looks for the familiar texture of paper rolled between tongue and teeth; finds only longing and thinning self-control instead, bitter like the phantom licks of smoke he can still feel, can still taste.
Rosinante is a man of conviction and undying resolve, though - a refrain he spins around in his mind until heavy legs hit the floor and drag him under the shower, rather than his usual smoking spot on deck. The one on the quarterdeck, with the view of a beautiful sunrise and wind blowing the trails of smoke out of his mouth. Rosinante would watch them drift away with the breeze, dissolving, peaceful and quiet.
Water washes over him and he blinks the sleep away, alongside the droplets squeezing the stinging foam into his eyes. It's a good wake up call. Fresh, he thinks, scrubbing at the imprints of hearts on his arms- hah, half-heartedly. Permanent marker or not, they're slowly fading and it makes him a little sad. Rosinante likes them.
He gets out of the cabin shuddering at the chill, tangles legs into worn-out pairs of jeans, buttons up the shirt. Picks up the notepad and crosses out another clean day.
