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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 shit 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 basement, 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 shit, 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.

Chapter Text

By the middle of the first week, Rosinante has become fully aware of every object in his cabin with a razor-sharp precision. 

An almost mystic sort of feeling bestowed his temples, gaining him the ability to pinpoint all the places the last bits of cigarettes could-have-been or maybe-even-still-were-he-should-go-and-check. Call it a new, extended type of haki, desire-oriented. 

Finding anything is no longer possible though, for a good reason.

See, the first thing Rosinante actually did - back when the whole quitting officially started for good - was to take every single packet of cigarettes he owned and dump their contents right into the toilet. A ruthless, dramatic purge.

Every spare cig, every emergency box, all of the tobacco leaves stuck between the shelves and in the depths of pockets - all flushed down in their clogging glory, all erased, once and for all. Done with before they could bring the hesitation, the slightest trace of second thoughts, before they could tempt. 

He could have given them away, sure, push them as a present into Señor's hands, or Diamante's, or Pica's, or even Doflamingo's. Rosinante was the only one to smoke such disgracefully cheap brands though (Doffy's words), and one hint of that specific, familiar scent trailing on deck would've made him insane in no time. 

No way. Nuh-uh. He won't take any chances. It was hard enough to be around smokers daily, leaving cigs on the shelves was just tempting fate, and it was fate that he was going to war with.

Soul wept at the loss of… everything, topped by the loss of money - a small fortune of its own left in the hands of cramped local shops and yellowed-teeth vendors, but it was for the better. Getting rid of the cigarettes sooner meant he didn't have to do that later, preventative measures. No slip-ups allowed this time. 

Having done what had to be done, Rosinante gradually took care of everything else his hands could find and the mind dubbed as potentially relapse-inducing: from the small pack of his usual matchbooks hidden in the kitchen cabinet, through that one specific brand of coffee he used to drink during or after a morning cigarette, to his personal ashtray (clay and thick and slightly chipped in the corner) - so far a permanent resident to the small nightstand clutter Rosinante was never able to get rid off of completely. A well-used friend of his, companion of many mornings and evenings, countless silent breaks.

Ashtray. Such a simple thing. The very reason he’s now stuck in his room burning a hole in the bedside table with a stare alone.

It’s sitting there, bottom drawer, he knows it. Can’t see it, but knows.  

That complicates a few things, because he put the ashtray there to not think about it anymore, please and thank you. Maybe a trashcan should embrace it, brutal as it would be, or ocean waves, whichever came first into view, but… 

He can’t throw it away, it's a present. A birthday one, which makes it all that more damning, feelings coming straight up from a place of sentiment.

The very first one he received from Baby 5, aside from the boiling tea she used to serve, and even though for sure Doffy hinted her the idea, she made the thing herself. Uneven walls, small traces of tiny fingers here and there, a massive heart knife-cut into the base, it's a hand-made gift and these are precious. Rosinante likes it, just like he likes the fading hearts doodled on his arms. Loves it, even, in that tender way a human cherishes and bonds with something imperfect and gifted and thus flawless to the brim. It brings a smile to Rosinante's face every time he thinks about it.

Throwing it away was out of the question, something had to be done though. Smudged lines of soot and ash alone have been driving him crazy, he remembers way too many times he stubbed out a bud, a hand recalls how to reach and twist.

Down to the bottom shelf it went then - safe, unseen, harmless. Out of view, a load off of his overburdened mind. 

And all would have been good, had it only worked.  

It didn’t. 

So now, Rosinante is pacing in his room, back and forth, and tries very hard not to sweat too excessively. He’s nervous. Chipped, bitten nails are proof. He doesn’t want to be nervous. 

But the ashtray is right there.

Somewhere between the carrots and the gracious rubber duck it became difficult to ignore its presence. That was on the very first day, meaning the calendar approached the middle of the week and nothing got better in the ashtray department, plummeting straight down into being worse. The consciousness reminds the blonde about the item’s existence every single time a stray glance drops sideways and down onto the nightstand, to the lowest wooden drawer, the loosened and creaking metal knob… He can basically see the chipping, sooty clay resting there and waiting to be used, can see it right now with his mind's very vivid imagination, and that just… that just won't do. 

Rosinante kneels down and takes the ashtray out, carefully. Moves it into the furthest, bottomest corner of the chest at the opposite side of the room serving as both storage and closet at once. Poking the pile of clothes around, he covers the precious item up with an old sweater, a blanket and two spare pairs of jeans for good measure, because gifts need adequate care and Rosinante, in turn, needs some additional layer between him and the heavy part of the habit. As the old saying goes - out of sniff, out of mind, or something - and in the chest and nest made of well-loved clothes the ashtray should be safe and happy. A better, less… invasive use will find its way later, positive. 

And maybe, maybe, he’d be able to not think about smoke curling on his lips for a little bit longer. A wobbly hope, but a hope nonetheless.

At this, Rosinante has become quite good. Hope. 

Morning pours into afternoon, afternoon dims into evening, evening merges into night. All of that spent on either wading through the North Blue’s currents, teaching the kids wind awareness and gybes (a task for this week) or pirate meetings set from mere days to whole weeks prior - Doffy has been expanding the Family's influence as of lately, which meant more and more meetings and raids filling up their schedule. A good distraction. Much needed now. A solid seven percent less fantasizing about stealing Señor’s packets or strangling the man every time he lit the lighter.

It felt good, being busy. All day packed to the brim kept Rosinante occupied but also left him dead on his feet. Tired to the bone and a bit dizzy, he’s back in his cabin, lying on a bunk, looking at the ceiling and trying to not think too much about anything. But he’s alone now, therefore not successful.  

Notepad tossed beside, fourth day crossed out, a wobbly line.

Ashtray at the bottom of the chest, tugged in a blanket, safe and happy.

Empty pockets and shelves.

Finger taps at one of the almost-faded hearts a few times, the big one adorning the back of the left hand, a child-drawn tattoo. He thinks about permanent markers and white patches on certain kid's skin, peeking from beneath the shirt when the way too thin arms tried to hold onto ropes. 

Hand strays for a cigarette but there's only a metal pail and way too sweet crunch of carrots between yellowed teeth. 

He can’t fall asleep.

Invading the fridge in the middle of the night is not an uncommon sight. Nor are the eyebags and burst capillaries adorning the sleepless face appearing inside the galley at ungodly hours. What is uncommon though, lies in their source. 

A slowly growing hunger tugs at Rosinante's gut, in a place where the claws of irritation scratch the surface of nicotine addiction, which is just a fantastic way of gaining insomnia back. As if worries, nightmares and random late-night games of poker with his brother aren't enough to shatter his circadian rhythm into pieces. 

It's the fourth night in a row jagged with patches of inconsistent sleep, and he's gradually getting more and more tired. It’s been barely a week.

Muting the waves and Trebol's exceptionally sounding snores does nothing to quiet down the swirling thoughts and nibbling cravings. Rosinante crossed the point of irritation a while ago and now is pretty sure he’s slowly going straight up into being permanently restless. He's been there before, so he knows that's not really the case. It will pass, just a few days up to a couple of weeks, he can do it. For his health, for- 

He can do it.

Rosinante pushes past the headache pressing onto his eyes and stumbles his way to the fridge. A careful walk pays off - he doesn't fall down like a gawky chicken, which lifts up his mood almost enough for the familiar cheer to chirp back inside his heart. He missed it so much.

The bad luck that’s been clinging to his bones since the day he was born seemed to run out right with the abused pinky toe Rosinante managed to hammer into the bathroom shelf earlier that night, which in and of itself sounds like quite an uplifting thought. That’s the kind of optimism he's counting for.

Confident in these newfound abilities, he ignores the light switch, embracing the moonlight and stars as his guides, and bends over a fridge. 

It doesn't reveal anything extraordinary. 

It also doesn't play to Rosinante's unpredictable peckishness, no matter how long the gaze glides over its contents. 

Dinner leftovers to the left and some eggs hiding behind - certainly an option, but when Rosinante thinks about chewing on cold purée merged with hard boiled yolk his already nauseous stomach does the unhappy flip, so no, thanks. He'd rather not. Further inspection reveals pre-prepared slices of raw tuna, an unlabeled jar of what he hopes contains only mayonnaise and not, let's say, Lao G's Forgotten Protein Experiment (to uplift both body and spirit, he had a doubtful honor of tasting the invention and it was… unique), and a bowl of grapes. Rosinante grabs them, not sparing the matter any more thoughts. Passing by the counter, he scoops a fruit basket to diversify the taste. Vague shape of plums nestled in the banana nook convinced him. Tonight, apparently, is the fruit salad night - phrasing it like that sounds festive. And everything is better than carrots currently, so. Yeah.

He makes his way towards the sink, working the sluggish synapses to put the mental list of plums and nectarines into the most desirable munching order. So far so good, he thinks a bit subconsciously, passing by the dark shapes of chairs and the long table. Everything's fin-

And that's when he trips.

Rosinante falls, heart racing up his throat, and in a quick attempt at shielding the head from the possible concussion, he drops both the bowl of grapes and the basket. He goes down like a sack of potatoes with a stifled oomph. Fruits roll all over the floor, ending up scattered under the table, shelves and every other place imaginable within the given trajectory and motion. 

Rosinante contemplates the ceiling. 

After a short while, he comes to a certain conclusion - he probably should give up on taking long periods of staying upwards for granted. 

The urge to snap a bubble and scream into his hands until the lungs will writhe and die is mesmerizing, but somehow remains kept at bay at the end. Iron will. 

…although he allows himself a soft, yet very expressive moan; the wounded pride inside him and a pounding headache deserve that little treat.

He's so nailing all that having a body agenda. Look at the sick moves the limbs can do - without trying! Magic. Gods above, what a mess.

One surprisingly calm mental breakdown later, Rosinante discovers a banana lurking at the periphery. Yellow and dotted brown in daylight - now a lovely grayish blue - the fruit is lying the closest from them all, a scattered razzle dazzle of gravity and betrayal. Within an arm’s reach even, which is not that bad, all things considered. Tempting. A bit forced, but still. He can just lean a bit and… yeah, he can grab it, both of them already on the galley's floor, no bending or crouching required. Nor moving much too, for that matter, an otherwise mandatory activity Rosinante isn't really that inclined to perform for at least five to seven minutes. Maybe fifteen. He glances at the banana and sighs. 

… Might as well.  

Ground it is.

He stays on the floor, just pushes himself up to a somehow sitting position - to keep up the appearance of being a semi-competent adult and not a victim of involuntary dropkick - and slowly takes the thick peel off. 

First bite is sweet and a bit mushy. Nauseating. Rosinante forces it down the tightened throat, then the next one, back slumping on the shelves behind. 

Moon is bright tonight, he notices, round and silver, peeking from the pane of the cracked porthole. Enough force to illuminate the edges and shapes around him, not that it helped him much in the end. Maybe he should have turned the lights on while coming to the galley. Maybe he should have stayed in bed. Plums are lying near the trash can, mockingly. 

He needs a smoke. Teeth gnaw at the banana instead.

That’s when he hears it, footsteps outside. 

Doflamingo's head appears in the doorframe, because of course it does, an undying smile flashing through the darkness right into Rosinante's face, as if he's not currently lying in the middle of yet another kitchen disaster they can attribute to his name. Doffy looks around curiously, as always undisturbed by anyone and anything in the slightest, eyes finally concentrating on the banana Rosinante is slowly munching out of existence. 

“Midnight snack?” his brother asks, teeth spreading wide like a crescent. 

Rosinante lifts his banana in a silent confirmation, because he won't grace that maybe-a-jab-maybe-not with any other form of response. 

Doffy just grins wider, if that's even possible, accepting the gesture for what it is with any and all implications, and invites himself to the party. Strides forward, sporting usual confidence even in the striped cotton shorts. He picks something up from the floor and drops down right next to Rosinante's hunched form, long legs stretching over the tiles. (All without tripping. Rosinante is not bitter about it.)

Doflamingo peels and bites an onion (and where did it come from, he almost certainly remembers dropping down a basket of fruits- ) with all the savage force of an unwavering self-confidence, sprinkled with an unhinged personality and more than a tad uneven childhood. Rosinante respects that, because biting and chewing on raw onion is a thing one should respect, no matter the chewer. Not a rare sight, to see Doffy chomping on something not meant to be chomped on at all. Like an uncooked cauliflower. Or banana with a peel. Rosinante once saw him eating raw meat taken straight up from the cutting board and washing it down with a gallon of milk right after. That behavior needed some kind of acknowledgement, if not for the courage then definitely for staying unaffected by an unorthodox mix.

Besides, the remnants of rotten apples, crippling hunger, the aftertaste of garbage bins - they still linger on Rosinante's tongue too, sometimes, and it all doesn't matter at all anyway. 

“You can't sleep,” is a statement spit by a mouthful of onion mush. Rosinante knocks on the tiles three times, hoping the breeze from the porthole will whiff the smell away, because he's still a bit nauseous and it's certainly not helping. He's not that lucky. “Mhm,” comes his brother’s eloquent reply. “Nightmares? Thoughts?” A glance slips his way, hand mimics a cigarette teasingly. “Urges?”

Rosinante blinks at him. 

His voice doesn't work half the time he tries to use it, and that happens when his brain is not halfway down its merry road into sleep-deprived hallucinations. A notepad is chilling somewhere on the nightstand in his room and it's way too dark for any attempt at lipreading whatsoever. That leaves one option only - sluggish, bothersome and thoroughly toneless. He sighs, grabs Doffy's free hand, palm up, and starts to trace the characters slowly.

You - trying - help - ?

Not his most eloquent endeavor. It takes a little to puzzle the words, but eventually the meaning goes through. 

“Am I trying to help?” A nod of confirmation. Amusement bounces off of Doffy’s smile. “Do you want me to?” Rosinante slaps his hand and shakes his head. His brother doesn't react, just takes another bite and swallows. “What is it then?”

Law - sick.

“So?”

Poison.

“We established that, yes. Your point?” Rosinante gestures to his lungs and Doflamingo chuckles. “You’re silly.” Maybe a little. “Ditching cigarettes won’t cure him,” his brother says, tone more serious this time. “You’re just more of a grumpy slouch than usual.”

And ain't that the stinging truth? 

Rosinante knows Doffy’s right. From a logical standpoint what he’s trying to do doesn’t make any sense. He already decided though, admittedly in a heat of a moment, backing off out of the question. Rosinante will follow this conviction down to the end, not the bitter kind but the sweet one, hopefully. Everything will end up well, him - not smoking, Law - not dying, Doffy - minding his own damn business (no chance for the last one, he knows). It's just a bit hard to believe in from the cold tiles of a kitchen floor, that's all.

He lets go of Doffy's hand, thinking the conversation to be over, not that it went anywhere far. His eyelids are heavy, but not heavy enough to drag him down into slumber, so he finishes the fruit with the one last nibble and puts the peel down on the floor. 

Doflamingo's foot shoots towards it and kicks it into the far corner of the kitchen, out of Rosinante’s reach. Rosinante would thank him for that obvious display of fraternal worry (heavens know, he slips often enough on his own, no other help needed in that regard), but he's too tired to properly articulate anything he means. So he pats blindly at Doflamingo's arm a few times, hoping that's enough of an answer on its own. 

Doffy hums and swallows down another chunk of onion. It is.

Rosinante lets himself lay down, head bumping into Doffy's thigh, thoughts circling around in a lazy spin. He closes his eyes. With attention scattered like marbles on a swaying floor nothing rational comes to mind, other than the growing sour belief that apparently this is how the rest of the night will look like for him, if he won’t square up and leave to do… something. The idea of what, exactly, that mystical thing should be is rather vague. Maybe the galley floor will become the final destination tonight, who knows. Hard ground instead of a bed and no pillow to lay his head on, it wouldn't exactly be the first time. Maybe-

“Friendly game of poker?”

Ah. And maybe this.

Yes, he should expect that, yeah.

Rosinante’s arm finds its way up to cover his eyes, blocking that little bit of moonlight still slipping through. He slowly considers the offer. Considers every decision that has led him up to this very point in his life too, which sums up into plenty of thinking, plethora of very controversial life choices, a little bit of marine backstabbing and overall way too much stuff for his headache-ridden brain to bear at the moment. 

The tiles under his head and back are cool, which helps a tiny little bit. Pure bliss for the pounding temples, so he flattens the forehead further on a ceramic surface, trying to line up his thoughts and options into some kind of order. 

Is he willing to have his butt kicked again via a worn-out deck of cards? 

Maybe. Maybe not.

Last time they did that he lost not only those precious hours of napping, but also the next couple of desserts. 

That time was two days ago, and Rosinante is still bitter after watching two pieces of chocolate soufflé disappear into his brother's throat today. 

Or was that yesterday?

Seas, he's so tired. There's no way he'll win those sweets back. Likely, he'll just lose more.

But the alternative is either lying here surrounded by the fruit failure or watching the ceiling of his cabin with the cigarette smoke lingering on his mattress, his clothes, his everything. No matter how many times he washed the damn things, the smell’s still there, somewhere, rooted deeply in the core of the fabric, he can feel it. It's the ticking clock of restless tossing and turning, until the night will start to brighten back into another dawn.

Slumber doesn't claim Rosinante's consciousness from the embrace of the kitchen floor it's sprawled on, in spite of his greatest wishes, and Doflamingo sees his decision even before Rosinante stumbles upon it himself.

“Haul your ass into my cabin, we're playing.”

We’re playing, he says. Okay.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Okay.

Rosinante channels the slivers of energy first to the cognitive, then motor functions and stabilizes himself somewhere on the vertical axis, with just enough help of leaning on firm shelves to not slip back down on his ass. A landslide success. By the time he's done Doflamingo is already standing and putting the grapes back into the bowl and then the fridge. 

And then he hears it again, they both do. A distant sound of barefoot thudding on planks gets them perked up, a new face appears in the door frame shortly after. Light smears and fades from Doffy's cheek when he closes the fridge. “Law, so nice of you to join us!” He sounds so unabashedly cheerful. In comparison, Law doesn’t sound cheerful at all. Did he just wake up, or-

“Mm, couldn't sleep.”

Ah. So nightmares then. 

Without much thinking, Rosinante makes an aborted motion towards the kid, not even sure what he wants to do in the first place, beyond giving him some comfort maybe. Law would bite all his fingers off up to the knuckles before accepting it in any sort of shape or form though, so Rosinante just leans further on the countertop and waves at the kid equally as tiredly.

“Why do you have your glasses on? It’s dark,” Law just says, blunt, completely ignoring Rosinante’s greeting in a way that suggests malice and purpose. He staggers to the sink, hisses at the bread on the counter, since he's almost twelve and therefore a child of mayhem, and pours himself a glass of water. “And why is there food on the floor?” 

Well.

Rosinante waves again, this time more apologetically. Doflamingo laughs, decibels toned down into being almost, almost too loud. “Let's clean that up, shall we? We don't waste food here- not you, Rosi. You'll end up falling down and crushing them with your butt. Stay there.”

No can do. That's his mess and he'll clean it up, dead on his feet or not. He proves it by bending down and forcing his grip on a nearby nectarine.

Doflamingo snorts. “Suit yourself,” he snickers, but doesn't argue any further, for sure eager to see a potential second showdown of disaster. Jokes on him, there won't be one. Probably.

They clean the mess in relative silence, putting everything back into the basket Doffy fished out from under the table. 

“So, Law,” Doffy chirps from somewhere behind him, “wanna learn how to play poker?”

Rosinante sighs. It'll be a long night.

“Is this entertaining, Law?”

“No. I'm bored.”

“Excellent! Royal flush.”

Cards blossom before Rosinante's eyes in a colorful pattern of his inevitable defeat. He blinks slowly at his poor pair of tens and sighs, tossing them onto the pile, right beside a growing stack of pearls by his brother's side.

His head is definitely not in the game tonight. 

They're tucked in blankets and sprawled on the floor, because every surface in Doflamingo's quarters (including the bed) is covered up either by books, ongoing private projects or gamut of trinkets Rosinante doesn't even know the names of. It's easier to dump the pillows onto the ground and cover them up with whatever fluffy thing is lying around, than gather the mess into the least occupied corner to make some space. The bed wouldn't fit them all anyway.

It's clear Doffy was in the middle of working on unspecified something before he wandered off to the galley, instead of sleeping in the night like any other normal creature. Judging by the books, maps and piling up fabric on the desk and tiny coffee table, it's not the first overnight work either. 

Why his brother has so much energy and where does it come from Rosinante was never able to guess, but Doffy has always been energetic beyond the generally accepted norm, so maybe that's just how the world operates for him. 

Freeing the cards from both the ordeal of belonging to his unlucky hand and the embarrassment coming from the shitty move he just used makes Rosinante feel a little bit better. Marginally. Failures should be accepted with dignity and grace. It’s okay, the game should still be winnable, probably. His poor performance has nothing to do with the suits, pips and faces blurring into blotches of colors before his eyes, after all. Not to mention the rippling headache tearing through his nape and temples, Seas, he almost misses the cool touch of the galley's floor.

Exhaustion aside, today's play lies on a rather pleasant side, surprisingly, pace slow and relaxing.

Games with his brother usually resemble guerrilla warfare. Pretty challenging, to say at last. You try to win, gain the upper hand, you lose, you bluff, you win, you win, you win, until you don't, loop and repeat. High stakes can go higher then, that's partially the reason why they stopped playing for real money and switched to something relatively safer, like food or cigarettes. Damn, cigarettes. Or favors, those appeared too, once or twice, but they're never risk-free, not with Doffy. More or less the last resort, which earned the giant proceed with caution tag blaring in Rosinante's mind for a reason. 

Doflamingo balances on that fine edge of being an excellent player and exceptional cheater, simultaneously. A tough opponent missing the asshole label only by a technicality. That tiny loophole in terminology stems from the fact that, one - he's still Rosinante's brother, and two -  as a former spy Rosinante sees and respects Doflamingo's skills in trickery and deception, be that as it may. 

But he’s one more lost dessert away from calling it quits, and fortune definitely doesn't play in his favor. 

Law seems to be enjoying the game though, despite the tired face and alleged boredom. His tiny hand leaves the expanses of leopard-patterned blanket to tug at Doflamingo's shorts.

“Why are you playing with Corazón? He sucks.” 

Why, thank you, Law.

Doflamingo laughs and shuffles the cards. “You think so? No, Rosi's quite good, he just sucks now.” 

Thanks, Doffy. So generous. Charming even, brother mine.

‘I hate you,’ he mouths to the pillow - the only companion of current misery who truly understands him. It's soft and blocks the light too, absolutely his favorite features now. Smells faintly of vetiver and… grapefruit? Doflamingo’s current perfume, probably, deduces his mind in a failed attempt to focus the drifting concentration on something other than the faint smell of onion still sporadically wafting from Doffy's mouth. ‘Both of you. You're both mean. The meanest.’

None of them catches what he's saying, lips half-buried in the fuzzy pillowcase, but Doflamingo's clever enough to decipher the meaning from the vibe alone. 

“Cheer up, Corazón,” comes the sneer, “you're being complimented.” Yes, apparently. 

Doffy's skilled hands do all the riffle shuffles, flips and spins and fanned out carts. An obvious show-off before Law, but the kid seems to like it. Gray eyes are tracing the movements with a special kind of blank vigilance unique to Law, and Rosinante is pretty sure the sparks dancing in his eyes are not only the mere reflection of light. What a rare sight, to see the kid so excited these days. It warms Rosinante's heart and pains him at the same time. What are you seeing, Law? Were there illusionists in Flevance? Did your parents play?

Doflamingo doesn't share the same plaguing musings. “So, Rosi sucks, but only now. Why is that?” 

Law perks up at the challenge, eyes gaining that scrutinizing, calculated glint. “Hand tremors,” shots the reply. 

Rosinante promptly tugs them in the folds of a blanket, which does nothing of course, because they've been trembling for who knows how long already. Doflamingo shakes his head and chuckles, Law isn't fazed. “Insomnia,” he continues, sending a particularly narrowed look at what Rosinante suspects to be a rather impressive case of eyebags. Those will be significantly harder to hide, he can basically feel the blotchy tissue bruising under his eyes. “Increased irritability.” 

Doffy nods like it's obvious and spins the cards around, visible enjoyment painted all over his face. “He does break more cups than necessary, true enough.” Now would be such a good time to kick him. “What else?”

“Anhedonia.” Anhe-what? “Difficulty concentrating.” It's the middle of the night- “All falling into the category of typical symptoms of moderate withdrawal.” Oh, for-

“Diagnosis?”

“He's an idiot addict who's trying to quit.”

“Very well, Law.” Doflamingo grins and puts the cards down. “Have anything to add to that, brother?”

Rosinante blinks at him sluggishly.

Flipping Doffy off seems inappropriate with Law sitting right next to them, but Seas, Rosinante is so tempted. 

He just grunts with disapproval in his brother's general direction, then flashes a wobbly thumbs up at Law, because private misery aside, the kid did a good job, the analysis correct and to the point, no matter how annoying in its accuracy. 

He should have known that Law, of all people, would be able to make a correct guess based solely on Rosi's recent… less than impeccable appearance, probably propelled by some data the boy read once in one of the many medical books towering on his desk in uneven piles of knowledge. Good to know the kid has other ambitions to follow than sole destruction, medicine being a fine subject, Law's favorite, and he's apparently getting better and better in his studies. That's more favorable than hunching over neverending strategies Doflamingo seems to favor, or the notes on evisceration and torture some of the crewmembers insist on pushing into the kid's impromptu curriculum. Those Rosinante shamelessly burns on purpose, kid has seen enough of mindless violence on the scorched pavements of the White City.

Mind makes peace with the reality of tonight's events, finally, seeing that he's getting absolutely nowhere near winning. Rosinante folds, thereby kissing the next desserts very doleful goodbye in their metaphorical sweet lips.

Doflamingo grins that grin of someone expecting a victory for quite some time already, a smile reserved specially for defeated younger brothers. “You almost got me this time.” 

He didn't and they all know it.

All his pearls taken, Doffy's slender fingers count them with learned efficiency. “... eighty-five, six, seven… ninety-two. Congratulations, brother, that will cost you three desserts. Almost four, you're lucky!” Rosinante wisely decides not to comment on that statement. 

Law takes one misshapen pearl from the sideway, unused pile. Look of contemplation passes through his face. For a moment the kid looks like he wants to bite its surface, not unlike Diamante checking a new stack of gold, but as it’s just a glistening gemstone tissue likely to break under teeth, he doesn't. 

“Those are poker chips, Law. Used instead of money.”

“Aren't they supposed to be disks?” kid asks, voice back to being flat and sliding just slightly towards judgment. A behavioral improvement if you ask Rosinante, lacking the usual biting snark. Curiosity still flicks from behind the words though, which means Law is interested enough to actually learn something from Doffy, not just cover sleepless boredom. 

Rosinante has a growing premonition their nighttime duo of players will soon broaden into a tercet of insomniacs. The feeling doesn't border on dread, not really, but it falls awfully close.

“Usually, yes. But disks are boring!” Doffy exclaims, as if they had any in the first place. If they did, they wouldn't have to use the remnants of one of Doflamingo's broken necklaces. Pearls untied are not exactly the best idea for an item left loose on a swaying ship, not the smartest too. At least those specific ones ( baroque pearls, they are called, if what his mind vaguely recalls as correct, Doflamingo had a long night rant about them once or twice) are misshapen enough to be easily picked up and they don't slip from his fingers that much. So. Poker chips.

“Teach me how to play,” Law chirps, a demand and curious plea smashed into one.

Not a premonition. A certainty. How wonderful.

Rosinante leans back, sighing with defeat. A future-him problem, he decides, taking in the image of Law's tiny hands holding a fawn of cards, and listens to Doffy's lively voice explaining the rules.

He wakes up to the faint smell of grapefruit snuggling his head and way too fluffy texture nuzzling the limbs to be his casual, smoke-stinky bed sheets. Eyes blink open to reveal a ceiling with a daylight dancing on a chandelier his own quarters lack. Rosinante blinks at it, processing slowly the realization that he most likely slept through the morning shift and breakfast.

Law is snuggled up on a pillow against his chest, Doffy's own fuzzy blanket covering them both. His brother's gone already, but he let them sleep longer it seems. Thank the Blues, if he'd have to wake up at a crack of dawn, Rosinante probably wouldn't be able to function at all. 

He sighs and tries to drift off, mind still halfway dipped in an imageless dream. Law has other plans.

“You stopped smoking,” comes the accusation. Rosinante grunts and nods, wondering dimly where this conversation is going. The kid was pestering him about quitting as soon as his shoes officially hit the Family's board, shouldn't he be happy? “Why now?” He shrugs. “.... Is it because of what I said?” Law whispers next, voice so small, a rare case of open vulnerability. 

Ah. 

Rosinante looks at him.

What can he say? It is.

Law had to read the answer from his eyes somehow, his face twists and fists tighten. “Why are you doing this? It's all pointless.”

‘I’m going to die, and none of it will matter.’

Rosinante doesn't answer, because how can one answer a question like that? It should have been obvious why, by now. And maybe even was, once, before everything turned into pieces and ashes and burned bodies feeding one child's hatred and grief. The reason may not be clear to Law's troubled mind now, but maybe one day it will be. That’s enough for Corazón to keep going, enough of a reason to try. He’s good at hope. (Has he ever had anything else?)

So Rosinante doesn't answer, just places a kiss onto Law's crown of sleep-tangled hair and tries to hug the pain away. The attempt is quickly smacked by the tiny, embarrassed and very angry hands. Law pulls away, spitting heated profanities under Corazón's intelligence and name, but Rosinante doesn't pay it any mind.

He won't smoke again. Law will live. Conviction, undying resolve. All will be well.

He smiles placatingly at a particularly creative insult and gestures for Law to lay down and rest some more, and when that doesn't work just throws a blanket over the child's head. Growing kids need lots of sleep.

Doffy generously gave them extra time off, apparently, so before the urge for a morning smoke can kick in for good, Rosinante buries his head back into the pillow and drifts away back into slumber.