Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is a strange stillness in the air, here.

It’s not good for him, not at all.

Not after the giant mess that was Egghead, not after the fight with ojiki (except he’s not Uncle anymore, is he?), not after Old Man Punk… he can’t let his mind wander down that rabbit hole. He can’t.

It’s just so unsettling, this stillness, definitely not something Sentomaru is used to; after years spent as the old man’s bodyguard he is much more familiar with the special brand of chaos that can be found around a mad scientist’s lab.

Even before that, while being on his own brought a certain degree of calm with it, the woods around his hometown were never actually quiet; there was always some form of background noise, be it the rustling of leaves, the light murmur of the nearby river, the occasional bear passing through.

(Or two geezers intent on recruiting you, huh?)

Suffice to say, compared to the life Sentomaru has lived up until now and to what he’s gone through in the last week alone, the small island he is using to lay low while the last of his injuries heal is boring to say the least.

Boring is good, he has to remind himself. Boring means safe. Boring means the Marines haven’t tracked him down yet.

Boring. Boring. Boring.

The terrible downside of a boring town like this one, however, is that it lets you have all the time in the world to think. The first couple of days he spent here, still licking his wounds and unable to do much else as the adrenaline rush abated, he formulated what could be generously called a plan: lay low on this shitty no-name island, then once healed enough use what little beri he has left to catch a ride to some place farther away. Possibly, somewhere with no Marine influence whatsoever.

(Then what?)

Yet once those first days passed and he was awake for more and more time, the sleepy town started to get to him and he couldn’t avoid his own thoughts anymore. Was it that stupid, what he did? Will it come back to bite him in the ass (again)? What is he going to do after putting more distance between himself and the Marines?

Aside from those first years on the outskirts of his hometown, everything he’s always known was his work. Old Man Punk. Uncle. A lab full of Pacifistas. The occasional visit to Marineford HQ.

Sentomaru is a traitor now. He can’t go back. Ojiki must hate him, and the old man…

He saw the broadcast. He doesn’t think he even has it in him to give a shit about the state of the world anymore. But old man Punk… it hurt. It hurt more than he ever thought it would, a steel vice wrapping around his heart and squeezing at each and every sentence.

I shall program this message to be broadcast when my heart stops beating.

Fuck that old fart.

He knew all of that, and not once did he confide in Sentomaru.

That’s what unwavering loyalty gets you in the end, he supposes. Marked as a traitor, beat within an inch of your life and hunted down by people you used to work with and admired, and finding out those you were loyal to never actually returned that trust anyway. And Sentomaru…

Sentomaru is tired.

Beyond tired, even.

He just needs to make it a bit farther away, have the Marines lose his traces while his injuries heal up. Maybe once that’s done he’ll settle somewhere in Paradise, and then he will finally be able to rest a little. Easy enough.

The first step of his (somewhat of a) plan has gone through without a hitch, he’s mostly healed over and the Marines haven’t yet come busting down the door to his room at the inn. The second one is kind of a work in progress, he spent the last three days wandering around the port and networking to procure a ride on one of the few merchant ships passing through.

Luckily enough, today a captain dealing in exports was willing to take him on his ship and drop him off along with his cargo on what he assured is a peaceful island, and when the beri he had weren’t enough for the trip Sentomaru was able to work toward an exchange for some much-needed repairs to the vessel.

It’s been overall a successful day, and tomorrow he’s finally going to leave the stillness behind for good.

He’s drifting through the streets of the town in a haze now, looking for Gods know what. He doesn’t want to go back to the inn, there’s nothing in there that could distract him from his thoughts.

What to do, to forget sadness and bad memories?

He’s not naïve, of course, Borsalino may joke all he wants about his precious nephew being too young and pure, but that doesn’t change the fact that Sentomaru does know about plenty of stuff people can get up to when they want a distraction. He’s 34 and has frequented many Marine bases in his life, for fuck’s sake.

He just never tried it for himself, that’s all.

Well, not really – he is no stranger to the bitterness of liquor, nor to the comfort of exploring his own body in the privacy of his rooms. He may have even kept some well-hidden dirty magazines around his rooms back at the lab.

It’s just that… the situation has always been complicated, alright. He’s never been a social butterfly like Ojiki, on the contrary he’s always had a bit of trouble understanding how people work, and preferred keeping mostly to himself and his duties.

Uncle used to tell him he should have fun more often. He knew Sentomaru would not budge about work related stuff, yet sometimes, when he felt that the bodyguard needed a pause on their rare trips to Marineford, he would suddenly drop everything and rush out of HQ and into the citadel, citing the need to get something or other for Punk. Sentomaru would run after him on a quest to help, only to end up following him into a tavern and be greeted by the smug bastard waiting for him at a table with a cup of sake at the ready, as if nothing had happened and they were just two friends going out for drinks.

Who is he trying to fool, he’s going to miss that crazy geezer.

But the thing is, he has never been one to party, or to have casual relationships. Hell, he has never even confessed to his (admittedly few) crushes over the years. The people back in his hometown all hated him. He has never had friends among his peers, either. Don’t get him wrong, he’s never complained, actually he has always been quite content with what he had with the Marines, a nice job, the two old bags by his side, the occasional evening spent at marine-populated taverns, courtesy of said old bags, eyeing from afar the ones who caught his attention although never approaching them. It wasn’t much, but he liked that kind of life enough.

What’s left of that now, though?

He’s 34. He has only ever known Punk’s lab. Before that, it was the woods and the scorn of the townsfolk on the few, necessary, times he dared venturing in town.

Oi fatso, heard you beat a whole bear the other day, did you sit on it to put it out of its misery?

Sorry kid, we don’t want problems in here. You’d better go.

You’re such a monster, not even your parents wanted to be around you. Go make friends with the bears.

Fuck, he wants- no, he needs to get drunk.

There’s a first time for everything after all.

He knows there’s a low chance of finding the same good quality alcohol that they serve back in Marineford but he’ll take anything at this point. He might even try and bring someone back to his room for once – fuck Borsalino and his “too pure” spiel. Sentomaru knows how to flirt. He just always preferred not to do it.

He still has enough beri to last him around five days, a week if he skimps a bit, and with some luck he’ll be able to find some odd job as soon as he gets to the next island. He can afford a couple of drinks at the local tavern. He walks with newfound confidence, chin held up as he orients himself through the busy streets, and with directions from a local woman he’s able to find a spot.

The place he ends up in has surely seen better days, that much is clear from the mouldy spots at the corners of the ceiling, the old, positively ancient furniture, and the fine layer of dust that seems permanently stuck on every surface – Sentomaru feels a sneer instinctively pull at his lips. However, having lived through worse than a drink in a dirty bar, he figures beggars can’t be choosers, as long as the alcohol is cheap it’s fine by him.

He takes a seat on one of the mismatched stools at the counter and keeps his head down as he orders, unwilling to let his paranoia go for now.

It hurts – so much – to think about the reasons behind it, but he has to be strong. He has to go forward. It’s what old Punk would have wanted, right?

Or would he be disappointed in Sentomaru for surviving, when he didn’t?

He doesn’t really know. It scares him a little.

Sentomaru was supposed to protect him. If anyone had to die on Egghead, that was him, not old Punk. He should have stuck by the old man’s side and shield him from any attack, shouldn’t have abandoned him to his destiny, shouldn’t have left the island, should’ve, should’ve–

His nails dig into the skin of his palm as his vision starts swimming with tears. He bites the insides of his cheeks, tasting the copper tang of blood in his mouth.

Then he feels it.

All air seems to disappear from the room as a wave of Observation Haki pulses painfully behind his eyes. There’s a presence coming toward him, looming in the corner of his perception. It’s powerful. Yet… It also reminds him of a peaceful, crisp winter morning, somehow. His Observation is not the best but he can sense it’s someone familiar walking through the door, in some way, can almost taste it at the back of his throat.

The flash of a memory hits him.

A very important day in Marineford, a ceremony held to swear in Borsalino’s shiny new Admiral rank. Sentomaru, barely surfacing into adulthood at 18, invited by the very man of the hour and excited at the occasion to see him after a long time.

Getting lost and crashing into a white-clad figure turning around a corner.

Apologising profusely, only to be interrupted by a nonchalant “Damn, that’s a nice pair of honkers right there”.

Blushing up to the tip of his hair, pushing the stranger away and rushing off.

Being introduced, after the ceremony, to Borsalino’s closest colleagues. Sakazuki, Issho, Saul. Kuzan.

Borsalino squinting suspiciously at the man’s flirty wink and response of “Yeah, we already met”.

He doesn’t remember much else from that day except being ushered inside by Borsalino and Issho, leaving Saul to play mediator after a disastrous argument broke out between Admirals Akainu and Aokiji, not too long after their introductions.

However, Aokiji is not someone you simply forget about. Especially not with the kind of first meeting that Sentomaru had with him. Nor with the second one. Nor the third.

Well, let’s say that he’s had a fair share of encounters with Kuzan at Marine HQ, and that the man sure knows how to leave an impression.

And here he is now. Tall and lanky, hunched over the bar as he sits right next to Sentomaru, ordering an overproof and quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Arara, I thought my Observation was tricking me when I sensed someone familiar.”

The rumbling drawl coming from ex-Admiral Aokiji is mellow, conversational. He’s wearing tinted glasses but Sentomaru can still see the slant of his eyes beyond them, observing, studying him. “Science Unit, right?” Something like wistfulness flashes across strong features, “Borsalino’s kid.”

“Not his kid.” The response is almost automatic by now, nose wrinkling at the thought of the old man, “And not an officer anymore, either. It’s just Sentomaru now.”

Aokiji only nods, understanding, and avoids making any ulterior comment on their shared acquaintance, giving a low whistle as the other knocks back almost half of his glass. “Slow down kid, you gotta appreciate the taste.”

“I’m not here to appreciate the taste. I just need to get drunk.”

“Rough night, huh? Then you’ll want something stronger than that stuff.” He takes Sentomaru’s glass with a lopsided grin, swaps it with his, “Here, take mine.” He watches as Sentomaru tastes it, making a face at how much stronger indeed it is, compared to his cider.

“So, kid… how did you end up in such a rat trap? It’s not every day you see an old colleague on the other end of the Grand Line – much less finding out he’s gone rogue too.”

Sentomaru mulls over the words. “I just… made a choice, I suppose. Got my ass handed to me by an Admiral because of it.” He shrugs. “Don’t really regret what I did, though.” He takes a swig and, boldened by liquid courage, smiles crookedly, eyes bright and cheeks turning pink, and says, “But I guess the same could be said for you, right, Admiral?”

The other huffs a chuckle into his newly acquired drink, careful not to spill it, “Just Kuzan now, kid, same as you.”

“Well, I’ll start using that when you stop calling me kid.”

“Oh? I am older than you, you know, it just makes sense.” The other raises an eyebrow, analyses him for a moment before he puts down his glass, “But if you really insist,” a slow grin makes its way on his lips. Sentomaru does not like that expression. “Then what about…” the ex-Admiral makes a show of tapping his pointer finger to his chin and looking up as if in deep thought, “Pretty boy?”

Sentomaru’s mouth suddenly feels very, very dry. He takes a quick sip of his own drink, not taking into account just how much of a menace his old superior officer could be.

“Or maybe… sweetheart?”

The inhale that elicits has Sentomaru choking on the strong burn of the rum taking a wrong turn down his airways.

“I’ll admit I’m partial to angel as well, what’d’ya say?”

The asshole is smirking as he pats his back and Sentomaru, still coughing and sputtering, wants so bad to rip it off his face. Once he’s finally able to breathe properly again he whirls around and glowers, pointing a finger at Kuzan’s chest, “Don’t mock me.”

The other huffs, “Who said anything about mocking? You asked me to call you something else,” he leans over, chin casually resting on one hand as the other reaches for his glass on the counter, and admits, “And I do think all of those would suit you.”

Any answer he could have come up with dies on Sentomaru’s lips.

“Shut up.” His face is on fire. He doesn’t mean it for real, does he?

Their conversation is interrupted when the doors to the tavern open, letting in a noisy group people. They come up to the counter to order and keep chatting among themselves as the barkeep dutifully pours drink after drink.

“Weird guy, huh?” a middle-aged man is saying, “don’t know if I’d trust someone who goes by the name Vegapunk though, ha!”

Sentomaru’s back stiffens. Kuzan keeps his eyes on the drink in his hand.

“I read somewhere that he was killed because he knew too much about the Government’s dealings with the slave trade,” one of the women in the group doubts in a whisper.

“Nah, he was just some crackpot scientist, for sure!”

“Did you hear the way he talked? I’m tellin’ you, the guy may have been crazy but he knew something.”

The group’s conversation fades as they all get their orders and move to a table, but Sentomaru’s mind is racing. How dare they. Old Punk was a great man, with an equally as great mind, the best that the world could offer. He tried doing good, tried helping the world, and his efforts were rewarded with a death sentence carried out by someone who should have been a friend.

The grip on his glass tightens and for a moment he considers throwing it at a wall – hell, maybe even at the group, he’s been itching for a fight – but before he can work himself up his attention is caught by slim fingers closing around his wrist. It’s a loose circle he could easily shake off if he so wanted, but their intent is to distract rather than to cage, and they do so by resting on his pulse. An icy thumb draws circles in a soothing motion, and Sentomaru looks up into scrutinizing dark eyes, barely hidden behind slim sunglasses.

“Don’t bother with them,” Kuzan rumbles, “let people think whatever they want. You knew what the guy really was like, right? That’s what matters.” He concludes with a shrug, breaking eye contact to go back to his drink. His hand is still holding Sentomaru’s.

Heart thrumming in his chest, Sentomaru nods.

Kuzan nods back.

They go back to nursing their drinks in silence after that.

Or at least they would, except Kuzan apparently decided that they’re not done talking about the old man yet.

“Ah, my condolences by the way,” He comments, almost as an afterthought, “didn’t really know him that well, but I assume he meant a lot to yo– ”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

It takes them both by surprise, the way Sentomaru snaps.

He shakes his head, looking away. “I don’t… I don’t wanna talk about the old man tonight. All I want to do right now is to get drunk and forget even my own name.” He throws back the rest of the drink and grimaces at the burn, “Maybe find somebody to fuck my brains out,” he chances an appreciative side glance at the ex-Admiral, “I don’t know, whichever works better to make me forget that shitshow and all the people involved in it.”

If Kuzan has noticed the bitterness lingering behind the request, he doesn’t mention it.

Rather, he licks his lips and scoots closer, close enough that the tips of their noses almost meet. “Well, I don’t know about getting drunk on the cheap shit they serve here…” he whispers, hand moving from Sentomaru’s thundering pulse to caress at his arm, where gauze hides his tattoo. Slim fingers stray up, up to his jaw and to his temple, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and go back to hold a scarred cheek, “But I’ve been told I’m quite good at making people forget their names.”

Sentomaru gulps, all bravado leaving him at the feel of those lips so close to his, their alcohol-laden breaths intermingling and shit, maybe he’s more intoxicated than he thought, because otherwise why would his face feel so warm? And why would his hands shake like leaves in the wind at the thought of spending the night with the man in front of him? A man who, by the way, used to be a superior officer of his, and a friend of Uncle... and who is currently sneaking a hand past two layers of clothes to fondle at his tits in the middle of a very much public establishment.

But gods does it feel good to have that cold palm running over flushed skin, cupping and thumbing at an already-stiff nipple, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

“Just one night,” He hates how petulant he sounds – like a little kid, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Ojiki’s laughs at the back of his mind, my pure little baby Maru-chan is finally getting some, heh.

Kuzan hums, affirmative.

“No strings attached, sweetheart. Just some good ol’ fashioned fun.”

That deep baritone has him weak at the knees, a shiver travelling up his spine and breaking out in goosebumps over the skin of his arms, and he realises his defense may in fact not be as strong on all fronts as he thought.

“What do you say?”

He steels himself, mouth dry, and croaks out, “Yes…”

“You sure about that, angel?”

Sentomaru sputters.

“Of course I am! And don’t call me that!”

Kuzan snickers, unbothered by the light punch on the shoulder it gains him. “Okay, okay, just kidding, sweetheart. Come here,” he says and takes Sentomaru’s chin firmly between his thumb and pointer finger. Sentomaru’s eyes stay glued to his lips until the very moment they meet, and only then does he close them, releasing a tense bout of air through his nose.

The first thought that runs through his mind is that the other’s lips are chapped to hell, but it takes a fraction of a second for it to completely leave his mind, as Kuzan’s fingers move to tangle in his hair, short nails scratching and massaging at his scalp.

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” he whispers against Sentomaru’s lips.

They part reluctantly, just long enough to pay and make their way outside, where they stumble over their own feet as Sentomaru leads the way to the inn he’s staying at, Kuzan’s hand never once straying from his side.

His steps falter at the entrance to the room, doubt rising as Kuzan stops with him, throwing him a curious glance. For a moment, the one thing that pervades his mind is the contemplation that he may be doing something stupid. Yet the nagging voice from before is still there.

Don’t be a party pooper Maru-chan, it taunts, have some fun like the rest of us.

His hesitation flies out of the window when he registers an icy kiss pressed at the back of his neck, right at his nape, a shiver running through his whole body as Kuzan spins him around and presses him into the door with a thud, before attacking his lips again.

“Relax,” Kuzan says into his mouth, “You’re fine.”

“I know,” he lies.

Sentomaru opens his mouth, accepting the tongue that explores past his lips. While Kuzan eases him into the heavy kiss, he transfers his hands to Sentomaru’s hips. It seems to be the right thing to do, gauging the other’s audible gasp.

“Good boy,” he rumbles, and nips at Sentomaru’s lip, "Such a pretty little thing."

Those words, spoken so- so casually, have Sentomaru flustered, cheeks turning bright red and hands twitching, making an aborted gesture to come up and cover them out of habit. Kuzan rumbles a laugh, bowing down just enough to whisper in his ear, “My, my, so shy. Is this your first time?"

Sentomaru bares his teeth, pushing at his chest. "Don't treat me like a child."

"I wouldn't," Kuzan says, and it would sound almost condescending if it weren’t for the way his hands are snaking under Sentomaru’s shirt, icy palms kneading at his hips. He isn’t fooling anybody with the calm and collected act, he’s just as desperate for contact as Sentomaru is.

Sentomaru tries to shove him, but he doesn’t budge. "I don't care what you think anyway, you need to-" He growls in frustration. "Just shut the fuck up and get inside!" He unlocks the door, tries to shove Kuzan again, and it’s the closest he can get to politely inviting him in. The other raises an eyebrow and clicks his tongue.

“Bossy, bossy, bossy.”

Before Sentomaru can even think of an answer, he catches up fast and in just a couple of strides he is inside, door slamming closed on his trail. Kuzan’s duffle is thrown in a corner, his coat and sunglasses soon follow. He growls, pulls Sentomaru’s coat and tank free, ripping through buttons and dropping them off. Lets the rest of their clothes follow, his hands working almost frantically, pulling and tearing, freeing sweat-slick skin and tense muscles.

Sentomaru can’t help but marvel as he uncovers the fine work of an ice prosthesis at his left leg, having heard of the fight with Fleet Admiral Sakazuki but not of the cost of such a clash. Kuzan notices his gaze straying, yet doesn’t leave him chance to ask about it. The moment they are both undressed he pulls Sentomaru closer, lifting him up with one arm under his ass, thigh pressing into Kuzan’s own erection. It tears a sound annoyingly close to a gasp from the shorter man.

"Not the time for science. You..." Kuzan’s other hand presses against his asscheek, then he is raised higher, the hold moving to his thighs as fingers slide between tense legs, stroking over his folds and when met with wetness pressing straight in, drawing a moan out of Sentomaru. "...you make me so warm, it’s maddening. Been waiting so long for this, for you, and I have a feeling it’s been the same for you."

Sentomaru hisses, his leg pressing against Kuzan’s cock enough of an answer. That earns him a growl and fingers pressing deeper, reaching into him and drawing out sounds no one ever has. He almost kicks the bastard in response. He groans instead, quickly swallowed by chapped lips newly pressing on his, shutting him up, chasing the last taste of liquor on his tongue.

When Sentomaru’s back hits the mattress he wraps his legs around him. Yet Kuzan seems to have other ideas and lowers him slowly, withdrawing his fingers before pulling back and comfortably settling on his stomach.

“Oi, what are you- gah!”

A chilly breath caresses wet folds. His spine arches into the bed and he grabs a hold of Kuzan’s hair, pulling his head back just so. Their eyes meet and Sentomaru swears he can feel electricity in the air, his mouth completely dry and every hair on his body standing on end as the other makes a show of licking his lips, a hand reaching up to caress the tense calf resting on his shoulder. “Something wrong?” He stares through half-lidded eyes as a blush violently blooms on Sentomaru’s cheeks, waiting.

“It’s- nobody’s ever-” he is quickly silenced by a snort.

“I don’t care for weak people. If anyone chose not to taste such sweetness, I say it’s their loss.”

“Wh-wha-!”

With that Kuzan’s lips move again, brushing his entrance, and his mind completely shuts down for a moment.

Oh.

He barely hears his own strangled moan as the feel of a tongue pressing into his folds registers. It’s like liquid fire being injected into his veins, Kuzan’s hands on his hips a steady pressure holding him down and tilted just enough to allow the older to feast on him. Quickened breaths are almost punched out of him as a cold tongue laps at him slowly, almost experimentally, and then more and more, with the hunger of a dying man presented with the banquet of his dreams. Plump lips suck on his engorged clit, then return to stroke with the flat of the tongue.

"Kuzan," he whimpers, loud in the dingy room. "Kuzan, Kuzan, Kuzan," he repeats reverently, fingers buried into his hair.

The object of such mantra raises his head, eyes gleaming and lips soaked, whispering back. “Angel.”

“Need- need to…”

Kuzan groans breathlessly, nods, presses one, then two, then three fingers back inside. Sentomaru shudders, clenches down around them, gasps for air. His hold tightens in Kuzan’s hair, pulls at it while simultaneously wanting to push him away. Too much, not enough.

Cold fingers piston in and out, tongue never stopping its siege on his clit even as he tenses and shudders and trembles under Kuzan’s ministrations, as the fire in his veins reaches magma-levels of heat and his opening flutters around those slim digits, and it’s so much, too much, he feels like he’s going to break in half from the pressure behind his pelvis if Kuzan doesn’t stop, until-

“Fuck!”

It’s like a bubble bursting. Sentomaru’s back arches off the mattress, streams of liquid squirting out of him that have Kuzan humming in delight.

“There we go, pretty boy,” He purrs, “I think we can get a couple more out of you though.” A flash of a hungry grin passes over those handsome features of his, “Don’t you think? After all,” A thumb presses on his clit and Sentomaru’s back arches, pleasure shooting up his spine at the cool sensation on sensitive skin, “you’ve been so well-behaved, you should be rewarded, hm?”

Kuzan rubs in fast circles, pulls out his fingers leaving him choking on a moan, tensing and clenching around nothing. Sentomaru’s head thrashes from side to side, sobbing out some semblance of Kuzan’s name. He’s soaking wet and dripping, he wants- no, needs, Kuzan to make good on his promise.

“Answer me.”

Sentomaru barely hears it above the static in his ears. Kuzan moves his thumb slower, nothing more than a teasing caress now. “Answer me,” he orders, biting at the soft flesh of his thigh and earning another moan, “Can you take more?” Lips trailing higher, up to his stomach, leaving kisses along the way, “Can I ravish you, the way I’ve always desired?” Higher and higher, mouth latching on a nipple and suckling at it while a hand massages the other.

And Sentomaru, dishevelled, red-faced, sweaty Sentomaru, can only croak out a weak “Yes” before those sinful lips meet his and he’s- he’s damn near folded in half, legs shoved up, hitched on Kuzan’s shoulders as he guides himself to his entrance, so drenched with Sentomaru’s own wetness that he slips in with no resistance.

Kuzan groans through gritted teeth, bottoming out until his pelvis meets the back of Sentomaru’s thighs. Sentomaru slips a hand down, feeling how he’s stretched around him, the heavy balls resting against his entrance, until Kuzan’s own hand wraps around his wrist and slams it to the mattress, holding it down next to his head.

“Stay just like that.”

He’s pulling back now, grunting as he slams in again. The force of it has Sentomaru’s breath hitching, whining at the rough pace he has set up.

“It’s about you, remember?” he grins, jokingly, “Can’t, ah, can’t finish while you still remember your name.”

Kuzan fucks Sentomaru long and deep, grinding in at a quick pace that leaves them both breathless. Every smack of his hips has Sentomaru choking on moans, whimpers falling out of his mouth as Kuzan drives into him wildly.

“Gods, look at you, you’re perfect, sucking me in like this.”

He slams in balls deep, ripping a new cry out of Sentomaru.

“As if you were made for this. For me.”

Sentomaru is sure he’ll never recover from this. He’s dripping on Kuzan’s cock as the other drills into him, pushing in faster, driving in at an angle that has Sentomaru seeing stars. Each slam of his hips leads him closer and closer to the edge as he holds on to Kuzan’s shoulders, muffling his moans in a bite at the curve of his neck, until a hand sneaks down between them and starts circling his clit again.

It leaves him breathless, shivering and squirting with each thrust. Kuzan is relentless in his ministrations, doesn’t stop pounding into him even as he can see him starting to falter, lips pursed around his own groans and sweat beading at his temple. The mask of control the ex-Admiral showed back at the tavern cracking just so.

“So good, taking me so well,” He mutters, hands coming up to Sentomaru’s face, pushing sweaty strands of hair back to cradle his head, thumbs rubbing at his cheeks, catching at the edge of his scar, and finally resting at the corners of his mouth. “What a sight you are,” he presses a chaste kiss to Sentomaru’s temple, “And how lucky I am,” another kiss, this time to a scarred cheek, “To have you like this, all for myself,” another one, to his lips, “Want to, ah, want to fill you up, pretty angel.”

“Yes. Yesyesyes,” Sentomaru’s answering moan is low, his head swimming and his whole body tingling, an overwhelmed mess trying to rock down and meet his thrusts. His cheeks are on fire, Kuzan’s chilly embrace a reprieve from the feverish feeling creeping up on him. “Want it, want you, gods, don’t stop.”

Kuzan’s hips stutter, and Sentomaru gasps against his lips when he slams in deep. It’s like a cool wave rushing into him, unlike anything Sentomaru has ever experienced before. It leaves him mewling, nails clawing at Kuzan’s scarred shoulders as he fucks him through it. Kuzan groans when he convulses one last time, walls squeezing and gushing wetness once more around his shaft before going completely slack, body twitching and tensing.

Sentomaru can feel how full he is, can feel every movement as Kuzan adjusts without pulling out, cock still half-hard and spurting cum inside him. He can hear his own breathless whine as he parts his lips and sucks a mark into the smooth column of Kuzan’s neck, and the soft gasp that earns him.

Kuzan’s hands move back to his face, running over the soft jawline and tilting his chin in a filthy kiss. A slow roll of his hips to test the waters, not invading, but still overwhelming on his battered insides. It has Sentomaru gasping, spine tingling at the sensation, and a sudden idea pops up in the midst of the general haze of his mind.

With a precise roll of his hips, he’s able to flip the older onto his back and straddle his waist. Kuzan for his part doesn’t seem at all surprised by the development – as a matter of fact, his dick only fills out where it now rests against Sentomaru’s inner thigh. His eyes burn into Sentomaru’s.

“Well, go on baby,” he urges with an amused huff, reaching down and dipping two digits in the semen dripping down Sentomaru’s taint, pushing it back into the tight heat, “show me what you can do.”

The bedsheets twist between Sentomaru’s fingers, his head fuzzy with arousal. He levels himself on his knees, spread at Kuzan’s sides, and lines himself up. He lowers himself down slowly, enough to get used to the feeling again, eyes rolling at the feel of Kuzan’s length once more twitching against his walls.

“Fuck,” Kuzan groans when he starts moving, rocking up to meet his pace, “like that, pretty boy.”

“Like that, huh” Sentomaru asks in a burst of confidence, grinding down faster, hips rolling and pitching forward.

“Oh yes,” gods, it does something, hearing that baritone draw out into a needy sound, breath hitching, “you’re perfect, sweetheart.”

Sentomaru stutters out a moan when Kuzan suddenly grabs at his waist, fucking into him until he’s damn near slamming inside, fingers digging harshly into soft, pale flesh and leaving bruises. The sounds coming from this room must be nothing short of pornographic.

 “Gods,” Sentomaru whimpers, hands falling onto the bed. Kuzan’s staring up at him through clouded, half-lidded eyes, mouth parted and cheeks flushed. He looks beautiful, fucking ethereal, and Sentomaru voices that thought.

Kuzan only hums absently in response, but his hands fall to Sentomaru’s hips, short nails scratching ragged lines down to his asscheeks and Sentomaru chokes on a moan, pace stuttering. He shivers on top of Kuzan when one of his hands leaves his skin, burning a trail around his thigh to fit between their bodies.

Kuzan’s thumb returns to the warmth of Sentomaru’s folds, uncaring of how Sentomaru is trembling, barely hanging onto his sanity, desperately close to his release. He bounces up and down on Kuzan’s cock, swiveling his hips, pitching forward and crying out at how fucking good it feels.

“Kuh-,” he whines, “oh ff- fuck, Kuzan.”

“I’ve got you angel, let go.”

Sentomaru’s hands scramble to Kuzan’s arms, bucking into his hand mindlessly, trapped between his fingers and his cock. Kuzan grins wickedly, hips rising off the bed and pumping up faster, and heat coils up in Sentomaru’s stomach, vision blanking as he sits fully on Kuzan’s cock, walls clamping down and a stream gushing around Kuzan’s length, squirting on the flat panes of his abs.

Kuzan doesn’t bother stopping, not when Sentomaru starts milking him, pulsing all around him, bouncing shallowly on his member.

“That’s it,” Kuzan praises around a groan, “that’s it baby boy. So good for me.”

Sentomaru whimpers hoarsely, body trembling as Kuzan doesn’t pause in his ministrations. He keeps pumping up, no hint of mercy. Sentomaru claws at Kuzan’s arms, tears welling in his eyes. With every rock of Kuzan’s hips his lungs feel like they’re closing in, throat clogging up at the feeling.

That’s when Kuzan takes his chance, grabbing at Sentomaru’s sides and reversing their positions back with a smooth motion of his own hips. “Deep breaths, sweetheart,” he orders softly, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Sentomaru nods dumbly, sucking in air even though it feels like it’s getting punched out of him with every grind.

“If you could see how pretty you look,” Kuzan whispers, hands cradling his jaw and squeezing lightly, keeping him in place and sneaking a thumb between his parted lips, “so pretty, filled up with my cum. Mine.”

“Yuh- yes, yes, yours,” Sentomaru moans brokenly around the digit, shallowly sucking on it. Every single one of his nerve endings is focused on Kuzan, on the heated space between them, and his words are apparently what takes to push Kuzan over the edge with a grunt suppressed into a bite at Sentomaru’s neck, ripping a whine and a last, dry, orgasm out of him. One brutal thrust later and he’s spilling inside the other as the temperature in the room suddenly drops.

Kuzan stills, unbothered by the cold wave he seems to have just unleashed all around them as he pants into Sentomaru’s neck, breathing in sync with him for what feels like centuries but must be no more than a minute. When he pulls out, the squelching sound is obscene, anticipating the equally as filthy picture of a pearly trail leaking down Sentomaru’s still-quivering thighs and dropping on the mess of thoroughly drenched sheets underneath them.

Sentomaru himself is a dishevelled mess, looking up at Kuzan through half-lidded eyes, molten brown meeting deep black, his hair spread around his head like a dark halo sent from the skies to crown a new Marine traitor.

Kuzan suppresses the thought, expression softening just slightly as he leans down to capture him in a possessive kiss, fingers threading through the dark strands. He turns away lightly, letting the tip of his nose meet Sentomaru’s cheek. “Come on, angel,” he whispers against the scarred flesh, “we both need a shower.”

Sentomaru grumbles sleepily but complies with no fuss, pushing the soiled sheets off the bed along the way. Thankfully the room has an en-suite, if one could define the cramped little hole-in-the-wall washroom like that. The inn may be no five-star hotel, not by any exaggeration of the word, but at least it’s functional enough.

They wash up in comfortable silence, both clearly fighting to keep their eyes open against the lull of sleep that comes with the amount of liquor circulating in their blood – and with the kind of… activities they just got up to, Sentomaru guesses.

That doesn’t stop them from using up all the available hot water as they sloppily make out in the bath like a couple of teenagers, complete with a lazy blowjob that has Kuzan arching and rutting and spilling thick coolness into Sentomaru’s throat with a bitten off curse.

Once he’s clean Kuzan excuses himself with a last press of lips to the back of his neck, leaving the washroom to Sentomaru. Alone in the small space, he catches his reflection in the tiny mirror hanging above the sink and does a double take at what he sees. He is a mess. Face blotchy, hair mussed and fringe stuck to his face with the humidity. His neck is a canvas of blooming red and purples.

His reflection’s lips tilt in a half-smile. He finds he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

When he comes out, feeling refreshed and much calmer than he ever has in the last couple of weeks, Kuzan is waiting for him on the bed, now with clean sheets from the tiny cupboard sitting in a corner of the room. He scoots over to make space for Sentomaru to lay down, which he does with a thankful nod, and turns to wrap strong arms around him as soon as he’s within range.

The quiet of the room is only broken by the rustling of the sheet as Sentomaru settles in and turns in the embrace so he can glance up at him. He has a pensive air about him, eyes tired yet holding an inquisitive spark, and before he even opens his mouth Kuzan knows what he’s going to ask. Time for serious conversations, then.

“Is it hard?” he wonders, “Being a traitor to them?” there’s no need to specify who they are. They both know all too well who he’s referring to.

Kuzan avoids his stare, mulling over the question. The silence drags on for long enough that Sentomaru’s all but convinced that he is not going to answer at all, and he worries at his bottom lip, wondering if he should simply let it go and let Kuzan go to sleep.

“Nevermind, it was a dumb-”

“It depends.”

Kuzan’s tone is casual, as if they’re discussing the weather rather than the betrayal of one of the Three Great Powers, “At first it’s… disorienting, I guess. You spend most of your life in one setting, and once you get out of it you don’t really know what to do about yourself, but then,” he sighs, closes his eyes, “once you’re out you also start truly seeing how rotten everything was in there.”

And isn’t that a terrible thought, Sentomaru wonders bitterly, mind flashing back to the feel of Uncle’s beams back on Egghead, white-hot and tasting like the realisation of having been played like a damn pawn for all his life.

Kuzan starts fiddling with the shorter hair at Sentomaru’s nape. “I figured my own path from there, started travelling around the world with a crew,” Blackbeard’s crew, Sentomaru reflects with a hint of worry, he means the fucking Ten Titanic Captains, “and from there… no amount of people saying that the Marines can be reformed from the inside will ever have the time of my day anymore. Not after having seen how they really work.” He almost spits out the words, resentment clear on his features before he schools them into a more neutral expression.

There’s a longer story there, one Sentomaru is not privy to.

“Everybody has their own path though, so don’t take my example too seriously, sweetheart,” Kuzan shrugs casually, as if to clear away the heaviness of the topic. “Once you’re out of the system you just gotta learn to live for yourself.” He shakes his head, “Anyways, you shouldn’t concern yourself too much about the Marines. No offense, but you’re not enough of a big fish to spend all their resources on. However…” his expression darkens, a sharp glint sparking into black eyes, “Who you need to worry about is Cipher Pol. They deal in information and you, as a former Marine affiliate, have plenty of it. They will want to make sure you don’t spill the beans to, uh, hostile parties.”

“That means getting rid of me, doesn’t it.”

“…Yeah.”

A tense silence falls over them, only broken by the rustling of sheets as they both mull over the implications of Cipher Pol getting involved.

Sentomaru sighs, offers a curt nod. “I hope it never comes to that, but if they ever catch up to me, I’ll make sure to be prepared.” He tucks in closer to Kuzan as a wave of exhaustion washes over him, sleep sure sounds like a great idea at the moment. His eyelids grow heavy, body melting against Kuzan's embrace as his breathing steadies. The last thing he feels before drifting off completely is Kuzan's hands moving to comb through his hair, and cold lips pressing on the crown of his head.

When he wakes, it’s to a room dimly lit by the first hints of the sunrise that filter through the curtains, and the mattress dipping under Kuzan’s shifting weight. He’s sitting up and putting on his boots, the air around him crackling with his devil fruit’s powers, sending shivers down his spine. “K’zan…?” Sentomaru hums sleepily, reaching out to brush stiff fingers against his back, feeling the raw power thrumming underneath the skin, the powerful muscles, the veins beneath his touch, even through the coat’s heavy fabric. Kuzan twists slightly, pulling away just enough to spare a side-glance at him.

“’S been fun, baby,” he comments unhurriedly, tone matching the ice of his skin rather than the levity of the words, and it’s nothing like last night’s eager, honey-sweet baritone. That has Sentomaru fully awake and sitting up, sheets pooling around his waist and bearing witness to the wide array of purpling marks scattered on his body.

“Is… is anything wrong?”

The other’s expression softens, shoulders sagging as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Just received my orders,” he nods at a tiny Den Den Mushi sitting on the dresser at his side, “been called back to Hachinosu, so I’d better hurry.”

There’s an unhappy twist to his lips, and the strange urge to kiss it away is stronger by the second, but Sentomaru knows it’s better not to, not with the way Kuzan’s whole figure seems tense, coiled tight and ready to spring, so unlike the man who was flirting around last evening at the tavern.

All Sentomaru can offer is a nod of understanding. “Good luck, then. It’s been…” he trails off.

It’s been, what?

Good to see him alive? A fun night? The best sex he’s ever had?

Granted all three of them are true, but what do you say to the man in your bed who you had a crush for when you were both marines and now he’s a pirate and you are a fugitive and he used to be Uncle’s friend –

“Don’t think too hard, sweetheart,” Kuzan chuckles, pulling him out of his nervous spiral, “I can almost see the steam coming out of your ears.”

“Oh! Ahem…” Sentomaru clears his throat and fights the urge to look away as the other stands (and gods, why does he look more imposing now than he ever did wearing an Admiral’s coat?) and circles the bed, coming to a stop at his side and crouching down to be at eye-level. “Sorry, I don’t… I don’t do this often.”

“There’s no need to panic about it,” the statement is followed by a quick peck to his lips, more chaste than anything he would have expected from Kuzan, “It was a wonderful night and we had good fun. Simple as that.”

He ruffles Sentomaru’s hair, avoiding the hand swatting at him, and hoists himself up again, “Ah, I really should go now, or Teach will tear me a new one…” he rubs at his neck, picking up his duffle bag with an exaggerated sigh, “Although it’s a pity… I was really looking forward to eating you out again before we parted ways.”

Sentomaru’s face goes through a variety of red hues before settling on turning completely beet-red, and the wave of unintelligible sounds that follows is an exhilarating background to hear as he makes his way toward the door, until–

“Oi.”

Kuzan half-turns, the black pools of his eyes peeking curiously over the dark lenses.

Sentomaru’s eyes are half-hidden by his fringe as he bows his head in a futile attempt to cover his still blushing face, one corner of the blanket held close and twisted between white-knuckled fingers.

“Have a safe journey. And don’t die.”

He snorts, amused, “I’ll try not to. And you, think about what I said, yeah? You made it out of the system,” He makes a rotating motion with his pointer finger, “Now you just have to go forward and live for yourself, sweetheart.”

With that last reminder Kuzan is out of the room, headed toward the town’s port and, possibly, out of Sentomaru’s life – the world is big, frighteningly so, and he wants to lay low and nurse his emotional and physical wounds, whereas Kuzan… gods, Kuzan is running around with Emperor Marshall D. Teach, not exactly the definition of ‘laying low’.

The chances they’ll meet again are indubitably scarce… but then again, anything is possible on the Grand Line.

He doesn’t know why, but the idea of seeing the ex-Admiral again has something warm and bubbly building in his chest, something not unlike the feeling of contentedness that would make itself at home in his mind during those evenings spent in the lab with Kuma, Bonney, and the two geezers, the five of them eating and drinking and dancing without a care in the world.

Sentomaru is left pondering over it, and over Kuzan’s parting words, hand twisting and tugging at the blankets pooled around him. “Live for myself”, he mutters to himself.

It sounds good, but…

Does that make him selfish? The lab, protecting Punk… it’s all he’s ever known, but now it’s all gone and he wasn’t expected to live past that. He was supposed to be a bodyguard until the end, maybe even die on the job; never would he have expected to outlive the scientist.

Was it wrong of him, not losing his life on Egghead? Does it make him a terrible person, for considering pursuing a life on his own after what happened?

He wouldn’t even know where to start, it’s strange to admit it but he’s always been quite… sheltered seems the best term for it. He has some memories from his time in the woods, of course, but it was a whole different context, and after he was taken in by old Punk and Ojiki there was always one of them with him – that means, he never really had to make the important choices.

No, that was Punk’s job, and sometimes Uncle’s, and when none of them did it then it was some other Marine big shot’s duty. Sentomaru was only there to protect the old man and take care of the Pacifistas, he went where they were needed, kept his senses alert to avoid danger, sometimes helped with repairs on the damaged ones. Nothing more, nothing less.

His mind is so stuck going in circles, he’s not even aware of falling asleep again.

He dreams of the old lab. Of the cheerful dinners whenever Borsalino would visit.

One time, at seven years old, Sentomaru spilled stew all over old Punk’s lap in his rush to get to his bowl, and he was mortified as he tried to clean it up while Borsalino laughed his ass off from across the table.

In his dream, Borsalino does not laugh.

“What are you going to do now, Maru-chan?” he asks instead, in a singsong tone, “He’s dying, don’t you see?”

Sentomaru turns and indeed the stew is no longer the comforting color of spices, taking on more and more red as the pieces of meat splattered on the old man’s shirt turn a sickening dark hue, and he looks up at the Doc only to see two empty eyes staring back from a pale face – the face of a corpse.

He grabs him by the now blood-stained lapels, shakes him, tries to apologise and plead with him but his voice gives out, only an indistinct gurgle coming out of his throat that has him reach to his own neck, where now a strong grip tightens. Ojiki stands behind him, a single hand enough to encircle a kid’s neck completely, with no chance of breaking the hold, and he’s laughing now, chanting, “Just doin’ my job, Maru-chan~ ”

He can’t breathe. He shuts his eyes but the face of Punk’s corpse burns behind his lids. It slowly morphs into Ojiki’s own and then Kuma’s, and Kuma’s growing bright pink hair and grinning at him, no that’s not Kuma but little Bonney, and Bonney’s grin goes all white and with a manic touch that doesn’t look out of place on Straw Hat Luffy’s face, and Straw Hat’s not Straw Hat is he, now he’s Kuzan, whispering sweet nothings at his ear and then lifting a finger from which shoots a beam of light, right into his forehead–

Sentomaru opens his eyes to the ceiling of his room at the inn.

His skin is clammy, the sheets and his hair stick to his body and face in an uncomfortable mess, but he is in a bed. Not at the lab. Far away from any marine activity and, by proxy, from Borsalino’s frightening beams. Kuma, Bonney. Straw Hat, Kuzan. None of them is here. Old Punk, dead. Already six feet under.

He hides his face in his hands, grabs at his bangs. His heart races, something stings at his eyes. His throat burns. His hands itch to break something, but he needs to push the urge down. He doesn’t have enough beri to pay for any damage to the room.

He was… The last thing he remembers is saying his goodbyes to Kuzan, trying to plan his next steps for when he’ll finally be away from this shithole of a town and – oh, fuck.

His head whips up, casting a look at the window and, “Shit.” The sun is almost fully out, weak rays filtering in through the curtain and fully waking him up with the awareness that he’s late for his ride on the merchant ship.

“Shit. Shit shit shit. Fucking shit.”

He has no time to mourn over what has been, he thinks as he rushes around the room to pick up his few belongings and puts an entire vocabulary’s worth of swearwords to use.

He needs to leave this sleepy town and its stillness behind.

Chapter Text

Sentomaru travels for a long time.

The merchant ship dropped him off on a peaceful winter island, where he settled for exactly nine days before setting off again – just long enough to earn some beri by offering to fix any broken machinery that the locals had, for a small price. Well, nobody ever said that the old man’s lessons wouldn’t come in handy one day.

After that, it was a small archipelago known for its hate of the World Government and isolation from it, followed by a stop on one of the outermost islands of Totto Land.

So on and so forth he kept going, catching rides on merchant ships (and, in one instance, on the caravel of a newly-formed pirate crew – he robbed them blind before making his way to the next location) and never stopping in one place for more than a couple of weeks, never letting go of the deep-settled distrust toward any stranger that happened to approach him.

It’s a lonely life on the run, he has to admit, but one that is allowing him to escape capture from the Marines nonetheless. There was a close call near Totto Land, but the arrival of some Sweets Commanders of the Big Mom pirates on the island caused enough of a ruckus to let him slip unnoticed by the officers that had been questioning him, even allowing him to steal a small fishing vessel along the way.

He still wakes up in a cold sweat most nights, bright beams of light and Punk’s lifeless body flashing behind his lids as he struggles to breathe just right through bouts of nausea.

After Totto Land, he manned his newly acquired vessel to Punk Hazard (more like what remained of it, really) and though he couldn’t even step foot on the toxic wasteland it has become, the sight of it still standing there left him with a sense of longing, as if he could have simply walked past the tall fences and make his way through ice and flames to reach the old lab, to find Punk elbow deep in one of his crazy experiments, waiting for him to offer an external input.

Every night, Punk’s blood is thicker and thicker on Sentomaru’s hands, spilling all around him like a fountain, so much red he could drown in it as Borsalino’s white-hot hands push him face down in it until it’s all he can see, red in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, choking him and leaving a bitter tang on his tongue even after he wakes up.

Some nights, little Bonney’s lifeless body lies right beside him in the thick, warm puddle of red, empty eyes pointed towards him and limbs bent at impossible angles, torso riddled with gashes and holes from that damned Lucci’s Zoan form. He tries to reach for her limp hand but it slips between his fingers, only serving to further spread the dark liquid on them. Those are the worst nights, and have Sentomaru make a close acquaintance to the toilet seat as he rushes to spill his guts into it day in and day out, throwing up what little food he can manage to keep down the previous evening.

He catches himself thinking about Kuzan often, wondering what the ex-Admiral may be doing, if he is even alive. It sure came as a shock to Sentomaru, getting the NewsCoo on the ship a couple of days after their encounter and reading about all hell breaking loose on Hachinosu, where a fight between Vice-Admiral Garp and the pirate who once was his protégé had taken place. That man really has a curse of raising enemies, he’d thought.

Besides some generic information about the fight, however, the article made no mention of how it ended – apparently, the few witnesses that had been there had reported different outcomes, and neither party had been seen since, making it impossible to fact-check.

That lack of news left Sentomaru with a nagging sense of anxiety over the both of them – Garp may be absolutely batshit, but the Vice Admiral nonetheless gained Sentomaru’s respect in many ways over the years, he would definitely hate to see that special brand of crazy of his disappear from the world. While Kuzan is… well, he’s Kuzan.

It’s not strange for Sentomaru to worry over him, right?

It’s completely normal to want the details of a fight between two people you know. Even if you had a tryst with one of them and the other would try to arrest you on sight if he ever saw you again. Definitely normal, nothing to see here.

It’s just… he wouldn’t know how to explain it if asked, but whenever Sentomaru thinks about that night he spent with Kuzan his breath hitches just so. Whenever his mind strays toward that flirty conversation held over a couple of too-strong drinks, sitting on mismatched stools, his palms start sweating.

Perhaps… Perhaps the puppy crush Sentomaru used to have on Admiral Aokiji wasn’t really gone as he’d thought. He can at least admit that to himself – and oh, Ojiki would surely laugh his ass off if he knew.

Aw, little Maru-chan has a crush on a Marine, huh? You can tell your old Unc about them, you know? I won’t say a peep!

Eeeh? Admiral Aokiji? That Aokiji? Are you feeling alright, Maru-chan? Should I get the Doc? Do you have a fever?

He ends up suppressing those memories every time his traitorous brain feels like reminding him about them, just as he does with anything Borsalino-related. It’s whatever, he guesses. He has no time to spend worrying over a silly crush from years ago, let alone over how that bastard Ojiki would react to it.

Before he knows it, he has spent almost five months travelling.

When he realizes it, he figures he might stick around for a tiny bit longer in the village he’s been staying in for the last week – he should have put enough distance between himself and the Marines to be able to take a breather.

The spring island of Lanayru is home to four villages: Ranel, the one he has settled in, is the biggest. It’s located in a well-protected valley surrounded by mountains on all sides, not too small but not exactly that much of a big town either, and it’s well connected to the other three, allowing it to have a stable quality of life through the exchange of goods with them. Sentomaru hates to admit it but as much as it’s not home… it’s nice.

Maybe still a bit too quiet for his tastes, but enjoyable nonetheless.

He’s currently working as an apprentice of sorts for the town smith, Tai, a frail-looking geezer who spends half of the work day fawning over his spouse of forty-something years, and the other half talking shit about the good-for-nothing drunkard sonuvabitch their sweet daughter married.

It’s not as bad as he had expected. If anything Sentomaru - Sen, as they know him by - enjoys having the free entertainment as he works.

Tai’s a good one, he thinks. Asked no questions when he found a foreigner at his doorstep in search of a job, nor when he avoided revealing too much about his past – the man seems satisfied with what little information he has, as long as Sentomaru works well and doesn’t fuck up his projects. He pays more than enough for an apprenticeship, too.

Tai’s wife, Edin, is nothing like what he had expected her to be after having heard Tai’s stories. Before meeting her, he had imagined a soft-spoken housewife dressed in pink frilly aprons, based on the man’s accounts. That is why Sentomaru had surely been in for a surprise of his own when, one day, she passed by the ‘shop to drop something off and revealed herself to be as much of a punk as her husband, if not even more.

Taller than Tai, with her body covered in tattoos and strong features that seem perpetually set on a scowl, Edin’s first words to Sentomaru were “I don’t trust you, boy.”

Suffice to say, she didn’t seem very convinced by his cover story, eyeing him with a frown when he claimed to be a carpenter from Wano who’d ended up lost outside of its confines and had his ship ransacked by pirates.

From what little Sentomaru has seen of her, he can tell she is a force of nature, and would gladly avoid ever angering. Shortly after that first encounter, he was astonished to find out that she also is the beloved mayor of Ranel.

Tai and Edin’s daughter, Nayru, is as sweet as her father had made her out to be. She’s named after a goddess, Tai once told him, the one that, according to their people’s legends, used infinite wisdom to help her sisters create the island’s first settlements. Legend has it, her sisters were so thankful for the help from their youngest, that they named the island after her. Thus, Lanayru.

Sentomaru has seen her just a couple of times in the week he’s been here, but she has already carved a small soft spot in his heart. She is a nurse, and that makes her busy at all times working odd hours at the town’s only hospital, yet somehow she finds ways to hide small packages containing homemade snacks around the workshop every day, for her father and his apprentices to find and enjoy.

There is something, about Nayru, that reminds Sentomaru of Pythagoras. Ever the peacemaker between the other satellites and caring about old Punk to the point of coming off as invasive, that one – Nayru is similar in the way she appears to be the only one who can mediate her parents’ spats.

She also seems to want to nurture everyone around her, no matter how big or small, young or old. She pestered Sentomaru to the point of revealing his carefully hidden tattoo, not believing his claims of the bandages barely covering a drunk choice he regrets – at least, thankfully, the kanji spelling Sen had corroborated his story. Nayru laughed to the point of tears at the reveal.

As Tai is so fond of repeating, she truly is a delightful person.

The same unfortunately can’t be said of her husband, if the badly-concealed bruise on her face and fingerprints around her wrists the first time he met her are anything to go by. Tai ranted about that too, once, confessing that he’s always wished nothing more than to beat that drunk asshole to a pulp but that Nayru has very explicitly forbidden it, claiming that if he dared kill her beloved, she would follow by jumping from the closest bridge.

When Tai told him, sheer anger coming off him in waves, something in Sentomaru’s heart broke a little.

He wouldn’t judge something as complicated as Nayru’s situation, never that. But…

He is, dare he say it, a bit envious of her. Growing up in your hometown, surrounded by people you love and who love you back to the point of being willing to stain their hands and reputation of a crime, if it means protecting you… Sentomaru has never had something like that. That must be why it burns a little, knowing that Nayru still chooses her husband’s violence over her parents’ unconditional love.

As soon as they came up, he pushed those thoughts deep, deep in the recess of his mind, ashamed of himself for ever letting his mind follow such a selfish trail of thought. After that day, he started keeping an eye on Nayru from afar whenever he can, making sure nothing seems out of the ordinary with the girl.

He doesn’t even know why he does so, since he will soon move on to some other place. It just feels alright, maybe some part of Sentomaru just sees it as a way to repay the whole family’s kindness.

The other villagers are nice enough too, he guesses, it’s not like he has been here long enough to get to know them well (and he has never really experienced community, of all things, has he?), but they seem alright, all things considered.

It wouldn’t be too bad, sticking around for more than a couple of weeks.

The problem with that thought is that Sentomaru only expressed it out loud once, yet that was apparently all it took for Tai and Nayru to start getting absurd ideas like- like trying to help him find a house to stay in permanently (he cannot, will not, let them know how tempting he finds said ideas).

The day his life takes another unexpected turn finds him dealing exactly with a bout of stubbornness on their side of the argument.

“For the last time, old man, I said I may stay a bit longer, not forever!”

Sentomaru straightens up, running a hand through his fringe and swiping it back from where it stuck to sweaty skin in the humid air of the workshop – it has become quite long, he should really invest in some hair ties and clips. Or maybe chop it all off, that might be less messy on the job.

“Bwahaha! Why not? You already have a job here!” Tai keeps hammering away, both literally and figuratively, “You can just get that shack on the edge of the woods for a few hundred beri and make it good as new with our help! Which, may I remind you, would be for free!”

On the edge of his vision Ilia, Tai’s other apprentice, nods her head vigorously as she carefully pulls her project out of the forge and gets to work on it.

“Yeah! You’d be set with only the best of the best workers!”

Sentomaru snorts, turning back to his own hammer to hide the smirk pulling at his lip, “And the best of the best… does it include you?”

“Huh-uh, ‘course it does!”

“Then you may want to rework that padlock. You kept it in too long, it’s too weak now.”

“Shit!”

He shakes his head, laughing as she hastily uses her tongs to take it off her work bench and submerges it in the basin full of coolant next to it.

She leaves it in there just to turn around and stomp her foot, pointing a finger at his chest with all the energy her tiny body can muster, “Hey! You did it on purpose!”

Sentomaru looks at her form barely reaching his chest, eyebrow twitching.

“You’re right. I definitely used my secret Metal-Metal Fruit powers to warp your padlock. You got me.” He admits, monotone.

“Oh shut up, buckethead!”

“Dum dum.”

“Fart-face!”

“Buttmunch.”

“Kids, behave.”

The clanking of Tai’s tools stops as he walks around the corner and interrupts them. “What’s all this ruckus about?”

“He started it!”

Sentomaru sighs, rolls his eyes at the childish exclamation, “I told Ilia she overheated her padlock and now she thinks I somehow caused it to warp.”

A nineteen-years-old born and raised in Ranel, Ilia’s spitfire reputation preceded her, being the first thing Tai warned Sentomaru about as soon as he took him on as a second apprentice, but despite her hot-headedness and brusque ways, the constant quipping and arguing over the dumbest things feels refreshing. Familiar, even, in a way.

“Ilia, you should accept criticism by your peers when you work.” Tai huffs at the red-faced teen, and Sentomaru opens his mouth, about to smugly claim his victory – only to shut it with a click as the old man turns to him with an equally stern face, “And Sen, you should think better of starting a fight with a kid half your age.”

Ilia bursts into laughter as he groans.

“Ugh, whatever, old man.”

It happens as Tai is pulling the offending piece of metal out of the coolant basin to study it, as Ilia and Sentomaru stick their tongues out at each other behind his back.

There is a commotion outside, yells echoing along the whole street and the sound of someone running just outside the workshop. All three of them stop what they are doing in a heartbeat, spines straightening and heads snapping toward the entrance almost in unison.

Someone runs through it, after a sharp turn that has them checking one side of their body hard on the doorframe. They scramble inside on shaky legs and pull at the heavy iron door, trying to close it behind them. When the task proves to be too heavy for sweaty hands, they call out.

“Help! Please- please, help! He’s after me!”

The figure turns, and nothing could ever have prepared Sentomaru for such a situation, because this person… they are not just any random person.

It’s Nayru, Tai’s daughter.

Time stops as she faces them.

She is covered in blood, from the look of it her own as it oozes from what seems to be a pretty deep cut on her temple and many smaller ones scattered along her arms. One of her eyes is puffy and reduced to a slit, on its way to develop an impressive shiner, her lip is also split and – oh, Gods.

On her neck sits a dark bruise. A thick ring that, if Sentomaru were to guess, would perfectly match the shape of a hand wrapped around Nayru’s throat.

A sharp intake of breath from Tai is all it takes for the spell to break, and all three of them snap into action.

Tai himself rushes to his daughter’s side as Sentomaru locks all entrances to the workshop and Ilia goes in search of one of the heavy-duty medical kits they keep under all of the workbenches.

Once done with the task, Sentomaru carefully approaches father and daughter. Tai hasn’t lost any time, is handling a DenDen with Edin’s features, his own warped in a look of pure rage Sentomaru has never witnessed on him, as Nayru tries to explain in-between sobs. Except, he realizes as he steps closer, she’s not explaining.

“ -ver done this, I swear Pa, I don-I don’t know what came over him, he just need- needs some time to calm down but he’ll- he will be a-alright when I go back…”

She’s making excuses for her husband.

Her abusive, piece of shit husband.

The world around Sentomaru turns red.

He takes the one stride still separating him from where she stands with Tai’s arm around her shoulders. “Are you done lyin’ to yourself?”

Somewhere behind him something hits the heavy door once, twice. The sound of banging fists against metal followed by angry, alcohol-slurred yells.

“W-What?”

Tai hisses something at him, Edin’s voice comes out of the DenDen in questioning tones – he tunes them out. Nayru stares up at him in frightened stupor. Sentomaru doesn’t care if she’ll be scared of him after today. He doesn’t.

He pushes the thought aside instead, and snaps, “Don’t you have any dignity?” She gasps, but he goes on, unperturbed, “You let this, this asshole, use you as a punching bag, because he says he loves you, but love is nothing like that!”

Sentomaru’s idea of love does not include finger-shaped bruises and concussions – he wasn’t strong enough to stop the people he considered family from beating him and killing each other, but he can at least try to snap Nayru out of her romantic fantasy.

“Love is not violent. I don’t know where you got the idea from, Nayru, but it’s not- it’s not supposed to be like this.” His shoulders slump, a weight he didn’t even know was there suddenly pressing down, down, down. Suffocating him.

Suddenly the banging on the door sounds a lot like laser beams hitting concrete.

He steps back, breathing hard. He can’t hear anything over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Glances at Tai, looking on with a thunderous expression, at Ilia, standing in a corner with the medical kit clutched in both hands and pulled close to her tiny frame. At the DenDen sporting the mayor’s severe frown.

“I may not be the highest authority on this stuff, but what I know is that your loved ones are not supposed to beat you up.” Or leave you half-dead and bleeding out of a hole in your chest to be found by the Marines.

Shit, he can still smell that copper tang, it’s been stuck on him since Egghead island went up in flames, makes him want to pull at his hair, tear at his own skin, anything to make it disappear.

He feels nauseous.

Nayru is looking at him silently now, a mess of tears and snot running down her face as Ilia approaches and quietly sets to work on her injuries. She could be looking through him rather than at him, from how empty her expression is. She might be in shock, he faintly realizes. It… makes sense, he supposes.

The banging persists.

Tai mutters something into the DenDen about sending help to the workshop, Edin’s answer lost in the noise echoing throughout the place.

Sentomaru sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. He is so fucking tired. “Don’t worry old man. I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care- huh?” Tai sputters, eyes flashing between Nayru and him, clearly reluctant to leave her side, “Oi, come back here, brat!”

The old man’s yell falls on deaf ears as Sentomaru takes a steel bar from the pile of scraps they keep at the ready in the workshop on his way out and weighs its resistance in the palm of his hand – it’s not even close to his faithful axe’s mark, but it will do.

In just a couple of strides, he reaches the main entrance of the workshop, the one where all the banging and shouting is coming from.

The door suddenly opening under his kicks must be a surprise, because the asshole almost falls over as Sentomaru slips out of it and locks it behind himself.

His nose wrinkles at the heavy stench of alcohol and puke mixed with blood – Nayru’s blood, he faintly realizes – that makes his stomach roll. The man is drunk as a skunk, that much is painfully clear, but that does not absolve him of his actions.

“Oi, big guy!” The bastard hollers, each slurred word like nails on a chalkboard to Sentomaru’s ears, “Lemme in, my wife’s in there!”

He tries to step around Sentomaru, and seems to grow more irate by the second as every step he takes to try and circumvent him is matched by one on Sentomaru’s part, so that the door is always covered by the ex-bodyguard’s taller frame.

Sentomaru wants, oh he wants so much, to punch this guy’s face in, but he knows he has to keep his cool. He can’t blow his cover story because of some drunk bastard who decided he wanted an ass-whooping by a former Marine.

That is why, instead of breaking every single one of the man’s bones, he tries to sound as menacing as possible as he growls, “Leave Nayru alone.”

The man, for his part, blinks at him before laughing like a lunatic.

Some bystanders are looking at them from the other side of the street now, curiosity taking over as voices get louder and are carried by the wind. They whisper among themselves, glancing in their direction and at the workshop as if witnessing a particularly interesting art exhibit.

“You heard me, this is a family matter, big guy. Better step aside if you don’t wanna get hurt.”

He swings a punch at the end, right as the word ‘hurt’ leaves his lips, but the alcohol is clearly inhibiting his abilities, if the ease with which Sentomaru is able to sidestep and par the hit with one hand is anything to go by.

His hand wrapped around the man’s fist, he takes his chance and squeezes hard, hard enough to feel the other’s bones grind together in his grip, and, he has to admit, relishing a bit in the whimpers it earns him.

“And you heard me,” Sentomaru hisses back, the knuckles of his other hand whitening around the steel bar at his side, “Stay away from Nayru.” He relinquishes his grip on the bastard’s hand with a push, sending him sprawling to the floor, and does not lose any time as he points the bar at his head, an unspoken yet serious threat. “The Mayor’s guards are already on their way, so I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”

He is not exactly sure they are, to be honest, but he might as well bluff a little.

So focused he is on the man’s sneer, he doesn’t notice the workshop’s heavy door opening behind himself until the sound of footsteps and Tai’s voice reaches him.

“Sen!”

However, it takes that single moment of distraction, a single side-glance, for the asshole to slip from his hold and grab the edge of the steel bar; in a swift move, faster than he would have given a drunkard credit for, the man pulls at the bar, forcing Sentomaru down with it, and deals a blow to his solar plexus with the heavy thing.

His vision goes white, and he falls to his knees.

The pain makes it hard to breathe, and his stomach is suddenly rebelling, acid bile burning in his throat as he coughs and coughs and coughs, hands slipping over the smooth cobbled stone of the street as he tries to hold up his weight.

His hearing explodes with what feels like hundreds of different sounds close to his ears, his fake name shouted by what he realizes are Tai and Ilia’s voices, but his eyes zero in on the smug expression twisting that man’s features.

“Heh. I knew you ain’t shit, big guy. You see,” he crouches next to Sentomaru’s kneeling form, grabbing at dark strands of hair and pulling, his head back, enough to whisper in his ear, “I do what I want with my wife. And she really needs a good beating or two to remind her of her place.”

There is no stopping Sentomaru from throwing himself at the bastard with all of his strength now – the piece of shit might as well have asked for it.

Choking on a pained groan behind gritted teeth, he suddenly snaps his head to the side, putting as much force as he can into headbutting the man – if there is one thing Borsalino taught him well, it’s to fight dirty. That is why, as soon as the man’s grip on his hair relents to go cradle a most probably broken nose, now gushing red all over his face, Sentomaru makes sure to keep him down, straddling him and repaying the hit to the stomach in kind.

He was planning to keep things at a minimum, but now, as the asshole under him spews insult after insult and tries to buck up and dislodge him, Sentomaru catches Nayru’s eye from afar. She is pale, with a makeshift bandage wrapped around her head, and her eyes are alight with fear. It makes something shift inside Sentomaru.

Dark eyes fall to the absolute piece of garbage still beneath him and, as if of its own volition, Sentomaru’s arm moves.

He punches the man again. And again. And again.

His knuckles split over the other’s nose and cheekbones, but he can’t bring himself to care as the man cries out in pain – now he knows what he made Nayru go through, the asshole.

The man yells at him to stop, please stop, echoed by different voices around them, and Sentomaru does. He does stop, against his wishes, and even if the stark hues of dark hair and bloodied teeth against cobbled stone remind Sentomaru so much of Rob Lucci that he craves nothing more than to resume bashing his head in.

When the guards arrive he’s still straddling Nayru’s husband, unconscious as he is now, but Sentomaru would be lying to himself if he said that he was not standing out of simple fatigue. The smell of blood in the air is thicker now, iron filling his lungs and what feels like his whole being, and he doesn’t get so much as a second to breathe it out before his stomach lurches and he has to roll to the side, spine tight as a bow as he heaves.

Only now does he realize how cold he feels, as he retches in the middle of the street. His skin is clammy yet burning hot, hair sticking to his temples with sweat even as he shivers. From the corner of his eye, he spots someone, a guard, pulling Nayru’s husband up and putting cuffs on him before taking him away. Good.

And there she is, Nayru herself. A deep frown pulls at her features, and her lips move, but Sentomaru can’t really make out what she is saying over the ringing in his ears. He just… he needs to rest a little, he will surely feel better after. He’s had worse.

Dark spots dance in his vision, but the last thing he feels is a pair of warm hands cupping his face, running slim fingers through his hair, pulling it back – and then, everything goes dark.

When Sentomaru comes to, he’s in a bed.

He opens bleary eyes to find he’s been brought to what seems like a hospital room. It’s small, cramped, but there is no danger as far as he can see – his Observation Haki does not want to put its work in, though… maybe he’s been drugged?

No, that can’t be it.

A headache is forming behind his orbits and it hurts like a bitch, but he thinks he can remember if he just concentrates enough. He was arguing with Ilia over the damn warped padlock, Tai stepped in to keep the quiet in the workshop, and then…

Nayru’s face, streaked with blood.

Her husband, drunk and shouting threats through the door.

His knuckles splitting over that douchebag’s nose and cheekbones, over and over.

Arms holding him up, pulling him away from the ground, slippery with blood and vomit.

He shoots up from the bed so fast that the room starts spinning around him, but he can’t let it deter him, he needs to check up on Nayru and Tai, and, and Ilia-

The door to the room opens, snapping him into action. Unfortunately, he seems to have underestimated his headache, because as soon as he’s out of bed and taking a step, it feels like his head is being split in two on his own axe.

From the door, in rushes a woman wearing a light blue uniform, who startles at the sight of Sentomaru and in a single stride comes to stand in front of him, not-so-gently pushing him back to sit down on the bed, “Sir, you shouldn’t be up and about!”

“No- wait, I need to…!” She ignores him and turns around, all business, pulling out a cup and some tablets, which she forces into his hands, “Oi, Miss! I need to check on my… uh…” Friend? Acquaintance? Boss’ daughter?

A perfectly sculpted brow raises as she shoots a side glance at him while producing a stack of papers from Nika-knows-where and pulls the small stool sitting in a corner of the room in front of him, taking a seat. “If you mean my colleague Nayru, who came in with you,” she utters carefully, “She’s already been treated for all of her injuries and discharged. Actually, she’s waiting just outside this room.”

Sentomaru’s next breath comes much easier, his chest free from a weight he hadn’t realised was there.

The stool puts her in a much lower position than he is, but even with that height difference, he feels quite like a tiny ant being scrutinized under a magnifying glass by a devious child, unaware of the fire that is going to consume it.

The nurse, for only a nurse she could be at this point, shuffles her papers and nods at the tablets still sitting in his palm, “One is vitamin and the other is a painkiller. Take it.”

He does as instructed, keeping a careful eye on her as she studies him back.

“So uh… can I leave now?”

She ignores him and instead keeps on looking, a pensive expression painted on her severe features and manicured nails tap-tap-tapping on the edge of her stool. He squirms a little under her gaze.

“Mister…” a quick glance at the stack in her hand, “Sen, were you aware of being pregnant?”

“What.”

There’s a faint buzzing sound coming from somewhere – it’s distracting, leaving him unable to focus on the nurse’s words.

“Sixteen weeks, to be precise, just entered the second trimester.”

The buzzing becomes louder, much louder. It takes Sentomaru a good couple of seconds to realize it’s in his own head. He shakes it hard, as if that could make it go away, and indeed it does not – but the ache that was starting to subside does rear its ugly head back.

“What? No- I’m not- it can’t be-”

“When you came in, we were told of a hit to your stomach. The doctor who led your physical examination then found some abnormal swelling in the chest and abdominal area, and was adamant on a more thorough check-up. We weren’t able to understand what the mass was at first, the doctor even hypothesized a tumour, to be honest, but then we ended up testing hormone levels… and with yours? Sir, you are indeed very pregnant.”

“But… I’m on-”

“Sir,” she makes it sound almost like an insult, “Gender-affirming hormone therapy does not work as contraceptive. With all due respect, didn’t the medical practitioner who led your transition warn you?”

Sentomaru bows his head, self-conscious and thankful for the chance to hide behind the curtain of his longer hair. He can’t really tell her he did it at a World Government facility, supervised by a scientist whose insight into genetics and biology specialized mostly in cloning and creating human weapons, can he?

He forces out a chuckle, “It… uh, it must’ve slipped my mind.”

The nurse pinches the bridge of her nose, shakes her head at him. “Well, at least we know why you haven’t thought twice about fighting that pathetic excuse of a man Nayru married.”

She seems to relax in her seat, producing a pen and scribbling notes on her stack of papers, “I’m Arya, by the way. I’m the lead midwife – the doctor had you moved to my ward when results came in.”

Sentomaru hums. Not exactly a nurse, then.

“So... let’s start by saying this: you have a choice.” She scribbles some more, taps her nails on the edge of the stool again, “You made it until now in a healthy enough condition, you could sustain the pregnancy with no issues given the right adjustments, if you wish to keep it.” Tap, tap, tap. It’s really getting on Sentomaru’s nerves. “If you’d rather not, instead, we offer plenty of choices for removal – although, given you’re already around the sixteenth week, the safest one would be surgery, of course.”

She finally raises her eyes from the papers and looks at him expectantly, as if she hasn’t just bombarded him with a shit ton of information. Sentomaru blinks, unsure of what to answer. He isn’t even sure he has processed the… the news yet.

There’s a strange itch just behind his eyes.

“Uh… can I… think about it?”

She seems surprised by the request – how can she be, Sentomaru wonders, when she’s just had to tell him that he’s been pregnant for the past months?

“Oh, of course. Let me just…” She stands and takes half of the stack with her, offering the other half to him instead, “You might want to read these.”

Sentomaru takes it, cautiously keeping it at a distance as if it were a faulty PX circuit ready to explode. It’s a bunch of leaflets, mostly, although something serious and official-looking peeks at him from the pages underneath them. His eyes narrow at the picture of a happy family printed onto the topmost one, bright pink text flashing Take Care of Yourself – Plan Ahead! at him from above a happy mother’s head.

The midwife clears her throat, “There’s stuff you might want to know in there. Once you make your decision, you can book an appointment and we will plan together for what is to come, whichever you end up choosing. Of course the sooner you decide, the better.” She gestures at the official papers under the leaflets, “Under that are discharge papers.”

Sentomaru can only nod absently as he thumbs through the papers and she stands, ready to make her way out. She hesitates, however, and it seems she has more to say, as she turns and plants her hands on her hips. “Now… can I let Nayru in?”

“Uhm. Excuse me?”

“Nayru! She’s been bugging me the whole time you’ve been passed out. I get it, she’s really worried about you, but damn… she knows we don’t allow guests in when the patient is asleep!”

It is somehow in equal parts reassuring and terrifying, knowing Nayru has been waiting for him to wake up. Perhaps though, he thinks as the pile of leaflets perched on his lap catches his eye again, it’s more reassuring than anything. He has never really done – this. Being amicable with another person outside of his (very) limited circle of acquaintances. Having that person be willing to wait for him to wake up in the hospital to visit him, despite having their own injuries to think about.

Neither old Punk nor Borsalino were ever big on that kind of stuff, Sentomaru could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he woke up after passing out due to over-exertion in his training and found somebody checking on him – and most of those times, it was either Punk-03 or Punk-04.

His throat feels almost clogged, all of a sudden. It’s as if there’s a small mass pressing right into the walls of it, blocking his airways and making it hard to breathe without feeling like there’s a burning sting right behind his nose and eyes.

The midwife is looking at him now, expecting an answer. Her eyes narrow, but if she catches onto the utter chaos going through his mind right now, she does not say a word about it.

Sentomaru nods again, chokes out a low “Yes.”

She nods back, making her way to the door and exchanging a few hushed words with the figure waiting right behind it as soon as it opens. The figure rushes in, and Sentomaru barely registers the midwife’s parting “I’ll leave you two alone” as she exits.

Nayru stands in front of him like someone that clawed her way right out of a nightmare.

She has a neat, short line of stitches running along her left temple, and there are bandages peeking out of her hospital shirt’s neckline, but overall she seems to be doing well enough. She does not hesitate as she rushes to Sentomaru’s side, eagerly sitting next to him on the bed. “Ilia told me about what you did.”

“Of course she did,” Sentomaru rolls his eyes so far back into his head it feels like they’ll pop out of their orbits, “she should really learn to mind her own business. It’s annoying.”

“You like her all the same.”

“…Yeah, I like her all the same.”

Nayru huffs a laugh. She starts fiddling with a corner of the sheet though, barely disguising her apprehension as her baby blue eyes avoid meeting his own. Sentomaru lets her be, allows her to gather her thoughts-

“Thank you, Sen. I think… I needed that wake up call.”

Oh. He was ready to face screams and insults. This is… unexpected.

“Yeah, don’t… don’t mention it.”

“But don’t you ever, ever insult me in front of Pa and Ma again or they’ll probably eviscerate you.”

“Uh… noted?”

Nayru rolls her eyes, somehow already understanding his inner turmoil without him spilling a single word about it yet, “You know I am not going to yell at you, right, Sen?”

That’s what he doesn’t understand – he meddled into her business, and yelled at her in a time when he definitely shouldn’t have, because of his own perceptions. Shouldn’t she be angry?

“I don’t get it.” he huffs. “But I respect your choice of not yelling at me, I guess.” A deep breath leaves him, and he squints at her, “Still, I am sorry. For… you know. Saying you have no dignity.”

She shakes her head, heaving a big sigh. “Let’s just put all of this behind us, alright?”

“Alright.”

She squeezes his arm comfortingly, and the movement brings her attention to the papers still clutched in his hand.

“Oh. Arya- my colleague, she told me about…” she clears her throat, does a vague hand gesture encompassing his belly, “That.”

Sentomaru’s breathing hitches just so. “Yeah… that.”

“Sorry, you had no next of kin so they wrote my name down…” she scratches at the back of her neck, the bashful display a first for her, “And… I was worried like crazy and kept bugging them to know how you were doing.”

“It’s alright.” Even though nothing really feels alright anymore in his life. It hasn’t for months, if he has to be honest.

The silence stretches between them, the faraway ticking of a clock down the hall the only sound breaking it for a good couple of minutes. Unexpectedly, it’s not uncomfortable at all – if anything it allows Sentomaru to collect his thoughts at least for a bit, drifting through the day’s happenings.

Nayru clears her throat.

“What are you going to do about it?”

There it is. It’s the million beri question, isn’t it?

Sentomaru is not dumb. He knows whose little parasite it is.

Slim, cold hands cupping his face, chapped lips pressing on his own, a whisper of his name leaving them in-between kisses.

He shakes his head, “I don’t… I don’t know.” The sheets beneath them rustle as he crosses his arms, uneasy, “I’m not really good at- at this.” Whatever ‘this’ is supposed to mean. Planning. Kids. Both.

Not for the first time since that damned Buster Call on Egghead he wishes old man Punk were here with him, wishes he could ask the geezer for advice or even hear him ramble about the wildest experiments. He wishes he could just- stop thinking for a moment.

The headache from before resumes, never actually stopped, really, just reduced to a low thrum pulsating behind his temple as the painkillers did their job; now they’re leaving his system and it’s akin to what a metal nail slowly being hammered into his cranium would probably feel like.

He resists the urge to puke when Nayru shuffles closer and the bedframe shifts under their combined weight, a sudden bout of vertigo making itself known with the slightest movement.

“You know you have people who care about you, right?” Her eyes meet his this time, studying, scrutinizing. “Pa, Ilia, me- hell, even Ma would help you in a heartbeat if you just said the word,” her laugh echoes loud throughout the room, free as it hadn’t been before, “She likes to act all tough, but she’s actually a softie at heart!”

That has an amused huff breaking through his lips. A whole group of people, worried for him? It’s difficult to believe as of right now. Still, he knows Nayru is nothing but her honest self when she tells him this.

What to do, what to do.

Having a kid… it sounds difficult.

Did Borsalino and Punk have the same dilemma, before taking him in? Of course, he was already a bit older and more independent than an actual newborn when they found him, so it’s not exactly the same case, but they must have thought about it, right? What had been going through their heads when they found him wandering the woods, all alone and looking for a fight?

Well, they didn’t have to ponder the chances of having to travel as fugitives while taking care of little kid Maru-chan, that’s for sure.

That would indeed be a problem, wouldn’t it. Kids aren’t made to withstand the kind of harsh traveling Sentomaru has been doing in the last few months – the kind he was planning to keep up for the foreseeable future.

On the other hand… it would be his baby. Family, for whatever worth the term ever held to him anyway.

His baby, and Kuzan’s.

And he may not have been the best caretaker compared to Kuma’s soft parenting nature, but looking after little Bonney had been fun, and he’d been half-decent at it. He’d genuinely liked the kid, as much as her tantrums had made him want to rip out his own hair sometimes.

He hasn’t encountered Marine activity in the last couple of places he visited before Lanayru.

Perhaps he could really stay in Ranel, build a life here. He has a job he enjoys enough, and people he might hesitantly call friends – if it weren’t for the fact that they don’t actually know who he is. They don’t know he might put in danger the entire island just by being on it.

Looking into Nayru’s earnest eyes now, he knows he can’t do something like that to these people who have been nothing but kind to him, even when they could have just decided not to trust the new foreigner in town.

Maybe he should just get rid of it and fuck off as soon as he can stand from the hospital bed.

He scrubs a hand down his face, the other tightening around the hospital’s forms.

“Nayru…” He starts. Stops there, words untold hanging between them in the cramped hospital room. His stomach keeps rolling.

She studies him with an intensity akin to that of Hawkeyes Mihawk himself, never stopping the comforting pats to his arm as she apparently decides to drop a bombshell into the silent room. “You know, you should talk to my mother.”

That… is even more unexpected than her not being angry.

“Eh?”

“Let’s just say… she kind of… knowsaboutyou.”

All colour drains from Sentomaru’s face. “What?”

Nayru takes his reaction as surprise, blinking at him as she stands. “Alright. Promise me you won’t freak out or try to run.”

“You’re not really making it sound reassuring, you know?”

She places herself in front of Sentomaru, now at eye-level since he is still sitting. “I swear it’s not bad!” Her eyes zip all around the room, avoiding his own wide stare, “She… she made research on you and knows who you are!”

“What?”

“She hasn’t told anyone, I swear! She didn’t even tell me, I found out by snooping around in her office!”

Sentomaru’s heart clenches. It takes all of his willpower not to rush outside and move to the farthest island from here, a voice not dissimilar to that of Old Punk at the back of his head screaming at him to run, run, run.

His stomach plummets, it doesn’t help that it’s been rebelling against him even before this shitshow happened – well, at least now he knows why. He tries to keep his cool, breathing in.

Breathing out, and in again. It does not work.

“Nayru.”

“Yes?”

“Please, pass me that bin.”

Sentomaru sighs.

After puking up what little he had left in his stomach and what felt like an entire month’s worth of explanations and reassurances on Nayru’s part, she had once again recommended he go see her mother; something he had very much wanted to avoid, but if what Nayru said is true then he needs to know just how much mayor Edin knows about him.

More than that, he needs to know if he can trust her, regardless of what Nayru had to say about her mother’s well-hidden kindness of heart.

So here he is now, three days later, steeling himself just so he can knock at a damn door.

Don’t get him wrong, he has faced worse, much worse, than a woman who’s done some research; he wishes nonetheless that she’ll see reason.

He could make sure she doesn’t share any information by force, sure, he wouldn’t even have to use his axe to put the fear of the Gods themselves into a single person; but Sentomaru is simply… not feeling it.

Maybe it’s because she is Nayru’s mother, and as much as he refuses to admit it out loud, the young woman has kind of grown on him. Or maybe it’s the thought that has been nagging at the back of his mind since he got discharged from the hospital, relegated there to be picked up again at a later time (who is he kidding, he is definitely trying to avoid thinking about it).

He hasn’t decided yet on what he wants to do with – that. The thing inside of him. Maybe some part of him is hoping that, by ignoring the issue, it will magically disappear on its own, even though he knows it doesn’t work that way.

His traitorous brain did propose a wild idea last evening, as he was preparing for yet another sleepless night, a blurry fantasy of a tiny button nose and big brown eyes framed by curly black hair flashing behind his sleepy lids before he startled wide awake and squashed the thought down like a bug under a shoe.

He ended up indeed not sleeping at all, rather sitting at the single armchair in his room at the local inn and staring at a bunch of colourful leaflets the whole night, unwilling to even touch them as pictures of happy families stared back at him from the coffee table, taunting.

The door opens before he can knock, pulling Sentomaru out of his reverie.

Mayor Edin blinks back at him, baffled.

He takes a step back – he was simply startled by her sudden appearance, nothing more. “Uhm…”

The woman looks him up and down with severe eyes and, seemingly satisfied by what she sees, opens the door wider. “Come in,” she steps back inside the office, clearly prompting Sentomaru to follow with a nod of her head, “I was wondering when you’d come.”

The words stop him in his tracks, eyes snapping from the sparsely decorated walls to her back as she walks to the big desk sitting at the end of the room. She’s unhurried, however, taking a seat behind it and finally levelling a calm stare at him over steepled fingers. She is not surprised by his abrupt stop.

She’s studying him, Sentomaru realizes, like a predator studying their prey before attacking and putting an end to its miserable life.

He tries to gulp down the nauseous feeling that seems to be following him at all hours of the day since he finally figured out what causes it. “What,” he croaks, “What do you know about me.” It’s not a question, he’s not going to insult her intelligence by pretending to just be here for a casual chat.

Nayru’s mother keeps staring at him appraisingly, eyes narrowed and never leaving Sentomaru’s own. She gestures at the empty chair on the other side of the desk, in front of her, “Please, sit down,” then, at the tray holding a teapot and two cups near her elbow. “Have some tea.”

That nonchalance has hot anger bursting in his belly, and he takes a step back, “I’m not playing this game, Mayor.” He hisses, mind racing to all the possible exits he registered while walking in, “You’re, what, stalling me while the Marines arrive?” his bark of laughter rings loud in the room, “I don’t care that Nayru vouches for you, I won’t let you arrest me.”

She looks if possible even calmer, as she lays back in her chair with an air of slight exasperation about her. “You’re not being arrested, you foolish child.” She rolls her eyes, “If I’d wanted that, I would have had you out of Lanayru and into Impel Down before you’d even had a chance of stepping foot into my husband’s workshop. Now please, sit down.”

Sentomaru does a double take at the words, jaw clicking shut like a chastised child. He’s distantly aware of his hand pulling at the chair and of sitting down in it, so taken he is with staring at her, wide-eyed.

Edin simply nods approvingly, huffing out a sigh before twisting in her seat to open one of the desk’s many drawers, pulling a page out of a stack and sliding it over to him so he can read.

Name: Sentomaru

Family Name: Unknown

Place of Birth: Unknown

Date of Birth: Unknown

Height: ***

Weight: ***

Age: 34

Blood Type: F

Affiliations: Science Unit of Marine Corps (Captain) - former; Egghead Laboratory (personal bodyguard to Dr. Vegapunk) - former; Protégé to Admiral Kizaru - former; Possible relations to Fleet Admiral Akainu and former Admiral Aokiji - former

Status: Unknown

He takes the paper with careful hands, handling it as if it were a live bomb, ready to explode at the slightest movement. His eyes fly over what little information is written on it – as little as it is, it’s still a number of actual, reliable, facts about his life sitting there, black on white in front of his own two eyes.

He hears, distantly, the soft clink of fine porcelain cups being handled before one is slid over the desk to sit right in front of him, and he looks up to see Edin studying him, ever-serious lips upturned in a half-smile this once, “Drink up. Looks like you need something to warm you up, kiddo.”

Heat blooms in his cheeks and Sentomaru resists the urge to slap his hands over them to hide the traitorous reaction. He gestures to the paper instead, “How did you get this?” he grits out.

His tone doesn’t seem to have much effect on Edin, who only huffs, amused. “Being the mayor has its perks, you know, I have quite the network. And I know that may sound scary but,” she takes a long sip from her own cup, completely at ease, “You are safe here.”

His shoulders drop.

“How can I be sure of that?” He bites out, unwilling to lower his guard, “How can I trust you, knowing that you did not extend the same courtesy to me and went digging into my past?”

The woman narrows her eyes, icy blue orbs that seem to scan deep into Sentomaru’s soul, “I do research on any foreigner who chooses to stay in my town and you were not an exception, child. It’s normally surface-level stuff, but – a Marine Captain? I had to dig deeper.” She sighs, “But it’s not about you, kid, it’s about my people.”

“Their safety is in my hands,” And Gods, can Sentomaru relate, “What kind of mayor would I be if someone who posed a serious threat were able to evade my watch, and then the town’s guards and security systems?”

Silence falls as she takes another sip of tea, closing her eyes and smacking her lips in appreciation.

Sentomaru squirms in his seat, uncomfortable. He gets the bigger motives behind her actions, he really does, but that doesn’t stop the wave of anxiety from washing over him as he steals another glance at the paper containing his information.

For want of keeping his hands occupied he reaches for the cup in front of him and, after not-so-subtly smelling its contents, takes a gulp of the still scalding tea – it turns out to be the wrong move, as he ends up sputtering and coughing on the spicy taste of it.

“Argh- What did you put in it, you hag?” he exclaims, making a face at the offending cup. “Are you trying to kill me yourself?”

He is definitely not expecting for her to just… burst out laughing.

Sentomaru is suddenly hit with a bout of awareness, that he might possibly be missing something here. His confusion must show because the mayor laughs, if possible, even harder.

“It’s ginger tea, kid.” She shakes her head amid chuckles in a way that might even be called fond, but Sentomaru wouldn’t dare call it that. “It’s very good against nausea, you might need plenty of it if what I heard is true.”

He squints at her, “Haven’t said I’m keepin’ it.”

“Haven’t said you’re not, either.”

Her comeback slips easily in-between the cracks that have been slowly but surely growing in his mind, a jumble of dangerrunstayhidewaitfindkuzan that has made it impossible for him to reason clearly in the past three days, and he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, knuckles whitening around the fragile cup still wrapped in his hands.

He chances a glance back at Edin, sitting patiently at the other side of the desk, clearly waiting for an answer.

“Do you think I should?”

The woman blinks, taken aback by the change of tone. Her eyes are glued to him now, even though Sentomaru’s own avoid her stare in favour of the now lukewarm drink in his cup. Its scent is familiar somehow, now that he thinks about it, similar to the expensive cologne Borsalino would wear whenever he passed by the lab on Egghead, spicy and pungent, making Sentomaru’s nose itch every time.

Gently, gentler than Sentomaru would ever expect really, the mayor inquires, “Do you want to?”

Sentomaru’s head bows, if possible, even further down, curving his shoulders.

“I don’t know.” He confesses.

She hums, “I can’t tell you what to do, kid. It’s a tough choice to make, hell,” she chuckles, takes another sip of her tea, “I was in your place when I found out about Nayru. But you’re your own person, and this is a choice you have to make.”

“Take some time just to think about it,” she tidies up the papers lying about the desk, “Find your baby daddy and discuss it with him if you want to, though the choice still remains yours above all,” putting her cup back on the tray, she finally stands up. She places her hands on her hips as she huffs at him, “Or just sit down with a piece of paper and make a list. What makes you happy about the news? And what doesn’t?”

“But I’m a Marine traitor, how would I raise a baby in the first plac-” She interrupts before he can complete the sentence.

“What I was trying to tell you before you decided to let your imagination run wild and come to your own conclusions, you foolish boy, is that you are one-hundred-percent safe here.” A thin eyebrow raises just so, and Sentomaru is seven years old again, hiding under a workbench in the lab and evading bath time as old Punk and Borsalino try and cajole him into it.

“As I’ve already told you, I do background research on any suspicious foreigner, but in the week you’ve been here you have been nothing but a model citizen. I was already planning to let you stay here for as long as you wanted, before you even thought of trying to protect my daughter.”

And, oh.

That sounds… reasonable.

“So… I can stay here, in Ranel? No issue at all?” His incredulity rings loud in the office.

“Well, if you want to, of course. Although, my dear husband has been telling me stories on how he’s been trying to convince you to buy that old shack by the woods, lately.” The mayor steps around the desk, coming up beside Sentomaru as he also stands, “He’s the one who told me you were interested in settling down here.”

He mutters under his breath, “Damn family of gossipmongers, you are.”

She only laughs, reaching out to casually pat his shoulder while passing by, as she walks him to the door – except she does not stop at the door, rather following him outside. “Very well, now that our misunderstanding is settled I have something to show you.”

“Oh, and by the way,” she lights up as, together, they exit through the hall, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that my piece of shit son-in-law is in custody and on his way to one of Impel Down’s lowest levels by now, thanks to you.” She smirks knowingly at him. “Or, well, should I say ex-son-in-law?”

“What? How- ”

“I told you, kid. I have quite the network, and having friends in Lanayru’s private militia has its perks. Now let’s go, chop chop.”

Sentomaru looks at her in silent awe throughout the whole walk.

When it becomes clear that Nayru’s mother is leading him way out of the town centre, closer to the edge of the woods that surround it, however, suspicion rears back its ugly head, and Sentomaru can only ask, “You’re not planning to kill me and hide my body in the woods, are you?”

The mayor simply lets out another chuckle, leaving him, if possible, even more doubtful. “You really are a funny kid, you know? But no,” She carefully lowers her head to avoid the low-hanging branches of an old-looking cypress tree, motioning for him to do the same, “I am not going to hide your body in the woods – careful with that tree, it’s been here for way longer than you have been roaming this earth, my boy – ah, and here we are.”

He comes to a stop next to her to admire… a house.

It’s medium-sized, made up of mostly stone from the looks of it, and sits hidden in a tiny clearing that’s located just past the first line of trees that they just walked through, that marks the beginning of the woods.

Edin nods at him, leading the way deeper into the clearing, and Sentomaru has the chance to take a closer look at it. It does look a bit old, weathered, probably, by years and years of abuse at the hands of the harsh rainy seasons Tai has told him all about when he first arrived on the island.

As they walk over, there’s a sudden crash coming from inside that has Sentomaru stand back, readily pulling the mayor behind himself and shifting into a defense position. That, however, doesn’t seem to be necessary as familiar voices follows the sound.

“Ilia, be careful with that!”

“Gee old man, don’t worry!”

Realization dawns on him and, almost in slow motion, Sentomaru swivels to meet the mayor’s eyes which, for the first time, avoid his; the woman simply clears her throat and walks on to the side of the house, forcing him to follow after. “Oi! wait! This… you want me to believe this,” he points up at the building, mind racing to connect the dots with what he has been told about it during the past week, “is the ‘old shack in the woods’ Tai was talkin’ about? That shack?”

He feels like his eyes are about to pop out of their orbits as he studies it.

It’s old, yes, and it definitely could use a bit of renovation, but it’s so much… more, than he was expecting it to be when the old man tried to talk him into buying it for cheap.

Edin suddenly finds the dirt under her fingernails very interesting. “Oh, you know,” she declares nonchalantly, “It wasn’t worth much because it needs renovations, and most citizens prefer staying closer to the town centre so no one ever really wanted to buy it, but it used to be a summer house to a local nobleman, before the farmers’ revolts deposed him…”

“It’s a two-story house. It even has a porch! That’s not a shack at all!”

She turns to look at it, too, with a critical eye. “…Hm. Yes, perhaps ‘shack’ isn’t really the right word for it. I suppose I’ll have to talk to my husband about his poor choice of wording.”

Just as he’s glowering at her, wondering whether she’s being serious, the door slams open and out comes none other than Nayru, taking a couple of bouncing steps while still talking with somebody on the other side of the door and ending up almost crashing into her mother, who promptly catches her before she can.

“Make sure Pa doesn’t take it apart again, I’m just going to check if they’re- oh, you’re here!”

She hugs them both, and Sentomaru is witness, there and then, of the way the mayor’s features soften in her daughter’s presence. It’s like being presented with a whole different person.

She keeps her arms around Nayru and tucks a loose strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, delicately – Sentomaru gets the urge to look the other way, it feels like such an intimate moment between family and he’s, what, a stranger who somehow got tangled into their affairs.

Distantly he hears Edin ask her, “Are you all ready?” and doesn’t have the time to think about it as Nayru nods, taking him by the hand and suddenly pulling him along as she goes back inside the house with a big smile on her face, her mother following close behind them.

What awaits inside is…

A mess, to put it kindly.

It looks like a hurricane swept through the interior of the house, every surface is covered with something or other, boxes upon boxes sitting on the floor and on the frail-looking wooden table in a corner of the small hall Sentomaru faces as he enters behind Nayru.

She pulls him to the side, walking under a finely decorated archway sitting right next to some stairs, “Here, this way.”

The late morning sun shines through the ratty curtains covering a window so big it takes most of the wall on one side of what should be (he guesses, at least) the living room, illuminating cans of paint and cleaning supplies resting by it.

And… there, by the opposite wall, are Tai and Ilia.

“Sen! You’re alright!”

“Would ya look at that, the boy’s alive after all!”

They both rush over, Ilia enveloping him in a tight hug as Tai slaps his back so hard Sentomaru almost feels his knees buckling for a second, however stopping as soon as his wife aims a soft slap of her own to the back of his head, berating him, “Kid just got out of the hospital, love, go easy on him!”

Sentomaru’s confusion grows by the minute, although an idea is slowly making its way amid the jumbled mess of thoughts coursing through his mind at high speed.

Have they…? No. Surely, they haven’t… right?

“Sen, don’t you ever pull that shit on us again!” Ilia chides, shrill and loud over the bickering of the old couple and Nayru’s chuckles, “We were all worried about you!” and, oh, her voice is trembling and her big doe eyes are going glassy now.

He hugs her back, her tiny frame engulfed by his bigger, sturdier one. It feels… unpractised. New. But nice nonetheless. Sentomaru has to admit, he hasn’t hugged many people in his life. Little Bonney was the last one, all those years ago at the lab.

“’m sorry,” he mutters into her short curls, “I didn’t want you guys to worry. I won’t do it again, I swear.”

He feels her nod against his chest as the chatter from Edin and Tai dies down and they step closer, Nayru coming to stand by their side to face him.

“Sen.” She takes one of his hands back in hers, squeezes it tight, “I wanted to thank you properly, for what you did. Ma and Pa, too.” She nods in their direction, and Sentomaru’s glance there is met with a firm nod (Edin) and a two-fingered salute (Tai). “You have no idea of how much you helped our family, just by being here.”

“That is why we decided to buy and fix up the house for you. This,” she gestures to the room, the whole house around them at large, “is all yours now, Sen.”

Shit, they really did.

“You’re not forced to accept it, of course,” Nayru is quick to reassure, a timid smile pulling at her lips, “We don’t mean to be pushy, or, or overbearing. You can simply sell it if you want to leave Lanayru. We only wanted to give you a place to call your own, if you want to stay. As a thank you.”

His eyes shift from hers, to her parents, to Ilia, still latched onto his side, and back to Nayru in quick succession. It’s a lot to take in, and Sentomaru… Sentomaru doesn’t understand. He waits for the other shoe to drop, some kind of punchline to a joke he is not privy to, perhaps, but nothing comes.

“Why? Why did you do all of this, for me?”

Nayru wilts at the question, apologies already spilling out of her lips, but he interrupts before she can give voice to them.

“No, I mean- why do it for me?” His mind is racing, sifting through any similar instance of something like this happening, but it’s… it’s coming up empty. He doesn’t remember anyone ever going out of their way and beyond for him.

They gifted him a house – an honest-to-gods house! – as thank you.

Why would they do that?

It’s impractical, too. What if he doesn’t accept? They knew he was planning to leave soon, he has been steadily refusing the offer to buy the “shack” in the woods that Tai has stubbornly pestered him with for the past week.

He cannot possibly say yes. Even if that nagging little voice at the back of his head screams safesafeliveherestay, he can’t accept such a proposal, it’s too much for someone like him, someone who has done the things he has in the name of “justice”. Gods, a bloody house of all things, he can’t believe it-

A hand on his shoulder pulls him away from his thoughts.

“…en? Hey, Sen?”

“Huh?”

Nayru studies him attentively, worry clear in her eyes, “Are you alright? You went… blank, all of a sudden. We were starting to worry.”

“No, I mean- yes, I’m alright. I just,” it takes all of his strength to take that little step back, shrugging off Nayru’s hand, “I just can’t accept it. Thank you, really.” He addresses the room. “But it’s too much. I haven’t done anything to warrant such kindness from you all.”

“Nonsense!” Tai bellows, shaking his head. “You are welcome here, kiddo. You have been nothing but a good apprentice, citizen and friend. The question is why shouldn’t we do something nice for you, after you also helped us through a prickly situation?”

“Listen, I already had a…” a lab is not exactly a home, but it comes close enough, right? “Place.”

“A… place?”

“A place, yes.” He resists the urge to massage his temples to stave off the headache he can already feel coming. “And it burned down in a Buster Call, because I put my loyalty in the wrong people, and made the wrong choices.”

“I cannot afford to stay here because it would be too dangerous for all of you. For the whole island.”

He looks up into Nayru and Ilia’s glassy eyes, the silence following his statement deafening in the big room.

“I think you are just making excuses.”

Edin’s voice rings loud and clear, back straight and arms crossed in a confident air as Sentomaru whips his head around to scowl at her.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play the dumb card, kid; I know you’re a smart cookie. I have already explained to you that you are safe here – Lanayru is not allied with the World Government, and our security and defense systems are among the best in the world. Marine activity doesn’t even reach here, and pirates are quickly sent on their way by our militia.”

“And what if I just don’t want to stay her-” he is interrupted by a click of her tongue.

“And, I am not saying you are in any way obliged to stay here, of course, you are free to fuck off whenever and wherever you want,” She huffs, ice blue orbs narrowing at him “But it sounds to me like all your objections on the matter are just that, excuses.”

The other three people in the room look back and forth between them, as if engaged in a particularly interesting tennis match.

“Ma, maybe it’s better not to antagoni- ”

“I am grateful for your actions in defense of my daughter, only the Goddesses know how much I am, but I cannot, in good conscience, stand by and see a good kid such as yourself waste their life for fear of- what, commitment? Stability? Is that what you fear most, a stable life to live in safety, be it on your own or with a partner and kids?”

Sentomaru steps back, hackles raised, unable to shrug off the feeling of once again being some sort of prey backed into a corner by the woman. “What do you even know of my life?” he hisses. “What, you think that a list of my old affiliations can sum up the entirety of it? Of the places I lived in, and the people I loved? Is that it? You think you know everything about me, based off your research?”

A bark of laughter leaves him, “What makes you even think I would want to stay here, indefinitely?”

“Well, you came here all alone, didn’t you?” She bites back.

That stops him in his tracks. “What does that have to do with all of this?”

“Please, humour me just for a minute. Your file was full of connections. Powerful ones. Scientists, Marines. Where are they now?”

Like a DenDen opening its bleary eyes and showing an old recording, his mind supplies him with unwanted memories.

His first nights in the lab, when Punk would demonstrate experiments to pacify him after a particularly harsh nightmare had left Sentomaru rushing to his side – of course he hadn’t told the old man that, just that he was there because a bodyguard’s duty should extend to night time. The first time Borsalino brought him along on a trip to Marineford, where he met Issho, Saul and Kuzan. Where he would, years down the line, confess his crush for Admiral Aokiji to Borsalino.

Everything seemed so new, back then, so exciting and shiny and overall good, and he misses it. So. Fucking. Much.

“Gone,” he spits out reluctantly, “They’re all gone.”

“And what makes you think you’re not worth the kindness?” She presses on, “Why do you think you are not allowed a break from whatever you went through?”

The question leaves Sentomaru fumbling to find the right words. “I’m not- I’m not worth it, is all. I wasn’t strong enough to protect them, and now they’re gone. I don’t see why I should settle down and live a quiet life when they won’t be able to, because of me. ” He concludes bitterly.

And there it is, the thing that’s been eating at him since the damned day he made his escape from Egghead as hell rained over the island – over his home – in the form of a Buster Call.

It’s his fault.

He had put the old man’s life in the hands of a wild card such as Strawhat, and look where it got him.

He had believed that Borsalino could have a shred of humanity left in him, that maybe it could prevent the Admiral from killing his own friend. He’d been mistaken, and Punk was killed because of it.

Shaka. Lilith. Atlas. Edison. Pythagoras. Even York, the fucking traitor.

Bartholomew Kuma.

They’re all gone.

He doesn’t even know if little Bonney made it out of that hell alive and in one piece – and there are no words Sentomaru could use to express the grief of not knowing that particular outcome of the battle. Bonney was just a kid, she shouldn’t have gone through all of that.

And the worst part in all of this, is that part of him still wishes he could talk to Borsalino again. That small part of himself is still desperately calling out for Ojiki to come and teach Sentomaru everything he knows, to give him counsel and maybe even what little comfort he can offer in his own, strange, ambiguous and repressed-old-man ways.

On the other hand, Sentomaru wants nothing more than to punch his face in, right over those dumb glasses of his, give him back hit after hit after hit and make up for the ones he wasn’t able to land back on Egghead.

Little does it matter that the bastard would still evade them all using his stupid fucking Logia powers. Sentomaru just wants to let his displeasure toward the old man be known.

He may not be coping well, he knows, but that’s what happens when you go through the utter bullshit the World Government likes to inflict on people who know too much (see: Doctor Vegapunk, Nico Robin, and the fucking thousands of people who used to live in Ohara), he supposes. It was his first time being among the intended objectives of a Buster Call, after all, so it’s not like he can compare his experience to others.

His thoughts seem to run faster than his mind can process, in an incomprehensible whirlwind of names, faces, colours – but, before he can spiral over all that has been the sound of footsteps approaching brings him back to reality. Edin is stepping closer, close enough to pat his arm, right over the bandages still safely hiding his tattoo.

“Listen kid, I know it’s hard, having feelings for where you came from and for who you knew, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t,” she uses her other hand to gently pry his clenched fist apart, depositing a small key within and then closing it again with a small pat.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t allow yourself a fresh start all the same, to heal and to live for yourself a little.”

Now you just have to go forward and live for yourself, sweetheart.

Her words are sincere, he can tell – it awakens a bout of guilt over raising his voice at her, and his hand clenches in a tight fist at his side again, the cold, hard edge of the key biting into his skin.

“None of us can force you to change your mind, lad, nor do we want to. What we do want is for you to understand that you have a choice.” Tai pipes up, gesticulating wildly. “You can decide what you want to do, but you have to do it for yourself, not over some misplaced sense of guilt over the dead.”

“And if those people loved you, they would be happy to know that you’re alive, safe and doing well, you know?” Ilia adds, tears shining in her big brown eyes. “Not that you’ve been giving yourself a hard time over their ghosts.”

And Sentomaru… what can he say, when faced with that truth, spoken loud and clear and coming, of all people, from a nineteen-year-old who still uses fart-face as a serious insult?

He looks around, at these- these stubborn, loudmouthed people who won’t take no for an answer, standing in a house that’s apparently his now, and his shoulders drop. He is so very tired.

“There’s nothing I can say to change your minds about the house, is there?” he admits, defeated.

Nayru is at his side in the blink of an eye, wrapping him in a hug. “Nope, you’re stuck with it now.” She quips cheekily from where her face is pillowed on his chest, before stepping back and standing on tiptoes to smack a loud kiss on his cheek.

“There’s still some stuff to be completed for the renovations, but Pa is going to come by in the next couple of days and take care of it, alright? For now,” she nods to herself anxiously, then at her parents and Ilia, and they all snap into action, stepping around the chaos of the room, “We’ll give you some space. This may have been… a lot to take in.”

Something in that phrase, or maybe simply the tone she uses (or it could just be that Sentomaru is slowly going mad, really, who knows) clicks into his brain just so and he bursts into what might be possibly the first genuine laughter he’s had in the last six months. “Really? That’s- that’s, like, the understatement of the year, Nayru.”

Maybe it’s just all the tension leftover from the argument, finding a way to spill over like water that’s been boiling and foaming in a sealed pot for too long, but in that moment Nayru’s words sound like the funniest joke in existence and he keeps on chuckling to himself even as the other four gape at him.

“But yeah. Space. Space sounds… really, really nice, right now.”

So they leave, with promises to come by in the next days to visit and help him decorate, and to see him tomorrow at work, showering him with gestures of familial affection the likes of which he has rarely experienced. Hugs, kisses to both his cheeks, pats to his shoulders and back. Hell, Tai ruffles his hair – it makes him mutter grumpily at the old man’s parting chuckle, and leaves his bangs standing up in all directions, but Sentomaru finds he doesn’t mind.

Standing in the now empty hall, he figures he might as well look around.

The house is huge, he discovers, wandering through a tastefully decorated kitchen and an already set up bedroom, then up a set of stairs and through three more rooms. Sentomaru appreciates the gesture on Nayru's family's part, really, but this is too much for a single person.

Or two. He still hasn't made up his mind about the- the baby, even though he knows he has to, and sooner rather than later, but Sentomaru can't bring himself to take a decision. Every time his mind went in that direction in the last days made him feel almost as if he was a stranger in his own body, as if the decision doesn't concern Sentomaru at all, but rather some poor unknown bastard living in his body, and no amount of fake nonchalance about the issue will make that feeling go away.

The same feeling pervades him now, as he stops inside one of the upstairs bedrooms and finds it repurposed into what might become a nursery.

All of the original furniture has been removed, and the walls have been painted a light, pastel green. The late afternoon sun filtering through the closed curtains shines over a worn armchair sitting in the corner right next to it, and a bassinet wouldn't be out of place in the opposite one – what is he thinking?

He shakes his head as if to physically get rid of that image and goes on to explore the rest of the house.

Putting his mind at ease turns out to be difficult, however. He realizes it when he catches himself stopping in front of the full-length mirror in what is probably the master bedroom and turning this way and that to see if anything is showing, like the doctor said.

“Gah!" He grabs ahold of his bangs and pulls hard enough that his eyes tear up a bit before making his way back downstairs, muttering the whole way down. “Stupid Kuzan gets his stupid ass killed by Garp of all people and now I gotta deal with his spermling.”

Sure, it takes two to tango, and yes, Sentomaru was more than happy to tango that night, but the ex-bodyguard does not care for details as of right now. Stupid Kuzan went and got himself killed by his old mentor instead of sticking around to be of any help, so Sentomaru has no sympathy to spare for the Admiral-turned-pirate while celebrating his own pity party.

He sighs, loud in the now empty house.

In reality, the news of Kuzan’s disappearance hurt more than Sentomaru would like to admit, if he’s being honest, but he really has no time to unpack all of his feelings in that regard, not now. He knows that, once he does, there’s no going back after – he is still walking that fine line of plausible deniability, a space where Kuzan is still that mysterious Admiral friend of Borsalino who likes joking about tits way too much, and nothing more.

If he crosses that line, if he admits to himself that a single night spent in Kuzan’s company caused old feelings to resurface, there will be no returning to the bubble he’s been living in for the past months, a fantasy where everything will go back to normal if given enough space. Bonds reconciled and people revived, by sole distance and passage of time.

Right now, Sentomaru wants to live in that fantasy. Needs to, really, because he doesn’t know if he can be in his right mind and able to even-handedly take any decision about Kuzan’s baby, while admitting not only his attachment to the man, but also the high chances of him being naught more than a pile of bones resting at the bottom of the sea around Hachinosu by now.

Sentomaru knows he can’t let himself believe that yet. He will make his choice, and he will not think of Kuzan as he does.

He sits on the low couch in the living room with a huff, scrubbing a hand down his face, when his eye catches a couple of DenDens sitting on the side table, sleeping soundly and unware of the stare burning into their shells. One looks like a standard Den Den with a light red shell, while the other – a white one.

Courtesy of the mayor, no doubt. She really must have thought this out.

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes darting between the two snails, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Alright, he thinks, might as well start with some calls.

Chapter Text

It all starts with a call.

Well, if one wants to be fussy about the logistics of it all, it’s with a series of calls, and not all of them actually reach the intended recipients.

The first one is to the DenDen code written in the fine print of his discharge papers, and Sentomaru makes it from the couch of his newly acquired living room (his own house, he still cannot believe it), right after having bid goodbye to Ilia, Nayru, and her parents. It’s answered by none other than Arya, the lead midwife he talked to when he was rushed to the hospital – and, apparently, a good friend of Nayru’s.

Sentomaru stutters a bit, he has to admit, when faced with the woman’s no-nonsense ways over the DenDen, but in the end he manages well enough, setting an appointment with no issues and hanging up with a sigh on his lips.

The second call he makes two days later, and is directed to Borsalino's private frequency.

He doesn't know what compels him do it, but that evening he’s in his new kitchen, following Nayru’s instructions on how to make onigiri and grinning with her over his own misshapen rice balls, when a memory intrudes on the still fragile peace of his mind.

Borsalino, humming and dancing around Punk’s personal quarters on Egghead as he made onigiri for Sentomaru in the scientist’s otherwise rarely used kitchen, Sentomaru himself sitting at a stool and looking on curiously as the man worked, dressed in borrowed clothes after having been forced through a thorough bath. It was his first evening ever on the island after the two geezers had taken him on as protégée.

He had still been slightly wary of the man, at the time, and had preferred keeping his distance as Borsalino worked at the stovetop while swinging his hips to the rhythm of an old song transmitting from a DenDen sitting on a shelf, but he does remember his unease melting away after the first taste of Borsalino’s heavenly cooking.

Perhaps it’s the similar atmosphere, or maybe simple nostalgia sinking its claws into his heart at the sight of the dish, but the half-formed onigiri in his hands suddenly reminds him a bit too much of the old bastard.

Nayru looks at him funny, and he realizes he might have let his thoughts wander a bit too much, shaking his head and going back to filling the little white ball. It comes out a bit crooked, not exactly the perfect triangle shape Sentomaru was aiming for, but it’s still good.

He does not speak a word to Nayru about the impulsive thought that popped up along with the memory, rather banishing it to the darkest corner of his mind. He lets her lead the conversation as they keep cooking, have dinner together, and wash the dishes side-by-side, avoiding that impelling urge of doing something very, very stupid, and rather throwing his attention into chatting about his plans for the house renovations.

But later on, when Nayru’s gone back home with a bag full of leftovers and he is left alone in an empty and still unfamiliar house, Sentomaru’s hands itch to take the DenDen receiver sitting on the side table oh so close to where he now stands in the living room.

He feels like he’s resisting some sort of addiction: he knows, in his right mind, that he shouldn’t try any kind of contact; it may lead to another long bout of hiding on merchant ships and hopping from one island to the other, at the very least. As much as he would never admit it out loud, Sentomaru is getting accustomed to the idea of having a semi-stable life again, and the decision to leave Ranel would be taken with a heavy heart. Not to mention that in the worst-case scenario, a contact may also lead to a Buster Call on Lanayru, and Sentomaru definitely does not want that.

But… there is that little voice, that illogical part of his brain, the same that spoke up when he was debating with himself whether to share a drink with Kuzan at a tavern what feels like centuries ago now, that pushes and pushes and pushes Sentomaru into a dangerous trail of thought.

His hand hesitates over the snail’s red shell, and he glances worriedly at its white companion sitting beside it, biting at his lip. White DenDens are rare to find exactly because of the great potential they have as neutralizers to interceptions, he knows it would be a safe call.

Sentomaru just wants to hear Borsalino’s voice once. Just for a second, he swears to himself. He won’t say anything, just listen to the man’s usual lazy hello, hello – and then he will hang up and go back to his new, quiet life on Lanayru, far away from powerful Marine Admirals that might or might not want him dead, and that’ll be it. He will not speak up – will not ask the geezer how he sleeps at night after having killed Punk, like he so desperately wants to.

He steels himself, then, and picks up the DenDen’s receiver, entering the code he’s known by heart since he was only nine years old and still wrapping his head around the strange, strange men who’d taken him in two years prior.

The DenDen rings.

Each purururu is a drum adding on to a death march Sentomaru is willingly treading – Gods only know why – and his heart beats to its rhythm as he awaits response from the other side with bated breath.

Said response does not come, though, as the DenDen rings away without a care for its owner’s growing apprehension.

It’s a sign then, he thinks with a sigh, tiredly scrubbing a hand down his scarred cheek. The universe wants me to let the past die, and bury it as deep as possible before the stench of its rot reaches this little peaceful island.

Unbeknownst to Sentomaru, however, it’s exactly that second, unanswered, call, that will take every single card off the table, shuffle them all together, and then change the rules of the game in their entirety.

The reason why, is that the call is not exactly unanswered, no, because right as Sentomaru is about to hang up and call it a night the snail connects perfectly with a lazy gacha – only for the one answering to reveal they are not Borsalino.

Indeed, the voice he hears is not that of the Light-Light Fruit user: It is raspy, tone lower yet less smooth than Borsalino’s, and a bit gruff, but in a familiar way that still has Sentomaru’s heart clench in his chest. He knows that voice, has heard it quite a lot back in Marineford – it was among his favourites beside Borsalino’s, actually.

“Hello, you’ve reached Admiral Kizaru’s private frequency, this is Admiral Fujitora speaking.” The voice announces almost distractedly, as tough the man’s focus is on something else, unaware of just who is on the other end of the line. “He is not here at the moment, but if you’d like, I can pass on a message.”

Sentomaru’s mouth is agape, he’s aware. If anyone were here to witness the display, he would definitely have to punch their lights out to save face. Issho is quite the unexpected variable in the game; Borsalino and him have always been close, closer than the other Admirals have ever been among themselves, but Sentomaru never got an outright confirmation or denial of whatever the two had going on, so he wasn’t expecting him to fucking answer Borsalino’s private calls. 

“Hello?” the Admiral sounds piqued, as if the lack of response on Sentomaru’s part is a new mystery to solve, perhaps a small reprieve from whatever boring duty was keeping him busy when he took the call. “Is anyone there?”

Sentomaru does the only sensible thing his panicked mind offers at the moment: he hangs up.

Calling was a mistake. A huge one.

Face hot, he pulls at his bangs nervously, muttering to himself, “Idiot, idiot, fucking stupid idiot.”

That is how Sentomaru’s night goes in the end, with self-berating comments growled into his pillow as he tosses and turns and thinks of that single, most embarrassing minute he spent on the line.

The morning after he goes back to the workshop, and as he stares longingly at Tai’s cup of coffee while running on what little sleep he did manage to get, Sentomaru decides to put it all behind him. Fuck Borsalino. Fuck calling the old bastard, and fuck Issh- no, not him, Sentomaru really likes Issho, actually. Even more than Borsalino, now that the man’s gone and executed Punk.

Anyway. Fuck that. Sentomaru is not going to make the same mistake and give in to nostalgia again.

He does not tell anyone of his lapse in judgment. Doesn’t want to, really, because how would he even explain it? ‘Oh yeah, I just wanted to hear the old geezer’s voice, sorry about that’?

Sentomaru would rather die than admit it.

So life simply… goes on after that. Thankfully.

He almost successfully finds a good rhythm, a nice routine he can follow to keep mind and body busy enough to tire him out so that, by the time he goes to bed in the evening, he completely passes out and doesn’t wake up until the morning after. It doesn’t really keep all of the nightmares at bay, but it works well enough.

He works by day, even though both Tai and Ilia insist on a lighter workload for him. They have lunch together before making their way to the house in the woods, where they spend the rest of the afternoon moving furniture and painting walls – and here, too, Sentomaru has to force his way into helping against all of the other two’s wishes.

Most times Nayru joins them later on, after her shift at the hospital, and helps out while also bullying him out of the heavier work. Sometimes the Mayor also comes over, bringing snacks from a local vendor and weighing in on style choices – and Sentomaru happily accepts her tips, he hadn’t even known so many shades of it existed when proposing green paint for the kitchen.

They often eat dinner together, all huddled into whichever room has the most free space at the moment, improvising tables out of boxes and scarfing down sandwiches while discussing which part of the house to work on next.

It may not be perfect, but… it’s good enough for him. Sentomaru never would have guessed it just six months ago, but as of right now, he is content with what he has, and what he’s doing, on this tiny nowhere island in the middle of the Grand Line.

At times, he stops and wonders what Punk would say, if he had the chance to see Sentomaru now. Would the scientist be happy for him? Sentomaru can’t really say, the man had been eccentric, and hard to read when it came to sentimental stuff, but he knows the man would surely try his best to protect such domestic peace with his inventions.

A week after the call to Borsalino’s line he has his first appointment at the hospital, where Arya tells him in no uncertain terms that as much as he may feel like shit now, it’s still nothing compared to how much worse it will become toward the end of the pregnancy. Despite the very, very graphic descriptions she provides of what is going to happen to his body in the foreseeable future, Sentomaru is more than willing to go through with it.

There is a bounce in his step as he exits the hospital and all the way as he goes home (he would absolutely deny if asked, but he feels almost giddy with excitement whenever he thinks of it as his own home). He took a day off work at Tai’s request (order) so he has the rest of the afternoon to himself before he’s expected for dinner at Nayru’s, and he plans to spend it doing – well, he doesn’t really know yet, but he’s bound to find something to do.

All of his not-yet-formed-plans end up out of a window, however, as soon as he opens the door to the house to find the DenDen ringing insistently. He rushes to answer, sure in the knowledge that all of the people in possession of his code live on Lanayru, and is instead completely taken aback by the low tone on the other line.

“Hello?”

 “Ah, I figured it might be you, young Sentomaru.”

The world stars spinning. He takes a step back, letting the back of his knees hit the couch and collapsing onto the cushions. “Admiral Fujitora.”

Sentomaru’s heart races so fast he fears for a moment it might escape from the cage of his ribs, shooting out of his chest to find somewhere to hide far, far away.

Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid, the voice in his head chants.

The man simply hums. “It’s Issho. Please, you have known me for years now, young man. None of that Admiral Fujitora nonsense.”

“Listen, there’s been a mistake, I’m going to hang- ”

“Sentomaru. Please. I mean you no harm.”

And the thing is, he sounds absolutely honest, and Gods know Sentomaru is aware of Issho’s brand of justice, so different from that of others like Akainu, or even Kizaru himself. It’s actually much closer to Kuzan’s, now that Sentomaru actively thinks about it. Issho knows just how rotten the system is – and surely, his rank’s clearance is high enough to allow him complete knowledge of what really happened back on Egghead. He must know how things went between Punk, Borsalino, and Sentomaru himself.

Sentomaru sighs, silencing the thousands of alarms going off in his head.

He really hopes this won’t come back to bite him in the ass… he would hate having to explain it to the Mayor.

“You get five minutes. After that, I’ll hang up.”

A pleased hum.

“A fair deal. I am sure you’re asking yourself how I found out-” Sentomaru interrupts, anger flaring inside him.

“Not really, you bastard Admirals always have your ways after all, don’t you? High clearance and all that shit.” He snorts, laughing bitterly, “Always ten steps ahead. Always have backup plans to the backup plans. You assholes don’t even look at the bigger picture, because you’re the ones who painted it in the first place. Surely, secretly tracking down an encrypted call must’ve been child’s play for you.”

Silence falls on the other line; the Admiral’s slow, regular breathing the only thing coming through for a couple of seconds.

He’s not really in a position to rant or make demands of Fujitora, Sentomaru is aware of that, but it’s exactly because he can’t allow this to blow over into catastrophic proportions, that he just wants to get it over with. The sooner this call ends, the sooner Sentomaru can find out if Lanayru truly faces no danger from his moment of weakness – and how he can remedy if it turns out it is.

“Five minutes, Admiral. Clock’s ticking.”

“…Right.”

“Well, I suppose I simply wanted to know how you were faring, after – after what happened.”

Sentomaru clicks his tongue, pushing down a wave of irritation as he glares at the poor, unassuming snail. “You can say it out loud, you know. After the Buster Call that destroyed my home. And,” his jaw clenches almost involuntarily, “And after Old Punk’s murder.”

For a couple of seconds, the only sound coming through the crackling line is Fujitora’s slow, even breathing.

Then, “I am sorry for your loss, my boy.”

It hits Sentomaru strangely, as if it were the last thing he had expected coming from an Admiral’s mouth, even if he knows Issho, has known him since Borsalino first took an interest in a new batch of drafted recruits and decided he had to get the grumpiest one to like him. He knows he would be the most sympathetic out of all the Marines he used to work with, perhaps even more than Kuzan.

But… it still feels strange. It’s as if something were stuck inside Sentomaru’s mind; he still hasn’t let himself grieve over the scientist, and the mention of him – of his death – is a reminder of it, of the way his thoughts have never once strayed to Egghead Island and its inhabitants in the past couple of months. He has been telling himself that he has simply been very busy, what with outpacing the fucking Marines, but he knows, deep down, that he hasn’t had to worry about any white-clad asshole for quite some time now.

It just doesn’t feel right to mourn at all.

“I don’t care,” he hisses into the receiver, mind flashing to the moment he let himself be convinced that Strawhat could help Punk escape, “your words mean nothing. You’re still working with them.” He spits the word as if it were an insult.

Truth is, it’s easy to childishly blame it all on the Marines, as if Sentomaru himself hadn’t been the one entrusting the task of protecting the old man to an absolute wild card, as if he hadn’t also been part of the system up until the lab’s last day standing. As if he hadn’t probably been an unknowing pawn in the game of keeping the scientist and his Satellites on the Government’s tightest leash.

Blaming Fujitora is irrational of him, however, he knows that much. There is nothing the man could have done to stop the flow of events that occurred, between all the parts involved. He wasn’t even involved in the whole mission, for fuck’s sake, he probably had been waiting for Kizaru to go back to Marineford so they could suck faces or whatever it is the two do in their spare time.

It doesn’t make Sentomaru’s ire burn any less hot.

“Sentomaru… I know my words aren’t worth much anymore to you, but know that I am indeed sorry. I didn’t know Doctor Vegapunk that well, but Borsalino always spoke fondly of him, and of the time spent on Egghead. He… he hasn’t taken it well either.”

Fujitora’s voice breaks him out of a reverie, and it feels like a crack forming over some frozen and long-forgotten part of his mind, slowly spreading and spiderwebbing into smaller fractures along its surface.

“How… how is he?” Gods, does Sentomaru hate how soft he sounds.

Issho hesitates. “Well… he has definitely been better.”

“He started smoking more frequently. He tries to hide it from me, but I know he’s been going through at least one pack a day in the last couple of months. He leaves our rooms first thing in the morning, locks himself in his office, and comes back late at night when he thinks I’m asleep.” A pause, a heavy sigh leaving the Admiral, then, “I don’t know how to help him, to be completely honest.”

For a moment Sentomaru pictures him, sitting alone in their shared quarters and trying to recompose after such a confession. “Things have been tense with Sakazuki too; I wasn’t there and Borsalino refuses to tell, but some cadets spoke of a shouting match in Akainu’s office and Kizaru beating the life out of the training dummies right after.”

Sentomaru’s lips twist in a grimace, light beams on a bloodied floor flashing behind his lids for the fraction of a second. He shakes his head as if to get rid of the afterimage.

“Should’ve thought twice before murdering old Punk, then, don’t you think?” And it’s mean, yes, Sentomaru knows that Vegapunk and Borsalino were friends too, but that’s exactly the reason why he cannot let it go. How could the Admiral accept killing the scientist, after all the time spent together? How could he, who fancied himself a master of toeing the dangerous lines provided by the Marine’s rules just the right amount needed to make them bend to his will, accept such absolute, unforgivable orders?

Issho does not answer. It makes both Sentomaru’s irritation, and his pity, grow.

“Listen,” he bites out, “I’m sorry he’s not doing well, I really am,” more than I would like to admit, he does not say, “But it’s a grave he’s dug for himself the moment he went through with the order.”

Contrary to the protests he’s expecting, however, the man huffs a short chuckle. “You really grew out of the hero-worship phase, boy – keep doing that.”

“…Huh?”

“Nothing, nothing, just an old man’s ramblings, don’t mind me.” There is rustling, the scrape of a chair; the Admiral probably standing up, “As for Borsalino, I cannot pronounce myself on your thoughts, I was barely reporting on his status as you asked. Your anger is more than justified, given the Egghead incident, and it’s only natural for you to feel some form of vindication at the situations I’ve just told you about.”

“However, I have a piece of advice for you – do not let that anger fester inside of you like a snake’s venom. You need to let it all out, before the wound is allowed to heal.”

Sentomaru nods absent-mindedly, before realizing the man can’t know he did that and croaking out an affirmative. He does not want to think about emotional wounds, not today.

“Now, I’d say my five minutes are up, right?” Issho contemplates with a knowing tone, and Sentomaru almost chokes on his own spit – the geezer knows way more time has passed since the start of the call. “Ah, I’ve quite missed these nice chats, kid. If you ever need me, you can call this, my personal frequency.” He rattles off a series of numbers, which Sentomaru scrambles to write on a random piece of paper, “It’s secure and untraceable, if you’re using a white DenDen – which I assume you are, given how hard it has been to track your last call down. You took good precautions, Sentomaru. ”

Embarrassment burns pink in his cheeks at the praise and mention of his moment of weakness both, but he pushes it down and rumbles back in fake nonchalance, “Yeah, yeah, old man. I’m bein’ all careful and shit, nobody that ain’t you is gonna find this line, don’t worry.”

With that, Sentomaru hangs up. He passes a hand through his hair, scratches at his scalp as he mulls over what a fucking surreal experience this call has been. His heart is still racing, locked into fight-or-flight. As he paces the living room, lost in thought, the clock on the wall catches his eye, and he blanches.

“Ah, fuck…”

Well, there’s no need to worry about the Marines at this point, he guesses, because Nayru is surely going to beat them to it and kill him for being late to dinner.

Once again, life goes on. It’s another month before he makes an attempt at calling Issho’s line and, to be honest, Sentomaru is not proud of the reason behind this one either.

It’s been a long month, it feels like he hasn’t had a single minute to himself the whole time between his day job and the house renovations, but this little sacrifice has finally borne its results.

The house is almost complete. There’s only a few details still needing a fix here and there, and Sentomaru vetoed any decision made on the future nursery so that one is still a bare room next to his own for now, but it’s overall finished – Tai and Ilia worked wonders on the once abandoned “shack”.

The house is not the only thing that has gone through a transformation, however – his body has been changing, too.

It… well, it sucks, to put it simply.

Not that he hadn’t been warned about it, alright, but it’s still annoying as hell.

The nausea has lingered, never fully going away even as the rest of him adjusted to the little fucker making itself at home. It comes in waves, which just means he can never quite predict it. Every time it seems to abate, he tells himself that’s it, it’s finally over and never coming back, and then every time he is disappointed by a new bout of sickness.

His chest has also been sore for some time now, starting sometime in the past couple of weeks and never letting him have a second of peace either. Same goes for his hips, although that is far more difficult to ignore; there’s a sudden twinge occasionally, not too often but still strong enough to leave him in pain for hours, sometimes even unable to move from his bed.

The midwife assures him that it’s normal, it’s just his body’s natural way to prepare for what’s going to be a tough process in the least traumatic way possible, she says, but that doesn’t make it any less of a bother when the cramping lingers for much longer than he would like.

Nayru and her family have been nothing but supportive, taking each new symptom in stride and helping Sentomaru overcome it in whichever way they can – he now knows every time he has to take a day off work, he’s going to have either Nayru, Ilia, or Edin knocking at the door in record times to check up on him. Sometimes he almost wonders if there is some kind of bet going on, with how they seem to beat each other’s time, every time.

Nevertheless, all of it makes something flutter in his chest and – oh, yes, the flutters! That’s another thing Sentomaru has to get used to!

The baby has been kicking. It turned out that what he had thought was trapped air had actually been the baby all along – that was a fun conversation to have with Arya.

It feels strange, as if it were a final, definitive proof of there being an actual, living being inside of him. Before that, it had all been so… so… hypothetical, almost, as if Sentomaru had just been playing along with a joke while knowing it was just that, a joke, but now the kicks really have brought his attention on this – this undeniable presence.

He also tries to tell himself that his eyes are fooling him, but there is no denying it anymore: he has started showing. There isn’t really a bump for now, Sentomaru’s already prominent build does not allow it to stick out as it would on a different body, but his belly does change in shape, the roundness of it firmer somehow. It feels quite unreal, looking at it. And don’t get him started on his chest…

It’s on one of those days off work, after having spent the better part of the morning on his knees to strengthen the deep, deep bond he has been cultivating with the toilet seat by throwing up what felt like his entire soul in it, that he calls Issho.

The reason is… Sentomaru is also bored. Bored to hell and back. He thinks he has never, ever been this bored and tired in his entire life – and he had to attend Epistemology classes during his first year in the Marines, that says a lot about his level of tolerance toward boring situations. It’s starting to feel like every other day there’s a new pain making itself known, forcing him to call in sick, and whenever he goes back to the workshop a new duty gets taken off his workload.

Sue him, Sentomaru is not used to being this inactive, alright?

He sits gingerly on the couch, unwilling to have another encounter with the toilet so soon because of any too-sudden movement, and picks up the DenDen.

Issho answers on the third ring (Sentomaru is not counting) with a bored Hello, but seems to perk up as soon as he hears Sentomaru’s own greeting.

“Ah, Sentomaru! What brings you to my humble… encrypted line?”

Sentomaru absolutely does not smile at the corny joke.

“Say, old man… Do you know if there’s a way to make ginger tea not taste like shit?”

He absolutely does not laugh at the wheezing sound the other makes. “And here I thought any of my teachings would stick with you, you feral child!”

“What can I say, I’m not a tea connoisseur like you wanted me to be, so sorry to disappoint.”

“Betrayed by my own kin!” and there, underneath the dramatics, there’s a fondness he has missed for so long he might have almost forgotten about it.

He is forced to breathe out slowly though, a wave of nausea on the cusp of becoming too-much-go-puke-right-now making him grit his teeth as he swallows around it and keeps a light tone.

“I know, I know… but seriously, old man, it’s for a… a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. She’s pregnant and the nausea’s kicking her ass, but she can’t stand the taste of ginger tea. ”

“Ah, I see.” A delicate clink of china in the background – talk about the devil. “Ginger tea is indeed an acquired taste… I would advise to try it with honey and lemon, it might make the spice more palatable to her. And of course, use ginger root, not any of those pre-made concoctions! Don’t peel it, grate it as it is, then pour the hot water on it and let it steep for five minutes. After you remove the root you can add lemon and honey, and it’s done – well, some people prefer a ten-minute steeping process, but I personally think- ” Sentomaru interrupts before the Admiral can fall into one of his tea-induced soliloquies.

“Alright, alright, I got it! Grate ginger root, pour hot water, steep for five minutes and then add honey and lemon.” He lists, making sure to commit each step to memory, “I’ll pass on the message to her, thank you.”

“Ah, you’re welcome, of course. Although…” he can hear the smirk in Issho’s tone, and knows to prepare for some teasing remark. “I have to admit I am quite curious as to how a hothead such as yourself has befriended a pregnant lady, of all people.”

Fuck you and your valid questions, old man.

“Ah,” he hesitates, mind running through hundreds of plausible scenarios in the blink of an eye, “I kind of… uh, I kind of helped her when she was in a tough spot with her asshole husband. We’ve been friends since, and we recently found out she’s knocked up.” It’s not even that far off from the truth, so. Point for Sentomaru’s imagination.

“Ah, I see.” Issho sighs, “Well, I for one am glad you are not alone, my boy. Loneliness can be an ugly beast to face, even for the strongest of us.”

It’s said with a bitter undertone that makes Sentomaru wonder if something else happened with Borsalino, but he does not dare ask after him again; the other Admiral is still a sensitive topic, and Sentomaru is not even sure if he’ll ever get over it.

He simply hums back, fighting the rising worry over what Issho told him during the last call. “I’d better go now. Thank you again, old man. For… for the tea thing.”

He barely waits for the other to say his goodbye before hanging up with a loud click that resonates in the empty house.

The DenDen frowns at him. It almost looks like it’s calling him a coward.

Sentomaru is not sure how or why, but that call ends up being only the first (well, second, if one takes into account the one intended for Borsalino) of many he has with Issho.

It’s not really a regular, planned occurrence, more like a something-happened-and-it-reminded-me-to-check-up-on-you thing, but, if anything, it’s refreshing to get information from a source other than Big News Morgans again.

Some days it’s just a quick call, but others it’s entire hours of conversation about food, about old Marine colleagues, about Cipher Pol agents being assholes – about anything, really.

They also talk about Kuzan, once.

Without the insider information he used to have, Sentomaru hadn’t known that there were updates about the ex-Admiral’s status, until he has the mind to ask, one late evening, if Garp ever returned.

“No sign of him,” is the answer Issho offers with a weary sigh, “Though Aokiji has been spotted on several missions. A small squad was also sent to follow him to Hachinosu, but there were no signs of Garp being kept there. For now, he’s been listed as MIA. And Kuzan is still with Blackbeard’s crew.”

Sentomaru’s heart clenches. Garp may have been one crazy son of a bitch, but he truly had been one of the good ones. And Kuzan… what is he playing at? From any angle Sentomaru had looked at it at first, it seemed like he was simply trying to find the right path for himself by joining the Emperor’s crew, and Kuzan himself had said something similar after their- encounter, but now…

There have been many concerning news.

First, the fight with Garp. Then, an attack to one of Big Mom’s territories, along with the kidnapping of one of her daughters, Charlotte Pudding. Raids on many islands that used to be under Whitebeard’s protection – many of those villages have been completely razed to the ground, their men killed and their women and children either sold into slavery or whisked off to Hachinosu to… to…

Bile rises in Sentomaru’s throat just at the thought of it. He refuses to believe Kuzan would stoop so low. He can’t afford to, for his own sanity.

He steers the conversation elsewhere, can’t let Issho otherwise find out something he shouldn’t.

They talk of the Marines, of the changes Sakazuki is bringing forth and of Aramaki’s not-so-subtle hero worship over the Fleet Admiral, and keep avoiding the pinstriped elephant in the room.

*

It all starts with a call.

Well, if one wants to be fussy about the logistics of it all, it’s with a series of calls – but Borsalino has never been one to be fussy over details. Not in the grand scheme of Marine operations, at least.

He doesn’t know when it started, exactly, but he knows that something’s going on with Issho, and that this something is somehow happening through calls.

Sure, he has no room to be suspicious of his partner (can he even consider himself Issho’s partner anymore? Borsalino is afraid to ask at this point) for taking more calls than usual, and besides, an Admiral’s duty unfortunately includes more bureaucracy and calls than it may seem at first, but there is something that rubs him the wrong way, still.

Gods, is it a lover? Is that why Issho is being so secretive?

Borsalino knows he hasn’t been much… present, lately, and he knows that Issho has been nothing but supportive, trying to give him as much space as he may need after Vegapunk’s death (murder, murder, murder, murdered by you, growls a voice at the back of his head, one that sounds a bit too much like Sentomaru for his taste). He knows, then, that if his beloved has taken on a lover it will be Borsalino’s fault, and his fault only, what with the way he’s been treating Issho in the past months. Everyone is bound to have a breaking point, after all.

It would be more than understandable if one day Issho decided he’d had more than enough. Oh yes, it would hurt, it would hurt so much that Borsalino may just prefer throwing himself into the sweet embrace of the Sea rather than live a single day without his darling, but if Issho were happy with someone else, he would accept it. Of course he would accept it.

Sure, he might have to give a shovel talk, scare the new guy a bit to make sure he wouldn’t hurt his beloved, but what matters in the end is that Issho is happy.

And the thing is, Borsalino knows Issho is not happy with him, as of right now. It’s the most absent he has ever been – not even in the old days, when every new mission would keep them separated for weeks if not months on end, have they been so far apart. And it’s Borsalino’s fault.

He can’t face his lover anymore, not after his actions on Egghead.

The first night back on base after killing Vegapunk, he spent in the living room of their shared quarters, chain smoking in a haze until Issho had to all but drag him to bed, where he proceeded to toss and turn and wake up in fits after too many nightmares, only calming down when Issho, in all his infinite patience, held him and let him cry his heart out in the otherwise silent bedroom.

It’s been almost seven months after that night. They haven’t talked since.

Oh mind you, they do speak to each other, but their conversations don’t move past the stage of amicable office talk, nowadays. Good morning, dear. Good night, darling. Sakazuki wants you in his office stat. Remember to debrief Tsuru about that mission.

It is, once again, Borsalino’s fault.

He leaves their shared rooms when the sun is barely up and Issho is still asleep, and only comes back late in the night, when his partner has already gone to bed. He spends most of the day in his office, only coming out when strictly necessary.

Borsalino has been distancing himself, he’s aware of it, but he just… he can’t help it. He can’t go more than five minutes without doing anything or he might just go crazy, thinking of how everything had to come to this. He needs to be busy, needs to keep his mind from wandering too much or he’ll end up hitting something – or, preferably, someone, but there’s nobody to blame here but him.

There is, however, also… another reason, for why he’s keeping at a distance.

Issho absolutely cannot, in any way, know about the project he has been working on. This way, he might still be slightly safe (as much as an on-duty Admiral can be) or at least avoid being caught in any eventual crossfire generating from Borsalino’s actions.

He can take his darling having a lover, because for as long as Issho is safe, Borsalino is happy; and as long as Issho does not suspect, Borsalino can play the game and pass on vital information to the Revolutionary Army for a bit longer.

This does not mean Borsalino is not the least bit jealous, oh no, he has to suppress the urge to break something every time he catches the tail end of a call while passing by their quarters for a change of clothes, but he knows it would be worth it. For Issho, for his Northern Star, it would all be worth it.

Besides his totally legit fuming, however, he is also very much intrigued by this mysterious caller.

It might be another Marine, but Borsalino is not so sure about that; this thing has been going on for at least one month (that he knows of), so if it were any of their colleagues he would have surely seen them around rather than only hearing one-sided DenDen conversations. Thus, definitely not someone on-base.

There is possibility of someone stationed on another base, yes, but something in his gut tells him it’s not it – there is a missing piece in this puzzle and Borsalino hasn’t yet found it.

If it’s that Jonathan from the G-8 base, so help him Gods, he is going to blow something up…

Well, at least one good thing about this whole situation is that the strong itch to figure out the mysterious caller keeps him from spiralling over his own actions. Sure, he could just ask Issho himself about it, but where would be the fun in that?

(In reality, he is absolutely scared shitless at the prospect of a serious talk with Issho.)

The choice is however taken from him – and from Tsuru, of all people.

It happens right on the one-month anniversary of the first time he accidentally overheard Issho talking to the mystery man, the day he had passed by their quarters to pick up some paperwork he had forgotten in his rush to exit that morning. He remembers it well, because that itself had happened right after he had had another spat with Saka-chan – only one of many.

…He knows he’s not the most amicable presence on base nowadays, no need to judge.

If only Sentomaru could see him now, the kid would surely have a big laugh at his expense. Ojiki, he’d say, stop being a sourpuss and just ask him.

Back to the matter at hand – Tsuru. The old hag.

(He would never say it to her face, his life may very well be falling to pieces but he doesn’t have that much of a death wish yet.)

There is paperwork from Mariejois waiting to be signed. Nothing important, just a report of what happened at the Reverie quite some time ago now (bureaucracy is so slow, ugh), requiring signatures by all official forces present on the scene before finally being archived: WG agents, some Cipher Pol collaborators – and the two Marine Admirals, Ryokugyu and Fujitora.

There is usually no issue when it comes to paperwork at Marineford. All documents destined to Issho are requested to be produced in braille, and none of the Marines’ collaborators has ever fallen short of expectations. Well… none, except for Mariejois itself.

Let it be known that Celestial Dragons and the Government at large are not the types to be mindful of accessibility. Luckily, it’s not too often that paperwork comes directly from the Holy Land, and it’s even rarer that any paperwork coming from there is meant for Admiral Fujitora specifically – it has happened exactly twice in the last fourteen years. Both times, Borsalino was the one reading it for him.

The papers apparently were sent to Tsuru’s office for her to review before passing them on to Issho and Aramaki, but it just so happened that they arrived late in the evening and when the Vice Admiral was just setting out on a mission. Borsalino was just off on a toilet break, he hadn’t planned to pass by her on his way back to his office, nor for her to stop him and push something into his chest while rushing through an explanation.

Now here he is, standing in a dark hall and staring at the backs of her and her girls’ coats, mouth agape and a pile of papers clutched in hand.

He can’t help but chuckle to himself. Seriously. He’s been feeling like he’s one simple step away from having a breakdown for the past couple of months already, and now this?

He rubs at his temples, laugh giving way to a groan that resonates deep in his throat.

It’s not even Tsuru’s fault, really, no one in Marineford is privy to Issho and his’… situation. She had seen him in the hall at this late hour and probably thought he had been going back to their shared rooms – passing the papers to him was just a practical solution in her eyes. Very understandable.

He should bring them to Issho, shouldn’t he? He is definitely not going to find anybody available to do it in his stead at this hour.

This is it, he thinks, this is the day he tells me it’s over.

But Gods, he misses his darling. At this point, even going back to being simply colleagues would be a win in his books. It’s not like he has many friends left – figures that’s what happens when two of them beat each other almost to death, one gets turned into a half-cyborg with no free will, you kill the remaining one with your own hands, and the closest thing you had to a son is officially missing.

Borsalino sighs. Looks longingly at the doors down the hall, where his office is located. Spins on his heel and walks back to his and Issho’s quarters with a shake of his head.

He’s going to get this over with. Who knows, maybe he’ll even find out the lover’s identity; it would be a meagre consolation, but he might as well take what he can.

He takes his sweet time strolling back to their rooms, subconsciously dragging his steps the more he approaches the familiar door, but alas, the time comes and he’s standing in front of it, knuckles whitening around the knob as his ears register the muffled sounds coming from inside. Issho’s voice.

Borsalino’s brain shortcircuits. Part of him had been expecting (hoping) his partner to be already asleep, as he usually has been on these late nights, when Borsalino’s cowardice wins over and he hides out in his office until he’s certain Issho is asleep before going back to their rooms.

He can admit it to himself – he had been kind of hoping he could postpone the inevitable conversation until next morning.

But this time, of all times, Issho is still awake and in good spirits, from what transpires through the thin, cheap wood of the door; talking and chuckling and… oh boy. He’s on one of his calls, isn’t he?

Borsalino can’t do this. He can’t. He’ll just- slide the papers under the door or something, anything that won’t require him to face Issho’s waning smile as he realizes that Borsalino is back and interrupting whatever conversation he’s having with his new flame. He’ll find someone to either translate to braille or read for his dear in the morning, give them the report and send them this way, yes, that might do, and Issho will be none the wiser of this-

“I fear it’s time for me to hang up, there is someone waiting at the door for me.” A chuckle. “Of course, of course. Have a good night, and don’t get into too much trouble.”

Ah, crap.

Wait, a tiny, jealous voice pipes up at the back of his head, if he had his Observation Haki reaching this far, then he’s actively trying not to get caught?

Before he can even dwell over the realization, however, there is the distinct sound of the DenDen disconnecting, and Issho’s voice calls out through the door.

“Borsalino.”

Well, no use in standing outside like one of the ridiculous statues created by the Kuja Empress now, is there?

He feels like a little kid about to get scolded by his mother over some misdemeanour as he steels himself and finally, ever so slowly, opens the flimsy barrier provided by the door, coming face to face with his lover’s neutral expression.

Issho sits on the small couch in the middle of what the Marine Accommodation Network’s offices like to call a micro-apartment but is, in reality, a shoebox disguised as living quarters. Borsalino would have loved a more spacious arrangement, when they first applied for joint accommodations, but Issho had been so ecstatic at the prospect of finally getting a place after months on the Network’s waiting list that Borsalino had put aside any complaint.

Who would have thought, at the time, that he would one day feel apprehension at the thought of crossing the threshold of the place that has become home over the course of the last twelve years. Egghead was a close thing, yes, but it was a different situation alltogether: he knows Sentomaru and Vegapunk always thought of the lab as their own home, but Borsalino’s stay there had been relatively short, compared to the years lived in this flat – and besides, there was no Issho in the lab.

Nevertheless, Borsalino takes a step forward, then two, three, until he stops in front of Issho, still somewhat holding his distance but finally facing his partner. It feels like ages have passed since the last time he did.

“These are your rooms too, dear. Why didn’t you come in?”

Borsalino stumbles over his answer – a feat only Issho has ever been able to achieve. “I… I figured I would let you finish your call. You seemed pretty...” He looks for the right word, while actively keeping his eyes from straying over the damned DenDen, “Taken.”

“…Taken.”

“Yes, taken.” He can’t help the bitterness that comes out, sharp like knives.

Issho sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Borsalino, it’s not what you think…”

“It’s alright if you’re busy with someone else, I only came by to read you the report on the Mariejois accident, you know how they’re all assholes up there-”

“Borsalino, I’m not-”

“-then I’ll see myself out and you can go back to your friend-”

“Borsalino, please, stop talking for a minute.”

Borsalino shuts up, mouth closing with a click.

Issho massages at his temples and there, in that exact moment, Borsalino registers just how tired he looks, as tired as Borsalino himself feels. They really are getting old, aren’t they?

“Please, love, put that report aside and sit down, for goodness’ sake.” Borsalino complies, heart beating fast as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the small couch. “We need to talk.”

There it is, the thing he has most feared in the last month and a half.

Issho sighs, a long, drawn out thing that has all of Borsalino’s nerves light up as if struck by lightning. His gaze finds his own lap, where slender fingers seem to almost assume a red tinge in the dim light of the room – the irony is not lost on him, he has long been aware of how much blood is on his hands, staining them irreparably since the day he first joined the Marines.

“You have been growing distant lately.”

Understatement of the century.

“But I know you, and I know you need time to process certain… things, and so I’ve tried giving you space, but it seems I may have only made it worse for you and Borsalino, I am so sorry, but I realized I just don’t know how to help you.”

Issho reaches out, one hand sliding over his own and wrapping it in warm, calloused fingers. “I want my partner to be healthy and happy. To do that, I’ve come to realize, I need to be by your side. But please,” his grip tightens for a moment, “please, Borsalino, you need to let me in too. I cannot do this alone.”

A wave of instant relief washes over him at the realization that this is not, in fact, a breakup; followed closely by the sharp cut of terror at another realization yet – Issho has been blaming himself.

Issho, the wonderful, wonderful man, has spent the last months thinking that Borsalino’s emotional and physical distancing had been the result of something he had done wrong while trying to comfort him in the aftermath of the Buster Call on Egghead.

Borsalino never deserved him. Never has, and never will.

But sue him, he is a little selfish. He will always be there, by his partner’s side, as long as Issho will have him. Maybe it’s this small epiphany, or the relief from not having his lifelong partner breaking things off, hell maybe it’s even both, that are to blame for what he says next.

“I’ve been working with the RA.” His mouth blurts out before his brain can even register how much of a dangerous and stupid idea it is.

Issho’s entire form stiffens.

“What?”

“I’ve been… working with the-”

“Pardon me, love, but my ears seem to be failing me. For a second, it seemed you were saying something about working with… a bad crowd. But surely, I must have heard wrong.”

“…No? You… you heard that right. I’ve been working with the R-”

Thwack!

The end of Issho’s cane meets his knee, Armament-clad wood smacking hard against skin barely protected from the assault by a thin layer of fabric; Borsalino lets a curse slip. “Don’t say that name out loud.”

Alright, message received. No mention of the RA.

Borsalino massages his poor abused joint, and looks at his partner. Gone are Issho’s (frankly adorable) trembling lip and scrunched nose. In their stead is a stony façade, made of pursed lips and clenched fists; of Observation Haki almost bleeding off his form, extending, probably, even beyond the hall and outside of the building. Yet, there seems to be something else, among the emotions warring on his lover’s handsome features. Almost like… anticipation?

“Explain. Now.”

Borsalino sighs. Takes Issho’s hand and avoids looking up at his face altogether.

“There isn’t much to say, to be honest.”

“I… I couldn’t live with myself anymore. Not after Egghead. Not after Vegapunk, not after Sentomaru, and Bonney, and- and Kuma. I called Saka-chan to report, after the Buster Call, and you know what he said? He said that I had failed.” He spits the word out as if it were a curse. “After I killed my best friend, after destroying his home, and letting our joint protégé get hurt and be taken prisoner, all in the name of the Marines – he said I had failed.”

Tears sting at the corner of his eyes and he discretely wipes them away, taking the chance to remove his shades and rub at his temples.

Only the Gods know how disgusted Borsalino was, and still is, with himself. Every day he feels as if the weight of the past missions has started to press more and more on his shoulders, dragging them back and down, down, down – until he is struggling to do even the most menial of tasks, until all he can see when he looks into the mirror is red covering the entirety of his body.

“I was so angry, Issho. So, so angry. How dare he judge me, after all I’ve had to do?”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of it anymore. So I just… took a chance and tried an old DenDen code, Drago-uhm. Monkey’s personal frequency, one he used before he left the Marines. I wasn’t even sure it would connect, it has been so many years since he gave it to me. But it did work.” A chuckle, as Issho lets out a dubious sound, “By some miracle, it worked and I talked to him.”

“He was sceptical at first, and it’s only fair, really, but he understood where I was coming from. He was Vegapunk’s friend, too, you know? So we made a deal.” Borsalino sighs, finally looking up at Issho. Issho, for his part, is listening attentively, and he hasn’t yet retracted his hand. Maybe he’s not even that furious at him.

“I would give him insider information on… well, a bit of everything, basically. Incoming Buster Calls, ship routes and operations held near or over any island holding their bases, anything really. And I only had one request in exchange.”

“I asked them to check on Bonney and Sentomaru. Who, by the way, seem to be doing well enough for themselves.” He’s aware of the dopey grin stretching his lips at the thought, but he just can’t help it. He still remembers now, the joy he had felt when receiving the report through a coded letter. “You know, apparently Sentomaru has been making friends! Can you believe it?”

A deep inhale followed by a choking cough is not exactly the reaction Borsalino has been expecting at the news, but if anything it’s close enough. And at least it’s less violent.

Issho waves away his helping hand, however, coughing into his fist and gesturing for him to keep going.

“So… that’s all, I guess. This is why I haven’t been around much. I didn’t want you to know, not because I didn’t trust you, darling, never that, but because I was… I was scared that if anybody caught on, they would try to hurt and use you to get to me, and to the Re-my acquaintances. And… knowing this, if you wish for me to keep my distance, I understand.”

Silence falls.

Issho’s scratches at his jaw thoughtfully, hand raking over the thin layer of stubble surrounding his goatee, and Borsalino… Borsalino awaits his verdict.

He knows the secret is safe with Issho, his beloved would never betray his trust like that. But if he decided to keep away for safety’s sake, Borsalino would be more than ready to step aside for him.

His partner, however, does something unexpected. He cracks a grin, which grows into a chuckle, and then full out laughter.

It hits Borsalino, not for the first time this evening, that he may be missing something.

“My love? Is everything alright…?”

Issho quiets down, head shaking in disbelief. “No, no… well, yes, it’s just-” and off he goes with another bout of laughter, leaving Borsalino quite perplexed. Is treason a joke to him?

Yet, as Issho recovers, he seems more relaxed than ever; he places his cane off to the side of the couch, and half-turns in a way that leaves them almost nose-to-nose. “Sometimes it occurs to me that you are such a silly man-”

“Thank you?”

“Hush. Time after time, I am surprised by the level of mental gymnastics your brain tends to do when you overthink, coming up with the wildest theories and ideas; but then, then I remember that’s what called to me in the first place, that first day in the laundry room.”

Oh, Borsalino remembers very well that day. A line-up of drafted men, all looking at the demonstration of his newly acquired Devil Fruit with equal parts starstruck and terrified expressions, Fleet Admiral Kong at his side in the poorest form of a welcome committee anyone could ever receive, bellowing out explanations and orders like the perfect little World Government-approved machine he was.

One single recruit, looking disinterestedly the other way and catching Borsalino’s attention – and Kong’s ire. The man giving a backhanded apology and immediately getting himself sent to laundry duty. Borsalino’s curiosity getting the best of him, bringing him to the laundry rooms later that afternoon to meet the stranger face-to face. Apologising at the realization that he was blind, and thus couldn’t have looked at Kong even if he wanted to, only to realize the man was quite a feisty asshole when he threw a dirty pair of underpants at Borsalino with nigh perfect aim in response.

Being kicked out of a laundry room by a surly recruit with exceptional Observation Haki skills throwing dirty laundry at you is not, usually, how love stories start. Yet, there had been something there, something that had led Borsalino to try and befriend the grumpy newcomer – Issho, he would learn after only a week of pestering the poor guy during his laundry duty hours.

The rest, as they say, is history. And now here they are, almost fifteen years down the line.

“You silly, ridiculous, wonderful man. I am not going to leave you just to keep myself out of trouble, nor am I cheating on you; you should know me better than that.” Issho presses a kiss to his cheek; a chaste little thing quite reminiscent of their first, had at the back of a field infirmary tent in the fading adrenaline rush of a battle against a particularly pesky pirate crew. “And I cannot say I approve of the way you hid from me and assumed my infidelity - and we are definitely going to talk about that later - but I do think you are doing good, working with the- oof.”

Borsalino grabs at him and hugs him close, close enough to rest his chin over Issho’s silky dark hair, taking a moment to breathe him in. His heart is beating wildly, he’s sure Issho can hear it with the way he’s pressed against Borsalino’s chest, and he hopes his partner understands that its rhythm beats for him, and only him.

His back will surely make him pay for it in the morning, but he could not care less; he lays back until his shoulders hit the soft cushions, keeping his arms wrapped around the love of his life, who only huffs a breath against his collarbone and wiggles around to get more comfortable.

They breathe together, in silence, holding each other tightly in a way they haven’t for such a long time, but before the exhaustion from the last months can take over and let him crash out like he so wishes, curiosity pops back up in his mind.

“Wait.”

“What?” Issho murmurs back, already on the cusp of falling asleep.

“If you’re not breaking up with me, and you don’t have a lover either… Then why are you on the DenDen so often?”

“Oh. That. Well, I suppose it’s only fair to deal a secret of mine in exchange for yours.” Issho reasons, before nodding, head shifting on Borsalino’s already terribly wrinkled suit. “But you have to promise me you will not freak out, or react in a way you might regret later on.”

Borsalino’s eyebrows threaten to reach his hairline, but he concedes neverthless, and lies in wait as Issho seems to steel himself, cheeks gaining a pink hue as he hides his face into Borsalino's shoulder.

“You see, the calls I’ve been taking over the last month and a half… they’re from Sentomaru.”

Chapter Text

“You see, the calls I’ve been taking over the last month and a half… they’re from Sentomaru.”

*

Borsalino is excited. Ecstatic, even.

Of course he is – how could he not, when he has been granted not one, but two of the greatest things he could have ever wished for?

Four days have passed since Issho and he have cleared up their misunderstanding, and he hasn’t been able to sit still or far from his lover ever since. He can’t help himself – he is immensely glad to still be able to call Issho his partner, and he plans to make it known to the other. It will never make up for the last seven months, yes, but he hopes the effort might at least be accepted.

And boy, did Borsalino miss their little rituals. He was so caught up in his own thoughts, in his own plans and worries, that he hadn’t even realized just how much the time spent in Issho’s presence brightened his days. It’s as if a part of him, long thought lost, has finally been returned.

He also feels a bit like a teenager, he has to admit: every morning he wakes up and his eyes meet his partner’s mussed hair peeking from the top of the covers, hand resting on the pillow right beside it, and every morning, like clockwork, he cannot stop from reaching out and threading slim fingers through Issho’s thicker ones. He can’t keep his hands to himself whenever he has the chance to reach out to his beloved.

He feels lucky. So, incredibly lucky, to be able to continue standing at his partner’s side.

However, perhaps it’s also because of that, that he hasn’t yet breached the subject that has been rolling around his brain continuously for the past four days.

Sentomaru.

When Issho revealed the mysterious caller’s identity right before falling asleep, Borsalino was one hundred percent sure the man was pulling his leg, some sort of payback for the emotional detachment of the last months, or maybe even simply a way to keep him on his toes until the morning after.

But then the morning after came, and with it a long-overdue chat about his wayward (ex-) protégé, and about Issho’s maintained contact with him – not that Borsalino chatted much. Issho tried to cover the entire story of how their conversations came to start on his side, but Borsalino himself kept his mouth mostly shut, only opening it to hum affirmatives and to let in worrying amounts of scalding hot coffee.

It’s not that he didn’t want to talk about Sentomaru, on the contrary he wishes nothing more than to know how the kid is doing, apart from what little information the RA has been able to gather on his overall status; but… he simply feels like he shouldn’t.

There is a reason why Sentomaru is hiding on some remote island all the way across the Grand Line, after all, and Borsalino has played quite the big part in how that particular series of events played out. He can’t blame the kid for not wanting to ever see or speak to Borsalino again.

Ah, coffee and cowardice, the two perfect starters to Borsalino’s days as of late.

Issho, bless his perceptive soul, saw right through his silence at breakfast and let the matter rest, but there has been an air of thoughtfulness about him since, something that tells Borsalino he’s to expect things to change any time now.

And the time indeed comes, only four days after their late-night conversation, for him to have to face the music.

It’s been a tiring day, meeting upon meeting upon meeting until the hours started blurring into one another and the words written on the different reports started making less and less sense, until he had to excuse himself early, so Borsalino is a bit lost in thought as he goes back to finally, finally get some rest. His eyes may be aware of his surroundings, but in truth, his mind is already projecting the sensation of soft sheets and strong arms wrapped around him, the warmth of a soft yet sturdy chest against his shoulders and back-

Well, now’s not the time to think about that.

Suffice to say, Borsalino steps into the room without giving much thought to his surroundings, nor to the low hum of his partner’s voice reaching his ears as soon as he steps over the threshold and sing-songs his way in, unaware of a conversation he’s once again stumbling into.

“I’m ba~ack.”

He removes his shoes and turns around, only to find himself face to face with a startled Issho, sitting cross-legged on the small couch with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and, in the other, a DenDen receiver. A DenDen which, as Borsalino’s eyes ever-so-slowly rake over it, appears to have taken on quite the familiar features.

The snail’s beady eyes have indeed taken on a dark, almost black colour, mimicking slanted orbs that to this day still star in Borsalino’s worst nightmares, and they stare back at him over a curved scar, the ends of it connecting the snail’s left eye to the corner of its lips. On the shell’s left side sits a kanji, stark against the snail’s off-white shade. Sen.

All air leaves the room.

Borsalino takes a step back, and then another one, until his feet stumble over his own carefully placed shoes, his back hitting the door with a soft thump.

The DenDen’s expression shifts, eyes widening a fraction only to then squint into the distance.

“What was that?”

Issho hesitates, lips twisting into a frown as he probably ponders what to tell the kid – and shit, it really is Borsalino’s kid there, grumpy and suspicious as he always has been. The realisation makes something twist in the dark cavity of his chest, something he has long believed to be dead, withered away in the past thirty-something years spent following orders at the World Government’s heels.

“Sentomaru, just know this: we mean you no harm.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” perceptive as always, Borsalino allows himself to think, as his breath comes out faster and his lungs cease to cooperate with the rest of his body. “You’re startin’ to scare me, old man.”

Issho only sighs, taking the time to place his cup of tea on the coffee table with practiced ease before using the same hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have anything to worry about, kid. I told you during our first call, remember? The line is secure and untraceable, and you are in no danger whatsoever.”

The snail’s eyes shift around, almost as if the person behind it were trying to intercept the shape of its surroundings along with Issho’s voice. “You didn’t answer my question, old man.” Some shuffling, a muttered curse, “And that is not reassuring me.”

“I know it’s not, but what can I say? A man can try.” Issho clears his throat, surely fully aware of the way Borsalino is slowly, oh so slowly, inching closer to the couch, eyes never leaving the DenDen even as he sits next to his partner and lets their shoulders bump together in an affectionate yet silent greeting.

As if reading the thoughts swirling in his mind in a wild mess, Issho reaches out a hand to softly pat at his knee. It helps a bit, but perhaps it’s not the gesture itself as much as it’s that Issho is doing it, and Borsalino’s own hand moves almost as if it had a mind of its own, reaching back and intertwining with the thicker fingers, thumb moving in circles over calluses born of years’ worth of sword fighting, in a self-soothing motion.

Issho squeezes back – ever the lifesaver, keeping Borsalino afloat even through the worst of storms.

“That being said, I believe it’s only fair that I tell you the truth – Borsalino is here, in the room with me.”

The line is silent, only what sounds like a soft gasp breaking through it before it falls again. Issho leans forward in his seat, tense, almost as if wanting to catch any slight sound coming from the snail, even though they both know deep in their hearts that there is nothing else to hear. And, indeed:

Gacha.

The DenDen’s features go back to normal.

Borsalino can breathe again, even as the tiny bit of hope that was starting to show on his face falls and he slumps back into his seat.

Issho sighs. “It was bound to happen sooner or later, right?”

Almost in slow motion, Borsalino’s head turns, brows almost up to his hairline and mouth stuck in a shocked, perfect ‘O’. Issho, for his part, looks as innocent as ever, putting the receiver down and switching it with the cup, sipping at his tea with the uttermost calm.

However, no words leave either men’s mouth for quite some time. They sit like that, one pair of shoulders tense to the point of cramping as the other relaxes back into the couch cushions. Borsalino thinks about what he should say, if he should even say something, but no words come up, leaving him, for once, painfully defenceless in the face of a verbal confrontation of any kind. Definitely not something he’s accustomed to.

He feels naked, as if that small interaction (and can it be even considered an interaction?), that eons-long silence, that voice, were all together able to strip him of everything. His self-control, his voice. Hell, even his own thoughts.

It’s not a nice feeling.

And the silence, oh, the silence. That, more than anything else, was the part that hurt like a bitch, because it brought with it a devastating realization. Once, many years ago, Sentomaru had been ecstatic to know about an oncoming call from his Ojiki, he would always be up for a chat, sometimes even hogging the lab’s DenDen all to himself for hours, just to talk to Borsalino. Now?

A snail’s chirp is the most he’ll ever get. Maybe, if he’s lucky enough, he will get to hear Sentomaru cussing him out – jury’s still out on that one, though.

Issho seems to disagree, however, and he voices this thought, breaking through the chaos that is Borsalino’s brain at the moment. “He misses you a lot, you know.”

And, what?

Borsalino’s eyes dart between the snail, sitting innocently and minding its own business, and Issho himself, hands smoothing down invisible wrinkles in his suit in a soothing motion. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Issho’s tone is firm, leaving no doubt as to how he acquired such a belief – he has never been one to sugarcoat his words, and if he says so after having spoken to the kid more than once, then it must be true. Yet it feels too far from the truth. How could Sentomaru ever miss him, after their fight back on Egghead?

A soft sigh catches his attention again, back to Issho who is putting his cup down again, fingers pausing just a second on the ceramic before retreating, as if trying to absorb any lingering warmth from the now empty vessel.

“I think…” he says, bending down to pick up his cane with a low hum before standing, sparing a gentle caress and a peck to Borsalino’s cheek in the process, “that you think too much – that, or your brain is too used to light-speed thoughts, my love.”

“Let him decide on his own terms if he’s still mad at you or not. He went through a traumatic experience, one in which you played quite a big part, and it takes a lot of time and patience to forgive something like that.”

“That being said, keeping my vow of privacy to him doesn’t stop me from telling you this: the boy still holds a great deal of affection for you. Just let him come to you at his own pace and try not to be too much of an asshole when he does, and you two will be okay.”

With that, Issho steps around the couch and makes his way to the bedroom, only stopping for a quick Goodnight dear before disappearing behind the door.

Borsalino sits alone in living room now, sunglasses discarded in the dim light of the moon that pilfers through the window curtains.

Let him come to you at his own pace.

“Easy for him to say,” he mutters, fingers kneading at his temples to stave off the oncoming headache, “He’s not the one who killed Vegapunk.”

It feels strange to say it out loud, but that is what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Borsalino killed Vegapunk, the person Sentomaru loved almost like a parent.

Many in the past thought that the role had fallen to Borsalino, but the truth is, Borsalino has never been as close to Sentomaru as Vegapunk was. They held affection for each other, yes, and the kid had some sort of hero worship thing going on that had the Admiral quite flattered, but the parental role was ultimately taken on by the Doctor.

Oh, the potential for something more had always been there, sure, but it was simply natural that Sentomaru would end up orbitating closer to Vegapunk, what with the scientist being the one to take the kid in.

Borsalino had always been like a fun uncle, the one that never married nor had children, the one that popped in for a quick hello every now and then and brought along gifts and stories from his travels, but he’s not- he has never been one for familial affection, of all things.

Sentomaru was, well. He was an exception.

Somehow the kid grew on him, what can he say.

Point is, no matter the amount of affection they (Vegapunk, Sentomaru, Borsalino himself) all held for each other, the bond between Vegapunk and Sentomaru was much, much stronger. Borsalino is no fool, he knew from the start that, as much as he would regret killing his friend, his own feelings of remorse would pale in the face of Sentomaru’s resentment toward Borsalino himself.

But damn it… he never thought the day would come that he’d admit to it, but Borsalino wants to hear that gruff voice again. He wants to ruffle dark, silky hair and poke at round cheeks, wants to make fun of a quick temper. He wants to cook onigiri and look at the stars with a pair of curious eyes following his every move again.

Borsalino wants his kid back.

He shakes his head and lets a sigh from deep within his chest, standing up and making his way to the bedroom – he needs to sleep this awful day off.

He has no idea what is it that made Issho so convinced that their bond is still salvageable, but he really hopes his partner is not mistaken.

*

Sentomaru has never been the kind of person who succumbs to external pressure or stress of any kind. He grew up around old Punk and his Satellites in a lab that was a… peculiar environment to say the least. He went through the harsh tests required in order to become Captain of the Marine Science Unit. He has trained with the strongest individuals the Marines had to offer, among which were absolute powerhouses such as one Monkey D. Garp. Any person with poor stress management skills would have crumbled in his place.

That being said, Sentomaru may be actually, full-on panicking for once.

Borsalino knows about his calls to Issho.

Borsalino knows about his calls to Issho.

It was the single, most important thing to avoid at all costs, the bare minimum for a continued peaceful life away from any trouble, and Sentomaru couldn’t even do that.

How could he let it happen?

The good thing as of right now is that he is so busy trying not to barf and lose what little he was able to keep down from today’s lunch, that for a good couple of minutes he has a reprieve from the incessant alarms going off at the back of his mind. The bad thing – well, there are a lot of those; he might have to consider making a list to put them in alphabetical order.

Let’s just say, this was not how he’d thought an eventual contact with Uncle would go.

It’s whatever, he thinks, somehow bitterly, as his lunch finally decides it does not want to see the world outside today, after all, and that hey, perhaps Sentomaru does indeed deserve an hour’s reprieve from the fucking nausea.

The fucker already wants to kill me anyways.

He carefully stretches up from his kneeling position in front of the toilet - and ow, does that hurt his bones now - and stands upright (or, as upright as his sore back will allow), slow steps leading to the sink for a much needed splash of fresh water against his hot, feverish face.

Swallowing as he pats himself dry, he gathers enough courage to stare at his reflection in the mirror hanging over it, eyes narrowing at his now long-ish hair falling limply around his face. Fuck, he should really cut it all off. He shakes his head to get rid of the thought, face flushing as his eyes dip lower. Staring at his chest as a fluttering feeling settles in his stomach. It’s tender, with a soreness to it that sinks in deep into his tissues – Sentomaru can't stop the surge of embarrassment that arises every time he remembers the changes his body underwent, he has to admit.

It has also become a struggle to get out of bed in the last week or so, his body feeling heavier as most of his weight settles in his stomach. His back hurts every time he stands now, hips cracking and adding to the discomfort.

Gritting his teeth, he spares a second to press a hand to his back and try to stand straighter. It’s harder with all the extra weight on him.

His head feels heavy as he finally makes his way out of the restroom – exhaustion is starting to claw at him, and somehow he feels nauseous again.

Maybe it’s not even the baby this time, maybe his body is just choosing to avoid facing the issue by bringing Sentomaru to an early grave so he won’t have to address the situation. Sentomaru for one wouldn’t be surprised at all, he has no idea of how a possible conversation on the topic with Nayru – or, Gods forbid, Edin – might go and, to be frank, he’s not sure he wants to know either.

And, speak of the devil – not even a second after the thought crosses his mind, there is a knock at the door.

He sighs. Talk about timing.

Nayru has recently started visiting daily; she established, after a small scare two weeks ago, that she would not allow Sentomaru to go unsupervised for longer than twenty-four hours lest he, quote, “go into labour without even realizing”.

(Alright, perhaps the scare hadn’t been that small – but how was Sentomaru supposed to know that it’s not normal to feel dizzy 24/7 during pregnancy? He thought the feeling came free with a little parasite sucking all the nutrients from your body!)

So that’s what Sentomaru’s days have been like lately; Tai has officially deemed him unfit for work until after a couple of months after the birth so he spends most of the time in the house, doing small projects of his own here and there. (Also, slowly building up the courage to fix up the future nursery yet pulling back at the last minute, a vice tightening around his heart whenever he dares stepping into the only unfinished room of his house, but that one’s between Sentomaru and the house itself.)

It’s been a boring couple of weeks, monotonous in a way he’d never expected it to be, but at least Ilia revealed herself to be his greatest ally and started bringing over spare parts and scraps of metal from the workshop for him to tinker with; it’s not much, but it’s still better than nothing, Sentomaru concedes.

Now it seems that the time has come for Nayru’s daily visit, a cheery greeting ready on her lips as he lets her in – and immediately dying out as she takes in the state of him, a serious frown replacing it and clearly signalling her shifting into nurse-mode.

“Is everything okay? Little Onigiri over there keeping you up?”

Sentomaru mutters a half-excuse, uncertain as to whether to tell her the entire story or not. Is she going to be mad at him? He doesn’t want her to be mad at him. He feels like a naughty child awaiting for punishment from his parent.

He finds something to do with his hands instead, preparing tea for the both of them as his mind goes through scenario after scenario. Surprisingly enough, warming up the water provides a nice distraction, if only for a couple of minutes.

Now that Borsalino knows, Sentomaru must find a way to be prepared. He must have a backup plan, something he can use in case the Marines come knocking, or if–

“Hey.”

A hand on his shoulder has him flinch back in surprise, so startled he almost spills hot water all over himself. When he turns, Nayru is there, lips thinning in worry and eyes studying Sentomaru’s face as if the answers to the great mysteries of the world were held right there.

“Careful there, Sen. You don’t need a burn on top of all the stuff you’re going through with the baby.” She pats his hand as he let her slip beside him, taking the two cups to bring over to the kitchen table and sitting down in front of hers, a sweet smile as she comments lightly, “Ah, your ginger tea truly is the best.”

He answers in a distracted hum. He doesn’t want to think of the person who taught him how to make it.

They sit in companionable silence, the scalding tea keeping them warm even as the late afternoon chill sets in outside. It’s nice, Sentomaru thinks; he arrived on Lanayru a bundle of nerves, still recovering from the battles fought on Egghead and with a chip on his shoulder, waiting for nothing else but to leave the island behind like he did so many others, yet now here he is.

He has always hated the quiet, sleepy quality of towns like Ranel, where everyone knows everyone and the most exciting thing to witness is the local priest having an affair with the baker, but the tranquillity he has been experiencing in the past months (puke aside) has grown on him – who would have thought?

Nayru glances at him with curious eyes over her cup, studying the way he keeps on tapping his fingernails on his own rather than drinking its contents.

“Sentomaru.” Tap tap tap.

“Hm?” Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Your mind is elsewhere,” tap tap tap, “What are you thinking about?”

It’s not a question as much as a statement, she knows him too well now, knows what makes him tick and how to get answers out of him – not that she would ever willingly use the ability with bad intentions in mind.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Then is it a coincidence that you were tapping S.O.S on your cup just now?”

“How…”

“My Ma taught me.”

“Of course she would.” He mutters, resenting. Is there anything that woman can’t do?

Nayru is still looking at him, expecting, eyebrows furrowed and her eyes scanning with laser-focus his expression. It makes Sentomaru feel a bit put on the spot. How does one even begin to explain such a situation?

I made a small, fixable mistake, his brain wants to say.

“I called a Marine Admiral,” His mouth blurts out instead.

The room is silent, only his words ringing in the air. It feels like even the world outside stopped moving for a moment.

He braces for her reaction, but Nayru’s shock ends up being all but an explosive affair.

She blinks, tilts her head. She looks from Sentomaru, to the cup of tea clutched in his hand, to the peacefully sleeping DenDen perched on its side table over by the couch in the other room yet still visible from where she sits.

She blinks again. He blinks back.

It’s a stalemate, really, each looking at the other and waiting for an answer, a clarification, something that will help them realize the magnitude of such a statement. Thankfully, Nayru is the one to break the long pause.

“I… I think I didn’t hear you correctly. Did you just say you called a Marine Admiral?”

His shoulders rise up to his ears. He has no choice but to admit to it now.

“Yeah, no, you heard that right.”

“You… you called a Marine Admiral.”

“Yes.”

“And you… talked to them?”

“No, I only breathed a couple of times into the receiver like a stalker – of course I talked to him, Nayru.”

He doesn’t intend for it to come out so… so snappish, so angry, but his head is starting to feel more and more like thousands of explosive charges are going off inside of it, panicked thoughts fighting for dominance and alarms blaring from all sides of his brain.

Nayru falls silent again, processing what he’s just said, frowning down into her cup as if it were all the tea’s fault.

For a moment there Sentomaru fears the worst, but as he spies her from the corner of his eye he realizes that it’s not for the possible consequences of this- this entire situation, not completely at least. He fears the worst, because he does not want to lose her.

Nayru was, is, his first friend – and, as much as it makes him feel a bit childish to put it that way, his best, too. She had no reason to trust him, not while knowing the truth about him in those first weeks, when he’d still been hiding his identity and lying to both her and her family; but she did. She did, and she’d waited with open arms for him to trust her back, to feel safe enough in Ranel, to open up about his past.

He doesn’t want her to be mad at him, because he doesn’t want to risk their friendship over his dumb choices.

Yet, just as he’s thinking this, Nayru surprises him – and really, perhaps he shouldn’t have worried that much, because what Nayru, kind, sweet, compassionate Nayru, says is:

“Are you safe here?”

She could have yelled at him, worried about her island’s wellbeing first and foremost. She should have, as a matter of fact. Instead, the first thing she does when confronted with the news that Lanayru might be in danger is to ask Sentomaru if he is safe.

It makes him want to laugh, and he does, chuckling even more at her confused head tilt; he really can’t stop but at the same time his brain is running at top speed, the relief at Nayru’s words turning into gloom and then it’s like a switch turns and Sentomaru is not laughing anymore, there’s fat tears rolling down his cheeks and he’s hastily wiping them away with his hand.

Fucking hormones.

If Nayru is surprised by the display she doesn’t show it – well, she has indeed spent the last weeks subjected to his mood swings, she’s probably used to them by now, he supposes. Rather, she scoots closer and takes his free hand between hers as he still tries to wipe away and hide the tears with the other.

“Sentomaru, please, look at me. Are you okay?” Not really, to be honest, but he nods anyway. He only needs to stop these damned tears from falling, and then they can talk properly.

Nayru awaits patiently for him to calm down, rubbing circles into his hand; it takes Sentomaru a lot of effort not to get to his feet and run away to hide in the woods around the house, he is so embarrassed at the display he just offered her.

He keeps his mouth shut for a while still after the tears stop, putting his thoughts back in order.

“I called Admiral Kizaru," he starts, tentatively, hand still held tightly between Nayru’s, seeking comfort.

The statement is met with a surprised gasp, and he rushes to reassure her, “Ojiki didn’t answer, though. Not at first. I… I talked with Issho – Admiral Fujitora, instead.”

So he tells her everything. About that missed first call, about Issho wanting to keep in touch. About Borsalino crashing their most recent call. The words spill from his lips in a continuous flow for what feels like centuries but must be in reality not even ten minutes.

He feels like he has run a marathon at the end of it, holding his breath and awaiting judgement.

Nayru is looking at him pensively, cup of tea forgotten in the wake of his story. She reaches for it and takes a sip, wrinkling her nose at the now cold brew.

“So… I am the pregnant friend?”

Sentomaru wipes at his eyes, huffs a chuckle. “I was in a panic, alright?”

“Well you could have asked before putting a baby in me!”

He would never admit it, but the easy banter is exactly what he needs right now, the stress his body and mind are undergoing temporarily forgotten and replaced with Nayru’s corny jokes.

He clears his throat, a bit reassured by her calm. “So…”

“So?”

“What do you think?”

“Of me being pregnant?”

He groans, pulls at his bangs with a shake of his head, “You know I’m not askin’ that.”

Nayru only grins. He takes back what he thought before, she is evil.

“What do you think of… ya know. The situation.”

Satisfied at the admission, she hums, going back to a more serious expression. “I think that you are thinking too much.” She looks up at him and must read the incredulity on his face, because she adds, quickly, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be worried of course, I’m not dumb. But…” She bites at her lip, looking off into the distance.

“But…?”

“I think Admiral Fujitora’s intentions are genuine, it simply wouldn’t make sense otherwise. Even if he were playing the long game to catch you, you said that you never talked about where you live, or about any other kind of sensitive information, but he hasn’t dropped contact even after almost two months with no results.” She pokes at Sentomaru’s cheek, mindless of his attempt at swatting her away. “So he has nothing to gain from talking to you, unless he really just wants to keep in touch.”

“Alright, but what about Borsalino?”

“Yeah, well… to be honest I have no idea about that either.”

Sentomaru only buries his face in his hands.

Nayru is about to say something, then she hesitates. She opens her mouth again – only to close it once more.

A single dark eye peeks in between fingers, “Whatever you’re thinking, say it.”

She seems reassured by his confirmation and, in an impressive feat, she surprises him for the second time that day.

“Perhaps you could just ask him.”

A beat of silence. Sentomaru emerges from the safe nest of his hands.

“Ask… Borsalino?”

Nayru rolls her eyes at him, exasperated. “Oh, for the love of-! No, we don’t know what he wants yet! I meant Fujitora!” she seems purely convinced it’s a good plan even as Sentomaru snorts and shakes his head, “No, no, listen to me, I think- I think it might be a good way to find out! What better way than to ask the closest thing you have to a double agent?”

“Oh I dunno, maybe I could just, y’know, mind my business and drop all contact for safety’s sake?”

His scepticism doesn’t seem to alleviate her enthusiasm, however. “Point taken, but. Think about it! You get your answer, Admiral Fujitora gets confirmation that you don’t hate him, and I get some good gossip, we all win!”

“Sometimes I forget you are your father’s daughter.”

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Eh, nothing, nothing.”

So they do come up with the semblance of a plan.

It’s simple enough, really, he simply has call Issho and have one of their usual chats, then subtly ask about Borsalino – it would be much easier to do it, he thinks, if he hadn’t been avoiding any and all talk of the man for the past two months and if the man himself hadn’t crashed the last call.

Nayru is way too much into it in Sentomaru’s opinion, but her energy and enthusiasm are very compelling; he could almost swear she’s more excited about it than Sentomaru himself.

However, barely two hours after Nayru first knocked at the door, half-baked as it is, the plan is there – it only needs to be put into action, and with only some minor convincing on her part, Sentomaru takes the DenDen receiver in hand.

He stares at it, dubious.

Is he truly ready to breach the subject? What if Issho doesn’t play along and refuses to disclose Borsalino’s intentions? Will he even pick up, or did that chance get tossed out of the window the moment they were caught red-handed? And Gods, is Issho even alright after that? What if Borsalino ratted him out to Akainu right after the call? What if…

Anxiety rises in his chest, making his hand sweaty even as he punches in the code to Issho’s private line.

Contrary to his expectations, however, the Admiral answers on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Old man, it’s me. Are you alone?”

“Ah, Sentomaru. Yes, I am alone.” He does sound fine over the line. Sentomaru tries to ignore the surge of relief that wants to take over him. “I’m sorry for yesterday, I didn’t know-”

Sentomaru interrupts, cringing at how harsh it sounds. “It’s okay old man, don’t worry. I actually, uhm…” his gaze shifts to Nayru, who is nodding exaggeratedly and giving him thumbs up, “I actually wanted to talk about… it. I wanted to talk about it.”

The thumbs up become a facepalm in the span of seconds.

Issho, however, does not seem deterred by the subject, and rather hums in an almost approving tone, “Of course, of course. If there is anything you want to know, that is also in the realm of my knowledge, I’m willing to share.”

Oh, this- this is much easier than Sentomaru had expected. So he steels himself and, under Nayru’s watchful eye, voices the question buzzing around in his mind.

“What happened with Borsalino?”

Issho’s line goes quiet for a couple of seconds. Then, in a controlled tone, “Everything is alright Sentomaru, if that’s what you mean. Borsalino… he stumbled upon our calls by accident.” He huffs a chuckle, amused.

“He thought I had a lover, actually, and confronted me about it – everything is cleared up now, of course, but he literally just… came back early from work and stumbled upon our conversation. It’s my fault to be honest, I have been careless in the past couple of weeks, taking the calls out here in the open of the living room.”

A weight he hadn’t realized had been there is lifted from Sentomaru’s chest. It was only an accident. Simple coincidence, that’s all.

“And he didn’t… give you any trouble?”

He hates the way his voice hesitates against all of his wishes, hates that his mind has come to associate Borsalino to thoughts of dangerescapescaperunescape, hates that he’s worried for Issho’s wellbeing, another Admiral of all people.

If somebody had told him, years ago, that it would end up like this, he would have laughed in their face.

Ojiki? He would have commented, He’s powerful, yeah, but he’s way too lazy to beat my ass.

Now here he is, scared by the mere possibility of hearing the man’s voice again. It’s almost ironic, really.

Issho snorts, interrupting his train of thought in a confident tone.

“Oh, trust me, he wouldn’t dare.”

If Sentomaru breathes a sigh of relief at the information, that’s between him and Nayru. He chances a glance at her and sees an encouraging smile stretching her lips, crinkling her eyes as she nods. Well, time for the important question, he guesses.

“So…” He cringes at his own awkwardness, asking through clenched teeth, “What does he plan to do, now that he knows?”

Issho is silent for a couple of seconds, long enough that Sentomaru could swear he can hear the cogs turning in that head of his.

“Issho?”

“I… actually wanted to talk to you about that– if you don’t mind, of course.”

Perhaps it was too early to feel relieved. Sentomaru’s heart skips a beat, mind already running through all possible scenarios that could come out of such a conversation. Issho’s hesitation does not help matters. Neverthless, he lets out an affirmative and waits for the man to continue, eyes straying to meet Nayru’s over the DenDen.

“I wanted to ask you – and, you are completely free to refuse if you want, it’s definitely not an obligation so please don’t you go feel pressured into-”

“Spit it out, old man.”

“…Very well. I wanted to ask you if… if you would care for a chat with Borsalino.”

Sentomaru’s hyper-reactive brain comes to a halt. Somewhere at his side, an almost silent gasp from Nayru.

“A… a chat?”

“Ah, yes. That would be the idea, at least.” He hears shuffling on the other line, a soft thump and a sigh that make him assume Issho has probably flopped down somewhere before continuing. “You don’t have to agree, I simply think it might be good for the both of you to have… closure, of some sort.”

Sentomaru can’t help the way his head shakes in disbelief, even being aware the man can’t know he’s doing it.

“He almost killed me, the last time we saw each other. Fuck, he killed Old Punk.” He pinches at the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the bloody headache he can feel forming after such a shitty day.

Why is part of him champing at the bit, screaming and kicking and pushing for him to say yes? What happened to good ol’ self-preservation?

Not for the first (nor the last) time that day, he finds himself heaving a deep sigh at Issho’s heavy silence.

“Let’s say,” he starts, then stops. Looks at Nayru’s now pursed lips and tight eyes. “Let’s say I accept, old man. Let’s say I miss that son of a bitch and wanna talk to him. How would I even know it’s not some ploy to capture me?”

He can almost hear Issho smile, the smug bastard. Ah shit, he gave himself away with the hypothetical, didn’t he?

Neverthless, he continues, grateful that the man can’t see the way his face is on fire. “And don’t come up with some bullshit like,” he puts on his best gruff tone, “oh, but he loves you, or you just need to find kindness in yourself and forgive, or I swear I will find a way to punch someone through a DenDen, and you’ll be test subject number one.”

Issho, for his part, only sounds amused at Sentomaru’s imitation of himself, if the snort he lets out is anything to go by. “I hope I don’t really sound like that, kid.” He starts, before his tone sobers up. “Truth is… I just know.”

It’s Sentomaru’s turn to snort in amusement, as he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, totally convincing there, old ma-”

“Sentomaru, please. Say or believe what you will, but please, hear me out before passing judgement.”

The sheer sincerity exuding from the interruption has him shutting his mouth with a click.

“…Alright, old man. I’ll hear you out. But I make no promises.”

There is relief in the Admiral’s voice. “Thank you, my boy.”

“Borsalino does love you still. I know you don’t believe me when I say it, and I will not dive into detail because it’s definitely not my story to tell, but he still cares about you, about your well-being.” For a moment, it sounds like Issho wants to say more, but the man doesn’t add anything.

Sentomaru can taste the tang of blood filling his mouth from where he’s biting his lip, stare boring down into the DenDen, the little snail glancing up at him in fear as if ready to be the recipient of his anger. It takes Nayru’s steady, warm hand on his arm to stop him from acting out the urge of living up to the snail’s expectation.

“Besides, he has already known for little more than a day, hasn’t he? Don’t you think that, if he really wanted you in Marine custody, he wouldn’t have kept it a secret this long? I know it’s been some time, but I’m sure you still remember the Marine protocol for criminals’ sightings.”

That’s the final nail in the coffin, he thinks. He takes in a deep breath, fills up his lung until it almost feels like they’ll burst, closing his eyes as his brain, unsolicited, provides with a clear memory of one of the many manuals he’d had to study to officially join the Marines.

The most important thing is to immediately signal your superior officer upon seeing the individual. It is a matter of public safety, and any delay could potentially allow the person to escape or cause further harm. It's crucial to prioritize reporting the sighting as quickly as possible.

He is clenching his jaw so hard that it sends a pang of pain through his teeth; it really makes him want to punch something. Or someone. Preferably, a certain someone who wears purple on a daily basis.

Perhaps boldened by Sentomaru’s prolonged silence, Issho continues.

“I can only imagine how you feel about it all, what happened on Egghead was… it was a disaster, to say the least, but I believe it’s indeed because of that, that you would be better off after a civil talk – you and Borsalino both. It doesn’t have to be a reconciliation, just a way to have closure and lay your demons to rest.”

It strikes him then, that Borsalino was good friends with Punk.

It’s something Sentomaru had always taken for granted. It was just the norm for him, to come back to the lab after a long day spent training outside with Ojiki and help him make dinner, then to go bully Punk into eating something because Gods knew how many hours he would go without eating if nobody interrupted his experiments.

When Ojiki went back to Marineford, he would sometimes call Punk’s personal number rather than the lab’s, which he knew Sentomaru would be the one picking up, and the two geezers would sometimes end up talking until late at night. About what, Sentomaru doesn’t know, but Punk always seemed happier the mornings after, somehow in a lighter mood after chatting with Borsalino.

Sentomaru hates Borsalino.

He hates him so. Much.

He can’t help it. It’s just that these memories, these- these proofs, of Borsalino being attached to Punk more than he let on, they only serve to stoke the fire roaring in Sentomaru’s chest; they make Borsalino’s crime look even worse in his mind’s eye.

“Punk was his friend,” he snaps through gritted teeth, vision blurring and Gods he does not want to do this in front of Nayru, “he was Borsalino’s friend for longer than I’ve been alive, and Borsalino executed orders without even blinking an eye.”

It’s one of his worst memories, he realizes now. Not the bloodbath on Egghead, no, he has seen much worse over the years, but – the sensations. The helplessness. The awareness of Punk’s death even without actually seeing the body. The confirmation coming through the broadcast. The memory of Strawhat’s promise of getting Punk safely out. The realisation that Sentomaru himself might have served Punk’s head to the World Government on a silver platter by trusting those pirates.

“How am I supposed to reconcile with Punk’s murderer?” He chokes out, wiping at his cheek, fingers catching on the rough texture of the scar.

Issho is silent. Speechless, maybe – the Sentomaru he knows has never been one to talk about his feelings of all things.

Maybe the life he’s been building here in Ranel has truly changed him, or maybe it’s the damn hormones, who knows.

“Sorry old man, just-” his other hand clenches into the soft fabric of his pants. Distantly, he realizes he hasn’t worn his old apron and tsuna in a while. It makes something in his subconscious twitch and squirm in an unpleasant way. “I could tell you I’d be happy to do it, but we both know it would be a lie.”

“I see. Worry not, as I told you from the start it’s only a suggestion, you are not for-” Sentomaru is the one interrupting, this time.

“My turn to speak now, old man.”

Looking over at Nayru he can tell that she already read it in his own expression, and there is a long pause over the line, filled by silent conversation between the two friends – a conversation made only of blinking, of raised eyebrows and mouthed words, and that ends when Sentomaru throws his hands in the air with a barely-there growl.

“Sentomaru…?”

There is a hint of worry in Issho’s voice, well-hidden, yes, but still there. Sentomaru does not care.

“I’ll do it.”

“What? But you just said-”

“I know what I said. But it wasn’t a no. I already made up my mind about wanting to talk to that bastard a long time ago.” He confesses, shooting an apologetic glance at Nayru, who is now staring openly, mouth agape. “If he has any ill intention, I will not hesitate to kick his ass myself.” He bluffs, fully remembering how their last fight went and painfully aware of his physical disadvantages now. “But, that being said…”

He chances a look in Nayru’s direction. She only gives an approving nod – offering her blessing to another crazy decision.

“You say he might need to talk it out. Well if he has anything to tell me, he can tell me in person.” He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I know he still has my vivre card hidden somewhere. And I won’t hide anymore. Not from him.”

*

Time flies, and before Sentomaru even notices an entire week has gone by, bringing with it a sense of anticipation. Unfortunately, the day also brings with it another wave of that damned morning (and Sentomaru would really like to have a friendly chat with whoever called it that way even though it actually shows up every single hour of the day) sickness.

He wakes sometime in the early hours to a heaving surge of nausea. He’s up and almost out of the bed, tangled in the blankets, not wanting to throw up all over himself, before he remembers the basin he left beside the bed exactly for these occasions. He just manages to catch it and pull it up onto his lap before he’s vomiting into it.

It’s miserable. He’s miserable. The surges of nausea don’t stop for a long time. Every time he thinks maybe it’ll finally be over with another wave hits him. He doesn’t always vomit, not that he has much in his stomach to throw up nowadays, sometimes he just gags, but today the nausea is so strong he doesn’t feel like he can risk lying down again.

A sob catches in his throat again, spat out a moment later on a mouthful of phlegm. He hates this.

He does not regret anything, no. He still stands by his choices, but… fuck. Fuck. Why is this going so terribly, so close to the end? He feels the trepidation of meeting Little Onigiri, more than he had thought he would at first, but he’d be lying if he said that was the only reason why he cannot wait for this all to be over.

He scrubs a hand over his eyes, pressing until stars flicker behind his lids. He forces his weary body to a standing position, then goes to through the motions as he washes up and makes his way to the kitchen, as he prepares the by now usual ginger tea and sits at the table to carefully sip at it in complete, blissful silence.

Today is the day.

Issho and Borsalino are arriving in Lanayru.

Sentomaru doesn’t know how to feel about that yet, it seems like everything happened so quickly now that he looks back at the situation. He hasn’t even had the time to plan this properly.

Nayru for her part was very, very excited. She has spent the entirety of last week organising, preparing a warm welcome, as if the same people she wants to greet kindly weren’t also able to destroy the whole island with but a snap of their fingers. When Sentomaru asked, the only reason she offered was a cheery “I don’t want to be excluded when he eventually pulls out your baby pictures.”

He knows that’s only half true.

Her mother took a bit more convincing – understandably so. When they had passed by her office to drop the news on her, Edin had spent the majority of three hours berating their reckless behaviour, alternating between muttering to herself and outright scolding them as if they’d been naughty children rather than actually thirty-somethings. When faced with this observation, made by Nayru, she had readily shot back, “Really? Then why do you insist on acting like one? And what about you, Sentomaru? Do you think this is something a responsible adult with a child on the way would do?”

That had hurt a bit, a voice somewhere at the back of his mind agreeing with her.

She wasn’t even wrong in her worry, they had indeed acted on an impulse while she should have had been informed from the start about a possible danger to her town – to all of them, really, because at this point it’s not even only about Sentomaru and Borsalino anymore.

Nevertheless, among muttered curses and an insane amount of tea, Edin had finally conceded and heard them out. If the ache in his bones hadn’t become ever-present, Sentomaru would have kneeled in front of her and kissed the ground where she stepped.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that, kid,” she had answered his thanks, “You actually did good in choosing the home turf – that way we’re going to be at advantage, while they will be on unfamiliar terrain and won’t know what to expect.”

(Sentomaru’s chest had definitely not puffed up proudly at the praise.)

Thus, ever the planner and way more organized than all of the Marine forces put together, Edin talked them through the beginnings of a backup plan for the eventuality of Borsalino coming to Ranel with ill intentions. Simple enough, some good friends of hers are part of Lanayru’s private militia and are willing to lend a hand by observing from a vantage point – and by breaking out the seastone bullets if needed.

It’s strange, thinking about the two Admirals now that he’s about to meet them in person again after so much time. Even stranger is the fact Sentomaru agreed to have someone at the ready to deliver such an unseemly end – it’s not honourable, he thinks, but he can’t let anything happen to his Onigiri, nor to the people of Lanayru, and if a seastone bullet to Borsalino’s back can prevent it, then so be it. It’s not like the man had spared the thought of a kinder death toward Old Punk, after all.

On the other hand, only yesterday Sentomaru received a call and, picking up, found himself once again chatting amicably with Issho; the man had jovially informed that he and Borsalino were “taking a very special vacation for a couple of weeks” and that they were “one day away from the perfect spot!”

So, today is the day.

Today is the day.

Sentomaru doesn’t know what to think. It’s frustrating, really, because at this point he isn’t even certain if it’s because of the situation itself, or simply because all these hormones are making him have crazy stupid thoughts.

What he’s sure of, however, is the ridiculous amount of stress he feels. What if Borsalino does harbour ill intentions?

He’s almost one-hundred-percent sure that Issho does not have an ounce of it, yes, but how can Sentomaru be certain of which side Admiral Fujitora would pick, were he forced to choose between Kizaru and him?

His mind is running in circles, alternating between moments of panic and utter calm. It’s fine, there’s plan B. No it’s not, Kizaru’s gonna finish what he started and kill me and everybody on this island. Oh Gods, he’s gonna take Little Onigiri. What am I thinking, he would never stoop that low. Would he?

He thinks a couple of hours must pass this way because, when a knock at the door rouses him from his stupor, the sun is already up and shining in a way that shouldn’t be allowed at such times.

Waiting for him at the door is Edin herself, his unofficial escort for the day. She leads him through the woods behind his house and to the rendezvous point, a shabby shack (an actual one, this time) that apparently used to house the slaves that had worked for Lanayru’s nobles before the farmers’ revolts chased them away. Sentomaru had been a bit dubious about the choice of location, so close to his own accommodation, but Edin had reassured him in no time that the old slaves’ house had all the perfect vantage points for her scary friends to see without being seen.

So here they are. Nothing to do but wait.

Inside, a thick layer of dust covers everything, making it clear just how much time must have passed since someone lived here last. The only clean area is the one they’re in at the moment, made up of an old, termites-eaten dining table and the chairs surrounding it. It makes Sentomaru’s nose itch and involuntarily wrinkle, but then again, it’s only fair that cleaning up hadn’t been the first thought there. He takes his place on one of them, secretly grateful for the chance to sit and rest his aching body, and he’s soon followed by Edin, taking the chair at his right.

It may sound strange, but he’s glad that his escort ended up being her rather than Nayru. The girl had tried to persuade her mother, but the mayor had been adamant about her decision, and now that the time has come Sentomaru is very, very glad of that. As much as he loves Nayru, he wouldn’t have resisted much with the constant stream of nervous chit-chat she would have come up with as they waited.

On the contrary, Edin is calm, collected, calculating. A real strategist, really; if he were still a Captain, he would have jumped at the opportunity to recruit her.

She spares a soft glance in his direction every now and then, yes, and she asks him to confirm his willingness to go through with plan B three times may the need arise, but she is focused first and foremost on safety. Her island’s, her family’s. Sentomaru’s. It’s no time to be an emotional mess – Sentomaru can do that for the both of them – and she is more than aware of it.

It’s as if time has suddenly slowed down, thick like molasses, the few minutes that should separate them from Issho and Borsalino feeling more and more like hours, days, entire years. It’s a terribly dangerous thing, for it lets Sentomaru’s worst fears escape from the tiny box in the deepest recesses of his mind he had locked them in, running amok and causing the most chaos he’s ever had in his mind.

He can’t keep still, hands rubbing up and down his arms as if to fight a chill, when all he wants to do is to scratch at the itch sitting deep under his skin. Edin shoots him a look and he tries to stop, he really does, but then his hands move on to tapping on his now more visible bump, and then after another look he stops that too, but then again his leg starts bouncing and he knows he’s starting to get on Edin’s nerves but –

The door to the shack opens.

It’s difficult to recognize the figures at first, backlit by the late morning sun as they make their way in, but the tones of their whisper-shouts as they argue is unmistakable. Sentomaru huffs – he has witnessed so many of those two’s pointless arguments it’s a miracle he hasn’t gone mad yet.

“Are you even sure it’s here-”

“Yes, love, it’s here-”

“What if it isn’t and we made a mista-”

“Yes it is and no we didn’t. Borsalino, we followed the right directions, calm do-”

Edin clears her throat, loudly.

The sound has the two Admirals’ mouth closing shut in the blink of an eye, their senses and Observation honing in on the presence of not one but two people. Were they not expecting that? He thinks.

They must have assumed Sentomaru alone here, it’s not like he has ever been an outgoing and friendly individual so they couldn’t have known he’d somehow acquire a small posse of people ready to be at his side.

Edin clears her throat again, muttering a short “Good morning. I am Edin, Ranel’s mayor. Please sit,” and gesturing to the empty chairs at the other side of the table before sitting on her own. “I am here per Sentomaru’s request as a… a chaperone of sorts, to make sure this goes as smoothly as possible.”

A tap at Sentomaru’s arm brings him back to the moment, having sprung up as soon as the door opened, tense and twitching like a live nerve, and so he finds himself slowly, ever so slowly, sitting back down, eyes never leaving the two newcomers.

As they move, finally taking the first steps inside and closing the door behind them, he can see them more clearly.

Issho is standing ahead, easier to make out in the dim light, and his usual attire seems somehow lacking until Sentomaru realizes – he’s not wearing his Marine coat.

Neither is Borsalino.

Speaking of, where Issho has taken a couple of steps in their direction, the other man is hanging back, closer to the door, shuffling his feet. It’s hard to make out, but he looks almost scruffy, nothing like the clean, unflappable character Sentomaru remembers.

And oh, Sentomaru is staring now. But really, can you blame him? Uncle has always been so… he has always been so, irremediably Uncle, the picture he still has in mind is a completely different thing from the person sitting in front of him right now.

He looks so much older and subdued, Sentomaru has to ask himself: when did he grow up?

In all these years, he has always kept perceiving himself still as that little angry outcast kid when compared to Borsalino, without so much as a blink at the long times they spent apart because of their respective duties. No matter their physical ages, Ojiki was still Ojiki at the end of the day.

Except now the wrinkles on Borsalino’s forehead, his tired eyes, the smattering of grey at his temples, they all tell a different story. They tell of a man who has lived a life long enough to have seen the worst that people have to offer, of a powerful individual that has had to bend and shape and conform to what was expected of him.

Borsalino is old.

Sentomaru is not old, no, but he’s not that little angry kid anymore, either.

He has grown up, and so has Uncle. They’ve known each other for almost thirty years now – and it’s crazy how Sentomaru had never given much thought to it.

Borsalino has been this- this stable presence in Sentomaru’s life for so long, Sentomaru sometimes almost forgets that the man has found him in a forest – that they are not actually related, that they chose each other rather than being brought together by blood ties.

Ojiki is still as a statue, haunted eyes staring right back at him with the air of someone who is witnessing a ghost manifesting.

Sentomaru knows the man must also be feeling exactly like that.

Did Borsalino ever think about the possibility of Sentomaru being dead, after Egghead?

Did he even try to find out? A part of him can’t help but think, bitterly.

“Hello, Sentomaru.”

Issho’s voice snaps them both out of their involuntary staring contest, both pairs of eyes focusing on him.

“I would say it’s nice to see you again but, alas…”

A snort of laughter betrays Sentomaru, making both Edin and Borsalino’s heads whirl in his direction, surprise written all over their faces.

He shakes his head, gesturing to the two empty chairs in front of him in lieu of an answer. “That was terrible. Please sit down, you’re makin’ me anxious just standing there.”

It’s like a spell has been broken, and both Admirals take hesitant steps forward, Issho’s faster and more confident, to take a seat across from them. Yet when they reach the chairs, Borsalino stops just shy of the closest one, instead preferring to stand as he looks straight into Sentomaru’s eyes, his own chocolate brown orbs exuding sadness in a way Sentomaru has never seen them.

A Marine and his former protégé, eye to eye again after disaster hit. It feels like much more than seven months have passed. Borsalino’s biting his lip, perhaps thinking about the right words to say – at least that’s what Sentomaru would like to think is happening.

"Sentomaru," Uncle whispers, as if afraid of breaking the silence hanging like a heavy veil over the shack, "You don't need to say anything. You don't need to even accept it, but…" he exhales and takes a half-step back, bowing deeply, hands on his knees as he asks for forgiveness.

"I apologize for everything."

He stays like that, waiting for a sign, something, anything, from Sentomaru.

Truth is, Sentomaru doesn’t know what to say.

Nobody ever really offered any kind of apologies to him – not that it was ever needed.

What does one even say, in a case such as this?

He’s thankful for Edin poking his side, making him realize he has been staring at Borsalino in absolute silence as the other man waits for a response. He breathes out slowly, a soft whoosh of air that has Issho tilting his head, and Borsalino raising his own just a bit – it’s not much, yet just enough that their gazes meet again.

There is something, behind the shades, behind the droopy eyes, behind the powerhouse that is the Light-Light man. Something that seems, if anything, genuine. Sentomaru wants to believe in that small spark. He wants to see it grow more and more, until it won’t be hidden behind a flimsy pair of sunglasses anymore.

“I…” he spares a glance in Edin’s direction, receiving a barely noticeable nod of her head.

“I don’t know if I can trust it, trust you, yet,” he admits, and he sees Borsalino’s back tense up, the man keeping otherwise still as stone, “but… I accept the apology.”

It’s like a rubber band just snapped from its forced, coiled tight position. Uncle lets out a trembling sigh, pulling himself up and finally approaching a chair to sit on, back ramrod straight. Issho, at his side, does not waste any time in entwining their fingers and squeezing tight.

“Thank you, Sentomaru.” he speaks up again.

He ignores the blush creeping up his neck and gestures vaguely at Borsalino instead. “For what? He made an apology and I accepted it, that’s it. I am still not forgiving him.”

“For hearing us out, Sentomaru. Thank you, for having waited before deciding to have the snipers shoot us.”

Ah, shit.

“That was-”

“More lenient than what many others would have conceded us, had they been in your position.” Issho finishes, raising a placating hand.

“We only came here to apologise, and to see how you were doing. We didn’t know if you were actually willing to listen or talk so… thank you.” Borsalino pipes up, not without shooting a narrow-eyed glare at Edin. “Though the snipers might’ve been a bit overkill, don’t you think, Madame Mayor?~”

The woman simply shrugs, unfazed, and glares back. “A mayor’s gotta do what a mayor’s gotta do.”

Sentomaru focuses back on him, stomach rolling with nausea as the two have a stare down of some sort, and isn’t that strange, past and present colliding into this exact moment, something he would have never even imagined a couple of months ago.

He makes to change the topic, just to be sure.

“You- uh, so are you gonna go back to Marineford, now?” Gods, how he hates the way his voice trails off, looking for an anchor in the conversation just to distract these two. ‘Are you gonna go back to Marineford?’ Really?

Edin’s face conveys the exact words that he has just thought to himself, but at least the change of topic seems to have worked to take her attention away from Borsalino, who, Sentomaru now realizes, is still avoiding his eyes.

Once again, Issho is the one answering. “Actually, we were planning on sticking around for a bit – that is, if you don’t mind, of course. We took a couple of weeks off, thought maybe we could take the chance to vacation a bit.”

“Uh… yeah? I mean, if Edin’s alright with it then you’re good to go.” He shrugs and turns to look at her, getting a firm nod in response along with a huffed as long as you don’t get yourselves into trouble, and… he really doesn’t know what possesses him to offer, but: “I could… walk you around town, if you want?”

Issho seems enthusiast, perking up as soon as the words leave Sentomaru’s mouth. “Of course!” his smile is contagious, Sentomaru’s own lips lifting at the corners, before the man continues. “I would also love to meet that friend you’ve told me about, how is her pregnancy coming along? Must be late-stage now!”

Borsalino perks up too, brows almost reaching his hairline as his head swivels from Edin, to Sentomaru, and back to Issho. “A baby?”

“It’s a long story, she needed help with her symptoms and Sentomaru thought well to call me for advice on how to make a good ginger tea. Was it useful to your friend?”

The attention is brought back on him, and Sentomaru… Sentomaru is frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

They… hadn’t really planned out that part.

All of the previsions Edin, Nayru and him made had worked off the assumption that Borsalino would be looking for blood, developing over ways to escape or subdue an eventual threat of his calibre, with the least damage involved.

This- this mostly amicable conversation he has ended up having with the two Admirals was not planned. And now they asked after his baby – well, they think it’s Nayru’s, but the sentiment is still there, right?

Shitshitshit shit.

“Yeah… about that…”

There are two alternatives in front of him.

One, he lies. It’s the more appealing one, of course, and it would be so, so easy. Just make up something on the spot, something about Nayru not being in town perhaps, and it’s done. Problem solved.

Two, he tells the truth. He’s not sure if he wants to, if he has to be honest; he doesn’t feel like it’s something that can be announced so freely and easily to the powerful men sitting in front of him. The air may have cleared up a bit between them, sure, but Sentomaru isn’t yet convinced he can trust them, not completely at least.

Although, seeing Ojiki’s earnest expression now… no. He can’t. It’s simply not doable.

Is it?

Sentomaru shakes his head, as if trying to put all of these thoughts back in their right places. Gods, this is getting stressing.

It’s stupid, he convinces himself. It might be dangerous.

Ojiki’s willing to try, a tiny voice in his brain reminds. He wants to make amends.

If he hasn’t killed me yet by now, he thinks in the end, nails biting hard into the skin of his palms from how tight he’s clenching his fists, then I might as well go for it.

“I… have to confess, old man.” He admits with a heavy sigh, tension running along his shoulders as they come up to his scarlet ears, bracing for- something. He doesn’t even know what. Issho opens his mouth, brows furrowed as he’s about to say something, probably ask for an explanation, but Sentomaru beats him to it.

“I’m the one who’s preggers.” His eyes dart to the exit, and for a single moment, he considers actually making a run for it.  An audible gasp rises from seemingly all of the shack’s occupants. Edin pinches at the bridge of her nose and mutters what might be an actual prayer to Lanayru’s three Goddesses.

Issho’s mouth hangs half-open, brows furrowed and expression pinched as if he’s trying to puzzle together the answer to a particularly intricate riddle.

Sentomaru clears his throat. “Sorry ‘bout that, but without knowing if I could fully trust you… you know?” Issho nods slowly. “But yeah, uh. Your tea was very good. Probably the only reason I made it without losing my mind over the nausea. So, thank you?” Gods, he’s blabbering now. “I’m… I just started on my third trimester now so… yeah, it was really a great help.”

Borsalino’s warm browns shifts rapidly between Edin, Sentomaru, and Sentomaru’s middle where, he’s clearly realizing just now, the bump is slightly visible under the thin shirt the younger man is wearing, having forgone ulterior layers in the face of the humid heat that’s starting to take over the island. He is finally looking at him, Sentomaru faintly realizes.

He also looks like he’s about to have a stroke, to be fair, so perhaps that’s just the shock making him forget his previous inhibition.

Sentomaru waits, heart beating wildly and hand already halfway to his belly, where Little Onigiri seems to have sensed his agitation – the brat sure loves kicking, huh?

“This…” Ojiki clears his throat, still unable to tear his eyes away from the bump now that he knows it’s there. “This was not in the RA’s report.”

Well at least now he can say he has left Borsalino and Issho both discomposed at least once– What?