@misfitsandmusings-x said: [HC ask!] Before everything went bad, did kid!Rosinante have any particular dreams/hopes/goals/etc for the future? Does he have ideas about what his life might have looked like if Homing hadn't withdrawn from the World Nobles? // unprompted (always accepting)
trigger warnings: brief mentions of child torture and slavery; description of ptsd symptoms
the lighter illuminates dimly lit office as the navy officer leans back with a heavy sigh, denoting the end of a long day of his least favorite task: paperwork. he inhales the nicotine from his glowing crutch, as eyes close and head tilts back over the top of his desk chair. with sound barrier up, the only noise heard is that of his own soft breathing and the steady thump of his heart. and so his mind wanders, to things he didn't get done in the day, to dreaded dinner plans with sengoku and garp, then to other things — thoughts and memories that still frequently pop up.
❛ when I grow up, I want to be just like father! ❜
rosinante was pretty young, only six-years-old when his father decided to leave the heavenly life behind. so there isn't too much that is remembered from the portion of his childhood spent there, except that it was a happier, blissful time from a child's perspective. he hadn't really reached a point in his cognitive development where concrete goals for the future were forming in a young boy's mind.
but from the snippets of his early life that the navy man finds flickering behind closed eyes, he sees himself sitting in the family's garden in mary geoise, with his mother, drawing. and he thinks, maybe a younger, innocent, and untouched-by-the-world version of himself would have liked to be an artist. only recently, after he felt a new sense of peace with doffy finally locked up, had he suddenly felt the push to pick up paper and pencil again.
then rosinante begins to recall some things about being a world noble's son, though it is possible these memories are also diluted with intel about the world nobles given by sengoku or others with direct knowledge of the celestial dragons. he can't decide for sure, it's all a little fuzzy. but he knows, to some degree, that there were certain expectations in place for him from the beginning.
it's hard to recall every boring lesson in etiquette and topics deemed angelic, but the fallen dragon does clearly see one hysterical scene playing out in his head, in which a little boy tries to reach up on the table in an attempt to help arrange cutlery during a lesson, only to accidentally pull the entire table cloth from the long dining table, along with everything placed on top of it. he chuckles to himself, lips breaking into a small, melancholic smile.
yet, despite the rudimentary but necessary tutelage, his father was always one to encourage his children to find something they enjoyed doing to pursue as a passion. but now—rosinante sighs, a plume of smoke crawling past parted lips. maybe that encouragement was with the knowledge that he intended to withdraw from the world nobles from the start.
but what hopes and aspirations would a young child even start to consider to pursue? rosinante wanted what any boy his age might have hoped for, dreamt of, and taken for granted on the daily—the embrace of his mother and father, the companionship of his older brother, a yummy meal, a cozy bed, friends who made him smile, a safe place to live. all of which were quickly stripped away.
were those two years that still frequently haunted his sleep a form of divine punishment?
the blonde man suddenly sits up, quickly snuffing out half-burnt cigarette, now uninterested in its comforts. then he coughs briefly and shakes his head, chasing the unpleasant, intrusive memories away. his large figure leans over the desk, propped up on elbows, and his head bows down, boring closed eyes fiercely into the heels of his palms.
❛ what would it have been like? what if we never left? ❜ he doesn't like dwelling on these thoughts, the what-ifs. it's not healthy. it makes the nightmares worse. but rosinante can't help it, he's stuck in the mental loop now.
he imagines it again, growing up with a comfortable and generic life, brought up with the mannerisms and teachings that the dragons receive, with the belief that they are greater beings and all others are subservient. the muscles in his hands strain as rosinante entangles fingers into wavy, golden locks, and digs nails into his scalp. but the flashing images keep going — an arranged marriage, a relatively carefree life, his older brother eventually taking over the household as the elder son, pursuing art or whatever he felt like.
rosinante's mind drifts to all the slaves owned by the world nobles, and the pain and sheer rage that this brought to the surface of ordinary, kind villagers outside the confines of mary geoise. how that same rage drove them to torture children—his elbows give out beneath him, and he allows his forehead to drop to the mahogany desk surface, fingers white knuckling in his hair. with russet eyes now squeezed tightly shut, he releases a shaky breath.
with where he was now, with what he had seen and experienced, he loathed the alternate possibility of becoming one of those people that could cause such pain and hatred — of being one of the few to maliciously, or even ignorantly, rob people of their autonomy and humanity. and even more so, after seeing the harm that people in power had caused to those he came to love, rosinante no longer wants to consider that a life he might have led.
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