I need a hug(e amount of money).

The city is still.

Barcelona glitters in restless gold and white beyond the balcony, all headlights and distant windows and noise too far away to matter, the world still moving with the same careless momentum it always does after a match.

Somewhere down below, people are probably still wearing his name on their backs.

Bunny leans against the railing with one forearm hooked over the metal, his shoulders loose with that deceptive kind of ease that only comes after being wrung out completely.

His damp hair has dried into a soft disarray, pale under the weak spill of light from the apartment behind him.

One of the old scars cuts down across his right eye, another across his cheek and nose, and in the dark they seem deeper somehow, like the night knows what to do with marks like that.

The cigarette burns quietly between his fingers.

He inhales.

Like he has nowhere else to put the breath.

You step out beside him without a sound and stand there, close enough that if he were anyone else, it would look like the easy silence of something domestic.

Like you belong on this balcony with him after a long match, stealing the cold air before bed.

His gaze stays fixed on the city.

He doesn’t look surprised.

He never does.

“You shouldn’t do that,” you say softly.

His mouth curves, barely.

Not enough to be a smile. Just the shape of one.

“I do.”

The cigarette glows again between his fingers, ember bright against the dark, and your eyes catch on it the same way they always do.

It is almost funny, in a bitter, hopeless sort of way, how little some arguments change.

“It’ll kill you,” you tell him.

That finally earns you a glance.

Just one.

His eyes slide toward you, crimson and quiet beneath the fall of his hair, and there is something unbearable in how gentle he looks like this.

Too gentle for the face that carries scars like that.

Too young for the exhaustion that lives permanently in the corners of his mouth.

Then he looks away again.

“You say that every time.”

“You keep doing it every time.”

Another drag. Another slow exhale into the night.

He taps ash over the edge of the balcony. “And yet.”

The words hang there.

And yet I’m still here.

You fold your arms over yourself, leaning beside him, though neither of you looks at the other now.

Below, the city keeps moving. Somewhere in the apartment, his television is still on mute, broadcasting the aftermath of the match to an empty room. His face on the screen, probably. That same detached expression. That same faint smile people mistake for calm.

“We won, by the way,” he says after a while.

It is so quiet you almost miss it.

“I saw.”

For the first time since you stepped onto the balcony, he goes still.

The cigarette pauses halfway to his mouth.

You look at him, but he is already looking at you now and the softness is gone from his face.

“You weren’t there.”

The words come flat.

Not loud.

That would have been easier.

You blink. “Bunny—”

“You weren’t there.”

This time it lands harder.

His jaw tightens. The hand holding the cigarette clenches once, the ember flaring bright, and for one ugly second you think he might bring it back to his mouth just to have something to do with it, something to stop himself from saying more.

Instead, he flicks it hard over the balcony.

It spins down into the dark and vanishes.

You watch it go.

When you look back at him, his hand is empty.

So is his expression.

The wind stirs the loose strands of his hair across his forehead, over the scar that cuts through his right eye, and suddenly he looks younger and angrier and more tired than anyone has a right to be all at once.

“I know,” you say quietly.

“No.” His laugh is small and humorless. “You don’t.”

He turns away from the railing then, pacing once across the narrow width of the balcony.

Your chest aches.

He stops at the far end of the balcony with his back half-turned to you, shoulders tense beneath his shirt.

“I looked for you,” he says, and that is worse than the anger.

His voice has gone quiet again.

Frayed somewhere under the surface.

“Like I always do.”

You close your eyes.

Of course he did.

Of course some part of him still does.

“I know,” you whisper.

Then, softer, because you can’t bear the shape of him like this, “I was there.”

“No.”

The word comes immediately.

You lift your head.

He still hasn’t turned fully toward you, but his whole body has gone rigid, every line of him drawn tight beneath the loose fall of his shirt, like even hearing it from you is something he has to physically withstand.

You take a step closer.

“Bunny—”

“I said no.”

The words are not loud, but they cut.

You stop.

The city stretches behind him in restless light, the wind moving lazily through his hair, stirring the strands over the scar at his eye, and for one terrible second he looks exactly like the boy you used to know and nothing like him at all.

You swallow. “I was there, and I’m proud—”

“Stop.”

The word slices clean through the rest of the sentence.

Your mouth closes.

He takes one step toward you now, and then another, raw with something he is no longer disguising well enough.

And when he stops in front of you, it hits you all over again how wrong time has become.

He is taller than you still.

Not just because he always was, but because the years have gone on shaping him while they left you behind exactly where they took you.

His shoulders broader now, his body sharpened by training and age and pain, his frame carved into something stronger, leaner, older.

He looms over you without trying to, looking down at you with red eyes gone dark and glass-bright in the low city glow, and all at once the distance between living and dead feels measurable in inches.

“None of it means a fucking thing without you,” he says.

The words leave him low and tight, scraped raw on the way out.

Not a confession.

Not really.

Something too worn-in to even sound dramatic anymore.

Your breath catches even though you do not need one.

“Bunny…”

His jaw flexes.

“We win.” His mouth twists. “They put cameras in my face and ask me how it feels, like I’m supposed to give a shit.”

He laughs once under his breath, but there is nothing alive in it.

“I come home and tell you anyway.”

Because he still does.

Because some part of him still belongs to cheap bleachers and muddy pitches and a girl who used to grin at him from behind a chain-link fence, a stupid cap with a little bunny stitched on the front pulled low over her eyes, telling him he was going to make it someday.

Because no matter how far he has gone, some part of him is still looking for that girl first.

Your eyes sting.

“I’m with you,” you whisper.

Something in his face gives way all at once, sharp and ugly and human.

“The fuck you are.”

His voice cracks around it, not loudly, but enough.

Enough that it feels like hearing bone split.

You flinch.

He steps even closer.

So close now that if there were any mercy in the world, his body would have met yours.

His warmth would have touched your skin.

His heartbeat would have reached you.

But there is still that awful nothing between you, that impossible space no amount of wanting has ever managed to close.

“I can’t even touch you anymore,” he says.

The words come faster now, thinner, emotion fraying them at the edges. “Do you get that? Do you even—”

He stops, swallows hard.

His hand lifts like it means to prove it, like maybe he hates himself for needing to, like maybe some part of him is still stupid enough to hope this time will be different.

You both know it won’t.

Still, when his fingers move toward you, your whole body goes still.

His hand passes through the line of your arm.

Nothing.

He jerks back like the emptiness itself struck him.

For a second he just stares at his own hand, chest rising once, sharply.

Then his gaze cuts back to you, and there is something almost furious in how broken he looks.

“Every time I look at you, I—”

He stops.

Your eyes drop before he can finish.

Because you know.

Your gaze falls to yourself, to the shape of your body that still wears that night in all the places it mattered most.

The marks never left you either.

They never could.

One scar runs along your throat, pale and terrible, a cruel line where metal kissed too deep and too violently and took the rest with it.

Others live lower, beneath fabric, across skin that no longer bruises and no longer heals, echoes of the same wreckage he survived and you did not.

He carries survival.

You carry the moment it ended.

And every time he looks at you, he has to see both.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

That makes it worse.

“I see it.”

Your fingers curl uselessly into your palms.

The wind passes between you, cool and empty.

Slowly, carefully, like approaching something already wounded, you take a step closer. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t move at all.

If you were alive, your forehead would have rested against his chest by now.

If you were alive, he would have folded around you without thinking.

Instead you stand just beneath him, close enough to remember, close enough to ache, close enough for memory to become its own kind of violence.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

The words come out thin.

Too small for the weight of what they are trying to hold.

His face changes immediately.

Shattered in a different place.

“Don’t,” he says.

Your throat tightens. “Bunny—”

“Don’t apologize for dying.”

Now he does sound angry.

Not at you.

At the shape of the world.

His eyes close for a second.

When they open again, the fury is gone.

“I’m the one who lived,” he says quietly.

And there it is.

The real wound.

Not just that you died.

That he didn’t.

Slowly, you lift a hand.

It is instinct more than decision, the same old motion your body remembers even if the rest of the world has forgotten how to let it mean anything.

Your fingers rise to his face, hovering first near the scar that cuts across his cheek, then settling where his skin should feel warm beneath your palm.

You wish, helplessly, that he could feel it.

He closes his eyes.

And for one awful second, he looks as though he does.

As though your touch still lands somewhere in him. As though his body is remembering hard enough to pretend.

Your throat tightens around the sight of it.

But you know better.

You know there is nothing there for him except memory and the shape of what used to be.

“Bunny,” you whisper.

His lashes lift.

Red of his eyes find yours again, tired and raw and so familiar it hurts.

“You need to let me go.”

The words are gentle.

You try to make them gentle.

You try to make them sound like love and not abandonment.

Like mercy and not another kind of death.

Something in his face shuts immediately.

“No.”

You blink.

He pulls back from your hand, and the loss of even that false almost-contact is immediate, sharp enough to make your chest ache with something your body should no longer be able to feel.

“Bunny—”

“No.”

He is already stepping away.

“Come on,” he says, like the conversation has simply gone somewhere inconvenient, somewhere stupid, somewhere he has no intention of following.

He reaches for the balcony door, slides it open, and warm light spills out across the tiles. “Get inside. It’s cold.”

You almost laugh.

Not because it is funny.

Because it is unbearable.

“I’m not cold.”

He pauses only long enough to glance back at you over his shoulder.

You see it then, the flicker of something in his expression, something that knows exactly what you mean, exactly what you are, exactly why that answer should not have hurt and somehow still does.

Then it is gone.

And he walks back inside.

He doesn’t look back to see if you follow.

He never does.

He always assumes you will.

So you do.

Inside, the television still throws shifting blue-white light across the walls, match highlights long gone, some late-night program playing to no one.

Bunny moves through the apartment with the easy silence of habit, tugging open a cabinet, then the fridge, like this is ordinary, like grief has routines same as anything else.

A bottle of soda he still doesn’t like, only keeps because you used to shove it into his hands between classes and laugh when he made a face after the first sip.

Your chest twists.

“Bunny…”

He shuts the microwave door.

“The second one came out today,” he says, as if you haven’t spoken. “That stupid series you liked.”

For a second, all you can do is stare at him.

You remember that.

A half-broken cinema seat. His arm slung over the back of your chair.

Your whispered complaints that he was ruining the movie even while you kept leaning closer anyway.

You had walked out grinning, already talking about how there’d obviously be a sequel, and he had looked down at you with that quiet little smile and said he guessed he’d have to suffer through that one too.

You had said you better.

And now here he is.

Alone in a kitchen too big for one person, making popcorn for a promise neither of you thought he’d have to keep by himself.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

He leans back against the counter and folds his arms, eyes fixed on the turning plate behind the dark microwave glass.

“Doing what?”

“You know what.”

“No,” he says. “I’m making popcorn.”

There is a kind of cruelty in how calm he sounds.

Not because he means to hurt you.

Because this is the only way he knows how to survive being hurt by you over and over and over again.

The first pop cracks through the silence.

Then another.

You take a step toward him. “You have to move on.”

His jaw tightens.

The pops come faster now, filling the kitchen with sharp little bursts.

“No.”

The answer is immediate.

You stare at him. “Bunny—”

“No.” He pushes off the counter then, finally looking at you, and there is something frightening in how composed he has made himself again, how neatly he has stuffed all that grief back behind his ribs where it will keep tearing at him in private. “You don’t get to come in here and tell me what I have to do.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

His smile is small and terrible.

“Are you?”

The popcorn finishes in a rattling burst of noise, and for a second neither of you moves.

Then he turns, takes it out, dumps it into the bowl and the smell of butter fills the room so vividly it almost feels like memory has become something physical.

He picks up the bowl.

Walks past you.

Not through you. Never through you if he can help it, even knowing it does not matter.

At the living room entrance he stops and speaks without turning around.

“You always said football was the only thing I knew how to hold onto,” he says.

Something in you goes still.

He looks at the screen instead of you when he adds, quieter, “You were wrong.”

You say nothing.

Because you understand.

The match, the cameras, the crowds, the goals, he can survive all of that because none of it is real in the way this is real.

This—

building a life around a ghost—

this is the delusion he has chosen over the truth.

When you follow him into the living room, he is already sitting down on the couch, one arm stretched across the back cushion, leaving your place beside him open as naturally as breathing.

The bowl rests in his lap.

The television glows softly in the dark.

He looks at the empty seat next to him, then finally at you.

“Come on,” he says, softer now.

Tired in that old, familiar way that makes him sound younger than he is and lonelier than anyone should be.

She looks at you like the older kids at school did whenever your parents forgot you there. Like you were seven again and about to cry, loneliness visible on your face.

She wouldn’t be that far away from reality.

After all, you were forgotten. And your eyes still burn from the tears you managed to control. What a embarrassing cycle: feeling so angry it makes you cry, which only makes you angrier.

“Did you wait for too long?”

You looked up from your phone, finally seeing a familiar face. His golden eyes made you inhale. An attempt at a smile was the best you could do.

“No,” you lied.

Noel hesitated. You saw on his face when he decided to let you win this one. “Good.”

He grabbed the bag from your lap and offered his arm. With a bit of difficulty, you leaned on him to get up. Holding on to your crutch, you smiled at the recepcionist.

She smiled to you. Not to Noel.

She thinks he's my boyfriend, you thought on your way to the elevator, and she hates his gut. You leaned against the mirror, watching Noa press the button for the parking lot.

“Thank you,” you sighed when the doors closed. “And I'm sorry.”

Noel shook his head, standing beside you. “Don’t be.”

“Were you too busy? I… Well, I just didn’t had anyone else to call.”

“You could’ve called your boyfriend.”

You should've expected it. He didn’t say anything else because you two weren’t alone. You played with the hem of your shirt, searching for the words that wouldn’t make this even more uncomfortable.

Like always, Noel was faster than you.

“It doesn’t sound like you,” he said. “Going to physiotherapy alone, or calling someone out of sudden to take you home. You’re usually more organized than that. It really doesn’t.”

Shit.

The door opened before your mouth could do the same. “Wait here,” Noel grabbed the car key from his pocket.

You agreed, still not used to walking with the help of a crutch. Sometimes your legs act before your arms and you end up on the ground. It would be funny if it wasn’t painful.

Noel helped you inside of his conversible, then placed your crutch on the back seat. You breathed in and out as he sat on the driver's seat and put on his seat belt. With Noel, it’s easier to just say the truth.

“He didn’t answer my calls. He left me here on his lunch break and was supposed to eat something and then get me home. I thought the trafic was bad but… well, he didn’t answer any of calls.”

Noel's silence made you want to bite his arm. You would’ve sunk your teeth into him had him not moved his arm in time. “I hate when you do that,” you sighed. “Just say what you want to.”

“So you can defend him from my ‘harsh opinions'?”

Sunlight made you squint your eyes when the car made out of the parking lot. “Say it.”

“Your boyfriend is a piece of shit,” Noel checked the street before making a turn. “Didn’t he told your mom not to worry about your treatment?”

You frowned. “She told you that?”

Noel nodded. “I said what I wanted to. Isn’t it your turn to defend him?”

Your silence made Noel look at you for a moment. He saw you playing with your fingers, quiet on your own inner world. Oh.

“I was too harsh,” he said. When you didn’t react, Noel put his hand on your thigh and gave it a light squeeze. You faced him. “I'm sure he has a good reason. Sorry.”

You smiled sadly, shaking your head. “No need to be. I know you’re right.”

Noel hesitated. “How was your first session?”

Your smile was genuine now, glad to talk about something else. It fade away quickly. “Depressive. He agrees it'll take me at least four months to train again.”

He shook his head. “Resting is part of training,” Noel was adamant, squeezing your thigh once more. “Taking care of yourself is training. It'll take four months for you to train like you used to.”

You stared at the grey sky, hand aching to touch your leg. Tibia fractured, the muscle around your knees damaged. Bones broken out of stress, such small pieces a surgery isn’t worth the risk. Four months of rehabilitation, then six more until you can compete again if you’re luck. And when you do compete, you need to discover if you can still win.

You almost cried out of anger because of your boyfriend, that's true, but you cried out of pain inside the consultory. It hurt more than you feared. It humiliated you way more. The first session wasn’t supposed to be taken slowly until the patient can keep up with it? Or this was slow, and it was still too fast for you?

Will the world move faster than you from now on?

Resting is training. You know he's right. Eating, studying, observing. That’s all part of it. Noel is right. You know that.

“Thank you,” you whispered. For saying the truth, you left unsaid. For not saying things will be fine, that it'll all get better. For not talking about hope or effort or luck. “For not consoling me.”

Noel let go of you, focused on driving. “You’re not fragile,” he said.

And you knew exactly what he meant. No matter if his tone didn’t change, if he was too busy to look at you in the eyes. It didn’t made a difference that Noel didn’t coo at you or held you hand. You knew him better than all of those cheap magazines that call him cold and robotic.

You're not fragile. You won’t break.

Still, you missed the weight of his hand. Its warmth.

—

Noel convinced you to stay at his home with promises of alcohol and a new horror movie. You knew better than to fall for those excuses. He had a decided look on his face, one you saw many times before. One that says I know you.

It's not that he worried about you being alone, is that Noel knew you shouldn’t be. And he’s right. That’s why it made you breath easier when your boyfriend offered to accompany you. That’s why it upset you that badly when he wasn’t there.

You don’t want to be alone. Not now.

That happens a lot. For Noel to be right about you. At first, you used to ignore his words. Or actively tried to prove him wrong. It wasn’t long before you understood he was simply too good at reading you. It’s been years now, and all time did was make Noel better at understanding you.

You had no expectations for good movies or any particular desire to drink tonight. But being in good company after a tiring day do sound nice. Sat on the couch, legs spread over pillows Noel carefully placed there for you, you laughed at how bad each scene was. On the floor, Noel did the same.

His laughter made it a movie worth watching.

“Doudou,” you yawn. Noel filled your cup, emptying another bottle. His cheeks turns into a soft pink whenever he has a drink or two. You leaned towards him, checking the temperature of his face. “You’re going back to Germany soon, right?”

Noel sighed, face cupped by your hand. He wasn’t too hot so you grabbed your cup and fixed your posture. A moment later, Noel cleaned his throat. “You saw the suitcase?”

You nodded. “It’ll be cold there. Have you left something warm to use on the airport? You get sick so easily.”

“And how do you know it’ll be cold?”

“Added Munich to my weather app,” you laughed at the actor’s reaction to a jump scare. “You usually tell me when you travel back. Was it a sudden decision?”

You looked at him again. His white hair makes the alcoholic blush on his cheeks look even stronger. Cute. Before you could joke about what a lightweight he is, Noel's lips tugged higher. Not a proper smile, but almost there.

“You’re… observant.” His sharp eyes looked at something beyond yours. Noel does that a lot. It’s almost as if he’s seeing something inside of your brain. “I’ll be back in two weeks. You could go with me.”

“I don’t know anyone there.” Your phone vibrated a couple times on the couch. After checking on the messages you got on the story of empty bottles you posted, you rolled your eyes and put it on your pocket. “And you’ll be too busy to take me anywhere fun.”

“I would make time for you.”

And there it was. What no magazine or paparazzi would ever be able to understand. Ruthless? His voice doesn’t need to be soft for you to feel the weight of his care for you.

You smiled. “I know that.”

Your phone buzzed once more, getting a groan out of you. “I could swear it was on silent now,” you murmured to yourself, fixing your mistake.

Noel sat on the couch, you leaned your head on his shoulder. “Is your boyfriend telling you to stop drinking?”

“He hadn’t called yet,” you finished your cup. After realizing his words, you elbowed Noel in the stomach. “And he wouldn’t tell me that.”

“If I were him, I would.”

You raised your head, chin still on his shoulder, to stare at him. You cocked an eyebrow. “And I wouldn’t listen to you.”

He glanced at you. “I think you would.”

“And why is that?”

Noel moved, making you fix your posture. He grabbed another bottle, filling both of your cups. “Because I know you.”

You stared at the large hand offering you a cup. A sly smile took over your face. “Then why aren’t you telling me stop now? If you know me so well.”

Noel took a sip of his beer. “I’m not your boyfriend, am I?”

His upper lip glistened. You raised your hand, cleaning it for Noel with your thumb. How soft. So soft. “If I was your girlfriend, I would complain about your sudden trips.”

“And I would tell you to travel with me.”

You leaned your forehead on his shoulder, trying not to laugh. “You already tell me that, doudou.”

Noel didn’t say anything. Looking up at him, your noses almost brushed. You didn’t push back. And why would you? Noel's your friend. The best of them. It was only normal for him to stay so close. It was only normal for this to feel so right.

His lips were soft. He’s soft. His cheeks, his hair, the dimples on his back. He’s soft all around, a caring giant that has been in your life for so long you don’t know for sure how you two met. Noel is always soft to you.

As his lips moved, you realized Noel was talking. “Hmm?”

“If I was your boyfriend,” Noel repeated himself. “Would you still call me doudou?”

“Of course! You’re doudou,” you said. It never annoyed him. You wanted it to, at the start. “Mon doudou.”

His phone rang, startling you both. You pushed back, suddenly aware of how close he was. Noel checked the screen, then glanced at you.

“Go for it,” you nodded, unsure why your entrails felt so warm. Grabbing your crutch, you waved at him to dismiss his help. “I'll get us a blanket.”

—

It took you longer than it should've to walk into Noel's bedroom. Maybe it’s time to call it a night and start drinking some water. The large window assisted you to find the blanket inside his wardrobe. And where your favorite sleeping clothes were.

“There you are,” you whispered to your clothes. Yes, it really was time to stick to water. “Missed you.”

You leaned your crutch against a bookshelf, grabbing the shirt and nosing at it. It smelled just like Noel's clothes. Good. This one you're wearing isn’t comfortable enough.

You sighed after taking your bra off. Wearing this old shirt, a part of you felt like it was time to sleep. You breathed in. It didn’t smell quite like Noel. His perfume is completely different from the one you can feel. To smell like him it would require apples and tangerine. No, you smell like his clothes. Like something that belongs to Noel.

Getting out of your pants was more difficult. You can’t lean on your left leg, and were a bit too tipsy to think of sitting down to make it easier. You did remember to take your phone from the pocket and throw it on the bed, though.

Sweat ran down your back by the time your legs were bare. Breathless, you ran your eyes throughout the bookshelf in front of you before accepting the challenge of getting inside this shorts. A title caught your attention. And then another.

You squint your eyes, unsure if you were seeing things.

Athlete injuries: rehabilitation beyond surgeries. Fracture manual. When training means resting: a research about the emotional turmoil of athlet injuries. Injury’s lesion: diagnost, prevention and treatment. An anatomical view on an athlete’s stress.

You didn’t react when Noel entered his bedroom. You didn’t answer when he called you. For a moment, all you could do was stare at those piles of medical books and try not to cry.

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” you whispered. It wasn’t your intention to, only the best your throat could do without allowing any hiccups to escape.

Noel followed your gaze. He sighed. “How couldn’t I?”

Taking a step forward, you moved your body before holding properly to the clutch. Your left leg failed you. It would've made you laugh if the weight on your knee didn't bring tears to your eyes.

Noel caught you before you could humiliate yourself even more. Falling didn’t scared you becausr a part of you knew he would. He held you on his arms, careful not to put any pressure on your fractured leg.

“Time to move to water,” he attempted to joke. It didn’t work, never does. His lack of talent for comedy it's one of Noel's biggest flaws.

You tried to speak, but no sound came out of your mouth. You squeezed his arm, nail shaping half moons on his skin. Noel didn’t complain.

Noel sat you on his bed, back against his pillows. You squirmed away from him, putting your legs on the floor in an attempt to run away from this. He held you in place.

“Stop hurting yourself.” Noel kneeled down in front of your legs. Only then he saw your shaking hands. Noel held them. “Talk to me.”

Don’t cry, you told yourself, not again. “I'm scared.”

Why am I lying to myself? Your mind didn’t stop. Why do I want to compete again, why do I worry about training, why… Only a miracle will fix this broken leg. Only a miracle can put me back together again.

“You shouldn’t be,” Noel said, looking at something beyond your eyes. “You’re the type of person that can make even a miracle come true.”

Oh.

Eyes wide, you didn’t feel like crying anymore. Your heart wasn’t heavy on your chest now. You weren’t alone.

Noel knows you. Better than anyone. Maybe even better than yourself.

Noel knows you so well sometimes it feels like he’s reading your mind.

You hesitated. After leaning towards Noel, looking up at you from the floor, you hesitated. You stared into his golden eyes, tense in a way yours could never match. Rosy cheeks warm to the touch, hands so cold on your thighs. And yet, no hesitation stopped you from meeting his lips with yours.

He's soft all around.

A heartbeat later, you let go of his hands and moved away. “Fuck. I'm-”

Noel chased after you. His hand on the back of your head, his perfume all over your lungs. His tongue sliding between your lips, opening your mouth with ease. He craddled your face, gentle as only Noel can be.

Your fingers cupped his face. You leaned back towards him, devouring and being devoured. It wasn’t awkward. Every first kiss is, too little and too much all at once. This one wasn’t.

Noel taste good enough for you to forget everything you know about shame and guilt.

His lips left yours, giving space for the air you needed. You rest your forehead against his. Mouth empty of him, a thick knot filled your throat.

You blurred the lines between you two. Noel crossed them. And you let him.

His fingers intertwined with your hair, nails raking your scalp. “Come to Germany with me.”

Eyes open, you waited for him to take it back. Noel just kept on staring at you. You held his hand, pulling it away from you and fixing your postured.

“Are you that bored?” You sighed. You both drank more than enough, but not that much. You can’t blame anyone but yourself. You created all this mess. “Or you just don’t care about us?”

I didn’t thought of him, you realized later. After kissing Noel, your first concern were things changing between you two because of a whim. Not your boyfriend.

“I do,” Noel didn’t hesitate. Assisted by the moonlight, you saw his determined eyes. You already knew Noel wasn’t the type to say things lightly. That’s what worries you. “Come with me.”

You squeezed his hand, shaking your head. “No. No, doudou. You’re my best friend. You’re family. Don’t you think it's too much to risk?”

He kissed your lips, then your chin. His face rubbed against your skin, bringing shivers down your spine. You held his shoulders when Noel reached your neck, hating yourself to the point of feeling nauseous.

“We won’t be risking anything. We won’t ruin anything,” Noel whispered, mouth still on your neck. “Come with me.”

The guilt was supposed to stop you. But it shouldn’t feel so right. It shouldn’t feel like this was supposed to happen. Noel shouldn’t make guilt, that bitter taste on the back of your tongue, feel worth it.

He talks to my mom, you thought. I know his alergies. Noel has the contact of all my doctors. I argued with his trainer because of his diet before. Noel beat up the boy that used to make fun of me at school. I had band-aids on my pocket but still believed I could kiss his knuckles better. Noel told me he would get married to me so no one would dare to make me cry again. I thought hanging out forever seemed fun.

It’s too much to risk. For you, it’s too much. You can’t lose Noel. And you will, because someone that can’t stop this from happening will ruin him one day.

Maybe if you two were younger, maybe if you didn’t knew yourself.

“I have a boyfriend, Noa.”

Noel's gaze reminded you of a tiger. Of a determined animal, one that couldn’t be reasoned with. “But you could have a husband.”

Noel rubbed his nose against yours. He kissed you again, your grip on his shirt getting weaker. You hesitated.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

There’s so much you could lose.

You don’t want to lose him.

You can’t see yourself without him.

You sighed into his mouth, letting go of all the ropes holding you back. Noel held you. He does that all the time. Grabs you in his arms before you can reach the ground.

Noel makes falling feel like flying.

His lips across your face, your fingers closing round Noel's biceps. The space between you, a gap so minimal anyone else could ignore, felt like miles of distance. It was easy to get lost on him.

Noel got up from the floor, mouth still against yours. It made you move your head up to follow him. “Come with me,” his voice meet your lips. Had Noel thought of that before? Running away with you? “Two weeks. It's all I ask.”

His right knee made the mattress move. You cupped his face, anchoring yourself to something real. To something that would make you smart enough to take a step back. Anchoring yourself to Noel, because that’s what you've done your entire life.

“No, Noa, we can’t-”

He kissed you before you could finish. It was an effective strategy. You hugged his shoulder and pulled him closer. Laying on his bed with Noel on top of you, you didn’t had the strength to say a single thing anymore.

You want more. For tonight, you want more of Noel. Tomorrow you'll think, future you be damned, but tonight you'll have what you want.

His grip on your waist made you wince. Noel moved away, still close enough for you to feel the warm drool on his lips.

“My leg,” you squirmed, trying to find a better position. It throbbed when you moved, making you take a deep breath.

You gasped when Noel stood up, taking you with him. Noel held you against him with one arm, the other fixing the messy pillows on his bed. He put you down, pillows beneath your head and leg.

Noel's so sweet you could laugh.

Following his dazzy eyes, your own widened. Your legs were bare. Noel towered over you, holding your hand before you could manage to pull your shirt down enough to cover yourself.

“I'm sorry,” Noel bit your neck. He kissed it better. A large hand squeezed your thigh, keeping them apart for him. “I know you deserve more respect than that, and yet…”

His fingers ghosted over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, too close and so far away. You inhaled when Noel's knuckles brushed over the hem of your blue panties.

“I'm sure I’ve dreamed of this before.” Noel left bite marks on your collarbone. With his free hand, he pulled down the collar of your shirt. Just enough to have more space to trace kisses. “You underneath me. On your back, breathless.”

His thumb pressed on your soaked panties. It surprised you to feel how wet you were already. You rolled your hips, rushing after Noel.

“Can you forgive me for that?” Noel whispered. He didn’t look at you, but at the wet fabric.

You grabbed his other hand, sliding it down and placing it under your shirt. Noel grabbed your waist, feeling you up. You inhaled as Noel moved it higher, nails raking your belly.

I'm not nervous, you noticed. The fear is gone. The butterflies on my belly are gone. I just feel good.

“I like your hands,” you said, rocking your hips against his knuckles. It wasn’t enough friction. You brushed your fingertips on the panties’ hem. “I… dreamed of you once, doudou.”

Noel groaned. “Fuck, don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” You raised your hips to pull your panties down. They were hanging around your knees when you brought your hands up to cup his face. “I can’t call you that anymore, doudou?”

Noel kissed you like a starving man. You let him have you, unable of properly reacting to his unwavering presence. His hands squeezed every part of you he could. You bit his lip, hungry for more. It wasn’t enough. You looked away from him, lifting your shirt. You almost couldn’t take it off because Noel was too busy bullying your neck.

“You’re too sweet,” you think that’s what Noel said with a mouthful of you.

He pinched your nipples, licking and biting your chest. You looked down and moonlight made it clear for you. All those bite marks in places you could never properly hide unless fully clothed. “Are you marking me on purpose?”

“It’s not like he would see them.” Noel pinched your nipple, a bit harder than before. “You told me yourself. He treats you like a dove with a broken wing.”

Noel kneeled between your legs and held them, taking your forgotten panties off. He forced your legs apart, tracing wet kisses from your calves until your inner thighs. You breathed in, watching his tense eyes stare at your leaking pussy.

“How long has it been?” Noel started it softly, a mere kiss to your clit. He licked you, warm tongue pressing against your lips, looking into your eyes. “Since he last paid attention to you.”

It didn’t felt like Noel was sucking you, more like he was kissing your pussy. It was wet and messy and too much for you to handle with your eyes open. You tried not to drool, a hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet.

You pet his head. In part because you needed to hold onto something, in part because when someone does a good job they deserve to be reassured.

“I’ve asked you a question.”

“I-I don’t know,” you moaned into your hand. Noel pulled it away from your face, placing it on his hair instead. You grabbed it, rolling your hips against his face. “I need you, Noel.”

You’ve seem his shirtless before, but it made you swallow hard to watch sweat run down his belly as Noel unbucked his pants. Your eyes followed the trimmed white hair trail until his burly cock, thicker than your boyfriend’s.

The thought made you laugh out loud. So that’s when I think of him? When I see a better dick?

Noel squeezed your hips. “Laughing at me?” There was no bite to his words.

“I don’t know why I did that,” you felt like hiding your head on a hole and staying there forever. You grabbed a pillow, covering your face with it. You laughed a bit more into it. “Shit, I’m trying to stop.”

Your laugh turned into a moan when his tip stretched you open. Noel took the pillow away from you, holding your chin so you’d look into his eyes. Before you could say something, Noel thrusted completely into you. “Keep going. I want to know what’s so funny.”

A sob escaped your throat as he moved. All the way out, then all the way in. You could feel every vein around his cock. Noel put his weight on top of you, his belly pressing against yours. It somehow made his cock feel even deeper.

Noel kissed your wet eyelid, like he did many times before. A habit he caught from you. “My poor baby, speechless already.”

“Noa,” you moaned, voice breaking as Noel continued with a relentless rhythm. “You’re an asshole.”

Noel tucked your hair away from your face. “You’re not fragile.”

You won’t break.

Your phone rang, if you knew where it was you’d throw it at the wall for making Noel look away from you. He pulled out from you, grabbing it on the mattress. Noel took a deep breath, showing you the glowing screen.

Noel accepted the call before you could organize your thoughts.

“Love? Before you say anything, I’m so sorry,” your boyfriend’s voice ecchoed on Noel’s bedroom.

Noel put the phone beside the pillows, thumb pressing on your drooled lips to keep them closed. You would’ve thank him for the help, since Noel filled you again without a warning. But you don’t think you can say a damn thing now. “She’s not here.”

“Oh. Hi, Noel. How you doing man? Well, is she alright? She called me a lot and-”

“Now she is,” Noel interrupted him. He let go of you, grabbing the bed headboard to use as a supporter. The next thrust made you bite the pillow case. You tried not to beg for more. “Though I don’t think she wants to talk to you now.”

You almost laughed. Noel breathed in, shaking his head at your reaction. Noel covered your mouth after a whimper made it out of you. You bit his palm, trying your best.

“Can you tell her to call me back?”

You felt it coming. At the back of your mind, building it’s way towards you. That was fast. That was way too fast. How long has it been since you two first kissed? How long has it been since you felt like throwing up in fear of ruining your friendship? It’s hasn’t been long enough for Noel to have you about to come on his cock.

“She will,” Noel pressed against your clit. “I’m sure of-”

You grabbed the phone, making Noel stop himself. He hesitated. You held his forearm, thumb stroking his skin. Noel took his hand away from your mouth. “I’m going to Germany, don’t call me back.”

There was no answer, since Noel ended the call for you. He didn’t kiss you. He didn’t made anything different that would give you a break from all the feeling about to spill from you. Noel only looked at you, at something beyond you, and moaned.

And that was your last straw.

You trembled, drooling as your mind went blank. It wasn’t an explosion, it didn’t surprise you when it happened or ended quickly. Your orgasm wavered over you, and it simply didn’t stop.

Noel kissed your eyelids once more. His weight oscillated over you, his legs trembling. You squeezed your walls, trying to make him feel at least a portion of what you were feeling. Noel closed his eyes and it made you smile.

“Wanted you for so long,” Noel whispered against your temple. He breathed in, hands grabbing at your hips.

You swore you felt the fanning of her sigh from under on your face “That's just how men are dearie. you're too naïve. I'd fatten up a cattle with grass and wheat before slaughtering it, that doesn't mean I had good motives for it!” a spoon clanked from her end, the wooden one perhaps, she's making her trademark stew. She continued, a remembrance of no good lacing the words “There was a man just like him in our village. He used to strangle women of the night and children. I can't tell you how scared we were dearie! your great grandfather didn't let me go to school because of him” 

Your heart dropped. Despite being already aware of this detail about her, you couldn't help the surge of pity for Nana foremost, and wrath towards her father secondarily. She would have been a great author, teacher or therapist if it hadn't been for someone's paranoia. You stared at your reflection in the small vanity, mentally bargaining on which color you'd wear for an eyeshadow before asking her “And what happened then? Did the man get caught?”

“Only after years darling angel, Imagine! No one doubted the brothers who were next door. They were good people— the eldest was a blacksmith and the youngest a handsome man who prayed with us on Sundays and laughed with everyone. He used to call me mia stella and ruffle my hair whenever he saw me. No one doubted a thing— he was a sweet soul! I still don't know why he would hurt people in such a vile way”

A shudder travelled from the bottom of your coccyx up to the back of your neck. This was a human experience not spoken about much: being a few meters away from someone who’d you run to the ends of the earth from if you'd known what horrors they'd committed. Nana had a hand that choked women and children at night atop her head at day, what guaranteed her not being his next victim…? 

You glanced at the palette in your hand. 

The skin is the largest organ of the body. The definition from the first year textbook rang back like a siren from a distance. It protects the body from environmental hazards, helps regulate body temperature, and contains sensory receptors. Historically, flaying had been a punishing practice across many civilizations—the Assyrians nailed skins to city walls, Marsyas paid the price of his hubris by having his skin peeled, and in east Asia, it was slow; methodically done over hours by slicing portions of the flesh in a deliberate manner¹. Humans had always known how fragile the body was; You only had to remove one layer and the unfortunate will die from dehydration, infection and shock before bleeding. But has it ever crossed the ancient mind the thought that human skin didn't just conceal muscle and nerve? what had to be flayed so the evil thoughts can appear, so ugly and exposed for everyone to be truly horrified of? 

Nana’s neighbor probably has many others of him reincarnated, could be far worse than he was. you applied a color on your eyelid, brush tender on the fragile fold of skin “Was he executed?”

An exhale with an octave that whispered ache. Nana’s voice was raw as butchered lamb “He was hanged in the city’s square… They put a dark bag on his head and tied his hands to his back with a fishing rope. He looked at me before they put that bag on his head and good lord…” just as her conte wavered, so did your hand on the brush. you heard the little trouble in her breath, like a dark secret she'd been whipped to tell “His eyes sweetie pie…  they were so vacant— like a frozen lake or a dawn’s sky, all that charm and humor flew off the window and I couldn't sleep for a week…” Classic psychopathy ‘symptom’. Victims’ families always said the same thing about killers—the ‘empty eyes’. Nana’s description matched them perfectly: expressionless eyes that didn't match the body language or tone, a static stare, a sort of chasm and a flash of rage underneath appearing once in a blue moon. It's too subjective, you thought. Memory can be honed by trauma and thoughts; eyes serve as nothing more than a device for vision rather than mental contactors. you blended the eyeshadow with a feathery movement “Eyes can’t really tell you that much” you said lightly. “They’re just… optics. Pupils dilate, muscles freeze. People might read meaning into it, but most of the time it’s just the body reacting.” 

“Sweetheart, don't be too smartassed. If you get a bad feeling about something you should believe in it— especially when it comes to men. What if this old man kidnaps or cuts you to pieces and eats you? and isn't he too old for you— look at you sunshine! about to be a brilliant doctor! Why marry a man who's as old as your grandfather's clock?!”

The laugh forced itself through the clefts of your teeth “Nana he isn't that old” reaching for the perfume, you reassured your panicked grandmother “And I taste sour and my skin is thick, he'll get nothing outta me.” 

The perfume bottle —a square rosy-colored glass bottle of Miss Dior— had a scent of spending nights atop the night sky. you sent your wishlist to Mr.Kennedy last week and you understood how good it felt to be pampered. You applied some on the adjacent of your neck and shoulder, a little on the cheek and a kiss on the hands. The sweet scent swam through the air, lingering as a feminine ghost. “And I'm not marrying him!”

“Then why are you with him?” asked she, a tad of confusion and a hint of innocence. Nana's world was still in the previous century. 

“I'm with him for the money” you said.

“Oh?” bless her heart, the concept of mere dating or benefits is so alien to her, her next words caught you off-guard “I never thought of you playing around little angel, I raised you better than that!”

You looked at the caller screen, expecting to see nana's disappointment or anger, an icon of her smile appearing instead. licking your lips (carefully on the lipstick), you answered leisurely, giving her time to seep in the words “Relax nana, I'm not hurting him and he agreed to this himself. You see, it's called sugar dating: a man pays a woman to keep him company and it's totally normal nowadays. Not everyone looks for marriage.”

“Nonsense. Back in the day a man had to knock on the door to get a bride. This generation is sold out like soil!” she huffed.

“I know it's strange but I promise you it won't hurt me. I'll keep seeing him till I graduate and have everything paid for, after that I'll stop talking to him.”

“Why don't you just get a job?” The suggestion cloaked a  ‘very self-seeking and selfish of you to be with someone for their money’. 

You emptied your lungs of air in one, long  breath. “I can't, I have the hospital rotations and too many classes for that.” 

The line went silent. one that stretched uncomfortably— If sweet sweet Nana judged you, was it that bad? as you opened your mouth to attempt mellowing things, she spoke again in all of a sudden, the usual affection gone and replaced by an ominous shade you've never heard before “You're free to do whatever you want, love. But I have to be honest with you,”

A bottle of ink shattered in your ribs. You gazed at yourself in the mirror: dolled up and arrayed with layers of makeup and perfume, hair perfectly done and combed. A feeling of stupidity foamed under your skin, laughing at you from a corner within your mind.

“I expected better of you. I raised a strong little girl to the woman she is now. I'm still proud of you, yet I'll keep telling you to rethink your decisions my beloved. I can't lose you because of a man— I don't want to carry another coffin.”

You had no answer. not like there was much to be said anyway. 

“Darling I have to hang up, your grandpa is here— please stay safe and call me whenever you feel scared. love ya sugar fairy!”

Call ended, 00:41:34 total time. She just dropped a bomb and went out. 

There is nothing to be afraid of. It's just one date each weekend. He is a gentleman. Repetition helps soothe a troubled psyche. He bought me my fur coat, my makeup, my dresses and shoes. He kisses me goodnight after each date. He holds my hands. He takes me for rides in his car. He texts every three days to see how I'm doing. He is handsome. He cares about me. Other girls would kill to be in my place. I should be grateful. He pays my tuition debts and clears my student loans. He pays my rent. As cold water reaching the blazing sand on a summer day, the sense of safety emerged again, easing your mind and untangling your shoulders after the phantom of your grandmother’s words haunted the small room. Silly me. I almost believed an old woman. You grabbed your purse from the closet and fetched your heels from under the bed, the corners of your lips rising oddly, a pink tingle bubbling through your veins. Just as you were clasping the lace to your ankle, the phone's screen flickered awake— a text from Mr.Kennedy: I'm here.

Putting on your coat and hanging the purse on your forearm, you open the door only to be greeted by a shriek and its twin of deep nature; the girl who studied pharmacy is having a fight with her boyfriend for a time you stopped tracking long ago. The two were so similar like two halves of a split fruit yet so at variance as of heaven and earth. Sometimes they laughed so jovially and other times they roared like beasts. The trash can had a fresh posey of red roses thrown— she must've thrown his gift again. 

Let both claw and bite till they figure it out.

The Porsche Cayenne Turbo smelled of sandalwood and the faint, metallic tang of leather and something unmistakably him. As you slid in, the door closed with a muffled thump, white noises of the city sealed out; a warm, quiet peace swimming in this vacuum of luxury. Mr.Kennedy tapped his cheek with his index finger, prompting you to do your part in the unspoken ritual. With a dove’s grace, you leaned over to his side, lips puckered, and adorned his right cheek with a kiss, His stubble scratching the tip of your nose, lips and chin. The scent of cologne pierced your frontal lobe with a needle, showcasing his presence with force on your brain. 

“I missed you” you let the whisper pour like silk against the apple of his cheek. 

“Did you?” without rotating his face, the blues of his irises were on your form; lenses capturing you speck by speck. The question was colorless, you had to jump on your toes to please. 

“Very much” you smiled sweetly “I've been thinking about you a lot, Mr.Kennedy.”

“Leon.” he corrected, a little firm. 

“Sure, Leon.” You rested a leg on the other, spreading arms on your lap “I couldn't focus in class today. We examined a human heart in the morgue, and I couldn’t help wondering… is that what mine looks like every time I see you? Beating itself senseless against my ribs?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. you watched his lips form into a thin line, then move open when he replied “I might just keep a defibrillator in the car. don't want my little doctor dead because of me, do I?”

You giggled “I'd die the happiest woman alive. I'd never complain to the reaper if it was you who sent me to him”

His skull faced you fully now, mein washed into a softer expression. you figured he was upset about something, but didn't dig nor felt the need to— he was a private man and you respected that. All he needed was a putty in his hands and you played the role. Another wave of bills is soon to come and you had not to mess this up. 

He blinked slowly, wrinkles clear as day under the car’s inner lamp “Don’t say things like that” he murmured, all heart. “I don’t want you dead, darling.” 

You shifted your weight on the seat to the left, directly facing him “Then you'll have to keep me safe. I’m all skin and bones, I break easily, Leon.”

“Am I not keeping you safe already, dear?” there was an abrupt shift— he played along with your coyness seconds ago, now he sounded like a man told he was hated in the cruelest way possible, or is it just your imagination? 

It wasn't, in fact. you heard him sigh through his nose as he continued, eyes on the road “I gave you everything you wanted; these little clothes you begged for, you still have your apartment, and you go to school without worrying about debt. I always tell you how you look so beautiful— which is what I believe, you do look like an angel”

Your smile vanished. The shoes of Salome were too tight to wear for long. He turned his head lazily, absorbing a portion of your features before turning his attention back to the road “But I need a guarantee that this won't end badly. I need to know where this is going.”

You swallowed “What do you mean?”

“You know well what I mean. You're a smart girl, your eyes don't leave anything unnoticed.” 

“You're thinking too much” you chuckled the reply, hoping to clear some fog. never have been a thought in your head of him being so… committed. What would make a man such as Mr.Kennedy ask closure from someone—let alone a woman nearly half his age? He doesn't look like a settling bird, and surely he is pushing fifty to have a slow burn romance. 

“I don't think so” his fingers slugged along the steering wheel “I'm not a boy. I know what I see and what I should have. I'm not interested in things that come and go.”

“Well…” you adjusted your dress strap “... Nothing in life is guaranteed.”

“True,” he agreed, too calmly. “But people still choose what they're willing to risk” his eyes flew back to you, an odd gleam of something beyond his years glinting “What are you willing to risk for me?”

The inquiry landed like an arrow so close to your foot. What was there to be sacrificed? your education? your agency? your relationships with others? none. it's ridiculously comedic to let someone block all your doors to leave and burn all your bridges for their sole sake. As you drafted some response in your head (you had to think of a very plausible one, he doesn't like half-assed explanations.) he asked again, rising frustration growing like weeds “You're getting quiet. Is that really too hard to answer? Do you even care enough or put in as much effort as I do?”

“You're weird tonight.” you stated “You usually don't ask things like these. Did someone upset you Leon?”

“Answer the question, darling.” The contours of his jaw and cheek sharpened, a vein emerging in an image of a tree root across the side of his neck and temple. He did want an immediate answer. 

“Well, the fact that I'm with you now and still go out with you is self explanatory. I don't trust anyone like this.” you paused, leaving room for him to add on or interrupt. When he remained silent, you took the green light to keep on “I enjoy being with you and I'm glad I met you, you make everything easier”

“I did make things easier for you. your school, your apartment and your expenses.”

“I never asked you to do all that” you reminded him, cool as ice. 

“No” he glowered, blue forgotten in an intense lour within his vision “Yet you accepted it.”

“That doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.”

Another sigh left his lips. “I just want to know that I'm not wasting my time.”

“You're not” you smiled, reaching for his shoulder “I promise you.”

The gears in his head were grinding. This had to be his too-good-to-be-true; someone staying? Not until now, you touched the tip of the iceberg called him. He didn't speak much of himself ever since you met him and you didn't pressure him into talking. Knowing about Mr.Kennedy won't change anything nonetheless. 

“What do you tell others about me?”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“How do you describe me to your friends and family? Do they know we're together?” Together he said, not ‘dating’ or merely ‘seeing each other’. 

“Well…  Nana is kinda scared of you” you watched the road move backwards from the passenger’s seat window. 

He snorted; it lacked the texture of humor though. “Am I that frightening?” he asked quietly. “I thought I did a pretty good job looking civilized.”

“Nana thinks that fever is a whip from god and shattering teacups makes Satan lick your toes, she's literally scared of everything.” 

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“There's no one here I'm talking to except you.” he rolled his eyes. 

You held back a laugh, gesturing between the two of you in a circular motion “You're the only one I trust enough to be with them like this”

“What makes you trust me?” 

“My, you're in a mood tonight! Should I check your blood pressure?” you joked; half truth buried, hoping he'd stop taking everything seriously. 

He didn't seem pleased, however.

You swallowed your smile, handing him what he wanted to hear “Because you’re different from other men” spilling like honey, you murmured . “You’re calm. Responsible. You take care of things. When I'm with you… I forget all of my problems.”

It all rested after these words were uttered, sinking beneath a foggy water down to a limbo with no bottom. He had gone hushed without any warning, all of his interrogation and doubt swept under a rug. You wanted him to stop talking, yes, but not in such a way— Was he convinced? Did that answer his question? Was that enough for him? you couldn't decipher nor catch a thread of light behind the mist. His comportment halted at once; wrinkles, muscles and pale flesh moving no longer. Only his eyes lit up of a blue you couldn't understand. 

He didn't speak for the rest of the ride. 

In a very ordinary moment of history that’ll have an epithet for the rest of time, a small and innocent play seeded a principle. Freud watched his grandson throw a toy across the room and announce ‘Fort!’², then retrieve it back, saying  ‘Da’³ ever so simply. The boy continued the loop of game, sparking an idea within his grandfather’s analytical mind: the desire of life and death galloping as one in a field of the human psyche. Leon’s tongue licked at your bottom lip, swiping it in one smooth move before nipping at it, as if a coax before beating. a sting elicited on the tender flesh, rushing through your nose to a lobe where it bloomed then faded. 

He broke the kiss, blues holding your gaze, illusory “What do you see?”

You cupped his cheek in a hand “a man.”

“What type?”

“One who knows too much” you adjusted your weight on the couch, pulling his shoulders down to ease his forehead on yours “He chooses not to tell me what he knows, and he watches me all the time.” your hands slid from the domes of his shoulders down to his sides; sensing the shape of muscle with his shirt being a barrier— he was hot to the touch, flame eating quietly inside. 

Fort. Da. comes and goes, departs and returns, appears and disappears, like shadows on cloudy days. His exhales brushed your face with heat; breath smelling of something sharp and chemical, perhaps mouthwash or medications. not like you were bothered anyway; it was your daily oxygen in med school. He pressed kisses to your jawline, mumbling against the bone “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” 

Not even bothering to guess, you hummed, omitting the  ‘What do you see in me?’  for the favor of keeping the tingle of his lips and stubble. 

“I see a little cunning liar” His arms tightened around your back, supporting your neck and nape; rotating you so lightly to reach the lane to your temple “You watch me the same way I watch you” he said, voice low. “Only difference is…” his tongue lapped on your earlobe, scalding blow of his lungs right in your ear “I don't pretend I’m innocent.”

The sideburns of his face were thin, light wisps below his ears climbing to the start of his scalp. There was gray in the blond sowing within pili, metamorphosing the color in a process: there is not much left till he ages fully— In ten or twenty years, he'll grow more agitated, spine curving outwards like a crescent, the lines on his face will sink into deeper fissures, blood pressure might drop or heighten, and his sense of dim brass might dry out. You threaded a hand through his hair; thick still locks sluiced your fingers, one of the loyal stayers to his youth. 

“Find another puppy to kick, Leon.” Your drone had an intent of teasing. It landed like a stone on glass. 

He left the side of your face to look directly at you, eyes a little wide. “If anything, I am the one getting kicked.” whispered he. “Funny isn't it?” thumb caressing your left cheekbone, he rasped with a fragment of sorrow “Being fully grown yet still soul stupid to not care about getting hurt again, like walking into a minefield knowing that you'll die” 

A coast of him you never imagined you'll drift to. 

“The funny part is,” his thumb still grazed your cheek, a midnight ocean swirling around his irises “you don’t even hate the person who plants the mines. You just keep hoping the next step will be the safe one.” 

A pause soaked with gray. 

“If I had a wish,” he caught a little of your hair among two digits “I'd wish I had never been so… full of hope”

For Freud, the desire to live (Eros) and the yearn to die (Thanatos) spiraled together like Yin and Yang. Humans ran from what could have them killed— survival instinct. au contraire, lurked far in the need to draw back into the void— L'appel du vide. contradictions make a man; Leon undoubtedly a museum of. It was a wonder how his features were made of steel except for now; it melted, raw beneath all the mystery and rigidity. 

Your palm travelled from his scalp to his cheek, holding the hollow side in a cold grip. “If you stopped hoping,” you crooned, thumb smoothing the lines near his mouth “you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

A lull.

“And then I’d have to find someone else to bother.” you smiled softly, splitting through his eyes to his brain with a gaze hoping it'd put his mind at serenity. His stare had moved not, almost like he found the taste of your comfort odd. In a clue, you pushed his head down to the crook of your neck, placing him to nest there and may he forget whatever munches his thoughts. Peace filled his apartment, the air a faint hue of his heat and musk. He inhaled  and exhaled against your skin, rhythm of a bird under its mother's wing. you stroked his hair with no rush of time, the ceiling an empty canvas for whatever you imagined. Ten minutes or so, you tapped his shoulders, signaling him that comfort time was over. 

“Why do you want to leave? It's still early” his eyebrows knit together. 

“I have an exam tomorrow” you reached for your discarded heels “I studied nothing”

His huff reached your ears, he was still on the couch, nervous system probably shocked from the sudden cut of oxytocin. 

“Why don't you stay and study here?”

Your hands froze on the ankle lace “You can't be serious?”

“Don't you trust me?” He stood up, eyeing you with a tang of insistence “You have anatomy tomorrow, you forgot your notes from last week in my room. Either way you have no reason to go, and your place is an hour drive so wasting time isn't very smart.”

You chewed your lip, considering the suggestion. In an hour you could finish two chapters, the syllabus was six chapters. A quick math and not so much rocket science made you realize he's right: three hours of studying then he'll drive you home. You stayed nights with Leon before so what could go wrong? 

As you calculated the scenario, He announced, stepping towards the open-plan kitchen “I’ll make us tea. Your notes are on the nightstand in my room.”

You unclasped your shoes “You do know that you'll drive me home later?”

“Why are you dying to leave? I'm not gonna gut you” You heard the clanking of mugs on the countertop, stove clicking on before he mused “and of course I'll drive you back you silly girl.”

“Being gutted before finishing med school wasn't on my bingo list.” you fetched the notes, heading back to the living room. The kettle whistled, a pause followed before the mugs clinked together.

“Chamomile okay?” he called from the kitchen. “It’ll help you relax.”

“Well aren’t you a carebear.” you said almost to yourself, placing the stack of papers and the fat textbook on the coffee table. As he placed the mug next to your hand, he sat across from you, sipping his— little sugar just like he preferred. The ripples of steam tickled your nose, the syrupy scent of herbs and sugar inviting, yet your stomach cocooned itself suddenly “You know what…”

He immediately raised his head from his mug. 

You pushed the red cup slightly towards him “I don't think I’ll have it… thank you f—” you looked at his eyes, he was genuinely hurt. Leon zipped his lips in a thin line, staring at the liquid, no drop of it gone. The silence sliced through your ribs, him finally talking made the ache worse.  

“I didn't want to have tea either.” his index tapped the pale porcelain “I made it for you. I figured we can have a little time together with no distractions, just us, doing something mundane.” He rose from his seat, extending a hand to your cup “Guess I'll throw it in—”

“Never mind, I think I'll have it now!” you grinned, A brief relief flowing in your chest, guilt still gnawing on a rib inside you. He was being kind, why spit on his face? It’s chamomile, not cyanide. Stop acting like a stray cat someone tried to feed. You took a sip in front of him; it actually tasted good! Nothing to worry about, and not like you're Cleopatra for someone to bother poisoning you⁴. 

It was until you finished half of it when Leon sat down. His expression was calm as he continued drinking his tea, watching you as you rummaged through the papers and mapping notes. The atmosphere was ordinary, the white noise of the fridge and the distant thrum of life outside his apartment's balcony filled the lacuna, familiar things to be stored in five years as nostalgia. You didn't mind him being close— it's his house. You checked your watch: 7:23 pm. you still have time catching up to the chapters, approximately at midnight you'll be home to get some sleep, already well dined when he took you out to eat before bringing you here.

Each chapter took longer than you thought. 

You made a mistake of underestimating; your mantra was to ‘expect the unexpected’ and alas you fell in the very same trap you could see miles away. Six chapters. Six grotesque, swollen chapters packed with Latin names and branching diagrams that multiplied like bacteria under a microscope: Nerves that split into nerves that split into smaller nerves, arteries weaving through muscles you could barely pronounce, every page a forest of labels demanding to be memorized exactly as printed or not at all. Anatomy was not a subject you studied— it was something that chewed on your brain until it softened enough to swallow.

You flipped through the stack, the paper edges rasping against your thumb, taking occasional slurps from the tea. Three hours if you were lucky. Maybe four if sleep became optional. Even then, the information would sit in your skull like loose screws, rattling around whenever the professor pointed at a diagram and expected you to know whether it was the radial artery, the ulnar artery, or some traitorous little branch that existed solely to ruin your grade.

You exhaled through your nose, irritation prickling along your temples. Of all nights to play house over tea, it had to be the night before an anatomy exam. Time management skills of a sloth. 

You checked the watch. 8:34 pm. way to go. 

Your jaws couldn't hold back the yawn that came out, warmth pooling under your eyelids from the effort. You blinked away the little reflex tears, pinching the dot between your eyebrows. The words on paper danced, diagrams floating and mushing into blurry colors. a rhythm in the background that wouldn't stop hammered your skull. 

“Do you hear that?” you asked Leon, too tired to explain the ‘that’. 

“Hear what?”

You ushered around with your hand, clear as fog. “The… tapping sound?”

“It's only you and me.” His fingers were intertwined, hands balled and elbows placed on the table. You couldn't raise your head, forehead a weight of an anvil. You blinked more, slower and heavier,  ‘just resting your eyes’, brain burning from an exhaustion you didn't know you saved from last week.  your arms and legs slugged, shutting out and leaving you all by yourself. 

You caught Leon’s concerned remark “You look tired… Let me take you to the couch”. you couldn't voice your consent or rejection; he held you against his chest and hooked you on his arm in a princess carry towards the furniture. A stream of relaxation spread from the back of your head when it touched the cushion, the anxiety beneath screaming although. 

“I can't sleep now…” you attempted to get up “I... have study… tomorrow…” your back fell and so you did, eyelids closed like curtains. Not awake but not asleep either, you couldn't mistake the sensation of his fingertips along your throat. They spidered to your lips, fondling them, last reminiscents of your consciousness clutching at what he'd said. 

“All that rushing… always somewhere else to be. Exams, lectures, your friends, that little world that keeps pulling you away.” His fingers drifted along your jaw, thoughtful, almost gentle. “You never notice how quickly the door closes behind you.”

From behind the closed lids, you saw his silhouette, not one single line or feature to tell his profile. 

“But look at you now.” His voice lowered, nearly swallowed by the quiet of the room “No arguments. No clever answers. No running off because you suddenly remembered something more important.”

His thumb pressed lightly beneath your lip “Just you and me.”

A pause lingered.

“I wondered what you were like when you finally stopped fighting everything.” His other hand crowned your head, then sailed below to pull your eyelids closed. 

“Goodnight, darling.”

¹: The description above simplifies several distinct historical punishments. In imperial China, the execution method often referenced in modern discussions is Lingchi (“death by a thousand cuts”), practiced during certain dynasties until the early 20th century. Unlike flaying, lingchi involved the deliberate removal of small portions of flesh over the course of an execution, intended to prolong suffering and publicly demonstrate state authority. Surviving records and photographs suggest the process typically lasted minutes to hours rather than days or months, and it differed from flaying in that the skin was not removed in a single piece.

²: German for “gone” or “away.”

³: German for “there” or “back.”

“Seas,” you muttered, staring at the approaching island, “I hope I’m not making a mistake.”

A mere week after the Doflamingo family executive came to the shop, a News Coo landed on your windowsill and announced its delivery with a scream. It dropped a fat envelope in the doorway and took itself back to the sky without waiting for pay (or confirmation of receipt).

You found an official offer of employment.

Provided you moved to Dressrosa and only sold goods outside the “family” with prior permission, the Warlord’s crew would pay more than you, your mother, your brother, and probably your pirate father had made in your combined lifetimes. Apparently, Giolla hadn’t been full of shit, and her boss thought your little tinctures were only the first step in your alchemical career.

Which you thought was ridiculous until you showed the contract to your patrons. Both baker and shopkeeper urged you to take the position.

Their responses, and their enthusiasm, caught you off guard, and you found yourself nursing old wounds carelessly reopened. Ones you’d always ignored in the name of survival. But now, when you’d finally acknowledged them, giving them a snowflake’s chance in hell to heal, your bosses had ripped off the bandages.

The rot beneath festered, eating into your bones, leaving you fragile.

Without their support, you’d never be able to support yourself in such a small town, not with your limitations. They both reminded you that one day they’d retire, and you weren’t likely to start a family to care for you, and realistically, the risk was worth the reward.

Everything you’d built there relied on someone else’s goodwill, and suddenly you couldn’t help wondering if you were a burden.

A burden who made them money, sure, but you didn’t bring anything groundbreaking to the table, and they knew your recipes for candied citrus well enough. They’d survived before you, and they’d thrive after.

You didn’t admit that your eyes prickled when they all but shooed you out of their lives, or that you’d had to blink frantically when the baker casually mentioned that your mother’s old bread recipe had become one of her bestsellers.

Everyone had round, happy faces as they urged you to carry on somewhere else. Their storefronts sported fresh paint. Their feet shuffled in new shoes. And you knew you’d had at least a little to do with it all, but everyone seemed happy to forget as you drew back muttering, “I guess,” and “I suppose so,” until you’d gathered all your things, sent a bird off with the signed contract, and spent all your savings on passage to Dressrosa.

You disappeared under a veiled hat, shrinking into the tough skin of a hermit. Fresh growth had made cracks and pushed through, but you trimmed back the hopes and joys to fit your old skin, and you insisted the cracks never existed in the first place.

Little Freesia, distracted with a beautiful new doll, hadn’t stopped her game to say goodbye when you trekked down to the ship.

Once again, with one bag full of plants and one full of clothes, you left to start life over in a new place with new people and new disappointments.

At least this time you knew to keep your expectations modest.

Being convenient didn’t make you family.

It had taken you a while, but you recognized the pattern, and you weren’t equipped to force fate’s weave into anything better.

You struggled finding good things to fill your thoughts on the voyage. The lower decks smelled like old piss. The mess hall echoed with shouting and the ghost of something burnt. Your berth was narrow, and you had no pillow.

But you knew it would end, and that was worth thinking about, so you cherished dreams of solid land and tea that didn’t spill over and scald your hands when the ship rocked.  

And, finally, it did.

You’d arrived.

And immediately fresh dread eclipsed your discomfort.

You’d never seen an island like Dressrosa before.

The port city of Acacia roared with life as your ship drifted into the harbor. Perfumes, spices, and the sea air wrestled for dominance as the shore rippled, alive with people decked in colorful clothes and fresh flowers.

Beauty, passion, and life torqued to a wild speed.

People didn’t whisper. They didn’t conduct business with cautious words and stern faces. They practically sang their interests, and haggling along the docks was all flailing gestures and roaring, absurd laughter.

You pulled your veil close as the crew threw ropes to dockhands on shore and the inevitable drew near.

You’d have to leave the boat.

Walk down the gangplank and into that crowd like you had any idea what you were doing.

You were not equipped for this.

If your future employers had sent a reply with directions to follow upon arrival, it came after you departed. So, you stared down into this new world and tried very hard to bury your tendencies as a hermit. To find a cheap place to sleep and send inquiries from within the safety of four, solid walls away from the noise, and the people, and the stares, and…

No. That wouldn’t work.  

You forced your spine straight and reminded yourself to be practical.

Begging for help just wasn’t your style, and it could get you killed in a place like this.

Who’d notice a lone, screaming woman in such a crowd?

You were capable. You were fine.

The veiled hat would be enough. It had to be. A tidy little scrim between you and the crowd.

The gangplank clattered into place, so you picked up your things and left the miserable safety of your transport.

At least in Dressrosa your tea wouldn’t burn your fingers every morning when the table swayed.

Your feet met the cobbles. Bodies pressed thick around you, and although you struggled a little with your bags’ weight, they provided handy buffers. Everyone was very close, but no one came too close.

Three different songs from three different taverns reverberated in your head, and you wondered if the city got any quieter the farther you got from the docks. There were so many sensations, it was hard to pick one to focus on.

Usually, physical sensations opened the door to meditative peace of mind, but this was the difference between a glass of water and a tsunami. It was too much, and you turned inward, letting your thoughts and feelings narrow to each breath. The physical pull and stretch. The smell of raw fish on ice and saffron rice from a nearby kitchen. The warmth of it all. The way your body settled and joined with the reality of the moment.

When you opened your eyes, you spied a familiar figure towering over the crowd, hands on hips, painted lips puckered as she scanned the ships.

Of course it would be her.

Giolla. The mastermind behind this madness.

Well, at least you recognized someone.

Carefully, you edged your way through the happy masses. The Donquixote family officer would know where you were supposed to go. Or at least recommend a place to take your things. This was all, more or less, her fault, and she owed you that much. Besides, she’d want things to go well. She’d probably look bad if they didn’t.

She caught sight of you and grinned.

Even with the veil, you stood out in the crowd of beautiful women in pretty dresses with your comfortable trousers and long-sleeved coat.

She marched forward with a small entourage of minions.

“Ah, she’s arrived!” The crowd parted for her like a school of fish around a shark, and you cautiously lifted your veil just long enough for her to confirm who she was greeting. “Our little alchemist. Is this all you have with you, dear?”

Your bags weren’t small, but you supposed most people your age had accumulated more things worth keeping.

“This is it.” You shrugged, hoping to dispel the glint of – pity? – in her eyes. “Mature plants rarely travel well.” And you hadn’t been so upset at your passive rejection to dig up the garden.

“Well,” Giolla tittered, “we’ll have to take you shopping another day! Now, come, come. I’ll show you to the palace, where you’ll be staying.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

“The palace?

“Of course! You’re a guest of the Donquixote family, aren’t you?”

“I am an employee.”

Giolla tutted and swept aside your argument with a grand gesture that brought two minions scurrying forward to take your bags. While you were grateful, you also felt horrifically awkward. Too visible. Too noticed.

“Thank you, but you really don’t have to –”

“Oh, but we do.” Giolla steered you into her circle, and that was that.

Next to the enormous woman and her particular sense of style, Dressrosa seemed much more manageable. The people were different, but none of them had bothered you. They didn’t go out of their way to wrangle and direct you like Giolla. If you weren’t surrounded by her uniformed troop, you could slip away and become instantly anonymous again.

No chance of that at the moment, though.

Giolla moved with purpose. You had to jog every few steps to keep pace. With her speed, you crossed the city and soon found yourself pulled into a carriage. Then you moved even faster, passing throngs of strangers and wide, green fields. Sunflowers waved in the breeze, beaming under a bright blue sky. You might’ve imagined you were being spirited away, though you looked more like a ghost that the pirates. It didn’t feel entirely real.

By the time you reached the top the hill and entered the actual palace grounds, you were exhausted. You’d barely slept the night before. The burst of adrenaline during your panic at the port had also taken its toll.

And, you were willing to bet, Giolla was tiring on the best of days.

You surrendered to your fate for the time being, and you only paid enough attention to know how to leave by the way you’d entered, tracking turns, halls, and gates.

It was all very grand. Of course. Fine stone, polished to a mirror finish. Every fixture shiny with wasted beri. Excess treated as standard.

Hopefully, they’d let you move out of the palace. The opulence was oppressive, and you clung to your veil like a safety blanket.

As you moved through the ground floor, a wave of laughter and splashing snagged your attention.

You glanced down an adjoining hall, feet still moving, to spy a flock of flawlessly beautiful women playing around a pool. The view was partially blocked by an enormous lounge, over which you could just make out a mass of pink feathers and blond hair backlit by the morning sun.

Warlords were not part of your day-to-day, but you read the paper. You’d seen the leader of the Donquixote family in photos, and you knew exactly who lurked under that iconic coat. His name had been on the contract, after all.

You hadn’t realized he planned to keep you so close by.

The light turned his hair into a natural golden crown, emphasizing that he was more than a Warlord. He was a king. If the World Government turned a blind eye to the daily desecrations of regular pirates, they must turn their full backs to a royal with license to misbehave.

Despite the warm weather, goosebumps pebbled your arms, and you hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t turn around. Catching a glimpse of him was one thing. Being seen in return was something else.

At least Giolla didn’t stop and force you to greet him in the hall.

Your feet hurt. You needed a glass of water. You wanted to ensure wherever Giolla planned to store you had a door that locked.

A pull kept your eyes on the back of his head as you walked by, though. Answering a silent demand. Like he was watching you, calling you without looking.

The moment stretched too long.

But Giolla didn’t stop, and soon enough the corner broke your line of sight.

The feeling passed.

Your mounting tension did not.

After a tour that took much too long, Giolla led you to a little apartment on the first level. Some fresh paint and traces of sawdust suggested recent renovations, and it looked like they’d been made with your skillset in mind. One cushioned loveseat sat just inside the door, flanked by a single side table. Everything else looked like an improved, if scaled-down, version of your prior workshop.

Terrifying, frankly, since you hadn’t shared any such details. Not during Giolla’s visit. Not in writing.

First the undue praise. Then the hug. Now this.

You watched Giolla from the corner of your eye as you examined the space. A stove, oven, fridge, and racks of equipment. Floor-to-ceiling storage shelves that awaited your additions.

At the back of the room, glass doors opened into a small, private garden.

It showed far too much artful consideration. Everything was new. Everything was scaled to fit the space. It reminded you of a cage at a zoo staged to fool the animals into feeling at home.

“It’s a little smaller than what you’re used to, but you won’t be needing to work in bulk anymore.” Giolla fanned herself, tittering. A long, sharp fingernail pointed to a curtain on the left. “The bed and bath rooms are through there. Get settled, and I’ll send someone with dinner tonight.”

As you listened, you’d started poking around the kitchen, and you shook your head at her offer.

“There’s plenty here.” You gestured at the pre-stocked ingredients, most of which were for regular cooking as opposed to ‘potion’ crafting. “I can take care of myself. No need to bother anyone.”

“What a sweet idea.” She might as well say ‘bless your heart.’

It rubbed you exactly the wrong way, and you turned to the garden beyond the glass doors to distract yourself. Everything in the room felt wrong, and you needed to find something familiar to tie yourself back to the moment. The apartment was swamped in Giolla’s perfume, and her painted grin had you twitching, ready for the artifice to crack and the guns to come out.

It was an escape. A retreat. And maybe that made you a coward, but you’d come to serve a Warlord of the Sea in a strange country far away from any place you’d ever called home, and you’d had quite enough of being a sociable adult for the day.

The wind welcomed you and drowned out your escort’s parting words. Giolla faded you’re your awareness before she even left the room.

You surrendered to discovery.

You found fresh air that smelled like sun-warmed stone. Freshly turned earth. New scents you couldn’t name.

You turned your face to the sun and let the rays kiss your closed eyes, and the sensations made you whole.

A familiar ritual in an unfamiliar place. Always reliable. No matter what came next.

------------------

You didn’t care if dinner was coming. You wanted to make bread. The minute Giolla retreated and you ventured back to the kitchen, you found the ingredients and got to work.

The recipe required little work but a lot of patience. It felt right to christen your new home with something that would rise slowly and show you what to expect from your environment. Baking was more science than art, and the busy little yeast would reveal much.

Preparing it demanded attention, too. A different kind of sensory meditation. Was the flour fine enough? The water warm? The final mixture elastic and alive?

Sight, smell, and touch made the magic possible.

And they kept you sane. You liked to predict problems. You’d grown up forced to anticipate and prepare for others’ needs, which wasn’t a bad skill to have, but when you let yourself look too far or imagine too much, your mind could eat you.

That was something you’d only recently come to understand, another little revelation cultivated by your neighbor and left to sprout in his wake.

With the dough set to rise, you explored the rest of your new home. The bedroom was basic and functional, which was a relief after the living area. You dragged in your things, unpacked the four outfits you’d brought, and moved your toiletries into the bathroom. The supplies inside weren’t elaborate, but they were quality. Luxurious, even. Mildly-scented soaps in glass bottles and a set of cleansers tailored to every part of the body.

You eyed them mistrustfully as you stripped and scrubbed with your homemade bars.

You’d grown nose-blind to your own body odor, and getting the filth of travel out of your hair made you a new woman.

Hiding from the mirror in a cloud of steam, you reapplied your salve. Then you dressed quickly, afraid of the unnecessarily plush towels. Expensive things always cost, in beri or blood, and you refused to get used to them. They were usually traps, anyway, like candy in the hand of a stranger.

You found a covered plate waiting after you dried off and dressed. Logically, you should eat. But you’d hit the point of fatigue where queasiness masked your hunger. So you set the meal aside for later.

Evening crept over the sky, and the sun bled pink and purple as it fell. It was beautiful, and you left the garden doors open to enjoy the warm breeze.

It’d been a hot minute since you could enjoy fresh air that didn’t reek of dead fish.

Still, you couldn’t relax. You’d hoped the shower would drive the tension out of your shoulders, but your body refused to surrender its edge.

You took it out on the dough. The poor bastard got the kneading of a lifetime. Fists, flour, and fury.

Another tactile blessing of baking.

Hunters talked about the thrill of the kill, but there was something deeply pleasing about putting food you’d beaten beyond mercy or reason on the table.

To distract yourself during the second rise, you turned to your old friend: tea. Finding the kettle, and the cups, and watching it all brew together should have done the trick. Your cares should’ve melted into a reasonable list for the morning to worry about. The tea cleansed your soul the way the shower cleansed your body. But it did just as much good for your nerves.

The island grew dark, and stars poked through the black velvet sky. The avian dayshift went to sleep. The night birds rustled and cried.

The tension remained.

Your gut was warning you. Or you were sleep-deprived to the point of paranoia.

Nothing you could do about it, either way.

You hated to think of yourself as a sheep waiting for slaughter, but compared to the soldiers, power-users, and pirates in the palace, you were just as defenseless. Using the well-stocked kitchen provided mild assurance that you had a purpose beyond death, that you were at least a convenience, and so long as you were useful, there was no reason to kill you.

At least no reason for anyone to go out of their way to do so. Which was good enough.

The oven heated. The bread went in.

The crickets kept you company as you cleaned up and fetched your poison detection kit.

Your meal – stone cold by now – was waiting.

You didn’t recognize the food under the cloche. Some kind of pasta. Probably a regional dish. You scooped several forkfuls to the side and applied your potions.

They didn’t play well with the creamy sauce, it split and curdled, but they revealed no poison. Twirling a noodle around your fork, you considered eating it.

“Did you think my staff would poison you?”

You jumped.

Your teeth clamped down on your scream. The door to the garden stood open behind you, and you turned with the hair on the back of your neck prickling.

You found Donquixote Doflamingo perched on the wall, too big, too colorful to be real.

He laughed, a strange fufufu that swelled the building pressure in your head.

The situation was terribly real, and you did not know how to conduct yourself around power. Or pirates. Or killers who sat on thrones.

You stopped. Took a breath.

Everything smelled like bread, and the wind creeping through the open door was pleasantly cool, especially contrasted with the oven’s heat. You ignored the sharp edge of cologne in the periphery.

“It crossed my mind.” Your hands shook, but your voice didn’t.

The oven pinged, and you decided there was no point in dancing to a tune you couldn’t hear. The Warlord would do what he would, and you would be as you were. Anything else was beyond your control.

You moved to the oven, slipped on a mitt, and pulled out the fresh loaf as you spoke. “My poison detectors may be an inconvenience to a pirate, even if he’s a king. Pulling me away from Marine territory and into your jurisdiction could be a tidy solution. And more than a little ironic.”

The same mocking chuckle echoed into your space. From the corner of your eye, you watched him leap down to your level. You listened to each step on the gravel path, measuring your breaths by his stride.

Doflamingo was coming into your home, and a nameless instinct demanded you do something about it.

Some need had not been met.

Some storm had not been sated.

You forced your racing heart calm. You ordered the fierce tugging in your chest to settle. You only had control over yourself at the moment, and you couldn’t afford to lose that last thread of agency.

Fear grew in empty spaces, so you made a plan to fill your thoughts. You filled your hands with a cutting board and set out a small jar of honey you’d found lurking in the pantry earlier. Then you filled your senses with the bread – so hot it burned your fingers when you pulled it from the tin. You took up a knife, carved a slice that steamed in night air, and let the smell distract you from the looming presence in the doorway.

The bread went on a plate. Honey went on the bread.

You breathed.

You shook your hands out.

You set it before the Warlord.

His smile – only a gleaming curl in the darkness before – had withered. He frowned, and you wondered if that was worse. You couldn’t read him at all. Maybe the humble food was below him. Or you’d broken some royal rule.

Or he just didn’t like bread.

“Seems a strange time of day to make introductions,” you muttered, quietly, like volume was the most likely part of your words to offend him. “I’m guessing you’re here to kill me, or you’re… bored.”

You almost slipped. You almost suggested he was restless. That implied weakness. A flaw.

A great way to piss off a dangerous man and cut your life short.

“Why?” his voice was hard, and you barely repressed the urge to flinch.

Another honest answer found death between your teeth, ground to dust as you looked for something more appropriate to say.

“Why wouldn’t I offer the man who paid for the ingredients and owns the kitchen something he’s paid me to make? You didn’t order it, but you’re here now, and it’s rightfully yours.”

His height gave him reach, and he snatched your jaw, forcing you to face him, without taking a single step closer.

Veins pulsed along his furrowed brow, and you went deathly still.

Now that was an expression you could understand.

And physical violence. You understood that, too.

The tips of his fingers were unforgiving, pressing your cheeks into your teeth and digging into the hinge of your jaw.

“That’s not all of it.” He bent down to glare face-to-face. It should’ve looked ridiculous – he was practically doubled-over – but it felt more like a legendary dragon peering down the mountain to get a better look before it burned you. “Tell me.”

You pulled on his wrist, hoping he’d relax his grip enough for you to speak. Before he got tired of it all and snapped your neck. Or suffocated you.

It was almost ironic that you’d die as you lived – surrounded by pleasant smells in terrible circumstances.

Doflamingo’s hand slid down to your throat, and he growled. “I won’t ask again.”

“I – it felt like… you were looking for something.” It didn’t make sense. It didn’t have to. He hadn’t asked for anything that made sense. You gave your confusion space to breathe across your face, taking frantic little gasps and hovering on your tiptoes.

He didn’t need to demonstrate how small you were. You’d always been weak compared to your brother. Compared to the pirates who raided your town. Compared to the Marines who claimed the mess for themselves. Even compared to the baker and shopkeeper who gave you an opportunity out of pity. You weren’t made of iron or stone. You were just a hardy little weed determined to grow wherever you found yourself.

The veins along his face shrank, but the frown bent lower.

“Just… just instinct.” Your voice shook along with your hands this time, and every fiber of your being followed suit.

His thumb stroked along your jaw, rubbing over the scar. He didn’t squeeze, but he crowded in closer, suffocating you.

“Instinct? To what?” His face lifted, brightened by something cruel finding the promise of a meal. “Say it.”

You stammered. The room was starting to spin, and you wondered if you were hyperventilating.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” Even with your vision going smeary with tears, you could see his smile cutting back into place. He had your life in the palm of his hand, and he was practically salivating over it. “I want to hear you say it.”

Reality was becoming slippery, and you knew Doflamingo. You’d never met. But you knew him. Not about his history, his tastes, or his plans. There was a hollow place where the root of his soul should be, a hungry monster you knew you’d fed before. Not so close. Not with bread and honey, but you wanted to give him the sweet little treats you’d made for your brother on bad nights. Before you lost him. Over, and over until it stuck.

The tension had haunted you all day, and there was nothing you could do about it, because it wasn’t all yours.

 “To take care of you,” you whispered, on the cusp of unconsciousness.

The Warlord dropped you, and you crashed back into the moment with a slap of cold tile under your palms.

You reeled as you felt.

The bond was open. Your fences in disrepair. Your fortress abandoned to ruin.

And he was there. Your neighbor. In mind, spirit, and flesh.

Your necklace tumbled to the floor, pinging off the hard surface, and you reached for it.

Too late.

Doflamingo’s heel smashed down, and you watched in frozen helplessness as he ground the precious chip to dust, laughing over you.

“Nowhere to hide your lies now, is there?”

Shock hit like a tidal wave, sudden and disorienting.

Your only protection was gone. Not that it had done much, in the long run. He’d found you.

You had no sea prism stone, no miles of ocean between, no Marine presence to deter open violence.

Thoughts coiled and spun at random.

He’d said he was going to tear you apart.

Seas. You never should’ve come to Dressrosa. You should never have even dared to create something worth selling beyond the meager needs of the town where you lived.

You’d made the worst possible mistake. And you’d die for it.

You didn’t plan to sprint across the room. You simply did. Desperation carried you. Panic drove you.

It was hopeless, but you hoped to escape, anyway. Maybe you could lose him in the endless corridors, or make it to a public space where he couldn’t slaughter you outright, or…

You seized the handle and pulled for all you were worth.

Nothing.

You jiggled it, a scream building in your throat as you rammed the door with your shoulder. But it was locked from the outside, and how could you be so stupid?

Just as the scream escaped, the man behind you sighed, and something brushed the back of your neck.

“Stop that before you break yourself.”

And you did. Immediately. You didn’t want to, but your body answered to the man behind you rather than your overpowering drive for self-preservation.

Arms at your sides, you stepped back from the door. Everything moved without permission, a little stilted, like a puppet fresh from the workshop with stiff joints that hadn’t yielded to the strings.

Oh.

Gods.

His strings.

You looked over your shoulder, panting like a hunted animal. Doflamingo had settled on the counter, feet still firmly on the floor, knees bent. Too large for the space and too strong to escape. Grinning, because he’d known it all along. His fingers twitched, and you turned fully.

“Come here.” He held out one hand, practically giggling with delight at the joke. You walked back to him, fighting for control of your body, and your fingers settled in his open palm like you trusted him. Like you’d given him permission to touch you. He jerked you closer by the hand so you stumbled into the space between his legs, and he had you surrounded.

“Absolutely defenseless, aren’t you? You couldn’t even try to fight me.”

Pink feathers hemmed in your peripheral vision until there was only the coat, the glasses, and the terrible wolf’s grin. He pinched your chin and angled your face to better see the scarring. The fiendish joy faded, replaced by something cold and focused.

“Tch. Look what you’ve done to yourself. I should’ve come for you years ago.”

Eyes closed, you tried to shake your head, wondering if he could feel it through his strings or the link that throbbed open, raw, and bleeding between you.

“Don’t…” You swallowed the bile creeping up your throat. “Please. Stop.”

He laughed again and curled one long arm around your back. His broad hand stroked up and down your spine, mimicking affection the way his strings on your body mimicked free will.

“Aw,” he crooned, settling his cheek against the top of your head. “My little neighbor is self-conscious. Did you think I wouldn’t like you? Think I wouldn’t want you: small, scarred, and powerless?”

Humiliation flushed hot and ugly through your blood. You tried not to think about your looks, especially since everyone else treated them like your defining characteristic. Yours was a face children asked about and parents pretended not to see. You’d never thought of yourself as a liar, but everything you’d ever pushed through the bond, the fences you’d built, turned into papier-mache illusions in the reflection of Doflamingo’s red sunglasses.

More tears gathered in your eyes. Attempts to blink them away just sent them rolling down your cheeks. Doflamingo pulled back to appreciate his effect on you, merrily shifting his grip so your tears caught the light.

When the torrent slowed, he patted your back, forcing you into some kind of embrace with his chest in your face. His scent crushing you. His words dripping like poison from adder’s fangs into your ear.

“I do want you, you know.”

The hand on your back dragged up to your shoulder, then snapped around your arm.

The strings released you, and you jerked back to see the smile arcing higher than ever. There wasn’t time to breathe. To brace yourself.

A yank. A blur of pink. A terrible crash as the plate you’d filled shattered on the floor.

You found yourself gasping up into the villain’s rictus grin, sprawled over the countertop under his shadow. He leaned his weight onto the hand pinning your wrist, pressing the seeds of deep bruises into your fragile bones.

“You promised so much,” he growled. “You whispered your little pleasures over your high garden walls, and you thought I’d forget?”

His grip hurt, but he could draw blood when he meant to be gentle, you’d bet your life on that. If you still had a life of your own to bet.

Everything was too sharp. The cold stone siphoning heat from your back. The waves of musk and sweat trying to replace the air in your lungs as you struggled to breathe beneath his bulk. The physical touch. It cut you out of reality, and for a moment the hazy peace of shock pulled a gauzy curtain over the scene, like the veil of your hat. There was nothing to say. Nothing to offer. The spider caught you, and he didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

He swooped down to nuzzle against your neck, huffing deep sniffs from your ear to the base of your shoulder, and the new sensation made you writhe. Would he tear out your throat with his teeth?

A firm, wet heat dragged over your pulse. It forced a yelp out of you, and he groaned into your skin.

“You offered a world, and then you took it away.” He sat up, waiting for your wet eyes to blink into focus as his tongue lolled from his mouth. He looked deranged. Rabid. “So, now?”

Strings replaced his hand, tying you down while he plucked up the jar of honey. It shone like real gold as he lifted it, tilted it, and let one sticky drop stretch, fall, and land on your closed lips.

“I want something sweet.”

What followed might’ve been a kiss, though it was more teeth and tongue than lips, which you’d always been led to believe were key to the act. A hand took your face, not caressing, but directing. He pushed the honey past your teeth, forcing his way in with a firm grip and a wicked tongue. He spread it, licking the flavor over every taste bud, painting you sweet.

You felt like a sacrificial animal fed good fruits and fragrant herbs. There was no joy in accepting gifts that would spill from your stomach at the point of a knife.

Quaking, you came to a devastating realization.

I don’t want to die.

The plea echoed across the link, and Doflamingo froze over you.

He tsked. A single vein throbbed over his furrowed brow.

“Stupid girl.” He kept his hand on your face, ensuring you couldn’t look away as he mocked your terror. “You really think I’d go to so much work just to rub out a little nobody from nowhere?”

His entire posture changed. His knee slid between your legs, and he bent nearly double to cage you in his gaze.

“There will never be anything in my life like you again. The sea made you for me.” He said it like he believed it, like it was a lesson you needed to learn because he wanted you to. His hold on your face grew softer, and he played with the tracks of your tears like a musician tuning an instrument. “You’re mine, and you’ll like it. If you let yourself.”

Let yourself what? There wasn’t anything he could possibly want from you besides revenge for invading his mind. You understood what a kiss should mean, but he was surrounded by beautiful women you couldn’t hold a candle to even before the fire.

It was another cruel game. Something to make him laugh as he took your heart in an entirely physical sense.

Your fear seemed to break his fragile patience.

With a flick of his strings, your clothes turned to ribbons, and as you yelped and fought the iridescent bonds, he took up the honey again. It drizzled over your bared skin, and you shuddered. It was so cold compared to the hand still pressed to your face like a brand, and the oozing trail left you feeling even more exposed.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice.” He only set aside the bottle when it was empty, and every muscle in your body ached with tension. “The wind can touch you. Rain, and moss, and sunshine... Never a hand.” As he spoke, he finally let go of your face, trailing one knuckle along the worst of the scarring as he pulled away. “Your joys are always so cold. Your only warmth comes from cups of tea.”

His fingers ran through the honey pooling at your clavicle, drawing a sticky line down your sternum. You bucked reflexively, wildly unprepared for the tactile assault on your senses. It was electric, and terrifying, and it sent your heart into overdrive.

“It’s overwhelming, isn’t it? Blame yourself.” He bent low, and his vicious tongue followed the same path. You squealed, twisting in place, transfixed as he looked up at you from between your heaving breasts.

“I wasn’t jealous until you made me, and you didn’t even give me a real target. How the hell am I supposed to kill the wind?” He went again, sucking along your collar bones to draw the honey from your very pores.

Whimpering, you pulled on the tattered shreds of your sanity, trying to shield the pulsing confusion in your soul from his prying eyes. But you should’ve known better. He’d barely even begun, and he’d had enough of your hiding.

“You’re driving me mad.” He snarled. “I’m just returning the favor.”

His teeth caught the peak of your breast, and you shrieked.

And he laughed.

Inch by inch, he took you apart, demanding your attention, your unarmed responses, and your pleasure. Every simple sensation you’d rebuffed him with over the years was repaid with wicked precision. He’d battered down the doors to your mind, and he made himself comfortable inside. The access gave him new power, revealing the places his bites hurt most, where teasing brushes left a more devastating mark than a blow.

He didn’t hide his intent.

This wasn’t a quick revenge. It was a long-desired claiming, a slow, reverent destruction of every defense you ever dreamed of raising.

The scars were no issue.

Your hermit-like lifestyle only ratcheted the effect of his touch.

When he found his way between your legs and quickly sent you crashing into an unforgiving release, you thought he might stop.

His mirth danced around the thought, and instead of releasing you, he fucked you with his tongue – as ridiculously proportioned as the rest of him. He liked it when you screamed. He adored your tearful cries. Purring, teasing, and outright cackling, he licked deep, pushing you through any discomfort until you came too hard and too often. He left your legs free from his strings so you could kick at him, desperate for respite, but of course you couldn’t shake him, and he taunted your paltry defiance with a rough thumb grinding circles over your clit.

You broke.

And you broke again.

You broke until you couldn’t remember how the pieces ought to fit together, and when he finally stopped, there wasn’t a whole thought strong enough to make you move.

The wind blew through the open window, and your bare, sticky skin turned into a field of goosebumps. There was barely enough energy left in your soul to shiver.

Doflamingo cooed – mocking, but pleased – and gathered you into a tickling haze of pink feathers. For a moment, the wind grew sharper, and you cringed deeper into the Warlord’s embrace.

The bottom dropped out of your stomach, and before you realized you were airborne, you found yourself in a different part of a palace. The shock was just enough to push you over the edge, and your mind shut down.

You woke in the bath, Doflamingo’s hands working errant traces of honey and saliva from your arm as his erection rubbed against your back. Still reeling from all that had just happened, what he’d already done, the idea of any more physicality threw everything back into a panicked whiteout. Your whimper drew a low chuckle.

“Another time,” he assured you. “I want to look you in the eyes when you take me for the first time, and we both know you can hardly keep them open right now.”

There wasn’t… you couldn’t… think…

Doflamingo sighed and let your arm sink back under the water. You could feel him in your head. Not raging. Not even angry.

Satisfied. Nearly… content.

For all the years you’d spent adapting to his moods, this was one you’d never seen before. There was no more room for fear, the adrenaline had sweat out around the time your shrieks had tapered off into moans. Confusion welled up in its place. It was like the very ground under your feet had changed into seawater, and everything you knew about walking, breathing, surviving no longer applied. This strange world past fear was drowning you.

“So much anxiety behind all those pretty sounds and smells.”

You felt rather than heard him calculating. One long arm looped around your hips. There was more he wanted, and he was deciding the best way to get it.

Like there was anything he couldn’t just take.

He tasted your despair through the bond, of course. It didn’t upset him, but it didn’t please him, either. It wasn’t the prize he wanted most, even if it was a bitterness he savored.

“You’ll understand. Eventually.” Cupping his hand, he poured warm water over your shoulder, and it was so much safer than the flesh at your back, or the syrupy calm in your core. So, you chased it, diving into the sensation.

Through the bond and your physical contact, you felt him shudder. He poured water along your opposite shoulder as he lifted his knees, wedging you close, like he could fold you into himself entirely.

His lips pressed to your hair, and he murmured, “Feel it. Show me how it feels.”

Your response was, once again, instinct.

Sharing felt natural.

Habit.

The soothing touch. The intentionless flow of warmth. It held you, and you in turn held it out as you had with the fresh bread.

Before Doflamingo showed his hand and revealed the royal flush he’d been hiding.

But you were alive, and though you were bruised, you weren’t bleeding. His strings hadn’t cut you, and his teeth never broke skin.

Unlike the bread, he accepted. Just like he used to, when you painted over his disquiet the smell of freshly cut wood and cedar fronds.

He nuzzled down to your temple, fingers flexing on your hip. “I’ll let you have the world, and you’ll never hide from me again.”

Something fluttered through the bond. A glimpse of the disquiet left in the wake of your silence. He’d grown used to your presence. He’d more or less admitted to it. But even that excuse was a pallid lie compared to the emotional miasma with which he filled your skull.

You immediately understood he would never say it out loud. Corrupted as it was, something honestly warm hid beneath the lust, beneath the sadistic desire for control. You didn’t know what to do with it, but you felt it. Not soft. Not kind. Steady, though, even if it glowed in the fraught sanctuary of an emotional gale.

It had the same shape as the nameless force that made you want to take care of your neighbor, even when you didn’t know his face.

It was jealousy, because you’d thought you could belong anywhere without him. You weren’t convenient. You were barely useful. But that didn’t matter, and there was no point in making plans for what might come next, because he was never going to let you go.

As each discovery dawned on you, the man at your back stilled. Watching. Listening. Tasting the eddies where your attention curled back to notice him. Not fleeing. Not fighting. Acknowledgement of a connection you thought to control with fences and austerity.

Your hand drifted down to rest on his forearm, and a new sort of clarity shone through your muddled thoughts.

Soulmates were, and always would be, bullshit.

But you had a talent for making things grow in places they shouldn’t, and fate had a nasty sense of humor.

“Good fences make good neighbors,” you muttered, struggling to speak clearly. Fuck, you were tired. “But I suppose we’re a little past that now.”

Doflamingo leaned back with a short laugh. He pulled you with him, and his free hand traced along your jaw, his thumb dragging along your swollen lips in idle fascination.

“I’m still going to take you apart,” he mused.

The bond burned with his intent, knocking you breathless. Your hermit days were over. You could hide from the world in your new little workshop, but you’d never be out of his reach. For the foreseeable future, you may not even escape his bed.

You groaned, wondering how to brace for something so intentionally overwhelming. You didn’t need to see his teeth to know he was grinning.

Shamrock is a yearner. This is a fact he’s well aware of, but is disgusted by. He does not want to yearn; he wants to earn. He’s a Knight of God; he should be able to pluck whatever flower he wants right out of the garden. He’s fought hard enough, gained his father’s respect, and gained his fellow knights’ respect. There should be nothing in this world that he could not grasp. In fact, he already grasped it. However, his eyes shed so much emotion whenever they land on you. They yearn for you and only you. You are his–his lover, his future spouse, his everything. If he needed to chop his arm off for you, he’d do it. (It would grow back within minutes anyway.)

You are a mere arm’s length away, and his eyes cannot help but follow you. Your figure, your outfit, your eyes, your face. He still studies you as if he’s just met you recently. Sometimes he wonders if you recognize his glances. If you can feel it. You will sometimes turn around and match his gaze quizzically.

“Is there something on my face?”

“No, beloved. I’m just looking at you.”

“You always look at me.”

“Forgive me for admiring what is mine.”

You roll your eyes as if he’s said this before. Which he has.

His. Only his. And he will keep it that way.

~

shanks knows who you are before he ever sees you.

your name has drifted through the seas for years now—tacked onto rumors, headlines, whispered warnings in taverns too far apart to be coincidence. a rising pirate. clever. relentless. stubborn as hell.

of course you are, he’d thought the first time he heard it, lips twitching around his drink.

but knowing of you isn’t the same as seeing you.

so when the red force docks at elbaf, when the island hums with laughter and giant footsteps and the smell of spiced ale, shanks expects nothing more than another night passing by.

then he hears your voice.

it’s quieter than the memories make it. older. steadier.

it stops him cold anyway.

you’re leaning against the bar like you’ve done it a thousand times before, elbow propped, talking to the bartender like the world has never once taken something from you. your hair’s all different now. there’s a scar he doesn’t recognize at your collarbone. a sword at your hip, worn and loved.

for a split second, he doesn’t see the pirate everyone talks about.

he sees the kid from roger’s ship.

scrappy. stubborn. always picking fights with him just to prove a point. always telling him off. always standing your ground when everyone else backed down. the way you’d argue with him over nothing, voices raised, only to sit shoulder to shoulder later like it never happened.

buggy used to complain you were annoying.

shanks used to pretend he agreed.

he never did.

“well,” shanks says, voice too calm for the way his chest tightens, “guess the world really is small.”

you turn.

surprise flickers across your face before settling into something careful. familiar.

“…shanks.”

it’s not dramatic. it’s not angry. it’s just his name, spoken like it’s always belonged to you.

you talk like no time has passed. like you didn’t grow up apart. like you didn’t choose different paths. you trade stories, tease each other, fall into old rhythms so easily it almost feels cruel.

you were inseparable back then—two kids dreaming of the sea, running across decks too big for you, daring each other to go further, be better, be more. shanks had assumed—stupidly—that when the ship split, when roger was gone, you’d stay with him.

you didn’t.

he still remembers the way you’d said it back then—chin lifted, fists clenched at your sides like you were bracing for impact.

“i want to see the world on my own,” you’d said, eyes fierce, jaw set. “not following anyone. not even you.”

it hadn’t sounded cruel. it had sounded honest.

and somehow, that had hurt worse.

he doesn’t bring it up at first.

he waits until the laughter dulls, until the night grows quieter, until the space between you feels heavier than the years you spent apart.

“you ever think about coming back?” he asks suddenly.

you blink. “back where?”

he sets his drink down, fingers curling around the glass like he needs the grounding.

“to me.”

your expression stills. not shocked—just… sad, maybe. thoughtful.

“sometimes,” you admit. “but i couldn’t stay back then. you know that.”

he nods. of course he knows. he’s known for years.

what you don’t know is how long he waited anyway.

how every island felt wrong without you arguing at his side. how he half-expected your flag on the horizon every time he set sail. how he told himself—over and over—that you’d come back when you were done proving something to the world.

“you left because you wanted to be free,” he says quietly. “guess i didn’t realize i’d be the price.”

your jaw tightens.

“i didn’t leave you,” you say softly.

shanks smiles—but it’s not the easy one.

“sure felt like it.”

the silence stretches.

finally, he exhales, the sound shaky despite himself.

“i waited,” he admits. “longer than i should’ve. kept thinking one day i’d turn around and you’d be there, calling me an idiot like always.”

your eyes flicker.

“shanks…”

“don’t,” he says gently. “i’m not blaming you. just… wanted you to know.”

because it mattered. because you mattered.

you reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve, and for one reckless heartbeat, he almost believes this is it. that the world might finally give him back what it took.

but you pull away.

♡

morning comes too fast.

the island wakes. ships prepare to leave. the sea stretches wide and open, just like it always has.

shanks finds you at the docks, sunlight catching in your hair.

“you’re leaving,” he says.

you nod. “yeah.”

no excuses. no apologies. just the truth.

he swallows. “you always were.”

you smile sadly. “and you always stayed.”

for a moment, it feels like you might say more. like you might turn around. like history could bend if you asked it nicely enough.

instead, you step onto your ship.

“take care, shanks.”

he watches you go, heart aching in that familiar way.

you’re leaving him again.

and somehow, impossibly, he knows he’d still wait.

because loving you was never something he learned how to stop.

These four things made the time in which Kaido wasn’t actively taking a sword to his chest or gunshot to the head somewhat….ok. 

The first two of these were simple enough desires.

His entire crew indulged themselves just the same as him, though in relative moderation compared to Kaido’s ravenous appetite for both. They served as decent distractions, the buzz of booze and a pretty woman at just about anyone’s side was enough to at least raise someone’s mood. Kaido was no exception to this until that buzz went away and a woman’s touch faded to a lukewarm warmth that could never graze his heart.

The second was also yet another simple desire, a goal more to say. The thought of which made his blood boil in anticipation of someone finally being worthy of giving a finishing blow. His heart stopping and breath finally leaving his throat. Oden had been the closest to this, the scar proudly displaced on Kaido’s chest seen more as a badge of honor rather than a brush with death that many would look at in shame. 

If Kaido had been less of a man, perhaps he’d gaze at it the same way rather than something he often gleams at in a mixture of pride and melancholy.

But then there was that last distraction, perhaps the most effective of them all. 

Memory.

Kaido has lived a long life, one filled with various adventures that now make everything feel dull in comparison. 

He sometimes thinks of the Rocks pirates, the crew he was on all those years ago where he’d meet Linlin and Newgate.

Most times he thinks of Oden and their battle. The man he’d be willing to call an equal as they fought to the death before that dirt old hag pulled that underhanded trick. The bullet he put through the old Rulers head as he boiled.

Other times it's of the Boy formerly known as Alber in a lab. Fanning the flames that burned away at cracking test tubes and blindingly white lab coats. 

But of all memories he thinks of there was always one memory he found himself looking back to.

No matter how much he tried to drink and wash down the sorrow.

Nor the blood staining his hands that unlike the rest he tries to wash off.

He drinks and unfortunately remembers.

===

For as long as Kaido could remember he’s always been locked behind the bars of a cell and had the key thrown away.

Being born in vodka kingdom meant he was already drafted at birth for the sole purpose of being a cog in the machine of war.

The battle cries and burning villages served as his lullabies. 

Blood staining his hands at the ripe age of 5 like paint.

Club heavy in his hands as if it were a toy.

When you're born with shackles you don’t know the concept of freedom until you see it first hand. 

And Kaido saw it when the nobles of his kingdom sat down one night for a feast. They ate and ate as if it were the last thing they’d do, laughing at jokes and throwing the bones of chicken at the nearby stationed guards who stood and did nothing. Kaido was a part of that group, he stood as a 12 year old boy with a weapon in hand whilst having food he’d never been able to eat thrown at him.

He clutched his small hands readily made for crushing bones and splattering the innards of now dead fools.

But he was ordered to stand there and he did.

He stood there being mocked and having his horns tugged at.

A “tamed Oni”, one had cackled at him whilst grabbing his horns, pulling at them uncomfortably.

People used that term around him a lot. It had explained his horns that others did not have, nor the height and strength he had compared to other soldiers. They always treated him differently compared to the others, fear lingering in their eyes despite him accomplishing a raid.

Now he knows they were waiting for him to snap the leash curled in their hands.

To break the collar of “tame” they had bestowed him.

It would take a few years but ultimately they were right to be afraid.

Because no matter how much you domesticate a wild animal they with inevitably fall to instinct.

But unlike a wild animal who bite the hand that fed them they decided he’d be transferred to new masters.

It was more profitable that way. 

So instead Kaido became a bargaining chip.

His bunk with other soldiers was replaced with a damp dark dungeon though it wasn’t much different.

The invisible shackles became real and rubbed uncomfortably against his wrists.

And the slop he was already forced to eat somehow became worse.

In a cell Kaido sat.

And it was there he met a child a few years younger than him with eyes that caught his attention.

He could’ve sworn he saw the stars shine within their deep darkened irises.

It was there he met you.

===

“So what did you do to get thrown in here?” It’s a simple question but one that makes Kaido reared his head up from letting it hang down. A scowl paints his lips, keeping them in a downward slope as golden eyes look up from across the cell to you.

You sit there, head held up by your palm while you sit in a criss cross position. Bruises and dried blood paint skin, a sight he’s intimately familiar with yet like him you seemingly brush off the pain.

“They don’t like when their dogs rebel…so their selling me off”

It’s simple and to the point, he doesn’t want to talk further and his response should indicate that.

Yet you either don’t notice or ignore his tone.

“Ah…so you were a soldier right? How many years?”

“13”

“Wow” you tilt your head a bit at that, a mixture of amazement and disbelief along with sadness “13 years…when were you drafted?”.

Kaidō scowls, “at birth”

He watches confusion settle on your face. He quirks an eye at it.

“You're 13??” You sound exasperated at that, eyes widening a bit even as you say it.

“How old did you think I was?” He can’t help but ask.

“I thought you were in your 20’s maybe even 30’s”

Kaido in that moment suddenly felt that old as you said that. Did he really look that different compared to others? Guess it was that oni blood-

“Wow, you're even cooler than I thought! You can probably fool people into buying alcohol!” Saying this with a smile he can’t help but search it for sarcasm yet he finds none. Were you…really being genuine? Did you think he was “cool”?

Kaido didn’t really think anyone would describe him as that.

A monster, yes.

Demon.

Oni.

Devil child.

Beast.

But cool? That certainly wasn’t apart of the vocabulary spat at him by his superiors and civilians of burning villages.

“So wait, since you’ve been a soldier your entire life do you know anything outside of it?” It’s a stupid question, but one he guesses is still kinda nice to ask if only for conversation sake.

“What do you think?” 

You go silent and he thinks for a moment you stay that way, but after a minute you ask.

“Well, do you wanna know about the world then?”

With curiosity and maybe even a bit of hesitant crumbs of joy he nods.

You smile despite being in a dungeon chained to the wall adjacent to him.

===

Kaido had never once thought that the world could be so interesting until you brought color to it with all the knowledge you hold.

You talk of the islands where flowers grow and bloom, meant to be admired instead of crushed beneath military boots and razed into ash.

You explain the expanse of the night sky and the stories of constellations learned through years of travel. Stars he was taught to know the way back to the kingdom or to use as to navigate yet never appreciate their gentle light.

You tell of the burning sand between your toes and the expanse of crystal blue water that extends to the horizon, the sun setting over it in warm hues of orange, yellow and pink. He has walked across sandy shores but never truly felt sand beneath his feet, never truly stopped to enjoy the lapping of warm waves when the cold plunge and orders to swim are given.

You speak of freedom when all Kaido has ever known is of the chains and collar placed on him since birth.

And you breathe color into the monochrome world he once knew.

Kaido can’t help but imagine the world you describe to him, the sights and beauty of the sea.

Is it as truly free as you describe it?

Can someone like him who’s known the shackles of subjugation truly find peace there?  

Can he be free of the weight of chains just as you described?

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part (something very foreign to him) but he think he believed you.

Believed your words 

Believed your stories 

He’s left to ponder over them as you're dragged away by guards despite his protest.

He knows them well, worked with them once before and maybe had even shared drinks yet they look at him with disgust. With an apathy familiar and not foreign to him yet curls in his gut with disgusted anger. 

He tries to break free of the chains but cannot.

For hours alone in a cell he stares out the little barred window looking to the stars you taught him of.

And hours later you're dragged back more bruised and beaten than before but still keeping that damn smile. 

Still retaining the light and gentle air to you that makes you laugh off the broken arm that hangs limply.

“I never asked how you ended up here” Kaido finds himself saying as you rest against the cold stones of the wall, blood marring them a deep maroon as bugs crawl and cold water slithers down. You smile as you do for just about everything, it reminds him of the softness of fur that they had the grace to give in the coldest of winter “they keep asking how I ended up here, assume I’m a spy or something. They won’t take my word that I just ended up here by accident”.

“Did you?”

“Yeah, is guess you’d call it bad luck but I met you so it’s at least better than before” 

“How is me being here with you any better?”

“Having a friend in a cell to return to is better than nothing at all”

“You consider me a friend?” The word feels foreign on his tongue. He had colleagues, and his kingdom had allies made through treaties but never once has he heard that word applied to these relationships. There was always a hollow coldness to them, necessity over genuine companionship despite the same experiences of being born weapons.

“Of course I do” you say this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and it hurts his head. “I guess i never asked, but would you like to be friends?”     

Kaido doesn’t understand you, but maybe that’s why he likes you better than all the other recruits he was raised with.

 You actually think.

 You feel.

And you can create actual conversation about something other than the boring slaughter of more innocents. 

He could never call the razing of a village a war, not when they do not truly fight and just wait to be slaughtered to let the women and children flee. 

It does not satiate the craving for a true battle, a true foe, a true adversary for him to fight.

You do not scratch the itch of that fight but you do create a new one as he thinks of freedom beyond these bars.

Beyond the fate of being a pawn and soldier to master.

The itch gets stronger the more you talk, as does his urge to sit down and listen genuinely instead of mutely compute the drowning of orders.

Unlike commanders too caught up in their own pride you let him talk.

Let him ask questions.

Let him find different conclusions to morality even if yours and his budded heads.

But most of all you respected Kaido.

Respected him as a person rather than when you respect a monster because of fear.

And kaido finds himself returning the sentiment even if you're physically weak. But that’s ok, Kaido can make up for your lack of physical strength. 

Your mind is what’s more important anyways.

Your kindness he wishes to savor exclusively for himself even if in every other person he’d see it as weakness is written off. 

“Yes” he answers slowly, “I’d like that”.

===

Each day you're dragged out at some point and beaten within an inch of your life. Returning with more bruises budding into ugly purple spots as blood stains your white linen shirt a color he’s too familiar with. 

Cuts are crusted up as is old blood that keeps having more crust over.

More broken bones though now they aim for smaller ones, as to drag out having more to eventually break.

Each time you're brought back more broken than the last you keep greeting Kaido with a smile and it drives him mad. 

It also makes him realize just how strong you actually are though.

How resilient you are even in the worst of times.

They keep beating you for answers even when you repeat the same thing every time.

But you do not cry.

Don’t scream nor beg.

And that just seems to piss them off more and proves your resolve even further as to when they move to other methods like waterboarding and taking precise slashes.

You're determined not to give them what they want.

And that in turn makes them Determined to see you break.

To shatter into tiny shards that they’ll stomp into dust.

But even with that it’s nothing compared to you.

The burning look in your eyes rivals that of a thousand stars, and it burns Kaido to the core with how they shine.

How they do not flicker in the face of adversity.

Do not run out of fuel for the fire and just keeps burning to new intensity each time you come back.

Each time you stare at Kaido’s chains and the lock of the cell door.

In many ways you're weak but in others you are strong.

You're a contradiction in every sense of the word that Kaido wishes he could understand.

Because how can someone who has experienced such pain and cruelty of the world still smile as you do?

How can you still laugh with half a ribcage shattered and digging into your lungs.

How is it that despite it all you're laid back and calm even when a blade threatens to expose your innards to the world.

How can you be so soft and yet harder to crack than diamond coated on steel?

It doesn’t make sense (and it never will to him) but he wants to understand you.

Want’s to take the time to solve it like a puzzle instead of the regular way of solving problems via bashing it over the head enough times.

(He never gets the time to do this in the end though)

They don’t put your shackles on this time, it’s not worth the effort in their opinion when they’ve broken so many of your bones.

So they throw you on the hard floor, and lock up the cell once again.

You crawl your way to Kaido’s side of the cell, curling up next to him in a way that feels natural. He hikes an arm around you protectively as one would their own child, and while he doesn’t know what to consider you by (he now knows he considers you as one would a younger sibling) he knows he cares.

And while that’s a scary thought to him he can’t help but revel in it.

The fact that for the first time in his life besides pulling a trigger and watching the flames burn he cares. 

Cares for something of his own volition rather being ordered to. 

Despite being similar in age to him, you're so small in his arms. It’s mostly due to his Oni blood but a swelling of protectiveness wells up in him. He’s felt it before as they drag you off, yells at them to stop and leave you alone. But now settled in his arms so physically broken and battered it really dawns on him.

You're a child and so is he.

You only help to cement this in a small moment of vulnerability in his arms.

“I miss my home…even if I can’t remember it anymore.” He sees tears glistening in moonlight that peaks through the bars. You don’t cry from the beatings and torture like a skilled soldier, but you cry for home just as a child would.

 “I want to remember but I can’t and it hurts so much. It hurts so much Kaido, and I can’t do anything about it. I’d rather rip out my heart and burn my nerves to nothing or crush each individual bone to dust if it meant it could remember what home was like. I miss it so bad and I don’t even know what I miss” 

Kaido doesn’t know what to say, what to input and make you feel better because weapons are not meant to comfort others.

Monsters aren’t meant to hold the hand of the child, they're meant to scare.

But he tries.

“What do you remember?”

You bite back tears, swallowing them down to smile once more though now he sees how it wavers. It cracks ever so slightly at the corners, no one notices because it’s so bright that they never look there to see how practiced it is.

“It’s really hazy…” you start, playing with broken fingers before he stops you by placing his battle torn ones atop your own “but I remember a garden”

“What did it grow?”

“Flowers mostly…maybe peonies? Oh! And lilies. But I also remember strawberries, well more like remember the taste of them”

“What did they taste like?” He’s heard of those berries before but has not tasted them.

“Sweet…tart and earthy. I think I planted them because I was alone for periods of time?”

“Why’s that?”

“I think my parents” for a second you pause in consideration and contemplation, he watches the tears run in your head. But then eyes light up with a hazed recognition “they had to travel for work sometimes. They’d stay for long periods at home and then leave. They didn’t want me to go with them…thought it was dangerous maybe?”. 

He nods at that.

That sounded like a fair enough reason, especially for someone like you.

Gentle and kind.

Showing Weakness even if it also seemed to be your strong suit.

The world has and would eat you up.

“Mom smelled of spices all the time. I think she came from a desert island, and liked to visit it. She would bring me back things”

“Do you remember what those were?”

“No…I just remember my sash came from that place. Made of special silk or something” you look down, but your sash is not there. Probably taken and sold already when you were initially dragged into the dungeon. 

“Your dad?”

“He…I think he liked helping people.” 

“So he’s like you then”

Your smile seems to become more genuine at that.

“Kaido my memory is really bad, I forget a lot. if…I can’t remember all of this then can you do it for me?” You look at him, those stars he swears he can see hidden in them shine once more. How can he refuse such a thing? Not when you’d made him feel like he isn’t just a gun to be held or a weapon to hold. “It’s like you said, we’re friends” he feels weird saying this but maybe in a good way “I don’t mind”.

===

The marines will be there for him soon, he knew it was a matter of time but despite that he can’t help but feel as if it has all flown away in a mere month.

What should have been a time in which he lamented alone,Cold and starved. It was filled with knowledge, warmth and fulfillment none of which he’d ever had the privilege in knowing. To his commanders he didn’t deserve it but you seem to think otherwise. 

You always seemed to think otherwise to what he was taught.

When they dragged you back one night he noticed your smile was wider than it usually would. There was something about it that was innately different. 

Once more they don’t lock you in shackles, just throwing you limply to the ground.

Your eyes watch as they slam the door and leave.

Something in them sparks up like a match in the dark. 

A chuckle escapes your lips and he watches you sit up despite the broken bones. Worry etches itself into him.

“Stop moving your hurt!”

“I’m fine, had worse” it’s said as if it’s something as casual as the weather. “Anyways Kaido, where do you wanna go first when we get out of here?” You have that gaze again, it feels like a trick question.

“When?”

The look in your eye gets stronger as cracked fingers caked in your own blood reach into your pocket and pull out a key.

It gleams in the moonlight like your tears once did.

You repeat the question again.

“Where do you wanna go first when we get out of here?”

Kaido thinks back to your tales and finds his thoughts of where he’d be most free and answers back.

“The sea”

===

The escape is not pretty, blood was shed and Kaido is covered head to toe in red. You don’t fare much better but that’s mostly due to the fact you were in the splatter zone of Kaido’s rampage, which while you didn’t agree with was likely the only way for either of you to get out alive after being spotted.

The salty breeze rustles his hair and drifts past his horns, the ivory is stained red until he’s able to wash it.

On the small boat the two of you stole he lays down beside you on the wooden flooring. It creaks lightly because of his weight, but does not crack. The two of you look up to the stars, he wonders if they are as free as he feels whilst he stares up at them covered in the blood of his captors and by (one of) the only person he’d call a Friend’s side. 

For the first of many few times in his life Kaido feels happy to be alive, if only for this moment of respite.

And it’s the first time he feels like he could take the world.

If only for you to grasp and hold for the freedom you gave him.

Because just for that, for breaking his shackles he’d give you everything and more.

(It’s a sentiment Alber would come to understand as well, many years in the future.) 

Kaido looks to the stars, he thinks they shine brighter than when he was behind that of prison bars.

“I…I think they shine brighter here than before” he mumbles, he hears you move slightly closer despite all your broken bones and bruises.

“That might be because you’d never truly had the chance to stop and stare”

“Maybe” Kaido feels himself grunting “but everything kinda feels different now that I’m free”

“How so?”

He pauses for a moment, thinking how to phrase it before saying “it feels like things have color, it isn’t monochrome anymore. I can feel the wood beneath my fingers and sand sticking to my feet instead of ignoring the sensation because of orders. Salt stays on the tip of my tongue instead of gray slop that drowned away all taste…things can just exist without a purpose in war”.

Kaido had never been one for metaphors or flowery language, but for this he isn’t sure how else to explain it.

It all feels different.

He feels different, like a weight off both his shoulders and wrists.

Like new breath in his lungs.

An icy cold plunge into new waters.

It feels exhilarating and unpredictable.

He feels alive. 

For the first time he thinks he can say he truly feels alive, rather than just surviving. 

Not scraping by.

Not simply living without thought or question.

But alive.

Laying close to his head one of your hands goes to his hair, gently weaving it between fingers so much smaller than his own. 

“Now that we’re at sea, is there any other place you’d like to go next?” You ask looking up to the stars yourself, he wonders if they reflect the ones in your eyes or if yours are their own little night sky.

“I haven’t thought that far yet.” He answers honestly, he focuses on the Big Dipper and Little Dipper, he thinks that they reflect both himself and you. “But so long as we’re free then I’m content in where we go” he says this Earnestly, turning his attention from that of the celestial bodies to you.

There's a look on your face he can’t place.

But he thinks it’s some sort of sadness.

It looms over you like a specter and soaks you to the bone in melancholy.

But you nod, and let the silence punctuated by waves take over.

He doesn’t get that look now, but he later realizes it’s the look of “I’m sorry”.

===

He realized too late your wounds should not look that way.

He knew they shouldn’t have in the beginning but it only sets in now after examining them himself. 

Kaido knew he was no Field medic. His hands were only used to destroy and Maim and kill. But Kaido tried. 

Because that’s all Kaido could do.

Try.

Try for you.

Try for you to be more than just an agent of destruction.

Of trying to do his best in treating the wounds despite the fact he does not know how to be gentle.

How to properly show care.

But nevertheless Kaido tries, he wraps your wounds and cleans them with water even if he has to hold your hand due to the sting of salt. 

His hope is that you’ll float by a marine ship, in which he’d raid it and find their doctors to fix your infections.

But for now besides that he had to stabilize you, which seemed to be a fighting effort considering you don’t seem to care all that much.

At least for yourself.

When it had come to Kaido you placed him over yourself much to his dismay. Even back in that damp and dirty cell you’d done that. Giving him half your scraps of food, pouring a good portion of dirty water into his cup. 

“You need it more than me” is what you had told him along with something like “you're bigger than me which means you need more food to power you” and “I’ve survived with less, I’ll be fine”.

He’d at the time hesitantly accepted it, but now as he dives into the ocean and catches fish to cook he doesn’t take those excuses anymore. Even if he has to basically force a large portion of Cooked fish in your hands and sit down in front of you glaring, telling you to eat.

But that is the least of his issues when it comes to you.

Kaido knows that for a 13 year old he’s mature, as are you despite being younger than him.

But he feels like a damn nurse trying to make you take medicine when it comes to the simplest things.

No, make sure you stay hydrated.

You can’t skip out on getting rest just cause someone needs to be on lookout. It's fine.

Stop poking at the very infected wound that’ll irritate it!

Stop moving around when half your bones are broken!!

At 13 Kaido thinks he has gray hairs already setting in. Because this makes him feel as old as what you first assumed him to be when the two of you met.

You're stubborn as a mule on this, practically forcing him to keep you bed ridden with the minimal supplies this small fishing vessel had. The couch you lay on is itchy as are the sheets used as blankets but it’s something and that’s all Kaido has other than you.

But even with your condition of what should be constant physical agony you keep insisting on getting up.

On trying to help around the small sea vessel.

Saying you had to look out for your own boat even if he doesn’t think that’s very likely but promised he’d look out for it in your stead.

Help trying to navigate even if he knew how to.

For some reason you can’t seem to sit still, mind always needing to focus on something even if the waves were calm and weather was fine. When he’d check in on you as you rested he’d alway find you staring out the small port window, eyes glazed over. 

The haze of memory clouding them.

You tended to do that a lot in that cell but telling stories seemed to make it go away for a while.

But now you do it more often and he isn’t sure if it’s just how you are or if the infection is getting to you.

Either or, it leaves him sleepless at night More than he’d like to admit.

“Oh kaido? I never asked but why do you have horns?” You suddenly ask as he places down the slightly burnt piece of fish. Cooking was a skill taught to him…but cooking good food wasn’t. “You ask that now?” He responds then making you shrug your shoulders.

“didn’t think it was too important to ask at the time”

At that he rolls his eyes, picking up a piece of fish for you to eat. “I’ll answer if you eat”

“Ok” that was a bit easier than he thought- “but only if I get to keep asking questions”

“Fine” it comes out as an exasperated groan but to be honest a small bit of pride swells up in him.

You take a bite of the fish he cooked, eating it without complaint even though the outside is charred to ash. You look at him expectantly.

“I’m an Oni”

He waits for a reaction, but all he gets is a “oh, cool”.

“Is…that really your reaction to learning that?”

“Am I supposed to have a different reaction?”

“Yeah” he grumbles “I’m an Oni. O, N, I.” 

He looks at your face, you have the most clueless expression he thinks he’s ever seen.

“You…you don’t know what that means do you?”

“Not really? But I was just wondering if they were fake or not. Either or it doesn’t change my opinion on you” 

“And what’s your opinion of me?”

“I think your cool…and your my friend who deserved better than what life gave you”

He pauses momentarily at that, but nods.

He thinks the same of you, that you deserve better than this.

“…thanks. What’s your next question?”

You take another bite, “oh! Here’s a good question!” You suddenly turn a bit serious “what’s your dream?”

“My dream?”

“Yeah! What’s your dream now that you're free? What do you wanna do? What do you want to accomplish?” 

“I want to change the world” he says after a moment of contemplation.

“Cool!”

But that wasn’t the entire truth.

He left out a part at the end.

I want to change the world for you.

===

You’ve been acting more off than usual, and that’s saying something since you always act weird. Always having an odd look in those eyes of yours that encompass the night sky itself even in all its expanse. 

But now those eyes seem…obscured in a sense.

You're half-there and half-not.

Because of the infections you’ve developed a fever and you're losing sight of things.

Sweat pours from your forehead and breath remaining stagard as you took in deep puffs of breath.

Chills have begun to rack up your spine leaving you a shivering mess. He lets you cling to him, leaching off the warmth he naturally produces as his blood stained hands try to rub comforting circles into tousled and sweaty hair.

He doesn’t mind.

He can’t when your in obvious pain and confusion.

Mind slipping back and forth between conscious and unconscious, past and the present. 

Today he tried to have you tell a story but you kept fumbling over your own words.Trailing off and suddenly going quiet for minutes on end and then asking him what you were talking about.

You apologize for this. As well as being an inconvenience.

For being sick.

For slowly losing yourself in the veil of loopiness as your body gets worse.

But that’s hardly something that’s your fault.

It’s his.

(Or at least that’s what he blames himself for)

After failing to tell a story you go quiet for a while. 

Eerily so.

It sets him off tilter since he’s used to your voice constantly being in the air.

You don’t seem to know what to say anymore.

So instead Kaido decides to fill the air instead.

“Apparently in Oni culture we let someone close to us make a mark on our horns” it comes out of nowhere and it takes a minute for you to compute but when it does he sees fascination light up your face. 

“How do you know that?” Your voice questions, the sound of it easing some of his tension. You're still there, still conscious and not lost in your own mind. “I thought you didn’t know much about your people, considering you were one of the only ones likely left?”.

“A commander mentioned it once” 

He thinks back to that particular memory.

Said commander looking at the small horns poking out from disheveled hair. They weren’t quite as big as they were now, just barely enough to be called proper horns. 

He remembers that man’s laugh as he roughly grabbed them and tugged Kaido along with them.

“He said that when they were big enough they should carve the kingdom's emblem into them. A sign of ownership and of its importance”

“To you?”

“No, more like how it was above me” 

Now thinking back he isn’t sure if that man’s words were true or not. He’d been so deprived of information about a people he’d never met nor traditions he’d never see that any crumb would be eaten up by his mind.

Maybe it was made up.

But even if it wasn’t it remained stuck in his head.

“I want you to carve something” 

For a money you pause, a look of confusion stuck.

“Why though? I don’t want to make it seem like mark of ownership, that’s wrong”

Lightly he smacks your forehead with his finger, he ignores how it’s too hot and the sweat that sticks to it.

“You idiot, did you not hear what I said first? It’s meant to be a thing of friendship between us. They wanted to use it as something else, I want to use it as it’s meant to be used” 

“But what would I even carve? I don’t wanna put my name. That would seem weird”

Kaido pinches the bridge of his nose, then looking at you once more.

At least he knew you’d be genuine about it.

But even then your being too picky about shit-

“Do a star then”

He gets the idea when for a brief moment his eyes connect with your own.

They sparkle even with the hazy look in them.

“Will it hurt you though?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’ve been through worse”

“Well it matters to me-“

“Yeah well, you’ve used the same excuse before of things being worse. I don’t know what you’ve been through but I’ve been a soldier up till now, I can handle it”

By the end of the night as you lay asleep atop of him, head planted above where his heart would be (if he really ever had one) his fingers trace the indent of a messy carved star.

It’s slightly lopsided.

It doesn’t look even.

Or maybe even doesn’t look like a four pointed star to others.

But to Kaido it means everything to him.

(Something that even now years in the future despite being depressed and suicidal he fondly drags a finger over the carved notch. It’s one of the few things that can make him slightly smile about. A sight of which makes his commanders ponder of, though only King knows of its true significance to him)

It serves as an anchor or sorts.

A sign.

A motivation.

A determination for a dream.

A connection.

A symbol of freedom and a spark.

A sign of friendship to someone he feels is rapidly slipping from his grasp at each moment. Much like sand between his fingers or blood pouring from an open wound.

He cannot sew it up now matter how hard he tries,

He has to watch you bleed out slowly in pain.

And it kills him slowly on the inside.

Especially as you seem to be losing yourself bit by bit.

Kaido holds you closer, he hopes to not have to let you go.

But he knows at this point it is inevitable.

The fever isn’t going down and just seems to get worse.

The end is nigh.

===

A few years ago Kaido had saw a half dead rabbit in the camp near his bunkhouse with the others his age.

It’s white spotted fur matted with dirt and its own blood as it lay mutilated but alive. The small animal writhed on the ground, ants picking away at its flesh as it sat there still alive to be eaten. It’s a cruel fate for any living thing, but one that is not unexpected for a creature that was weak.

Or at least that’s what they told him.

His superior saw his gaze at the creature and scoffed when Kaido reached a hand to end its agony. 

He was told to let it writhe.

It was the rule of the world that the weak would die for the strong to survive.

The weak were meant to be eaten by the strong. 

And so the bunny was left to be taken apart slowly.

Dying in wheezing pain.

Left there to die in agony instead having its suffering ended with the quick snap of its neck.

Kaido didn’t know how to feel as it sat there in pain, he felt sort of sorry for it but he was given orders. 

And that was the way of the world.

He thinks back to that rabbit now and finds the similarity between you both too apparent.

Both small helpless creatures in pain.

You wheeze just as it did though now due to your feverish state.

You shiver as its body once did though instead of the chilling snow it’s now your body playing tricks on you.

And just like that small rabbit your fate is in his hands.

He has to decide whether to let you continue to a painful death just as it did or end it now. 

This decision weighs heavy on him now because he isn’t given orders to obey.

He has to make this choice of his own volition.

And for once he thinks there was one upside to being given orders to be a weapon.

Because morality and feelings never came into the mix.

He’d be given a task, do it and never have to think of how it made him feel nor the consequences of those actions on others.

It was survival.

Yet now decision weighs heavy in his mind, on his shoulders and most importantly in his hands as you are cradled by them.

He can’t help but notice once more that you're so small in them. He knows it’s mostly due to his oni blood but a part of him attributes it to how fragile you are. It would be so easy to hurt you by accident. So, so, so easy for the world to shatter you like glass. 

He’s surprised it hasn’t already or perhaps it did and you're a pro at picking yourself up back together.

Your form is held gently but close.

Kaido doesn’t want to let you go from his grasp.

Wants to hoard you to himself.

He doesn’t want you to go.

To leave him alone with this burning feeling in his heart at the thought of you going.

But Kaido knows that in the end he cares too much for you to let that part of himself overpower the right thing to do. 

No matter how much it’ll tear him apart and shatter him at his core.

You're worth so much more than both those combined. 

And he’s willing to become more broken than he already was just for you to die in peace.

His hands shake, you notice.

“ you ok…Kai?” The shortened form of his name was something you’d begun calling him a few days back. Speaking hurt your throat, so instead under his demand you’d stuck to short sentences. But at this point he’s unsure if you think he’s him or if you think your speaking to someone else.

“I’m fine…just” what does he say? What's he supposed to do? He’s 13 and he’s killed more than he could ever count yet this feels different. He’d never known his victim so well, never cared for them as he did with you. “I just need to know something” before he does this, even in your feverish state he needs to find some solace.

Tilting your head back to look up at him he sees your eyes struggling to focus. Squinting at his face almost as if drunk with uncertainty at who he was. 

“What is it?” Your words are slurred and slow, raspy and thin. The complete opposite as to what you sounded like before in that cell even with a broken set of ribs. You used to speak with such certainty and strength, joy and wonder leaking from each word. 

Your voice is but an echo of what it once was. Quiet and loosing its grasp before fading to silence.

“…even if we go our separate ways…will you still consider me your friend? Will you still care for me?”

You smile.

And Kaido feels the world shift ever so slightly.

“Course Kai.” Reaching up a hand you graze the ivory of his horns, a finger tracing the small star mark he let you carve “your my friend. I’ll always love you, always care for you even when gone. One day we’ll see each other again”.

Maybe you're more coherent than he initially thought.

Maybe you realized his intentions of putting you out of this misery.

Or maybe you genuinely think that you’ll meet once more.

In a way your right, you’ll one day meet in the realm of the dead.

(Something he now oh so desperately craves to go to)

Either way it’s all the motivation he needs to do this.

His hands shake as they shift grip to cradle the back of your head.

(A monster like him does not deserve your care, to ever feel loved as he did as your friend. But even then that’s an understatement, you were more like the family he never had. The annoying little sibling he never asked for but loved as if you were flesh and blood)

You stare up at him from your place, head leaning against where his beating dead heart is.

(Star filled eyes look up at him and they make it so that he can never look at the night sky again. Even in onigashima on the clear night skies with shining stars he cannot look at them. Only because he’s flooded with the guilt)

“Kaido?” You sound a bit more coherent than before, you look at him with a confused smile as your hands graze over the tears coming from golden eyes.

(He imagines the rabbit, if on that day he’d ended its misery. The flooding relief of death sweeping over its form that was left to rot and be picked apart by the scavengers. He promises you will not be left to that fate, that the world will not tear you apart as you die a slow painful end)

“What are you-“.

There’s a twist and then a crack.

The sound is quiet yet it rattles through his hands and into his core where sorrow roars its head for the very first time.

Slumping down to the ground he holds you, and doesn’t want to let you go.

He closes his golden eyes and falls asleep clutching a dead corpse (that unbeknownst to him began to fade away as he slipped into unconscious. He wakes up later on a marine’s ship and assumes they tossed your body, there are no survivors to tell the tale but himself).

Death is all that Kaido’s hands are good for, he isn’t ashamed of this fact but this time he feels genuine loss.

One of the few times he ever will. 

And just like the other time when he feels loss for a person he kills much later on in the future.

You and Oden smile in the face of death.

The sight haunts and transfixes him at the same time.

And it makes Kaido crave it all the more knowing the two people he misses smiled as death took them.

He wonders if the sight of the other side or complete and utter peace in the reaper's cold hands did it.

Either way he wishes to go out the same.

With content in his cold withered heart and a smile.

===

Kaido isn’t sure if he believed in ghosts and spirits, but he did believe that in some way you were still with him even in death.

Because you linger subconsciously in his mind and everything he comes across. 

When he joined the Rock’s pirates under Newgates offer he imagines what would have happened if you were still with him. Would you have wormed your way into the murderous crew’s hearts just as you did him?

He knows for a fact he would have had to fight Newgate for you. 

The man’s dream of a family aligning all too well with how he would have scooped you up the minute Kaido stepped on that ship.

Linlin talks about a childhood best friend that sounds a lot like you.

She reminisces about it quite a bit, no one but him actually listens (even then he only does this for his own nostalgia of you and how similar this friend of hers and you sound alike). That seems to help get him on her good side though with how young he was when joining that helped as well, she now calls him “little brother”. It’s an affectionate term, one that he isn’t quite sure how he feels about when she messes up his hair and slaps him on the back.

He thinks it’s then that he realized he viewed you the same way Linlin does for him.

Little sibling. 

It’s always after someone is gone do you realize the true extent of their importance to you.

It’s only when they're gone do you feel their loss in the world and your life.

He thought he had prepared for loss, for mourning and grief.

But they still hit him harder than any bullet or attack. 

It’s perhaps a true testament to you and your affect on him. 

Linlin at some point has him try a strawberry shortcake once he says he’d never had strawberry before. She enthusiastically hands him a piece, it surprises both him and everyone else on board. She never shared her sweets, let alone with anyone on board besides maybe Stussy and Gloriosa when they were on those weird weeks where they smelled of blood and were moodier than usual.

So he tries it.

The small red berry with bits of white frosting stuck to it, it hits his taste buds with an onslaught of sweetness.

It’s as you described strawberries to taste, sweet and earthy, its juice pools in his mouth and leaks from the corner of his lips.

But at the same time it’s bitter and dull.

He swallows it down though, and eats the rest as Linlin grins in delight. 

She asks him how it was and he responds that it was fine.

She does not know of how it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth even after trying to wash it down with sake and whatever booze was offered that night.

Only Newgate seem notices of how he tried to wash out his mouth.

Thankfully he does not ask.

And Kaido luckily does not have to tell of how the too sweet taste of icing and lingering bitterness of fresh strawberry stains him.

(When Linlin sends shipments of strawberry shortcakes years later Kaido bitterly eats them just as they leave a bitter taste in his mouth. King asks him why he eats them despite his clear distaste for the sweet confection. He just says it’s because it’s a gift and because he values the bittersweet of strawberry. King raises an eyebrow at this, but does not comment on it. Instead he join in on finishing the many sweet confections even if like Kaido he prefers more savory dishes) 

===

In a lab many years later after gods valley Kaido finds a white haired boy chained up to a table. 

Red burning eyes stare to that of gold ones.

Kaido knows his eyes are not like yours, they do not burn with the same intensity of Starfire but they do burn.

They burn like the flames that eventually eat up the rest of the facility as shackles are broken. 

He learns the boy's name is Alber, a last surviving member of the Lunarian race that had been slaughtered much like his own. Unlike horns he possesses wings and an undying spark. Both of which weakly cling to life after years of poking and prodding by people in white coats that are now marred by ash and blood. 

Kaido was sure of it after he had bludgeoned enough of them with his own bare hands or let the collapsing building take care of the few stranglers.

Alber in the escape is reborn anew in the ashes of a burning lab as King.   

A fitting name for someone who would eventually come to rule this forsaken world at Kaido’s side.

As King looks up to him, with widen ruby red eyes Kaido notices how they look at him. He looks at Kaido as if he had hung the moon and stars, perhaps in a way Kaido had for the young Lunarain.

King does not remember much of his home besides the scent of burning wood of a giant bonfire and the subsequent burning of their homes.

Fire had been important to their people, it symbolized that of the blazing fires of the stars. The eternal fire of their spark hung just behind them like the star that was hung above the red line. It was said to have been given to them as a symbol of home no matter where they flew.

The star was placed there to always show them their way back home.

That the ones touched by their elusive god would have their sparks changed to immortalize that star.

It is ironic then that fire is used to burn away their land to bring forth Mary Geoise. 

What had used to be the land of winged people as free as the sky is reborn as the place where so called “celestials” harbor hundreds of thousands as slaves.

The lucky few lunarians had their wings tethered in chains before being dropped into the ocean to flail and drown or just properly slaughtered in the massacre as they were shot down from the sky.

The rest who don’t share that fate are privy to something much worse. Either shipped off to a lab or dismembered into exotic pieces to be kept as a part of a collection as are the remnants of their culture.

Black wings are hung up as mantle pieces above fireplaces that burn in a crude irony.

Moon White hair was cut off and woven into decorations for dresses.

Red eyes plucked from skulls to be turned into exotic centerpieces to long tables filled to the brim with imported foods.

Kaido knows that Oni horns are similarly used as decorations. 

The ivory carved into statues or used as the keys to piano’s that are played by slaves or the few lucky musicians that are deemed good enough to be in the presence of self acclaimed gods.

Like King, Kaido also knows little to none about his own culture as well.

Both their people slaughtered for decoration, leaving them clueless to their own traditions.

Yet another thing that makes him and King feel somewhat connected. 

They are both the last of their kind.

Shackled and chained like property before being broken free.

Two connected with a dream to change the world. 

Both were freed and were able to see the moon and stars once again on a beautiful night punctuated by the blood of their captures.

While King does not remember his people he does remember the stars, stars he now gets to see again.

So it’s no wonder he thinks Kaido hung them.

He looks at Kaido just as Kaido did to you.

Once more Kaido ponders if you watch him from the world beyond.

If you're proud of him for doing just as you did all those years ago.

Kaido hopes so.

===

For a good while in his life Kaido feels aimless.

To be fair, in a sense he’s always been slightly aimless. Going from place to place, adrift before he was recruited to Rock’s crew and then had to jump ship when that went up in smoke. 

He has his right hand.

He builds his crew.

Is proclaimed a Yonko and emperor of the seas.

Has a blood child.

But the hollowness in his chest does not get placated nor fade.

It only ever seems to feel worse.

The world feels like once more that it’s back to monochrome, only stray bits of color only ever appearing when he’s drunk enough to forget.  Even then the world does not feel as vibrant as it was before even when in inebriated color. 

Everything feels faded out and sullied.

Almost as if it were drowned and pulled back out from the water.

Theoretically he should be happy, but he isn’t.

There were only a few times in his life that he ever was and it started with you before going downhill from then on.

In the back of his mind he wants to blame you for this unhappiness.

You who brought him a world of light and color before having it ripped away by his own hands as a mercy to you. From then on it never seemed the same, its color began to fade as did his eventual want to live. Back when the broken neck was cradled in his hands he wanted to go with you, but surmised that you wanted better for him.

You always did.

Always put himself above you even if you were equally starving and cold.

Kaido doesn’t regret being alive, not when you fought so valiantly for him to do so and for having the opportunity in freeing King. but he does regret living to the point that he now considered it a prison in its own right.

Regrets that he now cannot look at the stars and when he does he wonders if they too are chained to their positions in the sky. 

perhaps you had known that as well.

The forlorn look you’d give when looking out to sea even in a fevered and hazy state. Eyes tracing the stars with a sadness that he could not place.

Perhaps you’d Known all of this, yet tried to keep Kaido in blissful ignorance knowing how miserable it would make him.

Even with all of this Kaido cannot hate you, nor have any ill will towards you.

Not even if he forced himself to try.

Never could he hate you.

He could hate the world and himself but never you.

Never because of the kindness you’d given.

And most importantly for the fact that he now believes you to be something else.

Kaido isn’t quite sure where exactly he first hears of the story of “Joyboy” but even with the scraps he is given it stays in his mind. It lingers and festers with curiosity. An itch that he cannot scratch until he finds more stories, then rinse and repeat.

Kaido thinks that in a way you were sent by Joyboy to him.

Maybe it was a coincidence.

Or something else entirely but you brought to him the liberation he had dreamt of.

Caused within him the spark of a burning star to create change to the world for you (one that now does not care if that change is for the betterment of the world or the destruction of it in your long forgotten name that he hordes)

But this first starts off as a stray thought as he learns more and more about the god. The small bits of information he’s been able to collect is varied and old but what the legend tells him is enough to create more similarities. Most of the stories have been covered up or collected by marines, luckily they can’t do much when he raids their bases and takes what information he wants.

More information is learnt.

And eventually he comes to believe that maybe you truly were some envoy sent by the perpetual smiling god.

You died with a smile like he would.

(As does Oden and Roger)

More of his mind makes connections probably not there but ones he so desperately wants to be true.

Because if you were sent by him that means it validates how you're a shining beacon of sunspot in the dark expanse of his mind.

Like a star in the sky.

Like the stars that match the innermost depths of your eyes.

Maybe if you were sent by JoyBoy it’s a sign of breaking free of the chains of the living realm.

Maybe he will break Kaido free since he’s the only one worthy and strong enough to finally end this.

Maybe Kaido can see you again.

Maybe Kaido will see a night sky with stars that are unshackled.

Maybe your death will mean something other than a tragedy and the turning point of how things have become dull and pointless.

===

Kaido did not have the capability to love.

Respect, yes. But love? No.

It had long died in his chest as did his heart when he was born and raised to be a mindless weapon. Maybe it had had a chance of beating once more (and maybe it was revived momentarily when on that small ship adrift at sea before a sobering snap rang out into the night and a body fell limp in his hands) but that had long been buried in the past.

In his chest sits a dead heart that lays in its coffin within the ground (he does not acknowledge that he had to rebury it or that it was for a short period of time reanimated) .

Kaido cannot love even if he tries (not anymore at least).

Kaido wants to love Yamato but he cannot on account of who Kaido is as a person.

Weapons are not capable of love.

Neither are Yonko’s (the strong ones at least. Shanks and Newgate can hardly be considered that when they show weakness in pride)

When Kaido was just Kaido, an escaped bargaining chip ready to be sold he might have (and he did, he had the love of a friend but that died when they did).

But now he is the captain of the beast pirates.

A monster like him does not deserve love in the first place, he should not crave it. (But Even if that’s correct your words of “your my friend. I’ll always love you” reverberate like an echo chamber within his skull. He tries to bash his head against a wall yet nothing is able to make it stop echoing. He didn’t deserve what you had given yet you gave it anyways)

He has no time for love.

No time to coddle Yamato. 

Yamato has to be strong to face the world.

Has to be strong as to one day kill and not let it haunt him.

To not let the crack of a neck ring in his mind when he thinks he finally has peace.

To not see the dulling eyes that reflect the stars fade out and burn themselves instead into his head.

To not realize the world has color before it’s taken from him.

(But that happens anyways, and like it happened to Kaido it is set into motion when someone smiles in the face of death. For Yamato his spark for his dream boils in intensity and for Kaido it’s a spark that now wants to fizzle out) 

===

Onigashima feels different for some reason and Kaido can’t place a finger on it.

Maybe not a bad type of different per say but it’s one that he notices in time as things progress.

It started off with Black Maria seeming more chipper than usual. The normally malicious smile hidden behind a careful mask momentarily satiated. Red painted lips genuinely up turned as she talks of her newest edition of a letter deliverer. A “cute little thing” her workers picked up from the streets battered and cold. 

Maria always had a soft spot for kids, evident from how she even coddled Yamato even when Kaido told her it would make the child soft. So it doesn’t make Kaido too surprised that she picked up one out of the many strays that wander the streets. Though, how a lone child ended up in Onigashima is beyond him.

She talks fondly of them, her “little messenger” that has seemingly captured the favor of the black widow.

Somehow getting caught in her web yet navigating it and the rest of lions den with ease.

She seems to be having custom kimono and Yukata made for her messenger. Something she occasionally mentions with a rogue tinged smile as her nails dance across Kaido’s bicep. She seems happy, genuinely. He respects her enough to nod along, content in that she is also content.

Next is seemingly Sasaki and Who’s-Who, there’s been less of their demanding fights with Queen, Jack and especially King. 

The two had seemingly befriended the young messenger Black Maria had employed (much to her displeasure because now their apparently “hogging” them from her).

This then extended to Ulti and eventually Page one as well. Apparently they had somehow worked their way onto her good side, even being able to somewhat calm her down which was a godsend for many of the other beast pirates. God knows the amount of times she’s sent a good chuck in grunts to the ER from a small spot of anger. 

But then surprisingly enough even Queen and King seem to take interest in this messenger.

For Queen it’s loud but transactional interest.

Kaido can hear the concerts he puts on but now with added guitar riffs and solos. The crowds cheer with such vigor that almost all of Onigashima shakes with excitement.

For King it’s quiet but personal. 

Kaido knows that his right hand has never trusted nor legitimately liked anyone but himself.

King has never formed friendships beyond that of Kaido and that was fine. 

King was a grown man, he could make his own decisions in life and that included who he (or in this case who he didn’t) talk to. But seeing his right hand for once actually made happy, well it created in kaido an inkling of relief.

For so long King had wallowed in a similar sadness to Kaido.

King had not enjoyed anything, even when partaking in activities such as drinking or partying he only did it for Kaido.

At first Kaido could understand. He finds no point in living, and can’t find enjoyment in much anymore. But Kaido had things, he had Onigashima and the love of thrill for battle and booze and the longing embrace of death.

But later he came to notice that King had nothing besides Kaido. 

King had no people he legitimately talked to beside Kaido.

He never attended parties if Kaido was not there.

He never even took enjoyment in fights.

He never walked with purpose unless Kaido gave him a task to achieve.

King had nothing.

Nothing but the belief that Kaido would bring change and his goal was to just solely help him achieve that change.

And while Kaido saw life to be a prison he wanted King to not see it that way.

He wanted King to live.

To soar just as his people once proudly did.

Wanted to give him what he had gained from his time with you.

To paint the bleak world in color for someone he broke from chains.

To make the bars of life not visible nor matter.

To never realize the stars were collard and held in place.

So hearing he was happy for once.

That he found someone besides Kaido to help fill the emptiness of his life.

Well it piqued his interest, especially since this same messenger had seemingly done the same for his Tobiroppo and one two thirds of his all stars.

(In the back of his mind he bitterly chuckles that it reminds him of you but he brushes it off. Your dead and gone, he’s the reason for that) 

So he arranges for the next meeting to have this messenger included. 

King seems almost eager for this. Wanting to introduce whoever this is to him.

For once Kaido hears King talk about his day in detail rather than simply stating that “it was fine” and leaving it at that.

(Kaido does not hear the small utterance of a name he hadn’t heard in so so long, too caught up in his drink to catch it. It slips through his fingers and he does not realize it, even if he did compute it he’d assume it was a sad coincidence)

===

Days go by as per usual though Kaido does have something to perhaps look forward to now with this meeting.

It’s not easy to thrive in Onigashima even as a decent fighter.

So a literal child somehow making allies with some of his top commanders is certainly something that has some amusement to look forwards to.

So he waits.

And drinks.

And waits.

And shoo’s away the weird crows that have made their home in Onigashima recently.

Something also seemingly attributed to this messenger. King had told him that apparently these were their crows, one they had raised themselves after finding the murder half dead. 

Could be useful for communication, less chance of having the den den mushi tapped or curriers intercepted. Plus…he didn’t mind the bird’s presence.

Something about them was odd, but not in a particular bad way. 

They sometimes circled the sky in a spiral, swirling in a mass of black feathers similar to King.

It was a sight to see.

What's even more of a sight to see was that one of them was bold enough to join Kaido in drinking. The small feathered fiend joining in on partaking in the enjoyment of booze. Its beak dipping down in the large sake cup, then incessantly squawking when Kaido had interrupted its sips when he too wanted to enjoy in the clear liquid.

A large scar paints over its wing, leaving a trail that the little thing seemed to take pride in.

Much like Kaido’s scar that he too takes pride in.

The little thing’s name is “Nobu” , something he learned from King. Apparently along with this messenger her also befriended their little feathered fiends as well.

Kaido jokes that it has something to do with bird intuition.

King rolls his eyes though through the creasing of leather it’s clear that beneath his mask he smiles. 

Not like King can say much anyways when on his shoulders perches several of the birds. All of which linger around his flame, seemingly trying to use it as a source of warmth and equally captivated by it.

Nobu beside him pecks at his arm, making Kaido look down at the twilight coloured bird.

“Caw!” 

Kaido’s eyes drift down to it, before the bird pecks at the now empty sake cup. It was not empty last Kaido touched it…did this small bird really finish the last two thirds of the cup that most of his beast pirates could never stomach. 

Hell, the sake cup Kaido used was custom sized to be bigger than just about any other sake cup. 

Well fuck. Looks like he had a drinking buddy? Bird? 

“I’ll give you this you little shit, your a good drinker”

“Caw!”

“Another round?”

The bird nods, pecking the cup again as if to say ‘hurry up and refill you slow bastard’. 

Kaido chuckles.

Now he feels even more curiosity as to who this messenger was.

Good thing for him that meeting was soon.

===

Typically Kaido did not care much for the meetings, not unless it was something really important or led to him possibly fighting someone (and then being disappointed that they didn’t meet expectations).

But for this one the curiosity curling in his gut is enough to satiate him of relying on the presence of Black Maria at his side and a few dozen gourds of sake to get him through. 

He wonders what this messenger will be like.

Will they be a cunning child? The one who spies the people with well made clothes and awaits to pick their pockets.

Are they scrappy? The child who rustles a raccoon on the street for stealing their food and isn’t afraid to play dirty. 

Or Are they perhaps the opposite?

(In some very distant part of his mind, perhaps buried in the cold grave that contains his heart a thought bubbles out. Like undead clawing out from a grave before being buried once more. That part of him wonders if their maybe like you) 

It swirls in his mind because the thought of a child (just a random child) that would be able to befriend his top confidants.

Worm their way into the hearts of someone like King or even Ulti and Who’s-Who. 

Well…It leaves an impression.

And a all consuming question.

Especially since before even meeting this messenger Kaido can’t help but feel somewhat charmed by them.

Them who has made King more happy and content than Kaido has ever possibly seen the man and create within the vicious Maria a kindness.

They who calms down Ulti’s violent temper tantrums and apparently party with Sasaki.

His thoughts whirl.

And then Kaido Freezes.

The unbeatable monster known for ransacking villages and crumbling a nation that he now uses as a den freezes.

He knows those eyes better than he knows the scars that mar his body.

For a moment Kaido thinks he’s piss drunk or having a hallucination when he sees you there.

He had some before, when tired enough or drunk enough he could swear to see or hear you.

Sometimes you’d sit atop his shoulder (in the corner of his eyes, never fully in focus)

Other times he’d hear your voice like a small whisper of encouragement (even though your voice feels almost unrecognizable from what it once was)

And there you are, sitting in content beside Maria who dressed you in silk. The woman’s usually cruel red smile is replaced by one of adoration and warmth instead of her biting cold.

Laughing at Sasaki and Who’s-Who as the two argue over some contrived bet they made when likely drunk.

Somehow calming down Ulti who nearly blows a gasket at Sasaki who accidentally bumps into her due to his fight with Who’s-who.

Having a paper slid over to you by Queen who looks all too pleased with himself before King burns it in front of him.

And most surprisingly of all King, his right hand also holding that familiar look of comfort and content that Kaido is too familiar with when associated with you.

And then of course there’s just you on your own.

You who sits there completely the same as when you met him in that jail cell and died by his hands minus the bruises. 

The same star speckled eyes.

Same smile.

Same calm and mild mannered disposition despite being in a room infested with monsters.

Kaido thinks back to the times he had pondered what would happen if you had lived, if he had been able to find a doctor or if you somehow miraculously healed from those infectious wounds. If the rusted blunt swords used on your flesh and slashed at by guards had impossibly not led to the discolored wounds that leaked with a disgusting mixture of blood and other fluids.

Maybe you would have joined him on Rock’s crew.

Would’ve met Linlin and Newgate.

Could have helped him Break King out of that cell just as you had for him.

If you’d get along with some of the few on his crew he had some likability for (which he now knows is possibly).

If like all those years ago despite all he’s done you’d still consider him friend.

And seeing you again he realizes that all of that could have happened.

That the future he dreamed of in the few uncrushed bits of optimism that lingers in the corner of his soul could have happened.

The life he longed for on those dark nights where memories haunted him like screaming banshees.

It could have happened.

And it didn’t.

Kaido without thinking says your name, it echoes out and reverberates. The room quiets down, so much so that it feels as if his call to you was the only thing ever spoken between the 4 walls.

Starry eyes look to him.

They feel as if they peer into his very soul. Golden burning embers searching the now dull yellow pits of his eyes.

Searching and searching for something.

Anything.

But there’s nothing. 

Not even an inkling of recognition slithers its way onto your face nor into your mind. Instead horror fills it.

Perhaps just as horrified as Kaido that you forgot. 

And like before, on that night all those years ago Kaido feels something in him break.

He lost you once, perhaps in a way you’ve even lost yourself.

But Kaido will not let you slip away again.

Will not grant mercy as he did all those years ago when he was a naive boy.

Maybe it’s because of his Zoan tendencies or because of his fear (the world feels foreign in his mouth let alone to feel anymore. Because Kaido did not fear anything, not even death) but Kaido feels something swirling in him.

Protectiveness.

And then possession.

He does not want to let you free of his grasp again, will not let you lose yourself once more. 

Even if he knows how hypocritical it is to lock you by his side when you had freed him of such a fate of a cage.

But the world is not kind and neither is Kaido.

All those years ago you lit a spark in him that grew to become an inferno.

He swore that he would create change in this world even if you wouldn’t see it.

He would create change in this world for you now with you to watch.

…He’s hardly surprised when you run.

===

He finds you when it’s too late, already crumpled up and bloody in Maria’s palm. King is overhead still in the air, though the flame behind him is less of a burning red mixed with oranges and yellows but now a blindingly shining gold that scorches the sky.

Broken and bloody you clutch something.

It shines through hands that clasp at it tightly.

Light slipping through your fingers as you clutch it closely to your chest. 

Sparks are sent off roaring as it collides against the bloodied cloth of your kimono.

It sinks through the material and into a kind and compassionate heart.

A heart that cracks into golden dust he can only aquaint to that of stardust, your body is painted in cracks. It’s reminiscent of old statues, crack lining stone though now it bleeds a glittering gold instead of cancerous white lead dust.

The words that fall from your mouth like all those years ago come out like a pained whisper.

It’s almost lost to the sobs of Maria.

But Kaido heard it like thunderclap roaring in the sky.

“Oden?” 

And finally the cracks strain and you quite literally break into pieces. Becoming the stardust that leaked into the endless oblivion of the night.

In that flurry of dust momentarily you reform, if only for a moment. You're in different attire, much better for seafaring as well as a familiar captain's coat atop your world carrying shoulders. The kimono once worn now lays on the barren ground, blood also disappearing into the fine golden powder that drifts upwards.

And then there is someone else there in that dust.

For the slightest of seconds Oden lingers.

His form made up of that dust as you drift up past him, an outreached hand reaches to your own and you grab it. Eyes for the first time opening while in this form, staring into that of the man who was born to boil.

Golden eyes shine intently as a smile stretches across both yours and his face.

And then the dust settles into the night leaving nothing of proof of your existence if not for onlookers who mourn, a kimono and hairpin meant as gifts yet you never knew were and the burning flames of a star ignited over midnight black wings. 

The air settles and the silence echoes for several minutes on end.

It’s only broken when King finally descends down, feet numbly hitting the ground as the starlit flame on his back burns oh so brightly.

The shape of a four pointed star hung upon his back.

It’s then that Kaido realizes that perhaps you were never an envoy of JoyBoy at all but your own entity.

Perhaps one more elusive than the titular liberator. Someone mentioned in those tales yet he ignored in favour of JoyBoy more.

But in the end that’s fine.

Because Kaido now knows better.

But does not know better than to try and catch a shooting star or rope one from the sky.

Crocodile sighed heavily. This wasn’t like him at all. How come, on a beautifully quiet evening like this, there was nothing occupying his mind… but you?

He should have known better than to hire you. You weren’t exactly familiar with the underworld, but you were good – your résumé certainly did speak for itself.

You were born in a small down at the edge of the Grandline – you’d always been around pirates, you knew them like the back of your hand. You’d once told him in passing that your parents were both accountants working for other people’s family businesses, a long and proud tradition. Well, looking back – that explained a lot. He should have smelled that air of confidence around you when he first met you, but was too distracted by your… allure. Crocodile couldn’t help himself.

He was a seasoned sailor invited to a poker night by none other than Doflamingo himself. That flamboyant egomaniac loved to get a read on table when they suspected it the least… but Crocodile couldn’t help himself either – he was a pirate as well, deep down, and some cardinal sins were harder to resist than others… What do they say again? High risk, high reward… or something. Plus, as repulsive as Doflamingo usually was, he was a decent host. Crocodile was always thoroughly entertained. Besides, the flow of information was much… freer when his greatest rivals of the underworld were much more loose-lipped under the influence of strong liquor and in the presence of beautiful women.

How you managed to get an invite to play at the table, he didn't know at the time and nobody ever confirmed his suspicions – actually, he thought you were one of the showgirls at first, which turned out to be totally untrue. Back then, Crocodile didn’t know that he wasn’t sitting next to fresh meat but much rather a shark, but that was okay. You get to keep some secrets.

You were surrounded by warlords, legendary pirates and criminals of all walks of life yet you didn’t even bat an eye. You cheerfully ordered a sparkly drink that you didn’t dare to take a sip from – smart girl. Again, he should have known, should have been more suspicious, but he was too distracted by your doe eyes and small hands; nobody at that damn table viewed you as a threat.

Then you picked up some cards – and you won, surprisingly. Granted, you called some small fry’s bluff, but Doflamingo giggled in pure mockery when he dealt out the cards, licking his lips when you flashed him a sultry smile that had pirates leering left and right.

It was a game of South Blue Hold ‘Em. Easy to learn, hard to master game… and pirates had a looooot of time on their hands, sweetheart. Much different from a pretty thing like you, a sweetheart who had yet to see the world. Crocodile and everybody else at the table thought they could strip you of your chips in a matter of minutes. Honestly, the Hero of Alabasta doubted you even knew what the blinds were and what their purpose was. He thought, much like everybody else, that you were easy prey.

Crocodile smirked at you. He believed that your earlier call was just beginner’s luck, no skill involved. He tried sizing you up. He knew he had a strong hand; so strong that every other player – every single one of them pirates who knew his game and his arrogance – folded immediately, not even bothering to check in some cases. They saw how nonchalantly he sucked on his cigar, handing it off to some of Doflamingo’s useless escorts before blowing a puff of smoke into the air with a proud glint in his eyes. He wasn’t even trying to hide it from you – you’d be bleeding chips either way.

He was willing to bet big.

His eyes zeroed in on the five cards on the table, two of them still face down. The Queen of Hearts, Six of Spades and Queen of Spades laid unassumingly so on the table. With his Pair of Nines in his hand, he had a slim chance of winning the table, but was willing to call your bluff. You raised the bet, pouring chips into the pot with a graceful smile. At that point in time, Crocodile thought it was a bit plain. He snapped his fingers at Doflamingo, checking the call and entering the next round with you. If you wanted to dance, then you shall dance.

Doflamingo turned the next card around, the Turn – Nine of Spades. Bingo. He had a Full House lying on the table now – the Pair of Queens on the table and his Three of a Kind… and you likely had junk and didn’t even know it. He called an All-In and you didn’t reject the fast pace of the game, such a rookie mistake. You should have been more suspicious… unless…

You both turned over your cards.

Crocodile couldn’t help but laugh at your meagre hand.

Ace of Heart and Queen of Diamonds? You were trying to win big with a Three of a Kind, confidently making the All-In call like some amateur? Maybe on your little no-name island.

Your eyes widened at his hand, knowing that you were swimming with the sharks right now. Crocodile was slightly taken aback by your immediate reaction – it didn’t sit right with him that you knew that you were in trouble. Rookies like you shouldn’t even have that reaction speed. Still, you were in it now.

And while you stood up as soon as Crocodile ordered a bottle of champagne for the table, Doflamingo turned the last card, the River, on the table –

–Ace of Spades.

Sir Crocodile’s jaw just about hit the fucking floor. He was stunned into silence.

You just… kicked him out the less-than-friendly tournament. With a better full house at that.

“Oh- oops!”, you smiled shyly, staring directly into Crocodile’s eyes, “Luck’s on my side, it seems.”

…You little…!

The Warlord’s gaze met Doflamingo’s, who, much to the Desert King’s surprise, was just as shocked as he was. He just wanted to accuse his old rival of cheating the game with you at the table – but his fellow pirate didn’t even know what hit him when you suddenly became the overall chip leader.

And that’s when Crocodile realised: You… were working for Doflamingo, that’s how you got in, that’s why nobody at the table dared to call you out – even though Diamante sent sneers your way every now and then to mock you, he never said anything –… and your bet was your freedom. The gamble of a lifetime.

But you managed to pull it off, didn’t you?

After that night, Doflamingo complained to him every single day for an entire month. He was, sometimes, just seconds away from chucking his Transponder Snail into a sandstorm of his own making. He was far too curious about you to refuse Doflamingo’s calls, however. You outschemed the schemer and lived to tell the tale. Luckily for you, the King of Dressrosa never betrayed his promises, especially when they were so heavily skewed in his favours, and granted you freedom: You were allowed to leave and you were no longer the – what nobody knew – Treasury Minister of Dressrosa.

Your mind was flawless. That made you quite dangerous, though. The most celebrated Lord of Rainbase indeed should have known better than to recruit yet another sharp mind. Crocodile was no fool. He knew that Miss All Sunday was looking for an easy out, which is why he shielded you from… most unpleasant encounters that could sully your opinion of him. How ridiculous. Why would it matter what you thought of him and his plans to take over all of Alabasta? He was a genius! Divide and conquer – the most effective strategy to instigate war… and Crocodile was going to swoop in when the dust settled and declare himself King, a title most befitting of a man as refined as him. And you were a woman of a high enough calibre to stand besides him when he sat on his throne.

You managed his casino and worked as a dealer. Plus, you looked friendly and unassuming. Unlike Nico Robin, he didn’t have to rule over you with an iron fist to get what he wanted. As long as you were free to do whatever you liked, you enjoyed the work he gave you… and he made sure you never came near Baroque Works. All the high ranking agents knew who you were but they weren’t allowed to interact with you beyond being escorted into the VIP-section of his casino. Crocodile made sure they all followed his orders.

Why the Hell was he so protective of you?

...It’s not like you were anything remarkable. You were no pirate, you couldn’t even fight. You’d be worthless as an agent, there wouldn’t be a point in dragging you with him everywhere he goes. Eventually, you’d have to part ways and you’ll find employment soon enough. That was the natural order of things… but Crocodile couldn’t help but invite you to every gala and event as his… assistant. Yeah, that’s it. Stares had started following you around as soon as it became a habit, it’s become so obvious that Doflamingo contacted him about it last week.

So – that’s not great. But it would be impossible to resist you.

You looked so elegant when he wrapped his arm around you, the sharp end of his hook just inches away from your hip. You never flinched away from his touch though. Maybe it was born out of a selfish desire, perhaps Crocodile just wanted to show off his most prized jewel… but it has become so much more than that at this point. Eyes followed you around everywhere you went and Sir Crocodile wasn’t the least bit ashamed of the rumours going around. In fact, due to his intimidating statue, he was quite glad that no runt would dare speak to you casually in fear of invoking his wrath. Besides, it stroked his ego too much to watch you mix and mingle with the crowd… only to return to his side with a glass of whiskey, just how he liked it.

What in the world did any of this mean?

“Hey, Sir. It’s me. I- We’re drinking all by ourselves now? Quite the gloomy sight, don’t you think?” You chuckled as you sat down in the plush armchair in front of him, a stack of paper in your hands that you didn’t even pay any attention to. You hummed as he came to his senses – and followed your eyes that stared at the bottle of rum on his desk. He didn’t even plan on drinking it.

“Please. I wasn’t drinking alone.”

“Uh-huh...”, you grinned – and that showed him that you were just trying to rile him up, which caused him to put his cigar into an ashtray, shaking his head in amusement while you continued, “I want to be blunt with you, Sir.”

“Go on…”

“The ‘Monster of the New World’ has sent me a recruitment letter for a managing position at his famed casino.”

Crocodile’s blood ran ice-cold at that. He clenched his hand into a fist before punching his desk with gritted teeth. Yes, maybe the earnings of the last financial quarter were just made public… and yes, maybe they were a little higher than they were just a year prior because of you, but to think that the Golden Emperor would hear about this in the New World? What a joke.

Much to his own dismay, however, was the fact that he didn’t think about his wealth shrinking, no, he dreaded having to watch you go – and that thought sent shivers down his spine more than anything else. He was growing attached to you, fuck, he’d been attached to you from the very start! You were an enigma he still wanted to solve, even if he would never admit it aloud. He basked in those stares following him when they saw his date by his side. He delighted in every single one of your expressions when he carefully slid his hand down your spin, resting at the small of your back to guide you through crowds without a care in the world.

You were meant to stay with him! You belonged to him!

“Easy there, Crocodile…”, you rolled your eyes playfully, throwing the stack of papers his way – and he started reading the letter immediately, only half-way listening to your response.

“We would like to inform you that you show promi-” While Crocodile mumbled to himself, his cigars ceasing to burn in his ashtray, you spoke loud and clearly:

“I rejected the offer.”

His eyes snapped up to chase your gaze. His heart is pounding like he’s a teenage boy again and he almost feels disgusted knowing that he harboured an obvious crush on you. Your words made him so happy… it was devastating how quickly he folded for you.

“I’m happy here.” You smiled. Barely, but it was there.

Yeah, he’s happy, too. Even if you have him wrapped around your finger… no, because you have him wrapped around your finger. If you’ll allow him, he’ll grant you your every whim – just give him a few months… until his plan is set in motion.

Then he’d be proud and call himself worthy enough to stand besides you. Not as your boss, this time around, neither as your King… but maybe – just maybe – as your lover.

You’d own each other – body, mind and soul. As intended by fate.

Oh, how he’s dying to drown in you. Sometimes, he is amazed by his own self-restraint – he wants nothing more than to ruin you for everybody else.