True, Rosinante Conceded With A Frown.

　　　❝ true, ❞ rosinante conceded with a frown.

　a unfortunate side effect of the relentless hostility the pair had faced in nearly every town they've visited over the last few months was the occasional trend of having to abandon their campsites on next-to-no notice. not because of wildlife too large for them to scare off, nor an unexpected shift in the terrain like an impending mudslideーbut because of people.

it was always people. a butcher who decided to try putting his cleavers to use butchering something else for a change. a lumberjack who nearly chopped the spy's left hand off with his axe. a hunter ready to do the "noble deed" of ridding the nearby woods of the lone sufferer of white lead disease, as if law were a wolf decimating local livestock and not a child.

the attacker was someone new each time, but the protocol was always the same: rosinante would drop what he was doing, signal to law it was time to go, scoop the kid up (sometimes a little too roughly as emaciated as he was, but rosinante always apologized for it later) and they would run. 'evacuations', rosinante dubbed them; an unfortunate, but necessary procedure he had to drill into law's head, no different than his lessons on what to do if law saw a bear, or what to do if the pair got separated.

　the reality of those drills, though, was in the haste to get away the two of them didn't always have time to grab more than what was within arm's reach. sometimes anything that wasn't already on their person or could fit easily in their pockets had to be left in the dust. rosinante nearly had to leave his feather coat behind once when an inopportune cramp in his rotator cuff made it impossible to put on, before deciding at the last second to swaddle law with it like a baby bird in a nest.

their singular fishing pole was one such casualty of their last escape, something the donquixote hadn't realized until taking survey of what they did manage to salvage (mostly goods that rosinante had the foresight to store on their little boat rather than lug up to the campsite). so, law had looked through their supplies already, huh?

well, he supposed that presented him with another opportunity.

　　❝ guess that means i'll get to teach you how to make one, right? ❞

        As it turned out, the third time was not the charm.

        Nor -despite all of Corazon's optimistic insistence otherwise- was the fourth. Or the fifth or the sixth, or even the seventh. By the time they left the eighth hospital behind them, Law had given up on his futile protests, leaving the last of the stubborn determination it took to remind the Donquixote executive he didn't want to do this in the snow behind them as they fled the local militia hellbent on chasing the white monster away.

        That night, too tired to whine and more despondent than he'd ever allowed the man to see him before, Law had clung silently to Corazon's feathered cape, fingers trembling from cold and the unsuccessful attempt to keep tears at bay as he gave voice to the thought they must surely both be thinking.

        I'm not getting better, Corazon. I'm getting worse.

      The words were neither plea nor protest; the soft voice was devoid of its usual biting sarcasm. For the first time since the fall of his hometown, this was not the unfeeling statement of fact he'd delivered that day before the Family, but the lament of a boy born with less than his fair share of days before him - and one who'd spent far too many of those mourning more loss than many with thrice his allotted time would ever know.

        And yet. The words had no sooner left his lips than Corazon's shoulders stiffened beneath his palms. But where Law might have expected a sigh or silence, the man simply paused for a moment before shrugging his shoulders, shifting the boy higher upon his back as he pressed on against the sharp, frostbitten wind.

        Don't give up yet!! Corazon insisted. The next time's the charm!! Either you get cured, or you die. This the moment of truth, so be strong!

        These were the words Law turned over in his mind several days later, the memory of the fierceness behind them drowning out the freshness of the ninth unsuccessful hospital visit earlier that same morning. They'd echoed in his mind throughout the whole encounter. Made it difficult to focus on anything - the hatred in the hospital staffs' eyes, the large man's outrage on Law's behalf... All of it had seemed oddly distant to him. For the first time, Law hadn't bothered crying when they'd rushed the two away: nor had he offered any protest or indication where his thoughts had taken him feeling Corazon's silent, curious stare upon them when they'd finally made it here to set up camp. He'd simply shrugged and looked out across the sea, lost in thought until the silence became too much for his companion to bear.

        When he did speak, his question was met with a curious tilt of the boy's head. He wondered what Corazon had made of his unusual quietude, and where the man's own thoughts had wandered to in the hours they'd spend soundlessly staring out at the sea. Did he know what Law was thinking? Had he read something in the set of the boy's shoulders that had kept him from the usual insistence on the next one, for sure? Realized something had shifted even Law himself had not worked out yet and spent the time pondering the best way to break the silence?

        ❝ No, I don't, ❞ he disputed for the sake of it - though the adage was vaguely familiar in the back of his mind. Enough to piece together the gist of it, at any rate. For the moment he was too preoccupied with the thought of grilled fish, stomach rumbling as if to remind him he'd sat thinking through the normal lunch hours. ❝ And no they didn't. We don't have a fishing pole, though, ❞ he pointed out.

　❝ mhm. i get you. ❞

　unfortunately. ace's words hit right at rosinante's heart, dredging up complicated feelings from his boyhood with a kind of precision that he wasn't even sure law could have managed. he never harbored the same resentment for his father like ace seemed toーnever could quite bring himself to feel justified in being angry, despite it allーbut he grew up watching his older brother echo much of the same thoughts. suffer the same frustrations. or, was he imagining things? was he doomed to see pieces of his older brother in every person he would ever meet for the rest of his life?

he disregarded the thought for now, one elbow firm on the tavern table dividing them as he leaned closer. it tended to be a struggle a man of rosinante's height to meet someone's eyes (not so much for him, but he felt guilt that most people who gave him prolonged eye-contact would have to crane their necks or lean comically far back every time) but rosinante wasn't the best with his words. eye contact was an important step in filling in the gaps. or, at least trying to.

　❝ i'm not trying to take away from how you feel. but it's important to recognize sometimes people don't always take every possibility into account. it doesn't mean you can't be angry when you're reaping the consequences of that, but it also doesn't always mean they're evil. people are flawed, ace. i know i am. ❞

@code01746 , corazon asked : “Even the best-intentioned parents end up damaging their kids.”

❝  intentions  ain't  actions,  cora.  ❞  his  lips  roll  into  a  line.  speaking  of  intentions  was  like  throwing  brief  words  for  the  wind  to  carry.  even  if  roger  had  the  best  intentions  before  death,  it  left  a  weight  on  the  pirate  prince's  shoulders  that  was  hard  to  carry.  maybe  the  words  of  this  man  sparked  a  brief  frustration  within  the  flaming  heart.  thick  eyebrows  quickly  formed  a  frown  upon  the  fire  fist's  visage,  as  he  leans  back  in  his  seat.  ❝  i  could  have  the  best  intentions  in  burnin'  down  a  village.  but  i'd  leave  people  homeless  and  only  with  ashes  of  their  previous  home.  ain't  it  fucked  up  ?  to  have  best  intentions  and  takin'  away  everythin'  ?  ❞

Pyotr Bagin. Illustration for Yuri Koval's "The Birch Pie" (1989).

Law & Corazon🫶

happy 4/2o. rosinante smokes weed for chronic pain and, when he quits smoking altogether in verses where he survives, starts growing it on his property to cook with.

　　❝ can you undo my arm restraints so i can feed myself for once? ❞

　rosinante tried his best to pretend he didn't hear the bitterness in older brother's voice, like he always did. out of annoyance for being talked down to, a guilt for daring to make his psychopathic brother upset, or a sick mixture of bothーhe couldn't be sure exactly why it bothered him. the tone left him feeling scrutinized & small, no different from when they were children and doflamingo would make him feel guilty for daring to 'lash out' and defend himself when the elder donquixote played too rough.

he turned his back to his brother, something he was always apprehensive to do but he needed to allow doflamingo access to the locking mechanism on today's restraints: a pair of binders attached at his forearms, keeping them flush with his back. a leather strap functioning as a collar was attached via a clip, a shorter strap than usual lessening the amount of slack and ensuring that rosinante was at peak posture at all times. his back & shoulders had been aching for hours, but he knew better by now than to complain about it aloud.

rosinante paused, fearing his tone would be perceived as annoyedーhow dare he, when the king has been so gracious by allowing him to live & serve himーor worse, like he was ordering the king to do somethingーa sure sign he didn't know his place, which can & had led to beatings at the hands of the other executives. he softened his voice, shrinking his already deflated, defeated presence. food was enough of a motivator now. enough be quiet. enough to behave. ❝ ...please. ❞

DOFLAMINGO SURVEYED HIS KINGDOM'S PRINCE, HIS ONCE-BELOVED BROTHER  ㅤㅤㅤ⸻   ㅤHis regal figure leaned back in an intricately carved throne,   a piercing gaze upon his younger brother,  Rosinante. Behind the polished lenses of his glasses, his eyes,  brilliant shades of blues & gold , harbored a potent mixture of resentment and disappointment. His grip tightened around the neck of his wine bottle, its contents dripped messily from the corner of his lips. 

Rosinante, once a trusted member of the royal family, now stood before the king with the weight of his betrayal heavy upon his shoulders. His punishment had been dealt, but for Doflamingo, it was insufficient. the traitorous brother, had already faced punishment, yet the monarch felt an unquenchable thirst for a more severe retribution. The sins committed by his brother had yet to be fully atoned for, lingering like a shadow. Sins lingered, unforgiven, and the price to be paid had not been fulfilled in the king's eyes. Reconciliation lingered in the air, for blood ties ran deep, but the betrayal had etched an indelible mark, Reconciliation was just a concept that danced just out of reach for the blond. Despite the familial bond that tethered them, the memory of Rosinante's treachery ignited a fire within him, leaving behind a bitter taste that refused to fade. The desire for retribution pulsed through his veins, urging him to demand more, to extract a price equal to the magnitude of his brother's transgressions.

As Doflamingo's gaze bore into him, Rosinante could practically feel the weight of his brother's judgment, a heavy burden that threatened to crush him beneath its oppressive force. Yet, even in the face of such condemnation, the benevolent king  couldn't deny the twisted sense of satisfaction that stirred within him. For every drop of blood that stained his hands, he found a perverse comfort in knowing that he had served his purpose, that he had proven his loyalty to the crown, even if it came at the cost of his own morality. The golden figure of Doflamingo, resplendent in his flamboyant attire, offered a not so friendly smile. His words, dripping with saccharine malice, cut through the silence like a knife, each syllable laced with a venomous intent that left no room for doubt.

     ❝      It seems you have done as told, Rosi,    *      he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken threats.  ❝      Good job indeed. I know it must've been hard for you to withstand such deprivation. But fear not, brother, for you have earned your reward.    *     

With those words hanging in the air like a death sentence, Rosi's fate was his to unfold, keeping him trapped in a web of his making from which there was no escape.