Hiya people of the internet! C:
This is a very random fic I've been writing on. O_o
It will contain mostly DofLaw in the beginning and later focus on only KidLaw so... :3 And it depicts the time around 1970-90 in Paris. (NOT historically correct, gomen.)
I might perhaps dump this fic if it bores me, but for now it shall be a background-fic which will be updated VERY slowly. (notice the word very there, thank you). :) It will probably be updated in 3 months at the very fastest. (Probably even later, huehue).
Well yea, I don't have a beta and this is not a very planned fic but is actually a very rushed fic hahaha. :'D
ALSO THANKS TO TheBlackSpirit FOR HELPING ME WITH THE FRENCH GRAMMAR. :)
I hope someone will read this and enjoy this regardless.
~Enjoy~
From: Trafalgar Law
Rue de la Tour, 75016 Paris, France
To: Nico Robin
35 Central Avenue, Brighton, England
August 23, 2006
Dear Mademoiselle Nico,
I am writing you in outmost desperation, and must apologize for choosing you as my final resort to solve this mess. You must understand that I barely have anyone else to turn to, Ilona is merely 13, Conis has recently given birth to her very own child and none of my colleagues would understand this entanglement. I am sure this will be a request like no other and I entirely understand if you aren't to complete it, regardless I hope you will take your time to read my letter.
As you perhaps recognize, this letter is several pages long. You must understand, I have a long story to share, and the bunch of papers you are holding in your hands are more like a short summary of what actually happened. Before announcing my request, I want to enlighten you of my life before the late autumn of 1993, when we first met. Whilst reading my story, you should realize why I need you to know everything – everything about me and my past, that is. Without knowing any valid reason, I doubt any sane person would deliver a request such as mine.
However, so far I have only been writing something you Englishmen would call "gibberish". Therefore, let me go on and tell you about a life I have nearly forgotten everything about, a life that perhaps fully started in April, 1971.
In April, 1971, I was roughly six years old at the time, my father died in a stroke. It had been quite unexpected, my father had always been a healthy man you see, despite being a hard-working journalist. Yet he died, on a clear April morning. I remember it vaguely myself, it has been over 36 years after all.
Only a few weeks later my late mother and I moved to Montmartre in Paris. I am going to refer her as "Maman" despite it contradicting with all kinds of courtesy I ever have been taught, simply because I always called her that never anything else. Her real name is completely irrelevant, so I do not see a reason to mention it.
Regardless, we moved to Montmartre in the very same spring of 1971. You are familiar with this area, as you neighbored me starting from 1993. However, to paint an accurate picture of what I experienced, I intend to briefly account for you how I experienced the area. Maman was an artist you see, she painted and wrote poems. Before my father's death, her paintings would express great happiness and love. But when he died, the paintings changed. Melancholy, destruction and obscurity became the main themes for her works. Her art stopped selling as frequently and immensely as before. Later in my life I realized it wasn't because of the changed themes, but the economic crisis pestering France at the time.
Maman and I would often saunter to Place du Tertre in order to sell her works. She would hold my tiny hand, hum on a soft melody with her harmonious voice, whilst holding a pile of paintings and poorly printed poems. I remember admiring her, her accurate way of painting, her confident manner of speaking, her charming smile, but mostly her eyes. The dark eyes, almost black, a complete contrast to the naturally blonde and curly hair. She was a beautiful woman, delicately thin but lusciously curvy. She may have been a beautiful woman, but she was not suited to be a mother, that I can tell you, Mademoiselle Nico.
I clearly remember the other artists, the kind men and the cat-like women. I remember the taste of poorly made crêpes with different kinds of berries, as that is what I usually ate while waiting for Maman to sell her works. I would chase around some cats, chitchat with the artists, jump on the uneven cobblestone streets, count warts on old people's faces and cling to Maman and ask her when we were going home. All in all, I was a quite bored child. There weren't many other children around and simple games tended to bore me to no extend. Later in my life, I discovered the wonders of books.
Spending my days with sappy procedures, I would often catch myself staring at Maman. She would desperately try to sell her works, almost arguing with the customers in order to get them sold or using her devious charm to make things go her way. Her evenly round birthmark beneath her left eye, the small dimples on her cheeks, her dark eyes shining in artistic cognizance – all of this has been neatly engraved into my heart. The cold springs, the oddly warm Septembers, the leaves dancing in the gust, the grass rustling. Ivy desperately climbing up the walls to our home, Maman's melodic laughter echoing in the staircase, summers filled with wine and tobacco, winters with cold feet entangled underneath a slightly gooey blanket. This was my childhood in Montmartre.
As you perhaps notice, Mademoiselle Nico, we were not blessed with wealth, Maman and I, despite my father's early death. He hadn't earned so much and therefore we had not inherited so much money either. Of course, our small flat was utterly picturesque and had its charm. But exactly like Maman, the apartment was not suited for children. Not once did I step on nails perking up from the uneven flooring. Not once was there wine across the floor or lit cigarettes left on inappropriate places. And not once was it me who took care of these things.
At some point in my childhood – unfortunately I cannot recall when exactly – Maman's closest company had become the wine bottle. I remember being a school boy, but I can't seem to remember exactly which year this occurred. I do remember sitting and reading school books, hearing Maman and some unknown man enter the building. Suddenly it had become a common procedure; Maman bringing over some unknown men and being loud and noisy, until they suddenly quieted down and only moans were heard. I remember curling up underneath my blanket, trying to focus on the book I was reading. I remember the growl from my stomach, reminding me that Maman once again had forgot to make me dinner. Or lunch.
Before this, I had gotten my own room. You can imagine a child's delight when getting a room of their own. I experienced the same kind of euphoria. Maman's old, small, claustrophobia-inducing atelier became my room. My bed barely fit in there, and every morning and night I had to change clothes in the living room because of the lack of space. Fortunately, I was a child who didn't care for toys, and all of my wrinkly books fitted underneath my bed. Later in my life I have come to the conclusion that I would perhaps have enjoyed toys more, if not Maman would have gotten so enraged every time I asked for some. Of course, she did this because she felt guilty that she couldn't give me what other mothers could give their children.
I presume you start to understand, Mademoiselle Nico, how my childhood was spent. At an early age I learnt to make my own breakfast, lunch and dinner. At an even earlier age I learnt to be quiet and not to question Maman's drinking. And even before that, I had learnt that Maman wasn't like other children's mothers. And that it was my duty to take care of her.
When I hit my teenage years, Maman suddenly grew very jealous at me. I don't know whether it is correct to call it jealousy, but I experienced her sudden childish rudeness as jealousy. When I was 13, my face started to change. It wasn't a child's face anymore, neither was it the face of a grown man. I was something in between. And my face had decided to grow in an uneven pace, resulting in me having an oddly balanced face. Maman found this very funny;
"Ah mon dieu! Look at yourself, mon cher! You look like you belong to the zoo! It really is incomprehensible that you are my child!"
"Ah, je suis mort de fatigue, mon cher! Do you even know how tough it is to be as beautiful as me? Oh my, oh my… I do envy you, Law. If I would look like you, life would be much easier!"
"Look at my son! He looks so different from me right? Ugly? Mais non, non! Not ugly, just… different. Ah, mon cher Law, don't look so sad now! Je t'aime, non?"
She never stopped with these comments, not even when I turned fifteen and my face was in balance again. However, she had not started with these comments until she heard about my success in school. There was one incident when we bumped into one of my teachers at the plaza when I just had turned 13 – it was a very gray day and Maman had exceptionally sobered up. Place du Tertre had barely any visitors that day but we still happened to run into my math teacher, who adored me to no extend. I happen to be mathematically talented, you see, Mademoiselle Nico. I had not known about this myself, before I suddenly was told to solve more difficult math problems than the rest of the class. I had simply thought that math was supposed to be ridiculously easy.
Regardless, we ran into my math teacher. He recognized me immediately and started to praise me in front on Maman. Frankly, Maman hadn't at the time had any idea of how exceptionally good my grades were, she had only been busy with herself and all of her nighttime companies. I remember being proud but also scared – proud of my own success and ridiculously scared of Maman's opinion. My teacher's praises didn't stop, and Maman answered them with faked, proud nods. I simply stood there, wanting a hole to appear underneath my feet, letting me disappear from the whole situation. After a while Maman stopped my math teacher with a gracious gesture, blinking apologetically and smiling beautifully;
"I always knew mon cher was a genius! But isn't all of this theory boring? I would have wished for a more colorful son – not a strictly theoretical one. I mean, that's just boring. Ennuyeux, mon cher, ennuyeux."
You should have seen the face of my teacher, Mademoiselle Nico. It was something you Englishmen would call "priceless". A few weeks later the same teacher came to me during one break and told me he wanted to talk with me. He asked me whether I was holding myself back at school or not, because of my mother's opinion on science. I replied that I had no idea what he was talking about, before I hurriedly excused myself and practically ran to my lesson. It had been embarrassing, so indescribably embarrassing. What could I possibly tell him? Would the truth have made a difference? I mean, even if I held myself back I got admirable grades, so it did not matter. And regardless, as I grew up I still stopped holding myself back – mostly as a weak rebellion against Maman's empty-headed opinion.
Don't get me wrong, I did not hate Maman. She was one of the few things I actually had in my life. Despite these rude comments about my appearance and my interests in theoretical subjects, she was my mother. I recall a few times when I questioned our great differences in genes – especially if she criticized me for something. How was it possible that I – the ugly, dark-haired, caramel-skinned boy – was the son of the golden-haired, dark-eyed and luscious woman? We were direct contrasts. She had pale skin, delicately pale, and dark eyes, equal to delicious dark chocolate. I have pretty dark skin, and gray eyes, indifferently gray and anxious as the stormy sea. Her face was soft, a small round nose, softly shaped cheeks and a round, perfect forehead. My face, in other hand, consists of sharp lines, a sharp nose, sharply shaped cheeks and a somewhat edgy forehead. I often wondered how we were mother and son. I think she also wondered the same thing – on another level perhaps.
Well, moving on from these pointless drabbles. I apologize if this bores you by the way, but I do hope you comprehend why this is so utterly necessary.
Regardless, occasionally during restless nights, when Maman was drunk with another unknown man, I would lie underneath my gooey blanket and fantasize. You see, sometimes I experienced odd, nostalgic feelings, especially if I saw a fireplace. So I would stay up and analyze this sensation. I came to the conclusion that I felt like something was missing in my life – something huge, something important. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling someone hold my hand and hearing someone sing a lullaby. However, each time I woke up there was no one there, and Maman and the unknown man had already fallen asleep. It drove me mad.
Some other times, I would ignore the nostalgia and instead fantasize about Maman not being my real mother, but the evil twin of my real mother. I would imagine I was adopted or kidnapped, my real parents waiting for me somewhere far, far away. I thought it wasn't possible for a mother to treat her child like this. If I only would have known the truth back then.
Then, just before turning 14, my imaginations changed. I started thinking of boys in my class, even some of my closer friends, and it was not in a friendly manner, Mademoiselle Nico. It was at that age I discovered my interest in men. I had recognized my disinterest in girls a long time ago, and thought it was because my interest in knowledge was far greater than anything else. I thought I wasn't interested in love at all. That was until I one night caught myself thinking of myself and a friend of mine doing more than friendly actions. And these imaginations disgusted me greatly, yet fascinated me awfully much.
It felt like my whole soul had turned on fire, burning with sinful desire. So suddenly it had occurred, so suddenly it in all honesty startled me. I knew there were others like me, many of the artists I had met preferred men over women – but I still felt very scared. Mostly I felt lonely though; I could not tell my friends, nor could I tell Maman. So, like a trapped bird in a cage, I anxiously flied around only to notice that there was nothing else but the walls of the cage to see. The sensation of suffocation was taking over me, strangling me, making it hard for me to breathe. Like any other human, I craved for love. I wanted to feel the excitement of a first kiss as much as anyone else. I wanted to feel the warmth of a romantic hug. I wanted to feel the nervousness of confessing my love. I was like any other human, the only exception being that I preferred people of the same gender as me.
It became worse when people expected me to be interested in girls, expected me to get involved with them, expected me to find a girl of my own as well. I forced myself, knowing that my true interest was sinful and wrong, simply a disgrace to the rest of the world. Hanging out with these girls, forcing myself not to act suspicious around my friends, keeping my burning soul hidden – it was all painful for me. Close to unbearable.
When it was at its worst, I thought it would be over. I was wrong, because only a few weeks later Maman met him.
It was the fall of 1978, I had just turned 14, when Maman introduced me to him. Donquixote Doflamingo – the man who would change my life for both the better and the worse. It had been a very different autumn, Maman had been quite sober and had been much more productive than usual. She had exceptionally been out to dinners and returned sober. She had started to wake up early in order to make me breakfast and had started to prepare my school lunches again. It had been a nice alternation to the usual mess. And the timing had been ideal; I didn't have to worry about house chores while feeling suffocated in my own burning desire.
However, Monsieur Doflamingo was not a nice alternation to the usual mess. In fact, he made my burning desire even worse. His charismatic charm, his blonde hair, his low, murmuring chuckle. Despite being 15 years older than me, he worked like the fuel for my fire, making my desire burn even worse than before. I know it was a childish fantasy, Mademoiselle Nico, but I was 14, in an age where hormones play devious tricks on one's body. Unfortunately, it only became worse as I grew up.
I remember the afternoon I met him. Sunrays were piercing through our ridiculously thin, white curtains, which was very refreshing for the end of a pretty stormy October. It was the middle of the day on a rarely calm Sunday. Maman had been out for a walk while I had stayed at home and read a book. Before leaving out, Maman had told me that she in all probability might bring some company over and wanted me to be at my best. Honestly, I had not expected her to bring over a man whom she was in a serious relationship with. She had not been in a serious relationship ever since my father had died after all.
So when Doffy – I apologize for my rudeness, Mademoiselle Nico, but that is what I always called him – stepped over the threshold to our picturesque, tiny apartment, I was shocked beyond words. He was a rich businessman from Spain, who had a very strong Spanish accent when talking French – never was he grammatically incorrect when talking however. But that was not the only thing that shocked me, no, mostly it was his tallness. He was so unnaturally tall, so tall I've come to the conclusion that he in all probability suffered from acromegaly. Acromegaly is an illness mostly caused by a tumor in the anterior pituitary, which forces the anterior pituitary to produce more hormones than intended. Since one of the main hormone productions of the anterior pituitary is somatotropin – growth hormone – this usually results in gigantism.
Well, regardless, his tallness was one of his most striking features. He was easily over two meters tall and had to constantly be curved inside of most buildings. Otherwise he was a relatively handsome man with a very – hm – unique fashion style, to put it sensitively. He was deviously charming and was even more talented at seducing people than Maman, and I quickly realized that it wasn't Maman who had seduced him but the opposite. What he ever wanted from Maman, is unknown to me even to this day. He wasn't a man who seduced people without anything on his mind. And it was very obvious that Maman never actually interested him that much. Perhaps he believed she would become a great artist one day? Unfortunately I cannot tell, that man is still today like a mystery for me.
Ironically enough the first thing Doffy said when he entered the apartment was something along the lines of;
"Oh! What a handsome son you have, m'amie!"
I had peacefully sat by the windowsill and read about the human anatomy. This kind comment about my appearance startled me a little, but also made me very bashful and shy. An elder, handsome man was complementing my external appearance. You must understand that my mother had devoted a lot of time to make me believe I was ugly and boring, so I felt ludicrously flattered when he complemented me. Other people never complemented anything else but my intellect. Still to this day, I don't feel particularly beautiful, but still much more beautiful than I ever felt with Maman.
When Doffy had entered the apartment, I had slowly closed my book, a blush resting on my tanned cheeks. Jealousy adorned Maman as Doffy smiled widely at me, asking me what I was reading. Just when I was about to reply Maman interrupted me.
"Oh, my son is simply a boring humdrum, he's probably reading about something disgustingly boring. Right mon cher?"
When Maman asked me this, I could hear all the hope in her voice. She wanted me to agree with her, she wanted me to call myself boring and uninteresting. Of course I went along with her act – I always did.
"Bien sûr, Maman. It's simply a book about the human anatomy, focusing on the endocrine system."
As always, I expected no one but myself to understand what I was saying. Maman was not a very educated person and her alley consisted of the knowledge of art and only the knowledge of art. I was taken aback when Doffy smiled and hummed at me, walking next to me, bending down over my scrawny frame and catching a small glimpse of the script in my tanned hands.
"The endocrine system? What hormones are you currently reading about? Ah. I see, metabolic ones. Hmm… Leptin non?"
The Spanish accent was strong and charming. I could not see his eyes behind his odd, slightly objectionable sunglasses, but despite this I could tell that he meant well. I looked over at Maman who stood behind him, arms crossed and a sulking expression upon her graceful face. Hesitantly I dared to answer the question.
"Oui. This book doesn't go into depth that much, and leptin is still a much researched hormone. It is just briefly mentioned. Je m'appelle Law by the way, and you?"
"Donquixote Doflamingo – but it's okay to call me Doffy. It's easier for you Frenchmen to pronounce anyway."
And that was how I met one of my many destinies, Mademoiselle Nico.
Doffy set not only my soul on fire, but the whole me. My thoughts, my body, my everything. I was burning with childish fantasies, listening to Maman's and his conversations through the thin walls, imagining myself in Maman's place. Every single time Doffy asked me to join him and Maman to a trip somewhere, my whole body ached with desire. However, I knew what Maman would have thought about that, so I usually came up with silly excuses instead. Often when the two of them left, I watched them a long time until I could not see them, my soul clinging after Doffy's shadow. I was slowly growing desperate – insane.
Doffy had made Maman sober up, had made her sell her works again, had made her kinder towards me, had made sure things actually worked. He had literally saved us from misery. He lived in a small rental flat in the center of Paris, until he rented himself an apartment in Montmartre instead. Thanks to this he was able to visit us more frequently, making both me and Maman go insane because of his devious charm. He was a very skilled enchanter, enchanting anyone into his pace. He was not even uniquely handsome or comely – he just had that special something.
This time when the nights would be noisy, filled with laughter and wine, I would not mind. Listening, imagining, hoping. Those three were the occupations keeping me happy and content at the time. I was happy with just imagining myself in Maman's place, or hoping that he would storm into my room and embrace me. But I knew it was not enough – it was never enough. Love is like a drug – no matter how much of a cliché that sounds like. You think you have enough of it, but you need more, more and simply more.
Sometimes Doffy would bring me alone with him somewhere. We could fly some kites, take a stroll in the park, go fishing, make bark boats or even go to the library to read. The first time he took me on a day trip with him, he made sure that I felt comfortable all the time. I thought it was really odd until he voiced his thoughts out loud.
"I know I'll never be like your deceased father, but I hope we still can be friends."
He tried to be like my father. Or that was what I thought. It felt incredibly odd though – since he still was only 15 years elder than me and so much younger than Maman. But these small trips and fatherly comments slowly toned down my fire-like desire and slowly made me accept him as an elder brother to me; I couldn't simply see him as my father.
Surprisingly enough, Doffy and Maman's relationship lasted two years, the longest relationship Maman had been in since my father's death. The first six months I spent imagining, hoping and listening – burning with a sinful, childish, diabolic desire. Quickly and swiftly, like the anxious wind in the chilliness of September, my desire died out and my relationship to Doffy changed. Soon I was happy to have him in my life as an elder brother, and did not wish any closer kind of relationship with him anymore.
These two years were spent quite peacefully and I felt that we had melted into some kind of family – Doffy, Maman and I. Oddly enough I felt relatively safe. Mostly I felt loved though, which I hadn't done in ages. Doffy would make sure to compliment me often, admire me for both my intellect and appearance. I remember being a little shy about these compliments, always telling myself that he was only joking and that he never really meant what he said. By then I had learnt never to take compliments seriously, that was the effect Maman's rudeness had had on me.
Happiness was something I tended to feel, or perhaps some kind of weird delight. My life was in balance and my odd desire for men in general had died out. Once again I lived without any kind of interest in romance or sexual relationships, and mostly focused on my studies and on spending time with my family. Yes, family. I had not had a proper family for years and I planned to take the chance while I had it, because strangely enough, I did feel like Maman and Doffy would break up anytime soon. The sensations lingered behind me, clinging to my shadow, reminding me of Maman's alcoholic period. I had become very paranoid and anxious and rarely believed anyone or anything – but I was still content with life.
And in the middle of all this tranquil – this genuine peace and repose – something had to ruin it. Suddenly, during the summer before I turned seventeen, my desire returned, ever the burning, suffocating sensation. And this time the desperate convictions to myself did not work; no matter how much I tried to tell myself that Doffy was and only would be my elder brother the sensation never changed. It was there, suffocating me once again, literally grilling me alive, roasting me, feasting on me, distracting me. Once again insanity found its way to accompany me and once again I caught myself hoping, imagining and listening. I devoted my life to Doffy, Mademoiselle Nico, I did my everything to make him notice me.
Then, suddenly, there was one rainy night two weeks before my birthday, just before I turned seventeen. Maman had left the apartment and would be gone for the whole weekend; she had a business trip or something of the like. She had been in a great hurry and had packed a suitcase quickly and then left, so she had just briefly told me that she was going to meet some other artists and discuss about opening a gallery and something. In all honesty, I never had the patience to listen to all of Maman's blabbering. And art has never interested me either.
However, this rainy night I spent alone. Doffy had not come for a visit the whole week and it had been a quite peculiar week overall. My unconsciousness guessed that Doffy and Maman were fighting and it was literally celebrating because of this small knowledge. But this night, however, I spent alone, reading a boring novel, listening to the rain smattering down on the roof, hoping for something unimaginable to happen and imagining how the scenes in the novel looked like. As you perhaps notice, I was once again occupying myself with my usual procedures – listening, hoping and imagining.
In the middle of my odd trance, there was a knock at the door. I remember shrugging lazily, thinking that it might be a vendor or some artist asking about Maman or something. However, when opening the door I did not see anything of the like I had guessed. No, Mademoiselle Nico, outside stood a soaked Doffy, smiling gently at me, almost apologetically.
Astonishment showered over me like the rain showered over Doffy's majestic figure.
"Huh? Doffy? Ah, Maman is not home right now I'm afraid", I replied, looking up at his somewhat pitifully painted face. He looked inconsolable for the moment – so vulnerable.
"I know", the reply was short and gentle. "May I come in? I'm cold."
We settled down in the living room, before I quickly realized that the man needed a towel and probably something nice to drink. Quickly running after a towel from Maman's room, I swiftly came back and handed it over to Doffy who in turn smiled gratefully. Then I asked him what he wanted to drink and he answered – after a moment of thought that is – that a glass of red wine would do well. Then he quickly changed his mind and asked after something stronger. I replied to him that I did not have the key to the cellaret. He simply grunted as a reply.
"Why are you here Doffy?" I had once again settled down on the small sofa in our apartment and picked up the book from the coffee table, closing it with a gentle hand, mentally noting which page I had been reading on.
"You perhaps noticed that your mother was upset. She is upset at me. We are currently having a small… hm… quarrel", Doffy did not answer my question directly, and instead slithered around the straightforward inquiry. He dried himself with the towel that looked tiny in his gigantic hands, until he put it aside. "She thinks I don't pay enough attention to her. She is right, because I have other things distracting me."
He gave me a piercing look – I could see it despite his weird sunglasses – making it quite obvious what he meant. I remember the odd knot appearing in my stomach, making me feel nauseous of nervousness and eager of curiosity. A sudden heat rose to my head, making my cheeks oddly read and warm. Doffy chuckled a little at my reaction and I faked a small cough in order to fill the silence.
"I… I see. Work right?" I played stupid, despite knowing that he knew that I had understood. And a small part inside of me was still playing against me, insisting that Doffy probably was playing with me, or that I was just imagining things as usually.
"Well, I wouldn't call it work, but some people do", he smirked. I swallowed nervously in return. It felt so wrong, yet so right, so weird, yet so normal. Maman would get mad, I thought. She would kill me and roast me alive. And what if Doffy is just playing with me and I make a fool of myself? These kinds of thoughts conquered my mind. I was so, so nervous and anxious, but also so very eager and excited.
It was very wrong.
Suddenly Doffy's hand was on my thigh and I knew I could not stop myself even if my common sense was literally roaring at me to stop. I had tried to suffocate my burning desire too long. It had to come to an end. I needed it to come to an end. In the back of my mind, I had always known the small indication of his compliments. The trips, the presents, the compliments… I guess Maman also had known. It was so wrong, he was 15 years elder than me and I was only sixteen at the time. Regardless my wait had to come to an end. And it was going to come to an end. So I let him kiss me. I let him caress me. I let him touch me where I had never let anyone else touch me. I let him make love to me.
~Thanks for Reading~