Fair warning: this entire chapter is rather disturbing and moderately graphic (no gore though), because Doffy. It deals with the themes of torture, rape, heroin use & withdrawal, physical, psychological & sexual abuse of a minor (15yo), and unhealthy defense mechanisms of coping with said abuse. The worst thing that surfaces in the chapter is Roci's perspective on something we already saw through Doffy's eyes at the end of chapter 1. Let's just say that if Doffy ever gave any thought to the issue of consent, he'd say the thing he did was dubcon…ish. But to Roci, it was rape. It's not exactly graphic, with both sides even mostly enjoying the intercourse in the moment, but it can still be triggering, so please proceed with caution.
Doffy'd come every month, at full moon.
"I'm not gonna kill you," he promised Rocinante the first time, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. "That'd be far too good for you, darling."
Amidst loneliness, silence and madness, Rocinante remembered his brother's tender, cruel smile, and the tender kisses of his knives that came after. He didn't have anything else to do, after all, strapped into his straitjacket — his second skin now — and unable to so much as stand up or scratch his nose.
Thankfully, Rocinante always had the very convenient option of ending it all via biting off his tongue and choking on his own blood. After all, for so long he had lived to make Doffy happy, and Doffy liked him silent.
But day by day by day, Rocinante chose to live. Maybe he was still foolish enough to hope for something. Maybe he just couldn't leave Law alone with Doffy, not when he still had the minuscule chance of seeing the kid again.
So he chose to live another day, and another, and another, bound in his straitjacket and buried in a concrete box with a single small window. For days, he watched the clouds freely chase each other in the ever-changing blue sky. In the night, he stared at the grinning moon, and wanted to howl.
Sometimes, the keepers would come to take off his straitjacket and pump him full of sedatives, and that was how Rocinante knew another month passed. There was a doctor with a small chart and everything, watching the sedative dosage and scribbling things on his little chart pad. Rocinante knew why.
So that Doffy wouldn't accidentally get him overdosed. Drugs and sedatives were a dangerous combination, after all.
He did, once. He shoved a needle up Rocinante's vein and then he shoved his dick up Rocinante's ass, the way he always did, and in ten minutes Rocinante started choking and gasping for breath.
Doffy didn't even understand what was going on until his breathing stopped. Rocinante would laugh if he wasn't busy dying. Doffy's face was swimming in front of his eyes, those damn sunglasses still on. Before Rocinante's eyes closed, he saw Doffy shout.
His brother would come with lipstick and drugs.
"Come, my heart," he'd say. "Open up for me."
And Doffy'd put his lips on his mouth, put his hands on his thighs, put his knife to his skin.
My heart.
He said it so mockingly, like it was the lowest insult; and that was how Rocinante knew he really meant it. Somehow, this hurt the most.
Doffy would fall asleep holding him like a vice, and in his sleep, he would say his name. He would sound so small, just the way he did when they were children. The way he did when he found Rocinante in his warm, kind foster home, and called out his name, and took him to the streets, where they had nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat, and no one but each other.
Doffy had been happy like that, Rocinante knew. He had been happy, because he had been the sole master of his life, and Rocinante's.
He had nothing back then. He had everything now. But he didn't have Rocinante, not unless he tied him down with the straps of a straitjacket and a web of drugs and the chains of his hugs. And no matter how cold he looked, how mocking he sounded, Rocinante could tell it hurt him. It hurt him bad.
And Rocinante hated that Doffy's pain hurt him in turn. He hated that he still wanted to hold him back. His brother, his lover, his monster, and so much more.
That demon in a human body, horrible and enthralling. Rocinante wanted to hate him; he couldn't. Rocinante wanted to scorn him; he couldn't.
Rocinante wanted to hold him back.
He couldn't.
His monster of a brother, who ruined everything he touched. Who ruined Rocinante's life, and so many more. Who deserved to die a thousand times over and then some. Who had no mercy in his soul, and no heart in his chest.
But he would call Rocinante,
"My heart."
And paint him red, and hold him down as he bled, and quietly say Rocinante's name in his sleep, and walk away without looking back.
Rocinante's resolve to live could be a very fickle thing, so easily swayed by Doffy's tender attentions.
To this day Rocinante burned with shame at his own weakness when one night he pleaded with Doffy:
"Please… enough. Just kill me, Doffy. P-please."
I am your brother. Your own blood. Won't you give me just this small mercy?
But Doffy looked at him, mouth grim and frowning, and said nothing.
Rocinante couldn't see his eyes behind his sunglasses, pink lenses stained with small crimson spots.
"You don't get to request anything of me anymore, darling," Doffy said finally. "You snitch on me," he trailed his fingers down Rocinante's trembling throat, "you pay."
How much more must I pay? For how long?
"For as long as I want," Doffy said, his fingers in Rocinante's hair. "I name the price, I take the pay. You chose to rebel, my heart, to sell me out and bring me down. But look at you now, Roci." Oh, how tenderly he said that name. "You don't even get to choose how you die."
He kissed Rocinante on the lips, and licked the blood out of his mouth.
"Be good for me now, my heart. Bleed for me," Rocinante jerked and keened. Doffy licked the blade, "You did always bleed so beautifully, darling. And maybe, if you're good for me…"
Rocinante screamed.
"Maybe… someday… I'll even let you die."
But then there would be a wet towel, gloriously cool on his shredded skin. A wet mouth, pressing over the kisses of Doffy's knives. The silver sting of the syringe breaking his skin, the pain blessed and welcome. And as the liquid euphoria traveled through his veins, washing away all the pain in his cut-up body, Rocinante would feel the drag of lipstick on his mouth, slow and inexorable, and then there would be another mouth on his own, kissing him until Rocinante started choking.
Wide palms would glide down his chest, his crotch, his legs. Sharp teeth would bite on his neck, and Rocinante would keen, but not for the pain. And then there would be fingers in his mouth, gagging and choking him, and Rocinante would lick and suck on them until they dripped with spit.
It was all the lube he was going to get, so he was always very diligent after those first couple of times.
He looked into Doffy's sunglasses, body jerking with rough, uneven thrusts.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
It hurt so good.
Rocinante moaned — small, breathy moans he could never hold down, deeper and deeper as Doffy's rhythm got faster. Doffy leaned in to lick those moans out of his mouth, ever hungry, ever greedy.
He slammed in one last time and froze, his mouth in a rictus. He snarled, like a wild, raving animal.
White splattered across his chest; one drop trembled on his nipple, almost ready to fall. Rocinante arched under him, blindly throwing his hand sideways. It hit the wall, hard, but he felt no pain as ecstasy was rushing through his body.
His legs were numb, his head was beautifully empty, and Doffy was heavy on his chest, draped over him like a blanket and out like a light already. He didn't pull out; he never did.
He'd sleep, crushing Rocinante with his weight, and in his sleep, he'd say:
"Roci."
And Rocinante would struggle to breathe, his hands on Doffy's back, and Doffy's mouth would seek out Rocinante's neck in his sleep.
But this time was different. Doffy was different.
He came drunk. He never came drunk.
He never got drunk. Rocinante's big brother had always been good at everything, including drinking.
Strangely enough, there were no keepers to sedate and clean Rocinante before his visit; no people to coldly, indifferently touch Rocinante everywhere on his body like he was a dirty dish to be washed.
Doffy was swaying on his feet; Rocinante's eyes widened. He had never seen his brother like that, not once, not even after they tried their first cheap, celebratory whisky in that seedy hotel Doffy liked so much. Rocinante spent half the night puking his guts out, but Doffy didn't even get a hangover.
In his hand, Doffy held a jacket, a black leather jacket that looked vaguely familiar.
"You," Doffy said. He dropped the jacket, stumbled up to him, and fell on him.
Rocinante thought he was going to die. Doffy was choking him, teeth in a snarl and the sickly-sweet stench of booze on his breath, and Rocinante couldn't so much as move his hands in his straitjacket, couldn't even scream for help.
Even if he did manage to scream, no one would be coming to help him anyway. Whoever heard him would probably just wonder why the screams were so early in the month.
There were grey spots swimming in his vision, Doffy's snarls slowly growing dim and distant. Was Rocinante really dying tonight?
But the relief was short-lived. Doffy probably realized he was blacking out; he dropped his hand, and pressed his forehead into Rocinante's straitjacket.
"Why, Roci," he said. "You're mine. You have always been. Why would you throw me away like that?"
He dragged his hand down Rocinante's straitjacket.
"Huh," he said. "What's this thing."
He fumbled for one of his knives and cut through the straps like they were butter. He grinned, wide and happy like a child.
"Maybe I should label you," he said. "People keep tryna mess with you, but that will keep them right away. Ah." He fished out another knife. "That's the one." He experimentally dragged it across the straitjacket. The fabric fell apart, a red trail welling along the clean cut.
Rocinante didn't pay the pain any mind; it was nothing he wasn't used to. He could move his hands. He could move his whole body now, his reactions undulled by the sedatives. He was never physically strong, and he was even weaker now, after years of drugs and immobility and the asylum swill — how many years was it now? Rocinante wondered if he was ever going to find out, — but this was enough. This should be enough.
"Roci," Doffy called him, just the way he did back when he was eight and Rocinante's everything. His sunglasses were gleaming in the pale moonlight, the knife a playful glitter in his hand. He was smiling. "My Roci. I should have done this a long time ago."
It wasn't enough.
Rocinante was never enough, no matter what he did. His plan failed, because Rocinante was not enough. He couldn't even stay by Law's side and watch over him as the kid grew up, something Rocinante wanted with all he had; because all he had was not enough.
Rocinante wasn't ever enough for Doffy, who'd take other people to their bed, who'd fuck women in the night clubs' private booths with Rocinante sitting by his side.
Damn, he was pathetic. He giggled, back in the safe embrace of his straitjacket. It hugged him like a mother, soothing his screaming body. Fuck, Doffy got rough when he was drunk. Rougher than usual, that was.
His hair kept tickling his jaw. Rocinante couldn't brush it away from his face, so he had to make do with shaking his head like a horse from time to time.
In his fuck-knows-how-many years in the loony bin, his hair had grown long, all the better for Doffy to grab. Doffy seemed to like it, that hair. He'd kiss it and pet it, and it would be nice if it wasn't for the things Doffy would be doing with his other hand.
Rocinante supposed he looked very silly with his hair that long; Law would probably have a field day. There were no mirrors in his ward, though, so he couldn't check for himself.
The children had always adored Doffy. And he had always been so good with the kids, too. Rocinante still didn't entirely understand how Doffy picked which ones to sell and which ones to keep; his brother had his own mysterious eligibility requirements. All Rocinante knew was that he wanted to stop it.
But the funny thing was… Doffy really was the kids' savior they made him out to be.
Those children from the streets and ghettos, who'd eventually die anyway, in a knife fight or in a firefight or from an overdose or because their next customer got too rough with his whore, or because they didn't make enough money for the night and their pimp was in a bad mood.
Doffy, their benevolent benefactor, was the only one who gave those children a safe home.
There she was, one of his children, now a beautiful woman with cold eyes. Rocinante remembered her from many years ago, when he was still free — well, free from the asylum, at least.
Back then, she was a scared girl with empty eyes and a ravaged body. Since then, the wounds seemed to have turned into scars.
She was the first person he saw ever since Doffy brought him here, other than Doffy himself and the asylum staff. It was rather nice to see a fresh face, he thought.
"Monet, was it?" he said. She didn't answer. He wondered what she thought of him, with his probably-purple throat and his probably-black left eye and his split lower lip. Moving his mouth hurt; Rocinante felt like talking made the deep bite on that lip open. It also seemed like his nose might be broken, but the doctors that came to check on him in the morning didn't even ice it, so Rocinante assumed it was just rather bad bruising.
What a lovely view for such a lovely lady, he thought, and quietly laughed.
The woman looked at him with her cold eyes, her mouth twisted in hatred.
She bent down to pick up the jacket Doffy brought with him in the night for whatever reason. Why did it look so familiar, though?
It — reminded him of something painful. Not in the knifey-Doffy way; worse, way worse.
Then Rocinante remembered.
He must have made a sound, because the woman looked up at him, slightly surprised. But Rocinante didn't notice.
He remembered.
Doffy was sleeping on his too-short sofa, in his grand study with his ornate desk and walls lined with rare books. He must have been exhausted; Rocinante knew why.
His brother was cold; Rocinante could see it in the way his lips tightened, in the way Doffy curled in on himself. Rocinante knew what his brother looked like when he was cold in his sleep, back from when they were homeless children sleeping on the streets, from when Doffy would always freeze in the night and snuggle closer, seeking Rocinante's heat.
In a week's time, he would be sleeping behind bars. Would he be cold there, with no Rocinante to keep him warm?
His brother was so exhausted the cold couldn't wake him up, because Rocinante ratted him out and orchestrated his fall.
Rocinante nearly woke him up right then and there, to tell him, to warn him. But instead he took off his own old, worn black jacket Doffy gave him so long ago. There was a narrow, carefully mended slash in the belly area, near the right kidney; Doffy spied out a random passerby, stabbed him in the gut from behind, took the jacket off the faintly moaning, bleeding body, and put it on Rocinante because Rocinante had no warm clothes at all.
Doffy was eight, and Rocinante was six. The jacket was so big it covered his entire body, like a blanket. It was so warm at first, too, warm with all the blood that got on it before Doffy took it.
Rocinante laid it over Doffy. The old scratched leather barely covered his torso. His glasses fell off, and Rocinante could see all of Doffy's face. Now that he was warmer, it looked so peaceful, like he was seven again, and Rocinante was five, and mother was leaning in to kiss them goodnight.
Rocinante stumbled out of the study. He couldn't breathe. There was not enough air in the whole House for him.
In a week's time, Doffy would go to prison, and Law would be free. Free from the damn House, free from the destiny Doffy had all mapped out for him, free from the burden of Doffy's crimes.
Rocinante told himself to breathe. He still had things to do in his life, people to take care of. Well, more like just one person — but he was worth it. He was worth it all, that small human child who was so much like Rocinante's precious monster.
It hurt so much Rocinante wanted to die. But he thought of Law and resolved:
He'd live another day. And then another, and another, and another. As long as he was alive, he'd pull through somehow, if it meant Law could live happily and freely.
The black jacket was huge in Monet's small hands.
"I wish Doffy killed you," she said, "you worthless traitor."
Rocinante quietly laughed, again.
"So do I, girl," he said.
When Doffy's people came to drag him out of Doffy's bedroom and into the car that took him to the asylum, Rocinante was naked and bleeding all over the bed. There was a deep bite wound on his shoulder, there was blood spreading over the sheets under his pelvis, and there was not a place on his body that wasn't screaming with pain.
So much for the plan, he thought.
Doffy was sitting in his big gilded armchair, silently watching him through his sunglasses. He didn't even bother to zip up his jeans. Rocinante wanted to laugh, at Doffy, at himself.
Now that he had nothing to lose, Rocinante — was selfishly glad that Doffy was getting away from the trap he set. How funny was that?
Rocinante quietly giggled.
"Shut up," Doffy said. He got up and slapped Rocinante on the mouth, so hard that for a moment it felt like his neck was breaking.
Rocinante smiled at him, widely, stupidly, honestly. Ah, it felt good, not pretending anymore. Doffy bared his teeth.
But there was something, something Rocinante still needed to take care of. Damn, his head was getting all woozy. Was it the blood loss?
"What are you gonna do to Law?" he asked. Doffy's people finally came in with the ropes and the trash bags. Of course, they wouldn't want to stain the car seats.
"Hmmm," Doffy mused. "What should I do with him? What do you think, Vergo?"
"Whatever you want, Doffy," Vergo shrugged, sounding like he didn't care a fig. He flipped Rocinante over to tie his hands behind his back. Rocinante couldn't see Doffy's face anymore when Doffy said:
"Well, what about you, Roci? What do you say? I did always so trust your advice,"
and
Damn.
He sounded so mocking. So indifferent. The way he always sounded when he was hurting most.
Rocinante closed his eyes, and bit into his already-puffy lip. Vergo flipped him over again.
Rocinante opened his eyes.
"He had nothing to do with my decision or my plan," he said, "you'll find it if you question him. I wouldn't advise it, though. That'll scare him off and make him hate you, and you don't want that. You want his loyalty and respect. He's an asset, so you'll want to treat him as one. Invest in his education, build an emotional connection. It's gonna be hard, with the way things turned out, but it's gonna be worth it. That boy's gonna earn you big money in twenty years' time or so. However… don't p-pu—"
Vergo stuffed Rocinante's own shirt into his mouth. He must have seen how white Doffy's knuckles were getting.
"Shall I get rid of the pipsqueak?" he asked. "I can do it right here, too. That'll teach him," he nodded in Rocinante's general direction.
"Now why would I want that?" Doffy asked, voice honey-mellow. "He's not wrong, you see. The kid's a valuable asset; he's going to work for me when he grows up, make me good money in the long run. If he's good enough, I'll even let him work on me. I'm not getting younger, you know."
"The brat thinks the sun shines out of his ass," Vergo said, "he won't ever be loyal to you, not after tonight."
"We'll see," Doffy breezily said, "there's time. I can always trash him if he's inadequate
for my purposes. Take that away."
Vergo nodded at his people, and they dragged Rocinante out of the room. Damn, it was hard to laugh with his mouth gagged like that.
However… don't put yourself under his knife, Doffy. You won't like the work he'll do on you.
Doffy, Doffy, Doffy, always so greedy, always so proud. How did he even manage to aim higher? Rocinante would've thought Doffy'd shoot him on the spot.
Ever so proud, his brother, who couldn't bear that to his very own Roci, there was something he'd choose over Doffy.
So he came at Rocinante with the straitjackets and the needles and his spit-dripping fingers, like that would make Rocinante his again.
Normal people just sit down and talk out their relationship problems, you know, Rocinante thought. Honestly, Doffy was such a joker, putting his knives to his skin like Rocinante didn't first steal them for him, back when there were only two of them, together against the whole world.
There was that one time when Doffy slightly overdid it. He panicked. How cute was that? He called for the doctors, always there in the next room in case something went wrong during Doffy's visit, and as they were trying to stop the bleeding, Rocinante smiled at him, at his frozen figure, at his pale, stony face.
"‛Tis but a flesh wound," he said, "It's gonna be fine, Doffy. Stop worrying."
Doffy snarled.
Rocinante snickered, hoping to bleed out before the doctors could do anything. But alas, no such luck.
Doffy, Doffy, Doffy. Always making Rocinante's choices for him, like Rocinante was a favorite doll in his toy house.
"So you wanted to be a hero," Doffy said, "well, I know just the thing."
He made Rocinante feel pain and he made Rocinante feel bliss, like that would make Rocinante feel something else, too. Something Doffy wanted from him, wanted so desperately.
Doffy, you big baby, Rocinante would think, pinned down as the needle slipped out of the blue-black crease of his arm and the heavenly joy started spreading through his body. You spoiled, bratty baby. Don't you know it's all yours?
For such a long, long time, Doffy had it, and never even saw it, that thing he now wanted from Rocinante.
Sorry, Doffy, Rocinante thought as the glistening knife sank into his skin, it's just not gonna work out. It's not me, it's you,
and he'd giggle in between the hoarse screaming, and Doffy'd snarl and choke the giggles in his throat.
Lately, with each and every new visit, the wounds were getting deeper. The kisses, too; and Doffy — Doffy was getting stranger.
Rocinante worried, so he told him just that.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "Any business problems?"
"Why are you asking?" Doffy said. He was sitting on the bed by Rocinante's side, naked and bathed in the moonlight, his body strong and wiry. Rocinante's big brother had always been so strong, and so very handsome — so unlike his weak, clumsy, useless shadow.
"I'm worried," Rocinante honestly answered. "You're my brother, I can't help but worry."
Doffy wheezed.
"Doffy?" Rocinante carefully asked.
Doffy flew at Rocinante, pried open his mouth, and pulled out his tongue. He reached for the knife.
Rocinante thrashed, trying to get away. For all that he might have considered the possibility, he didn't actually want to end up tongueless. But Doffy was of a different mind, it seemed.
Rocinante felt the knife go into his tongue, deeper and deeper, like it was all happening in slow motion. He howled, wildly kicking at Doffy.
Doffy dropped the knife, breathing hard. Then he stood up and shambled out of the room, naked and covered in Rocinante's blood.
He didn't come back for two full moons. Rocinante missed him. At least Doffy was a distraction from the endless days and nights spent staring into his sole tiny window.
But he did come back, eventually, silent and grim. He was not hiding behind his usual grin; he sat down on Rocinante's bed, and took Rocinante's chin in his hand.
He stared and stared, his thumb lightly stroking Rocinante's jaw. Then, he asked:
"For how much did you sell me?"
"For free," Rocinante said, and Doffy's lips trembled, and opened, baring his teeth.
I never sold you, he thought in between the screams. I wouldn't sell you for the world.
Law did give him that physical, just like he swore. Rocinante wished he didn't.
He undressed for Law, taking off the asylum rags. He'd enjoy every second if Law wasn't right there with him, his eyes getting rounder and rounder.
"What's this," he said in a wheezing whisper.
Rocinante noncommittally shrugged. He did expect Law to flip, but the kid would find out sooner or later anyway. Better be honest from the start.
Law raised a shaking hand and touched his skin. It tickled.
"They don't hurt anymore, you know," Rocinante said, "no need to be so careful."
Law looked like he was hyperventilating. Then his eyes fell lower.
"Is that," he said, the last word barely a whisper. "Is that. Fresh?"
"Do you have scissors?" Rocinante asked.
He cut the bandages around his stomach and carefully peeled them away.
Just like his whole body, Rocinante's stomach was a web of scars, small and bigger ones, crisscrossing over his skin in a monochrome Pollock painting. Over those white scars on his belly, there was red: deep, wide strips of skinned flesh just barely filled in with granulation tissue. The wounds formed letters, each about the length of Law's index finger.
"D — O — F."
The "F" looked unfinished.
"They had doctors there. Good doctors; Doffy brought them just for me. They made sure there wasn't any inflammation," Rocinante levelly said, looking at Law. "It's fine, kid."
"Fine," Law repeated, "you call this, fine."
"Well, I'm alive and here with you," Rocinante ruffled his hair. Law didn't even protest.
"I'll kill him," he said. "I'll find him, and I'll kill him."
"Speaking of that," Rocinante leaned in to look Law in the eye, "what's your plan, exactly? You can't expect Doffy to not come after me."
"Oh, you'll like it," the smile on Law's face chilled Rocinante down to his very bones. The Joker's smile. "There will be people keeping him busy. People coming after him."
It all started rather innocuously, with copious sweating.
Then, of course, Rocinante had to rush to the toilet to puke up the beautifully tasty breakfast Law made for him. What a shame it was, to waste good food like that. Still, it was a good thing Rocinante knew what to expect; he made it in time, if only barely.
Law took one look at him, still heaving over the splattered toilet, and immediately fished out his phone. Surprisingly, he didn't call anyone, but rather started tapping away on the strangely large screen. There weren't even any buttons. How did that thing even work?
"What are you doing?" Rocinante curiously asked.
"Looking up a good rehab. You need one, pronto."
"No," Rocinante said. Law looked up at him.
"Why not? This is dangerous, Roci. Have you been using all this time?"
"Well—" he didn't exactly mainline once in all these years; the keepers and his brother dearest were always the one doing the honors. Somehow though, Rocinante didn't feel like that small detail was pertinent. "I suppose."
The keepers would inject him exactly once every twenty-four hours, when the shaking and the headache got unbearable. Doffy did want to keep his addiction alive, after all. And if he made sure the withdrawal was as prolonged and agonizing as possible — well, Doffy's planning had always been very comprehensive.
With the heroin fucking up his body that long, Rocinante sometimes wondered how he was even still able to get it up during Doffy's — conjugal visits. Maybe it was true, what they said — that your arousal was all in your head.
Or maybe Doffy's doctors he kept just for Rocinante were really worth the money. Doffy didn't want him to croak too soon, after all.
"That's — thirteen years," Law said slowly.
"Oh? Is that how long it's been?" Rocinante said, curious despite the mounting agitation that was starting to wreck his body. Law shakily sighed.
"You need help," he said. "It's gonna be tough on you."
"I know," Rocinante shrugged, "I have experience. And I have you. If something goes wrong, you'll be here with me."
"I'm not a real doctor yet," Law said, biting his lips, "Doffy never exactly used me for withdrawal situations. You need someone who knows what they're doing."
"And you don't need problems," Rocinante insisted, "if I go there the cops might want to question you. What's more, there might be Doffy's people in the rehab centers. He did always say rehab centers were a good source of repeat business."
"But," Law said, "what if something happens? What if you die."
"Ah, no no no," Rocinante declared, "I'm not dying anytime soon, now that I'm with you. If death comes looking for me, I'll fuck it right up. I'm not leaving my baby bunny all alone again, not in a million years."
"You're stupid," Law said, nose in Rocinante's chest.
"Nah," Rocinante smiled, dropping a kiss on his black, long-ish, remarkably messy hair. "I just love you, Law, and death can't do shit to me with things like that. Not even Doffy could."
"It's a promise," Law demanded, his hands in a death grip on Rocinante's borrowed, way-too-tight sweatshirt.
"Of course it is," Rocinante agreed breezily, his heart beating like a scared bird in his chest.
"Fuck off, Law," Rocinante snarled.
He breathed heavily. He let out a shaky sigh.
His eyes were all teary, and his nose was all runny, and there were — other runny parts on his body, too. But, well, there was nothing to be done about that. At least he took care to stay hydrated.
"Sorry, kid," he said. "It's just—"
"I know," Law said. "I understand. It's the drug talking, not you. Can I help?"
"Just, go cuddle your dog. I don't want you to worry about me, Law. It makes things worse," Rocinante said. Ah, great, another cramp. He stifled his whine; he didn't want to upset Law even more. "Go be happy. For me."
"Like that's so easy," Law grumbled.
"You worrywart. I already went through this once. I know what to expect, and I know I'll manage. I already have, back then."
"But you're in pain," Law said, pale and lips trembling.
"Eh," Rocinante shrugged, fighting off the nausea to at least finish the conversation, "it's all part of the fun, remember?"
Then he unfortunately had to rush to the toilet, his old friend. Law held his hair back for him. Rocinante really needed to do something about that hair.
"Law," he said, spitting out the last of the bitter saliva in his mouth, "please go buy me some cigarettes, will you?"
"Will do," Law promised, "is there anything else you want? I wanna get you a present, for your birthday a couple of weeks ago. I'm so sorry I never gave you any presents."
"What are you talking about, baby bunny?" Rocinante said, puzzled. "My birthday is on July 15."
Rocinante took out the cigarette with shaking hands. Ah, this already felt like heaven. In his apparently-thirteen years in the loony bin, Doffy had never let him smoke once.
"Smoking is bad for you," Law grumbled.
"Living is bad for you," Roci grinned, the best he could. It was hard to look jovial when his whole body was cramping. "Living kills people. But still we live." He lit the coveted cancer stick with badly shaking fingers. "I know, Law. But it's better than — I need a distraction, you know? Any distraction. The cigarettes help. They helped last time."
"Okay," Law said, wide-eyed and scared. Rocinante quietly laughed and hugged Law, the pain piercing him like a fiery spear.
"We'll live another day, Law," he promised. "We'll live somehow. As long as we're alive, we'll pull through."
"Can Bepo help?" Law hopefully asked. "He's a really good distraction."
Rocinante considered it for a moment.
"Why not," he said. "Let's try and see."
Rocinante sat through the deep, dark night, a small white cloud in his lap, and thought of another night, when Doffy's words broke through the narcotic haze, and turned his world upside down.
There was a lot he had been willing to do, to put up with, for Doffy.
But.
Ever since Doffy got them their first job, Rocinante lived with the feeling that his life was all wrong, that everything he did was dirty and rotten. The drugs took his mind off the heavy, nauseous thoughts, and away where nothing could reach him.
Nothing — except for Doffy.
His big brother just had to find a way to worm himself into the only thing that gave Rocinante some semblance of freedom.
His big brother, who already was everything.
Sometimes, Rocinante wondered how his life might have turned out if he hadn't followed Doffy back then, when he heard the small voice from behind the window of his foster house.
But it was useless, and pointless. Doffy would just come again, night or day, he would steal him from the yard or the school, and Rocinante would eventually still go with him, like he always did.
Rocinante would still choose Doffy, like he always did.
He might have ratted him out in a phantom hope to stop Doffy's monstrosities, to break the trail of dead bodies and mutilated souls Doffy left in his wake. He might have escaped Doffy's loony bin. He might have slipped out of the sweet noose of Doffy's liquid euphoria.
But.
For him, there was no escaping Doffy.
He craved him right now, the way he had craved him every month in between Doffy's visits. Whenever he wasn't thinking of a dose, the itch in his veins driving him mad, he was thinking of Doffy.
His brother, his demon, his beloved monster, who suddenly turned from the apex predator to fleeing prey.
Where was he now, his empire in shambles and his people in prison cells? What was he planning? Did that SWAT guy really get him with his bullet, like Law excitedly told him?
Was he wondering where Rocinante was, the first thing he ever owned in his life on the streets, the last thing he'd ever give up, now gone without a trace?
The thoughts wrecked his body worse than his dreams of heroin, all hazy in the deep dark woods of his head. Bepo licked his hand, a small, white, fluffy consolation.
That Doffy, who was always so confident, and so greedy. He always wanted it all, and he never liked to share.
Rocinante remembered: a late afternoon in late June, the heat so stifling Rocinante had to unbutton his favorite shirt with the heart print. He was fifteen.
There were pink peonies in a vase, the smell heavy and sweet, petals falling on the desk like rosy snow. Doffy was watching him, strangely, the way he had been watching him for the last year and a half.
Rocinante didn't know what it meant, back then. He just knew that something changed. He worried, but Doffy didn't seem mad, just — different. So Rocinante figured Doffy would tell him eventually. Maybe he had another scheme in the works and wanted Rocinante's involvement. Maybe he just really disliked Rocinante's shirt.
Rocinante was fifteen, and secretly in love with Mia Wallace. He had a Pulp Fiction poster above his bed and everything. He'd jerk off to her black hair and red lips in the shower, his toes curling and his back cold against the slippery tiles, and after that, Doffy'd cuff him on the head for using all the hot water.
Rocinante was fifteen, and his birthday was in just under three weeks. He'd already asked Doffy to take him to a theme park, where they'd ride all the roller coasters and eat all the cotton candy, and Doffy'd win him a present in a shooting gallery. His big brother was always so good at shooting. His big brother was always so good at everything.
His big brother, the only person Rocinante had. Doffy made sure of that.
Rocinante loved him, of course. He had no one else to love.
Rocinante needed him, too. Sometimes he thought he needed Doffy even more than his drugs, because he could say no to the drugs when he really wanted to, but he could never say no to Doffy.
Rocinante feared him, too. His big brother, the mightiest, scariest person in the world. No one disobeyed him, least of all Rocinante. Doffy's fists taught him well, and Doffy's slicing derision even better.
His big brother, who was looking at him in that strange, different way. Who was walking up to him, so heavy, so sure. Who was putting his hands on Rocinante and under his heart print shirt. Who was pressing his nose into Rocinante's hair just behind his ear. Who was shoving him on his narrow bed, wide palms grabbing his butt, sharp teeth on his neck. And then they were falling, the bed hitting Rocinante hard and knocking the breath out of him.
Rocinante did not understand. What was Doffy doing? What did he want with him? Was it a strange joke, or some kind of a test?
But there was one thing he understood very well, one thing he knew in his very bones:
You don't disobey the big brother.
Rocinante was fifteen, and there were pink peonies on the desk, petals falling and falling. Mia Wallace was watching him from the opposite wall, a cigarette in her hand and cold mockery in her eyes.
Now Rocinante understood all too well. He almost didn't fault his brother for what he did to him; after all, Doffy wasn't human. He had his own morals, if he even had any. He was the overman, the laughing god, and the universe revolved around him. His people were tools and sacrificial lambs, the members of his Family were favorite toys to be discarded when Doffy thought it might be useful to do so, and all the other people in the world were just — cattle to be milked and slaughtered for meat.
Was it really so surprising, then, that Doffy thought it was perfectly fine to fuck his own little brother?
Rocinante was far from the most handsome man in Doffy's royal court, and even with the makeup Doffy liked so much, he was still nothing like the women Doffy liked to keep around. He'd wonder why Doffy chose him, why he couldn't let him go for such a long, long time, if he didn't see the answer in the mirror every morning, now that there were mirrors again.
He looked at his hair, his eyes, his lips. His nose, his chin, his cheekbones. And he saw Doffy.
Doffy, that egomaniacal bastard, who had only ever loved himself.
The only thing Rocinante couldn't understand was his own foolish heart.
In bed, Doffy liked to hold him tight and fall asleep without pulling out.
And when he was asleep, Rocinante would snuggle closer.
In bed, Doffy liked to choke him with one hand and jerk him off with the other. Come morning, Rocinante's throat would be purple and his voice would be hoarse.
But in the night, Rocinante would kiss Doffy's hands when he thought Doffy was asleep.
Doffy wanted him painted like a whore and silent like a doll. Rocinante would look at himself in the mirror, makeup on, and feel sick.
But Doffy would call him,
"My pretty whore,"
and Rocinante would come untouched.
It was pathetic. He had a sick, twisted monster for a brother, and he'd take off his own jacket to shield Doffy from the chill.
His big brother, the only person in the world Rocinante could rely on.
His big brother, the strongest, smartest man in the world, who always knew what was best for Rocinante. Who always took such good care of him, the clumsy, useless little brother. Who always made sure Rocinante was fed, clothed, and more or less unharmed. Who always said yes to his requests, who always tolerated his stupid failures and fancies, who always got him the best drugs.
Doffy did take him to a theme park, on July 15 when Rocinante turned sixteen. There were all sorts of cool things and merry people around, children laughing and screaming and stuffing their mouths with soft ice cream, and there was come still trickling out of Rocinante's butt. He didn't pay it any mind; he was already used to the weird feeling, even if he didn't exactly like it.
There were many things he didn't really like about this new arrangement. It felt off, like there was something very wrong with the way Doffy now made him open his legs for him every night, or the way he'd paw all over Rocinante's body with his people present and staring at the two of them like Rocinante was some vile cockroach.
They'd never dare to stare at Doffy like that. Donquixote Doflamingo was indefectible and infallible. No one ever doubted him or the things he did, because if you doubted Donquixote Doflamingo, you didn't live very long.
Besides, Doffy just couldn't possibly do anything wrong. Doffy was always right, and he never made mistakes. Regular humans did, but not Doffy. Never Doffy.
So Rocinante figured he was the one in the wrong, not his big brother. Doffy was always right, so Rocinante simply had to obey him and get over it.
Honestly, it wasn't even that difficult, too, what with how Doffy's dick felt inside Rocinante's body. He enjoyed it that first time, for all that he was so lost and scared and shaking, and his teeth were chattering so bad he accidentally bit Doffy on the fingers. It hurt, at first, but then it gradually started feeling good — so good, it almost felt like dying.
It got even better with every next night and morning, his big brother breathing heavily in his ear, his hands sliding all over Rocinante's body like it was something beautiful and precious rather than a skinny, useless bag of bones. So Rocinante held him back, marveling at the rigid firmness of his big brother's toned body, and collected the sweat off his forehead with his fingertips, curious to taste it on his tongue, and ran his fingers through his big brother's lovely hair, light and coarse and obedient, so unlike his own wavy, fluffy, unruly mop.
Doffy'd curse and kiss him like the world was a desert and Rocinante was water, and Rocinante'd feel needed, the only times he ever felt needed in his life, with the only person who wanted him in the whole world.
Every time Doffy kissed him like that, Rocinante would almost drown in his own love. So he did his best to show Doffy just how much he cared, and how grateful he was. He'd kiss his lips and suck his dick, and he'd choke and cough because he was so clumsy and useless, but Doffy never got angry at him. He just clenched his fingers in Rocinante's hair and looked at him like Rocinante was his water and wine.
Yeah, it was strange and kinda wrong, that thing they now had going on. Immoral, even. But if Rocinante had to choose between his morals and his Doffy… Well, it wasn't even much of a choice. His big brother was bigger than his morals, bigger than his principles, bigger than the whole wide world.
So eventually, Rocinante resolved to ignore the side eyes and his own smarting conscience, and just make sure Doffy could always enjoy him however he wanted.
It was even starting to feel real nice, lately, the way Doffy liked to use him: Doffy's rough lips on his shoulder, right where it met his neck; Doffy's careless fingers in his hair, in his mouth, up his ass; Doffy's long, strong body moving over his, sweat dripping all over Rocinante's skin and their bunched sheets; Doffy's hot, hard dick, painfully sliding inside to hit some spot that made Rocinante scream out loud and see fireworks.
It was starting to feel so good, being — that thing Doffy's people kept calling him behind his back.
Being Doflamingo's whore felt good, so good Rocinante could die.
But it felt even better, knowing that he was pleasing Doffy and making him happy.
Doffy, who always knew what was best for his useless little brother.
His big brother, who always took such good care of Rocinante. Who always said yes to his requests, even as stupid and childish and pointless as this one: going to a theme park, together, to ride all the roller coasters and eat all the cotton candy.
Doffy woke him up in the morning with his dick up Rocinante's ass.
"Happy birthday," he told him with a grin. Today Rocinante was sixteen.
Somehow, it didn't feel all that important anymore as he came on his brother's dick. Doffy shot inside him and made him walk around naked as Rocinante was getting ready, the night's come trickling out of his ass. He took a shower and washed it off, and then Doffy frowned and fucked him again.
"So that you know you're mine," he panted. "You hear me? Mine."
But of course Rocinante knew. There was nothing about him Doffy didn't own already. There was no more Pulp Fiction poster above his bed, no more Mia Wallace in his head; even his bed wasn't really his anymore. Doffy pushed Rocinante's bed up to his own to make them into a big king size bed, because Rocinante kept falling off Doffy's. So clumsy and so useless, he was.
And now there was come trickling out of Rocinante's butt as he was gawping, the theme park so big and loud around him. He just hoped his jeans were dark enough to conceal the wet spot, but even if they weren't, that would just please Doffy even more, and Rocinante really wanted to please Doffy.
Cotton candy, too. He really, really wanted some cherry cotton candy right now.
Doffy bought him that cotton candy, and ate it out of Rocinante's mouth where everyone could see them. Then he took him on the roller coaster. It looked old and clapped out, and Rocinante dubiously eyed it. But Doffy said:
"Don't be a wimp, Roci."
His hand was in the back pocket of Rocinante's wet jeans, and Rocinante couldn't disobey.
Doffy took him on the roller coaster, and ushered him into the car. The restraints went down over Rocinante's shoulders, locking him in.
The nervous jitters were getting stronger and stronger.
"Doffy," he said, voice just this side of weak, "I don't think I wanna—"
"Don't be a baby," Doffy chided him, clenched his fingers on his hand, and leaned in to kiss him.
His lips were on Rocinante's mouth, and Rocinante was starting to feel lightheaded, and then the car slowly got moving with a suspicious squeal.
People were screaming all around him, the car was speeding faster and faster, knocking the breath out of him, and he was feeling all light and dizzy, screaming along with the crowd for all he was worth, and it was really not as bad as he feared — it was good, almost as good as a drug high — and they were rising to the sky, Doffy's hand firm on his own—
and then—
That feeling of hanging upside down, two hundred feet from the ground, the only thing keeping Rocinante from falling down to his death an old, rusty, flimsy pile of scrap metal, and Doffy's hand on his own.
It was hot and hard, that hand, its hold almost painful—
and—
He fell, fell, fell, and through his screams, he heard Doffy's laughter.
Back on the ground, he was swaying on his feet as Doffy helped him out of the car. He laughed, feeling almost drunk. Was he really standing on his own two feet again?
His knees were wobbly. Doffy held him tight, his hand under Rocinante's shirt, and asked:
"Want another ride?"
His teeth were so white, and his sunglasses were glinting in the blinding summer sun.
Mesmerized, Rocinante could only say the truth.
"Yes," he breathed, and saw Doffy smile even wider.