Author's note: brief mentions of sex in this chapter.


"What can I get for you, Hon?"

Rosinante looked up from his scarred hands to meet the gaze of the bartender. She was a pretty thing. Her hair was lightened and dyed an interesting shade of green, her eyes were so bright that in the overhead lighting they almost looked amber, and her lips were slightly pouted and full.

"Bourbon. Neat please," he said.

"Coming right up," she said with a hum. She lingered for a moment longer and Rosinante wondered if there was something on his face with the way she watched him. But before he could ask, she smirked and turned her back to get his drink.

He shouldn't have been out and he knew that. He knew it was risky anytime he left his apartment since the trial was going on. But Rosinante had a headache after the meeting with the attorneys and he didn't think he could sit in his apartment for much longer without going clinically insane.

He looked back down at his hands, turning his palms over and over in the warm light. White scars littered his hands, his fingers, and the rest of his body.

He wondered if his brother had as many scars as he did.

"Here you go," she said.

She rested her elbows on the bar and Rosinante could smell her perfume. She smelled of lavender and mint, and it made his head spin in a way that both was and was not pleasing.

She didn't move from where she leaned across the bar, if anything, she leaned closer. Her eyes slid across his face and chest, and Rosinante gave her a nervous smile before he tucked his face into the glass rim of his bourbon.

He chalked any interest she had in him up to the fact that it was late, the bar was a total shithole, and he was one of maybe five or six patrons in the whole establishment. It made sense that she wanted to talk to someone to entertain her. At least that was what he told himself.

"You got a brother who lives in the city? I saw a guy in here last night who kinda looked like you. You're both just so handsome and big," she said with a mischievous grin and twinkle in her eye.

He damn near choked on his drink.

Bourbon flew from his glass as he coughed. The alcohol singed his sinuses and back of his throat, and he could feel it seeping into the front of his button-down.

"Oh!" she said. She turned her back for a brief moment and returned with some paper towels and reached across the bar to press them to the top of his chest where most of the bourbon spilled.

"Sorry," he said when he finished coughing, eager to get her hands off of him because there was that sting in his sternum again and a stranger touching him there did not help.

He caught her hand and tried to take the paper towel away from her so he could dab at his own shirt (and around the lingering pain in his chest).

"So is that a 'yes' to the brother thing?" she asked with a giggle.

She pulled her hand back and grabbed a rag to quick wipe down the bar while Rosinante busied himself with his now soiled shirt.

"Oh uh," his fucking hands started shaking again. "No."

There was no way in hell she believed him because she giggled again and wiggled her eyebrows.

He set the wet paper towels on the bar and finished off the last little bit of his drink in one quick swig, nose scrunching as it burned his throat.

He set the glass down a little too hard when his hands started shaking so badly that he almost dropped it and tried to give the bartender his most charming smile.

"Mind if I smoke?"

She tapped her chin and narrowed her eyes with that same smirk from before. Dimples pierced her cheeks and her eyes twinkled.

"Don't you know that it isn't cool to smoke anymore?" she teased.

He forced a smile and shrugged.

"I'm an old man. What can I say?"

That got a laugh out of her, one that made some of the other patrons look over in their direction and made Rosinante sink into himself.

"Look at those muscles. You can't be that old," she practically purred.

She reached across the bar again and rested a delicate hand on his bicep and squeezed.

He held back his frustrated sigh and refrained from pushing her away for the sake of not coming across like a total dick.

Rosinante could take a compliment but his hands wouldn't stop shaking and he needed the nicotine to relax them.

"Old enough to know better and still not do anything about it," he replied. He nodded at her and tried again with a, "so is it okay?"

She must have been having a fantastic goddamn time feeling him up because those pretty amber eyes glinted in the light and when she finally withdrew her hand, she rested her elbows on the bar and pushed her chest out.

"That other guy said the same thing about his age, said I should give him a discount since he was practically an old man," she pouted her lips and cocked her head to the side, eyes still raking across his face and chest. "He was only forty-one so he didn't get any special treatment. What about you? How old are you?"

Rosinante found it harder and harder not to huff in frustration because his fucking hands were almost vibrating.

"If I tell you will you let me smoke?" he asked.

His voice was too harsh. Too rough to be charming enough to convince her to let him smoke inside. And in retrospect, he should have just gone outside.

But it was raining goddamnit and he didn't—

"Mhm," she hummed.

"Thirty-nine," he answered right away.

His hands moved of their own accord and they fumbled in his pockets for his box of cigarettes and lighter.

It turned out to be a monumental task because his hands wouldn't sit still long enough for him to actually pull a fucking cigarette out and put it to his lips.

"Oh you two are definitely related then," she remarked when he finally finished fumbling and had the cigarette firmly between his lips.

Rosinante ignored her as he struggled with his lighter.

If the damn thing would just ignite—

"The age difference is just right, you have the same features, and you're both so big and—"

"He's old enough to be your father, Monet. Leave the guy alone," one of the patrons at the other end of the bar called out.

His lighter sprang to life.

Rosinante held it to the end of his cigarette and puffed until the embers glowed.

Smoke filled his breath but the relief wasn't as instant as it should have been.

It was there in the sense that he could feel his pulse begin to slow down. It was there in the sense that he could feel his head start to clear.

But his hands… His hands still trembled.

…Why?

"Oh, I'm only messing with him, Bellamy," the bartender, Monet, said. She looked back at Rosinante and a lock of colored hair fell across her left eye. "What's your name, Big Guy?"

Rosinante locked eyes with her as he puffed on his cigarette.

The bar was suddenly quieter and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

She didn't look away either, which was a little odd. Rosinante could make just about anyone look away from him if he locked gazes with them the way he just did with Monet.

What sort of awful thing happened to her that she didn't even seem phased?

"Rosi," he said lowly.

"Is that short for something?"

He did not break his gaze with her as he flicked the cigarette ash into his empty glass.

"Do you always ask so many questions?" he replied.

She pursed her lips as if she was trying to hold back a grin and giggled into her hand. Dimples pierced her cheeks and Rosinante narrowed his eyes.

"I thought that younger siblings were supposed to be more fun, but you look just as serious as the other guy," she quipped. "You new to the area, Rosi? I haven't seen you around at all."

There was a snort from the other end of the bar and Rosinante looked over his shoulder.

The snort came from a younger man that was blond and burly and had a scar going across his head and eye.

"No. I'm not," Rosinante said between breaths of white smoke.

His eyes drifted back to the blond guy.

Something about him unnerved Rosinante.

"Another drink?" Monet asked.

Rosinante looked away from the blond man.

He shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have been out and about so openly. He shouldn't have been risking his life by sitting in a bar that his brother supposedly had been in the prior night.

But it was raining and his hands were still shaking.

So against his better judgment, he stayed.

He nodded at Monet and she smirked, practically fluttering around the bar and producing a new glass and filling it with beautiful copper-colored liquid.

He sipped the bourbon between puffs of his cigarette and let his eyes close. He rolled his neck out and savored the way his body relaxed.

The pain in his torso evaporated and the vibrating in his hands slowed to a softer, gentler tremble. One that was less frequent and one that made it easier to hold the cigarette between his fingers.

A ringing filled his ears but he ignored it.

He almost thought that he could hear the sound of rain on the roof as the noise of the bar melted away.

He imagined the sound of the storm and his jaw locked. If only he could just—

"Rosi."

Rosinante blinked and just like that, the spell he'd been under broke.

Monet watched him with that same flirtatious smirk.

"Hm?"

She leaned on the bar again and lazily reached a hand out to take the cigarette from his lips and tap the excess ash off into the empty glass. She then deliberately held his gaze, amber irises holding brick-red ones and took a drag of his cigarette.

He could feel one eyebrow arch and barely reacted after she held the cigarette out to his lips and waited for him to take it back.

"I thought smoking wasn't cool anymore," he said.

"It's not," she said. Smoke followed her words and she shrugged her small shoulders. "But you're too cute to resist and I like the smell."

He snorted at that and took one final puff of the cigarette.

"I've been called a lot of things in my life but I don't think 'cute' was ever one of them," he said.

"What can I say? I'm a sucker for blonds."

Something glinted in her eyes that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Something that made him swallow back a lump in his throat.

He distracted his thoughts on the subject by taking a gulp of his bourbon.

"So tell me about this doppelgänger of mine," he muttered into his glass.

His hair stood up on the back of his neck again, though he was certain the cause this time was because of his brother.

She hummed and gave him a wicked grin.

"I never said he was your doppelgänger. I said he was your brother."

"Don't have a brother," Rosinante said. He drank more of his bourbon and paid close attention to the way it burned.

"Hm," she giggled and nodded down the bar at where the blond man, Bellamy, sat with a beer. "You believe that, Bellamy? You think Rosi here isn't related to that guy from yesterday?"

Bellamy looked at Rosinante and scoffed hard enough that Rosinante wondered if the action popped a blood vessel.

"You look alike. I'll give you that," he said. There was a slight slur to his words, likely from all the beer. "But you're too soft to be related to that guy. You look like my mother could kick your ass."

Rosinante's eyes narrowed of their own accord.

"Men," Monet said with a huff. She touched Rosinante's shoulder to try and get his attention, but he didn't look away from Bellamy.

"You need something, Pretty Boy?" Bellamy sneered.

Rosinante's lips curled into a tiny, barely noticeable smirk. He looked back at Monet and held her gaze as he downed the rest of his bourbon in only a few gulps.

"I'm too old for this," he said. "How much do I owe you?"

"It's on the house," she said easily.

Rosinante quirked an eyebrow and reached into his pocket for his wallet.

"No, no," Monet said. Her hands were on his bicep again, fingers curling around the muscle as she batted her pretty eyes at him. "I mean it. On the house."

The hair on the back of his neck prickled again.

The sound of the door opening filled his ears but when he tried to look at who came in, Monet's fingers took hold of his chin and forced him to look at her and only her.

That chill on the back of his neck traveled down his spine.

"Do a shot with me before you leave," she said.

Her breath warmed his face and he could smell cinnamon on her tongue.

"Are you always so handsy?" he asked.

Her eyes twinkled and she said a soft, "I already told you that I have a thing for blonds. C'mon. One shot. Top shelf bourbon."

Someone entered his peripheral vision, someone in a maroon dress with long black hair that fell in soft curls.

There was something oddly familiar about their presence but he couldn't look at them head on with Monet's fingers still gripping his chin.

"Hey, Baby. Come over here," Bellamy said.

Rosinante noticed the dark-headed figure leave his peripheral vision. She said something back that Rosinante couldn't quite decipher, but he didn't know what.

Something didn't feel right.

"If I do a shot will you let me leave?" Rosinante asked with a sigh.

Monet gave him a thoughtful look. Then she licked her lips and smirked.

"Sure thing, Big Guy," she said.

He sighed, "all right then."

She held his chin for a moment longer and then promptly released it.

He rubbed his chin once she let him go, noticing that the skin was hot to the touch from her grip. He then looked back down the bar to where Bellamy had been, to where that dark-headed figure should have been, but they were gone.

He didn't get a chance to think about it any longer because Monet set a shot glass down in front of him filled with amber liquid.

"Cheers," she said.

She held up her shot glass, something twinkling in the light, and Rosinante reluctantly took the glass in his scarred fingers and held it up.

He downed it in one swallow.

It instantly warmed him and he noticed right away how his hands finally stopped trembling.

He stared at them in fascination. Clenched his fingers in and out of fists. Watched their steadiness when he unclenched them.

How long had it been since his hands were so still?

He couldn't remember.

"What kind of bourbon was that?" he asked curiously.

Monet set the bottle on the bar. It had a black label he'd never seen before and there were interesting little flecks that glinted in the bottle. They almost looked like gold and he wondered how he missed the flecks in his own shot glass when they'd been obvious in Monet's.

"You sure I don't owe you anything?" Rosinante asked. He stood up from the stool and already had a hand in his pocket, ready to pull his wallet out.

Monet cocked her head to the side and rested her chin on her hand. She didn't bother trying to hide the way she looked him up and down. Didn't bother trying to act bashful.

"Positive, Big Guy."

He pursed his lips.

"Right. Thanks then," he said. He nodded and took long strides to get the hell out of there.

He was greeted with rain once he got outside.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving and quiet.

It came down in sheets and it soaked through his clothes and hair in a matter of seconds. The air outside was hot and muggy, so the rain didn't necessarily feel unpleasant. If anything, it felt a little refreshing.

Almost like a breath of cool, crisp air.

He started to walk back to his apartment, not bothering to duck underneath shop awnings or anything of the sort. He just dipped his head and looked at his feet while he walked.

Rosinante only wished it wasn't raining so hard. There was no way he'd be able to light a cigarette and smoke it with the way it was coming down.

The bar was only a few blocks away from his apartment and with each block he put behind him, he grew more exhausted.

His shoulders soon slumped forward and eyelids felt heavy.

Maybe the lack of sleep from the last several days was finally catching up with him because two and a half glasses of bourbon should not have done that to him. He was too large for such a small amount of alcohol to have such an effect on him.

The sounds of the rain hitting the pavement started to dissolve in his ears. It turned into a low ringing instead and washed over his body like warm sunlight.

It was almost peaceful.

Rosinante wasn't sure how far he'd walked, but he reached the brick apartment complex with crumbling corners, the same one that stood directly across from his bedroom window. And without warning, he stumbled onto the stoop of the building and brushed his wet bangs out of his eyes, just in time for his legs to give out on him.

His head swam with the low ring in his ears and his body felt unbearably hot despite how drenched he was.

He rested his elbows on his thighs, sitting on the stoop and letting his head fall between his shoulders. He took deep breaths and blinked his heavy, heavy eyelids.

He wondered if he would see that stray cat again. The one from before that was running from the rain.

Stars littered the edges of his vision and he blinked slowly to see if they would go away, but they wouldn't. They just lingered and very slowly began to invade the rest of his sight.

Something was wrong with him and he only had one thought.

That he needed to get inside.

He could see his building. It was right there.

It was literally right in front of him. All he had to do was cross the street, open the door, climb two measly flights of stairs, and stumble into his apartment.

He could sleep on the floor for all he cared, but he couldn't stay on the stoop.

The wet city street blurred in and out of focus. The ringing in his ears grew louder. And his body…

Fuck, why did his body feel so hot?

Despite the rain, he could feel the sweat on his chest, back of his neck, and behind his knees. He could feel the redness of his face. He could feel the heat getting trapped in the space between his skin and his clothes.

He grunted and braced himself against the building's crumbling corners to haul himself up.

His lungs screamed for oxygen once he got back on his feet.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

The door to his complex was so close. Just barely out of reach.

His vision blurred again and he could feel his legs begin to buckle under his weight. His breath went out from his lungs as he started to stumble back, but his hand caught the side of the building and a sharp sting ripped into his palm.

The pain was sobering and it snapped his vision back to clarity.

Rosinante sucked in a harsh breath. The corner he grabbed onto started to crumble as he fell back, and it was the shattering brick that created an edge sharp enough to carve a gash into his palm.

It was all he needed to bring him to reality.

His steps were sluggish and messy, but no less clumsy than normal for him, so he was able to make it.

He stumbled his way to the door, shimmied his key into the lock, and miraculously somehow got up those two flights of stairs and into his apartment.

The door slammed shut behind him and his knees hit the floor the instant he was safely inside.

His consciousness began to slip through his fingers, bloody gash in his hand forgotten as his body crumpled in on itself.

Where was the sound of the rain? All he heard was ringing.

Where was the dirt on his floorboards? All he saw was fog.

Was he dying? Was this it? Dead before he could put his brother away in Impel Down? Dead before he could ever reunite with Law?

How was he—why was this—

His eyelids drooped and drool spilled from his mouth, pooling against where his cheek was pressed against the floor.

Just before it all slipped away from him, his eyes flickered to the living room window.

There was a shadow there. It was tall like him and just as wide. And it had the most interesting silhouette, almost as if it was made of feathers.

He had the strangest desire to reach out. To touch the feathers and drape himself in them for warmth.

But his consciousness slipped through his fingers before he could give it any more thought.


15 years ago

The black feathers of Rosinante's jacket caught fire thanks to the embers from his cigarette.

It was no surprise to anyone, himself included, though he still went through the familiar motions of ripping the damn thing off and stomping the flames out with his foot.

Echoes of laughter bounced off the walls of the card room, giggles that belonged to Baby 5 and Buffalo no doubt.

They were brats. Awful little things that hung off of Doffy's every single word and worshipped the ground he walked on.

But they had their moments, particularly Baby 5. She grinned to the high heavens when he gave her tasks to do and told her she'd done a good job. Buffalo had his moments too, though Rosinante kept a closer eye on him after the encounter with Law.

Despite all of that though, the worst part was having to watch their innocence be deliberately wiped away each day.

If they would just leave. If they could just get away before they were older, then maybe they'd have a chance at a normal life.

Rosinante fixed his expression into a nasty scowl and it did the trick. Baby 5 and Buffalo shrank back away from him and stifled their giggles.

He needed a drink.

Once he shook his jacket off, he draped it over his shoulders and began to saunter out of the room, but was brought to an abrupt halt when Trebol stood in his way.

Rosinante's lip curled.

He was a disgusting, sad excuse for a human being. He fell over Doffy and whispered poisonous thoughts into his brother's head. Doffy was probably always going to be some sort of crime lord, but Trebol only expedited it and indulged Doffy's worst desires.

Rosinante hated him.

"What?" he asked whilst purposely blowing white smoke in the man's mucus covered face.

"Young Master wants to see you in his room," Trebol said while he waved the smoke away. The corner of his lips curved upward and a low giggle left his mouth. "Now."

Rosinante held his breath.

He just wanted to punch Trebol in his stupid fucking face.

"Fine."

Rosinante didn't say anything else. He walked around Trebol and purposely bumped shoulders with him. The action forced the disgusting, sniveling man to stumble back into a wall and damn near fall over.

And Rosinante wasn't too proud to admit that he smirked.

He took the clubhouse steps two at a time and braced himself for the bullshit.

He should have lit a new cigarette before he saw his brother, but his spare box was in his room and he didn't want to risk Doffy's impatience.

Rosinante reached his brother's door and leaned against the frame. He rapped his bruised knuckles against the deteriorating wood and waited for permission to come in.

"It's me," Rosinante said after a beat of silence.

There was another pause and then a muffled, "come in."

For all of Doffy's flamboyance and grandeur, his room did not echo those sentiments. His room was the largest one in the clubhouse, but it was still small with dark wooden floors and stained white walls. The only furniture in it was a chair by the one window and a four-poster bed. Overall, it was plain.

So unlike his brother.

Which, speaking of, was sitting on the edge of the bed with his bare back to the door and—

"What the fuck, Doffy?" Rosinante shouted.

He averted his eyes the instant they noticed his brother's complete and total lack of clothing and a woman's head between his legs.

The sounds of Doffy's snickering filled his ears along with a distinct wet smack of lips and slurping.

Rosinante pivoted on his heel to get the hell out of there because what the actual fuck was Doffy thinking? Sure, they were brothers and had seen each other naked before. Whatever. But Rosinante had zero want or need to see some chick blow Doffy right there in front of him.

"Oh relax," Doffy said dryly. He didn't sound affected at all. Hell, he didn't even sound breathless or anything.

He sounded completely normal.

Yet another reason to suspect that his brother was a literal psychopath.

Rosinante suppressed a groan and lingered by the door.

"I've got a hit for you. He needs to be taken care of in the next three days," Doffy said. He grabbed a piece of paper on the bed and twisted around just enough so that he could hold it out to Rosinante.

He blinked.

What?

"Stop being such a fuckin' prude and come here," Doffy ordered, an edge of impatience manifesting in his voice.

Rosinante's legs moved of their own accord, carrying him across the hardwood floors to the opposite edge of his brother's bed.

It was almost like a haze flooded his vision as his eyes focused on the photograph of the unfamiliar man.

"A hit?"

The sounds of the woman between his brother's legs faded to a low ringing and Rosinante almost forgot about her presence entirely as his sole focus shifted to his brother instead.

"Yeah. Put him in the ground. I don't care how you do it, just do it in three days," Doffy said nonchalantly. Once Rosinante took the photograph, Doffy's free hand went to the woman's hair and pushed her head down into his lap.

There was the harsh sound of her gagging but Rosinante hardly paid it any attention.

"…I'm not doing that. Tell Diamante or Pica to do it."

Rosinante could see Doffy's grip on the woman's hair tighten until the veins strained themselves in both the back of his hand and his forearm.

"Hey," Doffy said. He yanked her head off of him and Rosinante averted his eyes. "Give us a minute."

When Rosinante risked a look at her, she looked a little relieved.

She didn't argue with Doffy and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood up, grabbing her shirt and pressing it to her exposed chest as she took hurried steps out of the room.

She brushed Rosinante's shoulder as she scurried out of there, but he didn't look at her again.

He only looked at his brother.

He at least had the decency to drape a sheet across his lap and his mouth fixed itself into a tight frown, glasses reflecting off the little bit of light of his room.

"I'm not asking you. I'm telling you," Doffy said. His voice was low and dangerous. Just above a whisper. Just menacing enough to be a warning.

Rosinante couldn't see any dust specks in the room. The light wasn't quite right. It was too dark outside. The light inside too weak.

He wondered if Sengoku knew the type of danger he was sending Rosinante into when they developed the plan. He wondered if Sengoku knew Rosinante would be given these sorts of orders. He wondered if Sengoku knew that there was a sick, twisted part of Rosinante that kind of liked it.

"I don't care. I'm not killing someone," he said.

Doffy stared him down until he was frozen in place. Rosinante could only imagine what those irises looked like behind his glasses. He could only imagine the color of Doffy's left eye after so many years.

Was it grey? Was it red? Was it still blue?

"I asked if you had the stomach for the job when I made you my Corazón."

"You never mentioned this," Rosinante said right back.

Doffy gave a harsh laugh, an incredulous laugh. A laugh that was filled with a lifetime of unsaid words between them. A laugh that was filled with residual memories, fondness, and so much frustration.

"I've been going easy on you because you are my own flesh and blood, but now I'm starting to think that Trebol is right about you—"

Rosinante's temper flared. Blood boiled.

"Trebol is a waste of your time, Doffy—"

"He's given me more than you ever hav—"

"Trebol's threatened by me because we're brothers and—"

"Then act like my brother, you spoiled fuckin—"

"I do act like your brother! I'm the only one of your little lackeys that calls you out on your bullshit and if you would just—"

"You are mine," Doffy snarled. He shot up from where he sat on the bed, sheet no longer around his hips. He gripped Rosinante's shoulder. Fingers dug into his already scarred skin and pressed and pressed and pressed until Rosinante could feel bruises form. "So when I give you an order, it's your job to follow it. Not talk back."

Rosinante's skin felt cold despite the warmth his feathered jacket provided him.

Doffy never liked to share his toys when they were children. He never liked to share his food when they were starving. He never liked to share his thoughts when they were alone.

And to know that his brother only saw him as possession made a lump appear in his throat.

Did Sengoku know that Rosinante belonged to his brother and that he would never, ever give him back?

"You're going to do your fuckin' job and put that guy in the ground where he belongs. Got it, Corazón?"

Rosinante stared at his reflection in his brother's glasses.

His lungs itched for a cigarette.

"Fine."

Doffy released his shoulder and Rosinante could feel the blood rush there, already forming bruises beneath his scarred skin.

Doffy leaned closer to him and his wine coated breath filled his nostrils.

"You belong to me. So next time you try that shit, you'll be the one with the hit on your head. Understood?"

Rosinante just looked at him.

Despite the shit lighting, he could somehow make out the dust specks that settled on his brother's glasses.

He almost laughed, hysteric giddiness bubbling in his gut.

"Understood," Rosinante whispered when he could feel his lips quirk into a smirk without his permission.

His reflection was a horrible sight in Doffy's glasses. His smeared makeup combined with a wild look in his eyes and that terrible, almost bloodthirsty smirk?

He looked almost as unhinged as his brother.

"Good," Doffy hissed. He sat back down on the bed and snatched a bottle of wine from the floor. "Send the whore back in."

Rosinante almost snickered again.

He pushed his bangs away from his face and took in a shaky breath.

"Oh of course. Anything for you, Young Master," he drawled when he opened the door of the bedroom.

"Hey! I don't need the fuckin' attitude, Rosinante!" Doffy shouted.

Rosinante slammed the door hard enough to rattle the walls.

Hell, he almost wondered if he broke the damn thing.

The woman stood against the wall, sucking on a cigarette when Rosinante emerged from Doffy's bedroom. Her shirt hung off her shoulder and he nodded at her.

"You can go back in," he muttered.

She took another puff of her cigarette but he didn't wait to see if she went back inside or not. He just made a beeline for his room in desperate need of a cigarette.

He reached his room and lit up with violently shaking hands.

He contemplated sitting on the bed, but he was too wired to sleep.

And one quiet moment told him that it was raining, so it wasn't like he would be able to anyway.

He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands and cursed until his lungs stung from lack of breath and kicked his nightstand, knocking it right to the ground and shattering an empty glass that sat on it.

He was so fucking tired.

Sengoku always fretted about his sleeping habits. Used to give him expensive earplugs for when it rained. Used to tell him stories as a child that would lull him to sleep when the rain was too loud.

Fucking hell. Rosinante missed him. He missed Sengoku and Garp and the Bureau.

He missed the freedom from always having bruised knuckles.

Unable to stand the thought of being in his room any longer, he went back outside to the porch of the clubhouse. The same place he had been only two weeks ago when Law stabbed him.

The brat hadn't been around much since then. He'd primarily been stuck with Jora and the kids, so Rosinante never got the chance to confront him.

Which was fine he supposed. The kid was still breathing, so that was all that mattered.

He took his seat on the porch, resting his elbows on his thighs as he watched the storm rage on and destroyed his lungs with breaths of tobacco and nicotine.

His eyes burned.

He just wanted to sleep.

But every time he closed his eyes and the sound of falling rain filled his ears, it completely overwhelmed his senses until all he could see were flashes of a shack and images of blood.

"Oi. Corazón."

Rosinante's eyes snapped open before the loud bang in his memories could go off and he lazily looked over his shoulder.

Law.

The little brat stood just outside the front door of the clubhouse in his worn white hat and button-down shirt.

There wasn't any light outside. The only light came from inside the clubhouse. Came from the lamps of the kitchen and card room that could be seen through the windows.

"What is it, Brat?" Rosinante asked weakly.

He hoped his voice didn't sound as hoarse as he thought it did.

"Trebol said Young Master wants to see you," Law muttered.

"Already saw him," Rosinante answered. He took a long drag of his cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could.

Why did it have to rain every fucking night?

He almost could have cried he was so tired.

Hell, even his body was tired. His muscles throbbed. His fingers were sore with pain as he held his cigarette there against his mouth.

It was too much.

Why did he do this to himself?

"Corazón?"

Rosinante's fingers twitched when he took the final puff of his cigarette and looked back at Law.

"You're still there?"

The coldness in his voice did nothing to deter Law because the kid walked right over to him and sat beside him on the step.

"Why are you sitting out here?"

Rosinante's eyebrows arched as he tossed the cigarette butt into a puddle at the bottom of the porch steps.

"Can't sleep when it rains," he answered.

Law didn't move from his place beside him and Rosinante could see him fold his hands in his lap through the corner of his eye.

Rosinante let go of that breath of smoke he'd been holding onto and curiously looked down at Law's little hunched over form beside him.

"Is that why you were outside the other night?" Law asked so quietly that his words were almost drowned out by the storm.

Rosinante rubbed his jaw.

"Yeah."

Silence.

But a comfortable silence. One that wasn't filled with violent tension that smothered his mouth and chest.

It was an easy silence.

"Why didn't you tell Doflamingo?" Law asked.

Rosinante rested his cheek in his hand and lazily glanced at Law.

"Don't worry about it."

Despite how dark it was, Rosinante could see Law's chest shudder with each breath and the way his hands curled into tight fists.

"I'm not planning on telling him either. So it's fine," he added when the kid wouldn't relax.

Law then erupted into a fit of wet coughs and his hands clutched at his chest while he endured the fit.

Rosinante watched him and bit down on the inside of his cheek.

He couldn't see because of the darkness, but he was sure that white blotches were beginning to creep up Law's chest and onto his neck.

Poor thing was probably in so much pain as the toxins of that terrible city floated around in his bloodstream.

"Go to bed," Rosinante said when his coughing ceased. He reached down and rested a hand on the top of his hat and rubbed it.

Law weakly swatted him away.

"I'm not tired."

Rosinante almost chuckled. It was a little hard to remember how young all the kids were given the things they were asked to do. But that little immature protest was a stark reminder of the truth. And Rosinante could see the little dark circles underneath the kid's eyes and the way his whole body shuddered against the wind.

Of course he was tired. He was probably exhausted.

"I don't believe you," Rosinante replied.

Law glared at him and Rosinante couldn't help but let his mouth form the beginnings of a smile.

"We'll talk tomorrow. Go to bed, Brat."

He could see Law clench his jaw, but the kid stood up anyway and started to stomp away.

But not before he muttered a quiet, "I'm not a brat."

Once Rosinante heard the door open and close behind him, he relaxed and shook his head.

What a rude little kid.

Even so, he still smiled into the rain.


Author's note:

Next update will be next weekend! I'll try to get another one out on Wednesday or Thursday, but I don't think I'll have time. In that case, I'll see y'all next Saturday/Sunday!

Drop any and all feedback with a review please and thank you!(: