Ringo meet some familiar faces, gets bullied (somehow) and almost gets a heart attack. Not specifically in order.
CW: mentions of slavery and hints of child neglect.
05.
The Apple Of Your Eye
Roots I
(A news coo soars leisurely across the seas. In its claws is a standard issue of an old newspaper, seemingly average in every way. Upon a closer look, one can see questionable stains peppering across the pages, particularly certain black ones, marking individual letters with small streaks. The newspaper smells of earth, rain, and garbage.
The letters, when put together, spells out into a simple, short message.)
M
shrt story
stuk somwear
no news coo
may b last leter to u
4 a few mnths
im ok
take kare
R
Half a year flies by before he knows it.
His days blur together in a whirlwind of babysitting, existential crisis and training sessions by the beach. Compote puts on weight and smiles wider. When she's careful, fruits bruise instead of crunch in her fists. Firewood and tools return unscathed from her fingers. Her brother and her fall into competitions on who skips the most rocks across the waves, bickering and squabbling over the current score of seventy-eight to nine. Perospero is unbeatable with his uncanny aim ("Do you think I just sit and play with bugs while you're punching rocks out there?") and perfectionist streak ("There's a thing called taking breaks and not, oh, I don't know, skipping rocks for three hours straight every day that you invented a new technique-"), but there are more pebbles whole than cracked in their gathered pile, the difference growing slowly but surely with each visit.
Now that the initial panic has mellowed down, he learns them in bits and pieces. Compote, who smothers her laughter, can identify any fruits and vegetables from their lunches by taste, yet she can only describe them in everything but their actual names. Perospero, who walks too quietly for a kid, wrinkles his nose when his fingers are stained black from peeling berries. There's a certain drag in his 'L's when he snipes, "You heathen, why are we related?" as Compote steals the rinds from under his nose while he feeds Brûlée the pieces. It's awfully hypocritical of him. He's as much as a bastard in his own right.
("No," Ringo deadpans, holding up a stick defensively. He immediately puts at least ten feet between him and Perospero, who's dangling a wriggling, slimy slug in his nasty fingers, evil grin plastered on his stupid face. "You come any closer with that, and I'll-"
Obviously, the bastard doesn't let him finish before flinging the slug at him.)
Brûlée starts teething. Broyé too, but to a lesser degree, easily pacified by the stolen corners of his shirt and Perospero's coat. Both have a full head of lavender hair now. They show up each visit with ridiculous pigtails styled in various themes, braided together despite the lack of hair accessories.
Ringo doesn't ask. But it's easy to tell when it's Perospero's handiwork; his are always immaculate. Like witchcraft, Ringo decides, when the boy demonstrates to him on the spot using multiple locks of hair before demanding him to learn.
He takes Compote hunting in the dense mountain forest. Trekking and chasing down wild beasts, they orbit around Perospero, who complains but follows them anyways. Perospero slingshots mud-coated pebbles at alligators and bears from miles away; always the first to react even with the baby twins strapped on his front and back. Ringo follows the path of his shot like a bloodhound, Compote close behind, and shows her the right angle to crush its jaws without damaging the rest of the body.
In exchange, they spent an hour puzzling over how to properly skin them whole.
"S'probably like peeling fruits," Compote shrugs, when they linger by the kill. The catch of the day is almost five times their size.
"No it's really not," Perospero groans, marching over with a handful of edible dandelions. He plops Brûlée in Ringo's arms before snatching the knife away. "Here, hold her. The chefs did it like this-"
And then Ringo is side-eying him because, "Isn't that how you skin fish and seafood instead of, y'know," as he gestures to the very-much-not-a-fish-mountain-bear.
"Uhwoh!"
"See!" Ringo pats Brûlée on the head. Smart girl. "Even Brûlée agrees!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Perospero rolls his eyes, "But since when you're an expert in baby-speak? She's obviously saying 'Oh, Peros-nii, you're so smart! That's exactly how you skin a bear!'"
"That's a lot of words from a two-syllable babble," Compote, resident baby expert two, deadpans at him. "Also never say that in that tone ever again-"
By complete miracle, the pelts come out better than he expected. They fetch decent money at the markets, then a few extra more when he throws in a few compliments to ladies with well-stitched clothes and baskets of produce under their arms. Old fishermen Totto and Zuchi happily take the leftover scraps as usual, new patches in their gloves against early morning chill. Ringo spends no more than an hour bargaining his loot away every two weeks, squatting between stalls, careful to mix up his routine here and then as he skirts around the edges each time.
Perospero widens his eyes when he splits the earnings between the three of them the next afternoon. "It's only fair," Ringo pushes the pouch to him and Compote, "I couldn't have done it without your help."
"...can I buy jam rolls?" Compote murmurs, more to herself as she rolls the coins in her fingers.
"From that bakery across the harbor?" Ringo shrugs. "Sure, why not? They cost like ten berries, I think. You can probably buy twenty of them and still have some leftover."
Compote gapes at him, "Holy shit-"
"Language," Perospero cuts in idly.
"-I can buy twenty jam rolls," Compote beams, smile reaching the corners of her eyes. "I can buy twenty jam rolls. Holy fucking shit!"
"Now hold on a second, perorin!" Perospero sharply whaps her on the head. "We can't just spend them all like that- we need to keep some just in case." He eyes Ringo, pursing his lips. "...You alright if we keep them here? I don't want nan questioning us about the money."
Ah, Ringo sweats. That's probably a good idea so she won't catch on to where he is. "Sure, we can get a jar or something," Speaking of… "How is she, anyways?"
"Slacking from her job as always, perorin." Perospero side-eyes him suspiciously, immediately catching on. He has always been too smart for his age.
There's no way to sugar-coat this, so Ringo swallows his mouthful of dandelion tea - where the hell Perospero found the matching teapot and cups is a complete mystery - and braces himself before asking, tentatively: "...is she, y'know, stilllookingformeafterIranawaysixmonthsback?"
Perospero raises an eyebrow. "Uh, no. Not really, she never cares. And take smaller sips next time."
"I don't think she noticed you're gone, to be honest." Compote says, a cheek on the table as she glances up at him. "None of them ever do since there are so many of us."
"Kukuku, amateurs. Besides, why do you think we're able to visit you so much?" Perospero sweeps the coins into his pouch, rolling his eyes. "She doesn't even notice half the time when we're gone."
"She's always been more focused on Mondée and Amande and Hatchée and Effilée for some reason. It's creepy, I don't like it- who's turn is it to watch them this week again?"
"Daifuku, perorin."
"Oh, good."
Ringo mentally lists down the new names. How Perospero and Compote remember them all is beyond him. "Alright."
It brings him a sort of relief at that. No one's looking for him. He might be trapped on this island, but not having to look over his shoulders every second of the day makes things much, much easier. Postponing the looming existential panic while he's out and about in town trying to suss out his ticket off this island. He'll take it, circumstances be damned.
"...So, where do you want the jar to be?"
They settle on an agreement eventually, of some sorts. The savings jar is by the corner, and Ringo deposits their shares whenever he returns from his weekly market trips. To his complete surprise, Perospero and Compote spends responsibly. As in, they actually have discussions on how much are they allowed to spend per week, and how much is set aside for emergencies. He's seen adults who are less money smart than these two, what the fuck.
"Chef Streusen taught me accounting without my consent," Perospero complains, and in that disgruntled tone that's one of the funniest shit Ringo's ever heard.
"Stop whining, you soggy piece of bread!" Compote snitches, strolling past them. "You dragged me into it too!"
"Shut, it's good for yo- and how many times do I have to tell you to close the goddamned door-"
Still, with the income comes extra supplies: a new ax, more variety of food like four and grains, and he chips in with Perospero and Compote on teething toys for the baby twins. He sustains on cheap sea salt and the occasional foraged herbs for the sweet, sweet flavor, until Perospero starts bringing him spices.
As in, actual expensive spices, snatched up almost instantly in the markets whenever they're of stock. He stares at the full jar of cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar in disbelief before turning to Perospero.
"Nan gets a fresh batch every few weeks," is all the boy tells him. "She won't miss them, perorin."
He's also finally able to afford nails and glue. So he busies himself on the rest of the days painstakingly plugging holes and replacing rotten floorboards of the shack. It pays off: the chill no longer keeps him awake at night, and he hasn't broken out in ivy rashes in the first time in weeks.
Now Perospero and Compote would have a decent place to stay once he leaves. His initial plan of No Contact had been dunked into the trash bin and there's nothing he can do about it at this point, so he might as well soften the blow in preparation for the Final Day. It's about goddamn time, if he had to say so himself. The other boy doesn't nag at him as much anymore. Ringo sometimes catches him taking a snooze or two, ever since he dragged in that unwanted mattress a couple of days ago.
(He hadn't asked. Perospero's eyebags tells him an entire story on its own.)
It all blurs together so well, that if it wasn't for the dose of paranoia Perospero had beaten into him when he was stalking him across half the forest, Ringo wouldn't had noticed he was being followed.
It's… hard to describe at first. But imagine if you will: a small tingle at the edge of your senses, goosebumps ghosting across the tips of your elbow and the back of your neck. The pressure increases. steadily creeping closer over the course of the month.
Watching him, it hits him one day.
The only reason Ringo's not freaking out as much as he should be is that both presence are surprisingly small. Compared to Perospero, who charges in like a particularly terrifying wild board out for blood, they're slower too. More careful, keeping their distance most of the time.
Ringo had braced himself, in case his relief about the maid was proven wrong. Yet there was no attack, no anything. As if the duo were just content to follow. Waiting for something. For what? He has no idea.
They follow him through the town, the docks, the nice little garden of the rude fisherman where he sometimes steals potatoes from. He speed-walks, turn and twist through the alleys. They start showing up within the hour he steps foot into town, interrupting his reconnaissance mission. He changes up his routine. They track him, undeterred. It's when the fuzzy ping performed mitosis and now there's three of them that he starts planning his routes in advance.
And yet somehow, they keep up.
(Sure, he can lose them in fifteen. They'll just show up thirty minutes later, a constant blip on his mind radar. How are they doing that!?)
When he off-handledly brings it up to Perospero again, all he receives is a snort and an unhelpful "You'll get used to it, perorin~"
He's got five different slugs crawling on his arm, and has the gall to slowly inch towards him. Ringo immediately backpedals. "Stop playing with slugs you cretin- oh no, I swear, don't you even dare-"
"They're probably just curious about you." Compote offers, cuffing Perospero over his head before plopping down between them like the angel she is, thank god. She picks a rock out from her stash and starts rolling it in her fingers. "I mean, I was, y'know."
Sure, no harm having some kids stalking you out of curiosity. He's already been gently forced to know four out of nineteen of the family and yeah, he gets it. It's not a good impression when you're the one that ran away in the first place. But since they're already at this point, can't they just do it the normal way? "Why not just bring them here and introduce us?"
Both Perospero and Compote side-eyed each other. "Nope. Can't break the rules." Compote shrugs.
"...you gonna elaborate that or am I gonna have to gue-"
"For making friends, duh." With a stick, Compote scratches a chart in the mud. Upside down, he doesn't understand a single scribble. "S'like Brûlée and Broyé! They got Peros to meet you first. Then it was my turn, and now it's Katakuri and Daifuku and Oven!"
Perospero nods, as if it makes any sense. "We go by birth order, perorin."
And this is where Ringo learns the First of the unspoken Charlotte family rule: When you want to introduce someone to the family, you get to pick a sibling you trust to meet them. When that sibling deems it okay, then the rest of the family comes in, following the birth order. Oh, and it has to be on their own terms too. "Mama doesn't count," Compote nods at him, in a sagely sort of way. Huh. "If she wanna meet them then we tell her first."
It's… surprisingly professional? Like a vetting system, somehow.
"That's kind of biased," Ringo squints at Perospero. "How did you even know Brûlée and Broyé chose you? They're literally a few months old- they don't understand the concept of trust. They can't even ta-"
Idly, Perospero hold out his hand. Brûlée immediately splits out her pacifier for him, gummy grin wide on her lips, and Perospero levels a smug smile at him. Broyé doesn't even stir from her nap.
Oh, ok then. "That's fair."
"Favorite brother privileges, perorin~" Perospero reminds him. Then scowls. "Besides, we can't risk nan noticing us. The only reason she doesn't mind us going on a 'walk'," he mimes quotation marks, popping the pacifier back into Brûlée's mouth. "Is that she doesn't have to deal with Brûlée. Or Zuccotto. Or any of us. Not that she knows how to in the first place."
"Remember that time when Cracker tried to eat ants- no, really!" Compote grins, gleeful at his disbelief. "Just scooped like a fingerful and popped them into his mouth, like tater tots! Then he started crying when his tongue got swollen. Nan-san couldn't even stop him from crying for hours-"
"I'm ignoring the situation presented here to say Cracker is an outliner and shouldn't be counted, perorin."
"Psh, you're just salty that Katakuri and me are the only ones who can make him stop-"
"Katakuri and I." Perospero corrects. Then glares. "And stop saying I'm salty. That's not even a proper word!"
"He's definitely salty," Compote tells Ringo immediately. Ignoring the indigent squawk beside her, she flicks her pebble at him, which he catches out of habit. "Just go along with it, y'know? The terrible trio will eventually catch up to you."
He raises an eyebrow. "Can't I just go to them?" He doesn't want to break the tentative balance by accident when he's just starting to understand the weird tradition going on here.
"Uhhhh," Compote looked at her hand. Ringo has never seen someone rapidly cycle through the stages of grief before. "Normally you can, I mean, but it's kind of different now since you ran and it took Peros a couple of months-"
(Haha, whoops.)
"-so it's their turn to do it and no, we can't help, because that's just the rules. A little stupid if you asked me-"
"You're just salty because you had it easy," Perospero grinned around his spoonful of soup, echoing her words from before. He's got the tone right down to its inflections.
"-eeaaand don't talk to me ever again. You disgust me."
"You're just salty-"
"You disgust me." Compote repeats, scrunching. "You're banished from my favorite sibling pedestal. Begone!"
With a victory chortle, Perospero turns back to him, basking in Compote's raspberry blow. "What she means is that give them time, perorin. There's no need to rush things."
O-okay? Ringo sweats as he rotates the concept in his mind. It makes sense and doesn't at the same time, and he's not sure if he knows how to ask, even if he has questions on the tip of his tongue. So like always, he goes with the flow instead. "...who comes up with these rules anyways?"
"Dunno," The both of them immediately chorus together, the same shit-eating grin mirroring each other as they scoot forward at once to pat Ringo on each shoulder. "Good luck!" "You'll need it, perorin!"
Little shits.
The thing is, walking up to someone and going "Hey, you've been following me for a while now. What's up?" is easy. He's not denying that most of the time his first instinct is to run away from his problems, but in his defense his personal demons are on an entirely different level than a trio of kids. Who may or may not hate his guts. Even if they do, well, cool. It be like that sometimes. Little kids can be scary - Perospero is already living proof of that.
(He resolutely does not think about the worn scrapbook he keeps buried in one of his oldest rucksacks. His neckerchief itches around his neck.)
Contrary to most beliefs, confrontation isn't something he's unfamiliar with. No, the problem is when and where. He's not one to worry about timing, but this situation is delicate. There's a profound difference between bumping into a shoulder on a sunny afternoon and waiting for them in a dark alley in the evening. And then there's the matter of keeping the entire thing secret, too. An open street draws unwanted attention, while a secluded one is safer but suspicious on his part. Decisions, decisions.
In the end, he flips a coin and picks an alleyway with enough light to not look menacing.
Ringo slows down the moment the familiar tingle enters the edge of his senses. It's a lovely afternoon, cloudy yet bright enough. Shouldering his pack and careful not to give himself away, he leads them on a merry chase throughout town. Slow enough for them to keep up, yet brisk to maintain his usual paranoia facade.
He loses them twice, on purpose. They rejoin his trail thirty minutes or so later, two pings in his mind's eye. A little slower than usual, without their third, but still determined. Perhaps stubborn tendency really does run in this family.
When he turns a sharp corner and quickly flattens himself against the dip of a back door, two sets of footsteps come running pass less than a few minutes later, panting. "Shit, I think we lost h-"
"Can I help you?" Ringo says, loud enough for his voice to echo in the alley as he steps out from his hiding spot.
Immediately, both boys turn to face him. Well, to be more specific; the first one whirls around and freezes at the sight of him, blue eyes comically large against his gape. The second boy follows in a lazier fashion, faint surprise smoothing into an unimpressed frown.
Oh, Ringo stamps down a double take. They're the boys from all those nights ago.
They're identical in height and builts like most children are. Yet, their style is so different from each other that it catches him off-guard. Messy, fiery red hair in a neat dress shirt with a ribbon by the collar, in contrast to the sandy buzzcut dressed in loose tank tops and flip flops. Are they really triplets? Fraternal, maybe, but are they supposed to look this different?
Ribbon boy recovers first, stomping his feet down and jabs a finger at him with a fury rivaling the intensity of the sun. "YOU!"
This feels like a deja vu. "Yes?" Ringo prompts.
Several seconds tick by as Ribbon boy struggles with forming words, entire body trembling with the effort. Then suddenly, he deflates, dropping the finger as he rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "Uh. I forgot what to say. Sorry."
Huh.
"Dumbass!" Buzzcut boy slaps him upside down on the head. "You can't just say that!"
"OW! Stop that! I never thought we'd get this far-"
Ringo's so distracted from the resulting squabble that he doesn't get the chance to react before a third ping slams into his back. The world goes sideways, he doesn't feel the ground anymore- blunt pain, on his back and elbows and arms and hips and finally a dull thud resonating through his lungs as he hits a wall. He ends up sprawled on the ground, legs in a tangle, and there's a weight on his chest. It's hard to breathe.
When his head stops spinning and his vision clears, he's looking up into a pair of familiar red eyes and a front row seat to jagged stitches and fangs-
Perospero's careful, they bite rings in his mind. The other boy, who's literally sitting on him, holds his gaze, face blank as he peers down at him. Ringo almost doesn't catch the "All right, Katakuri!" somewhere from behind him. "We've finally got him! Now-"
The rest of the sentence is lost on him, because he's keeping himself absolutely still as Katakuri bores holes into him with the intensity of that stare. A name to finally go with the face he saw all those months ago; a quiet apology to a red-eyed boy in the dark.
Darkish-pink hair. A simple black-tee with frayed edges. So this is Katakuri?
A trickle of sweat beads on his head, and he's about to start talking before Katakuri tilts his head, and says in a light, almost self-satisfied tone, "We caught you. Can you please stop running now?"
Up close, the stitches on either side of his mouth moves with each word he pronounces, a slight lisp to his 'S's. It crawls upwards to his ears. A jagged nightmare, sure, but despite all that twisted skin, it's clean. Neat and healed proper. Huh.
(Now that he looks at it closely, it's actually not that bad? Far less horrifying than what he remembered seeing all that night months ago.)
Ringo rolls his response on his tongue, but nothing comes. Your mother is a horrible pirate and I want nothing to do with her or her family so no, I will not stop running is uncalled for and downright rude, while I remember my past life and it's warning me to stay away seems like something a guy might say when he's drunk off his balls. So he settles for a nod.
The corner of Katakuri's eyes crinkle. He loosens his grip on Ringo's shirt as he sits back, eying him consideringly. Strangely enough, there's a faint whiff of… some scent from him that Ringo couldn't quite place.
And that's when Ringo notices the missing weight on his neck. A glance at Katakuri's hands is his polka-dotted neckerchief.
Love you, miss you, I'll be right back before you know it-
"Give it back!" he snaps. Heat flares up from his chest before he knows it, and Ringo scrambles, digging his elbow into the ground as he lurches upward. The motion throws the both of them off the ground. Katakuri dodges and drops into a roll, the alarmed yelling of his brothers ringing in Ringo's ears-
Or at least, that's what would had happened, before Ringo snatches that heat and stuffs it right back down the moment Katakuri's eyes widen. He slumps back down to the ground. "Sorry," Ringo hears himself speak through the rush of blood in his ears. "I'm sorry," Ringo repeats. Focuses on his breathing. Inhale, exhales. Tucks everything into a pretty little box. "Please give it back. It's really important-"
There's a shift in weight, and then Katakuri reaches forward and gently ties it back around his head.
Ringo blinks. Stunned, the heat immediately fizzles out. He was not expecting it to be this easy. But it is this easy, because Katakuri sits back after he's done. "Sorry," He says easily. "Didn't know it was important."
"Um, thank you?"
"You're welcome," Katakuri says.
"...Can you please get off me now?"
"That depends. Are you gonna still run?"
Which, okay. That's understandable considering his track record. "If it means that you're not gonna sit on me anymore, then sure, I'm not gonna run. Pinky promise."
That last part was, by all intent and purposes, meant as a metaphor. But then Oven's high cadence go "Oooh, pinky promise," from somewhere behind him. Katakuri nods again. Then, completely in contrast to his serious, solemn frown, he holds out his pinky to him.
Ringo taps his own in return because why the hell not. The day just keeps getting weirder and weirder, and he's not going to question anything anymore.
But Katakuri doesn't get up just yet. "Can you bring Brûlée and Broyé and meet us tomorrow?" He asks instead. "Around three in the afternoon?"
It's a perticular request, a change in pace after the manhunt initiated by Perospero which he definitely is not going to complain about, though the curiosity bubbling up is entirely out of his control. Ringo rolls his schedule in his head. "Not tomorrow," He negotiates. "And not both. Perospero's coming by with Brûlée in three days. Why?"
Katakuri ignores the question. "Can you bring her over?"
"...I can, if Perospero-" doesn't skin me, he almost says, until he realizes that Perospero already has given him free reign over the twins occasionally, coincidentally from lunch to late evening so he can take his naps. "I can," he settles finally.
At that, Katakuri rolls off him, reaching forward to pull him up. Ringo stumbles to his feet, and in a daze, he lets Katakuri pats dust off him in three easy slaps. He's as tall as he is, which triggers some sort of… feeling? Isn't he supposed to be younger than Compote?
"...Oven will wait for you by the forest." Katakuri says then, like a finality.
"What! Why? No! I refu- OW!"
To be perfectly honest, after all the shock has worn off, getting dragged along by three kids isn't as humiliating as what the concept sounds like. If anything, he's just glad that there wasn't any bloodshed.
Perospero is, despite somewhat skeptical, more than happy to hand over the baby twins twice a week. "Oooh, finally, someone else putting in some actual effort in this household," he sniped without heat, purposefully ignoring that Ringo was the second contributor to babysitting duty for the past few months. Then he's flopping like a limp noodle onto the mattress for his nap before yelling, "Remember to bring them back-"
As if Ringo would lose a baby weighing like a sack of potatoes in the first place, the candy bastard. He makes sure to shut the door right in his face.
The triplets and him settle on a routine, somewhat. Oven regards Ringo with the same suspicion as someone eyeing a bowl of clumpy, puke-colored stew. But he'd be perched on the rocks just along the treeline, swinging his striped socks in an off-beat rhythm, whisper-yelling "You're late!" and many other variations of complaints the moment he spots him, even if Ringo is five-minutes early each time. He walks at least three steps ahead of him, and looks back from time-to-time to throw him a familiar, scrunched-up frown. Ringo doesn't miss how he'd drop his gaze to the snoozing Brûlée or Broyé most of the time.
The rooftop balcony is quiet save for the distant calls of seagulls when they trudge up the stairs. Daifuku lounges by his seat, throwing a hand up in a greeting. Katakuri would always be in the middle of pulling a clean mat out from the crates. He'd set it up under the shaded corner, smoothes the creases before stepping back. That's when Ringo takes the cue to settle in, seated cross-legged on the floor, positions the baby twin of the day on his lap and nods at the boys.
Give them time, Perospero's words echoes, so he does. The three of them approach him in different ways.
The first thing you learn about Oven, if you hadn't already, is that he's loud. He's rambunctious. He's relentless. He rushes at problems head first and questions never. He squats in front of him and starts making silly faces or singing off-key rhymes, while his brothers hover behind him side-eying each other.
It's… hilariously ineffective. Broyé, as always, prefers napping. Brûlée, on the other hand, is not happy about this. She's already crawling, and cries whenever Ringo takes as much of a step away from her after he plops her into Oven's arms.
Ringo would scoop her up and coax her with shanties until giggles bubble out from her. But the moment he takes his hands off her the waterworks start up again, blotchy red staining her cheeks and her little sharp nose. Oven flails, lets go of her, and she's immediately off crawling back towards him. And the same song and dance starts over again.
(Now he understands just what Perospero has went through during the first couple of nights when he escaped. And how those eyebags of his came to be. How on earth he deals with it for seventeen siblings is a mystery that scares him.)
They end up in a position where Brûlée's half-sprawled on his lap, where he's kneeling. Gripping onto his pants with a pudgy fist, Brûlée chews on her fingers as she stares at Oven, letting out these little sniffles now and then. She shuffles forward, only to come crawling back, fat tears staining her cheeks, because Oven has her favorite teething toy and she wants it back.
"Look here, Brûlée!" Oven sing-songs, waving the toy out at his sister. It's carved like a lollipop, the huge flat kind that has rainbow swirls. "Look at what nii-chan has!"
Brûlée sees it alright. She locks onto it like back when she's after his fingers, but she changes her mind at the last minute. She scuttles back to Ringo, clinging onto his pants, getting mucus and baby saliva everywhere, and each time she looks back Oven starts shamelessly baiting her with the toy. "Brûlée! Come to Onii-chan!"
Brûlée crawls, inching to him bit-by-bit. Again, she turns away just as Oven tries to put the toy in her mouth. This back-and-forth continues for a good ten minutes; Brûlée cries and crawls back to Ringo, then she cries and crawls to Oven. She slips on her palms a couple of times to lay there like a sad lump of potato, before pulling herself up to try again; but she never gets within a feet to Oven, fat tears rolling down her cheeks like a leaking faucet.
Oven throws his hands up in frustration.
"You!" He yells over her wailing. "What did you do to her?"
"I have no idea," Ringo tells him truthfully, with feeling. His legs are starting to go numb. "Brûlée," He holds her up to look into her wet, sad eyes. It's honestly a little pathetic. "Why are you like this?"
"Nooo!" Brûlée protests.
Daifuku swoops in to scoop her up. She stops crying immediately, gripping and sniffling into his tank top, getting snot all over the place. "It's actually kinda funny," he forgoes his disgust to skip straight into smug, gleeful sibling shit-talking. He's still riding on the high ever since he picked Brûlée up two weeks ago, the only one out of his brothers with this achievement so far. Hilarious, because Oven's the only one who's determined to get his sister to like him. "Maybe your face is just too ugly or something."
"We literally have the same face! You're calling yourself ugly. You're calling Katakuri ugly. Katakuri!" Oven hollers in one breath. "Daifu just called you ugly!"
"I did NOT-"
"Oh no," Comes the flat voice, as Katakuri drops whatever he has in his hands to come stalking over, a glint in his eyes.
"WaitwaitWAIT-"
"You get his arms and I'll get his legs!"
"NO-" And then Brûlée is deposited into his arms just as Oven slams into Daifuku, Katakuri joining the fray in a few short strides. It's a brutal one-sided battle. Ringo keeps his mouth shut as they drag Daifuku bodily away by his legs.
As it stands, harmless rough-housing is a form of art among the siblings. Revenge plot is equally commonplace, as he comes to find out a week later when he's caught in the middle. Daifuku is as much as a cretin as his eldest brother; there's a stick in his hands and a fat beetle dangling on the end as he approaches, grin plastered on his face. He's treated to a ten minutes rant from Oven on everything that is possibly wrong with him until the beetle launches off in flight towards them, including Ringo.
Oven screams, and Ringo screams with him, tumbling over each other as they scramble away from the flying hazard.
Katakuri, as cool as ever, lets them run in circles for five minutes before catching it with one hand, before he's off releasing it into the woods.
Once everything had settled down, Oven simply blinked at him in empty-minded surprise. "Same fear?"
"Same fear." Ringo agreed, indescribable mirth creeping into his voice. The unexpected kinship, of loosing your shit together as they're running from a flying bug.
It does not change much. Oven still scowls at him the entire afternoon, but he starts humming along that next time Ringo goes, "Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow~ Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes." He has an unsurprising sense of rhythm just like Perospero, but it's impressive how fast he picks up the tune and keeps his pacing.
"So how does that song go?" Oven asks, once Brûlée is knocked out for the day. Broyé and her are two peas in a pod, with how similar their sleeping habits are.
"I can sing it for you if you'd like." There's no sand or paper, so Ringo clears his throat instead. The shanty's already etched into his mind, a leftover memory from years ago:
"Come all you young sailor men, listen to me
I'll sing you a song of the fish in the sea
And it's windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys
When the wind blows, we're all together, boys
Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow
Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes~"
"It's pretty catchy," Oven says, after he digests the words.
"The beginning changes to uh, eels and sharks or something, I'll show you later, but the chorus is pretty much the same."
Oven hmms and haws. "We usually just sing the Johnny songs. You know, like," And then he easily slips into the verses of Leave her, Johnny, leave her. "This one too," followed up by Oh, where am I to go, M'Johnnies, Oh, where am I to go? "And uh," He finishes off with Only one more day, me Johnny, One more day.
(They match the tunes Perospero hums occasionally when he's coaxing the twins.)
"Oh yeah, that's a lot," Ringo says, a little huh feeling at the revelation. And also because Oven is right, that is a lot of Johnnies. "I never knew there's so many about, uh, this Johnny guy."
"Right? Who is this guy? What did he do? Why are there so many songs about him?"
Katakuri's stare is boring holes into the back of his head. So Ringo welcomes the distraction; they trade songs afterwards, slinging verses between them until the oranges fade from the sky.
In the weeks that follow, he gradually comes to see the similarities between the triplets and their eldest duo. The list in his mind grows slowly as the catalogs them, right beside the ones labeled Perospero and Compote.
Unlike Oven, who's pretty much as subtle as the sun, Daifuku is… well. He's aloof, for one. He prefers napping over babysitting, and he has the uncanny ability to predict when Broyé is about to puke. He snarks at Oven as he ties his ribbon and pats down his shirt for him, showcasing a penchant for neatness. Yet he has the crudest table manners ever for snack time, the first to reach out with his sticky fingers to snatch, much to Oven's displeasure.
He always leaves two portions after his turn, despite everything.
"Eh, I'm just here because I'm bored," he claims, rebraiding Brûlée's pigtails. It's not as neat as Perospero's, but it sure as hell looks better than Ringo's attempt. He does find out that the boy does have some motives, soon enough, because Daifuku asks him, one day: "You got any of those potato wedges or pancakes left?"
"...what makes you think I can cook?"
Daifuku levels him an unimpressed look. "I'm not stupid. Peros-nii brings back food sometimes for the rest of us, and he doesn't have time to cook."
That tidit is definitely interesting. Yes, he did gave Perospero food occasionally, usually leftovers from their lunches. But the way Daifuku talks implies that all that food has been going somewhere, and often enough that he's grown familiar with.
"Sure," He files that away for another day. "What about it?"
Daifuku hmphs. Grumbles under his breath. Then, with a bit of uncharacteristic bashfulness disguised as nonchalance, "Can you make more? Opera and Counter's been asking for them." Rubs under his nose as he looks away. "They eat a lot. I'll stop bothering you with bugs too"
Because Ringo is well-versed in lying, then polished and supplemented by Perospero's sharp eyes, he spots the half-truth immediately. If he says no, Daifuku can deflect it off from him since he never explicitly stated that it was his request. If he says yes, then he would get snacks for both his younger siblings and him.
It's a win-win situation. It's such a sly move.
"Next time instead of blackmailing me, just ask," Ringo says, rolling his eyes. "But sure, I'm thinking of making more next week. Do you want more salt or less salt?"
"More salt," Daifuku lights up immediately, completely unaware that he just gave himself away.
So Ringo starts bringing snacks. And keeping up his promise, Ringo is excluded from any of the pranks and rough-housing moving forward. Daifuku even exchanges little stashes of ingredients and stolen spices every now and then, non-subtly hinting at what he wants next week. Sneaky little bastard.
His temper, funny enough, also resembles his eldest brother. During one drizzling afternoon, when Ringo is rocking Broyé as Oven feeds her stolen baby formula ("It's not my fault that our nanny didn't notice!"), Daifuku snaps up from his stash of fresh pancake slices from the corner of his eyes. Then before anyone can react, he's vaulting over the low wall, a pissed "What the hell WHY ARE YOU DOING HERE-" in his wake.
Ringo takes the bottle and ambles over to where Katakuri is, peering over the ledge. Daifuku's already at the bottom of the stairs. The rain shrouds everything in a light fog, but there, by the corner of the building, are a gaggle of children huddled together.
"-ut up, shitty-fuku!" He pieces the words together from the flash of lip movement. There's a tiny kid with a bob of purple hair sticking vertically from the top of their head. They cling onto Daifuku, who in turn manhandles them as he stumbles around the corner. "-anna see! Can't fucking make m-"
"-atch your fucking language!" Daifuku's yelling carries over the din of the rain. "When I tell nee-san your ass is gonna be so grass! And how many times I gotta tell you three to stop sneaking out witho- you got mud on your shirt you little-"
"Ehhh, it's normal," Oven tells him when props his arms on the ledge beside him. "Compote-nee's probably looking for them now."
Poor Compote. Daifuku is wrestling with three kids with varying shades of lavender hair now (Is everyone in this family capable of mitosis?), throwing them around with ease, size be damned. A couple feet away from the commotion and under an umbrella, one of the long-necked girls looks up and locks eyes with Ringo.
Um.
Ringo patted Brûlée's hair. Should he do something? What's the correct way to respond here? If he doesn't do anything it might be rude, and being rude is the last thing he wants to do with Katakuri staring at him again. So he raises a hand to wave.
There was a brief second of delay before the girl waves back, in that limp-arm-wriggling-fingers sort of way. That brief moment passes as they turn to follow after Daifuku. He's already dragging the kids away by their knob of hair, like door handles, funny enough. Show's over.
Twenty minutes later, Daifuku comes back without his bag of pancakes. He's also drenched to his toes, and grumbles as Katakuri tosses a spare towel to him.
Ringo makes a mental note to pack a bit more extra snacks next time. Turns out, the best way to bribe unruly children is through their stomach, not that anybody ever asks.
His only problem so far is Katakuri.
To be honest, Ringo had expected more screaming. It's what children do, right? Perospero gets a pass since he's the living personification of stress, while Compote doesn't count because she's the sweetest out of them, nevermind that her punch can crush boulders. His own reincarnated ass is not included, obviously.
But the triplets are what, six? And his expectations on how it would had went - definitely more biting and screaming than whatever the hell is Daifuku and Oven are doing - has been blown apart in the weeks that followed.
And in case you're misunderstanding him: Katakuri isn't a bad kid. Hell, Katakuri is the furthest thing away from a spoiled brat. He barely talks to Ringo, and when he does he's so polite that he can give the marketplace grannies a run for their money.
So what's wrong then? You might ask.
Well, for starters, Katakuri wouldn't stop staring at him.
Not outright, of course. Only when he's not paying attention, like when Oven and him are passing Brûlée between them like a hot potato, getting her used to being held by her brother. Or when he's contemplating the meaning of his life as Daifuku and Oven starts another round of fistfight over the right way of changing diapers. But each time he glances back Katakuri would already be staring into space elsewhere, or already in the midst of joining his brothers.
No, he's not crazy. He recognises that prick of sting into the side of his cheeks anywhere, dammit.
The thing is, all that staring is driving him anxious. But he can't bring it up, because he has the habit of watching people too. And he refuses to be hypocritical like Perospero. There's only enough space for one bastard on this island-
-anyways, the question is why does Katakuri keep looking at him? Is there something on his face? Is he still angry at how rude he was back on that first night? Seas, maybe he's like Perospero too, pissed at him for ditching them months ago.
Ringo doesn't know what to do about this. Anyone can see that Katakuri is the de facto leader of the trio. He's the quietest out of them all, sure, but he snipes back just as easily when Daifuku throws a jab at him. They argue. They fistfight. They push and shove and wrestle for a good half of the time they're together, but each time there's a decision involved, Daifuku and Oven would glance back at Katakuri as one as they start arguing without words.
(…It's actually kinda of fascinating, watching them. Katakuri and Oven has the exact same scrunch as Compote. Oven's comes with exaggerated hand emoting. Daifuku's brow furrow and crinkled cheeks combo reminds him of Perospero when he's about to tell him that he's an idiot. Similar to one another despite the clashing aesthetics. Ha.
They cycle through three conversations under five minutes at most, but they usually come to an agreement in the end. Katakuri is the one who steps in when it breaks out in a fight; he nevers starts one, though he retaliates if provoked, and he's the designated person to end them. Usually with a narrow-eyed I'll-tell-niisan-and-neesan, or straight up slam-dunking his brothers. Physically and metaphorically, like that time when he just changed Broyé's diapers under a minute while his brother are still arguing.
Either way works, hilariously enough.)
So the point is: if Katakuri decides that he wants to fistfight him, Ringo doesn't know if he can take on three angry six-years-olds working together. He'd perish within ten minutes. Fifteen, if he's lucky.
…And has he already mentioned that all three of them, despite being four years younger and ignoring the malnutrition he probably has for the past ten years of his life, are as tall as he is?
Let it be known that Ringo isn't inflexible. If there's anything he's learnt from the past two incidents of him running and the consequences, it's definitely time for a change in strategy. And thus, against his screaming instincts, Ringo picks fight instead of flight this time.
And by fight, it means gritting his teeth and facing his problems head on instead of bolting.
"I'm sorry for staring," Ringo blurts then, one sunny afternoon. Katakuri's been sneaking glances at him again, drilling into him in intervals. They're both by the balcony overlooking Daifuku and Oven as they wrestle the gaggle of kids for the second time this month.
The intensity of the stare increases twice-fold. "What staring?"
Ringo keeps his face perfectly blank. Yet, in complete contrast: "Your mouth, y'know, that night when I, uh," is the string of words tangling on his tongue.
"...Oh. Huh. It's ok," There's no indication of any emotion on Katakuri's face, though he shrugs his shoulders. "It's not a big deal. But thanks, I guess."
Then he produces the little stash that he carries around occasionally, and starts munching on his snacks; little flour balls half the size of his palm. Those are new, Ringo squints, and then with horror, are those raw dough, even as he mimics the gesture and turns back to stare into the distance in silence. It's an antagonizing ten minutes before Daifuku comes stalking up the stairs, Oven hot on his heels.
Okay, so maybe it's a little underwhelming, if he has to be honest. He really was expecting some sort of screaming the moment he opened his mouth. Not a polite shrug and a simple "Okay, thanks," vibe.
Maybe kids don't hold grudges. I mean, they're literally six, Says the logic in his head. There's no brain-cells in there. I bet they won't remember what happened in about a week's time.
But Perospero held his for over three months and he's eight.
He's smarter than five adults combined. And he doesn't count on account of looking like he's the one who's been reincarnated- like, have you seen his eyebags?
(He stops himself right there before he snorts. Oven's already judging him from across the roof.)
Still, to be fair, the staring stops after that. But it was a short-lived relief, because he has a second problem now.
Katakuri smells like freshly-cooked rice.
Which, well, okay. Technically it isn't a problem problem, per say. But maybe he should start from the top to keep things simple.
Long story short: he's nowhere close to escaping this island.
Ringo's been here for nearly eight months. On days where he's free from babysitting, he slips into the market crowd and makes nice with the shopkeepers. Now that he knows Linlin's hired nanny is more than happy to ignore him, he's free to explore the rest of the districts, though he keeps his head down and away from the first sight of trouble as best as he could. Each turn and corner imprints itself into his mind's eye, carves a copy into his muscle memory. Slowly, his mental map starts filling up.
The only downside is the fresh stench of trash and rot. Though he's more or less desensitized to it, showers quickly becomes Ringo's favorite past time. The less questions from Perospero, the better.
Yet, despite his efforts, he finds no traces of suspicious activities or groups that's willing to smuggle people off this island.
For now.
A watched pot never boils, the saying goes. So Ringo shrugs, returns to babysitting duty and bids his time. He stashes money and supplies, and stocks up what he can in the shack for the rest of the kids.
And on the ninth month, the sleepy fishing port comes alive.
Hanomon is a busy island despite the isolation, but this buzzing restlessness is new. Fishermen gather in groups by the docks, sewing their nets and patching their boats to the chorus of Haul Away Joe. Vendors stocks up on their wares, polishes their stores. Just last week, a group of stranded pirates trashed the local bar, a dangerous cocktail of excitement and some sort of cabin-fever, and got their asses beat black-and-blue.
There's no mistaking it. The next daytime high tide is in a month's time, and everyone's getting ready for the Great Departure; Ironically named when its almost like a festival, a frenzy of buying and selling to outsiders and visiting merchants.
Just what he has been waiting for.
So he's wandering the docks, pressed against the shadows, looking for signs of ships which are open to barter passage. There are more vessels lining the harbor now, emerging from their hibernation in the dockyards day after day; colorful sails painting a picture across the bright skies. But nothing's fruitful at the moment: there's a crew of burly seamen pulling cargo onto their vessel, no use for milk-teethed boys to offer dock work to. Medium caravels with snoring, drunk fishermen are too skeptical for his taste; can they even survive the trip out from the cape? A creaky vessel with rats tunneling from its wallboards into the drainages, which, ew, that's disgusting.
(If pneumonia doesn't get to him first then scurvy will. No thank you.)
And then Ringo stops, squinting upwards at a lovely cutter ship. She's well-polished, wood creaking softly against the waves. Up on the deck, a handful of men and women are steadily working, twisting rope and mending sails, cleaning the wooden floor. They look clean and respectable, and the chorus of the women's voices easily carry over the wind, low and sweet like honey.
At that moment it seems like he scored a jackpot, and he would've taken a step forward if he hadn't caught the words to the tune at the last second:
"Wade in the wa-ter
Wade in the wa-ter, Children
Wade in the wa-ter
God's a gonna trouble the wa-ters."
It's catchy. It's rhythmic. It sends a chill down his spine and slaps him like a bucket of cold water, because that's a song he recognises from a long time ago. A quicksilver memory of being pulled back into the dark as he's shushed. Remember the song, the warning comes back to him in whispers. Remember the song, sweetling. That's a warning right there, what caged birds sing to keep you away, lest you meet their fate. When you hear that, you run.
That's a slave song he's hearing on this island. There are slaves on this island. It's setting off alarm bells in his head, one after another like shattering glass.
And that's when he catches a faint whiff of rice.
He whirls around immediately, scanning across the place as his heart thumps beneath his chest. And then he sees Katakuri, who's peeking from behind a stack of crates. The boy freezes when their eyes met.
Ringo immediately speed-walks to him. "Shhhhh," he hisses, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the shadows of the alleyway. Katakuri, to his credit, didn't resist at all.
Once they're safely hidden between a trash bin and more stacks of crates, he clasps a hand on Katakuri's shoulders and goes, with feeling, "What are you doing here?"
"Following you," Katakuri doesn't even bat an eye.
Ringo facepalms. "Yes I can see that- just, ugh," He cycles through the questions in his mind like spinning laundry in a washbucket: What are you thinking? When did you start following me? Who else is with you? How did you keep up without me noticing, what the hell?
In the end, he settles on: "Why?"
Katakuri shrugs. "Why not?"
"...You're not supposed to be here. Perospero will kill you when he finds out."
"If he finds out," Katakuri points out, amicably. "And none of us are supposed to be here at all. This place is restricted- I saw the signboard outside."
"And you still- nevermind, my bad, I was setting a bad example." Ringo sighs. "Let's never talk about this and never follow what I do ever again."
Katakuri opens his mouth. Closes it, then rubs the back of his head sheepishly. "I've been sneaking in here before you, actually."
Wait, what? "Don't tell me Daifuku and Oven in this too-"
"It's just me. And same like you," Katakuri says, honest and open and sincere, as if his next words doesn't knock the breath out of Ringo. "I'm trying to find a way off this island."
"...You don't know that. Maybe I'm just here because I enjoy the afternoon sun."
Katakuri levels him an unimpressed look. "It's pretty obvious," He points out, almost bored, as if it's the most logical fact. The sun is bright, the sea is blue. Ringo sucks at lying, in this case. Yeah, he definitely needs to brush up on his acting skills like what Perospero said. Either that or this family is just full of mind readers; if a six year old can see through him then it's on him for giving himself away.
Still, ignoring that the cat's out of the bag now, Ringo zeroes in on the one glaring issue that's eating at him. "Fine, you want off. It's cool, we both have the same goal, but did you really not hear that?"
Katakuri blinks at him.
This kid. Ringo rubs his nose bridge. "Don't you know that song? The ones that the ladies are singing? Seas, okay, come here- listen to me," He hisses, once Katakuri shuffles closer, nodding. "If you're gonna sneak around here then at least you have to know some basic rules. And Rule Number One is to avoid that music. Because that's what slaves sing, and they're warning you to get the out of here before you get caught like them."
He whispers the few lines of verse, and Katakuri hums along with him. Ringo dearly hopes that he understands just how dangerous this is. Actually, do six-years-old understand the concept of slavery? "...do you even know what slaves and slavers are?"
"...Yes I do," Katakuri frowns at him, "People sold by people. People selling people. Never seen one before, though. Why are they here?"
"Million berry question of the day, rice boy." Ringo chews on his lip. Why here? Hanomon is an isolated island with only a few windows per year to sail in and out. Slaves are usually in high demand, and time sensitive too considering the lifespan. There's no point kidnapping the townsfolk too when you have nowhere to escape their wrath. What is going on-
Katakuri's eyes sharpens, entire hackles rising in his peripheral, and Ringo barely catches the presence behind him as he ducks the first strike at his head.
He scrambles, twisting around. He's almost fast enough to dodge the second strike too- but a blow catches him on his cheek. Pain blooms like a bitch. Something latches around his one arm like a vice.
And then he's in the air, looking into the face of an older man.
"Well, well, well," He croons. A scar bisects across his nose, from one cheek to another. A cigarette between his lips as he leans in to squint at him in a way that is distinctively calculating that the hair on the back of his neck rises. His breath stinks like sour, ten-year-old smoke. "Who the fuck are yo-"
Ringo swings his left fist into his face.
It's a controlled punch, but he goes down with a sickening crunch of his nose, howling in pain. Ringo drops down and down and rolls. Gravel eats into his palms like hot sandpaper. He barely scrambles to his feet just as a black blur streaks past him. Katakuri barrels into the man, leg lashing out like a whip- and the man is sent crashing into crates and out of the alley mouth, cutting across sunlight and shadows.
In seconds, alarmed shouting echoes in the distance. Seagull flocks immediately scatter. "Let's go!" He shouts, and then they're taking off. Katakuri's footsteps shadowing behind his, almost drowned out by the overhead cawing and squawking.
"I won't tell Perospero if you don't," Ringo says later, panting hard, sprawled unflatteringly onto the ground. Escape plan excluded, he doesn't want Perospero to bust a blood vessel from the news of Slavers running around the island.
They're in a empty storehouse, musty and dust-kissed. His lungs feel like they're on fire from how hard he ran.
"Deal," Katakuri agrees, a few seconds later. He's out of breath too, red flush on his cheeks as he leans back on his elbows. "I'm not gonna tell on you anyways. We all wanna see mama."
It's thanks to the adrenaline that Ringo doesn't flinch. He rotates the words in his head like a ball, and the next few seconds the air is only filled with both their gasps.
(Oh, oh, he doesn't know-)
When his heart stops hammering like he's having a stroke, Ringo keeps his voice carefully neutral, tentatively asking, "So you want to get off this island too, huh."
"Yeah," Katakuri confirms.
At that moment, they meet each other's eyes. Ringo feels an understanding that sparks between them. Almost like a camaraderie after the shit they just went through. They're both after the same thing; they can help each other. He sees it the moment the idea clocks in to Katakuri too, when the boy relaxes a little and tilts his chin up in a No one will stop me manner. Seas, stubbornness really does run in this family.
"Cool. You've been here longer than I have," Ringo carefully offers an olive branch. "Know anything that can help?"
Katakuri hums, a slight crinkle between his brows. It's an oddly familiar sight, the same thing Perospero does when he's trying to decide if he should give Broyé a blueberry or raspberry.
"...might have seen some interesting crews," Katakuri finally relents. "I'm not too sure, though. But I can probably help with looking out for danger, and finding things too."
"Please, thank you. And of course you can- you're the little shit that's been after my ass for the past two months."
Katakuri only throws him a cheeky grin; it makes the tip of some of his sharp teeth poke out at the corners of his lips. It's an oddly cute look on him. "That's because you keep running."
"Ugh, seriously, you weirdos and your freaky tracking skills. The next time won't be that easy for you, I swear."
Katakuri sits up. There's a twinkle in his eyes now. "Is that a challenge?"
"Find me in the forest then we'll talk, rice boy." Ringo says, rolling to his feet. "Anyways, it's getting late. Let's go back before your brothers kick my ass. And we're only doing this on one condition: you see suspicious men and that singing, you run. Got that?"
"Gotcha."
"Great. Meet me at that storeroom down the block from our usual place after tomorrow, same time."
And then, just as the idea grips him, Ringo rolls it in his head once, twice, before pulling his neckerchief off. He wrestles the sting back into its box. "Here," He proffers it to the other boy. "You can keep this until we find a way off. Consider it an apology and a promise that I won't run."
Katakuri takes it with both hands, almost gingerly. "...oh, okay," He says, tentatively. Then with a serious nod, "I'll make sure I take care of it."
"Make sure you wash it, I want it back spotless." Ringo grin, and snipes, before he can help himself, "Remember, use soap."
It's the same tone he uses on Perospero. He laughs at the familiar scowl that Katakuri flashes at him.
.
.
A/N:
The shanties mentioned are, in order: Fish in the Sea, Leave her Johnny, Where am I to Go M'Johnnies, One More Day, and notably Wade in the Water; commonly associated with the Underground Railroad and believed to be sang by slaves as a warning.
For the food, I mostly based them off the youtube channel One Meal A Day - it's very simple recipes that easy to follow!
Man this 10k chapter has been simmering in my brain for over two years and it feels good to finally put it all on paper. Fastest one I've ever wrote too, took me just under two months than my usual six, whoops.
Ringo finally meets the triplets! Honestly their characterizations has been through a lot of changes over the years, but I'm pretty happy about how it turned out. Oven's boisterous and rash, Daifuku's lazy but sly. I've always also wanted to portray Katakuri's kindness and playfulness underneath all that layers, but ready to throw down if needed. He's a parallel to Luffy haha
People has been asking me about their ages so here it is. It's easier for the Charlotte siblings since they're just 1 year apart each:
Ringo: 10
Perospero: 8
Compote: 7
Katakuri, Daifuku and Oven: 6
It's unlikely I can fit them in the story unless I write a sidepiece/drabbles but here are the motives of each triplet that shaped this chapter:
Katakuri: "I want to hang out with our new mysterious eldest(?) sibling."
Oven: "I wanna hang out with my new youngest sibs, dammit!"
Daifuku: "I don't care, but man I REALLY want some of those snacks."
I've crammed so much foreshadowing and nuances in this chapter. Headcanons too, way too much of them to fit. But I do have general ones in regards to the Charlotte Family as a whole: All Of Them are musically inclined (did yall watch that ep where Perospero sang when he made that candy escalator) and have the same wide-grin as Linlin's. Yes, this means Ringo too.
Some people asked me why did Ringo's attitude changed in the previous chapters, but I don't think he did? So far he is still trying to look for a way off the island and away from Linlin. But he's still nice to the kids, and in turn he is dragged into their chaotic rhythm. And if you noticed, both him and the siblings are starting to pick up little habits and behavior from each other subconsciously. It's part of my self-indulgence writing this fic tbh, haha.
As always, thank you so much for reading and commenting!