Ringo tries to figure himself out, copes and stumbles through his first contact with the Charlotte Family.
Warnings: mental breakdown stemming from repressed anxiety and guilt; unhealthy coping mechanics (for now), and hints of poor parenting.
02.
The Apple Of Your Eye
Seeds II
.
The first thing Linlin does when they arrive at her ship is to chuck him into the hands of a crewman like a bothersome sack of potatoes.
"Streusen!" She yells, immediately stomping away, voice and heavy footsteps rattling the entire floor. "Where's my dessert?"
Ringo hangs limply like a wet dishrag in the arms he was deposited into, staring unseeingly at her retreating figure. Distantly, he feels himself being shifted, turned around, dangling in two outstretched hands, and then he's looking up into a pair of eyes squinting down at him.
"Not another one," Murmurs the crewman. Then, he leans in, taking a couple of sniffs at Ringo in a mock imitation of a dog. His nose wrinkles immediately. "-hrk, kid, what the fuck? Ya smell disgustin-"
He loses track of what happens next, except for the room he's dumped into at the end. It's huge; buckets and buckets of all sizes lined up together against the walls, the faint swishing of water echoing in the dark. There's soap! His brain yells at him, muted yet detached excitement wagging its tail through the distant, foggy breaches of his thoughts. He catches sight of the cream-coloured bars on the buckets a second later. How long has it been since you've used soap?
(Not since a lifetime ago. Everyone cleaned themselves with plain seawater back on the merchant ship. Freshwater is a luxury in this world-)
"Don't ye dare come out before ye scrubbed that stench off!"
The door snaps shut behind him. He waits until the footsteps fade into the distance before undressing himself, putting his clothes and bag aside by the dry walls. As per the instructions, he scrubs himself raw with the soap, pouring scoopfuls of cold, icy water over his head. His teeth clatters, yet he doesn't step out of the shower until the skin of his fingertips starts to wrinkle.
(Breathe.)
He's towelling himself dry when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror- and the sight makes him pause.
It the first time he's seeing his reflection. The kid looking at him is skinny. An almost feral, starving look, hunched under the huge towel hanging off his head and shoulders. The soap had washed away all the black dye, so now light-pink locks fall around his face, framing his hollow cheeks. His eyes are dark, sunken, almost pitch-black, and with the white-dotted red neckerchief tied around his neck he looks-
He looks-
He looks just like Her.
(Sickly, starving, laying in bed and wet coughs.)
A prick stabs from within his chest just as his legs slowly gives out, lowering him onto the floor.
(In the time where Ringo was flown over the seas sprawled on Linlin's oversized hat, he'd spent a lot of time thinking. Most of that time is divided between stages - the first half just numb, unthinking and unfeeling even as the icy wind bites at his skin. Distantly, he remembers Linlin singing some sort of tune as her weather companions join in, voices almost distorted in the howl of the wind in his ears.
He's spent half the time after that in denial. Just denial, slowly creeping through the shock.
And now, fear and repressed grief catches up.)
Ringo squeezes his eyes shut. His breath hitched once, then all of a sudden the skin of his face is pulled inwards, mouth and nose scrunching up as he curls into himself. It feels like cotton had invaded his mind, soft and muted and suffocating, the pressure pressing in from all sides. His lungs give way to wet staccato breathes. He's shaking with the desperation to making some noise, any noise, but he's biting his lips so hard he tastes iron and then a cut-off sob spills from his lips and-
(He hadn't been so scared since- hell, he didn't remember being so scared in his life, even when he was cornered in that alley all those years ago. And the funny thing is that it's not all fear; the other half was grief and ohgodwhatamIgoingtodo hitting him like a crashing wave, creeping upwards and blooming from the pits of his stomach.
He didn't want to be involved with the plot or people or his crazy tyrant of an aunt, didn't want to say yes to Her no matter how guilty he is, swallowing the shame as he reaches out for an escape. He thinks of Takeshi and Suki. Thinks of the sailors back on the burning ship, thinks of how none of them deserved it-
Why me?)
Then as quick as it struck, the grief ebbs away.
Slowly, lukewarm. Ringo unclenches from his folded-up position. The ringing in his ears softens. Feet, legs, releases the breath in his chest. Let's go of his shoulders, then the tension around his eyes, letting a couple more stray tears leak down his cheeks. The hiccups slows to sniffs as he picks himself up from the floor, settling over his half-crossed legs, both hands loosely braced on the floor.
His head throbs.
Ringo inhales. Once, twice, breathe in, breathe out. Floorboards, rough and wooden under his legs and fingers. The creak of the lamp above him. The lull of the currents outside. The gentle sway of the room.
The beginnings of nausea in his stomach, and the sharp bite of his fingernails from how hard he's clenching into his palms.
Okay, okay. Calm down. Compartmentalize, and adapt. Anger and sorrow and guilt could wait.
First, he has to assess the situation.
One, he's been kidnapped by Linlin. Who somehow tracked him down after all these months. She's strong and absurdly powerful, a true monster in her own right, and there's no way he can fight his way out of this. He's ten, for fuck's sake.
Two, he's on her ship. In the New World. That's going to be a problem by itself. Even if he somehow, through a miracle, successfully found a way out, he has neither the tools nor power to navigate the New World and its share of fatally freakish weather.
And say he somehow manages to get a ship… Well, he may be a super-powered ten-year old who can shatter rocks into dust, but a ship needs a full crew to set sail.
…If I can even get through an opening, Ringo scowls, picking himself up and stumbling to the basin. On the downside, he's not even sure if such a chance will come soon either. You don't get to become a Yonko - or one in the future - without some sort of strategic mind or competency to ensure your ship's security.
He didn't have the slightest chance of escaping, and it stings to accept that.
Several pieces of towels are folded neatly by the basin, and he helps himself to it, wetting them solemnly before slapping the whole square onto his face, wiping the tearstains and tension away.
Now that some of the irrational frantic anxiety had ebbed, Ringo could think a little more clearly: For now, the only real option left to him was to keep his mouth shut and play nice. Try to gather more information before he can put together a plan. In the meantime, staying obedient and keeping on her good side would open up a window of opportunity, no matter how long he has to wait-
The face staring back at him in the mirror this time is solemn. Gaunt, dark circles under his eyes. Hungry, tired, but steel-like.
He makes a decision.
.
.
First things first: map out the ship.
There was no way to measure the time passed, but no one had come by to check in on him since he was thrown into the bath. The hallways upon opening the door were empty and utterly devoid of any guards. There's a weight in the air that curves his spine and makes it rather hard to breathe. Yet, it's all but inviting him to take the chance to scout out the enemy territory, and figure out what exactly he had stumbled into.
...That was the plan, incidentally, until a piercing but unmistakably baby wail scares the absolute shit out of him.
Ringo has spent all but ten minutes stumbling around the maze of corridors, engrossed with packing the whole… semi-major mental breakdown into a neat little box in his head to store it away, before jumping out of his skin thanks to the wail. Then another twenty minutes following said wail out of sheer curiosity and disbelief. It echoes and bounces off the walls, noise overlaying and overlapping in his ears in intervals.
A sense of dread and chill fills him the closer he gets to the source.
(Charlotte Linlin, tyrant and queen of a pirate kingdom. With eighty-five powerful children at her beck and call- her judges, juries and executioners. Pirates and murderers and heartless criminals-)
The room he finds at the end of his trail is a huge, sprawling mess. It's bathed in eye-searing pink, only tolerable thanks to the dark. Toys with too huge eyes and oversized, mismatched piles of stained cushions scattered across the padded-floor. In the middle of the room hangs a canopy of cream-white curtains, soft and rustling in the night breeze, the silhouette of a cradle within framed by the moonlight from the open windows.
The wailing is coming from the inside.
Here, Ringo considered his options:
A, choose to walk away right now. Warning bells are literally ringing in his mind and if that isn't a sign he'll eat his shoes. Ignoring the high probability that those are Linlin's spawn, it's none of his business getting involved with a random baby. Plus, he doesn't even know what to do with one in the first place!
Or B: go up and see what is the baby fussing about - because a part of his brain is going why is the baby unattended a baby should not be left alone in a dark room! And why is this thing shrieking like it's being stabbed or something, so where the fuck is its caretaker-
As if on cue, the wailing dies down abruptly.
The silence in the room, he notices, is stifling.
"Goddammit," Ringo cusses under his breath as Option B wins out of curiosity and maybe some part of him is slightly concerned about the sudden silence. Did it choke on its saliva or something?
He creeps up to the canopy, brushes aside the curtains and slips inside. Then, he tiptoes, peering into the cradle.
Two pairs of eyes blink back at him.
Oh. Ringo squints and takes a better look at the two babes tucked into the basket. One sports wide yellow eyes while the other has watery, brownish-orange ones. Thin, wispy hair sits atop their heads, too light and too little to make out their colours. Tiny, is his first thought, followed by wrinkly. Ugly.
Then he watches as the both of them scrunch up their faces almost simultaneously, and the warning bells within his mind rises in pitch, pushing him to brace himself as both babies take an enormous breath, and scream.
Ringo startles, bangs the end of his elbows into the corner of the cradle as he stumbles backwards. Tiny hands work their way free from the blanket to wave in the air, the wails reaching a whole new level of pitch.
Oh god my ears-
He doesn't think. Instead, he reaches in, picking up the entire basket and rocks for all his worth, doing his best impression of a rocking horse, wide-eyed and a rising panic in his chest. Are they hungry? Scared? Was it his face? Did he not scrub it enough? And again, why are they even left alone in the room? Babies should be supervised!
...oh no, what if the crying attracts Linlin's attention? If he doesn't stop them soon will she'll come barrelling in with vengeance and skin him on the spot for making her kids cry?
"Oh my god," Ringo says. "Oh my god. Oh. My. God. Please don't cry, please don't cry !"
He switches into a weird tone of improvised singing - impromptu lyrics be damned - and starts bouncing from his knees, putting his entire body into rocking the basket and the crying babies contained inside. If they won't stop, Ringo's certain he's going to start crying himself.
(He has no fucking idea how to deal with a baby - and certainly not two of them. His traitorous blank memories aren't giving him any hints at all and holy fuck-)
And then he trips backwards over his feet, flinging the basket upwards as he scrambles to right his balance. For a moment his lungs jump to his throat because this is it, this is how he dies- before the basket lands solidly back onto his belly, knocking the wind out of him as he serves as the landing mattress for eight whole kilograms of babies.
A moment of stunned silence. Then, twin laughter rings out from the basket. The kids giggle, hands and legs waving and kicking in delight in the air.
Yeah, yeah, Ringo grumbles internally. Laugh at my circus act, will you?
Then the door to the room behind him opens.
Ringo, half-sprawled on the floor, freezes in horror as he cranes his neck, struggling to look behind him.
A strange man looks at him from the doorway. In the dim lighting of the room, Ringo barely makes out his attire - a deep indigo chef's uniform, together with a yellow scarf around his collar; a wide puffy hat with long feathers sticking out from its sides. A huge golden stopwatch hangs from his belt, thrice as big as the man's fists. On its opposite hangs a sword with a golden hilt.
There's an awkward pause, then the man says, in a curling accent: "Oh, good. You stopped Brûlée and Broyé's crying."
Brûlée? Ringo thinks blankly, excuses dying down on the tip of his tongue. Broyé?
(Why do those names sound so familiar-)
The chef kicks the door shut behind him with his heels and is quick to reach Ringo's side. He's short, Ringo notes, watching him this up-close. Chef plucks the basket out from his lap, settling it back into the crib. With a hand rocking the crib, he produces two milk bottles from somewhere and starts shaking them one-handedly, effortlessly clutching onto both between his five fingers.
The babbling from the kids rises in volume, straining from delight into the beginnings of a tantrum.
"Don't just lie there," Chef scoffs, glancing back at him. "Get over here and help me out."
.
.
His name is Streusen. Ringo recognises that as the name Linlin had been yelling for since their arrival.
And he loves listening to his voice, considering how talkative he is.
In the span of an hour Ringo learns plenty about him: Streusen is the First Mate to Linlin, and the head chef of this ship. Both of which makes him really busy- and that Linlin eats at least twenty meals a day, which he files away into his brain as he listens in silent horror at the stories. He likes alcohol, but god-forbid smoking (an insult to a chef's taste-buds!) and holing up in his beautiful, personalized kitchens coming up with new recipes.
The chef loves to sing too, but his opera-like song sends the twins bursting into tears instead.
"They seem to like you," Streusen grins. "Never seen them quiet down this fast before."
"Um," Ringo said like an idiot. "Thank you, mister…?"
He gently rocks the crib. The made-up rhythm seems to be appleasing the twins, tiny mouths yawning and eyes drooping.
"Ach- none of that now, kid. Just Streusen will do."
"Streusen-san." He amends.
Streusen side-eyes him with an amused look. "Ooooh, manners. A rarity on the seas. Thought you'd be like Linlin- with your face and hair like that you look just like her when she was your age." He snorts, then starts eying him critically, gaze sweeping down and back up at Ringo sharply. Without heat. "If she only ate one meal a week, that is. You're all skin and bones- what have they been feeding you?"
Not much, to be honest. Meal times with the merchants back then was decent- rations and non-perishables, with the occasional rice and fish. Soup on a good day.
"...I try to get by with bread."
(The truth is that it's… not enough for him. Never was. He has Charlotte blood in him - his appetite and body metabolism are off the charts. He'd lost count of the nights he'd woken up hungry and drank mouthful after mouthful of water in a futile attempt to ease the hunger pangs. A necessary sacrifice to stay on the ship and his attempt at avoiding looking for his aunt.)
Streusen frowns at him, brows furrowed like Ringo had personally insulted his ancestors.
"Tch- that won't do!" Then a hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Ringo's already being steered towards the door. "Get going. We have a buffet prepared and I intend to put at least five meals in you- You can work for it back afterwards. There's this new recipe the kitchens cooked up-"
.
.
They put him in a huge dining room with a long, white table, and gave him enough food to fill him to bursting, as promised.
It's hard, eating dishes that are crafted by professionals after sustaining on leftovers for so long. The spices scald into his tongue, coaxing unshed tears at the corners of his eyes with the intensity. Everything burns his throat going down. His stomach claws at itself from within, even if Streusen has him start on mere spoonfuls.
"Your body needs time to get used to it," Streusen explains, ladling more soup into his bowl before he can stop him. Flanking him are two more chefs, each holding onto a steaming porcelain bowl in their hands. "Especially with the level of nutrients we pack into the food on this ship. We'll get you started on liquids before moving on to solids-"
He talks like this the entire time until Ringo licks his half-bowl clean, then the entire way as he leads him to his temporary quarters- a room filled with empty cots and beds, filling his head with a good bit of nutrition facts before sternly reminding him to find him on the deck at dawn.
(Idly, Ringo notes that the cots are all children-sized.)
Then in the morning, Streusen puts him to work around the ship.
It's the start of a new routine for the next couple of weeks.
Ringo learns that you don't get to eat if you don't contribute your part in the crew - which he understands, because it's the same back on his old ship. But the difference is that while the merchants are softer on the kids, here it matters not if you're an adult or a ten-year old child: Charlotte Linlin does not tolerate freeloaders. Streusen had emphasized on that, tone almost apologetically.
(Eighty-five children, whispers his memories, all afraid and fearing for their lives-)
Still, Streusen is nice. Linlin has no crewmen apart from him and his team of twenty chefs, so all of them are fluent in many bits and pieces - from the bottom to the top of the ship. Streusen himself is experienced at navigation and weather foresight, familiar in the way he shows Ringo around, listing out his duties.
And him? He takes to the chores like a duck to water.
Ringo runs laps around the deck with a mop two times a day, early morning and evening, the first thing he does after waking up and the last thing he does before going to bed. In between, he helps out with laundry- carries basketfuls of heavy sheets and linen, scrubs dirty clothes. Then netfuls of giant fishes, pulling them into the kitchens. He diligently scrubs and wipes down the floors and tables, falling back into the familiar routine he had once as a humble cabin boy aboard a shipful of merchants.
(He doesn't think about the sight of a burning ship in the night.)
And quietly, to himself, Ringo carefully soaks up information.
Ship chores means getting to scramble around the entire ship with none of the suspicion. Three weeks in, and he maps out the entire ship. Taking detours during bathroom breaks late at night speeds up his efforts, and an excuse is always at the tip of his tongue when he chooses to risk it. When he's sure that he'd memorised it all (no maps or sketches, he can't risk it), he moves onto the chefs' routines - the route of their night patrol, the shift switches. Where they hid the alcohol and password to the lock.
Slowly, the mental pages start filling up.
(He keeps a mop or broom on him at all times as alibi. He had tempted fate only once, and refuse to be careless this time around.
Never again.)
The only setback is the language. It's not because that everyone on board spoke with different ones, tossing them back and forth in a volley of switcheroos, accents and dialects twanging in their tones. He had expected it already, really. It wasn't that different from back then on the old ship, and it'll be stupid to expect it otherwise here.
No, his problem is that the common-tongue they spoke is different. It sounds a lot like Linian, the one Ringo grew up with and spent months getting his hands whacked by a ruler in an attempt to right his chicken-scratches. But it's not. Turns out, New World Linian has its minor differences from its Paradise counterpart. He has to strain his ears to catch bits and pieces of conversations, and then strain his memory at night trying to piece together information.
So much for banking on that. It's embarrassing to be reduced to playing the role of a confused, lost child, asking the adults to repeat themselves.
That, or other option is listening to Streusen's singing and having them loop in his head for hours while he picks the words apart.
But hey, at least the man is happy to have an audience.
.
.
The babies, unfortunately, do not phase out of the equation.
"No, no. Not Brulee and Broye." Streusen stressed. "It's Brûlée and Broyé ."
Ringo stares flatly back at the man, who is very, very lucky that both of his arms are currently preoccupied with a basketful of twins, and that he has a sense to hold himself back from chucking the kids anyways at him.
Some of the other chefs (namely, the ladies) coo about how adorable he is, carting the twins around, which he listens with a mix of confusion and irritation. It's not like he has a choice to say no - if he were to be honest, he'd rather spend the two hours peeling barnacles off the side of the ship, over playing nanny to two wrinkly, noisy babies.
And it's not that he dislikes children, either. It's just… he doesn't know what to do with them. He doesn't know how to play or talk or interact with them, doesn't know if he should smile or frown at their babbling. Ringo can't remember if he was ever a baby person in his past life, but considering how awkward he is now the answer to that question should be obvious.
In the end, he opts to sit quietly during the babysitting sessions, schooling his expression into a careful neutral, and keeps his eyes on the babies while he holds the basket still as the chef-on-duty feeds them milk.
(He absolutely refuses to learn how to baby talk no matter how much the ladies on board keep suggesting him to. It's not only embarrassing, but condescending in a way that sours his tongue.)
The basket under his fingers shifts. A muffled babble, then Ringo looks down and locks eyes with the yellow-eyed twin - Brûlée, his mind supplies. She fidgets, small chubby hand reaching out at him, waving almost impatiently. Broyé is watching her sister, her confusion as clear as Ringo's own.
"Well, what are ye waitin' for?" Streusen says. "Go on- give her your hand!"
Perplexed, Ringo stretches out his right hand to the girl. Brûlée slaps her own onto his with a wet slap, immediately tightening her grip onto his fingers, then she lowered her head-
-And spits the pacifier out onto his palm with a small 'pop'.
Ringo slowly looked down at the… wet… thing, dumbstruck, then looked back up again, locking eyes with Streusen.
"...Um," He said.
"She likes you!" Streusen guffaws. "Lucky you! Charlottes do not share things often, y'know? You should thank her."
That did not explain anything. Ringo's utterly torn between protesting and outright saying what the fuck in that moment. But before he can make a choice he hears another wet 'pop', a split second before a second warm, slimy thing lands on his frozen, outstretched palm.
He looks back, stares at the new purple pacifier resting beside its pink counterpart on his palm, then looks at Broyé, who giggles, flashing her gummy, toothless grin at him.
Brûlée starts shrieking in laughter.
"...Thank you," He says, finally, because he wasn't raised as a hooligan with no manners. Streusen doesn't stop laughing at him for the week straight.
.
.
Brûlée, as he comes to learn, is very talkative.
She's also very touchy, and more often than not is perfectly content with grabbing and squeezing Ringo's hands, entertaining herself as she babbles nonsensical baby noises away. His fingers are quickly promoted to her personal collection of organic pacifiers, and he has to wash his hands often to counter the change. It gradually culminates into a mini-game of 'How fast can I snatch my hand away before she bites, and put them back before she cries'.
Ringo's already learning how to do it with his eyes closed. Instincts and gut feelings can take over his motor controls while he sneaks in naps.
"Excited lil' thing, aren't you." He murmured, bouncing the basket in his lap the way the twins seemed to prefer. In turn, he received a string of bubbling raspberries and a soft "Riii?", courtesy of Brûlée.
Broyé, on the other hand, isn't much better. But instead of the near constant babble like her sister does, Broyé prefers conserving her energy through naps and quiet staring. When she does decide to talk, it is to focus it into one, singular piercing shriek that continues on and on like nails on a chalkboard until she gets what she wants. Usually, it's diaper-changing or her afternoon milk. Occasionally, it's for Ringo, which she stops only when he sits down beside their basket.
...And if he gets to watch one of the cooks or Streusen himself come tripping over their feet balancing the baby bottle in their hands like a game of hot potato, he keeps it to himself. The sheer entertainment makes up for him going along with babysitting.
There is one downside to it, though.
"Are you sure you don't want to learn?" One of the cooks pouted at him. "It'll be great if you could help us bottle-feed or clean them, Ringo-chan."
Half of him is annoyed at the cutesy-kiddy tone she is using on him. The other half is exasperated, because this is the fifth time he has to refuse someone asking him the same question. "Sorry, Haru-san."
"Are you sure?"
The only reason he's not walking away is that he's elbows-deep in dish soap and dirty plates, half-balanced on an old stool. "I'm very sure."
"Care to share with Miss Haru?" She smiles, a slight amusement twitching at her lips. "Maybe we can both find a solution to this, don't you think? Babies are nothing to be afraid of, y'know. When I first started I was scared too-"
Fine. Ringo puts down the plates and looks at her in her eyes. "I can't, Haru-san. Do you want to know why?"
"Sure! You can tell Miss Haru anything!"
God, He thinks. Please stop speaking in third-person. I'm getting second-hand embarrassment.
"Because," He says instead, holding a cup out towards her. "Of this."
He squeezes, carefully, and the cup cracks under his fingers into pieces, and lets them fall to the floor in a chorus of clatter.
"I'll be sad if I accidentally hurt them." Ringo tells her, willing every drop of sincerity and childish disappointment he possesses into his words.
The gossip on the ship spreads fast, because no one else brings up the question to him again. Save for a single cook, who chuckles at him through his cigarette one night, and says: "Heh, least you're not like the other brats. One of 'em used to break things every other day- hell, what did she do last year again?"
"Cracked a good part of the deck," Answers his companion by his side, taking a swig of his bottle. "Took us nearly weeks to repair the damages."
Ringo doesn't ask.
.
.
Half of it is a lie, of course. He's been practicing since he was four, and he's pretty confident that his control over his superhuman strength is more than good enough to handle touching fragile, month-old babies.
The real reason, deep down, is that Ringo has to stop himself from getting attached. Nip it in the bud before it even blossoms into something. He's not risking falling head-over-heels for Linlin's spawn like what the ladies in the kitchens talk about, the heart-melting revelation nor a switch that flicks on in your head once you have a baby in your arms. Nope. No way. Even if he's sure that he has a total of Fuck No parental instincts in him.
He's sticking to his script and bolting as soon as he sees a chance.
...Still, he doesn't complain too much, and lets Brûlée and Broyé chew on his hands.
(There's a faint confusion at the back of his mind whenever he looks at them both. He doesn't receive memories or flashbacks, but for some reason he's convinced that Brûlée will grow up with the same babbling mouth and red nose, while nothing significant comes up regarding Broyé. Like a missing puzzle piece.)
.
.
Other than the… nicer events, the weeks Ringo spends on the ship is not all smooth-sailing. In fact, he's been hanging on the edge of anticipation and dread, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He's been lucky, so far. Linlin, to his surprise and relief, isn't on the ship most of the time. Instead, she leaves on her portable thundercloud and returns every few days or so. Pirate business, Streusen tells him, and doesn't elaborate more.
(Ringo's not stupid. He knows that 'Pirate Business' translates to killing and raiding and bloodshed, but he doesn't press for more either.)
He knows, because while he has neither seen hide nor hair of the woman since she dumped him here, her presence is so strong that Ringo can feel it from the other end of the ship whenever she comes and goes. The weight of it is monstrous, pressing down into his very bones, a constant reminder at the edge of his consciousness. There's an unknown word to describe it sitting at the tip of his tongue.
None of the crew seem to be affected, to his disbelief, and one of the older chefs snorts when he brings it up one day.
"Ya just need to get used to it, kid." She says. "Ya think this is scary? Wait 'till ya see the other crews. Everyone's a monster in the New World." Then a pause, "Though, I doubt anybody would dare to cross Linlin-sama. Her strength is unlike anything I've seen in my lifetime."
.
.
He remembers that exact conversation when it happens, two and a half-months into his kidnapping.
.
.
"We'll be reaching the port in two days," Streusen tells him that night, just as Ringo is finishing up mopping the decks. "Where we left the rest of the brats. Linlin wants to have a word with you about it. Go see her when she comes back tomorrow, will you?"
"Alright," He replies. Inwardly, the sense of dread pummelling down his guts at those words is shattering.
(Oh no, no, no.)
.
.
Dinner with Linlin is suffocating.
Literally, because even seated across her with nine feet between them both feels stifling. Like the weight of ten tonnes of sea water crushing you down from all sides, turning your lungs from the inside out. Ringo doesn't fidget- doesn't move or wriggle, not because he doesn't dare but because he can't.
A faint buzzing is constantly ringing in his ears, a sense of anticipation looming on the horizon.
He doesn't touch his plate at all.
Meanwhile, Linlin eats. Starvingly, voraciously. She seizes handfuls of cakes and puddings, tossing them into her mouth, cream dripping down her fingers yet somehow missing her clothes. Her wet smacks and chewing and swallowing fill the room with their intensity.
She's huge, Ringo notes. The repressed memory of her plucking him up like a toy resurfaces from his mind, now that he's gotten a good look at her. Her height alone has him straining his neck up, nevermind the presence she's radiating, with wide shoulders and arms lined with hard muscles. Her long, wild mane of pink hair crowns her like licking flames. When her piercing gaze settles on Ringo, all the hairs on the back of his neck stands stiff as sweat starts beading on his forehead, leaving salty trails prickling the corners of his eyes.
Here is a fact: Charlotte Linlin is devastating beautiful, and terrifyingly powerful at twenty-six than most will become in a lifetime. Her fists carry the force capable of demolishing mountains, and she will carve herself a name as one of the Yonko of the Seas in the distant future.
And yet, that is not what holds his attention at the moment. Rather, he's busy tracing the shape of her muscles, the healthy shine to her hair, the curves of her cheekbones, and thinks- that's not fair.
Is that how Charlotte Yinyin would had look like too?
"Mamamama!" Linlin laughs, sharp lips curving up at the corners. "Shy little thing, aren't you? Go on, help yourself- Streusen's cooking never disappoints."
"Yeah!" Agrees the thundercloud to her left, droopy face lit up with a beaming smile.
"Eat up, eat up!" Sings the ball of fire floating to her right, a literal miniature sun with chubby cheeks.
A lump in his throat chokes him. He swallows, and nods.
It marks the start of the verbal game.
Linlin, like Streusen, likes to talk at him. Likes to sing too, often than not turning her words and sentences into impromptu songs alongside the merry tunes her two companions hum.
Ringo doesn't get more than a word into this one-sided conversation, instead finding himself often nodding his head in false agreement or making a noise from the back of his throat to signal that he's listening. He holds onto his guard as tight as he can, hackles raised just enough to not offend. This is fine - it's not like he can muster up the strength to unstick his throat anyways.
And he makes sure to listen, too. At one point of the conversation, Linlin had paused in her musing, and turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. The smile is still on her lips, but the alarm bells start screaming in his head.
"You've been quiet there, Ringo-chan," She says, sickly sweet, amusement and something else not quite right rolled into a chilly tone. "Don't be shy, now. How about you tell me what you think about what I've said?"
Ringo swallows. "...the Carragan pirates were... stupid to sail by Lily's Light, which you h-had already established as your territory. Even if they technically didn't breach the island waters, coming that close implies a challenge to your position, Linlin obaa-sama."
"Mamamama!" The tone of her snaps back to cheery immediately. "They had it coming! Sinking all five of their ships is a small punishment for their audacity-"
Prometheus and Zeus, the sun and the cloud, on the other hand, are much more engaging in the conversation than Linlin. Despite the terrifying atmosphere, he's happy to answer their questions. At least that's an excuse to not look at Linlin.
"Hey, hey!" Chirps Prometheus. "Is it true?"
"...what is?"
"That your mama is Mama's twin," Zeus drifts closer, slightly bouncing in the air. "Is that true? What's she like?"
Ringo closes his eyes, and answers truthfully. "Kind, soft-spoken, and loves the sea."
"Did she really look like our Mama?"
"She does. But thinner. Shorter too. Her hair's a different pink from Linlin obaa-sama. A bit lighter, I think."
"That's so weird!" Prometheus spins languidly. "I can't even imagine a Mama that's thinner and shorter!"
Zeus drifts even closer now, static charge raising the hairs on Ringo's arm at this distance. "She sounds nice," he sings. "Do you think we can meet her someday?"
(His throat tightens momentarily. He forces the memory down.)
"...I'm sorry, Zeus-san." Ringo tells him. "My mama's dead, so you can't meet her anymore."
"Oh." Both of their expressions quiets down immediately. In the background, Linlin's munches is a steady beat. "I'm sorry, Ringo-chan." Zeus droops. Then, almost tentatively, he nudges his nose against his arm, a light bump meant for comfort. "Do you miss her?"
(Do you?)
"...Sometimes." Ringo inhales. "But it's been years, so it doesn't hurt as much now."
Zeus nods. "I understand. We lost someone like that too."
"It only hurts when we think about Mother, now." Prometheus sighs, drifting lazily. "Still, it would be nice if we had met yours back then, I'd love to try and talk to two Mamas."
"...Y'know, she would have loved to meet you two too." Ringo says idly, carefully filing away 'Mother' (Who is he talking about?) into the tiny box tucked in his mind. Then a pause, before he tacks on, thinking of the worn scrapbook. "She always did miss her sister."
"Really?"
Ringo manages a small smile. "Yeah-"
-and suddenly, like a sudden crack, his throat clenches up just as the pressure in the room increases ten-fold, squeezing into him as his instincts wail. Black spots crawl across his vision as bile threatens to claw itself out from his belly. He's half-choking on his spit- That's his single warning of Linlin's mood taking a sharp nosedive, a thunderous snarl crawls across her face just as she shatters the cup in her hand-
"Missed me?" She snarls, table crunching under her grip. " Missed me? What a fat-fucking joke. How dare she- after leaving me all alone, just like how Mother did?"
(A prick of memory pokes at him. A house of sheep. A faraway land. A slender, thin hand pinching a cigarette.
A birthday song and distant screaming.)
Then as sudden as it came, it's gone. The anger bled from Linlin's face, and moments later she's humming a merry tune and chewing on another piece of cake.
"Mamamama," She laughs. "Well, it doesn't matter, since she's already dead. I guess you'll be under my charge now."
Ringo's barely breathing, gasping for fresh air the moment the pressure releases him. He almost misses her words through the ringing in his ears.
"Now, this was a nice dinner." She coos. "Be a darling and go get ready for tomorrow - you'll be meeting the rest of your siblings and I want you to be on your best behaviour." And then she's back on her desserts, humming a lilting tune as Zeus and Prometheus drifts back to her side.
It's a clear dismissal if he ever heard one. He shakily pulls himself from his seat, and flees from the room.
.
.
(He swallows the red-hot anger clawing at the back of his throat, and screams the cumulation of his repressed emotions of that evening into a cushion until his throat feels raw and scratched. Then, he gathers everything and packs them away into a steel box at the deepest part of his memories once again, locking it up as tight as he can.
Charlotte Linlin does not deserve the memory of her twin. He will not make the same mistake again.
A final, random thought - in between his fear, his anxiety, the sheer frustration and guilt - that flutters through his mind before he collapses into unconsciousness is-
Just how many kids does Linlin have, right now?)
.
.
They arrive at port before dawn, where a small crowd was waiting for them.
It's still dark out here. The air is crisp, heavy with the salty tang of the sea. He stands quietly to the side of Linlin's knees, shifting from leg to leg, careful to not disturb Brûlée and Broyé- who're snoozing away within the basket in his arms.
God, Ringo thinks, I wish that were me right now.
Linlin's saying something to a gently-smiling maid, the only other adult of the group waiting for them, boisterous laughter ringing in his ears but he tunes whatever she's saying out, glancing over at the gaggle of kids instead.
He counts not one, not two, not three, but nearly eighteen, legitimate kids. Little boys and girls of all shapes and sizes, each fidgeting and tussling with each other, some with an armful of an even younger, still-a-baby sibling. If he didn't believe his memory of his past life before - because new fantasy or not, eighty-something kids is still a stretch - he definitely believes his eyes now.
Ringo glazes over them, squinting through the dark. The only light source is from the lantern in the maid's hand, but he makes do: he catches sight of several larger than normal boys scuffling amongst them, then a girl or two with an abnormally long, slender neck- thrice as long as his, in fact. As if they're snakes.
Hmm. Interesting.
He's just about to zone out on the spot when the hair on the back of his neck rises. A small prick of feeling stings at the side of his cheek, and he shifts slightly, before he's staring right back at a boy.
The first thing he sees are his red eyes.
The second, immediately afterwards, are the scars.
Even in the faint light they stand out. Jagged tears split from the corners of his lips; its sloppy, rough stitches barely held together by thick threads. He can't help but stare- at this distance Ringo can't tell how far back they pull towards his ears. It's as if something had reached into the boy's mouth and pried his jaws open as wide as they could, forcing them far beyond what human anatomy could take.
It's not that he hadn't seen gore before. There's that incident from when he was younger, and injuries he witnessed from the years when he was aboard ships, but this-
This is...
What the fuck.
(What kind of sick bastard would do this to a kid?)
The boy blinks, and Ringo snaps out from his staring a little too late- the kid's expression shutters like curtains, jaws locking and stitches emphasizing the gesture, closing himself off and breaking his sight away. Then he steps back, and immediately he's crowded around by two more boys - one short-haired, the other messy bed-hair - who's both giving Ringo the stink-eye.
Ah.
It feels like a futile-attempt at best, but Ringo mouths "Sorry" the moment he catches the eye of the Red-Eyed Boy again. Just for that split second, before he steps back and moves to the other side of Linlin's legs to put some distance between them.
Least he could do is to give Red some space, after his accidental-but-still-rude staring.
Brûlée and Broyé squirms in their baby basket, and Ringo has to adjust to the shifting weight in his hands, standing awkwardly beside Linlin's knees. She's so tall that he's sure she can punt him like a coconut-
"-and these are your new siblings!" He hears, just as a huge, heavy hand lands on the top of his head, knocking the wind out of him. Linlin ruffles his hair carelessly, throwing her head back in laughter. "Try not to kill each other now, mamamamama!"
He feels another fourteen pairs of eyes swivel to stare at him at once. Ringo thins his lips as he stares back, focusing on the smiling maid instead of the children, eyes flat and expression schooling into something he hopes is neutral.
(Just a bit more.)
.
.
Linlin leaves to a chorus of goodbyes from her kids. Interestingly, the older ones are much more polite and mild than he anticipated them to be, each giving their mama a brief hug. The younger kids are disappointed, evident in their whines and tantrum, but they too are eventually pulled back by their older siblings. Ringo watches alongside them as Linlin steps onto Zeus and disappears to the ship sitting just on the horizon, and the maid starts ushering them off.
(He doesn't release his breathe until Linlin the ship is gone.)
The journey back to his new, temporary home is awkward.
None of the kids approach him. Whispered conversation reaches his ears, and he catches faint snippets like don't wanna and kinda weird and rude behind resolutely keeps his eyes forward and bounces the Twin's baskets to the rhythm of his walk, matching the pace of the maid's stride.
"You sure you don't want to give them over?" He hears her ask. Her voice is oddly slow and sweet. His hackles rise for some reason. "It must have been a long journey. Aren't you tired?"
"I'm fine, thank you." He replies, hugging the basket closer. Having the twins- something warm to shield against his chest feels better, somehow.
The walk takes them through the empty harbor, then a detour through the alleyways, but they eventually reach a house near the edge of the town. It's plain, made from wood and a painted green roof, but it's fairly spaced inside and has stairs leading to a second floor.
"Wait for me by the kitchens, hmm?" The Maid says. "I'll be right with you in a bit."
He does as he was told, and listens to the chorus of children whining and talking and yelling and the maid herding them upstairs and to get ready for bed. Brûlée and Broyé sleeps on in his arms.
Ringo breathes.
(Almost there.)
.
.
All it takes is a bit of compliance and some patience, before the maid leaves him alone.
"We don't have enough beds or room currently for you upstairs," She said apologetically, voice sweet and soft, "We'll just have to make do with this room for now, hm?"
Said room was a small spare next to the laundry room. The air smell faintly of soap and dust, and the floor is mildly cold. A hammock pockmarked with patches hangs freely by the wall. Somehow, it treads the fine line between cosy and uncomfortable at the same time.
Ringo's certain that this is a pretty shitty condition to get a kid to sleep in, but he doesn't care.
All he can think is almost, just almost there. I'm nearly free- that he's dizzy from the building anticipation. But he pushes it down, down and down, snapping back to reality.
"That's okay," Ringo murmurs instead, carefully keeping his eyes on the basket in his arms. Brûlée's clutching onto his hand, sucking softly at the tip of his pointer finger as she dozes. Next to her, Broyé is almost soundless, save for the gentle rise and sinking of her chest.
This is the part where the sullen character will feel the pang of sadness, where they'll have to struggle against their inner turmoil after weeks of looking after a kid. This is the part where they'll change their mind, and end up staying for their newfound bond. It always goes like this in the books, in stories, in tales-
Not him, though.
(He's been waiting for weeks. He needs to leave, wants to leave, soon-
Now.)
The pang of sadness that blooms within his chest when he slowly pulls his finger from Brûlée is small, lukewarm after weeks of acceptance. The twins sleep on, barely noticing the small movement, and Ringo allows himself a small smile at the sight before handling the basket over to the maid, who coos and rocks the twins slightly.
He ignores the uneasy feeling in his stomach.
(Still, at least they'll be safe with their real siblings.)
"We'll see you in the morning, then." She hums, stepping out. "Goodnight."
And the door closes.
He settles into his new hammock, tugs the blanket over his head, and begins counting to his heartbeat.
He is alone.
(Finally.)
.
.
Before long, the lights beneath the door dims, and the quiet of the night settles over the building like a shroud.
Ringo shuffles out from his blanket and stuffs the pillow beneath, taking care in arranging it so it looks like a lump is still under the flimsy cover. Then with his rucksack, he methodically climbs over the boxes, tumbles out of the open window, and flees into the night.
.
.
A/N:
Happy New Year! I'm finally releasing this chapter. Did you know what was originally Chapter 2 had to be split into 3 whole parts bc it just keeps getting longer and longer? Yeah, I can't believe my fingers too.
Thank you for reading. I didn't expect the reception for this silly OC-fic and I'm holding off from replying to reviews until I get the chapter out as a form of motivation for myself. I hope Brûlée, Broyé and the brief contact with poor Katakuri here can tide you through for now. We'll meet the first of the other older kids next chapter. I'm very excited.
I really did enjoyed writing the parts where Ringo interacted with Brûlée and Broyé. In this chapter, I went all out on my personal feelings and experience, and self-indulgently wrote the level of awkwardness Ringo has as he struggles to interact with 2 (two!) babies. It would be nice if there're more fics of characters being hilariously bad/struggling to interact with kids.