#❣

[belovedcorvid]

a tray with a letter and a dish covered with a cloche is left outside of rosinante’s room. once lifted, it’s revealed to be a meal of lettuce – plated like a face, with apple slices and plums functioning as the mouth and eyes.

　　　roci, 

it’s your birthday. 

are you surprised i remembered? did you remember? i waited all week for you to request something special of me, but you never said a word. surely it’s because you forgot and not because you didn’t think it would matter to me.

if your reason is the latter, i wouldn’t deny being a bit sad. just a bit. because, in fourteen years, i’ve never not remembered your birthday. i might have treated it like a lot of things – like a vigil, or an excuse to drink – but i still remembered. i never got much sleep on those nights. i hope the same wasn’t true for you. i hope, wherever you ended up, you spent those nights in places that were safe and warm. i hope you slept well. i hope mother visited your dreams – maybe that would explain why she never visits mine. .

speaking of mother: you might be too young to remember this clearly, but on your 6th birthday – before she even started getting sick – she wanted us to find you something special to eat while she kept you distracted. i broke into a nearby farm and ripped a head of lettuce straight out of the ground, with the trade-off of getting a nasty welt on the back of my head from a rock. father found some plums, and we had one apple left. then she had me take you outside to play and, while we were gone, she took that food and arranged them into a smile.

i tried my best to recreate it from memory. i don’t know why, it was just the first gift i could think of. i have others for you, too – but you’ll have to come see me for those. how about after dinner, on the balcony? i have a bottle of wine we could share while the sun sets, and maybe we could watch the stars for a while. if you want.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　- doffy

❣︎ | Unprompted :: Happy Birthday, Corazón ! |

He stared for a long time after he'd brought the dish back to his desk - a bizarre staring contest with a face made of fruit, or with his own small, distorted reflection gazing forlornly back at him in the margins of Doflamingo's fancy tableware. The smell of fresh produce - crisp, clean, alive - still lingered in the room even though he'd removed the cloche ages ago. He did remember, though perhaps not as sharply as he should: a lot of his early memories were sort of blended together into one pain-inducing sequence, alternately blurry and viscerally sharp - difficult to wrap his mind around, to understand that he was there in them. All that stuff happened, written on mind and body with a sharp edge. Doffy was older, maybe that was why he could see all this so clearly, like in this letter.

Guilt coiled itself around his heart as he reread the portions of this that seemed particularly genuine, for what if it was ? What if there was some remnant of a heart rattling around inside his brother's ribcage, and here he was betraying his last blood relative, lying to him, because he was too weak of will to believe that he could get better ? What kind of brother did that make him ? Or, was what he was doing for his brother's own good like he usually tried to tell himself when he felt poorly ? Scarred hands curled themselves into fists in his hair as Rocinante mentally prepared himself to try and explain this to Sengoku. What could he say - that Doffy could be rehabilitated after all, and that his primary evidence of this was a lettuce with a face on it ? It was entirely possible that this was done this way specifically because his brother could still read him so well, could see his bleeding, sentimental heart even though he did his best to hide it. That was what Sengoku would say, if he were to call him. Really there was nowhere to go.

The sensation of tears tracking from the planes of his face to the edges of the bowl was itchy, made his vision blur a little as he picked through its contents to browse a little. The plums, his favourite, were really good.

Doffy remembered.

[belovedcorvidarchive2024]

✿ maybe something with either law or doffy

❣ | Memes :: This One | Send a Flower for 2(ish) Headcanons about Character Relationships

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| Both because I'm indecisive and ily |

&& L.aw

" Can't believe you're a marine " / " I'm not a marine " and similar exchanges are a long running joke in their conversations in verses where he lives, partly because of how flatly C.ora will still deny it in spite of everything, even though the other already knows. But also because he uses it to remind the kid " I've chosen you over my career / safety / in the face of certain destruction before and I will always choose you again ".

There's a lot of stuff in his early background that C.ora just doesn't talk about, but I imagine L.aw gets closer to it than most in verses where he lives, and a lot of it probably comes up when he's trying / struggling to give up smoking. Cigarettes are more of a crutch than he admits to himself. Did you know cigarettes suppress hunger for some people? The bird does.

&& D.offy

I like writing C.ora as a shadow or mirror to his brother in a lot of ways, both as a physical silent shadow that moves in lock-step with him that he uses as an extension of himself to accomplish things and as an example of how two people can be given a similar set of traumatic circumstances and respond very differently: lack of inhibition vs rigidity, hedonism vs self-denial, etc. I don't know, I think it's neat and it makes me want to slap identical or mirrored features on both of them somewhere: a birthmark on the same or opposite shoulders, a band of the other's eye colour on the iris of the same or opposite eyes, etc. If someone that writes with me all the time wants to make this a shared thing, shout at me.

It's probably because of my knee-jerk tendency to add spooky things whenever I can, but spooky twins siblings that have their own indecipherable language vibes, especially when they were small. Related, at least to me: they frequently have shared / similar dreams on death or bad memory anniversaries, or the days leading up to them. C.ora usually goes out of his way to just... not sleep on days he thinks will be like that, but you can't always predict them

[belovedcorvidarchive2024]

in the early hours of valentine's day, a sizeable tin of umeboshi and a letter had been left outside the heart executive's door.

roci,

oh, don’t look so disappointed. it’s not as if you’ll be receiving anything else from anyone today.

but, to ensure you aren’t sulking by the time i bring my guests over for the evening, i decided i should offer you at least something. you’re so demanding, you know that? like a houseplant that wilts if he doesn’t get his quota of attention and affirmation every few days.

you haven’t changed at all. i didn't know what to think about that when you first arrived. that sentiment is both infuriating and reassuring to me. i hate the way you hesitate when i ask you to show some backbone for once and finish the job. i hate the way the line of your mouth wiggles and makes it so obvious you just want me to let someone go—like just roughing them up is enough of a punishment for disrespecting you. even now, i have to write you this stupid letter because i know you think i’m still angry with you over our argument last night and i have to placate your feelings by insisting i’m not.

but you’re familiar, and this whole life change for us has taught me familiarity is all that matters sometimes. at least this way i don’t have to waste time getting to know you all over again. those frustrating tics of yours, that nauseating look you give me when you want to spend time together but are too meek to say it, the way you trip and make a fool out of yourself in every room you walk into—these are things i remember. things i recognize. it's all the worst parts of home, but it still feels like home.

there’s relief in having you here. finally, finally: instead of things being taken from me, i got something back for a change. and, annoying as you are, i’m glad it’s you. my life felt a tad less interesting without a disaster of a little brother to take care of.

do not reference this letter to me, because i know you will. next time with make eye contact, you’re going to give me that dumb, soft look and fiddle your hands like you’re waiting to give me a hug. and then you’ll say ‘thank you’. for what? i told you i'm only writing this so you won't complain. thanks aren’t warranted, nor do i want them. just let words be words, brother.

　no directives for today. enjoy yourself. however it is you do that.　　　　　　　　　　　　 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　 　- doffy

❣ | Unprompted :: Always Accepting |

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Rocinante spent a lot of time looking down in the direction of his feet, mostly to try and make sure he placed them carefully in an effort to fall less often - with mixed success. Today it was a good thing he did because he nearly tripped over a tin right outside his door, a letter at the top written in his brother's easily recognised handwriting but pink feathered coat nowhere in sight. Hm, to open or not to open that right away; it was still so early in the day, did he really want to start it in this fashion? Something about curiosity and a dead cat comes to mind, but doesn't stop him from heading back into his room and locking the door behind him. Placing the tin on the desk in front of the window, he took a seat and lit a cigarette. It was so early, but he had a feeling he would need it.

A personalised peak into the abyss of his brother's troubled mind, framed as something that was his fault, was a very Doffy gift to receive.

By the end of the letter he sighed a heavy sigh and buried his face in his hands, letting himself tip slowly forward until his forehead rested on the letter, on the surface of the desk. His heart hurt, because as much as this read like an unhinged slap in the face he knew that to Doffy this was probably meant in earnest, meant to be helpful, and that was sad. He felt sad, felt pain for his brother and that was perhaps the worst part of all. For what kind of person did you have to be, to still hold love in your heart for someone that hurt people the way Doffy did, for someone that did the things he did to people he had loved? Pathetic at best, just as demented as Doffy at worst. It's gross, it's pathetic. A realisation that is not new, but rears its head in moments like this: he is out of his depth. In over his head. With a steadying breath, he blankets the area in silence and retrieves a snail from his pocket.

. . .

" Arare, it's me. "

. . .

" I haven't gotten to it yet. Any news ? "

. . .

" Yes, I got the last message. "

. . .

" No no, nothing to report. I just . . . Sorry, nothing's wrong. I guess I just wanted to hear you talk. That's all. "

[belovedcorvid]

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