Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Laughter.

That’s the first thing Kidd hears, the only thing. A laugh that wheezes with breathlessness, scratchy to the point it sounds like gravel rattling in the throat, raw all the way down. Interrupted by hacking coughs, desperate inhales of breath.

A sound Kidd would recognize anywhere, in his sleep or black-out drunk or half a step from death’s door.

It’s what leads Kidd to Killer and a battle decided before he can throw a single punch.

They’ve got Killer in chains; Kidd, too, after a brawl as hopeless as they come, wrist locked in Sea Stone and bullets lodged in his chest and it should hurt but it doesn’t. Killer’s back is broad enough to fill most of Kidd’s field of view as they walk, steps in synch despite it all and Kidd knows, if he shuffled closer and listened to Killer’s heartbeat, it would match the pace of his own.

Killer’s head is bowed, however, mouth pressed to his shoulder and only half-hidden as another chuckle shakes out of him. Kidd feels sick.

They’re beaten, and drowned, over and over and over again until they’re not and Kidd can breathe again. It all blurs into one, a slush of sensations and gut-instinct reactions and a glimpse of the worry on Strawhat’s face when he yells, “Spikey!! You guys okay?!”

Next to him Killer barely moves, utterly drenched and gasping for air and still laughing, the mascara on his lashes trailing down his cheeks in black-tinged lines. Looking just as drained as Kidd by the water dripping into a puddle around them, and Kidd’s brain refuses to accept what his heart already knows.

Nothing about this is okay.

For the first time in forever Eustass Kidd doesn’t know what the fuck to do. The cuff comes off though, Kidd’s skin torn and bleeding underneath and he can only think of one thing.

It’s been days. Metal heeds the call of Kidd’s raised arm and curled fingers all the same, the burst of magnetism strong enough to make the air crackle with it. A wall of scrap draws up between them and the world, groaning as it bends to Kidd’s will.

His gaze never leaves Killer even for a second, just to catch the moment those beautiful eyes widen and finally meet his.

There’s pain there, and shame, and Kidd’s eyes itch as they tear up. Roughly, Kidd grabs the folds of Killer’s kimono, drags him up until they’re chest to chest, kneeling there in the dirt. “You with me?”

Killer’s mouth tightens, teeth biting into painted lips to fight the grin there and he nods even as he fails to contain it. Kidd shakes him, “Killer”, he says, voice hoarse and cracking with emotion. Killer’s bottom lip starts to bleed.

“Fucking– Say something. Anything.”

Because no matter what, Killer follows the orders of his captain and he does now, too. Whispers, “I’m here”, and he reaches for Kidd’s neck, pulls him close, forehead brushing forehead. “I’m with you, Kidd.”

Close enough Kidd can taste the salt and copper on his skin. Gently, so gently, he wipes crimson off Killer’s chin with his thumb, careful not to smudge his lipstick.

“They’ll pay. We’ll make them pay for this.”

Killer closes his eyes, nods again, leans into their touch if only for a moment. Their lips brush, the same shade of red.

Because this? This is theirs, was only ever meant to be, and Kidd won’t rest until whoever dared lay hands on Killer is at their feet, torn apart limb by limb and bone by bone.

Killer's smile is his. There's nothing in the world he won't burn to the fucking ground for it to stay that way.

Chapter Text

They walk for hours, across dusty desert plains and past the outskirts of a bustling city to the very edge of a forest, every leaf covered in delicate frost. Kidd doesn’t have a single clue where they’re going – all he’s seen of Wano Country is a waterfall and the inside of a cell and what a lovely first impression that was – but Killer seems to, always two steps ahead of Kidd.

In that dark kimono and cloaked in patterned fabric, Killer looks like he belongs here, roaming wherever the wind carries him. All formal-like with his hair pulled up high and out of his face and his wrists bandaged all the way to his fingers.

Fucking uncomfortable is what he looks like, shoulders drawn and hands clenched where the grip of his scythes would be, and Kidd’s stomach roils with a fury that has nowhere to go.

Not right now, anyways.

Yet he’s still just Killer: despite the smile that remains on his lips, cold as the snow beneath their feet, despite the weeks they spent apart. Still the man that has been by his side since Kidd can remember, all the way back to the days they were snot-faced nobodies from South Blue dreaming of the wide-open sea and finding One Piece.

Killer’s always been a man of few words. He’s calmer now, hasn’t said much of anything since they left the prison gates behind. When Kidd had asked if he knew where the others were, Killer had nodded and led the way.

He hasn’t laughed either, as much as every breath threatens to change that. Kidd keeps a tight hold on his metal fist and doesn’t stare.

It’s quiet out here, eerily so. They come by a bridge and bloody arches splattered on cracked wood and snow alike. Across countless graves, old and frozen over to the point of illegibility – and while Killer’s gaze falls on the swords stuck in front of them, he does not stray from his path.

Idiot. Kidd rolls his eyes and gestures to a pair of short ones that are vaguely curved. They are torn from their place of rest with nary a sound; hovering, just as soundlessly, until Killer sighs and takes them in hand.

“A spirit guards this place”, he says, as if Kidd has ever given a shit about anything holy. Killer glances at Kidd’s deadpan stare, his eyes meeting Kidd’s before flitting away again, and Killer’s lips twitch. “It’s bad luck, that’s all.”

“Whatever”, Kidd huffs. Watches Killer draw each of the swords, quick and precise, and they can’t be all that crap given the care with which Killer ties them to the sash around his waist.

Onwards they go until the trees part and Killer finally stops. Kidd does so, too, shoulder to shoulder with him as the wind tears into the heavy fur of his coat. One step further the ground gives into a steep cliff and jagged rocks below. Beyond that: the rumbling of waves against shore.

They found the ocean.

Tucked into a cove, the Victoria Punk lies at anchor and there, in the middle of deck, a bonfire casts its warm glow. A light that calls her captain home and Kidd grins. They made it.

It’s a bit far to the metal in the Punk’s skull but Kidd doesn’t care. He reaches for it, feels its presence hum under the palm of his hand and it’s enough, the connection strong and unrelenting.

“Got her. Let’s go, Killer.”

Kidd’s metal arm opens to let him grab on and Killer– He stays right where he is, stiff under all those layers of fluttering fabric and Kidd looks at him. Really looks, his gaze searching for that face he knows so well and sees so rarely and much less like this, with lips pulled unnaturally wide and eyes shifting with hesitation.

A face none of the crew would recognize because they’ve never–

“They won’t care, K. You know they won’t.”

“I know”, Killer grinds out between clenched teeth. The thick muscles of his throat work; the chuckle still makes it out of his mouth, a strangled, joyless noise. “I know but–”

That’s the problem, isn’t it? That sliver of doubt that Killer’s worst fear could come true is almost as terrifying as the thing itself, and Kidd swallows whatever else is on his tongue. Promises himself he will speak every ounce of truth when the time is right, will whisper reassurances against Killer’s skin from here to eternity if that’s what it takes to make him believe them.

Kidd’s hand drops, as does the surge of power pulsating from it. “Okay.” He turns away from the Punk and towards Killer, a moment spent figuring things out before he tugs the cloak… thing off Killer’s shoulders.

(Killer doesn’t flinch from his touch but it’s close enough. Kidd pretends not to notice.)

Without hesitation Kidd digs metal fingers into the fabric and rips it apart, a long tear splitting the silk in two. Frowns at the one which is longer and dipped in old blood and shrugs. There are feathers on it.

It’ll do.

Killer is watching him, a line between his brows and his gaze a little squinted like he’s trying to gauge what the hell Kidd is up to. It makes Kidd wonder if whatever happened to him also affects his brain somehow because seriously.

“Get that shit off your face. I’ll do your hair.”

The tie keeping everything tightly bound suffers the same fate, shiny and expensive and ruined as Kidd throws it over his shoulder. Killer’s hair explodes into a familiar cascade of blonde in the matter of moments – the knots and tangled bits will take ages to comb out, which makes another item on Kidd’s to-do list.

Kidd shakes out the front until it falls over Killer’s eyes. “There”, he mumbles with some smugness and can’t help the nostalgic smile it brings to his lips. “Hah. This takes me back.”

Hidden by hair or not, Kidd knows where to catch the glint of Killer’s eyes in there and how they soften. “Mhm.”

The rest of Killer’s face is painfully bare without the bandages and so Kidd doesn’t linger. Just gives Killer the makeshift scarf he made and waits until he’s wrapped it around his neck and pulled it up to the bridge of his nose to tie it in place with a clumsy knot.

Done. Not much finesse to it, the torn edges and messy strands clashing against Killer’s outfit with all its elegant folds and neat lines. Even muffled by the mask Kidd can hear the quiet sigh Killer breathes and something in him settles, too.

“C’mon. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

They come home.

*

Afterwards, that’s when Kidd asks.

After his boots hit deck for the first time in weeks and he thought finally; after both he and Killer were barreled over in a mass of hugs – warm, so warm – among shouts of “Boss!” and “Killer! You’re back!”; after Doc descended on them with the righteousness of a Valkyrie from myths and legends and Killer pointed at Kidd and said, “Kidd got shot”, and Kidd hissed back, “Bastard”, and didn’t mention the cuts hidden under that damned kimono (not yet); after Killer slinked off in the direction of their room (one hand keeping the mask in place, not that anyone had given a rat’s ass because the Punk’s right here and they’re all still breathing) and Kidd surrendered himself to his fate at Doc’s hands.

It’s what the crew needed, in that moment. Red-nosed and shivering from temperatures they’re not really made for, and Eustass Kidd is a captain to them all, not just Killer.

So he let Doc fuss over bullet wounds and overexposure to Sea Stone. He listened to Wire’s calm voice recount the story of how they got here, how Killer set off to find him and the day Pirate Hunter Zoro wandered by, clearly lost. In turn, Kidd told them the gist of what happened half a country away: about Udon’s downfall and the tides of rebellion crashing against Onigashima’s shores soon enough.

The bonfire burned on. There’s a decision to be made there, Kidd realized as he stared into its flames. Every expression around him carried the same conviction, encased in flickering orange and the bite of snow and Kidd knew, if he asked then and there, they would've followed him into a war they'd lost once before.

Yet Killer’s not here and Kidd was tired, so fucking tired.

Across from him Heat shifted, a frown deepening the scars on their face with the things Kidd didn’t say: They have been with them longer than anyone else has, the first to join and the only one to have witnessed what’s underneath the mask. Heat’s gaze searched Kidd’s over the glowing embers between them and they, too, didn’t press for answers.

They smiled instead, old stitches pulled taut. “Dinner’s on me. Welcome back, Boss.”

Through it all Kidd bit his tongue and waited. Killer is nowhere to be found when he finally steps into the captain's cabin: There’s a pile of used bandages and dark silk on the floor, the sound of a shower running the next room over. Filthy as it is, Kidd deems his fur coat a lost cause and tosses it to the ground along with the rest.

After days of wear, the clothes peel off like a second skin. The dust of the stone pit has been washed off yet it lingers, stuck under painted nails and in the greasy spikes of Kidd’s hair.

The goggles come off next. Kidd… sits, for a while, buck-ass naked on the edge of the bed occupying most of their quarters. Lets his fingers run over old, black leather and the holes missing studs have left behind, and his eyes are dull where they’re mirrored by tinted glass, monochromatic.

Killer’s mask is right there. Blue-and-white, mounted on its stand, not a single scratch on it – Killer’s design and Kidd’s handiwork, its individual pieces welded into place damn near perfectly so it won’t come off unless Killer wants it to.

Kidd stares at it, alone in this space they carved for themselves in this world, and remembers: Killer’s laugh, choked and wrong; Killer’s body, limp in the water; Killer’s face, tear-stained and bared for everyone to see–

Fuck.

Kidd’s palm is rough against his face, skin grown tough with callouses and burn marks. His fingers dig into his mouth and his scar and his eyes and they sting as his eyeliner smudges beyond repair.

How the fuck do I fix this?

Steam rolls into the room like thunder over the sea, the air charged and heavy with it. The bed dips behind him. Legs bracket his; hands slide over Kidd’s back to his chest, slightly damp. Naked skin against naked skin.

This is the thing Kidd missed the most, locked away and powerless.

“Kidd.”

There’s layers to it, the way Killer says his name. A weight behind that one word that invokes the thousand other times he has uttered it just like this, lips a phantom sensation at the nape of Kidd’s neck. The smile is still there, Kidd can feel it, and that too is a memory made physical.

It’s warm summer nights, it’s skinned knees and knocked out teeth, it’s mornings spent in bed with the Punk’s lazy sway beckoning them back to sleep.

Kidd loves Killer’s smile, has loved it before people started mocking him for it and continued to love it past the day Killer decided to hide it. He’d hoped, even as he made that mask, that a time would come when it wouldn’t be needed.

Not like this, though. Not against Killer’s will.

“It’s that SMILE shit, isn’t it?”

Finally, finally Kidd gives voice to the question burning in his mind, his heart, his lungs. Killer’s arms tighten around him but Kidd can’t hold back, can’t–

“Those fake Devil Fruits Strawhat was talking about, that’s what causing this. That’s why you can’t stop. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Killer is a force of nature on the battlefield, a whirlwind of blades and raining blood – here, now, his chest shifts against Kidd’s back with a breath that trembles on the line of becoming a laugh. “You’re not.”

Finally, Kidd allows himself to feel the ache at his core, the sheer grief of it all. The goggles drop to the ground as his fingers claw at fire-red hair instead, pulling. Pain, sharp, sizzles across his scalp, does nothing but add to the suffocating pressure building in Kidd’s throat because there’s no way out of this.

Artificial or not, Devil Fruits are forever.

“Why, Killer? You’re strong, they can’t… Just eating the fruit doesn’t work, you gotta swallow it. You gotta want it. What the fuck were you thinking?!”

And damn Killer, damn him for hearing Kidd’s voice shake and wrapping around him like Kidd’s the one falling apart. For running his hand over Kidd’s until he clings to that instead, strong and steady where Kidd can’t be, not anymore.

They’ve always been together, their lives and pasts and dreams entangled and breathing as one. From South Blue to the New World they've kept this secret safe and–

“There was a choice. They gave me a choice, Kidd.”

It’s mumbled right against Kidd’s ear like the truth will hurt less if spoken quietly. Because there’s no regret in Killer’s voice, none, and there’s only one thing he’d give up everything for.

Kidd clenches his eyes shut, groans out, “No–”

Killer doesn’t let him go, pressing a kiss to his shoulder with smiling lips.

“I just picked the one I could live with.”

Chapter Text

The Kidd Pirates arrive as one: Kidd up front, grim-faced and radiating Haki, with Killer to his right and Heat to his left and Wire trailing behind, eyes on their backs. Ahead, a handful of houses cluster around the slow trickle of a stream and blooming cherry trees that dot the ground in gentle patterns. Everything about it whispers sweet promises of harmony, of a place to rest their weary heads and heal wounds barely starting to scar.

Kidd doesn’t trust any of it one fucking bit.

People are gathered in a loose group, conversations hushed and hard to make out from afar. A Marine’s wet dream, really, with how many bounties Kidd recognizes at a glance – or their worst nightmare, given Monkey D. Luffy is one of them.

That straw-hatted head turns and keeps turning into an angle that would snap any neck not made of rubber. A smile, bright with surprise.

“Oh? Spikey! And Spikey’s friend!”

Completely unaffected by the wave of tangible will Kidd pushes on them all, and after days of sharing a prison cell it just makes Kidd’s mouth tug into a grin. “Strawhat.”

(Through his mask Killer mutters, “Spikey’s friend”, like he’s contemplating if he likes it or not. Not that Strawhat would change a thing about the nickname either way.)

Both Strawhat’s and Trafalgar’s crews are there, at least partially. Kidd spots the polar bear and those two idiots staring right at him – one of which jumps to his feet and runs inside – while that blonde guy with the kicks and Zoro flank their captain with little subtlety.

So they’re alive after all. Seems like Strawhat is not the only one capable of surviving an encounter with Kaido.

Still, Kidd isn’t here for handshakes and kisses. This is business and the way Strawhat’s expression turns a little pensive proves the brat has some braincells rattling around in the attic, dusty as it must be up there.

“Where’s Trafalgar? We gotta talk.”

Strawhat just groans. “Another meeting? It’s lunch time! Sanji, you promised lunch.”

“That I did”, says Blondie around a mouthful of smoke. He nods at Kidd, curly brow raised. “You. Spikey. Any of you got a problem with eel? We’re having unagi.”

One more annoying than the other. Heat oohs behind Kidd, however, quiet enough it stays between them. That una-stuff must be good, then.

Kidd gives Killer a look; Killer tilts his head. Your choice. Kidd sighs.

“Fine, whatever. Hurry it up, we’re not staying.”

“Hey!”, the bear pipes up from the sidelines. The very moment Kidd’s eyes land on him, his frowned ferocity turns bashful and he looks to his feet, ears folded. “Sorry, um. I think we should wait for Captain.”

Strawhat makes an indistinct noise around the something-on-a-skewer he just shoved in his mouth. Once done, he uses the stick to point in Kidd’s general direction. “Nah, they’re okay. Right, Spikey?”

Before Kidd can utter the fuck you already on his lips, the swordsman to Strawhat’s right hums. “Luffy”, Zoro murmurs in that serious voice of his, one that demands to be heard without much effort. “Bepo’s right.”

And his gaze is focused on Killer, not Kidd, an arm casually coming to rest on his swords – there’s a similar tension in the way Killer holds himself, on his guard despite the lack of aggression in the air. (Breathing shallowly like he does when he’s trying to maintain the little control he has these days, like it’s better to go without altogether than laugh in company like this.)

Kidd glares. The metal around him starts to tremble.

“Eustass.”

Only one person says his name like that. The snarl on Kidd’s lips doesn’t go anywhere, especially with the indifferent glance Trafalgar Law acknowledges him with as he steps out of the shadows. All disgruntled like Kidd disturbed his beauty sleep or crashed a particularly boring match of chess or… any other thing a guy with that long a stick up his ass might do in his downtime.

 Eugh, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

“Trafalgar. Sure took your sweet time.”

The guy’s eyes narrow a little; Kidd smirks. The gears are already in motion under that ridiculously fluffy hat of his and well, Kidd did promise Killer he’d be civil. For the most part.

“You’re the one trespassing.” Trafalgar’s voice is all smooth disdain, no nonsense. “What do you want?”

Straight to the point. There are some qualities to be appreciated about him, arrogant prick or not.

Kidd spits on the ground. “Alright, listen up. Strawhat, you too.”

Strawhat actually does, giving him a curious look over the bowl of sauce-drenched rice he’s currently tearing into. Lunch time, right. Trafalgar merely blinks, unimpressed.

Rolling his shoulders, Kidd lets himself feel the ache of metal on scars, familiar, anchoring him in his body. The presence of his crew around him settles his senses, solid and always there in the periphery.

For days he’s breathed around the wrath in his lungs, spoken every word with the thrumming of his pulse in his throat. When Kidd smiles, it’s with lips red as blood and teeth bared like fangs.

There was a decision to make, and Kidd has made it.

“That war of yours? We want in.”

*

Later, much later, Kidd turns his back and Killer follows.

Heat and Wire are long gone, sent back to let the others know and prepare the Punk for battle. There’s much to be done still and little time to do it – Kidd thinks of the hell that will rain upon those who dared cross them and knows it will be worth it.

This time, there will be no retreat. No mercy. Whatever the outcome, be it victory or death, it will be painted in shades of red.

Tomorrow, they sail for Onigashima.

Killer is next to him until he isn’t. Kidd blinks, stops, glances over his shoulder to see Killer's hand fall to the swords at his side.

“You.”

Amidst the sprawling fields between them and the hideout stands Zoro. The wind makes the grass surge like waves; it touches upon a face that has lost the guise of civility to reveal the demon underneath. This isn’t happening, shoots through Kidd’s mind, not again, and he growls as Haki gathers within him, ready to burst–

“Wait.”

Killer’s hand is on his chest, big and strong over the war drum of Kidd’s heart. “Wait”, Killer repeats and the calm of his voice cracks apart on a chuckle. Kidd’s gaze moves from the tension in Killer’s arm to Zoro’s eye and the recognition that sparks there.

Kidd remembers: Cuts across Killer’s chest, overlapping, all three of them deep and guaranteed to scar. Killer’s tightlipped silence over who did it, who hurt him–

“Come closer and I’ll tear you apart”, a venomous hiss more than strained with how hard Kidd’s jaw is clenched but he listens to Killer, always has when Killer’s this serious about something.

All Zoro does is stare at Killer’s mask, a gaze sharp enough to pierce through layers of paint and welded metal. He says: “Those swords aren’t yours to wield. You should give them back.”

Killer huffs out an amused breath and for once, it’s genuine. “It can’t be helped. Someone took my scythes.”

An amusement that Zoro seems to share with the slightest uptilt of his mouth, “Is that so?”, idle yet the threat in his stance goes nowhere.

“What was it again? ‘Don’t talk down to the shogun’… or something along those lines.”

Killer’s fingers clench where they’re tangled in Kidd’s shirt. Zoro looks from that up to Kidd, smile growing all the more lethal.

“You didn’t tell him?”

Worded like a question when it’s not even close to one, and Kidd tries not to bristle, he really does. As if Zoro knows shit about anything, about them, about the living nightmare Killer’s been stuck in since–

Half a step and Killer shifts between them, sword half-way out of its sheath. Hisses, “Leave him out of this”, and Killer laughs despite the anger begging to be heard in there somewhere.

“Orochi means nothing to me. Nothing. He’ll die a dog’s death just like the rest of them.”

Kidd might not get what the hell they’re going on about but there’s real hurt in it, too, and suddenly all he wants is for Zoro to laugh. To mock Killer so Kidd can make good on the promise he gave his partner the day they went to sea and slaughter him like all the bastards that came before him.

Then… Zoro hums, “I see”, and that aura is gone, snuffed out with a blink and a scratch to bright green hair. “I kept the scythes, y’know. Would be a waste not to let them taste a fair battle.”

Killer doesn’t relax as much as he exhales a tired sigh. His sword is sheathed; a moment later his hold on Kidd drops and Kidd almost stumbles, only now realizing how hard he was pushing against the immovable line of Killer’s arm.

With steady hands, Killer unties the two shortswords from his waist and crosses the distance to hand them over. “A bit far to go for some stolen blades”, Killer tells him, an edge of annoyance there that Zoro shrugs off casually.

Kidd watches the interaction with narrow-eyed focus, waiting for the step out of line that never comes. Zoro meets his gaze only briefly, the eyebrow over his blind eye twitching upwards.

As cocky and infuriating as his captain. Kidd’s mouth opens before he can stop himself.

“Try a stunt like that again and you’re dead, Pirate Hunter.”

The swordsman smirks, “I’ll take my chances”, before he turns to leave. Damn-near strolling back to his crew with a jaw-cracking yawn, and Kidd grinds his teeth and lets him.

Fucking Strawhats. 

Yet Killer is still staring after him, still lingering. “The girl”, he calls after Zoro. “The one who laughed. Is she alive?”

Zoro stops, glances over his shoulder, a little puzzled. “Toko? Yeah, she’s safe.” A pause. “They executed her father. A good man.”

Killer’s head lowers. “What a shame”, he agrees, too quiet for the other to understand. Zoro walks on and so does Killer, a step or two ahead before he tilts his mask at Kidd, waiting.

“You coming, Captain?”

Kidd banishes all thoughts of their rivals – allies, for now – out of his head and joins Killer.

And Kidd stays close, perhaps too close; their hands brush every few steps. With a fond huff, Killer’s fingers hook around Kidd’s and they don’t let go all the way to the Punk.

Chapter Text

Light falls on him, gentle, crawls up his shoulder, his neck. The touch of weightless warmth over fluttering lashes, pooling around closed lids that clench tighter against its orange glow; iridescent spots, shifting, dancing.

A tired groan. Kidd burrows deeper into the crease of his elbow, into that tentative darkness that comes with the scent of his own skin and sweat.

He drifts. Dreams, perhaps, of explosions booming in the distance and bones snapping under fists made of scrap. Of snakes with eight heads and unbreakable indigo scales and the ground under his feet, soaked in blood–

Remembers, in sharp detail, a room tinged blue and Killer’s hand in his, crushing, crushing. Screaming gone hoarse until vocal cords gave entirely and Trafalgar Law’s face, pale and slick with effort, straining–

There are fingers in his hair. Careful, soothing, four points of pressure tracing and re-tracing the same path. Soft breathing.

“Sleep”, a raspy voice mumbles. Kidd sleeps.

*

Killer.

That’s the first thing Kidd thinks of, the only thing. Killer, Killer, eyes suddenly open wide and searching, where is Killer, is he–

Blonde hair, mussed and bunched up and everywhere, spilling across messy sheets like spun gold. Half-lidded eyes surrounded by deep shadows but shining, on him. Thin lips smudged with faded red and he’s not–

Kidd rasps, “Killer”, reaches for him – right here, he’s right here – and under the tender press of his thumb on the corner of his mouth Killer smiles, just a little, tentative and shy like he’s always done when it’s the two of them and nobody else.

“It worked? Are you…?”

“Yeah, think so”, he tells Kidd, whispers it against his palm and Killer sounds so worn out Kidd’s heart aches for him. “You okay?”

And it makes him laugh, laugh until the sting of tears threatens to overwhelm him. “You don’t get to ask me that.” There’s drowsy concern in Killer’s gaze and Kidd shakes his head. “Darling, ’m fine. More than fine, believe me.”

Killer huffs, that little line between his brows showing up and oh, Kidd loves him. Tangles his fingers in Killer’s hair just to feel those soft strands catch on the roughness of his hand, skin cracked and bruised.

“Fuck. It’s good to see you, Kil, c’mere.”

Yet Kidd doesn’t pull, merely holds Killer close until he can haul himself there and kiss him – once, twice, the simple press of lips against lips. Killer makes a noise, demanding despite how weak it is. Kidd is dragged closer by his hair and he grins even when everything blurs and he tears up for good.

Blood and salt and stale breath on Kidd’s tongue and he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. Fuck the One Piece, fuck anything that isn’t the sound of his name coming out of Killer’s mouth like he can’t help it, like it hurts not to say it.

Killer’s crying. He’s crying because he can and Kidd would’ve never thought that would make him as happy as it does.

It worked. It fucking worked.

Their noses brush as they come up for air. Kidd is so relieved he’s gasping, shaking apart with the things he let happen to Killer, his best friend, his partner. Agony given words and expression (“I almost lost you, K, I almost f-fucking lost–”) and still he can’t stop. Fleeting kisses to Killer’s chin and his cupid’s bow and where tears spill to the side, the hint of crow’s feet there that Kidd adores. “I’m so glad. I’m so glad you’re alive.”

“Kidd.”

Killer’s hands are gentle where they cup Kidd’s face, trembling. “Kidd”, he repeats and Kidd curls into that touch. Lets Killer’s voice wash over him, the words that take shape against the curve of his jaw. “Breathe, love. You didn’t lose anything. I’m here. I’m with you.”

Kidd sniffs sharply. “I know, just…” The nook of Killer’s neck is right there; Kidd pushes his face in there, shifting so his temple rests against the rhythm of Killer’s pulse, growing calmer. “I know.”

Snot dribbles from Kidd’s nose to Killer’s shirt and it only adds to how head-to-toe disgusting they are, covered in days-old grime and dried blood and whatever else they dragged off the battlefield. There’s a wound or three protesting the position, the scars on Kidd’s bare shoulder red and raw against the sheets.

Kidd couldn’t care less. His arm digs under Killer’s bulk and pulls him closer, chest to chest and hearts beating as one.

“You’re crushing me”, Killer mutters and does absolutely nothing to change it. Just puts one hand across the nape of Kidd’s neck and the other back in his hair, pushing the slick spikes to lie as close to flat as they can get (which is barely).

They stay there, sprawled and starting to sweat in the morning light conquering more and more of the room. “We owe Trafalgar big time”, Kidd says eventually, too drained to sound anything but grateful about it. He shifts against Killer, pillowing his cheek on his pec with a low grunt.

“Him and that reindeer guy. Don’t ask me what exactly they did but they said they got it all out. All side-effects reversed. Strawhat’s holding off on the party until they got through the others. The, um. The little girl, too.”

Killer hums. “…I don’t remember much. Do I wanna know?”

“No. Hell no.” Kidd shudders, pushes the memories far, far down. His fingers throb with it regardless: The bruises finally stopped swelling, at least.

“Never eat a Devil Fruit again, ‘kay? They taste shit. You love to swim. We can’t both be hammers. Lots of reasons not to.”

A sigh. “Kidd–”

“I know but fuck that. Not worth it. Got it?”

All Killer gives him is an indistinct “Mh”, which is fine. There’s no way in hell anyone’s ever getting to him anymore, not without going through Kidd first and there goes Killer’s reason for throwing away his life like that.

Boom, problem solved.

That thought rattles around in Kidd’s brain for some time, that and all the other crap he chucked aside to keep himself together. Kidd’s pretty sure he’ll never hear the exact circumstances of this particular shitshow – Killer can be bullheaded as fuck if he wants to. In the end, knowing or not knowing won’t change what matters.

Kidd trusts Killer. With his life, and everything else.

With Killer’s heart thumping steady as ever under his ear, the pain is easier to bear. Easier to let go of, body moving with every inhale and exhale Killer breathes, slow and deep. His fingers stopped moving a while ago, only loosely cupping Kidd’s head now.

Kidd glances up to see Killer’s face gone slack in his sleep. It softens something inside him, something that makes him want to etch this exact moment into his mind so he never forgets it: Blonde lashes fanning delicately across the cusp of Killer’s cheeks; the miniscule scrunch to his nose where a wayward strand of hair is tickling him.

It’s a bit of a struggle to get his arm out from underneath Killer’s back to tuck it away but Kidd manages. Brushes the tips of his fingers along his jaw, afterwards, until Killer mumbles vague nothings and drops off to proper slumber.

The arch of Killer’s mouth settles as it should, marginally sloped downwards, lacking any tension.

Kidd huffs, quiet and fond. He gets comfortable, claiming the space along Killer’s side and nudging his arm in a better position to put his head on it. Killer is warm, all solid muscle and soft skin.

Kidd is all too happy to melt into that. It’s gotten kinda hard to catch some rest any other way.

Wire by wire, the knot in Kidd’s chest loosens. The constant worry, the sheer hopelessness of a future where something as simple as this would be rendered meaningless.

“I missed you, y’know”, Kidd tells Killer, low enough that Killer’s breathing drowns out most of it.

They rest.

*

By the time Heat pokes their head into the room and spots them, the pile of blankets and limbs that are Kidd and Killer are snoring loud enough to rouse the dead and then some. Completely passed out.

Heat sighs. Strawhat’s banquet will have to wait a little bit longer, then.