advocateofheaven:
As the shutter clicks in his ear, once, twice, Doflamingo steps back to fall over his couch’s arm, giggling and splashing red, red wine onto the crimson velvet. He’s too preoccupied snickering to himself to heed Vergo’s initial request, tipping the glass back and chugging the remaining contents in an abhorrently messy manner. A bit of wine spills into his hair and sticks to his cheeks, and his tongue flicks out in vain attempt to get the last taste. After a slight delay, the entirely composed, sober King rises from the lounge again, legs swinging off and lifting himself in an interesting manner. The wineglass slips uncaring to the rug, and soon Doflamingo is dancing with the curtains again, twirling around and wrapping the cloth around his limbs.
“Get my good side, Vergo,” he begins to scale the distressed cloth, hanging and swinging slowly from the straining curtain and rod.
It is equally endearing and hilarious to watch his composed friend let go and enjoy himself. To see him swirl around like a child, to see youthful lines and smiles on his face just like when they were kids. If family was around he doesn’t doubt they’d comment on their King’s uncharacteristic behaviour, but then again, it is always these private moments when Doffy doesn’t need to be reminded of the weight he carries on his shoulders. When he can do whatever he wishes, whatever his heart desires, because Vergo won’t judge. He never does.
Shutter clicks again, but he wonders if that rod is able to sustain Doffy’s weight. Vergo approaches him closer, there to support his friend should need arise, to catch him should he fall, his voice casual, unworried. “There’s no bad side to you, Doffy. They’re nice shots, but how about playing Roman for a while? You can be Caesar, or Octavian, Trajan, Hadrian or anyone you wish to be. It would require coming down, though.”
He watches for a moment the discarded wineglass, then the liquid running down Doffy’s face. He will need to clean him up later. He has a handkerchief.
