Donquixote. Don-quixote. Donquixote~ It was new and unfamiliar but he liked it. And he needed no further reason to wholeheartedly accept this as his new name, though of course Doflamingo would always be the name he held closest to his heart. Unknown to him, it was actually better that name was unknown, given it was his True Name and could be used against him should an ill-intentioned user of magic get a hold of it. But that would be for later, for he knew nothing of such things now.
And then the God was speaking his language, almost literally, and the way he perked when the other male copied his turn of phrase and said ‘fledgling’. He beamed like the sunshine in his hair, until his skin seemed to glow. And on top of that, he was assured he was wanted- the two things combined made him happier than he had been in years and he chirped a short trill before he could stop himself in joy.
When tugged up, he bounced to his feet, balancing delicately on the balls of them, very nearly on tiptoe. And when told he could get out of this horrid, stuffy, restrictive robe, he didn’t hesitate- he pulled in his shoulders, let go of the God’s hand to yank both his arms up out of the sleeves and through the neck along with his shoulders, then shoved the whole mess down his chest, another push when it snagged on his hips and gave a much-pleased sigh when the nasty thing crumpled to the ground, where he proceeded to kick it to the side like the trash he felt it was.
Entirely naked, and entirely comfortable, he smiled innocently at the God. His body- it was…not what was expected out of so young a man, though he didn’t know this.
There were scars. Bites and clawings from forest creatures looking for what they thought was easy prey, which had quickly discovered it was 1 much bigger than they thought and 2 had two very big, angry, aggressive flamingos to protect it by pecking the attacker’s eyes until it was forced to let go and flee.
But more- more pressing, more infuriating- he was badly bruised and had cuts that came from no animal.
Blackish purple was smattered all up and down his calves, in the small of his back and a few even on his shoulders close to his neck. His back was scabbed over with the inch-wide welts, crusted with blood at the edges, of a strop or a belt, crisscrossing the bronzed flesh.
Underlying all these were greenish and yellowish bruises, but none of this could be older than a week, the scabbed ones and black ones, which were the majority, no older than a day.
Someone had been beating this man like a child caught stealing, perhaps as recently as the night previous, even this very morning. The heavy robe’s purpose, apparently, had been to hide this abuse, which if it had been known would surely have earned him at minimum a week’s recovery, and the perpetrator sacrificed in his place for having the gall to lay hands on the God’s sacred property.
For his part, Donquixote seemed not to feel the sting of any of it, grinning and bouncing a bit. “I’m already quite welcomed, but if you have a loincloth that would be wonderful! Though if you say I should have a ‘proper welcome’, whatever that is, that would also be nice!”
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