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Law has been awake for twenty hours straight. He’s fine, everything is fine . And he will continue to be fine so long as no one takes his coffee away from him. He’s just… busy. Never-endingly busy. And that’s fine, too. Law prefers it that way.
He’s hit that hazy, half-buzzed space of a caffeine high on no-food where, for a blissful hour or so, he has the capacity to be incredibly productive. The crash afterwards is bound to be terrible, but his shift at the clinic ends in a few hours and then he can go home. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll even catch more than three hours of sleep before his biochem lab at ten-thirty.
(He probably won’t be that lucky.)
Law is just descending on a Quest bar with all the unholy power of a starved undergraduate when his supervisor, Dr. Kureha, starts aggressively clicking a pen in his direction. In Dr. Kureha’s language, this roughly translates to, Listen up, fuckwit.
“Trafalgar,” she croaks in her distinct I-spent-the-last-fifteen-years-chainsmoking voice. “Intake for you in room-two.”
It’s about the only thing Law is allowed to do as an unpaid undergraduate pre-med intern. Heaven forbid he does anything besides ask patients questions they hardly ever bother to answer truthfully, file paperwork, and mop up vomit. Judging by the wicked smile on Kureha’s determinedly youthful face, what awaits law in room-two is undoubtedly going to be weird.
Not that anything that comes into the emergency clinic between the hours of midnight and six-a.m. is normal, but. Well. Law might just be paranoid, but it’s like he can almost taste the malicious glee in Dr. Kureha’s eyes.
What he’s expecting when he bustles into room two is not what he gets.
Law is expecting alcohol poisoning. Law is expecting a drug-seeker coming down off of a bad high. Law is expecting a belligerent old pervert with genital warts too ashamed to seek treatment during the daylight hours.
What he gets is a guy who couldn’t possibly be a day older than eighteen with a brilliant white-toothed smile, a patchwork denim jacket about three sizes too big, a raggedy straw-hat hanging by a cord around his neck, and a sluggishly bleeding head wound. Law blinks as the door closes behind him. The guy swings his feet back and forth over the exam table and continues to smile at him. Blood drips down his brow.
“Keep putting pressure on that,” is the first thing out of Law’s mouth. There’s a blood-stained bandana held loose in the guy’s lap. No doubt whoever brought him here had him making at least some attempt to stop the bleeding from the gash at his hairline.
“‘Kay!” the guy chirps. It’s far too energetic for four in the morning.
Law pulls up a stool and wrestles a pen out of his shirt pocket. The benefit, he thinks idly, of treating younger patients is that they don’t immediately start questioning Law’s qualifications.
Yes, he has tattoos. Yes, he has piercings. Yes, he actually works here, thanks. One would think that a clinic in one of the shittiest parts of town that primarily serves impoverished, uninsured, and frankly some downright suspicious people would be a little more tolerant of aberrations in the standard aspiring-health-care-worker model. One would be wrong. Luckily for Law, Dr. Kureha doesn’t give two shits whether or not his sleeves are visible or whether or not he takes out his tongue piercing before coming in. (Thank god, because holes in the tongue heal over fast.)
But people nearer his age group don’t tend to ask. Blessedly, this guy doesn’t, either.
“I’m just gonna ask you some questions, get your information in our system, and then a nurse will be in to clean up your head wound, alright?”
Unlike other facilities in the city, Kureha’s clinic is a woefully underfunded nonprofit that hasn’t yet caught up to the twenty-first century, and intake is still done on paper. Once Law gets this guy’s information down, he’ll likely spend the last hour or so of his shift wrestling with their ancient desktop mac in an attempt to transfer everything over to a digital record. You know. In case the shithole ever burns down.
“Name? First and Last?”
“First name Luffy, last name Monkey.”
“Age?”
“Nineteen.” Law blinks, but doesn’t call bullshit. The guy must be short for his age.
“Any allergies, especially any allergies to medications?”
“Nope!”
They run through the gambit of questions until, finally, Law can start doing something other than talking. While he attaches the pulsox, he asks, “So what happened?” and gestures at the gash.
Luffy shrugs. “Some guy was picking on my friends, so I kicked his ass.”
Of course you did, Law thinks. “And the head wound?”
“One of his buddies threw a bottle,” Luffy says. He sounds more annoyed by this than anything. “It’s fine though, cause my friend hit him with a chair. It was cool.”
Law has to physically stop himself from snorting. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Any other injuries I should know about?”
Luffy flexes his free-hand in his lap. His knuckles are starting to purple with bruises and the skin is scraped raw on a few, but the guy clearly knows how to throw a punch because nothing is obviously broken. “Nah, just the head. Does it really need stitches?”
“I’m not a nurse, but my guess? Yes.”
“You’re not a nurse?” There’s something about the way Luffy says it that speaks to genuine curiosity rather than a thinly-veiled jab at Law’s qualifications.
“I’m an intern. Pre-med.” Robotically, Law moves through the motions of checking for a concussion.
“That means you’re studying to be a doctor, right?” His pupils dilate normally, so the chance of a concussion is low. Law makes a note.
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be good at it,” Luffy says, and Law almost startles. “My friend Chopper wants to be a doctor, too. He’s the one that made me come here. You should meet him!”
Law ignores that, not least of all because it’s weird . “A nurse will be in soon.”
And then, out of nowhere, “Torao, are you okay?”
Law blinks and freezes half-way to the door. “What?”
“That’s your name, right?” Luffy gestures vaguely at the name tag half-hidden by the fold of Law’s borrowed lab coat. “Are you okay? You look tired.”
“No, my name is Trafalgar. Trafalgar, Law,” he snaps, unreasonably irritable because yeah, he is tired.
He got out of classes at six yesterday evening, went straight to work from school, and came straight from work to the clinic for more work and he isn’t even getting paid for it. But no one is supposed to know that Law is tired. That’s the main appeal of his generally stand-offish and intimidating demeanor—no one looks at him and thinks, “poor tired undergrad” but instead, people look at him and think, “irresponsible punk, steer clear”. Law likes it like that.
The only person that calls him on his bullshit is his absolute mountain of a manager at Starbucks, Bepo. The man is built like a fucking tank and wouldn’t hurt a goddamn fly. Somewhere along the line, Bepo got it in his head that Law needs parenting and ever since he hired him, Bepo has been such a mother-hen that it’s a wonder he hasn’t started literally clucking at Law.
“And I’m fine,” he adds, schooling his tone to be slightly less-scathing at the last second. He escapes the tiny exam room before Luffy has a chance to respond.
Law is tired, but he’s fine, seriously.
Everything is fine.
When Law’s shift ends at six in the morning, the guy with the hat—Luffy—is loitering outside. As he fumbles with his key ring to unchain his bike from the rack, he tries to look over at him as subtly as possible while simultaneously praying that the guy doesn’t notice him.
He’s leaning against a Volkswagen Van that looks to be the precise definition of vintage, even toeing the line of useless relic. It’s something Law would expect to see driving along the California coast somewhere with surfboards stuck on the roof, not idling in the dreary parking lot between the clinic and a We Buy Gold pawn store on a frigid February morning. Luffy is half-swallowed in his jacket, his hands up by his lips and puffing out warm air on his fingers. A shiny new butterfly bandage sits on his hairline. The collar of his ugly jacket is still dark and ruddy with blood.
“Hey! Torao!”
Fuck, Law was looking too long.
All he wants is to go home, set a record for the world’s longest shower, and sleep before his classes. But no, Law’s life is hard, so this has to happen.
“Thanks for earlier!” Luffy says, bounding over. It really is cold as hell outside, and Luffy’s choice footwear of sandals seems just about the dumbest thing that Law has seen in the past forty-eight hours. This is impressive, considering that Law works at a Starbucks by the university campus. He witnesses incredible feats of stupidity every day.
“It’s my job,” he shrugs. The cold is so biting that his lip piercing is starting to sting.
Luffy stares at him intently, almost like he’s searching for something. It’s an impressively awkward few moments.
“Let me give you a ride home! It’s cold,” he offers, jerking a thumb towards the antique van.
And it is cold, but Law isn’t suicidal. “Can that thing even drive?”
Luffy laughs like that was actually funny and not just bitchy of him. “The Merry is reliable! She’s Usopp’s baby.”
“Usopp?”
“My friend! C’mon, you can meet him!” Somehow sensing Law’s incredulity despite being so absurdly oblivious to any and all social conventions otherwise, Luffy adds, “Don’t worry, your bike will fit in the back!”
Maybe Law has to re-evaluate the suicidal thing, because he finds himself following an utter stranger to the relic of ancient hippie-history that he calls the Merry.
He’s just so fucking tired and the ride back to the house is nearly three miles and the temptation to sit and just be for a minute is so overwhelming. So what if this kid turns out to be a murderous psychopath? He has a car!
Luffy throws open the back doors with flourish, making grabby-hands at Law’s bike.
“Uh,” Law says, eloquently.
Sprawled out across the back bench seat is the single most ripped human being Law has ever seen, snoring loudly enough to rattle the very frame of the car. His hair is dyed a bright neon green and the blood-stained white shirt that clings to his every muscle has clearly seen better days.
“That’s Zoro. Don’t worry, you won’t wake him up,” Luffy assures him. He then proceeds to demonstrate the point by making an unholy amount of sound loading Law’s bike into the car. Zoro snores on, undisturbed.
“Jesus Christ,” Law mutters.
“C’mon, you can take shotgun! Usopp! I’m driving!”
“Like hell you are—Luffy! Ow, stop!”
Law climbs gingerly into the passenger's seat, stepping carefully over the cans of RedBull and McDonalds wrappers that litter the foot space while Luffy wrestles the driver into the middle backseat. A curtain of densely curled hair narrowly misses Law’s face.
“Okay, okay! But be careful!” Luffy starts to fiddle with the mirrors while the previous driver turns his attention fully to Law. “I’m Usopp and this is my car,” he declares, shooting a scathing look at Luffy that seems to go completely unnoticed. “Are you going to rob us, kill us, or otherwise leave us for dead on the side of the freeway?”
Law blinks. “No.”
“Awesome. Cool. Great. That’s great.” The guy’s mouth moves a mile a minute. “You patched Luffy up? You did a good job, he’s always a handful.”
The van rumbles out of the parking lot, bouncing perilously into a pothole. Usopp shrieks. Zoro snores. Law stares.
“Which way?” Luffy asks.
“Make a right here. And no, I didn’t. I just do intake.”
“Give Usopp your phone,” Luffy commands as he swings a wide right. Merry ca-thunks over the curb.
“Why?” Law is too tired to fear for his life, he’s already fishing his phone out of his pocket. The heaters in the car are a blessing and he curls hungrily over the vent on the dashboard.
“‘Cause I don’t have one,” Luffy answers. “What next?”
Dutifully, Law turns his phone over to the Bringers of Heat and Free Rides. “It’s off Southern and Rosa Street. Keep going until you hit 46th.”
“That’s not campus housing. Luff’ said you were a student?” Usopp asks, tapping away at Law’s phone.
“Yeah. Senior. It’s not on campus. House belongs to an acquaintance’s aunt. I’m just renting a room for the year.” Law refuses to call Basil Hawkins a friend. The man is an acquaintance if not an outright nuisance.
“GLU? I’m a sophomore. Mechanical engineering.”
GLU, Grand-Line University is the largest public college in the area with nearly eighty-thousand enrolled. The only other college in the state is Mariejois, and it’s as ridiculously expensive and competitive as the name makes it sound.
“Yeah. Biological sciences and health systems,” Law drones. If he looks out the window, he can just start to see the sun rising.
“Law is gonna’ be a doctor,” Luffy beams, not at all looking at the road and instead staring straight at Law like he can calculate the measure of his soul at a glance.
“Cool, cool, cool,” Usopp pokes him in the shoulder with his own phone, which Law takes back warily. “I bet Luffy hasn’t told you anything about himself, he never does, so allow me to make introductions. You know me now, obviously. Usopp, nineteen, Aries, favorite color is blue. I work at Franky’s garage out in Water-7, if you ever need something fixed up or broken, I won’t ask questions.
“The feral beast sleeping in the back is Zoro. He teaches Kendo to disadvantaged kids, ‘cause I guess there’s something therapeutic about wailing on each other with sticks all day, I dunno’. He’s twenty-one but snores like he’s seventy. And Luffy, the esteemed captain of our rag-tag group of handsome scoundrels, is also nineteen—like yours truly—and he’s a professional troublemaker, the king of the scoundrels and reprobates, if you will.”
No, Law will not.
Usopp blinks at him expectantly. A voice that sounds suspiciously like Bepo’s says, Law, be nice. They’re doing you a favor.
“Law. Twenty-one.”
Silence reigns.
“Cool. Cool, cool, cool… So. You have. Tattoos? Those uh… hurt?” Usopp asks.
“Turn left here,” Law instructs.
“You got it, Torao!”
“That’s not my name.”
“Nah. ‘S a good nickname though! Right, Usopp?”
“I’m not talking to you, thief. I’m the pilot of this vessel and you’ve bested me for the last time,” Usopp growls. “So, Law. Tattoos?”
“What about them?”
“... They’re. Neat?”
“Thanks. Turn left here. Fourth house on the right.”
The brakes squeak in agony as Luffy jerks to an abrupt stop. He drums erratically on the steering wheel before leaping out of the car to help Law unload his bike. An irate Usopp storms past them, throwing himself back in the driver’s seat with a, “Nice to meet you, Law!”
Law does not return the sentiment.
Zoro remains sleeping. In the dawn light, Law can make out a split lip and a black eye.
“Is he alright?”
“Who, Zoro?” Luffy hands his bike off to him. “Yeah, he’s good! He’s had way worse.”
“You know that’s not reassuring, right?” Law asks.
And then, abruptly, Luffy hugs him. Like, a hug- hug. Arms around his waist and head on his shoulder and squeezing tight and everything. Law stiffens in surprise. He forgets to breathe. He can’t remember the last time anyone hugged him. (Maybe not since Corazon died.)
No, we don’t think about that.
Luffy holds him tightly. He’s warm, except for his nose, which is cold even through the fabric of Law’s sweatshirt.
“Bye, Law!” Luffy calls cheerfully when they separate. He’s back in the car and gone before Law can even begin to process all the ways in which that exchange was fundamentally flawed. Utterly bizarre. Completely out of the fucking twilight zone.
When he gets inside, Basil-fucking-Hawkins is sitting cross-legged on a yoga-mat with a deck of tarot cards, a cup of tea, and a judgementally-arched eyebrow. His skin-tight lavender yoga pants leave nothing to the imagination.
“How was work?” Basil-fucking-Hawkins drawls. He’s always up at the ass-crack of dawn and it pisses Law of. Fucking Alucard-looking motherfucker. It’s not even eight-am yet and the whole living room already reeks like patchouli and incense.
Law would kill him if not for the laws of this land and the actually-affordable rent.
“Fine.”
“Interesting.” No, actually, it isn’t. Go fuck a crystal. “Have you talked to Tashigi, lately?”
Tashigi is the PhD candidate that works at the university counseling office. Only once— and under extreme duress— Law saw her for an attempt at something close to therapy. It was terrible. It was three years ago. Basil-fucking-Hawkins never shuts up about Law going back. The guy took one abnormal psych class and now thinks he’s qualified to give Law life advice, which he isn’t, thanks.
“Go fuck a crystal.”
Law practically trips into the shower where he then proceeds to sit on the floor of the tub for anywhere from two to twenty minutes, he isn’t sure. By the time he stumbles out, pink-skinned and practically catatonic on his feet, he has seven text messages waiting.
The contact reads: “Usopp :^)”
<lmk if u ever need a ride>
<this is luffy b tw>
<i dont have a phone lol>
<zoro is good btw>
<we r getting pancakes>
Two more messages come from an entirely different, also brand-new contact, “Mr. Kendo Man”
<usopp took his phone back :,( he’s so mean>
<this is still luffy btw>
“Jesus fucking christ,” Law murmurs. Deciding he does not, nor will he ever have time for this, Law sets an alarm, rolls over, and goes the fuck to sleep.
The Luffy-problem does not re-manifest until nearly a week later.
“Oh hey! You’re that guy!” A girl with bright ginger-red hair and a high-pony pulled tight enough to kill a man stares at him from the other side of the thin frosted glass barrier that protects the baristas from the wild masses.
“No,” Law says. He does not know this woman. He does not want to know this woman. Nothing good comes from a customer speaking to the drink-maker. That’s what the cashiers are for.
“‘No?’” She arches a perfectly penciled eyebrow at him. “That’s rude.”
This is not in Law’s job description, Bepo.
“I’m Nami.” Nami has to rock onto her toes to be tall enough to extend a perfectly manicured hand over the frosted glass barrier in an attempt at a handshake. This is in direct violation of the barrier, ma’am. Please desist. Dear god, please desist.
“You’re Law,” she adds for him when it becomes forthcoming that he is not, in fact, going to shake her hand.
“Yes,” he says, certain that he left his nametag in the bottom of his backpack where it belongs. He refuses to glance down to be sure, though. That’s the first thing they teach you at Starbucks: don’t show weakness in front of the customers.
Behind her is a familiar beast of a man. Bright green hair, scar through an eyebrow, stupidly stacked. Even his ratty white shirt is the same, minus the blood stains. On the girl’s other side is a blonde of a much more reasonable build. The guy looks like he irons his shirts. It’s 2021, sir. Don’t do that to yourself. Just buy permapress.
“Ah, I see the recognition in those eyes.” Nami smiles like a predator. “I’m friends with Luffy.”
“Of course you are,” Law says. His life is hard. Not only has the other barista on shift, Camie, been glaring at him all morning for drilling MCAT flash-cards between drinks, but now he has to deal with this shit.
“I looked you up. Were you in a cult? Is that why you have no social media presence?” Nami probes.
Idly, Law passes a mango-dragon fruit drink for Lola down to Camie. He starts on a caramel cloud macchiato for a Nami. He wonders if he could get away with doing something terrible to it while she stands there watching him like a hawk. Probably not. The next flashcard in his stack reads: pulmonary embolism. A fitting end.
“Only if foster care counts as a cult,” he tries. Usually, if Law says something super fucked up, people stop trying to talk to him. It’s great.
Nami only grins wider. Sharper. Scarier. “I’m getting my bachelors in social work and family science. Would you let me interview you for a class?”
Of course she is. “No,” Law answers.
“We’ll see about that.” She turns to the blonde. “Oh Sanji? Do you know if Luffy is with Ace today?”
The blonde, Sanji, nods. “Yeah, should be. He was sending me snaps from Ace’s account like ten minutes ago.”
“Excellent.” Each one of her grins feels like a threat. “Law, bunny ears or butterfly crown?”
Pulmonary embolism. He ignores the question altogether, even when she turns around and takes a selfie with Law glowering in the background, presumably to send to this Ace person who is with Luffy. She goes with the butterfly crown.
“Here’s your drink, Nami.” Law refuses to violate the sanctity of the frosted-glass barrier anymore than it has already been today. He purposefully slides her drink all the way to the end of the counter in the proper pick-up spot.
“Thanks, Law. You’re cute. I can see why Luffy likes you.” She bustles out of the store, the blonde at her heels. Zoro lingers and flashes Law an alarming smile.
“See you ‘round, Torao.”
“Absolutely not.”
Somehow, now all of these motherfuckers know where Law works. Maybe Nami blackmailed Bepo into obtaining a copy of the schedule. Whatever the case may be, every time he’s working, without fail, Luffy comes in to bother him.
So far, he’s brought Usopp, Zoro, Nami, a baby-faced high-school kid named Chopper that Law actually kind of doesn’t hate, his shirtless brother Ace-the-fire-fighter, Franky, who is a man straight out of Grease Lightning except with electric blue hair and extensive scarring, and a literal stray dog that he just found outside in the parking lot.
Yesterday, Luffy came in with the blonde, Sanji, at nine at night and demanded that Law take a break to eat dinner with them.
Loudly.
And to Bepo.
Bepo, because he has the soul of a doting Italian mother, rushed Law out the door for a break before Law could even open his mouth to say “no”.
Apparently, Sanji is a culinary arts student that speaks fluent French, does capoeira, and works part-time at his adopted-father’s five-star restaurant. The brown paper-bags he pulled out of his satchel were not food, but instead ambrosia directly from the gods. Apparently, Sanji also has the soul of a doting Italian mother.
“Holy shit,” Law had muttered through a mouthful of the most awe-inspiring shrimp scampi he has ever eaten. And Corazon worked for the mob. Law has had some pretty amazing food.
Not only is Luffy now dropping in on Law’s daily life, but he now does so with meals from Sanji. And Law is broke, busy, and tired. He can’t hardly complain about being given gift-wrapped and actually-nutritious food. (Although he can and will complain about the company).
It’s weird. It’s fine. (It’s actually kind of nice.)
Law’s bike tires are gone.
It’s six in the morning, it’s sixty degrees outside and raining, and his bike has been broken down into tiny little pieces which lay strewn across the broken sidewalk, sans his tires. He smells like vomit because a poor, scared little girl barfed all over him when she had to get stitches from a dog bite. Someone stole his food from Luffy-from-Sanji straight out of the breakroom fridge and he’s coming down on the unfun side of a caffeine high with nothing in his stomach.
Just before his shift, he got a reply from his academic advisor about his lack of (unfortunately required) upper-division lab credits informing him that he’ll have to delay his graduation if he can’t get into a lab this summer.
And his bike is fucking useless.
It’ll take at least thirty minutes to walk home in the rain and he doesn’t have an umbrella. Public transit in this city is shit and there isn’t a bus stop by his house anyways. Law sits down hard on the wet curb.
Everything is fine. This is totally fine.
He isn’t walking home in the rain. It’s fucking pouring. The only person he knows that has a car is Basil-fucking-Hawkins, and Law would rather chew glass than ask Hawkins for anything. Shachi and Penguin could probably be convinced to steal Hawkins’ car and get him, except for the fact that it’s six in the morning on a Wednesday so they’re probably passed out and have their fucking phones on silent like stupid, responsible humans that have sleep schedules.
Luffy has a car.
But Luffy doesn’t have a phone.
And Law does not want to ask Luffy for anything, even if he did have a phone.
(Stop doing things for me, he wants to grab Luffy by the shoulders and shake him till it gets through. Stop fucking doing things for me! I’m not one of your gang, I don’t have time to have friends, and I’m legitimately terrible company.)
Somehow, the rain intensifies.
“God fucking damnit shit fucking hell.”
Law texts Zoro. Observation tells Law that Zoro and Luffy are attached at the hip ninety-nine percent of the time, so contacting Zoro is probably the most-likely way to net him Luffy.
<Are you with Luffy?>
Sure enough, his phone buzzes not even two minutes later.
<hi torao!!!!!>
<whats up>
<?>
Yep, definitely Luffy.
<Bike got stolen. I could use a ride.>
<If you’re up for it.>
Law watches the three little dots bounce on the screen.
<b there in 10>
And there’s something like relief in that, even if it does make Law’s skin itch that he’s such a fucking disaster that he has to be rescued out of a goddamn rainstorm like a child.
(Although, even as a child, Law was never really useless. His parents died when he was young and Corazon picked him up not too long after that. As much as Corazon tried to shield Law from his family business—as wonderful of a parent as Corazon was—he wasn’t at Law’s side all the time, and his brother had some uses for a small, unassuming kid. Law has no idea what was in the packages Doflamingo had him deliver. He never wants to know.
“Useful,” Doflamingo had called him. “Useful little rugrat.”
Even after Corazon was killed, he was never useless. He was already eleven and that’s chore-doing age in most group-homes and placements alike. When he was fourteen, he shot up like a weed, and got his first job bagging groceries by lying about his age and forging a driver’s license. Useful, useful Law. Never useless.
He was useless when Corazon died. Died right in the living room they shared together while Law hid and watched. Corazon was deaf. He died slumped over the couch where he taught Law his first signs. Where he taught Law how to say, I love you with his hands.
Stay, Corazon had signed as he bled out. Stay. Safe.
Useless Law stayed hidden.
When Corazon died, he died with his index and pinky extended, his middle and ring finger tucked into his bloody palm, his thumb out. I love you.)
The Merry rumbles up to the curb and Law stands on trembling legs. Caffeine shakes. That’s all. He expects Zoro to be in the passenger’s seat. He’s not.
It’s just Luffy and Law.
The radio whispers “ Could stopping bring you closer? Maybe, tilts you over .”
Somewhere between one breath and the next, Law falls asleep, temple pressed into the cold rain-speckled window. Go figure. He doesn’t really remember the last time he slept, anyways. The MCAT is in two weeks. He has an interview for a lab he won’t get into tomorrow at noon. His jeans are wet from sitting on the curb. He’s getting Luffy’s seats all wet, too.
They’re parked in front of his house.
Luffy turns off the car. It shudders into stillness with a sigh. Rain tink-tink-tinks off the roof.
“You can ask for help, Law,” Luffy says, impossibly gentle.
Law doesn’t need help. Doesn’t want it. He only asked Luffy over Hawkins because Luffy wouldn’t hold the favor over Law forever. Law doesn’t know what Luffy wants from him, but it isn’t that.
You can ask for help, Law, and people don’t just say shit like that to him (except for Tashigi that one time, but Law doesn’t think about that) so he gets stuck on favors-owed and blurts, “Do you want to have sex with me?”
Luffy blinks. “Hadn’t thought about it. Do you want to have sex with me?”
It’s an early, rainy morning so it’s practically dark outside. Luffy’s eyes are dark, too. There aren’t any working street lights in this neighborhood, so they’re just two people looking at each other dumbly in the dark.
“Sure,” Law says.
“Sure isn’t yes,” Luffy replies. Law… kinda can’t argue with that. So he sits there in his wet jeans, numb and aching and jittery.
“Thank you. For the ride.”
“Sure, Torao.” And then, inexplicably, Luffy leans over the center console, seat-belt straining, and wraps his arms around Law in the world’s most uncomfortable hug. Luffy’s hair smells like the rain. “I want to be friends, Law.”
“Oh.”
Luffy pulls away with one last squeeze. It takes all of Law’s breath with him. “You should come over soon.”
Law has no idea where Luffy lives. He honestly assumed that Luffy lived in the back of this van, like some strange wandering city-hermit, tied to nothing and no one except for the most bizarre band of people Law has ever met.
“Sure.”
Law gets out of the car and goes home.
The interview goes predictably terrible.
The professor takes one look at him and Law knows that the position won’t be his, despite his perfect GPA, his resume, and his objectively stellar cover-letter. He should have taken out the tongue piercing.
<how r u>
<?>
Luffy-from-Sanji’s phone is waiting for him when the interview is done.
<Fine. Why?>
His phone pings three times in rapid succession.
<liiiiaaaarrrrrrrr>
<liar liar>
<pants on fire>
<Interviewed for a lab position.> Law types after careful consideration. <Didn’t get it. Need one to graduate.>
Luffy doesn’t reply. It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t.
He goes to work. Bepo takes one look at him and frowns. “I’m banning you to decaf for life,” Bepo mutters over the hiss of the steamer.
“Hah hah,” Law deadpans.
The first card in his stack reads aldosterone. The first drink of his shift is a java-chip frappuccino with soy-milk, extra chocolate, and no whip cream.
About an hour into his shift, an elegant woman with sleek dark hair and a soft-looking cream sweater comes in and orders a hot tea. It is April. Lady, it is April. Hot tea? People are weird.
Law brews the fucking tea. The woman peers at him over the frosted-glass barrier. Law has come to learn that to all people but Luffy’s people, the barrier is a meaningful boundary.
Are you Luffy’s people, lady?
“Hello,” she offers, her thin smile impossibly graceful. Law blinks. “Are you Traflagar?”
Ah. Yes. One of Luffy’s indeed.
“Yes, ma’am,” Law says, because this woman is a woman that demands a ma’am from him, at the very least. Not at all like Luffy’s nudist older brother or his other older brother that apparently takes his dress cues from the mad hatter.
“It’s Dr. Nico, please,” she smiles at him. “I’ve heard from a mutual friend that you’re in need of some lab experience. I teach anthropology at GLU and I have a rather ambitious PhD candidate interested in evolutionary medicine. She’s looking for undergraduate assistants to help get her research off the ground. Is this something you’d be interested in?”
Oh.
Law’s heart kicks in his chest.
“Yes, absolutely. That’d be. Really wonderful.”
As if Dr. Nico had expected this all along, she passes him a little blue post-it note with her university email, the email of the PhD student, and her personal number.
“I look forward to working with you, Law.”
“Likewise, Dr. Nico. Thank you.” He passes her tea over the barrier.
Usopp, Sanji, and Luffy are all waiting when his shift ends. Usopp lays on the horn unnecessarily. Law rushes over and slides into the backseat. Sanji immediately passes him a warm tupperware of what looks like rice, chicken, and asparagus.
“Heard your bike got fucked up,” Sanji says while Luffy and Usopp shout greetings over each other. “Did Robin talk to you?”
Who are you people. How does your world work. What the fuck.
“Yes, I think she did.”
“Robin’s great!” Usopp declares while Luffy fiddles around with the aux. Nickelback’s Rockstar played as a sea-shanty fills the car with a shrill fiddle intro.
They drive him to the clinic and pick him up afterwards. Law doesn’t have classes on Friday and he doesn’t work until three in the afternoon, so when Luffy says, “Come back to Sanji’s with us. He’ll make pancakes” Law says yes.
It’s… nice.
After Law takes his MCAT, a week after the Spring semester has ended, Luffy takes Law over to Sanji’s (which, incidentally, is also Zoro’s) apartment for drinks to celebrate. Instead of cooking, Sanji orders a mountain of pizzas from a little place around the corner. Over the course of an hour, company trickles in.
First comes Nami, Chopper, and a girl Law hasn’t met yet named Vivi. Nami brings two bottles of red wine and Chopper brings calculus homework. Next comes Franky and Usopp, both covered in grease up to the elbows. Usopp is still in working overalls. Franky balances a cooler full of beer on one enormous shoulder. Ace shows up last, sans shirt but with an entire gallon ziploc of weed.
It’s a really nice night.
They eat and smoke and drink. Law finds out Zoro and Sanji are together. Not as in living together, but as in together-together and living together. As in, they’re a fully committed couple sharing a life and bed. He also learns that Usopp doesn’t drink, but he smokes like the best of them, and that Ace and Luffy aren’t biologically related. Luffy demolishes an entire box of pizza on his own and then a box of garlic knots, too. He learns that Nami is a lesbian and that she wants to go into social work because her adoptive mother saved her life. He learns that Vivi is her girlfriend and that she’s the most morally upright human he has ever met. She’s in law school and still believes the best of humanity. It’s unthinkable.
They make a mess of Sanji and Zoro’s living room. It takes a drunk Law, a high Usopp, and a drunk and high Franky to help a sober Chopper with his calculus homework. Together, they manage it. When Chopper starts to list sideways and his yawns start audibly cracking his jaw, Vivi, the designated driver, rounds up Nami, Usopp, and Chopper with astounding prejudice. She also coordinates an Uber for Franky and walks Ace down to the parking lot to meet his ride—some guy named Thatch that owns a tattoo parlor.
“You guys can take the couch,” Sanji says when Law moves to call his own Uber.
“Love you, Sanji,” Luffy blubbers into the couch cushions.
“You literally live on our couch. This is not special,” Sanji reminds him, but he does it while scratching Luffy’s scalp, so it feels more affectionate than admonishing.
“Please don’t have loud sex,” Law begs. “I don’t want that.” He doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.
Zoro guffaws all the way to the bedroom and scarily makes no promises.
The couch is a pull-out and Luffy retrieves a set of bedding from the hallway closet. Both of them are too drunk to bother with a pillow-wall and they end up on their backs with their arms brushing in the middle.
Law has never had a night so good. Not since Corazon. Not since a lot of things. He’s warm inside out. Sleepy, but not exhausted. Weightless. Settled. The pull-out smells good. Smells familiar, like Luffy. Law turns his head, buries his nose in the pillow, and inhales, deep and slow. Luffy is a line of solid warmth at his side. Sometime during the night, he’s lost his jacket, and his bare arm against Law’s own settles something skin-hungry in his chest.
Oh.
“Oh fuck. Are we dating?” Law blurts.
Luffy turns his head to face him, yawning. “Nah. We don’t kiss and stuff.”
Oh. Good.
There aren’t any lights on in the apartment and the curtains are drawn. They are the two of them just two pairs of dark eyes.
“... Do you want to?” Law asks.
“If you wanted to, sure.”
“I’m asking if you want to.”
“And I’m saying I would if you wanted to,” Luffy responds.
Law can feel his heat, they’re so close to each other. The bed is small and warm. Luffy is not small—well, smaller than Law—and he is warm, too. The blanket is soft. Sanji and Zoro’s bed creaks faintly in the other room. Law hopes they’re not fucking. He does not have high hopes.
A minute or two passes in silence. “Yeah, I do,” Law decides.
“Okay, then come here.”
And he does.