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Day 1 CoraLaw Week 2024: Hanahaki / Birthday / Confession
It was just a simple cough. Or at least, that’s what he told himself in the beginning.
Rosinante glanced at the smouldering butt of the cigarette he had just stubbed out into the ashtray, irritation simmering beneath his skin. Once a calming balm to his anxieties, the smoke instead prickled in his throat and made his lungs feel as though they were filled with thick cotton. He had scratched that itching need for nicotine, only for his chest to grow heavy, his breath short – it was not as he felt it should be. He was coughing like he had at seventeen, when he’d first held one of those white sticks between his teeth and stupidly inhaled a bursting lungful of toxic smoke, only to hack it back up again, much to the chagrin of his friends.
He knew smoking was a filthy habit – Sengoku had been incredibly disapproving of it, and Law certainly did not look at the dependency in a positive light – but it was a crutch he’d leaned on for far too long. It was part of his everyday life. He would wake up and, with his cup of tea, he’d sit and have a smoke; preferably on the deck of the Polar Tang, with the soft dawning light of the sun hitting the boards and setting off the polished wood with the sparkles of thawing ice. He would enjoy a smoke as he accompanied Law into whatever town they docked in, trailing behind his captain just as the smoke trailed behind him, flicking the cigarette back and forth along his teeth with the tip of his tongue, lazily surveying the environment for threats.
He used to love a cigarette in the groggy afterglow of sex, euphoria from endorphins flooding his system along with that boost of nicotine, muscles stretching and joints popping – but that hadn’t happened in a long time. A lazy smoke after finding completion with his hand alone didn’t quite have the same effect. He still did it, however, because… why not?
But since that tightness in his chest began to develop, he had admittedly cut down a little – on the smoking, that was. Still, this cough felt different – deeper, more insistent.
It had started innocuously enough, a dry tickle at the back of his throat. He brushed it off as a passing illness he had picked up in the last port, or even a strange resurgence of the hayfever he’d suffered with as a child, so attuned to the pristine air of Mary Geoise. He smiled away that furrow that had appeared in Law’s brow at his little post-battle splutter and waved away the looks of concern from the crew, laughing instead at Bepo’s tear-trembling rubbing of his back. Holstering his gun in its sheath at his hip, he wrestled the bear into a tight hug, ruffling the coarse fur and loudly proclaiming how he was okay, stop worrying!
But as days turned into weeks, the cough not only remained – it grew worse, more insidious. No longer attributing it to a seasonal affliction or the echoes of a childhood allergy, Rosinante knew it was something else. He struggled with the deep hacking breaths that left his chest constricted, feeling like a belt was being fastened around his ribs, tighter and tighter, as well as coughing fits that lasted minutes at a time, an itch that could not be scratched.
Law noticed it quickly; of course he did, the man was his captain and his doctor, but also his closest friend.
That word stung in his chest. Friend.
“I’m concerned about that cough,” Law murmured from the doorway of Rosinante’s quarters, shoulder braced against the jamb in a posture that seemed lazy, but Rosinante saw the tension that shivered beneath the surface. “I think you should-”
“It’s the cigarettes,” Rosinante interrupted. He released a deep sigh, flicking the ashtray away from the edge of his bedside table, rubbing tiredly at his face; the half-smoked cigarette still smouldered, balanced in the groove of the ceramic. He didn’t often smoke in his room, but sleep had evaded him that night, and he’d been kept up by the splutters and coughs that rumbled in his chest. With an almost bashful expression tugging at his features, he smiled at his captain with a grimace of a smile. “I… should have listened to you all those years ago and given up. Guess it’s biting me in the ass, after all this time.”
For a moment silent, Law crossed the small room in firm strides and sat beside him on his bed, elbows to his knees and fingers steepled. Their thighs pressed together; warm. “Perhaps,” he agreed quietly, “but at least you’re realising now.” His golden gaze flicked to meet Rosinante’s blushing red. “Will you allow me to take a look?”
“Are you going to lecture me whilst you slice me open?”
“Are you going to cut back on the smoking?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine.”
“Little sh-” Rosinante began, but with that breathy chuckle of a response, a wheezing cough bubbled in his diaphragm, cutting his words off entirely. Immediately, he covered his mouth with his palm, eyes scrunching shut at the awful spasm beneath his ribs, as well as the rasping rattle that accompanied it. As he calmed, clearing his throat, he registered the warmth of Law’s small hand, palm stroking firmly across his back and shoulders. His eyes watered, but it was only in part due to the ferocity of his coughs; Law was not known for showing physical kindness, so when he did, it always took Rosinante off guard. Such a small gesture should not have affected him, but that single point of contact meant the world to him. “I’ll permit you one lecture,” Rosinante finally whispered, shakily, blinking the tears from his eyes.
“I don’t need to lecture you.” Law’s hand continued to rub along his spine, gentle circles, round and round. “You’re old enough to know better.”
The blond squinted at his captain. “That sounded suspiciously like a lecture.”
“Consider it my one and done, then,” Law drawled, a hint of a mischief-laden grin curling his lips – but it softened when their gazes met. “Come on, follow me to the med-bay. I promise I’ll be gentle with you.”
“You always are.”
--
In the bright expanse of the med-bay, beneath the blinding overhead lights, Rosinante winced.
Sat atop the central bed, he watched as Law placed his exposed lungs on a nearby table; both of them stared wordlessly at the mottling of black amongst the tender pinks and reds of healthy flesh.
“It’s not the worst case of smoker’s lung I’ve ever seen,” Law was mumbling, almost to himself. His gloved hands tilted the crystal cage this way and that, gaze darting across the expanding and contracting organ. “How long has it been?”
“Since I started?” Rosinante took a moment to think back. Idly, his fingers traced the edge of the yawning black hole in his chest. “I was… sixteen, but it was once in a blue moon. Social… post-battle, sometimes. I only started to smoke heavily when… when I was on the mission to take down my brother – I was twenty-two, so that’s-… however many years that is.”
Law grunted. “Between seventeen and twenty-three years.” His captain shot him a look over his shoulder. “Cutting back begins today,” he barked, but upon seeing Rosinante’s sullen, pouting nod, he softened instantly, murmuring, “Gradually, I mean. I’ll help you. Whatever you need-”
“A cigarette?” Rosinante asked, hopefully.
“Apart from that!”
A snicker burst from him at Law’s waspish response, cheeks hurting as they dimpled. He was so easy to rile – always had been, since he was a child – and Rosinante took a modicum of guilty delight in that jutting lower lip and narrowed eyes directed at him.
“I’ll do my best,” Rosinante swore. “For you.”
And he did. He kept his promise, going as far as handing over every packet of cigarettes he had stashed about his room and asking the crew to support him in his efforts to quit, to not allow him to slip or to be enabled in any shape or form. The Hearts agreed (ironically, whole-heartedly) and for the first few days, Rosinante felt… well, he actually felt great, cough notwithstanding.
Then… the withdrawal symptoms kicked in: his skin itched in a way that was impossible to scratch, simultaneously there and not there; a near-constant headache reigned from on high, causing his nights to become restless and his days to become a blur of distraction, along with waves of infuriating fatigue that slammed into him with all the force of a sledgehammer.
And through it all, there was Law – his beacon of hope, of light, of respite. As if sensing his needs, no matter what, Law would be there: a calming word when his irritation flared, a glass of water to wash away the horrid taste in his dry mouth, or an apple to quench his increased appetite.
…Law didn’t appreciate his joke of, “I thought these things were meant to keep you away.”
But the cough was still the worst part, only now he was coughing up a foul-smelling mucus. Rosinante had thought stopping smoking would stop or at least ease the cough, but apparently not – and, strangely enough, Law declared it was a good sign for once.
“Your lungs are expelling years of build up,” his doctor explained, narrowed eyes watching keenly as Rosinante wadded up a tissue and threw it into the incinerator chute, a grimace curling his pale features. “If you want, I can try and remove the worst-”
“No,” Rosinante rasped, clearing his throat. Even after such a horrid bout of coughs, it still felt like something was stuck, lodged in the base of his throat. Accepting yet another glass of water from Law with one hand, he reached out with his other and clumsily knocked off the smaller man’s hat; he truly hadn’t meant to, but the action meant he could dishevel those midnight strands, and he knew how Law secretly liked that – a feral kitten, all ruffled and spiked fur, grumbling a disinclined purr at a stroking hand. “No, I’ll… I’ll be okay. Gotta have some consequence, for all those years I didn’t listen to you asking me to quit.” He smiled down at Law, glass hovering just before his lips. Law blinked up at him, gilt eyes seeming to dart from feature to feature, returned again and again to his lips – surely an unspoken order to drink. “Thank you for looking after me.”
“I always will. No matter what, you know that,” was all that Law grumbled, shaking off the hand in his hair and stooping to collect his hat.
The lump in his throat seemed to double in size, but he washed it back down with a wave of cold water, glass creaking in his grasp.
--
The realisation that this was not a simple cough of recovering lungs came swiftly to him, during the depths of the night.
He’d been awake for hours. Sleep evaded him, clever and cunning. The Polar Tang had grown quiet some time ago, its crew either huddled in their beds, or quietly working away at their stations on night shift, but Rosinante could not find a single scrap of sleep, despite the weariness that settled into his bones and prodded at his aching eyes.
Law had waved him from duties, earlier in the day, obviously tired of him coughing and spluttering through his responsibilities; sent him off for bed rest, with immediate effect. Quietly, Rosinante had agreed – hadn’t even argued or protested, just… hung his head and nodded, trudging off through the corridors to his quiet room. He’d remained there, for the rest of the day. Bepo had checked in on him once or twice, bringing him food and fresh jugs of water that Rosinante definitely hadn’t accidentally knocked from his nightstand in his attempt to find sleep; luckily, he’d already drained one of them, so the spill was minimal.
He knew Law was looking out for him, caring for him in a way that a captain sometimes had to: with a firm instruction, arms crossed and brow furrowed. It was definitely Law’s style of captaining, he supposed, but still… it stung. He knew it wasn’t the case, yet those feelings of useless, incompetent, pathetic hung around his head, along with the god-awful migraine – couldn’t handle pitiful withdrawal symptoms, couldn’t pull his weight onboard, just go lie down, Cora…
No, that wasn’t right.
“I admire your enthusiasm to work yourself into an early grave, but I would rather you didn’t,” Law had murmured, fingers reaching up and wrapping around his bicep, warmth seeping into trembling muscles through the thickness of his boiler suit. Rosinante blinked down at him through a blur of tears that had bloomed in the corners, and wordlessly pulled his mouth from the crook of his elbow where he had been coughing. Behind Law, Penguin had stopped scrubbing at the floor, bracing his cheek against the pole of the broom, clearly listening in. “So, it’s your choice: either you willingly go take bed rest in your quarters or I’m hauling your ass to the med-bay, where I will strap you to a gurney.”
Rosinante had expected a snicker from Penguin, but there was nothing – not a flicker in his expression, nor a sarcastic remark or comment. His mouth remained a downturned slant, a slight pout forming where he chewed on the inside of his cheek; despite his eyes being hidden by his ever-present cap, concern was clearly etched on his face. And Law’s face – usually so furrowed and guarded – was soft at the edges as he gazed up at Rosinante, thumb brushing back and forth on his arm. For a moment, Rosinante genuinely debated whether he would goad Law to make the decision, partly because he knew his captain would take great delight in dragging him down to the infirmary, but also because he would take great delight in being looked after by Law.
But instead, there he was, in his dark, quiet room, blankets kicked to the floor after he tossed and turned, the soft material likely soaking up the spilled water and growing sodden. He was alone. Law was not there, as much as he yearned for his presence. Law had better things to do than to fuss over an old man like himself, especially when it was just him coping with the consequences of his own actions. The best thing he could do was close his eyes and attempt to sleep – to recover his strength, and get better, so that he could return to duties.
…So that he could return to Law’s side again.
Finally, as if soothed by the thought of Law, slumber began to reach for him. His mind drifted, conjuring a strange, otherworldly version of the Polar Tang’s infirmary, all bright walls and echoing reverberations. A mimicry of his positioning in the real world, he lay in a soft bed, plush blankets twisted about his legs. The sound of gentle footsteps reached his ears, and, with overwhelming effort, he turned his head to see a figure approaching, taking note of the long white coat that danced around boot-clad ankles.
Of course, it was Law – it always was, when was it ever not?
His handsome face was etched with worry as he approached Rosinante’s bedside, lips curling with the softness of a smile that he never thought he would see. In this dreamscape, Law was tender, his touch feather-light as he adjusted the blankets from the tangle around his lower limbs, placing a cool cloth on Rosinante's forehead.
“Cora, you have to stay with me.” Law's voice was soft, almost a whisper, as he perched on the edge of the bed. “You're going to be alright.”
Rosinante tried to speak, to tell Law how much this moment meant to him, but the words stuck in his throat, blocked by something. He wanted to reach out, to hold Law's hand and tangle their fingers together – never let go – but his body refused to cooperate. Instead, he let himself sink into the warmth of Law's presence, allowing the soothing care to wash over him like a balm on burnt flesh. He could only lay still and watch with wonder as his dark-haired captain tended to his every need: bringing water to parched lips, whispering words of encouragement and reassurance, wiping sweat-slick skin with that cool rag, every movement speaking of a quiet, steadfast love, a devotion that Rosinante had always longed for but knew was beyond his reach.
He had convinced himself that Law could never truly love him back, that the depth of his feelings was a burden he would have to bear alone. But here, in this feverish dream, all those fears seemed to melt away. Law's eyes – beautiful, more precious than the gold they resembled – held a promise, a silent vow that spoke louder than any words ever could, but strangely enough, Rosinante was having a hard time parsing any coherent translation. Rosinante's heart swelled beyond the confines of his chest, lodging in his throat, threatening to choke him, his tears joyous rather than wretched.
“Law,” Rosinante finally managed to croak, his voice hoarse and weak. “Why are you doing this?”
Law looked at him, a jumble of relief and sorrow furrowed in his brow. “Because I care about you, Cora. I love you. More than you know.”
Rosinante's heart skipped a beat. Could it be true? It couldn’t- surely Law didn’t actually feel the same way?
The indulgent landscape of the dream vanished as quickly as a candle being snuffed. Darkness lay before him. He had awoken, that much was apparent, but in the initial haze, he wasn’t entirely sure what had ripped him away from such an amazing vision.
And then, the coughing began in earnest.
It was violent, stealing the breath from his lungs in an instant. He sat up, hacking into one hand, as his other fumbled for the light switch on his side table. Grimacing, he felt something wet and warm splatter onto his palm, dripping down between the grooves of his fingers. He coughed again, harsher this time, and the worrying tang of copper and iron filled his mouth.
His veins ran cold.
Finally finding the trigger for the lamp, the light flickered on. Heart pounding a solid drum against his ribs, he could only stare down in utter shock at the bright red splatter of fresh blood, smeared and dripping across his hand and wrist. His tongue darted out, rasping over cracked lips.
Shit.
Onehandedly, he flung the covers from his body, palm held outward so that he didn’t accidentally smear crimson on the bedsheets. In his haste, the other jug of water teetered and crashed to the floor, showering Rosinante’s feet with splinters of glass and cold water. He stumbled away from his bed, slamming his shoulder into the doorway of the tiny bathroom attached to his room, a luxury awarded to him as first-mate.
He'd never been more thankful for the privacy.
Body trembling in a manner he had never experienced before, he braced himself over the sink, each cough sending sharp pains through his chest. Momentarily unable to draw enough oxygen into his straining lungs, he grew disorientated, and his blood-splattered hand slipped along the rim of the sink, smearing crimson across the dark metal. Finally, a deep, wrenching cough buckled his knees, and something dislodged in his chest, sending him forward to slump over the basin. A veritable gush of blood cascaded past his lips, bitter and thick. Gasping for breath, his vision blurred as air returned to him, tears of panic and pain trickling down his cheeks.
“Fuck…” he hissed through gritted teeth. Law had told him mucus was normal, but blood?
Swallowing against the following spasms that echoed in his diaphragm, he reached for the tap and turned the spindle, thrusting his shaking hand beneath the surge of water that splashed into the sink. At first, the action was to wash the crimson from his skin; then, it was to bring his cupped palm to his chapped lips, scooping clean water into his mouth, over and over again, attempting to clear the copper tang from his tastebuds. He watched the flow of water turn pink, mixing with the trails that spanned the breadth of the metal basin and quickly vanishing down the plug-
Until he realised the water was beginning to back up, no longer flowing in its circular current. Gasping breaths echoing around the small space, he plunged his fingers beneath the surface, fumbling around the grated hole of the plug. His fingertips touched upon something soft that blocked the flow of water – cloth, maybe? – and, with a gentle pinching motion, he pulled the item out from under the murky water. An almighty gurgle rang out and the sink quickly cleared, leaving pink streaks around the metal bowl.
Rosinante paid it no mind, however, frozen at the sight of what was clutched in his grip.
Tiny blue petals, soft and wrinkled as if still curled in a fresh bloom. A few tumbled from between his fingers, fluttering down into the basin like a flurry of snowflakes.
Fear clawed at his chest. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.
--
Hanahaki.
He’d always thought it a fanciful tale, a myth that told of heartache manifesting in a peculiar and dangerous way. A disease, a curse of unrequited love. Characterised by the growth of flowers in a person’s respiratory system, it left victims to choke on blossoms as petals sprouted from within their lungs until breath was no longer possible.
Until they drowned in their own blood.
He couldn’t remember when exactly he’d heard about it, but he’d been young, barely into double digits; perhaps he’d read it in a book, or maybe caught snippets by overhearing scuttlebutt. He recalled asking Sengoku about it, one evening over dinner, but the man had waved away his worries, claiming that it didn’t exist – it was propaganda spread by varying factions (he couldn’t remember if it was pirates, or the Revolutionary Army or some other offshoot of society). His father had ruffled his hair, told him that anyone would fall in love with him, so why would he need to worry about a fictitious disease of heartache that he would likely never suffer from?
Naturally, he came across further accounts and gossip strands through his years, travelling in the Navy. Rosinante recalled having a conversation with his ship’s doctor about different ailments and syndromes that threatened life in all the Blues (ironically, Amber Lead had been one of them) and he’d expected the man to laugh it all away like the Fleet Admiral had – but he hadn’t. Instead, the doctor had lapsed into an intensive lecture about the malady, going so far as to insist that he had treated someone who had a flower-laden cough by surgically removing the growths from their lungs. It not only cured them of any respiratory issues, but also of their heartache, making them completely forget the love that caused the illness, allowing his patient to make a full recover. They led a happy and healthy life, as far as he was aware.
Rosinante hadn’t believed him in the slightest, although he listened politely; the doctor was letting him share a smoke, after all.
It wasn’t until he’d been undercover, the loyal Heart within the Donquixote Family, when he learned the truth – that it did exist, that it was very real, very dangerous and was very much known by the World Government.
He’d shadowed his brother to some lavish, nouveau riche affair, thrown by one of Doffy’s new contacts who was intent on proving his worth to the powerful pirate crew. Rosinante, tired of watching his brother be fawned over, navigated the halls of the opulent mansion, where the strange scent of preserved flowers mingled with the air of old money. Admittedly, he’d also wandered off to see if he could find any sort of intel to pass onto Sengoku. Even if it wasn’t about Doffy, information about the machinations of the underworld would definitely aid the Navy. But it was there, in an innocuous hallway of dark colours, where he stumbled across his first encounter with a hanahaki sufferer – or their remains, rather.
It was a human skeleton, rigged into a macabre position with wires and metal rods: mouth wide open and head tilted back, the skeleton held clenched fingers to its ribs, where a bloom of roses flourished and pushed out between bleached white bone, starkly contrasting with the bright reds and oranges of the flowers. A thick, thorny stem wound up along the sloped neck, seemingly strangling the poor being, ending in a single stalk of lavender that erupted from its open mouth.
At first, he thought it was just a ghastly statue, one made in poor-taste and at the suffering of another; an odd choice of flower arranging, perhaps.
Doffy had been quick to educate him, seeing the curiosity in his little brother’s eyes. Clearly having grown tired of the whores and sycophants, he’d found his Corazón stood silently before a different arrangement, this one with crimson poppies and merlot-tinted amaryllis bursting from a floating torso, limbs and head no longer attached. Arm sliding around his shoulders, Doffy leaned in close to begin his tale, explaining that the floral death throes had become a morbid symbol of status and beauty amongst the privileged, a testament to the exquisite agony of love unfulfilled. In the homes of the elite, these skeletons were not only a display of their wealth but also a dark reminder of their power over life and death. The affluent denizens of the Blues would scour the auction houses and slavers markets for those afflicted, purchasing them with the sole purpose of watching them suffer and die. Artisans would then be commissioned to arrange the bones in intricate displays, entwined with delicate flowers of every hue. Roses, orchids, lilies, and other such flowers: their vibrant colours now forever preserved in a macabre bouquet, adorning ribcages and spines, creating a hauntingly beautiful spectacle. Each display told a story of passion, despair, and the fatal allure of unattainable love.
His brother confided in him something peculiar, then. He had begun to suspect that the fascination with hanahaki skeletons was more than an obsession with aesthetics. There was a whisper of something ancient, a ritualistic belief that these remains held power – the power to influence love, to control the hearts of others. The Celestial Dragons, in their insatiable desire for dominance, might have been attempting to harness this power for their own ends…
…Of course, Doffy found the practise gruesomely fascinating.
He couldn't help but wonder about the lives behind each arrangement he saw in that ghastly mansion – the lovers who suffered in silence, their hearts yearning for what they could never possess. He thought it was a horrific way to die. He didn’t want to ever experience that.
And there he was, petals clutched in a clenched fist, terror fluttering within him like a trapped bird in a cage. It was supposed to be a fairy tale, a tragic fable. But here it was, manifesting in his own body. His mind raced, piecing together the symptoms he had been experiencing: the cough, the breathlessness, the blood, and now these ethereal petals. It matched up with everything he’d heard before, everything he’d previously disregarded.
Now, he almost wished it was something to do with cigarettes. At least Law could treat that easily-
Pain lanced through his chest, leaving him breathless. He hunched over the sink again, gagging at the feeling of another blockage in his airway. With a forceful cough, more of those baby blue petals fluttered into the basin, flecked crimson with bloodied spittle.
Law.
Law had been his everything for so long; he was his captain, his doctor, his best friend, his saviour, his liberator. They were inseparable, bound by shared memories of tragic hardship and unspoken understanding. Rosinante had held a love for little Law, even as far back as on Minion Island. He told the kid that, just before they escaped the Doffy’s clutches, sailing away to the safety of Swallow Island as the Donquixote Pirates eradicated every soul ensnared within the birdcage. However, somewhere along the way, Rosinante’s feelings had shifted, evolving into something more profound; deeper, fervent, passionate. It had taken him some years to realise he had fallen in love with Law, a love that gnawed at him, filling his chest with frissons of pain and desire.
Frissons that, he realised, were not bad humours of the mind, but were in fact a deadly disease that caused secret yearnings to literally bloom into a physical curse.
A cure was simple, from what he knew: confession. Admitting, acknowledging and asserting one’s love for another, speaking the unspoken out loud – as long as the feelings were reciprocated, of course. And he knew, with a burgeoning bitterness, that there was no way Law loved him in that way. For a start, Rosinante was thirteen years his senior – just sliding a toe the other side of forty, whilst his captain had just turned twenty-seven – and after everything they had gone through, he was sure that Law regarded him with the same sort of respect that one would an older brother or comrade in arms. Secondly, Rosinante knew he wasn’t someone people found attractive; he never had been. His skin was too pale, flesh too scarred. He was too tall, too imposing, along with maintaining the incredibly unappealing inelegance he exuded – he was clumsy as a newborn giraffe with ice skates on, as Shachi had put it, one time.
Law, meanwhile, had people practically fawning over him at every port. Hell, he had an inkling that even Penguin and Shachi held deeper affections for their captain, despite their insistence that women were the be all and end all of their desires. Law was a furious sort of beautiful, with a quiet intensity; he never boasted about his attractiveness, although it was apparent in the way he displayed himself, dark tattoos brazenly bared to the world where they lay emblazoned on exquisitely muscled flesh. On top of that, the captain – so ruthlessly loyal to those who followed him – contained a sharp and brilliant intelligence, and a thirst for new skills, new experiences, new knowledge; an Athena made human.
Law could have anyone in any of the Blues or Grand Line – why would he choose Rosinante?
Therefore, the thought of revealing his feelings and facing rejection was unbearable, as was the prospect of losing the close bond he cherished with his captain.
He could not let go of Law. So, he would allow himself to have him in the way the world allowed him: to bask in the warmth of his presence, never too close or he would risk being burnt.
The days after the initial… expulsion were a haze of denial and deteriorating health. He avoided crew and captain alike, as best he could in such cramped confines, afraid his friends would notice the bloodshot eyes, the haggard expression, the suppressed coughs that racked his body. If they did see him, their gazes softened with sympathy, pity even, clearly chalking up his exhausted appearance to the withdrawal symptoms, unaware of the growing weeds that terrorised him on the inside. Barely sleeping still, the petals came thicker and faster in the night, tumbling across his pillow every time he tried to lie down; he would dispose of them in the incinerator chute come morning. His dreams were heavy with horrid visions – of Law being taken from him, of Law dying in his arms, of Law rejecting him cruelly. They, too, caused his chest to tighten, for tears to bloom in his eyes, the sobs stealing what little breath he had.
He couldn’t go on like this, but he knew it was only a matter of time. He hoped Law would forgive him.
His thoughts drifted back to that ship’s doctor, the one who had supposedly cured his patient of their clogged lungs and unrequited love. Whilst he had full faith that Law was skilled enough to perform such a tricky surgery, he couldn’t bear the thought of erasing Law from his life, of losing the bond they shared. Could he willingly give it all up? Everything that they had gone through, every moment of pain and strife and anguish that had made them both stronger – had bonded them in a way that no one else could match. Yet, he knew that without the surgery, the disease was fatal.
As his love remained unvoiced, the blues of the forget-me-nots gave way to tiger lilies – vivid, orange blossoms that seemed to burn as he hacked and spluttered to expel them from his throat, the large petals clogging and catching in his windpipe in a way that the blue petals had not. They made leaving his quarters that much tougher, continuously scared that he would choke on one of those larger growths and reveal his shame to the crew. He barely left his room, once they started to bloom within him, choosing to remain hidden away under the guise of dealing with the withdrawal symptoms in dignified privacy: meals were delivered to his door (not that he ate much) and occasionally, a new book would be left for him in the corridor. On one occasiona, Penguin and Shachi had kept him company through the sealed bulkhead, only leaving when the coughs and splutters became too much for him to hold even a single word, let alone a conversation.
(They had been talking about Law… how sad he’d become – brooding, even, definitely missing his big, blond shadow. Rosinante couldn’t bear to hear about the misery he was inflicting upon the one he cared for.)
His unexpected quarantine meant a lot of time to think. In those quieter moments, when the books were snapped shut and the lull of sleep evaded him, he contemplated the tragic irony of his situation. The very love that filled his heart and gave his life meaning was the very same love that was ultimately destroying him. He was caught in a relentless cycle of hope and despair, torn between the desire to cling unwaveringly to his love and the need to let it go for his own survival. Yet, even as his strength waned and the flowers took their toll, he could not bring himself to sever the bond he held so dear.
He could not tell Law.
--
The evening had not been kind to him.
His food lay untouched, growing cold outside the door where he’d put it back, nausea bubbling hot and thick in his gut at the sight and smell of the small plate of vegetables and rice. His large bed, taking up most of the space in his room, was a mess of sweat-soaked sheets, tinged and stained with dark blood of varying mottled hues, from fresh red specks to near-brown spatters.
Gasping breaths rang out in the soundless room, the steady pulse of his Calm a comforting pressure at his throbbing temples. Once again braced over the sink, Rosinante coughed and spluttered against the spasms deep in his chest, forcing the clumps of delicate petals out from his throat so that he could attempt to bring oxygen into his straining body. It felt like so long ago that he’d had an actual breath of clear air; now, it was like being trapped in a smoke-filled room.
The pain of his ordeal was severe: the forget-me-nots tended to get stuck along the walls of his airways, irritating his reflexes and causing a string of tiresome coughs, whereas the tiger lilies were large and clogging. They also burned something fierce, a fire that swept all the way through him, even to his gut, where the nausea wreaked havoc. But it was nothing compared to the inexplicable synthesis of sorrow and resignation he felt within his soul. Sadness consumed him, knowledge that he would likely die there. He could not go to Law for help, could not allow the man to see him like this, could not hurt him like that. The physical pain of the flowers paled in comparison to the emotional torment of loving someone who could never love him back – at least in the way he wanted, the way he needed.
So, he suffered in silence, comforted by his Silence and Calm, resolute that he would pass on with at least a modicum of dignity. He hoped he would not resemble those statues from before – contorted in agony and misery. As he spat out a large bloom of a tiger lily – nearly a full bud – he wondered who would find him once the pain had left him, and if they would forgive him… wondered if Law would ever forgive him for leaving him, when he promised him he would never-
There was movement. Behind him. His senses flared, haki attuned enough to be second-nature now.
He was sure he had locked the door to his quarters. He couldn’t allow anyone to enter, and with his Fruit power blocking any and all sound from passing through, no one would think to disturb the silent room where Rosinante was clearly resting. In fact, Penguin and Shachi had informed him that Law had given strict instructions that only the four of them were to approach his door, and that was with their captain’s clear-cut permission.
And only Law had a key to his quarters.
The person’s presence behind him fled from his mind, then, pushed out by another wave of deep, punishing coughs, so powerful he almost mistook it for queasiness. Blood gushed in a torrent from his mouth. He heard it splash against the mirror, flecking back against his skin and hair as he hacked up another budding lily. It made an ominous thud as it landed in the cold metal, accompanied by the gentle plinks of dripping blood that fell from the reflective glass.
“Cora…?”
His breath hitched – or was it a sob? He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together as he prepared himself to look up, forced himself to look behind him. All the fears of before came rushing for him, then, merciless like relentless harpies, and for the briefest moment, he was all but eight years old, coated in the blood of his father, too fearful to look into the glint of his brother’s lenses.
Rosinante looked up.
There, in the crimson spattered reflection, was Law, near-silhouetted in the doorway of the bathroom. He was dressed in the soft cotton of baggy sleep pants, chest bare in the dim light; clearly, he’d come from the quiet comforts of his own room to check on him. Gilt eyes were wide in shock, staring at the blood that dripped from his lips and chin, passing over the exhausted but frenzied haze that hung heavy in the shadows of Rosinante’s face, trailing down to the growing pile of flower petals that lay scattered around him; funeral flowers for a dying man.
Law didn’t say a word, didn’t utter a sound as he took a single step into the room. Their eyes locked once again through the mirror; red and gold, just like the tiger lilies that lay in the basin, a grotesque yet hauntingly beautiful tableau. Rosinante felt a strange sense of foreboding creep up him, an icy dread that coiled around his spine. His mind conjured that memory of the hanahaki statue from all those years prior, with its thorny vines curling around bone. Was that him, in this moment? Had it already gone too far? The scent of blood and flowers mingled in the air, an unsettling fragrance that made his stomach churn – or was it from the dawning horror that veiled Law’s face?
He expected his captain to reach out to him, to demand to look him over… but he didn’t. He didn’t know what was worse – the distress of being discovered or the moment Law appeared to recoil in disgust, striding from sight with a swiftness that Rosinante had only seen on the battlefield.
Or maybe it was the shrill klaxon that rang out some time later, echoing around the submarine, declaring a simple message for an emergency they’d only practised in drills: quarantine initiated, contagion onboard, crew to remain in bunks, senior officers to the infirmary.
The Polar Tang was under full medical lockdown. And it was his fault.
--
It was disorientating to be whisked away in the blue light of Law’s Room; even more so when one wasn’t expecting it.
Rosinante had slumped down on the cold metal of the bathroom floor, back resting against the reinforced steel of the toilet bowl, head in his hands, when the now-familiar tug in his gut occurred. He would liken it to the same feeling someone experienced when falling from a great height. Only he didn’t fall – not far, anyway.
Soft bedding met his backside, and he let out a stuttered breath when his spine uncurled against thick pillows. Removing his palms from his face, his tear-filled gaze was met with the bolted ceiling panels of the infirmary, metal painted a cool white in comparison to the dark alloy of elsewhere. He had no time to gain further bearings, hearing the sharp click of booted heels approaching, somewhere to his left.
Against every fearful fibre of his being, he turned his head to see Law marching towards him, golden eyes narrowed above the pale blue of a surgical mask. His signature hat was gone, replaced with a stark white scrub cap, and those beautifully ornate tattoos were now hidden beneath the bulky outline of a white surgical gown; DEATH was faintly spotted beneath the blue latex gloves, but Rosinante had no time to admire as Law was suddenly upon him, leaning over his supine form. For a smaller man, in that moment, he appeared larger than life, fury lighting his eyes like the burning midday sun.
“How long as it been?” Law demanded, voice harsh and firm, even when muffled behind the mask. “Truly? When did it start-?”
“Law-”
“How long since you’ve been coughing up the flowers?” Law asked firmly. With efficient movements that spoke of years of practise, the doctor unhooked an oxygen mask from beside the bed and nestled it securely over his nose and mouth, pulling on the elastic straps to ensure it was snug. Blessedly cool air hissed over his skin, and he felt almost dizzy at the way it soothed his irritated airways. “I need to know, Cora,” Law continued, tone still dark and harsh. “Hanahaki – it’s deadly, depending on its growth, not to mention extremely contagious. You have put yourself and the entire ship at risk.”
Rosinante forced his jaw to unclench, instead fisting his fingers in the covers either side of his hips. “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I am-”
“Surely, you would think that coughing up vegetation would be something to report to your captain? To your doctor?”
When Rosinante didn’t reply (what could he say?), Law hissed out a succinct swear in a language long-dead and slammed the heel of his gloved palm against a bullet-scarred sternum. Rosinante barely heard the muttered Mes, instinctively clenching his eyes shut against the strange wave of breathlessness that overtook him. It winded him in an entirely distinct way than the flowers had. The sensation still stirred a new surge of coughs that barrelled through him with the intensity of a tsunami, and he moaned pitifully as blood flecked against the inside of the oxygen mask, dribbling down his chin to stain the white of his uniform that hugged his thighs.
Upon finally opening his eyes, he saw that Law was no longer beside him. In fact, he was in the centre of the room, stood motionless before one of the few surgical tables. His back was to him, leaning his entire weight on clenched fists atop the metal surface as his head hung low between tense shoulders. And there, trembling within a crystal prison, was a strange, dull-pink and dark coloured lump, flowers of blue at odds with the crawling green vines and stems that were tangled around it. With dawning horror, Rosinante realised that the lump was in fact his lungs, seeing them stutter and inflate with his gasping breath. It was truly bewildering to see the scattering of small blue flowers, covering the dips and valleys of his organs, like moss on a worn building; it now made utter sense why he was struggling for breath, and morbidly wondered what the inside of his lungs looked like.
…He was sure Law was likely thinking the same thing too.
“I’m sorry…” Rosinante croaked, voice barely audible above the hiss of the oxygen mask.
“Don’t,” Law hissed. His shoulders tense further, shooting up to his ears. “Who is it.”
“What?”
“Tell me… who it is.”
Words failed him, tumbling short, long before they reached his tongue. He couldn’t even blame the flowers that sat heavy in his throat – they were not choking him, this time. Instead, it was the overwhelming burn of tears, the waves of shame and regret that garrotted him, a tight buckle around his chest.
His captain did not appreciate the silence, however. With blazing eyes, he whirled around, teeth bared as he snarled, “Who would be so foolish as to not love you back?”
Still, Cora could not speak. He shook his head, a hiccoughing sob erupting from below his diaphragm, blue petals sputtering out into the confines of the mask. In an instant, Law was beside him, fingers carefully peeling the blood-soaked plastic away from his mouth and nose, exchanging it for a clean one after wiping his lips with a soft cloth. The forget-me-nots tumbled to lay in a bloodied pile on his lap.
Law let out a tired sigh, brow furrowing as he perched on the edge of the bed. He plucked one of the petals up, turning it over between pinched fingers, actions almost nonchalant and casual, were it not for the shake in his muscles.
“Penguin, Shachi and Bepo are going around the ship, checking over everyone and disinfecting everything, including your rooms,” he murmured. “As captain, I need to ensure the safety of the crew. I don’t know how it spreads – if it’s a bacteria or a virus or airborne or something otherwise – I don’t know anything.” He heard the frustrated huff, the bitten off curse. “I never expected to encounter this, let alone on my own ship.”
Rosinante eyed him carefully. “You knew it existed? You… believed in it?”
“I would be a fool not to,” Law snapped back, although it was without malice. “People didn’t think Amber Lead could be cured – in fact, people believed a lot of things about Amber Lead that turned out false. I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t take everything in this world at its word… or lack of.” With careful fingers, Law then began to collect the small petals into a cupped palm, pouring them into a metal kidney dish to the side once they had all been rescued from Rosinante’s lap. “As doctor, I need to ensure the safety of my patients. As your friend… I…”
Throwing caution to the wind, Rosinante reached out. His fingers slipped between Law’s, the latex smooth and soft against his skin. The sound of his wheezing breaths filled the quiet air.
“…I cannot lose you,” Law whispered, staring down at their hands.
Rosinante shook his head. “If it was my choice, I wouldn’t leave you.”
“You do have a choice.” Voice cracking, auric eyes snapped up to connect with his. “You can survive, Cora. I might not understand such a… a strange illness, but every text, every account all say the same thing-”
“Confessing?” Rosinante cut in; Law faltered. “Would only cause me greater pain. They don’t feel the same way-”
“You’re in pain?” Detaching his grip on Rosinante’s fingers, Law all but flung himself away from the bed, hurrying over to a small rolling cart, opening drawers one after another in the hunt for something. “Why didn’t you say?”
“Law, that’s-” Rosinante tried to say, but was cut off by another hazy wave of coughs; yet more petals filling the oxygen mask, both blue and orange. Easing the mask away, he hacked and spluttered into his palm, only vaguely aware of Law returning to his side. “It’s not- not- the point-!” he wheezed, in between chokes and huffs.
“Keep the mask on, it will help your oxygen levels.”
“Law-”
“I should put a cannula in – you need fluids and who knows what else- Cora, stop fighting me,” the doctor snapped when his blood-streaked hand came up to grip both his wrists, stopping him from drawing any closer to his arm with the morphine-filled syringe. “Cora-!”
“There’s no point, Law.”
Everything grew silent once more, broken only by his rasping breaths. Law had grown still, frozen as a statue in the middle of a snowstorm, brow low over horrified eyes.
“There is a point, Cora.” His voice was low, with an almost deathly calm, a tone he only used when he was truly angry. “Hanahaki may be fatal, but it does not have to be. You just need to tell whoever you are in love with-”
“As if that were so easy,” Rosinante snapped back with a rolling of eyes.
“Whoever it is,” Law ventured, slowly, “will understand the pain you are in and surely love you back.”
“I would not blackmail anyone into loving me, Law.”
“That’s not-” Law huffed a breath of frustration. “I know you wouldn’t. But it’s- it wouldn’t be that.” He shook his head, eyes wide with wonder. “Anyone would love to be in love with a wonderful person like you.”
Then why aren’t you? sat heavy on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it back down, along with a wadge of petals.
“Are they on the crew?” Law demanded. Rosinante said nothing, just simply looked away. “Someone else, then. In a port we’ve been to. Or another crew?” There was a pause. “…It’s not a Straw Hat, is it?”
Breath sputtering out in shock, Rosinante couldn’t stop the laugh from echoing out about the room, his first in weeks. His hand finally let go of Law’s wrists. “W-what-?”
“We need to contact whoever it is, if we have any chance of saving you, Cora.” Leaning forward, Law narrowed his eyes; Rosinante knew there would be a pout curling his lower lip, beneath the surgical mask. “I refuse to give up. And I need you to promise me that you will fight too.” Gentle hands took hold of the oxygen mask that lay forgotten in his lap, carefully sliding the fastening back over his head. Fingers carded through his hair, nails scratching over his scalp as he eased trapped strands out from under the elastic. Rosinante shivered, a cold wash of air hitting his lungs, even as they lay across the room. “And when you can’t anymore, I will fight for you in your stead. Because I refuse to let go of you.”
Closing his eyes, Rosinante breathed through the renewed wave of nausea that bubbled in the pit of his stomach, choosing instead to focus on the feel of Law’s nimble fingers against the nape of his neck.
“There’s… another option,” Law mumbled, and Rosinante already knew what was coming without Law continuing his sentence.
“I’ve heard the surgery is painful,” Rosinante croaked, “and not guaranteed to work.”
“If you were anyone else, I’d think you were doubting my skill as a surgeon.”
“N-Never-!” He broke off, more petals tumbling from his lips. Breathing through the spasms in his chest, he grabbed hold of Law’s hand as it went to wipe his face once again. “I… would never-”
“I know…” Law soothed. Mask pried from his face for the umpteenth time, the cloth was soft and cool against his cracked lips. “There’s… no quantitative data about hanahaki,” he continued, gaze focused on Rosinante’s lips and jaw. “It’s a disease that many associate with shame… they don’t seek help. That is why people think it is a myth.” Auric eyes flicked upwards to meet his, the barest hint of a reprimand flashing within. “But from what I can gather… those that elect for the surgery go onto lead healthy lives, free of the disease.”
“I would never recover.”
To say Law was shocked was an understatement, brow crashing downwards and mouth clearly curling in distaste beneath his mask. “You’re strong-”
“It’s not about strength-”
“The surgery makes you forget – the… the removal of the flowers - it takes the memories away, allows the patient to move on with their lives, free of the shackles of unrequited love. Why would you want to wallow in unrequited love?”
Rosinante was silent for a moment, words stuck on his tongue and his chest a gaping wound of emotion. Voice thick, he mumbled, “I would fall again. Again and again and again, no matter what, where, how or-” Another cough; another flurry of blue and orange. “-w-why… It is impossible to not love- …love them. I might forget why I loved them before, but I’ll just fall in love with them all over again, because… because they’re…” A tear tumbled, unbidden, rolling down Rosinante’s cheek, only to be swept away by the pad of Law’s gloved thumb. “Because they’re them. They’re my everything. Without them, there’s no me… who would I be, if I didn’t love them…? I… I can’t explain it…”
“…You love them a lot,” Law whispered, barely above a breath.
He couldn’t stop the smile from dimpling his cheeks, warmth spreading through him at the thought of Law and everything about him: his quick temper, his undying thirst for knowledge, the way he stayed up beyond the pale of the moon in an effort to quiet his overthinking mind, the depth of his rarely-heard laughter, the warmth of his skin whenever they touched, the wrinkles that disappeared from his brow, only to reappear in the corners of his eyes as a toothy grin curled his mouth in a mischievous smirk-
He couldn’t give that up. He couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t love Law – didn’t want to, the very thought was worse than the heartache of now.
“I love them more than anything,” he rasped in response, eyes sliding shut against another wave of tears, another upsurge of blood-spattered flowers, another rush of bittersweet affection. “They are my everything, so I can’t risk them hating me… can’t risk them leaving me or thinking bad of me. I don’t want to forget… and I don’t want to live this pain again but if… if you wish me to have the surgery, Law… I will agree. I will live. For you.” His breath hitched, fingers scrunching in the sheets. “Only for you.”
--
Through the hours that followed, Cora’s world devolved into a mess of garbled colours and echoing sounds. It was a near-rapid occurrence, like he’d downed too many bottles of cheap wine. He couldn’t make heads or tails of anything around him, eyes fluttering open but being unable to truly see anything around him.
He was aware of the wash of Law’s Room settling around them, and for a moment of truly frightening panic, he thought the doctor was about to perform the surgery – that he was about to lose everything he knew and loved about his Law. But fear was quickly assuaged, and Rosinante was calmed by Law’s gentle words and hands, as he found himself changed into cleaner clothes; his sweat-heavy, blood-spattered uniform swapped out for soft pyjamas that were cosy, keeping the chill from his limbs.
His fingers and toes had begun to grow cold and numb, yet Rosinante did not have the mind to worry about it, not with Law returning, again and again, to rub the feeling back into each extremity.
And that was the thing – the factor that kept him calm, the one remaining constant in his hazy world: Law… his deep, drawling voice murmuring soft reassurances in his ear, the brilliant glint of those beautiful eyes gazing into his as he leaned over to dab at his sweat-slick skin, talented fingers tangling with his on the bed as he propped his upper half on the bed with a book clutched in his other hand. At one point, he was even sure he felt the press of trembling lips against his temple – a simple touch that, if it did happen, surely loosened something in his chest because he recalled gasping on a breath that felt suddenly cold… albeit refreshing, like those he would look forward to, first thing every morning, out on the deck of his captain’s ship.
He wished he could return there, just one more time.
Words to that effect may have tumbled past his lips, along with another wave of flowers – half-bloomed buds that stung something fierce – because Law was suddenly at his bedside once more, another cool cloth wiping the clammy skin of his face and neck.
“You’re going nowhere right now,” Law muttered. With firm hands, he ushered Rosinante onto his side, wedging pillows against his back and legs to keep him there. “Although, when you get better – when – we’ll go and spend a morning on deck, yeah? Just us two.”
That handsome face appeared before him, then, as Law sat on the stool that he’d wheeled over. Rosinante was struck silent at the sight of the soft smile that curved those plush lips, the mask nowhere to be seen. His surgical gown had gone (Rosinante vaguely had blurry memories of maybe being sick on it or was it just bloodied petals again?) but he could see the intricate lines of his tattoo peeking up from the low neckline of the blue scrubs, the colour rich in comparison to the pale teal gloves still adorning his hands-
Hands that stroked his face, dragging sweat-soaked locks away from his temple and brow, trailing swirling fingertips along the arch of his cheek and back up into his hair. He couldn’t look away from those soft, golden eyes-
Was Law crying? Were those tears in those beautiful eyes? Gods, he loved Law so much, he didn’t want to make him cry-
“Cora, you have to stay with me.” Law's voice was soft, almost a whisper, and Rosinante felt a rush of surreal nostalgia, like he had heard those words before. “You're going to be alright.”
“I’m so glad… that your face is the last… the last I’ll see,” Rosinante wheezed. With a trembling hand, he reached out to touch Law’s cheek, smiling when Law’s fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist to support it.
“Don’t talk like that,” Law told him firmly, pressing his cheek tighter against his sweaty palm. “Don’t give up, Cora. You’ll survive this. You’re strong. And… And you have me to help you. I won’t let you go.”
Rosinante didn’t respond for a moment, silently taking in the handsome features of his captain, his doctor, his saviour, his love. “I changed my mind,” he finally mumbled, voice slurring, like his tongue was too big for his mouth. “Don’t… don’t do the surgery…”
“…Why?”
“I’m sorry…” Rosinante shook his head, eyes never leaving Law’s, even as his head spun with the single word uttered, the fraying tone, the audible crack in Law’s quiet voice. “I… I don’t want to… disappoint you.”
He heard Law exhale a breathy chuckle, along with a sniffle. “You idiot. You would never disappoint me.”
“You didn’t like me… you hated me before.”
“I didn’t know you, Cora,” Law insisted. He shifted closer, now wrapping both hands around the expanse of Rosinante’s forearm. “I didn’t know the good man you really were.”
“You… made me that good man, Law.”
The other man was quiet for a moment, if one ignored the aborted sob and quiet fuck that Law exhaled. “Don’t do this to me, Cora,” he implored.
“What if… I turn into the old Cora…? When I wake up? I don’t… I don’t want to be him, again. I don’t want… to hurt you…” He tried to smile, fingers twitching against Law’s cheek. “I don’t want to forget you…”
Even through the haze, he could see how Law’s posture shifted, simultaneously freezing and seeming to straighten up. His mouth parted, lips trembling around words seemed trapped in his throat, like the very flowers that choked Rosinante.
Law’s voice was quiet, almost childlike when he asked, “Why… Why would you forget me, Cora…?”
The smile dimpled Rosinante’s cheeks; he felt it bloom, like it always belonged there. “Silly boy… Because you’re my everything…”
--
Rosinante's world was a churning sea of indistinct shapes and sounds some time after that. He wasn’t sure when. It faded, in and out, like the beacon of a lighthouse turning stalwartly in its tower; each moment slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fists.
Sometimes, everything was silent, and his hazy world was at peace, whilst other times, there was the echoes of hissing machines and rhythmic beeping; his mind conjured up dreamscapes of slithering snakes and hooting birds, all around him. Voices came and went, too, of varying pitches and cadences. He felt like they had been angry, at some point, or perhaps frightened? Of the birds and snakes, possibly. But then they came back again, soothing and comforting – like his mother had been, before she succumbed to that awful respiratory disease; like his father had been, before the pull of that trigger.
On occasion, his skin flushed hot, like he was trapped in the fires of a violent volcano, but then it would change just as quickly, muscles shivering and trembling, as if he had been plunged into the coldest ocean of the furthest north. Every nerve fizzed, live wires of agony, and yet, when he felt soothing touches on his forehead, arms, face, chest - anywhere, he felt anchored amidst the chaos that were his senses. The touches were familiar, comforting, a lifeline in the tempest, but he could not find it in his brain to put a name to them. All he could think of was that they were safety; they were home.
Time became an unreliable narrator in his fevered state, stretching and collapsing in unpredictable ways. He remembered flashes: a glass of water pressed to his lips; the taste of bitter medicine on his tongue, mixing with the tang of copper from the back of his mouth; strong arms holding him as he trembled; the whispered comforts as his chest ached and his throat burned.
His eyes fluttered open sporadically, revealing a dimly lit room that seemed to waver like a mirage, white walls and intense lights merging into a glaring horizon. Shadows played across the ceiling, transforming into strange and wonderful shapes before dissolving back into darkness. He could hear murmured words, soft and steady, but their meaning was lost in the fog of his delirium. His eyes would close soon after, as they always did.
But there was someone beside him, at one point. They leaned closer, a feather-light touch on his forehead becoming firmer, more insistent. Rosinante struggled to focus, his vision swimming. He could just make out the dark skin, midnight hair and golden eyes of the one he loved so dearly – and the realisation that he loved him was like a shock to his system, causing him to lose his breath as he tried to call out, tears flooding his eyes-
“It’s okay, Cora,” the voice said, gentle but with a hint of command. “You’re going to be alright. I’m here.”
The words wove through the haze, pulling him back each time he drifted too far. Rosinante felt a damp cloth being pressed against his skin, the sensation almost surreal in its relief, calming and cooling the heat that rose up from his chest. He wanted to speak, to reassure the man caring for him, but his throat was too dry, his mind too muddled.
“…I love you.”
Regardless of his nonsensical understanding of the things around him, that presence was a constant; a sentinel through the night, chasing away the worst of his fears with quiet whispers and soothing touches. Rosinante clung to the sound of his voice, letting it guide him through the darkest hours. The boundary between reality and fantasy blurred, but there was truth within it that remained steadfast: he remembered, he loved and was loved, he was not alone-
And he was alive.
--
Rosinante’s eyes fluttered open, the world around him coming into focus with a clarity he hadn't felt in… how long had it been? Hours… days… months… years? He blinked, trying to piece together the fragments of his memories, yet the ceiling above offered no respite, no clues to what had happened. The room he was in – still in the med-bay, it seemed – was quiet, the only sounds being the rhythmic beep of what he could only assume was a heartbeat monitor and the hiss of oxygen, small nasal tubes pressing along his cheeks and looping around his ears… and someone else’s breaths – steady and slow, somewhere to his right.
Struggling to sit up, his muscles felt weak and uncooperative, like the mornings after cadet training; he still forced himself, however, grunting and gasping with the exertion-
A cough rippled through him, seizing his chest with tight, sharp nails around his ribs. He doubled over, muscles convulsing in a paroxysm of pain. Attempting to draw quick breaths back in only resulted in a choked splutter, petals falling from his lips once more; orange and blue, stark against the white of the blankets that covered him. He stared at them, spittle trailing from his parted lips and connecting to the largest lily blossom; it was stained with blood, but it was dark… old…?
“…-ra… -ora…?” Hands appeared, then; teal latex fingers wrapping around his wrist, as well as his chin, a thumb swiping across his lower lip, snapping that connection to the flowers in his lap. “…Cora.” The distant, echoing voice became clear in an instant: Law’s voice. As Rosinante turned his head, he took in the gaunt expression on the younger man’s face, eyes heavy with exhaustion, shadows darker than normal. “…Can you hear me, Cora?”
“Yes,” he wheezed, breathing through the spasms that continued in his diaphragm. He blinked away the moisture that clung to his lashes.
“I need you to sit back.”
Rosinante swallowed thickly, noisily. Pulse buzzing in his ears, he stared down at that small bundle of indigos and saffron. Had… everything been a dream? He was sure time had passed; were the voices, the touches, the comfort all fantasies, conjured up to make himself feel better? He wanted to be past the pain. To drag this out-
“Sit back, Cora. You’re okay.”
“I’m still sick…?” Rosinante mumbled; his voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
“No,” Law replied quickly, but still just as gently as he had spoken before. Hands now moving to either shoulder, he encouraged Rosinante to settle back against pillows that he had most definitely not been lying on before; they were soft but firm, with the head of the bed having been raised too. As he laid back, Rosinante kept his gaze solely on Law, feeling as though he would spiral into madness should he even glance at any more petals. “Look,” Law directed quietly, pinching a blue blossom between finger and thumb, turning it this way and that. He pointed to a curled edge- “See how it’s brown? The flowers are dying. You are healing.”
Rosinante felt a shiver roll down his spine, breaths still gasping and heavy. “I don’t understand… How…?”
“You…” Law hesitated and, for the first time in a very long time, Rosinante saw the indecision shimmering beneath his expression, like he was at war with himself; the way those beautiful eyes didn’t meet his, instead remaining rooted on the petals between them. “How much do you remember…?”
A cold jolt thundered through him, like he had been plunged into icy water; shock, pain, fear, fizzing to the very tips of his fingers. If Law was asking him how much he remembered, then… did that mean-?
“You… did the surgery?”
“What?” Law reared back, eyes wide with his own astonishment. “No! You asked me not to – pleaded with me not to.” He drew in a deep breath, gaze flicking down. Idly, he began to collect up the phlegm-covered petals, dropping them into a metal tray next to the bed; Rosinante recognised that behaviour: Law was incredibly nervous, needing something to do with his hands. “You… developed a fever. Delirium set in, but you were still… making some sense.”
“That’s nice to hear,” Rosinante whispered. His own fingers twitched, desperate to reach out. “Must be a refreshing change for you.”
Law faltered, eyebrows furrowing, as if it took a moment for Rosinante’s words to filter into his brain. “…Cora.”
“Sorry.” He tried to plaster a sheepish grin on his face, but failed; it felt as pitiful as it probably looked. Nausea, once again, sat like a leaded cannonball in the depths of his gut, rolling with disquiet. “I said something, didn’t I?”
“…You… did. I believe only because… because of how close you were to death.” Law’s head tilted, staring out at the central operating table, where numerous crystalline cubes lay. “Your organs began to shut down, one by one. I… I was helpless to stop it. So, I gave you pain relief and I… just laid with you.” Chin to chest, Law looked back down. When Rosinante mimicked the movement, he saw how close their hands were, fingers millimetres apart. “I didn’t want you to be in pain, any longer. Because… you have been, haven’t you? For a long time.” Sharp eyes darted up, then, focused on his face with an intensity that Rosinante both loved and feared. “How long has it been? How long have you been in love with me?”
Panic gripped him. He felt his eyes widen, his heart stutter in his chest, the air all but escaping his lungs. Stomach rolling, he felt a fresh clump of petals obstruct his throat; desperately, he tried to muffle the cough, tried to stamp down on it, to block it. It felt like it echoed in his chest, reverberating off his ribs and, as he attempted to keep it tucked away inside him, it stung something fierce. Tears flooded his eyes, catching in his lashes one more.
“No, Cora- Cora, you- let it out, let it out,” Law was instructing him, pulling at the hand that had shot to cover his mouth. Rising to his feet, Law placed his own hand on the back of Rosinante’s neck, as he hurriedly placed another metal tray in his lap. “Don’t keep it in, you have to get it out of your system. Cough, Cora. Let it out. Please.”
A cut-off whimper was wrenched from him, as he doubled over again, gasping at the deep-rooted, chesty cough that erupted from where it had been buried within him. No more petals fell, but the sound was harsh and raw, echoing in the quiet room. Each subsequent splutter tore through his torso like a knife, and he could feel thick lumps lodging at the base of his airways. He tried to suppress it, tried to swallow it back down, despite Law’s requests, but the fit was relentless. His vision blurred – tears? Lack of oxygen? – and he clutched at his chest with scrunched fingers, doing his utmost not to panic as he struggled to draw breath between the wrenching coughs; his other hand shot out, quickly becoming ensnared in Law’s grip, gloved fingers slotting between his own and squeezing firmly. The taste of iron filled his mouth, and for a brief, terrifying moment, he thought he might choke. He held onto Law tighter and tighter, seeking some anchor in the midst of the storm raging within his body.
And then-
It was like something popped. Initially feeling like the knot of a tightened muscle giving way, an awful sensation – not unlike being sick – soon spread through him, enveloping his throat and chest in a vice-like grip. He gagged again, spitting out a fairly large something. It clanged as it hit the metal tray, along with the horrid splatter of falling petals soaked in spit and phlegm. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the aftershocks began to subside. Rosinante trembled, resisting the urge to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand; the taste lingered, a bitter reminder of the violence that had just wracked his body. He took a tentative, shaky breath, praying that the worst was over.
Law squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
“I’m now-” Rosinante hoarsely whispered, pausing as Law wiped the spittle from his lips with a soft rag, “-beginning to see the strange mockery… of this disease…” He sighed as Law continued his ministrations. “Keeping the petals inside hurts, so you have to let them out… and letting out your feelings is the only way… to stop the pain.”
Law hummed. “There does seem to be a cruel irony to it all. Makes me want to study it all the more.”
“Of course it does…” Rosinante muttered, but it was with a flicker of a smile; an resonance of fondness seeping through. He watched as Law folded the damp cloth over and wiped the rest of his chin dutifully, his actions overflowing with a sensitive tenderness that, admittedly, Rosinante had not seen before, let alone felt. “Are you angry with me?”
“Anyone else and, yes, I would be… a little more than angry, for everything that’s happened,” Law admitted, quietly. His fingers twisted in Rosinante’s grip, tangling even tighter together, like the vines around his lungs. “But you…? No. I couldn’t truly be angry with you.” The doctor paused. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, tilting his head to the side, a secret smile quirking the corner of his lips. “I seem to remember that we did agree on one lecture.”
“Can we do an I-O-U? I’m… feeling a little delicate, right now.” Rosinante looked down at their connected hands. “I don’t think I’d be strong enough to-” He broke off, completely waylaid by what rested in the steel tray on his lap. “Is… that a-…?”
It looked like a bulb – like the ones his mother would plant in raised beds when they lived in that lavish mansion. It was small and brown, coated in an ugly sheen of spittle, with long tangles of roots that shot out from its base. Rosinante was horrified to see the mess of colours that coated the spindly vines, especially the streaks of crimson; fresh blood, bright and vivid, at odds with the dark brown of coagulated sludge.
Pointing at it with a shaking finger, he whispered, “…Is that-? Did that come out of me?”
He had, morbidly, grown used to the tiny blue flowers and long saffron lily petals – but that?
“Congratulations,” Law murmured, pinching it between glove-clad finger and thumb, and lifting it to the light above; gold eyes narrowed in study. “It’s a baby… plant.”
“Law-!” he all but choked, torn between being absolutely scandalised that Law was even thinking of making a joke about it – on top of the idea of Law… making jokes – or devolving into hysterical laughter.
With a flick of his wrist, Law tossed the bulb into the air and snatched it, clasping it in a snug, tight-fisted grip. He untangled their fingers (Rosinante tried to not feel disappointed at the loss) and picked up the flower-strewn tray, moving over to that central operating table where – he assumed – a lot of, if not all of, his organs lay, quivering and trembling. His eyes followed Law’s movements, so beautifully fluid and… relaxed, even. Law’s demeanour of now did not match that of before.
He was so confused.
“I can hear you thinking from here,” Law called over his shoulder, setting the tray down, metal clanging against metal.
“It’s… never been a bulb, before.”
“I’d assumed not, judging by your reaction,” Law remarked. The blond couldn’t see what he was doing, but he assumed it was something to do with the tray of petals. “From what I can gather, from the very limited information I have onboard, is that the body begins to expel the whole root system when the hanahaki grows weak. For you, that unfortunately means bulbs, due to the lilies. Be thankful-” Law glanced over his shoulder. “Some people are inflicted with roses…” At Rosinante’s furrowed brow, his captain turned back around. “Thorns.”
He grimaced. “That… doesn’t explain how I’ve recovered, though. I just… what happened? What did I say?” Rosinante asked. “Why am I… okay, now? How am I healing, how am I stronger than the disease, if you didn’t complete the surgery?”
How do you know I love you?
“It’s simple. You confessed.”
Rosinante gawped. “I… did?”
“Mm…” his captain hummed. There was a flash of his Room, blue encompassing the whole room. “Not outright, but it was easy to ascertain.” Head bowing, Law’s voice dropped. “You told me you were scared of the surgery… of forgetting me. That you didn’t want to forget me. That surgery only causes the memories of a person’s love to be lost.” Long lashes fluttering against a tanned cheek, Law looked at him, brow tilted with utter heartbreak. “You told me I was your everything.”
Pulse thudding in his ears, Rosinante desperately thought back, mentally darting from memory to memory to try and find the one that matched those events, but coming up empty. Had he really said those things? Had his tongue loosened enough, in the depths of a fever, for him to… babble like prattling drunk? And was that really enough to cure the hanahaki – just a simple confession? Rosinante had thought it required returned feelings, or the sufferer would be lost to an agonising death.
Unless…?
“And… how do you feel about that?” he dared ask, proud of himself for keeping his voice steady.
Across the room, the dark-haired man visibly tensed. His shoulders hunched up by his ears, and he leaned over the metal table – almost exactly the same as he had stood all those hours before, leaning over his freshly-extracted lungs.
“I feel…” Law began, tone a quiet drawl. “…that you’re an idiot.”
What.
“How could you spend all these years by my side and not realise that you are my everything?” Law continued, either oblivious to Rosinante’s outrage or ignoring it; maybe a bit of column A, perhaps a little of B. “After everything we have gone through – after etching dedications into my skin for you, for all to see – that you wouldn’t realise I love you too-?”
“Romantic love, Law, not-”
“Not the love you held for me when I was a child, you mean?” came the snappish response; Rosinante winced, avoiding the glare that swept over him. “Not the love you hold for Penguin or Shachi or Bepo? Cora, I’m not denying that I, too, am a fool. We are both fools and I… I am very much looking forward to being fools together because… because I love you.”
The words washed over him. He almost couldn’t believe he was hearing them, but there was something in the back of his mind that told him he had heard them before. Yet, it couldn’t be possible. Law… loved him?
“You…” He forced air into his lungs, all but forgetting how to breathe. “Don’t… You don’t have to pretend, just to help me survive, Law.”
“I’m not pretending,” Law replied, simple and firm. In an instant, the bulb was encased into a crystalline cube, which he spun on the tip of his finger. “I love you.”
His breath hitched, cool in his lungs. “Law…”
“I love you.”
“You don’t-”
“I do,” Law insisted, an air of petulance lacing his tone. With sharp, striding steps, he walked back over to Rosinante’s bed, tossing the cube onto the table beside him; it tumbled, the bulb spinning like a child’s top within its glass prison. “I know my feelings. I am an adult and I would rather you didn’t infantilise my feelings or mistake them for anything else.”
Rosinante gawped yet again, although he forced his jaw shut with a click. “I didn’t… I don’t mean to… I just… never thought, in any lifetime, you would… love someone like me.”
“You are an idiot,” Law responded with a huff as he sat heavily on the bed beside him, knees bumping the side table with a curse. “In all lifetimes, I will love you. Not just someone like you. You. You who saved me, and I saved you – because I love you. You and no other. And I will keep saying it, everyday – multiple times a day, if needs be… until you believe me.”
Tears blotting his vision, he sniffled. “I would like to hear that.”
“I’d like to hear it from you, before that happens.”
“Oh.” Had he not said it? Had Law truly parsed his feelings from broken rambles alone? “I… I love you, Law. I love you.”
“…Finally.”
The breath that erupted from his throat was half laughter, half coughing, ending with another splutter of tiny forget-me-nots. “Brat…!” he hissed, the insult only causing Law’s grin to grow, sunflower eyes glinting. Now with a little more confidence, he reached out and took hold of Law’s hand, peeling off the teal gloves with gentle tugs. “You love me.”
“I do.”
Another puffing laugh, barely there. “You actually love me?”
“Yes, Cora.”
He stilled, large hands cupping Law’s bare fingers, warmth spreading between them. He felt lighter than he had done in weeks, months even, with his ribs expanding with ease and freedom, no longer tethered by strong vines that coiled and heaved.
“…It, once again, took death for us to realise how much we meant to one another,” he murmured, thumbs stroking across ink-stained skin.
“I’d rather we stop this tradition, if possible,” Law grumbled in reply. He kept his gaze solely on their connected hands, but Rosinante glimpsed that little look, that little glance of bright eyes peeking up at him through dark hair. He practically melted. “You’re not out of the woods, yet. You’ve still to deal with the… remains of the flowers, and tiger lilies are known to be toxic, if consumed in large quantities and they are sitting inside you. The root may be gone, but it will take time for the rest of the flowers to die.”
It made sense, Rosinante reasoned. He’d seen the mess that his lungs were, and if Law had gone through the effort to remove the rest of his innards – and keep them out – it meant that the flowers had spread to other areas of his body, infecting them too. He’d always surmised it was a respiratory disease, considering the cough-induced expulsion of petals, although he supposed Law was, as always, correct: hanahaki didn’t have enough quantitative data to truly know the effects on the human body.
Eyes sweeping across the man before him, he realised that he didn’t quite like the furrow that had returned to that ever-frowning brow. Law had appeared almost relaxed, but upon talking of death and his recovery, his doctor had lapsed into an uneasy silence; gaze remaining on their tangled fingers, eyes half-lidded, yet with a minute pinch at the top of his nose.
Steeling himself, Rosinante asked, “…What should we call it?”
“Hm?”
“The baby plant.” He jerked his head towards the floating bulb. As if half asleep, Law blinked at it, before scowling.
“…Because it caused you pain… because it’s a little shit and I am very tempted to incinerate the damn thing with one of your own cigarettes, I’m thinking Doffy-”
“We are not calling it Doffy,” Rosinante cut in hurriedly, voice trembling with heated panic. At Law’s mischievous grin, he rolled his eyes, coughing a little laugh in response. “Besides, can it even be kept? I thought hanahaki is contagious…”
“You may be right. It’ll take a little more research, I suppose. I’ve kept the med-bay locked down in quarantine since I brought you down here. Only Penguin and Shachi have stepped foot inside, and that’s only with maximum safety precautions.” Law’s lips parted on words that seemed difficult to speak, but eventually, he simply shook his head and murmured, “They will be happy you’re okay. They’ll also be happy to know we’ve finally pulled our heads out of our asses and started to… talk.”
Rosinante hummed in idle agreement. Law had begun to stroke his hand in return, thumb rubbed back and forth across the back of his hand, flitting over a prominent vein. The sensation was pleasant; soothing.
“Can… Can I rest on you? I need…” Law suddenly blurted out, flushing pink before letting out a small huff of a laugh. “In the spirit of admitting things, I’m… actually admitting I need sleep.”
“You have a lot draining your power,” Rosinante remarked, gaze trailing over the numerous crystal blocks that were scattered about the infirmary. “But sure, Law. Whatever you need.”
“I have to keep them,” Law mumbled, already pulling himself onto the bed, boots clattering to the floor as he kicked them off. Shuffling back, he nestled himself against Rosinante’s side, facing away, the blond’s arm coiled around his middle and his head resting on his shoulder. “I’m charting the changes. Every hour, checking the st-” He broke off, a jaw-cracking yawn interrupting him. “-state of the flowers. Make sure they continue dying.” He nuzzled against the soft cotton of Rosinante’s arm, and the blond just about died all over again, this time from how fucking cute it was. He fought to keep that cute aggression (as Penguin called it) under control, aware of how strong he was, even with his strength drained from illness. “Make sure you keep getting better,” Law finished in a sleepy overlapping of words.
“I will do, Law. I have the best doctor looking after me.” Leaning close, he pressed a barely-there kiss to midnight strands. “And I hear he has a lot at stake in my survival.”
--
He didn’t recall falling asleep, but he must have, considering the next time he opened his eyes, Law was gone from his arms, and the lighting was somehow different in the med-bay – a strange happenstance, considering the only windows within the large room looked out into the corridors either side. He could hear a louder level of ambient noise, echoing about the submarine; still distant, still muted, however it was unlike before, when the vessel had been eerily silent.
Quarantine had likely been lifted.
The air was filled with the sharp sting of disinfectant, laced with an undercurrent of that floral smell he’d become so accustomed to; a bittersweet reminder of the flowers that had once bloomed painfully within his chest, and still apparently dwelled, albeit dying. Now, the flowers were slowly making their way out, each petal a symbol of his healing heart – a symbol of his requited love.
Speaking of love-
He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb the peace he was thriving in, and glanced over to where Law sat by one of the large windows that looked out into the main corridor, legs crossed as he peered over a thick medical text. The younger man's brows were furrowed in concentration, his lips moving silently as he read. The blond could also just about make out the top of a head – brunette, likely Kujira, just without his customary hat – and occasionally, hands would raise up an equally large book to the thick glass, along with a muffled statement or question. Rosinante spied an illustration of flowers about the page and couldn’t help but smile; it seemed the two were conducting continuous research into the strange, supposedly mythical disease that had almost claimed Rosinante’s life.
Feeling a wave of fatigue wash over him, Rosinante closed his eyes, listening to the rustle of pages and the soft sound of Law's breathing, along with the occasional quiet murmur of facts or remarks from both men, Kujira’s understandably more subdued than Law’s. He could still feel the occasional tug in his chest as the last of the flowers attempted to work their way out, but it was manageable; only a quiet, albeit chesty, cough that didn’t produce much at all. The sensation was strange, a mix of discomfort and relief, each petal a step closer to full recovery.
It was as he peeled a particularly stubborn lily petal off his tongue when he heard the snap of a book closing. Glancing over, he spotted Kujira giving him a jaunty wave, his twin braids tumbling either side of a hefty, blue leather tome that he clutched in one arm; the front was embossed with gold, loopy lettering: A Treatise of Diseases in General, Vol VI. The man quickly left, once Rosinante fluttered a tired wiggle of his fingers, and so, his gaze snapped to Law, a smile perking back up on his lips as his captain approached.
“How's the book?” Rosinante murmured, his voice still a little hoarse.
“Fascinating, but entirely infuriating,” Law replied, setting the leather-bound book on the rolling trolley nearby. “It’s like none of these doctors actually want to treat illnesses – just be known for discovering them. The level of inaccuracy and imprecision is astounding. That being said, I think you’d find a particular section interesting. Talks about other peoples’ experiences with hanahaki.”
Rosinante chuckled softly, a sound that ended in a cough. “I think I've had enough first-hand experience with that to last a lifetime, thank you.”
Law's expression softened, and he moved even closer, sitting on the edge of the bed as he had done before they had both fallen into slumber; he was close enough for Rosinante to feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the rich tang of dark coffee. It made his stomach gurgle.
“How are you feeling?” his doctor asked, concern swirling heavy in his eyes.
“Tired, but better,” Rosinante replied honestly. “My chest is… lighter, strangely enough. I’m definitely recovering, I can feel it.”
Law reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Rosinante's forehead. “You're doing great. Just a little longer, and it'll all be behind us.”
Rosinante nodded, feeling a swell of gratitude rise up within him at the care Law was exuding. He knew Law had always had a soft spot for him, despite his outward grumpiness, but to experience this level of tenderness from him…? It was astounding. He felt like he had been blessed, despite his previous belief that he had, in fact, been cursed.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, tilting his head. Silently, he held out his hand, eyes curving with a hopeful smile.
Law’s entire expression softened, and he laced their fingers together. “Very much rested. You, as always, make a fantastic pillow. Better than Bepo.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that. I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the next few months, until he forgives me,” Rosinante laughed, only a little hoarse at the edges. Despite the lingering pain and exhaustion, there was an undeniable comfort in these quiet moments shared between them. “I’m glad I could give you as much comfort as you have given me.”
Dark lashes fluttered, Law’s breath audibly hitching. His gaze darted away; if he could, he would have hidden beneath the brim of his beloved hat.
“What next, then?” Rosinante asked, his question intentionally broad, allowing Law to move within whatever circle of conversation he felt more comfortable: their budding relationship (to pardon the pun), his recovery or the state of the ship.
Law remained quiet for a moment. “Everything one day at a time,” he eventually murmured. “I intend to learn as much as I can from your recovery, seeing as there is no concrete evidence to work from. If… I were to encounter the disease in anyone else, I would want to know exactly how to help them.”
“As you have managed with me.” Rosinante beamed. “I’m glad to be your glamorous assistant and your willing test subject, if it helps others.”
“As your body rids itself of the remaining plant life, we need to focus on keeping your body as healthy as possible, to aid in recovery,” Law continued, seemingly nonchalant, but Rosinante spied that glow along the apples of his cheeks. “Until you’ve eradicated every aspect of hanahaki, I think you should remain here. However, we need to get you moving, maybe start incorporating some light exercise. Just walking around the room for now, and gradually build up. We can’t let your muscles weaken or atrophy.”
Rosinante groaned playfully. “You're such a taskmaster, you know that? I almost miss the day you sent me to bed.”
Law smirked, the familiar expression bringing a warmth to Rosinante’s heart, yet there was a glint in his eye; almost as if he was thinking things that would not be spoken aloud. “Only because I care about you,” he retorted, instead. “On that note, absolutely no smoking. Your lungs need time to heal, and we can't risk any setbacks.”
Rosinante winced a little at the mention of smoking. It had been a vice he clung to for years, a comfort in times of stress, a luxury in times of boredom, but now, it was a clear and present danger to his already weakened lungs. He nodded solemnly. “I know, I know. No smoking. I promise. I’ve been good these past few weeks!”
Law’s eyes softened with affection. “I’m aware. And I’m… proud of you for that, I truly am.” Fiddling with Rosinante’s fingers, he skimmed the pads of his own across scarred knuckles, trailing up and down the callused skin. “I’ve also had some herbal teas prepared that should help with your cough and the lingering pain – they’ll work alongside the medication I have you on already. Drink them throughout the day, and make sure you're staying hydrated.”
“…You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
Law shrugged modestly, ducking his head. “Just trying to make sure you have everything you need to get better. I… feel as though this is partly my fault, too, in a way. But I… it’s because I love you, Cora. I need you by my side.”
A comfortable silence settled over them, filled with the unspoken understanding that had seemingly always resided between them. Rosinante brought their tangled hands up to his lips, kissing the sharp letters with a gentle mouth. “Thank you,” he said, his voice trembling with sincerity. “For everything. I love you so much.”
Law squeezed his hand gently in response. “You’d do the same for me.”
Rosinante nodded, feeling a swell of emotion that made it difficult to speak. Despite the minute frustration at it, it was surprisingly refreshing to have his words blocked by emotions and not flowers. Wordlessly, he tugged again at Law’s hand.
“Perhaps you might want to continue reading?” he asked.
The younger man tilted his head, lips quirking. “Do… you have somewhere comfortable in mind?”
He could continue with the suggestive flirting – he knew he could. However, the happiness that washed through him like a tidal wave was too powerful to ignore, and instead, he held his arms open in a clear message, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt. Rosinante liked this: the now-open affection, the way that Law was no longer bristling under attention, the lilt to his voice when he flirted-
A snort of laughter erupted from Law’s nose – cute! – but the man stood, walking away. Dejected, Rosinante’s arms drooped and his smile wobbled. It was fine. He obviously got caught up in the moment, that thrill of joy. It was too much to hope that Law’s introvertedness was cured by a simple confession and near-death experience.
His glumness was short-lived, it turned out, as Law had simply stood to retrieve his book from the cart nearby. Expression twisting in fond exasperation, Law returned quickly and took up residence beside Rosinante, long legs curled up on top of larger thighs, and his shoulder nestled comfortably in the crook of Rosinante’s underarm. The blond, in turn, wrapped one arm about lithe shoulders to hold Law close; his other hand rested comfortably on the bend of Law’s knee, thumb swiping back and forth.
Without another word being said, Law opened the considerably-paged book, resting it along the slope of his forearm, and began to read. His head soon found a comfortable spot against Rosinante’s collarbone, and silence truly descended upon the room, relaxed and content. Even as his eyes grew weary, he swept his gaze across the page with idle fascination, fingers soon finding themselves submerged in Law’s hair. At the first scrape of nails against scalp, Law practically melted, any tension he had remaining falling slack.
Rosinante resisted the urge to laugh.
“You know…” Rosinante began a while later, idly twirling black strands around his fingers, “I’ve read some stories about hanahaki.” He heard Law’s hum, the quiet signal to continue; that he was listening. “They always make it so… romantic. An explosion of love, full of passion and then poof, the person is instantly better again.”
“And then they go on to have rampant, passionate sex, you mean?”
“L-Law-!” His cheeks roared to life with an intense heat.
“They’re entirely fictional and tawdry at best,” Law continued, voice strangely level. “How can anyone view a disease where someone chokes on the physical representation of their feelings and nearly dies as romantic? It’s heart-breaking and… full of pain, more so for the one infected. Besides-” Law shot a narrowed look upwards. “-you haven’t showered in seas know how long, you have been coughing up years-worth of tar-filled mucus and shrubbery, and you suffered with a forty-eight hour fever. Forgive me, Cora – I do love you, but there’s a line. I’m not quite ready to engage in passion-filled coitus with you just yet.”
“…Please don’t ever call it that,” Rosinante all but croaked. “Also, way to kick a man when he’s down – is that a hint?”
“I suppose a shower would clean you up a little, maybe help you feel a little better.” With a sigh, Law extricated himself from Cora’s arms, turning to face him beside the bed. “You can use the infirmary’s facilities. Just… leave the door open.” Colour burst across his nose. “In case you fall, obviously.”
Nodding, Rosinante shuffled to swing his legs over the side. “Can I have my organs back?” he asked, gesturing to the numerous black holes in his torso beneath the open tails of his pyjama shirt, squares and rectangles overlapping.
“I need them.”
“Wh-?! I need them!”
“They’re still working,” Law disputed, crossing his arms with a scowl. “You’re still using them. I can keep an eye on them, out here.” He held out an open palm, fingers curled in repose. “Careful when you stand. You’ve been lying down for a long time.”
His knees did indeed shake as he pulled himself upright, hips and thighs protesting. He teetered a little, gritting his teeth through the wave of dizziness that pressed at his temples.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, feeling Law slide his arm around his waist and place his other hand against the centre of his chest, a stabilising force. “Just a little shaky. You were right to be cautious.”
“I’m a doctor. I’m meant to be cautious,” came the quick retort, but his voice softened as he continued, “One step at a time, Cora.”
With Law’s support, Rosinante moved forwards in what he could only describe as ‘an old man’s shuffle’, his body protesting the movement after so much time spent resting. Puffing a laugh, he shook off Law’s questioning stare that he shot upwards, focusing on the door ahead of them that lead to the infirmary’s bathroom. Each step was a small victory, the movement both painful and liberating. Law’s steady presence beside him made it easier, each whispered word of encouragement spurring him on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so weak-
…No, he could. After the events of Minion Island. After they had both evaded Doffy’s clutches and found sanctuary on the neighbouring Swallow Island. He’d been shot by the Barrel pirates, but the bullets had – thankfully – not hit him anywhere vital. It had mainly been the blood loss that had nearly got him, along with the risk of infection. Recovering from his wounds had been slow-going, but he had Law to help him.
Just as he had now.
Leaning down, he pressed a firm kiss to the crown of Law’s head, his shaggy hair tickling his nose pleasantly. “I love you,” he whispered, chuckling at Law’s snappish response to concentrate, idiot! Now is not the time!
--
To his credit, he didn’t fall in the shower like Law seemingly expected him to. That may have been, in part, due to the fact he was sat on a low stool for most of the time, with the jets of warm water aimed at his back.
It felt good to wash away the muck and grime of the past few days, a soapy cloth chasing away the stale sweat of the fever. Feeling the hot water run across his scalp as he scrubbed shampoo into his hair, followed by the conditioner, was also a godsend – if only because it had the scent of tea-tree mixed in, which chased away the cloying smell of flowers that had permeated his senses beyond a comfortable level. A quick scrub of his teeth reminded him of his days in the Navy, when time was precious and often required marines to multi-task, before the water got shut off. Absentmindedly, he wished he could have shaved, his jaw and cheeks stubbly with days-long growth, but he supposed he would have to wait.
At least the hair was pale enough to not be too noticeable.
When he eventually shut the water off, he realised he had been in the bathroom for some time; his skin was wrinkled like a prune, fingers fumbling with a towel to throw over his lap. His heart also thundered in his chest, although he wasn’t sure if that was the heat of the shower that had caused that, or if it was the effort of being upright after so long lying down. Regardless, he sat in relative silence as he focused on his breathing, concentrating on the sporadic drips of water that dribbled from the spout.
“Cora?” came Law’s voice, behind him, in the doorway.
“Just… need a moment,” he whispered back, elbows to his knees, head low. Soaked, blond strands created a curtain around his face, flicking in its attempt to curl once again. “I’m okay.”
He heard Law approach – bare feet padding in the puddles that remained – and as he drew close, Rosinante felt the gentle touch of a palm against his spine, smoothing up between his shoulder blades. He watched Law’s feet walk around him to stop between his spread knees, felt his hand join the other, although now resting on either shoulder.
“I saw how hard your heart was beating,” Law murmured. “Was growing a little concerned about your blood pressure.”
With a slight wheeze of an attempted cough, Rosinante sat up straight, keeping his movements slow. He could feel how fast his heart was racing, even though he was barely doing anything; morbidly, he wondered what his heart had looked like, thumping away, faster and faster, on that surgical table.
However, any thought fled quickly from his mind at the gentle press of lips against his temple. Law’s mouth was soft, his palm cool against the opposite cheek. He found himself frozen, caught in the realisation that Law was kissing him – his skin, but still it was him.
(…He felt like he’d experienced that before, although he could not place it.)
The effect was immediate. Rosinante felt a warmth spread from the spot where Law’s lips had touched, traveling down his neck and into his chest. It was strange to think, but his mind conjured images of the petals around his lungs retreating – that’s what the warmth felt like, as opposed to physical warmth, like the water that had hit his skin before. He took a deep breath, the air feeling a little clearer, the pain in his ribs a little less sharp.
“Anything in those texts say that… physical affection speeds up recovery? I think your kiss definitely helped,” Rosinante mumbled, feeling his cheeks flush. “Seemed to… soothe any itching in my lungs.”
Law pulled back; not much, just enough so that they could look one another in the eye. “Yeah? Brings a whole new meaning to love being the best medicine.”
“Mm,” Rosinante hummed with a nod. He swallowed, suddenly feeling a flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with the roots within him; nervous butterflies, eager to escape. “Bet that infuriates the medically-minded science man that you are.”
“I may not know what truly causes hanahaki, but I know it’s not a disease of man. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was a disease created by a Devil Fruit or something.” Fingers carded through his dripping hair, scraping it back from his forehead. “I will understand it, eventually. And I don’t intend to fall victim to pride when it turns out that another’s touch is needed to heal my patient.”
“It’s a good thing this patient needs your touch only, then.”
Law’s fingers slowly descended around the back of his head, caressing the side of his neck, fingertips tracing unknown patterns across his skin, still slick from his shower. “I never, in a thousand years, would have thought you would ever love me back.”
“Why?”
His mouth quirked to the side, a sardonic smirk. “Because I was a child.”
“…Was being the operative word, Law,” Rosinante murmured. True, it had been a similar thought for him – that Law wouldn’t view him in a romantic light because of the broad age gap between them – but how could he not love the handsome, intelligent, passionate man who stood before him? The one who had stood by his side, all those years, never faltering? “It was a different love, then. But love changes. It… ebbs and flows and changes course. Now… Now, I would like to feel your kisses on my skin…” He swallowed. “And I’d very much like to return them, in kind.”
Palms flush against his neck, the younger man leaned in, his mouth landing softly against his forehead; skin usually hidden by the thick waves of blond tingled pleasantly. Rosinante found his eyes slipping shut. When had someone last kissed there? His mother, perhaps? But Law’s kiss made his fingers fizz like freshly shaken cola, and his breath caught in his throat – or was that more dying petals? He had no time to think on it, as the touch of Law continued, lips trailing a scorching path along his other temple. The kisses continued, slow and lingering, across his cheek; Law even kissed the tip of his nose, causing Rosinante’s eyes to fly open, cross-eyed, just in time to catch the mischievous smirk that curled languidly across Law’s perfect features.
“And you called me a silly boy,” Law mumbled, now moving along to his other cheek.
“Did I call you that?” he asked, voice as quiet as he could manage in its raspy state, unwilling to break this delicate spell of calm that had nothing to do with his Devil Fruit. Eyes sliding shut once more, he felt like his chest was going to explode, caught between that familiar sharp sting and the looseness that had begun to swell within him. Distractedly, he found his own hands sliding along Law’s waist, large palms spreading wide across his back and side, subtly tugging the smaller man closer. “…It does sound like something I would say.”
Law hummed in assent, now laving gentle kisses along the hinge of his jaw. Then, he paused. Breath washing over Rosinante’s parted lips, his eyes fluttered open; Law’s own were half-lidded, and staring intently down at his mouth, darkening visibly when Rosinante dared to swipe the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. He idly wondered what his heart looked like now, because in all honesty, it felt like it was beating wilder than any war drum, and desperately trying to cram itself into his throat to escape.
But not through fear. No, sheer anticipation had his entire being slamming into overdrive.
The kiss was gentle, a tender brush and press of lips that would seem chaste by any other standard. Yet, after everything they had been through – all the ordeals, the pain and suffering, the pining and yearning, nearly losing one another time and time again – it was perfection. It just… felt so right. The moment their lips touched, it was like a wave of relief washed over him. His chest stopped hurting, and even if it was just for a moment, it was the most beautiful feeling.
Unfortunately, as always, his seemingly clumsy ass had to ruin a perfectly good moment, although he supposed clumsiness had nothing to do with it. A spasm reared its ugly head within his chest and it instantly had Rosinante jerking away, turning from Law to hack and splutter into his palm, feeling the awful flutter of petals slide across his skin and down to splat against the already wet tiles.
“Well…” he heard Law comment, feeling his hand rub his shoulder soothingly. “I can’t say I’ve ever had that kind of reaction after kissing someone.”
“Sorry, Law,” he whined, grimacing as he breathed through the aftershocks.
“I promise not to take it personally.” A cloth appeared in his peripheral – the one he had used to wash himself, dripping and damp – now wielded by Law’s talented hand. He swiped it, ever careful, across Rosinante’s lips and chin. With a soft voice, he asked, “…Did it help at least?”
Rosinante inhaled a deep breath through his nose, exhaling slowly and carefully, controlling the flow – waiting for another cough to splutter out, or to scratch at his diaphragm… but there was nothing. There was certainly still a heaviness to his chest, although it was pale as snow in comparison to how he’d been feeling before.
He smiled, very aware of how Law had frozen, awaiting a response. “More than you know,” he reassured him, softly and gently. At the sight of that equally delicate flush spreading across Law’s nose and cheeks, he ducked his head closer, nuzzling at the scruffy hair that hung over the younger man’s temple. “What was it you said…? That hanahaki doesn’t have quantitative data…?”
“Are you insinuating-?”
“I’m insinuating nothing,” Rosinante interrupted with a grin, even though he could feel his own cheeks heating up with a blush. “I’d like to make sure it’s working. So… kiss me again?”
“As if you have to ask,” Law mumbled and, with a tilt of his face, leaned in, capturing Rosinante’s lips in another kiss, this one more hot-blooded and filled with a greater sense of yearning.
The warmth of Law’s mouth against his sent numerous shivers down his spine. He delighted in the soft, insistent pressure of Law’s lips, the way they moved with a tentative sweetness. Rosinante responded with a quiet desperation, his hands tightening their grips on Law’s back and hip, pulling him closer; his thumb dug into the soft give of muscle next to his hipbone and he felt the groan that Law let out. The kiss deepened, growing more passionate and intense. Law’s lips parted slightly, and Rosinante felt the gentle, tentative touch of Law’s tongue against his own. It was a silent invitation, one that Rosinante eagerly accepted, their tongues intertwining in a dance that spoke of years of pent-up longing and love.
The world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them. Hardly the most romantic place to have a first kiss, Rosinante felt the world could be burning around them and he wouldn’t care – only for the man in his arms, the one who was kissing him so fervently, with clear adoration and hunger. All he could feel, at that moment, was Law’s mouth against his, those talented fingers scrunched deliciously in his hair and the touch of his body flush against his front – nothing else mattered.
As they parted, Rosinante rested his forehead against Law's, his breathing steadying. “Every time you kiss me, it feels like the flowers recede a little more.”
Law's eyes shone with a strange glint, one he was slowly learning to understand; the gold was molten, twinkling with understanding but also with a fervent heat. “Then… I'll just have to keep kissing you until they're all gone.”
Rosinante chuckled softly, his heart lighter than it had ever felt. “I think I can live with that.”
-- Epilogue --
His brush with hanahaki felt like a fever dream – to Rosinante, at least.
Spending a further week cooped up in the med-bay, he both loved and loathed his recovery. Being stuck in a single room (two, if one counted the adjoining bathroom) was tantamount to torture for Rosinante, but he understood and accepted the necessity. It didn’t hurt that Law remained by his side the entire time; his captain practically shirked all responsibilities to spend the week in there with him.
Penguin and Shachi remarked that most couples went on a honeymoon to some remote island, not the ship’s infirmary, but they were quickly chased away from the corridor window by Ikkaku, as well as an intense glare from Law.
Nothing and everything changed for the two of them. It felt like it did before, with them spending time quietly in each other’s presence, reading books or whatever took their fancy, only now it was with the occasional brush of a kiss against skin, the warming weight of a body in a lap or against a stomach. They slept in the same bed, unwilling to be physically apart for too long, as if they had to make up for all the time lost.
Rosinante continued to make positive progress through the days, with Law’s affection and love seeming to accelerate his recuperation; or at least, that’s what Rosinante told him, and that’s what Law chose to agree with. It was not strange to find them exchanging lazy kisses from time to time – with the shutters lowered on the med-bay windows, of course.
It, admittedly, therefore, did not take long for them to start giving into the desire that coursed through their veins. Their first brush with passionate coitus (Rosinante may have landed a firm palm against Law’s rear for calling it that mid-makeout, which only caused further passions to flare) The first time they let their passions boil over was, indeed, in one of the infirmary beds: Law, astride Rosinante with his hands braced back on thick, muscled thighs, rocking his hips back and forth in the most erotic dance as the blond pumped both their cocks in his large hand. His moans, loud and unashamed, echoed and bounced off the walls around them; only Rosinante’s Silence stopped them from travelling further. No one else would hear those sounds.
Law was the first to come, head thrown back as he painted that scarred chest with white, fingers clutching desperately at the hand that gripped onto his hip; gods, the bruises he left along Law’s flank, he would have been devastated, were it not for Law’s eyes darkening with further desire as he trailed ink-etched fingers along each imprint’s outline, staring down at him with a hunger that he knew would never be satiated.
Rosinante took not that much longer to reach the heights of his climax, not with both of Law’s slender hands wrapped around him, drawing him ever higher and higher. He could not take his eyes off the vision before him, and he was sure Law was the same, considering those auric eyes never shifted once from the sight of his pale flesh held so reverently in his grip. A thumb dipping into his weeping slit, and fingers cleverly rolling his foreskin across the ridge of the head was enough for Rosinante to tumble, spurting across Law’s fingers and his own marked chest, jaw clenched against the groans and gasps that erupted from his throat. He nearly bucked Law off with the way he writhed, moaning pitifully when Law worked him into overstimulation, a smirk on his lips.
“No petals,” he remarked, raising a stained hand to his mouth and sliding each finger, one by one, into his mouth, sucking them clean.
“…W-What…?” His brain was fried. He’d clearly left this plane of existence and drifted on, because that was surely heaven before him.
“You didn’t cough once. Not a single splutter. I think this means you can leave the med-bay, whenever you want.”
Rosinante gawped, finally getting his brain to align with his tongue. “Were you treating this like a… a stress test?”
It brought out a devilish grin on his captain’s face. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, tone innocent. “Are you accusing me of improper practise as a medical professional?”
“Improper-? Law, if we’re getting into semantics, you just fucked your patient.”
“Hm, not quite.” The smirk broadened; Law’s eyes twinkled. Rosinante gulped, feeling very much like prey. “Not yet, anyway.”