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The shots are so loud in his head, reverberating through his mind over and over and over again until he cannot tell which ones are real anymore and which ones are simply echoes. Hot tears run down his cheeks, burning trails against his cold skin and the haze of the fever raging through his body, sobs wrecking his body so hard that it's hard to breathe, vision darkening around the edges.
Hyperventilation, a distant voice in his mind states almost calmly; it sounds so much like his dad that it hurts. Caused by the tidal volume of breathing eliminating more carbon dioxide than the human body can produce. Factors that can induce or sustain hyperventilation include physiological stress, anxiety or panic disorder, respiratory disorders…
Another shuddering sob heaves itself out of Law's chest but it remains unheard, silent against the power of Cora's Devil Fruit powers. The memory of his father's calm voice reciting from a medical book does nothing to soothe him, on the contrary; it's just another reminder of how weak Law is, how useless despite all the training and education and the fucking Devil Fruit that has been forced down his throat just an hour or so ago. How he can't save anyone, not a single fucking person that he loves, not his parents and not Lami and not Cora.
Cora who has thrown everything away for him. Who lied to Doflamingo to protect him and even lied to Law to try and save his life. Who is dying and bleeding out in the snow now while Law is stuck inside a treasure chest being carried away, sobbing and trembling and screaming soundlessly with the unfairness of it all.
After Flevance, he didn't want to live anymore. He didn't care about anything or anyone, least of all his own life — that had been the entire reason he had gone to Doflamingo, covered in grenades, ready to blow himself and the entire Family to smithereens. He'd stabbed Cora for throwing him out of that window and hated him for being weird and silent and constantly in the way of everything Doflamingo encouraged him to do, to learn, to crave and take. In the past three years, Law has grown into a spiteful, hateful and greedy creature that his parents would be ashamed of, he knows.
But not Cora. Cora had seen through all of it, through the screaming and the biting and the hateful words and glares and stayed, stubborn and steady and safe, the only fucking constant in Law's fucked up facsimile of a life while he'd grown weaker and frailer and sicker with every minute while Cora has carried him across countless hospitals looking for an impossible cure, chasing after hope that Law had long since given up on.
Six months. Six fucking months that have brought him closer and closer to death but they've been the happiest he's been since Flevance. Since losing everything. Cora has dragged him back into life and hope screaming and hissing and now, now that he fucking dared reignite that hope in Law's own chest, setting his withered and shattered heart aflame with something other than the Amber Lead building up in his blood, it's being ripped out of his hands again.
Fire and blood and gunshots and Law can't fucking breathe, he wants to get out of this stupid treasure chest, he wants to be healthy and strong enough to be able to save just one damn person.
He wants Cora.
Law's lungs seize and spasm with the force of his sobs, body sore from sickness and the bruises from Vergo's kicks and punches, more tears streaming down his cheeks. Once upon a time, buried under corpses and holding his breath to get across the borders of his homeland, he'd thought that he didn't have any tears left to cry, that there was nothing and no one left to weep over — now, still hearing Cora's apology echo through his mind, Law clings to the stupid, goofy smile Cora has given him just before he closed the lid. To being told that he's loved, even after everything.
His heart hurts so, so much. His heart and his head and his entire body, not a single atom is free of it and still, his cries and screams remain soundless, still blanketed by Cora's powers while the chest around him shakes slightly with each step. Law doesn't dare peek outside again, not after seeing Cora's body motionless in the snow, his black feather coat like a halo around him, blood everywhere. Cora's stupid wide grin is seared onto the backs of his eyelids and no matter how much he squeezes them shut, no matter how many tears well up, he can't make the image go away and it hurts hurts hurts because this stupid clown of a man has lied to him about not being in danger, about meeting up in the next town, about escaping and living together.
Law curls his trembling, icy fingers into fists to stop himself from just climbing out right now and ruining the only chance Cora has given him, the sacrifice he made for Law. He's disappointed and failed his parents and Lami already, over and over again, he can't bear to disappoint Cora as well. Cora who has shared his food and gone hungry and smoked too much and slept in uncomfortable positions and stolen money and supplies and given so much while Law has done nothing but take, take, take.
Greedy and useless and feral and losing the only person who has given a single iota of a shit about him ever since Flevance. Why is it that he can't keep anything, anyone? Why is everything he holds dear ripped away from him? Why is he not allowed to have this one thing, this one person who gives a damn about him? Is he truly that monstrous, that horrible that he can only leave death and destruction in his wake? Is this the punishment for surviving the eradication of his home, for daring to live and breathe when none of his other countrymen can do it any longer…?
If this is the price for the Fruit that the Marine was ready to pay five billion berri for — that Cora was willing to die for — he doesn't want it. He doesn't want any of it. If this is the price, he wants to turn back the clock and spit out every last bit of the cursed thing, demanding that he and Cora leave the island immediately, dragging the stupid man far away from this horrible, cold place before it can claim his light and life and love.
Law hasn't even gotten to tell him that he loves him, too. That after everything, he loves Cora so damn much that he has no idea how to survive this, how to live if he doesn't.
His sobs and cries remain soundless but he knows, knows that it's only a question of time. Cora was already injured before Law stupidly brought Vergo to him, before he doomed them both. Slipped, he'd said, and even with this supposedly all-powerful Fruit at his disposal, Law hadn't been able to do anything to help. He'd only made it worse. And now, there's bullets lodged in Cora and Law can't do anything but cry and sob and scream while he gets carried farther and farther away.
The chest shakes more violently as it's set down and muffled voices outside start discussing logistics about how to best bring all the treasure on board, how to move efficiently to chase after the ship that supposedly is harboring who the Family believes to be Law, unaware of the fact that he is right here, under their noses, hidden in plain sight just like Cora has been during his time as Corazón. They seem to disagree on how to do it best before Doflamingo loses his patience and Law shudders, desperately wiping at his eyes with no avail as the tears keep coming.
He can't stay here. He has to get away, just like Cora told him.
Thinking of him hurts so much that Law fears he might pass out any second but he forces himself to breathe deeply as he lifts the lid of the treasure chest, peering outside. The bright white of the snow sears his eyes after so much time spent in the dark but he doesn't dare stop, doesn't dare hesitate as he wills his sick, trembling body to climb, heaving himself out of the chest and stumbling away, shaking and unsteady and still sobbing silently.
Every second of him remaining silenced is time paid for in Cora's blood and his stupid smile, his too big heart and stubborn hope.
Hope that still glimmers in Law's chest, reignited by Cora's warmth, that stupid glint of the mere possibility of a better, brighter tomorrow that makes him pause just for a moment, half to catch his breath in-between the heaving sobs and half to steady himself and his weak, useless, dying body that now harbors the ultimate Devil Fruit and is supposed to be able to cure him. Supposed to be powerful enough to snatch someone like him from the claws of death and back into the light if used by someone with medical knowledge.
His father, Law thinks hysterically, would be able to master the Fruit. His mother, too. If they'd had the Fruit back in Flevance… if Cora had been there just a little earlier… if only…
What good is it, to cure himself if he's all alone again? What's the fucking point if Cora dies? What is he supposed to live for if the person who made him want to live again is bleeding out in the snow…?
Law draws in a shuddering breath, wiping at the snot under his nose and on his lower lip. His joints ache and his head is swimming and he feels ill with grief and loss but still, not a single sound breaks through Cora's spell, through the blanket of Calm that is as much a gift as it is a stark reminder of the ticking clock. The same ticking clock that is counting down the seconds and minutes on Law's own life if he doesn't figure out this stupid, stupid Fruit.
Medical knowledge, Cora had said three weeks ago on that sunny morning in the middle of nowhere. Miraculous operations that can alter the human body and cure any illness, even unidentified ones.
All his life, Law has wanted nothing more than to become a doctor, like his parents. To cure and to heal and to save where nobody else could. To follow in his parents' footsteps and wear the white coat that will forever be associated with life in his mind. Instead, he has killed and destroyed and lost, drenching the white of his soul in blood and soot and rot.
He hasn't saved a single fucking person but he, selfishly, has stayed alive and survived them all. And now what, he's going to survive another loved one…?
… No. Fuck this. Fuck all of it.
Cora has spent the past six months telling him over and over that his life is worth saving, worth living, stubbornly insisting on going from hospital to hospital and setting fires to every single one for refusing to treat Law. Law has spent the past six months being dragged and carried and cradled and cared for and cried over and fuck, he doesn't want to lose it. Not again. He doesn't want to lose Cora — he refuses to.
So if he has to live, then so has Cora. He doesn't get to die. He doesn't.
An explosion, deafeningly loud, rocks the entire island as Law ineffectively wipes at his cheeks and glances over his shoulder, back at the silhouettes of the Family. They haven't noticed him, much too busy to get all their loot onto the Numancia Flamingo, her garish pink hull practically glowing against the stark white of the snow covering Minion. Another explosion booms through the air and the executives shout something at each other, gesturing wildly. Law swallows hard and wipes at his cheeks again, gritting his teeth as he shoves himself back to his feet and changes directions — no longer forward and towards the cliff where Cora has moored their tiny boat mere hours ago but back, back towards the only person that matters to him right now.
With every shaky, stumbling step, his heartbeat seems to echo loudly in his ears, even louder than the booming of artillery. Co-ra. Co-ra. Co-ra. Co-ra. It's not even a proper beat anymore, just a silent plea and prayer as he hurries through the knee-high snow as fast as he can, tripping over his own feet and falling into the white mounds, fingers numb with cold and trembling. His body is screaming with fatigue and pain but Law refuses to stop, stubbornly getting back on his feet and limping on until the snow recedes and the explosions grow more distant and the only thing he can hear is silence.
"Don't die," he whimpers into the icy air but no sound leaves his lips still. "Don't you dare die, you asshole…!"
Somewhere out there, Cora is still holding on and keeping Law safe. Well, two can fucking play that game — and if Law fails, then so be it. Then he dies in this icy wasteland along with the last person to give a fuck about him and he's finally free of all of it. The Amber Lead, the pain, the grief, the guilt.
In his chest, his heart continues thumping Cora's name in a single-minded chant.
Law has no idea how long it's been since the gunshots but he knows that time is running out. By the time he makes it to the still burning husk of the building that used to be a hideout for the pirates who wanted to sell his Devil Fruit to the Marines, he's out of breath and half-blind with tears and exhaustion but there, half covered by the falling snow, he makes out the lumpy shape of a tall figure, black and pink and too much red.
"Cora!"
He nearly falls on his face as he runs closer, skidding to a stop on his knees next to Cora's motionless body. The faint, fading wheeze of Cora's breath is the most beautiful thing that Law has ever heard and he sobs soundlessly again, new tears leaking from his eyes that are already red-rimmed and sore from how much he's been crying. He's still crying so hard that he can barely see but none of it matters because Cora is still alive, hanging on by a thread of stubborn will and Law will not let him die.
He cannot.
Snow continues to fall, covering Cora's face in a haunting echo of the white patches on Law's own skin and he clumsily wipes it away, another nightmare scenario added to his spiraling thoughts and many a sleepless night to come if he survives this day. If they both do. Forcing himself to swallow and take a deep, deep breath, Law rips open the tattered, blood-soaked remains of Cora's stupid heart-patterned shirt and tries not to throw up at the sight of his naked chest, at the shredded and torn skin, at bloody tissue and broken bone and so, so much blood.
Nausea roils in the pit of his empty belly but he forces himself to look, to assess the damage, to think like a medical professional and not the useless, dying child that he is. What would his parents do? What would he do if it was anyone but Cora?
Think, he tells himself desperately, think, you piece of shit. This is your only chance! Don't you dare fuck it up!
He needs… what does he need? Not to be sick or crying, for one, for Cora to not be bleeding out, for time to turn back for… No. No, this isn't helping. He needs to focus and figure out what to do, remember what his parents have taught him and find some way to stop the bleeding, somehow.
A half-forgotten memory flashes in his mind, cutting through the raw panic and the trembling of his hands, of his own heartbeat loud in his ears — an operating theater back in Flevance, watching his father perform a surgery, calm and steady and knowing exactly what to do, what tool to use, where to cut and where to suture. Bathed in the glaring white light of the OR, he'd seemed like a god presiding over life and death and Law bites back a sob because that, that is what he needs. Control and steady hands and his dad to guide him, except his parents are gone and there is no one here to help him but the stupid, useless Fruit he doesn't know how to use but desperately needs to figure out.
"Please," he begs soundlessly, choking on the words and his own tears and the biting cold air in his aching lungs as he desperately presses his too small, useless hands over the worst of the bleeding as if that might stop it, "please… Please let me save him… I can't… I can't do this without him. Please, just… let me help him."
The last time he's tried to use the Fruit — before the Birdcage, before Vergo, before gunshots and too much blood and his heart being ripped and torn in too many little pieces once again — it's done a fat load of nothing and Cora has laughed at him, wheezing out that it doesn't work like magic. Which isn't fucking helping because he needs it to work right now, he needs it to be able to see what's wrong, where the worst of the damage is, where to start, what to do…!
He almost misses the faint blue shimmer under his right hand, the slight tingle of something in his fingertips, buried under the panic and grief and the heaving sobs still shaking him so badly that he feels ill with it. But then Law blinks against the veil of tears and he swears he's seen it before, back in that half-forgotten memory of his dad's OR tinged just this exact shade of blue in the fluorescent lights.
It's not the miracle he wants or needs right now. But it's a start, a Seas-damned start in this race against time.
"Don't you dare die," he hisses at Cora's stupid, smiling face and the awful clown makeup and the blood matting his blond hair. "I'm going to kill you if you die!"
Cora doesn't answer him because Cora cannot hear him still. Which means that he's still alive and Law intends to keep him that way or die trying.
Pulling all his remaining strength together, Law forces himself to focus on the strange blue glimmer surround his hand, turning his palm down towards Cora's chest and concentrates hard on the faint presence of something more, something ancient and powerful somewhere deep inside him, barely there but stirring ever so slightly.
Work, he wills it grimly, stubbornly, I need you to fucking work.
The blue glimmer around his finger pulses once, twice — and then forms a swirling, stuttering sphere of light right above Cora's shredded, bloody chest. Unprepared and terrified, Law gasps in shock and it sputters right back out like a candle flame being blown out. No. NO!
Again. Sweat runs down his forehead and mixes with the blood, snot and tears smeared across his face but he pays it no mind, holding his breath and reaching back inside himself for the strange presence, grabbing onto it mentally and yanking on it with all the force he has left in him.
He cannot fail. He will not.
The strange blue sphere swirls into existence again, flickering and unsteady but there, and while he has no clue what it does, he pulls at it, willing it to expand and grow and obey him. Just this once. Just long enough. Just so he can save one person.
"You can take me afterwards," he whispers into the silence that still clings to his vocal chords and any sound he might make. "My life, my organs, my limbs. Whatever it is you want. You can have all of it, just… help me save him."
Whether it's his bargained life or the despair, Law will never know. Maybe it's both or neither or another thing that he cannot think of in this moment but as he draws in a shuddering breath, the blue sphere stabilizes just enough to stop flickering and encompass the worst of the damage. In the core of his being, buried somewhere underneath his ribs and between his failing organs full of Amber Lead, the presence of his Fruit takes root and a single word blooms in his mind, hard as surgical steel and clean as sterile tools.
Room.
His mother's voice, distant but gentle, whispers to him across space and time from beyond the grave. Hemorrhage control first, stabilize the patient. The cold is both your friend and your foe: negative cardiac chronotropy will help to reduce further vascular perfusion but cardiac arrest is to be avoided at all costs — you have no means of resuscitation at this moment.
In short: control the bleeding, then rewarm the patient. He can do this. He has to.
Law sucks in another breath, sniffling hard as he dares to move his hand; the strange blue sphere — his Room — remains intact, glowing softly against the still burning remains of the pirate hideout and the snow tinged pink with blood. He feels like he's wrapped in cotton but he bites down on his chapped lip hard enough to draw blood and starts digging through the hidden pockets inside Cora's stupid feather coat for a knife, a dagger, anything with a blade. His tingling, trembling fingers finally curl around the hilt of small knife that he dimly remembers Cora using to peel an apple for him, just couple of months and a whole lifetime away; it's dull and definitely not made for anything close to surgery in mind but it's the best he has.
Gripping the small knife tightly, Law starts cutting and ripping off strips from his blanket-cloak, praying to deities he doesn't believe in anymore and the universe itself that he doesn't run out of time.
"Stay with me," he mutters senselessly because Cora can't even hear him, isn't awake enough to realize he's here. "Keep holding on, you stupid clown. You don't get to leave me like this. Not you."
His hands feel comically small on the broad expanse of Cora's chest, pressing the strips of fabric against the worst of the wounds with a stubbornness born from sheer desperation while snow continues to fall, settling on the pink of Cora's toque and the black of his feathered coat. It feels sacrilegious to stuff the bullet holes with the makeshift bandages but he grits his teeth and forces himself to continue, knowing that he doesn't have a single second to waste.
His Room pulsates silently, almost as if it has a heartbeat of its own.
Cora's breathing is growing fainter and fainter, labored and agonized. Panic wells up in a wave strong enough to make new tears form but Law sniffles hard and wipes at his eyes with one sleeve because he doesn't have time for that now. If he loses himself to panic, he will lose Cora and all of this has been for nothing and they'll both die in this fucked up, frozen wasteland that he never wants to see again, so he needs to get a fucking grip and pull himself together.
If only he could see. If only there was a way to see inside Cora's chest and see the damage, if only there was some way to scan…!
A soundless scream rips itself out of his sore, parched throat when his vision suddenly lights up pale blue and he finds himself staring down at muscle and sinew and bones as if looking at one of the anatomy models back at the academy, knowledge and information flooding his senses with an overpowering force that he struggles to make sense of, the sudden onslaught of it almost enough to not only knock him over but make him collapse completely. His lungs seize painfully and his head feels like it's about to burst from the sheer brunt of it but then he blinks and oh, oh.
He can see. Just like he wanted, he can see right inside Cora's chest, track wound channels and the blood pooling in his left lung and the lead bullets stuck inside muscle and shredding against bone, just barely missing the heart that's still sluggishly, slowly beating.
For the first time since those awful gunshots, Law feels hope ignite in his chest with the force of a solar fire and he clings to it desperately as he raises the knife and swallows hard, glancing up at Cora's peaceful smile. As if he's just asleep and not dying, not abandoning Law after promising to meet him in the next town, that he'd be safe, that his own brother wouldn't fucking shoot him and leave him behind to bleed out in the snow.
"You can yell at me later for this… Yell all you want. As long as you live, you bastard!"
His hands are trembling so hard that he knows his parents and every teacher back at school would tut at him for but he clenches his jaw against the fatigue and the pain and the fear still raging through him and presses the dull blade of the knife into Cora's pale, bloody skin as he makes a first cut.
Just like dissecting frogs, he tells himself hysterically, you've done this before. You know what to do. Don't think, don't feel. Just do it.
Under the blue fluorescent light of his Room, Cora's dull knife is as sharp as any scalpel Law has ever held, cutting through muscle and bone and sinew until he can get to the first bullet. His hand disappears into Cora's chest cavity, up to his forearm and almost his elbow, soaking his sleeve with blood but he doesn't dare stop. Barely dares to breathe and blink as he digs until his fingers grasp it, carefully extracting it and dropping it into the snow. He has no needle or suturing kid, no adhesive or staples but as his shaking, ice-cold fingers press the wound closed, he can see the tissue weaving back together as if he hasn't just been elbow-deep in Cora's chest retrieving lead.
Seas, he feels sick but he can't throw up now. If he stops now, he won't be able to start again, he knows, won't be able to maintain the Room or whatever weird thing his vision is doing right now. So Law suppresses another sob and starts cutting again and again and again until Cora's blood is drying on his skin and sleeves and is caked under his bitten-off nails and he can finally, finally hear Cora's breathing even out the slightest bit as his collapsed lung reinflates under the watchful eye of Law's Devil Fruit vision.
All around him, the bloody lead rounds Doflamingo has pumped into Cora lie in the snow, just like whatever bullets he was shot with trying to get the Fruit back to Law in the first place. There are still some stuck in Cora's thighs, he remembers dimly, but he doesn't have the energy left to go digging for them, too, praying silently to any higher power willing to listen that they're not anywhere close a femoral artery.
"There…" he whispers, unheard and barely conscious as the blue gleam of his Room stutters and blinks out of existence together with the strange filter on his vision, this odd Scan ability that has given him the clarity he needed to perform an insane, improvised surgery as a desperate last resort to save the only person left in this world that still loves him. That he loves.
Hypothermia, his parents' distant voices remind his exhausted mind and he can almost see them out of the corners of his eyes, lingering just outside his field of view as if they're here with him instead of dead and rotting somewhere half a Blue away. Rewarm the patient to mitigate the acute risk of it. Monitor his core temperature, if possible.
Law wants to simultaneously laugh and cry because he has no fucking way of doing that. His vision is rapidly darkening around the edges in a way that he knows spells imminent unconsciousness, exhaustion and grief and desperation and panic and fever finally taking their toll and demanding he pay up. He has done all he can to stabilize Cora, given every last bit of the energy he had left in him to the mysterious power of the Fruit now residing inside him in a way that might be as parasitic as it is symbiotic in nature, he doesn't know. In all honesty, he doesn't care either.
He has given it all and he doesn't have the strength left to see whether it will be enough. If it isn't… at least he will die here at Cora's side. At least he won't be alone anymore.
He curls up right under Cora's arm, just enough energy left to cover them both with Cora's heavy coat. It smells like stale cigarette smoke and coppery blood and gun powder but Law doesn't care about any of it as he presses his own shivering, feverish body against Cora's and lets his eyes fall shut, finally succumbing to the fatigue that has been his constant companion for the past three years.
Safely cocooned like this, he lets himself pretend that they're still on their tiny, rickety boat, somewhere out in the North Blue. That there's no snow and no blood and no ticking clock hanging over them. That it's just the two of them, safe and sound and together.
Above them, the snow continues to fall silently.
The first thing that registers in Rosinante's awareness beyond the steady pull on his powers, still stubbornly refusing to let go of the Calm he cast, is agony, blinding and white hot like someone has taken a carving knife to him and hollowed him out from the inside, cracked open his rib cage like an egg and dug around his organs as if they were looking to strike gold. Every last cell of his body hurts and he draws in a shuddering breath, a bitten-off moan falling from his lips except… there is no sound.
Why is there no sound…?
Is he dead? Is this what death is, pain and silence? Rosinante has never believed in any gods or higher powers and how could he have, coming from a renegade family of Celestial Dragons who, as a people, believed themselves to be gods. He has been painfully aware of just how mortal and human they truly are since he was but a small child and yet, he can't help but feel like an afterlife comprised of silent agony is needlessly cruel. A cosmic joke at his expense.
He shouldn't be alive, he knows that much. Even through the haze of the searing pain in his chest, he remembers bullets tearing through skin and muscle and hitting bone, remembers dropping into the snow and thinking of Law while holding onto the fleeting, fading remnants of consciousness just to buy the kid a few more seconds, a couple more moments to get away and off the frozen wasteland of an island that has nothing to offer but death.
Law… Seas, he hopes the kid is okay.
Something cold lands on his face and that. That doesn't make sense. If he has a face and sensation beyond the pain ravaging through him with the force of a wildfire, then… then he must be alive. Alive enough to be in pain, at least. Alive enough to feel the steady, sluggish drain of his powers that… he must have held onto even through unconsciousness, running on nothing but instinct while he was dying.
Dying. Yes, he was dying before, wasn't he? He distantly remembers sinking into the warm embrace of darkness, remembers the pain receding until it was nothing but a faint memory and now… it isn't, anymore. He was dying and now he isn't, at least not actively.
Somehow, impossibly, Donquixote Rosinante is alive and his immediate concern is not the how or why but what this means for Law.
His eyes snap open and he immediately regrets it because Seas, it is bright. His throat works around another groan but he still can't hear it. Has he gone deaf? Is he alive but down a sense now?
At the core of his being, his Devil Fruit gently pulses in the familiar quiet but steady presence that he has long since learned to associate with the active usage of his powers. His Calm, no doubt. Still active, somehow, still protecting…
Rosinante tries opening his eyes again, slower this time. His surroundings are still way too bright and hurting his head something fierce, but he can make out the overcast grey skies above, the snowflakes falling down on him not unlike ash. His breath puffs out in small clouds, lungs heaving and seizing with pain but still drawing air and oh, oh Seas, he really is alive. In pain and possibly deaf and freezing from head to toe but alive.
Except.
Except not all of him is cold, he realizes suddenly. The understanding settles in his mind slowly, sluggishly, but there's something warm — practically burning hot — pressed against his side. A barely perceptible weight leaned against his torn and shredded and howling body.
Rosinante blinks. Swallows. Forces himself to breathe through the searing pain in his lungs and chest. Then, achingly slow, he turns his head to the side.
At first, he only makes out a bloody, shredded mess of what he realizes with a belated pang of horror is his own naked chest. Fuck. Definitely still injured, then. Next, he recognizes his own black feather coat — gifted to him by Doffy what feels like a lifetime ago, right after being welcomed into his brother's mockery of a Family with open arms, as a sign of belonging and brotherhood on the surface, but in truth a mark of ownership because his brother has never learned that loving and owning someone will never be the same thing — haphazardly draped over his half his torso in a way that seems strangely deliberate. What…?
He tries to move more and has to grit his teeth against a wave of fresh pain igniting all throughout his broken and bloody body but for some reason, it's absolutely imperative that he finds out what's hidden under his coat. With a monumental effort, Rosinante manages to shift just enough to dislodge his coat a couple of inches to reveal something fluffy and white resting against the pit of his arm and for a moment, he just stares at it in dumbfounded confusion before he spots the distinct pattern of dark spots around a brim that has always reminded him of arctic seals or snow leopards — and he sobers up so suddenly that it feels like whiplash as he recognizes what exactly he's seeing.
It's Law's hat. The same fluffy hat he has arrived on Spider Miles with, the same fluffy hat that hasn't left the boy's head for more than half an hour at most in the past three years, a permanent fixture as much as the scowl and golden eyes and growing patches of white on his skin.
Rosinante's entire soul freezes in silent horror because no, no, no, this wasn't the plan! The plan was to distract Doffy and to keep him from checking the treasure chests, to make sure to get Law off Minion so he could walk free and live, to get as far away from Doffy's influence as possible!
He failed. It's the only possible explanation. He has failed to protect Law because the kid is right here and there's blood everywhere and—
He moves without thinking, ignoring the agony racing through his veins and muscles as if his entire body is simultaneously on fire and being electrocuted, half sitting up and half leaning on one arm as he yanks his coat to the side to reveal Law, impossibly small and frail and sickly looking, too thin and covered in white splotches, dried blood smeared across his face and coating his arms up to his elbows, small hands inexplicably clutching Rosinante's paring knife close to his chest. Rosinante's hand finds Law's forehead on muscle memory alone and he almost flinches back as he own ice-cold fingers connect with the boy's sweaty skin, absolutely burning up with fever.
Barely daring to breathe, Rosinante presses his fingers against Law's pulse point, right under his jaw, and he nearly weeps with relief when he feels the slow, stubborn thrum of a heartbeat. Alive. Law is alive. Unconscious and feverish and absolutely filthy with blood and sweat and who knows what else but he's wonderfully, gloriously alive and Rosinante has never been so glad to feel someone's heartbeat before, even though he has no idea what the fuck is going on or how the kid has made it back to his side.
Somewhere behind his aching ribs, his Devil Fruit releases its hold with a final, gentle pulse and the Calm that Rosinante has cast what feels like an age and a half ago pops like a soap bubble. Immediately, he can hear his own wheezing breaths and grunts of pain, the soft and quick bursts of air that come out of Law's chapped lips, and the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.
For a moment, Rosinante is too surprised by the sudden return of sound before understanding finally blooms with absolutely clarity — the earlier absence of sounds didn't stem from him going deaf but from his own spell still holding. Because he'd cloaked Law in a bubble of Calm to make sure to muffle any sound he could possibly make inside the chest or while escaping, knowing exactly that the kid would be yelling and cursing his name and possibly even crying. But his Calm also affects any object the target interacts with and with Law curled against his side like this… the effect has extended to include him.
"Fuck, kid… you'll be the death of me…"
His throat feels absolutely raw, as if he's gargled with razor blades and then swallowed them piece by piece. The words tumbling over his bloody lips are nothing but a whisper but the sound of them is strangely reassuring because if he can speak and hear himself, if he can move and feel pain, then he is alive.
And if he's alive, then he will do his best to make sure that Law stays alive, too.
Gritting his teeth against the vocal protests of his injured body, Rosinante heaves himself into a more upright position but keeps one arm protectively curled around Law's small body. Seas, but the kid is tiny. He cradles the boy to his chest, only now realizing that there's some sort of bandages wrapped around his torso which… is a question for later, he decides. Glancing up at the sky, he makes sure that the Birdcage is really, truly gone and it hasn't been some wish-fueled hallucination from blood loss on his part; but no, the sky remains grey and free of Doffy's horrible silvery strings and Rosinante exhales a quiet moan that is half-relief, half-pain.
In the distance, explosions boom across the snowy wastes of Minion Island. Marines, most likely, hunting after Doffy. Tsuru if he's lucky. Vergo's unit if he's not. And judging from how everything has gone down since Rosinante has stepped foot on Minion, he will most likely not be lucky.
Fuck. Alright. They can't stay here, that much is clear; even if it's neither Tsuru's nor Verso's people who happen across them, he can't risk getting discovered. Can't risk anyone finding out just what he has done to keep the kid in his arms alive, just how many oaths he's broken and how many people he has betrayed. If the Marine were to ever find out that not only there is a survivor of Flevance but that he is now in possession of the Op-Op Fruit… Law will be hunted till the ends of the world. And not even Sengoku will be able to clear Rosinante's name after this because there's is no way in this life or the next that he will ever consider abandoning Law.
It's a good thing that he's made his peace with committing treason the very second he's learned about the deal between the Marine and the Barrels Pirates because he does not have the time or breath right now to have a breakdown about it.
Standing up may be the hardest thing he has ever had to do — he's shaking so hard that he can't even tell if it's because of the cold, the adrenaline whipping through his veins or the multiple broken bones, bullet wounds and the blood loss, or maybe a horrible mix of them all. It doesn't matter, either way, because he can't afford not to stand, not to drag his heavy feet through the snow away from where he's gone down. Rosinante glances back over his shoulder only once, taking in the scattered black feathers and the blood tinging the pure-white of the snow that make him think of a downed overgrown bird.
In the distant, hazy memories that he still has of Marijois, he recalls Doffy's triumphant laughter after making a slave shoot down one of the pretty songbirds in their lavish garden; it had lain on the grass broken and bloody, sightless eyes staring up at the blue skies, while Doffy had laughed and laughed and Rosinante had felt only pity for this poor, defenseless creature that hadn't done anything to deserve such a cruel fate while its feathers had slowly floated through the air.
What irony, to find himself in the same position now.
Except, unlike that songbird from his memories, he isn't dead. At least not yet. Not as long as Law isn't out of danger.
So he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, snow soaking through his jeans and bullet wounds smarting something awful even through the improvised bandages plugging them up, carrying Law's feverish, unconscious body away from the still burning husk of the Barrels Pirates hideout and down towards the opposite side of the island in an odd mirror of carrying Law up the mountain however long ago to hide the most precious thing in his life in a treasure chest.
"Just hold on, Law," he mutters into the frigid air, lungs burning with the effort every breath seems to be. "I'm right here. I'll get you somewhere safe, I promise. I swear to you."
Rosinante has sworn many oaths in his life: to the Marines when he'd enlisted; to Justice when he'd received his white coat; to Doffy when he'd accepted the black feather coat and the title of Corazón. In the span of six short months, he has undone every single one of them for one terminally ill, half-feral kid. He has told countless lies to his adoptive father and his brother, to himself and the kid as well but this is the one hill he will die on — he will get Law to safety and see that he can truly walk free and he will accept nothing less.
During his time with the Marines, he's seen a lot of insanely powerful Devil Fruit users, abilities beyond his wildest dreams or imagination, and for a single, almost hysterical moment, Rosinante wishes that he'd ended up with one of those; that he could grow wings to fly them away from this cursed place or melt the snow with fire powers, make flowers and trees rise from the ground to chase away the cold or create a path of ice for ease of travel back to their tiny, rickety boat. But no, fate or the universe or whatever deity possibly exists out there to govern the ripples of time has given him the quiet, unassuming power of the Calm-Calm Fruit that cannot help him right now, no matter how much he prays.
It's just his silent oath to Law and the impossible luck of the D. he's carrying that he's got at his disposal. That and his own stubbornness.
The stubbornness, at least, hasn't let him down so far in his life and he grits his teeth against the aches and pains of his body as he continues trudging through the snow, vision blurry in one eye where his face is swelling from the beating he's taken and the blood loss, presumably.
Each step is another word in the single-minded mantra he's telling himself to keep going: Get. Law. To. Safety. Get. Law. To. Safety. The words keep swirling in his mind until there's nothing else, not the pain or the exhaustion, not his swimming vision or the cold or the small pocket of heat where Law is burning up with a fever against his side. Rosinante walks and walks and walks while the snow continues falling silently and distant cannon fire booms across the white hills of Minion Island until he finally reaches the cliff he moored their boat at mere hours ago.
Hours, he knows logically, even though it feels like much longer. Like he's been stuck on Minion for half his life.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Rosinante glances down at the bundle of unconscious teenager in his arms, biting his lip at the fresh sheen of sweat and small puffs of hot air exhaled against the tattered remains of his shirt. He doesn't know how much time has passed between getting shot and waking up nor when Law returned to his side (silly, loyal child, why would he do this for a man like Rosinante…?) but it's clear that the kid is absolutely exhausted and won't be waking up anytime soon. And although Rosinante desperately wants to know why the boy looks like he's been digging through someone's corpse for spare organs, his immediate concern is more how to get both of them down the rope still tied to the trunk of the tree that juts out of the cliff, half hiding their little boat from view.
Can he climb like this, realistically? Frankly, Rosinante has no idea. With the pain of his broken body loud and present enough to make him feel dizzy with it, he's much more likely to drop into the ocean and immediately kill them both rather than make it down to the boat but it's not like he has much other choice; in the distance, the cannon fire creeps closer and sooner rather than later, the entire island will be swarming with Marines investigating what exactly has happened.
"Time to test out that legendary luck of yours, kid…" he mutters, closing his eyes for a moment to press his trembling lips against the fluff of Law's hat. It smells like freshly fallen snow and blood and the faint remnants of cigarette smoke because Rosinante has smoked far too much around the boy and he knows it; despite everything, it's comforting.
It takes some extraordinary effort during which he has to pause twice before he passes out from how fucking much it hurts but eventually, Rosinante manages to tie Law's body to his side in a makeshift sling made out of the sleeves of his own coat. By the time he's done, he's covered in sweat and shivering hard, fresh blood seeping through the makeshift bandages around his chest. With a grunt, Rosinante spits some blood into the snow, fervently hoping that he hasn't punctured a lung. It would really, really suck if he has.
But he drags in a trembling, aching breath without choking on fluid which he takes a good sign and turns his attention back to the rope swaying gently in the icy breeze, steeling his resolve. Then, he reaches for it and lets his fingers grasp it tightly, the hemp course and scratchy against the palms of his hands that are caked in his own dried blood. Forcing himself to exhale slowly, Rosinante gathers all his strength and tries not to think about the disastrous climbing lessons under Garp back when he was still just a chore boy, constantly falling on his own ass and shredding his hands into a bloody mess every single time.
It's not much better, this time; if Garp could see him now, groaning with the way his muscles are burning and his shoulders are straining, he would yell at Rosinante for being a pathetic excuse of a Marine and Seas, he'd be right, too. He half slides, half falls, remembering to tuck his body last second so he doesn't squash Law's tiny form under his own overgrown bulk when he crashes onto the boat with a muffled scream of pain, hitting the wood hard enough to make his vision go dark for a horrible few seconds.
But he can't pass out now. Not yet. They're still not safe, still too close to Minion Island and at risk of being discovered by the Marines, so Rosinante tamps down his agonized moans and whimpers, ignoring the tears welling in his eyes from the sheer overwhelming brunt of the pain and forcing himself to slide back against the mast. There's black dots dancing across his vision, blurring everything horribly, and he's breathing like he's just done a dozen laps around HQ, but he still checks on Law first, needing to make sure that the kid — well, not okay but at least not worse.
Law's breath is still coming out in quick, short puffs of air, brow creased with exhaustion; one of his eyes is still swollen almost shot from the beating he's taken by Vergo and blind fury sparks in Rosinante's chest at the sight because he's just a kid, he shouldn't have been anywhere near Vergo's fists to get injured like that. But Rosinante wasn't fast enough or strong enough to protect him, it's his fault that Law looks like this now, that there's blood smeared across his forehead. He's still burning up with a fever and the bright spots of red on his cheeks are a stark contrast to the grey sheen of his skin and the white patches of the Amber Lead but he's still breathing and not actively bleeding out which… he has that advantage over Rosinante, at the moment.
He lets the back of his head thunk against the mast for a moment, letting his lids fall shut so he can breathe through the pain and fatigue for a couple of precious minutes. It would be so, so easy to just allow it to drag him under and back into the quiet, warm darkness of unconsciousness but he's still got a job to do. So Rosinante forces his eyes open again, grunting with the effort of having to sit up properly again.
"Just a bit longer, kid," he mutters to Law's prone form flush with his own chest, impossibly hot against Rosinante's ice-cold skin. "We're almost done. Stay with me, yeah? I've got you. I've got you."
The words are half-slurred, his tongue no longer quite cooperating. He feels strangely outside his own body, almost like he's watching himself from the sidelines as he heaves his body up enough to grab the anchor chain and hoist it up. There's tears running down his cheeks that he can't stop and every movement feels like he's being split open by another lead bullet courtesy of his own brother but he clenches his jaw and reaches for the sail next. A whimper escapes his dry throat and for a second, he limply hangs onto the rigging, vision swimming and blood rushing in his ears so loudly that he can't even hear his own labored breathing.
Rosinante's hands barely cooperate anymore, fingers cramping and twitching and refusing to hold on properly, but he somehow manages to raise the sail about halfway. Something like a sob or maybe another pained groan wrenches itself from his chest and he has to wipe one sleeve over the mess of blood, snot and tears on his face before he can even think about pulling it up higher; it hangs there, crooked and limp, much like himself and he feels a little hysterical as he stares up at it because even thinking about hoisting it up more makes him want to curl up in a ball around Law and sob like a child.
But he won't. He can't. Because if he lies down now, he knows he's not getting up again anytime soon, no matter how stubborn he is.
So he forces his trembling fingers to obey him, ignoring the burning sensation in his arms as he raises the sail fully and watches the canvas catch on the breeze with a relieved sigh. Rosinante practically collapses where he stands, dropping back onto the bottom of the boat and muttering incoherent curses in every single language he knows because he's reached the limits of his tolerance. Blindly, his hand finds the tiller so he can turn the little boat towards what he thinks is South — he doesn't have the energy to look for his compass right now but even if they don't reach Swallow Island like he intends and end up somewhere else, it's still better than staying here.
Anything is better than staying here.
Rosinante leans back against the mast again, cradling Law to his chest with one arm and finally allowing himself to let his guard down, just the slightest bit. His limbs feel numb with exhaustion and the effort of dragging himself and Law off the island, he's dizzy and nauseous from both the blood loss and pain, and he fears that if he's forced to take another step, he might just expire on the spot.
Thank the Seas he doesn't have to.
In his arms, Law continues to sleep, feverish and breathing too hard. Rosinante leans his cheek against the fluffy top of the kid's hat and closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath.
"We're okay now, kid. I'll stay by your side and keep you safe. Whatever it takes…"
Mere hours ago, Rosinante has been ready to die for Law's sake; now, he intends to stay alive for him, come hell or high water. He's sworn a vow of loyalty to him, after all, and despite being a liar and a traitor and an oath-breaker, he will see this one oath through till the end.
He will get Law to safety and make sure that he lives to see many more days, that all this hasn't been for naught.
The boat rocks slightly under him as the current and winds guide it away from Minion Island and Rosinante blinks his eyes open slowly, painstakingly, to watch it get smaller and smaller until it finally disappears in the distance behind grey clouds and the even greyer waters of the North Blue. It feels surreal, almost like waking up for a nightmare, except he's injured and quite possibly about to pass out from blood loss and shock; in his experience, nightmares are a lot less painful, too.
Rosinante adjusts his hold on Law slightly, glancing down at the kid's face once more to make sure that he's still holding up alright. The boy is still unconscious but his lips are moving slightly, forming words that Rosinante cannot hear, but he has a feeling that he poor kid is dreaming of better times, before all getting dragged into Doffy's machinations and Rosinante's messy feelings; it's another reminder of just how young Law is and how much he has lost already.
His heart aches with how much he loves the kid and how undeserving he is of the boy's stubborn loyalty. And yet, somehow, he must have done something to warrant it because instead of leaving and running away like instructed, Law has come back for him. Rosinante has no idea what happened or how he's still alive and even if someone were to explain it to him right now, he has a feeling that he wouldn't understand either way because he's absolutely running on fumes.
But Seas, does he love this stubborn, impossible boy.
As gently as possible, Rosinante presses his icy fingers to Law's fever-hot forehead and settles in with a last, tired noise, closing his eyes again. He has given all he had left in him and possibly even more to get them both off Minion — now, it's in the hands of whoever or whatever governs fate to see where they end up and whether Rosinante will wake up again.
He hopes he will. As the darkness slowly drags him under again, he allows himself to imagine a peaceful, domestic scenario of him and Law living in a small hut together, preferably somewhere because he has had enough of snow and cold for several lifetimes. He thinks of getting a job somewhere in a harbor town so he can keep them both fed, maybe in a book shop or a library so Law can read all he wants. He would send the kid off to school in the mornings and go to work and in the evenings, they'd have dinner together… and Law would be cured and healthy and growing stronger by the day, laughing and running with other kids his age and apprenticing with the local doctor…
Above them, the clouds part for the first time in days, just enough to reveal a sliver of blue skies.