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The news got out after a particularly savage match in the quarterfinals of the annual All-Japan league. Trafalgar Law, twenty-six years old, wing spiker and captain for the Sapporo Aero Sealions, moments before being named captain of the Japanese men’s national volleyball team, declined the position and said he’s about to sign with a club in Spain. Atlético Corazon. Go fucking figure.
Nobody is really surprised, nobody questions the decision either when the whispers broke amidst the sweaty locker room damp with post-victory thrill. Sabo is the only one who comes up to his team captain, towel slung across his shoulder, blond eyebrows raised high they could pop off the top of his forehead.
“Seriously?”
Law gives his outside hitter a pointed look, unamused, throwing the shoulder taping he just took off haphazardly into his locker.
“Thank you for being the only person who asks that,” he says, now reaching for a tube of deodorant, “and yes, seriously.”
“No. I mean, I’m not like, doubting you or anything,” Sabo waves his hand, still wet from the shower and flicking droplets into Law’s hair, “it’s just that you should’ve done it sooner, man.”
There’s no change in Law’s expression. Maybe he doesn’t need anyone validating what he did.
Maybe he should’ve expected less. Almost everyone keen on the Japanese volleyball scene is well aware that Spain has always been a big part that shapes Law’s career—how he has some roots there, although indirectly. How the Nations League always becomes an occasion for him to celebrate when he gets to meet the Spanish national team. Maybe he does need to do it sooner.
“I really wanted you to be captain, though,” Sabo adds, now leaning into the locker next to Law’s, “after Mihawk retires, it’d make a lot of sense.”
That’s not the first time an opinion like that has been heard. Sabo shares the same sentiment with nearly everyone in the Japanese volleyball scene. After Dracule Mihawk, the only person left with an ample amount of common sense to head the national team would be Law. Even Mihawk himself makes the notion quite clear before he announces his resignation from professional volleyball.
I think the choice is obvious for us, right? That was his words exactly before promptly handing out the address of his new house in Hyogo. The man is about to use his talented, deadly, ace-spiking hand to build a goddamn farm in the countryside.
“There’s always someone else,” Law says, closing his locker door. It is met with Sabo’s scoff.
“Who? Ace?” he barks, “he gets smacked by Newgate nearly every day for whooping after every serve, and you want us to have a captain like that?”
Well.
Law has to erase the subsequent image of Ace’s hollers, being three times more embarrassing if he does become captain since it would definitely shatter the opponent’s concentration as well as their own. At least, as long as they’re off the international season, Ace’s wild attitude is the problem of his own prefectural team—the Osaka SRHG Phoenixes. Which, speaking of, will face Law’s team tomorrow at the semifinals. An annoyingly tough bunch, if you ask him.
“At least he’s a mood maker,” Law shrugs, slinging a towel onto his left shoulder, “not that we lack those around here.”
This time Sabo really does laugh harder. “Tell me about it. No wonder Sakazuki hates us.”
It’s indeed a wonder that the current president of the Japanese Volleyball Association is as strict as a marine, but Law knows better. When half of the athletes in the topmost tier of the Japanese league call themselves the Worst Generation, what do you expect? Law makes his way to the showers, and Sabo, although Law is sure has already taken one, follows him nonetheless.
“Sakazuki hates everyone,” Law corrects as he nods to their other teammates here and there, “well, some more than others, but generally everyone. Especially Monkeyboy.”
“I seriously think the old man’s crazy for shitting on Luffy,” Sabo lets out a crisp chuckle this time, shaking his head slightly on the fond memory, “not when the kid’s practically loved by the whole nation. Or world, probably.”
The hypothesis was, and still is, that Luffy showcases something that is called “fraternizing with the enemy” instead of baring his own fangs as a scary opponent. Sakazuki, ever a political man, apparently doesn’t believe in sportsmanship—an ironic fact given his board-appointed position as JVA president. He clearly doesn’t realize that Luffy’s cheerfulness earned Japan a favorable view in the news. It also made Luffy himself a media sweetheart, an artifact of sunshine and smiles, making friends even with athletes from the far ends of the globe.
Law raises an eyebrow, remembering a particular funny clip he saw on social media a while back. It was Luffy high-fiving everyone he saw on the court back when they had a match in Poland, not realizing he’d been slapping the referees’ palms as well.
“He does have some meme-able qualities.”
“Give the boy more credit, stingy.”
“Well,” Law rolls his eyes as he stops in front of the foggy washroom mirror to squint at his own face first, “better him than his older brother, I guess.”
“You mean Ace and not me, right?”
“You’re all not even related,” Law glares, and proceeds to shove Sabo out of his mirror with the back of his foot, “get the fuck out, I’m taking a shower.”
Sabo whines, looping his own towel around Law’s neck. “Nooo, whatever happened to our good ol’ cap-and-vice-cap bonding time?”
At that moment, one of the showers drapes fling open, and out comes a very unamused Roronoa Zoro in a very wet shirt.
“Nah. That shit’s not a thing,” he mumbles, wiping down his head brashly with his towel and seemingly oblivious that the rest of his body is still drenched, “learned it the hard way back in high school.”
“That’s because Luffy’s terrible at common sense,” Sabo adds, still hanging around Law’s neck and wholly ignoring his captain’s struggle to break free. He stares at Zoro, down to his dripping clothes. “Just like you.”
“No. Just like you,” Law growls, staring daggers at Sabo’s own arm around him. “On the other hand, I actually think Zoro has the qualities to be the national captain.”
“You know that the one thing Zoro really wants is to retire early and spend the rest of his middle age finally being able to drink booze, right,” Sabo sighs, and then adds with a yell to the apathetic middle blocker already walking half-naked outside the showers, “you’re a disgrace to us, dude!”
“You literally wore a top hat to the media interview last week,” Law grumbles, finally shoving a protesting Sabo away, “your fashion sense is the only disgrace I know.”
.
The crackle of Ace’s voice and the blur of his endless freckles are courtesy of the terrible wi-fi in their hotel. Sabo pushes through nevertheless, even though Ace’s sentences almost always get lost over the speed of his speech. Only Sabo could interpret them, Law figures. In their national practices every year, Mihawk gets the whole team to use hand signs every time, since their squabbles are too loud and boisterous to be heard by the whole world.
Tonight, though, Law gets to hear Ace’s tireless rants. Remind him again not to room with Sabo.
“You guys better lose tomorrow. I’ve been really looking forward to defeating Luffy in the finals,” across horrible internet Ace’s voice resounds, unapologetically loud. Sabo grins from his bed on the other side of the room. He’s cradling an iPad, from which the abomination that is Ace’s pixelized nostrils can vaguely be seen even from Law’s own bed.
“That’s not how this works, Ace,” Sabo says, cross-legged and clad in sleepwear. Law ignores the conversation, immersed in his book, but the peace doesn’t last that long.
“Oh, well, a little mind game never hurts,” Law can almost imagine Ace’s shrug, cheeky and bastard-like. Then, “hey, Law’s still there, right? Law! Marco says hi.”
“Tell him I said fuck you,” Law replies without missing a beat.
“He says see you tomorrow, captain.”
“I’m not his captain, but he’s yours,” the lines on his book feel like a blur, and Law understands what Marco’s getting at. The jackass. All this national team captaincy bullshit feels like the bottom of a trench. Law raises his voice, annoyed, “Marco, take your child to bed, it’s already past 10.”
“But we share custody on weekends, honey,” from across the video call, Marco, captain of the SRHG Phoenixes, shouts back. Ace barks a big static-laden laugh, followed by Sabo, who then crawls off his bed since the doorbell to their room just rang.
Moments later, Zoro’s mop of green cropped hair shows up beside their tiny pantry.
“Cap. Coach asked to let you know he wants to do the briefing earlier tomorrow. 6.30,” he nods to Law, then eyeing the open tablet on Sabo’s bed.
“Heeey! Is that Zoro?” Not seconds later, Ace shouts again from the screen, squinting in 480p, “your blocks are rock solid today, dude, but hope they’re shit tomorrow!”
“I thought we’re not fraternizing with the enemy,” Zoro deadpans, while Law sighs. The thing with Sakazuki has been an internal joke within the league for months.
“Well, we are and we aren’t. It’s complicated. Ace here seems so keen to butcher his own brother IF and ONLY IF he does beat us tomorrow. Which he won’t,” Sabo singsongs, jumping back to his own bed and rocking the iPad until it almost slips off the covers.
“Okay. 6.30,” Law exhales, finally opting to close his book and look at Zoro who’s now comfortably leaning to the wall. “Please tell me you didn’t just get back from practicing extra serves or something.”
“Nah. It was practice spikes. My serves are okay,” Zoro answers, oblivious of Law’s groan.
“Anyway,” Sabo cuts in, “that’s only given that Luffy wins his own match too tomorrow, idiot.” He smirks to the screen, knowing too well that Ace will follow it up with a head-on protest.
“Of course Luffy will! He’ll be up against that tarot-reading dumbass—”
“Hawkins,” Law corrects, even though he’s not even sure why he still tries.
“—and he’s got Kid’s nasty temper too to even it out, so I’m pretty sure the Deers are going to win by default—”
“I’m not sure ‘even out’ is the correct word,” Sabo grimaces, “more like ‘to make it worse’...”
“And Eyebrows won’t let a stray ball past him,” Zoro adds on sternly, oblivious to his own misplaced sense of conversation, “at least without kicking it first.”
Implying Sanji’s bad habit to use his legs in a match will never be flushed out of Zoro’s system, will it.
Anyway, this is all beside the point. Law slams his book onto his bedside table, surprising everyone, physical or virtual, who are all somehow drifting again into a messy, pointless argument about tomorrow’s matches.
“BOTTOM LINE IS,” he starts, painfully aware that there’s a lump of annoyance at the back of his throat, “Monkeyboy and Kid and Sanji will win their match tomorrow against Hawkins’ team, because as chaotic as the Tochigi Deers are, we know they’re a great team.” He glares particularly at his own teammates, Sabo and Zoro, who are awkwardly looking at each other.
Law narrows his eyes at Sabo’s screen next, jabbing a finger where Ace and half of Marco’s face stare back at him dumbstruck.
“And the one who’ll face them off in the finals is us Sealions, because we’ll beat your sorry birdshit asses tomorrow. Case closed. Everyone off to bed.”
Yet the room still explodes in petty argument until fifteen minutes later, when their coach kicks their door open and yells on top of his lungs before confiscating Sabo’s iPad, dragging Zoro out, and shutting the lights off.
From under the covers in their pitch-dark room, Sabo whispers to Law, “I think this counts as a great cap-and-vice-cap bonding time.”