Work Text:
The pain woke him before the alarm did.
Not a sharp, dramatic pain – the kind people understood from films and broken bones – but the heavy, dull, everywhere kind. It sat under his skin like wet sand and static, pressed into the muscle and bone of a body that used to obey him without question; Like someone poured concrete into his muscles overnight and it hasn’t set quite right. His hands tingled. His knees ached in that deep, hidden place that never showed up on scans. His lower back pulsed steadily, as if it had its own bitter heartbeat.
Rosinante lay still and did the usual inventory, almost like he was back on the front line, but instead of crates of resources and weapons and rations, it was his own crate, his own body. Wrists: burning. Back: buzzing. Neck: stiff, like it had lost an argument with the pillow. Energy: a thick fog, pinning him to the mattress of the king-sized bed. On a scale of one to ten, today was–
…He abandoned the thought. Numbers had stopped meaning anything a long time ago. Numbers just pissed him off now.
Beside him, peeking out from beneath the towering curtains, the floor-to-ceiling windows glowed with early light. The penthouse was quiet in a way that Rosinante usually loved – insulated from the traffic below and the buzz of the city around them – but now, it only exacerbated the thrumming pulse in his ears.
The alarm finally went off, cheerful and oblivious, buzzing on the nightstand. Rosinante reached out, thumb stiff, and silenced it with a practised swipe. His hand hovered there for a moment near the little army of pill bottles lined up in careful formation: anti-inflammatories, antidepressants, something that was supposed to help him sleep, something that was supposed to help him stay awake. Every appointment added a new recruit. Every appointment ended the same way:
Let’s try this and see how you get on.
Experiment number four hundred and something. His body a science project. His life now a series of follow-ups.
He rolled onto his side with a muted grunt, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and set his feet down on the polished wooden floor. The cold shot up through his soles. Pain flared, bright and mean, nerves mistaking temperature for danger for several heartbeats, before settling like fizzing cola in a glass.
For a second, he just sat there, elbows on his knees, head hanging. The old reflex rose – call and cancel. Pretend he’d forgotten. Pretend he was fine. Pretend it wasn’t that bad.
But if he didn’t go, he stayed like this.
And if he did go… maybe, just maybe, someone would look at him and see more than normal.
He pushed to his feet, moving like a man twice his age instead of a thirty-nine-year-old who, on paper, still counted as ‘young’. The room tilted microscopically as his blood pressure tried to catch up. The fatigue clung to him like a wet blanket as he made his way to the adjoining bathroom.
A room of quiet contemplation; his favourite. Black marble and gilt gold, lush green plants creating a bright contrast from hanging baskets and large pots. The huge mirror was already fogged from a shower Law must have taken earlier, and he caught the ghostly blur of his own broad shoulders and scarred skin as he passed it by. Stepping into the glass-walled shower and turning on the water, he braced his hands against the cool tile while the spray beat against muscles that would take time to unclench.
The hot water helped, but only in small ways: averting the worst of the stiffness, loosening the edges of the ache. Underneath, the pain stayed, stubborn and familiar.
His mood felt like the sky before a storm, low and heavy, pressing down on him. He hated the way it dragged at his thoughts, hated how easily irritation and hopelessness rose these days. But he knew what it was. Not weakness, not lack of gratitude for the life he had now, not some character flaw he should be able to 'fix' with positive thinking.
It was dread. Plain and simple. The knowledge that in a couple of hours he’d be sitting under strip lights in a consulting room while a stranger flipped through his notes, frowning thoughtfully, and said some version of
It's usually women who get those conditions.
Let’s try a different dose.
Your results are normal.
It’s a common symptom for
PTSD – have you tried counselling?
It might just be stress.
Stress. Sure.
He rinsed the shampoo roughly from his hair, eyes closed. A different Rosinante flickered behind his eyelids: younger, unbroken, the perfect poster image for recruitment campaigns. High ranking officer in the Navy. The kind of man who could run ten miles before breakfast and still be hungry for more. In between deployment, he used to live for charity runs, endurance marches, obstacle courses for causes he cared about. He used to look at his body with simple, blunt confidence – this is my machine, and it works.
Now, it felt like living in a machine that misfired at random. Muscles that hummed with static. Joints that caught and crackled. A brain that stalled mid-sentence. Some days he could almost make peace with it, laugh off any clumsiness he succumbed to. Today, everything inside him had gone numb around the edges, as if his mind had thrown up a wall to mute the constant flares.
He stepped out of the shower carefully, gripping the rail – something he still resented needing, but appreciated Law’s stylistic choice of a matte black chrome that blended into the environment. Rosinante wrapped a towel around his waist, water dripping from his hair to his shoulders, and stood there a moment, letting the ache in his legs settle into its usual throb.
Sometimes he wanted to just… lie back down and not move. Not speak. Just sink into the mattress and let the day pass over him like a wave. It wasn’t that he wanted it all to end; he wasn’t wired for that. He just wanted a ceasefire, just for a while.
But waiting and doing nothing didn’t fix this. He'd learned that the hard way. The pain didn’t negotiate.
Walking up to the twin sinks, he reached out and wiped a stripe across the mirror with the broad palm of his hand. His reflection looked older than thirty-nine today. His curly mop of hair had more silver in it than gold in the misted glass. The scars across his chest, shoulders and arms were old; the kind that used to feel like proof of something – strength, survival, purpose.
Now… they just felt like a reminder that his body had already done its share of fighting.
He was halfway through reaching for his toothbrush in the little bear cup when fingers slid between his own.
Rosinante startled faintly, blinking back toward the mirror. He hadn’t heard the bathroom door open over the fan and the distant rush of the pulse in his ears. Through the film of steam, he saw another figure beside him – slight where he was broad, dark-haired in comparison to his gold and silver, young where he was old.
Law.
His lover didn’t say anything at first, just stepping in close and pressing the side of his face against Rosinante’s bare bicep like he was slotting himself into the space that belonged to him. His hand held Rosinante’s, thumb finding the soft inner skin of his wrist, stroking there in a slow, even rhythm.
Rosinante watched their reflection: his own down-turned expression, Law’s gaze tipped up at him, half-hooded with sleep but bright with concern. The surgeon looked unfairly good in simple joggers and a T-shirt, hair still damp from his earlier shower. There was a faint aroma of coffee emanating from him, alongside the woody musk of his cologne.
"Morning, Cora," Law murmured finally, voice low.
"Hey," Rosinante replied, but it came out rough, his throat tight with more than just dryness. He cleared it and stared down at their joined hands. Law’s thumb kept moving, steady, like a pulse he could borrow.
"I've walked Onigiri. Just about to give him his breakfast and I've got a tea brewing for you. Feeling up to some food?"
Rosinante made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, but nodded.
They stood there for a while in the clouded bathroom, silent as Rosinante brushed his teeth, now with his other hand. The heaviness in his chest pressed harder, uncomfortable under his ribs, not letting up despite the presence of Law beside him.
"I don’t want to go," he heard himself say, after he’d spat the foamy toothpaste into the running water in the sink. His voice was softer than he intended, caught between a mumble and a whisper. It sounded too much like surrender.
Law’s fingers tightened around his.
"I know I have to," Rosinante added quickly, because some part of him still rebelled against the idea of backing down from anything, even a doctor’s appointment. "And I will, I just…" He exhaled, the air shuddering out of him. "I’m tired of fighting. Tired of saying the same things and getting the same answers. Tired of being poked and prodded and treated like… like a puzzle they’re bored of."
He met his own eyes in the mirror. The usually-bright sunset looked flat; tired in a way that sleep never touched.
Law lifted his head, cheek leaving Rosinante’s arm, and shifted just enough to catch his gaze properly. "Then don’t fight," he said gently.
Rosinante frowned, confusion pulling at his mouth. "Kind of the point, isn’t it?"
"I mean, I can fight for you." Law’s tone stayed soft, but there was steel underneath: the same iron Rosinante had seen when Law stood his ground with a senior consultant when Rosinante had come to visit him at work, or when he’d argued with a pharmacist who’d tried to substitute his usual brand of Rosinante’s meds without warning. "You just have to show up. If you want me to, I’ll do the arguing. I’ll be the annoying relative who demands the answers." His mouth quirked. "Boyfriend-from-hell package."
Despite the heaviness, a short laugh broke out of Rosinante. It felt rusty, but real. "Pretty sure ‘boyfriend from hell’ doesn’t make me tea every morning and tuck blankets around me when I fall asleep on the sofa."
"Mm." Law pretended to think about it, lips curving. "You know me. I’m versatile."
He smiled then, properly. It transformed his face – eyes brightening, dimples appearing beside his mouth. Roguish – that was the word Rosinante always came back to. Law had that effortless charm, the kind that had made Rosinante wary as hell at the start. There was thirteen years between them, after all, and he was a war-hardened ex-marine wooing a twenty-something heart surgeon who’d looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky, like he was something worth caring for – not with pity, not like he was a broken thing.
Rosinante’s heart fluttered in his chest, a quick, unsteady flip that once would have sent his brain into overdrive – cardiac symptom? caffeine? anxiety? – but now only made the corner of his mouth twitch.
He knew this one. He knew every way his body reacted to Law – the way his pulse leapt whenever those auric eyes turned on him, the way his shoulders loosened at a touch to the back of his neck, the way his breathing eased when Law curled in behind him on the sofa after his own bad day at work.
This wasn’t something wrong. This was the one kind of racing heart he welcomed.
He squeezed Law’s fingers back, just once, grounding himself in the warmth of that small, steady contact.
"Okay," Rosinante mumbled quietly. "You can argue. I’ll… show up."
"That’s all I’m asking," Law replied. He leaned in, raising their hands to press a quick kiss against the inside of Rosinante’s wrist, right where his thumb had been stroking. "We’ll get through this. One shitty morning at a time."
Rosinante nodded, the oppressive cloud inside him still there, but thinner around the edges now. Not gone – he doubted it ever really went – but pierced, at least, by this: Law’s hand in his, Law’s voice at his side, and the simple, stubborn fact that he wasn’t facing this alone.
– + –
Before he took himself to the kitchen, Rosinante made sure to get dressed; a habit instilled in him even before his military days. He picked a soft, worn-in T-shirt – the kind that didn’t irritate skin that seemed permanently on high alert – and jeans he knew he could tolerate sitting in for hours, even if they tugged against his knees. Every choice these days passed through a quiet calculation: Will this make today worse?
Law was the one to hand him a lilac sweater, a mischievous smile curling the corner of his lips and golden eyes glinting in the light of the now-open curtains. Rosinante snorted, pulling it on with creaky elbows and glancing in the mirror.
Emblazoned on his chest, in looping stitching: Everything hurts but I’m being really brave about it.
Law had bought it for him a few Christmases ago. Shit, he loved this man, so very much.
Now, Rosinante sat at the breakfast bar, shoulders rounded, trailing his spoon through his cereal in a lazy figure of eight. The flakes had gone soggy a while ago, drifting in the milk like they’d given up; the mood of the day, it seemed. The TV on the wall murmured some mid-morning cooking segment, a presenter laughing at some double entendre or other, but the volume was low, more background hum than distraction.
On the floor, Onigiri snuffled enthusiastically as he attacked his own breakfast, the metal dish skidding a few inches with every shove of his little Pomeranian snout. Clink, snuffle, scrape. His plume of a tail wagged so hard it rocked his whole body.
At the sink, Law stood with his back to Rosinante, suds to his elbows as he washed last night’s pan. They’d had fish and rice, something simple but perfect. No fuss. Just the two of them, curled on the sofa with bowls in their laps and half a bottle of wine warming their bellies.
The bright city stretched out beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, buildings and sky reflecting off glass and chrome. From where Rosinante sat, Law’s lean frame was haloed by it, a rim of morning light outlining his shoulders, catching in his dark hair like the iridescent feathers on a raven. It wasn’t anything mystical, just good architecture and expensive glass, but something about the sight still hit Rosinante in the chest with quiet force.
Holy, his brain supplied, unhelpfully. He huffed to himself. He’d never been religious in his life. The closest he’d come to prayer was cursing at the universe during field operations and half-meaning it.
He dropped his gaze back to his cereal. The spoon cut another slow pattern through the milk. He wasn’t really hungry. His stomach sat quiet, but there was a faint hollow there, a promise that in a few hours it would wake up and complain. Pain muddled the signals sometimes, twisted hunger into queasiness or made him forget about it altogether. Today there was no nausea curling at the edges of his awareness, just that uncertainty.
Am I hungry or just… empty? Hard to tell, when his body misfiled sensations half the time.
He’d never had a clean, straightforward relationship with food anyway. Growing up poor, meals had been more about luck than choice. Then, in the military, hunger was something you ignored until the next ration pack, a background noise behind orders and objectives. You ate when you could, not when you wanted. Feelings about it never entered into it.
A change in the noise of his world sound tugged his attention back to the present. It took him a moment to realise it was the lack of sloshing water, the sudden clang of a pain being set on the drying board, the glug of a plug being pulled. A moment later, footsteps padded across the cool floor.
"Cora. Would you prefer fruit and yoghurt?" Law’s voice, closer now. A shadow fell across the bar as he approached, drying his hands on a towel. "Something easy on the stomach."
Typically, for the average person, that meant toast. However, they both didn’t touch bread.
Law, because gluten hated him and made his gut flare in ways Rosinante had learned to recognise instantly. Rosinante, because even the word could drag up the phantom taste of mould – cheap loaves gone green and fuzzy in cupboards because that was all they could get. He could see it if he let himself: the white and green blooming over crust, the musty smell that never really left. Sometimes he thought he could taste it just from walking past a bakery, like his brain couldn’t distinguish between fresh and rotten anymore.
He pushed the thought away before it could settle.
Glancing down at the bowl in front of him, he thought about the bright colours of the fruit sitting in the nearby fridge, the coolness of the yoghurt, the spot of honey Law would meticulously drizzle on top. Guilt prickled at him. "If I don’t eat this," he explained, nodding at the cereal, "it’s just going to be a waste."
His partner shrugged, rounding the breakfast bar to sit beside him. "I’ll eat it," Law suggested mildly.
Rosinante managed a smile, feeling it stretch his face without quite touching the tiredness behind his eyes. He knew it didn’t reach them; he could feel the distance. But it pulled his dimples into place, and that was usually enough to coax Law’s own smile in return.
"You won't," he pointed out, gesturing to the flake with his dripping spoon. "It'll have you chained to the toilet with a stomach ache for the rest of the day, you know that."
"Worth it."
"It’s fine," Rosinante said, with a roll of his eyes and that small smile tugging at one corner of his lips. "I’ll finish it. Eventually. I’m just…" He swirled the spoon through the mush again, the milk now a cloudy mess. "Making art for a moment. Isn’t that what the therapist suggested?"
Law huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm. Still, he didn’t push. He didn’t say you need to eat or you’ll feel worse if you don’t. He just pulled his coffee closer, the mug steaming faintly, and settled with one elbow on the counter, body angled toward Rosinante.
For a minute or two, they sat like that, the TV mumbling about searing times on steak, Onigiri clinking his bowl across the floor, all the way towards the hallway, the city humming beyond the glass.
After a sip of coffee, Law nudged their elbows together. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
The question landed in Rosinante’s chest with a different weight than all the other versions he’d heard in his life.
It wasn’t How’s your pain today?
It wasn’t What number is it on the scale?
It wasn’t even the well-meaning How are you feeling? that he’d grown to dread, because the answer was always either too complicated or too disappointing.
Just: Is there anything I can do to help?
An opening, not a challenge. A door he could walk through or ignore. That was how they both were with each other: options, not demands.
He adored that about Law. That he never made Rosinante’s body into a report to be filed, a metric to be judged. He knew how the nerves misfired, how one sensation could bleed into another until Rosinante couldn’t tell the difference between ‘cold’ and ‘pain’ and ‘touched the wrong way like soggy food in a plughole’. He knew how Rosinante’s brain could fog over on bad days until even simple sentences felt like wading through quicksand. He knew how frustrated Rosinante could get with himself when he couldn’t remember a word or slopped coffee on his own shirt because his grip decided to be unreliable that morning.
And he also knew that not every bad day could be fixed with a massage or a lazy tumble between sheets. Not every bad day could be softened by talking things through, or distracted away with a film and some takeaway. Sometimes all that helped was having the choice about what happened next. Control, when everything inside him felt like it had been taken away and scrambled.
Law didn’t try to pry that out of his hands. He offered it back.
The man had his own experience with life-altering illnesses, after all.
Rosinante set his spoon down, metal clinking lightly against the bowl. He turned his hand over on the counter, palm up, and felt Law’s fingers slide into his without hesitation.
The tattoos across Law’s fingers were stark against his skin, black ink on gorgeous dark skin – small, neat letters. Rosinante lifted their joined hands and pressed his mouth to each in turn, kissing the shapes one by one. It was as much for him as for Law; the small, deliberate ritual steadied something inside him.
"I’m just anxious," he admitted, words brushing the warm skin of Law’s knuckles. "About seeing another doctor. About… having more questions than answers. Again. Which is stupid, considering I've faced much worse in life, but… I'd rather face a pissed-off Sengoku than deal with all this."
Law’s fingers flexed gently in his. "Yeah," he answered quietly. "I get that."
Rosinante lowered their hands but didn’t let go. The TV presenter laughed at another innuendo. Onigiri finished his food and trotted over to flop at Rosinante’s feet with a contented huff, tiny body radiating heat against his bare ankles.
Law nudged his knee lightly under the breakfast bar. "How about this? After the appointment, we go to that new place that opened downtown. The vegan one you saw, with the ridiculous name – what was it?"
"Lettuce Eat," Rosinante supplied automatically, the sign flashing in his memory. He was both a lover of vegetables and a good pun.
"That’s it." Law’s mouth curled. "We can get something good there. Take our time. Or bring it home if you don’t feel up to sitting in."
The offer slid into the space inside Rosinante’s chest like a small light. A plan that wasn’t just doctor, then rot in bed. A life outside of appointments. The idea helped more than he’d expected.
He found himself smiling, broader this time, the expression tugging more genuine warmth up from somewhere under the fog. "That would be nice," he answered, tossing the proposal around in his mind. "I did like the sound of the frickles."
Law blinked at him, expression close to dawning horror. "The… what."
Rosinante grinned, broader still. "Frickles! Deep fried pickles."
"Of course, how could I not have realised." Law rolled his eyes, before settling on him with a mock glare. "You kiss me before you eat them and not after."
Rosinante found himself instinctively pouting, even though he knew Law would never withhold kisses from him. A shared snicker between them filled the air, Rosinante’s chest feeling lighter than it had all morning. Still, he found himself hesitating as his next thought rose cautiously to the forefront of his mind. Old instinct told him not to add complications, not to ask for more than he’d already been given.
But this was Law.
"Do you…" He swallowed, thumb stroking over Law’s ring finger unconsciously. "Do you think we could invite my parents? To join us? If they’re free. Which, they likely will be. Considering they’re retired."
Law’s answer was instant, no pause at all. "Of course." His eyes softened, a bright thread of affection sweeping across his features. "I’m sure they’d love that. We’ve not seen them in a while."
The relief that washed through Rosinante surprised him with its force. He leaned in on pure reflex, closing the small distance to press his mouth to Law’s. The kiss was gentle, grateful rather than hungry, his free hand coming up to cup Law’s cheek.
He adored how easily Law fit with his parents. His mother doted on him, fussing shamelessly about whether he was getting enough sleep between shifts, wringing promises out of him to eat properly, her worry for her son’s boyfriend as fierce as it had ever been for her own son. His father was always so interested in Law’s latest surgery, curiosity and pride in equal measures shining bright in his eyes.
Rosinante loved watching it, loved the way those worlds – his old life, his new one – knit together across a restaurant table or their living room sofa. It was a shame that Law didn’t get along with his brother, but then again, Doffy was notoriously difficult to get along with – and that was putting things lightly.
Law smiled into the kiss, then pulled back just enough that his words brushed Rosinante’s lips. "But your brother better not catch wind of it," he muttered, and Rosinante could tell the threat in his voice was real, "or he’ll be eating his future meals through a straw. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle any jibes towards you – not today."
Rosinante snorted, laughter bubbling up despite the weight in his chest. It came out half-muffled against Law’s mouth, the sound warm and a little shaky.
"Deal," he murmured, kissing him again.
– + –
Winter always felt sharper between the towering buildings of the city, wind funnelled into sly, cutting gusts that slipped under Rosinante’s scarf and plucked at the edges of his coat. Their breath misted in little clouds as they walked the short distance from the underground car park to the street, Onigiri left at home curled up in his bed, affronted by the early disturbance.
Law had driven them in the bright-yellow Jeep, its paint job loud against the grey morning. It wasn’t far; on a different day, Rosinante might’ve argued to walk the whole way, tell himself the exercise was good for him, that moving his body was a thing he could still claim. But today, the thought of having to walk back from the clinic, and then on to the restaurant, sat like a lead weight in his mind. His muscles were already twitching with that electric, not-quite-cramps that heralded a flare.
Besides, the Jeep’s heated seats had been a small mercy, warmth seeping into his thighs and lower back, coaxing some of the stiffness away. He’d sunk into it with a low sound he didn’t quite manage to swallow, blushing at the smirk Law sent his way. For a the short ride, wrapped in that heat with Law’s hand resting on his knee at stoplights, he’d felt almost human.
Now, outside the clinic, the cold clawed that away again.
"Give me a second," Rosinante muttered, already fishing the crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
Law didn’t argue. He just stepped aside enough to give Rosinante room, fingers still loosely looped with Rosinante’s free hand, as his other fiddled with the furred collar of his parka coat. Rosinante tipped one cigarette free with an awkward shake, clamped it between his lips, and flicked the lighter with quivering fingers. The flame flared too high for a second and he jerked it back, careful not to ignite the fringe of his fingerless gloves or the big woollen scarf wrapped around his neck. The last thing he needed was to literally go up in smoke on the clinic’s doorstep.
The first drag burned in the back of his throat, settling in his lungs like a familiar comfort. He watched the tip glow, exhale a thin stream of grey that the wind tried to steal away.
Normally, Law would tut, or sigh, or make some pointed comment about lungs and long-term risk. A cardiothoracic surgeon dating a smoker – there was irony in there somewhere. Today, Law just watched him with those soft, beautiful eyes, hands still curled loosely with his. No reprimand, just quiet understanding. Rosinante could feel it in the way Law’s thumb traced idle patterns along his knuckles, as if to say: I’m not thrilled, but I get it.
He smoked it down to the filter faster than he meant to, nerves chewing through his usual rhythm, and stubbed it out carefully in the provided ashtray. His fingers weren’t just shaking from the cold.
Inside, the clinic reception was all polished surfaces and warm lighting. Plush chairs in muted colours dotted the spacious waiting room, magazines fanned neatly on low tables. A flat-screen on the wall scrolled through health advice with soothing graphics. It was the kind of place designed to feel calm, almost spa-like.
Rosinante’s shoulders still crept up around his ears.
They checked in at the desk, then barely had time to sit before a nurse appeared in the doorway, calling his name.
She had a kind face – smile lines around the eyes, a softness to her voice that eased something tight in his chest as she led them down the corridor. Her ID badge swung gently from its badge reel at her hip; he focused on it for a few steps, a small, moving point in a world that suddenly felt too bright and loud.
"Here we are," she told them, opening a door partway down. "Doctor will be with you shortly."
The room was… standard. It should’ve been boring, forgettable. Instead, every detail seemed to stamp itself into Rosinante’s mind with stark clarity.
There was a single large window on the far wall, blinds half-open, letting in a wash of thin daylight. He checked the catches automatically, noting they were the newer kind that only allowed the window to open a crack. He stepped closer, eyes tracking the view – buildings below, cars moving like toy models.
Third floor, he calculated, the part of his brain that had once done risk assessments and exit strategies kicking in without asking. Too high to jump. Possible to climb onto that ledge if –
He stopped himself. It was ridiculous. He wasn’t under fire. He was here for a medical appointment. But the habit stuck.
He turned back to the room. Law lingered by the closed door. The desk dominated one side, cluttered with stationary: pens scattered across a notepad, a pot stuffed with highlighters, a stapler half-buried under a paperback textbook. Post-it notes clung to the monitor like yellow petals. There was a small plastic model of a spine sitting next to the computer, frozen in perfect alignment. The examination couch opposite was covered in crinkle-paper, pristine and untouched.
Law watched him the entire time; not judging, not pitying, just simply aware and wordlessly supporting.
Rosinante sat in the chair closest to the desk because that was what you did, though every instinct told him to stay closer to the door. Law took the seat beside him, chair legs close enough that their knees bumped. As if on cue, his lover’s hand found his thigh, fingers curling over it, palm warm even through Rosinante’s jeans. The familiar, rhythmic stroke of his thumb started up again, the same as that morning in the bathroom and in the car, a steady metronome against the jitter in Rosinante’s nerves.
So focused on that rhythm, he wasn’t sure if the doctor greeted them when he finally came in.
Rosinante clocked the man’s age – late forties, maybe early fifties. Neat hair. Tired eyes. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. But more than anything, he registered the way the doctor moved straight to his chair, sat, woke up the computer, and never took his eyes off the screen.
Keys clacked. Lines of text reflected faintly in the lenses of his glasses.
"Right," the doctor muttered, voice brisk. "So, Mister Donquixote. Following up on the new dose."
Rosinante’s mouth opened automatically. The words felt like they’d already been rehearsed, worn into grooves. "Been on it about six weeks now."
"Mm." The doctor’s fingers tapped across the keyboard. "And how are you finding it? Any side effects?"
Rosinante answered mechanically, the way he’d learned to. "The pain’s… not really improved. Maybe a little some days. Hard to tell. Definitely more numbness in my fingers and toes. And I’m more tired, I think. It’s hard to separate what’s the meds and what’s just… the usual." He heard himself list symptoms, trying to keep his voice even: the fog, the muscle tremors, the pins-and-needles.
The doctor typed. The clacking continued, steady as a metronome, though not as soothing.
"And what were you hoping to achieve with this new dosage?" the man asked.
Rosinante’s mind stuttered, derailed.
He stared at the edge of the desk for a second, then at the way one of the Post-it notes was starting to peel, its corner curling away from the plastic monitor. The question echoed in his head, dull with disbelief.
What am I hoping to achieve?
His first, wild thought was a sarcastic world peace. The second was less funny: To not feel like I’m being tortured in slow motion by my own nervous system. To wake up one morning and not have to do an inventory. To stand up from a chair without planning it three steps in advance. To go one whole day without thinking about how much everything hurt.
His jaw clenched. Anger coiled low in his gut, a thick, dark knot.
What do you think I’m hoping to achieve, you smug bastard?
His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. The words he wanted to say jammed together, too sharp to force out safely.
He faltered. "I–" His brain went blank, white-out over the top of every sentence. "I just… I want… I don’t know." He hated the way that sounded. Incomplete. Weak. Like he hadn’t thought this through, even though he had – a thousand times over.
Law’s fingers tightened on his thigh, a gentle squeeze.
"I think what Rosinante is hoping," Law said, voice calm but edged, "is that the medication will reduce his pain to a level where he can consistently shower, cook, and leave the house without having to plan it like a military operation in advance. And that it won’t make his fatigue worse than it already is."
Rosinante didn’t catch all of it. The words blurred together, Law’s familiar cadence turning to a quiet hum, like someone speaking from another room through cotton-wool walls. His hearing narrowed, tunnelling inward. He became aware of the thud of his own pulse, loud in his ears, beating in his throat.
He fixed his gaze on the floor, on a scuff in the linoleum by the leg of the desk. His teeth worried at the inside of his cheek, worrying the skin raw.
Law’s hand clenched around his again, thumb pausing its rhythm. The pressure yanked him back just enough that his pulse receded from his ears, the world snapping into harsher focus.
"…and the bloods came back normal, so that’s good," the doctor was saying.
Rosinante’s stomach twisted.
He’d heard that sentence too many times. As if ‘normal’ blood somehow lived in the same universe as a body that woke him with pain every morning.
Law let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. "It’s good in the sense that we can rule some things out," he noted, each word precise. "But it doesn’t help Rosinante, so it’s not really all that good, is it? If everything is so good and normal, why does he have days where sitting in a chair for more than ten minutes makes him feel like his joints are full of broken glass? That’s not normal, is it? Or perhaps it is in your world."
The doctor’s eyes finally left the screen. He turned to look at Law properly, a faint frown creasing his brow. "I understand that you’re a fellow professional," he bit out, the word professional landing a bit too heavily, "but I don’t appreciate your tone."
The anger Rosinante had been wrestling with earlier rolled, slow and dark, into something hotter.
He didn’t like the way the man’s gaze sharpened on Law, as if he were the problem in the room. Hell, he didn’t like the way his own experience had been reduced to metrics on a screen, his body secondary to whatever the lab reports said. But this – this was worse. That measured, patronising rebuke aimed at Law, the man who’d pampered him with massages and bubble baths after a difficult day, the man who laughed at his stupid jokes, the man who learned to read him without a single word spoken.
Images flashed stupidly through Rosinante’s mind: the window, the third-floor drop, the doctor’s neat collar clenched in his fist. For a brief, alarming moment, he pictured grabbing the man and hurling him out into the cold air, listening to the crash of glass and the cut-off shout.
He didn’t care what that said about him. Didn’t care what it would cost. The vision was there all the same, bright and vicious.
The doctor cleared his throat, turned deliberately back to the screen. "At this point, I’d suggest we increase the dose further," he said. "Give it a proper chance to work."
Law’s hand tightened on Rosinante’s thigh again. "The documented side effects of this medication include increased fatigue," he pointed out, his tone curling icily. "Which is already a major issue for Rosinante."
"Fatigue is a common complaint with all medications," the doctor replied, still watching his own typing. "The increase is minimal, and lots of people feel tired when dealing with chronic pain. Considering Rosinante is unemployed–"
"He’s not unemployed," Law cut in, the words knife-sharp. "He’s retired. Medically discharged from the Navy after serving in active duty for nearly two decades. There is a difference. One that needs respecting."
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Rosinante could feel it slice through the room.
He couldn’t track what happened next. Whether the doctor responded. Whether Law said more. The walls seemed to tilt, the window stretching in his peripheral vision. The air tasted too thin.
All he knew was that, suddenly, he was done.
His chair scraped back with a harsh squeal and thudded against the wall. He stood up too fast, the world lurching for a heartbeat before his balance caught up. He realised, distantly, that he was towering over the doctor, who’d gone a little wide-eyed and pale-faced.
"I’m leaving," Rosinante heard himself say, voice rough. "I need to leave. I don’t–" He shook his head, words failing. "I don’t care anymore."
He didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t look at the doctor again.
He turned on his heel and strode out, the corridor blurring past in whites and creams. A nurse glanced up as he passed; he didn’t see her face properly. The reception desk came and went. The automatic doors sighed open, and the winter air hit him like a wall.
By the time he reached the car park, his hands were shaking so hard he nearly dropped the cigarette twice before he got it lit. He leaned against the Jeep’s bright-yellow flank, cold metal firm at his back, and pulled smoke into lungs that already felt tight.
The world narrowed to the glowing tip between his fingers, the curl of smoke, the harsh drag and exhale. His heart hammered in his chest, anger and humiliation and fear all tangled into a single, nauseating knot. His left ankle throbbed – he must have rolled it in his hurry to run free.
He was on his second cigarette by the time Law appeared, boot heels sharp on the tarmac.
Law’s face was a storm front: thin eyebrows drawn tight, mouth set in a hard line, eyes sparking. "I’m already composing the letter of complaint," he hissed by way of greeting, words clipped, breath puffing white. "I swear to God, by the time I’m done, they’ll be framing it on the door, alongside the notice of closure."
Rosinante let out a ragged sound that might’ve been a laugh. The cigarette trembled between his fingers.
Law stepped in close, close enough that Rosinante could see the fine lines of stress around his eyes, the flush along his cheekbones – one he wasn’t sure if it was from anger or the cold. Law reached up, cupping Rosinante’s face between his palms, thumbs brushing the roughness of his stubble.
Then, he kissed him.
It was soft, careful, uncaring of the stale nicotine taste on his breath. Just lips on lips, a point of warmth in a day that had gone brutally cold.
"We’ll fix this," Law murmured against his mouth.
Rosinante huffed, the sound catching. "You mean you’ll fix me."
Law went quiet for a heartbeat.
His thumbs stroked along Rosinante’s jaw, grounding. When he spoke again, his voice was steady, sure in a way Rosinante didn’t feel.
"There’s nothing to fix, Cora," Law whispered. "There’s just you. And I’m not going anywhere." He ran his fingers through Rosinante’s hair, smoothing stray curls back. "I love you. You know that right."
"…Even when I have pickle breath?"
Law grinned, butting their noses together. "Especially when you have pickle breath. Or smoke breath. Or morning breath. I love you."
"I love you too."
– + –
The restaurant felt like stepping into a different world.
Warmth hit Rosinante first – not the dry, artificial blast of heaters, but something softer. The air smelled of herbs and grilled vegetables, faint citrus and an earthy sort of musk. Plants hung from the ceiling in complicated macramé loops, draped along exposed brick, clustered in big terracotta pots that separated one booth from another. Light wood gleamed under the glow of soft pendant lamps. Gentle music hummed over hidden speakers, barely louder than the low murmur of conversation all around.
It was the kind of place that made you want to sit with a book and forget the real world. Oh. Rosinante could see himself coming here more often. He wondered what their pet policy was.
Following in Law’s wake, his walking stick tapped in time with his left leg. He hated the thing on principle. Most days it stayed abandoned in the boot of one of their cars, a quiet accusation he tried not to look at. But today, after the mess at the clinic, his legs felt hollow and untrustworthy, and his ankle felt swollen in his boot. The last thing he needed was to pitch ass over tea-kettle in the middle of a crowded restaurant and take a table full of small plates down with him.
The stick clicked once, twice, as he squinted through the greenery and bodies–
There. His parents sat at a booth on the far side of the room, half-hidden behind a giant monstera. His mother spotted him first.
Dulcinea’s face lit up, the smile starting in her eyes and spilling down to her mouth as she pushed herself up from the padded bench. She stepped around the table without hesitation and came straight at him, arms already opening.
“Mi corazón,” she breathed, folding herself around his middle.
She wasn’t a tiny woman, not by any measure, but she still only came up to his chest. Rosinante let the stick rest against his leg and bent, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. For a moment, he just stood there in the middle of the restaurant, breathing in her familiar perfume – vanilla and something floral – and letting her warmth sink through the cold still trapped in his bones.
“Mama,” he murmured into her silvery hair.
She squeezed him once more, then leaned back to look him over properly. Her gaze dropped, and he saw the exact second she clocked the walking stick.
“Oh, Rosinante,” she started, hand already fluttering toward it.
He caught her fingers gently before she could fuss. “I’m fine,” he soothed. “I’ll explain. Just – later, yeah? Sit down. Breathe.” He tried to make the last bit light, and earned himself a watery, chastened smile in return.
Behind her, his father was getting to his feet more slowly. Homing pushed himself upright, straightening to his full, still-impressive height. His long hair was tied back, silver streaking through bright gold – much like Rosinante’s own – moustache neatly combed and curled. He reached out both hands as Law approached.
Law moved to take one of them in a handshake, but Homing huffed and hauled him into a bear hug instead. “That’s not how you greet family,” he laughed loudly, thumping Law solidly on the back.
Rosinante saw Law’s brief startle, then the way he relaxed into it, arms coming up to return the embrace, smiling soft against Homing’s shoulder. A little knot in Rosinante’s chest loosened at the sight.
Dulcinea made another small sound at his side, eyeing the stick again. “Since when do you need this?” she asked, voice already climbing toward fretful.
“Since five minutes ago,” Rosinante lied easily. “Calm down, Mama. I’m okay.” He gave Homing a quick, fierce hug in turn, breathing in oil and tobacco and the faintest hint of the cologne his father had worn since Rosinante was a child. “Missed you,” he muttered, and Homing’s hand came up to pat the back of his neck, rough palm steady.
Parting, he gestured to the table.
Law slid into the booth first, along the inside, making space for Rosinante on the end. As soon as Rosinante turned to lower himself, Law’s hand was there, firm around his elbow, guiding his weight down with quiet care. The cushion sighed under him; his knees complained, then settled.
Rosinante exhaled, slow, and tried not to think about how grateful he was to be off his feet. The stick was stowed beside him, propped against the back of the booth.
“So,” Homing said, settling opposite them again. “How did the doctor’s–?”
“Can we not?” Rosinante cut in, a bit too quickly. Three pairs of eyes swung to him. Wincing, he rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the table for a beat. “Just… not yet. Can we talk about something else for a while? Please.”
There was a small silence. Then Law, smooth as ever, cleared his throat.
“I was going to ask about Dressrosa, actually,” he drawled, reaching for his napkin like this had been his plan all along. “You never told us how it was. Did you survive the heat, or did Dulcinea have to peel you off the pavement at midday? Again.”
Dulcinea tittered a soft laugh as Homing snorted. And just like that, the current of conversation snagged on a different rock and flowed that way instead – stories about tiny cobbled streets and too-strong coffee and a disastrous attempt at flamenco lessons.
Rosinante let the sound wash over him and picked up his menu.
The print swam a little at first, eyes still overworked from the morning's flare; he hoped a migraine wasn't on the horizon. He blinked a few times, willing them to focus. The dishes were all plant-based, lush descriptions of roasted vegetables and marinated tofu and things done to chickpeas that sounded not quite right but also delicious. He tried to concentrate on the words instead of the ghost of the doctor’s office still clinging to the edges of his mind.
Law’s hand rested on his thigh under the table, thumb moving in its slow, familiar pattern again. The contact anchored him, drawing his awareness back into the present. Rosinante inhaled through his nose, long and steady, feeling his ribs expand against the soft knit of his jumper.
He ran the tip of his tongue along the backs of his upper teeth, one by one. A quiet, private count. It gave his brain something simple to do while his body recalibrated.
By the time he’d reached the last molar, the worst of the static in his head had faded. He set the menu down and flexed his hands carefully, cracking each finger in turn. The knuckles popped, crunching as the tingling buzz backed off by a fraction.
His mouth felt dry. He glanced around, eyes catching on the tall glass jug of water at the centre of the table, condensation beading on the outside.
Before he could say anything, Law was already reaching for it.
“I’ve got it,” he murmured, as if Rosinante had spoken. He poured, ice clinking delicately against glass, and nudged the drink into Rosinante’s hand without fanfare.
Rosinante’s throat tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the clinic or the meds or his own traitorous body. Fuck, I love you, he thought, even before he took a grateful sip.
Food came quickly once they ordered, the table filling with an array of small plates. Teriyaki tofu glistened in a dark, sticky glaze, steam curling up in fragrant ribbons. A neat slice of potato terrine sat draped in something green and silky. Roasted peppers, a cauliflower salad, a mountain of spinach and feta pastry parcels – it all looked so good. There was focaccia for Dulcinea and Homing – thick and golden, dimpled with rosemary and salt – and a bowl of hummus, perfectly smooth, dusted with paprika.
And, of course, the frickles.
They arrived piled high, battered and deep-fried, the tang of pickle cutting through the rich, hot oil smell. Rosinante’s stomach actually gave a hopeful little lurch at the sight.
He fell into the rhythm of it almost without noticing – passing plates, spooning portions, tugging a frickle in half and nearly burning his tongue because he couldn’t wait. His father’s jokes were as terrible as ever, long-winded and nonsensical and delivered with an earnestness that made them somehow worse. Rosinante laughed anyway, sharing his own stories about Onigiri’s latest attempts at befriending the murder of crows that liked to dance about on their balcony, zooming back and forth along the large windows to their delight.
For a while, it felt… good. Not pain-free – he doubted he even remembered what that felt like – but manageable. Contained. His hips ached dully; his shoulders grumbled; there was a persistent fizz in his ankle. But it all hovered at the edge of his awareness, muffled by warmth and food and family.
So, when a familiar voice said, “Well, well, look at this cozy little gathering,” Rosinante nearly choked on his tofu.
Doflamingo arrived like he always did: with a flourish and a swagger that seemed to bend the light around him. He slid up to the table in a pink tailored coat, hair perfectly styled, a devilish smile already in place beneath those pointed glasses. He leaned down to press a kiss to Dulcinea’s cheeks, making her coo and pat his face affectionately.
(It was very obvious the elder brother did not greet their father, despite the exuberant smile and wave from Homing; that was a whole suitcase of childhood anguish which would not be unpacked anytime soon. Possibly not even this lifetime.)
Rosinante felt his jaw tense. Automatically, his gaze darted sidelong to Law, bracing for the sour look, the venomous glare that usually flickered to life whenever Doffy appeared.
But Law only blinked once, slowly, and gave Doflamingo a small, nonchalant nod, as if he were just any other latecomer.
His brother’s smirk sharpened. “Thanks for the last-minute invite, Law,” he purred, with a broad grin. “Good thing I happened to be in the area.”
Rosinante almost dropped his fork.
Last-minute invite?
Law invited him? After warning earlier that Doflamingo better not catch wind of the lunch? The two of them normally bickered like they’d been mortal enemies in some previous life, picking at each other’s every word and action. And now… this?
Confusion fizzed in his gut.
Doflamingo squeezed into the booth beside Dulcinea, draping an arm along the back of the seat. He snagged a piece of focaccia, and popped it into his mouth like he owned the place.
“So,” he mumbled, chewing. “How did the appointment go?”
Dulcinea tutted immediately. “We’re not talking about it,” she chided, firm but gentle as she patted Doflamingo’s knee. “We’re having a nice meal. Aren’t we, Rosi?”
Doflamingo frowned, gaze obviously flicking from their mother to his brother from behind the mirrored lenses. Rosinante felt his hackles rise; a bone-deep, familiar irritation waking up. Their relationship had always been tangled – Doflamingo’s obsessive protectiveness crashing against Rosinante’s need to make his own choices, to not be managed like a fragile asset.
He opened his mouth, ready to ward off whatever lecture Doflamingo was about to deliver.
Law got there first.
“Oh, we just saw a so-called specialist,” he said airily, swirling a chunk of cucumber through the hummus, tone almost bored. “But it seems he wasn’t quite the man I thought he’d be.”
Something about his voice made Rosinante pause. The pitch, maybe. The faint, dramatic lilt that didn’t quite match the words.
Law was… hamming it up?
Rosinante narrowed his eyes, watching his partner from the corner of his vision.
“I’ve been trying to get Rosinante in with a few other people,” Law continued, finishing the chunk of cucumber and wiping his fingertips with a napkin. “But it’s… complicated.” He shrugged, casual, and then started listing names.
Not just names. Full titles, hospitals, departments – being very particular in his enunciation of key words. Consultants whose surnames sounded like crossword clues. Professors at private clinics that made Rosinante’s bank balance flinch just from hearing them mentioned. It was like listening to someone read the more prestigious entries of a hospital directory aloud.
“I don’t exactly hold that much sway in the medical world,” Law finished with a put-upon sigh. “Turns out being just a lowly cardiothoracic surgeon only gets you so far.” He popped a feta-stuffed pepper into his mouth, chewed, then added lightly, “If only someone with connections and money and power could get a hold of such talented doctors to help Rosinante…”
He let the sentence trail off in an exaggerated exhale. Theatrical.
Rosinante stared at him.
That was a lie. Law had plenty of sway. Even he knew how other doctors deferred to him, the way nurses lit up when he walked onto a ward, the amount of respect his partner wielded – part admiration, part fear. He could get doors opened with a couple of calls if he really wanted to – had done, in order to get this last appointment.
So… what the hell was he playing at?
Doflamingo, for once, didn’t have a ready quip. His face went still in a way most people would’ve missed, but Rosinante had grown up with that face. He recognised the flick of calculation in the lines of his face, the tightness of his jaw, the twitch in his upper lip.
“Sorry, Mama,” Doflamingo murmured softly as he gently kissed her temple. “I need to make a phone call – won’t be long.”
He was already sliding out of the booth as he spoke, fingers dipping into the inner pocket of his coat. His phone appeared in his hand as if it had always been there. By the time he’d taken two steps away from the table, it was at his ear.
“Vergo,” they heard him say as he threaded his way through the restaurant. “I have names. I need you to make contact with…”
The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud.
Rosinante sat very, very still for a few seconds.
Then, he slowly turned his head to look at Law.
Law was studiously examining the frickles, clearly debating if he was going to take the plunge and try one. Dulcinea and Homing seemed deep in a discussion over the healthiness of a nearby calathea, oblivious to the confusion that was swarming their youngest son, or the fact that his partner was willing to suffer an acrid pickle in order to avoid talking about what the fuck had just happened.
Rosinante leaned in, bringing his mouth close to Law’s ear. “Did you invite Doffy just so you could wind him up and get him to use his contacts?” he murmured. “To… what, leverage him into finding a doctor who’ll actually listen?”
Law visibly shivered, the reaction tiny but noticeable under Rosinante’s hand. His fingers tightened on Rosinante’s thigh, nails digging in just enough to bite. He licked his lips, eyes still on his plate.
“I have no idea what you could possibly mean,” he replied, bland as anything.
Rosinante huffed out a disbelieving breath, ready to press the point. “Law–”
Law turned his head and cut him off with a swift kiss, just a brush of lips, quick enough that Dulcinea only made a soft cooing noise and Homing murmured a ‘ahh, young love’.
“I will do anything to help you,” Law whispered against his mouth, his breath warm, words meant only for Rosinante. “Even lay aside rivalries and grudges. Doflamingo wouldn’t have lifted a finger without something in return – a favour, a debt.” His mouth twitched. “So, I gave him something. Victory. ‘You can do something I can’t.’ That’s the language he understands.”
Rosinante pulled back just enough to really look at him, head tilted.
Dangerously clever, he thought. That’s what he was. Clever and ruthless when he needed to be. All that sharpness he used in his surgeries and consultations turned outward, repurposed for this: for Rosinante.
One of the many reasons he'd fallen head over heels for the man.
Still, he was wary about Doflamingo meddling in his medical life. The idea of his brother pulling strings over his head made something flinch inside him. But, beneath that, deeper and steadier, was the knowledge that Law truly would do anything for him: twist pride, swallow grudges, play a part, all so that someone – anyone – might finally take his pain seriously.
Emotion welled up, sudden and hot, tightening his throat.
“I love you,” Rosinante mumbled as his sinuses burned.
It slipped out without fanfare or build-up, quiet but clear between them amidst the clink of cutlery and his mother’s soft chatter and his father’s half-finished anecdote. No joke to cushion it. No self-deprecating aside.
Law’s eyes flicked up to his, golden and sharp and, for a moment, unguarded. His grip on Rosinante’s thigh softened, thumb stroking once.
“I know,” Law replied softly, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “Good thing. Because I’m nowhere near done fighting for you yet.”