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The brand doesn't even have a name, just a logo, a grinning cartoony sun with sunglasses. Nondescript and out of production, according to the vendor.
"Company went bankrupt five years ago or summat," the woman had said. "Last two packs I've got and nobody wants 'em. I'll drop it to ten beri apiece for you."
If it were anywhere else Law would have haggled them down to six, but he couldn't bring himself to do it this time. He'd handed over the cash, taken the dusty packs, and tucked them away in his jacket.
"Say, you look familiar," the woman started, and he'd turned on his heel and left.
On the deck of the Tang he opens one of the cartons, taps out a cigarette. Generic, uniformly off-white, not even a colored filter—the only thing that could distinguish it is that it's a little longer than the average smoke.
That, and...
He pulls a lighter from his pocket and puts the cigarette to his lips, lights it and takes a long, slow drag. Then he exhales, and the scent of the smoke—
Cold nights. Campfire, the aroma of burning wood overtaken by a pungent cloud of cigarette smoke.
"You're gonna get cancer," Law gripes.
"Yeah?" Cora turns the page of his newspaper, swatting out the lick of flame that threatens to burn his current headline.
"Don't you care?"
"There are more important things to care about right now, kid. Like if we're being tailed. Or where we're headed next. Or where the next hospital is so we can get you some treatment."
"There's no point," Law mutters. Then he yelps as a wadded-up blanket hits him in the face.
Burning. Wood burning, stone burning, a peculiar acrid smell, the cigarette smoke wafting above it all.
"I think you overreacted."
"I think they overreacted."
"I think you should give up—"
"And I think you're giving up too soon," Cora snaps. Law watches as the muscles in his neck clench, as he bites down so hard on his cigarette that he crushes the filter. He spits it out, grinds it under his foot. "Blues dammit all, we're going to find you a cure. I swear on it."
Cold nights, warm arms wrapped around him, feathers perfumed with smoke. He's so cold, so freezing cold. Cora-san wraps another blanket around him and pulls him closer.
"Hold on, Law," he says, his voice far away. "We'll find you a cure. Hold on."
Law drifts off into sleep, but he hears the words at the end, quieter than the rest.
"For me."
Smoke. Sulfur, saltpeter, burnt feathers, ash.
Blood.
He can barely make out the cigarette.
He still smells it every now and then, spins to find the source. Always a hopeful lurch in his chest. Always the hollowness settling back in. Always a random person, never giving him a second glance, never the hood and black coat and smile he wants. On a good day he wrestles it away, speaks a little less, lets Shachi do the talking.
On a bad day he locks himself in his cabin or the room of whatever inn they're staying at, curls tightly around his tattoo, and weeps.
Maybe one day he'll be able to let it go, let him go. He'll move on, and stop weighing down his crew, and he'll take revenge on Doflamingo and move on, and not think about how he's been cold ever since, and he'll find his heart somewhere else, and sail the seas and wear that smile on his skin and move on—
He hates that he never got to say it back.
He hates that he'll never get to say it back. Not in the way he wanted then. Not in the way he wants now.
—the scent of the smoke has a faint incense to it, overridden by tar and burning paper. Law considers taking a second drag. Wonders how Cora-san discovered these cigarettes, what age he began smoking. Wonders how he'd managed to be so flammable. Wonders if he would've gotten cancer after all. Wonders how deeply the scent had set into his clothes and pores, if Law could have put his nose to Cora-san's skin and inhaled the fragrance, light cologne and musk and smoke and entirely his.
Wonders if Cora-san would have tasted like this.
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't sorely tempted to take that second drag, to put his lips to a shadow of what he wants most. Instead he grimaces at the dryness in his lungs and on his tongue.
"Cheap-ass," he mutters, stubbing out the cigarette.
But he tucks the carton back into his jacket anyway.
"Someone bought out my last two packs, sweetcheeks," the woman says. "Too bad too, they'd been sitting around for years."
"Wha—but they don't make them anymore!"
The woman shrugs. "Go find him, I guess. He came through just this morning. Tall gent, not as tall as you of course. Funny hat. Tattoos. Looks like he needs sleep, or maybe a stiff drink."
There's a long pause, followed by a sigh. "Do you have anything similar?"
"North Beauty, maybe. Tell you what, I'll take it down to ten beri a pack for you."
"Four."
"Nine."
"Four."
"Eight."
"Four and a half."
"Six, as long as you buy two of 'em."
"Deal," says Rosinante, and he hands over the cash.