Work Text:
Law's being elusive.
To be fair, Law usually spends most of his waking hours at the hospital these days. Now that Rosinante has fully settled in and his condition has stabilized, they've fallen into an easy rhythm in their new lives. On weekdays Rosinante wakes up first, makes coffee if his tremors allow it, knocks on Law's door to wake him up if he's not already out and about. Law has finally deemed him fit to shower without supervision, so instead they go through Rosinante's morning PT, and then Law heads off to his internship and Rosinante programs. Evenings are a little less structured since they're dependent on when Law gets home, but they generally follow the same pattern as well—more PT and dinner, and then sitting in the living room together, talking or reading, until Rosinante can’t stay awake anymore. The military training in Rosinante likes the routine of it all, a sense of normalcy in this second chance that he still can't quite believe he has.
But today is a weekend, and Law, who normally luxuriates in his extra sleep time, has already left the house after morning PT.
"Need to stop by the hospital," he'd said by way of explanation as he pulled on his shoes and grabbed his bag.
"They're not making you work extra, are they?" Rosinante had frowned, and then added skeptically, "You're not choosing to work extra either, right?"
Law had grinned, a sharp-toothed and crooked thing that always made Rosinante smile back, and said, "No, just picking some stuff up. I'll be back this evening at the latest. Text me if you need anything." And then he'd gone off without any further explanation.
To anyone else that would've been that, but the intelligence officer in Rosinante has been chewing on it all morning. Law has always given him at least the basic details of whatever he leaves to do, and he always lets him know ahead of time if he'll be out of the house, especially on weekends.
Picking some stuff up is suspicious too. It can't be groceries or any other necessities, since they already went to the store earlier that week. A new book would've garnered just a smile, nothing else. If he'd forgotten something, he would've bemoaned it by now, scowling instead. If it were an action figure that he'd secretly ordered, he would've blushed a little. Instead he'd had the same expression as when they talk in the evenings, something soft and kind, and while he'd blushed, the tips of his ears had turned red—an occurrence that Rosinante's noticed happening more frequently these days but hasn't understood yet.
In short: he can't parse out what Law's up to, and it's bothering the hell out of him.
It's noon, and Law would normally be fussing at Rosinante to eat by now. He's spent the morning half-heartedly fiddling with some equipment that Law brought home, obsolete robotics from one of the surgery departments, but he still can't let go of Law's behavior.
As if on cue, his phone pings, and then once again. Law.
There's lunch in the fridge
Make sure you eat
He smiles at that. When he goes to check, there's indeed a bowl of leftover paella wrapped neatly in foil. (Law hasn't yet allowed him to touch anything other than the microwave and coffee maker.) It's a recipe that Law's been working on for a while now, savory and bursting with seafood and spices and genuinely delicious, but he still doesn't seem satisfied with it for whatever reason.
Rosinante heats it up and decides to eat in the living room for once, pulling out a novel he's been working through. It's a trashy romance, all heaving bosoms and turgid members, but it's been entertaining nonetheless. He's another chapter deep, and the male lead has been hiding from the secondary love interest for the last fifty pages, when the pieces come together.
The blushing and gentleness. Law's inconsistent evening schedule. He's been going out more lately, too. And now, on a weekend off, staying out of the house all day.
Law must have found someone.
To his confusion, Rosinante's gut twists in the nauseating way he knows as jealousy.
He should be happy for Law! He really should. Law's grown into a decidedly handsome young man after all. He's intelligent and caring, a doctor in training, talented at everything he puts his mind to. Frankly Rosinante should be surprised that he wasn't taken sooner. Above all, the kid's been far too solitary all his life, and having a partner to share his troubles with is honestly ideal.
Why can't he trust you with that? says a small voice in his head.
Rosinante tries to tamp it down. Instead his gaze falls on the paella. Law's been fiddling with the recipe on and off for the last few weeks...almost as though he's trying to impress someone.
Rosinante decides he's not that hungry anymore.
It ends up being evening by the time Rosinante hears the front door unlock. He looks up from his laptop to see Law shoulder his way in, bag notably more full than when he'd left. He looks positively giddy, a bright blush on his face, and Rosinante had meant to say welcome back.
Instead what comes out is, "Who is it?"
Law stumbles over his shoe. "Huh?"
"Whoever he is, he's lucky."
No, no, no—it's all wrong, it's coming out all wrong. He hadn’t wanted to bring it up. He’d planned to keep his peace and let Law be, let him be the independent adult that he clearly is, that Rosinante met when they reunited. But the jealousy is mangling his words as they leave his traitorous throat.
“I’ve noticed,” he says. “You’ve been out more. I don’t see you for as long in the evenings anymore.”
Law stares at him, jaw hanging a little open. Bingo, says the small voice.
“Probably not Penguin or Shachi, right? Is it Li, or Hakugan? Tianyu?” The jealousy twists a little further. “Hongo?”
“Cora,” Law says, having apparently found his voice, “what the fuck are you talking about?”
“You know,” Rosinante says, and a harsh edge creeps into his words despite himself.
“And what do I know?” Law asks, a challenge in his tone. He sets his bag on the side table and crosses his arms, staring down at Rosinante. He’s gotten taller, too.
Rosinante finally deflates. He hates how small he sounds as he says, “Can you at least tell me who he is?”
Law scowls, the expression reminding Rosinante sharply and painfully of Law’s thirteen-year-old-self. “Look, if you think I’ve been out messing around or working extra hours or, or seeing someone or whatever”—that’s exactly it, the voice says—“then you’re wrong. I was…”
He cuts himself off and shakes his head as though resetting himself, golden eyes meeting Rosinante’s. And there’s that unfamiliar blush again but paired with a new look, something that could almost be called desperation. Law opens his mouth, closes it, unzips his bag and digs around.
“For your information, I was at Maomao’s today, after stopping by the hospital,” he says quietly. “And I’ve been going to her place for the past few weeks. Because—“
And Law pulls out a handful of boxes, blue and pink and red. His blush darkens as he holds them out to Rosinante.
“Happy birthday, Cora.”
…
What?
Rosinante’s mind reels as he takes the boxes, mentally goes through the calendar. Law’s right, it is his birthday. He stares dumbly at the boxes, three of them, wrapped with the precision that he’s come to associate with everything Law does.
The couch shifts as Law sits. “Are you going to open them?”
It’s Rosinante’s turn to find his voice. “How did you know?”
“Cora,” and there’s exasperation in Law’s words, “I have full access to your medical records.”
His gut untwists a little. “Why Maomao?”
“Open the damn boxes and you’ll see.”
His hands obey automatically. The first box has a pair of cut-resistant gloves, while the second, larger box has a sweater, a dark emerald thing made of thick and soft yarn. When he opens the third, smallest box, he’s greeted with heart-shaped chocolates, their glossy shells swirled with pink and white.
“I had Maomao teach me how to make them,” Law mumbles, and Rosinante looks at him, takes in the earnest way he’s staring at his lap, the way his blush has spread across most of his face. “I know you don’t like sweets as much, but these ones are made with smoked bourbon.”
The gifts rest in his lap, so, so heavy. The chocolates glint up at him—gold leaf, Rosinante realizes. He can't imagine how long they took to make.
“Why?”
Law’s brows furrow in confusion as he turns. “What do you mean, why?”
Rosinante is silent for a long moment before he says, “I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I was eight.”
There's a pause. Then he feels a warm weight on his shoulder as Law leans sideways, rests his head on him.
"Well, we're celebrating it every year from now on."
When he looks, his breath catches. Law is smiling, not his usual smirk but soft on his lips, kind and gentle eyes. Tips of his ears still red. Rosinante understands it now, the last bitter dregs of his jealousy melting away.
It means it's for me.
"I'm happy enough to be here with you," he says, voice cracking.
"Yeah, well, you're getting presents anyway," Law huffs, ducking his head. "I'm sorry for sneaking around about it though. I wanted it to be a surprise."
Rosinante can't help his self-deprecating chuckle. "Seems like I don't do too well with those."
"I'd call that an understatement." Law peers over his arm at the gifts. "Check to see if everything fits?” Law presses, slight anxiety tinging his voice. "I ended up getting the gloves customized for your size and sent to the hospital."
They all do, beautifully so, and Law sighs in relief.
"I had Uni teach me how to knit, too. Yarn is stupid expensive, did you know that?"
Rosinante looks down at the sweater, pulls lightly at the stitches and ribbing. Perfect tension and gauge between the stitches, a surgeon's touch.
"Is there anything you can't do?"
"Cook," Law says earnestly. Rosinante laughs outright.
"Says the person who's made one of the best damn paellas I've ever had."
"Still not as good as your mom's though, right?"
Rosinante looks at him in disbelief.
"You remembered?"
"Of course I did." Ears going red again. Rosinante reevaluates the last few months, and this time all the puzzle pieces come together correctly. He wants to say you're an incredible person, or you've grown up to be so kind, or what did I do to deserve you.
Instead he says, "I love you, Law. You're the best present I could've possibly gotten."
Law ducks his head again, stands abruptly, and makes for the kitchen. "I'll pull out the whiskey rocks and the good stuff. Are you hungry? We can have the chocolates after dinner and PT."
"Why not now?" Rosinante says, popping a chocolate in his mouth. Law's right, he doesn't usually like candy, but the bitterness of the dark chocolate and the warm smoky bourbon are heavenly on his tongue.
"Oi!" Law scolds, poking his head out of the kitchen. "No booze without food."
"But it's my birthday with my precious Law," Rosinante says. Before he can eat a second chocolate, a dish towel hits him in the face.
He's laughing now, his earlier funk forgotten. If it weren't for the giddiness, he might have heard Law's quiet words.
"I hope I can be your present every year."