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Dressrosa, after, smells like fire, tastes like dirt and iron; is silent. Dawn gold edges the clouds above.
“I thought this was what you needed, Torao,” Luffy says.
See, Law’s still got dried blood on his hands, bandage red—he’s got—sad eyes. Heavy. Weighted, like the sunflowers in the field beyond them. Drooping to the ground until sunrise; and he shouldn’t be like this, Luffy knows. He shouldn’t be sad, because things are better—he made them better, he made sure—
Underneath, the earth is soft, grass still damp from morning dew. Law’s coat fans across the ground like black wings. He hasn’t answered.
He never does.
And Luffy waits, with him, until the sun rises, and the earth dries, and the others wake.
He’ll wait beyond that, too.
*
It happens rarely. The other times, they’re different. Other people around, and Law is not—there, even though Luffy can see him, smell him, touch him.
The first time, they’re alone. Behind a little dingy bar.
Luffy’s walking down the street on the hunt for food when he sees him: backed up between a building and two men, sword pressed to his throat, his own blade in the dust at his feet. His arm is bad, bandages laden with blood that soaks through the fabric and drips. Drip, drip, down his arm, curving the bend of his fingers, glinting in the bright afternoon light.
These things always start in the strangest of ways.
“Got nowhere to go, pirate,” one of the guys says. He’s chewing black stuff; spits it out on the dirt at his feet. He adds, “Yer bounty’s high.”
Drip. The dirt darkens in a perfect circle, and Luffy’s reminded of the scene in Mingo’s castle. That odd sharpness to his chest, like all the air inside him has just been snatched away. Torao’s body limp, redness pooling on stone, the smell of iron. Red, red, red.
“Is it?” Torao sounds bored now.
They haven’t seen Luffy, yet, at the end of the alleyway. He thinks about running in, fists flying, but the thought is incredibly fleeting—blink and it’s gone, Luffy fixated on the blood curving around Torao’s forearm, the way his tattoos swoop in the sun. The words he says, voice sharp:
“That should be a warning.”
The Guy With Black Teeth grins, and makes to move, but Law’s faster. He side-steps away from the blade, and before Luffy can laugh, there are two hearts in the dirt, thudding loudly in the baffled silence.
With a shout, one of the men turns to run, but he’s down in seconds. Luffy’s fist flies, his body following not long after—he lands, two feet perfectly centred in the guy’s chest, laughter bubbling from him, blood throbbing in his fingertips.
“What—”
But Torao stops, half-drawing his retrieved sword to intercept the katana ready to behead him. He flicks the bounty hunter’s blade away, effortless, reopening Room and shambling the man’s abandoned heart into his open palm.
The hunter hesitates.
“Leave,” Law says, and there is something in his voice, an absoluteness, an order; and Luffy stares at him, time stilling, couldn’t possibly look away. “Now.”
The man does, of course. Quickly, too, and Luffy gets off his friend so he can take the unconscious body away, dragging it behind him down the alley and disappearing around the corner. The rush of their altercation over, Luffy can hear the town beyond; the trickling of a fountain, children playing, a door slamming shut. Footsteps—Torao.
He sinks in the dirt next to Luffy, resting his sword across his lap and holding out his arm. He turns it over, studying the bandages with a measured look, running his fingers over the frayed edges. Blood is slowly drying in the still heat.
“How long were you there for?” he asks flatly, not looking at Luffy.
Luffy shrugs. Doesn’t matter. He says, however, “You’re bleeding,” and—
Moves, hand taking Law’s without a further thought, linking fingers through fingers. Law’s blood smears over his skin, both warm and cool, strange, freeing, but not in the way Luffy knows, not in a way he understands.
There is, then, the slightest movement—Law’s fingers closing around his hand with fleeting pressure. And something catches in Luffy’s chest, like a rope tightening around his heart; loosens again just as abruptly, the release of pain sharp, and he blinks, lost.
Law’s voice, when he finally speaks, is incredibly low. “Something wrong, Mugiwara-ya?”
“Yes.” His answer comes easily, barely heard over the panicked rhythm in his chest. “Torao, you—”
And this does not come easily, swallowed by the anxious breath that escapes him, this inexplicable emotion that he can’t name.
“I would have handled them fine on my own,” Law says. Blood is drying on Luffy’s own fingers now, and Law squeezes his hand again, tighter this time, does not loosen his grip. Moves his injured arm into brighter light, blistering sun beating down, and adds, “This is nothing.”
It’s not the blood that has him silent, though. It’s not the way it dries, brown, deep, deep red. It’s not the way it still slowly drips from the bandage, stirring memories of reaching the rooftop after Bellamy’s fight and finding Law dead—dead, dead, dead.
It’s not that.
“I thought you needed me, Torao.”
Law is silent then, does not let his hand go.
And Luffy will wait for him, even if he does not understand this.
*
Zoro needed freedom.
Usopp needed a push forward.
Sanji needed love, and Nami needed hope.
Chopper needed someone on his side.
Robin needed life, and Franky needed purpose.
Brook needed nothing but them.
These are the things Luffy knows.
These are the things Luffy provides.
He thought Law needed Doflamingo gone.
He was wrong.
So, he makes a choice.
*
The second time—
Luffy watches, arms folded on the railing as Law walks across the quarterdeck. There’s a way to his step. Something that makes it impossible for Luffy to turn away from.
“Torao,” he calls, the word tumbling from his mouth without thought, breaking the stillness of the night. Law pauses, shifting his hold on his sword ever so slightly, and Luffy stares, fixated. He doesn’t think. Just says, unable to help himself, “I like it when you do that.”
There’s something in there, in Law. Something Luffy wants. Something he must have.
He will give, tonight.
Law says nothing for the longest time, eyes snapping to him the only indication he has heard Luffy at all. The silence between them is suffocating in the midnight heat, but Luffy doesn’t mind it, even grins a little, slightly feral. Luffy doesn’t care what Law’s expression means this night. Just . . . likes it. Likes the way that Law looks at him, through him, like he can see Luffy’s heart—or deeper than that. Like he can see Luffy.
“Do what?” Then, as if annoyed by his own question, Law makes a tch sound, pulling the brim of his hat down and turning his eyes to the sea. “Whatever.”
The word is mumbled; embarrassed, almost.
Luffy wonders what he feels when he looks to the blue out there. If he feels the same thing Luffy does—the burn in his chest, a tug deep inside, shaking hands, the excitement that makes it hard to breathe, to think, to move. He wonders if Law sees the ocean, smells that smell, the salt; if he can taste it, feel the freedom, breathe it in, feel the peace that settles.
Law’s always calm. Law doesn’t run off the ship when they stop at a new island, he doesn’t whoop when there’s a Sea King in the distance; not like Luffy, not like Usopp or Zoro or Franky. Law doesn’t stop to explore, Law already knows, and he doesn’t do silly things like get his head stuck in holes or get excited when they depart from shore.
His eyes are still on the horizon, watching as stars strangle the sky, strikingly bright. There is a darkness that rips through him. One that fascinates.
Luffy knows him. Law is so calm and Law is so quiet, and he is untouchable; smells like eucalyptus after battle, and mint in the mornings, sounds like the flicking of a book’s pages and the click of a heel on wooden floor.
And suddenly, Luffy decides. Without thinking, he’s gripping the railing, flying across the quarter deck with a loud laugh. He lands before Law, just inches from him, his nose almost bumping against Law’s chest, Law’s warmth spreading through his own body.
These things—they always start in the strangest of ways.
Law is calm when he speaks: “Mugiwara-ya.” But Luffy can feel his heart; hear it, almost, a fast, impossible beat that leaves him a little breathless. And he doesn’t know why Law’s heart is beating that way, can’t even guess. His crew are so easy to read and understand, but Torao is different, Torao is unknown, and that has Luffy excited, has him fascinated.
When he reaches out to touch him, his fingers are thrumming, and Torao doesn’t move at all, is just still like a statue, like a marine in uniform, completely stoic. And it’s so nice.
“Torao.” The word falls out of his mouth, Law’s face heating beneath his fingertips. “I like . . . I like it when you . . .”
So weird.
So weird that words are gone, that all he can think of is pictures, images so brief and fleeting that Luffy can’t possibly ever explain them. Of lying half-awake in a foreign bed, unable to speak—surrounded by beeping medical equipment and glass, his chest on fire. Of Torao, standing beside the cot, checking the contents of a bag of fluid connected to Luffy’s arm, whispering, “You won’t die here.”
Then, of standing in Mingo’s castle, Law’s silhouette before him. Blood dripping, curving the edge of his blade, red, red, red, and Luffy can feel the air then, like a burning flame, pressing against his throat.
Torao stares.
Luffy pulls him closer, and he’s not sure what to do, consumed by images and thoughts and feelings, staring deep into Law’s eyes. He wants . . . more. Wants to feel each breath, to draw his hands across the faint white patches that spread over Law’s skin.
Luffy traces his mouth. Rubs his thumb across the bottom of Law’s lips, so soft, so nice. And Law doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But Luffy wants him to. Desperately—wants to shake words out of him, to have more of him, his thoughts, his mind, wants more.
But before he can demand it, before Luffy makes him talk, Torao shifts.
“I’m going to—” His mouth is over Luffy’s now, and he’s not sure if Law is talking, or if Luffy’s just feeling his lips move, the heat of his breath forming sounds he’s so frantic to hear. “I’m going to—”
It’s quite simple then, really.
Luffy kisses him.
Once, twice—and then deeper, urgent, like he can’t get enough of Law, like he’ll die without him. And maybe he will: because Law tastes like salt, as forceful as a wave that swallows the deck and as warm as the sun, as the rays of light that rest on Luffy’s back as he sits on the Sunny’s figurehead. He’s everything that Luffy needs right then, the thrumming of purpose, the excitement and drive that pull him forever forward.
Bodies pressed together, on this impossibly warm night, Luffy doesn’t know where he ends and Law begins.
When they break, Luffy’s head spins. The moon is blinding, then. Like the sky has exploded into light, bright and beautiful in its silence.
Law takes a deep breath. He’s not smiling, but his eyes are shining. And Luffy sees something in them. In Law. It’s hard to think. Everything is not the same.
And Luffy wants to say again: I like it when you do that. The blood that drips from your sword, your voice, your hands, I like you, you. He wants to say so much but it’s all unsayable, images again, fleeting thoughts of Law that flicker like fire.
So Luffy says nothing.
And waits.
*
Four days crawl by.
“What,” Law leans forward, gripping the taffrail and not looking at him—just out at the horizon, the setting sun, the swaying of the ocean. And he says again, “What—” his voice faltering, breaking, wavering, Luffy’s heart skipping, beating, fast, fast, fast.
Luffy reaches out, catching his hand and lifting Law’s fingers to his mouth. He lets them rest there, wondering if Law can feel the staccato beat in him, holding his eyes with his own. Torao frowns, and Luffy dares not speak, lest he say something stupid, something that could ruin—this.
“What do you want, Mugiwara-ya?”
Freedom; but instead, he smiles.
Law is free, but he does not need it.
*
The third time, after Wano: Luffy sits in bed, watching Law wrap a bandage around the arm of his first mate—careful, calculated movements. Silent. Law himself is smeared with blood from battle.
Torao kills people; heals them, too. Luffy watches as Penguin nods goodbye, no sign of injury there anymore. Better. Torao makes them better.
Law moves slowly about the small room, packing away his medical supplies. He casts one quick glance in Luffy’s direction, and Luffy catches his gaze, silent, waiting.
“You’re awake.” Law pulls off his rubber gloves with a snap, throwing them in the bin between the messy desk and a half-broken statue of a dragon. “Tony-ya has been looking after you. I’ll go get him.”
“Wait, Torao!” Luffy scrambles out of the sheets, and it’s only then he realises—he is covered, head-to-toe, in bandages, cuts, weird green salves. He feels no pain, but Law watches him sharply, as if searching for any sign of weakness in him. “You—I—I thought you died.”
Law’s eyes soften, then grow dark. “I thought much the same.”
The moment that follows is long—broken—and Luffy realises he speaks not of himself, but of Luffy. Luffy sees the concern, feels it in Law’s hesitance as he stares at Luffy’s chest, at his face; in the intensity that pierces the room.
And then there’s the blood: staining Law’s sleeves, discolouring his shirt and his jacket. None of it is his own.
Voice soft, Luffy asks, “What’s wrong, Torao?”
He waits for an answer, but it never comes. Law moves to the door—goes to leave—but instead of walking out, flicks the lock down and turns back, moving seamlessly into Luffy’s space. He is water, fluid, hands gripping both of Luffy’s biceps as he pulls him forward, pulls him in close. Luffy can count each breath that fans across his face.
“Stop,” Torao mutters under his breath. “Stop being so reckless, stop being like this, stop—”
His grip tightens, painful—Luffy’s battle bruises bloom under his fingers—but Luffy does not flinch, does not move, stares unfalteringly into that concern like he’s staring into the brightest light.
He has waited for so long.
Law’s eyes close and his face falls, the ironclad grip on his emotions cracking with sudden exhaustion. His face is all lines, dried blood; darkened, tired eyes.
Luffy wants him. He wants Law in every way he can imagine: here on the bed, on the floor, outside on the quarterdeck of the Sunny. Wants to see him, blood smeared over his bare chest, dark skin spotted with white, his eyes smiling. Wants to see him struggling to breathe, gasping with pleasure, hands twisted in Luffy’s hair.
He wants—Law.
The air in the room stills. And in the sudden silence:
“I cannot lose you, Mugiwara-ya.”
Luffy’s mouth is dry. He slides his hand over Law’s shirt: blood smears beneath his palm. “Don’t be stupid, Torao.”
Words fall between them. “But I cannot be what you need.”
And Luffy repeats, “Don’t be stupid, Torao.” Law’s eyes flicker, confused. “This is what I want.”
Law’s hands clench around his arms again, sudden, painful. “What do you want?”
“Freedom.”
“What else?”
Luffy hesitates—looks to the window.
Sun pours through the dirtied glass. Law’s heart beats boldly beneath his palm.
Law’s grip tightens again. Hurts.
“What else?”
“You.” He feels the swell of breath under his hand when he looks back to Law. Smiles, open, and says, “You, Traffy.”
Law laughs, then. A low, surprised sound, but real, Luffy can tell, and he laughs himself, the sound bubbling out of him, out of his chest. He knots his fingers in Law’s shirt, tugs him down as he falls back onto the bed, bringing Law down with him, and—
Torao’s mouth is warm.
It is the first thought that filters from the low hum in his mind. He raises a hand to Law’s face—traces a streak of blood along Law’s jaw, a muffled sound coming from deep within him. He likes it, sees the red, and Law is burning hot beneath his touch, blistering almost, uncaring for injuries and wounds as he moves around Luffy, into him, into his space. Like waves. Languid. Beautiful. Unstill.
Law’s tongue slips along Luffy’s lower lip, and Luffy tries to mirror the motion, clumsy and hurried, ridiculous after Law’s tender touch.
This—this is something Luffy has not felt before. This is something he does not yet know. It’s not like the other times. Law is—gentle. And Luffy didn’t expect this, but he—
Wants.
His hips roll against Law’s, and he drags in a sharp breath. Reaches for Law again, and can’t decide what to hold, hands feathering hesitantly over hips.
“Mugiwara-ya,” Law says, far too deep. Luffy almost groans. “I’m filthy—I should have—I’m—”
Luffy runs his bloodied hands through Law’s hair—then down Law’s face, his jaw, his throat, smearing over his chest. He is burning alive, maddened by Law’s touch, his darkness, the smell of iron.
Law’s eyes follow his hands, and there is a long, breathless moment of silence.
Then, just as deliberately, Law kisses him. Searching, wanting, deep, and Luffy splays his hand on Law’s back to bring him closer. It is here, pressed between the bed and Law, utterly content and warm, that he feels truly free.
Whispers against Law’s mouth, “What do you need, Traffy?”
And Luffy can feel, in that moment, Law’s stillness tightening around the room; panics that he has said the wrong thing once more, ruining what they have. There is a pause, an uncertain breath, and then—
Law replies, and kisses him again, a careful press to the corner of Luffy’s lips:
“You. Only—”
Luffy doesn’t let him finish. With a firm push and roll, he has Law on his back, staring up at him with eyes wide in surprise. Something changes, then—a new heat fills him, the room blistering hot, air not enough. There is no gentleness in the way he grips Law’s arms, pinning him down, holding him still.
Law swears softly.
He is—desperate for Law. Blood thunders in his ears at the sight of Law beneath him, like he’s activated Gear Second. Urgent. Hungry. He needs and wants, so badly it hurts, so intense he could scream.
“Torao.” His voice is raw. “Show me.”
Law swears again, and a moment later there’s a tugging in Luffy’s hair, guiding him downward to meet Law’s lips. Luffy opens his mouth and invites him in; reaches down at the same time, fingers scraping clumsily along Law’s legs—higher, higher, sliding between his thighs until Law moans.
Luffy thinks he will remember that sound for the rest of his life.
Law’s fingers tangle in his hair, the tension of him palpable, every kiss, touch, movement, noise, loosening all that Luffy knows of him. Law gasps his name—Luffy’s name—and Luffy can’t—won’t—
“I like that,” Luffy murmurs, mouth against Law’s neck.
There is a deep rumble—laughter—and Luffy’s cheeks warm, lifting himself up slightly to get a better look at Law. Midday sun pours through the window, pooling shadows in the folds of Law’s clothes, in the ink peeking out of the collar of his shirt.
Luffy’s lost, then. Mind blank. Wants to say, I like you; wants to demand, say my name again.
But he—can’t.
Words are meaningless, not enough, and Law is—beautiful. Mouth parted, he worries his bottom lip, swollen from their kiss. His hair is a knotted mess, and his eyes are wild, and all of him is undone. He is as beautiful as the ocean, endless and impossible and dangerous and warm, the lines and scars and blood on his skin thrown into sharp relief by the sun, every impossible flaw laid bare.
Luffy’s heart stops. Slowly, painstakingly so, he rubs his thumb over Law’s lips—up across his cheek, his nose, his ears—then down to his neck, and down, down, into his shirt. Feels every bump, the muscle, everything; learns Law by touch alone, heart utterly still, breath caught.
“I want you, Torao,” he breathes. “I want—”
He swallows the words. Stupid. Not enough. Not for him.
“Luffy—”
Luffy kisses him, then, his heart spilling up and out, Law’s skin like fire, pouring into him, searing through him. Time fades to nothing as their mouths slide together, hips finding an unhurried rhythm—
And they are silent, until the sun sets, and the moon rises; until time waits, for them.