Archive of Our Own

Mir ist kalt
Unendlich kalt

Wenn die Kälte kommt mit eisiger Hand
Wenn die Kälte kommt und dein Herz übermannt
Wenn die Seele friert, der Atem dir brennt
Dann bin ich bei dir, wo die Hoffnung mich wärmt

Weit am Horizont
Wenn die Kälte kommt

Rosinante hasn't ever thought much about dying, per se.

Death — yes. Ever since he was a child, death has been ever-present in his life: his mother, withering away in a drafty excuse for a house; the villagers, brought down by his brother's rage and grief; his father, shot and beheaded by the very same brother.

He's brought death down himself before, too — as a Marine, it's nigh impossible not to, these days. He's too young to have been involved in tragedies such as Ohara, Baterilla or Flevance (thank the Seas) but there's only so much a recruit rising through the ranks can refuse to do and his hands have been covered in blood long before he volunteered to return to his brother's side as a spy. And the less said about the deaths he's wrought as Doflamingo's Executive, the better… at least in Rosinante's opinion.

So yes, death has been a constant companion in Rosinante's life and he's always had a complicated relationship with it.

Dying? Dying is a whole other pair of boots.

For one, it's cold. Not the familiar freeze of a North Blue winter that he's grown accustomed to in the past four years, even if his body has never really been great with it; no, this cold is biting in a way that he lacks words for, settling in his lungs and his blood and the marrow of his bones and he's too tired to even shiver. Rosinante doesn't have to be a medical professional to know that this is bad and somewhere in the back of his mind, a nagging voice that sounds suspiciously familiar tells him that he's being an idiot and, well, he's never claimed to be a smart man.

It's also painful and in hindsight, Rosinante figures that he should have expected that, what with the various injuries he's collected in the past… however long it's been since they landed on Minion Island. He's lost count of the bruises and cuts and broken bones sometime around the fight against Vergo and it hasn't gotten any better with the several bullets lodged in his chest and by now, he cannot tell what pain corresponds to what; his body is a single maelstrom of agony, every wheezing breath sending new pulses of pain down every nerve ending.

Death, as scary as it can be, is ultimately peaceful, he thinks. At least he likes to think so — that his parents and everyone he's had to kill have found peace, eventually, that they're someplace nice and warm and tranquil.

Dying isn't peaceful, not at all. Dying is agony and cold and fear, so much worse than anything he's ever felt, gripping his heart with its icy claws in a way that would paralyze him if he weren't already in too much pain to move anyway. Maybe it would be less bad if he were afraid for himself; if he were as selfish as Doffy, for example, only concerned with his own life and power and influence. But Rosinante has never been like Doffy, much to his brother's chagrin, has always been a bleeding heart — and isn't that the biggest irony, that the Donquixote Family's Heart Seat is literally bleeding out because he cared too much? — and every single thought sluggishly circling in his mind revolves around the small, sick boy that all of this has been for and he's terrified of the moment that the last of his energy leaves him.

In that moment, the last vestiges of his Devil Fruit's ability will disperse into the falling snow and the child he's chosen over his mission, over his own life, will be in danger again, even more than he already is. So Rosinante ignores the cold and the pain and the fear choking him — or is it the blood filling his lungs…? — and clings to the very last flickers of life pulsing through his veins to give the boy just a few more seconds, a few more moments of protection.

Just a little longer, he tells himself. Just another second. Another breath.

He's so, so very cold. Above him, the sky is white with falling snow and he closes his eyes against its brightness, hoping that the darkness will grant him a little reprieve. He knows that he's dying, has been aware of it ever since tripping down the mountain after succesfully retrieving the Op-Op Fruit, way before Vergo has gotten his hands on him; in truth, he's known that he wouldn't leave the island alive long before setting foot on it.

But he can't let go yet. Not yet. Just a little longer… just one more second.

He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, can hear how the thud-thud-thud of it keeps getting slower als life seeps out of him like sand in an hourglass. And yet, he clings on to life, to the remnants of power at the tips of his fingers, to the Silence protecting a single child for as long as possible.

Seas, he prays that the kid makes it. Prays that snow and Silence and the sea itself will cover any tracks left behind, that he hasn't given his life for nothing. He'd do it all over again in a heartbeat, if asked — the pain and the fear and the cold, just to make sure that the kid gets away safely. That he gets to live. That he gets to cure himself and live to see another birthday, another decade. Anything but the slow death brought on by the poison running through his small body and the all-encompassing fury fueling every stubborn step.

Would you truly?

A voice. Not any voice Rosinante recognizes nor one he's completely sure is real, if he's honest with himself. It feels as if his very soul is enclosed in ice, his breath nothing but crystals rattling through his blood-filled lungs.

Would you do it all again?

If he'd have any air to spare, Rosinante would have laughed. He doesn't, though, so he just lies there, eyes closed, heartbeat fading, bleeding out in the snow, and thinks,

Of course I would.

There's no reply. Rosinante isn't surprised; after all, he's dying — auditory hallucinations make sense, in a way, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing to happen to him. He can feel his fingertips going numb from the cold and his power flicker. Stubbornly, Rosinante refuses to let go.

Not. Yet.

If you could take another step, the voice whispers in his mind or maybe in his ear or maybe not at all because it's not there and never has been, would you?

If Rosinante had the energy in him for another step, he'd already be on his feet trying to follow the kid. Of all the lies he's told over the last four years, none have weighed as heavily on him as the one he's told the kid when he'd promised to make it out okay, to come back and sail the world together.

He wishes it hadn't been a lie. Seas, how he wishes he could stay with the kid. His bleeding, broken heart aches with how much he loves the kid, how much he wants to see who he will grow into.

Hold on to that hope, the voice whispers again, soothing and warm and peaceful in a way dying isn't, and follow its warmth.

Rosinante exhales another shuddering, wheezing breath. His consciousness is slipping away and with it, the last bit of control. Follow where…?

Towards the horizon. Ever onward.

His heart finally stops as the voice whispers one last, determined word:

Again—

Rosinante comes to with a start, disoriented and dizzy as he shakes off the last wisps of a nightmare so vivid, he's half convinced he's still asleep. Seas, he can still fear the phantom pain from his dream in his chest, still feels stiff with the biting, freezing cold that had nothing to do with the snow he dreamed about.

He's familiar with nightmares, of course — with his past, it would be a surprise if he didn't have night terrors strong enough to terrify even a seasoned seaman, much less a Noble-turned-Marine-turned-spy-turned-traitor who hasn't even hit 30 yet. Might not hit 30 ever, really, considering what he's planning to do.

But something about this nightmare… it feels different from his usual ones. He exhales a puff of air and his breath clouds slightly, making him frown. Is this still the remnants of the dream or is it really this cold…?

"… Cora?"

He startles hard enough to pull a muscle, cursing under his breath and massaging his hurting neck with one hand even as he turns to face his companion who's watching him from his perpetual cocoon of blankets with a frown edged across his face. What Rosinante wouldn't give to see the kid smile earnestly.

"Did I wake you?" he asks, unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. Seas, but this ship really isn't big enough for the two of them. When he makes it through this — if he makes it — he swears he will steal a bigger one, if only so he can stretch his legs properly.

"You were talking in your sleep," Law replies. His voice is quiet and scratchy, eyes hazy with the by now familiar sheen of fever and his already pale complexion looking decidedly greyer with every day as the Amber Lead slowly but surely works its way through his system.

"Sorry about that, kiddo." Rosinante sighs, reaching over to ruffle Law's hair. A month ago, the kid would have bitten him for this; today, the boy's eyes crinkle just slightly with pleasure before he bats Rosinante's hand away with a huff. Always so fiercely independent, even in his starvation for touch.

"… 's fine," Law mumbles, a faint blush across his nose and cheeks that has nothing to do with the ever-present flush of fever that hasn't left him in the past two weeks or so. He sounds and looks so tired, Rosinante's heart aches looking at him. "We're there, anyways…"

Rosinante looks up from his charge and out the single porthole of their dingy little cabin to realize that Law is right, they've arrived at their destination sometime during the night. He remembers falling asleep just as the storm was dying down finally and for once, the Blues have been merciful: outside the porthole, he can see the snowy cliffs of Minion Island and for a moment, he feels a strange pang of déjà-vue as he looks up at the white hills. Why do they look so familiar…?

He shakes himself out of the odd feeling, shooting a grin at Law instead.

"No time like the present! Let's go, kid."

Mooring the small boat is muscle memory at this point, something he can do even half-asleep, just like throwing a well-aimed grappling hook at a tree so he can haul himself and Law up and onto the island. He thinks, briefly, about leaving the kid behind with the boat but one look at the stubborn, determined set of Law's jaw and the way he's clearly having trouble taking a deep breath is enough to make up his mind, so Rosinante ends up carrying the boy once again, clinging to his back like a particularly ornery koala.

It'd be a lie to try and claim that Rosinante hates it.

Still, he draws a line at dragging the kid into the lair of the Barrels Pirates.

"You'll be safe here," he explains patiently, even as Law protests weakly. It's testament to how sick he is that he's not putting up more of a fight; a month ago, Rosinante would have had to pry the boy off his leg with a crowbar. "I'll come back soon, okay? You just sit here and wait, I'll be right back with the Op-Op Fruit."

"Promise?" Law looks at him with barely hidden worry and once again, Rosinante feels like he's been here before. Like he's seen those big, plaintative eyes on him, heard the plea for what it is.

Once again, he ignores the feeling and smiles.

"Promise," he replies softly, ruffling Law's hair again. "I'll be back in a jiffy, just you wait."

Law's eyes — his irises that strange color that looks grey normally but lights up like molten gold when the light hits it just right — widen the tiniest bit at this promise and he almost smiles before his eyelids droop again, his body obviously too exhausted from the fever to keep them open for much longer.

"Okay," he whispers, the death-grip he has on Rosinante's black feather coat loosening, small body relaxing back into the bundle of blankets. "I'll wait here, Cora. Until you come back."

Rosinante loves him so damn much.

He shoots the boy a grin that feels like his face is about to crack, giving one last thumbs-up before casting Calm on himself and venturing out into the snow, up the hill. His steps are silent, not even his breath is audible despite the light exertion of the hike, and his mind races with the possibilities of everything that could go wrong.

Did go wrong…?

For a moment, he feels off-kilter with how strong the vertigo of another déjà-vue hits him and he wobbles on his own feet, just barely catching himself by grabbing on to a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. Seas, what is happening? He hasn't felt this nervous since — since going undercover. Stealing the Op-Op Fruit is risky, yes, but nothing compared to the daily horror of facing Doffy again, of following his orders, of pretending to be every bit as uncaring and cruel as his monster of an older brother. Infiltrating the lair of the Barrels Pirates to steal the only thing that's capable of curing Law? It should be child's play.

So why then, why is he feeling like something's about to go wrong horribly?

Suddenly, vividly, he remembers the nightmare he had last night. The biting cold, the fear, the pain. The despair. Even underneath the thick feathered cloak, he catches himself shivering with the memory of it all, even as fuzzy as it is, making him feel like he's been here before, done these things, said these words.

But that's impossible, right?

It's impossible and he doesn't have time for it. He simply doesn't. Time is of the essence, he has to get in and out as quick as possible, he has to get the Fruit and get back to Law so they can escape together and the kid can cure himself. That's all that matters, for now; he can lose his mind afterwards, once Law is safe and healthy.

Rosinante takes a deep breath, shaking his head and focusing on the walls of the mansion rising out of the trees and snowy hills in front of him again. He's done things like this before — infiltration and espionage is quite literally what he trained for in the Marines and even if he never officially joined the Intelligence branch, he's still a commander by rank and experience. Clumsy as he might be in his daily life, he's a damn good spy for a reason.

It's almost too easy; he Silences himself and the explosion he sets off, takes out the lights, moves like a shadow through the pirates guarding the Op-Op Fruit. Ignores the unsettling feeling at the back of his mind that all of this feels way too familiar as he grabs the heart-shaped (because of course it is, the irony of all of this isn't lost on him) Fruit from Diez Barrels, breaks the window to jump out in a whirlwind of broken glass, lands in a crouch in the snow outside and rolls to his feet in a maneuver practiced over a lifetime of falling over his own two feet. Makes it down the mountain… and trips into the middle of a group of sentries when his perpetual clumsiness decides to return at the worst possible moment.

His pistol doesn't have enough bullets to take them all down before they start shooting.

It should be a shock, the pain of bullets lodged in his body. The feeling of blood seeping through his clothes. Forcing himself and his battered body to take cover and reload, to shoot until his attackers are dead in the snow, now more pink than white. But in reality, Rosinante is oddly calm about it — the agony he remembers from his nightmare trumps all of this by far.

Maybe he should be more worried about this but all Rosinante can think of is the hand-sized (not his hand, more Law's) Devil Fruit and getting it back to his charge, of making sure to get the kid to eat the damn thing so he doesn't fucking die because he couldn't live with himself if he let the boy die on his watch after everything. He refuses. Law will live and if it's the last damn thing Rosinante ever does.

His memory of getting back to the hideout where he left Law is spotty is best and nonexistent at worst; it doesn't matter, in the long run. What matters is the widening of Law's eyes when Rosinante stumbles up to him, grinning triumphantly despite the pain he's in.

"Cora!" The kid scrambles ouf of his blanket cocoon, small hands (thirteen and still so small, way too small and fragile and Seas, he prays that this will all be worth it so this boy can grow and live to see the world) reaching for his black-feathered coat and gripping so tightly that the already pale knuckles go even whiter. "You made it back!"

"Told you I would." Rosinante puts one hand on the boy's head, ruffling his hair and dislodging the spotted fluffy hat in the process. For once, Law doesn't protest, looking much too relieved. Fuck, it's good to see the kid like this — hopeful, almost in disbelief about their luck. A far cry from the violent, nihilistic gremlin Rosinante has all but kidnapped six months ago and has hauled all across the North Blue trying to find a cure for ever since.

"Did you get it?" The question is quiet, almost inaudible. Rosinante watches Law glance away, a frown edging itself into his expression, brows furrowing. Unable to help himself, Rosinante grins as he reaches into one of the pockets of his coat and holds the Fruit aloft — his hand dwarfs it easily, making it seem even smaller than it already is. He remembers his own Fruit being bigger than this, and a lot less vibrant in color; for Law's sake, he hopes that the Op-Op Fruit at least tastes better than the Calm-Calm Fruit did.

"Sure did." He holds the Fruit out to Law but instead of reaching for it, the kid hesitates. Rosinante watches different warring emotions flash across Law's face, obviously not convinced by the prospect of it, despite it being the only thing that might be able to cure him of the Amber Lead.

"What if — what if it doesn't work?" Law whispers, only the light tremble in his voice betraying how fucking scared the kid has to be. And that — that just won't do. Rosinante opens his mouth to argue but Law isn't done speaking yet. "It's not too late yet, Cora. You could still…"

Rosinante stuffs the entire Fruit down Law's open mouth, consequences be damned.

The kid gags — Rosinante remembers the vile taste of his own Fruit, the rotten aroma of its juice and the way its flesh was foul and slimy on his tongue — and for a moment, he seriously fears that Law might throw up. It would be a realistic reaction, too; no sane human being would enjoy the taste of a Devil Fruit, after all. Desperately, Rosinante holds Law's jaw closed, telling him to swallow the damn thing and not letting go until he can see the disgust on Law's face, the sound of him finally swallowing the Fruit loud in the surrounding quiet.

"What the fuck," Law spits at him once he recovers, half-retching and half-coughing in disgust, wiping his mouth with one dirty sleeve. "Cora!"

"There," Rosinante sighs, relief making him dizzier than any of the bullet wounds littering his body, "it's done. Now… now you can cure yourself, Law."

He sinks to his knees, the snow soaking through his jeans and it evokes another dream-memory of the creeping chill in his bones. This time, it's much harder to shake, relief and blood loss making him feel weaker than he's felt in years. Seas, he needs a break.

"Cora!!" Law's panicked voice, even as feverish and sick as he is, alerts Rosinante to the fact that he is no longer kneeling in the snow and has unfortunately keeled over to land face first into the snow. "Are you okay?!"

"Doffy's plan won't work now," Rosinante mumbles and oh, those are tears of relief and joy on his cheeks, not just the falling snow. Fuck, but it's cold here. He's never dealt well with the cold, even if he hasn't been to Mariejois in so, so long, but he's always missed her temperate climate. Maybe that was the reason why his brother had settled on Spider Miles, of all places — it was as close to the climate of their childhood home as one could get, out here in the North Blue.

All it had done for Rosinante was make him miss Marineford's warmth all the more.

"You can cure yourself now," he repeats, allowing himself to close his eyes for just a second. He can rest for a moment, right? Now that Law ate the fruit, the worst is behind them, right?

He grunts, half pain and half exasperation, as Law yanks and pulls and shoves his body onto his back, the cold wet now seeping into the back of his clothes after soaking his front already. At least his feather coat is thick enough to stave off the damn snow; small mercy, that silly gift of Doffy's ended up being. He's sure his brother would absolutely hate it.

"Is that blood?" Law sounds increasingly more panicked. "Cora! What the hell did you do?!"

"Tripped," he replies, huffing out a self-deprecating laugh. It's not even a lie. His own clumsiness being his undoing is some cruel twist of irony, that's for sure.

"Stop joking! This is serious!!"

Rosinante blinks his eyes open, watching the kid fuss over him, trying to make his new abilities work and oh, that wonderful, stubborn, silly child.

"I told you," he chuckles with a weak shake of his head, "the Fruit's not magic. You can't just cure injuries with the snap of your fingers, kid."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to help you?!" The kid is crying again. Seas, what Rosinante wouldn't do to make sure Law won't ever cry again… But there's something he has to do, first.

He nearly drops the capsule with all the intel he has gathered in the past four years, fumbling it out of his coat and pressing it into Law's small, clammy fingers, meeting the kid's eyes.

"Do me one favor, kiddo," he says. "Hand this over to the Marines. It contains information to save a small kingdom named Dressrosa. Make sure to give it to someone we can trust, yeah?"

"But you—"

"I'll be okay," he interrupts, not unkindly. "It's just a couple of bullet wounds. Something like that won't kill me, kid, don't worry. Just deliver the capsule for me, okay? There's Marines at the coast, they'll know what to do with it."

Law glances between him and the capsule, the set of his jaw as stubborn as ever, his hatred for the Marines — justified as it is — clearly warring with his worry about Rosinante. If someone had told him six months ago that the kid would care about him so much, he would have laughed at them.

Now, it just makes his chest ache with more than just his injuries.

"I just need a small break," he smiles at the kid. "Once you deliver the capsule, we're getting off this island, okay? And then we'll sail the world. Together."

Wide, grey-gold eyes stare at him and there it is again, that flicker of hope and joy that Rosinante would kill for. Has killed for. After a moment, Law nods tersely and stumbles away through the snow, his small figure quickly disappearing from view. Rosinante exhales a long, shuddering breath, allowing himself another moment of respite now that he doesn't have to pretend for the kid's sake.

Fuck, his body hurts. Those damn sentries may not have been great shots but they've made up for that with sheer numbers… it's not one of Rosinante's finest moments, that's for sure. He's just glad he decided to leave the kid behind for that particular endeavor, Seas alone know what could have happened otherwise.

With a pained grunt, Rosinante pulls himself up and shuffles over to lean against the nearby stone wall, the crumbling remains of what might have been someone's house once upon a time or maybe surrounding someone's property. The stones are cold but solid against his back and he uses the opportunity to take stock of his injuries, of how much blood he's lost. It's not ideal, that much is clear; but it's also not the worst he's endured in his life.

Briefly, the memory of being strung up by his wrists against the burning remains of his family's manor flashes across his mind. Instinctively, Rosinante rubs the old scars as they throb with old phantom pain before focusing back on the situation at hand. No, he's not going to die from his wounds, he hasn't lied to Law about that. But he's also not doing great, unfortunately, so he'll take the time it takes for Law to deliver the intel to rest up as much as possible.

Six months ago, he kidnapped Law from the Donquixote Family and ran away with him on a wild goose chase across the North Blue, desperately trying to find something, anything, that might help with Law's Amber Lead Disease. Instead, all they'd found was bigotry and hatred and propaganda-induced fear and somewhere along the way, Rosinante has started questioning. Doubting. His mission and the Marines and Justice and every single oath he's ever taken in Her name. His loyalties to everyone but the terminally ill child he refused to give up on, refused to leave behind, refused to simply let die.

Still refuses to disappoint.

He knows that others would question his sanity. Seas, maybe he would have, too, before meeting Law. But nothing has ever been as clear and obvious to him as saving the boy — from both the Amber Lead and Doflamingo. Making sure that the kid gets to live and, most importantly, gets to be free of everything burdening him. And he will, damn it all.

They just have to get off Minion Island, first.

Rosinante isn't entirely sure how much time passes until he hears Law's voice again, accompanied by another. Male, from the sound of it, vaguely worried. A Marine? He has to smile despite himself; trust Law and his stubborn streak of not just doing as he's told but making sure to get someone to help them, too.

"Cora!" Law calls out, voice still scratchy and nose stuffy. "I found help! Look!"

Rosinante opens his eyes, about to tell the kid that he's an idiot with all the fond exasperation he has but the words get stuck in his throat when he recognizes the man standing just a handful of feet away from him.

"Vergo…?" He gasps out without thinking and before he knows it, Vergo's eyes go wide with recognition and disbelief.

"Rosinante," he intones, fury creeping into his voice as he sizes up Rosinante's prone form, "since when can you speak?"

And oh — oh Seas, he fucked up. He fucked up colossally.

"Vergo?" Law says, not understanding and so, so confused. "Cora, do you know him? What…?"

He risks a glance at the boy and catches the exact moment Law realizes just who he's run into, watches the realization sink in with the exact same terror that Rosinante feels himself. But before either of them can do anything, before Rosinante can yell at Law to get the hell outta here and fucking run, Vergo is already moving and the next thing he knows is pain exploding across his face as Vergo's foot collides with it.

The sickening crunch of his nose breaking under the steel-toe of Vergo's boot is almost loud enough to drown out Law's cries of horror.

He barely has time to react before Vergo has already coated his entire body in Armament Haki and every damn hit feels like he's being bodied by a Seaking, breaking his bones and ripping open his skin. His body is being flung around like a rag-doll, limp and weak and broken until he lands in the snow again, a bloody heap of black feathers, blood and agony.

"No! Leave him alone!!"

Vision swimming, Rosinante forces his eyes open through the swelling pain and instantly regrets it, unable to do anything but watch as Vergo kicks Law over to him. Even with all the rigorous training Doffy has put the kid through back on Spider Miles, the boy is still horribly sick and weakening by the minute, he doesn't have a single chance against someone like Vergo and Rosinante watches, breathless and horrified, as Law's small body collapses in the snow next to him.

A thin rivulet of blood runs down one of the white patches of Amber Lead on the boy's sickly-grey face and Rosinante feels his chest constrict with more than just the physical pain of his broken ribs.

No. No, it can't end like this.

Not after everything. He's not letting it end like this!

Spite, he has learned, is a powerful motivator. It's what has kept both his own brother and Law going for this long and it's what Rosinante himself draws on now, as soon as Vergo is distracted with a call to Doffy and divulging the newest information he has. It's pure spite and sheer force of will that has Rosinante stumbling to his feet and gathering Law's limp, unconscious body, cradling the boy to his chest like it's the most precious treasure in the entire world — and to him, it might as well be, this sick and stubborn child that he has grown to love more than he ever loved even his own blood, this wonderful and smart kid that will one day change the world, he knows it.

One of Law's eyes is swelling shut, his small face is smeared with a mix of blood, snot and tears but he's still breathing and as long as he's breathing, Rosinante will fight for him.

Calling upon the Calm-Calm Fruit's powers is second nature to him, by now, creating a sphere of Silence around them to muffle the sound of his steps, of their labored breaths, of the pained grunts he can't keep down. It's nothing short of a miracle that he manages to get them away and out of sight before Vergo remembers to pay attention to them, climbing back up the hill and keeping hidden behind half-crumbled houses until he finds one that's mostly intact so they can hole up in there to catch their breath.

Law looks way too close to death's door for Rosinante's taste. Seas, he needs to get the kid off this damn island as fast as possible…

In a moment of helpless affection, he brushes aside some of Law's messy hair from his forehead, fingertips trailing over the feverish skin as he carefully wipes away the worst of the blood. Would that he could let the boy rest and heal, that they had enough time to recuperate in peace.

But he knows better than anyone else that time is not on their side — both the Amber Lead and Doflamingo are circling Law's life and freedom like vultures, drawing ever closer. If they don't hurry…

Screams from outside are what makes Rosinante look up and out the broken window, eyes widening as he watches a cage of silvery strings grow in a huge cage encompassing the entire island. Even if he's never witnessed this particular technique before, it doesn't take a genius to recognize the handiwork of Doflamingo's Devil Fruit, its glint all too familiar after four years spent at his monstrous brother's side. He watches the strings touch down, swallowing hard.

This is it, then. Their time has run out.

Rosinante exhales a long, shuddering breath. All around their hideout, Doffy's Parasite ability is making the leftover Barrels pirates and their allies turn on each other, friends attacking friends with cries of horror, blood dripping into the snow. Rosinante watches it all silently, almost detached from his own body, his own fear and anxiety replaced by an odd sort of calm that almost feels like resignation.

Almost.

If he's honest with himself — and as used to espionage and lying as Rosinante is, he seldom is these days — he's known that he isn't going to leave Minion Island alive, not after stealing the Op-Op Fruit and betraying both the Marines and Doflamingo. All along, he's been all too aware of the possibility that now seems to have become an inevitability and yet, he can't bring himself to be particularly worried about the fact that this island will become his grave, not when he has Law to think of, first.

It's funny, in a way; Rosinante has never really fancied himself as someone who could ever have his own family, much less children. And yet, what he feels for Law can only be described by something between paternal protectiveness and fraternal affection. He loves the kid so fucking much and has forsaken every single one of his oaths for him and at the same time, he and Law exchange barbs and insults on the regular like siblings. Or at least they did until Law grew too sick to argue much. It doesn't make any logical sense and yet…

And yet.

"Don't worry, Law," Rosinante whispers into the silence of their hideout, glancing back at where the boy is lying, still unconscious but alive. "I'll make sure you get off this island. I promise."

This time, the feeling of déjà-vu is strong enough to almost make him lose his precarious balance and he grips the window sill with both hands in a desperate attempt to stay upright. It doesn't quite work and he sinks to one knee, grunting with pain as his body protests and his skull rattles with the after-effects of the concussion Vergo gave him, now coupled with the vertigo from a half-remembered memory of being covered in his own blood, too weak to even lift a single finger, agony exploding across every single nerve in his broken body, and holding on for one more breath, one more second ticking away to… to what?

Fuck, what in the name of all the Blues is going on? He doesn't have time for this. Law doesn't have time for this!

Rosinante squeezes his eyes shut until the feeling passes and he can breathe a little easier again, only then shakily getting back to his feet again. What a mess he is… a fine protector Law has chosen to get attached to, that's for sure. He wishes he were stronger, less clumsy, faster, smarter. Enough to protect Law, enough to save him. But even if he wanted to, he wouldn't leave the kid now… So he might not be the best there is but he's all that Law does have.

And he'll be damned if he squanders that.

The plan, when it finally forms, is insane at best. But it's all Rosinante has, all he can think of to save the boy's life as he cradles Law's small body (malnourished and wracked by fever, the poison in his veins and marrow and internal organs stunting his growth, face covered in white patches of Amber Lead build-up under his skin and the bruises and cuts from Vergo's attack and Rosinante's heart aches, aches, aches) to his chest and carefully stands up, perpetual clumsiness replaced by the same odd tranquility that has taken over the anxiety and fear churning through him, almost as if his Fruit itself is lending its ability in his hour of need.

He doesn't think this is what an Awakening feels like but he likes to imagine that it's as close as someone like him can get to one; he isn't foolish enough to believe himself powerful enough to Awaken.

"Hn?" Law's eyes flicker open just enough to focus on him. It's more whimper than question, born of fever and pain and too much his small body has already endured.

"It's alright, Law," Rosinante soothes, smiling down at the kid automatically. He refuses to let Law see him worry. For once, he will make sure that Law is safe and protected. For once, Law doesn't have to fend for himself.

Not as long as Rosinante still draws breath.

"I've got you. I have a plan how to get you off the island."

Law frowns, effective even with one eye swollen almost shut.

"What about you? Cora…?"

"Don't you worry about me, kiddo." He makes himself smile wider, all too aware of the picture he must be presenting. "You trust me, right?"

For a moment, he almost thinks that Law will tell him to fuck off, like so many times before. It's been a chaotic six months, half the time spent yelling at medical personal as much as trying to fend of a feral gremlin child convinced that he'd been kidnapped for nefarious purposes. Seas, he wouldn't be surprised if Law has someone seen through his lie about not being a Marine, if he still harbors that same intense fury and hatred against those that have stolen everything from him when Flevance went up in flames in order to keep a secret.

He wouldn't blame him, really.

But then, Law relaxes in his arms and there's that small, rare smile of his that crinkles his eyes and makes him look his age for once and not the traumatized teenager he's grown into.

"Yeah," he whispers, eyes fluttering closed again as he (unconsciously?) snuggles back into the warmth of Rosinante's feather coat. "I trust you, Cora."

Rosinante does not cry. He doesn't. And if his eyes go misty for a bit as he carries Law out of their hideout, then that's between him and the falling snow of Minion Island.

Four years undecover with Doffy's crew have taught him several things: one, his brother is still as cruel as he remembers — now backed by a terrible Devil Fruit, his own group of sycophants willing to kneel where others did not, and the burning desire to see the world burn for the perceived sleight of not bowing to his every whim.

Two, the other Executives besides himself not only encourage his brother's behavior but actively celebrate it, indulging in their own desire for violence and chaos under his spread wings, all of them just as cruel and monstrous as Doflamingo but none as brilliant as him, reduced to worms basking in his light.

Three, every single member of the Donquixote Family (and isn't that name a mockery of the true family Rosinante remembers, of his father and mother dead and buried in unmarked graves, their blood spilled by a cry for vengeance and their own son's fury) is loyal to a fault, some of them having been taken from impossible situations and thinking Doffy their savior, others simply rejoicing in the lack of consequences his protection grants them.

Four, even led by a former Celestial Dragon and spreading fear and violence across the North Blue, they are all but human and greed is one of the basic sins all of humanity has been united by since the dawn of its existence, causing king and beggar alike to reach for all that glitters and pray that it's gold as they, just like Doflamingo's men, gather as many stolen goods and chests full of precious things as possible.

And where would Rosinante hide his own greatest treasure but among the stolen riches his brother's crew has piled high?

Law is awake again by the time Rosinante manages to sneak them close enough to hide the boy inside one of the bigger treasure chests, looking confused yet cautiously hopeful.

"They're pirates," Rosinante reasons with a smile as he pulls the blankets higher around Law's small shoulders, "they won't leave behind something as precious as their loot. You just stay in there and make sure they don't see you, okay?"

"But what about you?" Law looks at him with that piercing gaze again, as if he kid sees right through him. Maybe he does; lying is second nature to Rosinante by now, after all, and the only person able to see through most of his bullshit is the boy in front of him. He prays silently that, just this once, Law will believe him.

"I'll be okay." He gives the boy another grin. "Doffy won't kill me. I'm his brother, after all."

The truth is that Doffy has done worse when he was younger than Law is now. The truth is that Rosinante has spent more years of his life fearing his own brother, reliving nightmares of patricide over and over again ever since he was a child. The truth is that Rosinante knows, better than anyone else on this island, that he will not live long enough to see the sun rise again.

And yet.

Covering the boy in a bubble of Silence is the easiest thing Rosinante has ever done, not even having to think of it. He watches Law knock against the side of the chest, tries not to preen at the brief flash of delight across the kid's expression because here, at the end, he finally has made Law believe that his powers are cool, after all.

"Nobody will be able to hear you like this, Law. You'll be safe."

Safe as long as Rosinante lives, he doesn't say, free as long as he can make Doflamingo believe that Law has already gotten away, as long as he still draws breath and blood flows in his veins.

He doesn't say any of it. Instead, he gives the boy a wide, happy grin and says the only truth he can give him:

"I love you, Law!"

He closes the lid of the treasure chest and hopes against hope that if Law thinks of him, many years down the line, he will remember him smiling and telling him how loved he is instead of the blood and broken bones and the lies he's told.

As the lid closes, he almost misses the wide-eyed look Law gives him, the brief flash of pure, unadulterated joy and surprise but Silenced as he is, the boy couldn't answer even if he wasn't too stunned to speak by the sudden declaration. It's for the best, really — Rosinante doesn't need a reply, has never needed anything from this child, this wonderful, smart boy, other than for him to live and be free. He dares to hope that Law's acceptance, calling him by an affectionate nickname instead of his codename, his trust and his laughter, is proof enough of this strange, familial-yet-not bond they share. But he doesn't need it, not like he needs to make sure Law lives.

Maybe once, it has been about making sure that Doffy never learns about the Will of D. hiding under his own nose. But it hasn't been about the D. in Law's name for a long, long time. Maybe, just maybe, it never has been in the first place.

Not that it matters, now. Taking a deep breath, Rosinante ignores the pain of his broken ribs and gets to his feet, fingers lingering on the closed lid of the treasure chest hiding his kid — his, nobody else's, and he will die before he lets anyone else lay claim to the boy — in a rare moment of weakness. Would that it were different, he thinks, would that there was another way.

But there isn't. Not in this world. Not in this timeline.

There's a faint whisper at the back of his awareness, speaking of cold and hope and warmth and the horizon ahead but Rosinante shakes his head, clearing his mind to prepare for what is to come. Lights a cigarette, pretending that his hands aren't shaking, that he isn't scared of his brother's wrath.

That he doesn't flinch when Doflamingo calls his name.

He turns around, fingers reaching for the gun he knows he won't be using, his finger on the trigger despite being well aware that he could never shoot his own blood. Unlike Doffy, Rosinante has always been their father's son, first and foremost, has inherited the kindness that has led St. Homing away from Mariejois and down into the mortal world, for better or worse.

His brother — monstrous creature that he is, puppet-master and manipulator and father-killer — calls him weak, handsome face pulled into an ugly grimace of hatred and anger at the depth of Rosinante's betrayal but really, who has betrayed whom first? Is it betrayal returning to the side of your father's murderer to bring him down from the inside? Is it betrayal to spirit away a child before he, too, can be corrupted by the festering malice and hatred burning up your brother from the inside? Is it betrayal to look your own kin in the eye and know that their words of affection are nothing but possession clad in pretty lies?

"Law has already escaped," Rosinante grins and it's the easiest lie he has ever told, his own fervent wish bolstering him more than he ever thought possible, "you can't get your hands on him now, Doffy. He's eaten the Op-Op Fruit. He will live and he'll be free!"

Once upon a time, before tragedy has struck the Donquixote family and humans turned on would-be gods descending from their Holy Land, Doflamingo may have loved his baby brother. Once upon a time, before their mother passed to a preventable illness and the blood of countless people has stained a ten year old boy's hands, he may have found one last shred of humanity inside his heart, one sliver of mercy to extend. Once upon a time, adding fratricide to patricide may have been one sin too many, too big even for Doffy to commit. Once upon a time, they might have had a happy ending.

Rosinante hasn't believed in fairytales since the age of eight.

A shot rings out, impossibly loud in his ears, immediately followed by another and another and another, bullets ripping through the air in what seems to be supersonic speed before they all connect. Between the two of them, Rosinante has always been the better shot; half his career, he's been as much sniper as he's been a spy. But from this close, there is no way for the bullets to miss him even if he still had the energy and stamina to dodge them.

He can feel them pierce his body, every single one heavy with lead and what feels like seastone, shredding through skin and muscle and tissue alike and oh, he remembers this.

As his body falls and blood seeps into the white-cold-white snow around him, as he sinks back against the chest that hides Law, Rosinante remembers. He remembers the nightmare in all its vivid colors and agony, remembers the biting, freezing cold in his soul and marrow, remembers the disembodied voice asking him questions the answer of which have seemed logical. Remembers the fear and the regret and the stubborn, desperate refusal to give up and the whisper of hope and warmth at the horizon just before everything went dark.

He remembers and grits his teeth.

This time, when the voice whispers, he doesn't hesitate.

Again.

Rosinante comes to with a start, disoriented and dizzy and dying gasping for breath, hands flying up to his chest where there are — were — should be? — several bullets lodged into his flesh. But his shirt is drenched with sweat, not blood, his wheezing breaths the only sound in the tiny cabin of the boat he's stolen for himself and Law.

Fuck. Fuck, it hasn't been a dream at all, has it? All those strange instances of déjà-vue, of feeling like he's said and done these things before, they were real because they have happened. In another timeline. To another him. Or the same him? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. He cannot think.

"Cora?"

He whirls around so fast that he gets tangled up in his own damn blanket and falls off the cot he's been using as a bed. Cursing, he goes does in a heap of cramped, too long limbs and twisted blankets. Somewhere next to him, Law sighs with the long-suffering exasperation of a teenager whose caretaker is trying his patience every damn day and, after a moment of tired grumbling, helps Rosinante disentangle himself. As used to his own clumsiness as he is, the only true injury is the one to Rosinante's dignity.

For now, at least.

"Did I wake you?" he asks, sitting up and leaning his back against the cot while examining the boy closely. Just like Rosinante's injuries, any blemishes on Law's body seem to have vanished — save for the pale patches of Amber Lead buildup under his skin and the flush of fever across his nose and cheeks, as usual. It shouldn't be as much of a comfort to see him back to this state and yet, Rosinante wants to weep with how relieved he is not to see the kid's face covered in bruises and cuts.

"You were talking in your sleep," Law replies. His voice is quiet and scratchy, eyes hazy with fever. They've been here before, he knows now. Had this exact conversation. This time, Rosinante peers at the bags under Law's eyes that never quite go away, no matter how much the kid seems to sleep lately, at the exhaustion written so plainly across his pale face, complexion going greyer and greyer with every day spent hunting down a cure that doesn't exist.

Seas, has he truly not seen it before? Or has he deliberately ignored the deathly pallor in favor of a wild goose chase across countless hospitals?

"Sorry about that, kiddo." Rosinante sighs, reaching over to ruffle Law's hair automatically. This time, he knows that the kid won't avoid his touch so in a fit of guilt and affection, he pulls him into a hug and even though Law squawks in surprise and puts up a token protest, he doesn't struggle against the arms around his body at all. If anything, the boy snuggles closer even as he grumbles out loud.

Silly, hyper-independent child.

"… 's fine," Law mumbles, blush effectively hidden by the brim of his fluffy hat, pulled down impossible low, and the fact that the kid presses his face against Rosinante's chest — right where the last bullet had pierced his heart, in another life, another time.

He swallows, wondering if Law is experiencing the same odd thing, whether this strange phenomenon is affecting the boy in the same way it's affecting Rosinante. But Law shows no indication of being aware of the situation or having lived through this exact moment before, so Rosinante doesn't say anything, keeps the strange experience to himself and tries not to fixate on what it might mean.

Instead, he allows himself to briefly close his eyes and to enjoy the rare moment of Law allowing open affection.

Predictably, the kid starts squirming a couple of moments later, embarrassed about accepting the hug yet unwilling to admit that he liked it. Rosinante suppresses a smile and loosens his hold, lets the boy shuffle a couple of feet away, brim of his hat still pulled down to hide his expression as if it's not glaringly obvious that the flush on his face has nothing to do with his fever.

"… We're there, anyway," he mumbles, trying to distract from his own embarrassment. He may as well have emptied a bucket of ice-cold water over Rosinante's head with how fast that statement sobers him up.

Seas, is he really supposed to go through it all again?

It's not that Rosinante is afraid. Not like that. Yes, Doflamingo scares him just as much as when they were both children — maybe even more, if he's being honest with himself — but it's not his own life he fears for. No, he fears for the consequences of what his brother might do if (not when, never when, not as long as Rosinante has anything to say about it) he ever gets his hands on Law again, of what might happen if the Op-Op Fruit falls into Doffy's hands, if he makes true on his promise to raise Law into his second in command…

He has to prevent that. Somehow.

Like before, Rosinante peers out of the porthole and up at white, snow-covered hills of Minion Island that have witnessed him die twice now and may see it again if he's not careful. Every single thing happening on this island is a death-trap by itself: stealing the Fruit, Vergo, Doffy's arrival and the string cage. Knowing all this, any sane man would count his blessings and turn around, leave this Seas-forsaken place and go far, far away.

Well, he's never claimed to be sane.

This is what he knows:

One — the Barrels Pirates are in possession of the Op-Op Fruit that is supposed to be traded in exchange for five billion berri to the Marines on Rubeck Island in three days' time.

Two — this trade has already been compromised long before Rosinante has learned about it because Doflamingo has a man on the inside who will be arriving on Minion Island in just a few hours, in time to intercept Law carrying Rosinante's intel.

Three — Doffy will be close behind, making sure that nobody can escape from the island even before learning that the Op-Op Fruit has been stolen because he intends to take it for himself and have someone (not Rosinante, never him, and not Law either, not over Rosinante's dead body), anyone perform the Eternal Life Surgery for him.

Four — it is absolutely imperative that Law eats the Fruit, there is no way around it. It's the only thing that can cure the Amber Lead, the only thing that will guarantee his survival. The kid has the necessary medical knowledge, Rosinante knows that.

Five — Rosinante is more than willing to lay down his life to ensure Law's survival and has done so before, at least twice if he's really repeating this day.

Six — he doesn't know what has caused the voice to reach out or who — what? — is speaking to him, promising hope and the horizon, and it might be important to find out in order to stop this cursed day from repeating itself.

The first five facts haven't changed between the two loops he remembers. The sixth, however… That is a variable he has to explore. A good spy never works with missing intel and right now, information is the one resource that Rosinante can accumulate; everything else — time and peace and distance and medical attention — is hard to come by at the moment.

"No time like the present!" he makes himself say with false cheer, shooting the kid a grin that feels deceptively wobbly at the edges. He prays that Law doesn't notice. "Up and at 'em, kiddo!"

Just like before, he moors the boat, fastens the rope with a grappling hook on a tree growing oddly sideways off the side of the cliff. Just like before, he turns to collect Law when the boy reaches out to hold on to his feathered coat, except…

Except.

If he takes Law with him, they'll both be trapped inside Doffy's string cage, won't they? The events will repeat themselves as they have before, most likely ending with Rosinante bleeding out in the snow. Again.

He's not afraid to die but Seas, he could do without the pain, for once.

So instead of giving in like he always does when faced with that stubborn set of Law's jaw (weak, his brother's voice hisses at the back of his mind, always so weak for creatures beneath you, you were a god once), kneeling in front of him so their height difference isn't as great. Of course, Rosinante still towers over the boy but he hunches his shoulders on instinct, makes himself smaller and non-threatening because the last thing he wants — the last thing he's ever wanted since Law stabbed him on Spider Miles almost three years ago — is for Law to be afraid of him.

"Listen," he says as softly as possible, putting both hands on Law's small, trembling shoulders. He cannot say whether it's the cold, the fever raging through his body or the fear of being left behind again. He tries not to think about it too hard. "It's dangerous up there."

"I know that!" Law bristles, predictably. "I'm not an idiot! And I'm not weak, I can fight, I can—"

"I know you can," Rosinante interrupts him gently because this has never been a question of Law's abilities. "But I — listen, kid. I need you to be safe, okay? I can't — I know you can look after yourself, don't look at me like that. But I'll work better knowing you're nowhere near danger, alright? So please. For me?"

It's a low blow, he knows. A really low blow, judging by the way Law's eyes grow wide and he looks away, clearly conflicted. Rosinante watches him bite his chapped lip, worrying at it until a bead of blood forms as the kid has some sort of internal debate right before his eyes, torn between stubbornly insisting on coming along and his not so secret affection for his guardian.

Finally, those grey-golden eyes flick back to Rosinante's face and ah, there's his kid again, ornery and feral gremlin child that he is.

"Only if you promise to come right back," he says and his tone leaves no room for arguments, even if his affection for Rosinante has won for the moment. One day, he's going to make a great leader — he has all the makings of one already and Rosinante hopes, hopes, hopes that he will be privy to witness this fledgling star's rise to power until he burns as bright as a supernova. "If you're not back in two hours, I'm coming after you. I don't care how dangerous it is."

Well. He supposes this is as good as it's gonna get. Two hours will be cutting it really close considering the hike up the hill to the mansion the Barrels Pirates have holed up in but he's worked with less under much worse circumstances; for the moment, at least, nobody knows that they're here and he can use that fact to his advantage.

He just has to be extra careful and avoid tripping into the middle of a group of sentries, this time.

"I'll be back before you know it, kid!" He flashes a grin and a thumbs up and watches as Law, almost despite himself, smiles back at him, stubborn expression softening just slightly. Seas, Rosinante loves him so, so much.

His Marine training comes in handy once more as he climbs up the rope with ease, one last glance back over his shoulder letting him know that Law, still cocooned in every single blanket they own, has taken up a lonely sentry position at the helm of the boat, fever be damned. At this point, Rosinante really shouldn't be surprised anymore; Law's determination is only outweighed by his sense of loyalty — and his spite. Still, it makes Rosinante's heart ache with something like pride and gratitude that this stubborn, amazing child has chosen to put his trust in him despite their respective bloodlines, despite everything in their histories practically demanding that they be enemies.

Once more, he vows not to betray Law's trust.

Rosinante retraces his own steps to the mansion, slipping back into infiltration mode with practiced ease. He's done this before, after all — Silence on himself and the explosion he sets off, the soundless shots from his pistol reduced to muscle memory as he barely has to aim at the light to take them out, making his way through the dark hallways and dodging the panicking pirates, wrangling Diez Barrels for the Op-Op Fruit and jumping through the window in a spray of glass shards and wood splnters.

He lands, rolls, springs to his legs. Begins sprinting back down the hills of Minion Island, back to the coast, back to the boat, back to Law.

Careful, he reminds himself as he jumps over a rock barely visible under the thick snow coating the landscape, he has to be careful. Law is waiting for him and time is ticking down with every second he wastes; if his perpetual clumsiness rears its head now, there is no way he's getting back to the boat in under two hours and then Law will set foot on the island and get trapped again as soon as Doffy arrives and just. No. Rosinante refuses to let that happen, not again.

Somehow, miraculously, he manages to avoid the group of sentries that he's run into. Maybe there is something about that old fairytale he remembers from his childhood books, about how the D family is not only powerful and dangerous (and they can and will kill any Celestial Dragon they come across, so be a good little boy and eat your dinner before one of those monsters comes and gets you) but also is blessed by supernatural luck. Rosinante doesn't know if any of that is true because the only true monster he's ever known is his own blood brother and the child that's supposed to be his enemy is the one person he would give his life for; but right now, the legendary luck of the Ds is more than welcome to work in his favor even if he isn't one of them.

His two hours are almost up by the time Rosinante stumbles out of the small copse of trees that hides the cliff where he's left Law and their boat and he breathes a sigh of relief when he spots the furled sails. Now he just has to climb down to the boat and…!

He staggers to a stop when he notices that the boat looks abandoned, Law's small but determined form no longer keeping watch at the helm. What…? Has he gotten the time wrong, after all? But no, he hasn't been held up this time, he's avoided the sentries and made it back down the mountain unscathed and Law agreed to wait, he wouldn't go back on his word…

"Looking for something, Corazón?"

Rosinante has felt horror before but all of it — even witnessing his own father's murder — pales in comparison to the icy sensation racing through his veins until it freezes his very heart and soul. No. No, it cannot be!

He whirls around, eyes wide but not even his worst nightmares (and maybe it's not a time loop at all that he's trapped in, maybe it's just one unending nightmare, forcing him to relive this day over and over and over again) could have prepared him for the view of Vergo, cruel smirk firmly in place right next to a random piece of food stuck to his cheek, casually leaning against a tree as if he's on a pleasant afternoon walk and not holding up a small, limp body by the scruff of its neck, a familiar mop of unruly black hair and pale skin splotched with white wrapped in a rough cloak fashioned from an old blanket.

Law.

"You…!" Rosinante doesn't think, cannot think. He pulls his pistol, aiming directly between Vergo's eyes even though he's shaking hard enough to miss even such an easy target that he'd be able to hit blindfolded, under normal circumstances. Except these aren't normal circumstances at all. "Let him go, Vergo!"

This time, Vergo isn't surprised by Rosinante practically growling his name despite his assumed muteness over the past four years. Neither is he cowed by the pistol aimed at his face or the anger-fear-fury in Rosinante's eyes that he's always hated seeing on himself because it makes him look too much like Doffy, reminds him too much of everything he's tried to bury and leave behind.

"I don't think I will," Vergo drawls, giving Law's body a shake as if he's nothing but a pile of rags and not the most precious thing in Rosinante's world. "Doflamingo gave pretty clear orders, you know? Deliver the brat back to him and kill your traitorous ass."

Rosinante hisses with anger, hatred and fury and fear in his lungs and in his chest and his heart beating against the cage of his ribs like it's trying to break through, loosens a shot that whizzes just past Vergo's left ear in a warning shot.

"I said," he growls through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing as he takes aim again, "let. Him. GO."

Vergo meets his eyes, one eyebrow twitching upwards in something like reluctant respect before he smirks again. Rosinante hates the man more with every passing second.

"You're a fool, Rosinante." The man grins at him and his expression bears the same ruthless twist that he has seen on his brother's face countless times in the past. "We both know you won't shoot me. Not while I have the brat. You wouldn't want me to hurt the little punk, would you?"

Rosinante grinds his jaw helplessly, not lowering his pistol but also not daring to move until Vergo almost casually readjusts his grip on Law until he's holding him up by the neck, thick fingers wrapped around that fragile, thin throat, threatening to crush the delicate bird-like bones of his spine underneath, to squeeze until there's no air left in those labored lungs.

Law's head lolls to the side like a doll's with its strings cut, a bruise high on his cheek already forming, perpetually chapped lips split and bloody, but his face scrunches up in a pained frown, grey-golden eyes fluttering open with a quiet grunt as he tries and fails to reach up and pry the fingers off his throat, too weak from the fever raging through his body and the beating he's clearly taken.

Rosinante's heart is in his throat and it's hard to breathe as if it's his neck being grasped by Vergo's strong, unforgiving hands. They both know that Rosinante would never endanger Law, would never risk losing him the way he's lost his parents. Despite himself and the anger making his blood boil with nothing but hatred and the need to destroy-punish-kill, he watches his own hands lowering the gun until it hangs limp at his side, just as useless as the man holding it, even as Law coughs and spits in Vergo's grasp, rasps out a desperate attempt at Rosinante's name.

"Now," Vergo says triumphantly, not at all concerned with the squirming, sick child he effortlessly holds up in a chokehold. "Are you going to hand over the Fruit willingly or do I have to kill you for it, traitor? We both know how this ends, so do yourself a favor and don't make it harder than it has to be."

Rosinante swallows, mouth dry and throat tight. His breath is coming out in small clouds of air, almost immediately dispersing in the wintery chill of Minion Island and the still falling snow but he feels none of it, too numb with fear and helplessness, too aware of what's at stake.

At the back of his mind, the disembodied voice whispers once more.

Would you do it all over again?

All at once, the fear drains out of him to be replaced by the same sense of tranquility he's felt before, that odd feeling of calm that reminds him of the Silence he can summon with his Devil Fruit powers in the way it seems to muffle all the negative emotions raging in his soul like he usually blocks out sound.

The gun slides out of his fingers, dropping into the thick blanket of snow and Vergo smirks.

"I'll make it quick for you," he promises with that cruel glint in his eyes as if he's offering mercy. "Not for the brat, of course. The Young Master will make sure of that, he's been pretty clear on how disappointed he is with the punk for running off with you."

Rosinante exhales another breath, slow and deep. His gaze is locked onto Law's face, on the blood smeared across the white patches of Amber Lead, on the barely-there rise and fall of the kid's chest as he reaches inside his coat, fingers closing around the the strange heart-shape of the Op-Op Fruit. It's small in his hand, just like before, barely the size of a grapefruit, and for a moment, Rosinante glances down at it, takes in the swirly pattern of its skin, the velvety feel of it, the hardness of its stem. Then, his eyes flick back up to Law's face and he allows himself a small, rueful smile.

Next time, then. At least Law won't remember this. He hopes. He prays.

"Throw it over here, Rosinante," Vergo orders, never a paragon of patience despite his status as a double-agent. "Don't even think about getting any heroic ideas now."

No, nothing about his idea is heroic, that much Rosinante has to admit. But it's the only thing that he can reasonably come up with to save Law from a fate as Doffy's obedient puppet, scraped out and left an empty husk in much the same way his brother has tried to subdue him in the past four years.

Rosinante isn't the hero of this story, he knows. But he can at least make sure that his kid won't have to live through this timeline.

And that is why he looks straight at Vergo as he lifts the Op-Op Fruit to his mouth and takes a big bite out of it, the taste of rotten flesh exploding on his tongue and sickly-sweet spoiled juice running down his chin and Vergo's eyes widening with surprise.

"Cora — NO!"

"How dare you—!"

He's told Law about this, before Minion Island, before the storm: if a Devil Fruit user dares to eat another Fruit, they are penalized for their greed, struck down by whatever supernatural means has granted them their abilities in the first place. It's a sin punishable by death, one of the universal truths that govern both Mariejois and the seas bisected by the Red Line, uniting Celestial Dragons and mortal beings, and it's what Rosinante relies on now, out of options and desperate for another chance, another try to change fate, as he forces himself to swallow the vile mouthful of fruit pulp.

Mercifully, the punishment for greed is just as swift as being granted a Fruit's powers in the first place and Rosinante is spared having to witness the raw grief edged across Law's face, the soundless sobs wrecking his too-small, sick form as his own lifeless body hits the snow-covered ground, heart stopping where he stands with one last, agonizing beat.

And in the split second between life and death, the voice echoes through his jumbled thoughts,

Again.

Rosinante comes to with a start, disoriented and dizzy, and immediately proceeds to empty out the meager contents of his stomach as he leans over the side of the cot and vomits, acrid taste of rotten fruit still on his tongue and the sound of Law's cut-off scream reverberating through his brain.

Fuck. Fuck.

He's always been surrounded by death, he knows, its specter haunting his every step through this world ever since his father gave up his status as a saint and jumpstarted a chain of events that no one could have foreseen. Sengoku and Tsuru and even Garp as well as several of his fellow cadets have all called him stupid before and reckless and flirting with danger but — he's never considered himself suicidal before. Not until he'd looked at Law's tear-stained, feverish face, thick fingers wrapped around his neck, and known with absolute clarity that he wasn't going to wait for Vergo to pull the trigger on him.

Sadly, the justification for his actions does nothing to abate the sick feeling to his stomach.

"Cora?!"

Shit.

"Sorry, kiddo," he gets out, wheezing against his will. "Didn't mean to wake you…"

"What the fuck?! That's not —"

"Language," he interrupts automatically because apparently parental instincts for his feral gremlin child override post-suicidal dread (is it PTSD already if he's still actively living through the trauma? Is there a classification for this type of time loop-induced mess?). He's rewarded with a fist to jaw that he doesn't even try to dodge.

"Fuck you," Law spits but it lacks the any vitriol, replaced with something between concern and righteous anger. Rosinante doesn't have to look up from the floor to know that he's being glared at six ways to Laugh Tale and back. "You threw up! Are you getting sick?"

A small, clammy hand worms its way under Rosinante's messy, sweat-drenched bangs, cool against his heated skin. He can feel the light tremor despite Law's best attempt to keep it under control.

"I'm fine, you menace," Rosinante sighs, gently brushing aside the hand on his forehead and finally meeting Law's determined stare. One day, he will become a frighteningly capable medical practicioner and Rosinante already pities any patient dumb enough not to follow his orders. "Just — nightmare."

It's not exactly the truth but it's not a complete lie, either. Both of them have their fair share of night terrors between them and usually, Rosinante has a good grasp on his own — mostly through use of his Devil Fruit's abilities, Silencing himself before sleep so he won't wake Law up when the kid is already so exhausted fighting his own poisoned immune system. Just his luck, of course, that he's forgotten to do so before tripping sideways into this cursed time loop.

Law's face does something complicated that shouldn't look nearly as endearing as it does but Rosinante has long since given up trying to fight his affection for the kid. For a moment or two, the kid just looks at him with narrowed eyes, clearly parsing his words for any lies before finally letting out a huff and nodding, the tense set of his small shoulders relaxing just the slightest bit.

Seas, but he looks as wrung out as Rosinante feels. Suddenly, he is selfishly, viciously glad that Law doesn't seem to remember any of the previous loops; the kid has been through enough shit already and Rosinante would rather kill himself a hundred times over than expose him to all that.

"You can't get sick, Cora," the kid says seriously and it sounds like an order, almost, if it weren't for the way his fever-red cheeks darken with embarrassment. "You're way too heavy for me to carry. Plus we don't have enough medication and… I don't have the energy to worry about your overgrown ass…"

Now that is a lie and they both know.

"Brat," Rosinante replies, impossibly fond, chest warm because he can hear the words Law isn't saying, knows full well to look between the lines and frowns and to listen for the unspoken truth. For a moment, he's tempted to tease Law more, desperately starved with the need to see the kid act like his age for once, even if it's flustered teenage posturing. But time is a luxury they don't have, he knows, not as long as Doffy is still out there and the Amber Lead is still wreaking havoc on Law's system.

So instead, he ignores the bile still sitting heavily in the pit of his gut, pushes away the churning memories of the past failure loop from his mind and smiles down at Law, one hand coming up to rest on the boy's head.

"You know I love you, right kiddo?" he asks and Law — Law freezes under his hand like a deer caught in lantern light, eyes widening and emotions flitting across his face much faster than Rosinante can even try and recognize any of them. His breath skitters to a halt for one long, long moment before it rushes out again and Law averts his eyes, tilting his head so that the brim of his fluffy hat covers his expression just so, cheeks pink with more than just the shine of his fever. With a huff, he bats Rosinante's hand away and he already resigns himself to inevitably being called names and insulted again for being stupid (it really wouldn't be the first time, after all) when Law surprises him once again by climbing onto the cot next to him and wrapping thin, trembling arms around Rosinante's torso under the thick black feather coat.

"Asshole," the kid mumbles without any heat, burying his warm face against Rosinante's sweat-drenched shirt likes he's attempting to crawl inside his chest and make a home there in the hollow of his ribs, right underneath his bleeding heart. "Don't just — say shit like that. It's not — I'm not — I can't —"

"I know," Rosinante rushes to say, torn out of his surprised stupor by the sheer naked longing in Law's stammered words, "I know, kid. You don't have to say anything back. I know, okay? And I'm here. I'm not leaving you."

"You can't promise that." Even though it's muffled, the words sound dangerously close to a sob. "You can't. People leave, Cora, they leave and they die and I'm always…!"

And Seas, doesn't Rosinante know that all too well? Hasn't he been convinced of the same thing once, too, until Sengoku found him on that beach and brought him back to Marineford with him to feed and clothe and care for him until little Rosi finally accepted that love and kindness wouldn't immediately be followed by another traumatizing loss? Is it now his turn to impart the same knowledge onto another lost and grieving child?

"I won't," he says and he means it with every fiber in his heart, "I'm not leaving you, Law. I mean it. We're getting you that Fruit and then we'll go far away together, okay? Just you and me. We'll leave the North Blue and go see the world."

"But Doflamingo, he—"

"Won't ever lay another finger on you," Rosinante swears and pretends he doesn't notice the way his own voice drops an octave into an approximation of the growl he's given Vergo what feels like minutes ago but was technically probably another lifetime. "I promise you, Law. I'll keep you safe."

Law clings to him and Rosinante might be wrong but he thinks the kid is crying. With a sigh, he leans back more against the wall of the tiny cabin, wrapping both arms around the boy and hugging him close, taking care to cover him more securely with his coat in an attempt to warm him up at least a little.

Faced with the silence and a crying teenager holding onto to him like a limpet, Rosinante mentally replays the timeline from the first time he's lived through the loop, comparing it to the changes he's witnessed during the previous loop. Clearly, leaving Law behind in the boat isn't an option; even if he could convince himself and the kid both that separation was a good idea, the thought of Vergo getting his hands on him again is unbearable.

Those first two times, he's made it back to Law with the Fruit, hasn't he? Yes, he's had the unfortunate run-in with the sentries posted at the base of the mountain but he knows to watch out for them now. If he can avoid getting attacked and injured by them, if he makes it back to Law in one piece and can convince him to eat the Fruit before they both escape… He has contacts all over the North Blue, after all, Marine outposts with people he knows and trusts even if they haven't heard from him in years but who will recognize his Marine code and the intel he gives them for what it is.

But is it enough to smoke out the mole in their midst? How deep does Vergo's network run, whose pockets is he lining, how many has he convinced to turn a blind eye to Doffy's exploits in the North Blue? Can Rosinante truly entrust the future of Dressrosa to a former contact, now that he knows that there's someone on the inside working for his brother?

… No, he can't risk it. The only people in the Marines he trusts instrinsically are Tsuru, Garp and Sengoku and out of those three, only Tsuru is close enough to reach out to — if he manages to survive Minion Island, that is. He knows she's still tailing the Numancia Flamingo and will probably be right behind Doffy once he lands on the island. Provided he can avoid Vergo and his brother, provided he gets Law safely away from everyone intending to harm him, he can give his intel to Tsuru and disappear.

A Marine going AWOL isn't a rarity these days. It's not the way Rosinante would have intended to leave the navy but even if he wasn't planning to stay with Law, he doubts he can ever simply return to his service and pretend that everything is alright. Not after hearing the true story of what happened to Flevance from Law, not after seeing the corruption take root by hands of is brother, not after learning about Vergo's involvement in the organization that should be there to protect lives but has effectively destroyed many more than it has saved.

And in truth, neither Ohara nor Baterilla have ever sat well with him, no matter what arguments he's heard from Sengoku.

"What are we gonna do, Cora?" Law mumbles against his chest, effectively pulling him out of his dark ruminations. Rosinante sighs, one hand coming up to splay across Law's back.

"We're getting you that Fruit," he replies, gazing out of the nearest porthole and up at the snowy hills of Minion Island rising from the freezing waters of the North Blue. "And you're going to cure yourself. And then we're getting out of here and lying low for a while — maybe on Swallow. It's small enough that there's no Marine presence there, nothing of interest even to Doffy. Maybe we can find you a village doctor to apprentice with…"

In his arms, Law squirms slightly until there's one red-rimmed eye peeking up at Rosinante from under the safety of his hat.

"Do you really think I can do that? Use that Fruit to… cure myself?"

"Kid," Rosinante says honestly, not even trying to tamp down the smile splitting his face, "if there's anyone who can do it, it's you. You're smarter than some adults I know, myself included, and you've been reading all these medical books. I'm not gonna sugarcoat it, the thing will taste like absolute shit, they all do, and it'll take a bit until you can master it. But I'm absolutely sure that you can do it."

Once again, he's being pinned under Law's intense stare that always makes him feel a little like some sort of specimen being inspected under a microscope as the kid studies him, searches his face and words and body language for any lies. It makes Rosinante's heart ache for him, for the innocence lost in fire and blood and poison build-up, for everything that has robbed a kid his age of trust in others.

After what feels like a couple of hours, Law finally relaxes the tense line of his shoulders again and nods, mollified.

"Okay," he says, "then we get the Fruit."

As if it's that easy.

But then, maybe it is.

This time, Rosinante doesn't hesitate after mooring their boat and scoops Law up immediately to deposit him on his back, the kid immediately taking up his usual position peeking over Rosinante's shoulder like a tiny live backpack. The weight, even as light as it is, is oddly comforting in a way that he doesn't know what to do with but accepts gladly after the last loop.

The trek up to the ruins of the abanonded town where he's left Law behind the first couple of times but he can't bring himself to make the kid wait for him, not again. Even if previous experience has proven that Law is reasonably safe here — as safe as any place can be on Minion Island the looming threat of, well, everything — Rosinante is loath to leave him behind for even a short time after just promising him not to do exactly that.

Well, Garp has always said that plans never survive first contact with the enemy. Apparently that also applies to stubborn, brilliant teenagers.

So he hikes Law up a little higher on his shoulder and mumbles,

"I'm going to Silence us. Nobody will be able to hear you or me but it's still important that you stay out of sight as much as possible, got it?"

"Got it," Law replies, quiet and determined. He listens as Rosinante explains the rest of the infiltration plan but it's obvious that he's having trouble staying awake; the fever must be spiking again, damn it. If they're unlucky — and knowing Rosinante, they will be, at the most inopportune moment — the kid will tumble off his shoulder in the middle of a fight with one of the pirates.

Shit.

"Hold on, kiddo," he says as he shifts Law's weight from his back to one arm, cradling the kid to his chest instead. The fact that Law doesn't protest being manhandled like that beyond a couple of grumbled complaints is a sign that his suspicion about the fever getting worse is correct. At least this way, it's easier to keep him hidden under a thick layer of wool and black feathers, away from prying eyes.

He oddly feels like a mother bird protecting her young.

Maybe it should be concerning how easy it is to get into the Barrels Pirate's hideout by now — the Silence, the explosion, shooting out the lights with a couple of well-aimed shots, sidestepping the pirates trying to stop the phantom shrouded in feathers and soundlessness. Doing it all one-handed is a handicap, sure, but not worse than anything he's been through during basic training, even if it does take him a couple of seconds longer to get the Op-Op Fruit from Barrels this time. When he throws himself out of the window, one arm wrapped securely about Law's form and the Fruit while clutching his flintlock with his other hand, he makes sure to angle his body in a way to protect Law from the glass shards, rolling to his feet in the snow outside in a by now all-too familiar move.

So far, so good. Now they just have to make it down the damn mountain and past the guards stationed all around it, then they can get as far away from the island and come up with a plan for what to do after.

Behind them, another silent explosion shakes the ground as Rosinante begins putting as much space between them and the mansion as he can. Even though his attention is split between making sure not to drop either Law or the Fruit and keeping watch for that treacherous rocky outcrop hidden under layers of white, he miraculously manages not to trip and lose his precious cargo.

The Devil Fruit might be worth five billion berri to the World Government and the Marines but there is no price high enough to ever compensate for Law's life, in this world or any other.

"Law," he murmurs as he ducks under the protruding branch of a tree and sidesteps another slippery outcropping of rocks, "you with me, kid?"

"Y-Yeah…" Law shifts slightly, breath coming out in small, quick puffs. His eyes flutter open and it doesn't take a medical professional to recognize that he's burning up, even bundled in Rosinante's heavy coat and his own cloak and warm clothes.

"I'm gonna head straight back to the boat, okay?" He leaps over a half-frozen creek, almost losing his balance on the unstable bank but catching himself with some monumental effort. "We can't afford to lose any time and stop so I need you to eat the Fruit while I'm running. Can you do that for me?"

Daring to glance down at his charge, he catches Law's feverish gaze sharpening with the same old stubborn determination.

"I can do it, Cora."

A small, trembling hand reaches out to take the Op-Op Fruit from him and Rosinante relinquishes it easily, five billion berri traded for a life. This time, he doesn't forcefeed the damn thing to Law, choosing to trust in the boy and focusing back on the perilous, snowy path back to their boat. He can feel Law move in his arms and forces himself not to look down when he hears the kid gag in disgust.

"I know," he soothes, "I know. It tastes like dogshit but you have to swallow it, Law. Just the one bite is enough, you don't have to eat the whole thing, just one bite… You can do it, kiddo."

Law lets out another retching noise and his entire body stiffens as he clearly forces himself not to spit the entire damn thing out again. Rosinante wishes he couldn't empathize, wishes he didn't have first-hand experience with either his own or this particular Devil Fruit. Unfortunately, he remembers the taste all-too well and not just because he's woken up with it still fresh on his tongue just hours ago.

"Why…" Law dry-heaves once, twice and then his body abruptly relaxes even though he's breathing as if he's run for several miles and Rosinante can feel the dampness of his face soak through the fabric of his own shirt. "Do they taste like that…"

From anyone else, it would sound whiny but he mostly just sounds affronted, as if personally insulted by the attack on his taste buds. Rosinante lets out something between a relieved sigh and a laugh, probably sounding borderline manic.

"Some say it's because mankind was never meant to have powers like this and that the gods purposefully wanted to discourage anyone from trying to eat more than one." His feet sink into the deep snow with every step, the cold and wet seeping through his leather shoes and the fabric of his jeans but he doesn't dare to slow down, too aware of the possible consequences. "Others claim it's some evolutionary precaution. And still others will tell you it's the sea's punishment for turning our backs on it, on top of losing the ability to swim."

He doesn't mention that this last notion was the one taught to all Celestial Dragons back in Mariejois, safe in their lofty castles and mansions up on the Red Line, far away from the seas or the temptation of Devil Fruits. After all, what good are powers granted by devils to those who think themselves gods?

"… Disgusting," Law decides with a shudder, turning his face more into Rosinante's chest to hide from the snow and cold wind but still clutching the Op-Op Fruit with both hands. It's a simple yet incredibly astute observation that not a single Devil Fruit user would ever argue.

By the time they reach the small copse of trees hiding the cliff and their boat, Rosinante is out of breath from his sprint across the island, calves cramping, and desperately in need of a cigarette. He glances over his shoulder, figuring that taking just a moment won't hurt; he's made good time, after all, and with Law safely in his arms, neither Vergo nor anyone else will get their grubby hands on the boy. Taking a deep breath — and maybe he should rethink his chain smoking habits, once he's broken out of this damn time loop and they're somewhere safe — Rosinante sinks to one knee, ignoring the unpleasant feeling of cold wetness spreading through the denim, and hums,

"Almost there, kid. How you holding up?"

"I'm good," Law claims immediately as if he doesn't still look vaguely ill and his face isn't covered in a sheen of sweat, bright pink spots of fever high on his cheeks. Like he's not visibly fighting to stay conscious. "Don't worry about me, Cora."

As if Rosinante ever could.

"Bit too late for that, kiddo." He doesn't call the boy out on the lie. "Think you can stand up for a moment? I'll need both hands to climb down the rope again."

"I can do it."

Stubborn, determined, wonderful child.

Law squirms slightly as Rosinante carefully sets him down on his feet, swaying for a moment but immediately reaching out to steady himself on Rosinante's arm. He's still holding the Fruit with one hand as if he can't quite make up his mind whether to keep it or throw the vile thing into the ocean now that he's gained its powers.

Logically, Rosinante knows that one bite is enough, that it's not necessary to force the poor boy to eat it all; after all, he himself has only eaten half of the Calm-Calm Fruit and it's never let him down after he's mastered its abilities. Unfortunately, his protective instincts for Law and the affection he has for him make him worry regardless because what if it isn't? What if the Op-Op Fruit is different, what if its size is somehow related to its abilities and those who covet its powers need to consume it whole? What if for some reason, the Fruit doesn't recognize Law as its new heir with only one bite? What if, after everything, it still won't be enough to cure the Amber Lead…?

With monumental effort, Rosinante forces himself to abort that particular train of thought. He can't afford to let anxiety cloud his mind, not now. Not as long as they're still in danger.

He reaches out to take the Fruit out of Law's small hand, taking a moment to inspect the small bite taken from it, before tossing it over his shoulder carelessly without bothering to check where it lands. Instead, he places one hand on the boy's head, smiling at him brightly.

"You've done so well, Law," he praises and doesn't miss how the kid perks up, doesn't miss the faint smile. "I'm real proud of you!"

Predictably, Law blushes from the words, half-heartedly batting Rosinante's hand away and grumbling about sappy, overgrown idiots who don't know when to shut up and Rosinante's chest swells with helpless affection once more. He opens his mouth to say something — maybe to laugh, maybe to tease — but before he can make even a single sound, something pings on the very edge of his awareness.

His observation haki has never been particularly strong but he was still trained by none other than Monkey D. Garp; it might be the only reason that he notices anything at all before it's far too late.

He doesn't think, moving on instincts honed over years of grueling military training.

"Law, get down!"

The kid goes crashing into the thick snow with a muffled shout of surprise a split second before one of Diamante's flag swords can pierce the boy's shoulder and pin him to one of the trees nearby. Rosinante glances over his shoulder, chest heaving, eyes wandering over the three tall figures emerging from the copse behind Diamante himself, the waving steel of his blade stabbed straight through Rosinante's back and sticking out of his chest, just inches away from his heart.

Blood drips off the tip of the sword and into the snow, pooling under him.

"So it is true," Trebol drawls, pulling up the snot dripping out of his huge nostrils with an obnoxiously loud noise, "you really have betrayed the Young Master, Corazón…. Ehehehehe!"

Rosinante grits his teeth against the pain and the rush of sheer hatred flooding through him at the sight of these four men. Diamante, Trebol, Pica and Vergo — it was them who poisoned Doffy's already fragile mind against his own father, them who made a monster out of the older brother Rosinante has once loved more than life itself.

They won't take Law from him, too. He won't let them.

"Law," he grunts, "I'll take care of them. Whatever you do — don't stop running. And never look back."

"Cora…?!"

He's moving before he can think better of it, yanking his body off the blade and jumping to his feet, pistol drawn and aimed with one hand while grabbing Law by the scruff of his neck with his other, putting as much force as possible into throwing the boy further towards the cliffs, as far away from their pursuers as possible.

"RUN!"

Shots ring out through the white silence of Minion Island but he doesn't wait to see whether they've hit, already dodging sharply to the side before the second bullet has even left the muzzle of his pistol to avoid being hit by one of Trebol's glue projectiles and then immediately ducking under another attack from Diamante. He fires again and again, nicking Pica's temple which would have been a debilitating hit on anyone else but the bullet harmlessly ricochets off his stoneskin, embedding itself in a tree trunk, even as Vergo laughs at him.

"You're an embarrassment to the Heart Seat, Rosinante!"

The black shine of armament haki is a stark reminder of the past loop and the putrid taste of a Devil Fruit sharp on his tongue, shocking Rosinante for just half a second too long; next thing he knows, another one of Trebol's projectiles hits him square in the chest with enough force to make him stumble back several steps and then Vergo's haki-covered fist connects with the side of his jaw.

He doesn't need to hear the crack of bone to know that the blow has shattered it.

Rosinante goes down into the snow hard, a guttural cry of pain wrenching itself out of his throat. Refusing to let himself be defeated this easily, even outnumbered four-to-one, he forces his screaming body up, up, up, already reaching inside his coat to retrieve one of the grenades when his observation haki alerts him to something coming from below — Pica, who else, having melted into the rocks beneath their feet to throw an uppercut at him. Rosinante grunts with the effort but jumps out of the way, throwing up one arm to block another punch from Vergo that makes his entire skeleton vibrate with the force of it. As his fingers go numb from the sudden pain spreading up his shoulder, Vergo suddenly smirks and Rosinante's eyes widen in shock realizing a moment later that he's been outplayed: with the hastily thrown up block, he's let down his guard and exposed his chest.

Across the small clearing, a lighter clicks.

"I should have gotten rid of you the first time around, all those years ago," Trebol giggles, snotty face bathed in the orange-red light of the flickering flame in his hand. "But no matter — I will happily get rid of the trash holding our beloved Young Master back. Farewell… Corazón."

The world explodes in fire and flame and the insistent hiss of the disembodied voice somewhere in-between life and death.

A g a i n.

Rosinante comes to with a start, disoriented and gasping for breath, lungs full of blood and black smoke — except there's nothing there but the cold air of the tiny cabin aboard the rescue boat that he greedily sucks in, welcoming the freezing sensation for the first time in his life. With a groan, he throws one arm over his eyes and forces himself to breathe slower, willing his erratic heartbeat to go down until it isn't pounding through his ears loud enough to muffle even his own shuddering breaths.

He has fucked up, once again.

How are things going worse every time he tries to change things? It feels like with every loop, the time before something goes terribly wrong is getting shorter, like some cosmic force refuses to let either him or Law off without pain and blood and more trauma heaped upon them. As if either of them need any more of it.

Is he missing something crucial, trying to avoid getting shot due to his own clumsiness? Does either of them win anything, having Law witness Rosinante covered in blood and beaten to a pulp? Or is this the afterlife, forcing him to relive his last day over and over again as the ultimate punishment for failing to uphold his promise to a dying child?

For an atheist born to a people who call themselves gods, Rosinante sure has been thinking about deities and the afterlife a lot in the past few days. Day? Seas, what a fucking mess…

"Cora?"

Ah. Right.

Lowering his arm, Rosinante turns his head to meet Law frowning at him from the little nest of blankets he's been sleeping in, wrapped in his cloak and face somehow both pale and shiny with fever.

"Hey kid," he greets, unable to keep the warm smile off his face at the sight of his favorite grumpy teenanger. "Talking in my sleep again, huh?"

Law blinks, then nods.

"It's usually silent," he says because of course he's noticed. Few things escape the kid's attention, after all. "But sometimes, you forget and I can hear you talk. It sounds—" He bites his lip, looking away again, clearly hesitating before taking a deep, almost shuddering breath. "… like you're having nightmares. The kind I get."

Rosinante opens his mouth — and closes it again. With a sigh, he sits up and holds out one arm, silently inviting Law to sit with him. Before all this time loop nonsense (before bleeding out in the snow and holding on for the last vestiges of concentration and power to give the kid just one more second, one more moment of protection, hold on, hold on, holdonholdonholdon), he would have expected Law to scoff at him and ignore the invitation, too guarded and suspicious of closeness or the offer to trust. Now, his chest warms with the familiar twist of affection-joy-family that he's come to associate with the sight of Law as he watches the boy work his jaw for a moment before climbing onto the cot next to Rosinante, sliding close enough to snuggle and pretending like he isn't.

Rosinante suppresses a chuckle and loosely wraps an arm around the feral gremlin child he's adopted into his heart and soul and life.

"I dreamed about today," he says and it sounds like a confession even though it isn't, not really. A dream would fade, he thinks. But every loop is burned into his memory, every broken bone and bullet and drop of blood, every failure.

Law is silent for a moment, his body tensing up under Rosinante's arm. Then, he leans more into the one-armed hug, fingers clutching at the black feathered coat in what has to be a self-soothing action by now.

"Me too," he mumbles, voice scratchy with more than just the ever-present fever raging through his system that's fighting tooth and nail against the poison eating at him. "I keep —" A deep, shuddering breath. Like he's forcing the words out despite them clawing at his throat and chest. "I keep dreaming about everything going wrong. About Doflamingo finding us. About — about you dying because you're being stupid."

Rosinante freezes.

Could it be…? His heart is beating so fast that it almost hurts, like a bird throwing itself against the bars of its cage again and again, feathers and blood and a pounding in his ears.

"Hey now," he hears himself say, voice higher than usual, just this side of hysterical, "I'm not stupid."

"You lit yourself on fire trying to light a smoke three times yesterday, Cora! And then you nearly drowned because you decided it was a good idea to check the sail during a storm." A gold-grey eye glares up at him from under the safety of a fluffy hat brim.

"That's being clumsy." Rosinante sniffs, half-affronted and half-hoping that this is just their usual banter, just Law being a brat for the sake of being one instead of trying to change the subject from the possibility of Rosinante not being trapped alone in the seemingly never-ending loop of this day. Seas, he prays that Law is spared this, at least; that whatever cosmic powers that govern the universe haven't decided to torture the kid even more.

"Same thing," Law grumbles and, in a fit of maturity so very unbecoming of the usually so stoic and grumpy teen, sticks out his tongue at him. Rosinante fights down the urge to do the same in return (what is it about the kid that makes him feel more like the twenty-something he is and not the undercover Marine spy he's been raised as?) and rolls his eyes instead. It's an old argument, familiar like a well-worn sweater.

Then, he tightens his arm around the boy's shoulders and quietly, almost breathlessly asks,

"Wanna talk about it?"

Law is silent for so long, worrying at a feather of Rosinante's coat, that he almost thinks the boy won't answer. He won't pry, of course, but it worries him, the long silence, the hesitation — is this Law's usual trust issues or something else, something deeper? Is this where he reveals that he, too, has been reliving the same day and that Rosinante has an ally in him?

But then, face practically hidden against black feathers and muffled by thick wool, Law finally mumbles,

"We went to get the Fruit but… he was there. Doflamingo." The name sounds like an insult now where half a year ago, Law has looked up to the man Rosinante once called brother. How things have change. "He somehow found out that you betrayed him and he— he cut off your head with his strings. But you were still talking, telling me to eat the Fruit and then he made you eat it! And then everything was on fire and I just kept hearing m-my…"

He trails off, shuddering, but Rosinante understands. He exhales a slow breath, silently thanking the seas and whoever else is listening that Law's nightmare really was just that and not the same mess he himself is experiencing. Then, he softly confesses,

"I'm scared too, you know."

Law of course immediately stiffens, looking up sharply and mouth already opening to argue (always, always arguing, that one) but the fight seems to go out of him like air escaping a deflating balloon when their eyes meet. His mouth clicks shut again with an audible noise and he sinks back against Rosinante's side, sighing deeply.

"… I don't…" His voice is quiet, barely there. "I keep losing people that I… that are important. And I can't… I don't want it to keep happening, Cora. So… don't do anything stupid on that island."

It's easy to read between the lines, to hear what Law so very carefully isn't saying. Not just because they've had a similar conversation before but because Rosinante, by now, prides himself in being pretty fluent in the boy's mannerisms. He can feel his own expression softening with the helpless rush of affection once more and doesn't bother holding it back.

"I love you too, Law."

Like before, Law freezes under his arm and before Rosinante can brace himself for it, he has both arms full of a crying, cursing teenager. Smiling to himself, he shifts to get both of them seated comfortably, hugging the boy to his chest and letting him let it all out while he rubs soothing circles onto Law's back. Even with how much the events of Minion Island seem to change with each loop and every decision made, some things remain the same — and he's infinitely grateful that the love they share is one of the constants across every single timeline.

Even if he has to die in every one of them, at least he gets to show the kid how loved he is.

"I'm getting you the Fruit, kid," he mumbles once the sobs and tears have quieted down somewhat. His shirt collar where Law's face has been pressed against is uncomfortably wet but he barely pays attention, focusing instead on the boy's ragged breathing, the fluid rattling in his lungs. Not for the first time since kidnapping Law from the Family, Rosinante fervently, desperately wishes that he had any sort of medical knowledge beyond basic first aid administered on a battlefield. "I promise. And then you can cure yourself, Law. And you and I, we'll sail the seas together and go see the world. Okay?"

Law sniffles in his arms, not moving for a moment. But then, he looks up at Rosinante and there's — Seas, his face is a complete mess of tears and snot but his eyes shine with the same stubborn fire that has led the boy out of the flaming ruins of Flevance and all the way to Minion Island.

"Promise me," he says and once again, his tone brooks no argument. Rosinante blinks, his smile growing without any conscious effort of his own as he lifts one hand to gently clean the snot and tears off Law's face with the edge of a sleeve.

"Promise."

Neither of them comments on the fact that Rosinante hasn't specified what exactly he promises or that he hasn't commented on not doing anything stupid once they set foot on the island.

When they moor the boat this time, Rosinante reaches for Law before the boy can, hefting him on his shoulder in the familiar hold before climbing the rope leading them up the cliffs of Minion Island. As he trudges through the snow, his mind wanders back to the past loops.

What is he supposed to do? Leave everything the way it is? Obviously, he's been changing too many things trying to not get shot or avoid a meeting with Vergo; every time he's tried, his brother's Executives have found them and taken them by surprise, leading to another painful death and another failed loop. So maybe… maybe the solution isn't avoiding getting hurt, even if he'd rather not do it again, of course.

But just because he has to let it happen, it doesn't mean that he can't prepare for the aftermath… right?

When he steps into the abandoned house he's hidden Law in during previous loops, Rosinante carefully sets the boy down and takes him by his small, thin shoulders with both hands. The size difference is staggering and Rosinante forces himself not to focus on it, looking into those fever-glazed grey-golden eyes instead.

"Law," he says as evenly as possible, "I need you to stay here and hide, okay?"

Even swaying on his feet and quite obviously needing to be steadied by Rosinante's hands, Law's brows furrow stubbornly.

"I'm not weak," he protests as if he's not about to drop unconscious with another fever spike. Rosinante has to smile against his will.

"Never said you were, kid." One of his thumbs brushes over one pale cheek and the splotch of Amber Lead build-up under his skin. "But I'll work better knowing you're out of harm's way. Plus…" He hesitates, not wanting to reveal that he knows just what exactly is about to go down. "… I might need some backup. Can I count on you, doc?"

It's a low move and he knows it. But damn if it isn't effective. Law's eyes widen, a soft gasp escaping him at the nickname and the implications of it. Rosinante watches, breathless, as the stubborn fire morphs into steely resolve, just like he knew it would.

"… I'll wait," Law promises, quiet and serious and Rosinante would feel bad for manipulating the boy like this if he weren't so damn proud. "But you better hurry back, Cora."

"Be back in a jiffy!"

The snowy hills of Minion Island blur together with past journeys through them and up the mountain housing the Barrels Pirates. Silence, setting off the explosion, shooting out the lights, wrestling for the Op-Op Fruit. Shattering glass and a broken window pane, a cut high on his cheekbone as he lands in the snow — that last part is new and it's enough to throw Rosinante off just the slightest bit, even as he throws one last grenade over his shoulder and starts jogging back down the mountain.

He's never been cut before escaping the mansion. It's not even a big cut, just barely enough to sting in the frigid winter air as snowflakes pelt him in the face, but it still confuses him. Is it because he asked Law for backup, this time? Has he changed another thing that he isn't meant to? Is this another sign of something about to go horrifically wrong, of another looming failure — or is something going right for once? What if he truly isn't supposed to change anything, what if he's always destined to die here in the snowy fields of Minion Islands, what if he's just been throwing himself against the bars of an invisible cage all this time? What if his life, more than anything else, has been forfeit from the very beginning?

With a shudder, he suddenly remembers the glowing silvery lines of his brother's strings enveloping the island, trapping everyone in what looked like a huge birdcage. How ironic for a man clad in feathers, cursing everyone else to be helpless birds as he clipped their wings and tore out their hearts…

Fear spikes in Rosinante's heart, the bloodied decapitated remains of his father flash before his inner eye, and that is, of course, the moment he fucking trips and goes down ass over teakettle in a flail of limbs with a strangled yelp. As he crashes down the hill in a small avalanche of snow, Rosinante can't help but feel like this truly is some huge cosmic joke at his expense.

When he lands smack-dab in the middle of a group of sentries, he doesn't waste any breath muttering curses. What for? He's been here before, after all. Their bullets tear through his shoulder and thigh, one lodging in this abdomen, but Rosinante pays them no heed; he can't afford to, not yet. Instead, he reloads his pistol and weaves between his attackers, trying his best not to waste any bullets — he doesn't know how far this loop will lead him and if push comes to shove, he will need them to defend Law down the line.

By the time Rosinante stumbles away from the brief but bloody fight, there's a total of five bullets in him and his vision is swimming slightly from the blood loss but he forces his body to march on, a trail of blood dripping in the snow behind him. Once he's back with Law, they will have to take care of his wounds… and he will have to convince the kid to eat the damn Fruit. Considering how Law had almost thrown up the last time he's taken a bite out of it, Rosinante wonders if he will have to force the whole thing down the boy's throat after all, if only to spare him the vile taste.

"Cora!"

He looks up in surprise at the sound of the nickname Law has bestowed upon him a while ago, following the example of the other kids in the Family. But from him, it sounds like actual affection and not the teasing way Baby 5 and Buffalo have used it, and Rosinante's bloodied chest warms in reply.

"Didn't I tell you to wait, brat?" he huffs but it sounds fond even to his own ears. Law glares at him, eyes raking over his form and expression darkening as he spots the several fucking bullet holes in Rosinante's body.

"And I told you not to do anything stupid!" Law counters, grabbing Rosinante by the sleeve and pulling him along, back to the safety of the abandoned house. "What part of that didn't you get, asshole? What happened?!"

"I tripped," Rosinante says simply, echoing his own words from several loops ago. In the end, it really is as simple as that. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards against his will under the facepaint while Law maneuvers him into a sitting position, small hands flying to undo the buttons of Rosinante's once pristine shirt.

"You—" Law stops, staring at him in disbelief for one long moment. Then, his feverish face somehow settles into an even more determined expression as he starts ripping one of the blankets he's been swaddled in into thin stripes. "Of all the…! Why are you like this, Cora?! You're supposed to be the adult! You said we're going to sail the world together! But have to fucking stay alive for that, you absolute moron!"

"Language," Rosinante chides mildly, aware that they don't have much time before Vergo lands on the island, before Doffy and the rest of the Family follow suit. Before his brother's cursed bird cage comes down and traps them. And yet, he can't bring himself to move yet, not when Law fusses over him and rants about idiots too stupid to take care of themselves while wrapping Rosinante's wounds in makeshift bandages to at least stop the bleeding.

In an odd, roundabout way it reminds him of Sengoku taking care of him after a particularly grisly mission with the Marines, years ago.

When Law finally sinks down next to Rosinante, heavily leaning against his less injured side, he's breathing heavily and his forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, despite the cold air and the fact that he's bundled up in winter clothes and his cloak. Rosinante hates how exhausted the boy looks, how he's wasted precious time and energy to take care of the one person supposed to be looking after him. Wrapping one arm around Law's shoulders, he carefully tucks the boy more inside his heavy coat so they can share its warmth before pulling the Op-Op Fruit from one of the inside pockets, presenting it to Law.

"Got you a souvenir," he hums. "Fair warning though, it'll taste like absolute shit. You might want to swallow it whole and spare yourself the experience."

Law squints up at him tiredly, eyelids drooping already.

"This thing…" He glances at the heart-shaped Fruit, easily dwarved in Rosinante's big hand. "It'll… give me the power to cure myself?"

"It will." Rosinante nods, letting the kid take the Fruit from him. "You got the medical knowledge you need for it, I know it. All you need is some practice — which you'll get as soon as we can get off this island."

Law clutches the Fruit with both hands, hands trembling slightly with the effort. Then, he looks up at Rosinante, sharp eyes wandering over the cut on his cheekbone that has thankfully stopped bleeding sometime between the mansion and now.

"When I— As a kid, all I ever wanted was to become a doctor, like my parents." Law says quietly, haltingly. Rosinante watches him silently, choking on old grief and the protective instinct to hide the boy away from this cruel, corrupt world and spare him any further pain, however impossible it is. "I gave up on that after… after." Law swallows hard, shaking his head slightly. The brim of his fluffy hat — worn and old and still well-taken care of, a remnant of something (someone?) beloved — hides his expression but Rosinante doesn't have to see it to know that he's tearing up. "But if I eat this…"

Rosinante takes a breath, letting his thumb brush over the boy's slightly shaking shoulder.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want, Law," he says gently. "You don't owe anyone anything. The only thing you need to do is live, kiddo."

Law remains silent for a while, almost long enough that Rosinante thinks he might have fallen asleep. Seas, he wouldn't blame the kid; it's not like Law has a lot of excess energy at the moment, even without treating Rosinante's lanky ass. Moving carefully so as not to disturb the boy, he carefully pulls out a cigarette and his lighter, for once managing not to light his coat or anything else on fire and taking a long, calming drag. Nicotinine floods through his lungs and he can feel himself getting slightly more clear-headed, more awake.

As he moves to take another drag, Law finally mumbles,

"I'm going to eat it and cure myself. And then… I'll become the best doctor in the entire world, Cora."

Rosinante smiles, another puff of cigarette smoke escaping him while he pretends that he isn't touched beyond words, isn't about to tear up like a child. It's the most optimistic thing he has heard Law say since their first meeting back on Spider Miles, such a far cry from the nihilistic boy from three years ago threatening his way into the Donquixote Family that his heart sings with joy.

"I'm looking forward to it, kid."

"Good," Law huffs at him, cheeks pink with embarrassment. "Because I'm expecting you to stay alive long enough to see it, you useless klutz. No more tripping down into gun fights!"

Despite himself, Rosinante laughs.

"Aye, Captain."

Law nods, satisfied with his response, before fixating on the Op-Op Fruit in his hands. His jaw tenses, but his decision is obviously already made because he squeezes both eyes shut and takes the biggest bite he possibly can out of the cursed Fruit, teeth breaking its deep-red skin with the strange pattern of swirls and revealing the strange purple pulp on the inside that tastes so much like death and rot. Predictably, Law's body seizes briefly as the vile aroma registers on his tongue and he gags briefly but the boy surprised Rosinante again by forcing the entire Fruit down, bite by disgusted bite, until all that's left of it are juice-sticky fingers and the faint green sheen of someone who has just eaten a Devil Fruit.

"You weren't lying about it tasting like shit," Law groans faintly, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve. "Ugh."

Rosinante briefly considers offering him a cigarette to get the taste out of his mouth before remembering the many, many rants about how harmful smoking was for his lungs. For a lack of anything else to distract from the questionable experience of getting a taste of the Op-Op Fruit, Rosinante gives the kid a crooked grin.

"You did good, Law," he tells him, squeezing him once. "I'm proud of you."

Instead of telling him to go fuck himself or blushing furiously, Law just lets out a soft, quiet noise. His head is listing heavily against Rosinante's side, all the stubborn energy drained out of his small, sick body now that he has taken care of the things that needed doing. Rosinante feels his expression softening, shifting until he can lift the sleeping boy's form into one arm and cradle him to his chest, now covered in the bandages Law has made. His shirt feels stiff and crusty with half-dried blood, cold against his skin in the fridig air, but he buttons it close with one hand and gets to his feet carefully.

Much as he wants to, they can't stay here.

In the right pocket of his dirtied and bloody jeans, a small metal canister seems to be burning a hole against his skin while he staggers out of the building, making sure to check for any guards still on the lookout for him. Last time he's made it this far, he'd asked Law for a favor without explaining, without warning him why the intel hidden inside the Marine-issued canister is so important. What any of it means for the kingdom of Dressrosa, all the way in the New World, on the other side of the Red Line.

And how could he have? How could he have known about Vergo's subterfuge, his own brother's intrigue? He remembers telling Law not to worry about the man, that he would never be an issue. Oh, how wrong he's been. How naive.

He should have known that Doffy always, always has an ace up his sleeve — ever since they've been children, he's always been a cunning creature, sharp intelligence and wit often overshadowed by his absolute cruelty but no less real. In fact, his intelligence is what makes his cruelty even worse because he knows exactly what he's doing and enjoys it, too, revels in the fear and screams and destruction he wreaks.

Sending Law off on his own again to deliver the information Rosinante has painstakingly gathered over the last four years again is out of the question, even if he warns him about Vergo now; Rosinante refuses to let the kid out of his sight again so soon, still not trusting the current loop. Not that it's going particularly smooth but… no, he refuses to risk it. Not again.

So what is his alternative? Try and escape again? Last time he tried that, the Executives have caught up with them just before the finish line. Even if he's prepared for that to happen again this time around, he's already injured and lost some blood… Not an option, then, considering he doesn't even know for sure if Law managed to get away while Rosinante had effectively been blown to smithereens by Trebol.

What then? Does he try to reach Tsuru? She should still be in pursuit of Doffy, probably headed to Minion from Rubeck in this very moment. In theory, he could call her on the transponder snail he usually uses for Sengoku, let her know about what's going to happen… and incriminate himself of desertation, theft and using Marine intel for personal goals. Yes, that's going to go down well.

But does he have another choice? Even if he reports what he knows to Sengoku, he might just end up facing a court-martial. Then again… he'd rather end up in Impel Down than lose Law to Doffy again.

If it comes down to it, Rosinante will always, always choose Law — just like his brother will always choose cruelty.

Mind thus made up, he turns right on the snowy path instead of left, back to the boat, trudging through the ankle-high snow towards the shore on the other side of the island and the familiar white-and-blue marked sails of multiple Marine ships about to dock, bringing with them the one man able to bring down everything Rosinante has worked for during his time undercover.

Tsuru first, then. And if it doesn't work out… well, at least he can confirm that up until Law eating that damn Fruit, things remain the same if Rosinante eats shit down the damn mountain and ends up full of bullets. And in the next loop, he can take his snail along and reach out to Sengoku to relay the intel about Vergo being a plant.

He will worry about everything regarding Dressrosa later.

In his arms, Law is still dead to the world, his fever spiking from the exhaustion and his body adjusting to its new reality of being a Devil Fruit user, eating through his already meager reserves of energy. It's for the better, really — the kid has had enough stress today already. He prays that this time, it will be the last of it.

As a whole, Marines aren't a quiet lot, never have been. Even if they're on a mission and under orders to keep their heads down, there is no way for a squad to muffle the heavy steps of their boots or the rattle of their drawn rifles. Their hushed voices, orders and conversation alike, echo through the quiet plains of Minion Island and Rosinante hears the first unit long before he lays eyes on them.

Still carrying Law, he crouches behind a crumbling wall (taking a moment to cover and peeks around it to make sure that his perpertual bad luck and clumsiness doesn't lead to him running into Vergo headfirst. It turns out to be a good decision; the last stragglers of a Marine unit clad in white, fur-lined cloaks against the bitter cold jog past his hiding place in lockstep, disappearing from view between the snowy hills, followed by the tall, lone figure of none other than Vergo himself, first Corazón of the Donquixote Family.

Rosinante swallows down the bile suddenly rising in his throat, gritting his teeth and clenching one hand into a fist hard enough for his bitten-off nails to dig into the skin of his palm. A tremor runs down his spine at the sight of the man, at the spike of hatred bubbling up in his chest when he remembers Vergo beating up Law and the way haki-covered fists have connected with soft tissue, bruises mottling pale skin tinged with white patches, one grey-golden eye swelling shut. Everything in him screams to just shoot the man where he stands, to use the element of surprise and take the asshole out while he still can but with an indescribable amount of will, Rosinante fights the violent urge back by focusing on Law's small body cradled against his chest, on the short, quick puffs of breath against his collarbone.

Law is still not out of danger, they still have to escape the island, he still has to figure out how to remove the Amber Lead from his system — and he cannot do that if Rosinante loses his head and gets into an ill-advised fight. So he forces himself to apply another bubble of Silence to both himself and Law with a whispered command, just in case, as he watches Vergo walk past them without stopping, brim of his cap pulled into his face and grumbling under his breath about the falling snow.

Despite being shrouded in Silence, Rosinante holds his breath until Vergo disappears from view as well. Only then does he dare to take a deep, shuddering breath, greedily sucking in the cold winter air even if it feels like his lungs are slowly being covered in a thin sheet of ice.

Fuck, but he hates the cold.

In his arms, Law finally stirs, blinking up at him blearily.

"Cora…?" His voice is scratchy with sleep, body shaking with a wet, rattling cough that is thankfully not audible beyond their bubble of quiet. Rosinante's chest aches with how much he wishes he could make things better for him.

"We're alright, Law," he hums back, gently wiping some spittle from the corner of the boy's mouth. "I just need to do one more thing and then we can leave. That okay?"

Law watches him through half-lidded eyes for a moment before nodding slightly, settling back against Rosinante's chest and turning his face into his sweat-drenched shirt. It has to stink to high heavens by now but the boy apparently doesn't seem to care much, only taking comfort out of it.

"'kay," he mumbles, already falling back asleep again. "I trust you, Cora…"

His breathing evens out the slightest bit, the faint wheeze of something like a snore muffled against Rosinante's collar. Out like a light again. Rosinante brushes one thumb over the kid's sweaty forehead, careful not to wake him again, chest tight with so much love that it might just choke him out if he thinks about it for too long.

So he doesn't, choosing to peek out from behind the crumbling wall again to make sure that there are no more stragglers from Vergo's unit before getting back on his feet with a quiet grunt. The bullet wound in his thigh smarts something fierce and he's about 80% sure that he's bleeding through the bandages again but he will worry about that later; for now, he has to focus on getting his intel to a recipient he can trust.

With the bubble of Silence around him, his steps are silent in the freshly-fallen snow but there is nothing he can do about the prints he's leaving behind. Hopefully, they will get lost in the countless trails left by the Marines headed inland, he thinks as he retraces their steps back to the shore and the massive galley anchoring in a small cove, accompanied by two smaller ships with the same achingly familiar blue camouflage painted on their hulls and the Marine emblem proudly displayed on their sails. There's a pang of nostalgia tinged with something like regret at the sight of it, bitter on Rosinante's tongue.

He'd be lying if he said that he has hated being a Marine, that growing up in Marineford under Sengoku's wing has been anything but a relief for a lost child devoid of a future otherwise. The truth is that being a Marine has been intrinsically interwoven with the core of who Rosinante is for the past 18 years and that he has no idea who he is beyond that — a fallen Celestial Dragon? An orphan? Donquixote Doflamingo's younger brother?

Until meeting Law, that is. Somehow, this broken and sick child, a fellow survivor, has smashed through all of Rosinante's perceptions of himself and made him rethink his life, his priorities, his self-image… and his views of the Marine and everything it stands for. No matter how much he once wanted to return to Sengoku's side after his undercover mission, he knows now that there is no way for him to return to his old position, much less active duty, and not just because he knows that Law would never forgive him for it if he ever learns the truth.

One day, Rosinante will tell him about commander Donquixote Rosinante, Marine code 01746, lay all his cards on the table and let Law decide if the lies he's told outweigh the deep affection he feels for the kid. One day, Rosinante will face a judgement by a tribunal infintely harsher than a court martial.

But until then, he will remain Cora and do his best to save Law's life, even if it kills him. Even if it keeps killing him.

Taking a deep breath, Rosinante carefully descends the rocky path to the shore, neatly avoiding the stationed Marine lookouts from the three anchoring ships. Normally, he would approach them and ask to deliver his information to Tsuru but he can't be sure that this men aren't in Vergo's pockets; he can't trust anyone but her and her crew, that much is clear.

After nearly faceplanting on the pebbles and rocks lining the beach four separate times, Rosinante forces himself to take a deep breath and consider a break. He finds a small outcropping of rocks that hide him from immediate view on two sides that he deems good enough, letting out a grunt of pain as he lets his bruised body sink down on a boulder and runs a hand through his sweat-slick bangs. In his other arm, Law quirms slightly, eyes fluttering open.

"Where are we…?"

"Still on Minion." Rosinante glances down at the feverish bundle, catalogues the hazy shine of his eyes and how every small, laborous breath sounds like it's being punched out of the small body leaning against his chest. "It's taking longer than expected… Sorry about that. How are you feeling, kid?"

"… Hot," Law murmurs, shivering. "And cold. 's the last stage of the… the disease."

Rosinante swallows hard, the reminder of Law's borrowed time like a knife through his heart. They don't have any time to waste and yet, here Rosinante is, waiting for Tsuru to show up on the off chance of handing her the intel that will save Dressrosa, the same ancestral land of the Donquixote family that Doffy has been coveting all this time. Dressrosa, an island full of innocent people, doomed to a fate worse than death if his brother gets his will… In the grand scheme of things, which one weighs heavier? The lives of countless innocents or that of one terminally ill child?

Commander Donquixote Rosinante would have chosen the innocents, always, putting duty above all else. Corazón, Heart Seat of the Family, would have chosen neither, turning a blind eye like he's done so many times before, ignoring the suffering and pain wrought by his own brother. And Cora, Law's chosen protector, what will he do…?

Law's strange grey-golden eyes meet his, exhaustion edged into every twitch of his brow, white blotches of skin tinged pink from the cold and the ever-raging fever. Rosinante looks at him, really looks, and honestly, it's not even a choice at all. Never has been.

Rosinante will always choose Law.

"… Forgive me," he whispers. "I was being an idiot, you're right. Let's get off this damn island and get you somewhere to use that Fruit of yours, yeah?"

Law huffs at him, rolling his eyes.

"You're always being stupid," he rasps but it sounds almost fond. "'s why you need me around, Cora."

"I do, don't I?"

Screw the intel and screw the mission. It's not going anywhere, is it? On the off chance that this is the last time he has to relive this cursed day, he can still take care of Dressrosa once Law is cured. And if it isn't… Well. There's always the next loop, isn't there?

He forces his screaming, injured body upright again, almost losing his balance on the slippery stones under his heels, one arm windmilling uselessly for a moment in a desperate attempt to stay upright. But it's to no avail — his perpetual clumsiness exacts it's toll once more and he ends up sprawled on his ass on the snow-covered rocky beach, tailbone bruised worse than his sense of pride.

"Idiot…" Law mumbles from the safety of Rosinante's feather coat and, well. He can't argue with that. They both know that it will happen again, it always does.

With a light groan, Rosinante gathers his limbs under him to get back up, this time using his free hand to steady himself on the boulder he's been resting on. But his mind is already racing in a different direction, away from the shore.

How much time has passed since Vergo passed them? Has he gotten in touch Doffy yet? What changes about the timeline if Rosinante isn't discovered pre-emptively? Have the other Executives already landed, paving the way up to the mansion so Doffy can discover the missing Op-Op Fruit? Or has Rosinante unwittingly introduced another variable into this spiderweb of decisions and consequences, messing it all up further…?

"Hey Cora," Law calls quietly, startling Rosinante out of his spiraling thoughts. He looks down at the boy, eyebrow raised in a silent question. Law huffs against his collar again, grumbling quietly. "You're gonna hurt yourself if you keep thinking so much. Don't worry about me… I'll be fine."

And isn't that easier said than done? But at least it distract him from the dark turn his thoughts have taken.

Hugging Law a little closer to his chest, he looks back down the way they've come, towards the Marine ships still swaying with the tide surrounding Minion Island. They can round back around the cliffs to get back to the boat… or they try and steal a lifeboat from one of the Marine ships. Swallow Island lies just Southeast of here, only a couple of hours across the sea.

A shame about his transponder snail but the critter will probably be better off on its own, anyway.

Decision made, Rosinante turns to take a step towards the anchoring Marine ships when he gets that strange pinprick feeling of his observation haki pinging again. He doesn't have time to mull this one over, doesn't have time to remember the last time his haki has alerted him to looming danger — he moves on instinct, free hand flying up to grab at something about to hit him from the side. His fingers close around a thin, almost thread-like projectile that, upon closer inspection, shimmers silvery in the grey day light in a way that is hauntingly familiar.

Rosinante feels the tips of his fingers go numb as icy dread begins to spread through his body. He knows exactly what the string going limp in his cold fingers means, exactly who has finally caught up with him. And try as he might, he cannot make himself move.

In his mind, he can feel boiling hot blood splatter on his face and hair and clothes, can hear the reverberating echoes of a gunshot.

"What a sight for sore eyes you are, little brother." The voice drips with disdain, as it always does. Once upon a time, he remembers, it used to warm with something like affection when speaking to Rosinante. It doesn't any longer.

Rosinante turns slowly, body refusing to cooperate even as he looks up the crumbling white cliffs of Minion Island and spots the tall and dark figure of none other than Donquixote Doflamingo looming over them, blond hair cropped short, pink feather coat covered in a light dusting of snowflakes.

The last time Rosinante has looked at his brother, a lifetime and a whole other timeline ago, Doffy has shot him, just like he has shot their father almost two decades ago.

His chest aches with remembered phantom pain, the bullet wound in his shoulder pulsating in empathy but he forces himself to look, to stand his ground. He isn't eight years old anymore, isn't helpless to watch his older brother commit unspeakable atrocities. Moreover, he has something, someone to protect this time and if it takes dying to protect Law again, then so fucking be it.

With nothing left to lose, Rosinante drops the bubble of Silence on himself, only maintaining it on Law who he's still cradling to his chest one-armed.

"Not happy to see me, Corazón?" Doffy drawls, the red lenses of his sunglasses glinting and effectively hiding his eyes like they always do. Rosinante doesn't even remember their color anymore, only the cruel fire that has killed so many. "And here I thought it would be a nice surprise for you. After all, you decided to surprise me first, didn't you?"

So even without Vergo warning him, he still knows. But of course he does; they are cut from the same cloth, after all, even if Rosinante has knowlingly chosen another path. It's not just the same blood flowing through their veins.

"What do you want from me, Doffy?" His voice sounds much more stable than he feels. One of the benefits of his extensive training as a spy and undercover agent, he supposes.

"And he speaks!" Doflamingo crows from where he's crouching on the cliff above them, more than ever resembling a bird of prey despite his bright coloring; incidentally, Rosinante has rarely felt less like one, even clad in black feathers. "Will the wonders never cease with you, Rosi?"

It's the use of his childhood nickname, more than anything else, that finally breaks Rosinante out of his stupor. Uttered by the same man responsible for their father's death, the one recruiting desperate children for the sole purpose of brainwashing them into loyal soldiers, the one who has been terrorizing the entirety of the North Blue, it's nothing but a mockery of what they once shared.

He finds himself reaching inside his own coat for the flintlock pistol he hasn't been able to use on his brother the last time they faced each other like this. In all truth, he still doesn't know if he can use it now — but he feels a lot better with his finger on the trigger than standing in front of Doffy unarmed.

"There's Marines swarming all over the island," Rosinante says, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette. Anything to distract himself from the mounting dread in the pit of his belly. "Sooner or later, someone will put together what you're after, Doffy."

"Will they?" Doflamingo laughs, fingers of his right hand twitching through the air as if playing with invisible strings. With a pang of horror, Rosinante realizes that he most likely is. "Well, then it's a good thing that my dearest little brother has already taken care of everything for me, hm?"

Against his chest, Law sucks in an inaudible breath.

"… Of course, Doffy. You know I'm loyal to you."

He's stalling, they both know it. Just like they both know that there is no way for Rosinante to reach the Marine warships to escape; knowing Doffy — and if there is one thing that Rosinante knows, it's his monster of an older brother — he's just playing with his food, much like a cat does with a captured mouse.

Up on the cliff, Doflamingo flicks up a single finger, one of the silvery strings of his Fruit's power dancing idly in the sea breeze as if it isn't a threat.

"Loyal, huh," he chuckles, head cocked to the side. It makes him look even more like a bird, Rosinante thinks just a tad hysterically. "Then riddle me this, Corazón: What have you done with the Op-Op Fruit?"

Law's small hand fists into Rosinante's blood and sweat-soaked shirt, his body trembling. Rosinante tightens his hold on him, his other hand uselessly clutching the pistol.

"I ate it," he lies evenly, just like so many other times he's lied to his own kin to preserve just a shred of his humanity. "Like you wanted me to."

"Did you now?" Doffy's thin brows actually twitch up towards his hairline. If Rosinante were a more naive man, he would have almost believed that Doflamingo has fallen for the ruse. He knows better than that by now, can read the subtle tells of his brother's body language, hear the barely there undertone of the twisted sense of joy he's getting out of taunting Rosinante like this. "I see. And what about your little pet project?" He giggles. "How is Law these days? Still alive and kicking, I hope?"

"… Yes," Rosinante says carefully, well aware that he can't fool Doffy. Even without his cursed Devil Fruit powers, his brother would have to be blind not to notice that Rosinante is very obviously holding something with one arm, even if it's covered by his coat. "I was planning to cure him first before we return to Spider Miles. You still want me to perform the surgery on you, after all."

Another bold-faced lie, even if this one is drawing on elements they both have discussed before — both of them well aware that the other was lying, most likely.

"Is that so." It's not a question. Doflamingo's grin grows, giving him a manic, grotesque expression. A face truly fit for a monster. "And here Trebol and the others were trying to convince me that you had defected, Corazón. That you abandoned your blood. But you wouldn't do that, little brother, would you?"

Rosinante looks up at the man he once called brother in earnest, remembering those distant, halcyon days back on Mariejois — bathed in sunlight and never wanting for anything, never cold nor hungry, never knowing fear.

"Of course not," he hears himself say through gritted teeth and it's all he can do not to scream that Doflamingo abandoned him first, all those years ago, left him behind in the ruins of their home covered in their father's blood and wailing, begging for his brother to stay with him.

The lie tastes like ash in his mouth.

For one long, silent moment, Doffy regards him from behind the red lenses of his glasses, posture unchanging. Rosinante's finger curls around the trigger of his gun, haki senses screaming about the incoming danger, but try as he might, he can't quite look away from the figure perched on the cliff above him like some grim reaper drenched in blood, the pink feathers of his coat doing nothing to diminish the danger he's exuding despite their garishness and how out of place they look in the frozen landscape around them.

Then, Doflamingo's brow twitches in the tell-tale sign of mounting irritation — it's the only warning Rosinante gets. His haki firing on all cylinders, he just barely evades one, two, three strings that come zipping straight at him out of nowhere, ducking under a fourth one that almost cuts off one of the heart-shaped bobbles on his toque. Raising the arm holding the pistol, Rosinante fires off two shots in close succession but doesn't wait around for them to actually connect, instead whirling around and booking it down the rocky beach as fast as his feet can carry him.

Behind his back, he can hear Doffy calling him.

"I didn't think that you, of all people, would dare to go behind my back, Corazón." His voice echoes through the silence, cutting through the falling snow. "After everything I've done for you… After I vouched for you, even though the others told me we couldn't trust you when you showed up so suddenly."

Rosinante swallows down the retort about how Doffy shouldn't have listened to those assholes in the first place, never should have believed a single honeyed words from their lips that have poisoned the mind of his beloved older brother, taking root with the hatred and fury in his heart until it bloomed into the monster he is today. Words cannot reach Doflamingo anymore — at least not his. Maybe they never could in the first place, considering the sobbing child clutching their father's lifeless, headless corpse left behind in the rain and desolation almost 20 years ago.

Instead of wasting his precious stamina on a futile shouting match, Rosinante concentrates on dodging more of his brother's deadly strings that are coming at him from all directions now. He's seen this before, of course, knows how dangerous each of his attacks is; but he's alone (Law is in no condition to fight, never should be, he's just a kid) and injured and knows that it's only a matter of time until something gives.

It comes as no surprise when it's his own body. Rosinante barely has the wherewithal to think to roll when he slips on the wet rocks lining the beach, narrowly avoiding being speared by two separate strings. He lands hard but at least manages not to squash Law's small form under his own lanky bulk, glancing down just long enough to make sure that the boy is alright; he looks shaken and scared but unharmed, thankfully.

At least for now.

"You should know that you can't outrun me, Rosi," Doflamingo laughs somewhere behind them, a lot closer than he should be. "What are you planning to do, anyway? Where do you think you can go that I won't find you?"

Rosinante staggers to his feet, jaw clenched even as he starts running again. The worst thing is that he knows Doffy is right — he cannot outrun him, never could. Even as children, long before tragedy struck, long before Devil Fruits and blood spilled and desperate pleas left unheard, Rosinante has always been just a little too slow, a little too small. But if he gives up, Law's life really will be forfeit and that is a risk that Rosinante cannot, will not take.

And maybe, maybe this is what every single loop so far has been trying to show him: his life, when weighed against Law's, isn't worth anything. So if the one good thing someone like him can do is to die so that the boy can live… so be it.

"Law," he whispers, "I will distract him. When I set you down, I need you to run and not look back, got it? Get on board of one of the Marine ships and lay low. Don't trust anyone, least of all a man named Vergo."

Wide, grey-gold eyes stare up at him, he can see the boy's mouth open and move with countless arguments — every single one of them Silenced, thanks to the Calm-Calm Fruit's power. With a small shake of his head, Rosinante interrupts him.

"I can't hear you," he explains, voice tight, as he sidesteps another string, narrowly jumps over a second. "And neither will he. I used my power on you, you'll be safe as long as I'm alive. But I need you to listen to me kid, okay? I can't fight him with you here. So please, for once in your life, do as I say, Law!"

A small fist hits him against the chest, followed by a second. Anger and the wet shine of tears as Law looks up at him, yelling unheard insults and arguments. For one long, breathless minute, it looks like the kid won't back down on this, will continue fighting him for all he's worth; but finally, Law hangs his head, tears spilling over those too-pale cheeks, and nods.

Rosinante loves him so, so much.

He slides to a halt next to a big boulder, wet rocks crunching under the soles of his shoes, some distance away from the Marine ships, just out of reach for him but close enough for a small boy with Silenced steps. In a flurry of black feathers, Rosinante turns in one swift moment as he does two things at the same time: set down the priceless cargo he's been carrying all this time on the rocky beach and reach inside his coat with his newly free hand to retrieve the last of the explosives he packed all those months ago.

Their eyes meet for one last time — and Rosinante can't help but smile, wide and warm and full of everything he cannot put in words, even as he entrusts one final truth to the sea breeze and the rolling of the waves.

"I love you, Law."

And with that, he's in motion again, forcing his tired, injured body to run; except this time, he's not running away any longer but towards Doflamingo, towards the man he hates more than anything else in the world yet cannot stop calling brother, even in the privacy of his own mind.

To his credit, Doffy actually looks surprised for once, as if he hasn't expected such a move from his meek, mute, stupid younger brother.

"So that's how it's going to be, Corazón…" That ugly grin stretches impossibly wide, thick veins betraying his irritation popping up on Doffy's forehead. "As you wish, little brother! I will make you dance like the puppet you are!"

Strings come flying at him from all directions and his observation haki, weak as it may be, flares. He doesn't have Doflamingo's haki abilities and what little he can do with his own was never meant to be used in a fight like this; espionage and infiltration have always been more suited for a sniper such as Rosinante. But if a decade of enlistment with the Marines has taught him anything, it's that one can rarely choose the circumstances of a battle — just control your own reactions.

So that is why Rosinante forces himself not to flinch, drawing on the serenity in his soul that he has long since started to associate with the Calm-Calm Fruit as he lifts his pistol and fires, aiming directly for his brother's head. Predictably, Doflamingo jerks his body to the side just so, airbone on his own strings and swinging closer like some overgrown pink-feathered spider straight out of Rosinante's nightmares. A flurry of silver strings swirls around him as he dodges and ducks and sidesteps as best as he can, letting his haki instincts take over while he takes aim again and again. One of the bullets grazes Doffy's cheek just below his red lenses but Rosinante doesn't get the opportunity to feel much triumph because at the same moment, he can feel multiple threads pierce through his body like needles impaling a butterfly in a display case.

It feels like being frozen from the inside out, as if the strings themselves are made of ice. Cold floods his veins, frost slowly covering his inner organs and encroaching his heart in a block of ice and he cannot move.

"Look at you, Corazón…" Doflamingo lands on the rocky beach with the elegance of a dancer, the personified opposite of Rosinante's perpetual clumsiness. "You could have been my greatest asset. My Heart, come home where you belong. Yet you threw it all away for… what? A kid destined to die?"

"Law will live," Rosinante grits out, jaw clenched so tightly that it's giving him a headache. His body hurts. "He'll live and he'll be free from you, Doffy. You can't get your hands on him anymore."

Doflamingo barks out a laugh.

"What do I need the little plague rat for when I have you, Rosi?" He stalks closer, every bit the predator circling his prey. "You who ate the Fruit and will give me the eternal life I was always meant to have. I can find hate-filled punks like Law all over the world… but there is only one you." Rosinante swallows down the bile rising in his throat as his older brother reaches out to almost lovingly trace over the star-shaped facepaint under his right eye. "My Corazón. My blood. You have always belonged to me, Rosi. Always."

Something inside Rosinante snaps.

"I've never been yours, Doffy." A rivulet of blood runs down his chin, soaking his already ruined collar. "Not for a single day since you left with our father's head! You should have listened to your oh so loyal Executives… because I will never do your bidding ever again."

He knows that he cannot escape, that he won't survive this. Another failed loop on his conscience, another death sentence he hasn't been able to avoid. But seas, does it feel good to give Doffy a piece of his mind after all these years.

Behind the red lenses, Doflamingo's eye twitches; it's the same one that was injured all those years ago, a stark reminder of their shared past and the bonds between them that should have, for all intents and purposes, bound them together instead of tearing them apart. Yet here they are, on two opposite sides, neither one of them willing to bend.

"Oh Rosi…" Doffy shakes his head in what might have been regret on anyone else. "As if I'm going to give you a choice." With a careless flick of his hand, Rosinante's body moves on its own until his arms are flung to the side, leaving his chest exposed. Another flick of Doflamingo's long, splayed fingers and Rosinante is forced to drop both his pistol and the explosive. Both clatter to the ground, pebbles crunching under the weight.

"We both know you can't force anyone to use their Devil Fruit powers," Rosinante grits out, straining against the ice in his veins and the needle-like strings piercing his flesh. "You can restrain me all you want, Doffy, but that's all you can do!"

Doflamingo laughs again, reaching out to carress Rosinante's cheek again in a sick, twisted facsimile of affection.

"You've always been too soft for this line of work, Corazón." The soft touch is replaced by a backhanded slap so vicious that it rattles Rosinante's teeth, skull ringing painfully with the force of it. "I won't forget your little betrayal… and I will make you pay for it, don't you worry your dumb little head about it. But I'm not going to force you to do the surgery, little brother. You're going to offer it to me all by yourself. Right after I've made you kill Law with your own hands."

Rosinante freezes. The ice in his veins and around his heart burns with how cold it is but it's nothing compared to the dread filling him at the sound of these words.

"You," he chokes out, "you wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't I?" Doflamingo leans in close enough for their noses to almost touch, grinning like the madman he is, all teeth and a mad glint behind the crimson lenses of his sunglasses. "I am going to teach you a lesson, little brother — so that you learn to never underestimate me again."

Helpless, Rosinante watches him lift one hand in that familiar gesture of a marionette player manipulating his puppet's strings… and to his endless horror, Rosinante's body obeys the silent command, moving against his will to bend down and retrieve the pistol from the slippery ground. Like a shambling corpse, his body sways where it stands, finger curling around the trigger while Doffy looks off towards the boulder where Rosinante has set down Law.

"I told you, Corazón…" Doffy's voice seems to echo through his mind, thick with triumph. "You're mine and you will always be mine, no matter what you do."

As his body takes a first step down the beach, Rosinante desperately tries to fight it, to stop himself, to will himself not to listen to his brother's manipulations. His haki, useless now that he can't make his own limbs obey him, flares white hot at the back of his mind to no avail even as he struggles in the confines of his own mind.

He's seen Doffy manipulate his victims like this before, has witnessed the parasite technique with his own eyes enough to know that there is nothing he can do against it. And yet, he struggles, mind and heart and soul rebelling against what the monster he shared a womb with intends for him to do. He refuses to lay a hand on Law, refuses to be an instrument of his brother's vile plans. If only he could do something, anything to break free from this… to end the loop so he can try again…!

At the very core of his being, responding to its user's plea, the Calm-Calm Fruit's power stirs.

Silence has always worked two ways, hasn't it? And maybe none of the commands making his body move to Doffy's whims are audible but there are many types of silence, many kinds of putting a stop to an order you refuse to follow. It's not a conscious action on his part, instinct taking over where his mind cannot reach through the panic and dread still holding him by the throat. But then there it is, cutting through the fog of horror like a blanket of blissed quiet as his own Devil Fruit powers envelop the strings embedded in his flesh and muscle and sinew and wrap around them, suffocating any control they have over him.

The effect is instantaneous.

Suddenly freed from the icy threads compelling him to walk, Rosinante stumbles and falls to his knees, breathing heavily from the effort the use of his powers has taken, unconscious though it may have been. But there's no time to lose, not a moment to spare catching his breath — even if he'll die and reset the loop again, he won't risk Law falling into Doffy's hands.

Time seems to slow to a grinding crawl, thick as molasses.

He lifts the pistol to aim directly at Doflamingo's head, meeting his brother's hateful stare head-on.

"What's this, Corazón? Another rebellion?" Doffy's brow twitches, fury twisting his handsome features.

"You will never own me," Rosinante spits with all the disgust he can muster, thinking of falling snow and blood spilled, of apologies uttered by his father and the deathly pallor of his mother. "You want the truth, Doffy? I didn't eat the Fruit, Law did! And he's free now!"

"Is that so?" Doffy's grinning face twitches with fury before settling into a sneer. "Then I guess I will have to hunt down the brat next. It's a shame you won't live to hear his cries."

The last of his bullets leaves the muzzle of his gun at the same moment as Doflamingo's strings wrap around him once more, cutting into the skin of his exposed throat. He never learns whether it hits its intended target in this timeline — the rubberband stretching time into infinity snaps back just as the razor-sharp threads break through sinew and flesh and bone.

And in his mind, whispering over the Calm-Calm Fruit's eternal silence, the disembodied voice that started all this says with renewed force,

AGAIN.

Rosinante comes to with a start, disoriented and dizzy and decapitated distressed, panic welling through his body, numbing the tips of his fingers and toes and the area around his mouth. A distant, logical part of his mind (getting smaller by the second, choked by fear and the memory of blood hot on his face) realizes that he's hyperventilating, that he's desperately trying to suck in a breath that just won't register, that he needs to calm down if he wants to at least try and be coherent but he can't, he can't, he can't.

Blood on his face and a gunshot echoing through his memories, fingers numb with cold and ice in his veins, bullets stuck in his flesh and strings cutting through the marrow of his bones and he cannot fucking breathe through the fog of it all, Doffy's laughter like a vice grip around his rational thought. He feels sick with it, entire body tensing as nausea rises in his gut but he can't move, can't even bring himself to throw up. His vision distorts into a strange fish-eye view of his surroundings as he tries and fails to breathe through it, the darkness encroaching, darkening the edges of what little can still see.

Is this how he dies this time around? Choking on nothing, mind thick with cotton? Pathetic, Doffy's voice taunts in his mind, always laughing that cruel laugh, and you call yourself a Marine, little brother? A spy? You're nothing but a failure!

He wants to argue, wants to tell his brother's voice to fuck off and leave him alone, at least in the confines of his own mind, but he can't think straight, cannot think at all. There's only the panic flooding his veins, lungs full of copper and the putrid taste of a Devil Fruit thick on his tongue, body numb and trembling.

Seas, he needs… he can't… he…!

"Cora!"

Small hands on his face, cold yet gentle. He shudders under them but his body —traitorous thing that it is, touch-starved and hungry and so incredibly tired — turns towards them without his conscious thought as they pat over his chest towards his erratically beating heart, every thump a painful pulse through his entire being. One hand (small and too cold on his heated skin, trembling with effort) presses against his heart, a familiar voice he cannot seem to place telling him to take a deep breath.

"C-Can't…" he grits out, shaking his head weakly. His fringe is damp with sweat and his father's boiling blood, chest heaving. A metal band (or is it strings? Threads made of silver and ice, cutting into his skin, his flesh, blood welling) tight around his chest, restricting his airflow.

"You're having a panic attack," the voice tells him, the tone so achingly familiar that he feels like there should be an insult there added at the end, maybe calling him an idiot. "Your brain is reacting to a psychological stimulus which makes you think you're dying. But you aren't. Which is why you need to take a breath, Cora!"

Cora. That's him, isn't it? A nickname given to him by… by whom…?

"Breathe, you overgrown clown!"

And that — that does feel familiar. Almost against his will, a laugh wheezes out of his aching lungs that is more exhale than actual sound but it seems to do the trick: he manages to draw a shuddering breath, oxygen flooding his lungs while the hand on his chest keeps pressing against his thundering heart, anchoring him to the present. He focuses on the small fingers splayed against his sternum, on the way they seem to twitch lightly with each of inhales and exhales — guiding his breathing, he realizes belatedly, thoughts sluggish and jumbled.

Slowly but surely, the darkness around his vision starts to recede, every small shuddering breah returning some feeling to his numb, shaking body. He realizes with a start that his fingertips are icy, every one of his joints aching with something he cannot name properly.

He feels absolutely winded but more like himself again, even with his parched throat and bitten lips. That must be where the taste of copper came from.

"… Are you back with me, Cora?"

Rosinante blinks once, twice until his vision sharpens again into normality, leftover dark flecks dancing across like snowflakes, but he can finally make out the outlines of a white fluffy hat and a cloak fashioned from an old blanket. Grey-gold eyes fixed on him, narrowed with concern and something like fear, too-small body coiled with tension.

Exhaling another long, shuddering breath, Rosinante swallows and wills his still slightly numb body to move, one big hand coming to rest on top of Law's head.

"I am," he croaks, voice just as scratchy as Law's even though only one of them is currently dying of a terminal illness. "Sorry about that — I…"

He doesn't have an explanation, he realizes suddenly. At least not one that would make sense given the severity of his reaction. Fuck.

Law's strange eyes watch him closely, something he cannot read passing over the boy's face after a moment. The tension in his body is still there but it doesn't seem hostile the way it would have been a few short months ago.

"… You scared me," the kid confesses and Rosinante freezes at the vulnerability in his voice, something that he knows Law would usually rather die than address. Maybe that is what truly hammers home just how strong his reaction to the past loop has been, how deep the panic.

Rosinante swallows again, desperately trying to wet his dry throat.

"I'm sorry, kid." His voice is nothing but a whisper and even that feels like gargling glass shards. He licks his dry, chapped lips, tip of his tongue catching on a drop of blood welling there, and winces from the sharp coppery tang. Focusing on breathing through his nose, he opens one arm in a silent invitation just like he's done before — and like before, Law stares at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, the tension seems to drain out of him not unlike a marionette's strings being cut (don't think of strings, don't remember their icy grip, don't think of laughter and blood and threats against Law's life) and he sighs with his entire body before climbing onto the cot Rosinante has been sleeping on, heavily slumping against his side.

Even through his sweat-soaked shirt (no blood after all, not yet, but there will be because there is blood in every loop), Rosinante can feel how hot and clammy the boy's forehead is, how high his fever must be. Automatically, without conscious thought, he wraps one arm around Law, his free hand coming up to brush away his bands and rub one thumb over the feverish skin.

Law shudders against him before burrowing closer into his chest, his warmth, ear pressed against his ribs where his small hand was just minutes ago. Likely listening for his heartbeat, Rosinante thinks, shifting just enough to cover the teenager more securely in his black feathered coat, the scent of cigarettes and burnt fabric thick around them. If Law minds the smell, he has never said so and doesn't now, choosing to snuggle even closer as if he's trying to climb into the cavity behind Rosinante's ribs and make a home there.

As if that very space hasn't been his for months already.

Memories swirl through his mind, disjointed pictures and fragments of conversations, past loops mixing in his head with what feels like lifetimes away before the ever-repeating dawning of this same day. He thinks of promises made and broken, of secrets itching under his skin, of snowflakes on his lips and eyelashes, of bullet wounds in his gut and blood in his lungs, of four long years spent shrouded in silence, of atrocities committed in the name of Justice to avoid a target painted on his back.

In his arms, Law shifts slightly.

"… We don't have to go, Cora." His voice is quiet, barely audible through fabric and feathers. "I won't blame you, you know?"

"Law—"

"It's okay," the boy murmurs, puffs of breath hot against Rosinante's sternum. "I… I don't really want to go, either."

Stunned, Rosinante looks down at the bundle of blankets and black hair poking out from under the brim of a white fluffy hat. Like Rosinante and Law themselves, it has seen better days. Possibly worse ones, too.

"You… don't?"

Law lightly shakes his head, the movement only noticeable because he's pressed against Rosinante's chest. A small hand fists into the fabric of his shirt, scrunching up the faded heart-print.

"I don't want to die anymore," the boy whispers like it's a secret — and maybe it is, considering what brought them here in the first place, what made Law join the Family. "But I… I don't think I have long left. The fevers are getting worse. I'm getting weaker. Even if you get the Fruit for me, Cora… I'm not sure I can…"

"Don't say that, Law." Rosinante tightens the hug, the dread from earlier threatening to take over again. "Please, kid, we can — I'll get you that Fruit and then…!"

"Then what?" The kid's voice is small, more quiet and sad than Rosinante has ever heard him, and it breaks his fucking heart because this isn't the Law he knows and loves. "We keep running from the Marines and the Family? We never settle down because I didn't die when I was s-supposed to?" He sniffles, turning his face in a way that Rosinante has learned means he's trying not to cry, desperately holding back tears.

"Kid—"

"You just had a panic attack," Law plows on undeterred, breath hitching and voice breaking on the last word. "And I can't — I know it's —"

Words seem to finally fail him. There's a damp spot spreading on Rosinante's shirt right where Law's face is, signaling that the boy has finally lost his fight against the tears. Rosinante's heart — stupid, bleeding thing that it is, hopelessly devoted to this brave, strong boy who never should have experienced even half the pain he has — hurts and he finds himself choking back tears himself.

He doesn't have the same willpower as Law, cannot stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks just moments later.

"Law—"

"Please, Cora." The kid burrows further into his arms, holding on for dear life with the meager strength he has left in his dying body. "Let's stay here, together. I don't want — I don't want the stupid Fruit. I just want…"

I just want to stay with you, he doesn't say but Rosinante can hear it anyway, in the way Law's breath hitches on a sob, the way he's clutching at him as if afraid he might disappear if he loosens his grip even for a second. As if Rosinante hasn't had that self-same fear for the past six months, watching the boy get sicker and sicker, wasting away before his very eyes while they visited hospital after hospital, looking for an impossible cure.

It's not that Rosinante has given up hope. It isn't. When it comes to this kid, he never could lose hope, would much rather give his life. He has given his life before, considering every previous loop he's experienced. Everything in him wants to argue, wants to grab the kid by the collar and bodily carry him up into the snowy hills of Minion Island again but… faced with Law's plea to just stay with him, he finds himself rooted to the spot, arms wrapped the teenager he has started to think of as his son sobbing in his arms.

And the sad, cruel truth that he can barely stand to admit to even himself, much less out loud, is that Rosinante is afraid. More than he has ever been since being strung up against the walls of his own home and tortured for the circumstances of his birth, since watching his own brother kill the man whose only mistake had been his naiveté and belief that goodwill would be enough to change a world looked down upon by his peers.

The truth is that Rosinante is scared of Doflamingo and always has been, ever since that day bathed in rain and fire and pain, long before the bullet had even hit St. Homing. Scared of his brother's wrath and the violence it fuels, scared of his abilities and intelligence, scared of his possessive streak and being considered property because of the blood they share. He has fought all his life to be his own person, to exist separately from the supposedly holy bloodline of the Celestial Dragons that has done nothing but put a target on his back, to make a name for himself — to exist as Rosinante, first and foremost, and not the youngest Donquixote, fallen World Noble, little brother to pirate Doflamingo. His life, his career in the Marines, everything has been to separate himself from his past… only to be told that he still belongs to Doffy.

His greatest fear, come to haunt him now that he's trapped in this ever-repeating day. And Rosinante… Rosinante is tired.

So he nods, settling in properly on the cot again, suffocated by guilt and his own fear, heartbeat loud in his own ears. Law remains in his arms, sobs eventually quieting down and his breath evening out as he sinks into a restless sleep, while Rosinante remains awake and counts down the hours. There's words burning on his tongue, words he wants to tell Law but this time around, he feels like he's lost any right to them.

Law doesn't wake even as his fever steadily rises.

He knows damn well that he has failed this loop, too, long before he can hear the explosions from Minion Island. Even if he hasn't died this time around, he has broken his promise to Law, let himself be selfish just because he got scared. By the time night dawns and the clock nears midnight, he can tell that Law's body has gone from too hot to cool, passed away in his sleep and succumbed to the poison in his veins.

Somewhere, a clock strikes midnight and Rosinante weeps, mourns, sobs even as the disembodied voice whispers, laced with disappointment,

… Again.

Rosinante never misses another loop. And every single time, he makes sure to tell Law how loved he is.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He loses count. It doesn't matter. He keeps trying.

Again.

Again.

Again.

A G A I N.

Rosinante comes to with a start, staring up at the same ceiling he has been looking at for the past… he doesn't know how many days. Day? He's lost count long ago, doesn't even feel the dizziness that accompanied every morning from the first few loops. Maybe he's grown numb to it, he's not sure. There's probably a limit to how many time a human being can experience their own death and subsequent resurrection, reliving the same day, without getting strangel used to the circumstances.

If only that also meant that dying wouldn't hurt so damn much, anymore.

He runs a hand through his bangs, sighing heavily as he considers his options for the day. It feels like, at this point, he has tried pretty much everything he could think of to get both the Fruit and get himself and Law off this damn island but it's starting to feel like no matter what he does, one of them — if not both — will always inevitably perish.

The ones where it's Law are always the worst ones, leaving him with a bitter taste on his tongue and guilt so thick that he can't breathe. Thankfully, they're rare; the one who usually dies, one way or another, is Rosinante and he's starting to wonder what the voice wants from him, demanding a repeat over and over again.

Is it waiting for him to give up? To beg to be let out of this nightmare that keeps repeating itself in the worst ways? To admit that nothing he does will ever have any effect, try as he might?

Maybe Rosinante has spent too long in Doffy's company — or maybe it's Law's stubborn determination that has finally infected him, setting root in his chest and drawing on his hope that one day, he will find a cure for the Amber Lead and see Law grow up. After so long, so many failed loops, Rosinante simply refuses to give up; it's a matter of principle now.

Besides, he's given in to selfishness once before and sworn a silent oath to never do it again. He intends to keep this oath, come what may. It doesn't mean that he doesn't wish he knew how to break this cycle he's found himself in.

"… Cora?"

Rosinante sits up, already smiling before the word has even left Law's mouth completely. The teen stands in front of him, like every morning, watching him with those strange eyes that are neither fully grey nor fully golden. Idly, he wonders if it's a side effect of the Amber Lead in his system and whether these eyes will change color in the future, settling on one or the other. For now, they remain the same strange mix that makes him think of sunrays breaking through rain clouds.

"Woke you up again with my sleep-talking, eh?" Rosinante chuckles, the exchange achingly familiar by now. "Sorry about that."

It's the same every time — he wakes up to find that he's woken up Law too, they moor the boat and Rosinante goes to retrieve the Fruit, sometimes succeeding and sometimes not, finding himself facing down the Executives or Doffy himself, ending up dead one way or another. Sometimes, it's the same seven bullets to the chest from the first time, other times it's swords or explosives or even the sea itself, on a couple of occasions.

No matter what he does, he always ends up waking up in the tiny cabin of the rescue boat he's stolen six months ago to kidnap a terminally ill child and drag him along on a wild goose chase across the North Blue.

"It was time to get up, anyway," Law sighs, acknowledging Rosinante's apology with a short nod. "We're there."

They've been here for so, so long that he knows exactly what he will see outside the single porthole: grey seas (icy waves crashing above his head as he tries and fails to move his body, the curse of his Devil Fruit taking its toll as he sinks and his lungs flood with water so cold, it might as well be freezing him from the inside out) and tall cliffs (heavy boulders crushing the bones in his body as he tries and fails to climb up, hands reaching for the skies that have abandoned him so very long ago) and snowy hills as far as the eye can see (an endless expanse of white and cold, numbing his fingers and toes, skin pink and hurting as snowflakes settle on his clothes and hit him in the face as he tries and fails to hold on to life for just one moment longer, his own blood dying the snow around him). Rosinante blinks the memories away and makes himself look anyway, if only not to alarm Law with his odd behavior.

The kid is too perceptive for his own good.

"So we are."

In an attempt to calm his own nerves, Rosinante reaches for his lighter and the half-empty pack of cigarettes hidden inside his coat, lighting one of them and somehow managed not to set himself on fire — at least not this time. He's had loops where he almost burned down the boat by accident before they could even set a foot on the damn island. Taking a deep drag, he considers what to do this time, what he can attempt to change… or whether he accepts this loop as one of those that repeat his very first time on Minion.

Painful as they are, they're by now also the easiest ones to live through, in a weird, twisted way. Maybe because he knows how they end and doesn't have to agonize over what any small decision could change. What he could lose if he risks too much.

He's tired of losing. Most of all, he's tired of disappointing Law. Because that's what happens with every failed loop — he breaks a promise, whether he means to or not. And if there is one person he doesn't want to keep lying to, it's his kid.

Next to him, Law glances out of the porthole, expression somber. Like he doesn't believe in the success of this mission. And how could he when he doesn't know that Rosinante has done this countless times before? That he tries his damn best every time to get him the Fruit, to get him off the island even if it ends up being his own death sentence? That in the most common loops where Rosinante doesn't change a damn thing, Law always manages to escape Doffy's clutches at the price of bullet holes riddling Rosinante's chest as he bleeds out in the snow?

Rosinante exhales a cloud of smoke, nicotine in his lungs instead of blood or freezing water. Even after all these loops, he hasn't told Law about the repeating cycle. Not a single time. Maybe out of some parental instinct not to burden the kid even more, maybe out of some desperate attempt to shoulder everything by himself — he's the adult here, after all.

But he's been trying to carry it all by himself for so long now, every single time, has tried to change every little thing he could think of and come up short. He's never considered himself stupid, no matter what Doffy's Executives have claimed, but his strength is subterfuge and infiltration, not whatever… this is. With every other mission, he's had handlers, contacts, informants; but here, on Minion Island, it's just been him against everything that's been thrown in his path.

Rosinante takes another drag of his cigarette and makes a decision, inevitably changing the flow of events once again. Then, he quietly says,

"Law… there's something I have to tell you."

The kid's eyes are on him immediately, fixing him with that stare that seems to look right through him and every defense he's ever built, calculating in a way that should be off-putting probably but just makes Rosinante feel something akin to pride at how damn smart the teen is. He has no doubt that somehow, at some point, Law has simply deduced half of Rosinante's secrets, the things he never talks about out loud. With anyone else (except maybe Sengoku, he thinks), Rosinante would be nervous, uncomfortable even. But with Law, it feels like some strange inevitability, like their entire journey together has been leading up to this.

Maybe it has.

Taking a deep breath and letting the smoke curl in his lungs (he can see Law's brow twitch with displeasure, the familiar incoming lecture about the dangers of smoking already brewing in his eyes like an upcoming storm), Rosinante makes himself look Law in the face and quietly confess,

"I've lived through this day before. Something happened to me and now I… I keep reliving it."

Law looks at him, really looks. For a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't say anything. Then, his eyes narrow.

"Explain."

And so Rosinante does. He tells Law about waking up on this very boat, so long ago, about that first failed loop that ended with blood-stained snow and a priceless treasure carried away to live and be free, about his desperate wish to do it over again, to spare Law the pain. About the countless loops he's experienced so far, about dying in most of them, about the ones where he fails to protect Law.

About how he's out of ideas on what could possibly break him out of this cycle.

Sometime during his tale, long and winded as it is, Law has sat down on the floor, bundled in his little nest of blankets. Not out of boredom but likely because his body can only handle standing up for so long, Rosinante figures, since the boy's eyes don't leave him for even a moment as he listens and listens, silently waiting during the times where Rosinante can't quite find the right words. His own pack of cigarettes is empty by the time Rosinante finally stops speaking, his chain-smoking habit back to bite him in the ass.

Only mildly hysterically, he comforts himself with the thought that the pack will be back to half-full again if he fails in this loop, too.

For a while that seems to stretch on endlessly but realistically cannot last much longer than a couple of minutes, neither he nor Law say anything. Then, the boy sighs as if he cannot believe he has to deal with any of this; it's a deeply aggrieved sound of absolute exasperation and Rosinante is completely thrown for a moment until Law grumbles,

"Seas, for someone who's supposed to be a Marine spy, you're so fucking stupid sometimes, Cora!"

… What?

"What?" he sputters, flat-out dropping the cigarette butt he has been anxiously chewing on for the past minute or so. Thankfully, it's long since gone out or they would have had another fire to put out besides the metaphorical one. "You…?"

"Of course fucking I knew!" Law spits, hackles raised. There's that fire in his eyes again, determination and righteous anger that feels so very different from the all-consuming wrath of his brother. "Did you honestly think I couldn't put two and two together? You've been talking to that Crackers guy for months! And he was surprised when you told him about the Op-Op Fruit because it was supposed to be classified Marine intel."

Rosinante is so shocked by this revelation that he cannot even find it in him to be affronted at the swear words falling from the teenager's lips. Not that Law has ever much paid attention to being reprimanded about his choice of words but it's usually the principle of the thing. This time, Rosinante can just stare at the kid, too shaken to react.

"I… Kid, I never—"

"I know," Law interrupts him, voice unrelenting even though there's various emotions dancing across his expression, too fast to catalogue them all — embarrassment, exasperation, something that might be fondness, anger, grief — before he shakes his head. "I don't care. You're — you're Cora. I don't care who you were before."

Maybe he does, Rosinante thinks distantly, maybe Law does care and the Marines will always be a sore spot for the boy after what happened to Flevance but maybe, just maybe, his affection for Rosinante wins out. At least he hopes that it does.

"Doflamingo told you about the Fruit first, right?" Law plows on, undeterred and very obviously unwilling to focus on something as vulnerable as feelings. "Except if it's classified intel, it means that he's got a spy in your ranks. One that's pretty high up, too."

Rosinante swallows thickly, thinking back to haki-covered fists cracking his jaw and breaking his bones, of the same fists punting Law's small, sickly body across the snow as if he weighs nothing.

"Vergo," he grits out, jaw tensing against his will. "The Corazón before me. In the first loop, he — he's the reason we were caught in the first place."

Law nods sharply.

"Which means that we can't trust the Navy," he says, arms crossed in front of his small chest. "Not that I'd trust them with anything after…" He lets out a frustrated noise, shakes his head once. "But you have important information for them, right?"

Rosinante exhales slowly, desperately wishing for another cigarette. Unbidden, his fingers curl around the small metal canister hidden in one of the pockets of his feathered coat, the cool material warming quickly under his skin.

"My work of the past four years," he confirms quietly. "I never planned to stay by Doffy's side forever, the plan was always to reveal his machinations to the brass and let them deal with it. Kidnapping you just… moved the timeline up."

He's always known that his position as his brother's Heart Seat was hazardous at best and flat-out suicidal at worst. Going undercover has always been about trying to stop Doflamingo, to put him behind bars, to bring him to Justice. Rosinante has never expected to come out swinging on the other end, not really.

Maybe that is why he's been so willing to give his life for Law so many times: sacrifice is easy when you don't foresee your own survival anyway. Or maybe Rosinante should really think about talking to that Marine doctor specializing in psychology again, if he ever gets back to base.

Except he doesn't want to be a Marine anymore. Not after everything.

Law, meanwhile, huffs again from his nest of blankets.

"You're so fucking stupid," he repeats and this time, Rosinante frowns at him, vaguely insulted and defensive.

"Vergo's mission was such a secret that Doffy didn't even talk to the other Executives about it," he protests. "I fail to see how—"

"Not that!" Law snaps, suddenly back on his feet and stalking towards Rosinante as fast as his legs allow. He cannot help but notice the tremors running through his body and for once, he can't tell if they're due to his anger or his illness. Possibly both.

"I don't—"

"You!" Law yells, scrambling up the cot so he can grab at the lapels of Rosinante's coat, knuckles going white with how hard he's holding on as he yanks at them as if to shake him. Their faces are so close that Rosinante can see the shine of tears glittering in the boy's eyes and that, more than anything else, is what renders him speechless. "You absolute fucking idiot! All this time, every damn loop, you just keep throwing yourself into danger as if it doesn't mean a thing!"

Rosinante opens his mouth to argue, to say something about how he's the adult and supposed to protect Law, how he's sworn an oath to uphold Justice once, how both Sengoku and Garp have told him once that every Marine ends up finding their own definition of Justice worth finding fort. How, to Rosinante, bringing his own kin down and making sure that Law lives a long, happy life is his definition of Justice that he's prepared to sacrifice everything for.

Except Law, most likely sensing the incoming protests, doesn't let him get that far. He slams a fist against Rosinante's chest, then the other, thick tears running down his cheeks as he shouts,

"How fucking dare you, Cora! I was ready to die, don't you get it? I had accepted it! What other possibility was there for me?! But you— with your stupid hope and optimism a-and your care, you made me actually fucking think…!" The boy interrupts himself, sniffling hard but no less angry, tears still running freely. "You can't fucking die, do you not get that? I have no one left, Cora! No one! Except you! And you absolute idiot keep sacrificing yourself for me!"

A sob wrenches itself out of Law's chest, loud in the cramped cabin. He hits Rosinante again and again but each punch keeps getting weaker until the boy sinks to his knees on the cot, fingers clutching at black feathers as if they're the only thing anchoring him to the present.

Rosinante feels his heart constrict at the sight, unable to hold his own tears back.

"Oh kid…" Helplessly touched, he draws Law into a hug. The kid hisses at him like a feral little kitten but doesn't fight him, instead burrowing his face against Rosinante's chest — right over his heart, always his heart, as if his title as Corazón has never been in deference to Doffy in the first place but always to Law — to hide his face as he continues crying. In turn, Rosinante lets his head fall forward until it almost touches the crown of Law's head, his own tears falling onto the fabric of his makeshift cloak and the fluffy hat peeking out under it.

"You have to promise me," Law hiccups against his shirt, the fabric once again damp with shed tears. "Swear it to me, Cora. If I have to live and cure myself after eating that damn Fruit, then so do you! I don't care how many loops it takes — but you have to save yourself, too. You have to! Promise me!"

Rosinante thinks his heart might explode from how full it is. Somewhere in his chest, in that same space that is usually occupied with overflowing love for Law, with all the things unsaid between them, something flickers to life that he hasn't felt in a long time, at least not when it comes to himself.

Hope is a strange, fickle thing. How come it's so easy to have hope for someone else yet at the same time so difficult to hope for himself? He has no answer to this question. And yet, the flicker of hope in his chest, ignited by the once nihilistic child intent to see the world burn for all that had happened to him, keeps burning, warming him from the inside out despite the cool winter air. Maybe, if hope can change Law's fate… maybe it can do the same for Rosinante.

By the time he has no more tears left to cry and doesn't feel like he's going to shatter apart from, well, everything, Rosinante half-expects Law to have exhausted himself into another fitful sleep. Spiteful as the kid is, however, he seems to still be awake despite the obvious toll his tantrum has taken on him. Running a hand over Law's back because he just can't help himself, Rosinante quietly asks,

"So what now, kiddo?"

It's the same question he's been asking himself every morning for the past… however long it's been. Except this time, he's not alone, is he?

In his arms, Law shifts until he can look up at him, meet his eyes. With their height difference, he looks almost comically small on Rosinante's lap but he can't find anything funny in the sight, only thinking of how fragile the kid is. How vulnerable. How amazingly, stubbornly strong.

"Either we abandon this harebrained idea and give up on the Fruit…"

"Not happening," Rosinante says immediately, not even bothering to hide the hard edge in his voice because he refuses to ever entertain that idea again. "I'm getting you that Fruit, Law, it's your only chance!"

"Or," Law continues with an impatient huff, glaring in irritation at the interruption, "you start using that giant head of yours, Cora. You said it yourself, that Fruit can heal anything, right?"

"With the right medical knowledge," Rosinante corrects tiredly. "It's not some magical potion that just undoes damage. In the hands of someone who isn't a skilled doctor…"

"Which I am." Law huffs at him again. He looks as tired as Rosinante feels, forehead shiny with sweat and the deep red of fever high on his cheeks in a stark contrast against the patches of white skin. "So if you get injured, I can use it to operate on you, right?"

"In theory yes, but—"

"Then I'll do it." Even through his drooping eyelids and the exhaustion about to claim him, Law's eyes burn with that determined, stubborn fire. "I won't let you die, Cora. Not again."

Rosinante breathes. Wishes for a cigarette. Settles for hugging this impossible kid closer, brushing one thumb over the dried tear tracks on those pale cheeks tinged with fever.

"… We can't change too much of the original timeline," he whispers, dejected. "It becomes… unstable, otherwise. Unpredictable. Events shift around. Learned that the hard way." The corners of his mouth twitch into a self-deprecating smile, remembering the numerous ways he's died across the repeating loops, the times he's lost Law due not knowing how to react. Due to his own panic.

Law's stare wavers for a brief second, then hardens.

"Screw the original timeline." The words hang between them, heavy and real. Rosinante gapes at him in disbelief.

"Law — that's not — I just told you, I don't know what will happen if—"

"So what?" Law's glare loses nothing of its intensity, despite his obvious troubles of keeping his eyes open. "Screw it, Cora. Screw all of it. You're not alone anymore, so — so stop acting like you have to solve everything by yourself! I'm here too!"

"Kid," Rosinante says helplessly. "You're sick. And I'm the adult, I should—"

"Fuck that!" Law hisses weakly, eyes once again shining with tears. "I already told you, I'm not letting you die for me again. I've lost — I've lost everyone else because I was too weak and couldn't do a damn thing. My parents, L-Lami…" His voice breaks on the name of his younger sister but he soldiers on, like he always does. Rosinante's brave, stubborn, wonderful kid. "I'm not losing you too, Cora. We'll find a way. Together."

There's that tone of his again, the one that brooks no arguments, that sounds more like an order than anything else. Even with his gaze unfocused and vision obviously swimming, those grey-golden eyes are focused on him in a way that Rosinante has only ever seen in one person before and normally, he refuses to acknowledge any and all similarities and parallels between Law and his own brother; but there is no denying that this piercing gaze is something they have in common.

The mark of a leader — and the same indomitable will that has the power to move mountains. But unlike Doffy and the hatred blazing through him, Law seems to be driven by something else and up until now, Rosinante has never quite understood what it s besides pure, sheer spite. Now though, he thinks of the scary stories told to unruly Celestial Dragon children, of the whispers about the D. family and how they bring storms wherever they go. And he thinks he can see it, if only for a brief second:

The legendary Will of D.

Rosinante breathes and the horrible weight on his shoulders that he was barely even paying attention to anymore suddenly lifts. Its absence is such a stark contrast to how he's been feeling since the first loop — and maybe even since the start of his undercover mission, alone in enemy territory, just one man against his brother's mockery of a what a family should be — that he feels oddly off-kilter for a moment, swaying where he sits.

Rationally, he knows that he should be the adult in this impossibly situation, should be the one to lead and guide and protect. But the sad truth is that Rosinante has never been a leader, despite his rank as Commander within the Marines; he has always been more comfortable following orders than issuing them, ever since he's been a small, helpless child.

Looking into those eyes burning with conviction, Rosinante thinks that he wouldn't mind following Law to the very ends of the world, if need be.

"Alright," he finds himself saying, something like relief settling over him, the warm flicker of hope gleaming in his chest. "Together, then."

Law exhales a shaky breath, giving him a tired nod. Finally, his eyes drift closed as sleep overtakes his exhausted body that feels equally light-weight and like it's the most precious, heaviest thing Rosinante has ever held in his hands. Overcome with affection and too many other emotions he can't quite sort through, Rosinante looks at him, at his special, amazing, stubborn kid that he knows will one day change the world, and leans down to press a barely-there kiss to the boy's brow.

He swears he can feel the disembodied voice whisper again in the back of his mind with something like satisfaction, even if he cannot discern individual words this time.

When Rosinante opens his eyes next, everything is oddly hazy and out of focus, almost as if there's a film of fog right in front of his eyes. He blinks, frowning slightly, thoughts sluggish and just out of reach and try as he might, he cannot catch them, slipping through his fingers like sand through an hourglass… or maybe like snowflakes, too fragile to grasp, melting just as soon as he manages to touch them.

Snow. It has been snowing, hasn't it? He remembers feeling cold, impossibly so, almost like his very soul has started to crystallize, the blood in his veins turning to ice and his heart slowing under a layer of growing frost. He remembers it all too clearly, the only clear thing floating in his foggy mind, but he can't quite connect it to reality because right now, he isn't cold. Not really. He can't really feel much of his body — does he have one? He has to have one, doesn't he, he's blinking and frowning and thinking but stomething feels off… Did something happen? — besides a persistent warmth behind his sternum, like some sort of flickering flame just beneath the protective cage of his ribs, almost like a small sun. It should be scalding, he thinks idly, but it isn't; instead, it just slowly seems to be growing bigger, steadier, until the warmth spreads through all of him, until he can feel the entirety of his body again from the tips of his fingers right down to his toes.

With his awareness of his own body comes pain. There's a wheezing noise somewhere, a pained gasp for breath, half moan and half rattle, and it takes him a moment to understand that he's the one responsible for it, that the noise comes out of his throat — raw and dry and hurting as if he's been screaming for hours; maybe he has — and that it's his body producing the helpless whimper that follows immediately after. The warmth in his chest, the small blazing sun that's drawn him out of the confusing numbness, gets almost overshadowed by the sheer blinding agony of what has to be broken ribs and open wounds, his entire face smarting with the pain of a cracked jaw and what feels like at least one lost tooth.

He's no doctor but he doesn't have to be one to know that he's in bad shape and, by all means, probably shouldn't be alive anymore. Except that he is. He has felt death before, remembers every single time, and death has never been anything but a sweet release from said pain, anything but the quiet embrace of an old, familiar companion that's been with him since childhood, just as eerily silent as his own Seas-cursed powers.

Dying is what has always hurt the most.

And maybe he is dying again, just another death in the long cycle of many others. But dying has always been cold, for as long as he remembers — snowflakes on his eyelashes and his blood turning to frost and his heart freezing under a thick layer of ice — and even if he can barely feel it underneath the haze of pain and shredded nerves and countless broken bones, the persistent warmth in his chest is still there. Still pumping blood through his veins, still making his heart beat, still warming him from the inside out. Which means that somehow, impossibly, against all odds, he not only is still alive but he's also not dying. At least not actively.

It shouldn't be as stunning a concept as it is, yet he cannot help but marvel at it.

Slowly, his vision clears enough for him to be able to make out some details of his surroundings; not all of them, his right eye has obviously taken some damage that makes it harder to focus on that side, but enough to orient himself. Above him (too low for him to stand upright, he suspects, so it's probably a good thing he can barely move a muscle) is the grey and rocky ceiling of what has to be some sort of cave, specks of white and darker greys hinting at some sort of mineral veins running through the stone, thin patches of crusty pale-green and yellowish lichen here and there — not thriving but surviving… much like himself, he supposes.

The cave itself is dimly lit, bathed in shadows more than light, as if it's too early for the sun to rise yet late enough for night to slowly recede. That, in itself, is a miracle too; after so long reliving the same day, waking up under the same circumstances, having th same conversations, experiencing the same events, he's gotten so used to it all that his mind cannot immediately comprehend the fact that this is something new and unprecedented, that the day has passed and gone and now, a new one will dawn soon, no matter how grey and gloomy.

Nearby, a small fire crackles, barely big enough to light up the area closest to him. And next to it, a small figure is huddled into a ball, knees drawn close and fluffy hat shadowing its face but there is no mistaking who it is.

"Law."

His voice sounds foreign even to his own ears, raspy and lower than usual, more groan than spoken word, barely audible over the crackling fire and what has to be the wind howling outside the cave. And yet, it's enough to make the boy stir, lifting his head just enough to make eye contact — and then the kid is moving, scrambling across the short distance and tripping over his own feet, small hands reaching out to touch his face, his chest, his much bigger hands.

"Cora!" It comes out like a choked sob, tears already running down pale cheeks before he's even finished saying the nickname. "I thought — I tried so hard, I almost passed out so many times but I needed to be sure — I couldn't lose you, not you too, so I —"

"I'm okay," Rosinante rasps, swallowing to try and wet his parched throat. "I'm okay, kid. You… I don't know how but you did it. You did it, Law."

The boy stares at him through his tears, sniffling hard even as his eyes inspect Rosinante's body for injuries, scanning him with that grey-golden gaze as if trying to make sure that his patient really is as stable as he claims to be. A sob shakes his small body, even as he furiously wipes at his cheeks with one dirty sleeve.

"I told you," he sniffles. "I'm not letting you die, Cora. I — I need you."

Rosinante breathes, eyes wandering over this impossible, brave, stubborn child that shouldn't be but somehow is, crying over a failure of a man like him: a fallen Celestial Dragon, a Marine commander gone rogue, a discovered spy. And yet, inspite of all that, Law has chosen Rosinante — just like Rosinante has chosen Law, over and over again. His vision swims, clouded with tears that he doesn't even try to stop, uncaring about being seen as emotional.

The miniature sun in his chest pulses.

His body may be nothing but pain held together by whatever powers the Op-Op Fruit has deemed enough to knit him back together but he still forces it to obey him, lifting one heavy arm to rest one hand on the boy's head, thumb just brushing his clammy forehead (still feverish and sick, still not cured, having elected to help Rosinante first instead of himself).

His voice is still raspy, breath rattling in his lungs, the words half slurred and quiet, barely audible in the quiet of the cave.

"I need you too, kid," he mumbles, lips twitching into a smile when Law looks up at him through his tears, eyes shining. "… I love you lots, Law. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know!" Law snarls back, cheeks reddening and glaring at him for all he's worth but the effect is significantly lessened by the fact that he bursts into fresh tears, head bowing until his eyes are mostly hidden by the wide brim of his hat. Mostly — but not completely. Almost against his will, Rosinante wheezes out a faint laugh over how wonderfully familiar this is even as his own tears continue to fall.

Through it all, his hand remains on the crown of Law's head, steady and calm and affectionate.

They might not be safe and Law is still sick from the Amber Lead in his system but for the first time since arriving at Minion Island, all those loops ago, Rosinante feels hope pumping warmth through his veins with every thump of his heart, chasing away all remnants of the cold dread that has taken hold of him. For the first time since bleeding out in the snow, body riddled with bullets and bones too broken to do anything but lie there and try to give his kid just one more second, one moment longer, he thinks that they might just survive this. Together.

Over at the cave entrance, the first rays of the rising sun appear on the horizon. And at the back of Rosinante's mind, the disembodied voice whispers for the final time,

Hold onto hope and follow its warmth… Ever onward, towards the horizon.