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After dinner, Law hates the way Cora barely pays him any notice, while he’s besieged left and right by random nobodies who want a chance to talk to the elusive younger Donquixote brother, the Dressrosan war hero .
He should’ve expected as much, knowing how often the elder brother was on the front page news. But it seems that away and out of the limelight, Rosinante grew to be somewhat of a legend in these circles.
He slips away from the main ballroom, tottering on tired feet into one of the balconies that lead outside.
He’d underestimated how much stilettos hurt, and without Cora for him to cling on, his feet are starting to ache. Feeling a little warm, he undoes the clasp of his feather cloak and lets it fall gracelessly on the floor.
The cool evening air feels good on his bare back.
“Time for the princess to leave the ball?” Suddenly, there’s a gruff, but playful voice next to him, followed by a lazy cloud of sweet-smelling cigar smoke.
Law turns around, a curse on his lips before the words die in his mouth.
He recognizes him as one of the few navy men in the crowd, his all-white service uniform unbuttoned at the collar. He’d forgotten his name, but the ever-present cigar between his lips reminds him of the nickname Cora used when they greeted one other.
He thinks they might be of a similar rank.
“Smoker, right?” He holds out his right hand for a formal greeting, but Smoker takes it and presses the lightest of kisses to his knuckles.
The other man’s eyes slide down his body in a way that he could only describe as interest. He feels the calluses on his fingers and the violence, tightly coiled in those shoulders.
The man reminds him of Cora.
And after being ignored by him for most of the night, the attention from someone like Smoker is a little… flattering. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe he’s just lonely.
But he doesn’t pull his hand away.
“Do it properly.” Law says, voice soft but commanding.
Grey eyes light up with mirth as he takes the cigar from his mouth with his free hand and bows a little deeper. Smoker presses his lips to the boy’s soft skin and thinks he can hear him sigh.
He thinks the boy gorgeous, like the devil himself sauntering into the dinner party: the red of his lips and flash of his thighs tempting better men than him to fall from grace.
He ignores the way he must be young— too young, for Smoker to even look at him like this. Let alone touch, but the boy is letting him touch so freely.
Law turns his hand and presses his palm against his lips. From this angle, he can feel the older man’s stubble rasp at his sensitive skin.
He wonders how that might feel like between his thighs.
“Go on.”
Smoker presses another kiss to the boy’s palm, before slowly moving up to his wrist, teeth lightly grazing his pulse. He can feel it quicken against his lips. The older man moves further up, pressing a kiss to his arm, the inside of his elbow, his bare shoulder, then his collarbones.
“Good.” Law breathes out, nodding in approval. He does like it better when they pay attention and listen to him.
He feels Smoker’s free hand draw him closer, fingers curling over the bare slope of his lower back, feels his fingers dip inside his dress. He leans into the older man's touch: this close, he can smell the nicotine clinging to the man, feel the stubble on his jaw rough against his cheeks.
He doesn't even need to give permission when Smoker palms his cheek and drag him into a kiss-- a proper, adult one, all teeth and tongue. It sends a delicious thrill down his spine, feels himself grow wet in excitement at the prospect at being finally touched where he's wanted for so long.
Cora had never been so bold to touch him like this, out in the open. He wishes he did.
He doesn’t even get a chance to tell Smoker to go on before he hears a voice, barely restrained with anger.
“Law.” He feels the large, calloused hands quickly leave his body and he has to tamp down his irritation. After ignoring him all night, he thinks he can just come around here and fling his weight around?
“What.” It’s not really a question as Law turns and crosses his arms in front of his chest.
Cora’s there in the doorway, his tall frame filling it up. The lights from inside silhouette his body, and he can’t see the expression on his face.
“Come here.”
It reminds him of the time in the hospital, the first and last time Cora had been truly angry with him. He’d been too desperate then, taking it out on his own body, crying and throwing up just for the merest scrap of his attention.
“No.” Not this time , he thinks.
“Law.” He can hear the warning in that one syllable, how hateful his name sounds spoken that way. No sweet nothings, no darlings or sweethearts. “Come here.”
But then he remembers the frustration of the past months, of Cora refusing to touch him when he’s awake, of his brother’s teeth in his neck, marking territory.
His earlier irritation is easily stoked into anger.
“I’m not some dog you can just call on when it’s convenient to you!”
The words barely leave his lips before he’s smacked across his face. The force of the hit makes him stumble on already-unsteady feet.
There’s tears running down his face. He can already feel his cheek swelling.
He can’t see where Smoker is, anymore.
Only Donquixote Rosinante, blanketed in shadows. His all-white uniform is buttoned up all the way, all sharp and angular lines. He thinks he can see those red eyes, impassively looking down at him, like Law is worth nothing to him if he’s not the sweet and pliant boy from the orphanage.
He bares his teeth up at him in anger, this Rosinante is a stranger to him.
“Fuck you.” He can taste blood in his mouth. “Go find some other willing boy toy to put your cock in.”
He expects it this time, but it doesn’t hurt any less. Rosinante’s fist breaks across his face.
He hears the sickening crack of breaking bone and crumples to the ground.
This is all a dream, he thinks, eyes rolling up to look at Rosinante again and his sweet Cora is nowhere to be found.
He can only hear his own breath, feels the way it heaves at his chest.
The boy is sprawled on the ground, nose bleeding freely. In the darkness of the balcony, the silk fabric of his dress looks like blood, pooling under his body.
Motionless.
The skin on his knuckles is split open, he feel's the sting on his skin and thinks it must be blood. Law's.
His pulse thunders in his ears, a rising crescendo. Law, dead? By his own hands. No.
“Oh baby brother , what have you done?”
He turns abruptly, eyes wild with realization as he looks up at his brother.
The red haze doesn’t leave him.
“ Doffy .” He barely recognizes his own voice. “I—“
“Hush now, baby brother.”
Doflamingo kneels down to the floor and feels for a pulse. It’s there still, strong and slow. Good.
They had paid millions of berī for the boy to live. It would be a shame if they don’t reap the benefits for years to come.
“It’ll be okay, big brother’s here to help.”