Puzzle

      Trafalgar D. Water Law — the "heart" of Joker, Donquixote Doflamingo or absolute bastard, pick whatever suits him best, collaborating with the evil army of Germa 66. Did the White City native envision his future this way? Not likely. Did he want to do it? Not one bit. It's just that everything has its reasons. Accomplishing Goals requires action, and actions have consequences. Doflamingo needs Trafalgar's power. Trafalgar wants to trample Doflamingo into the dirt. Did Law think that in the process of accomplishing his goal, he would work as a part-time family doctor to villains from the pages of children's comics? Not at all. Does he regret it? Not at all.        — Come in, have a seat.          Two different, yet at the same time identical soldiers of the army of evil lead a person into the room and hurriedly leave after a caustic squint from the doctor. The patient squeamishly pulls back the sleeves of his shirt and obediently complies with the instructions. Trafalgar's gaze lingers more than it should on the collarbones and blue eyes protruding from behind the collar. Blue is an understatement. They are bright, the color of the purest sea water, the color of a cloudless sky, the color of the most precious gems that are not to be found in any part of this country, sea, or planet, not even in the nooks and crannies of the universe. Not even other Vinsmokes have them.          — No changes?          Only an inarticulate snort in response, and the gaze of those divine eyes is directed to the perfectly white metal wall. Of course, there's no change. There was no change in the plan. Trafalgar's plan. But it's a check-up question and should be asked at least for the sake of decorum or the appearance of process.                  — Come in for a checkup. I don't want to prolong this circus.          All those years of working for a man you hate; you can learn more than just how to lie. The ability to hide your true feelings, desires, and any expression of emotion comes as a gift.                  The patient is there now, behind the screen. Takes off that damn white shirt with the stupid collar, exposing those devilish tubular bones that connect the shoulder blades to the chest and strengthen the shoulder girdle. So bulging, tantalizing, sharp and neat. Beckoning to get up from your seat and start examining.          He could just use his powers and finish everything in a couple minutes, but Trafalgar prefers to use this skills and stretch that time till an annoying squeak of Den-den Mushi can be heard.          The skin seems even lighter from the contrast with the doctor's slightly grayish skin. Bruises and abrasions bloom in a chaotic pattern on his ribs and waist. Such a marvelous palette, such an intoxicating picture. Fingers press harder on their own. It must hurt, but the patient only bites his lip and turns his head away. Why? Why is he showing his sternoclavicular, posterior lumbar, and sternocollar muscles? He knows the doctor likes them and that he's just looking for a moment to leave his own marks?          — Hurry up.          His baritone is the highest of the brothers. Even when he tries to be rude, his voice sounds too soft. Law wishes he would open his mouth more; wanted to see what it would sound like if he ran his fingers along the back of his throat, grazed the uvula, and reached down to the larynx. Would he growl like a wild animal, or would he squeak softly?          — Don't tell me what to do, Vinsmoke-ya.          A hand roughly touches his chest, a finger unnecessarily grazes a nipple. A cold gaze revels in the patient's desperate situation. The way the man in front of him wants to say something, but only bites his lower lip harder, the way his deltoid and trapezius muscles twitch at the sudden movement, the way he anxiously lowers his unbearable blue eyes and blond head to the floor.          — You'll be patient.          It's not the first time it's happened, but each time Trafalgar can barely keep from smiling. That sweet moment before the heart is in his hand. His chest heaves as the patient, as if this is a new experience for him, gasps for air and involuntarily grabs at the doctor's robe to keep himself on his feet. Hardly the way he grasps at his brothers when they beat him up. Trafalgar swallows quietly, shifting his gaze to the extracted organ. Right atrium, right ventricle, left ventricle, left atrium. Everything works like a well-coordinated machine. It's contracting so fast it pulses lightly from his fingertips almost to his forearm. It's warm. The aorta twitches so funny. The thought of having this man's life in his hand right now is exhilarating. If it were anyone else, the surgeon could just throw that organ away without a second thought or emotion, but it's his heart.          — Take it all out at once, — the patient growls, raising his head and trying to catch his breath.          Two aquamarine crystals are covered by golden strands. His gaze weaves together challenge, irritation, and pleading. Anger rises in his throat that his kin can enjoy this spectacle every day when the surgeon has a measly couple hour a week.          — I told you not to order me around.          Trafalgar can't let his precious patient fall to the cold tile of his office, even if he brought him to this himself. Even so, Vinsmoke still clutches at the doctor like a lifeline, hissing, coughing. His fingers dig into the skin beneath his clothes. The heart in his hand skips beats and rams confusedly. Trafalgar sets the man down on the couch, sits beside him. He gropes the hole in his chest so sweetly; it makes Law want to reach for a couple more organs.          The doctor rises from his seat as his heartbeat has regained its former rhythm and begins to beat out an excited, quivering symphony again. Handing the patient a glass from the bedside table.           — What's this? — He frowns but takes it obediently.                  — Water.           Takes a sip. So compliant, if you get the right pressure on the right points. Took a few more sips. The caduceus rises and falls so plastically with the contraction of the muscles. Finished it all. There is a desire to pat him on the top of his head for such an effort, but the doctor puts the glass back on the pedestal. A timer goes off in my head.           — Sit up straight. I need to finish the examination.          One hand strokes the organ cube affectionately, tracing the thuds, the other hand activates the operating room. Trafalgar only swallows quietly in delight. Cora-san, thank you so much. If it wasn't for you, none of this would have happened. If it wasn't for your huge heart and kindness, that little boy would never have grown up to enjoy this view. His whole body is like the palm of your hand. Law can see how his lungs expand and contract with each new breath in and out, how his muscles tense with each time he fidgets on the couch; can see every layer of his inner world, every millimeter of him. He is beautiful. He is even better.           — M-m-m-my... hea... d...           Yes, of course you are hot and dizzy. It's all right. Trafalgar carefully monitored the blood rushing through his veins and arteries, the heartbeat in his arm, and the "water" churning in his stomach.           The brunet leans gently toward his precious patient, adjusting his long bangs, pulling them away from his face, peering into the stunning wide pupils that are displacing the glowing iris with every passing second. His gaze is so unfocused, so sweetly and frantically trying to focus on the doctor, as if Trafalgar is the last remaining person in the entire world. He grasps the medical gown again, but not so tenaciously, trying to say something, pulling it toward him.          — Easy, Vinsmoke-ya.           No. Don’t take it easy. You must always look at me like this, always see only me, think only of me, always touch me with such reverence as if I were your own personal deity.          — W-what’s... With me...?           Only a soft smile in response. The doctor's hand gently tucks a golden strand behind his pinkened ear lobe. His cheeks are so flushed. Apples in the snow. Red rowan on an autumn island. The first incision of a crucial operation. Droplets of blood on cotton pads. No. It's all wrong. Nothing even comes close to this shade of his skin.          He hesitantly lowers his head. His eyes widen. Confused, he grasps at the hole in his chest. Feels it like he's seeing it for the first time. Flaps his lips like a fish that's been washed ashore. A marvelous melody grows frantically in his palm, and Trafalgar's heart can't help but beat in unison.           — Look at me.                  He is still frightened but does whatever he is asked. A second later, he is already staring in wonder at his own heart in someone else's hand. He clamps his eyes shut in mad fascination as the doctor brings the organ to its rightful place. Law can see his fingertips twitching, but the patient must have remembered what he was asked to do, so he opens his mouth stupidly and stares into the gray eyes above him.          Why must this beautiful man remain behind seven seals in Germa? Why is Trafalgar allowed to spend so little time with him? Wouldn't it be more appropriate to give him full control to a true professional? Why can his disgusting brothers visit him whenever they want and do whatever their filthy souls want to him? Was it limited to beating him up, or were they rotten enough to go even further?                  All annoying thoughts disappear in an instant when the patient, like a newborn kitten, bumps his face into the torso of his doctor, runs his hands over his back, tries to get his nose through his shirt to reach his navel. A totally unique human being. Immensely soft and sensual. With an amazing nervous and circulatory system, the most interesting muscle fibers and a remarkable pattern on his bones from fused fractures. Alive, warm, and not a hint of exoskeleton or any of the other abominations Judge had tried to shove into him.                  — Do you believe me?                  The patient starts shaking his head a little too sharply in absolute agreement, snorting something, licking his buttons, flickering his hands across his waist. Swarthy palms stop the unruly blond head, fingers gently stroking his cheeks, gaze fixed on drunkenly covered glossy eyes.                  — Do you want to get out of here?          He waves his head again, only now he frowns, pouting his lips and disagreeing with other people's words. His delicate hands lie on top of the doctor's hands, pressing them more tightly against his face.                  The doctor can barely contain himself from laughing. His lovely patient thought Trafalgar would leave him. That is impossible in any existing parallel universe. Even in one where they are bitter enemies, even if in some of them they don't know each other or were born in different eras. In each of them, his image will be quietly nestled in the subcortex of consciousness as a tumor in the cerebellum, and if anyone tries to cut it out, reality will collapse and disintegrate into millions of small particles. Because it's better to stop controlling your movements, to suffer round-the-clock migraines, to vomit in the morning and choke on gastric juice, than to lose this translucent line of communication with him.                  — Do you want to leave with me?                  He smiles genuinely, caressing his hands, kissing the doctor's knotted fingers. He looks like the happiest man on the planet. Trafalgar feels his own body begin to almost shake from the surging pressure.                  — Then close your eyes, — he covers his eyes, squinting one eye childishly, — close your eyes and don't peek, — the patient snorts quietly, smiling back.          His face relaxes. His eyelashes are so long, but that can only be seen up close. He looks like an angel, the most immaculate being, the first breath of a newborn, the best anesthesia, the purest dose of morphine. He is like the last stitch of an hours-long operation. Just the sight of him makes Law's ribs cramp with tachycardia.          — Until I tell you, don't try to open your eyes or make a sound.           Trafalgar pulls a coin from his pocket, tosses it into the air, and catches his katana instead.          You can throw away all your years of planning for him. For his sake, you can think of a thousand new ones. For his sake, you can make your worst enemies. It makes you feel like you have had a leukotomy. The frontal cortex is mercilessly separated from the underlying cortex by his rare smiles and the lightness in his every movement that always stays with him, despite the injuries hidden under his clothes. His intense brooding gaze makes you feel naked in the truest sense, as if the feeling is embedded in your DNA at birth.           A winter island in the wilds of Grand Line. Fluffy flakes of snow are piled up in drifts under the windows. The weather is just like it was back then on that cold piece of land in North Blue. Now Trafalgar tries to think more about the future, keeping his hands and head occupied with the most interesting thing of all: putting together a jigsaw puzzle. It's ironic that on a day similar to the day he lost the person closest to his heart, Law is piecing together his new meaning of life with the same golden hair and smog in his lungs.          He wakes up earlier than he should, looks around fearfully, gropes his body cursorily, resting his back against the headboard of the bed.                  — What the fuck kind of tricks is this, you shitty surgeon?                  And these are his first words? But that's what he is all about. Hissing, growling, scowling and squinting, but nothing more. Just contrived irritation and distrust.                  — It's not magic tricks, but propofol, fentanyl, amino acids, fat emulsions, glucose, a few vitamins, trace elements and one New World substance.           Trafalgar gets up from his seat and slowly makes his way towards his now ex-patient.                  — What the fuck is going on here? Where the fuck am I? What did you motherfucker do to me?                  He pulls the blanket over himself, as if that might actually help him defend himself against the man who has relaxedly crouched on the edge of the bed.                  — I didn't do anything to you. You wanted to get out of there. I took you away. Nothing more.           His gaze swings from side to side confusedly. His fingers shake in an attempt to clutch the bedsheets. He is silent for a long time, biting his parched lips.           — Are you serious? — His voice is shaky.           — Yes. I always-          The world around him ceased to exist. His arms wrapped around the neck. His head on the shoulder. His breath burns against the skin. He sniffs his nose quietly, like a small child. He does not have much strength after everything that has happened, but he spends bits of it on the hug.                  — Thank you. Thank you. I thought you were just another asshole bent on torturing me. Fuck, thank you. Thank you.                  Trafalgar can feel him flinch with each word mixed with sobs, his fingers digging harder into his shoulder blades beneath his clothes, his chest heaving in an attempt to take another breath. The surgeon stops his urge to press this man closer, replacing it with a pat on the shoulder, barely finding the strength to swallow the lump in his throat and begin to speak.                  — I had orders not to make nice with you. There was nothing I could do there.                  He loosens his grip, stops the so desirable touching, tries to wipe his eyes and face clean of tears. Even like this, he is mesmerizing. At last, the skilled movement of the best surgeon of the new age has neatly excised the inflammation of the cecal wormhole in the form of his cursed family. Now he will be able to smile more, make more eye contact, start a normal, full life and share every moment of it with his savior.          — Why did you save me?                  — It seemed like the right thing to do.                  Law gets up from his seat, runs his eyes over the stolen treasure.                  — You haven't come off the drugs yet. Memory is unlikely to recover, but transportation was not a sight for everyone. I'll give you cigarettes in a few days when you're on the mend, but for now, rest.           A palm damp with tears clings to his swarthy wrist as Trafalgar takes a step toward the door.           A crumpled but so charming and sincere smile is on his face.                  — Thank you, Law.           — You're welcome, Sanji.