True, Rosinante Conceded With A Frown.

　　　❝ true, ❞ rosinante conceded with a frown.

　a unfortunate side effect of the relentless hostility the pair had faced in nearly every town they've visited over the last few months was the occasional trend of having to abandon their campsites on next-to-no notice. not because of wildlife too large for them to scare off, nor an unexpected shift in the terrain like an impending mudslideーbut because of people.

it was always people. a butcher who decided to try putting his cleavers to use butchering something else for a change. a lumberjack who nearly chopped the spy's left hand off with his axe. a hunter ready to do the "noble deed" of ridding the nearby woods of the lone sufferer of white lead disease, as if law were a wolf decimating local livestock and not a child.

the attacker was someone new each time, but the protocol was always the same: rosinante would drop what he was doing, signal to law it was time to go, scoop the kid up (sometimes a little too roughly as emaciated as he was, but rosinante always apologized for it later) and they would run. 'evacuations', rosinante dubbed them; an unfortunate, but necessary procedure he had to drill into law's head, no different than his lessons on what to do if law saw a bear, or what to do if the pair got separated.

　the reality of those drills, though, was in the haste to get away the two of them didn't always have time to grab more than what was within arm's reach. sometimes anything that wasn't already on their person or could fit easily in their pockets had to be left in the dust. rosinante nearly had to leave his feather coat behind once when an inopportune cramp in his rotator cuff made it impossible to put on, before deciding at the last second to swaddle law with it like a baby bird in a nest.

their singular fishing pole was one such casualty of their last escape, something the donquixote hadn't realized until taking survey of what they did manage to salvage (mostly goods that rosinante had the foresight to store on their little boat rather than lug up to the campsite). so, law had looked through their supplies already, huh?

well, he supposed that presented him with another opportunity.

　　❝ guess that means i'll get to teach you how to make one, right? ❞

As it turned out, the third time was not the charm.

Nor -despite all of Corazon's optimistic insistence otherwise- was the fourth. Or the fifth or the sixth, or even the seventh. By the time they left the eighth hospital behind them, Law had given up on his futile protests, leaving the last of the stubborn determination it took to remind the Donquixote executive he didn't want to do this in the snow behind them as they fled the local militia hellbent on chasing the white monster away.

That night, too tired to whine and more despondent than he'd ever allowed the man to see him before, Law had clung silently to Corazon's feathered cape, fingers trembling from cold and the unsuccessful attempt to keep tears at bay as he gave voice to the thought they must surely both be thinking.

I'm not getting better, Corazon. I'm getting worse.

The words were neither plea nor protest; the soft voice was devoid of its usual biting sarcasm. For the first time since the fall of his hometown, this was not the unfeeling statement of fact he'd delivered that day before the Family, but the lament of a boy born with less than his fair share of days before him - and one who'd spent far too many of those mourning more loss than many with thrice his allotted time would ever know.

And yet. The words had no sooner left his lips than Corazon's shoulders stiffened beneath his palms. But where Law might have expected a sigh or silence, the man simply paused for a moment before shrugging his shoulders, shifting the boy higher upon his back as he pressed on against the sharp, frostbitten wind.

Don't give up yet!! Corazon insisted. The next time's the charm!! Either you get cured, or you die. This the moment of truth, so be strong!

These were the words Law turned over in his mind several days later, the memory of the fierceness behind them drowning out the freshness of the ninth unsuccessful hospital visit earlier that same morning. They'd echoed in his mind throughout the whole encounter. Made it difficult to focus on anything - the hatred in the hospital staffs' eyes, the large man's outrage on Law's behalf... All of it had seemed oddly distant to him. For the first time, Law hadn't bothered crying when they'd rushed the two away: nor had he offered any protest or indication where his thoughts had taken him feeling Corazon's silent, curious stare upon them when they'd finally made it here to set up camp. He'd simply shrugged and looked out across the sea, lost in thought until the silence became too much for his companion to bear.

When he did speak, his question was met with a curious tilt of the boy's head. He wondered what Corazon had made of his unusual quietude, and where the man's own thoughts had wandered to in the hours they'd spend soundlessly staring out at the sea. Did he know what Law was thinking? Had he read something in the set of the boy's shoulders that had kept him from the usual insistence on the next one, for sure? Realized something had shifted even Law himself had not worked out yet and spent the time pondering the best way to break the silence?

❝ No, I don't, ❞ he disputed for the sake of it - though the adage was vaguely familiar in the back of his mind. Enough to piece together the gist of it, at any rate. For the moment he was too preoccupied with the thought of grilled fish, stomach rumbling as if to remind him he'd sat thinking through the normal lunch hours. ❝ And no they didn't. We don't have a fishing pole, though, ❞ he pointed out.

True, Rosinante Conceded With A Frown.

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