The Brunt of Contempt

THE FLUORESCENT CEILING LIGHT OF THE BATHROOM PAINTED LAW'S FEATURES A WARM YELLOW, but his expression was cold. His shallow pants filtered through the empty stalls. He peered at the dark grey eyes staring back at him in the mirror. These eyes never wavered, never gave away even the faintest glint of hesitation or ambivalence. If anything, they were the most bistable devices he knew. There were only two options—on or off, open or closed, and whenever his eyes were open, they never waned.

Now they did.

There were bags under his eyelids, so dark their shadows cast shadows, and his skin looked dry from dehydration. The watch on his left wrist showed that his BP was slightly above normal, but his heart rate teetered back and forth between green and yellow. Law tried raggedly to catch his breath—his hand reached up to placate his chest, and he closed his eyes.

The exit to the bathroom still had a draft of air floating around it, the door only having closed a minute ago. Yet, the presence of that intruder still lingered in Law's frenzied, panicked mind.

This really had been too much. Who would've thought that out of all the people from The Family, Law would run into him of all people here? Just what vacation was this that Corazon had planned so carefully? And why was everyone and their grandma pushing him around today?

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[2 hours earlier]

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If boarding the plane was like escorting souls of the damned to the gates of Tartarus, de-planing was akin to prison break, except the path to the large crater in the side of the prison was the width of a straw.

Joints cracked, old bones creaked, fingers cricked—mumbling, sighs, and huffs of impatience filled the air, as one-by-one, the 20 something passengers filtered out of the plane. While others stood impatient, waiting for their turn, Law sat with his lips in a straight line, eyes calmly shut, determined not to intersect or interact at all with the young man next to him who was bouncing in place.

Apparently he still had enough tact to hold his tongue—maybe he would finally unleash all of his pent up hyperactivity the minute he landed in customs—maybe the youth would even stir enough trouble to be deported or escorted to a correctional facility right then and there. The customs officers would take one look at him, and take one look at Law's half-dead, insipid disposition dragging behind, and immediately tell, whoever this young man was, he had to be a high-level threat—a mob leader, or a member of the mafia maybe. Whatever it was, he had to be detained immediately.

Law couldn't help the light scoff he made at the thought, yet when the time finally arrived, Customs was surprisingly lax. The entire affair lasted aout 20 minutes; and by the time Law blinked, he was walking past baggage claim, exited the airport, and was waiting solemnly just a distance outside the sliding doors. To call the Alafia International Airport an airport really was too generous. The entire building looked like it was the size of Law's high school, save for the large, open expanse of runways spread across the back.

If he even so much as dared to look up the total square kilometres of the building in total, he feared his hospital might fare better.

Scattered throughout the airport on the way to the exit were signs indicating that the waiting area for the bus to the resort was at the front, and each symptoms officer, as well as overhead announcements informed them that said bus was departing at 23:30.

When the bus finally arrived. Law felt mild confusion, as the young Straw Hat was nowhere to be seen. Still, he treated this moment of confusion as a moment of respite instead.

How foolish was he to think he needed to try so hard to avoid the other young man? Poneiro was no large island, but it wasn't a particularly small place either. Except for the hotel reception, where else would he run into him?

Luffy's newfound friends, Ramona and her son Theo boarded the bus at last, a large suitcase and carry-on deposited at the base of the bus in the compartment for luggage. Then, the doors closed unceremoniously, and Law blankly stared at his phone, the chat interface between him and Corazon open for some time. Wordlessly he notified his father that he had landed safely, and he would talk to him in the morning. He sent a similar message to Lammy, but ended it with, 'don't worry too much about me.'

It was a few minutes past midnight when he finally reached the resort; he was far too tired to even glance around and observe the exterior. In the morning when my mind is fresh, he told himself, as his long legs pulled his single item of luggage—a lightly packed silver carry-on—in tow. Cold, salty sea breeze still slapped across his grim face, the air cold one moment, then a pocket of hot air would brush past him the next.

Law ambled towards the lavish, golden reception, hands in his hoodie's pockets. A large golden chandelier was overhead, with countless other small laight fixtures, not nearly of the same candela, but bright enough that Law found it harder to find a single patch of dimness in the entire room. The ceiling was high, over 20 ft tall, and it made Law wander if this hotel expanded itself vertically, or if all of the rooms were merely further to the back of the property. There was a call to his right suddenly, and Law's cold gaze swept in that direction.

"Mr Trafalgar!" came a woman's anxious yell. Law saw a woman in heels and an uncomfortable pencil skirt run towards him. Her shirt was rather plain; on the front a nameplate reflected the golden light of the vestibule. Amy, it read.

Her breathy pants could be heard before she uttered her next words. "Hello—" she broke off to catch her breath, then gave a weak smile. "I'm Amy Brentforth, your assigned tour guide for your stay here."

She outstretched her hand to shake, and Law glared at it for some time, but shook it nonetheless. "I specifically declined having a guide," Law coldly retorted.

Her smile faltered. Something told him her sweat wasn't just because of the run. "Yes...but this was already specified when you, or whoever booked this trip for you, paid upfront. I've already been contracted." As if sensing that Law was about to utter something along the lines of 'keep the change' or 'I'll just get a refund', she instead flashed a grin, more charismatic than she had looked a minute ago, laboriously panting as she uncooly ran towards him. "I only suggest activities for you, arrange transportation, and at most you will see me every other day! This island has so much to do, and a rich history too. You'll save much more time with a bit of guidance, won't you?"

Law wasn't at all interested in the guidance she had to offer, but he could concede that, in this area at least, she likely knew more than he did. "So you've come over here to dissuade me?"

She looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh, or burst into tears. "I would hate for you to spend your first day here tendering a refund," she said nervously. "I am very flexible. I also have other clients besides you, others who are staying much longer than two weeks."

Law didn't dwell too much on what her motives were. Maybe she really wanted that commission, but couldn't take it without working fairly for it. Maybe she couldn't stand to see someone squander their chance at a Poneirian experience; maybe she could tell by his air, that this man fully intended to spend the entire two weeks locked in doors, head glued to a pillow from sunrise to sunset.

Law tsked, and finally relented, "Whatever. Do as you wish."

She grinned. "Thank you! Have a good night, Sir! I'll see you tomorrow Sir!"

With that Law arrived at the reception desk, his eyes nearly blinded from the smile the young man greeted him with. "Welcome to The Alafia Resort and Spa, may I have your name and number?"

Law told him.

"Ah, Mr Trafalgar! Your room has been paid for in advance. Here is your key," Law was handed a slim, golden card that read, 1305, "You will be at the 13th Garden, room 5."

Law vaguely raised his brow. "Garden?"

The young man replied, "You didn't book a single suite in one of the floors of this main building; you purchased a villa in the 13th Garden. It—" the young man blushed lightly, and his tone was suggestive, "It is known as the Baby Maker, House of Love,—" he broke off and had the gall to looked bashful. "Many a marriage has been born here."

Law's face was completely drained of blood as his eyes widened to the size of saucers. What the hell? He thought to himself, and he was answered with the image of Corazon's smiling face popping up in his mind. Dad wants a grandson~ he couldn't help but hear. Law felt his head turn to mush, and his legs felt like jello. He was going to pass out from shock.

The young man didn't notice any of this, and was caught up in his own little world. "Though, 13 isn't the only one. The Entire 13th and 14th Gardens are filled with spirits that cultivate this luck. But its strongest in the 13th, yes! Once, a couple going through a divorce even saved their marriage after only a few week's stay! They had twins, too!"

A coworker suddenly popped up next to the young man and slapped his arm. "You have this much time for gossip?"

Law's saviour was a slightly round woman, with a face so full of makeup it made her gentle features look much sharper. Her name tag read Raina . Law wasn't sure of the pronunciation, so in his mind he could only sound out each vowel individually.

He glanced back at the young man, to see that he was missing his own name tag. "And you've forgotten your tag today as usual," Raina said stiffly. Law didn't really want to linger there any longer, but he also couldn't walk into that 13th garden, to the 5th villa, and wait for the spirits of fertility and love to possess him.

Vaguely, he could remembered his surroundings—but when he glanced around, the other members aboard his bus had already disappeared towards the upper levels of the building, to their own rooms. Behind him was completely open, separated by two strips of tall, Corinthian columns that stretched towards the ceiling. There was a small lounge area hidden behind the 10 or so columns, spaced evenly, and opposite them were identical columns. Behind those columns were 6 or so elevator lifts, and then further to the right was a wide doorway, with the words above them reading RESTROOMS. Below it were words in a much smaller, fainter scraw—the symbols were the same as English, just with many accents and dashes, and Law realized it must have been some Polynesian language. Those words were barely distinguishable from the cream wall it rested on, as if it were just their out of a perfunctory obligation.

Turning back to the reception, Law was about to open his mouth and request a room change, when suddenly, a shadow caught his eye. The lights of the reception were so bright, so blindingly warm, so ubiquitous, but in that certain corner, it was all dark. The minute Law's eyes landed on the tall figure with black sunglasses, a pitch black shirt, and black dress pants, his eyes frosted over.

Vergo.

Law averted his gaze instantly, clenched his room key, and darted towards the bathroom at a moderate pace, so natural, so inconspicuous, and so deceptive. It completely hid the way his heart was beating uncontrollably, and the way the colour drained from his face. If it weren't for the soles of his feet, the blood would have rushed straight into the ground, rooting itself in the earth like the tap root of a dark, willowy, tree. He would remain frozen in that spot forever, sprout leaves made of blood, and bend its branches left and right, ever extending—but completely averse to the sky.

Now, Law stared coldly in the bathroom mirror.

Of course, Virgo had seen his half-mad pace towards the bathroom—to any outsider he looked composed, but from behind his tinted glasses, his eyes and followed him slowly, wondering when the man himself would realize that he was not alone.

Law recalled the instant he entered the bathroom, the door bursting open in a hurry. He let go of his carry-on, not caring where it landed, or if he even grabbed the right one. He had immediately darted to the sink, and splashed his face with water. Only then did he realize he had not heard the door close behind him.

When he looked back up, his face dripping wet, Virgo stood behind him, and stared right back. Law could have sworn those droplets froze in that instant.

Law stilled on the spot. He couldn't bring his eyes away from the man behind him, as if he were a specter.

How? Law riddled his brain desperately. Just why was he here? Why—why here of all places? Law panicked as he recalled every word from Corazon— I asked Sengoku for help—I planned this months in advance, you know—I could have gone along, but I decided to leave it to chance. None of these related at all to the sight—to the perplexion, to the thunderstorm of pain and torture before him.

"Vergo, " Law heard himself say. His words sounded icy, apprehensive, and scathing. They held all the hate, rage, contempt, and despite himself, agitation this man's presence brought him. More so than the messenger himself, all of his emotions were directed towards the man he acted upon the whims of.

At his name, Vergo didn't move. His face was still obscured behind his glasses. He remained silent for some time—he was always like this. He vied to control every and anything he could about Law, even the tempo of their rare and often one-sided conversations. Law could only hover helplessly, his body and resolve rigid with rebellion, but awaiting a reply nonetheless. Even when it was Law with the upper hand, Vergo still calculated the length and interval of his words—they were a treasure only splurged in the presence of his master. He need not rush to answer the bravado-filled utterances of the little boy before him—the little boy destined to die at 10, who just happened to look a little bit taller now.

Finally the man opened his lips a small crack, and some impartial, robotic sounds came out. "You still do not know how to call people by their proper name." Vergo knew the boy said his name in this way only as a last defence. It didn't matter. "Doffy also knows you are here. He asked me to take a look at you." The main appraised Law's terrified, pale, and angry expression. He was so many things all at once. "Take a look and see how you are faring…"

Law understood instantly. See how you are faring since that incident...since we began this game of seeing who would crumble first. Really, it was more of a matter of when Law would crumble. Law knew it himself too. He was taking a break—how dare he? Going on vacation? So, Doflamingo sent Vergo to remind a certain someone—he wasn't allowed to take a break, where did he get off thinking such a thing?

Law gripped the edge of the bathroom counter till his knuckles turned white. All of the things he couldn't do—punch Vergo in the face, rip Doflamingo to shreds, run outside and yell his lungs out—all of that was instead directed towards cracking that marble counter in two. His shoulders were bunched, his ears were this close to ringing, and his throat kept itching for a smoke.

"You can tell him I'm doing just fine," Law spat. The glare he shot Vergo bounced right off of his glasses. "I won't be late with my next payment."

Vergo made some sound of approval—or was it mocking mirth, as if Law had told him a joke. Then without another word, he turned to leave. Not before uttering:

"In light of this, Doffy has decided to increase the interest," and as his hand gripped the bathroom door, the man disclosed his master's verdict. "Another 20%. By the end of this year."

And he left Law by his lonesome, to stare in the mirror as his dark grey eyes soon dulled to a muted, listless black.

Law shoulders sagged, and his ragged breathing filled the bathroom. The watch on his arm ached—it was a dull reminder of the well-meaning of two most important people in his world—two people that loved him.

They were Law's entire world.

But it seemed, the more they wanted him to cherish himself, the more the universe vied to send him a grim reminder.

Who are you to do so in the first place?

Who are you to think that you can ever be free?