A/N: At this point, I wonder if this a little too much, but shit happens and Law's life is a Shit That Happens. But hey, we're starting... to slowly get to somewhere.

Runaway Train

chapter IV

where did the party go?

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.

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"You're throwing a party, huh?" Law stifled a yawn as he rolled over onto his stomach, listening to Penguin's voice with a small smile stretching on his face. This was one of his better days; the burden seemed less heavy, the cuffs less tight around his wrists.

Yeah, it was a good day, and that was why he had even called Penguin, taking rare initiative in his only important friendship.

"Yeah, me and Shachi, actually. Wish we knew more girls, to be honest, it'd be hell of a lot more fun that way."

Law smiled at his pillow. "There will always be uninvited guests at parties, Penguin." Lying on his stomach was actually a shitty idea, so Law turned around again and ended up staring at his ceiling that looked like it had been put through World Wars I and II. Law was actually pretty sure the building was old enough for that. "Maybe you'll luck out."

"Mmm, there's that hope," Penguin sighed wistfully, and Law reigned in the sigh he felt approaching. "But you know, Cap'n…"

"Don't call me that. I have never sailed in my entire life. Haven't even been on a row boat," Law said, mentally counting the cracks on the ceiling. One, two, three…

"Cap'n," Penguin insisted, and he sounded serious, which grabbed Law's attention again, "it'd be great if you could come, too."

Law's eyelids fluttered exactly six times before he replied. "You know it's impossible to get out of the City. Borders are tightly secured." That wasn't a lie, but Law knew he could probably get out if he bothered to plan it out. He was well aware of the weaknesses in the security of the city, and bribery at least would help — well, if one didn't have the Syndrome like he did, in which case a body check would end in a disaster.

But Law wasn't dumb, and he could come up with a plan with a decent chance for success.

Penguin just didn't need to know that.

"Yeah, I know, just… it'd be great to see you face-to-face, man. Emails, text messages, and phone calls just aren't the same. Shachi thinks so, too, by the way, and he doesn't even know you as well as I do."

Law wasn't sure whether to laugh or feel genuinely touched. "You've been telling him about me?" Maybe a little concerned, too; he loathed knowing that he was talked about.

"Yeah, kinda. Shachi's my roommate, and stuff. He likes you, by the way. Thinks you sound like a guy with tons of tattoos up his arms, for some reason."

Law laughed, the sound as foreign to his own ears as to everyone else's. "Wow. Sorry to disappoint, but I don't have tattoos. Only pierced ears." He did want to get tattoos, but there was no way he could reveal his skin to anyone without exposing himself. His fingers briefly went to touch the earrings he wore, and tried not to choke in the nostalgia he felt.

The earrings had been a gift from his father.

"Ah, too bad." Penguin actually sounded disappointed. "I thought I had a badass for a friend for once."

"You'll have to look elsewhere," Law murmured, the smile askew but wide on his face. "But really, I have to go. I have to go to work."

It wasn't a lie, but he just wanted to cut this conversation short now that the sentimental stuff had been brought up — he wasn't keen on dealing with or sharing his emotions.

"Too bad." Penguin sounded mildly concerned, but Law knew Penguin wouldn't voice it. "Well, talk to you soon, Cap'n."

Law hung up first with no word of goodbye, as he always did with phone calls, and brought an arm over his face. Ugh. No one could ever shut up about wanting to meet him outside the Ciry, even though they knew it was impossible.

Law refused to believe he wanted to meet them just as badly.

He needed no one.

He eventually dragged himself off the bed, changing clothes for the first time in forever (ew, said the part of him that was always ready for a surgery) and grabbing something to eat (for what felt like the first time in forever, too).

He ate quickly and efficiently, not leaving a piece behind before mechanically gathering his shit and going to work. Before that he had done everything he could do to hide the marks of whiteness that curled higher up his neck; the blotches that would make him a marked man and a target for prejudice and fear.

Just for the heck of it, he poured a bit of old scotch for himself and drank it in one go before leaving his apartment — at least something would keep his wits with him if shit got tough.

(People were condescending, and toilet cleaners were the perfect target.)

He went out to work, his head empty from all previous thoughts, and the solemn present filled his senses.

Dreams withered in the White City like flowers in autumn.

He cursed when he checked his paycheck, and threw more than a few curses. How the hell was he supposed to pay his food, rent, and drugs with this? This was probably even below the minimal wage, but fuck if he could do anything about it. He didn't have the money to go to court over his salary.

Fuck.

He was in deep shit now. Perhaps he could pull off a month without food?

Nah, very unlikely; unless Doflamingo came over feeling like treating Law to dinner every day, there was no way that'd be possible.

Giving up his drugs wouldn't be difficult, but the thought made him sneer nonetheless, since those were the only escape from reality he had.

And then there was the electricity bill.

Law felt like he was about to have a severe heartburn as he cradled his head and ignored the bills he had placed atop the table in front of the couch. It was nauseating to look at the small pile of paper that effectively threatened his sanity in more than one way.

If he was a doctor or a surgeon in this goddamn city, he'd be rolling in money instead of doing whatever the fuck he was doing to keep himself from lapsing into a fit.

Law kind of wished he could take up Penguin's offer of meeting up. He kind of liked the idea of living together with two guys and struggling together to live instead of struggling by himself — and the struggle by himself, well, he was losing that battle.

Sometimes Penguin would tell him little, nonsensical details of his and Shachi's life, and Law would listen, heart heavy and lips curled down.

God, he wanted out of there.

Since when had he started to sound like the Little Mermaid?

(That had been Lamie's favourite movie, now that he thought about it. Now the heartburn was very close to happen.)

His head throbbed. Well, he might as well start looking for another job besides the barely-above-minimum-wage one.

Job-hunting was… shitty, most of the time. Either you lacked experience necessary for it, or you just weren't suitable for their type of shit, or the interviewers just hated you enough to ignore your competence.

Or maybe they just hated your looks.

Law was pretty sure his looks were at least a factor in all the rejections he had gotten so far (four), and he could understand that — he didn't have any formal clothes, he just had ripped jeans and hoodies and basic shirts, and not to mention he could never tidy his hair enough.

And, well, Law had to admit to himself on the night after the fourth rejection (and two weeks after the decision to go job-hunting): covering up the white blotches was tiring as hell, so after that he never really bothered to try anything more, so in the end he still looked like an unkempt, rebellious teenager, though his teen years were far behind him.

And, alright, maybe his attitude was shitty; he had never wanted to be anything other than a doctor, a surgeon, that the other jobs seemed very much not worthwhile, like pigeon shit compared to onigiri.

Law frowned at himself as he lay on his couch, arm swung over to cover his face as he tried to breathe. One-two-three count all the way to twenty-six.

Later on, he didn't quite remember the moment he decided that it'd be best to start drinking vodka and whiskey one after another, but the fact was that he did start drinking — he had used up his drugs, hadn't bought more yet, and while he wasn't addicted, he wanted that pleasuring high — and at some point things went downhill.

Well, lower downhill than before.

It took a couple of mixed shots, and Law's head was spinning and his lips twisted into a grimace, which was directed at his own life and the alcohol, and tears prickled at the corners of his pale yellow eyes.

A shot later, the tears escaped — and if he hadn't been drunk, he never would have cried, he never ever would have started mouthing words that he thought up next.

"Dad…" he spoke out loud, voice shaking and the words slurring, "…what should I do, Dad…"

His throat constricted as he choked on air, and he tried to slam a hand over his eyes to control the tears. Drunkenly, he merely swatted his cheek, and his eyes squeezed shut as he breathed hard. A memory of his father's face hovered behind his closed eyelids, as clear as a day, and Law wanted— he wanted—

"Help me, Dad…"

The memories screamed louder inside his head: Lamie, mother, father…

The Syndrome.

The Incident Six Years Ago.

His father's smiling face — his words to Law that morning — "You'll make a great surgeon if you believe in yourself, young man." — everything mushed together inside Law's buzzed mind, and Law just needed them, so fucking bad that it made his breath stutter and eyes wetter.

He hadn't needed them in a long, long while as much and desperately as now as he lay there on his couch, drunk off his ass, the pile of bills as threatening as ever on the table along with the bottles of vodka and whiskey he had spared for a special occasion. And, hell, this was special — it wasn't every day that he was truly sure he had fucked up his life for good.

It wasn't every day that he cared about fucking up his life.

"I'm sorry," Law muttered, his breath hitching, "I'm sorry, Dad. I never did become a surgeon like you…" His shoulders shook, lips trembles, hands around the shot glass quivered as he tipped it to his lips and swallowed the liquid down.

The burn the strong whiskey left behind was bittersweet.

He woke up in his own vomit.

At least he hadn't shat his pants, which had actually happened once when he had drunk way over his already respectable limit.

Still, waking up to find out that he had vomited all over himself and the couch was disgusting, and Law wrinkled his nose. His pants were wet — and on the floor, not on him.

…What?

The light that trickled into the room made his eyes hurt, so he squinted them shut for a while, trying not to breathe in the nauseating scent of vomit that was, probably, mostly just stomach acids since he couldn't remember eating anything the day before.

He remembered nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And he knew it was better off that way; he knew himself and knew there was a chance that his walls had crumbled down. It was best to not remember. Just rebuild the shattered wall and move on — that was the way he kept on going.

He pulled himself up with some effort, taking off his vomit-covered hoodie, and threw it off without caring where it'd land. Tidiness? What did that even matter anymore? It wasn't worth much when he was still trying to find a way to cover all his expenses that he couldn't live without.

He ran a hand over his face, up to his messy, sweaty hair, and tried to think. What next?

Next… a glass of water. Definitely. A big glass of water. A jug of water, even.

Never before had a glass of water sounded so tempting as it did now, and so Law stood up to his trembling legs that ached from being bent in an uncomfortable position for several hours.

He often had bad ideas, sometimes terrible ideas, and rarely ideas so awful that jumping off into the river that went through the White City seemed preferable to those.

This one was definitely the last kind of an idea.

His vision blurred — a white kind of static filled his vision — and his legs trembled as he took a few steps toward the door. The static grew stronger, along with the buzzing sensation in his head, and his legs gave out just like that. Law fell face-first, but he didn't feel the impact.

He just lay there for a good while, muscles quivering beneath his skin as though he was having a seizure.

He relearned to breathe.

He relearned the feeling of the floor against his naked skin.

He relearned the art of dimming his thoughts until there were none; the most precious lesson of all.

In the midst of his hangover-induced enlightenment, Law heard the ring tone of his phone ring out, and it was loud and disruptive in the silence, but Law didn't want to move. He didn't feel like moving from this spot ever, actually.

He could just die there, and he'd be content… more content than in a while, probably…

The damn ring tone still refused to stop ringing. The caller must be damn insistent on getting hold of Law. The man grunted, forcing himself to slowly crawl to the phone that was… on the floor next to his soaked pants. (Still no idea how that had happened, to be honest. Maybe that was for the better.)

Law brought the phone to his ear.

"Who's this?" he asked, rudely, and his throat feeling like he had stuffed a lot of sandpaper there recently.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Oh. Fuck no. Just when Law had been free from this asshole for the past two weeks during his job hunt… of course Doflamingo had to call now. Law groaned, a little too loudly, and Doflamingo heard it too.

"Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, fufufu."

Law felt his stomach acids act up again. He closed his eyes, willing this moment to go away. "I woke up on the couch, actually," he admitted reluctantly, somehow pulling himself into a sitting position by wriggling his legs and back artistically, one hand supporting him by sticking to the cold floor. "So yes, I am not in the mood, Doflamingo."

"Again with that name. And couch? Did your bed finally give in after my last visit?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

The struggle was real with Doflamingo — the struggle of trying not to smash anything into pieces out of sheer frustration. Law inhaled. That's just your hangover talking, he reminded himself. It's not worth the agitation.

"I always did like mysteries. Should I come over to solve this one?"

"That was not smooth at all." The nausea made Law halt his words for the sake of breathing in a few deep breaths. To Doflamingo, it probably sounded like Law was panicking. "And no. I don't want to deal with you."

"You're peevish when you're hungover, Law." The smile was very much audible over the phone, and Law nearly retched at the sickly sweet tone. "It's kind of cute."

"You know I'm hungover, so you know why I don't want you here," Law ignored Doflamingo's comment for most part. "Now, leave me alone."

At this point, he did actually retch on the floor. Law's head throbbed much harder as a result, and he closed his eyes again, not bothering to clean his mouth yet.

"Oh, that was a bad one. Sounds like you had a party without me."

"Definitely. It was amazing," Law said flatly.

"Now, that's a way to make me jealous."

"A 26-year-old near jobless, soon-to-be homeless guy drinking himself into oblivion is always worth jealousy, indeed," Law snapped before controlling his sharp tongue. He shakily stood up and evaded the pool of vomit, staggering to his bedroom and completely forgetting the glass of water he had meant to get for himself.

"Sounds like a party I'd have loved to witness," Doflamingo purred. "I could have convinced you to come here last night. What a bad timing I have."

"Your timing has always been awful. For me. Why are you even calling at this time of day?"

"It's three in the afternoon." Doflamingo was right. Law confirmed this with his alarm clock. "Can't I call the best hook-up I've had in a while? I care for my people."

"I am not one of your people," Law retorted, and okay, he was moody and he was feeling spiteful, and why hadn't he hung up on Doffy yet. "I'll never be."

"It's a matter of time, and only that, fufu. In the meanwhile, I'm taking you out tonight."

"What."

"I'll pick you up at seven. Try to clean yourself by that time, Law. As fine as you are, vomit does take the edge off of your… charm."

"Doffy, I'm not going anywhere tonight."

"See you!"

Click.

The bastard had hung up on him — which Law should have done at the very beginning of the conversation!

Law fucking hated this man.