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Doflamingo was like a god, and Sanji knew the Young Master hated anything that implied otherwise.
…even when it was his own body.
It was his eyes, though Doflamingo hated that being brought up too – probably because Law had been the one who’d diagnosed him. It had been more than a decade ago, now. When Law and Sanji had both been children. Sanji remembered the other boy’s expression, so absorbed in the pile of medical texts he’d dragged out of the library. Eyes narrowed, jaw set, posture atrocious. Law had been trying to cure Doflamingo while he was dying himself. Sanji used to bring him food, sit up with him, comb his hair after he'd been seizing and vomiting. Tell him that he would get better someday, but Sanji had already been through this before.
According to Law, because of the split pupil, there was a problem with the way the Young Master’s brain processed light. There was only so much of it he could absorb before, well–
Sanji quieted the door with one hand, balancing the tray on the other.
There was nothing on it but a glass of water, because Doflamingo couldn’t keep food down while he was like this.
The Warlord lay in the center of his bed, his arms wrapped around his head. Through the door to his office, Sanji could see papers scattered across the surface of the desk, and a book upended on the floor. The chair had been shoved to one side, and carefully, Sanji closed that door too, walking without making any noise, turning the handle to silence the click.
He set the tray down on a nightstand, then checked each window. First, he closed the blinds and then the curtains, sealing out the light. Days were long on Dressrosa and the city was often lit up, even at night. From experience, Sanji knew that the Young Master couldn’t handle it at the moment.
Doflamingo had fallen into bed still dressed, and satisfied with the windows, Sanji went to him, kneeling on the bed to remove one of the Young Master’s shoes, and then the other. He set them down on the rug instead of tossing them away. By this point, Doflamingo knew he was there, and he signed with one hand, clumsy from the pain.
[It hurts.]
[I’ll help,] Sanji signed back.
His belt, next. Doflamingo didn’t usually wear one, but perhaps he’d had a meeting with someone earlier in that day that had demanded he dress the part. Sanji’s fingers were deft, and he was careful to make no noise of metal-on-metal as he slid the belt off and set it down, next to the shoes.
Touching Doflamingo’s glasses was normally a death sentence for whoever was stupid enough to attempt it, but he allowed Sanji to ease his arms down and slide them off his face. The scars on the left side of his face were old by this point, faded and white with age. The migraine meant that Doflamingo’s vision was minimal at best, but he must have been able to see something, because he reached out and trailed his fingers through the black feathers of Sanji’s coat.
[I’m here,] Sanji signed, against his chest, and he helped Doflamingo sit up, to drink.
When he was finished, Sanji eased him back down, letting the Warlord’s head rest on his chest, pressing his fingers to Doflamingo’s temples. The skin was smooth on one side, pebbled with scar tissue on the other. The damage from the arrow was more than superficial, but surgery on the eye was tricky, and Law had been a child with shaky hands.
They both died, Doflamingo had told Sanji, when he'd returned without them. It’s just us, now.
Sanji bent down and kissed the Young Master on the top of the head.
It seemed to settle him.