Chapter Text
Without any surprise, the Red Hair pirates were having a huge party.
Yet, despite how crowd and lively the bar was, Kuzan had managed to find a mostly empty corner to nurse his drink. He was not in the mood to enjoy himself at the moment.
The red hair and his crew had decided to crash for the night at a spacious tavern reputed for its exquisite cocktails. The only complication had been that another pirate crew clearly had decided to spend the night in a similar fashion—and they hadn’t looked thrilled to share a room with a Yonko.
Still, after some careful diplomacy and a few reassurances that no trouble was intended, the tension had eased. Soon enough, the newcomers were more than happy to drink alongside a crew known for its legendary revelry.
In no time, the bar was filled with raucous laughter, clinking glasses, and tall tales. But Kuzan remained apart from it all. He was angry at his captain, at his lover, and perhaps at a certain former Warlord.
They were hiding something from him—of that he was sure. Mihawk’s involvement was uncertain, but if Shanks knew something, then the swordsman almost certainly did too. That stung more than he cared to admit.
The feeling had started creeping in after their encounter with Blackbeard. Had the other Yonko told Shanks something about him? And if so… why hadn’t they said anything?
Part of him didn’t want to ask. What if he didn’t like the answer? What if Teach had lied about something important? Worse—what if he had told the truth and it had managed to change the way they now viewed him?
With a weary sigh, Kuzan stared into the bottom of his now-empty glass. Around him, the tavern buzzed with laughter and joy, yet he felt cold and distant—adrift.
It had been a long time since he’d felt this way, and he hadn’t missed it one bit. Not wanting to drown his sorrow in alcohol, he was about to retire for the night when he heard a well-known sound.
It was Benn’s laugher, happy and full of mirth.
Turning his head, Kuzan scanned the room and spotted the grey-haired man seated beside Shanks, listening to a young pirate from the other crew animatedly recounting a story. The tale was full of grand gestures and blatant exaggerations, and at first Kuzan thought the boy was simply taking his chance to impress a Yonko.
But no.
The lingering glances, the winks, the subtle smiles—none of them were aimed at Shanks. The storyteller’s attention was clearly focused on Benn.
And Benn didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t exactly encouraging the flirtation, but he wasn’t dismissing it either. He simply sat there, amused, listening.
Something twisted in Kuzan’s chest. Something dark and unfamiliar.
Jealousy.
The thought made him nauseous.
Was Benn… growing tired of him? The former Admiral could feel a lump forming in his throat at the thought. He had hoped for more time. A little longer, perhaps, before everything fell apart. But how could he blame Benn, really?
Kuzan had never truly made a move. It was always Benn who reached out first. Benn who closed the distance, who touched him, who dared. All those times Kuzan only had responded. He had never offered anything in return.
And suddenly, all the confidence he had built over the past weeks crumbled. He felt like an outsider. An intruder among a crew that humored his presence out of politeness—or worse, pity.
Overwhelmed by the ache in his chest, he rose from his seat and stepped out into the night air, hoping a walk might clear his head.
He didn’t notice the pair of golden eyes watching him from across the room—sharp, intense, and quietly following his every move.
The fresh air helped—at first.
Without quite realizing it, Kuzan had wandered to the far side of the island, the noise of the tavern now long behind him, swallowed by the stillness of night.
Then, without any warning, something massive slammed into his side.
He was thrown bodily into a stone wall with such force that it knocked the breath from his lungs. His head hit the surface hard enough to leave him dazed, his vision swimming. Before he could so much as move, a strong hand gripped both his wrists and pinned them above his head.
And there, looming in front of him, was none other than Marshall D. Teach. He wasn’t using his Devil Fruit powers—not yet. But the threat in his presence was undeniable. "Well, well, well... Aren’t you happy to see me, Ice Candy?"
Kuzan gritted his teeth. "What do you want?"
Teach’s grin widened. "I warned him, you know."
His confusion must’ve shown, because Teach decided to elaborate, voice low and almost conspiratorial. "The last time I saw him, I told Akagami I’d come for you. That he couldn’t keep you away from me forever."
Something inside Kuzan cracked at those words. Because this… This is what they have been hiding from him. They hadn’t trusted him, and worst, they had lied to him. Did they really think he would run back to this lunatic at the first opportunity?
Teach seemed to sense his turmoil. He tilted his head, feigning sympathy, though his grin stretched wider.
"Oh… they didn’t tell you, did they? Damn. I was hoping—really hoping—to be wrong." He let out a theatrical sigh, as if disappointed.
"You should’ve seen him," he went on, voice syrupy. "So smug about how he ‘won’ you. Made you trust him. Made you think you belonged with them."
Teach leaned closer, and his words turned venomous. "Do you really think they love you? Care about you? You’re nothing but a trophy to them, Ice Candy. A prize to parade around."
The words hit their mark with brutal precision.
Every doubt. Every insecurity. Every moment Kuzan had questioned his place among them surged to the surface, drowning out reason. And Teach saw it—saw the cracks—and kept going, twisting the knife with a soft, coaxing voice.
"I didn’t see your worth before," he murmured, now so close that his breath ghosted over Kuzan’s lips. "But I get it now. Come back with me, Ice Candy. I swear I’ll take good care of you."
And for one terrifying moment… Kuzan almost believed him. If Shanks and Benn didn’t care—if he had simply been a conquest—then what was the point?
But no. He would not become a plaything for this monster. Not now, not ever. Because Teach was just like a spoiled child who only wants what someone else has, Teach only valued him now that he’d been taken away.
"Get away from me!" Kuzan hissed.
Teach’s grin flickered. "Suit yourself."
Kuzan felt the trembling in the air before the blow came. He pressed himself to the wall on instinct and tried to call on his ice as fast as possible, yet he knew it would be too late to protect him. The other man was too close.
But the attack never landed—at least, not on him. A blade intercepted the strike, fast as lightning.
"Well, well..." came a low, deadly voice. "What do we have here?"
"This is none of your business, Hawk-Eyes!" Teach snarled, shadows already curling at his fingertips.
But the former Warlord did not listen to him. He struck again, even faster than before.
Shadows writhed around the Yonko, lashing out to cover his retreat. Mihawk moved as if to pursue him, but the darkness swallowed Teach whole, retreating into the night, before the swordsman’s blade could fall again.
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Kuzan’s ragged breathing. The clash had ended before it could truly begin, leaving nothing behind but confusion and the sting of betrayal.
And then a voice, quieter but no less sharp, came from his right. "Are you hurt?"
Kuzan, his mind still reeling from the encounter, turned his head toward the voice and saw it was Benn.
Benn who hadn’t followed him. Benn who had been too busy laughing with some bright-eyed pretty boy to notice his absence. Too wrapped up in someone else to see Kuzan falling apart.
And worse, he had lied. Maybe not with words—but with silence. With omission.
"Don’t touch me. Kuzan snapped.
He saw the flicker of pain in Benn’s eyes—but in that moment, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Kuzan pushed past him without another word, the sand crunching under his boots as he made for the shore. Every muscle ached, every breath burned, but none of it cut as deep as the truth he was finally seeing.
They could keep their lies, their excuses and their pity. He didn’t need any of it. And if the weight in his chest said otherwise, he buried it under ice and kept walking.