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The searing monstrosity radiating through his skull sang with the beastly throes of fragile mortality. Mihawk racked his exhausted thoughts for a probable cause, settling on his exploits the night prior as the likely culprit for his misery. Lured into the overindulgence of negligent recreation by the charming allure of island relaxation.
He squinted at the narrow slit of vicious sunlight streaming through the slight gap in the curtains. A malicious intrusion, audacious enough to wake him this morning and deliberately assault his sensitive retinas. An atrocious smear of peevish syllables rasped through his throat as he debated the pros and cons of rousing himself from the silken comfort of his bed.
Finally forcing himself towards action, he dragged himself to the window, a brutal efficiency in the elegant twist of his wrist as he yanked the curtains closed. Inexplicably clumsy, he staggered back to the welcoming embrace of his blankets, drawing the covers tight under his chin.
He was just drifting back to sleep when the front door of their hotel suite slammed shut, the harsh reverberation echoing through every girder and nail constructing the building. Mihawk fought the urge to hiss through his teeth at the egregious affront to his ears, desperate to return to the blissful sanctity of silence.
The jocular cadence of sibling banter was muffled by the distance between his master suite and their living quarters, the muted repartee indicative of Zoro’s return from his usual morning run. Without even hearing the specific details, he could surmise from the snappy bite of Zoro’s tone that his navigational skills were being questioned, his wandering routes a never-ending source of entertainment for Perona.
Mihawk sighed at the growing din emanating from down the hall. He could respect the boy’s commitment, even if the execution tended to be overzealous and rather roundabout.
He really should roust himself before they found him still abed at this late hour, a sluggardly deviation from his daily routine. The image of his children bursting into his chambers to find him withering away, distraught over an errant sunbeam was too shameful to fully explore.
Struggling free from the delicious entanglement of his bedclothes, he dragged himself over to his suitcase. Every ratcheting tooth on the metallic zipper was a fresh assault on his hypersensitive hearing, each prolonged moment spent rummaging for suitable clothing an insult to brisk efficiency.
The frailty of his current condition aside, he really shouldn’t deny them his company for lunch. It was tradition, and his position as the head of their family dictated he set the precedent; he would never give them deliberate cause to question his dedication. Perhaps after he’d fulfilled his obligations, he could find respite from the sun, slink into the blessed darkness of some shaded refuge hidden away from the scorching rays and blazing light.
A nagging thought scraped through his weary head as he sorted through his clothes, a mystery he hadn’t quite managed to unravel. Zoro had been curiously adamant, insistent on this particular island. It was a marked departure from his typical, blithe acceptance of whatever Perona dictated.
But sorting out the boy’s clandestine motives was a strangely daunting task this morning. He would shelf further contemplation of whatever ridiculous impulse had spurred Zoro’s suggestion, wait to address this conundrum until after he'd acquired coffee.
The ruffled blouse in his hands promised silken comfort as he retrieved it from his luggage, the cool caress of the fine weave a balm to his frazzled nerves. Scowling at his rebellious fingers when they balked from the nimble task of fastening the tiny buttons along the placket, he forced the chore to completion, pleased to select a pressed pair of sable trousers to complete his monochromatic ensemble.
He inspected his appearance in the full-length mirror, eyes narrowed with practiced criticism at the overall effect. The outfit was elegant and refined, his trifling flirtation with decorative frills an intentional distraction from the haggard fatigue paling his face.
The clean lines of his finery were sure to be a deviation from the island's gaudy abundance of tawdry florals and tropical fruits, but he’d never had an issue standing apart.
He sat to don his shoes, curling his lip at the modest collection of sand he’d somehow managed to acquire in each during his evening of uncontrolled revelry. Lips pressed tight against the inconvenience of an extra task, he padded over to the balcony, bracing against the foul beams searing from above as he returned the errant particles to the beach beneath their suite.
His tired thoughts wandered back to the night before, reminiscing the scantest second over the unexpected pleasure of having his toes wriggled into the cool sand by the fire, how the bright laughter of his children had followed every hearty guffaw from Red.
Mihawk blinked as a small flutter wriggled through his stomach, a most unusual squirm of intrigue triggered by replaying the memory.
Caught off-guard by the subtle flicker of excitement, he pushed himself forward into action again, retreating to the relative dark of his bedroom to complete the task of dressing before returning to the mirror.
The thought of indulging in an idyllic island romance quirked his lips. It was utterly amusing to consider such whimsy. The very idea of reclining in a shaded hammock, an idle glass of wine within reach while the soft breeze whispered promises of warm nights and pleasant conversation was…
He tilted his head, surprised by the sudden glimmer of interest in the golden eyes regarding him from his reflection.
How entirely novel.
Mihawk adjusted his ruffled collar to artful perfection, amused by his own antics as he considered. This was a curious deviation from his practice of deliberate thought and even more deliberate action. He was unable to discern where it fell on the spectrum of frivolous distraction and worthwhile endeavor, his judgement too clouded by the fog of overindulgence for mental clarity.
Which called to mind the source of this morning’s bumbling celebration of ineptitude... He really should speak on the aftereffects of alcohol, provide his children a cautionary warning against excessive consumption.
Mihawk exited his room, striding into the living area where Perona and Zoro were lounging in the kitchenette, his footsteps deliberate with the portentous weight of somber advice.
Perona’s jaw dropped, stunned by his pallid appearance. Similarly speechless, Zoro had frozen with his post-workout shake halfway to his lips, the glurping contents inside sloshing with the halted motion.
“It should be rather apparent that I have overindulged,” Mihawk announced, deciding it was best to be direct. “And if I could impart the need for a modicum of temperance throughout the remainder of our vacation—”
He halted when Perona’s amused titter of laughter interrupted his parental advisory, the snort Zoro had tried to hide by finishing his intended sip of shake abruptly breaking free.
“A modicum of temperance?” Perona repeated, her voice squeaking at the utter hilarity of the phrase. “Do you know how much Zoro can drink?”
Zoro grinned, every feral tooth in the mouth that had once terrorized their local orthodontist perfectly visible.
“I might be the world’s greatest,” he bragged, the unassailable self-assurance with which he delivered the declaration indicating he’d done enough research for confidence.
“Hardly a title towards which you should strive,” Mihawk admonished, appalled at the direction the conversation was taking.
Zoro rolled his eyes, coupling the response with a one shouldered shrug as he tipped back his drink.
“It’s not like it’s a real title,” he retorted, barely enunciating the words around his mouthful of shake.
“Given your proclivity towards overtraining, you should be glad it isn’t,” Mihawk returned, eying the diaphanous swirl of raw eggs and spinach globbing down Zoro’s throat, his frown turning as sour as his stomach as he contemplated the concoction’s probable texture and taste.
“What is that atrocity in your cup." He was unable to prevent himself from voicing the fateful question even though he was sure he didn’t want the answer.
“Protein,” Zoro briefly summarized, consuming the last dregs of the culinary affront. “Want one? It’ll help with your hangover.”
Mihawk shuddered a silent declination, barely suppressing the involuntary gag that followed.
“Any natural aptitude for alcohol consumption notwithstanding, please remember to purport yourselves with appropriate discipline,” he managed, closing his eyes to avoid any further visual contact with the contents smeared inside the bottle.
His resolve to commit to lunch was withering away, the thought of a dramatic lie-in on the couch more and more appealing the longer he weathered the blistering rays filtering in through the windows lining their suite.
“Really should eat something,” Zoro reiterated, crossing his arms while giving him a critical onceover. “It’ll just linger if you don’t.”
Mihawk sighed, loath to admit he had enough inexperience with the condition to require the advice of his child.
“We’ll take you to this cute café we saw yesterday,” Perona suggested, delighted by the prospect. “It’s just a short walk.”
He was already wincing in anticipation of the painful brightness of direct sunlight, his next disparaging glance towards the door inspiring Perona to act.
“This is absolutely tragic to watch,” she decided, her frank tone offering no room for protest. “Here.” She swiped an enormous pair of oversized sunglasses off the kitchen counter, settling them neatly onto his nose.
It was the first time he’d fully opened his eyes all morning, the dark tint an immediate blessing.
“The glasses are fantastic, but with the shirt, they’re giving you a debauched rockstar vibe. We need to class it up.” Perona studied him, her eyes narrowed in fashion-conscious consideration as she twirled the end of her brilliantly pink ponytail around her fingers. “I might have just the thing.”
She disappeared into her bedroom, returning moments later with an extravagant sunhat in purest black. With all the artistic expertise of a celebrity stylist, she adjusted the hat to a rakish angle, wrangling the wired brim over one of his eyes with elegant theatricality.
Even Zoro looked impressed when Perona stepped back to admire her work.
“Debonair swashbuckler looks so much cuter on you than hungover vampire,” she announced, her feedback aimed towards some vague proximity of kindness. “You’ll be the best-dressed dad at lunch.”
Content with the old-world romance her assessment conjured in his mind’s eye, Mihawk allowed himself to be ushered out the door and down the street without resistance. He struggled to reorder his bedraggled muddle of thoughts, pleased to perform the task in the private shade of his coordinated accessories.
He was still pondering just how many glasses of wine he'd managed to consume when he realized they'd arrived.
The familiar brilliance of vividly turquoise walls screamed their commitment to island revelry, the lurid fish on the walls all too happy to clamor their agreement. At least the café was quiet today, their late morning arrival fortuitously timed with an apparent lull in business.
"It had great reviews," Zoro shrugged when he noted the increased intensity of Mihawk's petulant scowl. "We heard good things."
"From who, I wonder." Mihawk’s assessment dripped sardonic suspicion, his certainty of the culprit absolute.
Perona and Zoro exchanged a weary glance of waning parental tolerance.
"Let's just find a place to sit and get you something to eat.” Zoro guided him towards a table with all the demeaning patience of someone wrangling a peevish toddler.
“You have to admit, he looks pretty fabulous,” Perona mused, still mulling over her handiwork with keen satisfaction as they found their seats. “He’s serving Gothic garden glam, Morticia Addams meets Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”
“He looks…” Zoro studied him, eyes narrowed as he considered, “fine.”
“If you are going to discuss my appearance as though I were not seated at this very table and fully privy to the conversation, may I at least request that you lower your voices.” Mihawk’s execution of the supplication was precisely clipped, less a question than an incontestable directive.
He closed his eyes behind Perona’s oversized sunglasses, massaging his temples in gentle circles with his fingertips. It might be poor manners to wear a sunhat and shaded eyewear indoors, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Honestly, with the ruffled shirt, the whole ensemble’s actually quite elegant,” she continued, ignoring his plea for hushed tones. “Sophisticated and functional; the brim will protect him from getting—”
“Red,” Zoro announced happily, delighted to interrupt her fashion review.
Mihawk fought the urge to roll his eyes at the blatant obviousness of the statement, closing them tighter instead.
“Yes, thank you, Zoro,” he commented acidly. Hangover aside, he still had enough lingering comprehension to understand the latent effects of sun exposure without reducing the concept to a mere color.
“Great, I’ll wave him over,” Zoro agreed, pleased to assist and blissfully unaware of the misunderstanding.
Mihawk’s eyes shot open, the insistent pang of his headache pulling his face into a painful grimace instead of the placid serenity he’d been attempting to conjure.
“Welcome back!” Red clapped him on the shoulder, knocking his glasses askew.
The heat from his hand radiated through the thin silk of Mihawk’s shirt, leaving a lingering imprint as warm as the sun when he withdrew it.
“Holy hell, Birdie, you look—” Red paused, raising a brow as he inspected the tidy frown bristling on Mihawk’s fully accessorized countenance. “Downright glamorous,” he decided, delighted to compliment his mustachioed scowl. “Thought I had a celebrity in here.”
“A pandering assessment,” Mihawk muttered, furious his ears would have the audacity to pink, though at least the reaction was hidden by his extravagant hat.
“Not at all,” Red grinned. “What would be the point of offering empty praise?”
Chagrined to find himself in full agreement, Mihawk suddenly found himself once again intrigued by silver-tongued rascal, their alignment on another core concept a complete surprise.
“Looks like you could use one of my famous miracle hangover cures,” Red kindly suggested, his casual recognition of Mihawk’s condition alluding to vast personal experience. “And coffees all around? Perhaps a latte for the lady?”
Perona beamed at him, even more charmed when he returned several moments later with a trio of steaming cups. The enchanting little cockatoo adorning her foamy beverage was immediately immortalized by her camera, a testament to her utter delight.
The quaint amusements of bird-themed latte art aside, the pièce de résistance of Red’s presentation was the immense sandwich he proudly settled in front of Mihawk.
The curling tendrils of steam rising from the well-intentioned gift promised a savory mouthful of smoked umami and caramelized onions, a hearty offering to placate the brutal headache still scraping against his skull. Trapped between two halves of a bun positively shimmering with grease, a generous slab of fried pork chop lay slathered in decadent gravy. The generous ladleful oozed down the sides, puddling on the plate.
“How’s it look, Hawksy?” Red asked, hovering eagerly at his elbow.
Mihawk regarded the oleaginous sandwich with dismay, biting back an immediate declination out of sheer commitment to manners.
“Miraculous,” he dryly surmised, wondering how quickly he could convince Zoro to consume it after Red returned to the kitchen.
“And…?” Red hinted, enthusiastic as he lingered, seeking additional feedback.
“And what,” Mihawk clarified flatly, unable to discern any meaning to his question.
“How’s it taste?”
Mihawk was barely aware he was shaking his head, completely befuddled by how to even attempt a mouthful without splattering his delicate ruffles with grease.
“Maybe a fork,” Zoro suggested, so entertained by the problematic sandwich he was willing to offer advice.
Perona reached for her camera, ready to document every moment of the drama about to unfold. “Yeah, definitely a fork,” she agreed, “and maybe a napkin.”
“Several napkins,” Zoro corrected, biting back a grin.
“I can do better than that,” Red announced, disappearing back to the kitchen, the asinine slap of his flip-flops pattering along with his confident stride. He emerged a moment later bearing a handful of paper napkins and a plastic bib. “For your shirt,” he announced, pleased to provide.
He stepped in close, fastening the indecorous atrocity around Mihawk’s neck to protect the silken frills adorning the front of his blouse.
Her wide eyes sparkling with gleeful disbelief, Perona’s unwavering commitment to family documentation guided her finger over the shutter button, hovering as she waited for the perfect shot. Zoro’s face was turning an alarming shade of red as he fought to control himself, a ridiculous orchestration of snorts and sniggers sneaking out from behind the hand he’d clapped over his mouth.
With a deep and sinking sense of dread, Mihawk reached for the bib, twisting the flimsy sheet of printed plastic to view the illustration depicted on the front.
An utterly outlandish rendition of Red as a cartoon pirate grinned back at him, offering an exuberant thumbs up. A slogan encircled the smarmy rogue, stylized letters bearing the outrageous declaration, “I got sloppy at Red’s.”
Mihawk looked up just in time to ensure his very blatant, absolutely horrified dismay was fully captured by Perona’s camera.
“It’s magnificent,” she whispered in awe, leaning over to show the screen to Zoro, who promptly erupted into uproarious laughter. “I've spent my entire life preparing for this moment.”
Red bent down to see as well, his delighted guffaw so bright and loud Mihawk winced as its joyful ricochet filled the café.
“Hey, send that to me, will you? I’ll print it out for my wall of fame.”
“Do not—” Mihawk began, certain his delivery of the warning conveyed paternal authority rather than desperate begging.
“And then let me take you out tonight,” Red added, a smooth interruption coupled with a genuine smile. “For being such a good sport about all this.”
The proposition pulled his children’s eyes away from their diabolical inspection of Perona’s incriminating photo and to his face, both wearing identical looks of comical astonishment.
“He’d be delighted,” Perona decided on his behalf, stepping in with unassailable authority as Zoro nodded his affirmation.
Mihawk couldn’t believe his ears. Moved to speechlessness twice in one day by this absolute scoundrel, and subtly outmaneuvered as well. A public proposition after a gift in front of his family, a trio of hurdles the clever scallywag had deftly sidestepped. It would be positively rude to refuse, especially as Red had just neatly addressed any potential need to acquire Perona and Zoro’s approval.
Feeling as though he’d been conned by the brightly-haired threesome grinning at him like idiots from across the table, Mihawk indicated both acceptance and defeat by picking up the fork and knife next to his plate. He could admit enough interest to pursue an evening of leisure with Red; it would be ungracious to offer more resistance at this juncture, not to mention entirely futile.
He cleared his throat, striving for every ounce of poise he could conjure while sporting an extravagant sunhat, oversized shades, and a plastic bib bearing the beaming face of his would-be suitor.
As delicately as he was able, he separated a tolerably sized bite from his grease-laden, gravy-saturated pork chop sandwich, willing his stomach not to reject such a well-intended offering. Despite its rather tragic presentation, his first mouthful was surprisingly satisfying, the savory tang of salt and spice every bit as transcendent as Red had promised.
He studied Red’s beaming countenance overtop the rim of his sunglasses, leveling every piercing glint of his golden-eyed gaze at the grinning café owner.
"And what, may I ask, are our plans for this evening, as I seem to have been coerced into agreement?"
Perona’s courageous attempt at vague contrition was laughable. Blithely unconcerned with his part in the collaboration, Zoro seemed to feel no remorse, focused instead on swiping his finger through an errant puddle of gravy on Mihawk's plate and nodding his appreciation at Red when he stuck it in his mouth.
"If it’s all the same to you, Hawksy, I prefer to keep my plans under wraps,” Red demurred, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “But rest assured, much like you, I’m a discerning man of undeniable taste.”
"Indubitably," Mihawk agreed, wry sarcasm twisting through every tidy syllable.
An indulgent chuckle accompanied Red’s carefree shrug. “Aesthetic differences aside, it’ll be an evening you’ll never forget,” he promised, completely unbothered by the refined gentility of sardonic defiance.
His incontestable confidence was irresistibly charming, a hint of untold depths below a breezy exterior.
"Forgetting it was never a concern." Mihawk’s caustic reassurance triggered another bright laugh from Red as he waved a farewell and headed for the kitchen.
Ever mindful of the dangers of food splatter despite the graceless protection of his ridiculous bib, Mihawk carefully cut a neat second bite. Any lingering afflictions aside, he was already feeling better. Maybe Red's transcendental sandwich really did contain some miraculous properties.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, he owed more credit to the quiet anticipation whispering through his thoughts with the same relentless power as the crashing caress of foam-crested waves on the sand.