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The bathroom tile was cool under his feet, the mirrors fogged from the wafting steam. He’d scalded away every last shred of hungover embarrassment, intent on leaving nothing but the rosy flush of a new beginning seared across his skin.
Mihawk toweled off, savoring the luxurious caress of the cotton before running a hand through his hair, schooling the damp strands from his eyes with an efficient flick. No longer the bumbling, overindulged fool, he’d returned to the lofty hauteur of deliberate precision. He knotted the towel around his hips, emerging from the bathroom in a fog of curling vapor, the clinging mist cool on his bare chest.
Despite the utter inconvenience of a surprise itinerary, he could admit to an unprecedented excitement stirring within, a faint twinge of eager anxiety he was certain he’d never experienced before this moment. There was something to explore here, a new adventure on the brink of discovery. It intrigued, enticed; a singular deviation from his willful disregard for the banality of interpersonal connection.
Mihawk studied the contents of his suitcase, stalled into a moment of contemplative inaction. It would be a tragedy to overdress, similarly disastrous to condemn whatever outfit he’d chosen to suffer the whims of Red’s undeniable taste, however well-intentioned it might be.
The crinkling indignity of plastic-bibbed disgrace shivered through his thoughts, the possibility of a repeat performance so horrific that his hand skirted the frilled blouse he’d been considering to instead settle upon the simple sophistication of a white silk button down.
Coupled with a lightweight pair of sable trousers, the ensemble sang of clean lines and elegance, a necessary counter to the aggressive excess of wanton florals.
Daring the flirtation of several buttons undone down his chest, he studied the effect. Perhaps he’d better accessorize, curb his descent into risqué debauchery with the refined nonchalance of gold accoutrements. He reached for his favorite, a delicate antique concealing a cleverly sheathed blade.
Perona and Zoro had been positively thrilled to gift him the necklace at some birthday long ago. He could still recall the excitement in Perona’s sparkling eyes and the toothy delight of Zoro’s proud grin when he’d thumbed the keen edge of the knife and offered his thanks. It was stylistic perfection, a graceful summation of his character and preferences in the form of a weaponized accessory.
Mihawk’s eyes flicked towards the pearled face of his watch before returning to the mirror, the golden gaze staring back at him caught in the unnerving neverwhere between restrained anticipation and dread. How curiously singular to feel such conflict, the heady rush of inner turmoil all at once welcome and unsettling.
Issuing himself a firm rejoinder to maintain deliberate control, he exited his bedroom to join his family in the kitchen.
The blatant guilt on his children’s faces indicated his entrance had interrupted a titillating discussion, the subject of which he could only imagine.
“Let’s have it then,” he invited with a regal sigh, anticipating mischief. The crisp efficiency of his request brokered no argument, a concise recommendation to adhere.
Striving for innocence, Perona blinked up at him from her perch on the counter. Ever the willing conspirator despite his inability to maintain the illusion of guiltless irreproachability, Zoro broke first.
“Where do you think you’re going on your date,” he blurted, launching Mihawk back into the nebulous perturbation of unshared plans. “Because I think it’s bowling.”
The random conjecture was so plausible, it triggered an immediate frown. Navigating the slick hazard of lubricated wood while wearing communal shoes was a horrifying prospect, the added necessity of shoving his fingers into a filthy neon ball, an absolute nightmare.
“I’m voting laser tag,” Perona decided, a diabolical gleam of satisfaction in her eyes when Mihawk’s frown sank into a petulant scowl. "What was that place we passed on the way here? You know, the one with the pirate ship?"
“Scallywag Tag,” Zoro grinned, his eyes alight with scampish delight. “They had indoor mini-golf too.”
Perona snickered. “Just think of how spectacular he’d look under the black lights,” she teased. “We might even have enough time to find a big feather for that sunhat, really send him out in style.”
His reluctance to participate in corsair-themed activities aside, Mihawk could confess a certain appreciation for the august affectation of ruffled shirts and maritime swagger, though the swashbuckling decadence of ostrich feathers and cavalier hats would hardly be tactical in a black-lit laser tag arena.
“And then there’s the little matter of dinner,” Perona continued, delighted to conjure additional concerns. She steepled her fingers, summoning an air of deepest contemplation.
Mihawk narrowed his eyes, daring her to continue. He could at least admire her tenacity, though he didn't much appreciate it being directed at him.
“A family-style buffet,” Zoro guessed, immediately triggering thoughts of sun-pinked tourists jockeying for their place in line.
He couldn't help but to curl his lip as he imagined intentionally handling serving utensils smeared by the sweaty palms of strangers, skirting the insufficient protection of splattered sneeze-guards to acquire sustenance.
Any lingering appetite he might have had was quickly withering to queasy protestation.
“A family-style buffet that only serves breakfast for dinner,” Perona elaborated, inspiring him to embellish his disaster of a mental image with sagging piles of undercooked pancakes and mounds of grey-tinged scrambled eggs.
He should cancel. He should absolutely cancel. An eleventh hour recision might be rude, but willfully subjecting himself to the horrors of—
Poised on the brink of self-preservation, his decision to abort was disrupted by the playful percussion of a syncopated knock.
Casting his devious children a baleful glare, he strode past them to attend to the door, his hand clenching cold on the handle.
Dramatically backlit by the hazy glow of the sunset, Red’s easy grin was confident enough to at least lay some minimal aspect of his fears to rest.
“You look fantastic,” he gushed as Mihawk stepped outside, reaching to welcome him into a hug that was deftly sidestepped and swiftly disregarded. “I’ve gotta be the luckiest guy on the island tonight,” he continued, unperturbed enough to clap a jovial hand on Mihawk’s shoulder, jostling him off-balance.
“Perhaps just the most persistent," Mihawk amended, acerbic as he shimmied free of Red’s effusive grip to readjust the pristine tuck of his shirt.
Ridiculously comfortable in leather sandals and faded floral cargo shorts, Red had sailed past any demarcation of tasteful boundaries by choosing to begin buttoning his shirt somewhere around his waist, leaving the tails to flutter in the wind. The playful breeze tugged at fabric, caressing the smooth curves of muscle underneath as it billowed and clung. Even the golden rays of the setting sun seemed intent on gilding Red’s carefree allure, burnishing the hair on his mostly bare chest copper and gold.
Amused by the repetitious dance of capture and escape, Perona and Zoro joined them outside, lingering in the doorway.
“Don’t wait up,” Red dared to advise, coupling his cheeky advice with a valiant fumble for Mihawk’s hand.
Overriding the surly impulse to shove his arms across his chest, Mihawk instead slid his hands into his pockets, chagrined when Red outmaneuvered the attempt and latched onto his elbow.
“Have a nice night,” Perona called after them, waving a cheery goodbye while Zoro offered him a grin so decidedly wolfish, Mihawk half expected the crass encouragement of a hearty slap on the ass to punctuate his departure.
“Totally up to you, of course,” Red began as they sauntered towards the stairs and down towards the beach, “but you don’t need to play this hard to get.”
Mihawk raised a brow, a silent invitation to elaborate.
“I already know you’re interested,” Red continued, adding a charming little shrug to the self-satisfied boast. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
A little cross at having his private motives flaunted so freely, Mihawk shot him a glance of keen-eyed estimation.
“And I also know that you know I know,” Red grinned, merrily leading them towards the docks, the casual scuff of his sandals kicking up sand as they crossed the beach. “Because if we weren’t on equal footing in some regard, I wouldn’t have caught your eye in the first place.”
Refusing to encourage the inane repetition of knowledge awareness, Mihawk redirected them towards the productivity of information acquisition.
“May I inquire as to our plans this evening?”
“Inquire away,” Red beamed, delighted.
“This is me inquiring,” Mihawk clarified with a frown, tetchily noting the placating pat Red was now bestowing on his captured arm. "What we're missing now is the answer."
They’d reached the end of the dock, the soft slap of the waves a gentle percussion against the barnacled posts sunk deep into the water.
Red turned to face him, the yellow-orange glow of the sinking sun warming the handsome contours of his cheeks. The evening breeze rustled his hair, tickling flames across his skin as he tossed it from his face. The effect was nothing short of stunning, an arresting fire caught in the sparkling earnestness of his eyes, dancing in his smile.
“We’re here,” he announced, gesturing towards a modest sailboat moored to the dock by their side.
Mihawk studied the boat. The gleaming white of her hull reflected the same gorgeous warmth as her owner. In neat, curling script, she proclaimed her name to the world in gold, a quiet pride gilding the letters.
“The Red Force,” he read aloud, catching the preening swell of Red’s chest at his pronunciation. “Is everything you own named after you?” he asked, his coy tone mild enough to tease rather than deride.
“Yup. That way everyone knows it's mine.” Red gestured for him to step aboard, gallantly offering him a hand that was promptly ignored.
The frank confirmation was remarkably self-assured, so unabashedly confident it was difficult to discern whether the quirk hinted at wit or uninspired convention. Red answered the bemused lift of Mihawk’s brow with a grinning affirmation, further cementing his confusion.
“Where are we headed?” Mihawk asked, taking in his surroundings. For all his trepidation, the evening was remarkably tolerable thus far. The ship appeared to be beautifully maintained, Red’s pride in the tidy vessel well-placed.
“Anywhere you want or nowhere at all,” Red offered, another easy shrug confirming his willingness to accommodate. “Your wish is my command. But if you’re willing to trust me, I did have a specific place in mind.”
“I believe my trust is rather implicit, given my presence aboard your ship,” Mihawk commented, his dry acquiescence triggering an appreciative chuckle from Red.
"I was hoping you'd say that.” His brown eyes sparkled with earnest delight. “I promised you an evening you wouldn’t forget, and I fully intend to deliver.” He gazed around the sailboat, satisfied everything was tucked in place. “Now,” he announced, ready to shift them into action as he brought his hands together with a sharp clap. “Let’s set sail.”
***
Mihawk had to admit he was impressed with the swift efficiency of the practiced routine. Kind enough to request assistance despite his obvious independence, Red’s instructions were clear and concise, his graceful expertise decidedly attractive.
Mainsail unfurled and angled to catch the breeze, Red had set the bearings to follow the mystery of their charted course, his cheeky refusal to divulge any secrets downright impressive against the unwavering interrogation of Mihawk’s golden gaze.
Timed with the last glowing moments of the sinking sun, they finally dropped anchor at the mouth of a gorgeously secluded inlet, their position far enough from the beach to rock with the gentle waves. Lush tropical trees spackled the coast, offset from the water by a narrow stretch of pale sand. A vibrant orchestra of nighttime sounds chimed and chirped in the distance, their lilting waltz lazily adrift in the humid air.
Beaming as he welcomed Mihawk to the blissful sanctity of his own private paradise, Shanks stepped from the cabin. He’d lost his sandals at some point in their journey, perfectly at ease barefoot on the deck.
“Hungry?” he asked, motioning Mihawk towards the aft as he flicked on a set of accessory lights, their muted glow hinting at an evening of subtle romance at sea.
Intrigued, Mihawk followed, pleasantly surprised by the beautifully laid charcuterie board Red withdrew from a cooler to place on the built-in table of a dining nook.
A decadent tumble of tropical fruits filled the bamboo platter. Sumptuous raw honeycomb rested in the center, oozing a delicate drizzle over a wheel of smeary cheese. Plum-salted spears of mango nestled amidst seed-spackled dragon fruit and snowy coconut, rays of sunny gold against the pallor of soft white. Swirls of fat-streaked prosciutto were tucked throughout the colorful display, curled into decorative rosettes and promising a palate-cleansing tang of savory brine.
"Thought you might like a moonlit picnic on the water." Shanks tossed himself down on the padded bench, a careless grace to his sprawl as he invited Mihawk to join.
There was a gentle attentiveness in his gaze as he gauged Mihawk’s response, a serene smile of victory at capturing his approval.
"You did all this?" Mihawk questioned, indisputably pleased. The innate flattery of having his preferences considered and catered to was gratifying, especially after his challenging morning.
"Well, I did have help," Red admitted. "I've got a top-notch crew back at the café. Plus, I was pretty sure you'd bolt if I offered you anything messy enough for another bib."
Mihawk suppressed a quiet snort, the soft huff an indication of full agreement. For all Perona and Zoro’s teasing about thematic dates, the quiet evening was turning out to be unexpectedly palatable.
"I even brought that wine you liked so well." With all the flourishing expertise of a seasoned sommelier, he displayed the bottle before dispatching the cork with a well-practiced gesture of deft execution.
Not one to decline the compliment of tailored indulgence, Mihawk nodded his thanks, neatly settling himself down across the table.
A languid continuation of the moment would have been lovely, romantic even, had the obnoxious disturbance of a sputtering speedboat not rudely shattered their anticipation of an elegant repast on the water. The driver's burst of laughter bounced off the water as he whizzed past, his proximity to the sailboat deliberate enough to indicate targeted mischief.
Diabolically timed and expertly aimed by the capricious hand of fate, the rolling surge slapped the side of the boat, the consequent list enough to topple Mihawk’s well-filled glass from the table. He gasped as the generous pour soaked the front of his shirt, the pristine silk immediately saturated by indelible crimson.
“Dammit, Ace, get outta here!” Red shouted after the departing hooligan, dismayed as he took in Mihawk’s wine-doused clothing. He fumbled for a towel, excessively solicitous in his enthusiasm to assist.
Caught between the utter tragedy of ruined silk and the warm press of Red’s hands roving over the entirety of his drenched front, Mihawk decided a ferocious glare was the best recourse. Prepared to denounce the accident as a deliberate affront against fashion, his scathing diatribe was rudely interrupted by the growling thrum of another watercraft hot on the miscreant’s trail.
The driver barked an unintelligible apology around the two cigars clamped in his mouth, skimming by so quickly Mihawk barely caught the blurred maritime law enforcement insignia emblazoned on the hull.
The displaced wake rolled against the sailboat as he passed, the compounding waves enough to rock Red’s hovering stance by Mihawk’s side into a willfully exploited sprawl across his lap.
As the waters calmed, the dripping consequences of the brief interaction became an unavoidable reality.
Apparently finding no issue with the haphazard intimacy he’d discovered while straddling Mihawk’s lap, Red offered him a commiseratory grimace, dabbing at the wine dripping down his chest.
“Sorry about that, Hawksy,” he offered, his helpful hands wandering so low that Mihawk grabbed his wrist before the evening got even more out of control. “You might need to take all this off.”
“Do you really think so,” Mihawk snipped, his tone far drier than his wine-sodden clothes.
It wasn’t as though there was any other possible recourse, the only alternative being to wear a ruined shirt and hope for the best while it dried in the breeze.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” Red’s playful gaze flickered down again, dancing back up to find Mihawk’s narrowed eyes. His lips quirked, teetering on the tenuous border between feigned innocence and deliberate mischief. “Do you want help?”
“Perhaps you might start by removing yourself from my lap,” Mihawk suggested, sourly plucking at the drenched silk clinging to his skin. It was ruined; no home remedy could salvage this, the irreparable damage far beyond the grasp of even the most skilled professional.
Red scooted away, audacious enough to pluck a slice of mango from the charcuterie board and pop it into his mouth while he watched with unabashed interest.
“Do you at least want another shirt?” he offered, his enunciation horribly garbled around his mouthful of fruit. “Gonna get colder now that the sun’s gone down.”
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Mihawk considered. The breeze had indeed picked up, the slight chill in the air raising goosebumps on his arms as it teased through the damp cloth of his shirt.
“Do you have one?” he hazarded, daring to dream it would be a suitable replacement.
Given the utter inconvenience of contracting an illness while abroad, it was common sense to accept dry clothing, the embarrassment of such an intimate gesture unavoidable at this juncture.
He received his answer a moment later in the form of a sun-bleached bundle tossed into his arms. Salt-worn and weather-frayed, the fabric was soft from hours of casual wear. Heart already sinking in wary anticipation, he unfurled the sweatshirt, dismayed by the dastardly character depicted on the front.
Not quite a replica of the pirate rogue on plastic bib, the sweatshirt featured a mostly naked Red clad in only an apron, grinning as he offered two thumbs up. The same suggestive logo as before surrounded him, a bold admission in big block letters indicating that he had, indeed, gotten sloppy at Red’s again.
“Those sold out damn quick, I can tell you that,” Red boasted, delighted to divulge the success of his barely clad caricature. “Barely snagged one for myself.”
“Fantastic,” Mihawk assessed, staring down at the blatantly visible nipple on the cartoon man’s brawny chest.
As if sensing his recalcitrance, the devilish wind plastered his soaked shirt against his chest with its next chilly gust, Mihawk’s resultant shiver driving him towards definitive action.
Glaring a daggered response to the Red’s extremely unnecessary wolf whistle, he unbuttoned his shirt, shimmying out of the wine-drenched silk to tug the oversized sweatshirt over his head. A curious twist of giddy anxiety curled in his stomach as the muted bouquet of detergent and cologne mixed with the salty scent of the sea, engulfing him in a sudden, heady blend inherently Red.
Disastrously sure his cheeks had flushed without his permission, Mihawk adjusted the first sweatshirt he’d ever worn in his life, surprised to find comfort and warmth in the nubby fleece.
“Boy, Hawsky, you sure look great in that,” Red sighed in blissful adoration as he leaned his elbows on the table. “Bet it would look even better on my—”
“Don’t.”
Mihawk collected his discarded shirt into a hapless mound, settling it on the table so it wouldn’t be tempted to stain the deck with its wanton sogginess. He reseated himself with flawless aplomb, determined to return to some approximation of enjoyment despite the tragedy of an unmitigated wardrobe disaster.
“If you would be so kind,” he invited, indicating they return to their evening as though they’d been uninterrupted.
“As I was saying,” Red grinned, playfully matching his formality as he reached for the wine bottle. “I do hope you’re having a pleasant time.”
“The experience has been unexpectedly immersive,” Mihawk noted mildly, raising his refilled glass to his lips.
Red snorted into his drink, barely managing to swallow the first swig before bursting into a hearty laugh.
“Really am sorry about your shirt though. You looked so nice,” he recovered. “Still look nice, better even,” he fumbled, backpedaling as he gestured at the oversized sweatshirt.
“I find that very hard to believe.”
He could only imagine his current state of utter dishevelment. Slightly sticky from the wine and humidity, his wind-ruffled hair in full disarray, Mihawk was sure he’d never been further from the strict confines of his fastidious preferences, singularly derailed by Red’s disastrously charismatic influence.
“No,” Red shook his head, his fond disagreement filled with the confidence of quiet honesty. “Might be the best you’ve ever looked.” He slid closer on the bench, his voice dropping low with a murmured offer. “Lemme just… fix your tag.”
His fingertips grazed the back of Mihawk’s neck as he reached for the rebellious slip of cloth, dipping below his collar to tuck the offending tag in place.
Mihawk blinked back at him, any cohesive thoughts inexplicably absent as the sensation of featherlight affection skittered along his nerves. An impish sprinkle of boyish freckles dusted over the bridge of Red’s nose and cheeks, charmingly slapdash in their scattered array.
He was suddenly certain the gentle sway of the world around them had very little to do with the waves, the heady suggestion coursing through his veins completely unrelated to his scant sip of wine.
He opened his mouth to speak, sure the moment warranted the wit of a captious riposte or some small gratitude—
The first press of Red’s lips was soft and careful, the prickly scruff of his beard tickling against Mihawk’s skin. His gentle intimacy held all the sunshine of a carefree day on the water, seasoned to perfection by the tangy nip of sea salt and a warm twist of mango and wine. He pulled back, searching Mihawk’s face before leaning in again, this time driving forward with the same, irresistible force pulling the tides.
Their second kiss crashed into Mihawk with all the unrestrained might of the sea, towing him under with alluring power and grace. The golden regard of his eyes slid closed, surrendering to an unprecedented moment of blissful simplicity. He was aware of Red’s hand on his neck, sliding into his hair, gripping in with daring possession.
Urging himself to rally against stuttering passivity, he pressed back, earning a soft hum of delight for his shift towards decisive action. Deliciously tangled, the kiss was a messy affair, flooded by the ardent confirmation of mutual attraction.
Red’s adoring eyes shone with enchantment when they parted, the breathy awe of a kiss-drunk chuckle soft on his lips.
“I guess I should have assumed you'd be the world’s greatest kisser, Hawksy.” He slumped into the cushions on the bench, regarding his date with reverent disbelief as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the wind-swept strands from his face and letting them flop back down to graze his cheeks. “Compared to you, all of creation is second-rate.”
Trying his best not to preen at what was obviously another fictional title, Mihawk straightened the collar of his borrowed shirt, resettling the seams along his shoulders. His natural aptitude for excellence aside, it wasn't as though he'd trained for such a thing. In fact, he could hazard a very safe guess that the number of swords Zoro had shattered this year alone far outstripped the kisses he'd shared in his lifetime.
“It would be a shame to disappoint,” he decided, feeling as though the lofty compliment was probably accurate despite his deliberate lack of experience.
Idly watching as Red roused himself to retrieve plates and utensils, Mihawk trailed his fingers along the stem of his wine glass, shifting his gaze out over the water. The moon had risen, its soft glow shimmering across the shifting waves, the cool breeze just frisky enough to tip any lingering sweatshirt vexation into gratitude. Catching Red’s eye, he inclined his head, raising his glass before bringing it to his lips, unable to deny his thrill of private delight at the charming smile he received in return.
***
Daring the mechanized lock to break its silence, he swiped into the keyless entry outside their rooms before slinking inside, cringing as the unavoidable clunk of the latch echoed through the stillness.
He slipped out of his shoes, grimacing at the grit between his toes as he padded through the foyer in his sand-speckled socks.
The unexpected onslaught of a fierce spotlight froze him in his tracks, guiltily stalling him mid-skulk as his eyes fought to adjust to the blinding glare.
In a stunning display of flawless role reversal, his children had rearranged the living room. A matching pair of armchairs now faced the entryway with accusatory precision, the torchiere angled to capture his tardy arrival with searing accuracy.
Her bearing filled with judicious reproach, Perona inspected his incriminating wardrobe change with exacting deliberation. Zoro affected a ferocious scowl, settling his arms across his chest while he raised a single, imperious brow.
“I assume you have a suitable explanation for all of this.” Perona’s accompanying gesture was scathingly dismissive as she indicated the sweatshirt, a near-perfect imitation of Mihawk’s unremitting hauteur.
"I never do anything without a suitable explanation,” he replied loftily, conjuring enough regal self-possession to put their posturing attempts to shame. “Whether or not I feel any compulsion to share remains to be seen."
Chin held high, he dismissed himself to the master suite, signaling his full exit from the attempted interrogation by closing the door. Once inside, he lingered just beyond the threshold, ears attuned to the subsequent exchange of furious whispering.
The hint of a smile played over his lips as he tugged the sweatshirt over his head, carefully folding it before heading to the bathroom to rinse away the clammy grit of saltwater clinging to his skin.
Perhaps, just perhaps, they’d unravel the mystery of the evening’s events correctly, but it was far more entertaining to let them wonder. Far be it from him to kiss and tell.