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The café was blissfully quiet this morning, the salt-laden breeze soft as it danced through the open windows, teasing the ends of Mihawk’s hair. The steam from his espresso twisted lazy curls upwards, a lilting swirl sent languidly adrift. His fingertips traced the handle of his cup, contemplative as he gazed out towards the rolling waves, lost in the hazy recreation of a mid-morning reverie.
Scuffing across the worn wooden floor with warm familiarity, the quiet slap of sandals behind him was a gentle accompaniment to the crashing surf.
A scruffy kiss daringly planted against his cheek returned him to the present, his blink of surprise at the unexpected intimacy triggering a delighted chuckle from Red as he placed a plate on the table.
“I didn’t—” Mihawk began, his declination of an unordered breakfast fizzling on his lips when he glanced down at the offered meal.
Perfectly poached, two steaming eggs lounged atop the separated halves of a toasted muffin. A sprinkle of green onion dusted the buttery sauce in which they’d been drizzled, the pale yellow a beautiful complement to the delicate pink of the smoked salmon just visible under the eggs.
“On the house,” Red proposed, a scampish hint of ulterior motives sparkling behind his attempted innocence.
Sighing as he resigned himself to another defeat, Mihawk inclined his head in thanks as he replaced his cup onto its saucer.
It was a clever advance, a culinary appeasement clearly intended to placate any objections to the stolen kiss, but truly, it would be such dreadful manners to reject such a lovely breakfast, his weakness for poached eggs notwithstanding.
Interpreting the lack of rebuff as an opening, Red tossed himself down into the chair across the table, a decadent sprawl radiating self-satisfaction.
“Any big plans today, Hawksy?” he asked, carefully retrieving the cup of coffee he’d dared to fill to the absolute brim.
Slurping and loud, his next sip was an egregious affront, inelegantly executed by lowering his lips to the mug rather than lifting it to avoid a spillage.
Curling his lip at the sloppy percussion of fluid consumption, Mihawk focused instead on the delightful zing of lemon teasing along his tongue from the first taste of his breakfast. Correctly executing this particular recipe necessitated a balance of control and relaxed timing in the kitchen, a charming duality Red seemed to exude in droves.
“Because if you’re free, I wondered if you’d wanna check out the farmer’s market across the island,” Red continued, eager hopefulness gilding the forthright invitation. “We could grab some bikes and take the path through the jungle, maybe make a day of it?”
Mihawk considered, finding the suggestion unexpectedly quaint. Given his penchant for gardening, he was undeniably interested, intrigued by differences in rainfall and humidity, the acidity of the soil, perhaps the–
“Probably need to change first, though. As fantastic as you look out of them, I’d hate to be responsible for ruining more of your shirts.”
The accompanying grin was far more distracting than it had any right to be, disrupting Mihawk’s agrarian ruminations with its devilish charisma.
It was a fair point, considerate despite having been delivered in jest. Mihawk issued the pristine ruffles cascading down his chest a critical evaluation. Lovely though they were, he had to agree; silk embellishments were hardly appropriate for gallivanting through the jungle on a bicycle.
“Shorts too,” Red suggested, taking another indelicate slurp of his coffee. “Might be muddy.”
“Shorts,” Mihawk mused, thoughtful as he considered a deviation from his strict adherence to full-length pants.
“Shorts,” Red confirmed with a nod, accommodating enough to plunk his leg up on the table to indicate the appropriate length somewhere mid-thigh.
“I’m fully aware of the concept,” Mihawk stated, sourly brushing the accompanying sprinkle of sand from the tabletop. “A visual cue is hardly necessary, especially one in such close proximity to my breakfast.”
Red withdrew his leg, bereft of any regret as he plopped his chin into his hand. “So? You in?”
Loath to admit he had packed neither shorts nor an appropriate shirt for the proposed itinerary, Mihawk settled on a plan of action. While he was sure Red would offer him more clothes plastered with nearly naked, apron-clad depictions of himself without hesitation, it would be best to avoid such a travesty. His participation in the day's activities necessitated an emergency shopping venture.
“I’m free this afternoon,” Mihawk decided, setting a definitive timeline for successful clothing acquisition.
“Perfect.” Red beamed at him, adoration crinkling the corners of his eyes. He snagged his coffee mug and stood to return to the kitchen, turning back when another thought struck him. “Damn, Hawksy, my bad. Here you are on a family vacation, and I keep pirating you away from your kids. Would they wanna come too?”
“I’ll be sure to extend the invitation.” Mihawk tucked his smile of appreciation away behind the polite dab of his napkin.
With any amount of luck, he’d be able to purchase ingredients and prepare dinner in the humble comfort of their hotel suite kitchenette. A quiet evening, family style, the perfect end to a day of exploration.
***
Several hours later, Mihawk was willing to conclude that he’d made an egregious error regarding the ease of appropriate clothing procurement. Surrounded by an endless stretch of stores, each blaring some form of ungodly chaos he’d been able to vaguely categorize as music, the sheer volume of garish prints and asinine beach-themed slogans he’d seen was an absolute affront.
At this point, he’d deviated so far from elegance he was sure he’d entered some unnamed circle of Hell, forsaken by finery to forever wander the damnation of cheap polyester blends.
His severe scowl of displeasure firmly in place, he skirted the olfactory assault of an overstocked perfume counter laden with colored glass bottles, appalled when the bespectacled boy behind it misinterpreted his derisive glare as an invitation to approach.
“If you are about to spray me with some execrable tropical essence, I highly recommend you reconsider,” he warned, a cutting first strike intended to intimidate.
The boy’s subsequent flush of embarrassment matched the blushing hue of his hair as he stuttered a squeaking apology, scampering back to cower behind the counter until Mihawk passed.
Satisfied he’d nullified the threat so efficiently, Mihawk glanced at his watch, irritated to find his window of opportunity steadily diminishing.
“Dad?” Perona’s voice was a welcome interruption, her timely appearance a blessing to his flagging spirits. “What are you doing at a shopping mall?”
Mihawk turned, pleased to note Zoro in attendance as well.
“Probably shopping,” Zoro drawled, forcing the sarcastic jumble of syllables from behind a mouthful of food. “Found free chicken,” he shrugged after swallowing, attempting to assuage Mihawk’s subsequent frown of disapproval by offering him a misshapen lump of sauce-doused meat speared on a toothpick. “Want some?”
“I believe samples are usually intended to offer a taste rather than satiate hunger,” Mihawk declined, noting the blatant handful of used toothpicks in Zoro’s other hand. “Regardless, I have a family challenge to propose.”
Interest immediately piqued by the formal offer of a family competition, Zoro popped the remains of his free sample bouquet into his mouth, licking his fingers clean. Beside him, Perona assumed battle-readiness, unable to resist the allure of sibling rivalry.
“I require a pair of shorts and an appropriate shirt for an outdoor activity,” Mihawk announced, issuing the challenge with regal authority. “Time limit for acquisition is thirty minutes. You may each ask one question.”
Perona narrowed her eyes. “Specific activity, inseam, color preference, cost?”
“Casual outdoor bicycling,” he provided, pleased with her efficiency and accommodating enough to indicate the appropriate length mid-thigh. “As black appears to be an unfortunate impossibility, I will accept anything with tolerable aesthetics. Cost is no object.”
“So, just gym shorts?” Zoro clarified, brimming with self-confidence as he settled his arms across his chest.
“Way to waste your question, loser,” Perona snorted, rolling her eyes. “You’re aware aesthetics and athletics are two different concepts, right?”
“Wait, what?” The innocence in Zoro’s dismay was tragic to behold, a fatal misstep guaranteed to cost him the victory.
“Begin.” Merciless in his adherence to the rules of engagement, Mihawk signaled the start of the competition with a dramatic drop of his arm.
Perona bolted from their family huddle, clutching her hat to her head as she ran. Swearing under his breath, Zoro made the split-second choice to follow rather than forge his own path, an uncharacteristically wise decision.
Satisfied as he calculated the odds for success, Mihawk strolled after them, pleased to accept a complimentary glass of wine as soon he entered the Doskoi flagship store in which Perona had opted to begin her search. His personal preference wasn’t particularly inclined to clothing slathered in pandas, but he’d already exhausted every other avenue and was willing to trust her judgment.
Beaming with success, Perona skidded to a halt in front of him several moments later, thrusting an armful of clothing into his arms.
“I told you I didn’t need assistance,” she reiterated, nose in the air as she addressed the hovering shopkeeper. “But if you could retrieve the green-haired doofus currently wandering through men’s footwear and also inform him that he’s a loser, I’d be ever so grateful.”
She fluttered her lashes, exchanging a lofty look with Mihawk when her flirtatious dismissal sent the man scurrying towards the back of the shop to locate Zoro.
Amused by her confidence, Mihawk held her findings aloft. She’d provided two different options for shorts, one in pale lilac and the other printed in a refined burgundy paisley. A pair of short-sleeved button-downs complemented her selection, their solid-hued black and white elegance perfectly serviceable.
“Excellent,” he assessed, noting she’d also selected the correct sizes.
“What the hell, Perona,” Zoro scowled, returned by the shopkeeper to their meeting point at the register from his fruitless sojourn. “There’s no way you found something that fast.”
Mihawk stepped up to the counter, idly monitoring their bickering reunion by his side while the shopkeeper sprang into action at the register.
“Oh, but I did,” Perona grinned, full of vicious glee. “Now, say it.”
Zoro narrowed his eyes, glowering and obstinate as he shoved his arms across his chest.
“Say it,” she reiterated, her rising volume indicative of her commitment to cause a scene if the situation warranted an escalation.
“You’re the world’s greatest shopper,” Zoro muttered, gritting out the words while Perona smirked. “And I’m a worm.”
Mihawk raised a brow at the begrudging declaration as he swiped his card. Apparently the stakes for their family contests had been raised without his knowledge.
“Hey, isn’t that—” Perona began, the end of her sentence interrupted by an unintelligible hiss from Zoro.
Intrigued by the abrupt shift in their conversation, Mihawk followed the direction of their focus towards an alcove filled with colorful silk ties.
Blithely unaware he’d captured their notice, a young man across the store perused the available merchandise, thoughtful as he trailed his fingers through the patterned fabric.
Unsure who they’d recognized in a store so far from home and rather bemused by the inexplicable flush blooming across Zoro’s cheeks, Mihawk returned his attention to business. He provided the swooping finality of his signature and collected his purchases from the counter, gesturing for Perona and Zoro to proceed towards the exit.
As they neared the door, Zoro glanced back over his shoulder, unable to resist the temptation of a final glimpse of the mystery shopper.
Disastrously ill-timed, his moment of wayward distraction placed a trio of suited mannequins directly in his path. He collided with the display, the resounding crash percussive enough to secure the full attention of everyone in the store. The first mannequin struck the floor with enough force to detach one of its arms, sending the emancipated appendage skittering away across the tiles until Mihawk halted its trajectory with his foot.
Desperate to prevent the remaining two mannequins from meeting a similar fate, Zoro’s frantic manhandling was a sight to behold. Ridiculously entangled in their unyielding embrace, he fought to wrangle them both upright, finally breaking free to leave their fine suiting horribly askew. His face a brilliant shade of red, Zoro offered the nearest mannequin a muttered apology before Perona yanked him from the store, barely holding back a cascade of helpless giggles.
A stunned silence stretched in the aftermath, broken only when Mihawk bent to retrieve the errant arm at his feet. Certain it was the strangest olive branch he’d ever extended, he offered it to the dumbfounded shopkeeper, ensuring the man’s fumbling fingers had properly captured the arm before letting go.
“Perhaps those ought to be better secured,” he suggested mildly. Impenetrably composed, he settled Perona’s oversized sunglasses in place atop his nose, turning to step over the fallen mannequin with enough detachment to suggest he endured similar disasters with frightening regularity. “Have a pleasant day.”
***
“Holy hell, Birdie,” Red assessed, his appreciation for the efforts of the morning’s shopping extravaganza written plainly on his face when their family trio reappeared at the café. “You look like you just came from a Doskoi photo shoot. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you—”
“I would not,” Mihawk confirmed, satisfied with Red’s efforts to wrangle up enough bicycles for their expedition across the island. He selected the nearest, pleased its black paint complemented his new outfit.
“But still,” Red gestured at him, beside himself with helpless admiration. “How do you always manage to look so good?”
Mihawk shrugged, elegantly off-handed in his acceptance of credit where it was due. “It’s certainly not without its challenges.”
Zoro’s ears flushed pink at the pointed comment, his next desperate glance at Perona a beseeching request to keep secrets unspilled. Beautifully communicative without uttering a word, she returned the look with calculating consideration, filling the ensuing silence with her unvoiced expectation of indentured servitude until she deemed the debt repaid.
“Well, color me impressed,” Red decided, mounting his bicycle. “Keeping my eyes on the road is going to be tough, I can tell you that much.”
“Distracted ogling is rarely worth the consequences,” Mihawk replied lightly, triggering another blushing grimace from Zoro as they started down the dirt path into the jungle. “Attention to task seems a more worthwhile endeavor.”
Barely puddle-pocked from the overnight rain, their route was surprisingly well-maintained. Lush and vibrant, droves of tropical flowers lined the road, their leisurely journey shaded by the leafy fronds of towering palms.
Red was all too happy to keep up a steady stream of chatter regarding the local flora and fauna, engaging enough to capture Mihawk’s interest while still allowing him to keep an idle eye on Zoro, lest he suddenly divert into the jungle and be forever lost.
A raucous commotion interrupted their pleasant tête-à-tête as they passed through a grove of banana trees, the airy space filled with geckering grunts and hooting chit-chat from above their heads.
“Are those monkeys?” Zoro asked excitedly, peering up at the animals frolicking in the trees.
“Humandrills.” Red gazed up at the frisky critters scrambling after each other on the branches and vines. “Mischievous little buggers. Tend to be a little too cheeky for their own good, if you ask me.”
Mihawk cast him a glance, finding the similarities amusing.
“They’ll take food right out of your hands, steal your wallet,” Red continued, casting a forlorn look back at the trees as they exited the clearing. “One of ‘em’s got my favorite hat, but honestly, he looked so great in it, I let him keep it.” He shook his head, his next sigh full of rueful acceptance. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about that hat. Hopefully he’s taking good care of it.”
“You think he still has it?” Perona questioned, her curiosity about the ill-fated accessory overriding her disbelief at the willful transfer of ownership.
Red shrugged. “He seemed pretty attached to it, so my guess is yes.” He noted the sardonic lift of Mihawk’s brow, his voice rising with sheepish justification as he tried to explain. “Listen, it was a fantastic hat! Best one I ever had.”
“I’m sure we can all appreciate the merits of a good hat,” Mihawk allowed generously, deciding to move the conversation towards the productivity of cautionary didactics. “Perhaps the takeaway is that we leave the humandrills alone.”
Deep in thought, Zoro pondered the statement. “But what if—”
“No,” Mihawk sighed, all too aware of where the discussion was headed. “There is no plausible scenario in which the monkeys are armed with swords.”
“You never know,” Red mused, willing to explore the possibility. “What if—”
“It appears we’ve arrived,” Mihawk announced, neatly cutting off further deliberation regarding sword-toting humandrills.
Finally clear of the trees, their trail through jungle placed them on the lip of a grassy waterfront scattered with stalls and food trucks. The ocean sparkled just beyond the market, the lively space in between filled with milling customers and eager vendors touting their wares.
“How ‘bout some ice cream to cool off?” Red asked, easily redirected. He dismounted his bicycle, propping it up with a deft flick of his foot on the kickstand.
“Ice cream?” Zoro parroted, immediately attuned to the possibility of food acquisition.
“Gelato,” Mihawk corrected, eyeing the gleaming white of a mobile gelateria and deeming its wares suitably palatable.
Zoro followed his gaze towards the colorful banners waving in the afternoon breeze, silently mouthing the unfamiliar word.
“Looks like ice cream,” he decided, interpreting the pictorial advertisements. “Oi, ‘Rona, want some ice cream?”
“Ice cream?” Perona perked up from where she’d been dramatically draped over her handlebars in the throes of theatrical exhaustion. “Do they have pink?”
Mihawk pinched the bridge of his nose, appalled they’d chosen to reopen the ongoing family debate that incorrectly categorized colors as flavors in front of company.
Fully delighted by the prospect of acquiring frozen treats, Red led the way towards the line. “Hope they have red.”
“What’s red taste like?” Zoro wondered innocently, a guileless inquiry with suggestive implications.
Red grinned, the rascally hint of a smirk dancing across his face. “Never had any complai—”
“Absolutely not,” Mihawk interrupted, forcing the rest of Red’s answer into a hasty cough. “Zoro, if you would kindly make your selection before we delay the other patrons.”
“Green,” Zoro announced, after stepping up to the window. “Please?” he hazarded, polite in his misinterpretation of Mihawk’s sigh of waning patience.
Acknowledging the gelati’s confusion with a weary look of commiseration when Perona and Red utilized the same color-based method for placing their orders, Mihawk verbalized his preference for a delicate blackberry basil. Perhaps he’d been rather over emphatic in his use of the flavor’s name, but it was always best to set a proper example, regardless of anyone’s willingness to follow suit.
Each savoring their treat of choice, their merry quartet sauntered through the marketplace proper, passing by a few shaded tables scattered under the trees.
“Care for a game while they explore?” Red asked, indicating one set up for chess.
“You play?” Mihawk could scarcely believe his good fortune, tempering his excitement with pragmatic restraint.
He was undefeated in their contests at home, more eager than he cared to admit for a worthy opponent. Perona typically lost interest around the time she’d named all the pieces and given them tragic backstories. Zoro never turned down a chance at the family chess title, but his brash aggression on the board was hardly nuanced enough for the challenge he craved.
Red shrugged. “I’m hardly the world’s greatest, but I can hold my own.” Dragging and slow, his tongue traced the lip of his ice cream cone, chasing the drips of brilliant red melting over the edges with calculated intent. “Any preference towards white or black?”
Arching a brow at the flagrant flirtation, Mihawk seated himself in front of the black pieces, offering him the inherent advantage of the first move associated with white.
“So courteous,” Red teased, tossing himself down in the opposite chair to execute an opening so brazenly daring, Mihawk couldn’t resist glancing up from the chessboard, undeniably intrigued by his audacious confidence.
Red grinned back at him, polishing off the crunching remains of his cone and licking his fingers before plopping his scruffy chin into his hand.
“Perhaps,” Mihawk demurred, countering the play with a bold move of his own. Not that he cared to admit it, but the decision was really borne less of gallantry and more from his preference for the detached assessment of reactive curiosity.
The game continued, singularly enthralling in its captivating progression. Mihawk found himself on the proverbial edge of his seat, so engrossed he was startled by Zoro’s sudden appearance at his elbow.
“Yes?” he attempted, clearing his throat.
Based on Zoro’s quizzical examination of his face, he was certain the excited flush in his cheeks matched the heat in Red’s, sure his eyes were sparkling with the same thrill of discovery at finding a partner so dynamically balanced it couldn’t be anything other than kismet.
“Uh… Just wanted you to know they have those vegetables you like.” Zoro gestured, vaguely capturing the correct size and shape.
“Eggplant?”
“Well, they have those," Zoro conceded, repeating his charade with additional emphasis, "but no, I meant the green ones."
“Zucchini?” Mihawk hazarded, striving to divide his attention between the ongoing chess game and the ambiguous attempt at nonverbal communication.
“Yeah, for that thing you make,” Zoro agreed happily. “With all the little slices. The thing with the rat.”
His concentration thoroughly shattered by the nonsensical detail, Mihawk finally glanced up at him, eyes narrowed in shrewd perplexity.
“What the hell are you feeding these kids?” Red laughed, entertained by the exchange as he slid his next piece into position. “You want some lessons in the kitchen, Hawksy? I can hook you up with a great private tutor.”
“As well-intentioned as I’m sure that offer is, I’m hardly in need of any assistance,” Mihawk declined, pert in his caustic negation. “And I believe you’re referring to ratatouille,” he realized, finally assembling the incomprehensible pieces of Zoro’s culinary riddle.
Intrigued, Red straightened from his nonchalant sprawl at the table.
“Ratatouille,” he repeated, mulling over the necessary skill set for the recipe. “So you’re no slouch in the kitchen, I take it. Not to mention pretty handy with a blade.”
“Dad’s a whiz with a knife,” Perona confirmed, sidling up to the table to add her interjection. “You should see him slice cucumbers. Zoro’s been trying to beat him for years, but he’s untouchable.”
Zoro gave her a sour look before shoving his arms across his chest in petulant defiance.
“You have cucumber slicing contests?” Fully entertained by the disclosure of one of their more unique family pastimes, Red grinned at him from across the table. “Maybe you and I should square up, see who’s the best.”
“You’re certainly welcome to try,” Mihawk invited, meeting his gaze with the cool detachment of an uncontested victor.
Eyes glinting with the promise of a challenge, Red leaned in, a downright devilish smirk dancing across his scruffy face. “Let’s up the stakes for this game, then. Loser makes dinner.”
“As enjoyable as your cooking is, I see no need to incentivize loss. Winner makes dinner,” Mihawk countered, full of coy regality. He turned to Perona, fishing for his wallet. “I trust you’re familiar enough with my recipe for ratatouille to acquire the necessary ingredients?”
“I cook a ton,” she sniffed, tossing her nose in the air. “Of course I know it.”
“You don’t cook as much as Dad,” Zoro disputed, launching them into a fresh bout of bickering as they traipsed back towards the vendors.
Mihawk returned his attention to the board, executing his next move with the utmost tranquility.
“So sure you're going to win that you've already planned the menu," Red mused, tossing the hair from his eyes when a gentle breeze rustled through the trees. “You’re a little bit vicious under all that elegance, aren’t you?”
“Only a little?” Mihawk queried rather absently, more concerned with the continuation of their game than accepting vague compliments.
“In addition to intriguing, enchanting, delightful,” Red ticked through his fingers, throwing his arms wide with grinning theatricality. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I—”
A blurred streak of shrieking brown dropped from the trees, a shocking flash of swift interruption. Knocking all the chess pieces into violent disarray and managing to snatch Red’s queen in the process, a rowdy pair of humandrills tumbled across the table, skittering back into the jungle as quickly as they’d appeared.
“Damn monkeys,” Red yelped, startled enough to have leapt from his seat at their unexpected intrusion. He glared up into the trees, shaking his fist at the shameless duo chattering above the table. “I’m tellin’ you, they think they own the place.”
“Check,” Mihawk noted, polite enough to give warning.
“What?!” Red turned back to the board, aghast as he took in the pieces scattered in the leaves around their table. “How the hell—”
“Because I remember where all the pieces were, and now it seems as though your queen's been compromised.”
Fully dismayed, Red stared at him, gesturing wildly at the cavorting humandrills above them. “She got captured by monkeys,” he declared, his reiteration of the afternoon’s ridiculous turn brimming with helpless indignation.
“A rather poetic demise, though it did serve to expedite your inevitable loss,” Mihawk mused, flippant in his concise summation.
Mouth agape with comic affront, Red’s moment of astonishment at the proclamation was quick to transition into a full-blown guffaw which left him doubled over the table, gasping for air.
“What’d you do to Red?” Perona asked, reappearing next to the table with a grocery-laden Zoro in tow.
“He failed to consider interference by monkeys while strategizing,” Mihawk reported, twisting to retrieve the nearest pieces from the ground.
“Which must mean you did?” Red wheezed, tears of merriment sparkling in his eyes.
Unsure as to why the concept was so humorous, Mihawk frowned. “Given your account from earlier and the proximity in which this table sits to the jungle, I deduced the potential for an interruption and adjusted my strategy accordingly.”
The thorough explanation caused a fresh bout of laughter, Red’s accompanying snort charming enough to trigger matching grins from Perona and Zoro.
“Well, clearly they’re intelligent, if they’ve learned to pickpocket tourists,” Mihawk scowled, rising from the table. “It was hardly a leap to conclude that they might’ve also observed enough chess to note the importance of the queen, not to mention the piece is fairly ornate in comparison to–”
“Stop,” Red begged, clutching his sides.
Perona’s hand had flown to cover her mouth, barely holding back her giggle at the defensive overjustification.
“So you’re saying it was a targeted attack,” Zoro clarified, issuing him an incredulous look of scandalized disbelief. “After telling me there was no way the humandrills could use swords.”
“We’re not reopening the sword-wielding monkey debate, Zoro,” Mihawk warned, stooping to grab the final chess pieces and situating them on the table. “And if you could all please compose yourselves, I have a dinner to make and we need to be going.”
Head held high, he led the way back towards the bicycles, confident they would follow.
“Hey, Birdie,” Red called, jogging to catch up to his purposeful stride. “How ‘bout you use the café kitchen instead of whatever you’ve got back at the hotel?”
“We wouldn’t be disrupting your evening?” Mihawk queried, easily swayed by the promise of a well-stocked kitchen, but hesitant to impose.
“Nah, it’ll be closed by the time we get back,” Red shrugged. “Figured it’ll be nicer for you, not to mention I’d be honored to place my humble galley in your capable hands.” A sly look glinted in his eyes, a knowing little smirk playing over his lips. “Who knows, if you’re cooking’s as good as you say, I might even be persuaded to uncork that vintage red collecting dust in the back of the cabinet.”
“I’m unconvinced any bottle ever has enough time to collect dust with you around,” Mihawk remarked, attempting to disguise his immediate interest with a derisive snort.
“Then let’s just say I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” Red decided, daring enough to sling his arm around Mihawk’s shoulders as they walked.
“If nothing else, we probably should offer a toast to the queen,” Mihawk mused, finding her capture more than enough impetus to warrant opening a vintage wine.
“By all means,” Red chuckled, casting a wry glance back at the chess table. “Let’s drink to the queen.”
***
As he’d suspected based on his time aboard the Red Force, the café’s kitchen was beautifully kept. Bright copper kettles gleamed in their home above the central workstation, each necessary utensil clean and in place. A full contingent of spices and herbs lined the shelves, neatly ordered for maximum convenience.
“Like I said before, I’ve got a pretty stellar crew. They keep everything ship-shape,” Red boasted, noting Mihawk's pleased evaluation of the tidy space. He cocked a hip against the counter, his jaunty lean filled with swaggering suggestion. “Feel free to help yourself to anything that strikes your fancy.”
Perhaps the lingering exhilaration of victory dared him forward, perchance the persistent intoxication of finally finding a worthy opponent, but Mihawk allowed himself the languid indulgence of a deliciously unabashed assessment.
Deliberately measured, he let his gaze wander up from Red’s perpetually sandaled feet. Dragging over the faded pattern of his shorts and the hemline of his mostly unbuttoned shirt, Mihawk hesitated the briefest moment in blatant appreciation of the gentle curves of muscle visible along Red’s open neckline before meeting his eyes.
Red’s cheeky smirk had faded during the calculated evaluation, replaced by the hint of a blush dusting across his sun-freckled cheeks.
“I’ll be sure to do just that,” Mihawk noted, a coy arch to his brow as he turned to peruse the available spices.
The soft slap of sandals behind him warned him of Red’s approach from across the kitchen.
“Hold up a second. Wouldn’t want you to ruin your outfit.” Red’s voice was hushed in his ear, his breath fanning warm against his skin. Bold enough to press another scruffy kiss along the pale line of his neck, the playful pressure of Red’s teeth nipped just hard enough to tease.
Mihawk turned, rather surprised to find himself backed against the counter, Red’s audacious advance leaving them nose to nose.
As smooth and gentle as the creeping tide, Red’s fingertips brushed along his skin, adjusting the loop of an apron around his neck. Eyes sparkling with an impudent attempt at innocence, his hands slid along the trim cut of Mihawk’s waist, reaching around him to fasten the ties.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” he managed, closing the minute space between their lips to press a kiss against them so full of insistent adoration, Mihawk returned it in an instant, lost again in the crushing undertow of affection.
“I…” Mihawk began when they’d parted, on the verge of expressing his thanks for the apron when he glanced down at the front.
Grinning back up at him with absolutely idiotic excitement and the cheesy enthusiasm of a familiar dual thumbs-up, Red’s cartoon caricature beamed his willingness to protect Mihawk’s clothes despite discarding his own.
An exasperated scowl replaced the kiss-flushed pleasure on Mihawk’s face.
“I’ll… uh, just leave you to it then, shall I?” Red hazarded between snickers as Mihawk glared his annoyance. He stepped towards the swinging doors of the kitchen, edging through them when Mihawk narrowed his eyes. Barely managing to contain the giggle barricaded behind his grin, he peeped his head back in a moment later. “Just want to reiterate how great you look with me all over y—”
“Out.” Mihawk punctuated the order with the knife he’d selected, a cutting directive demanding swift obedience.
The scurrying scuff of Red’s sandaled retreat faded, followed by a drifting lilt of laughter from whatever animated anecdote he must have decided to share when he’d joined Perona and Zoro in the café’s dining room.
With the gentlest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, Mihawk set to work preparing their dinner, supremely pleased with the outcome of his efforts by the time he settled the dish into the oven. Carefully doffing the puckish protection of Red’s indecorous apron, he sauntered through the swinging doors into the café, seating himself at the table they’d chosen.
Gracious enough to momentarily pause the salty tale of sea-faring adventure he was recounting with gleeful theatricality, Red slid a glass of wine towards Mihawk’s hand.
“To the queen,” he proposed, a rakish glint of mischief in his eye as he lifted his beer.
“To a rematch,” Mihawk countered, conceding that perhaps, just perhaps, he may have used the afternoon’s events to his advantage, despite the favorable outcome.
The pure affection in Red’s gaze was warmer than the sun-heated sand, filled to overflowing with the relentless force of the waves.
“To as many as you’d like,” he returned softly, taking a sip of his drink. “As if I could ever tell you no.”