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Summary
As he hunches over himself, a tinged cotton-swab pressing to a thin laceration Shanks had given him along the inside of his calf, Shanks cannot resist the urge to sink his teeth into his nape. Mihawk doesn’t stop him; Mihawk doesn’t encourage him. Almost as if he can’t comprehend the touch, Shanks thinks, as the blood runs in a trickle down his chin, filled dully, blindingly with an uncomprehending of his own.
