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Summary
Shanks fills his mouth with flattery just as easily as he fills it with liquor, but there’s an earnestness to it that Mihawk has always been weak for. He charms and cajoles when there’s something he wants — and Shanks wants, openly and often — but there’s no lie in it. Just affection, a seemingly endless supply for everyone Shanks cares for, drawn up like water from a well to spill forth.
Setting down his glass, Mihawk turns to him so he can cup his face with one hand and kiss him on the mouth. It’s so very easy, like the feeling he gets when his palm fits around Yoru’s hilt: muscle memory and a sense of belonging. Like coming home.