Archive of Our Own

The flames flicker, burning ever lower, and Mihawk doesn't know what he's doing here. His certainty is dying with the fire and the festivities.

Even this crew can't celebrate forever, though they'd given it a fair shot. With the edges of dawn creeping into the far horizon, most of the motley bunch have surrendered to sleep after a half day and night of carousing. The most enterprising have found more comfortable spots throughout the cove, either in hammocks or blankets or each other's arms. The rest are scattered on the sands, sprawled out in various stages of drunk and disorderly. He can pick out a few conversations here and there, but the words are overwhelmed by the crash of the surf washing ever higher on the beach.

By the fire it is quiet, made even more so by the cacophony of the hours before. The man next to him is focused on the wavering flames, but stare as he might, Mihawk doesn't know if his expression is pensive or merely complacent. He can tell many of Shanks’ moods from years of careful study, but the difference between thoughtful and content often escapes him.

The light is spilling as a restless glow over his companion's face, and though the night is warm, Shanks is leaned in close. Chilled? Or seeking something intangible in the charred logs and embers, something even hawk eyes can't see?

Shanks' arm is tucked inside his cloak, and seated on the man's right side, it's hard for Mihawk to be sure, but he might be cradling his other shoulder, rubbing at the stump there. As ever, the thought has a peculiar, mildly sick feeling sloshing in Mihawk's stomach, and it isn't the alcohol. Or at least not just the alcohol. It isn't the first time he's wondered how Shanks can look like he does, with what he's lost.

Mihawk would have started howling and never stopped, and all his control be damned. Yet Shanks sits there unbothered some ten years on, conjuring up memories or amusement or the future from the flames, and seemingly unweighted by it all.

Pensive, Mihawk decides. Those drawn brows have to be pensive.

As though he can sense the gaze – and given that it's Shanks, maybe he can – the man breaks his contemplation long enough to glance at Mihawk. A glance and a slight smile. That's all it takes.

Mihawk doesn't know what he's doing here.

His body – soul? – seems to. The aching is as brilliant as pain, as keen as pleasure. Absence might make the heart fonder, but presence makes it hungry.

So close to Shanks, Mihawk can feel it all; the weave of desire and anger, grief and want. Other emotions more precarious, voracious, things he doesn't have a word for. Those unnamed feelings are at least in part why Mihawk still doesn't know what he's doing here. He doesn’t like uncertainty inside himself. The world can do what it wants, but he was supposed to have found a way to silence all the tumult in his chest years ago. A sword to slice and a sword to silence, paralleling each other.

Of course, Shanks breaks the silence. It's all but a rule that he's always the one to do so. "It was a good thing you did, Hawk Eyes."

His head tilts as he tries to figure out just what Shanks is referring to, ignoring the little leap of pleasure at the praise. He's not left in suspense for long. "Letting Luffy go. And the other boy, Zoro. I’m surprised you did."

A flash of memory, sensation. Yoru’s soft bite, grip comfortably digging into his palm, crossguard just as heavy as it should be anchored by his fingers. The crash of waves, a brazen voice, moss green hair. Thoughts of mercy nowhere on the horizon. Dismissive disinterest morphing to grudging acknowledgement to caustic curiosity. He so rarely feels that sharp pang of interest anymore, let alone from some hapless youth clustered on an insignificant dock.

“They’re going to be a challenge, one day. There aren’t enough of those anymore.” It’s the truth, but not the whole truth, and even as he says it Mihawk knows that the answer will disappoint Shanks.

With a gentle exhale, the other man shakes his head, mouth quirking into a smile that’s either rueful or sad. “No other reason, you old battle-goat? Yoru takes up your whole back; it’s a bit much to let it take up your whole head, too.”

"Yoru has a purpose," he replies sharply. "Though purpose is not something I expect you to understand."

Shanks laughs, and the sound washes over Mihawk, raucous and unapologetic. He feels a spike of annoyance that his companion can brush off the insult so easily. The sharp emotion is softened by affection as Shanks’ laugh continues. Like a nail poking through a beached ship's hull, dulled with rust from the sporadic but always returning sea. This is an old story, a familiar scene. Mihawk even appreciates the irritation caused by Shanks’ flippancy. He likes the custom of it all, the comfort.

Only the nail isn't holding the hull together much anymore. The ship is coming apart. It needs new nails. Something else.

Does it?

Mihawk twitches his shoulder, an impatient attempt at dismissing the conflict. Shanks takes it for annoyance at his amusement, and the sound of mirth subsides. It hasn't left his voice, though, when he says, "I've a purpose. I promise you that, Hawk Eyes." Mihawk looks at him, just a flitting scan, unwilling as always to hold the man's gaze, and Shanks still understands it for the encouragement it is. He continues. "There'd be so many casks of bad ale left full if I weren't here. Why, you might have to drink them dry yourself."

Again Shanks chuckles, unable to hold it back. He's always been able to crack himself up – he's said more than once he does it to make up for all the laughing Mihawk doesn't do.

Mihawk likes the richness of it, as open as the ocean and just as tumultuous. He almost smiles but doesn't. "What a pity that would be."

“Wouldn’t it? But really, Hawk Eyes. Why’d you do it? You let them go and… what? Hope to meet on the Grand Line ten years from now? A battle to make the gods tremble?”

The boy had your hat, Mihawk might have said. He could have said, There’s something of you in that boy, after all. Even, perhaps, I didn’t want to hurt you by hurting him.

But it’s rather easier to simply shift, look away from the fire, from Shanks, out towards the dawning sun. “The gods are too far gone to tremble, Red. With them absent, is it a crime that I’m looking for a contest of some kind?” Looking back to Shanks, to the arm that isn’t there, is like a reflex buried too deep in muscle memory to be rid of. A spasm. He rips his eyes away and says, more truthfully, “My opponents have been lacking for some time now.”   

Suddenly Shanks is on his feet, careless of the way his abrupt leap and resulting stagger kicks up sand and makes the remnants of the fire all but die. He’s grinning, and it’s not truly forced because Shanks doesn’t force his smiles, but the topic is killed so swiftly it can only be an avoidance. "All this talk and we’re going in circles. Come on! Let's take a walk."

Not really a request. The restless moods of Shanks aren't exactly a mystery to anyone who's known the captain, but this is rushed for him. He usually takes things at a more negligent pace. Though Mihawk isn’t, perhaps, the most astute conversationalist as far as social cues go, it’s obvious Shanks is sidestepping any serious conversation about the injury. As always. They’ve had ten years and a handful of conversations and not once spoken about it with the appropriate sobriety.

That’s not entirely fair – Shanks should be able to deal with his injury in his own way, shouldn’t he? – but where does that leave Mihawk? He didn’t lose an arm but a… he doesn’t know. A rival? A sparring partner? Something… else? There’s no way to get the pieces to click, especially not on his own. Mihawk is good at cutting things apart, but putting them together…

“You’re not going to leave me to stroll by my lonesome, are you, Hawk Eyes? What if I’m ambushed by the Marines? These lot’ll be no help.” Shanks’ wheedling tone and expansive gesture at the slumped bodies around the beach pull Mihawk out of his musing, and he quietly considers the captain for a moment. Enduring the examination with his usual good humour, Shanks even strikes a heroic pose, hand on hip.

Frankly, Mihawk is surprised the redhead hasn't found a place to pass out yet. Normally he is excellent at drinking himself into a stupor, and even better at only mildly regretting it the next day. Tonight, though, while Shanks certainly drank a lot, it had been just below the level that could cause a weathered pirate like him to fall to the stupid side of consciousness.

For his part, Mihawk drank more than usual. The swill Shanks’ crew broke open could hardly be called drinkable, let alone enjoyable, but company of a certain kind could make even deck swab water taste delectable. (A lie. He’d had to choke it down with eyes that watered more than once. But maybe the company could make it, if not delicious, at least worthwhile. Or at least worthwhile enough that he’d had three or four or ten tankards. And if part of that was to drown out the discomfort and overwhelming disconnect caused by the loud presence of everyone else, no one but Shanks need know that.)

Those many drinks might be the reason that instead of saying a firm no, or perhaps simply taking his leave, Mihawk silently rises from the gnarled log they’d been using. He’s even almost steady on his feet. Shanks’ crew is formidable in their own right, but on this night, they’d not be needed should the Marines or anyone else stage an attack. Mihawk and Shanks together, drunk as they are, would be more than enough.

A slight shift is all it takes to get Yoru snug in place on his back, and then he's following Shanks, who had begun to walk as soon as Mihawk rose.

Reduced to a dog, he tells himself contemptuously, but there are worse masters than a man like Shanks, a man who's no master at all.

So he follows, and at first is content to trail behind the captain, steps deliberate over the precarious sand and other beach debris. I'll not be embarrassing myself by falling flat on my face. Leave such foolishness to Shanks and his people. The thought is thick and slow and too self-satisfied, and Mihawk admits – as he stumbles over a treacherous branch, half buried in the sand – that he is too drunk. Probably. Too drunk for what? Whatever follows.

Thankfully, though they're headed away from the sheltered cove Shanks' crew had holed up in, this meandering path along the shoreline curves into the rising sun, and it's not as dark as it might have been. Mihawk doesn't fall, though his agility is put to the test a time or two.

Once he's comfortable enough to take his eyes from his feet – or maybe a bit longer than that – Mihawk allows himself to pull his gaze up to scrutinize the profile of the man walking with drunken confidence ahead of him. Drunken confidence or easy confidence, Shanks wears both mantles as naturally as his own skin, and it shows in the gentle sway, the careless certitude of each step.

From behind, with his blue cloak draped over his shoulders, Shanks looks whole. Mihawk's gaze lingers on the left side, but he can't see the missing arm. Shanks says it isn't a missing piece, not really. No more than a seed is missing from the parent plant, or wine from an empty bottle. The missing part served a purpose. Or so Shanks says, on better days. Meant to be, what's done is done. More and better to come.

The thought has a painful sensation scraping over Mihawk's flesh, razorblades and ice, and he shakes himself, testy all over again. On worse days, when he brings up the missing arm, Shanks curses him out. Rightly so. Why bring up what can't be changed?

In that moment, Shanks glances back, and his grin is sharp as Yoru's edge. Sharper, maybe, the way it cuts straight through Mihawk's chest, even in the uncertain light.

"Are you getting old, Mihawk? You're taking your sweet time!"

That's an invitation, maybe even an insistence, and coupled with his name it even sounds charming. Mihawk picks up his pace until he’s walking next to the other man. He's sodden with liquor and thoughts too intense for the tongue, and might have strolled in silence, but Shanks has found his tongue all over again.

"How did Luffy look?" An eager question asked a few dozen times by various crewmembers throughout the celebrations; Shanks was no exception, the last many hours. He probably accounted for at least eight requests for information, just himself.

The repetition is a bit tedious, but he'll bear it. "Fine. He wasn't injured."

Not in body. Thinking again of Luffy hunched over the pirate hunter's wiry frame – so much tension and fervor and concern in such a small package – has guilt oozing through Mihawk in an oily wave. He doesn't feel remorse very often, and frankly he hadn't even felt it until relaying the story the first time and seeing the look on Shanks' face; pride and fear and a glint of something harsher. Something that tasted like rust and promise at the back of Mihawk's throat and went away when Shanks learned the boy wasn't hurt and proceeded to relax.         

A deep, impatient sound comes from his companion's chest. "Yes, I heard that. But how did he look?" As if that clarified anything. Maybe realizing Mihawk isn't going to suddenly understand his meaning, Shanks adds, "What did he sound like? You said he's still trying to become King of the Pirates?"

"Yes. Even after seeing what I did to his first mate, he still made a very brash declaration." Foolishness and energy and belief wrapped together – it's a good thing the boy's body can stretch. It's about the only way it could possibly contain so much.  

Shanks laughs as if this is the first time he's heard it rather than the tenth. "Ah, Luffy," the captain says, and the affection is so heavy it all but smothers the name. Mihawk is pleased to note that the fondness summons no responding jealousy in himself. At least there are some things he's grown out of.

That doesn't stop the curiosity, though, or the thorny reminder of the unspoken thing between them. Shanks has mentioned the boy before, in relation to the loss of his arm and otherwise, but having met him, Mihawk is more invested. And now that they’re alone…        

"He's interesting, I'll give you that. I didn't see him fight, though. Is he strong?"

Stride slowing, Shanks cocks his head, only half serious in his consideration. "Compared to what? Us? Now that's hardly fair."

"Given your little protégée was going to swing his fists at me if I hadn't departed, I'd say it's very fair."

With a snort, Shanks says, "Aye, he's stubborn. Spirited, too. But he's not my protégée." There's a small trace of mockery in the way he says the term, a light teasing over Mihawk's choice of words, and once again Mihawk almost smiles in response. It brings to mind a different time, when they protected each other from belligerent idiots – a time they even needed to protect each other at all. That time is long past, though. Mihawk doesn't smile.

Shanks smiles for the both of them. "It was that pillar of salt, Garp, that taught him the fighting. There's a reason Luffy was going to punch you. Think I'd teach him that?"

Given the more than a few tavern brawls he's seen the redhead engage in, the answer is yes. But Mihawk is more interested in something else at the moment, the thick memories in his head making him heavy. The memories and the alcohol. "The straw hat the boy was wearing – it's yours." He's not entirely sure why he phrases it like an accusation and Shanks just shrugs, not trying to deny it.

"True enough. I gave it to him when we parted ways. I'm glad he's kept it."

There are words stirring on the tip of his tongue that he wouldn’t normally let spill out. Mihawk prides himself on his self-control, and for good reason. But the night has been so long, and things… things are changing. That straw hat on the wrong head was a herald, weeks ago. The future is too far away to see clearly, but Mihawk recognizes the glimmer on the horizon for what it is.

Garp knows, too. And grizzled Red Leg as well, from what Mihawk’s heard from Baratie. Those men are like old hounds, grey in the muzzle, noses lifted to catch the scent of blood in the air but too weary to track it down. They know what’s coming.

And Shanks? Shanks is no fool. He knows. There’s been a restlessness in the lean man tonight, a turning just a little inwards since the wanted poster was unrolled. He understands even if he refuses to acknowledge it to himself. But he has to acknowledge the shift. You could no more sail through change without preparation than you could sail through a typhoon. A boy becomes a man, and that man could be a rival. And that rival could defeat you or kill you, be killed themselves… or worse, if the fates were unkind. And they so often are.

What more might Shanks be asked to give up for the destiny of this Luffy boy?

Mihawk doesn’t know what to say to force Shanks to confront the change. Is it even his obligation? His right to pull the blindfold off?

When Mihawk hesitates, mulling over the possibilities, Shanks smirks, his scars pulling tight with the expression. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of that ragged hat, Hawk Eyes. I could get you something to replace the black peacock display you’ve got going, if you are.”

“The day I let you dictate my clothing will be a very dire day indeed.”

A nonchalant shrug, taking no offense. “Alright. I like your display plenty enough, anyways.” And though Shanks is still smirking, it’s less mocking now, more sincere. Appreciative. And his wandering eyes – and where they linger – are far from subtle.  

That has Mihawk’s throat tightening. They’ve come together before, for a night or a week at a time, and it’s as enjoyable as drinking wine. Almost as enjoyable as dueling. But they don’t stay together, the nails aren’t strong enough for that, and anyways, that isn’t why Mihawk is here. Not today. He needs to talk to Shanks about this before it gets away from him.

“Perhaps after your display has been doused in a soapy bath, it might be tolerable. Until then…” It’s a lie. Shanks, with his laidback demeanor, wind chapped skin, rough stubble and steadfast eyes, is far more than merely tolerable. Beautiful, perhaps, and the unruliness just adds a welcome touch of reality. Without it, Shanks would have been too much an angel and not enough an anchor, grounded even in the worst of storms.

“I’ll keep it in mind the next time I go shopping. A bathtub that’ll fit on the ship. In my private quarters.” Despite the suggestive remark, Shanks accepts the rejection as easily as he does anything. Though as they keep walking, it hardly escapes Mihawk’s notice that his eyes slide over occasionally, continuing their unabashed admiring. On another day, it would have been pleasing to have such attention, but now it just complicates what is already knotted in Mihawk’s head. And he hates it. A sword to cut knots clean, that’s all he thought he wanted out of this life.

Bluntly, then, ignoring where Shanks had tried to lead them. “You really don’t mind that this Luffy is seeking to replace Gold Rogers as King of the Pirates?”

That makes the other man stumble, pause, before scoffing. “The captain is gone, so it’s not really a replacement.” Interesting. He almost manages to say it without grief for Rogers spilling into his voice. Almost. At any rate, Shanks rushes by the moment. “Besides, scrappy as he is, Luffy isn’t going to get there in a fortnight or two… if he ever does. Don’t need to worry about it now.”

“Yet what if he does get there, eventually?” Mihawk insists. “Will you allow him to take the One Piece?”

With a snort, Shanks shakes his shaggy hair out of his face. “You really don’t know Luffy if you think I could allow him to do anything.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse,” is Mihawk’s flat observation.

That gets his companion to roll his eyes, refusing to take it seriously. “Please, Hawk Eyes. I’m drunk and we’re celebrating! I don’t need to wonder where the kid’ll be a decade from now when I’m just glad he’s found his sea legs.”

“And if those legs lead him to danger? This is not a gentle life we’ve chosen to live, and the Grand Line is graveyard to more than a few worthy pirates. What if he dies?”

A small shadow crosses Shanks’ face, and his voice has dropped an octave when he says, “That won’t happen.” After a moment, though he appears to try to sound lighter, his tone is still rough when he adds, “The boy’s too stretchy to break like that.”   

They’re getting closer to where they should be in this conversation. Closer physically, too, walking so near their shoulders are almost brushing – even do brush, occasionally, when one or the other meanders a little too hard to the side. Mihawk feels like a navigator trying to steer his ship through treacherous territory. Indifference to certain words on the port side, rage in response to others at starboard.

But they’re so close, and it’s an attempt worth making for the admirable man next to him. Mihawk hesitates again, gathering his resolve, and glances once more at his companion. The dawn light is cradling Shanks, setting his hair off like fire while wreathing him in a pinkish gold silhouette, and it is so breathtaking it hurts.

The pain is only magnified by the knowledge that he's seen Shanks like this before. They trained together, youngsters growing to something more under the offhand tutelage of a gruff captain who allowed fights if they didn't get in the way of chores. The early morning often found one half-conscious boy rubbing sleep from his eyes, joined by another boy, slightly older, almost awkward in his intensity. Both more or less ready to spar. Golden light spilling on the both of them. There was enough golden light for everyone, then.

Shanks cared about getting better. It was probably the only reason Mihawk had ever managed to drag him from his hammock in those days – that, and he seemed to be interested in the boy who was so insistently solitary as to reject even joining a crew. Who showed up off and on, and ignored anyone that couldn't offer a challenge, and was so lonely without even knowing it. Shanks cared about getting better, and in Mihawk he found more than one way to do just that.

And Mihawk cared, too. First about getting stronger, only about getting stronger, but then, later, through clashing swords and sweat-soaked laughter and the morning sun, he found he cared for other reasons. And that continued, long after boyhood, long after Shanks reached for glory and found his crew and titles and glory abundant. It continued right up until…

His hand flexes, but he can't draw Yoru on this beach. Can't speak to Shanks with a blade anymore. You can only speak openly to an equal, and Shanks isn't his in swordplay now. Missing an arm and missing a hat, it doesn't feel like he even knows how to speak to Shanks at all anymore.

Maybe that's why Mihawk finally says what he says; he's drowning in the silence of not speaking, and Shanks looks so achingly radiant and reminiscent, all at once, that he has to say something. Anything. Even the wrong thing.

"You already gave up your arm for this boy. And a Devil Fruit. You felt compelled to give up your hat, too. And it seems you’re willing to give up even more. Such a fount of generosity, Red."      

There's a beat of quiet and Shanks stops walking. Mihawk used to enjoy the few moments he could get the man to shut up, but not now. Not with Shanks' jaw tightening, his head turning away so that the light on his face is shadowed, a burnt amber instead of gold. Darker, just like his expression. "You were a child once too, Mihawk. Or so I'm told." This time his name is a rebuke, not much softened by the wry, rigid joke. "Do you remember nothing of a child’s fear? Luffy was young and I... I was important to him. And I was leaving him, almost alone. The hat was the least I could do, and the other things, too. Is that really such a hard sacrifice to understand?"

They're not talking about just the hat, of course. But hat is as good a word as any when Shanks is trying to duck an issue. There’s an unusual heat in Mihawk’s tone when he asks, "Did it make you feel less like you'd abandoned him? Do you think he spoke to a hat in the middle of the night when Garp was cruel or the world too much?"    

It takes a lot to get Shanks angry, but Mihawk has rather perfected the process. A sharp inhale, and Shanks’ fist actually curls. More silence, like it’s leapt out of Mihawk’s head and invaded the space between them, and Mihawk abruptly understands there is some selfishness in this conversation. Both from himself and from Shanks.

"You are such a cold bastard sometimes," Shanks eventually rasps, following their rules. The stillness breaks like a brittle bone. He tries to add in a chuckle, but the sound comes out hard. "Anyways, Luffy didn't need me." Briefly Mihawk entertains the thought that Shanks actually believes that, but a closer look at his expression shows a haggard cast, a tightness to his lips. Regret. It doesn't make an appearance on the captain's face any more often than guilt shows up on Mihawk's. But Shanks is good at shaking off such things – or at least burying them deep.

Tossing his head, not really looking at Mihawk, he continues with a smile that has a little too much teeth showing. "Look where he is now. Challenging the greatest swordsman in the world, getting a crew together to defy all and sundry on the Grand Line. You’re so eager for a trial, you should be glad I left him to become what he is."

Still a refusal to engage with the actual issue, and the ruined hull only grows, punching through Mihawk's ribs like a second heart. He should just say it plainly, but part of him is – angry. Frustrated that Shanks won't acknowledge what they're really talking about.

Mihawk lets his tongue, sprightly and cruel, keep talking. "When he’s met some of those sharks masquerading as humans on the Grand Line, will Luffy agree? After he’s lost his ship, or his friends, or his hand? Do you think he’ll express delight at being left behind by you?" Though the other man makes to reply, Mihawk cuts him off. “At least if he dies, we’ll not be left to wonder at the answer.”

Finally, finally, Shanks' eyes snap to him. "Your heart isn't bleeding for the kid. You think you can give me any lessons in kindness when you were going to hand him over to the Marines, easy as that? To the Marines! And you, of all people! You and your bloody lapdog games."      

He finds himself stilling, hands aching for the familiar weight of Yoru. For a way to turn this conversation into something he understands so much better than saying bitter things to a man he respects, and having harsh things said to him in kind. "My lapdog games saved hundreds of hapless Marines from being slaughtered by Yoru. It saved your crew, and so many like them, from all-out war. Can you say as much, with your liberation and beaches and drinking yourself into a daze? Your freedom costs something, Red. Your choices do, too. And it’s about time you realize that."

Shanks' hand goes to his waist, to the sword hilt swinging there, as if it means anything at all. For just a second Mihawk's breath catches on the acerbic anticipation growing in his throat. A moment where the past rejoices in his head because it's alive in the present, and maybe the shadow of what was can become what is once again.

Only for a moment. Shanks lets his hand fall and his whole body slumps, and the eagerness in Mihawk's mouth turns sour with disappointment and self-disgust. They rarely fought in anger, before. Is Mihawk really so pathetic, so desperate, as to revel even in a resentful, artless chorus of steel? Some pale echo of yesterday? Surely not.

Surely not. "I’m not here to fight, Shanks." He says it so softly, he can barely hear himself. He hates how it sounds. Bewildered. Lost. He didn't come to fight, but the poster is delivered, the job was done hours and ages ago. What else is there?

Hollowed by the surge of emotion, Mihawk doesn't know what he's doing here.

"...Alright." The word comes, quiet and gentle, and Shanks' shoulders shift as he takes a calming breath. "Alright." Firmer this time, and the other man looks up from the sand, hooks his fingers through his belt and meets Mihawk's eyes.

The discomfort is as immediate as it always is, and Mihawk lets his gaze wander away from that earnest stare – but not far, and, after a moment to collect himself, he returns to the depths of Shanks’ eyes, a deep cognac expanse. The prickling disquiet is largely dispelled by the warmth of that regard, and when Shanks takes a step closer, Mihawk doesn’t shy away. Even as the other man reaches out and grasps his elbow, Mihawk stays as he is, not leaning in – but not breaking the light grip, either.

“You didn’t come here to fight. Good. I’m too drunk to fight, anyways.” It’s said as a joke, but Shanks’ eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s almost somber. “I'm glad that you brought Luffy’s poster, and that you stayed to celebrate with us. It’s not your first choice of company, I know.” The man stops, seems to be searching for words. An unusual state of affairs for Shanks.

At any rate, his hand eventually tightens on Mihawk’s elbow, and he says, “You didn’t come to fight. Why are you here, Mihawk?”

Teeth set, he feels like the wreckage in his chest is splintering to pieces, collapsing, the last of the nails giving way to the tide. Mihawk tries to turn away. Shanks doesn’t let him and give it to the man: he’s strong when he wants to be. If Mihawk pulled a little harder, yanked a little more harshly, he suspects his companion would let go. Let it go, like he does so often. But for now, Mihawk is… grateful. Grateful that Shanks is forcing this, forcing the words, even if Mihawk has no idea how to reply. The ideas are leaden, too heavy and too formless to shove from his tongue, and so he remains mute.

Confronted by his strained reticence, Shanks still doesn’t relent. “You stayed, put up with the crew and with me. Even put up with our taste in alcohol. It’d be a shame to waste that by leaving without a real finish.” Though he started off soft, almost coaxing – and in a different situation Mihawk would have thought that the height of condescension – Shanks’ voice takes on a different cast now. Commanding, without losing the empathy. “Tell me, Mihawk.”

That resonant voice is a brace to the collapsing structure of Mihawk’s poise. The command puts up supports, some made of history, yes, assuredly, but they’re not just created from the past. In Shanks’ candid face, in the scars that cross his eye but mar nothing, in those lips, still quirked a little upward, refusing to concede to grief despite so much loss, Mihawk can feel the nails of the future, too. The future, the past, fastened together as reinforcements, turning the churning tumult in Mihawk’s throat into something more secure. Giving shape to the formless sound.

The words spill out of him. “I suppose it’s you, Shanks. I’m here for you.”

A quick, startled inhale, and as close as they are, Mihawk can see the way Shanks’ eyes widen. Surprising the self-assured captain might have been gratifying if not for the immediate tidal wave of mortification that slams into Mihawk and bids fair to drown him. The only buoy keeping him afloat in the swell is this simple fact: the knots in his head are still there, but having said the words, having finally put them in a line and voiced them, there is a sense of loosening. Clarity.

Which admittedly does nothing to soften his voice when he insists, “You’re utterly inept when it comes to anything reasonable. The hat on that boy’s head was a reminder that you’ll bury your head in the sand before admitting it’s raining. And with your constant singing of sunshine, your crew can hardly be trusted to tell you what the clouds mean. And beyond that–”

“Mihawk.” The mild use of his name stops Mihawk dead, and if it hadn’t, Shanks’ expression would have. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t have Yoru in his hand, or he might have smote Shanks right where he stood, just to wipe the ludicrous (and tender) grin from his face. He’d do it with the flat of the blade. Probably.

“You came to keep me in line,” Shanks says, and though he’s fighting valiantly to keep his tone serious, that grin won’t be reined in. “Fair enough, my friend. If there’s any in the world that could do it, it’s you.” Then the solemnity falls away, and Shanks is laughing, that glorious sound that is so capable of unfurling both fury and admiration in Mihawk. It’s all the more provoking when the laughter is directed at him.

Vexed, he tries to pull his arm from Shanks’ grasp again, gaze tearing away and cheeks burning in a manner that they haven’t in years, but the redheaded captain stops him for a second time. “Mihawk, Mihawk, it’s fine.” Though it takes a moment, he gets the laughter somewhat under control. “See? Not laughing. On my heart.” Mihawk grudgingly returns his attention to the other man and indeed, though Shanks is flushed, eyes sparkling, he has managed to lock the hilarity behind lips that are straining with the effort.

“You are insufferably juvenile,” Mihawk comments frostily.

“Aye. Guilty as you charge!” With a wink, Shanks tilts his head. “How much will I be paying you to nanny me?”

That does it. His breath flooding out in a huff, Mihawk twists in Shanks’ grip, this time in earnest. He jerks his arm; Shanks pulls it back. A stronger yank doesn’t dislodge him. The captain clings on like some absurd octopus, and either it's the sand or the embarrassment or the quantity and not quality of liquor consumed by the both of them, but quite abruptly they're both falling. A tangle of limbs and cloaks and cursing. They land in a heap and a spray of sand.

Shanks dropped on top of Mihawk, partially collapsed across his waist. Mihawk, in attempting to shove him away, has got a hand tangled in the rough fabric of Shank’s coat. Even as he manages to get his fingers free, Shanks’ hand gets caught in the cross necklace, skin hot against Mihawk’s chest. Mihawk doesn’t exactly help matters as he writhes, trying to find enough leverage to throw Shanks off as well as a position where Yoru isn’t digging into his back. All the more infuriating, this isn’t some classless attempt at dalliance; Shanks is trying just as hard to yank his sword out from under Mihawk’s leg as Mihawk is trying to heave the man aside.

Mihawk snarls, “Get off!” and Shanks’ responding, “I am, I’m trying to–” is absolutely bewildered. Gods, it’s – it’s just so – He feels like he’s back in one of those shoddy port towns where he would find Shanks and be goaded into what was supposed to be a duel and inevitably turned into anarchy through the streets. Boys all over again.

He feels like he’s about to explode with the pressure roiling under his skin.

Somewhere in the logical space far above what even Mihawk recognizes is an irrational level of agitation, he thinks, If someone saw this they'd laugh themselves sick. Two scourges of the sea, floundering over each other like flotsam caught in a whirlpool. Ridiculous.

That thought is the last straw, and with a final oath, Mihawk extricates himself from the mess, rolls away and finds his knees. Not smoothly – more like the scrambling jump of a cat finding itself in a bathtub – but he needs the space and gets it several feet from Shanks. Lungs heaving as if he's just run from one side of the island to the next, hat askew, stomach twisting, vision shaky with the surge of – of –

All hells, he doesn’t even know. Is there actually amusement somewhere in the disarray of emotions currently flurrying through his body? Wrath, certainly, along with a healthy desire to chop a certain red-haired idiot into very small pieces. Something like horror at the prospect of being found in such a ludicrous situation. Panic, too, to be pinned even for a second and unable to escape. But amusement? Surely not.    

Surely not. When Mihawk has recovered from the flood of feeling (and brushed sand from his clothes and straightened the wrinkles), he turns to glare at Shanks. Who is lying flat on his back, arm flung out to the side, hardly moving. For just a split second he wonders if something is wrong – if the man hurt himself in the fall or scramble – but Shanks quickly assuages that worry.

“I think I’m going to hurl,” he announces with a disgusting amount of cheer.

Never mind that Mihawk’s own stomach has not fared particularly well with the sudden jarring. “Don’t you dare,” he snaps. “Especially not after that oafish display.” Resting on his heels, Yoru’s tall length forced uncomfortably and awkwardly up and to the side by the way it’s digging into the sand, Mihawk glowers at the man collapsed on the beach and has serious second thoughts about ever having a pleasant thought about him again.

After a lull, almost as if he’s really taken that long to comprehend the words, Shanks flips his hand up in a negligent wave before it thuds back down. “Roger.” Another long pause, and Mihawk starts to think his hopeless companion really is going to throw up. I’m going to leave if he does, he tells himself. There are some things that a man simply can’t tolerate.

Although the fact that he’s tolerated so much today already has been something of a revelation.

Thankfully, either letting go of the act or getting a handle on his nausea, Shanks slowly shoves himself into a seated position. His clothes are rumpled, hair shot through with sand and in disarray, but he’s unfazed. He looks around, gaze lingering on Mihawk for a moment before moving onward, taking in the rest of their surroundings.

The island the Red Hair Pirates chose as their retreat is a bit of a dismal affair, mostly craggy cliffsides and scattered rocks further away from the beach. Shanks and Mihawk, despite their staggering pace, did make it a fair distance, but this spot is no bouquet for the eyes, either. There’s a trace of scraggy green growth, poking up from the ground here and there or industriously draped over the rocks, but it’s not a lovely sight even with the soft lighting.

“Hmm…” Shanks mumbles a few words that Mihawk doesn’t catch, and then he’s scrabbling at the inside of his coat, trying to draw something out. “Guess this is as good a place as any.”

"What are you blathering about?" Mihawk asks, and he's uneasy as he says it. Shanks seems unperturbed by their little collision. Unperturbed by anything that's been said or done, actually, and Mihawk has a sudden fear that the fall was a distraction. A deliberate derailment of the conversation to avoid having to address anything or acknowledge anything and that this is all for naught. The connection isn't what he imagined it to be, and Shanks is sweeping the moment – the confession, or accusation, or whatever it had been – to whatever crevasse he keeps everything distressing in.

Pausing just long enough to make a face at Mihawk, Shanks goes back to scrabbling at his coat. "Just– need to get– Ah!" And then he's pulling something out of the blue folds of fabric, freeing it from his belt or a deep interior pocket. A bottle. An elegant bottle, with a slender neck and dark colouring.  

It does not take a genius to recognize what it is.

Turning the glass container around for a loose examination, Shanks grins at what he finds. "Looks whole enough. I was half afraid you'd broken it with all that flailing about you did."

Mihawk tenses, but before he can set about murdering the other man, Shanks tosses the bottle to him. Catching it is automatic, and so is putting plans of homicide on hold in favour of examining the label. His eyes narrow.

"How did you obtain this?"

"Is it any good?" The evasion makes Mihawk press his lips together, but eventually he decides not to pursue the question of origins. He can ask his contacts later.  

"It is... adequate." Mihawk has about five bottles in his cellar that could be considered of higher quality vintage than this red. Only five, in a collection of dozens if not hundreds. He looks up from the wine. "Which leads me to wonder why you didn't pull this out whilst I was drinking that sludge you call ale."

"Oh, come on, Hawk Eyes. You're not the sharing type. You might have decimated my crew if they laid their grubby hands on it. Better to drink it away from that lot, yeah?" There's a guileless look on Shanks' face that indicates he's not telling the truth, or at least not the whole of it, and as Mihawk's brows furrow interrogatively, the man looks away. "Besides, seems a shame to waste it on people who can't appreciate it properly. Go on."

Is this a heartfelt gift? Certainly, an expensive one, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a diversion. Although… Shanks already had it in his cloak when they set out from the fire. He couldn’t have known where the conversation would go.

His heart is getting painfully tense in his chest, and it’s easier to make a disparaging comment than anything else. "I don't know that more drinking is a particularly good idea."

"More drinking is always a good idea." Shanks says it the same way you might say the sun is round or water wet. Inarguable.

No corkscrew, or glass, or exquisite meal to pair the wine with. He's kneeling in sand, has already drank so much caustic liquor his tongue is probably all but a withered lump by now, and this is a genuinely fine vintage. Shanks doesn't know the sacrilege he's asking Mihawk to perpetrate.

But he's also looking from the bottle to Mihawk with rather more intensity than usual, and it occurs to Mihawk that his companion is actually nervous about the wine's reception.

With an internal sigh, he unsheathes the cross hilted blade around his neck. Not exactly refined, this, but there is a certain satisfaction in burying the knife into the cork and twisting it out. At first, it’s just the strident scent of alcohol, making Mihawk’s stomach heave and confirming this is not a good plan, whatever Shanks says. However, a moment later the accompanying fragrance, nutty with a hint of bitter sweetness, spills out from the bottle and automatically Mihawk swirls the container, bringing the underpinning of the bouquet to the fore. Chocolate, he thinks, though he isn't sober or composed enough to consider it more carefully.

This really is committing some sort of crime, but Mihawk is tired and grumpy and all sorts of raw. He takes a sip from the bottle – directly from the bottle, like a savage – and holds the liquid in his mouth. Part of him wants to close his eyes, the better to appreciate the experience, but Shanks is watching him and there is a hunger in that lean face that compliments the depth of flavour on his tongue.  

So Mihawk enjoys the full-bodied taste, and the keen eyes on him, and the company. He swallows sooner than he should and enjoys it all the same. There's a dry tartness in his mouth after, begging for an accompaniment, a good steak, perhaps, but the absence of anything else lets the acerbic sensation loiter and it's not unpleasant.

With that taste still lingering, Mihawk meets Shanks' anxious scrutiny. He smiles.

"More than adequate."

Relaxing shoulders. The release of pent-up breath. And, of course, a radiant grin, burgeoning like the sun, growing gradually in strength until the captain is beaming. Shanks' delight is so powerful it's radiating off of him, and his attention skips between Mihawk's much slighter smile to his golden eyes, seemingly unable to decide which is the more satisfying sight. It makes Mihawk self-conscious in a way he only ever is with Shanks, like happiness is a wound he shouldn't let this specific man see, but with effort he keeps his lips curved up.

"Good," Shanks says with a sharp nod, as though he's reaffirming the fact for himself. "You really–" He stops, closes his mouth, opens it again. "What's it taste like?"

Mihawk wonders what he'd been about to say. A joke? A comment on Mihawk's wine preferences? Or his smile? Fingers curled around the bottle's neck harder than they should be, he says, "Why don't you try for yourself?"

Maybe for the first time today – perhaps the first time in years – Shanks seems just a trifle insecure. He bites his cheek and looks away. "I'm not a wine connoisseur, Hawk Eyes." His mouth dances playfully with the word, but it's a half-hearted jest. "I'm one of those people it'd be a shame to waste it on. Just enjoy it yourself."

Without really knowing why, Mihawk lies. "Unfortunately, it's a very particular kind of wine. Meant to be shared. It'd be doing a disservice to the vintage if we didn't."

Did he believe it? Shanks' head tilts a little, considering, before he gives a shrug. "Who'm I to refuse an expert?"

"Who are you, indeed?" Mihawk mutters, more to himself than his companion, and then he's unfolding from his kneeling position to regain his feet. Sand falls from his boots when he moves – there's definitely some in his boots, the knowledge of which Mihawk ignores for the sake of maintaining sanity – and he stops next to the seated Shanks, hesitates.

"Is it a standing wine, too?" the man asks, looking up at Mihawk and deliberately sprawling out more, supported in his precarious posture by his hand anchored into the sand.

Mihawk scoffs. And lightly kicks the hand in question out from under him.

As Shanks crumples with a curse, Mihawk takes Yoru from his back. The sword's dark lustre is beautifully contrasted by the pale sand he sets it down on, the hilt's golden lines even more so, and he's not above letting Shanks scramble back into a seated position unassisted while he settles the blade well within reach.

"Like I said," Shanks states, with so much dramatic, wounded inflection that it makes Mihawk want to smile again, "you're a real bastard sometimes."

"What did you say, before?" Mihawk responds, gracefully (mostly gracefully) moving to join the man on the ground. "'Guilty as charged'?"

"Aha!" His surprised exclamation is rich with amusement, and Shanks tosses his head, flicking his disheveled red bangs out of his face, the better to consider Mihawk's sardonic expression. "Looks like we're both guilty men, here."

For just a second Mihawk feels a compulsion to think about that statement – to try to recall when it became true, boys to pirates to guilty men – but Shanks' lighthearted attitude is like an antidote, keeping the solemnity away. Instead of thinking too hard, Mihawk offers the bottle, still sardonic, and says, "You could drink to that."

"I will drink to that." Despite the declaration and the rapidity with which he snatches the glass, Shanks hesitates, staring doubtfully into the mouth of the container. He swirls it in tentative imitation of Mihawk's motion but doesn't make any attempt to sniff, and it's a good thing Mihawk isn't prone to childish teasing because Shanks is leaving himself open to a lot right now.

"Take a sip," he prompts impatiently. "Don't swallow it right away, you want to actually taste it. Try to see what you can notice." Still the other man hesitates, for all the world like it's a jar of poison, and Mihawk notes with faint surprise the possibility hadn't occurred to him until now that it could, theoretically, have been poisoned. Which is a foolish thought, the residue of time spent with less trustworthy company, and Mihawk discards it.

Which doesn't mean Shanks isn't still looking at the wine as though he expects teeth. "It's just alcohol," Mihawk says in exasperation, like the man doesn't know. For which he is shot a dirty look. "Red, you–"  

Shanks proceeds to take a very large swig. Too large, to judge by the immediate collapse of his expression. Much too large.

Or he just doesn't like red wine.

"Don't you dare spit it out," Mihawk warns. The cost of that one indecent mouthful could pay to feast a village for days.

Give it to Shanks, he valiantly attempts to follow Mihawk's previous directions. He doesn't swallow it immediately or spit it out. His face is rapidly going red, eyes squinting and mouth screwed up in disgust, but he sits there, presumably waiting for further instructions.

The fact that that pleases Mihawk is something to think about later. At any rate, the captain has assuredly taken too big a sip to even taste anything properly, let alone to breathe and let it oxygenate, so Mihawk just gestures, a magnanimous wave of his hand. "Go ahead."

Shanks' gulp is followed by immediate and violent sputtering, coughing, hacking, choking, and etc. Watching his theatrics, Mihawk muses idly that perhaps the wine really was poisoned. When it becomes obvious he's not about to be offered sympathy or medical services, Shanks recuperates remarkably well, though the tear-stained corners of his eyes suggest the choking hadn't been all for show.

"That... was horrible," he eventually gasps.

Even Mihawk himself hadn't particularly loved wine when he was young, and red wine had taken even longer. He nods philosophically, accepting the assessment, and says, "At least you didn't waste it. It'd be a crime to spit something like that out."

Lips going crooked with a mischievous grin, miraculously catching his breath, Shanks murmurs, "I'd never spit out anything you gave me."

Despite himself, Mihawk snorts. Though there's an accompanying flush of heat at the suggestive comment, it's made of desire and not diffidence. There’s no humiliation to be found in physical fervour.  "Yes, yes. You swallowed it very well. Should I call you a good boy for that?"

"Gods, no," Shanks replies, shoving the bottle of wine back at Mihawk. "You might start something neither of us can finish." Despite the comment, he doesn't return his hand to his side after unloading the wine, but rather lets it linger on Mihawk's thigh, fingers tracing the seam of his pants and thumb showing a boldness befitting a pirate.  

He recovers very quickly, does Shanks. Mihawk... is not the same.

The leaden weight of uncertainty has been lightened, rebuked, restructured... but it's not gone. The pulsing pleasure of Shanks' touch, irrefutable. The provoking pleasure of his presence, undeniable.

The apprehension of his absence, indisputable.

Mihawk is not a puppy, crying at the door of his master's chambers. He does not need – or even want – to be around this troublesome man at all times. But he foresees a day, stretching long into the future, when something goes wrong. When the lazy hours and careless joy are splintered by sacrifice of a kind Shanks should not commit, and the search for the One Piece takes the one piece out of Mihawk's life that he does not think he can stand to lose.

His hand falls, catching Shanks' and making him stop his slow strokes. There is mild confusion in the other man's quiet exhale, but when his gaze finds the struggle in Mihawk's golden eyes, it's as though the sight is a kind of acid, stripping his playful veil away. The impish angles fade from the corners of his mouth. What is left is sincerity awash in weariness. Shanks looks tired. Mihawk is tired, too.

On his tongue, the aftertaste of the wine, begging for something more. In his chest, the aftertaste of this conversation, begging for something more. He searches for words and does not find them.

Short of laughter, and smiles, and now words. It is a good thing Shanks has enough for the both of them.

"Look at me, trying wine some noble fool would consider adequate. And look at you." His deep brown eyes shift to Mihawk, away again. "Teaching me all over again. Do you remember Port Piros?” Mihawk dips his head, acknowledgement of the memory of that hectic harbour, some… gods, how long ago? About 25 years behind them, now.  

It had been dirty and depressing when a young teenage Mihawk had arrived, and when the ship Shanks had been on pulled into port a few days later, the dirty part hadn't changed. It was also the kind of place that seemed to be feasting on its inhabitants, sucking out their souls through their pockets and their lives through their empty stomachs. Full of starving people and violent people and far too many caught in between.

"You remember those kids?"

Snotty faces and ribs too prominent and dirt layered upon dirt. Mihawk's skin crawling at the sight of it all. "Somewhat. The ones you gave your lunch to?"  

"You said I shouldn't."

It's true, he had. Honestly, he doesn't entirely remember why. Something about not wanting Shanks to encourage the urchins? Thinking they'd be swarmed by the filthy horde? Shifting slightly and wondering where Shanks is going with the thought, Mihawk takes another sip from the wine bottle. The need to focus on the complex layers of taste adds a welcome distancing in his mind, although the effect is slightly marred by the warmth of Shanks' hand in his own free one.

For his part, the captain is drawing idle patterns in the sand with his feet, a small crease between his brows.  

"I gave the food to some of the younger ones and then before we were five steps away, the bigger ones took it. I can still remember that little girl getting knocked over. Crying, the way her hand bled." Under Mihawk's palm, Shanks flexes his own hand as if he's feeling it, too, and suddenly Mihawk remembers more – and realizes why Shanks is mentioning it.

It had become an entire afternoon of attempting to instruct, cajole, explain, and even threaten a mob of children into satisfactory behaviour. The teenage Mihawk had not been persuaded to separate with his own food, but he had helped Shanks carry a few small sacks of hardtack and salted meat and what scant fresh fruit had been available back to the children from the ship. They'd fallen on it like locusts and there was enough so that, at least that day, no one had been pushed aside.

He'd rather suspected Shanks had taken the food without permission but said nothing at the time; let the boy incur the wrath of his captain if he were so inclined.      

Mihawk hadn't understood Shanks’ motivation then – or altogether now, in truth – but he’d enjoyed watching the younger children cluster around the older boy, adoring and impudent in turn. It had been amusing to see the set determination on his face, the exaggerated patience as time after time the little waifs disobeyed him. A reversal of roles; too often it was Shanks annoying Mihawk in those days. The boy could fight, but he could also yammer, and it was no contest which he preferred to do more.

Mihawk says, “I remember. It was a good thing you did.” Sometimes you say things not because you believe them, but because the man next to you looks like the jagged top of a mountain or a singular cloud in the sky. Lonely and unreachable.

Shanks glances at him. “A good thing we did. And it was. That day. But…” When he stops, Mihawk gently squeezes his hand, hardly even aware of doing it. Just – desperate, to bridge the gap. To hold on to the man who is so steady in some ways and yet could so easily float away.

It seems to help. Drawing in a breath, Shanks says, “Piros is a pirate breeding ground. That’s what the Marines call it. I wonder, with all of those I’ve met… if any could have been some of those kids. Hitting the seas, looking for something better.” Another pause before Shanks finishes in a rush, abnormally clipped and anguished. “I’ve killed a lot of pirates, Mihawk. For attacking villages, or my crew.”    

“If you killed them, they needed the killing.” That, at least, is no lie. Shanks tallies innocence in his judgements in a way Mihawk never has.

“That’s not– I don’t know. They were threats, yeah, but what about before? When they were kids? If I had done more for them…”

It is a confounding thing that Mihawk had wanted this conversation – the openness, the levity laid aside, and yes, even the grief tightening Shanks’ scars into stark lines – but now that it’s being spoken, he finds it painful. Should Shanks ever have to look like he does now? Sound so bleak? But – isn’t that the point? To make him see?

He feels like he’s grinding the words out. It is not an excuse he would offer for just anyone. “You were a child, too. You did as you could.”    

“It wasn't enough, Mihawk.” Voice like salt in a raw wound. “I– You said it yourself. That when we left, they’d go right back to starving and fighting and that what we did that day didn’t matter.” Shanks is staring out over the horizon now, but Mihawk senses his eyes are blind to the present at the moment. “You were right,” the captain whispers.

“No.” Mihawk says it so harshly, so insistently, Shanks startles a bit, turns from the past and back to him. With burning eyes, Mihawk leans just a little closer. “I cannot say what the results of your… our… attempts were, but they mattered. They did. Not–” And here he tightens his hand around Shanks’, demanding the man not look away in disbelief. “Not because of how the children reacted, for good or ill. I cannot speak to that. But it was another step, another block in creating the foundation of yourself. A strong foundation. An adamant one.”

Seemingly taken aback by the unusual flood of thoughts, Shanks is quiet, but he doesn’t break away. “At the time I thought your gesture a weak one. Foolish and empty. But such things are only empty if you do them once. You have not done it just once. Time and time again, you choose to do good for the people around you. I do not– It is an admirable trait, perhaps.” More importantly, infinitely more, it makes Shanks who he is.

Throat so tight it’s all Mihawk can do to finish. “But I am…” Gods, can he even say it? Not in the years before, not hardly in his head, let alone out loud. But now, now, in the warmth of Shanks’ presence, in the headiness of alcohol and the view and the embrace of everything that has come before. Maybe now. “I am afraid, Shanks.” His companion goes still, alarmingly still, and Mihawk doesn’t know what that look on his face is, because Shanks has never worn it before.

Of course, all the same Shanks encourages him to go on. He always does, coaxing each word out like an anxious animal. “Afraid of what?”

And Mihawk responds. He can’t seem to help it. “You gave up your food for those children. You gave up your arm for Luffy. But surely– I do not say this to be cruel, but surely you know – you must know – that should you rip yourself into tiny pieces, give every single piece to the miserable and lost and lonely, you will not save them all. You cannot sacrifice yourself for a better world, Shanks.”

The world cannot be a better place if Shanks is not in it.

“Mihawk…” It is with no small amount of horror that Mihawk sees Shanks’ vibrant eyes are becoming glassy with tears. One escapes, then another, painting a trail down his dust-smeared cheeks, crossing over his scars. They are not followed by any more, though; Shanks does not allow it, but shuts his eyes tightly, blocking out the world as is his want. Then he laughs, and the sound is so tattered it has holes in it. “I don’t know where that leaves me.”

At a later date, Mihawk might call himself impulsive or emotionally compromised or just stupid, but in truth he does what he does next with perfect deliberation. He sets the wine bottle down, reaches out and cups the strong line of Shanks’ jaw, palm prickling at the feel of his stubble. His thumb brushes the tears away even as Shanks’ eyes flicker open. It is not surprise on his face, exactly. They have touched each other before, even intimately as the occasion called for it. But Mihawk is not one for wiping tears away with anything but a scathing voice and a contemptuously offered handkerchief.

This is a proposal, an offering for something different in their relationship, stated as blatantly as Mihawk can manage, and Shanks knows it.

Mihawk meets the dawning re-assessment in Shanks’ gaze as steadily as he might, breathing through the hope and fear, and says, “It leaves you here, in this world, to continue as you are. Inspiring the next generation but not giving over to them. It leaves you to continue to search for the One Piece for yourself, because you wish to obtain it, and that being justification enough.”

While it is doubtful that Shanks wholly agrees with either statement, nonetheless he is leaning into Mihawk’s touch, accepting the support with an expression approaching calm, and that gives Mihawk the courage to softly add, “It leaves you here, on this island, with me. I… like to imagine that that is enough.”

It is not, of course. There is a loaded quiet following his statement that makes that obvious enough. The day Mihawk is enough for Shanks, or Shanks enough for Mihawk, is further in the future than fantasy can account for. They both desire too much to be simply enough for each other. But still, for today…

For today, Shanks follows their rules. He breaks the silence with the gentleness of feathers breaking a fall. “You don’t have to imagine, Mihawk. Let me tell you plain; it’s enough.” And then he is obliterating the space between them, and his mouth is on Mihawk’s, his hand breaking from Mihawk’s grip to clench around Mihawk’s collar and pull him closer. He tastes of liquor and salt and it is not their first kiss but it feels like it, the way Mihawk’s heart is stirring in the battered confines of his chest.

He responds to the urgency of Shanks’ tense body and takes the man’s face in both hands, holding him delicately and deepening their kiss. When his tongue part Shanks’ lips, the man moans, and the sound sends a lightning thrill down Mihawk’s spine, stiffening his muscles into bundles of anticipation. It’s as though the words they’ve said today were knives, cutting through the burdens weighing the both of them down, keeping them from each other even when they were together. Not so now. Shanks groans again, free in his need, and it’s enough to have Mihawk leaning into him, aching for more contact.

A mistake. With his hand caught up in Mihawk’s collar, Shanks can’t balance himself under the added weight, especially not in his current state, and they both topple over again. A mistake that isn’t a pity at all, because Mihawk ends up over the captain, both hands planted in the sand on either side of Shanks’ head.

And Shanks is laughing. It is such a beautiful sound.

“What do you say, Mihawk?” he asks, and the question is equal parts joy and challenge as he reaches up and rests his hand against Mihawk’s chest, an almost-caress. “Is your opponent still lacking, do you think?”

And finally, finally, in that touch and in that question, there is no heart-hurt in the consideration. Not even as Mihawk is compelled to answer honestly. “In companionship I’d say my opponent is more than adequate.”

“Only companionship?” Shanks eyebrow jumps, mouth turning into a dramatic frown. “Nothing else, you old battle-goat?”

A quick reply. “Also in aggravation and bluster.”

Another chuckle bursts out from Shanks, and he shifts his hand down Mihawk’s chest to eventually stop at his hip. His fingers are firm and steady and do not lack for strength at all when they dig lightly into Mihawk’s side, an anchor as he encourages Mihawk to swing his leg over and mount him. His eyes, too, are assured when he says, “You really think you could beat me, don’t you? Oh, Hawk Eyes, we are going to have us a reckoning. I think you’ll be surprised.”

And somehow, with a thrill equal to anything Mihawk has felt today… he believes Shanks. Believes in the steadiness of his gaze, and his voice, and his hand. Believes that maybe it isn’t bravado, a man clutching at straws, and maybe… maybe they still have the pleasure of crossing swords, too.

Yet as he gazes down at the captain under him, the man whose smiling face is miraculously clear of the grief and doubt it had harboured not long before, as though it really is that easy for Shanks to let go, Mihawk feels a niggling sensation. More knots coming undone. Change is coming, and he thinks that perhaps this new structure they’re building in his chest might do more than rust in the tide.  

He smiles and says, “Maybe we will at that, dear heart. Not today, though. Today isn’t a day for fighting.”

Shanks doesn’t laugh, perhaps to spare Mihawk the embarrassment of having used the endearment, but his eyes do take on a new brightness, acknowledging the change in meaning of those words. His lips curve up and he is breathtaking in his delight. The sun is growing radiant on the horizon, and there is enough golden light to shine on both of them.

Mihawk kisses Shanks and thinks that finally, he knows why he’s here.