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Silhouetted by the wake of the sun at his back, the outline of a cross walks the trodden path to a homely, lopsided cottage with construction framework built off of one wall. He knocks twice, amuses himself with identifying each plant growing in his interest's garden.
A sleep-mussed giant pulling open the door draws back his attention.
“Who ‘s it?” When their eyes lock, Roci becomes much more intensely awake. “Hawk-eyes! Come in, please. Shit, gimme five minutes to clean myself up? I really wasn't expecting company today, seas, I'm a mess.”
Mihawk carefully keeps back the comment that rises within him about how alluring Roci is like this. It's far too early in their game for such brazenness.
The wealth of children that are usually flocked at his knees are absent today, Mihawk notices while Roci is in the other room composing himself.
Cacophonous rattling indicates a rush from Roci. That little sign shouldn't stutter Mihawk's heart nearly as much as it does.
Finally, Roci rejoins him.
He's studied up on effective torture methods recently, surely, because his favorite heart-patterned shirt spans his chest with just a handful of buttons done at the very bottom. Mihawk takes a very deep breath and counts to ten mentally.
“Can I get you something to drink? Got tea, coffee, and brandy, but no wine, sorry.” Roci shuffles awkwardly as he tries his best to stay well-mannered in the presence of a man who could bisect him and face no consequence.
“Tea, if you don't mind terribly.”
Roci nods more times than is probably necessary, then steps over to their stovetop to get a kettle going.
“So,” Roci says, poorly feigning nonchalance, “why'd you come all the way up here?”
In a moment of uncharacteristic anxiety, Mihawk hesitates before he speaks. “I wished to extend an invitation to join me for supper. I do so struggle finding decent company around here, yet you are always a wealth of it which I revel in tapping.”
Expletives ring out aplenty as Roci manages to slam his hand onto the heated kettle in surprise. When directed, Mihawk carries over a pail of cool water for him to dunk his scalded hand into, forgetting along the way to remove his grip once the bucket sits on the counter.
Perhaps the most painfully awkward silence Mihawk has ever endured takes hold.
“Um. Sounds great! I'll be there.” Roci goes for a handshake before remembering his brand new injury. Shit, Law's gonna kill him before his date does.
Mihawk nods, bows once, and retreats before even taking tea with him.
Shachi, returning from his gallivanting first out of all his boys, is subjected to his panicking.
“Do I dress up? I should dress up. But this is the only formal shirt I have, and it's still blood-stained! What about my makeup? Shachi, do I wear the Corazón makeup or not?”
Shachi groans, then yanks him outside with shears brandished at the slightest resistance.
“Wear the shirt, but please do up more than three buttons. He's asking out the Roci we see every day, there's no need to be stupid about appearances when he already likes what you have going on,” Shachi says as he bullies Roci further into sitting down, at perfect height for Shachi's handiwork.
Roci relaxes, but cocks an eyebrow at him. “He didn't ask me out, it’s just dinner. Anyways, I shouldn't worry about appearances, but you're still cutting my hair?”
A sharp tug tilts his head back slightly. “You don't have to worry about your appearance. I'm doing it for you. No dad of mine is going out with split ends like this.”
Everything freezes when Shachi's choice in words hits them both.
With obviously forced calm and poorly hidden joyous tears, Roci shrugs, says, “Whatever you say, it's not like I can stop you,” and watches Shachi unwind himself enough to continue snipping the ends of messy blonde waves.
He does look neater after the trim, once Shachi lets him see, so he doesn't complain too much. He's still riding the high of being called ‘dad’.
To waste away the day so he doesn't melt away into sheer nerves, Roci wanders up to a hidden treehouse and adjacent clearing, unsurprised to find the three brothers joined by Law and Bepo in their makeshift fighting arena.
He watches pair after pair go toe to toe, unable to keep from watching the sun's movements in between every match.
“Oh, Cora-san, watch,” Law says when Ace and Sabo stand across from each other once again. He creates a Room, and Roci watches in amazement as the two boys' very souls seem to pull out of their bodies and swap places.
Law explains the process and logistics to him, but Roci is too caught up in how insanely strong his son has become to really process any of what he says.
Sabo-but-really-Ace and Ace-but-really-Sabo stumble through their matches, unused to the different body they each wield. In particular, Sabo-but-Ace fights more with his cravat than he does with his brother.
The chaos of Law's newly unveiled power speeds up the afternoon, until Roci glances at the sky and realizes how close it is to sundown.
“Shit! I've got dinner with Hawk-eyes, I gotta go get ready. Are you two spending the night here, Law?” Roci asks as he dusts himself off.
“Wasn't gonna before, but definitely if you're on a date with him. Stay safe, use protection.”
Roci squawks out a squeaky “Law!” before he starts running down the mountain.
He showers, buttons his shirt up to the fourth button to appease Shachi, applies only his usual amount of lipstick instead of the smile, and has to rush out the door before he can preen any more, where his chest bumps into a solid frame.
Mihawk stands before him in a ruffled shirt with equally few buttons fastened and trim, high waisted pants. When he moves past this enough to make eye contact, the sharp wings adding two more points to Mihawk's angular face rob him again of coherent thought.
“Roci?” his living dream asks.
“Right, hello! Hi, you look - wow, you look great. You always do, though. I didn't think you'd meet me up here, sorry.”
“No apology warranted. Shall we go?” Roci agrees quickly, craning his neck down to minimize height difference as Mihawk leads him down to Foosha. “I have taken the liberty of commandeering Miss Makino's kitchen, so I should like to get back before anything burns. That's more of your style, no?”
Roci sputters.
In a desperate attempt to not embarrass himself, Roci keeps talking to an absolute minimum to focus on his shoes while they walk into town, which would definitely be rude if he wasn't walking with Dracule Mihawk, resident non-conversation-haver.
Mihawk holds the saloon door open for him. Shit, was Shachi actually right about something? No one holds open a door for their friend who they happen to be having dinner with. Home-cooked dinner. At a table set with china that Makino doesn't own.
Finally, once he's sitting at the dressed-up round table and Mihawk slips into the back room for drinks and appetizers, his raised shoulders start to droop. The clay vase sitting innocently at the center of the table draws his attention with its deep maroon carnations, guarded by a candle at each flank. Fuck, candle-lit dinner and flowers are not conducive to platonic affections.
“How is your hand?” Mihawk asks, once he has tended the kitchen and returned with one of his personal wine bottles and stuffed mushrooms.
Roci briefly forgets that he even has hands, on account of Mihawk inquiring about them.
“Oh, it's fine now. I've always healed quickly. Wouldn't have made it this far if I didn't, not with how dangerous the average pebble on a pathway is to me.”
Mihawk hums around a sip from his glass.
Roci honestly doesn't quite know where it comes from, but he asks, “I've been wondering for months, y'know. Why'd you tell me when Doffy was looking for us, back then? You got nothing out of it.”
Something alights in Mihawk's eyes, like he's been waiting for that question all his life.
“To put it plainly, you intrigue me. That is not a feat capable by many hands nowadays. You endured as the right hand of Doflamingo for years and did not flinch at his ways, yet now raise your kin in a backwater village where bloodshed has no place. Which are you, Roci? The servant of the beast which lurks with claws of thread, or the father who hangs up his rifle to preserve his children's innocence? This I cannot discern, and thus I am irrevocably attracted to you and your dualities.”
Roci shoves away the racing thoughts that stem from hearing the phrase ‘attracted to you’ from Mihawk, buying himself the time to think through popping a mushroom in his mouth.
“I'm really not as convoluted as you're making me out to be, Hawk-eyes. I was undercover and had to act my part accordingly, then Law came around and I realized he was worth more than any of it. I don't serve Doffy, but I guess I also keep my rifle with me, to continue your metaphor.”
The crosshairs swimming in gold, barely the width of an eyelash stare steadily into him. He realizes he isn't sure he's ever seen Mihawk blink.
The very corner of his delicate lips lifts. Roci sees because as a general rule, he is always looking at Mihawk's lips. For research purposes.
Mihawk excuses himself from the room, returning bearing two plates with actual fucking filet mignons. It all feels like something out of the storybooks of his youth. The exceedingly romantic ones, all about a princess being wooed through grand gestures.
Showing some modicum of mercy, Mihawk kegs their conversation until the plates are bare and their glasses hold only drops. How unbelievably good everything tastes only distracts Roci for a little while, although the nigh invisible tinting of Mihawk's face when he earnestly compliments the meal helps that cause.
With a sly look, Mihawk plucks the cork from the powder keg and resumes. “You answered my musings, yet brought forth only more. Am I conversing with yet another layer of deceptions wrapped up in the flesh of a man? The crease of your eyes when you grant the world a smile begs truth, but you wear both with such comfort I can never say for certain. Don't answer me this time, Roci. If you continue to entertain me while I assess you here then I might come precariously close to knowing you, leaving no need for a second encounter.”
“So once you figure me out, you won't want to talk with me anymore is what you're saying? Way to hurt a guy's feelings, Hawk-eyes.” Roci wants to bite back the words the second they've left him. Who is he to speak with tongue in cheek to a man of such renown?
Had he not already used up every shred of courage he possesses, Roci would dare to call the expression on Mihawk's face panicked.
“You speak hastily and without even believing your own word. We both may acknowledge the game we play without thefting its thrill, yes? Forgive my eagerness in prolonging the hunt if not. Either way, I find it funny you should suggest so casually that I would carry with me the ability to cease my fascination with you, even if I uncover how you tick.”
The flush that finally arises on Roci feels bone deep.
“Oh, and Roci? I have a dreadfully off-topic request.”
“What is it?” Roci asks, voice hushed without his own permitting.
“Call me Mihawk already. I do not deign to dine with others like this on whims.”
Roci smiles wide, painted lips stretching across his features.
“Alright, Mihawk,” he emphasizes, and absolutely swears he sees a whisper of a shiver run through the unshakeable man across from him.
He finds himself offering, “If you want, then you can call me Rocinante, too.”
Roci watches dark brows furrow into a valley.
“Are you certain? That name no doubt sprouts ailing memories for you, ones which I have no interest in watering.”
The concern Roci is learning to find in Mihawk's voice only solidifies his choice.
“I'm sure. You're a fine man, Mihawk, and I've been thinking about reclaiming my full name for a long time now. Who better to start with than the guy who just gave me one of the best nights of my life?”
Mihawk makes a pleased noise, very nearly a purr. He mouths the permitted name, testing each silent syllable. Again, Roci keeps very careful eye contact with Mihawk's tongue.
Talk steers to safer shores, after that, now dotted with the occasional Mihawk or Rocinante to set Roci burning. Hearing his own name again after so long is just as enchanting as speaking Mihawk's.
“It's late,” Mihawk announces suddenly, “allow me to escort you home,” and herds Roci out the door, although not before pressing the prettiest carnation of the bunch into his large hand.
Clearly, karma is in effect tonight. Roci makes it all the way through the doorway of his house without so much as a stumble.
“Thank you so much for the meal and the conversation, tonight was lovely,” Roci says.
Mihawk hums.
“Um, all of my boys are out of the house tonight, I'm gonna be alone. If you wanted, you could-”
“No.”
Roci's heart drops all the way to his feet, suddenly nailed to the floor by its weight.
The crushing disappointment shown on his face makes Mihawk realize his mistake.
“I'm not declining, Rocinante. I'm saying no, you won't be spending tonight alone,” he says, and steps over the threshold of Roci's house, pulling the door shut behind him as he goes.
Roci implodes. He doesn't even try speaking, not when his tongue must be square knotted.
“Have I become too blunt? You certainly were not progressing fast enough for me, so I'm reclaiming the pace, selfish as I am. Lean down, Rocinante, I cannot kiss you as you are.”
Roci leans down in a daze, one that evaporates at the cool press of Mihawk's lips on his.
“Mm, it's a good thing my kids realized this was a date before I did. Shachi got everyone out of the house for me.”
The feeling of Mihawk nipping at his vulnerable neck grows rapidly addicting. He holds back a vampire joke with all his remaining restraint.
“When is the boy's birthday, again? I'll need to locate something nice to repay that.”
Roci ends up far, far too distracted to remind him of the date.