Work Text:
March 9th, 2006
T2045, clear skies, 22°C
Grove 66 Marine University, Sabaody Archipelago, New World
Back at home, birthdays are communal events to be regarded as after-dinner-sacraments. Mihawk fixes the TV antenna on the monastery roof to get proper signal and the nuns take turns hitting the remote to the point of exhaustion. Just when they’re about to call the definitive 80s picture box’s time of death, the screen rattles, the static clears and a VHS tape gets pushed into its mouth to stream the same telenovela episode though the course of four bingo rounds.
On Sabaody, Mihawk hasn’t had the chance to celebrate his birthday without school and work digging a boot into his neck. It’s always been a glass of red wine, a reclinable chair or a tapas bar, Marco and Kiku’s blabbering followed by Izou’s home-baked adzuki bean buns with a candle sticking out of one puffy specimen. Then it’s been Crocodile’s restaurant reservations, a stroll along the promenade with chills down their spines, feet deep in the sand and a cigar hopping from one mouth to the other lighting the walk from the western docks to the military port on the east side of the coast.
He had to read an email this morning. Its contents perplexed him not because Shanks wanted to toast to their shared birthday together, rather because he wanted to do that on university grounds, precisely in the laboratory Mihawk spent most of his student life before graduating. Which, number one: should be illegal, even though the Ichthyologist has willingly cut curfew more than once and got away with it pretty easily by calling it a, quote unquote, work necessity. Number two: Mihawk tends to forget Shanks was born on his same day. The circumstances of such happenstance are ominous in a shade of alignment Mihawk has yet to fully pin down.
Perhaps it is the period they spent dating each other at first, the strong odors of the city center when the temperatures melted tourists’ sandals on the sidewalks, Shanks’ genuine smile outbrighting the sun, the jasmine hedges exploding in the rural side of the Archipelago, under the mangroves. Mihawk tied Shanks to that peculiar stroke of color so much so that his debut to the world should be reconsidered and postponed a few months.
The email said to wait for Shanks at the lab door after the last overworked professors leave. Mihawk doesn’t know how much Shanks paid the janitors to leave the lab units open but he must’ve struck a great deal since Mihawk found no obstacle nor wandering students to get to the meeting place. He takes a look at his wrist watch and shifts his weight from hip to hip. Shanks is late.
A crumpling sound suggests the mastermind is already in and Mihawk is tired and it’s been a long day of shadowing Rayleigh up and down the stairs, overseeing the theatron and skimming through expedition notes; hence he knocks.
The sound halts. Footsteps. Mihawk sees the slit of light at the bottom of the door disappear. Shanks opens the door, just a crack to check who’s on the other side.
“Here’s my bird of prey,” he chimes then, popping his head out to look right and left. “Were you suspicious when you walked down here?”
“It’s pitch black,” Mihawk notes. “I can barely see my path.”
“Good thing you’ve positively trained your muscle memory to bring you where you’re needed,” Shanks lets himself out of the room for a moment to make sure the hallway is empty.
He stumbles into Mihawk in doing so, which makes Mihawk unexpectedly sigh. To be completely honest, the two had little time to be in each other’s company lately. Mihawk has been busy organizing sub classes and Shanks has been working back at the shelter on the weekends, taking day trips around the islands with Roger and fighting with his landlord. Which is why he pivots on his feets and faces Mihawk, grabs him by the waist and burrows a sequence of loud kisses into his cheeks, reddening them. He loses his impending worry in Mihawk’s groans and chuckles at the man’s attempt at pushing a whole hand against his chest to make him stop that spectacle of affection. Doesn’t work. Mihawk has to eventually drop the paper bag he’s holding and wrap his arms around Shanks’ back to pull him in.
With his cheekbones reddened by Shanks’ joyful fury of kisses, Mihawk tips his head and lets the redhead have his way with him.
Hiding in the crook of Mihawk’s neck, Shanks breathes, “We never did this here.”
“We would rightfully be reported for indecency,” Mihawk says.
Shanks smacks his lips once more under Mihawk’s ear, where his jawline starts cutting. “Then I’d admit to all charges.”
“Of course,” Mihawk shakes his head. “I suppose you deemed the hallway clear.”
“Yeah, sure,” he did not. Another smack, now on a freshly-trimmed sideburn.
Mihawk’s body rejoices. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” the next kiss is a little dry with Shanks pressing a used mouth on Mihawk’s pristine and thin lips, begging to let down the anchor.
The unit falls into silence but Mihawk’s mind is playing jazz on a saxophone. It is scorching. Shanks fondles Mihawk, his body burning with warm winds and cheap meat sizzling on the grill, shirt off and thrown over one shoulder, liters of sunscreen under their eyes, pearls of sweat embellishing Mihawk’s clavicles, a resilient fan with a broken blade—the worst of Mihawk’s nightmares, tamed by a single, hubbub-dousing touch.
Shanks scrunches his nose. Mihawk can’t see anything in this darkness but manages to catch the exact moment Shanks’ mind devises the words that come next, “I can’t wait for you to wear your birthday suit and for me to make you rain.”
Mihawk pauses. “It is important to me that you take a minute to familiarize yourself with the obscenity you just voiced out and admit to its barren taste.”
“At least I got a reaction,” Shanks snorts, lowering to get the paper bag off the floor and push it in Mihawk’s hands. “We need to be out by five tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? What do you mean,” the confusion gets cleared before it has the chance to swim around Mihawk’s brain. Shanks pulls him into the laboratory and reaches for something in the shadows.
A lava lamp casts dark oranges on the scientific equipment, engulfing the microscopes’ necks and merging the stainless steel of the sink with the wall. All outlines come off blurry and vague, losing distinction to favor the dream-like ambiance set by the lamp. The reason why the lamp sits on a chair close to the door is the mess of pillows and sheets garbled on the lab’s tiles.
There’s thought behind the placing. The makeshift bed rests between the two rows of desks at the entrance and backs the live samples tanks at the end of the room. The neons hanging over the tanks aren’t bothering the atmosphere, rather intensifying the contrast of darkness and light by adding ultramarine blue specks to the sheets’ folds. The noise of the gargling air pumped in the tanks and continually filtering the water adds to the all in all cozyness. It’s a background mumbling that Mihawk eventually grew to appreciate. If anything, it’s comforting.
“Nowhere,” he utters.
Shanks closes the door behind them and locks them in. The key ring slips down his index and into his pants pocket. “Huh?”
“We are going nowhere,” replies Mihawk.
“Come on over,” Shanks puffs up his chest, bringing an arm to his ribs like he’s a butler welcoming his most eminent customer. This is when Mihawk squares him from head to toe and understands what the butler meant when he mentioned to dress comfortably in his email. Shanks is wearing a t-shirt and shorts, primed to be tucked in.
Mihawk gets the same treatment. “We’ll have to do something about this satin,” in fact the fabric of Mihawk’s long bell sleeves reflects a myriad of tints and looks a tad succinct on the navel. “It seems I’ve surprised you.”
“Of all the things I had in mind, this wasn’t even on the list,” Mihawk admits. He makes to crouch down and undo his combat boots but Shanks drops to his knees first and works his finger through the rough shoelaces. He tugs the bows and loosens the grip around Mihawk’s shins before gently tapping at his calves encouraging him to bend his slender legs.
Hesitant at first, Mihawk entrusts Shanks. The latter palms Mihawk’s muscles and removes one boot but doesn’t let go of the leg. He kneads the muscles, letting Mihawk feel the urge of fingertips. “I read about emperor penguins today,” he starts. “Loyal fellows, really. The whole species mates for life, did you know that?”
Mihawk nods, doesn’t talk. He wants to know what Shanks is getting at.
“So they choose a companion, don’t they? A nice looking bird companion. They’ve got plenty of choice in the colony but they spot the right one and never look back on their decision. It’s still not clear whether there’s a pattern behind their method because let’s be real: how would an animal look around, point a, well, I guess it’s a wing in this particular case, point a wing at another individual, seal the relationship of a lifetime and never revisit the decision again?” Shanks takes off the other boot and watches Mihawk slowly descend toward him. “But then, is it a decision at all? It could be the opposite of random, they could sincerely fall in love with their mate as they cultivate the social interactions within the colony.”
“That’s hopefully romantic,” Mihawk comments. Shanks sinks in the mount of pillows. He follows.
“I thought so, too,” a brief second of pondering the theory. Shanks scraps Mihawk’s implied cynicism. “Penguins are recognized to be one if not the most prone animal to enact gift giving with pleasure. It’s used to convince the partner into being an item until the end but it’s, hmm.” He leans down, facing the ceiling but thrusting an arm behind his nape to wolf down Mihawk’s frame. “It’s a curated act. They scout for the most beautiful pebble to present as a gift. That’s real effort right there, so I’d call penguins realistically romantic.”
Mihawk lounges next to Shanks, adjusting the sheets under them and tugging the shirt out of his pants. “This is a nice pebble.”
“Oh, this isn’t my pebble,” Shanks reaches under one of the desks and materializes a present poorly wrapped in brown paper. “Here,” he turns on his side and presents it for Mihawk’s consideration.
The recipient of such attention is left speechless. Upon first impression, it looks like a book. He delicately plucks the gift off Shanks’ hands and carefully gets rid of the outer shell. Not a book. Mihawk’s ears pop. The fatigue of the day gets washed over by waves of an ancient, biblical gratitude.
“A notebook,” Mihawk states. The cover is purple and his name is royally embossed in warm golden foil. The binding is a bit crooked and imprecise, the lilac sewing thread hasn’t been masterfully waxed, some splotches of glue pepper the spine, still. It is beautiful. It deserves a caress. “A curated pebble.”
“Mh-hm,” Shanks confirms. “I asked Izou to teach me some bookbinding. First time. You’ve got that big collection of notes, I thought you could use one notebook for pleasure more than work. Train tickets, songs you like, receipts, this could be a place for that kind of stuff.” Then he nudges Mihawk with his shoulder, “Accounts of our incredible dates.”
Mihawk presses the notebook to his heart and stretches his neck to steal a quick kiss. “Thank you,” he says then, and his voice might be low but his fingers are itching to cut the courting short. He puts the pebble between them and returns the choosing of the mate by offering the paper bag to Shanks.
The barbarian tears the bag and lets a bundle and a card fall on his lap. The card is obviously handcrafted and adorned by the Ichthyologist’s elegant writing, his As and Ys curling into a general wish of Happy Birthday. Shanks opens it and a smaller card flies out. He picks it up and tries suppressing an abrupt laugh by choking it.
“A free haircut,” it’s exhilarating. “I’m—you’re so fucking funny,” and he’s so elated that Mihawk’s sixth sense submits the notion that Shanks must be taking the barber giftcard for a joke.
“No, really,” Mihawk points at it, “I’ve booked you an appointment for next week.”
Which sends Shanks into a laughing fit. Mihawk has to shush him by dragging him down into the pillows. Shanks’ back hiccups and he wheezes and his stomach is cramping and Mihawk doesn’t know what the hell is happening. “Your hair is out of control,” he tries, worsening the situation. “It’s all different lengths, you can’t tie it and it’s long lost its professional credibility.”
“Please, no more,” Shanks takes a last look at Mihawk’s desperate gaze, hisses his last giggle and grounds himself. Breathing in and out, he tucks the giftcard back in the bigger one.
“I do not understand you,” Mihawk declares.
“Good,” returns Shanks. He eyes the bundle and the red ribbon that’s keeping it together. “And this?”
Mihawk sits back, “My pebble.”
Shanks unravels the softest knitted blanket he’s ever stroked. It’s seamless, a work of art that should hang in a museum like medieval tapestries depicting wars and hunts, with the exception that Mihawk’s interpretation verges on a troop of monkeys sporting black liveries and white mustaches. They’re carrying wicker baskets on their shoulders and stuffing them with lavender buds. The younger ones hang around the adults, watching them harvest the bushes scattered on the blanket and the older ones are working in pairs, sharing the weight of their basket. The scene is idyllic with gloomy tones of browns and dark greens where the rims of the blankets depict the garden’s edges of the monastery where he’s learnt to knit. The perspective he applied is a result of an old-fashioned recipe made of blocky architecture and creatures drawn solely by profile. The blanket is enriched by both traditional techniques and renewed love for the craft and the eventual owner of the final product.
“You can’t be real,” Shanks’ astonishment punches all air out of his lungs. “This is crazy,” he pets the monkeys and traces their muzzles, “These are your… what’d you call them?”
Mihawk nods, “Tamarins.”
Shanks whistles, “This is a lot of carpal tunnel on your part.”
“You like it,” Mihawk tries.
“I do, Hawk Eyes. I feel guilty touching this, let alone sleeping with it,” the petting gets to the lavender bushes. There are no stark contrasts, only harmony and earth and monkey footprints excited to be found all over the garden. “What a magnificent pebble.”
He tenderly spreads the blanket over their bodies to then rub a thumb on Mihawk’s jaw, leading him into a thanking kiss. Mihawk leans in, slots the notebook somewhere behind them and chases Shanks to get another kiss.
“The sea may be full of fish,” Shanks advances. “But I’m glad my net caught you.”
Mihawk’s eyebrows shoot up. He closes his eyes and throws his neck back. The laugh he lets out rumbles around the laboratory, slithers under the door and echoes in the hallway.