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The East Blue was too quiet.
That was the thought circulating through Benn Beckman’s mind as he stood at the stern of the Red Force. After god knows how long of the high-pitched chaos of Foosha Village—of a boy shouting about King of the Pirates and the constant, infectious laughter that followed him—the open ocean felt unnervingly empty.
The ship hummed with the low, rhythmic snores of the crew. They were exhausted, mostly from the emotional toll of the departure and the sake they’d downed to numb it. Only the mast creaked, a lonely sound against the backdrop of a sea so dark it looked like spilled ink.
Benn took a drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing like a dying star in the darkness. He didn't turn when he heard the familiar, uneven thud of boots. He didn't need to. He knew the gait, the scent of sake and cheap sea salt, and the specific way the air seemed to shift whenever Shanks entered a space, well, that was his insufferable haki, which Benn didn’t really mind feeling from time to time, but that’s a completely irrelevant fact…
Shanks didn't say anything at first. He just leaned against the railing next to Benn, his red hair shadowed by the moonlight. He wasn't wearing his captain’s coat; just the white shirt, buttoned halfway, fluttering in the midnight breeze. He looked younger like this. Less like a captain and more like the cabin boy Benn had first pledged his life to.
"He’s going to be a handful," Shanks said finally. His voice was thick, the kind of tone that comes after hours of silent brooding.
"I’m starting to doubt you paid attention to Luffy at all, if you’re only saying that now, Shanks. He’s already a handful," Benn grunted, exhaling a plume of smoke. "He’s got your stubbornness and your complete lack of self-preservation. It’s a miracle he made it to seven."
Shanks let out a short, wet laugh. He reached up, his hand hovering instinctively near the empty space where his left arm used to be. It was a phantom habit he hadn't broken yet—the reach for a limb that was now a sacrifice resting at the bottom of the sea. A good one, they both knew it, the Sea King gave Shanks the biggest opportunity to be rid of that mark and he took it. But it still took some time to accommodate to.
Benn caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Without a word, he shifted his position, closing the small gap between them until his shoulder pressed firmly against Shanks’ right side. It was a grounding weight, a silent reminder: I am still here. The crew is still here.
Shanks leaned into the contact, his tension bleeding out in a long, shaky breath. "Do you think we did the right thing, Benn? Leaving him there? Putting that hat on his head?"
"You didn't just leave him a hat, Shanks. You gave him a finish line," Benn said, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative rumble that always managed to settle Shanks’ spiraling thoughts. "And as for the arm... you’ve never been one for regret. Don't start now. It doesn't suit you."
Shanks turned his head, his silver-grey eyes searching Benn’s face. In the moonlight, the three scars across Shanks’ eye looked like silver tallies. He reached out with his remaining hand, his fingers hooking into the belt loops of Benn’s trousers, pulling him just an inch closer.
"What would I do without you to talk sense into me?" Shanks murmured.
"You’d be a dead man, Red Haired Shanks," Benn replied dryly.
The silence that followed wasn't heavy like the one before; it was warm. It was the silence of two men who had long ago stopped needing words to bridge the distance between them. On the deck of the Red Force, under the vast, indifferent expanse of the East Blue sky, they were the only two people who truly existed.
Shanks shifted, his hand moving from Benn's belt to his waist, his thumb tracing the rough fabric of his shirt. "The bed is cold," Shanks said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its captain’s edge and becoming something much more vulnerable.
Benn looked down at him. He saw the grief for the arm, the lingering worry for the boy they’d left behind, and the fierce, burning ambition that still flickered in Shanks' eyes. He saw the man he had chosen, over and over again, on every island and through every storm. And he smiled.
Benn took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the ocean, watching it vanish into the waves.
"The navigation is set," Benn said, his hand coming up to cup the back of Shanks’ neck, his thumb stroking the short hairs at the nape. "The crew is asleep. The sea is calm."
Shanks smirked, the first genuine one Benn had seen since they’d pulled anchor. "Is that the First Mate’s official report?"
"It’s an observation," Benn corrected, his voice softening. "Let’s go below, Shanks. The morning comes fast in the East."
Shanks didn't need a second invitation. He tucked himself under Benn’s arm, his head resting against the First Mate’s shoulder as they began the short walk across the moonlit deck toward the captain’s cabin.
As they passed the galley, a soft, muffled whistle echoed from a darkened doorway—Yasopp, likely awake and "guarding" the pantry, though his eyes were definitely twinkling in the dark.
"Get some sleep, Captain!" Yasopp’s voice hissed playfully. "Benn looks like he’s about to fall over from carrying your ego all day!"
Shanks let out a bark of laughter, flipping a casual middle finger toward the galley without looking back. Benn just tightened his grip on Shanks’ shoulder, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
Behind the heavy oak door of the cabin, the rest of the world faded away. The East Blue, the destiny of a boy in a straw hat—it all became secondary to the steady, grounding presence of the other.
In the dark, Shanks found Benn’s hand, lacing their fingers together. It was a quiet, domestic promise. The world was changing, the tides were shifting, but here, in the heart of the Red Force, the anchor held firm.
"I’ve got you," Benn whispered into the crown of red hair as they finally settled.
"I know," Shanks breathed, already drifting off. "I know you do."