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The kitchen was quiet in a way that felt unnatural, a silence that carried an echo, tapping at Law's habitually sharp nerves.
It was the fifth day of Shanks' and Shamrock's business trip. The refrigerator remained as impeccably organized as if Shamrock himself had supervised it. The storage containers in the cabinets adhered to a golden-ratio-like order, and there were even a few notes in Shanks' flamboyant handwriting stuck in conspicuous places: "Law, blueberries are antioxidants, remember to eat them!" "Seaweed is in the second compartment on the left. Don't be too lazy when making rice balls." "Simmer the stock cubes after thawing, don't just lazily pour hot water over them." Everything maintained the precise, lived-in illusion that existed when the red-haired man was present, except for the very core of that heat source-himself.
Law stood before the open refrigerator. The cold air from inside brushed against his face like a soundless sigh. Inside, meticulously arranged, were the "strategic reserves" Shanks had prepared before leaving, working late into the night: vacuum-sealed slices of braised beef shank, perfectly sealed Japanese chikuzenni, individually packaged grilled rice balls, ginger pork and cream stew in the freezer with detailed reheating instructions, and even a few boxes of pre-washed and chopped salad with dressing on the side. It was as lavish as preparing for a siege, considerate to an almost infuriating degree, overflowing with care to the point of nearly bursting the containers. But he just stared silently for a few seconds before, almost petulantly, slamming the fridge door shut with a soft thud. He didn't want to deplete these supplies bearing Shanks' distinct mark too quickly, as if eating one portion meant Shanks was one step further from returning, and this hollow familiarity one step closer.
Lunchtime found him at a small eatery near the school he used to frequent. Bepo, Penguin, and Shachi had already secured a table. Seeing him arrive empty-handed, Bepo's face immediately showed surprise. "Law! No bento today?" His round, dark eyes were filled with confusion. After all, over the past few months, Law's luxurious bento, which made everyone's mouth water just by looking at it, had become a fixed feature of their little group's lunchtime.
"Hn," Law responded curtly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He picked up the menu, his eyes scanning the familiar dishes but feeling no enthusiasm.
Penguin leaned over with a mischievous grin. "What, finally got tired of your personal gourmet chef's cooking? Ready to return to the embrace of us plebeians?"
Shachi chimed in teasingly, "Yeah, you used to say we were eating animal feed. Finally deigning to join us again, huh?"
Law ignored their jibes and casually ordered the signature pork cutlet rice. When the plate arrived, he looked at the piece of fried pork cutlet with its dull color and slightly soggy breadcrumbs, the perfunctory coleslaw, and the thick, industrial-tasting sauce. His stomach let out a groan of protest before his mind could even register it. He reluctantly picked up his chopsticks.
Bepo's curry rice arrived first. He scooped a big spoonful, stuffed it happily into his mouth, then looked at Law's barely touched cutlet. "Law, eat up! It's not good when it gets cold." He himself was eating heartily.
Law picked up a piece of the pork cutlet and took a bite. The coating wasn't crispy enough, the meat was dry, and the sauce was cloyingly sweet. His taste buds, as if having their own memory, immediately pulled up a sharp comparison: the pork cutlet Shanks made, using a specific part of the tenderloin, pounded to break the fibers, coated in a light, thin batter, fried to a perfect golden crisp outside and tender inside, paired with homemade Worcestershire sauce and finely shredded cabbage salad-every bite was just right. And this thing in his mouth now... He frowned, put down his chopsticks, and picked up the miso soup for a sip. The overly bland broth, tasting mostly of salt, made him let out an almost imperceptible tch.
"What's wrong, Law? Not to your taste?" Bepo asked with concern, curry still around his mouth.
"It's bad," Law stated bluntly, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his expression one of unconcealed distaste.
Penguin and Shachi exchanged a look. Penguin lowered his voice, "Hey now, seriously? Has our Captain's palate really been spoiled that badly? We've been eating here for years, never saw you complain like this before."
Shachi stroked his chin, adopting a mock-serious analytical tone, "Based on my observations, this is a classic case of ‘it's hard to go from luxury to frugality.' After eating the love-infused cuisine of Mr. Shanks, standard assembly-line fare like this causes a rejection reaction in the taste buds. Psychologically, this could be related to emotional dependency and conditioned reflexes..."
"Shut up, Shachi," Law cut him off coldly, though the tips of his ears felt warm. Because he knew Shachi wasn't entirely wrong. It wasn't just about taste. Shanks' food contained the morning sun, off-tune humming, the certainty of knowing his preferences inside out, the gentle coercion to "eat more." It was a flavor nurtured by care and attention. How could cafeteria or restaurant food compare?
"Aha! So Law misses Mr. Shanks!" Bepo suddenly exclaimed, slapping the table with a bang that rattled the dishes. "No wonder you've seemed a bit... out of sorts lately? Your fur's not as smooth!" (He was referring to Law's perpetually unruly black hair, which seemed even messier lately.)
"I do not," Law denied immediately, his tone stiff, though his slightly pale complexion and faint dark circles under his eyes weren't very convincing. He'd just... been sleeping lightly in the overly quiet house; eating had become a chore, not a pleasure; even during lectures, when exhaustion hit after intense focus, he'd find himself unconsciously expecting a bowl of soup waiting at home at just the right temperature-now there was only the cold fridge and food delivery apps requiring his own effort.
After class that day, he found himself wandering inexplicably to the commercial district, passing the high-end supermarket where Shanks often bought fresh sashimi. He paused at the entrance for a few seconds but ultimately didn't go in. He knew that even if he bought the best ingredients, he couldn't replicate that taste. Some things were about more than just technique.
For dinner, he reheated the last box of teriyaki chicken Shanks had made. The familiar sweet-salty aroma filled the air, making his heart feel like it was soaking in warm salt water, a slight ache swelling within. He sat alone at the dining table. The apartment was so quiet he could hear his own breathing. He ate slowly. The chicken was flavorful, the sauce rich. But for some reason, tonight's rice seemed a bit undercooked, the teriyaki sauce slightly too sweet-perhaps subtle changes from being stored for a few days. His discerning palate and even more discerning mood amplified every tiny imperfection.
His phone vibrated. It was a call from Luffy, the background noise as chaotic as ever.
"Torao! I heard Shanks isn't home! You wanna come eat here! Sanji made a super-lot of meat!" Luffy's voice was full of energy, almost piercing through the electromagnetic waves.
"No," Law refused.
"Eh-why not? Have you eaten? Sanji's cooking is really good!" Luffy protested.
"I've eaten," Law said, looking at the half-finished chicken in his bowl.
"Oh... alright then." Luffy seemed like he wanted to say more, but the phone was snatched by Nami.
"Law, are you okay on your own? Need any help?" Nami's voice held concern.
"I'm fine."
"Really? Shanks specifically asked us before he left, you know," Nami said, a hint of laughter in her tone. "Said their Law forgets to eat when he's busy, told us to remind him if we had time. You haven't really been skipping meals, have you?"
Law felt a mix of exasperation and... an indescribable flutter at Shanks' almost testament-like act of entrustment. "I have been eating," he insisted.
"That's good. By the way, when is Shanks coming back?" Usopp's voice chimed in.
"The day after tomorrow," Law replied, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the chopsticks.
"So soon! Just hang in there a bit longer then! Is the school cafeteria that bad?" Chopper's soft voice piped up, full of sympathy. "Back on Drum Island, I didn't like outside food either..."
"Enough," Law interrupted, though his tone wasn't harsh. His friends' blunt, somewhat noisy concern strangely dispelled some of the chill in the apartment.
"Anyway, just say the word if you need feeding!" Sanji's voice called from further away, carrying a chef's pride. "Might not be up to your at-home standards, but I won't let you go hungry!"
After hanging up, Law watched his phone screen go dark, then light up again with a message from Shanks-a photo of what looked like a lively local night market, colorful and bustling, with the caption: "Looks lively, but the taste is just okay, not as good as the midnight snacks I make you. [pouting emoji] Miss you, Law. Have you been eating on time?"
Law stared at the message, especially the three words "miss you," for several seconds. The hollow feeling in his chest seemed infused with a warm, sweet-tinged ache. His fingers hovered over the screen, finally replying: "Ate. Your leftovers. Almost gone." He thought for a moment, then added, "Luffy and the others just called."
Shanks replied almost instantly: "Haha, I knew they'd bother you! Thank them for me. If the leftovers run out, order from the places I sent you, don't just make do. We'll be back the day after tomorrow, in the evening! Brought you some local spices and liquor, and... a secret! Anyway, wait for me!"
"Hn," Law replied with a simple syllable, yet it seemed to expend all the emotion he could express at that moment.
Putting down his phone, he picked up his chopsticks again and finished the remaining teriyaki chicken and the now somewhat cooled rice seriously. The taste seemed to have returned to the perfect memory. He knew this was mostly psychological.
Being called picky by Bepo and the others, being worried about going hungry by Luffy's crew, having his own taste buds and stomach join in protest... all of it pointed to one undeniable fact: he had been utterly, irrevocably spoiled by Shanks with three meals a day and countless gentle moments steeped in daily life.
He had become unable to tolerate rough care and food lacking heart. His body and spirit only recognized warmth and nourishment from that one specific source.
This kind of dependency, in the past, would have made him feel panic and resistance-it meant a weakness, a vulnerability. But now, looking at the empty bento box, thinking of the "miss you" message on his phone, and the home that would light up again, filled with sound and scent the evening after next...
Law found himself thinking that being spoiled like this... wasn't so bad after all.
It was a sweet burden, tangible proof of love, the most private, most stable anchor he possessed in this noisy world.
He got up, carefully washed the bento box, dried it, and put it back in its place in the cabinet. Then, he opened the list of recommended delivery places Shanks had sent him, chose a well-rated soba noodle shop, and ordered a duck nanban soba, with the note: broth separate, extra scallions.
He needed to maintain his condition until he was back under the care of his personal gourmet chef.
The seventh afternoon. Lecture hall.
The professor's monotone voice droned in the large auditorium, like some kind of bland white noise. Law's pen moved across his notebook, but his focus was uncharacteristically scattered. The empty feeling in his stomach wasn't sharp, but a persistent low-energy alarm-the ramen he'd had with Bepo and the others at noon had a decent broth, but the chashu was so dry he'd only eaten half. Penguin had even swiped the marinated soft-boiled egg from his bowl, claiming to help Law with something he "didn't like," earning a cold glare.
"...Therefore, the key to this pathological mechanism lies in..." The professor's voice faded in and out.
Law's thoughts drifted further. The evening after next. Shanks' flight lands at nine, probably home by ten-ish. Maybe... go meet him at the airport? The thought surfaced but was immediately suppressed. Too deliberate. And why should he go meet the guy who left without a word for a week, spoiled his appetite, and then left him to fend for himself?
But unconsciously, in the corner of his notebook page, he wrote "day after tomorrow" in tiny script and drew a circle around it.
The dismissal bell rang, and the crowd spilled out of the classroom. The evening wind carried a chill, swirling fallen leaves. Law packed up his books and walked home slowly. He didn't want to return to that overly silent space too quickly. Passing the small park, he paused. It was here a few days ago he'd received Shanks' "miss you" message. On a whim, he walked in and sat down on the same bench as before.
He placed his bag beside him and leaned back, watching the last streak of tangerine red being swallowed by deep blue on the horizon. The fatigue wasn't just physical; it felt more like a mental weariness. Without Shanks, that constant source of heat and sound, without Shamrock's presence that brought order and stability just by existing, home felt like a precision instrument that had lost its core power source-still functional, but cold and mechanical. He even found himself missing Shamrock's "nitpicking" about food data-at least that represented a concrete form of being cared for.
His phone vibrated once. He pulled it out. A message from Shanks: a photo of an airport lounge, with the caption: "Boarding soon! See you tomorrow, Law! Remember to eat dinner, don't wait for me hungry."
Tomorrow. Not the day after. Law blinked, making sure he hadn't misread. His heart felt like it had been gently bumped, a fine, sweet warmth flooding up, instantly diluting the sense of isolation around him. His fingers hovered over the screen, wanting to reply something, but anything felt too deliberate. In the end, he just typed: "Hn. Safe flight."
After sending it, he didn't get up immediately. The secret joy bubbling up at the other's early return was like a pebble dropped into still water, rippling outward. Tomorrow... tomorrow evening, that kitchen would light up again, filled with the sizzle of oil and off-key humming, the air thick with the comforting scent of food.
Thinking of food, his stomach let out another soft, timely growl. Tonight... he'd order that soba again.
Just as he was about to get up, an incredibly faint, almost wind-scattered aroma drifted past.
Very faint. But Law froze instantly.
That was... the charred fragrance of grilled fish? Mixed with the sweetness of sake and clams? And... the steamy sweetness of cooked rice?
He jerked his head up, searching around like a wary animal. Dusk had settled; the park lamps weren't fully lit yet, the light dim. A few elderly people strolled slowly by; children's laughter sounded in the distance.
A hallucination? An olfactory trick from missing him too much?
He frowned, nostrils flaring slightly, trying to catch that elusive scent. But it seemed to have vanished, leaving only the cool air and the smell of grass and earth.
Thinking too much. Law gave a self-mocking twist of his lips and reached for his bag.
At that moment, a figure familiar to his very bones emerged, unhurriedly, from a more shadowed path on the other side of the park.
The person was tall, with a distinctive, casual yet steady gait. He seemed to be carrying something. Backlit by the distant streetlights, his face was unclear for a moment, but that shock of red hair, striking even in the dim light, and the way he walked...
Law's heart stopped for a beat. Blood seemed to rush to his head, then crash back down a second later, pounding against his eardrums with a deafening roar. His hand gripping his bag strap went white-knuckled.
Impossible. He said tomorrow... the flight...
Shanks came closer, his features gradually clearing. It was him. It really was him. His face showed the faint weariness of a long journey, but those red eyes lit up the moment they saw him, like stars suddenly ignited in the night sky, filled with undisguised laughter, longing, and... a trace of understanding, tender concern.
In his hand, he carried that deep blue insulated bento bag with the wave pattern, achingly familiar to Law.
Time, space, all surrounding sounds faded and blurred. Law's world narrowed to the man walking toward him and the bag he carried, emitting a fatal, enticing aroma.
Shanks stopped before the bench, tilting his head slightly as he looked at him, the curve of his smile widening. "Class over? Sitting here alone... daydreaming about me?" His voice was more real than over the phone, slightly hoarse, carrying the fatigue of travel, but the warmth in his tone was almost overflowing.
Law opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat felt blocked, tight and sour. Shock, disbelief, immense surprise, and the accumulated, barely acknowledged grievances and dependency of these past days mixed into an indescribable tangle of emotion, breaching all his defenses of composure. He could only stare blankly at Shanks, at those overly gentle eyes filled with his own reflection.
"What's wrong? Don't recognize me?" Shanks leaned closer, scrutinizing his face, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. "You look pale. Haven't been eating properly again? Any stomachaches?" His tone shifted quickly from teasing to concern. He reached out, cool fingertips gently brushing Law's cheek.
That touch was like a switch.
Law abruptly turned his face away, not in rejection, but in near-panic to hide. He felt his eyes grow hot without warning, a stinging sensation rising in his nose. He didn't want to... not here, at least...
Yet, his body moved faster than his mind. As Shanks' calloused fingertips were about to leave his cheek, Law, as if pulled by some invisible force, suddenly leaned forward, resting his forehead, gently yet with the weight of his whole being, against Shanks' chest.
It was a posture of complete surrender. The shirt fabric against his forehead was still cool from the outdoors, but beneath it was solid, warm body heat and a steady, strong heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump... That rhythm penetrated fabric and bone, directly striking his own heart, falling strangely into sync.
All pretense and resistance crumbled in that simple motion. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Shanks' familiar scent-clean soap and cedar, with a faint hint of kitchen warmth-wrapped around him tightly. The hollowness, irritability, aversion to rough food, and the almost greedy longing for this warm embrace that had haunted him for days... all found their harbor in this moment.
He even unconsciously rubbed his forehead lightly against Shanks' chest, like a weary, wronged young creature finally finding its den, voicelessly accusing and clinging.
He felt Shanks' body stiffen for a moment, then a solid arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him into a completely protective, cherishing embrace. Another hand soothed him, stroking his back over and over with impossibly gentle pressure.
"It's okay, it's okay, I'm back, came back early..." Shanks' voice sounded right above his head, low, soft, thick with indulgence and heartache threatening to spill over. "Don't be mad, don't be mad. If the cafeteria's bad, we just won't eat there anymore. Look what I brought you?"
Law didn't move or make a sound, just let himself sink into this embrace. His cheek pressed against the slightly cool shirt, yet he could feel the vibrant warmth and heartbeat beneath. In this moment, all the pride of medical school, all the Trafalgar composure, were tossed aside. He was just an ordinary young man who missed his personal chef and lover so much his appetite was off and his spirits low.
Shanks didn't rush him either, just held him, patiently waiting for him to calm down. The evening breeze carried the distant city's clamor but couldn't disperse the quiet warmth of this little corner. Only when Law himself felt his ears and neck were about to burn up did he move slightly, wanting to pull back.
Shanks loosened his arm at the right moment, but one hand remained steadily on Law's shoulder, supporting his somewhat weakened body. He lifted the insulated bag, waving it before Law's eyes like a treasure, his smile carrying a hint of triumphant childishness. "Guess what? Your favorite fish. I went straight from the airport to the market, picked the fresliest sea bream, plus dancing tiger prawns and clams. Salt-grilled sea bream, skin so crisp it crackles; sake-steamed clams, broth so fresh you could swallow your tongue; and this-" he produced a small sealed jar like magic from the bag's side pocket, "-that yuzu pepper you liked last time. Found a locally made, handcrafted version from a farmhouse, much richer flavor."
Law finally looked up, his eyes still a bit hot, but he blinked hard, forcing the moisture back. He looked at Shanks' face, so close, travel-worn, a faint stubble on his jaw, the weariness under his eyes more pronounced than on video. But those red eyes were astonishingly bright, the tenderness and focus within them nearly drowning him.
"...You said tomorrow?" His voice was hoarse, carrying a trace of complaint he himself didn't quite catch.
"Hn, originally tomorrow," Shanks said, looking at him, his thumb naturally stroking the corner of Law's slightly reddened eye, gentle as touching a petal. "But the other party had something come up, the last meeting ended early. I thought..." he paused, his smile deepening, with a hint of slyness and endless indulgence, "...instead of staying there another night, might as well come back early, check if a certain picky eater was really mistreating his stomach. And I was right, caught you, huh?"
Being so bluntly seen through and spoiled like this, the heat that had just receded from Law's face surged back. He pressed his lips together, wanting to retort, but in the end just let his gaze fall on the insulated bag. The tempting aroma wafted out in waves, shamelessly enticing his empty stomach and all his memories of deliciousness.
"Hungry?" Shanks pulled him to sit back on the bench, then half-knelt before him, deftly opening the bag and pulling out the still-warm bento boxes. Lifting the lid released a burst of steam mixed with an ultimate fresh, savory scent. Golden-brown, crispy-skinned sea bream segments with blistered skin, clear broth with opened shells revealing plump clam meat, chawanmushi smooth as pudding dotted with pink shrimp and scallions, and glossy, pearl-like grains of rice.
The visual and olfactory double assault made Law's hollow stomach emit a clear, almost celebratory growl.
Shanks carefully wiped the chopsticks and handed them to him, then remained in his half-kneeling position, elbow on his knee, chin in hand, watching him intently. His gaze was so focused it seemed the whole world had narrowed to him and this meal. "Try it, quick. The bream was live, I watched the heat closely when grilling, should be perfect."
Under his watchful eyes, Law picked up a piece of the perfectly charred, aromatic belly meat. Bringing it to his mouth, his teeth bit down with a soft crunch. The crisp skin gave way, followed by plump, bouncy, incredibly sweet and juicy flesh. The juices burst on his tongue, the just right saltiness perfectly highlighting the sea bream's natural sweetness, with a subtle, complex hint of Shanks' signature spice blend-layered and lingering.
It wasn't just good. It was the right taste. The taste his soul and palate had been craving day and night, uniquely Shanks', uniquely home.
Almost without pause, he took a spoonful of the clam broth. The clear, hot liquid was intensely sweet and savory, carrying the aroma of sake and the sea essence of clams. It slid down his throat, instantly smoothing out all the wrinkles of discomfort caused by inferior food.
He ate bite after bite, not fast but with exceptional seriousness and focus, almost reverent. The chawanmushi was silky smooth, the prawns springy; the rice was fragrant, chewy, subtly sweet, pairing perfectly with every dish.
Shanks watched quietly the whole time, his eyes gentle enough to melt. Occasionally, after Law finished a piece of fish, he'd offer the small bowl of clam broth; or when a bit of sauce clung to Law's lip, he'd naturally wipe it away with a fingertip or napkin. No extra words were needed; all the care and heartache were woven into this silent companionship and meticulous attention.
When most of the food in the bento boxes was gone, his stomach warmly and comfortably filled, even his cold fingers and slightly stiff limbs gradually warming, Law finally emerged somewhat from this near-meditative state of eating. He put down his chopsticks and looked up, directly meeting Shanks' red eyes, filled with laughter and satisfaction.
"Full?" Shanks asked softly.
Law nodded, putting down the chopsticks. A post-satiety lethargy and... intense embarrassment washed over him belatedly. Had he just... eaten too voraciously? And that unrestrained hug...
Shanks, as if reading his mind, chuckled lowly, reaching out to ruffle his slightly tousled black hair, the gesture affectionate and indulgent. "Really were starving, huh. Let's go home. I'll run you a hot bath, soak away the fatigue. What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? Soft-boiled eggs with toast? Or a full Japanese set?"
Home. A bath. Breakfast tomorrow morning.
These utterly mundane words, to Law's ears now, made his heart race more than any passionate declaration. He stood up silently, picking up his bag. Shanks naturally took his schoolbag and the empty bento containers, then, with his now-free hand, took Law's hand.
The palm was warm and dry, holding a reassuring strength.
Law didn't pull away, letting him hold it. Side by side, they walked out of the dim park and onto the brightly lit street. Streetlights stretched their shadows long, intimately overlapping.
The warmth from their joined hands, the lingering deliciousness in his mouth, the tangible presence of the person beside him, and that single word-home-all silently proclaimed: The one who had spoiled him had returned early. With his favorite fish dishes, and his inexhaustible tenderness.
Law tightened his own hand slightly, returning the grip on that warm one.
Being spoiled, pampered, cherished like this... truly seemed to be the most precious fortune in his life. And the surprise of an early return, along with this fish meal delivered at dusk, were the most heart-stirring gifts within that fortune.