Work Text:
The medical room of the Red Force was thick with an atmosphere so heavy it could almost be wrung out. Shanks lay on the sickbed, fever raging like invisible flames licking at every nerve. This state had persisted for seventeen hours, his body drenched in cold sweat, red hair plastered to his pale forehead. The phantom pain from his severed left shoulder was no longer just pain; it was a bone-deep illusion-as if the limb that had long ceased to exist was being repeatedly crushed, torn, and burned.
His eyes were tightly shut, eyelashes soaked with sweat, casting fragile shadows beneath his lids. Consciousness drifted in and out of a scalding fog, sometimes clear, sometimes blurred. Each breath felt like swallowing shards of glass; each heartbeat intensified the false yet agonizingly real pain in his left shoulder.
Cold... so cold...
But despite the fever burning through him, why did he feel so cold...
"Boss..." Lucky Roo entered carrying a basin of warm water, his voice filled with concern.
Shanks didn't respond. His eyes were closed, lips cracked, occasionally releasing indistinct syllables from his throat. Mostly groans, but every so often, a clear word would escape:
"Sham..."
The name slipped from between his parched lips, carrying a dependence and fragility he himself was unaware of.
Big brother...
If only big brother were here...
Logic told him he couldn't think it, couldn't say it, couldn't let anyone hear that title. He was Red-Haired Shanks, one of the Four Emperors, captain of the Red Force; he had to remain unbreakable in front of everyone.
But it hurt...
It hurt so much...
The pain wasn't just physical. It was like a rusted iron spike, prying open the defenses he had painstakingly built over twenty years, driving straight into the heart of the child who had never truly grown up, deep within his soul.
"Rock..."
He unconsciously breathed out the latter half of the name, like a drowning man grasping for a final lifeline.
At the same moment, in the Holy Land of Mary Geoise, within the meeting hall of the God's Knights.
Shamrock sat at the head of the long table, expressionless, listening to reports on the situation in the New World. His posture was straight as a sword, red hair meticulously tied back, his face bearing the unchanging mask of cold indifference.
Subordinates' voices droned on around him, but he hadn't absorbed a single word.
For the past three hours, a faint unease had been circling in the depths of his heart. At first, he thought it was due to lack of sleep last night, or perhaps today's coffee being too strong. But as time passed, that unease transformed into a sharp, stabbing sensation-a ghostly ache, pulsing intermittently in his left shoulder.
No...
His fingers unconsciously tightened, the pen trembling slightly in his grasp.
This wasn't his pain.
He had felt this sensation once before, three years ago-when Shanks lost his left arm in the East Blue, he too had suddenly cried out in agony hundreds of nautical miles away, blood inexplicably seeping from his left shoulder, startling Sommers into thinking he'd been attacked by an invisible force.
The curse of blood, and also its bond.
The reports continued. Shamrock forced himself to concentrate, but his heart began to beat irregularly, each pulse accompanied by stronger pangs. It wasn't a physiological illness, but a resonance at the soul level-someone who shared half his genes was enduring unimaginable suffering.
Shanks...
The name exploded in his mind, carrying an icy fear.
He could feel it-not guesswork, but genuine perception-that his younger brother was in agony right now, weak and vulnerable, struggling alone in the abyss of high fever.
What terrified him more was sensing Shanks calling out to him.
Not through sound, not through a Den Den Mushi, but through that soul-level, wordless cry only twins could understand.
Big brother...
It hurts...
Auditory hallucination? No, it was more real than that. It was an echo from the depths of their shared bloodline, the connection established when they shared a heartbeat in the same womb at the dawn of life.
Shamrock abruptly stood up.
"Captain?" The subordinate delivering the report jumped, startled.
"Meeting adjourned." His voice was colder than usual, but those listening closely could detect a barely perceptible tremor. "Prepare the fastest ship immediately."
"Where are you going-"
"You don't need to know."
Leaving those words behind, his cloak cut a sharp arc through the air as he turned. For the first time, his steps lost their usual composure, nearly breaking into a run as he strode out.
His heart hammered heavily in his chest, each beat intensifying the phantom ache in his left shoulder. He could feel Shanks's body temperature-abnormally high, a fever threatening to consume everything. Could feel that bone-deep chill-the cold that freezes from within, specific to high fever patients.
What disturbed him most was sensing the childlike helplessness deep within Shanks's consciousness.
That younger brother who always smiled without a care, as if he'd never known fear, had regressed into a little red-haired boy seeking refuge under his brother's blanket during a storm.
Wait for me.
He said it silently, knuckles white from the intensity of his grip.
Big brother is coming right away.
On the Red Force, Shanks's consciousness finally shattered completely under the onslaught of agony.
He could no longer maintain any facade of composure. His body began to convulse uncontrollably. Cold sweat soaked the sheets, dark veins standing out beneath pale skin. Each breath became a short, sharp gasp; each heartbeat doubled the phantom pain in his left shoulder.
"Hongo! Give him another dose of analgesic-" Beckman's voice sounded nearby, but distant, as if through thick layers of water.
Shanks couldn't hear clearly. His world had shrunk to nothing but pain, and the long-suppressed vulnerability the pain had finally unleashed.
"No... don't..." He shook his head unconsciously, voice broken, "Don't need medicine... it won't help..."
"Boss, you have to-"
"Sham..." Shanks suddenly opened his eyes. His pupils were dilated, unfocused, not fixed on any physical object, yet staring directly at the door. "Sham is coming..."
He said it with such certainty, not as a guess, but as some kind of incontrovertible knowledge.
Beckman and Hongo exchanged glances, both seeing the concern in each other's eyes-was the fever causing hallucinations now?
But Shanks's expression was unusually earnest. He struggled to sit up, but Beckman gently held him down.
"Lie still, Cap."
"No..." Shanks stubbornly stared at the door. "He's really coming... I can feel it..."
Before the words faded, commotion erupted on the deck. Shouts from the crow's nest, hurried footsteps, and then the dull thud of something heavy hitting the deck-not a cannonball, but a person.
The medical room door was flung open.
Shamrock stood there.
He wasn't wearing the ornate uniform of the God's Knights, only a simple dark coat thrown over his clothes, his red hair slightly disheveled with a few strands loose across his forehead-a sight none of the Red Hair Pirates had ever seen. Even more shocking was his expression: that perpetually cold, mask-like face now bore anxiety written plainly across it.
His gaze instantly locked onto Shanks on the sickbed.
In that split second, countless emotions flickered through Shamrock's eyes: shock, heartache, anger (at whatever intangible force had made his younger brother endure this), and a tenderness so deep it seemed bottomless.
He strode towards the bed, completely disregarding the tense, poised-for-action Red Hair Pirates around him.
Beckman instinctively moved to block him, but the moment he met Shamrock's eyes, he stopped.
Those weren't the eyes of an enemy.
They were the eyes of someone watching their dearest kin suffer.
Shamrock knelt by the bedside, the movement fluid and natural, as if this posture was ingrained in his very bones. He didn't speak. He simply reached out, his trembling fingertips gently touching Shanks's sweat-dampened forehead.
His fingers were cold.
Shanks trembled slightly as if burned, and then-completely relaxed.
That facade of "the Captain," the one he had to maintain in front of his crew, crumbled in an instant. He went limp like a vessel finally finding harbor, his only hand feebly grasping at Shamrock's sleeve.
"Shammy.." His voice was barely audible, carrying the hoarse, fragile quality specific to high fever patients, "It hurts so much..."
Shamrock's heart clenched painfully.
"I know."His voice was extraordinarily gentle, a tone the Red Hair Pirates had never heard-reserved solely for this one person. "I'm here."
He did something that made everyone's eyes widen-he removed his coat, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and then carefully gathered Shanks into his arms, letting his younger brother's head rest against the crook of his neck, cradling him completely.
Not support, but a full embrace.
Shanks trembled slightly in his arms, like an injured cub. Shamrock's arms tightened further, enveloping him with his body heat.
"Cold..." Shanks murmured.
Shamrock immediately addressed the nearest person, Lucky Roo: "A blanket."
Not a request, but a command. Yet the tone held no arrogance, only the matter-of-fact expectation of "I'm taking care of my brother, please cooperate."
Lucky Roo practically instinctively handed over a blanket.
Shamrock carefully wrapped Shanks in the blanket, movements practiced, as if done thousands of times. Then he began to hum-not a lullaby, but some ancient, low tune carrying a warrior's rhythm, yet the melody was exceptionally tender.
It was the requiem passed down through generations in the God Valley. Not for the dead, but for the living-a melody to soothe the souls of warriors wounded and struggling in agony on the battlefield.
This was the only thing they could remember of their long-lost mother.
Shanks's body gradually stopped trembling.
His eyes were closed, lashes casting peaceful shadows on his pale skin. The tension and spasms brought on by the fever slowly subsided, his breathing shifting from short gasps to long, deep draws.
Shammy is here...
I'm safe...
This thought flooded the jagged reefs of pain in his consciousness like warm tides. He curled slightly deeper into Shamrock's embrace, his cheek pressed against the skin of his brother's neck, feeling the steady, powerful pulse there.
Thump, thump, thump...
Like the rhythm at the dawn of life, like the dual heartbeats they'd shared in their mother's womb.
He slept. Not unconsciousness, but truly peaceful sleep.
The medical room fell silent, filled only with Shamrock's humming and Shanks's steady breathing.
The Red Hair Pirates watched this scene quietly, their emotions complex. They had seen countless sides of their captain: roaring with laughter, issuing solemn orders, fierce as a lion in battle, wildly misbehaving when drunk...
But they had never seen Shanks like this-vulnerable, dependent, defenseless, like a child finally able to lay down all burdens.
And even more shocking was Shamrock.
This man, rumored to be the cold, merciless commander of the God's Knights, had shed all his masks. As he looked at his younger brother in his arms, the heartache in his gaze was so thick it seemed palpable. His hand gently patted Shanks's back, the movement carrying an ancient, almost maternal tenderness.
"Does... does this happen often?" Beckman finally broke the silence, his voice soft, afraid to wake Shanks.
Shamrock shook his head, his eyes never leaving his brother's face. "This is the third severe episode since he lost his arm. The phantom pain lessens over time, but whenever he has a high fever or extreme fatigue, it resurges."
His fingers lightly traced the area around Shanks's severed left shoulder, the movement as delicate as if touching the most precious porcelain.
"He never mentions it," Beckman said quietly.
"Of course he doesn't." Shamrock's tone held faint self-mockery, but far more heartache. "He's your captain. He has to appear unbreakable in front of you."
He paused, his voice even softer: "He only lets himself be like this with me."
This single sentence contained a universe of information-about the unknown past between these brothers, about Shanks's hidden vulnerabilities, about the complex relationship between them that outsiders could never fully grasp.
"You two..." Lucky Roo started, unsure how to phrase the question.
"We're twins." Shamrock stated it simply, as if that explained everything. "We've shared everything since before birth. Pain, joy, fear... all emotions resonate."
He looked down at Shanks's sleeping face, his gaze as deep as the sea. "So when he hurts, I hurt. When he needs me, no matter where I am, I know."
This kind of connection sounded almost like a fairy tale, but at this moment, no one doubted it. Because Shamrock had indeed come-crossing three thousand nautical miles with no notification, appearing precisely at Shanks's moment of greatest agony.
This wasn't coincidence. It was a bond.
A bond etched into their bloodline. One no one could sever.
Late into the night, Shanks's fever finally began to subside. Shamrock had maintained the same position throughout, his arm must have gone numb long ago, yet he remained utterly still.
Shanks stirred slightly in his sleep, the phantom pain in his left shoulder seeming to flare up again. His brow furrowed faintly, a soft moan escaping his lips.
Shamrock sensed it immediately, murmuring close to his ear, "It's alright, I'm here."
His hand moved to Shanks's severed left shoulder, not touching the wound itself but pressing gently on several specific acupoints around it-techniques he'd learned during his training to alleviate pain.
Shanks's brow smoothed, his breathing steadying once more.
By three in the morning, Shanks's fever had broken completely. When he awoke, his consciousness was still hazy, but the first thing he saw was the line of Shamrock's jaw.
"Shammy..." his voice rasped.
"Yes." Shamrock looked down at him. "How do you feel?"
"Much better." Shanks tried to sit up, but his body was utterly limp.
Shamrock helped him sit up slowly, handing him a glass of water. Shanks drank in small sips, the warm water soothing his raw, dry throat.
After drinking, he didn't lie back down immediately. Instead, he leaned against Shamrock's shoulder, closing his eyes.
"Sorry..." he whispered, "for making you worry."
Shamrock's body stiffened noticeably for a moment.
Then he reached out-not for an embrace, but as he used to do, gently ruffling Shanks's red hair. That single gesture contained multitudes: reproach, heartache, helplessness, and a love so profound it seemed bottomless.
"Never apologize for this." His voice was low, but every word carried weight. "You're my younger brother. When you're in pain, I should be by your side."
Shanks didn't respond, only leaned closer against him.
Outside the medical room window, the sky above the horizon was beginning to pale. The pre-dawn light was faint, but it was indeed beginning to dispel the darkness.
Beckman quietly withdrew from the medical room, signaling the others to leave as well. He left the door slightly ajar, granting the brothers their final moment of privacy.
Inside, Shanks finally spoke:
"Sham... do you think I'm useless?"
The question came abruptly, but Shamrock understood immediately-he meant being an Emperor, yet crumbling under phantom pain during a fever, crying out for his brother like a child.
"No." Shamrock's answer was immediate, without hesitation. "You're human, Shanks. Humans feel pain, get tired, grow weak. There's no shame in that."
He paused, his voice growing even more sincere: "With me, you never have to pretend to be strong."
Shanks's shoulders began to tremble slightly.
Not from pain, but from some emotion finally breaking through its dam.
Shamrock felt it, but he didn't speak. He only held his younger brother tighter, letting Shanks bury his face against his shoulder.
He felt warm moisture soaking through the fabric of his clothes.
Shanks was crying. Silently, restrainedly, but crying nonetheless.
For all the pain he'd borne alone over the past twenty-plus years, for all the moments of weakness he'd been forced to swallow, for all the fears and loneliness he'd never been able to voice.
Shamrock's heart clenched as if in a vice, aching so intensely it was hard to breathe. His hand patted his brother's back steadily, just as he'd done countless times when they were children.
"Cry," he whispered close to Shanks's ear. "It's just us here."
By daybreak, Shanks's emotions had finally settled. He leaned against Shamrock's shoulder, clearly hearing the steady, powerful beat of his brother's heart-a rhythm that reminded him of Mary Geoise, when he was plagued by nightmares and Shamrock would hold him just like this, letting him listen to his heartbeat until he could fall asleep again.
Some things never change, Shanks thought. Even though we've chosen completely different paths, even though the world sees us as enemies, right now, I'm still that little brother seeking comfort in his big brother's arms.
Shamrock helped him sit up properly, movements gentle yet firm. The focused expression he wore while examining Shanks's left shoulder wound reminded Shanks of years ago-when he'd been injured in the Holy Land, and Shamrock had treated his wounds with the same meticulous care, brow furrowed, lips pressed tight, as if he himself were the one injured.
"Your pain management regimen needs adjustment." Shamrock's fingers pressed lightly around Shanks's left shoulder, assessing muscle tension. "You've developed resistance to your current medication. The phantom pain attacks are getting more severe each time; you can't keep using the same dosage."
"You know what to use?" Shanks asked, his voice still hoarse.
Shamrock looked up at him. Those golden eyes, always so cold and calculating, now held the familiar gentleness reserved only for Shanks. "I'm your brother," he said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. "Of course I know."
Big brother remembers everything about me, Shanks thought. Remembers which medications work best for me, remembers the specific characteristics of each phantom pain episode. Even after all these years apart, even though we meet only as adversaries, he's never forgotten how to care for me.
Shamrock began preparing the medicine, his movements as practiced as an experienced physician's. Shanks watched his long fingers precisely measure, grind, and mix, each step meticulous.
"You carry these with you?" Shanks couldn't help asking. These ingredients clearly weren't common wound remedies, but specialized treatments for phantom pain and nerve damage.
Shamrock didn't look up, continuing his work. "I've carried them since your episode three years ago." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "That time you were alone at sea when the phantom pain struck... Beckman later told me you had a fever for three days."
He stated it flatly, but Shanks could imagine-imagined his brother's expression when he learned this news, imagined the mindset behind preparing these medications, imagined the past three years of this medical kit accompanying Shamrock across the four seas, always ready for a moment that might never come.
He's always been prepared. Shanks felt a lump form in his throat. Even though we're opponents, even though we may never meet like this again, he's always been prepared, ready to help me when I need him.
Shanks fell silent, watching Shamrock's focused profile. When he lowered his head to mix the medicine, that look of complete concentration was exactly as it had been in Mary Geoise when he bandaged the injured Shanks.
Time had changed much, but some things never did.
"Shammy," Shanks suddenly spoke, his voice very soft, "thank you."
Shamrock's hands paused for a moment. The grinding stopped for half a second, then resumed, only gentler, softer. He didn't look at Shanks, only said quietly, "I told you, never thank me."
But I want to. Shanks responded silently. Thank you for remembering, thank you for still wanting to care for me, thank you for seeing the brother who needs his sibling when everyone else only sees 'Red-Haired Shanks.'
The medicine was soon prepared-a dark green paste with a cool, refreshing scent of mint and herbs. Shamrock took some with a special wooden spoon and turned to Shanks. "It might feel a bit cold."
Shanks nodded his readiness.
Shamrock applied the paste to the severed end of Shanks's left shoulder. His touch was impossibly gentle-his fingers barely exerted any pressure, merely letting the paste adhere naturally to the skin before slowly circling his palm to aid absorption. That tenderness reminded Shanks of their mother-though their memories of her were indistinct, Shanks always imagined this was how she would have applied medicine, if she'd still been here.
The moment the paste touched his skin, a wave of coolness penetrated, like a summer stream flowing over scorching sand. Shanks couldn't suppress the faintest sigh-not of pain, but of relief, of finally finding respite. The bone-deep phantom pain that had tormented him for three days and nights began to recede in the wake of this cool touch.
"Effective?" Shamrock asked with rare, anxious concern.
"Yes." Shanks nodded, offering his brother a reassuring smile. "It hurts less now."
After applying the medicine, Shamrock re-bandaged the wound. The entire process was quiet and wordless understanding, requiring no words, each movement perfectly timed.
When he finished, Shamrock stood. The gentle brother vanished in an instant, replaced by the composed, self-contained commander of the God's Knights, beginning to arrange his coat and gear.
"I should go," he said, his voice returning to its usual detachment.
Shanks's heart clenched. So soon? He wasn't ready to say goodbye, wasn't ready to return to a world where he must be his brother's enemy. He just wanted to be simply a younger brother for a little longer.
"So soon?" Shanks asked, his voice carrying a reluctance even he hadn't anticipated. He reached out, grasping Shamrock's wrist-a childish gesture, most unbecoming of an Emperor, but at this moment, he didn't care.
Shamrock's wrist twitched slightly in his grasp. Shanks could feel his brother's skin temperature, feel his steady pulse, feel the blood flowing beneath it that was identical to his own.
Shamrock looked down at him. Those red eyes, in the dawn light, resembled molten amber, churning with complex emotions-concern, reluctance, helplessness, and that profound sentiment Shanks could never fully decipher, reserved solely for him as an older brother.
Then Shamrock sat back down on the edge of the bed, moving as naturally as if it were inevitable. "Alright, a little longer."
Shanks leaned back against his pillow, not releasing his brother's hand. The dawn grew brighter, sunlight seeping through the tent's gaps, painting long bands of light on the floor. Distant sounds of crew members beginning their day drifted in, but they felt remote, as if from another world.
They sat like that, hands clasped, neither speaking. Words weren't necessary-some emotions cheapen when spoken; some understandings find their deepest expression in silence.
Shanks closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of his brother's palm, feeling the pain slowly ebbing from his left shoulder, savoring this rare moment of peace. He knew such moments would never come again, knew that beyond this tent they would each don their masks and play their roles.
When the sun had fully risen, Shamrock truly had to leave. Shanks saw him to the deck, still unsteady but able to walk on his own.
"Use the medicine on schedule," Shamrock instructed. "If you have another episode, contact me anytime."
"How?" Shanks asked. "Your Den Den Mushi is always unreachable."
Shamrock produced a special Den Den Mushi from his coat and handed it to Shanks. "This one receives only your signal. Anytime, anywhere, I'll answer."
Shanks took the Den Den Mushi, holding it in his palm.
Shamrock gave him one last, long look, then turned and leapt back to his own ship. The dark vessel quickly departed, disappearing into the morning mist.
Shanks stood at the railing, watching the distant ship fade from view, unmoving for a long time.
Beckman approached him. "He... cares about you deeply."
"I know," Shanks said, his voice very soft. "I care about him deeply too."
"Then why..."
"Why are we enemies?" Shanks finished his sentence with a smile holding countless complex emotions. "Because the world is too complicated, Beck. Some bonds can only be kept in the heart."
He turned and walked back into the ship, the special Den Den Mushi still clutched tightly in his hand.
In the medical room, Shamrock's medical kit remained on the table. Beckman opened it and found, tucked among the medicines, a folded piece of paper.
On the paper was a simple pencil sketch-two little red-haired boys sitting side by side, one smiling radiantly, the other expressionless. Below it was written:
"No matter which end of the world we're at, you will always be my most precious little brother."
Beckman refolded the paper and placed it back in the kit.
Perhaps some relationships are fated never to see the light. Perhaps some love can only exist in shadow. But existence itself is a kind of victory.
The bond of blood is sometimes a heavy chain, sometimes a warm lifeline.
But regardless, it's always there-silent, invisible, yet stronger than any oath.
The bond of blood is always there.
Like the ocean currents deep beneath the surface, unseen, untouchable, yet truly connecting the ends of the world-silent, yet resilient, eternal.
On the departing black warship, Shamrock stood at the bow, holding another identical golden Den Den Mushi in his hand. He looked back towards where the Red Force had disappeared, his hand pressing against his own left shoulder-where the faint residual echoes of phantom pain still lingered, reminders of a connection that would never be severed.
And in the medical room of the Red Force, Shanks lay back on his bed, the special medicine prepared by Shamrock still soothing his left shoulder. The cool sensation penetrated his skin, smoothing away all ripples of pain.
He closed his eyes, still holding the Den Den Mushi, a faint, genuine smile on his lips.
This time, he could finally sleep peacefully.
Because he knew that no matter how vast the world, no matter how cruel fate, there was always someone who would sense his deepest pain, who would cross any obstacle to reach him.
That someone was called brother.
And that, was enough.