Archive of Our Own

When the storm tore through the night sky of the New World, Trafalgar Law thought he was going to die.

Freezing seawater flooded his throat, the wound on his abdomen torn open by the waves in excruciating pain, his consciousness sinking like a kite with a broken string. The last thing he saw was a massive red and black ship breaking through the wind and waves, like a silent yet majestic beast, stopping beside his sinking little boat.

The next second, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist-two hands, steadily and powerfully, pulling him out of the sea.

Not dragging, not grabbing, but holding him securely. Palms pressed against his soaked back, warmth seeping through the icy fabric, making his whole body tremble.

What... is this?

 

Law weakly lifted his eyes and met a gaze tinged with the smell of alcohol, yet unbelievably gentle. Those eyes were red, like burning flames, yet also like a deep sea that contained everything. Rain soaked the dazzling red hair, plastered against the man's chiseled face, yet it did not diminish his bold and unrestrained aura at all.

This person... is pulling me out.

This thought vaguely imprinted itself on Law's hazy consciousness. He could not see what else was in those eyes-but he was too tired, too exhausted to even have the strength to be afraid.

The man looked down at him, arms gently cradling him, raindrops dripping from his red hair onto Law's forehead and cheeks, mixing with his own blood and tears. His low voice was especially clear against the thunder:

"Gotcha."

In that instant, all of Law's resistance, vigilance, and stubbornness shattered like foam crushed by the waves.

Why...

Why save me?

He did not know this person. This person did not know him either. He was just a stranger, covered in wounds, of unknown origin, someone who could bring trouble at any moment. But these hands were so steady, this embrace so warm, as if he really... deserved to be saved.

Law was carried in the man's arms back to that huge pirate ship.

Everyone on the deck watched quietly, without extra glances, without probing, only an unspoken understanding-the person their captain had picked up, they would protect.

They... will not interrogate me? Will not force me about my Devil Fruit? Will not treat me as a tool?

Countless thoughts flashed through Law's mind, each one from over a decade of experience: being used, being suspected, being treated as a pawn. But these people simply silently made way, like treating a companion who needed protection, not a prisoner needing interrogation.

Why?

The man did not throw him into a cabin. Instead, he sat down right on the stairs, letting Law lean against him, and reached up to undo his soaked shirt. When those hands touched the fierce wound on Law's abdomen, his movements were as light as if handling fragile porcelain.

The man lowered his head, his breath brushing Law's ear. "Do not move. Let me treat it."

Law's body tensed instantly.

Do not touch me-

This was his instinctive reaction. For over ten years, no one could easily approach him, no one could casually touch him. Every touch meant pain, exploitation, betrayal. But this person's hands... were so steady, so light, carrying a temperature he had never experienced.

Not plunder, but giving.

Not harm, but healing.

Law, for some inexplicable reason, did not pull away.

When the wound was being disinfected, it hurt terribly. He subconsciously grabbed onto something nearby.

What he grabbed was the fabric of the man's cloak.

The fabric was rough, but it carried the persistent warmth of his body. He clutched it tighter and tighter, his knuckles turning white. The man just glanced down at his tense profile, chuckled softly, and continued treating the wound steadily with both hands, movements as gentle as if handling something fragile and precious.

"Bear with it. Almost done."

Why... are you so good to me?

Law did not ask. He did not dare to. He was afraid that if he asked, this dream would shatter.

That night, Law slept fitfully.

He dreamed of Corazón-the only man who had ever been good to him, dying before his eyes, blood staining his hands. He dreamed of flames, of endless escape, of himself forever running, forever hiding, with no one ever willing to stop and lend him a hand.

But every time he was about to fall into darkness, a warm presence would approach, steady hands would gently pat his back, and a low voice would whisper in his ear: "I'm here."

Is this a dream?

If it is a dream, why is it so real?

If it is not a dream, why would anyone be willing to stay by his side?

When he woke up, the sky was already faintly light.

That man was sitting on the floor by the bed, leaning against the wall, asleep. His sake flask had rolled aside, and his hands rested casually on his knees-two hands, completely unharmed hands. Morning light fell on his chiseled face, softening his usual dominance, adding a touch of gentleness.

Law stared at him silently, for a long time.

This was the first person who did not ask his origins, did not covet his Devil Fruit, did not treat him as a tool. The first person who, when he was at his most wretched, most filthy, covered in wounds, unhesitatingly held him. The first person who stayed by him all night, just so he could sleep peacefully.

Somewhere deep in his heart, a place frozen for a long time, a crack quietly opened.

In that crack, something was quietly growing.

Later, Law learned that this man's name was Shanks, and he was the captain of the Red Hair Pirates.

One of the emperors of the sea, with a bounty over one billion.

But this emperor personally brought him food every day, sat by his bed every day talking to him, changed his dressings every day, his movements so gentle they made Law's eyes sting.

He held me with these warm hands, changed my dressings, shielded me from the wind.

This realization, for some reason, brought Law a strange sense of peace.

 

From that day on, Law stayed with the Red Hair Pirates.

Not because Shanks asked him to-Shanks never said things like "you should stay." He just appeared every day, sat beside him every day, brought him food every day, and stood guard at the door whenever Law had nightmares, saying nothing, just letting him know-someone was there.

Law remained silent, still habitually kept his hat brim low, still did not get close to people. But when Shanks approached, he would not dodge, would not be vigilant, would even unconsciously pause and wait for him to speak first.

Why... am I waiting for him?

He asked himself this, but even he did not know the answer. He only knew that he had started noticing Shanks's footsteps, could pick out that direction from all the ship's noise. He only knew that he had started looking forward to evening, when that man would come over with his sake flask, sit down beside him, and quietly keep him company without saying a word.

On the evening deck, the sea breeze rolled with the sunset. Shanks drank, and he would hold a cup of warm water, fingertips pressed against the cup for warmth. The man would give him the tenderest pieces of grilled fish, would casually brush away stray hairs from his shoulder, would subtly reach out to steady his waist when the ship rocked.

Just a light touch, withdrawn immediately, yet enough to make Law's heart skip half a beat.

What... is this feeling?

He had never experienced this before. Not the burning of hatred, not the cold of fear, not the tension of survival-it was a warm, soft, unfamiliar emotion that made him want to draw closer.

He began to feel an emotion that even he found frightening-dependence.

Depending on the smell of alcohol on Shanks, depending on his low voice, depending on his always steady hands, depending on the way he looked at him-not with any desire, but with a gentle, accepting gaze.

How can I depend on anyone?

How dare I depend on anyone?

Every dependence ends in betrayal. Every trust ends in hurt. This was the truth carved into him by over a decade of blood and tears.

But he could not control it.

He would unconsciously glance towards the ship's entrance when Shanks was late returning. He would secretly steal glances when Shanks laughed loudly with the crew. He would be the first to bring hangover soup when Shanks was drunk, then pretend to calmly walk away.

He told himself it was just gratitude. Just because Shanks saved his life. Just temporary. Once his wounds healed, he would leave and continue on his own path.

But every time he thought this, his heart would ache.

 

One night, the wind and waves were extremely violent, the ship rocking heavily.

Law lost his footing and stumbled forward, but instead of hitting the deck, he fell into a familiar embrace.

Shanks's hands firmly caught his waist, pulling him back into his arms. They were pressed extremely close, chest to chest, breaths intertwining. Shanks looked down at him, a hint of drunken laziness in his eyes, his voice hoarse and enticing: "In such a hurry to throw yourself into my arms?"

Law's face instantly burned.

Let go-

He wanted to push away, to step back, to maintain that cold, hard shell. But his body would not obey. This embrace was too warm, too warm to let go of.

Shanks did not release him. He just lowered his head, nose almost touching Law's hair, and chuckled softly: "Do not move, the wind is strong. Falling would hurt."

No frivolity, no boundaries crossed. Just care so pure it made one's heart ache.

Law buried himself in his chest, listening to the man's steady, strong heartbeat. For the first time, the shoulders that had been tense for over a decade completely relaxed.

So... this is what it feels like to be protected.

So, not having to carry everything alone, feels like this.

He quietly raised his hand and gently grasped Shanks's clothes. Very small, very light, very timid. Yet it held all the dependence and feelings he dared not voice.

Do not push me away.

Please, do not push me away.

Shanks noticed that trembling hand. He did not point it out, just chuckled softly, his chest vibrating, the sound reaching Law's ears, unbearably gentle. He raised a hand and gently stroked Law's hair. "Stay put. With me here, no one can hurt you."

At that moment, Law silently admitted to himself.

He did not want to leave.

He wanted to stay hidden in this man's harbor forever. Wanted to be protected by him, looked at by him, have all his attention gently occupied by him.

Am I... falling for him?

This thought struck his heart like lightning. He did not dare admit it, did not dare think about it, did not even dare look up into Shanks's eyes. But his heart had already, uncontrollably, started rushing towards that red-haired man.

 

The days after that stormy night, the atmosphere on the ship became softer.

Law still spoke little, still wore that hat, but the thorns on him had quietly retracted under Shanks's daily proximity.

He stopped deliberately avoiding Shanks's touch.

When the man reached up to brush sea spray from his shoulder, he did not flinch. When Shanks handed him grilled meat, he would reach out to take it, and when their fingers occasionally touched, he would just blush at the tips of his ears but not immediately pull back. When they watched the sea together in the evening, he would subtly shift closer to Shanks, close enough to smell the ever-present alcohol on him, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm.

Shanks never said anything, just indulged him.

He would deliberately place his cup within Law's reach. When the crew teased, he would casually say "do not scare him." When Law was organizing his medical kit, he would quietly watch him for a long time, his gaze soft enough to drown in.

Law noticed it all. The more he noticed, the more confused his heart became.

Does he know? Know what I am thinking? Know that I am already... unable to leave him? He did not know the answer. He only knew that every time Shanks looked at him, his heart felt like it would leap out of his chest.

Once, Yasopp clapped Shanks on the shoulder, laughing, and said the captain should pick up someone who can drink next time, this kid is too quiet.

Shanks glanced at Law, who was pretending to organize medicine nearby, and deliberately raised his voice with a smile: "Quiet is good. I like it."

The moment the words fell, Law's fingers froze. The medicine bottle lightly clinked against the wooden box. He did not turn around, but his whole face quietly burned.

He... said what?

Like?

Shanks looked at his tense profile, arms crossed, eyes shining with laughter.

The people on the ship gradually noticed. No one pointed it out, just silently left space for the two of them.

 

The late night deck, the dusk railing, the quiet cabin entrance, became their silent territory.

Law became easily startled.

When Shanks suddenly approached, his heart would race. When Shanks called him "little doctor," his throat would tighten. When Shanks stood guard at the door after he woke from nightmares, saying "I'm here," he would lie awake all night, listening to the quiet breathing outside.

He even started craving Shanks's Haki. That red, gentle Haki that only protected him, wrapping him from head to toe like an invisible shell.

So this is what it feels like to be loved.

He thought.

So this is what it feels like not to need escape, not to need schemes, not to carry everything alone.

But the more he thought this, the more afraid he became.

One late night, Law could not sleep and went alone to the deck to feel the wind.

Shanks was there too, leaning against the railing, drinking. Moonlight stretched his shadow long. Hearing footsteps, he did not turn, just said softly, "Come here."

Law paused, then inexplicably walked over.

They stood side by side, neither speaking. The waves lapped against the hull, the sound gentle and rhythmic.

After a long time, Shanks suddenly spoke, his voice very low, only for the two of them to hear: "What are you afraid of?"

Law's body stiffened.

He... noticed?

"Afraid I will harm you?" Shanks gently swirled his sake flask, turning to look at him. Moonlight fell in his eyes, gentle and clear. "Or afraid... you will not want to leave?"

Law looked up sharply, meeting his eyes. In that moment, all pretense was shattered. His unease, his longing, his dependence, his feelings-all laid bare under the moonlight. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He could only grip the railing tightly, knuckles white.

Yes, I am afraid. Afraid I will not want to leave. Afraid that if I stay, I will never be able to go. But even more afraid that if I go, I will never see you again.

These words clogged his throat, unable to emerge.

Shanks looked at his flustered yet stubborn face and sighed softly. He raised his hands-both hands-not touching Law's face, just stopping an inch above his hat brim, his movement as light as if afraid to startle. "I will not force you to stay, and I will not ask where you are going. You can stay as long as you want. If you want to leave, I will not stop you." Shanks's voice dropped, carrying an unmistakable seriousness. "But remember-here, there will always be a place for you."

Law's nose suddenly stung.

Forever... someone said forever to me.

He quickly lowered his head, hiding his face under his hat brim, not letting Shanks see his reddening eyes. In all his years, this was the first time someone had said to him: there will always be a place for you. Not exploitation, not transaction, not salvation. Just-keeping it for you.

He bit his lip hard, swallowing back all the sobs. But that dependence in his heart had already grown into vines, entangling him, making it hard to breathe.

He wanted to stay, but he could not.

Doflamingo was still out there. Corazón's revenge was still undone. The sins and past he carried would not allow him to hide in an emperor's harbor, being a protected little thing.

He had to go.

 

From that day on, Law silently prepared to leave.

He did not say it, but Shanks could tell.

He would organize the medical kit especially neatly, would wipe clean the chair Shanks often sat in, would sit in that chair late into the night, for hours. As if carving this time, bit by bit, into his heart.

Shanks said nothing, just stayed with him late every night. Sometimes drinking, sometimes silent, sometimes softly humming old tunes.

That song, Law remembered for a long time.

 

On the last night before his departure, the sky was clear, the sea breeze cool, the ship quiet.

Law sat in that familiar chair, holding a small piece of paper. His fingertips repeatedly traced the surface, writing and rewriting, changing and changing again. Finally, he left only the most restrained, the least daring line:

I owe you a life. Someday, I will repay it.

He did not dare write anything else.

Did not dare write "I do not want to leave," did not dare write "I will miss you," did not dare write "I am afraid I will never see you again."

He folded the paper very small, very small, and slipped it into the crack in the chair, hiding it deep, deep, like hiding a feeling that dared not see the light.

After doing all this, he stood up and took one last look at this ship. Looked at the railing Shanks always leaned on, looked at the direction where they watched the sunset together, looked at the small cabin where he had lived for half a year.

This was the only time in his life he had not needed to flee, to hate, to be on guard. Here, there was someone who had pulled him out of hell and gently placed him in the sunlight.

He took a deep breath, suppressing the wetness behind his eyes. Without saying goodbye, without looking back, Law silently climbed over the railing and dropped onto the sea. The night wind caught his black clothes, like a bird finally ready to fly alone into the storm.

Goodbye, Shanks.

Thank you for these six months of gentleness.

I will come back.

Wait for me.

 

And in the shadow of the railing, Shanks stood there the whole time, watching that small yet upright figure disappear into the night, both hands gripping the railing tightly, knuckles white.

Only when he could no longer see him did he slowly lower his head, walk to that chair, and reach into the crack, pulling out that small piece of paper, warmed by body heat.

He lightly touched the words with his fingertips, chuckled softly, his voice carrying a hoarseness even he did not notice: "Idiot. I do not want you to repay me. I just want you to come back."

He unfolded the paper, looked at it carefully, then folded it again and slowly slipped it into the inner pocket of his cloak, closest to his heartbeat. Like treasuring a secret that belonged only to the sea and the evening breeze.

The sea surface was calm. The Red Force rocked gently, as if seeing off someone it dared not ask to stay.

Law did not look back.

Shanks did not chase.

But they both knew-from this moment on, this silent bond could never be broken.

 

Eleven years later.

On an island in the New World where the flames of battle had just died out.

Smoke and dust still hung in the air, the aura of swordsmanship still trembling.

Law had just finished a fierce battle. Kikoku was still dripping blood, his white coat stained with ash, his hat brim pulled low, cold as ice. For eleven years, he had hidden all his weakness under this hat, hidden in the memories of those six months, hidden behind a name he dared not mention.

He thought he had become strong enough, calm enough, to seal that past deep in his memories.

But when that familiar smell of alcohol drifted over-

His footsteps stopped instantly.

This is...

That scent, that warmth, that red Haki that gently enveloped him-it was carved into his bones, the taste he had depended on throughout his youth.

Shanks.

He spun around.

Shanks stood five paces away, hands in his pockets, his cloak flapping in the wind. His red hair fell over his brows, his smile casual, but his eyes looked him over from head to toe.

As if confirming-my little one has finally grown up so big.

Law's heart slammed against his ribs.

Eleven years.

Eleven years, and he was still the same.

But I... am still the me from those six months on the Red Force.

All the pirates, Marines, and onlookers around them instantly fell silent. The Surgeon of Death from the Worst Generation and Red-Haired Shanks, one of the Emperors. Just standing together made the air feel like it would explode.

Shanks spoke first, his voice not loud, but carrying clearly to everyone: "Yo, if it is not Trafalgar? Long time no see. You have grown into quite the handsome guy."

Law: "..."

How can he... talk in that tone?

As if we only separated yesterday.

The tips of his ears reddened slightly. He coldly suppressed his panic, maintaining the surgeon's dignity: "Red-Haired Shanks. Long time no see."

His tone was polite, the distance wider than the Calm Belt.

Do not come near me. Do not approach me. I am afraid that if you get close, I will not be able to leave again.

Shanks suddenly smiled and took a step forward, one step crushing all safe distance.

The onlookers gasped-was this about to turn into a fight?!

Instead, Shanks stopped right in front of him, bent down slightly, leaned close to his ear, and casually tossed out in a voice only the two of them could hear:

"Stop pretending, Law. Back on my ship, you were not like this."

Boom-

Law's mind went blank.

He knows. He knows everything.

He knows about the nightmares, knows about the secret glances on the deck, knows about the goodbye he could not make, knows about the dependence, knows about-

He looked up sharply, meeting the laughter in Shanks's eyes. That look clearly said: I know everything. I have waited eleven years for you. I have been waiting for you to come back.

Those six months of ambiguity, feelings, timidity, gentleness... all suddenly dragged into the sunlight.

Law's face instantly burned, a huge crack splitting his cold, beautiful shell.

"You-!"

He started to threaten, but Shanks suddenly straightened up and lightly announced to the stunned onlookers: "Everyone withdraw. I need to discuss some private matters with my old acquaintance."

The words "old acquaintance" were especially light, especially ambiguous.

Everyone: ???

Law: "..."

Wanted to open a ROOM and teleport himself into the sea.

 

When everyone had cleared out, the island fell silent. The sea breeze blew, embarrassment and ambiguity swirling together.

Shanks looked at him, stiff all over, ears burning red, yet still struggling to stay calm, and laughed so hard his shoulders shook. "After all these years, you still blush this easily."

"I do not," Law denied immediately, his voice slightly shaky.

"No?" Shanks suddenly raised a hand and lightly flicked his hat brim up.

Law's entire face was exposed. Flustered eyes, flushed cheeks, trembling eyelashes-not at all the cold Surgeon of Death. This was the little one who used to secretly grab his clothes, who used to sneak glances at him, who used to fall asleep peacefully beside him.

Shanks's voice dropped, carrying a deadly gentleness: "All these years, still wearing the hat. What are you hiding? Or... who are you thinking of?"

Law's breath caught. What am I hiding? I am hiding those feelings I never dared admit. Who am I thinking of? You. Eleven years, every day I think of you.

But he could not say it. All those words were stuck in his throat, just like that night eleven years ago, unable to come out.

Shanks looked at him, about to explode but unable to, and finally stopped teasing. He slowly reached into his cloak-

The next second, a yellowed, neatly folded piece of paper, warmed by body heat for years, was pinched between his fingers and held out to Law.

Under the sunlight, the handwriting was clearly visible:

I owe you a life. Someday, I will repay it.

Law's pupils trembled violently. He felt like he had been struck by lightning.

He... he found it. And he kept it all this time.

Law asked, shocked: "You... you kept it?"

Shanks chuckled softly, placed the paper in his palm, deliberately letting his fingertips lightly brush Law's skin: "Of course. How could I dare throw away someone's love letter?"

"It is not a love letter!" Law immediately retorted, his voice cracking.

"Oh?" Shanks raised an eyebrow, the laughter in his eyes deepening. "Not a love letter? Then a confession?"

Law: "..."

Shanks looked at his frazzled expression, finally stopped teasing, and seriously stepped closer, his voice light yet burning.

"The day you left, I stood in the shadows and watched you for a long time. You did not look back. I did not chase. I waited for you for eleven whole years." He raised a hand and gently pressed it to the back of Law's neck, his grip steady enough to soften the heart. "I do not want you to repay me. I just want you-to give me now what you did not dare say back then."

Law looked up, meeting his eyes. There was no joke, no testing, only a burning wait.

Shanks's eleven-year wait.

Law was silent for a long time. All the dependence he had not dared speak, the feelings he had not dared admit, the cowardice that made him unable to stay-in this moment, they all burst forth.

He suddenly raised his hand and grabbed Shanks's wrist. Very lightly, yet very tightly, as if grasping light he had found again. His voice was low and hoarse, yet every word was clear:

"I... back then, it was not that I did not want to stay. It was that I was afraid if I stayed, I would never bear to leave."

Shanks's heart leaped.

Law looked up at him, for the first time shedding all coldness, his eyes carrying a hint of that youth's timidity and sincerity: "What I owe you is not a life. It is one sentence-I wanted to come back."

Shanks smiled.

A truly relaxed smile of having found something precious again.

He suddenly tightened his arms, pulling Law fiercely into his embrace, both hands pressing against his back, locking him securely in his arms. His voice was muffled against Law's hair, carrying a hint of a choke, yet his smile was so gentle: "Idiot. That is exactly what I have been waiting for."

Law buried himself in his chest, smelling the familiar alcohol, listening to the steady heartbeat. The nerves tense for eleven years finally completely relaxed.

This time, I will not run.

He gently raised his arms and wrapped them around Shanks's waist, burying his face deeper.

Shanks lowered his head and pressed a light, solemn kiss to his hair, murmuring gently: "Welcome home, my little doctor."

 

That night, back on the Red Force.

Shanks brought Law to that small cabin from years ago. It was spotless inside, everything exactly the same as eleven years before. The chair he used to sit in was still there, the medical kit he used was still there, even the cup he liked to keep warm water in was still in its original place.

Shanks gently hugged him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder, arms around his waist: "I told you, I always kept it for you here."

Law's fingertips lightly traced that familiar chair, his eyes stinging slightly.

Eleven years.

He really... kept it all.

Law turned around, for the first time actively reaching up, wrapping his arms around Shanks's neck, rising on his toes, and lightly touching his lips to the corner of Shanks's mouth. Extremely light, extremely quick, like a sea breeze passing. Then he immediately turned his face away, his voice cold yet soft, stubborn to the end:

"...Debt. Slowly pay it back."

Shanks's pupils dilated for a moment, then he laughed out loud, pulling the person tightly into his arms.

"Okay. A lifetime. Slowly pay it back."

This time, he would never let go.