Work Text:
On this day, the air inside the Figarland Group headquarters carried the same high-efficiency hum as always. Employees moved briskly through the corridors, speaking in low tones or reporting rapidly into their headsets. Everything was orderly, like a giant, precision-engineered machine.
One of the core control rooms of this "machine" - the 32nd floor, home to the Vice President's office - was particularly solemn.
Shamrock sat behind his vast desk, before him spread several reports and multiple screens flickering with complex data curves. He wore a silver-gray suit pressed without a single wrinkle, his long red hair impeccably groomed. The blue-light-filtering glasses reflected the cold glow of the screens, making him look like an iceberg radiating an intimidating aura. Several senior executives stood rigidly before his desk, undergoing his questioning regarding deviations in the previous quarter's market forecast model. His voice was steady, clear, each question precisely aimed at a data gap or logical blind spot. Devoid of emotion, yet it left the standing figures with a faint sheen of sweat at their temples.
"...Therefore, based on the above three points, the revised proposal you submitted lacks sufficient persuasive power, and the risk assessment remains overly optimistic." Shamrock set down his electronic pen, his gaze sweeping over them. "I need to see more detailed supporting data and simulation results under at least three different stress test scenarios. The updated report must be on my desk before 10 a.m. tomorrow."
"Yes, Vice President," the executives responded hastily, not daring to breathe too loudly.
"You may leave." Shamrock returned his attention to the screen, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard, as if the high-pressure exchange moments ago had never happened.
This was Shamrock's normal state within the company: absolute authority, extreme efficiency, unquestionable rigor. He was a figure of awe within the group, one of the helmsmen ensuring the precise navigation of this commercial giant, and also the "cold-faced tyrant" many employees privately feared and respected.
Meanwhile, in another equally spacious but far more... lively, or perhaps chaotic, President's office not far away, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Shanks had just finished a relaxed and cheerful video conference. He stretched, considering whether to go bother Beckman or sneak out early to pick up Law from class. Just then, the internal phone rang.
"Boss," came Beckman's voice, tinged with amusement, "the front desk reports that Attorney Rosinante is here. He says he has an appointment with Legal to discuss the contract details for the 'Sea God Project.' But he asked if it would be convenient to come up and say hello to you."
"Rosi? Here, at our company?" Shanks' eyes lit up, like a dog catching the scent of a bone. "Of course it's convenient! Please, send him up! Straight to my office!"
A few minutes later, Rosinante, briefcase in hand, was guided by Beckman into the President's office. He wore a light gray suit, his demeanor gentle and refined, creating an amusing contrast to the office filled with stacked models, exaggerated abstract paintings on the walls, and even a mini basketball hoop in the corner.
"Shanks, sorry to intrude." Rosinante greeted him with a smile.
"Intrude? I'm so glad you're here, Rosi!" Shanks launched himself from behind his desk, enthusiastically welcoming him with a firm embrace. "Sit, sit! What would you like? Coffee? Tea? I also have that energy drink Law gave me yesterday, though he said it was too sweet and didn't drink it..."
"Just water is fine, thank you." Rosinante sat on the visitor's sofa, looking around. "Your office... has a lot of personality," he remarked, diplomatically.
"Hehe, comfort is the most important thing!" Shanks poured him a glass of water himself, then perched on the arm of the adjacent single sofa, leaning in close and lowering his voice, his eyes sparkling. "Rosi, you've come at the perfect time! Let me show you something fun!"
"What kind of fun?" Rosinante asked, curious.
"To see Shammy!" Shanks' tone was excited, a hint of mischief in it. "Have you ever seen what Sham is like at the office? Completely different from at home! Especially-especially Vice President-like!"
Rosinante indeed had never seen Shamrock at work. He imagined he would be calm and professional, but judging by Shanks' expression, it seemed to be more than that.
"Come on, come on!" Shanks pulled Rosinante up without waiting for a reply. "Let's just pass by his office! And along the way... hehe, I'll tell you all about his tyranny!"
Like two children preparing for an adventure, they snuck out of the President's office, crossed the thickly carpeted corridor, and reached the open-plan office area outside the Vice President's suite.
The atmosphere here was noticeably more tense than over by the President's office. Assistants typed on their keyboards with rapid, soft clicks, conversations were kept to an absolute minimum. An air of focus bordering on stagnation permeated the space. Shanks pulled Rosinante behind a tall potted plant, and they stealthily peeked out towards the tightly closed dark wooden door.
"See, right there," Shanks said in a stage whisper, pointing at the office. "Shammy's throne. I bet right now he's in there, using his cold, robotic voice to chew out some poor managers so badly they won't know which way is up."
As if to confirm his words, the office door suddenly opened. The executives who had been reporting filed out, all pale-faced, their steps unsteady, exchanging looks of having survived a disaster as they hurried away.
Immediately after, Shamrock appeared at the doorway. He didn't close the door right away, but concisely gave a few instructions to his chief assistant outside, his voice low but carrying clearly: "Gunko, the meeting materials for the 3 PM call with the North American branch must be finalized and double-checked before 2 PM. Also, inform the Marketing Department that if the revised version of the analysis report I flagged last week still contains the same low-level statistical errors, have the person in charge go directly to HR to submit their resignation."
His tone was utterly devoid of inflection, yet carried unquestionable authority. After giving his orders, he turned back into the office, the door closing silently behind him, sealing off the inside from the outside.
Witnessing this, Rosinante was genuinely somewhat surprised. At work, Shamrock was indeed... sharper, and even more forbidding than at home. That absolute sense of control and the cold, commanding aura radiating from within was a side of Shamrock he had never seen before.
"See?" Shanks ducked back behind the plant, winking at Rosinante with a look that said 'I told you so,' though his eyes were full of pride. "That's my brother, Figarland Group's anchor and cold-faced tyrant. Intimidating, right?"
Rosinante snapped out of it, looking at Shanks' expression that read 'my brother is amazing but also terrifying' and couldn't help but let out a low laugh. "He is very different. But also very... formidable." This kind of extreme professionalism and control did possess a unique kind of appeal.
"Formidable?" Shanks pouted, starting to complain pitifully. "Rosi, you don't know the half of it! He's not polite to me at the office at all! Last time I had a proposal I wanted to push ahead early and went to discuss it with him, guess what he said? 'Shanks, the risk assessment for this proposal has not been completed. There are over seven potential variables. The probability of successful forced implementation is below forty percent, and it may trigger a chain of negative effects. As President, you should not be making such impulsive suggestions lacking sufficient data support.'" He mimicked Shamrock's cold, merciless tone perfectly.
"And another time, during a meeting, I cracked a little joke to lighten the mood, and he said directly in front of everyone: 'Shanks, the insertion of an irrelevant topic has reduced the efficiency of this meeting by approximately fifteen percent. Please be mindful of the occasion and your position.' My face! I lost so much face, Rosi!" Shanks covered his face, looking like a deeply wronged puppy. "The worst part is, he even polices what I eat! Once I wanted an extra slice of the cheesecake his assistant ordered for my lunch, and he said my sugar and fat intake was over the limit and would affect my decision-making clarity in the afternoon! Rosi, don't you think he's way too cruel to his adorable little brother?"
Rosinante listened to his half-genuine, half-exaggerated complaints and animated expressions, finding the interaction between these brothers utterly endearing. One managed the younger brother in the most rational way, terrified he might make a misstep. The other, clearly reliant on his brother's guidance and protection, complained vocally but faithfully took his brother's words as law. This was no 'tyranny'; it was their own unique, awkward, yet profound brotherly bond.
"He's just concerned about you, Shanks," Rosinante said gently, patting his arm. "In his own way. Besides, from what I can see, even though you complain, you always end up listening to him, don't you?"
Exposed, Shanks scratched his head, a bit embarrassed. "Well... it's just because he's usually right..." His voice trailed off, then he perked up again, his eyes glowing with a startling red light as he leaned in closer. "Oh, wait, Rosi! Want to see Shammy lose his cool?"
"Lose his cool?"
"Yeah! You know, get a crack in that iceberg face of his!" Shanks rubbed his hands together excitedly. "I have a plan! Don't let him fool you with that 'I subsist on dew' act. He actually has a secret thing for the Earl Grey Chiffon Cake from the 'Moon Bakery' downstairs! It's one of the few sweets he'll actively eat. Either when he's in a particularly good mood, or when he's been working non-stop for too long and needs the sugar boost. He'll have his assistant buy him a slice."
He leaned close to Rosinante's ear, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, "He thinks no one knows, but I found out ages ago! Because after he eats it, he works through things much faster, and his tone when he scolds people... cough, I mean, points out mistakes, softens just a tiny, tiny bit! A very little bit!"
Rosinante stifled a laugh. He hadn't imagined Shamrock having such an endearing little secret.
"So!" Shanks slapped his own thigh, excitedly proposing, "Rosi, you're heading to Legal now, right? After you're done, just swing by the Moon Bakery on the ground floor, buy an Earl Grey Chiffon Cake, and come up here to see him on the way! Just say... hmm, say I had you get it as a little treat for his hard work!"
He felt more and more that this plan was brilliant, as if he could already see the rare look of surprise on Shamrock's face when Rosinante appeared bearing the cake. "His iceberg face is bound to crack for sure! And honestly, Rosi, if you go see him, deep down he'll be really pleased, he just won't say it! It's killing two birds with one stone!"
Rosinante watched Shanks' eager, 'I just want to see my brother's reaction' expression, finding it both funny and heartwarming. He thought about it and decided it was harmless enough, maybe even a good opportunity to foster some emotional connection. So he nodded. "Alright. But what if he gets angry?"
"He won't really get angry!" Shanks immediately guaranteed, then reflexively drew his neck in slightly. "At worst... he'll lecture me some more when we get home. But it'll be worth it to see his face crack!"
And so, the plan was sealed. Rosinante went to Legal first, taking care of business. A little over an hour later, carrying an elegant paper bag from "Moon Bakery" containing the highly recommended Earl Grey Chiffon Cake, he returned to the 32nd floor.
This time, instead of going to the President's office, he headed straight for the Vice President's. Chief Assistant Gunko clearly knew him; after announcing him, she quickly ushered him inside.
"Mr. Rosinante, the Vice President will see you now."
Shamrock was just finishing reviewing a document and looked up. When he saw Rosinante approaching, and the familiar paper bag in his hand, a clear flicker of surprise passed through his usually calm, unruffled red eyes. He set down his electronic pen, and straightened slightly in his chair, the movement almost imperceptible.
"Rosinante?" His voice was a fraction quicker than usual. "Finished with the matters in the Legal Department?"
"Yes, very smoothly." Rosinante smiled as he approached, placing the paper bag on the corner of the large desk. "Passing by downstairs, I remembered Shanks mentioning you liked the cakes from this shop. So I brought one up. For all your hard work."
Shamrock's gaze fell on the paper bag, then shifted back to Rosinante's gentle smile. A rare expression-a mix of surprise, understanding, and a touch of... exasperation-flickered across his face. The usually icy demeanor showed microscopic, almost invisible cracks, a hint of thawing like sunlight touching the surface of a glacier.
"...Shanks told you," he stated, rather than asked.
Rosinante nodded, still smiling. "He's very concerned about you, worried you're overworking yourself." He glanced around the extremely minimalist, high-tech, yet somewhat impersonal office. "And it gave me a chance to see what you're like at work."
Shamrock adjusted his glasses, seemingly trying to mask a momentary lapse, but the tips of his ears, turning slightly pink, betrayed him. He glanced at the cake, then at Rosinante, and finally let out a barely audible sigh, the sound carrying a hint of indulgence for his mischievous brother.
"He has an excess of... needless concern," Shamrock murmured, though his tone wasn't harsh. He gestured towards the chair opposite his desk. "Please, sit. Would you like something to drink?"
"No, don't trouble yourself. I can only stay a moment." Rosinante sat, his gaze resting warmly on Shamrock. Yes, at work, he was sharper, more formidable. But right now, beneath that hard, cold shell, Rosinante could clearly see the softness Shamrock revealed only to a select few.
They chatted briefly, touching on the earlier legal discussion and some minor life matters. Shamrock was clearly not accustomed to discussing personal topics in a professional setting, but facing Rosinante, his responses, though still concise, were less purely businesslike. He even, proactively, inquired about the progress of a case Rosinante had recently taken on.
The atmosphere was calm and warm. The cake sat quietly on the corner of the desk, like a sweet testament.
After about ten minutes, Rosinante rose to take his leave. Shamrock stood to see him to the door.
"Thank you for the cake," Shamrock said, his voice back to its usual coolness, but his eyes were soft.
"You're welcome. Do remember to eat it, don't solely focus on work," Rosinante gently reminded him. "Shanks' methods of showing concern... might be special, but he is truly proud of you, and he genuinely wants you to take better care of yourself."
Shamrock nodded, a look of understanding passing through his eyes. "I am aware. I will... remember to 'thank' him for his concern."
Rosinante caught the particular emphasis in his words, barely suppressing a chuckle, while also feeling a slight pang of sympathy for Shanks, who had orchestrated this whole thing so eagerly. "Then... I'll be off. See you this weekend?"
"See you this weekend."
After seeing Rosinante off, Shamrock returned to his desk, his gaze falling once more on the Earl Grey Chiffon Cake. He reached out and tapped a finger lightly on the smooth box, then picked up the internal phone.
"Gunko, move my afternoon meeting up by fifteen minutes. Also, cancel all phone appointments scheduled for me after work today."
Only after giving these instructions did he sit back down and open the cake box. A delicate fragrance of Earl Grey tea mingled with the creamy sweetness of eggs and cream wafted out. Using the small fork provided, he cut off a small piece and placed it in his mouth. The fine, soft texture, the perfectly balanced sweetness, and the bergamot aroma lingering on the tongue truly offered a brief respite for frayed nerves.
He slowly ate the cake, his eyes on the data flickering across his computer screen, but his thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
Shanks...
His younger brother, forever brimming with excess energy, forever expressing his care and love in the most direct, sometimes baffling, ways. As a child, he'd shove his favorite toy into the hands of a feverish Shamrock. Now, he'd secretly tell Rosinante about his favorite cake and orchestrate a childish surprise office visit.
This kind of concern lacked a sense of boundaries and often disrupted his plans and rhythm.
But...
Shamrock finished the last bite of cake, set down the fork, and picked up a napkin, dabbing elegantly at the corner of his mouth.
But he couldn't deny that this uniquely Shanks-style concern was an indispensable warmth in his rigorously structured world. It was one of the truest emotional connections he felt as the person Shamrock, rather than the Vice President of the Figarland Group.
However, this didn't mean he would condone his brother casually disrupting his workplace or even "using" Rosinante to achieve his goal of seeing his composure crack.
Shamrock adjusted his glasses, picked up his phone, and quickly typed a message to Shanks:
"Cake received. Thank you for your concern. Regarding your actions this afternoon concerning optimizing the coffee supply chain and assisting Legal's VIP visit, I believe we need to conduct an efficiency evaluation and behavioral protocol review together at home."
Sent.
Almost instantly, the phone vibrated. Shanks' reply popped up, full of exclamation marks and a crying face emoji: "EH?! SHAM! I DID IT OUT OF KINDNESS! DID ROSI BETRAY ME?! QAQ"
Shamrock didn't reply. He simply silenced his phone, placed it back on the desk, and refocused his attention on the reports before him. Yet, the corner of his mouth curved upwards into an almost imperceptible arc.
As for how to punish that boundary-blind, yet heart-warmingly clingy little brother tonight after returning home...
Shamrock already had several preliminary plans in mind, based on behavioral modification theory and previously effective case studies. He would ensure Shanks got a memorable lesson without causing him any real harm.
After all, as annoying as his brother could be, he was still his one and only precious idiot little brother.
Meanwhile, back in the President's office, Shanks was staring at his phone, reading Shamrock's message laden with the implication of a later reckoning. He let out a wail and flopped dramatically onto the sofa, rolling around.
"Done... Shammy is definitely going to have a 'talk' with me! How was Rosi persuaded so quickly?! My visit plan was perfect!"
Yet, despite the wails of despair, his face showed little genuine dejection. Instead, it held a smug, almost expectant grin. He knew Shamrock's so-called 'punishments' were mostly harmless lectures or maybe a temporary reduction in his snack quota. Plus, getting Shamrock to crack, even for a second, because of his little scheme was enough to make him happy for ages.
Having mentally prepared for the worst, he jumped up from the sofa, grabbed his car keys, and decided to go pick up Law early. He needed to share today's triumphant results with Law and seek tactical advice on how to handle his brother's lecture tonight.
The Figarland Group headquarters stood quietly in the setting sun, as composed and restrained as Shamrock himself. But within its walls, a warm current of familial care, concern, and a little bit of childish mischief flowed unseen, ready to merge into an even warmer tide upon their return home that night.
As for exactly how the evening debriefing session would unfold, and how Shanks would try to weasel his way out of it, that was another sweet, heartwarming story, belonging solely to family.
In the early evening, Shanks trudged into the house, head hanging low like a large dog anticipating a scolding, shuffling in slowly alongside Law. The warm amber light of the entryway, usually welcoming, now seemed charged with an atmosphere of impending judgment.
The aroma of dinner drifted from the kitchen, but the living room was unusually quiet. Shamrock had already returned. He was seated in his usual single armchair, holding a financial weekly, his expression focused. Hearing the door open, he merely lifted his eyes, sweeping a calm glance over the two entering, his gaze pausing on Shanks for half a second before returning to the magazine.
No immediate attack. But this silent calm only made Shanks more nervous. He stuck close behind Law, trying to use his boyfriend's body as a shield.
Law felt a light tug on the back of his shirt. He turned his head helplessly and shot Shanks a glare. Shanks immediately put on a pitiful expression, his red puppy-dog eyes glistening, lips slightly pouting, silently communicating the signal: "Law, save me..."
"Welcome back," Law cleared his throat, taking the lead in breaking the silence, trying to ease the tension. "Sham, what's for dinner tonight? It smells great."
Shamrock closed the magazine and set it on the small side table. "The beef stew Mother sent. I heated it up. Served with roasted vegetables and rice. Figarland Shanks, come here. We need to talk."
There it was! Shanks stiffened instantly, his grip on Law's shirt tightening, practically trying to shrink behind him, leaving only half a red head visible, eyes wide with wariness and grievance.
"Sham..." Law tried to intervene, even though he also felt Shanks' surprise visit scheme might have been over the line.
"Law, this is between him and me, concerning behavioral protocols and boundaries," Shamrock interrupted him, his tone still level but carrying an undeniable authority. He stood and walked towards the dining room. "Five minutes. Dining room. I expect you to be fully prepared to explain the logic behind your optimization and assisting behavior at the company this afternoon, and furthermore, why you divulged my private preference to Rosinante and orchestrated an unnecessary office visit."
With that, he went straight into the dining room, leaving behind a tall, unyielding back.
Shanks watched his brother disappear through the doorway and deflated completely, like a balloon. He buried his face into Law's back, whimpering miserably, "It's over... Law, Shammy's angry... He used my full name! He only uses my full name when he's really mad! And he gave me a five-minute deadline to prepare a 'defense'... This is worse than a board meeting!"
Law turned to face the man who was normally a commanding presence in the company and vibrantly energetic at home, but now looked like a grade-schooler in trouble, anxious and fidgety. He couldn't help but find it both annoying and endearing. He reached up to ruffle Shanks' soft red hair soothingly, "Serves you right for poking him all the time, and using Rosi for it too. Sham cares deeply about the boundary between work and private life."
"I just... wanted to cheer him up a bit..." Shanks lifted his face, eyes still glistening, lips stubbornly pouting. "And it worked! Rosi going there obviously made him happy! I secretly asked Gunko later, and she said his afternoon meeting ended early! And he ate the cake!" He felt increasingly justified, though his voice grew smaller-sneakily getting intel wasn't exactly noble behavior either.
"You..." Law sighed, cupping his face and gently wiping the slightly reddened corner of his eye with his thumb. "Just apologize to Sham properly later. Be sincere. He won't really do anything to you."
"He'll cut my snacks! He'll restrict my access to his study! He might even get Beckman to monitor me finishing all my work on time!" Shanks listed his brother's potential tortures, growing more despondent by the second.
"You brought it all on yourself." Law was unmoved, pulling him towards the dining room. "Come on, don't keep Sham waiting. Just take the initiative and admit your mistake."
The rich, savory aroma of beef stew filled the dining room, but the mood around the table was somewhat solemn. Shamrock was already seated in his usual place, posture upright, waiting. Seeing the two enter, he glanced at his expensive wristwatch, "Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Efficiency is acceptable," he stated flatly.
Shanks flinched as if scalded, releasing Law's hand instantly. He promptly pulled back his designated chair opposite Shamrock, sat rigidly, hands on his knees, back ramrod straight, but his eyes darted around, unable to meet his brother's gaze.
Law sat beside Shanks, silently offering prayers for this large dog playing possum.
Dinner commenced in an unsettling quiet, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery and quiet chewing. Shamrock ate at his usual unhurried pace, while Shanks ate distractedly, sneaking glances at his brother's expression every few moments, chewing the same piece of beef for what seemed like forever without swallowing. Law tried to naturally put food onto Shanks' plate, attempting to lighten the mood, but with little success.
Eventually, when the food on the table was more than half gone, Shamrock put down his knife and fork, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and calmly fixed his restless brother across the table with a look.
"Now," Shamrock began, his voice exceptionally clear in the quiet dining room, "explain."
Shanks jumped, nearly dropping his fork. He licked his suddenly dry lips, his eyes darting around as he fumbled for words, "Well... Shammy, I... I just thought you've been working so hard. Rosi happened to be at the company, and I thought... it'd be nice if he visited you, maybe brought something you like... just a little gesture..." His voice grew softer and softer, trailing off into a mumble. "And... it worked out pretty well, didn't it..."
"'Worked out'?" Shamrock repeated the phrase, his tone unreadable. "Do you mean disrupting my work schedule this afternoon, having Rosinante appear on the executive floor in an unofficial capacity, disseminating my personal dietary preferences, and attempting to observe and record any potential lapse in my professional demeanor?"
A volley of precise accusations landed, and Shanks opened his mouth in shock, finding himself completely unable to refute a single one. Shamrock had dissected his little scheme very thoroughly.
"I... I didn't mean any harm..." Shanks tried to protest, his puppy eyes growing even wetter, looking pleadingly at Shamrock. "I just wanted you to relax a bit... Don't be so mad..."
"I am not angry," Shamrock stated matter-of-factly. "I am conducting a factual statement and behavioral logic analysis. Your actions represent, fundamentally, a disregard for my personal boundaries and a disruption of workplace decorum. As the President of the Figarland Group, you should be more aware than anyone of the importance of maintaining executive image and office order."
Shanks was rendered speechless, his head drooping completely, even his vibrant red hair seeming to lose its luster. He knew Shamrock was right. He had acted on a whim, without thinking. Now, laid out so clinically, his good intentions seemed exceptionally childish and reckless.
Watching this, Law, who had been listening, knew that although Shamrock's tone was stern, his points were valid. He couldn't really speak up for Shanks now, only giving his back a gentle, comforting pat.
"Based on the above analysis," Shamrock continued, tapping his fingers lightly on the table in his characteristic thinking gesture, "I deem it necessary to implement appropriate behavioral correction measures to reinforce your boundary awareness and compensate for the time cost and potential image impact caused by your actions today."
Here it came! Punishment! Shanks' body instantly tensed, his invisible ears perking up as he nervously awaited the judge's sentence. Snacks cut? Extra work reports? Banned from his office for a week?
Shamrock's gaze lingered on his brother's nervously expectant face for a moment. Then, he did something neither Shanks nor Law expected.
He stood up, walked around the table, and came to a stop right in front of Shanks.
Shanks reflexively shrank back, almost knocking over his chair, instinctively trying to retreat but finding no escape. He looked up, wide-eyed, at his brother standing over him. The cool red eyes seemed unfathomably deep under the dining room chandelier.
Then, Shamrock reached out his hand.
And directly pinched Shanks' cheek.
The force wasn't hard, even carrying a... tentative, kneading quality. Warm fingertips gently grasped the soft flesh of Shanks' cheek, slightly puffed up from tension, and gave it a slight, wobbly shake.
Shanks froze completely. His eyes went perfectly round, filled with an intense shock and utter bewilderment. This gesture... this sensation of his cheek being pinched...
Time seemed to warp, pulling back over two decades.
Little Shanks, having broken their father's beloved pirate ship model during a bout of mischief, scared and hiding behind Shamrock. The young Roger, stern-faced, about to scold him. Shamrock stepping forward, his voice then still boyish but striving for sternness, saying, "I failed to watch him properly." And then, as little Shanks hiccupped, expecting his brother to scold him too, Shamrock turning around. No reprimand. Just reaching out, exactly like this, and gently pinching his tear-stained, chubby little cheek, murmuring, "Don't cry. Be more careful next time."
And that time he'd messed up the bookshelf Shamrock had just organized. Shamrock, discovering it, simply sighed and pinched his cheek. "Idiot. Stay away from my desk."
This gesture-it was the gentlest, yet sternest punishment uniquely belonging to Shamrock for his erring little brother. No yelling, no real punishment, just a small, intimate gesture filled with exasperation, indulgence, and a silent warning of 'don't do it again.' As they grew older, and Shamrock became more serious and image-conscious, this action had long, long since ceased.
So long that Shanks had almost believed it was just a fuzzy illusion from childhood.
But now...
The real, warm sensation on his cheek. His brother standing so close, the calm facade carrying a hint of exasperation. And that familiar, almost DNA-encoded feeling of being indulged... It all crashed over Shanks like a tide.
He stared blankly at Shamrock, momentarily forgetting to breathe, the grievance and fear completely forgotten. The shock in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a surge of an incredibly soft emotion-a mix of immense joy, intense nostalgia, and a slight, sweet ache.
Shamrock watched his brother's dumbfounded expression, his brow twitching almost imperceptibly, as if he were about to say something. But in the next second-
"UWAAHHH-!!!"
A strange cry, a mix of a sob, excitement, and overwhelming joy, erupted from Shanks' throat. No thought was possible-his body moved before his brain could catch up. Like a bright red cannonball launched at full power, he sprung from his chair, arms wide open, and launched himself at Shamrock with the force of a hurricane!
"SHAMMY-!!!"
The pounce was so sudden, so forceful-it carried all of Shanks' weight and torrential emotion. Shamrock clearly, absolutely, had not anticipated this reaction. He had expected, at most, a silly grin or some mumbled protest. He had considered various outcomes, but a full-body tackle-completely unbecoming of an adult male, let alone a Group President-had simply not been on the list.
Thus, under Law's surprised gaze and Shanks' excited yell, the Figarland Group Vice President, a man renowned for his quick reflexes and superb balance, was sent staggering backward by his wildly unpredictable twin brother. With a grunt, he stumbled, unable to regain his footing, and took two or three clumsy steps back before his back hit the dining room wall with a soft "thud," barely managing to stay upright.
And Shanks, already, had attached himself like a true giant koala. His arms were locked tightly around Shamrock's neck and shoulders, legs wrapped around him (thankfully Shamrock stood his ground). The messy red head burrowed forcefully into the crook of Shamrock's neck, rubbing insistently while incoherently sobbing:
"Shammy... Shammy... You pinched my cheek... It's been so long... I thought you'd forgotten... I knew it... I knew you weren't really mad... Shammy!!"
Shamrock saw white for a second, his back throbbing. Worse, being clamped in this utterly undignified and socially unacceptable manner by Shanks was practically suffocating him. His first instinct was to shove this heavy, overly enthusiastic human attachment off, but Shanks was clinging too tightly, rubbing too vigorously, and warm, wet droplets were already soaking the expensive collar of his shirt.
"Shanks... let go..." Shamrock's voice was muffled against Shanks' hair, tinged with rare fluster and exasperation. "This is disgraceful... Let go!"
"NO! Won't let go!!" Shanks refused outright, only rubbing more vigorously, as if trying to compensate for all the years of missed cheek-pinches and hugs in one go. "You pinched me! That means you DO care! You didn't even dodge! I'm hugging it out!!"
Shamrock: "..."
He hadn't dodged. Not because he didn't want to, but because he hadn't had the time. Now, pinned against the wall, bearing his brother's full weight and this flood of emotion, unable to push him away, the words of reprimand-the lectures about behavioral protocols-died on his lips. Looking at the red head burrowed frantically in his neck, hearing that tearful yet joyful mumbling, he simply couldn't voice them.
He could feel Shanks' body trembling slightly from the sheer intensity of emotion. He could feel the hot tears, tears born purely of happiness and being moved. And he could feel, in this clumsy, reckless, utterly chaotic hug, an unreserved sincerity, dependence, and love.
Just like when they were children.
Shamrock's rigid body, enveloped in Shanks' warmth and muffled sobs, began to soften, millimeter by millimeter. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and finally, hesitantly, raised his own hand. It settled on Shanks' trembling back.
And began to pat, slowly, rhythmically, with a slight awkwardness that spoke of a gesture long unused-just like he used to soothe his little brother after a nightmare.
This action seemed to be an explicit signal of permission. Shanks' sobbing grew louder, but his grip loosened slightly, no longer a stranglehold, but a tighter, more clinging embrace. He buried his face deeper, inhaling deeply. The crisp scent of Shamrock's cedarwood cologne mixed with the warm, homey aroma of beef stew-the scent he'd known since childhood, belonging to his brother, a scent that meant safety.
"Idiot..." Shamrock breathed, the sigh almost inaudible, laced with exasperation, yet also carrying a barely perceptible thread of indulgence and tenderness. He made no further attempt to push Shanks away. He simply maintained that posture-pinned to the wall, bearing his brother's koala hug, while gently patting his back-letting this sudden emotional storm wash over him.
And at the dining table, Law, recovering from his initial surprise, watched this dramatic yet incredibly heartwarming scene unfold. An irrepressible smile curved his lips, his eyes filled with warm mirth. Quietly, he took out his phone, switched it to silent mode, and aimed it at the pair of long-limbed twins by the wall, who right now looked simply like two overgrown boys.
In the frame, Shanks was draped entirely over Shamrock, his red hair a wild mess, his shoulders still shaking slightly. Shamrock's posture was somewhat awkward, back against the wall, his expensive suit rumpled. But his usually cool red eyes were lowered, long lashes hiding any emotion that might flicker within, his hand gently tapping Shanks' back. The warm wall sconces outlined their figures with a soft, glowing halo. It almost seemed like visible bubbles of brotherly love were floating in the air around them.
Law gently pressed the record button. This rare sight-the iceberg brother conquered by his passionate little brother-was worthy of preservation in the family's memory vault. Whether Shanks would later protest this recording of his tear-streaked, blubbering mess, or how Rosinante would react upon seeing it, were matters for later.
Right now, in the dining room, all that was left was the gradually fading sound of Shanks' sniffles and the soft rhythm of Shamrock's patting. All the reckoning, all the punishment, had melted away in this sudden, yet somehow inevitable, passionate embrace, transforming into silent understanding and an even deeper, more profound bond.
Shanks finally rubbed his fill, cried himself out, or rather, emotionally exhausted himself. He loosened his grip slightly, lifting his head. His eyes and nose were red, tear tracks still visible on his cheeks, but his eyes shone with startling brightness, filled with pure joy and satisfaction. He beamed a silly, toothy grin at Shamrock, his voice still thick with a nasal whine: "Sham... does this mean... you won't cut my snacks?"
Shamrock looked at that face, full of cheeky ingratiation, and sighed internally. He used his thumb to wipe the tear tracks off Shanks' face with a touch that was slightly rough but effective. "That depends on your behavior," he stated coolly. "Additionally, submit a thousand-word written self-critique to me by tomorrow on the topic of 'Presidential Conduct and the Boundaries Between Personal and Professional Fraternal Relations.' Electronic version will suffice."
"A thousand words?! Still a written critique?!" Shanks' face fell instantly. But he quickly rallied-Shamrock hadn't pushed him away! "Electronic version is fine? Sham, you really are the best! Can I get a word-count discount?"
"Haggling adds five hundred words," Shamrock retorted, finally pushing him away and starting to straighten his hopelessly wrinkled shirt and suit jacket. His expression returned to its usual controlled calm, but the lingering pink at the tips of his ears and his slightly disheveled hair confirmed that what just happened was far from an illusion.
"EHHHH-!!" Shanks wailed dramatically, but his face was split with a huge grin. He knew this autumn reckoning had ended in the most unexpected, most utterly delightful way possible. He hovered around Shamrock, trying to help smooth the wrinkles in his suit, only to be stopped by a single look.
Law, pocketing his phone at the perfect moment, walked over with a smile, handing a tissue to Shanks and saying to Shamrock, "Let him off the hook this time."