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At that time, Shanks and Shamrock were not yet the CEO and Vice President of the Figarland Group-they were just a pair of twin brothers from the Figarland family who had just started elementary school. Shanks, with his red hair, was like an inextinguishable flame, bursting with energy and explosive curiosity, while Shamrock, with his silver-red hair, had already begun to show the outline of a "little iceberg"-quiet, precocious, always following closely behind his endlessly moving younger brother, trying to use his newly established logical system to understand and restrain that irregular energy mass named "Shanks."
They lived in the main house of the family estate. Their father, Gol D. Roger, was a bold and rough-edged legendary businessman, and their mother, Portgas D. Rouge, was gentle but often busy with her husband's and eldest son's affairs. Therefore, young Shamrock unconsciously took on part of the responsibility of "watching over" his younger brother-even though he was only a few minutes older than Shanks.
The frequency of Shanks's trouble-making was directly proportional to his energy level. One time, he smashed the antique enamel vase in the living room, which was said to be from the Age of Sail-he wanted to see if there really was a treasure map hidden inside. Another time, he took his father's precious cigar cutter from the study, thinking it was a pirate's cutting pliers, and used it to trim all the thorns off the roses in the garden. "That way Mom won't get pricked!" he explained. Or there was the time he tried to dye the family's sheepdog red and white to match his vision of the coolest pirate captain's dog, but the dye got everywhere, the dog was not dyed, and he ended up looking like a colorful drowned rat.
Every time the disaster was exposed, Roger would mostly let out a roar that echoed throughout the estate, mixed with helplessness and amusement: "Shanks!! What the hell did you do this time?!" Rouge would rush over, trying to calm her furious husband or feel sorry for the damaged items while attempting to understand the logic behind her youngest son's wild behavior.
And every time, little Shamrock would appear at the scene immediately-or more accurately, he would have already been warily following or trying to stop Shanks from the moment he started his adventures. When their father's roar came, and Shanks shrank back like a frightened rabbit, his big red eyes starting to well up with "I am doomed" tears, Shamrock would take a deep breath and, with steps much steadier than his actual age, walk up to his father or stand in front of his younger brother.
In a voice still childish but striving to be clear and steady, he would begin his analysis report. "Father, the root cause of this incident is Shanks's cognitive deviation regarding the hiding methods of pirate treasure, combined with insufficient information about the structural strength of the enamel vase." Or: "Father, Shanks's motivation was to reduce the probability of Mother being injured by plants, but during execution, he misjudged the function of the tool and the physiological needs of the plants." Or: "Father, regarding the dyeing incident, Shanks had a dual misunderstanding of the principle of pigment deposition in canine hair and the chemical properties of the dye, and he lacked necessary protective measures."
These analyses, which sounded somewhat amusing and astonishing to adults, often made the enraged Roger pause, his anger dissipating significantly, turning instead into surprise and a bit of concern for his overly precocious eldest son. Rouge would gently pat Shamrock's head. "Thank you, Sham, for always taking care of your little brother like this."
But the matter was not over yet. Once the adults' attention was diverted or the punishment decision was buffered by Shamrock's professional analysis, Shamrock would turn around and look at the little red-haired ball still hiding in the corner or behind him, tears still hanging on his face.
He would not comfort him immediately, nor would he scold him loudly like their father. He would walk up to Shanks, and because they were similar in height, he needed to look up slightly or meet his eyes directly. Those red eyes, inherited from their mother but clearer in color, would calmly and seriously look into the panic and residual fear in his younger brother's red eyes.
Then, he would reach out his hand.
Not to hit, not to push. Instead, using his fingers-which, due to his precociousness, seemed excessively clean and even carried a slight coolness-he would pinch Shanks's slightly puffed-up, soft, warm cheek, which had become tense from nervousness or crying.
The force was not heavy. It carried a child's tentative, even somewhat unskilled sense of control, gently shaking it left and right.
"Idiot." He would say this, his voice not loud, almost devoid of emotional fluctuation, like stating an objective fact. "Data shows the probability of a treasure being hidden inside the vase is less than 0.01%. Next time you want to verify something, ask me first."
Or: "Rose thorns have the function of defense and reducing water evaporation. Cutting them all off will cause the roses to get sick. If you want to protect Mom, there are seventeen more effective and lower-risk methods. I will list them for you tonight."
Or: "The pigment cells in a dog's fur are located in the hair follicles. Surface dyeing is ineffective and may be harmful. If you want a red-and-white companion, the success rate of a model dog is 100%, the cost is lower, and there are no health risks. I will take you to buy one tomorrow."
Every time he finished this summary of events and proposal of the correct solutions, and completed that iconic cheek-pinching action, Shanks's tears would miraculously stop. The initial fear was dispelled by the real touch of his brother's fingertips and those analyses he half-understood but felt were very impressive, replaced by a mix of relieved safety, admiration for his brother, and a tiny bit of grievance at being called stupid again. But the grievance would quickly be overwhelmed by the warmth that his brother had not abandoned him, that his brother had a way.
He would sniffle and, in a still teary voice, whisper back, "Oh... got it, Shammy." Then, often, he could not help reaching out his own little hand, trying to touch Shamrock's face, as if to confirm with this gesture that his brother was really not angry anymore, or simply as a subconscious affectionate feedback. But Shamrock would usually lean back slightly to avoid it or gently block it with his other hand. "Do not shift the focus. Remember the cause of the mistake and the correct solution."
Over time, being pinched on the cheek by Sham became, in Shanks's perception, the most likely and ultimate consequence after doing something wrong. It signified that the storm had passed, that his brother had taken over, that although he was called stupid, he would be protected and guided in the right direction. This action strangely fused together blame, forgiveness,庇护, and a clumsy yet determined care that was uniquely Shamrock's.
Once, Shanks fell and scraped his knee while playing, crying loudly from the pain. Shamrock rushed over, first quickly examined the wound based on the child's first-aid manual he had just read, and confirmed it was just a flesh wound needing disinfection and bandaging. While taking out the medicine kit, habitually, with a hint of anxious reproach, he pinched Shanks's tear-streaked cheek. "Crying does not lower the pain index. It actually consumes energy and affects healing speed. Stop crying. Disinfection will sting a bit. The tolerance coefficient needs to reach over 70%."
Shanks indeed sniffled and, with great effort, stopped crying, obediently letting his brother treat the wound. When the disinfectant stung and made him pout again, Shamrock, after finishing, gently pinched his other uninjured cheek and added, "...Did well. Tolerance coefficient assessment: 75%."
Shanks immediately forgot the pain, his tears turning into smiles, as if he had received the highest praise.
This small, private gesture was one of the earliest contracts between the brothers. No matter how much trouble Shanks caused or how childish a predicament he fell into, Shamrock would always use his way to back him up, to mark the matter closed, and to indicate no repeat offenses. And Shanks learned from this that beneath his brother's icy exterior lay a harbor that would never abandon him.
As the years passed, Shamrock became increasingly mature and reserved, paying more and more attention to his image and rational expression. That cheek-pinching gesture, representing the intimate bond of childhood, appeared less and less frequently, gradually sealed in the depths of memory, becoming a warm yet blurred background. Shanks occasionally missed it, but more often, he was immersed in the care his brother showed in other ways.
Until that night many years later, in the dining room of the Figarland residence. When the adult Shamrock once again reached out and pinched the cheek of his equally adult younger brother-who was still feeling apprehensive about his unscheduled visit to check on him at work-
It was as if the long river of time suddenly flowed backward.
All the dependence, trust, reassured indulgence, and that unique sense of brotherly covenant, covered by the years, surged back like an underground spring breaking through all the barriers of growth and identity, overwhelmingly and powerfully.
And so, that flying leap became Shanks's most direct, most fervent, most childlike confirmation and response to this regained covenant.
And Shamrock, perhaps in that instant, through the familiar touch of his fingertips and the overwhelming emotion of his younger brother, touched the core of his own heart that had never truly drifted away-the essence of the older brother who always needed to clean up after the little red-haired troublemaker, yet did so with great delight.
Pinching the cheek was never a punishment.
It was the earliest invention Shamrock created, before he learned to build a hard shell with data, logic, and authority-a silent, soft embrace meant only for Shanks.