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Mihawk stood in the kitchen, watching the spinning record on the old, worn-out turntable. Shanks refused to throw it away — he was always sentimental about such things, especially if they had been passed down from his father or mother.
The redhead himself was still asleep. He never woke up before noon anyway: the night shifts at the bar had completely thrown off his schedule. Mihawk, on the other hand, got up early in the morning, made breakfast, got the kids ready for school, left food for Shanks in the kitchen, and went to work. Sometimes he would leave a note on the fridge, sometimes he would leave in silence. Over the past few years of living side by side with Shanks, he had grown accustomed to this routine. He didn't want to change anything — he was never one for change. Especially when it came to Shanks.
The music had long since faded, but Mihawk was still looking at the motionless record. Finally, he pulled himself away from the table, walked over to the turntable, and carefully lowered the needle onto the beginning of the vinyl. A quiet, soothing melody spread through the kitchen, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across Mihawk's lips. He remembered this song from his school days — when they would come to Shanks's house after classes, take records from Roger's collection, and listen to them in the redhead's room, lying on the carpet and staring at the ceiling.
…
"Mom! Dad! I'm home!" Shanks yelled, bursting through the door like a tiny hurricane. "Mihawk came too!"
Shanks announced this more out of politeness. Over the course of their friendship, Mihawk had become the most frequent guest in the Gols’ house. Shanks's parents adored him — they often invited the boy over even when Shanks wasn't home, because they knew Mihawk spent long hours alone at his own house. Roger genuinely felt sorry for him. Besides, Mihawk was a remarkably pleasant conversationalist, while Shanks quickly grew tired of "adult" conversations and would always try to escape to his room.
"Hello, sweetheart. Hello, Mihawk," Rouge said with a warm smile, holding one-year-old Ace in her arms. "Are you hungry?"
"Good evening, Mrs. Gol," Mihawk replied evenly, with a slight bow. "No, thank you. I had lunch at school."
"But I am hungry!" Shanks announced immediately, his eyes sparkling. "Very hungry! What did you make?"
Rouge smiled and shook her head, looking at her son.
"You're always hungry, Shanks. I made stew, just the way you like it. And apple pie."
Shanks beamed so brightly as if he'd been given a new guitar, and rushed toward the kitchen. Rouge caught him by the sleeve, pulled him close, and pecked him on the top of his head.
"First, wash your hands. And take off your shoes, you've tracked dirt all over the floor."
Shanks obediently kicked off his sneakers by the door and was already turning toward the stairs to dash up to the second floor. Rouge shook her head, watching her eldest son go.
"Roger's at work, but he said he'd be home late. Don't wait for him for dinner!" she called into the empty space, then turned her gaze to Mihawk. "Will you stay, dear? We'd be happy to have you."
Mihawk hesitated for a moment. He truly didn't want to return to an empty house where only silence and cold walls awaited him. But he had never been able to accept invitations easily — even from those who were genuinely kind to him.
"If I won't be in the way," he replied reservedly, but a barely noticeable note of gratitude crept into his voice.
Rouge walked over to him and, holding Ace with her free hand, gently touched his shoulder.
"You're never in the way," she said so softly that Mihawk lowered his head slightly, hiding his gaze.
Ace, as if following his mother's example, barely managed to reach Mihawk's crown and tugged lightly at his hair.
Mihawk froze for a moment, feeling the tiny fingers grip his hair. He looked up at Ace — the baby stared at him with curiosity, tilting his head, and opened and closed his chubby little palm, as if feeling hair under his fingers for the first time.
Rouge laughed softly, gently freeing her son's fingers from the dark strands.
"He's already grabbed everyone's hair, hasn't he?" she tickled the baby's belly, and Ace giggled, burying his face in her neck. "Let's go to the kitchen for now. Would you at least have some tea?"
"If I may," and Mihawk followed Rouge into the kitchen.
Just a few seconds passed before Shanks was already clattering down the stairs, skipping two steps at a time.
"Mom, let me hold Ace!" Shanks offered, already reaching out his hands to his younger brother.
"You're sparkling with joy today," Rouge remarked with a smile, carefully handing the baby to Shanks. Ace immediately grabbed his brother's red hair. "Did something good happen at school?"
Shanks hissed but didn't pull away — he was used to it. Ace always pulled his hair, especially when he was angry or, on the contrary, happy. Now he was gurgling contentedly, clutching a strand of red hair in his little fist, and smiling.
"Nothing special..." Shanks said a little sheepishly, sitting Ace on his lap and steadying him with one hand.
"He lost to me in fencing today," Mihawk decided to remind him, and Shanks's mouth fell open. "And then he tackled me to the floor and started fooling around. We almost got expelled. And he laughed about it the whole way home."
"Hawky!" Shanks exclaimed indignantly, feeling his ears start to burn. "You promised not to tell!"
Rouge laughed again, covering her mouth with her hand, and the teenagers continued to argue — Shanks shouting over Mihawk, Mihawk speaking evenly — and even Ace tried to join in, starting to babble something.
The time was approaching five. Rouge put Ace down for a nap and decided to rest herself in her room. Mihawk and Shanks stayed in the living room, sorting through the discs and records in Roger's collection.
"Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Metallica..." Shanks read aloud while Mihawk looked through the CDs. "Oh! I found it! The Cure!"
"Which album?" Mihawk asked with interest, putting the discs aside.
"Disintegration," Shanks smiled contentedly. "It's your favorite, isn't it? I remember you had a cassette..."
Mihawk took the record from Shanks's hands, ran his finger along the edge of the cover, and nodded. He could listen to this album endlessly, but the tape on his cassette had long worn out from too many plays. He carefully turned the cover over, examining the design he knew down to the smallest detail.
"Let's go to my room," Shanks said, already getting up from the floor and picking up the turntable. "So we don't wake Mom."
Mihawk followed, still holding the record in his hands. They crept silently up the stairs, and when they reached the door to Shanks's room, the redhead looked back at his friend with a mischievous grin and pushed the door open with his shoulder.
Shanks's room was just like him — chaotic and cozy. Guitar picks were scattered everywhere, band posters hung on the walls, comic books stood in perfect order on the shelves, and a collection of figurines from those very comics crowded his desk. Of all of them, Mihawk only recognized Superman and Batman — Shanks often liked to compare them and would say that Mihawk reminded him of Bruce Wayne in some ways. The bed was unmade, but that seemed to be part of the overall atmosphere.
"Close it," Shanks whispered, nodding toward the door while he fiddled with the turntable, connecting it to an old speaker.
Mihawk obediently pulled the door shut, and the click of the lock sounded almost loud in the silence. He paused for a moment, feeling a strange sense of seclusion, as if they had cut themselves off from the entire world. Here, in Shanks's room, even the air was different.
Mihawk sat down on the carpet, next to Shanks, who — having connected everything — lay on his stomach and carefully placed the needle at the beginning of the vinyl. He even stuck out the tip of his tongue in concentration.
The first seconds of the record hissed with silence, like that light, warm noise that only old vinyl has. Mihawk held his breath, not knowing why. Shanks also froze, resting his chin on his folded hands, and stared at the spinning disc with an expression as if he was waiting for a miracle.
And it came.
First, there was a barely audible plucking of guitar strings, soft and languid. The sound swelled, but not abruptly — it unfolded in the air like a flower opening its petals one by one.
Shanks closed his eyes. His lips curved into a faint smile, and Mihawk noticed how the redhead let out a barely perceptible exhale, as if finally releasing something he had been holding inside all day.
The guitar sounded clearer now, joined by the bass. The melody swayed from side to side, like waves, and Mihawk felt his own breathing begin to sync with its rhythm.
Robert Smith began to sing, and the first words spread through the room, enveloping every corner with soft melancholy and warmth. Mihawk knew this song by heart, but now, in this room, beneath the glued-on stars on the ceiling and beside Shanks, it sounded different.
"Whenever I'm alone with you, you make me feel like I am home again..."
Mihawk even closed his eyes, listening to the gentle voice. The corners of his lips lifted, but the smile didn't fully bloom, as if he was holding himself back.
Shanks was no longer looking at the spinning record. He was looking at Mihawk, who seemed so relaxed, as if all the problems had suddenly fallen from his shoulders. Red hair fell over his eyes, but Shanks didn't brush it away, resting his head on his bent arms.
"Whenever I'm alone with you, you make me feel like I am whole again..."
The melody gradually gained strength, not volume, but depth and richness, filling the space between them. Mihawk still hadn't opened his eyes, beginning to hum softly along with Robert Smith's voice.
"However far away, I will always love you..."
Shanks swallowed, watching Mihawk. His voice filled the room, as if he were singing a duet with the famous frontman, and the redhead couldn't suppress a smile — a slightly silly, boyish smile — that spread across his lips.
He lifted himself slightly to place one palm over Mihawk's hand on the carpet. Shanks felt the other boy flinch and slowly open his eyes, lowering his gaze to his friend.
And the smile shining on Shanks's face made Mihawk's heart skip a beat.
"However long I stay, I will always love you…"
Shanks ran his thumb across the back of Mihawk's hand, and suddenly Mihawk turned his hand over, letting Shanks weave his fingers through his own.
Shanks exhaled, interlocking their fingers. His legs, which had been kicking in the air the whole time, stilled, just like the rest of him.
"Whatever words I say, I will always love you…"
Mihawk squeezed Shanks's palm in his, not even thinking about what he was doing, and didn't look away from his brown eyes.
And suddenly Shanks began to rise — slowly, very slowly. First, he pushed up on his free hand, lifting his torso off the carpet, and then he leaned forward, toward Mihawk.
Mihawk froze, unable to move. He could feel his heart pounding somewhere in his ears, his breath catching, everything around him shrinking to a single movement. Shanks was drawing closer, and the light from the desk lamp illuminated his face, softening his features, making them almost unreal.
The guitar was still playing, Robert Smith's voice enveloping them, and Mihawk felt as if the song itself was urging Shanks forward.
"I will always love you..."
Shanks stopped a few centimeters from Mihawk's face. He didn't close his eyes, instead, he looked straight into the yellow eyes across from him, and there was no shadow of doubt in his gaze, only a cautious question.
Mihawk couldn't answer. The words were stuck somewhere deep in his chest, and instead, he parted his lips slightly.
Shanks leaned in closer, and Mihawk felt his warm breath on his cheek, carrying the faint taste of mint. Shanks, it turned out, had already brushed his teeth before they came up to the room. This tiny detail suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world to Mihawk.
They were almost touching lips. Mihawk could feel his own lashes trembling with each of Shanks's breaths. He could hear the record hissing in the pauses between songs, and the pounding of his — and, it seemed, Shanks's, too — heart. Shanks's hand tightened on his, and his breathing quickened.
Mihawk was just about to lean forward, to close that tiny distance between them, when the door burst open with a crash.
"Shanks!" Roger bellowed in his booming voice.
The two teenagers jerked apart. Shanks fell back, hitting the bed and hissing in pain, then grabbed a pillow lying on the carpet and covered his face with it.
Mihawk remained frozen, sitting on the carpet, his hand clenched into a fist. Only his cheeks were noticeably flushed, his eyes wide.
Roger stood in the doorway, still in his coat, with rain-damp hair and a large paper bag in his hands. He looked at them with a wide, pleased grin, but noticing how the two teenagers had frozen, both red-faced, he furrowed his brow in confusion.
"What's with you two?"
Shanks lay there, his face buried in the pillow he'd grabbed in panic. His ears burned such a bright red that they rivaled his hair, and he was making muffled sounds into the pillow that could have been an attempt to say something, but the words were lost in the fabric.
"What are you saying?" Roger asked his son, and Shanks finally lifted his head.
"You should’ve knock, Dad!" Shanks shouted, not angrily but clearly embarrassed, and turned his attention back to the record player.
Roger raised his eyebrows in surprise and twitched his mustache, then waved a hand at his son.
"I brought you hot dogs. Had to stop at the gas station, and then this downpour started! Lucky for me, Rayleigh..."
But Roger didn't get to finish — Shanks, who had already gotten up from the carpet, began pushing his father out of the room.
"Okay, Dad! We'll come down soon! Just let us listen to a little more music!"
"Oh, I didn't even notice at first! You're listening to The Cure? I remember dancing to one of their songs with your mother..."
Shanks finally managed to push his restless father out and stood at the closed door, leaning against it with both hands, his head hanging down. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd just run a marathon.
Then a strange sound came from behind him.
Quiet, stifled, something he had never heard from Mihawk before. At first, Shanks thought something was wrong, like maybe he was choking or had something caught in his throat. But the sound repeated, growing louder, and Shanks slowly turned around.
Mihawk was still sitting on the carpet in the same position, and his shoulders had begun to shake. His face was still red, but now there was something else — his lips were twisting, his eyebrows rising, and short, staccato sounds were escaping his chest, completely at odds with the image of the always composed, unflappable Mihawk.
Shanks froze, staring at him with wide eyes.
"Mihawk? Are you... are you okay?"
Mihawk looked up at him, and Shanks could see tears glistening in his yellow eyes. But they weren't tears of pain or hurt, there was a sparkle dancing in them, one Shanks had never seen before.
And Mihawk laughed.
It wasn't that restrained laugh he sometimes allowed himself. It was real, full-bodied laughter that seemed to burst out of him against his will. He covered his face with his palm, trying to hold it in, but that only made it worse — laughter escaped through his fingers, shaking his shoulders, making him bend forward until his forehead touched his knees.
Shanks stared at him, mouth agape. Never — not once in the two years they'd been friends — had he ever seen Mihawk like this. The reserved, always-controlled Mihawk, who never allowed himself to show emotion, who answered everything in an even voice, was now laughing as if he'd been holding it in for an eternity and finally let it all burst free.
"Hawky," Shanks said, his voice trembling with surprise. "You’re… laughing?"
Mihawk lifted his head, his face wet with tears. He tried to say something, but the words drowned in another wave of laughter. It was so infectious that Shanks, who had looked like he was staring at an alien just moments before, started laughing too.
Downstairs, Roger, now changed out of his coat, was helping his wife set out plates. Ace was still sleeping in his playpen upstairs.
"What are they laughing about so hard?" Roger grumbled, straightening the plates.
Rouge looked at her husband as if seeing him for the first time and shook her head.
"We'll ask them when they come down."
…
Mihawk snorted at the memory.
Yesterday, Roger had called him — him, not Shanks — to ask how his son was doing. He talked for almost an hour about what flowers he and Rouge had planted in the garden, how they grew their own vegetables, fruits, and berries, and how old friends had recently visited them. Roger spoke to him as if Mihawk were his own son, not Shanks's fiancé.
He turned back to the stove to finish cooking breakfast for five people. The kids would wake up soon: Ace was always the first, clomping down the stairs, usually followed by a sleepy Zoro, who had been woken by either Ace or Uta; and Uta would appear already singing, even if her eyes weren't fully open yet.
As Mihawk set the table, arranging plates and cups, he heard someone coming down from the second floor. Mihawk knew how everyone in their family walked — Uta, Ace, Zoro, even Perona or Luffy when they stayed over. But now Mihawk raised his eyebrows in surprise. The footsteps were softer, quieter, as if the person was trying not to wake the whole house, but not out of caution, but out of a desire to sneak up unnoticed.
It was Shanks.
Mihawk didn't even have time to turn away from the stove when one arm — only one now — wrapped around his waist. Shanks pressed against him from behind, warm and heavy from sleep, still smelling of blankets and their shared bed.
"Whatever words I say, I will always love you..." Shanks sang hoarsely from sleep, right next to Mihawk's ear, resting his chin on his shoulder. "I love that song..."
Mihawk huffed.
"You don't love The Cure. In school, you only listened to them because you wanted to impress me."
Shanks laughed quietly, pressing even closer to Mihawk, his fingers lightly tracing over Mihawk's stomach, lingering on the fabric of his shirt.
"So what? I love this song, at least."