Chapter Text
Injuries had always punctuated Dracule Mihawk's life. Nothing more normal when his job involved contorting his body into improbable angles and considerable physical exertion, while his passion, the only means he had to relax, required sharp swords. The injuries were therefore common. They could range from imperceptible bruises to slightly larger and more painful ones, to cuts, or even sprained limbs and other muscular injuries. On the other hand, there were the other injuries, those that were not visible to the naked eye and that took longer to heal, if they ever healed at all.
However, of all the injuries he'd ever suffered, this was the most ridiculous. Ridiculous and painful because it seemed one factor correlated with the other.
Mihawk was a professional ballet dancer, the best in the men's division, where his sister was his counterpart in the women's division. He'd won his first gold medal at the age of nine, a record, had played the lead role in numerous prestigious ballets, from Swan Lake to The Nutcracker, had appeared in music videos and visual media, and had even started a company with Boa to sell items bearing their likenesses or give dance lessons. There were even theaters named after him.
Mihawk owed his prestige, in part, to his reserved nature, which led him to prefer pointe shoes or foils over the company of his peers. He was also privileged by his physical assets, including his pretty face composed of refined features and sharp angles, the sharp contrast between his jet-black hair and milky skin, and his slender build covered in fine muscles. Mihawk also benefited from a natural grace because it was well known that all omegas, without exception, were predestined to be elegant and agile. Yes, stereotypes were tough, and some seemed indestructible. Finally, Mihawk also owed his dazzling career to years of training and supernatural rigor.
In short, Dracule Mihawk was a world-renowned celebrity, but even he wasn't immune to ridicule or pain. Nor was he immune to the plastic cars his son left lying around the house, including on the front steps. Inevitably, Mihawk, in a hurry and distracted, had slipped on the car while opening his umbrella. The rainfall in this town was divine vengeance for past crimes. Mihawk, too, had committed past crimes, and karma struck him without warning.
Indeed, the car had dragged his right foot toward the magnificent white stone steps, and the rest of his body had stupidly followed. The rain made everything wet and slippery, so fighting nature would have been futile. Unable to prevent the fall, Mihawk instinctively raised his left arm to protect himself. This was a serious mistake, since the fall was too short for him to tumble down the six steps, and he instead fell arm-first toward the flowerbed, made of stone rather than grass, to save time and improve aesthetics.
First, Mihawk registered the loud and unusual popping sound, equal to a crack. Then, a white light exploded beneath his tightly closed eyelids, and a sharp pain ignited in his arm, spreading throughout his body. It was as if burning coals were trapped within his arm. His nerves were also on fire despite the cold rain that continued to beat down on the poor omega. Instead of calming down, the pain continued to grow like a slowly blooming flower. It grew, and grew, and grew until it became a pretty, carnivorous flower that gnawed at his bones. It was as if a second heart were beating in his arm while the organ in question was already pounding.
Dazed by his fall and the pain, Mihawk blinked several times, but his vision remained blurry. Was it from an injury or the rain? It was impossible to tell. The stubborn omega still tried to get up, but a flash of pain through his arm sent him straight back to the ground. He groaned in pain and curled up slightly to protect himself from the pain. Futile, it was everywhere from his arm to his head and knee. The rain only added to his misery as his trench coat was soon soaked as well as his hair.
Unfortunately, his two neighbors, old white-haired idiots who spent their time chatting on the sidewalk, regardless of the weather or the time, had witnessed the entire fall. It was by far the most humiliating and ridiculous spectacle Mihawk had ever produced in front of spectators. They were the kind of gossips, the kind who offered cookies and glasses of milk to children, and they rushed to straighten up the usually dexterous and austere omega. They had never seen him so helpless and embarrassed in his life, but they didn't even think to mock him. Instead, they helped him get back home, where he and his obviously broken arm would be warm and dry, to call an ambulance.
Mihawk would have to think about thanking those old ladies once he was out of the hospital. For now, he was lying in a hospital bed, his arm in a cast pressed to his side. He didn't do anything by halves, not even hurting himself, so his arm was broken in three places—just one wouldn't be fun. He had a mild concussion, aka a big bruise, and his knee was badly damaged, enough to leave him limping for a few days. Mihawk looked at his forearm with disdain because he knew a bleak future awaited him, marked by months of immobilization and a few more of rehabilitation.
Yet looking at his arm as if he'd personally insulted him—which, technically, he had—was far more interesting than the person beside him. It was an anomaly, an incoherence, and a distortion of reality that wasn't meant to exist, at least not here, not with him. They weren't meant to coexist in the same space and time because they weren't meant to see each other again, ever. And yet, this anomaly was as red and shiny as its owner's hair.
They had grown. Red hair, Mihawk meant. Madness hadn't yet reached him despite the concussion. He'd been discreetly glancing to the side since he'd woken up, trying to understand, to unravel this mystery that made no sense, and to admire the view. A lot had changed in six years: Mihawk's beard had grown and he'd trimmed it expertly, he'd found a reason to be happy, and most importantly, his heart had healed. Finally, after six years, Mihawk could look back on those three cursed years without feeling like he was having a heart attack.
Except the heart attack was back, sitting on the couch, scrolling on the phone on his knee. His ex-husband had changed too, dramatically. He no longer resembled the young man in his early twenties who placed a high value on the image he projected: short hair, pressed shirt, tight pants, and a camera permanently around his neck. The young man spent as much time perfecting his look as he did pursuing his dream of photographing the entire world. The alpha was always on the move, never staying still, and never slept twice in the same place... or the same country. He wanted to see it all, live it all, and experience all the wonders of this world.
And yet, against all odds, he and the alpha had fallen in love. They couldn't have been more drastically different, even though they'd grown up in two close families—their fathers being best friends. Shanks was an adventurer while Mihawk was more of a homebody, even though he had to travel for work; one was rational and the other reckless; one only drank in his bars and the other from a crystal glass at home. There had been so many reasons for them to be apart and so few for them to be together, but they'd made it work, for three years until everything had fallen apart and all that remained of their love were broken hearts. At least, one had been shattered into hundreds of microscopic pieces.
This new version of Gol Shanks was different, marked by time as much as by hardship. His red hair was longer, darker too. Two small, rebellious strands framed his face with a diamond-shaped jawline, which had widened over time; his pointed chin had rounded, even though it remained as determined as ever. One of the two strands brushed against the middle cut as if to taunt Mihawk. There were three long cuts in total, their irregular lines extending from Shanks's forehead to halfway down his left cheek.
As for clothing, the alpha must not have consulted the weather forecast or taken it into account, because he wore denim shorts that revealed his hairy legs, sandals that offered no protection from the rain, and a garish, half-open Hawaiian shirt. The sleeves were short, just short enough to reveal the missing left arm. At least the scar-covered stump was hidden by the fabric.
The worst thing, even worse than seeing Shanks or hearing his breathing, was smelling him. The entire room reeked of the characteristic bitter scent of alphas. Their scents tended to represent their personalities, so Shanks smelled like a summer day spent at the seaside eating cinnamon rolls. The alpha's three main scents were indeed the freshness of citron, a lemony citrus, sea salt, and the warmth of cinnamon. Mihawk, on the other hand, was something darker and more mysterious, while the smell of old leather and the spiciness of cloves, softened by the finesse of vanilla, lingered on his skin. There was nothing sweet about him, not even his scent. At least, strangers knew better than to approach him.
So why was Shanks here, in this room, with him?
Could it be that he… no, impossible. It was impossible. Mihawk knew better than to hope for a happy ending now. For hope's place was with his heart: in a dark and cold place.
"What are you doing here?" Mihawk asked point-blank. No hello, no civility or courtesy, just a simple question with a simple answer. Mihawk would never let his walls come down for this alpha again, for only disappointment and betrayal would await him. So, if he had to appear cruel and cold, so be it.
Shanks jumped, surprised that Mihawk was already awake and able to speak despite his dry throat. He smiled, but it wasn't the wide, flirty smile from before; this one was small and awkward, not quite reaching his brown eyes. Shanks cleared his throat before admitting sheepishly, "The hospital called me. They said you were in an accident, but didn't specify how serious it was. I asked them why they called me, and they said I was your emergency contact."
The alpha punctuated his sentence with a question, as if he himself wasn't sure of the words coming out of his mouth. For good reason: in his youth, Shanks had been far from being a reliable or responsible contact, but Mihawk had chosen him anyway. At the time, he knew no one more loyal than the redhead. Shanks would have traveled the seas to be at the omega's bedside and thus keep his promise.
"No matter the country. No matter the time zone. I'll be there when you wake up to watch over you, my angel."
The idea appealed to Mihawk at the time because if he ever woke up in a hospital bed on the verge of death and in an unfamiliar country, he had wanted Shanks to be his familiar face. At least Shanks would have managed to make him smile and put things into perspective. Except that much water had flowed under the bridge, more like a devastating tsunami, and Mihawk had been so busy juggling his professional career and personal life that he had forgotten to contact the hospital. Mihawk always had everything under control, even the details, but he never thought he would end up hospitalized after a car accident—sort of.
Mental notes continued to pile up in the corner of his mind. Between eradicating all small cars from his house and thanking his neighbors, Mihawk would also have to change his emergency contact and hand over Rayleigh to prevent this kind of accident from ever happening again. If something more serious were to happen, if Mihawk's life were to be at stake and a choice had to be made, then it would be his father's to make, not his former husband, who hadn't spared him a thought in six years.
"You're not answering my question," Mihawk retorted harshly. "I want to know why you're making me displeased with your presence? Why did you choose to be here when the secretary called you? Why didn't you let me wake up alone?"
Tell me you remember us, our kisses, my hand in yours and your mouth on mine, and all those little moments we thought were ours.
Tell me you missed me even more than your left arm.
Tell me you're sorry you left without a fight, that this time you're going to fight, that you want this to work.
Tell me you love me, but not like you used to, when the shutters were closed, the blankets covered us, and no one saw us.
Instead, Shanks stiffened, annoyed by the patient's sharp tongue, and crossed his arms over his chest as best he could. "I would have stayed home if I'd known such a welcome awaited me. You might be a little more grateful."
"Grateful for what? You're the one who took your big boy legs to come here. I didn't ask you to grace me with your presence," as if the alpha's mere presence in the room wasn't even more torturous than his broken arm. At least the doctors had given him morphine to numb the physical pain, but the drug was useless against heartache.
The bitterness of the citron increased until it eclipsed the cinnamon and Shanks groaned, "This was a mistake."
"Indeed."
At least they still managed to agree on some things, including this one. They were so different, complete opposites, their dreams, their politics, and even their families, one underfoot and the other still alive, and yet they could compromise from time to time: their sexual preferences, waiting until their thirties before tying the knot forever, and even their divorces. Their three-month marriages had been doomed the moment Mihawk said 'I do', it had only been a matter of time before Shanks forgot about it and left, slamming the door behind him for good.
Almost a decade had passed, yet the tension between them was still there, like a stovetop fire just waiting for a little fuel to become a wildfire. Mihawk and Shanks had known each other since childhood, as their parents had remained best friends despite the distance, and they had hated each other for just as long. They fought, pulling hair and biting each other for any reason, under the guise of "they're boys" and "they're having fun." Their mutual hatred had never been a game, as Mihawk had been able to push Shanks into the pool only to have his science project destroyed under glitter.
It had only gotten worse as the years went by, when the hatred had turned into bitterness: how could Shanks, that idiot who couldn't take care of himself, was an alpha while Mihawk was stuck in an omega's body? An alpha was strong and powerful with a very territorial and protective side whereas omegas were soft and fragile, predisposed to taking care of children. Mihawk should have been an alpha, he was big and strong, but instead, he had been forced to watch Shanks steal his place and endure lame jokes when he could never become the best swordsman in the world.
Obviously, society had changed since the end of the Second World War, morals had become more liberated, and what was intolerable yesterday became possible now. Women had seized their opportunities and obtained the right to vote and have a life outside the family. But they had eclipsed the omegas, who took a while to follow suit. They too had obtained the right to vote in the 1960s and were able to free themselves with great difficulty from the oppressive yoke of the alphas thanks to suppressants and contraceptive pills. Except that stereotypes, once again, die hard, and omegas were still very frowned upon in combat sports until the 2000s. Mihawk had lost count of the number of insults, blows, and mockery, and tired of it, he had taken refuge in dance. The world was not yet ready to have a better male swordsman, not yet, Mihawk hoped.
Years had passed, Mihawk hadn't seen Shanks for years until fate brought them together in a singular way. Mihawk hadn't thought twice when his agent decided to hire a new photographer for promotional photos. There were so many talented photographers in the world that Mihawk had expected anything but Shanks. The first day had been tense for the first few minutes because at least a decade had passed. However, the tension had soon crackled again between them. Mihawk didn't trust Shanks' pseudo-photography skills where the alpha was overconfident, but they were no longer children and had found an outlet in the sheets.
Today, Mihawk had no intention of letting the tension escalate and submitting to a primal need. First, they were in a hospital, a public place where anyone could open the door and catch them in a sting. Second, the morphine was playing on his system, and if Mihawk didn't feel pain, he didn't feel any arousal either. Finally, opening his legs for this alpha inevitably meant opening his heart and letting it be pierced. There was no way. Mihawk could no longer afford to be emotionally destroyed by this redhead who had no business being with him. Shanks had already proven that enough in the past.
Yet the tension in the room grew, becoming as dark as it was electric, but neither of them was ready to break it and concede victory to the other. The alpha was only there out of principle and pity. He felt nothing for Mihawk except indifference and guilt, but had insisted on being there in honor of their childhood. Shanks had forgotten many things, but not their turbulent childhood. For his part, Mihawk had nothing to say to this pale copy of his husband. Indeed, the person by his side now was nothing more than a constant reminder of the person he had lost in tragic circumstances and that he was the only one mourning.
The beginning of the end had begun with a call. It was funny how happiness was so free of anything, so much less accessible than unhappiness and tragedy. For the call had been a tragedy for Mihawk, who had felt it like the beginning of the apocalypse. A hospital in Peru had called him because the mountaineering group had never returned. Rescuers had begun searching and had found half the group, but there was a greater chance that the others would remain forever lost and trapped in the ice. Mihawk had felt his heart freeze as if he were on that mountain with Shanks.
Not thinking rationally, the omega had left the theater despite his scheduled performance later that evening. His understudy should be happy to be able to shine in the spotlight. He had taken the first available plane to Peru and sprinted to the hospital. It had taken six hours and a snowstorm for the emergency services to find Shanks. Doctors had worked for hours to repair the damage caused by the fall and the steep mountainsides. And it had taken Shanks two months to wake up.
Shanks's parents and friends, Rayleigh, and Shakky, took turns being by the alpha's side when he woke up. None of them wanted the bubbly redhead to wake up alone and panic over the extent of his injuries. So, Mihawk had asked to be included in the rotation as a family friend since no one knew about their relationship. Beckman had looked at him strangely since the animosity between Mihawk and Shanks was common knowledge, but he couldn't say no to extra help.
Unusually, or as if fate were on their side, Shanks had woken up when Mihawk was at his bedside. He had smiled in relief at the warm brown eyes after two long and excruciating months. With tears in his eyes, Mihawk had whispered a weak "hey," hoping the worst was behind them. He had expected a joke like "an angel is watching over my awakening" before Shanks demanded a kiss and a hug despite his condition. Instead, the redhead had replied in a hoarse voice:
"Hawkeyes…? What are you doing here?"
Mihawk frowned in concern at the uncertainty and astonishment in Shanks's voice. The alpha shouldn't have been surprised to see his husband at his bedside, as he'd demanded they change their emergency contacts. Except the problem was far more serious, as neither gratitude nor love shone in Shanks's eyes. He looked at the omega as if he were an acquaintance he'd once known rather than the love of his life.
"What the hell? What the hell am I doing here? Is this a hospital? Did I drink too much after the game, uh?"
Stupidly, Mihawk had asked, "What match are you talking about?"
"The best game of the decade! The Whitebeards versus the Beasts! I mean, what would you think? You've never been interested in football…"
Mihawk wanted to deny it because yes, he had never been interested in watching men chase a ball and rejoice when it landed in a net. He had, however, been introduced to the rules and the tradition of beer and chips by Shanks himself these past three years. If the omega hadn't taken a liking to the sport and committed a crime by watching with a glass of wine in hand, he delighted in pretending he hadn't understood the rules to annoy Shanks and in noting the players' butts to make his mate jealous. And then, Mihawk ended up either falling asleep, curled up against the alpha's chest, or enjoying Shanks' team's victory.
Feeling apprehension rising within him along with dread, Mihawk had forced himself to ask, "What year was the match?"
"2000! Best year! Why?"
Mihawk's heart broke in his chest and tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to overflow. Fear paralyzed his brain and his veins froze. His world was going up in smoke before his eyes and the ashes slipped through his hands without Mihawk being able to do anything about it. He was strong, but even he could do nothing about selective memory loss. The alpha's head injury was so severe that Shanks had lost the memories of four years, three of which he had spent loving Mihawk.
Their relationship, which Mihawk had wanted to keep secret to protect it from prying eyes. He didn't want their families to taunt them, for Shanks's friends to convince him to stop this madness, or for his popularity to ruin everything. The evenings watching a game where Shanks had carried him to their bed. The heated arguments and other quarrels that had found an answer in the sheets. The intimate moments cooking together, taking pottery classes to create their bowls, or teaching each other their trades... everything had disappeared, frozen in the bowels of a capricious mountain.
They had tried to pick up their relationship where they left off, but it was impossible and doomed to failure. On the one hand, Shanks couldn't love someone he only had bad memories of while learning to function with a fickle memory and a missing arm. And on the other, Mihawk was cursed to always remember because he was incapable of forgetting and moving on.
So, Shanks might be physically there in that room, but he wasn't the one Mihawk wanted by his side. He wanted his Shanks, the only alpha who had ever loved and respected him, and with whom he had built something magnificent and solid. In a way, his Shanks, the one who brought him breakfast in bed, bought him flowers after every performance, and gave him gifts from his travels, was still stuck in that damn mountain. And Mihawk was incapable of loving anyone else, even if they wore the same face.
Yet Shanks continued to plague her with his presence, his scent, and his breath. Why didn't he leave? Why did he stay? Didn't he have something else to do somewhere, far away?
Speaking of himself, Shanks coughed in embarrassment rather than an itch and spoke for the first time in a long time, "I came because… well, no one deserves to wake up alone in a hospital bed. Not even the jerk who locked me in a basement."
Mihawk scoffed contemptuously. He was eleven years old and didn't particularly appreciate being followed around by a whiny, talkative kid who was annoying him. So, Mihawk had given Shanks a game: go get lost in the cellar. It hadn't exactly been his fault that the seven-year-old boy had found a packet of cookies and fallen asleep in the cellar, which was permanently lit by a small window. No one had ever suspected anything, but Shanks had never forgotten. Before, they had managed to laugh it off, but now, everything was different, darker, and less cheerful.
"You were there for me when I woke up…," Shanks continued, getting up to go to the bedside table. There, he poured water into a glass. "…even if it didn't go the way you wanted," he added with a lopsided grimace. Shanks didn't apologize, but at least he helped Mihawk drink.
The water was refreshing, but an apology would have been even more so.
"If there's one thing I know about hospitalizations, it's that sleep will do you the world of good. You kinda look awful. Do you want me to stay and drive you home afterward?"
"No, I don't need you," Mihawk replied without even looking to his right where Shanks was too close.
"Okay, and… uh… well, you want my scent? Sorry, that's weird," the redhead added hastily, facing the omega's glare. "I know alpha scents help calm omegas. So, I thought, since I'm the only one around, then…"
"I'm not some pathetic little thing who needs a big, powerful alpha," Mihawk spat coldly. "Besides, you've stunk up the room enough with your scent. You can leave now; your services are no longer required."
"At least you're well enough to bitch around," Shanks mocked as he walked away.
Mihawk didn't take the insult personally since Shanks literally knew nothing about him. He wasn't going to take it upon himself and be cordial just to spare this poor counterfeit's feelings. Back then, Shanks loved how much of a "bitch" and a "diva" he was, even going so far as to call him a "scoundrel." Each time, Mihawk would respond that he must have "earned it" because he was one of a kind. He didn't have the heart to do it now because this Shanks wouldn't understand and would insult him. Ultimately, it wasn't Mihawk who had changed; he had remained true to himself, whereas everything else had changed, for better and mostly for worse.
"All right, I'll leave if you don't need me anymore," added the redhead who was already at the door. It was a covert question, but Mihawk didn't take the opportunity and remained silent when Shanks opened the door. "Have the best of luck, Hawkeyes. It was nice seeing you again."
"I doubt it," Mihawk muttered, but he was already alone in the room.
In another time, a distant one, long gone, the slightly salty lemon scent sweetened by cinnamon would surely have lulled Mihawk into a deep, peaceful sleep. Now, it was nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything he had lost and could never have again. Closing his eyes, Mihawk remembered how pleasant it had been to rest while he was snuggled up against Shanks. He could picture the scene perfectly because it had haunted him every night for the past six years: his head rested against the inside of the alpha's forearm as he showed him the photographs of his trip. Their scent, a clever blend of spices, citrus, and flowers, permeated the sheets used for the nest, making it the perfect place to relax and sleep.
Nevertheless, when he opened his eyes again, Mihawk stared at the hospital's bland white ceiling. His dislike for this public service that reeked of antiseptic only grew because, in a sense, this place had taken Shanks from him. It was irrational, Mihawk knew, but he found it difficult to be rational when Shanks was involved. Medicine had come so far, yet it was incapable of restoring lost memories. All of this was unfair, but only the omega paid the price.
Mihawk fell asleep with this sad thought. His sleep was far from peaceful despite the morphine. He tossed and turned, never finding a comfortable position in the poor-quality bed. As for his dreams, they were more than bad as he imagined a life as alternative as it was impossible, filled with a single "what if," the only one that mattered.
What if Shanks had remembered him?