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Chapter Text

Sold? What do you mean sold?”

               “Yes, sold. As in, the house was for sale and someone bought it. The buyer takes ownership tomorrow.”

               “No.”

               “No—?”

               “No.”

               Mihawk glares through panes of antique stained glass at the cottage in question, where a For Sale/Sold sign whips violently from side-to-side. The weather—very dark, windy, and raining—perfectly encapsulates his mood.

               “Look,” says the realtor impassively, “I’m telling you as a courtesy, Mr. Dracule, not asking your permission. The property’s been severed—”

               “Which is illegal,” argues Mihawk vehemently. “I bought the property twenty years ago because it couldn’t be severed. It was designated a historic property under the jurisdiction of the National Trust—”

               “And now it’s not.”

               Mihawk bristles, his plumage indignantly ruffled. He changes tact. “Why wasn’t I approached to buy it first, then? I would have, had I known.”

               “We sent you a number of e-mails, you never responded.”

               “Of course I didn’t respond,” Mihawk scoffs. Honestly, does he look like someone who owns, let alone knows how to operate a computer? “I don’t even have electronic mail.”

               Frowning, the man pulls an address book from his pocket and reads a sequence of letters and numbers that Mihawk vaguely recognizes.

               “Oh, that,” he acknowledges disdainfully. “My publicist set that up years ago. He’s the one who managed it, not I. I thought it’d been deactivated when I retired. You should’ve sent a letter in the post like a respectable person.”

               “Be that as it may,” says the man, patronizing, “the issue is closed. The official decision was made six months ago by the historical society and town council at a meeting that you were personally invited to by letter, but chose not to attend.”

               “Attend a council meeting like a member of the public?”

               The man sighs. “I really don’t know what else to tell you, Mr. Dracule, except that I’m sorry you’re unhappy with the sale.”

               “No,” says Mihawk imperiously. Outside, the sky rolls with thunder and a flash of lightening fills the room, backlighting him with a threatening red glow. “You’ll be the unhappy one, because I’m calling my lawyer.”

“The sale is legal,” says Nico Robin, Mihawk’s lawyer.

               Mihawk stares at her in unblinking disbelief. Finally, he says: “No.

               “I hired you because you specialize in archeologic and historic properties. Find something wrong with it,” he insists, pointing at the documents piled neatly on her desk.

               “Mr. Dracule, the property you purchased twenty years ago was, and still is, a very old settlement. More than eight-hundred-years-old, by my estimation, which is why it was given historic designation. However, in light of what’s being called The Enlightenment of the Void Century, the historic relevance of the property, itself, has been reassessed and deemed insignificant to the era, which means…” she explains, as politely as possible, “…it’s not worth as much to the academic community as previously thought.”

               “I’m quite familiar with the so-called Enlightenment, Ms. Nico,” replies Mihawk peevishly. “I was inundated with archeologists and anthropologists at the time, all wanting to excavate my property; and I was sent rather a lot of rude correspondence about my renovation of the original building.”

               “Yes, well, you do live in what was an eight-hundred-year-old church.”

               “One deemed insignificant, it seems.”

               Robin surrenders her hands, the universal sign for: there’s nothing I can do.

               “Frankly, Mr. Dracule, the only reason the property has sat undisturbed for the past ten years is because it’s a highly undesirable piece of land and commercially undevelopable.”

               “I’ll have you know that I’ve won multiple awards for the wine from my vineyard.”

               Robin unfolds an old surveyor’s map and indicates with the nib of a pen: “It’s in a valley that acts as a wind-tunnel and is prone to flooding, situated in the north-eastern foothills of the mountain. Perhaps it’s not that you grow such fine grapes, sir, but rather how that is more deserving of credit.”

               “So, there’s nothing I can do?”

               “Six months ago, maybe. But now? No. The land has been parcelled,” —she indicates with the pen—“and the vicarage has been sold as a separate lot. It’s done, Mr. Dracule. I’m afraid you can’t win this one.”

               “So,” he repeats, with difficulty this time, “what you’re saying is, I’m to have a—a neighbour?”

               “My condolences,” says Robin sincerely.

Chapter Text

Hiya, neighbour!”

               Mihawk stares at the stranger.

               Six weeks ago, he had steeled himself for the expected confrontation with the newly-parcelled lot’s new owner, and mentally fortified himself against the inevitable disturbance that moving vehicles and multiple people would cause.

               Four weeks ago, he had prepared himself for the possibility of a construction crew and the achingly irritating noise and activity of a home renovation.

               One week ago, he had hoped that the property was merely an investment for the new owner, one that would not become a primary residence, and might even be put up for re-sale in the near future. Then Mihawk could buy the second lot for himself and be done with the whole fretful business.

               Five days ago, nothing had changed. The For Sale/Sold sign was still there.

               Three days ago, the wind blew the sign down, as if it had never been there at all.

               Yesterday, Mihawk listened to the wind whistling down the flute of his chimney, a glass of wine in hand, and felt content that all was well and as it should be in his isolated slice of the world.

               Then, today, the bell rang.

               A bell that hasn’t been rung in ten years.

               A loud, metallic ring that shatters the melancholic silence of the gloomy house, from the flagstone corridor to the cavernous great room, up the stained glass windows into the arching rafters and buttressed pillars it rings. Then, from the towering double front door and roofed porch come the three words that Dracule Mihawk detests most of all:

               “He-ll-o—! Anyone home?”

               In a foul temper, he jerks one of the doors open and finds a cheerful, red-haired man standing outside.

               “Oh, you are home. Hiya, neighbour! I’m Shanks.”

               “Irrelevant,” says Mihawk in unwelcome. “Don’t ever ring that bell again.” Then he shuts the door in Shanks’ face.

               He turns away, intending to ignore the intruder, but a loud, incessant knocking begins.

               A notoriously impatient man, Mihawk’s temper flares as he pulls open the heavy door once more.

               “I didn’t ring the bell,” says Shanks cheekily. “You’re Mihawk, aren’t you? They warned me about you.”

               “They warned you?”

               “Yeah,” says Shanks, and Mihawk can’t decide if he feels insulted or flattered by that.

               “They said you’re an unfriendly, uptight, reclusive old snob.”

               Insulted; definitely insulted.

               “Well, they’re right,” Mihawk snaps. He starts to close the door again, but this time Shanks grabs it.

               “No, they’re not,” he says, giving Mihawk’s figure a long, flirtatious appraisal. “You’re not old at all.”

               Mihawk glares and pulls harder on the door, but the redhead is uncommonly strong and it doesn’t budge.

               “Like I said before, I’m Shanks: your new neighbour. I’m thirty-seven. Single, no dependents. Pisces. Blood-type AB. My hobbies include sailing, drinking, parties, and drinking parties. And I’m currently unemployed. Now, you go.”

               “Let go,” says Mihawk through his teeth, yanking the door two-handed to no avail.

               “You’re shy, that’s okay. I’ll go for you,” Shanks grins, as if they’re playing a game. “You’re Dracule Hawk-Eyes Mihawk, still known as the greatest swordsman in the world, even though you’re retired. An athlete—I like that. Forty-one. Also a Pisces. We share our birthday, isn’t that cool? You’re blood-type O. Tall, dark, and very handsome. Notoriously standoffish. And a brewer of fine wine—I like that even more.

               “I read your World Economy bio,” he admits when Mihawk stares back at him, aghast. “Didn’t know when I bought the place that I’d be living next-door to a celebrity. Do you get a lot of reporters, or crazy sports fans?” he asks hopefully.

               “No. I don’t get any visitors ever.”

               “Awe, that’s a shame. It must be pretty lonely out here all by yourself. But, hey! I’m here now! And I’ve got a fuck-ton of charisma, or so I’m told.”

               “Have you ever been told that you’re annoying and unwanted?” asks Mihawk.

               “Frequently,” says Shanks. “Can I come in?”

               “Absolutely no—”

               “Great, thanks!” Shanks pushes open the door one-handed and skips past Mihawk. “We should celebrate my moving-in with a bottle of this fancy, award-winning wine I’ve heard so much about. I’m not usually much of a wine-drinker, to be honest, but for the right price and proximity a man can change. Oh, wow! This place is huge! It used to be a church, right? Like, a really long time ago? It must’ve cost a fortune to restore, but I guess you’re not hard up for cash, eh? Endorsements and all that. How long have you lived here? How many rooms are there? Can I have a tour?”

               Mihawk stares in abject horror as Shanks’ voice fades into the house.

               What is happening?

               People don’t just invite themselves into his private space. People don’t smile at him, or joke with him. People don’t ask him personal questions, or choose to spend unpaid time with him.

               What the fuck is happening?

               There is no protocol for this. The agreed upon rules of societal etiquette are supposed to protect people from unwanted attention, and Mihawk’s own notorious reputation is supposed to protect him from social engagement. But Shanks’ decorum goes beyond people-person into the unapologetically frank, as if he is entitled to Mihawk’s home, as if it is his own. The very idea that this strange man—who looks like a castaway, by the way—has kicked off his sandals and is now prancing merrily down the corridor in his bare feet sets the swordsman’s blood ablaze.

               Fists clenching for want of a sword, Mihawk stalks off after him and, in doing so, unknowingly seals his fate.

I love that you have a trophy room,” says Shanks, listlessly sloshing a glass of robust red wine as he circles the parlour.

               “It’s not a trophy room. It just happens to have trophies in it.”

               “I don’t know… it’s a lot of trophies. I think that qualifies it as a legit trophy room. And medals—holy shit! Is this real gold?”

               “Yes,” says Mihawk, fluttering anxiously after him. “Please don’t touch—”

               Too late. Shanks has already placed the ribbon over his head and is smiling big and goofily as he holds up the medal, like every photographer at every competition had wanted Mihawk to do for twenty years.

               “How do I look?”

               “Like a thief. Put that back.”

               Shanks does not put that back. He puts down his wineglass—on an antique table, sans coaster—and removes a Dressrosan rapier from its display. “En garde—!” he teases, holding it like a cutlass.

               Mihawk crosses his arms, and says: “You’re extremely intrusive.”

               “I know.”

               “And you look like a fool.”

               “I know that, too,” says Shanks, swinging the rapier from side-to-side.

               Mihawk’s eye twitches; he takes a deep breath. He will not engage. He will not engage. He will not—

               “Oh, for God’s sake, stop that! It’s a sword, not a scythe! You’re holding it too tight and the placement of your fingers is all wrong. The palm of your hand should cradle the grip, your lower three fingers should wrap the handle in a descending tier, and your thumb and forefinger should loop through these top and bottom rings and rest over the crossbar so that your hand is encapsulated within the protective guard.”

               “The part that looks like a cage—?”

               “Yes. Now, turn your wrist slightly and extend your arm, making a straight line from the tip of your thumb to your elbow. No, not like that—that, that’s better. Maintain a light pressure on the handle, but don’t twist your wrist to direct the blade; keep your arm strong and stable. Good. But your posture is atrocious.”

               “Oh, is it? You’d better show me that, too,” says Shanks, and only then—hearing the sly note in the redhead’s voice; feeling the intentional brush of his leg—does Mihawk realize he’s touching the other man, holding his wrist and forearm, and standing intimately close to do so. He realizes that he’s been touching Shanks for several minutes, now, as he repositions his amateur fencing form, and abruptly lets go.

               “It’s not a toy!” he snaps, annoyed with the redhead and abashed at himself. “And fencing is not a game!”

               “But it is a sport. And sports are games, so technically…”

               Mihawk’s glare says: I will cut you to ribbons. Shanks smiles sheepishly and carefully places the rapier back on its stand.

               “And the medal.”

               “Oh, ha ha—right,” Shanks chuckles amiably, as if he’s forgotten that he’s wearing the priceless award, which only increases Mihawk’s suspicion. Could it be that Shanks really is a thief? And Mihawk has—well, he hasn’t let him in, but he’s in the house now regardless, possibly casing the layout for future breaking-and-entering.

               “What is it you said you do, again?”

               “I didn’t,” says Shanks, exchanging the medal for his wineglass. He takes a needlessly long gulp and licks his lips in an uncomely way. Stalling, Mihawk thinks. “I’m unemployed.”

               “Of course you are.”

               “What? You’re unemployed, too.”

               Mihawk bristles. “I most certainly am not. I’m retired, there’s a difference.”

               “In what, nomenclature?” Shanks laughs. Then he moves to look out the window at the steely sky, a nostalgic smile on his face. “I was a sailor.”

               “Here?”

               “No, not here.”

               “Then where?”

               “Well, that’s the thing. I’m not from anywhere, really; not officially. And neither was my ship.”

               “Not a fishing vessel, then.”

               “No. Cargo.”

               Mihawk’s eyes narrow. “What kind of cargo?”

               Shanks shrugs, as if it’s irrelevant. “Whatever needed getting from one place to another. I’ve seen a lot of the world.”

               “And your employer—?”

               “No employer. I was, err… freelance.”

               “And your profit?”

               “Sometimes lots, sometimes none. You know how it is.”

               Mihawk sighs and takes Shanks’ empty wineglass from him.

               “So, you’re not affiliated with any one nation, which means you’re not subject to any nation’s maritime laws, and you sailed in a privately-owned, undocumented vessel for the purpose of transporting undisclosed goods, which—correct me if I’m wrong—may or may not have been appropriated by less than legal means, or rather, would be, if you were accountable to any one governing body, which you’re not. So, essentially… you’re a pirate.”

               Shanks thinks about it for a moment, then answers with a smile: “Yes!”

               “Get out.”

               “Although, technically I’m a retired pirate, now—”

               “Get out of my house.”

               “Oh. Really?”

               “Yes.”

               “You really want me to go?”

               “Yes.”

               “But I’m a nice pirate, I promise—”

               “Out!”

A day later, there’s a brief reprieve from rain and Mihawk is in the vineyard, pruning vines, when he’s interrupted by the last voice he wants to hear:

               “I’m not going to rob you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

               He takes a deep breath and turns around, razor-sharp secateurs in hand.

               “I’m not afraid of you,” he tells the redhead, who is barefoot and leaning against a wooden post strung with leafy wire. “And I’d kill you if you tried.”

               “You’d kill me, really—?” Shanks pouts and presses a melodramatic hand to his heart.

               Mihawk says: “Yes.”

               “Hmm, but do you really think you could?”

               “I’m the certified world expert on attacking with pointy objects, or have you forgotten?”

               “Oh, I definitely haven’t forgotten. I think about it frequently,” Shanks grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Still, I can’t believe you’d actually stab me.”

               “I’d cut your throat, but the end result would be the same.”

               “And you’d bury my body here in the orchard?”

               “It’s a vineyard,” Mihawk corrects. “And no, don’t be ridiculous. The gasses from your decomposing corpse would be hazardous to the signature flavour of my grapes.”

               “I know it’s a vineyard. That was a film reference.”

               “What?”

               “Never-mind,” Shanks shakes his head, chuckling. Then he looks right at the swordsman with soft, blue-grey eyes, and says: “I like you.”

               Mihawk is taken aback by the suddenness of the statement, but also the ease with which Shanks admits it. So much so, that he accidentally blurts: “Why?”

               Shanks smiles. “I like interesting people, and you, Mr. Dracule, are a very interesting person.”

               “And you’re a pirate.”

               “Was a pirate—was! Now, I’m just your neighbour.”

               “And a trespasser,” Mihawk begins, but the redhead’s finger cocks back-and-forth in a no-no way that makes the swordsman want to throw the secateurs at him.

               “Property line,” Shanks says, pointing down in front of his feet. “In fact, this whole last row of grapevines is on my property, now, which technically make them mine. And oh! What delicious grapes I have!”

               Mihawk watches stonily as Shanks plucks a small, pearl-like green grape from a meticulously trimmed vine and pops it into his mouth. A second later, he’s rewarded when the pirate’s cheeks pucker and his eyes water.

               “Delicious—?” he mocks.

               Shanks valiantly swallows. “Oh, y-y-yeah—” cough cough “—they’re super delicious—!”

               “A shame they won’t be ripe for another three months then.”

               Shanks blanches a little. Mihawk asks: “Are you done? I’d like to finish my work in peace, if you don’t mind.”

               “Oh, I don’t mind at all… just as long as you don’t touch a single grape growing on my property, because, if you did, that would be stealing, you know. And I’d hate to have to accuse you of robbing me.”

               Mihawk is back to glaring, now. Clenching the secateurs, he advances on Shanks, but stops when the other man holds up his hand.

               “Ah-ah,” he smirks impishly, pointing downward again. “You wouldn’t want to be caught trespassing on my property, now, would you?”

               Mihawk has never had a nemesis before. Frankly, no one’s ever had the guts—or, the balls—to challenge him. The feelings churning within him now are entirely new and he doesn’t know how to effectively communicate them. So, he says:

               “You are insufferable.”

               Shanks smiles, as if Mihawk has paid him a compliment. “My pleasure, sweetheart.”

               Then he tips his tattered straw hat and saunters off.

Chapter Text

Hiya, neighbour! I think I picked-up your post by mistake. Do you actually subscribe to Okama Magazine, or is this catalogue just a promotion? And if you don’t, or already do—can I keep the subscription form?”

               Mihawk regrets opening the door. He closes it without a word.

               “You’ve also got an invoice from the Galley-La Company,” calls Shanks from the other side. “I opened it by mistake. Says they’re owed money for waxing your inner sanctum. Is that a euphemism—?”

               “It’s the sanctuary of the church!” says Mihawk, pulling back the door and ripping the envelope from Shanks’ hand. “Galley-La is a building contractor! I hired them to wax the hardwood floor, you imbecile!”

               “I know,” Shanks grins. “I just wanted to see your reaction.”

               Mihawk’s reply is nonverbal.

               Shanks says: “So, where exactly did we land on the Okama catalogue? Are you keeping it, or—? If you’re into waxing, they’ve got some quality products you might be interested in—”

               “No and no!” Mihawk snaps.

               “Double-negative?” Shanks lifts an eyebrow. “That’s a yes, then.”

               “Get off my porch!”

Shit! Sorry, neighbour! Are you okay? Wow, I’d have thought you’d have better reflexes, being an athlete and all, but I guess you’re out of practice. Can I have my ball back, please?”

               Mihawk, rubbing the crown of his head, looks down at the offending football, which Shanks had kicked with all of the power and imprecise aim of a cannonball.

               “I am not out of practise!” he says, taking insult. “My reflexes are more than adequate when I’m not having to dodge unexpected flying projectiles! What the hell are you doing, anyway?”

               “Playing with my balls.”

               “Alone?”

               “What, you want to play with my balls, too—? They’re good balls, very firm.”

               In answer, Mihawk flips open a penknife and punctures the football. It deflates with a surrendering hiss.

               “Harsh,” says Shanks.

Hiya, neighbour! Cute oven mitts. What’re you cooking? Smells good. Can I borrow a ladder?”

               Mihawk hides the mitts behind his back. “What do you need a ladder for?”

               “I’m re-shingling my roof,” says Shanks, throwing a thumb over-the-shoulder to indicate the mess of broken tiles accumulating on his lawn.

               Mihawk’s look is dubious. “Are you qualified to do that?”

               Shanks shrugs. “How hard can it be? It’s just a lot of hammering,” he says, patting a tool-belt that hangs low on his hips.

               Mihawk considers denying the request, but doesn’t think it will stop Shanks clambering onto the cottage roof one way or another. At least, if he lends him the ladder, it’ll save him the anxiety of not knowing. So, with reluctance, he gives over the key to the garden shed and sends the redhead on his merry way.

               Half-an-hour later, Mihawk hears a shout, then a crash, and runs out the door, leaving his lunch going cold on the plate.

               In the vicarage’s back-garden, the ladder lies crookedly on the stone patio, surrounded by tiles and chimney bricks, while Shanks stares balefully down at it from the roof.

               “Oops,” he says, wiping his brow. He’s smudged and shirtless and shines with sweat, red hair plastered to his forehead and shadowing his chest. “I think I broke your ladder,” he says to Mihawk.

               Upon closer inspection, the base of the wooden ladder has split and one of the folding braces has popped out.

               “Please tell me you didn’t load it with bricks.”

               “I won’t, if you don’t want me to…”

               Mihawk inhales deeply, holds it for a moment—who the fuck breaks a ladder?!—then calmly lets it out.

               “Hey, Mihawk? Wait—where are you going? You’re just going to leave me stranded up here?”

               Mihawk doesn’t look back. Not until he hears the thunk of metal and the whine of an unstable eavestrough.

               Why? he thinks, turning slowly in dread. Why is this happening to me?

               Shanks is dangling precariously from the eavestrough, which inevitably rips free of the roof and swings to the side, taking the redhead with it. He slams into the cottage’s wall, then falls into a thicket of shrubbery, taking Mihawk down with him.

               “Oh, shit! Are you okay?” Shanks—unhurt—hauls Mihawk to his feet and rapidly begins brushing leaves from his hair and clothes.

               “I’m fine, stop that!” says Mihawk, slapping him away. “Don’t touch me! Your hands are filthy, and you—”

               He stops. He notices the malignant shape of the leaves. He recognizes it as Little Garden ivy.

Thanks,” says Shanks, twelve hours later. He accepts the white paper-bag Mihawk grudgingly offers, delivered by the village chemist. Naked from the waist up and knees down, the redhead’s skin is aflame. It makes the skin on Mihawk’s cheek and neck and hands itch where he, too, is splattered in a painful red rash.

               “Did you call the forester?” he asks through his teeth.

               Shanks avoids eye-contact. “Err, right… about that…”

               Mihawk shoves the bag into Shanks’ chest, making him wince. “Call the damn forester!” he snaps.

               “And a goddamn professional roofer!” he adds, stomping away.

For six weeks, Mihawk suffers the calamity that is Shanks.

               He suffers the sound of Shanks’ loud, irritating shanty music, and his even more irritating singing-voice.

               He suffers the sight of Shanks’ painting their mutual fence a garish shade of eggplant and mowing his lawn at seven a.m.

               He grows increasingly annoyed by the redhead’s constant interruptions, his lewd jokes, his heinous personal hygiene, and his inexplicable carefree attitude. Nothing seems to ruffle him. Not when a storm blows his chimney over and his roof begins to leak. Not when a colony of bats take up residence in his car-port. Not when a careless motorist gets lost and crashes across his lawn, leaving deep grooves in the waterlogged earth. What’s more, he talks to people who come to his house. He invites them inside and entertains them, takes them on a tour of the valley. Sometimes it’s villagers, but more often it’s tourists or academic researchers who beg Shanks to show them the church.

               “Hiya, neighbour! These nice people were wondering if they could have a quick look inside your—”

               Mihawk slams the door and immediately orders a No Trespassing sign to be delivered as soon as possible.

               Shanks can and will talk to anyone and their dog—literally. He’s cheerful and charming and every woman he meets swoons at his handsome, crooked smile. Children adore him; babies giggle at his goofy face. And men shake his hand, and say with sincerity: “It was a pleasure to meet you!”

               Sometimes, Mihawk thinks he understands it. People like people who like them, and Shanks likes everyone.

               Sometimes, when Shanks is in his back-garden, mostly naked and boxing a punching-bag and lifting weights, he gets why people are so attracted to him.

               Shanks is approachable, but mysterious. Unthreatening, but powerful. Passive, but boisterous. And alluring.

               Then he does something, like send a couple of missionaries to Mihawk’s door—two tall, robed men who ask if he’s heard of the Church of Enel—and Mihawk hates Shanks all over again.

               “Your neighbour assured us you’d be interested in contributing to our Lord Enel’s noble crusade—”

               “My neighbour is a reprobate,” Mihawk says, slamming the door.

               For six weeks, Mihawk does his best to pretend that Shanks doesn’t exist and utterly, spectacularly fails.

That guy? He’s what’s got you so agitated?”

               Crocodile is standing at the parlour window, pointing to the vicarage’s back-garden, where Shanks’ prostrate figure is swinging gently in a hammock—one leg hanging out; several empty beer bottles on the ground—dead-asleep.

               “I am not agitated.”

               Crocodile faces his friend. “You’re wound tighter than a fucking top, Hawk-Eyes. When was the last time you got laid?”

               Mihawk stops pacing long enough to glare at Crocodile. “That is irrelevant to this conversation and none of your goddamn business,” he says, then resumes.

               Crocodile rolls his eyes, then lights a cigar and lets himself down into a large leather armchair. “He’s not bad looking.”

               “He looks like a vagabond.”

               “A vagabond, who—for some inexplicable reason—seems to really like you.”

               “That’s his problem, not mine.”

               “So, make it yours,” says Crocodile, blowing-out earthy-smelling smoke. “I bet you’d have fun.”

               “What part of he’s insufferable do you not understand? I didn’t invite you here for dating advice,” Mihawk reminds him sharply. “I didn’t invite you at all.”

               Crocodile laughs: “Heh, who said anything about dating?”

               “I’m not fucking my neighbour, Crocodile.”

               “Why not? I fucked mine.”

               “I wouldn’t brag about that. It’s not an inspiring story.”

               “Why? Because it ended in divorce?”

               “Because it ended in prison. Can we get back on topic, please?”

               “Which was?”

               “Shanks.”

               “Oh,” says Crocodile teasingly. “It has a name, now, does it?”

               Mihawk scowls at him.

               Crocodile says: “Admit it, Hawk-Eyes, you’re interested in him.”

               “I absolutely am not.”

               “Really? Because in all the years we’ve known each other I’ve never seen you so bothered by anyone before.”

               “Don’t be daft, Crocodile. Everyone bothers me.”

               “No, no—you’re indifferent to everyone. As in, you don’t care about anyone enough to be bothered by them, except him. What makes him different?”

               “Proximity,” says Mihawk, crossing his arms.

               “You mean, you can’t run away from him like you do everyone else.”

               “Excuse me. I am the greatest swordsman in the history of the fucking world, I don’t run away from people.”

               “You withdraw, it’s the same thing. And you use that title and this house and all your money to do it.”

               “That’s my choice,” says Mihawk, quieter. “I didn’t ask for some red-haired nobody to barge in and save me.”

               “Maybe not out-loud.”

               Mihawk looks at Crocodile in distrust. Crocodile shrugs.

               “I’ve never known you not to be alone,” he says plainly. “That’s not how people are meant to live.”

               “It’s how I live—”

               “And I’ve never seen you happy, either. Fuck, Hawk-Eyes. You’re the greatest swordsman in the world and I’ve never seen you happy about it.”

               Mihawk swallows; his chest feels tight. “I earned that title and I am extremely proud of it.”

               “Proud isn’t happy. Happy is what you share with other people; it’s not something you feel all alone.”

               “And, what?” snaps Mihawk in defence. “You think he will make me happy?”

               “I think he wants to try.”

               Mihawk has nothing to say to that. All he can do is wonder: “Why?”

               Crocodile looks at his friend for a long, appraising moment; the look of a ruthless businessman assessing an investment. He lowers the cigar, blowing-out a smoke ring. Then he tells Mihawk honestly: “Beats the shit out of me.”

Chapter Text

Despite his animosity, Mihawk does think on Crocodile’s advice. He thinks on it a lot, as he has nothing and no one to distract him from doing so, and, after many days of careful consideration and surreptitious observation, he comes to the conclusion that his friend’s assessment is complete and utter rubbish.

               He is not lonely. He is not emotionally-bankrupt. And he most certainly does not need some audacious man-child to save him from himself.

               Crocodile might be Mihawk’s only friend, but they are very different people at heart—most especially in love. For all of his bluster, Crocodile is co-dependent in his relationships. He needs and he wants with a desperate ferocity that Mihawk can’t even begin to comprehend and knows he will never feel for himself. In the business-world, it makes the self-made man powerful: ruthless, ambitious, intimidating to the point of threatening, and incredibly successful. But in a romantic context, all of that fiery passion becomes obsession. A possessive, jealous, violent desire that sinks its poisonous teeth into him and doesn’t let go until he and his partner have both destroyed themselves for it. Really, the only thing Mihawk admires about Crocodile’s relationships is how effectively he rebuilds himself afterward, like a phoenix reborn from the ashes of heartbreak and restraining-orders (—though, his investors might feel differently, as Crocodile has torpedoed three businesses at this point). It’s unhealthy, of course, but so are cigars; it doesn’t mean he’ll give either of them up, and that’s fine, because it works for him. But it doesn’t work for Mihawk, because Mihawk is not Crocodile, and Crocodile’s dating advice is the stuff of S&M pornography.

               No fucking thank-you.

I’m not taking your advice,” says Mihawk into the telephone receiver.

               Crocodile’s slow, smoky voice crackles across the line: “Why not?”

               “Because you’re manipulative, co-dependent, and certifiably insane.”

               “No, Hawk-Eyes. Tell me how you really feel.”

                Mihawk is pacing in front of a roll-top desk, where the telephone sits in front of a large, lead-glass window, the cord following his back-and-forth.

               “You married and divorced the same man twice, Crocodile.”

               “Married twice, divorced once. We’re currently just separated.”

               “Because he’s in prison?”

               “That is a contributing factor, yes.”

               Mihawk sighs. “I’m calling as a courtesy only. And to pre-emptively eradicate any thoughts you might have of intervening.”

               “Who, me? I would never.”

               “You’re a plotting, lying opportunist who can’t be trusted. Don’t deny it, we both know it’s true, which is why I’m only going to say this once: if you violate my privacy again, I will castrate you.”

               Crocodile’s chuckle rumbles in Mihawk’s ear.

               “You don’t believe I’ll do it?”

               “Oh, I believe you can castrate with surgical precision, my friend. I don’t doubt that for an instant. But is castration really the best threat you can think of?”

               Mihawk frowns. “What’s wrong with castration? It’s simple yet effective, and it guarantees the recipient can’t reproduce. It serves my purpose perfectly. Not all of us are predisposed to overt displays of sadism, you know.”

               “Indeed. Let no one say you’re not efficient—”

               “Oh my God,” says Mihawk suddenly. Through the window, he spots Shanks carrying what looks like a giant, tricolour parachute and dragging a keg across his backyard. “I have to go.”

               He hangs up without waiting for his friend’s reply, slips into his boots, and sets off to investigate.

               The moment Shanks sees Mihawk marching toward him, he perks-up. “Hiya, neigh—”

               “What are you doing?”

               “Oh, this? I’m having a party.”

               “No, you’re not.”

               Shanks smiles playfully. “Oh, I think I am. I’ve got a tent and a keg and two-dozen pizzas. And guess who’s invited—?”

               “Please don’t say me—”

               “You! And nine other guys.”

               “Do you seriously think ten people can drink a keg?”

               “Don’t know, but we’re all pretty keen to try. Say you’ll come, yeah? It’s going to be fun! Mihawk? Hey, where are you going—?”

               “Home,” says Mihawk in resignation, “to prepare for a siege.”

               “Okay, well, have fun with that! Party starts at eight!”

That evening, at around eight o’clock, Shanks’ guests begin to arrive and the tranquil peace of the quiet, foggy valley is shattered by big, boisterous hoots of greeting, laughter, and the snarl of a motorbike. By ten o’clock, the party is in full swing: men talking; a bonfire crackling; music blasting. By eleven, cheers accompany a competitive—drunken—feat of strength and daring. By eleven-thirty, a loud, off-key singalong erupts. And by midnight, Mihawk has had enough. He stops to inspect his reflection in a wall-mirror to ensure his ears aren’t bleeding—to smooth down his feathery hair—then puts on knee-high boots and a flattering black jacket and ventures next-door to lodge a complaint.

               By the time someone answers the cottage door, Mihawk has been banging on it for several minutes, each one bringing him closer to an aneurism.

               “Hi there!” yells the stranger over the blare of shanty music. Mihawk glares at him. “Eh, Captain—?! There’s a hot, angry guy on your doorstep!”

               “What?!” yells Shanks, jogging into view. He’s wearing long, paisley-print shorts, an unbuttoned chequered shirt, and nothing else. He’s unkempt, unshaved, and his teeth positively glow in the porch light as his mouth stretches into an elated smile. A trickle of sweat runs down between his pectorals, over hard ridges of abdomen, and soaks into a line of dark-red hair below his naval.

               “Mihawk, you came!”

               Mihawk drags his gaze up the length of Shanks’ torso back to his face. “I—” He clears his throat. “I came to tell you to turn the music down.”

               “What?!” Shanks yells, smiling bigger, leaning closer. “I can’t hear you! The music’s too loud!”

               Mihawk’s annoyance floods back. He dislikes raising his voice, as it’s not a booming voice to begin with, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

               “Turn it down!” he shouts. “The whole valley is vibrating!”

               “What about vibrating—?!”

               “No, the—”

               “Never-mind!” Shanks waves dismissively. He circles behind Mihawk like a boarder-collie, herding him into the house. “Come on in!”

               “No, I’m not—!”

               His protest goes unheard and unheeded as he’s swept through the cottage’s front door, then almost instantly deposited out the back. Shanks guides him with a hand between his shoulder-blades, applying just enough pressure to prevent an escape attempt. They step into the yard, and then Mihawk is the object of interest for nine strange men.

               “Everybody!” Shanks hollers, and finally someone turns down the music. “This is my friend, Mihawk. He lives next-door. Mihawk, this is Benn, Yasopp, Lucky Roo, Limejuice, Bonk Punch, Monster, Building Snake, Hongo, and Gab,” he says, pointing to each in succession.

               Mihawk starts to wonder at the odd nicknames, before remembering that his only friend’s moniker is a man-eating reptile.

               A chorus of lazy greeting fills the tent, under which several activities are taking place simultaneously. On one side, someone is barbequing, while on the opposite side someone is eating a live fish on a dare. In the middle, the two biggest men are locked in an arm-wrestling contest, while another serenades them and two others dance a jig, and the door-greeter—Yasopp—wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. The last of the jolly crew—Benn—sits in a folding-chair, quietly smoking a cigarette while supervising the chaos, and it’s he whom Shanks ushers Mihawk toward.

               “Here, sit down here,” he urges, making Mihawk sit on a cushioned bench. “I’ll get you a drink.”

               “No, I—I’m not staying!” Mihawk calls, but Shanks either doesn’t hear him, or pretends not to, so Mihawk is left in the midst of bedlam to await his return. He makes momentary eye-contact with Benn, then quickly looks away.

               Do not engage, he thinks, while trying not to think of why he doesn’t just get up and leave. His house is only forty metres away. If he slips away, now, he might make it back before—

               “Here you go,” says Shanks, shoving a red plastic cup into Mihawk’s hand. Then he plops haphazardly onto the bench beside him and stretches his arm across the backrest, so close to Mihawk’s rigid shoulders that he can feel the other man’s heat.

               “I’m not usually a beer-drinker,” is all he can think to say.

               “What then?” asks Benn.

               “Oh!” exclaims Shanks, before Mihawk can reply. “Mihawk makes amazing wine! It’s so good! Like, award-winningly good! His cellar’s basically a brewery—a brewery? No, a winery. He owns the whole vineyard! Well, almost the whole thing; I own some of it, now. Some of his grapes are actually my grapes, but they’re all really good grapes! Tell them, eh?”

               Mihawk glances at Shanks, then looks at his audience—nine men staring, now, thanks to Shanks’ inebriated outburst. They wait, and someone coughs expectantly.

               “I own the vineyard and I make wine. That’s it,” he says flatly.

               Benn nods. Lucky Roo says: “Cool.”

               Shanks says: “It is, isn’t it? Mihawk’s all classy, like.”

               This time, Benn rolls his eyes. He takes a long drag on the cigarette, then asks Mihawk: “Where have I seen your face before?”

               “A magazine cover, probably!” Shanks answers. “Mihawk’s the number one ranked swordsman in the world!”

               “Retired,” Mihawk adds, having re-captured everyone’s attention.

               “Swords, like fencing?” Yasopp asks.

               “In part, yes. Among other things.”

               “Things like being all dark and broody, with magazine worthy sex-appeal,” Shanks grins, nudging Mihawk playfully.

               Mihawk slaps his hand away, making Benn chuckle.

               “Careful, Captain. This one’s got talons.”

               The crew, including Shanks, all laugh—good-humoured and happily intoxicated—while Mihawk sits perfectly still, feeling like he’s missed a joke.

               He’s never particularly liked or disliked being the centre-of-attention. His whole career was public, after all, and he’s never played coy. He has too much pride for that. But being the object of interest in public feels very different than being the subject of laughter. Not bad laughter per se, because Shanks’ friends aren’t attacking him; rather, they seem to think that they’re sharing with him, which is much weirder. They’re clearly a very close band of comrades—Shanks’ former crew, Mihawk guesses—and so it’s the fact that they’ve invited him in unreservedly that puts Mihawk on-edge. If the roles were reversed, he would be suspicious and antagonistic to them, but they’re just… not. Instead, they’re looking at him like they all know something he doesn’t, and they’re all waiting to see what will happen.

               I should leave, he thinks, but doesn’t move, because, weird as it is, no one seems offended by him, least of all Shanks.

               He drinks a beer, and refuses a slice of cold pizza, and listens to music he hates, and watches the merriment of a retired pirate crew, speaking only when spoken to and rejecting all invitations to participate. He stays for an hour, then two. Even after it begins to rain and the party-goers all duck beneath the tent, he stays on the cushioned bench, feeling weirdly calm. Not comfortable exactly, but not put-upon either. Weirdest of all is the press of Shanks’ forearm across his back, and how Mihawk feels reassured by it rather than trapped.

               Finally, he stands up and says: “It’s late. I’m going home.”

               Shanks jumps up; sways precariously. “But you don’t have to.”

               “And yet, I am.”

               Mihawk pulls up the collar of his jacket, then sets off without a formal farewell. It’s only spitting a little, now; a gentle mist that fluffs his hair. He’s certainly not going to melt in it, and yet Shanks chases after him, carrying a big, lime-green umbrella.

               “I’ll walk you,” he says.

               Mihawk quickens his pace. “I live forty metres away.”

               “Still gonna walk you.”

               “Don’t make me sound like a dog,” says Mihawk.

               “Woof,” says Shanks.

               Mihawk glances sideways at him. “Are you aware of how drunk you are?”

               “I am,” says Shanks slowly, slurring a bit. “But my legs work just fine.”

               “Apparently so does your tongue.” The words are out before he can stop them. He quickly adds: “That’s not what I meant!” but the damage is done. Shanks is grinning at him as they reach Mihawk’s doorstep.

               “Hey, I am more than happy to put my tongue to good use for you, darlin’. You just say the word.”

               “Oh, I’ll say a word,” threatens Mihawk, unlocking the door, “but you won’t like it.”

               Shanks leans on the closed umbrella like a walking-stick, a goofy—what he must think is seductive—look on his flushed face. “Try me,” he dares.

               Mihawk rolls his eyes. “Goodnight, Red-Hair.”

               “Hey, wait—!” Shanks grabs the door before Mihawk can close it. “Come for a drive with me tomorrow.”

               The earnestness with which he speaks takes Mihawk off-guard.

               “I can’t, I… I’m very busy tomorrow.”

               “No, you’re not,” says Shanks, unoffended by the lie. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

               “That had better be p.m.,” Mihawk warns. Shanks only grins as he takes his leave. “Red-Hair—? It’s eight p.m., right? I don’t do mornings!” Mihawk yells, but the redhead merely waves over-the-shoulder in cheeky farewell.

Chapter Text

Wow. When you said you don’t do mornings, you really weren’t kidding, were you?”

               Mihawk glares at Shanks, willing the chipper, bright-eyed man to catch fire.

               “Mornings are for sailors and toddlers,” he says grimly, yanking his jacket’s collar up to fend off the early-hour cold. “It’s my misfortune that you qualify as both.”

               He locks the door, then eyes Shanks suspiciously. “How is it you’re even standing? Five hours ago, you were pickled.”

               Shanks shrugs. “Lots of practice. Did you have fun?”

               “I spent the night watching ten grown men slowly lose motor function.”

               “That wasn’t a no.”

               Mihawk stalks past him. “Are we going, or not?”

               Shanks jogs to catch-up as they make their way down the long, narrow driveway to the road.

               “Mm,” he purrs, much too close for comfort. “I like a bossy Mihawk.”

               “Stop that.”

               “As you wish. Your chariot, milord.”

               Ignoring Shanks’ theatric bow, Mihawk stops in front of a rusty, bubble-shaped contraption with no hubcaps and a cracked headlight.

               “No.”

               Like a footman, Shanks opens the passenger-door.

               “What is that?” Mihawk asks.

               “My car.”

               “That is not a car. It’s older than I am!”

               “And you both still run beautifully,” Shanks grins, ushering the swordsman inside.

               Under duress, Mihawk goes. There’s no seatbelt, so he crosses his arms over his chest and sits stiff-backed. Shanks jumps into the driver’s seat and starts the ignition. The engine coughs, pops, then gives a leonine roar before settling into a bumblebee hum. Immediately, the interior fills with upbeat music. The cassette skips a couple of times, distorting the singer’s voice, until Shanks slams a fist on the dashboard.

               “I think you need a new cassette,” Mihawk says.

               “I would if I could, but it’s a special edition,” Shanks explains, spinning the steering-wheel one-handed, like a helmsman. Metal creaks as the car swings sideways, gravel crunching under the tires. “It’s The Rumbar Crew’s only album with Bink’s Saké on it. It’s my favourite song.”

               Mihawk vaguely recalls the old song. “Didn’t that group die, like, fifty years ago?”

               “Disappeared fifty years ago,” Shanks corrects with a grin. “That’s why it’s such a rare song. It was only ever recorded once. This cassette—” he hits the dashboard again, “—is a collector’s item.”

               “How nice for you,” says Mihawk sarcastically. He turns the volume down, and asks: “Why does it smell like fish in here?”

               “Because there’s fish in the back.”

               Mihawk mentally scolds himself for wearing nice clothes.

               “Of course there is. Exactly where are you taking me in this singing fish-wagon, anyway?”

               “It’s fresh fish, caught just this morning,” Shanks says in defence, “and it’s for our breakfast. We’re going up the mountain for a picnic.”

               “Stop the car.”

               “What, why?”

               “Because I’m getting out.”

               For some reason, Shanks thinks that Mihawk is joking.

               “Why?” he repeats, this time with a laugh.

               Mihawk shifts in his seatbelt-less seat to glare at him. “Do I look like someone who enjoys eating outdoors?”

               “Awe, come on. It’ll be fun—like camping!”

               “Do I look like I camp?”

               “Well…” says Shanks, taking his eyes off of the road for a worryingly long time to study Mihawk. “Right now, you kind of look like the living-dead. But, like, in a classy, sexy-way—don’t worry.”

               “That sounds alarming close to necrophilia, Red-Hair. And if I look like a corpse, it’s your fault,” he mutters, sleep-deprived and irritable.

               Shanks jerks the steering-wheel, throwing Mihawk off-balance, and the car crunches up a steep incline.

               “Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I think you look great. I’m actually flattered you dressed-up.”

               “This is not dressed-up. It’s what adults wear.”

               “Posh adults,” says Shanks with a dismissive shrug. He, himself, is wearing a pair of baggy, pinstripe trousers with flip-flops, and a jean-jacket over a sleeveless white t-shirt, so threadbare Mihawk can see the dark, caramel glow of his tan through the fabric. In contrast, Mihawk’s attire is made of fine, imported material—all sleek jet-black and rich wine-red—and looks old-world expensive. It covers almost every inch of him, from wrists to shoulders to hips to heels, except he’s forgotten to bring a hat.

               “If the sun comes out, it’ll do you good,” Shanks says, seeing Mihawk glower up at the hazy sky.

               “I don’t do sun.”

               The redhead feigns a deep sigh. “I know…” Then he smiles cheerfully. “But it’s okay, because you have me. I’m the Sunshine One and you’re the Gloomy One. But the Gloomy One always falls for the Sunshine One in the end.”

               Mihawk exhales a very not-feigned sigh. “What on earth are you talking about?”

               “You know, like in films.”

               “We’re not in a film. I don’t even own a television.”

               “Of course you don’t,” says Shanks, recycling Mihawk’s earlier sarcasm.

               “And I’m not the Gloomy One,” Mihawk insists scornfully.

               Shanks reaches across the bench-seat and gently pats his thigh. “Whatever you say, my little rain cloud.”

               Two kilometres later, he parks the car on the side of the path—Mihawk can’t bring himself to call it a road—and they finish the climb on foot. Shanks is carrying a large, bulging canvas-bag over his shoulder, as well as a cooler of fish, but Mihawk doesn’t offer to help, and the redhead doesn’t ask. Instead, he lopes up the mountain-path like an excited spaniel, smiling and—

               “Stop making that noise.”

               “Noise—? I’m whistling,” Shanks calls it.

               Mihawk grimaces. “That’s not whistling. It’s shrieking, shrilling at best. Are you tone-deaf?”

               “Don’t know, could be,” says Shanks, unbothered. “I don’t like silence.”

               “I noticed.”

               Shanks turns to face Mihawk, so that he’s walking uphill backwards, which is weirdly impressive.

               “You’re not a talker, are you?”

               “I say what needs saying.”

               “Well, I need you to say—to speak, I mean.”

               “Why?”

               “Because,” says Shanks, leaping—backwards—over a tree branch, “as much as I enjoy just looking at you, I’d very much like to talk to you, too.”

               “Why?” Mihawk repeats, with less bite than intended.

               “Because I suspect that you’re a very interesting person, Dracule Mihawk. And I’d very much like to test my hypothesis.”

               “That’s twice, now, you’ve called me interesting.”

               “Take the hint, sweetheart.”

               At the summit, Shanks wastes no time in shaking out a blanket—circus-themed; it says Buggy’s Carnival on it—and unpacking breakfast. Mihawk hesitantly sits down when bidden and accepts a plastic container of surprisingly good food.

               “I know how to cook fish,” Shanks brags, even though Mihawk didn’t ask.

               They eat in relative silence, listening to the wind rustle through the trees. Mihawk takes tentative bites of his meal, while Shanks’ cheeks are stuffed to bursting. There’s also fruit, fresh rolls, and coffee and tea, because: “I didn’t know which you prefer.” Mihawk chooses coffee and drinks it black and it’s unexpectedly good. Not just the meal, but the whole experience of eating outdoors. It’s not as uncomfortable or unrefined as he thought it would be, and it’s the first time that being with Shanks is peaceful, the two of them sharing companionship without posturing or hostility or the destruction of property. The only thing Mihawk dislikes is the sun peeking out between the clouds. It possesses the heat and brightness of summer and beats down on the picnickers with indiscriminate relentlessness. Mihawk feels it on his unprotected face and squints, bowing his head to avoid direct contact. He’s about to turn his back and forego the beautiful view of the valley, when, suddenly, Shanks’ straw hat lands on his head.

               “Wouldn’t want your pretty face to burn,” he says, smiling easily. And Mihawk is so taken aback by the casual thoughtfulness that he actually says: “Thank-you.”

               Instead of you’re welcome, Shanks says: “Hold still.”

               Mihawk freezes, thinking himself in imminent danger of being bitten or stung. Then Shanks’ finger brushes gently across his cheek.

               “Eyelash,” he says, showing the swordsman. He holds it up. “Make a wish.”

               Mihawk scoffs.

               Shanks is unsurprised. He says: “Okay, I’ll make a wish for you.”

               Mihawk watches Shanks close his eyes and blow the miniscule eyelash off his fingertip, letting it get lost to the wind. He waits a moment, then can’t resist:

               “What did you wish for?”

               Shanks’ gives him a catlike grin. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

               Mihawk rolls his eyes.

               “What? You don’t believe in wishes?”

               “Of course not, I’m not a child.”

               “Neither am I.”

               “You’re a giant man-child, it qualifies.”

               “Actually, I think I’m average height. What about fate?” Shanks asks. “Do you believe in fate?”

               “No.”

               “Soulmates?”

               “No.”

               “Star signs?”

               “No.”

               “Hobgoblins—?”

               “Stop,” says Mihawk, pinching the bridge of his nose.

               “Oh!” Shanks snaps his fingers. “What about ghosts? You look like someone who believes in ghosts.”

               “Do you ever get tired of talking?”

               “No. But there is one thing you could try.”

               Mihawk looks at Shanks, who’s smiling at him with sly, inviting lips. He pumps his red eyebrows twice and deliberately slides closer to the swordsman, so that their legs are nearly touching.

               “I sincerely doubt even that would shut you up,” says Mihawk blandly.

               He turns away, but feels Shanks follow him, angling around the jut of his shoulder, trying to see his face.

               “Maybe it’s worth a try, though. You won’t know for sure unless you try,” he goads, gently playful, as if afraid of scaring Mihawk off. “Do you want to try—?

               “I’d very much like you to try,” he says when Mihawk doesn’t. His body feels warm and smells warm: all salt and sun and a woodsy, smoky cologne reminiscent of old ships. Despite his average height and easy-going nature, his presence is undeniable. Shanks is a man who radiates strength and self-confidence and safety. And that last one takes Mihawk by surprise, because what does he care if Shanks is safe or not? What does he care if the redheaded rogue is gentlemanly in action, if not in words? He wants to touch Mihawk, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t. Not without permission. And it’s that respect and consideration for Mihawk’s comfort that gives the swordsman pause.

               Shanks is still talking, of course. He’s been talking for the last two minutes while Mihawk considers him.

               “I’ve wanted you to try since the moment we met,” he’s saying, softer now. “But I think you know that.”

               His eyes are like the sky, a warm, stormy grey. So close, Mihawk can see the faint freckles on his cheeks and the gold, russet, and spicy brown of his beard.

               “Mihawk—? I know you think I’m a joke, but the truth is, I really like—”

               “Oh my God, shut up.”

               Before he can stop himself. Before selfishness yields to pride and common sense, Mihawk takes Shanks’ face in his hands and kisses him.

               At first, he really does just want to prove Shanks’ wrong; prove he can shut him up. It’s selfish, but the intent is to shock the redhead into silence. The intent is a short, daring kiss that signals victory.

               It is not a short kiss.

               As soon as Mihawk starts to pull back, Shanks pushes forward, deepening the kiss into something much less shallow and with much more heat. He takes Mihawk’s initiative as permission granted, and, suddenly, his hands are on the swordsman’s waist, pulling him closer; and his lips are sucking, his teeth are nipping, his tongue licks between Mihawk’s lips and thrusts eagerly into his mouth. It should feel invasive, but it doesn’t. Not with those hands holding him so reassuringly and secure. Not when Shanks whispers his name, hot and wet against his lips. Instead, it feels so fucking selfish when Mihawk wraps his arms around Shanks’ neck, presses closer, cards a hand through that mane of thick red hair. His chest feels tight and his breaths come fast as, kiss after eager kiss, he loses himself to the sensation of being completely adored. He tries to recall the last time someone wanted him like this. The last time someone held him with such tender love and care, but he can’t, because no one ever has. Shanks touches him and kisses him, not as if Mihawk is fragile, but as if he’s something truly special, and it’s unlike anything the swordsman has ever felt before.

               A raindrop lands on his cheek and only then does he realize the straw hat has been knocked off, but neither he nor Shanks stop to collect it. Mihawk is too focused on the pursuit of Shanks, blind to everything that is not the redhead’s lips, his coffee taste, his woodsy scent, the press of hot skin and hard muscle through his threadbare shirt.

               The wind blows harder, pulling at their clothes and hair, but, between their own pulling and petting, neither of them notices.

               A rumble of thunder rolls across the sky, deafening all else, and finally Mihawk jerks back: face flushed, lips swollen, chest heaving.

               “It’s raining,” he says, dazed and disbelieving.

               Shanks’ reply is simple and dismissive: “Yes.” He reaches for Mihawk again, but this time Mihawk recoils.

               “I don’t like being wet,” he says.

               He expects Shanks to make a joke at his word-choice, or to insist, but he doesn’t. He just stands up and offers Mihawk a hand, which the swordsman accepts; and a soft, adoring smile, which he does not.

               They don’t speak as they collect the picnic and make their way down the mountain. By the time they get back to the car, the wind is tearing at the trees and the sky is like lead, crowded with swollen clouds. The moment Shanks starts the engine is the moment the sky opens to dump a deluge down upon them. Bullets of rain splatter against the windshield, creating a water-screen that’s difficult to see through. Inside the car, it’s dark and cold and sounds like a barrage of gunfire, but Mihawk is grateful for it, because it makes conversation impossible. Instead, he sits in the passenger-seat, as stiff as steel and glad for the thunderstorm that drowns-out the drum of his heart. Once, then twice the tires spin without purchase, sliding across slick mud and sodden gravel, but both times Shanks manages to regain control, and Mihawk is too distracted to suggest they stop and wait for the storm to pass.

               He doesn’t want to stop, and he doesn’t want to wait.

               He wants very badly to be in his own home, in his own familiar space, as far away from Shanks as the shared property line will allow, and he wants it as soon as possible.

               A part of him still can’t believe he kissed the insufferable man. A man he can’t just walk away from and never see again, because he bloody lives next-door. Mihawk can only remember one other time that he’s done something so tremendously stupid and that choice had ended very, very badly. He’s forty-one-years-old, after all, not a teenager on a fucking first date.

               If Shanks tells anyone what happened or how, Mihawk’s reputation will be ruined. Not only that, but he’ll be humiliated, his credibility besmirched by one rash act of reckless selfishness. And why wouldn’t Shanks tell, especially after the way Mihawk has treated him? Who wouldn’t want to take the lofty, self-important greatest swordsman down a peg? He’s never given Shanks a reason to trust him, so it would be foolish for him to trust Shanks in return—right?

               All of this and more rages through Mihawk’s head as the storm rages outside, until he can’t take it anymore.

               “I’m sorry,” he blurts, and he doesn’t know if he’s saying sorry for kissing you, or sorry I didn’t do it sooner, but Shanks’ reply is immediate:

               “I’m not.”

               He doesn’t look at Mihawk, but his tone is certain; confident in a way that Mihawk’s isn’t.

               Mihawk opens his mouth to speak, but he’ll never know what might’ve come out, because at that moment a small, dark shape darts out into the road. Shanks slams the breaks and cuts the wheel and the result is disastrous. The tires lock and the car careers off the road at a dangerous speed, hurling toward a huge, eight-hundred-year-old tree.

               Crocodile once said of Mihawk: “You show who you are by actions, not words,” and maybe his assessment is true, because Mihawk’s body is moving long before words have even formed in his mind.

               The last thing he knows is throwing himself at Shanks, and the last thing he feels is fear.

Chapter Text

First comes sound: rain and thunder and someone calling his name.

               Then comes light: a headlight and a flash of lightning.

               Then comes pain: first in his head, then in the rest of him.

               Slowly, Mihawk peels open his eyes and sees Shanks staring back at him, the whites of his eyes stark against the blood on his face.

               “Are you okay?”

               Mihawk’s voice comes out weak, strained with effort. He tries to take a deep breath, but can’t.

               “Am I okay—? Mihawk… fuck.”

               “Your face,” says Mihawk, touching it gently. Shanks’ left eye is half-closed and three jagged gashes trisect it, embedded with shards of glass.

               “I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt,” Shanks lies in a wobbly voice. “I’ll be fine. I—Fuck. Mihawk.”

               “Don’t be—ow!—so dramatic, Red-Hair.”

               Gritting his teeth, Mihawk tries to untangle himself from Shanks, whom he’s wrapped himself around like a human-shield. The second stupid fucking thing he’s done today, and it’s not even noon. At least, he doesn’t think it is. He has no idea how long he’s been unconscious. The instant he puts weight on his wrist, however, it buckles, makes a snapping sound, and he hisses sharply in pain, then falls back atop Shanks and cries-out, because more than one of his ribs is obviously broken. That accounts for the pressure constricting his chest then, but what is causing the searing pain shooting up his leg?

               “Mihawk!”

               Mihawk blinks, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Shanks has been talking to him, but it’s so hard to focus on anything aside from the throbbing pain and metallic taste of blood.

               “No, don’t close your eyes. I think you hit your head. God, there’s so much blood. But it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to—”

               “AH!”

               “Shit! Fuck—I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Shanks says as he eases out from under Mihawk. All around them, the car is caved-in like a crushed aluminum can and the storm continues to rage, drenching the two men with a barrage of cold rain. Shanks crawls across the seats and manages to wriggle out through the glassless window and Mihawk feels his absence acutely. He tries to follow—feeling suddenly claustrophobic—but his leg prevents it. He twists, gasps, and sees that it’s jammed beneath the car, exactly where yielding metal met solid tree trunk.

               Oh, he thinks, weirdly detached, my leg is broken. That’s why I can’t move it.

               That’s why I can’t move at all.

               A fist of fear clutches him, and he calls: “Red-Hair—?”

               “I’m here!”

               His voice sounds far away through the rain. Mihawk’s heart beats faster.

               “There’s a house down the road! We passed it on the way; one-and-a-half, maybe two kilometers away—”

               No.

               “I’ll go get help!”

               God, please. No.

               “Mihawk? Did you hear me? Mihawk?”

               “Sh-Shanks—!”

               Mihawk’s whole world is spinning; he can’t think clearly. Everything sounds like it’s happening underwater, and maybe it is, because he’s soaked, he’s cold, he can’t feel the lower half of his body and the upper half is trembling like a relapsing addict.

               “It’s okay.”

               Shanks’ hand on his face.

               “It’s going to be okay. I won’t be gone for a minute, so don’t move. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

               “No, please…”

               “I promise,” Shanks repeats. He presses a bloody kiss to Mihawk’s forehead, then disappears from sight.

               “Sh—Sh-Shanks—?” Mihawk coughs, tastes blood, but Shanks doesn’t answer. He’s gone and Mihawk is truly alone, now.

               Alone and helpless.

               Vulnerable.

               Trapped.

               He’s been abandoned on a rural road, with no way to defend, or protect himself. No way to save himself from the elements; from the crush of the car; from the slow, decaying passage of time. If he screams now, no one will hear him and no one will come. He’s completely, terrifyingly alone.

               He’s never been afraid of isolation, but, suddenly, a fear unlike anything he’s ever felt takes hold of him and doesn’t let go. Shanks is probably only gone for fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours, and by the time he returns—out of breath, but hopeful; emergency services are on the way—Mihawk has succumbed to irrational panic. He grabs onto Shanks’ hand and doesn’t let go. Not when firefighters arrive to cut the door off the car. Not when paramedics arrive to rescue Mihawk from the mangled vehicle. Not when they take him into the ambulance and he slips in-and-out of awareness. Shanks is obviously, very much in the responders’ way, but Mihawk will not let him go.

               “Stay,” he begs.

               Someone pierces his forearm with a needle, but Mihawk only sees Shanks beside him, looking down at him, holding onto him. His hand is so strong and so hot it burns, and Mihawk thinks that his own hand must feel like ice in comparison; like something not quite alive anymore.

               “Please—don’t go again.”

               Shanks squeezes Mihawk’s hand in reassurance. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry, Mihawk. I’m so sorry I left. I won’t leave you again. I promise.”

               Mihawk wants to reply, but his tongue feels heavy. His eyelids droop. The drug they injected is putting him to sleep. Desperately, he tries to fight it.

               He’s afraid that if he falls asleep now, he’ll never wake up.

               He doesn’t know where he’s being taken or why. He doesn’t know any of the voices or faces surrounding him.

               All he knows is Shanks, so he holds onto him until the last possible moment.

This time, the first thing that Mihawk registers is the scent of expensive cigars and he opens his eyes to find Crocodile staring down at him.

               He’s not smoking, but the earthy, dark-chocolate scent permeates his clothes. Why isn’t he smoking? It takes Mihawk a moment to realize where he is.

               He says: “Why are you here?”

               Crocodile sighs. “I’m your emergency contact.”

               “What?”

               “Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you. What the fuck, Hawk-Eyes?” He gestures at Mihawk, at a loss for words.

               Mihawk makes a brief examination of himself; or rather, of the parts he can see from the flat of his back, and what he can see is white and black. The white parts are linen bandages; the black are bruises. There isn’t much beyond that. His left hand is wrapped from wrist to knuckles; his right leg is plastered from knee to heel; there’s a translucent tube stuck with a needle into his forearm, wires pressed to his chest, and a square of heavy cotton taped to his temple. The rest of him is superficial cuts and scrapes from the initial impact and spray of shattered glass. He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain advises against it.

               “Three of your ribs are cracked, not broken. You’re lucky,” says Crocodile, in a tone that suggests otherwise. “The worst is, you’ve got a concussion.”

               Again, Mihawk touches his temple. He has a splitting headache, that much is true.

               “Seriously, Hawk-Eyes. What the fuck?”

               Crocodile’s accusation feels like an attack, but Mihawk has no defence. He’s never felt this broken before, in body or spirit. He’s never felt so ashamed.

               “I don’t know,” he says, without bite. “Where is…”

               “Shanks?” says Crocodile when Mihawk doesn’t. “He’s talking to the doctor.”

               Mihawk nods, then instantly regrets it. Every movement sends a jab of pain straight to his brain. “And is he… I mean…”

               Crocodile heaves another deep, smokeless sigh. “He’s fine. Not so pretty anymore,” he adds, dragging three fingers across his left eye, “but otherwise he’s fine.”

               Relief fights with anger and guilt inside of Mihawk. It makes him feel fragile, like antique china veined with cracks.

               Suddenly, he wants to go home more than anything, because, if he’s going to break, he wants to do it where no one will see.

               He clenches his jaw and pushes himself into a sitting position with one hand, then tries to swing his good leg off the bed, but Crocodile sabotages the attempt.

               “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, grabbing Mihawk’s ankle.

               “Home.”

               “I’m almost tempted to let you,” his friend says pitilessly. “I’m curious to see how far you’d actually get. You know you’re naked under that gown, right?”

               Mihawk scowls and pulls back his leg. “Isn’t that why you’re here, to bring me clothes and drive me home?”

               Crocodile shakes his head. “And if I did? You don’t seriously think you can take care of yourself, do you?”

               “I’ve been taking care of myself for thirty years. I’ll be fine.”

               “No, you won’t. I’ve already discussed it with the doctor. Says he’d let you go, but it’s a legal issue, because of the concussion. You can only be discharged if you have someone to take care of you. He recommends that someone live with you for a while, at least until your test results come back clear.”

               Mihawk’s scowl twists in horror. “You’re going to live with me—?”

               “Not me.”

               It takes Mihawk longer than it should to understand the gloating in Crocodile’s smile.

               “No.”

               “Oh, yes.”

               “No,” he insists. “I absolutely refuse.”

               “It makes sense. Shanks already lives next-door to you and he won’t have to take a leave from work.”

               “Because he doesn’t work. Because he’s a fucking pirate. You’re going to leave me with a pirate?”

               “I’m going to leave you with the man you wouldn’t let go of,” Crocodile counters. “The man whose name you whimpered in your sleep.”

               “I don’t whimper—”

               “Doctor Trafalgar had to pry your fingers off him to take you in for surgery.”

               “They drugged me. I was delusional.”

               “Shanks has been sitting at your bedside for ten hours.”

               “I’ve been asleep for ten hours?” Mihawk glances at the window, only to see that it’s dark outside. “Don’t let them drug me again.”

               “They drugged you, because your heart was beating like a fucking hummingbird’s. I’ve never see you scared before—”

               “I wasn’t scared.”

               It comes out a warning, but Crocodile ignores it.

               “Trafalgar says you had a legitimate panic-attack. A bad one. Says you were already panicking by the time the paramedics arrived and wouldn’t let any of them near you.”

               “I don’t like people touching me, you know that.”

               “If Shanks hadn’t been there, you probably would’ve tried to chew yourself free. That’s what Trafalgar said.”

               “What a commendable bedside manner he has,” says Mihawk dryly. “Who is this doctor, anyway? He sounds worryingly unprofessional.”

               “He’s twenty-four.”

               “Oh my God, you let a baby operate on me!”

               Crocodile rolls his eyes. “You freaked-out, Hawk-Eyes. Accept it, because it’s the truth. You weren’t thinking clearly then, and I’m not convinced you’re thinking clearly now.”

               “I’m not going home with Shanks.”

               “Mihawk,” says Crocodile, using his name in seriousness. “It’s go home with Shanks, or don’t go home at all.”

As soon as Crocodile’s long, black car stops in front of Mihawk’s house, Shanks jumps out to open the swordsman’s door. Mihawk glowers up at him, but Shanks doesn’t take the hint. He offers Mihawk a hand, but Mihawk ignores the assistance and exits the car himself—clumsy, throbbing, and hating the way Shanks hovers at his side, as if he expects Mihawk to collapse. Mihawk feels like he might collapse, but he definitely doesn’t want Shanks to know that. He hates that Shanks is a part of this at all.

               “Happy honeymoon!” Crocodile chirps, giving a wave, and Mihawk would kill him if he physically could. He settles for kicking a stone at the departing vehicle, then loses his balance, yelps, and ends up in Shanks’ arms.

               “Careful,” says the redhead gently, and Mihawk would kill him, too, if Shanks wasn’t the only thing keeping him upright.

               It’s an arduous, uncomfortable journey into the house, into the parlour, where Shanks shepherds Mihawk into an armchair with a footstool.

               “What do you need?” he asks willingly.

               “Nothing,” says Mihawk, but Shanks is adamant.

               “Anything you want, it’s yours, I’ll get it for you. Are you in pain? Doctor Trafalgar prescribed—”

               “No drugs,” says Mihawk firmly.

               He can see that Shanks wants to argue, but he doesn’t and Mihawk is grateful. He will not be drugged again, nor left to the mercy of his own inhibitions.

               “Can I get you a drink then? Maybe coffee, or wine—do you want wine? Or, maybe you’re cold. You look pale; not your normal-pale, but sick-pale. Not that you look bad, or anything! I just mean, you don’t look like yourself. How about I get you a blanket? Oh, and food! Fuck, you must be starving. I’ll make you something to eat; something that’s gentle, or soothing, or… something. Soup! I’ll make soup!”

               “Red-Hair.”

               Shanks goes still, as if scolded. Mihawk waits until he lifts his head, looking at Mihawk for the first time since leaving the hospital.

               “Oh, God,” says Mihawk, taken aback. “What are you doing?”

               Shanks sniffles. “Crying a little.”

               “What in hell for?”

               Shanks purses his lips and his forehead creases, eyebrows drawing in. The gashes on his face are shiny with ointment and medical tape, making him look the part of victim; a look enhanced by the tears in his eyes.

               “Because…” he admits, voice choked with emotion, “it should be me sitting there all banged-up and hurting, but it’s not, because you protected me.”

               “I didn’t,” says Mihawk, wincing as he tries and fails to cross his arms. “I’m an athlete. It was a reflex.”

               Shanks stares at him, tears rolling down his cheeks.

               “Stop it.”

               “I can’t.”

               “You’re being ridiculous.”

               “Can I hug you?”

               “No.”

               “Okay.” Shanks wipes his face on his sleeve. “I’m going to make soup then. Do you like tomato?”

               Mihawk makes the mistake of looking into those sad eyes: more blue than grey and shining with tenderness. He sighs, and says: “Yes.”

               Shanks nods, determined. “Okay. I’m going to make the best goddamn tomato soup you’ve ever had.”

Well—?” Shanks asks, holding his breath. “How is it?”

               Mihawk swallows the last spoonful of tomato soup and gives his honest critique: “Dreadful.”

               Shanks deflates like a popped balloon.

               “Oh.”

               Mihawk lets him wallow for a moment, then holds out the bowl. “Will you get me a little more, please?”

               It’s funny how fast that drooping red head snaps up, a look of disbelief on the face. It’s fascinating to watch it transform into joy.

               “Of course!” Shanks says, cheerful now. “Do you want anything else?”

               “A glass of red wine, and a blanket. And the book sitting on the roll-top. The post needs to be collected, too. Oh, and the houseplants all need to be watered.”

               Shanks salutes and darts off to the kitchen, bowl in hand, and only then does Mihawk let himself indulge in a smile.

               Having a roommate might not be all bad, after all.

Chapter Text

It takes twelve hours for Mihawk to confirm that he hates having a roommate, especially one as well-intentioned as Shanks, who won’t let him sleep for more than an hour at a time.

               “It’s because you have a concussion. The doctor said—”

               “I don’t care what the doctor said!” Mihawk snaps, sleep-deprived and angry because of it. “Leave me alone!”

               Shanks does not leave him alone. He fluffs pillows and brings refills of water and wine—no painkillers—and constantly asks if Mihawk is hungry, insisting that he needs to eat. At first, the redhead’s servitude was convenient, since Mihawk is lacking in mobility, but now it’s just annoying. He isn’t used to sharing space or time with anyone and he finds the addition of twenty-four-hours-a-day Shanks rather suffocating. But the worst is the doorbell, which rings unrelentingly, because Shanks has put a note on the cottage door to let visitors know that he’s staying with Mihawk. News travels fast in a small town, and soon the church is besieged by casserole-toting villagers who want to see for themselves that Shanks is okay.

               “I heard about the accident. How are you feeling? Are you hurt?”

               “It must have been terrifying! Were you very afraid?”

               “I’m so glad to know that you’re safe!”

               To his credit, Shanks doesn’t expand on the events of the accident, and he doesn’t invite anyone in. He meets them on the doorstep, graciously accepts their gifts of food and well-wishes, and sends them off without a word about Mihawk, unless someone remembers to ask. Then he says simply: “He’s doing very well, thank-you for asking.”

               Mihawk is—by definition—very unwell, but he appreciates the lie more than he wants to admit.

               Nor will he admit how defensive he feels whenever someone gasps at the sight of Shanks’ face.

               “Oh, Shanks, you poor thing! What happened?” they ask, and Mihawk clenches his jaw in dislike, thinking: A car crash happened, you intrusive nitwit! Now, leave us alone!

               The day following the accident, Crocodile sends a basket of luxury sex products, which mortifies Mihawk and makes Shanks laugh. “Don’t worry, everyone has that friend. Benn says I am that friend,” he says in reassurance—not reassuring at all—while rummaging through said basket. Nico Robin sends a bouquet of flowers, which is much more appropriate, and the barely-out-of-public-school surgeon, Dr. Trafalgar Law, calls with updated test results that only reaffirm Mihawk’s status of unwell. Aside from that, no one telephones for Mihawk, and no one asks for him at the door.

               The only other person of interest is Eustass Kid, who works at the village garage and scrapyard. He comes to give Shanks a cheque for the sum of his totaled car—which is barely enough to buy groceries for the week—and what few personal belongings could be salvaged from the wreck.

               “Any chance my Rumbar Crew cassette survived?” Shanks asks with heartbreaking hope.

               Kid’s reply is a bark of laughter. “That car’s an accordion, now. Everything in the front got crushed, including your boyfriend. You think a cassette survived—?”

               “No, I guess not.”

               Shanks is obviously upset when he returns to the parlour, but it’s quickly forgotten when he spots Mihawk’s crutch.

               “What do you need? I’ll get it,” he offers, but Mihawk shoulders past him.

               “I want you to stop fussing.”

               “But—”

               “Red-Hair, I’m sore and I’m tired and I’m sick of that goddamn doorbell, and I just want to have a bath and go to bed.”

               “Okay, I’ll—”

               “I do not need your help!”

               Mihawk wobbles slowly, stubbornly down the corridor, sweating and shaking and trying not to whimper with every step. Shanks follows, but Mihawk does his best to ignore him. He clenches his jaw, and keeps his head up, and struggles to breathe evenly, and, eventually, he makes it to the stairs—

               Oh.

               The stairs.

               A massive suspended staircase that sweeps up from the floor of the nave to the balcony of the second-level.

               Shanks waits for instruction, then gets as far as: “Do you—” before Mihawk says: “No.” and begins the climb.

               It’s a long, laborious climb made even more challenging by thick, narrow stone steps worn smooth with time, and a railing he can’t properly utilize because of his sprained wrist. Instead, he leans his left elbow awkwardly against it, while his right hand holds a death-grip on the crutch supporting his broken leg. And still, Shanks follows. It takes the swordsman an embarrassingly long time to reach his own bedroom, but the redhead is patient. He doesn’t touch Mihawk, and he stops offering to help, even when Mihawk slips on the landing and gasps in pain. By the time Mihawk reaches his bed and sits—sort of falls—down on it, dropping the dreaded crutch, he feels hot and faint and the mirror reflects a face that’s worryingly pale. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and dark, fatigued bruises underscore his eyes, no longer gold but sallow with illness. Self-conscious of his appearance, he runs a hand through limp black hair and over the angle of his unshaved jaw, wishing more than ever that Shanks wasn’t there.

               He doesn’t actually realize that Shanks has left the bedroom until he returns from the en suite, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and says: “I filled the bath. Do you like it hot?”

               Mihawk looks up and is grateful to see the redhead’s characteristic grin. His face hasn’t looked right without it.

               Maybe it’s sleep-deprivation, or maybe Shanks’ brand of lewd humour is catching, but, for whatever reason, Mihawk meets his gaze and in a sultry voice, says: “I like it very hot.”

               His reply has the intended effect, because Shanks’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

               “Do you, uh…” He clears his throat, cheeks tinged pink. The swordsman has undressed to almost nothing in preparation and the pirate’s gaze is fixed on him. “Do you want help getting into the bath?”

               “No, I don’t want help…” Mihawk sighs; there’s no point in lying, now, “…but I’m afraid I require help.”

               “Oh?”

               “Please don’t make it weird. I really, really just want to go to bed as soon as possible and your assistance will make that happen a lot faster than me by myself.”

               Shanks takes Mihawk’s offered hand and kneels a little to lay it over his shoulders, then pulls Mihawk up and wraps an arm around his waist, careful of his injured ribs. “Lean against me,” he says, and Mihawk doesn’t need to be told twice. Shanks makes a much better, more stable crutch than the crutch does. So much warmer and more yielding to his comfort. And so very, very strong. Mihawk’s not surprised when, rather than let him slip and splash and fumble awkwardly on the wet tiles, Shanks simply scoops him into his arms and eases him down into the steaming water, as if he weighs nothing at all.

               “So, um… keep your leg elevated, and don’t let your left hand get wet,” he says, stepping back. “I’ll, um. I’ll be in there, if you need me. When you’re ready to get out, I mean.”

               “Mm hmm…” Mihawk sighs, barely listening. His eyes are closed and the water hugs his battered body in all the right places, soothing every ache. Vaguely, he hears the en suite door close behind Shanks, giving him some much desired privacy.

               He doesn’t know how long he stays there, lounging in the stillness, the quiet, when callused fingertips gently touch his shoulder.

               “You fell asleep,” says Shanks, kneeling at the edge of the large, in-floor bath.

               Mihawk blinks. “Oh…”

               He feels woozy and weightless. The water’s gone tepid.

               Shanks says: “Not being weird… but can I wash your hair for you?”

               “My—?” Oh, that’s right. He’s supposed to be bathing, not falling asleep, but he doesn’t have the energy, or the number of hands needed, and Shanks is so very convenient.

               “Yes,” he permits, closing his eyes once more.

               A moment later, he has to swallow a moan as firm, yet careful hands massage soap into his hair, a sensation as unfamiliar to him as kissing in the rain, but it feels almost as good.

               “You know, if you’d told me a month ago that I’d be washing your hair—”

               “I wouldn’t have believed it either,” Mihawk interrupts, but that’s not what Shanks was going to say.

               “—I’d have been really happy.”

               Mihawk tenses, opens his eyes. “Get a job as a barber, then.”

               “That’s not what I meant—though, you do have surprisingly soft hair.”

               “Why is that surprising? Is soft hair exclusive to the insipidly young?”

               “No, it’s just… well, none of you is soft. Or, I didn’t think it was. But your hair is, like baby-bird feathers. And your skin—”

               “It’s getting weird, Red-Hair.”

               “Right, sorry.”

               After the froths of soap have been rinsed out, Shanks slides a hand across Mihawk’s shoulder-blades to help him up, dismissing the swordsman’s protest. (“Don’t, you’ll get wet.”—“That’s okay.”) A towel is wrapped around his waist, and then Shanks leaves him at the vanity to shave and brush his teeth and indulge in a grooming routine that makes the swordsman feel human again. By the time he’s finished, Shanks has turned down the covers on the bed and is searching Mihawk’s wardrobe.

               “What are you doing? Stop that,” he says, but—typically—Shanks doesn’t listen.

               “I’m looking for your pyjamas.”

               “I don’t wear pyjamas,” says Mihawk, realizing too late that he probably shouldn’t have told Shanks that. As expected, the man casts a glance over-the-shoulder.

               “Oh, really?” he says in interest.

               Mihawk sighs. “Your assistance is no longer required. Get out.”

               The mattress is firm and the big duvet a puffed paradise of clean cotton. He sinks into it and leans against a brace of soft pillows, letting the stress of the last forty-eight hours go out of him—

               —until he sees the drawer Shanks has accidentally jammed open and is trying unsuccessfully to slam shut.

               “Red-Hair, just leave it—” he says hastily, but not hasty enough.

               Shanks yanks and a nondescript box slides to the forefront and Mihawk doesn’t need to see it to know what’s just spilled out.

               The bedroom goes immediately silent, except for the sudden thrumming of Mihawk’s heart. After a moment, Shanks breaks it by saying:

               “So, you really didn’t need that basket from Crocodile, did you?”

               “Red-Hair—”

               “Now I feel bad about taking that Okama catalogue, because you’ve obviously ordered from it before—”

               “Red-Hair!”

               Shanks turns to face him, eyes like storm clouds: warm and dark and electrifying.

               Mihawk takes a fortifying breath, and says: “I’m a reclusive bachelor, not a monk.”

               “Noted.”

               Silence, again. A quiet rain patters at the window for one heartbeat, then two, then three.

               Finally, Mihawk says with emphasis: “You’re dismissed, Red-Hair,” because Shanks hasn’t moved. His voice harbours a hint of anxious inflection, but he schools his expression to remain neutral, guarded. He forces himself to hold Shanks’ gaze in challenge if nothing else, daring him to refuse.

               Mihawk doesn’t know what he’ll do if Shanks does refuse to leave, but the thought is unnecessary.

               Storm-grey eyes piercing Mihawk, he inclines his red head in the parody of a bow, and says, rather seriously: “As you wish, milord.”

               Then Shanks is gone without a backward glance, leaving Mihawk with the reverberation of that charged look, that rumbling voice, and a sensory memory of his warm, tender touch.

So, are we going to talk about your sex drawer, or—?”

               Mihawk is sitting across from Shanks at the breakfast table the next morning, a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him. He puts it down on a saucer and sighs.

               “I’d really rather not.”

               “Oh, come on,” says Shanks, much less electrifying in the light of day. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re a very fit, healthy adult. It’s normal. I tend to just use my hand, myself—cause, you know, you’re never far from your own hand—but everyone has their own technique.”

               “I’d rather not discuss my technique at the breakfast table. Or, at all.”

               “Come on, it’s fine—” Shanks swallows, then takes another mouthful and keeps talking: “—you just took me by surprise last night, that’s all. I didn’t know you were so kinky, Hawk-Eyes. Have you ever used them with anyone?”

               Mihawk pushes his half-eaten plate away, his appetite gone. “Since you seemed to get such a good look last night, you’ll know that everything in that drawer is for single-person use, because I am a single person, and I always have been. I don’t need anyone else in my business.”

               “Like, up in your business—?”

               “Why do you care?”

               “Because I like you,” says Shanks, easily and unabashed. “And if there’s a chance that you like me, too, then I want to know what you like.”

               It’s the earnestness that takes Mihawk off-guard. If it were a duel, Shanks’ smiling sincerity would have been a winning strike, because Mihawk’s never been propositioned by someone so goddamn considerate before.

               He’s never been with someone he actually liked, or wanted. Or, who truly wanted him in return.

               He’s never been with anyone like Shanks.

               Sex has always been exclusively for relief, always practical and efficient; feelings never factor in. Except, now they do, because he doesn’t think he could fuck Shanks without feeling—for better or worse—and he’s not entirely comfortable with that knowledge, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t know what makes the redheaded pirate so different from the rest, but somehow he is. Maybe because he doesn’t seem to care who Mihawk is, unlike everyone else.

               A rich, famous, professional athlete. Attractive and mysteriously aloof. Heartless, even. That’s how the world sees him, and that’s all anyone cares about. Fuck Dracule Mihawk for the thrill of it, for the fame, for the money, for the bragging rights. Fuck the gloomy swordsman to fix him; to mend his cold, dead heart and make him a better man. Fuck him just to prove you can. Mihawk has never spent more than an hour on a sexual partner, and he’s never been with the same person twice. They’re idiots if they expect him to care, because he treats everyone with the same cool indifference, or—in certain cases—contempt. Mihawk has never lied to anyone, nor—to his knowledge—implied he’s interested in anything beyond uncomplicated sex. Not commitment, or emotional intimacy; sometimes the intimacy is barely physical. He doesn’t like people, and people don’t tend to like him. The consensual use of someone’s body is all that he requires. It’s always brief, but it’s enough. It’s normal for Mihawk’s interactions to be fleeting, and normal for him to forget them soon after.

               But Shanks isn’t normal. Shanks is an opponent Mihawk has never encountered before.

               I like you. I want to know what you like.

               In twenty-five years, no one has ever asked Mihawk what he likes, or what he wants, because no one has ever cared about the answer.

               Since he was sixteen-years-old—talented, arrogant, merciless—no one has ever not been afraid of him.

               It makes him reconsider Shanks, the man smiling across from him, now, carefree, with crumbs in his beard. His eyes twinkle and the door to his heart is wide open, as if he’s unafraid of it being stolen, or broken beyond repair.

               Mihawk takes a breath.

               “Red-Hair, I—”

               The doorbell rings.

Crocodile is standing on the doorstep, holding an umbrella and smoking a coffee-scented cigar.

               “What are you—”

               Mihawk is too late hobbling into the corridor; Shanks has already invited Crocodile in.

               They go into the parlour and sit: Crocodile takes the leather armchair he always sits in, which means Mihawk is forced to sit next to Shanks on the loveseat, once the redhead has finished dispensing drinks.

               “So,” says the interloper, blowing smoke through his milk-white teeth. “Did you receive the get well basket I sent?”

               Mihawk wants to tell Crocodile to get stuffed, but Shanks beats him to it:

               “Oh, we did. Thank-you,” he says, smiling just as toothily. “Actually, I recognized it from Okama Magazine; exclusive to their platinum members, isn’t it? Wow, you must order from them a lot.”

               Crocodile’s mocking amusement goes stiff. He glances at Mihawk, then cuts his gaze back to Shanks. “Well, look at that, Hawk-Eyes. Someone else knows how to fence—with his tongue, at least.”

               “Oh, I’m a very good tongue-fencer,” says Shanks in challenge. “In fact, it’s one of my best qualities. Mihawk can attest to that.”

               Crocodile raises a thin, oily eyebrow at his friend. “Oh, can he?”

               “Of course—” Shanks waits long enough to give Mihawk heart palpitations. Then he says: “I’ve been driving him mad with all my talking. Haven’t I, Mihawk?”

               Mihawk drinks one glass of wine, then two. It’s eleven-thirty in the morning and he has nothing but coffee in his stomach, but he needs the wine to soothe a headache and settle his nerves, because having Crocodile and Shanks in the same room—talking about him, no less—makes him more anxious than he wants to admit. Despite his efforts to keep his private-life private, both men know things about him that he’d rather they not share with each other, and both men keep coming alarming—suspiciously—close to telling, only to divert at the last moment. It makes Mihawk’s insides feel as if he’s on a roller-coaster, and he’s never liked those.

               Finally, the conversation arrives at Shanks: his family—raised by two men, called Roger and Rayleigh—and his adoptive brother, Buggy.

               “He’s not a sailor, like me. He took the business route,” Shanks explains candidly, “and he’s doing pretty well for himself, too. Owns a travelling circus; a popular one. He’s got the devil’s luck, I swear. And a fuck-ton of money.”

               “Oh, really?” says Crocodile. He’s been listening to Shanks with placid noninterest, but perks-up at the word money. “He wouldn’t be looking for an investment opportunity, would he?”

               “Crocodile, no one is interested in your scheme,” says Mihawk flatly, but Crocodile has prey in his sight.

               “It’s quite a lucrative business proposal,” he tells Shanks. “The return on even a modest investment will yield a high profit, I’m positive. It fills a need, you see. It has incredible market value, but this one—” he gestures at Mihawk with his cigar, “—doesn’t believe me. I’m offering you a partnership, Hawk-Eyes. We’d be equal parties in ownership.”

               “Yes, and I fear a jury would see it the same way. Crocodile’s a snake,” says Mihawk to Shanks. “Don’t believe a single word he says.”

               “Awe, you wound me, my friend. And here I was about to tell you how good you look since the accident, and not at all like a half-mummified cadaver.”

               “See?”

               Shanks chuckles and stands. “It sounds like you two have been friends for a long time. Crocodile, will you be joining us for lunch?”

               “No,” says Mihawk, at the same time Crocodile says: “I’d be delighted.”

               Mihawk waits until Shanks has left to prepare lunch, then rewinds to his earlier hostility:

               “Why are you here?”

               “My dear friend was in a motor vehicle accident. I was concerned.”

               “I see you four, maybe five times a year, Crocodile. Then Shanks moves in and you’ve visited me three times in the last week.”

               “A lot has happened this week, which I find… interesting. You’ve never been interesting before, Hawk-Eyes.”

               “I’m flattered,” says Mihawk sarcastically. And deeply suspicious, but before he can say so, someone knocks on the front door.

               “No, no—allow me,” says Crocodile, moving faster than Mihawk can manage.

               By the time Mihawk has clumsily dragged himself into the vestibule, Crocodile is leering at Benn Beckman like something he wants to eat.

               “Well, hello there, Sailor. It’s my pleasure to meet you,” he purrs, proffering a ringed hand for Benn to shake. Mihawk rolls his eyes.

               As it happens, Benn is there to drive Shanks into the village to get groceries for the week. He thought Shanks had said eleven o’clock—in which case he’s late—and Shanks had thought Benn said one o’clock—in which case he’s early. I’m surrounded by idiots, Mihawk thinks, rubbing at his temples, only vaguely aware of Shanks inviting Benn to stay for lunch. Mihawk doesn’t care, anymore; doesn’t think much of it, until he sees Crocodile’s hungry gaze go to the sailor’s thighs and rather firm buttocks.

               “Don’t you dare,” Mihawk whispers harshly. “He’s my—Red-Hair, I mean. My house guest’s friend.”

               “Do you really have so little faith in me?” Crocodile whispers back.

               “Yes.”

               “Oh, come now. Is there really anything wrong if two consenting adults want to—”

               “When you’re one of them—yes. Because you break everyone you touch, Crocodile. Do. Not. Touch. Him.”

               “Is everything okay?”

               Mihawk flinches; he didn’t realize Shanks was so close. “Fine,” he says automatically. Crocodile smiles.

               It’s obvious that Shanks doesn’t believe them, but politely pretends to. “Okay, uh… We’re going to bring the barbeque over from my place. We’ll be right back.”

               “Fine,” Mihawk repeats, forcing a smile that feels foreign on his face. Shanks gives him an odd look, but goes without comment.

               “Why are you so prickly today?” asks Crocodile, reclaiming the armchair. He lights a fresh cigar. “More than usual, I mean.”

               “Why are you so invested lately?” Mihawk counters, grabbing a bottle of wine and refilling his glass. “Why do you suddenly care about my personal life? Why are you leering at strangers?”

               “I’m a romantic.”

               “You’re a sadist. The only person worse than you is—Oh.” Mihawk stops, eyes his friend probingly. “This isn’t about me, or Shanks, or Benn. It’s about Doflamingo.”

               Crocodile goes rigid; smoke spills from his nostrils.

               Mihawk takes a condescending sip of wine. “I’m right, aren’t I? And I’ve hit a nerve. You’re trying to distract yourself from whatever he’s done, now. Or, dreading an irreversible decision you’ve made, like marrying him. What is it this time? A conjugal visit? Solitary confinement? Has he fucked another guard and needs bribe money—”

               “He’s being released.”

               The mocking smile falls from Mihawk’s lips. He sits up straighter, the wine forgotten. “What?”

               Crocodile sighs and puts down the cigar. “His case has been under reassessment for the last few months. The verdict was changed, the sentence was reduced, and tomorrow… he’ll be released.”

               “He’s psychotic. Do they not know he’s psychotic?”

               Crocodile shrugs, shifts in his seat, and clenches his left hand, on which a gold wedding-band shines. He still loves Doflamingo, even after everything.

               Mihawk sees it, but he’s at a loss for what to do, or say. For the first time in his life, he asks another human-being: “How do you feel about it?”

               Crocodile avoids eye-contact and shrugs again. He doesn’t even mock Mihawk for the therapeutic undertone. After a pregnant pause, he says: “I don’t know.”

               “You could get a restraining order.”

               Mihawk knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as he says it, because Crocodile turns away, as if he’s been slapped. He loves Doflamingo; Mihawk has to remember that, even if he can’t understand why.

               “Are you going to see him?” he asks, attempting a gentler tone.

               “Yes,” says Crocodile, because to deny it would be pointless; to try to stop it would be suicide. Mihawk knows this, so he only nods.

               “Well… whatever you choose to do, don’t drag Benn into it. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s the least objectionable of Red-Hair’s friends.”

               The big, imposing business tycoon chuckles mirthlessly and picks up his discarded cigar. “Fine. But only for you, Hawk-Eyes. I’d hate to do anything that might jeopardize a friend of your Red-Hair.”

Mihawk isn’t sad to see Crocodile leave after lunch—which Mihawk barely touched—but Shanks is, because he doesn’t want to leave the swordsman alone.

               “I was hoping he’d stay with you while Benn and I go to the village…” he says, deliberately avoiding Mihawk’s glare.

               “I’m not a child, Red-Hair. I don’t require a babysitter.”

               “But you’ve got a concussion—”

               “I’m fine. In fact, I’m not even going to leave this room,” he says, reclaiming the leather armchair. He settles into it with a glass of wine and a book. “Now, go.”

               Shanks is reluctant, but Benn says: “Come on, Captain. It’s starting to rain again. Let’s go and get back before it gets worse.”

               Shanks sighs in defeat. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

               Mihawk’s reply is a dismissive wave over the top of the book. A minute later, the front door closes, locks, and then the house is silent, except for the patter of rain.

               At first, it’s nice. It’s familiar. And no one is there to distract the swordsman, or interrupt him. No one nags at him, and no one vies for his attention. The sound of constant, increasing rainfall fills the cavernous halls of the old stone church and Mihawk breathes a sigh of relief.

               He breathes a sigh of contentment.

               He breathes a sigh of impatience, because shouldn’t Shanks be back by now?

               Agitated, Mihawk puts down the book he hasn’t read and goes to the window, which creaks against the wind and lashing rain. If he squints, he can see the vicarage, but he doesn’t see a light. Of course he doesn’t, because Shanks isn’t home, he’s in the village. In fact, they’re probably on their way back; probably moments away from pulling up the drive. Shanks and Benn will get soaked as they take the groceries in, and Mihawk wants to see that, so he hobbles into the vestibule and peers out the front window. He waits, and waits. It’s very dark outside, despite early-afternoon. The sky is grey and crowded with charcoal clouds, not unlike the storm three days ago. Mihawk can’t even see the gravel road, which will be slick and treacherous to drive on. He feels himself start to shake and tells himself the vestibule is cold, so he leaves it. He goes back into the parlour in time for the room to fill with lightning and the sound of thunder. He looks at the clock, then glares at it. Has it stopped moving? It must have, because Shanks should be back by now. When Shanks gets back, Mihawk will tell him to fix the clock. A clock isn’t a clock if it can’t tell the time, and if it can’t tell time Mihawk won’t know if Shanks is early, or late, or—

               A deafening boom of thunder makes Mihawk flinch, and now he really can’t stop shaking. But it’s not cold in this room, it’s hot. It’s much too hot.

               Shanks needs to turn the thermostat down, because he has it turned-up so high that Mihawk is sweating.

               Where the hell is Shanks, anyway? And why did he go in the first place? The roads are too dangerous to drive in this weather, and Benn doesn’t know the route.

               He doesn’t know that the bridge floods, or that the road narrows at the mouth of the mountain. He doesn’t know what animals might unexpectedly dart out—

               Mihawk can’t breathe for a second and the room tilts sideways. He stumbles and catches himself on the roll-top, where the clock sits. The fucking clock that won’t fucking move.

               Shanks should be back by now.

               Why the hell isn’t he back?

               He promised he’d be right back…

Chapter Text

The first time Mihawk wakes, he sees Dr. Trafalgar Law: his piercings and tattoos and dishevelled fatigue. And he says: “If I ever had a son, I think he’d be something like you… which is probably why I’ve never reproduced…”

               The second time Mihawk wakes, he sees Shanks, whose eyes show more blue than grey today, and who tells Mihawk not to get up. “Don’t tell me what to do…” Mihawk tells him, instead. “I’m older; I tell you what to do…”

               The third time Mihawk wakes, he’s lucid enough to know that he’s in his bed and Shanks is lying beside him. Also, he feels like he’s been keelhauled.

               “If you’re determined to die, tell me now,” says Law, without vocal inflection. He looks like the Grim Reaper, looming over the bed. “It’ll save us both a lot of effort.”

               Mihawk blinks rheum from his eyes. He lifts his head from Shanks’ shoulder, but immediately feels dizzy, so lays it back down.

               “I don’t want to die,” he tells Law, whose sigh sounds disappointed.

               “Are you sure? Because you’re giving it an awful good go. Shanks found you passed-out in the rain,” he says. “And now you’ve got pneumonia.”

               “What?”

               “Care to explain why you were in the rain? With a concussion and broken limbs,” Law adds, in case Mihawk has forgotten.

               “I… I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t remember.”

               “Your blood-alcohol level might’ve had something to do with that.”

               “My blood… What?”

               Mihawk stares at Law, the haughty twenty-four-year-old lecturing him on his alcohol intake. Pride makes him sit up.

               “Listen here, doctor. I may not be in prime condition right now, but if you think I can’t hold my—”

               Mihawk’s head swims and his stomach lurches. A second later, he’s vomiting into the antique Alabastan vase on his bedside table.

               “If I prescribe you anxiety medication, just short-term—” Law begins, but Mihawk coughs and chokes-out a refusal:

               “No drugs!”

               That’s when Shanks wakes up.

               “Mihawk?”

               Mihawk is vomiting again and can’t respond.

               Law says: “His fever’s gone down, which is good, but now he’s vomiting, which is bad. I’m going home. This time,” he reprimands Shanks, “don’t let him out of your sight. Oh, and here’s a thought: maybe don’t plow the invalid with alcohol, yeah? Keep him hydrated and call me if the vomiting doesn’t stop. If he faints again, call an ambulance.”

               Then Law is gone, and Shanks is rubbing Mihawk’s back as his traitor body tries to expel its internal organs.

               “Law says you likely panicked,” says Shanks, once Mihawk is lying in bed once more. “He thinks you weren’t thinking clearly and that’s why you went outside. Is that why—?”

               “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

               “Okay, well… try.”

               Mihawk startles at Shanks’ tone, which is—angry, of all things. He opens his eyes to find the redhead staring down at him in accusation.

               “I… I really don’t know.” It sounds shallow, even to him, but it’s the truth. A truth that Shanks doesn’t buy.

               “Try harder, Mihawk. Why did you leave the house? Why didn’t you stay put, like you said you would?”

               “The house was too hot,” he recalls. “I had to get out, had to… find something. I had to go to the road. It was important.”

               “What was important?”

               “I don’t remember.”

               “You don’t remember what made you run out into a fucking thunderstorm?”

               “Given my current condition, I’m sure I didn’t run—”

               “Given your current condition, you could’ve died!”

               Mihawk flinches back, heart pounding. He’s never heard Shanks raise his voice in anger before; never seen this dark, dangerous look on his face and realizes, in shock, that this is what lies beneath those carefree smiles, that happy-go-lucky demeanor. This power and burning intensity. It’s utterly paralyzing.

               “I-I-I—I’m sorry,” says Mihawk, hating the submissive tremor in his voice.

               Shanks’ eyes are as hard as steel.

               “Go back to sleep,” he commands. And Mihawk does.

Shanks doesn’t accept Mihawk’s meek apology, nor does he offer one of his own. For a week, he takes care of Mihawk in silence. He barely leaves Mihawk’s side, but barely says a word, and Mihawk hates it, because it’s not Shanks. Not his Shanks; the kind and considerate Shanks he’s come to know. This Shanks is angry. A bitter, hot-blooded, forceful hands and piercing glares angry that Mihawk can’t bring himself to contest, because this Shanks won’t be challenged.

               When Shanks says sleep, he does. When he says drink or eat, he does. When he takes Mihawk’s temperature, or tells him to change clothes, or grabs the swordsman mid-nightmare to make him stop thrashing, Mihawk doesn’t argue or resist. He lets the redhead nurse him in stoic, stony silence; partly because he’s afraid of rebelling, and partly because he’s ashamed, because Shanks’ anger is entirely his fault. He knows that, now. He remembers it.

               He was looking for Shanks in the storm.

               Somehow, he had convinced himself that something bad had happened to Shanks and he needed to find him. That’s why he’d left the house. That’s why Shanks and Benn had found him passed-out in the rain. His ill, half-drunk, panicking brain had been going to save Shanks, or die trying.

               If he’d died in that storm, he would’ve deserved it for being so fucking stupid.

               Instead, he accepts his punishment with as much dignity as possible. He endures Shanks’ hurtful silence and remains silent, himself, because no amount of conquering force from the pirate will ever make the swordsman admit he remembers.

On the eighth day, Shanks calls Law, and by twilight on the ninth day, Law confirms that Mihawk is out of danger. He still has a whisper of pneumonia in his lungs (and probably will for a while), but, when he’s finally given permission to leave bed, he does so immediately, before Shanks can change his mind. He goes directly to the bath and stays there for a long time, until the water goes cold, but this time Shanks doesn’t come in to check on him. This time, when Mihawk emerges from the en suite it’s to find the redhead sitting morosely on his bed.

               “I’m not apologizing,” Shanks says pre-emptively, but the chill in his demeanor has finally thawed. He eyes, at least, are soft again. “I’m still upset about what happened, but I’m ready to tell you why.”

               “Okay…”

               He pats the bed beside him and Mihawk cautiously sits down.

               “I don’t like people hurting my friends,” he says without prologue. “I don’t like knowing that my friends are in danger. And I really don’t like not being able to do a goddamn thing about it. I’m upset because you scared me. You put yourself in danger and I don’t know why.”

               Because of you, Mihawk thinks. Because I was afraid of losing you.

               What he says is: “I’m sorry.”

               Shanks sighs and drags a hand through his uncombed hair. His scars glow pink against his pallid skin. It’ll be a while before they fade to white.

               “Why won’t you let me help you?” he asks. “Do you not trust me? Do you not like me?”

               “No, I… It’s not that,” Mihawk falters, unsure what to say or how to say it. “I do like you. It’s just…”

               Shanks takes Mihawk’s hand and Mihawk lets him. He’s looking at the swordsman, now; those earnest blue-grey eyes that Mihawk has missed.

               “I don’t like having to rely on you,” he admits. “It’s not personal. I’ve just always taken care of myself.”

               “By choice, or necessity?” Shanks asks. When Mihawk doesn’t reply, he presses on; squeezes Mihawk’s hand. “You never talk about family, or friends. It’s almost like… I mean. Have you ever had anyone?”

               “I don’t need anyone, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

               “Not need, Mihawk—want. Do you really not want anyone in your life?”

               This time, when Mihawk doesn’t reply, when he looks down and away from Shanks, Shanks drops his hand and pulls him into a hug.

               Mihawk goes still. “What are you doing? I don’t need a hug.”

               “I do,” says Shanks, not letting go. His body is warm and firm and careful and feels so goddamn good.

               “Hug someone else, then.”

               “No. I want to hug you, because you’re my friend and I care about you. I was so fucking worried about you.”

               Mihawk has nothing to say to that, so he says nothing. He just sits there, waiting for Shanks to let go, except he doesn’t. He holds Mihawk to him: arms wrapped around the swordsman, chin resting on his shoulder, face pressed to his neck. Shanks’ body-heat encapsulates him and Mihawk can feel the strong, steady beat of his heart.

               “I might be a novice at hugging…” he says after a time, “but this doesn’t feel friendly, Red-Hair.”

               “I want more than friendly. I want to kiss you again.”

               Mihawk’s breath catches; his heart skips a beat. “God, you’re persistent.”

               Shanks lifts his head but stays intimately close. His eyes go to Mihawk’s lips and he leans in. “Perseverance is a virtue, isn’t it?”

               Mihawk should stop him, but he doesn’t.

               “I don’t give a damn about virtues,” he says.

               “What about sins?”

               Mihawk is physically and mentally weak, injured, and probably still concussed, but when Shanks kisses him, none of that matters. All that matters is that Shanks is kissing him. Shanks is holding him, and Mihawk is kissing him back, relieved to be in Shanks’ arms and lucky to have Shanks in his. The taste of his mouth, the feel of his unshaved beard, the touch of strong, callused hands on naked skin. It all feels like a dream, and Mihawk wonders if they didn’t slip him medication, after all.

               “Promise,” Shanks orders, stroking the column of Mihawk’s neck; kissing him deep in indulgence. “Promise you won’t scare me like that again.” Gently, he takes Mihawk’s sprained hand and kisses it tenderly, first the bruised knuckles, then the wrist, then the palm. “I can’t watch you get hurt anymore.”

               “Red-Hair—”

               “Promise me.”

               Something breaks inside of Mihawk. Something that wants to give Shanks the world.

               He leans in, pressing his forehead to Shanks’, softly bumping noses, and whispers into the heat of the pirate’s sinful mouth: “I promise.”

A week goes by, and then two, and Mihawk finds himself playing domestic in a way he never thought possible. He and Shanks spend their days together, talking, working, watching the television set that Shanks brings over from his house and puts in the parlour. The television they fall asleep watching, piled one atop the other on the loveseat like puppies. Mihawk protests most of Shanks’ films, and criticizes throughout—especially scenes featuring inaccurate swordplay—but he watches them all nonetheless. (He unintentionally makes a non-critical comment once, and Shanks beams in victory, because: “Ha! You like this one! Admit it, I found one you actually like!”) Shanks also likes to play games of chance, even though he’s horrible at them. He tries to cheat every time and, every time, Mihawk catches him, because he has the world’s worst poker-face. He is good at chess, though, and Mihawk—who’d always thought himself rather good—finds himself losing as often as winning. The radio is always on now, too, and Shanks whoops in delight one morning when the station plays Bink’s Saké as a special request. He tries to get Mihawk to dance with him around the breakfast table, but when Mihawk vehemently protests he dances and sings—loudly—by himself. A feature of their coexistence that Mihawk does not protest is Shanks’ workout routine, which he does every morning in the garden, while Mihawk surreptitiously watches over the rim of his coffee cup.

               Six weeks after the accident, Law proclaims Mihawk’s wrist and ribs healed, and Mihawk finally takes back control of his house. Or, he tries to.

               He starts in the kitchen, because:

               “Oh my God, what have you done to my kitchen?”

               Shanks has the nerve to look put-out. “I’ve used it. This was not the kitchen of someone who cooks before I got here.”

               “No. It was the kitchen of someone who cooks and then cleans up afterward. A concept obviously unfamiliar to you.”

               One day, Shanks asks Mihawk to teach him swordsmanship, and, in exchange, Shanks shows Mihawk how to brawl with fists. Shanks is a surprisingly fast learner with dueling techniques (less so with things like the washing-up and: “Red-Hair, did you put my cashmere sweater in the laundry alongside your socks? I’m going to kill you!”). He possesses an impressive degree of athletic ability, though Mihawk never tells him. Nor does he tell the cocky pirate he knows when he’s playing rather than practicing, making simple, fumbling mistakes so that Mihawk will touch him in correction. Mihawk, himself, shows much less skill at bare-handed fighting, which surprises them both.

               “Wow,” says Shanks, pinning Mihawk and claiming victory for the umpteenth time. “I did not expect you to be so bad at this. You duel like a dream. And you’re flexible as a rubber hose.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “How can you not know how to throw a punch?”

               Mihawk grumbles and eventually dismisses the brawling lessons altogether as boorish and unnecessary.

               “I’ll always have a blade on me, why would I ever need to use my hands?”

               “Maybe because you don’t always want to maim the person you’re fighting—?” Shanks offers.

               Mihawk blinks at him, and says: “I don’t understand the question.”

               When they need the post office, or the grocery store, or to replenish personal products better left unnamed, they go into the village together, because Mihawk can’t yet drive, and Shanks can’t be trusted not to buy things not on the shopping list. (“Why did you buy a sixty pack of D-cell batteries?” — “Because they were on sale!”) Shanks is very careful driving Mihawk’s car, and they never go driving in the rain, not only because it makes Mihawk nervous, but because his car is a jet-black vintage thunderbird.

               “A fucking T-bird! How did I not know you own a T-bird?” gasps Shanks when he pulls open the car-port.

               “The make of my car is irrelevant to the driving of it,” Mihawk says, tossing Shanks the keys and sliding into the passenger-seat. Shanks disagrees.

               “Not when it’s a motherfucking T-bird!” he whoops in excitement.

               Eventually, Mihawk can’t remember what he used to talk to other people about. He assumes it was mostly swordsmanship; training and technique. It was probably arguments about sponsorships and photoshoots. And things like, what he should wear to what events to promote which brands. Invitations to parties. Sign this paper, endorse this product. Now, he talks to Shanks about sourdough starter and organic pesticide and the fact that petrol has gone up to sixty cents per litre, and it’s the most he’s talked to anyone in his life. There’s a lot of teasing and a little argument in Shanks, but not judgement, and he can and will engage in any topic of conversation, whether he knows anything about it or not. And yet, he’s a good listener, which is much more valuable. When Mihawk is talking, he has Shanks’ undivided attention—unless there’s a dog in the vicinity—because: “I like listening to you, darlin’.” As simple as that.

               Mihawk never knows if Shanks’ words and gestures are meant for comfort or for romance, but, either way, it always feels good. Compliments from the earnest redhead always make him feel special, even if he doesn’t show it. Secretly, he enjoys the easy elasticity that’s developed between them, so unguarded and—trusting.

               It’s been a long time since Mihawk trusted another human-being, but when the wind howls and a crescendo of lightning and thunder fills the sky, Mihawk trusts Shanks to be there. He trusts Shanks to increase the television’s volume, put his arm around Mihawk, and hold him close, all without looking at him, or saying a word. Not rubbing, or soothing, or patronizing: there-there, it’ll be alright. He just holds Mihawk against his side until the storm has ebbed and the swordsman’s hands have stopped shaking.

               The one thing they do have to do in the pattering rain, however, is harvest the grapes, otherwise they’ll miss the opportunity and the season’s vintage will be ruined.

               “I can’t believe they’re not mush,” says Shanks, because it’s rained almost every day since he moved-in. “I thought grapes needed sun to survive. I need sun!” he moans in distress, hefting a basket of grapes onto his shoulder.

               Mihawk, standing aside with an umbrella, supervising the harvest, rolls his eyes. “It’s a variety of grapevine from Onigashima; rather rare, since there are so few places in the world it will grow. The grapes need the rain. They’ll get sunburnt if it’s too bright, and too much heat will kill them. They’re happiest when it’s dark.”

               “Ah, sounds like someone I know,” Shanks teases, pushing soaked hair off his forehead and staining himself with grape juice. His sleeveless t-shirt is plastered to his torso with water and juice and sweat and Mihawk has to look away, because he feels the opposite of appalled by the filthy sight, which is somewhat appalling.

               Once inside—in the winery, Shanks calls it—they work together to crush and press the grapes to remove the peels and they both end up covered in sweet, reddish juice that utterly terrifies a delivery boy, who has the misfortune of knocking. (“If he tells anyone, you’re going to get a murder-y reputation, Hawk-Eyes.” — “Foolish to assume I don’t already have a murder-y reputation, Red-Hair.”) The fermentation process takes twelve days, during which time they avoid the sickly-sweet cellar; then the clarification process begins, ends, and the wine is finally bottled for aging.

               “And now we wait?” asks Shanks.

               “And now we wait,” says Mihawk.

               Pause.

               “Ahem, um… thank-you for your assistance. It would’ve been rather difficult to do this all on my own, given my…” He indicates his leg, so very, very tired of being an invalid. He can put a bit of weight on it, now—he threw the crutch in the fireplace the first chance he got—but Law refuses to call it healed, so Mihawk remains trapped in a brace from knee to heel.

               “I don’t mind,” Shanks smiles. He leans in and kisses Mihawk, soft and sweet. “It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, I just like that I’m doing it with you.”

               Mihawk will never understand how Shanks can say such intimate things so casually, when Mihawk is flushed just hearing it, even if he thinks the same, despite the unexpected ups-and-downs of domesticity. To himself, at least, he can admit that he really does like spending his days with Shanks. But he likes their nights together even more…

The first time they have sex is a bit of a disaster, admittedly. Or, it starts out that way, with Mihawk in Shanks’ lap on the sofa. He wants the redhead so very much, and wants to forget he’s injured even more, but every movement sends a lancing pain up his leg, and every caress, no matter how gentle, palms a fading bruise. He tries to ignore it and focus on Shanks. Shanks’ mouth on his skin; Shanks’ hands stroking him with worshipful desire; the heat of Shanks’ stiff erection rubbing slick and rosebud-pink against his own, but it’s useless. The pleasure is coupled with pain, and the whines that escape the swordsman are not only in want. When climactic urgency makes Mihawk arch against Shanks involuntarily, it puts undue pressure on his leg and he yelps: “Ow!

               “Forget it,” he gasps, falling sideways ungracefully. He winces as his leg slides off of Shanks to right himself.

               “Mihawk—”

               Mihawk’s reply is a dismissal, not looking at Shanks. He feels frustrated, embarrassed, and uncomfortably aroused, and wishes more than anything he could close his eyes and erase the whole episode. He’s mortified to know that he’s the one who initiated it. That he grabbed Shanks and kissed him and crawled atop him like a wanton twenty-year-old, rather than a reputable man of forty-one. And now he can’t even complete what he fucking started, because of his own abysmal limitations. If he weren’t so angry with himself, he might succumb to sadder emotions, to feel so entirely useless and dejected and—

               “Come here, darlin’.”

               Shanks’ unbelievably careful hands on him. Shanks lifting him into his arms.

               “Stop,” he tries to protest. “This isn’t working—”

               “Do you trust me?”

               One look into those soft, blue-grey eyes pulls the answer from Mihawk before he has time to lie: “Yes.”

               “Then trust me.”

               In a heartbeat, Shanks has carried Mihawk upstairs to his bedroom and laid him gently down on the bed on his back. Then he leans down over him, pulling the swordsman’s legs apart and cradling the injured one in the curve of his muscular arm. “I’ve got you, put your weight on me,” he says, and Mihawk does. Shanks anchors another hand at his waist, holding him gently but firmly to prevent their movement from exacerbating his bruises and the throbbing in his side. A throbbing that quickly migrates back to his groin under the skillful ministrations of Shanks’ hot tongue. Mihawk’s heart beats faster and his breaths come in short, rapid bursts. It’s been a long time since he’s looked up at a lover like this. A long time since he’s not been the one in control of his own pleasure, but he trusts Shanks. He wants him. And looking up at him like this, with Shanks arching over him, all bare, flushed skin; all heat and sweat rolling down the rigid contours of his body; all undulating muscle dusted in fine, red hair; lips gleaming, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness—he’s beautiful.

               “You’re so beautiful,” says Shanks in awe, kissing up Mihawk’s neck to his earlobe, then back along the angle of his jaw. “But I think you know that.”

               “I don’t mind hearing it… from you,” Mihawk admits, leaning back and exposing his throat. “You… are, too,” he adds quietly and feels Shanks’ lips smile against him.

               “You don’t have to say that. I know I’m a bit scruffy—” he begins, but stops when Mihawk grabs his face and pulls him into a punishing kiss.

               “Then I guess I like scruffy. And I think we both look a bit ridiculous right now.”

               “It’s not about how we look. It’s about how we feel. How does it feel?” Shanks asks as he pushes slowly into Mihawk, savouring every surrendering inch.

               Mihawk’s breath catches and his eyes fall closed. A moan escapes him. Again, he can’t lie. “Good—! It feels good.”

               “Hold onto me, darlin’.”

               Mihawk does. He wraps his arms around Shanks’ shoulders, pulling him in as close as can get, his fingernails finding purchase in the yield of warm, sweaty skin.

               “F-F-Fuck!” he gasps.

               “Fuck!” Shanks groans.

               Closer, and closer together. A hot, pounding pressure building between them.

               “Red—”

               “No!” Shanks snaps. His teeth are bared, as if in anguish. Then he smiles a wanting, wicked smile.

               “My name. Say my name.”

               Mihawk squeezes his eyes shut defiantly, bites his lip. Shanks fucks him harder, pushing him further; too far past breaking, until—

               “Aa-ah! Sh-Shanks!”

               Later, once they’re cleaned and sleep-ready, utterly exhausted, Mihawk invites Shanks to stay in his bed and they both lie naked and wrapped in each other’s body-heat. Mihawk does not like to be cuddled, but Shanks does, so it’s he who drapes his heavy body over Mihawk’s, like a snoring, undulating duvet. Mihawk might not tolerate it if he wasn’t so tired, but finds he doesn’t want to move. It’s not unpleasant having Shanks’ weight against him, a little on top of him. He doesn’t feel as trapped as he thought he would. He doesn’t tell Shanks, but it’s the first time he’s ever slept with someone. Not just a lover, but anyone. He has no family and only one friend, and he and Crocodile aren’t exactly the sleepover type. He can’t even remember an adult tucking him in when he was a child… It makes Shanks’ presence weird, but not bad.

               It’s not bad at all. Which is bad. He thinks. Hates that he doesn’t know anymore. Shanks makes him feel so—

               God, Shanks makes him feel.

               But it’s late and he’s tired in the best fucking way possible.

               Shanks is amazing. Shanks is a menace.

               Mihawk can fight with himself about Shanks tomorrow.

Chapter Text

A party?”

               The receiver is cradled between Mihawk’s ear and shoulder, as his hands whisk a bowl of egg-whites.

               “Yes,” comes Crocodile’s lazy voice through the line. “It’s just a small gathering I’m hosting, nothing that would overwhelm your delicate sensibilities, my friend; nor incite you to homicide, I should hope.”

               “Yes, but why risk it?” says Mihawk just as Shanks saunters into the kitchen, wearing a loose grilling apron and little else. Crocodile is still talking in his ear, but it’s Shanks who now commands full attention. First, he points to himself, then to the barbeque on the patio, then he mouths something Mihawk can’t decipher. He frowns and mouths back: What? Shanks rolls his eyes in exaggeration, then appears to do an interpretive dance. Mihawk shakes his head: I have no idea what you—

               “Hawk-Eyes, are you listening to me?”

               “Yes.”

               Suddenly, flames explode from the barbeque and Mihawk snaps his fingers urgently at Shanks. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline as he charges outside, and Mihawk can do nothing but watch, tethered to the telephone cord.

               “Will you be bringing Shanks, as well?”

               Mihawk puts down the bowl of frothy egg-whites and readjusts the receiver. “To what?” he asks, distracted.

               Crocodile’s reply is a deep sigh. “Are you having sex?”

               “What? No, of course not! Why would you even think that?”

               “Because you’re very obviously distracted.”

               “And that is what you automatically assume?”

               “When you’ve got a handsome man at your disposal, yes. You’d be surprised how often I take calls in the middle of—”

               “I’m not listening to you—” Mihawk interrupts, “—because Red-Hair has set my house on fire. Also, I have no interest in my own tedious social obligations, let alone yours.”

               “Oh, come on, it’ll be good for you. You’re like a raptor, Hawk-Eyes, we have to keep you well socialized, otherwise you’ll revert back to before they domesticated you.”

               “I’m not a wild animal, Crocodile.”

               “Then come to the party. It’ll be a nice opportunity to show-off your boyfriend.”

               “He’s not my—”

               “Eh, Croco-baby,” comes a smooth, sultry voice from across the line. “Who’re you talking to?”

               Mihawk stiffens and clutches the receiver tight.

               “Hawk-Eyes,” Crocodile tells Doflamingo. There’s a long, grappling interlude, a grunt, and a chuckle. Then: “Hawk-Eyes, are you still there?”

               “Yes.” Pause. “Is he going to be there?”

               Crocodile hesitates for the briefest moment, but Mihawk reads uncertainty into it.

               “Yes. He is my legal spouse, after all. And you—? Raptors die if they’re caged for too long, you know.”

               Mihawk knows Doflamingo, and he knows what Crocodile is really asking:

               Please come to the party. I need your support.

               Mihawk’s reply is a put-upon sigh. “I think you’ve forgotten that raptors are hunters. When they’re set loose, it’s everyone else that’s in danger.”

               I’ll be there.

               After confirming the time and date, Mihawk hangs-up the phone and goes to inspect the damage to his patio.

               “Crocodile is hosting a party tomorrow night. I’m attending.”

               “Hmm? Oh, yeah—sounds fun,” says Shanks, too quick and casual to be sincere.

               Mihawk looks at him, bent over the barbeque: uncombed, unshaved, and smudged with greasy charcoal. He says: “Would you… like to… accompany me?”

               Shanks’ head pops up. “Me—?”

               “If you don’t want to, that’s fine—”

               “No, no—I do!” says Shanks, jumping to his feet. He’s grinning, now; cocksure bastard.

               “It won’t be like your parties,” Mihawk warns him. “It’ll be indoors, for one thing. And when Crocodile says small that means at least a hundred people. And it’s formal attire, so you’ll have to wear a collared shirt. And trousers. Do you think you can handle that?”

               “For you…” Shanks takes Mihawk’s hand, dirtying it, and presses a lingering kiss to the back, “…anything. Even trousers.”

If Mihawk lives in a church, Crocodile lives in a palace. Or, that’s how Shanks describes it with a low whistle; appalled or appreciative, the swordsman can’t tell.

               “You didn’t tell me Crocodile is a prince,” he jokes, turning off the thunderbird’s engine.

               “He’s not.”

               “Then why does he live in a palace?”

               “Because he’s an ostentatious prick who embezzles money,” Mihawk replies. “And it’s not a palace, just a mansion.”

               “Oh, right, just a mansion. How stupid of me,” says Shanks, circling the car and opening Mihawk’s door for him. “How about: I have a butt-load of disposable income. Can we call it that?”

               “Yes.”

               Mihawk is usually miffed by Shanks’ chivalry, but tonight he’s grateful for the redhead’s proffered hand as he exits the car. It serves the dual purpose of disguising the inelegance of his injury—his leg still can’t take a lot of weight or pressure—and making his date appear the part of perfect gentleman, both of which are vital to surviving this party.

               “Don’t show any sign of weakness,” Mihawk had warned Shanks on the drive. “These people are sharks; they can smell blood in the water.”

               “I thought they were your friends?”

               “No.”

               “Oh, so they’re just Crocodile’s friends?”

               “No.”

               Shanks blinked. “I’m confused.”

               Mihawk sighed, and said: “That doesn’t bode well for you.”

               Shanks doesn’t look any less confused, now, as they ascend the front steps: very slowly, feigning dignity and boredom; Mihawk putting most of his weight on Shanks.

               “You should be wearing the brace on your leg,” Shanks quietly scolds. “You’re going to be in agony by the end of the night.”

               Mihawk cuts him a glare and simply says: “Sharks.”

               Before they reach the door, it’s opened by a footman in dark green-and-gold livery, who welcomes them into a marbled foyer, where an additional footman takes their coats.

               “Oi—! I’m getting that back, right? It’s the only fancy coat I’ve got!” Shanks argues, until Mihawk elbows him in the ribs.

               “It’s a bloody coat-check. Were you raised by wolves?”

               “No,” Shanks whispers back. “Pirates.

               “I feel like I’m about to get trouble from the headmaster,” he says as they’re directed down the corridor to the ballroom. His head swings back-and-forth like a pendulum.

               Mihawk squeezes his arm; part sympathy and part reproach. “You’re not a schoolboy, you’re a thirty-seven-year-old man.”

               “I feel like a chimney-sweep.”

               “Well, for once you don’t look like one.” A sentiment shared by Crocodile’s guests, it seems.

               A magazine once described Mihawk as: colourless and coldly beautifully, like the blade of a knife, because the swordsman has always taken pride in his appearance. Not vanity for his looks, though—he knows he’s attractive; he doesn’t need the approval of other people—but as a matter of self-respect. There’s always been intent in the way he presents himself; always an air of refinement and control in his appearance, his movements, his actions, his temper—if not his dialogue. He knows it, and so does everyone else as he enters the ballroom. They expect Dracule Mihawk to be one of, if not the most attractive person in the room. His sharp, dark lines and tall, lean figure in formal dress is appreciated, but not surprising to anyone, which is why their leering eyes don’t linger on him and, instead, all focus on Shanks like moths to a flame.

               Shanks isn’t wearing a waistcoat or tie, and his shirt is unbuttoned to the clavicle, but Mihawk doesn’t care, because if there was a prize for hottest date, he would’ve won it the second they walked in.

               Shanks looks good tonight in a monochrome outfit just ill-fitting enough to be devil-may-care. For once, his mane of red hair is combed back, revealing his handsome face—the dashing cut of his scars—and his beard is close-trimmed and hugs the line of his strong jaw. The second-hand suit squares his shoulders and accentuates his height, and—miracle of miracles—he’s wearing actual shoes, not sandals; an argument Mihawk won by the skin-of-his-teeth.

               No, Mihawk is not a vain man per se, but a deep, gloating sense of satisfaction comes over him when Shanks puts a hand on his waist. A small gesture, but an undeniably possessive one. In another time, another place, he might have felt insulted by the claim of ownership, but right now, seeing envy on the faces of the people he detests, Mihawk loves it.

               As expected, Crocodile’s small gathering consists of one-hundred-and-eight people, who dwarf the ballroom in décor, if not size. Mihawk and Shanks are the most conservatively dressed by a large margin, as feathers and jewel-tones seem to be in vogue; at least amongst this crowd.

               “Hiya, I’m Shanks,” says Shanks to the man standing closest. He’s a very tall, barrel-chested man in a spotted hat and he walks away without a word.

               Shanks tries again. “Hello,” he says to a turnip-shaped man in a dramatically-flared cape. “I’m Shanks.”

               “Shanks—?” he sneers, with all of the congeniality of a sardine sandwich. “What in hell is a Shanks?”

               “It’s the name my dead father gave me,” Shanks retaliates pleasantly.

               “Dead, you say—?”

               Mihawk pulls Shanks away, but the pirate is determined and undaunted. He smiles charmingly at a woman in an iridescent snake-skin gown, but her reaction is the worst so far. She flips her long, jet-black hair over a shoulder, makes an audible snubbing sound—“hmf!”—and walks past Shanks, pretending she hadn’t seen him at all.

               “Don’t take offense,” says Mihawk, because Shanks’ futile efforts have earned a modicum of pity. “She’s been Miss Amazon Lily for a decade; she’s got a high opinion of herself.”

               “She’s not the only one. These are not nice people,” says Shanks in rueful amusement.

               “No, we’re not. I did warn you.”

               “Oh, I’m not complaining. I’ve met worse. How do you know them, anyway?”

               “I’m familiar with most of them, not all. The majority work for Crocodile’s company, Baroque Works. A few, though,” says Mihawk, discretely pointing them out, “I used to work with.”

               Shanks cocks an eyebrow. “You used to work with a business tycoon, a pageant queen, and—what was it you said Doflamingo was? A drug-lord?”

               “Among others, yes. It’s more accurate to say we were members of the same association.”

               “Oh, yeah? What was it? The Snob’s Society for the Rich and Famous—?”

               Mihawk’s lip tugs up, the ghost of a smile. “Close. They called us The Seven Warlords.”

               Shanks frowns. “But there are only six of you here?”

               “That’s because Jinbei is a nice person. He never fit in.”

               “Huh. So, wait…” Shanks leans in close, so that his breath tickles Mihawk’s ear, “…does that mean I fucked a warlord?”

               “Don’t flatter yourself,” says Mihawk, pushing his face away. “You weren’t the first.”

               “But I might be the last.”

               “Are you predicting my untimely death, Red-Hair?”

               “No, not like that. I meant—”

               “Hawk-Eyes!” calls Crocodile, gliding over to greet them. He’s wearing a beautiful three-piece suit threaded with gold—real gold—and holding a crystal tumbler and a cigar that smells of burnt caramel. “And Shanks, how nice of you to come.”

               “Coerced,” Mihawk corrects. Then he nods to a gaggle of brightly-dressed men in the centre of the ballroom. “I was just acquainting Red-Hair with the rabble, but I don’t know those three. Who are they?”

               “Pica, Diamante, and Trebol. Doflamingo’s friends.”

               Pica is a mountainous visage, whose stance is something between loitering and lurking. Diamante is tall and long-faced, with a narrow nose and fluted mouth. And Trebol looks like yogurt past it’s sell-by date. Mihawk dislikes all of them on instinct, not only because they are undoubtedly the men responsible for Doflamingo’s early release, but because their behaviour is obnoxious in the way of new money ostentatiousness coupled with old world prejudice. Everything about them is flashy, like a neon marquee—like the puffed-up Doflamingo, himself—and Mihawk decides then and there not to acknowledge them.

               “Hmm,” is all he says, looking away.

               “Problem?” asks Crocodile, a bit defensive.

               “Too many to list. Wine?”

               “Over there,” the host points, and Shanks goes off to fetch like a dog. Mihawk is loath to let him go, but can’t recall or follow him without inviting scorn.

               If there is one thing he absolutely cannot do tonight, it’s let on that he likes Shanks. If he does, he’ll be chum in shark-infested water. The only reason he’s survived these people for so long is because they think he’s as heartless as they are. Maybe he is; he doesn’t know. What he knows is to act aloof and never, ever show that he cares, no matter who is speaking, or what they’re saying.

               “Here, darlin’,” says Shanks, handing Mihawk a dry Dressrosan red. Once free, his arm goes back around the swordsman’s waist, which is fine. It doesn’t matter how much Shanks dotes on Mihawk tonight—the more the better; Mihawk kind of likes the attention—as long as Mihawk isn’t seen to reciprocate. He can be the object of hero-worship and desire; he usually is. But he cannot, will not let anyone see his feelings for Shanks, undefined as they are.

               So, Mihawk takes the wineglass, but doesn’t reply, doesn’t smile, and definitely doesn’t kiss Shanks, as has become his habit at home. (Shanks is positively canine in his want for rewards.) Instead, he assumes a jaded persona and pretends to ignore the conversations going on around him, until—

               “Hawksy.”

               The voice is deep and masculine and sounds like a caress that sends a shiver of revulsion up the swordsman’s spine.

               Donquixote Doflamingo is wearing a bright pink, feathered jacket, unfathomably tight trousers, sunglasses, flat shoes, and nothing more. His short hair is lemonade-yellow and his bleach-white teeth gleam in a scimitar smile. “Did you miss me?” he purrs, looming so close to Mihawk, he can smell the other man’s citrusy cologne.

               In reply, Mihawk musters as much pompousness as possible: “Obviously. Otherwise you’d be in the ground.”

               Doflamingo laughs. Crocodile laughs. Shanks chuckles awkwardly, though it’s clear he doesn’t get the joke. But Mihawk doesn’t so much as titter, because he’s not joking, he’s serious, and the laughter ends rather raggedly.

               “Awe, you wound me, Hawksy,” says Doflamingo, and Mihawk internally cringes.

               Don’t call me that! he thinks but doesn’t say. He despises nicknames, but if he admits it aloud it’ll never stop.

               “Hello, I’m Shanks,” Shanks cuts in chivalrously. “I’m a friend of Mihawk’s.”

               “OoOoh, a friend, are you?” Doflamingo’s body is serpentine in its slow, hypnotic movement, head swinging from pirate to swordsman and back. “Hawksy doesn’t have friends.”

               Mihawk clenches his wineglass.

               Shanks says: “I’m honoured to be the first.” And he holds out his hand.

               Doflamingo accepts the shake, and then Mihawk and Crocodile are spectators to primitive posturing as two very strong, very stubborn men try to crush each other’s finger bones.

               “My, oh my. Who knew that Red-Hair was so possessive?” says Crocodile approvingly. “Had I known…”

               He says it quietly to Mihawk, but needlessly. Their respective dates are too focused on a fist-clenching, cock-waving contest to notice.

               “Had you known, what?” Mihawk asks. “You would’ve invested more into my love-life?”

               “Of course not. I’m not in the business of holding my breath.”

               “Pity.”

               Shanks lets go of Mihawk to challenge Doflamingo two-handed and Doflamingo follows suit, all pretense of niceties gone. It’s a game, now, and a crowd gathers to watch and place bets. Shanks’ face is flushed, his jaw clenched, and a vein bulges in Doflamingo’s forehead. Both men are smiling manically.

               “And you?” asks Mihawk, stepping aside.

               Crocodile brings the cigar to his lips and inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time before replying in a puff of smoke.

               “Couldn’t be better. Doflamingo and I are getting on like a house on fire.”

               Mihawk eyes him skeptically, then says: “I completely agree. If by that you mean devastating destruction and widespread loss of life.”

               “I see you’re going for the virtues of honesty rather than honeyed flattery. How very unlike you, Hawk-Eyes.”

               “Button your collar,” is Mihawk’s candid reply. “The bruises on your neck are showing.”

               Crocodile sneers and struts away, pulling surreptitiously at his clothes as he does. A moment later, a small army of staff lay the long, central table with canapés, petit fours, and viennoiseries, and the betting crowd disperses in favour of food.

               “Well?” asks Mihawk, avoiding Shanks’ sweaty hands. “Did you win?”

               “Does it matter?”

               “I don’t date losers.”

               “Oh, are we dating now?” Shanks’ smile is impish. His blueish eyes twinkle and his cheeks glow, making him look the very definition of red-blooded male. Mihawk doesn’t need to repeat his question.

               Instead, he leads Shanks to the table, then promptly has to explain the difference between a reception and a buffet.

               “But I’m hungry,” says Shanks, looking down at the food on his plate, piled embarrassingly high. “We didn’t have supper.”

               “That’s not the point. You’re expected to take one or two, three at most.”

               “But if that’s true…” Shanks looks forlornly down the long, glittering table, “…so much of it won’t get eaten.”

               “Correct,” says Mihawk pitilessly. “Wasting things like Champaign and caviar are how the rich know they’re rich.”

               “That’s terrible.”

               “Also correct.”

               “Well, I’m hungry,” Shanks repeats in stubborn defiance. “And it all looks really good. What’s this called?” he asks the waiter, ignoring Mihawk’s half-hearted protest, then his face-palm when the redhead whistles low in awe, saying: “Food should not have that many syllables.”

               Still, the redhead is absurdly charming in his unique way, and annoyingly persistent. “Try it, it’s so good!” he goads, and, only when Mihawk is certain no one is watching them, does he allow Shanks to slip a canapé between his lips, gently nipping Shanks’ finger for good measure.

               “The music’s good, too,” Shanks notes, mouth full of salmon mousse. “How come no one’s dancing? We’re in a ballroom, aren’t we?”

               “It’s for atmosphere, not dancing.”

               “So, let me get this straight. This party has food you’re not supposed to eat and music you’re not supposed to dance to—? Then, what’s the point?”

               “Gambling,” says Mihawk. “Crocodile made his fortune as a casino mogul. The entire upstairs of this house is practically a casino, itself.”

               “Then what are we doing down here?”

               “I don’t gamble.”

               “No?”

               “No. I like victory too much,” Mihawk admits shamelessly. “I only participate in contests I know I can win by skill, not chance.”

               “Well, I like the thrill of a gamble,” says Shanks, looping his arm through Mihawk’s. “The adrenalin rush of a risk.”

               “You’re a terrible gambler. You have no poker-face whatsoever.”

               “I won’t play poker, then. I’ll play something else. Blackjack.”

               “You’re bad at maths.”

               “Roulette, then. There’s no skill to roulette; it’s just guessing. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

               That’s how Mihawk finds himself standing at Shanks’ side in front of a roulette wheel, surrounded by people in varying stages of inebriation, cigarette smoke, and the pulsing, techno beat of loud music.

               “A fiver on Black thirty-five,” calls Shanks, cheerfully slapping down a banknote.

               The dealer—a black-haired woman dressed in skin-tight leather—pushes Shanks’ money back with one very long fingernail. “The minimum is fifty,” she says.

               “Fifty? Well, fuck me,” Shanks blurts in disappointment. “I guess I won’t be playing, after all—”

               Mihawk hands a crisp banknote to the dealer. “Black thirty-five,” he tells her on a long-suffering sigh.

               Shanks’ face lights up. “Really—?”

               Mihawk doesn’t deign to reply, just watches himself lose money as surely as if he’d flushed it down the toilet.

               “Red fourteen,” says the dealer to a chorus of groans, but Shanks’ isn’t one of them. He’s smiling excitedly as he pulls Mihawk to the next table, and then the next, and then the next, until he finally finds his luck at a craps game.

               “Are you unfamiliar with the phrase, the house always wins?” asks Mihawk in mild annoyance.

               “What—?!” Shanks shouts over the noise.

               “Never-mind.”

               “I’ll win it all back, every cent!” Shanks promises, snatching the dice. Mihawk is doubtful, but before he can comment, Shanks shoves both dice into his hand and kisses it. “You’re my good-luck charm,” he proclaims to a loud reception of mingled awes and oohs and one very impatient: “Are you going to shoot, or not?”

               Shanks shoots, rolls seven, and the crowd explodes in a deafening cheer.

               Again, Shanks makes Mihawk hold the dice before shooting, and again his number comes up. More cheers, more bets. Another round, another win.

               “Holy hell! Don’t let him go, kid! He really is special!”

               “Thank-you, Mr. Drunken Gambler! I couldn’t agree more!” Shanks yells with a smile.

               Mihawk rolls his eyes, then slips out from under Shanks’ arm. “Quit while you’re ahead,” he advises, but his date doesn’t listen. He spots something over Mihawk’s shoulder; something that makes his lips curl into a scheming grin.

               “Skill not chance—that’s what you said, right?” Shanks takes Mihawk’s shoulders and turns him around and Mihawk sees what’s caught his attention.

               “Darts?”

               “Darts and liquor,” Shanks adds jokingly, “proudly keeping the eyepatch industry alive. What do you say, oh, greatest swordsman?” he purrs in Mihawk’s ear. “Want to prove you’re still the world authority on pointy objects?”

               Mihawk is that, and more. He’s precision incarnate; he hits the bullseye every time to gasps of awe and wild applause. None of the other players can compete with him. Shanks is the only one who puts up a respectable fight, but it’s not nearly enough. “Good effort, Southpaw,” they say, thumping his back in mock-consolation. No one is betting on him, after all, and he takes his loss gracefully. A lot more graceful than the other players, who glare murderously at Mihawk and complain that he has an unfair advantage. In what, hand-eye coordination? he thinks, but doesn’t say. Just to spite the hecklers, he throws all of his darts simultaneously, then turns on his heel before they’ve even hit. He doesn’t need to watch, because it’s a foregone conclusion. He knows exactly where each dart will land, even before the game master shouts: “Bullseye!” He knows that he’s the undisputed winner, which—for him—is worth more than the monetary winnings, themselves.

               “I’m going to the balcony for air,” he says to Shanks. “These people are giving me a headache.”

               Immediate concern rearranges Shanks’ face. “Do you want me to come with you?”

               “No. I’ll only be a minute.”

               He starts to walk away, then turns back to readjust Shanks’ hold on a dart. He takes his wrist in his hand and puppets a slow throwing motion, demonstrating the angle and trajectory that will win Shanks the next round. Shanks smiles in understanding, and Mihawk leaves the press of sweaty, smoky bodies to a chorus of mixed disappointment and relief, but he doesn’t care. He’s humoured the gamblers for long enough, and he wasn’t lying about the headache.

               Outside on the balcony, he inhales a breath of cold air and sighs in reprieve. He’s never liked parties, because all parties are the same. The location, entertainment, and guest list don’t matter. They’re always loud and crowded. They’re always buzzing with energy. They’re always selfish in wanting. Mihawk has been to parties that wanted fame from him, and some that wanted notoriety. He’s been to parties that want his money in an obvious way (fundraisers), and in a less obvious way (charities). He’s been to parties that want a good time from him in the way of duels, drinks, drugs, and sex; and he’s been to parties that want him to have a good time out of guilt for making him go. Sometimes people talk at him, and sometimes people ignore him. Sometimes they try to pull him into drama that he wants no part in, and then are disappointed by his lack of interest. It doesn’t matter who’s hosting, or what they’re serving, or who they’re serving it to; Dracule Mihawk doesn’t like parties and has never not left one early.

               He glances at his wristwatch and sees that it’s one o’clock in the morning, then glances back into the casino, where Shanks’ red head bobs happily amongst the crowd.

               He wants to go home.

               He wants Shanks to take him back to his quiet house, where they will have a glass of wine and maybe watch a film before bed, or maybe just talk, or maybe have sex, and fall asleep side-by-side by a respectable if not decent hour, and—

               Fuck.

               Mihawk puts his head in his hands, because since when has he started thinking in terms of we instead of me?

               He’s so distracted by the unsettling revelation that he doesn’t notice the looming figure until it says:

               “So, you like ginger dick now, is that it?”

               Mihawk doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. Doflamingo’s voice, the scent of his sweat under citrus cologne, makes his skin crawl and his spine stiffen.

               “Tell me, does he do things the other boys won’t do?” says the ex-drug-lord in sinister, mocking amusement. “Or, does Sunshine Boy treat you real nice, Hawksy? Flowers and rainbows and picnics in the park? Does he hold your hand and kiss you goodnight? Does he cry after you fuck?”

               Mihawk doesn’t dignify any of it with a response. His leg is throbbing, like Shanks predicted, but he clenches his teeth and marches past Doflamingo to the door. He will not speak to Doflamingo. He won’t even look at him—

               “Still afraid to be alone with me?”

               Mihawk snaps back like the crack of a whip. “I have nothing to say to you.”

               “That’s fine, we don’t have to talk. My tongue has other talents. And it’s been so long, baby. What do you say we finish what we started all those years ago? I don’t think Crocodile would take much convincing. And me—? Well…” Doflamingo licks his lips suggestively. “…I’ve had a lot of lonely nights to imagine all sorts of fun for the three of us.”

               Mihawk’s veins feel like they’re full of lead. He feels weighted, cold. There’s a pit in his stomach that prevents him lashing-out, because the last thing he wants is to give Doflamingo the satisfaction, or an excuse to touch him. So, he says nothing. He keeps walking—

               “Ah!”

               He crashes into an urn and hits the flood hard. He’ll have a bruise in the shape of Doflamingo’s shoe on the back of his leg, which screams in protest.

               Never turn your back on an opponent. Rookie mistake, he berates in self-loathing.

               Doflamingo coos. “Oh dear, is the world’s greatest swordsman getting clumsy?” He clucks his tongue. “Poor Hawksy, do you need to sit down for a minute? There’s room on my lap. Here, let me help you.”

               This time, Mihawk does flinch. His tries to move away, but his leg is useless and won’t take his weight. When he tries to rise, it buckles and a firework of pain shoots through him. He hears Doflamingo’s malicious laughter, then the man’s shadow encapsulates him from behind. Mihawk’s hand goes automatically to the penknife in his pocket as the other man’s long fingers close around his hips. He pulls it out, flips it open. Then:

               “Son-of-a-bitch!” Doflamingo yells, wheeling back.

               Mihawk looks up and sees Shanks.

               Shanks with blood on his knuckles.

               Shanks moving as if he would leave electricity in his wake, eyes bright with furious intent. He pulls Mihawk to his feet without taking his eyes off of Doflamingo, whose teeth are bared in anger.

               “You fucking shit! You broke my fucking nose!”

               Mihawk wrenches away from Shanks and limps—cringing and clumsy—back to the casino. He grabs a nearby slot machine to regain his balance, then slaps Shanks away and continues on of his own volition. He has to get out of this place, and he has to do it himself. The crowd parts for his glaring gold eyes and the gleaming knife in his hand, all except for Pica, Diamante, and Trebol, who come running at Doflamingo’s outcry. Mihawk clenches the knife, but it’s the intensity of Shanks that make them reconsider attacking. It’s Shanks they surrender to, and Shanks they avoid as they hurry to the balcony, where Doflamingo’s been provoked into a tantrum. Their exit reveals Crocodile, who’s also been summoned by the commotion.

               “Great party,” Shanks says to him, an edge to his voice, “but I think we’ll be leaving, now—”

               “Come back here, you ginger fuck!”

               “I think that’s a good idea,” Crocodile agrees.

               Mihawk can feel his friend’s curiosity boring into him, but he doesn’t look at him, or anyone else. He stares straight ahead and moves as quickly and normally as he can to the elevator, where he leans against the mirrored wall the instant the doors close: pale and sweating and grasping the penknife in a white-knuckled hand.

               “Mihawk—?” says Shanks, but Mihawk won’t look at him either.

               In the foyer, Shanks retrieves their coats and Mihawk accepts his, but rejects Shanks’ offered arm. Then it’s the corridor to the staircase all over again, but worse, now, because Shanks isn’t the only person watching as Mihawk leaves the mansion and stumbles to his car. His car, which he can’t even drive, himself, and now all of his most hated rivals know why.

               The return journey is undertaken in simmering silence, until they arrive home and Mihawk finally snaps at Shanks, when he tries to help him from the car.

               “Don’t touch me.”

               “Then look at me,” says Shanks, as Mihawk pushes past him. “Tell me why you’re so upset.”

               “I don’t need your help.”

               “Mihawk, did Doflamingo—”

               “I don’t need you to fight my battles!”

               “I know that.”

               “Then why did you?” Mihawk asks, rounding on his neighbour, his lover, the man who just humiliated him in front of everyone. He’s absolutely fuming. He feels raw and reckless—dangerous. But Shanks is unafraid.

               “Because I care about you,” he says seriously. “I told you, I don’t like seeing my friends get hurt.”

               “And I told you what those people are like! Show no weakness, that’s what I said! And now they think I’m—”

               “I don’t care what they think! You mean nothing to them, Mihawk! And you mean everything to me!”

               Shanks’ explosive yell echoes in the valley and shocks Mihawk into silence. He stares at Shanks, and Shanks stares back in earnest determination. For a minute, neither of them blinks and neither of them speaks. Gold eyes glare challengingly into blue-grey, daring them to yield, but they don’t. Shanks doesn’t. The pirate stands firm and faces the swordsman, accepting the challenge with every intention of winning. It sets Mihawk’s blood ablaze; it makes his heart pound. How dare Shanks. How fucking dare he—!

               And then Mihawk is kissing Shanks, and Shanks is kissing back with tongue and teeth and bruising urgency. His hands seize Mihawk around the waist and trap him; possess him. And he forces Mihawk back, back, back into the house with rough, jerking movements, and Mihawk wraps himself around Shanks and lets him.

               He lets Shanks carry him into the house and up the stairs, and lets himself be bullied onto the bed, but that is where the swordsman’s compliance ends. This time, he’s not going to roll over because of a stupid, goddamn injury. This time, it’s all force and fight and fucking like wolves at the full moon. It’s taking, not giving; selfish not sweet. It’s biting like animals, marking each other as hard, hot bodies slam together in something somewhere between piercing pain and euphoric pleasure. It’s grunts and groans ripped raw and aching from each other’s throats in the battle for dominance, and trying to satiate their unquenchable need for victory and each other.

               “Just because I let you fuck me doesn’t mean I belong to you!” Mihawk snaps, pulling Shanks’ hair; making him arch up.

               Shanks lifts Mihawk, then flips him onto his stomach. “No,” he growls, leaning down, pressing his chest to Mihawk’s back. His weeping cock is hard and probing, and his lips are hot against Mihawk’s ear: “It means you belong with me.”

               Mihawk’s whole body shudders as Shanks’ length plunges into him in one swift, slick motion. His hands claw the bedsheets as convulsions of pleasure pulse up-and-down his spine in rhythm with Shanks’ bucking hips. But he’s angry, too. He’s desperate. For the first time, the usually composed swordsman has been whipped into a fiery passion that will not, cannot be doused by a single, satisfying climax. Tonight, there’s too much in him that wants release; too much that wants to be released.

               Dracule Mihawk is not a fucking invalid and he doesn’t need a goddamn bodyguard. What he needs—what he wants—is Shanks. The real Shanks: all-consuming and unleashed.

               Shanks’ cock spasms and floods Mihawk, but Mihawk—gasping, his whole body shuddering—doesn’t savour the aftershocks of relief. He steals out from under Shanks, shoves him onto his back, and straddles him. He kisses the redhead, bites his bottom lip, then shoves him again when Shanks tries to get up. He wants Shanks looking up at him. Wants that punishingly intense, conquering gaze fixed on him, because he’s beginning to like it. More than anything, he wants to take all of Shanks just to prove he can. To prove he won’t break. Closer and harder and faster and fiercer. More of Shanks’ hands on him, holding him with bruising firmness. More of Shanks driving his movements and jerking his hips as Mihawk rides his cock to thunderous completion.

               “Fuck—! Mihawk! Fuuuck!”

               “Shanks… Oh. A-Ah—! Sh-Shanks—!”             

               Their coupling is a fight tonight. A contest of two very strong wills. And as Mihawk lies limply atop Shanks, panting and trembling and utterly spent, he’s not sure which of them, if either, has won. But he also doesn’t care.

               For the first time in his life, the greatest swordsman doesn’t care if he’s won or lost a challenge, because his challenger is Shanks. And, tonight, Shanks is all that matters.

Chapter Text

I owe you an explanation.”

               Shanks is tugging on polka-dot undershorts, but pauses—one leg in, one out—and looks at Mihawk, who is already dressed, because he didn’t want to have this conversation naked. He’s wearing Shanks’ Rumbar Crew t-shirt, which is fraying and faded and soft in the way of old, well-laundered clothes, but at least it’s something. The way Shanks is looking at him in it is also something, but Mihawk is too preoccupied to feel anything beyond apprehension.

               “You don’t owe me anything.”

               Shanks resumes his task, then sits on the bed—still mostly naked—across from Mihawk, who’s back is braced against the headboard, legs pulled up. Everything about the redhead conveys supports when he says: “But if there’s something you want to say, I’ll listen.”

               Mihawk nods, but doesn’t look at Shanks. He talks to the penknife in his hand, absently flipping it open-and-closed.

               “I’ll make this brief. I haven’t had a normal life.”

               “No offense, sweetheart, but: no shit. You’re one of the greatest athletes in history.”

               “Yes, but I don’t think you really understand what that means. I’m not sure I can even explain it to someone who didn’t live it. The thing is, I’m the best. I don’t say that with conceit, I say it because it’s true. I was a prodigy as a child, and I quickly grew into a legend. I don’t know how else to explain it, except to say that I’ve been unbeatable and extremely valuable all my life.”

               “Nah, darlin’. Not conceited at all.”

               Mihawk ignores the comment, because if he stops talking, now, he won’t start again, and Shanks deserves to know the truth.

               “I became the fencing world champion when I was sixteen, and by the time I was eighteen I was unstoppable. I’m still a very good fencer, but I’m nothing now compared to what I was then. I’ve been world-famous for most of my life, and I’ve made a lot of people a lot of money. I’m not trying to boast, I’m just stating facts, because you asked me once if I ever had anyone in my life; friends or family or anyone to care about me, and the simple answer is no. I had people who managed me, and people who trained me. I had people who wanted something from me, whether it was money, fame, or… well, never-mind. But never friends, because I’ve never been a good person, and I’ve never been a nice one. I spent my early life being treated like I was invincible and by the time I was eighteen, I believed it. I thought I was completely untouchable, because I didn’t have anyone in my life who cared enough to tell me I wasn’t.

               “I joined the Warlords when I was twenty-two and it was there that I made the mistake of trusting the wrong person.”

               “Doflamingo?” Shanks guesses, but Mihawk shakes his head.

               “Crocodile.

               “One night, I was out with Crocodile and I had much too much to drink. You might find this funny, but I had a very low tolerance for alcohol back then.”

               “Really, you—? Dracule Mihawk, wine snob extraordinaire?”

               Mihawk flips the penknife, letting the blade weave between his fingers.

               “I’d spent my whole life training,” he says, a little defensive. “You can’t drink while you’re training.”

               “I guess,” Shanks concedes. “I just always assumed you were one of those kids who’d been drinking since he was, like, twelve.”

               “No. That was Crocodile and Doflamingo. They weren’t like me. They didn’t have to work for their privilege, because they were born to it, but they both lost it. Crocodile’s father had disowned him not long before I met him, and Doflamingo… I’m not sure of how or why, but his family lost everything. And yet, look at them now. Everything they are and everything they have, they’ve earned in their own way. They’ve schemed and stolen and clawed their way back to the top, crushing anyone who gets in their way. They’ve always been clever, and they’ve always been ruthless. And I’ve always known that.”

               Pause.

               “I just didn’t know how truly selfish they were, until that night.

               “Crocodile took me to Doflamingo’s flat. I’d consented to it,” Mihawk adds, seeing the look on Shanks’ face. “Or, I consented as much as anyone can in that state. I honestly don’t remember much of that night. I just know that, at some point, I wanted it to stop. I wanted them to stop, but I was blackout drunk. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I was barely aware of anything that was happening, but I was…” scared is the truth, but he doesn’t say it aloud. “I think Crocodile realized that something was wrong and he did stop, but Doflamingo… didn’t.”

               Shanks is paying very close attention, now. He says: “Did he—?”

               “I think he would have. And I don’t think I could’ve stopped him,” Mihawk admits. “Fortunately, I started to vomit. A lot. Quite violently. And I didn’t stop.

               “It’s as I said, I don’t remember that night, but I do know that Crocodile took me to the hospital. Actually, I think that’s when we lied about him being my emergency contact. I guess I never changed it. I’ll spare you the grizzly details, but, suffice it to say, I was very ill and severely dehydrated.”

               “But you were okay? I mean… you weren’t hurt?”

               “No, I wasn’t hurt. But that was the first and last time I’ve ever drank Jaya tequila. To this day, just smelling it makes me physically nauseous.”

               “And Crocodile—?”

               Mihawk snaps the penknife closed and holds it in his fist. “He called a few times, but whether he was calling about my health, or to apologize, or to tell me that I’d ruined his night, I’ll never know, because I never answered. Eventually, he stopped calling and I didn’t see him again for a long time. The one thing he did do, though, was prevent the media from finding out what had happened. A story like that… well, it might not have destroyed my career, but it definitely would’ve jeopardized my sponsorships. He saved my reputation that night, if nothing else.”

               “So, you didn’t report Doflamingo?”

               “No. I’ve never said a word about it to anyone… until right now.”

               Finally, slowly, Mihawk lifts his gaze to meet Shanks’. He expects to see pity, or anger, or even guilt, but what he sees is sadness.

               “When you say you didn’t see Crocodile, how long is a long time?”

               “Ten, twelve years; something like that. Of course, I did see him at the Warlords and other events. We just… weren’t friends anymore.”

               And now Mihawk knows why Shanks looks sad, because now he can feel the sadness, too. Maybe he always could.

               “It didn’t help that he married Doflamingo soon after,” he says. “I think that was the bigger betrayal. That I’d considered him my friend. My only friend, if I’m honest. And he went and married the man who almost… Crocodile’s always had atrocious taste in men, and Doflamingo’s the worst of them all, let’s leave it at that.”

               “But you did reconcile with Crocodile, didn’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be friends, now.”

               “Reconcile isn’t the right word. Reconnected, maybe. Crocodile and Doflamingo both left the Warlords and, by the time I met Crocodile again, he and Doflamingo were divorced. That definitely helped. But the truth is, we were just older and more experienced by then. I can’t speak for him, but I had buried that night and had no desire to dig it back up. Maybe he felt the same way, because we’ve never talked about it. Of course, a couple of years ago he married Doflamingo again.” Mihawk’s tone conveys disapproval, disbelief, and disgust. “But the past is better left in the past.”

               “But—” Shanks shifts closer, “—doesn’t it bother you that your best friend is married to a man you despise?”

               Mihawk thinks for a moment, then says: “No, because we’re not the men we used to be. I'll always hate that Doflamingo owns a part of me in that way, but Crocodile is an adult who can live his life however he chooses. The only time it bothers me is when his questionable life-choice harasses me for a threesome.”

               “I should’ve hit him harder. I would’ve knocked his teeth out if I’d known.”

               “I don’t need you fighting my battles, Red-Hair. I thought I made that clear last night.”

               “You did. And I thought I made it clear how much it hurts me to see you get hurt. I punched that bastard for my own selfishness and I’m not sorry I did.”

               Mihawk reaches out, takes one of Shanks’ fists, and brings it to his lips. He kisses the knuckles, the raw skin and jagged scar tissue from bygone fights. Then, still holding Shanks’ hand, he looks up at him and says honestly:

               “Me neither.”

Two days later, Law eyes Mihawk over the report of his x-ray results and shakes his head in scornful disbelief.

               “You’re damn lucky,” he says. “It’s not broken, or even cracked. Just badly bruised.”

               Mihawk sits straighter, feeling indignant. “I told you, it’s not my fault. Someone kicked me.”

               “Uh huh. The same someone who left the bite mark on your ass?”

               “No, that was me,” says Shanks helpfully.

               Mihawk and Law both glare at him and he shrinks back into the sofa cushions.

               Mihawk says: “There’s no further damage to my leg, that’s all that matters. I will not sit here and be lectured by a child.”

               “I’m twenty-four.”

               “That’s not the defence you think it is.”

               Law rolls his eyes and, sounding as tired as he looks, says: “Look, I’m not telling you not to do whatever it is you do together. I’m just telling you that he’s got to be the one doing it.” He points at Shanks. “Because the next time you fuck-up that leg, I’m cutting it off. Understand?”

               “Yes, we understand,” says Shanks, giving Mihawk’s knee a gentle pat. “You hear that, darlin’? From now on, I’ll take care of everything. All you need to do is lay back and enjoy—doctor’s orders.”

               “Just for the record, I’m not telling you to have sex.”

               “But you’re not telling us not to, right?”

               Law doesn’t dignify that with a response. He says: “I’m going home.” And then he does.

               “You know,” says Shanks, once the front door has closed, “I’ve never met a doctor who wants to heal people less than he does.”

               “Nor I,” Mihawk agrees. “I’m really starting to like him.”

The next three weeks sail past in blissful seclusion. No one calls and no one visits and Shanks and Mihawk only leave their properties once, because the former wants beer-battered fish n’ chips and the latter can’t think of a good enough reason to say no. Shanks goes back-and-forth from his house to Mihawk’s, collecting the post and mowing the lawn and the like, but otherwise their time is spent together, sometimes in silence, but mostly not. Their nights are late and their mornings even later, and some days they barely leave Mihawk’s bedroom at all.

               Finally, grudgingly, Law signs off on Mihawk’s outpatient forms and proclaims his leg completely healed and the lingering effects of pneumonia gone. As far as Shanks is concerned, the courtesy call is the doctor’s permission to resume nocturnal—or morning, or afternoon, or: “Don’t you want supper?” — “I’ll eat you for supper.”—activities in equal measure, and they finally put Crocodile’s get well basket to good use in celebration.

               Crocodile, himself, never calls to apologize for Doflamingo, but Mihawk doesn’t expect him to any more than Crocodile expects Mihawk to call and complain. When next the two men meet face-to-face, neither one acknowledges what happened at the party, nor why Mihawk dislikes Crocodile’s husband as much as Crocodile loves him. They carry on like they always have, repressing hurt feelings that manifest as sarcastic banter that leaves Shanks confounded and shaking his head. “Crocodile, about the party…” he begins in defence of Mihawk and his own violent actions, only to get stabbed with two paralyzing glares. This is between us, they warn. We’re finally friends again, don’t ruin it. So, reluctantly, Shanks lets the incident go.

               Days become weeks, and weeks become late-summer fading into blustery autumn, until the encroaching cold can no longer be ignored and winter arrives as if overnight. Shanks, who hates the cold, loves the snow—as so many people do; as if one can be had without the other—and drags Mihawk into the garden to pelt him with snowballs, until the swordsman’s tolerance is spent and he goes after the laughing pirate with his penknife.

               “Say mercy,” he orders, straddling Shanks’ waist in the snow.

               Instead, Shanks licks up the blade, thinking himself rather sexy, no doubt, until his saliva freezes to the cold metal and he pulls back with a yelp. “What the fuck?”

               But Mihawk doesn’t reply, because he’s laughing. Rosy-cheeked, teary-eyed, chortling, trembling, honest to God laughing for the first time in conscious memory.

               For a moment, Shanks just stares up at him in disbelief. Then he, too, bursts into convulsive laughter, even as he tackles Mihawk for a rollicking wresting match that leaves them both gasping for breath. Shivering and soaked through to the bone, they end up in front of the crackling fireplace, where they spend a long, luxurious time warming each other back up.

               It’s on one of these perfectly nondescript midwinter afternoons that Shanks comes in from shovelling snow and envelopes Mihawk from behind, his cold, flushed skin pressed snug to the swordsman’s body-heat, and Mihawk’s insides melt like butter. Shanks kisses the back of his neck and rests his chin on the swordsman’s shoulder, nuzzling him, but Mihawk gives no sign of acknowledgement. He just continues to organize the papers on the roll-top. He can feel Shanks’ impatience and secretly savours it, because this is just another contest between them; a game to see who will yield to his desire first. He feels Shanks’ amusement in the hum of his voice, close to Mihawk’s ear when he says:

               “God, I love how focused you are.”

               Mihawk’s reply is to bow his head lower to hide the warmth that washes over him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to how open and honest Shanks is, even though it no longer surprises him and makes him feel the opposite of on-guard. He’s so comfortable in Shanks’ arms, in fact, so not on-guard, that what comes next feels like plunging into ice-water.

               “Mihawk, I love you.”

               Mihawk feels a violent jerk in his heart, then his brain goes into survival mode and everything in him shuts down. As if detached from his own body, he steps out of Shanks’ embrace without looking at him. He’s still holding a handful of post, so he taps it once on the desk and files it accordingly. Then he calmly says:

               “I think you should leave, now.”

               “What?”

               This is clearly not the response Shanks expected, so Mihawk explains:

               “According to Doctor Trafalgar, I’m healed now and perfectly capable of living on my own.”

               “Mihawk,” says Shanks, sounding stunned and a little hurt, “did you hear what I said?”

               “I heard you.”

               “So, you don’t…”

               “No.”

               “What about all the things you said to me?”

               “People say a lot of things in bed. They don’t mean any of them,” he lies.

               “I meant every word I’ve ever said to you, darlin’. I think you’re interesting and talented and beautiful and I like spending time with you.”

               “You shouldn’t.”

               “Why?”

               “Because I’m not a nice person. I’ve been telling you that from the start.”

               “You’re wrong—”

               “Did I ever tell you how I lost my virginity?”

               Again, this is not what Shanks expects and it surprises him into silence. Mihawk, however, has told this story several times for exactly this purpose. He says:

               “I was sixteen and I was in a fencing competition. I spent the night before with the boy I would fight for the under eighteen championship. The next day, he wouldn’t yield. Even though he knew, everyone knew I’d beaten him, he wouldn’t yield, so I broke his hand. It wasn’t an illegal strike, I didn’t break any rules. I simply used my superior skill against his and I broke his hand to win the championship title. And the only thing I felt while doing it was pure, unadulterated victory. That was the first but not the last time someone called me a monster, because that’s what I am, and you’re the only one who can’t see it. Maybe now you will.”

               “Mihawk… please stop. You’re breaking my heart.”

               Shanks’ voice is so achingly soft, but Mihawk’s is not. Hard as steel, he says:

               “Heartbreak isn’t as lethal as the name implies.”

               “I love you.”

               “I don’t love you. You’ve been useful to me these past few months, but I don’t need you anymore, Red-Hair. So, please collect your belongings and leave my house.”

               And that is that.

               Mihawk doesn’t know how Shanks’ takes the rejection, because he doesn’t look at him. Not once. He goes to his bedroom and stays there, staring at the stone ravens outside his window, their wings melting away under sodden green moss. He focuses on breathing and not feeling for more than an hour, because that’s how long it takes Shanks to collect all his stuff. Finally, he comes into the bedroom to gather his clothes, but still Mihawk doesn’t move. It sounds like Shanks is dragging his feet, shuffling, moving slow and sniffling as he does, but Mihawk can’t be sure, because he doesn’t turn around to look. He stares at the sky, at the snow-capped mountains that line the valley, hearing but not seeing the light snuff out of the man he…

               “Take care of yourself, Mihawk.”

               “I always have.”

               Then the bedroom door closes and, just as sudden as he’d come into Mihawk’s life, Red-Hair Shanks is gone.

Chapter Text

You sent Red-Hair away—?”

               “I had to,” says Mihawk, pacing the parlour like something tired and trapped. Crocodile is sitting in the leather armchair watching him, the fibrous scent of cocoa beans wafting from his cigar. “He was too attached.”

               “So, you amputated him?”

               “Something like that. It was necessary.”

               “Because you were afraid of catching what he’s had since the beginning, is that it? Well, I hate to tell you this, Hawk-Eyes, but you’ve had it for months, now, too. Maybe even as long as him.”

               “Don’t be absurd. And stop talking about it like it’s a disease,” Mihawk chastises.

               “Why? That’s how you’re treating it, like something that needs to be cut out. Like something that can be cut out.”

               Mihawk flips his penknife open, then closed. Open, closed. Open, closed. “I ended it for his sake as much as mine. He wears his heart on his sleeve, Crocodile, like you do. That’s what leads to bad decisions.”

               “Normally I’d take umbrage at that remark, but you’re obviously heartbroken, so I’ll let it go.”

               “I’m not heartbroken,” Mihawk sneers.

               Crocodile nods consolingly. “No, of course not. I absolutely buy that. Oh, and while we’re being honest, I’ve got some ocean front property in Alubarna.”

               “Fuck you. I don’t have to be heartbroken to know that people who give pieces of themselves away get hurt.”

               “And that’s why you keep your heart locked in a steel vault, is it? Locked-up so tight that it’s suffocating. It’s starved of love—”

               “Don’t be melodramatic.”

               “—so fucking scared, you don’t know what to do.”

               “Scared?”

               Mihawk stops and glares at his friend. The knife swishes and snaps, but Crocodile doesn’t flinch.

               “Yes.”

               “People need to stop making unfounded assumptions about me,” says Mihawk in anger. “I don’t panic, and I don’t have anxiety, and I’m not scared of Red-Hair Shanks.”

               “Yes, you are. You’re terrified of loving him more than he loves you, because you don’t think you deserve him—”

               “Crocodile.”

               “Yes?”

               “Get the fuck out of my house.”

A week passes, then two, and Mihawk resumes his life before Shanks. Or, he tries to, except that now everything in the house reminds him of Shanks. There are traces of him everywhere, and memories in the absence of his sandals flung haphazardly in the vestibule; of toothpaste residue in the upstairs sink; of coconuts in a bowl on the kitchen counter. Mihawk hates the taste of coconut, but he goes out and buys a bundle just to have them sitting in that goddamn bowl.

               The table in the parlour is empty without the television set and big cardboard box of VHS tapes.

               The patio is barren without the barbeque or punching-bag.

               The bedsheets smell of Shanks, even after they’re cleaned once, twice, thrice. Mihawk knows the scent is just in his head, but he can’t look at the sheets without smelling Shanks on them.

               The bathtub is too big, now, for only one person.

               The house is too quiet, now, without the radio on.

               He goes into the car-port and sees a take-away coffee cup Shanks left in the thunderbird.

               He goes into the garden and sees the last indents of Shanks’ footprints filling in with falling snow.

               He finds Shanks’ Rumbar Crew t-shirt left behind by accident and puts it on before crawling into bed.

               He stays in bed for a long time, because he can’t remember ever being this tired. He’s not hungry, either. And he doesn’t want to read, or shop, or practice his swordsmanship, or do any of his usual activities. There are chores to be done, but he keeps putting them off. The post piles up on the porch, and the houseplants go dry without water. He feels completely devoid of energy. And he feels numb, because all he’s drinking is wine. He closes the curtains so that he can’t see the vicarage, then wanders around the too-big church toting a bottle of wine. No glass, just the bottle. No sound, except for the padding of his own bare feet on cold stone.

               He ignores the telephone and eventually it stops ringing.

               He ignores the front door and eventually people stop coming (they’re all for Shanks, anyway).

               He goes back to what he was before.

               Except, he doesn’t. Because he can’t remember who that man was and it hurts. Surely the man he used to be wasn’t this painfully lonely. Surely he didn’t feel so empty inside.

               One night in late-February, a vicious storm blows in and blows out the power. Mihawk is in the kitchen when it happens: an explosion of thunder shakes the windows, the lights flicker, and then he’s entombed in darkness. And he panics.

               He won’t ever admit to it, but the feeling that overwhelms him can only be panic, because his hands shake as he makes a frantic search of the cupboards, looking for a torch. He finds one, grasps it like a lifeline, flicks it on, and—

               —his stomach plummets when the batteries immediately die and the light blinks out.

               No.

               Please. Goddamn it! No—!

               The wind screams and thunder crashes as he slides to the tiled floor, trembling so violently that his bones ache. His chest feels tight. He can’t breathe as he gropes hopelessly in the dark, until his hands close around the sixty pack of D-cell batteries he scolded Shanks for buying what feels like ages ago, now. Too frantic to be relieved, he rips the pack open with his teeth and loads the torch with three batteries that immediately illuminate his ghost-white face. Then he waits, because it’s all he can do. He sits on the cold floor with his back braced against the cabinets, hugging the torch to his chest, because—ridiculously, unbelievably—he’s afraid to be alone in his house in the dark.

The next day, Mihawk calls Law.

               “I need you to come to my house. I think I’m having a heart attack.”

               Law’s tone is infuriatingly blasé: “If you’re having a heart attack, call an ambulance.”

               “No, they’ll make a scene; they’ll admit me. I don’t need an ambulance, I just need a doctor. You’re a doctor, so come here now.”

               That said, Mihawk ends the call to avoid a tedious argument, then paces up-and-down the front corridor for the next forty-five minutes, sweating and shaking and clutching his chest. When he does finally hear the roar of Law’s motorbike, it’s all he can do not to charge outside and yank him off the damn thing. Instead, he settles for:

               “What the hell took you so long?”

               Law is unruffled. “I was delayed.”

               “Delayed—? I could’ve died!”

               “You’re an active, healthy forty-one who’s prone to overreacting. I was pretty sure you weren’t having a heart attack, and I can tell just by looking at you that I was right.”

               “Overreacting?”

               If Law weren’t the only doctor within one-hundred kilometers, Mihawk would kill him.

               “Something is wrong,” he insists, gesticulating to his chest. “It feels wrong.”

               “Wrong, how?”

               “I have a pain in my chest.”

               “In your heart?”

               “Yes.”

               “Like, an ache in your heart?”

               “Yes.”

               “Like, heartache?”

               Mihawk’s gold eyes narrow in warning. “I didn’t call you here to mock me, doctor. I’m being serious.”

               Law’s amber eyes stare back. “So am I. Your chest feels tight? It’s difficult to breathe? It physically hurts?”

               “Yes, exactly—”

               “That’s called remorse,” says Law, as if to an alien species. “It’s what people feel when they have regrets, or so they tell me. I’ve never felt it, myself.”

               Mihawk is starting to suspect that calling Law was a mistake. He feels it, not in his heart, but in the pit of his stomach.

               “What is it you’re implying?”

               “I’m not implying, I’m telling. You’re sad, Mihawk. You have deep, deep regrets. It’s what normal people call heartache, and it usually means you’ve lost something precious to you.”

               “What? That’s ridiculous. I haven’t lost…”

               Shanks. 

               Again, Mihawk clutches his chest.

               Law sighs and a pinch of pity seeps into his gravelly voice. “For the last time, do you want short-term anxiety medication?”

               “No,” says Mihawk automatically.

               “Then I’m going home.”

               “But—” you haven’t done anything! Mihawk wants to protest, but Law interrupts him:

               “If you call me again, you’d better be coughing-up blood.”

               He leaves in a plume of motor oil and exhaust and Mihawk is alone once more.

Finally, in early-March, Mihawk finds himself in the cellar, staring forlornly at the last of the wine.

               Only one bottle from the previous year’s harvest remains on the rack; the last wine he’d made before Shanks barged into his life. Normally, one year’s harvest would be more than enough to see him through to the following year, but normally he’s the only one drinking it, and normally he doesn’t drink as much as he has since Shanks left.

               Since Shanks intruded into his life, upset his routine, and turned his whole world upside-down.

               Mihawk stares at the lone bottle for a while, gallows-eyed. Then he picks it up, yanks out the cork, brings it to his lips, but doesn’t drink.

               That was the first but not the last time someone called me a monster, because that’s what I am.

               Ruthless, pitiless, heartless—

               Except, he’s not. Because, as it turns out, Dracule Mihawk does have a heart, and it can be broken. He knows it can, because it’s been breaking for weeks, maybe months.

               And it doesn’t make sense, because Dracule Mihawk succeeds at everything. He has everything anyone could possibly want and he’s proud of that, because he earned it. Everything in his life is a competition and Mihawk will not let himself lose, and yet he’s always felt hollow inside, because what is victory without someone to share it with? What worth is there in achieving everything that equals success in life if somehow, somewhere along the way, you’ve left out love?

               A hot, itchy sensation stings Mihawk’s eyes, as if from dust or fatigue. He reaches up to rub it away and his hand comes away wet.

               Warm and wet, because he’s crying.

               He’s both mystified and paralyzed as streams of warm tears pulse from his eyes and run down his cheeks, all without making a sound. He doesn’t whimper, or gasp, or sob in despair. He just stands alone in the cellar, staring at the wine bottle in his hand, crying because he’s sad.

               He’s heartbroken.

               He has one very big, very painful regret and all he can do is hope it’s not too late.

               As if in slow motion, he lets go of the bottle and watches it fall. It shatters when it hits the flagstone, staining the floor with rivulets of award-winning wine, but Mihawk doesn’t care. He’s already crossing the cellar to where the current year’s wine is waiting. Dozens of bottles line the rack, the labels stained with Shanks’ purple fingerprints.

               Mihawk chooses a bottle of the new wine and then goes upstairs without cleaning up the old, or even looking back.

On the ninth of March, Mihawk puts on his knee-high boots and black jacket, pauses to fix his hair in the wall-mirror, then walks across to the vicarage and knocks on Shanks’ door.

               Shanks—doesn’t look good.

               There’s none of his usual vibrancy. He looks wan, as if winter has sapped all of his strength; like something that should be and would be hibernating, if only he could fall asleep. His hair is dishevelled and his clothes are too big and rumpled and he’s let his beard fill-in. But it’s the eyes that stab at Mihawk’s heart; blue-grey eyes full of sadness.

               It’s clear that Shanks isn’t expecting visitors, or maybe he’s just not expecting Mihawk, because his greeting is a startled: “Oh.”

               “Happy birthday,” says Mihawk, before he loses his nerve. Then he pushes a small, wrapped box into Shanks’ hand.

               It’s a blow to Mihawk’s confidence, the way Shanks just stares at him in bewilderment, as if he doesn’t trust his own eyes; as if the swordsman might be a figment of his imagination. It takes him a moment to even acknowledge the gift in his hand, and he doesn’t say anything as he tugs the ribbon and tentatively peels off the wrapping. A second later, his expression registers surprise and his head snaps up to look at Mihawk, then back down, as if he would pinch himself to be sure of reality.

               “Wh—Wha—? Where on earth did you find this?”

               Mihawk, of course, doesn’t need clarification. He knows Shanks is holding an original Rumbar Crew cassette, on which the first track is Bink’s Saké.

               He says: “I didn’t find it. I bought it.”

               “Bought it where?” Shanks is still flabbergasted, gaze still flicking back-and-forth. “They haven’t recorded it in decades. They don’t sell it anymore. To buy a copy, you’d have to get it straight from the studio—Oh.” He stops. His faces changes again. “Oh, fuck no. This must’ve cost you a fortune!”

               Mihawk had undoubtedly overpaid for the cassette, even after threatening the current studio producer over the telephone, but, eventually, he had needled the man until he’d named a price and Mihawk had paid it, because he did have a fortune, as simple as that.

               “If you don’t want it—”

               “Of course I want it!” Shanks bursts, loud and animated and familiar. “I’m just sorry it cost so much. You… didn’t have to.”

               “I know I didn’t have to, but I think you’re forgetting who I am. It wasn’t difficult to acquire.”

               Shanks knows it’s a lie, but doesn’t say so. Instead, he looks at Mihawk with soft eyes as a tender smile steals across his lips.

               “Thank-you,” he says sincerely.

               “You’re welcome,” says Mihawk, because it’s the polite response followed by a beat of uncertain silence. Then the swordsman’s heart redoubles it’s pace.

               You’re not a loser. You’re not a coward. You’re not a failure. You’re Dracule fucking Mihawk, who achieves everything he sets out to do.

               “I-I—I—” He clears his throat, tries again: “I’m not only here in the capacity of delivery boy. I also wanted to ask you—that is, I wondered—hoped—that you would forgive me. I regret hurting you very much and I’m—I’m sorry, Shanks.”

               It comes out a lot quieter than intended, because the words gets stuck in his throat. Not because he doesn’t mean it, but because he does. Because he’s never felt anything so strongly, or been so certain of anything in his whole life. It comes out raw and vulnerable and honest, and he sees the bob of Shanks throat in reply.

               “I wonder if, perhaps, you’d like to join me for a celebratory glass of wine? Today is… well, you obvious know what today is. And it’s the first bottle of the batch we set together—Oof!”

               The sheer force of Shanks makes Mihawk stumble back, but he doesn’t fall. Not with Shanks’ arms wrapped around him, squeezing him tight.

               “I missed you. And I love you. And I want to drink wine with you,” he says.

               “Good,” says Mihawk.

               Then his arms are around Shanks, too, and he’s voluntarily hugging someone for the first time in his life.

               “Good,” he repeats with feeling, with love. And he hugs the ever-loving fuck out of Red-Hair Shanks, because he never, ever wants to let him go again.

Chapter Text

ONE YEAR LATER

The gold wedding band gleams on Mihawk’s finger as he signs for spousal co-ownership of the vicarage property, while, across the desk, Nico Robin shakes her head.

               “Mr. Dracule—I have to ask,” she says dubiously. “You didn’t get married just to re-acquire ownership of both properties, did you?”

               “Of course he didn’t!” bursts Shanks, at his side. Then, less certainly: “You didn’t—right?”

               Mihawk’s smile is sharp and cryptic as he sets the pen down beside the property deed, the two lots combined once more. Then he steps back with the velvet grace of the self-satisfied into his husband’s embrace, without taking his eyes off of the lawyer. And he says:

               “The thing about me, Ms. Nico, is that I always win.”

               Then Dracule Hawk-Eyes Mihawk and Red-Hair Shanks go back to their home and their life, together.

THE END

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