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Chapter Text

The composure that Roger maintained even in his last moments was something that Mihawk watched with great respect. He had no interest in Roger’s treasure as he watched many men and women charge toward their ships, the Marines surrounding the area trying to keep them contained. Yelling and the sound of footsteps overtook the echoing walls around him as he watched with mild interest as an onslaught of people rushed out of the square. 

     Mihawk took in the scene that was left as he slowly scanned the area. Rain cascaded down rooftops, barring clear vision even from his advanced senses. To his left, he could just make out a blonde boy with a roguish grin on his face lurking between the buildings. He scoffed at the proceedings and muttered something to himself before slipping into the shadows. A strange looking young man with devil horns followed just behind him, laughing with the most unique laugh Mihawk had ever heard. 

     A tall figure hiding behind a fur collar was still standing in the middle of the square, smoking a cigar. Mihawk felt something strange about this person, their energy seemed off. He tried to hone his observation haki as he had been practicing, but he couldn’t quite place what was odd about them. Unwatched by the swarm of marines still trying to control the crowd, the veiled face tilted up as though aware it was being watched by someone else. Mihawk turned his gaze slowly so as not to draw any more attention, though out of the corner of his eye he saw the heavily dressed silhouette stride by him, calmly making its way toward the main street.

Icy rain poured down, splatting against the now emptying ground of the square like anger summoned to bore holes in the earth. The dark clouds rolled with deep rumbling, sorrow rippling across the sky until the very waves lapping on the edge of Loguetown felt the life leaving the land. 

The only way Shanks knew there were tears on his damp face was the burning of his eyes and the vicious ache in his chest. He stared, unmoving, at the brick-layed road beneath his feet, unable to block the sounds of the Marines shifting deadweight on the podium above. Beside him Buggy’s sobbing helped to distract him, the boy gripping hard on his beanie and choking on his own snot as he struggled for breath. 

Shanks reached and tugged on his friend’s sleeve, trying to draw his attention. “Buggy, look away.” 

Buggy only wailed louder, shaking his head violently and pelting Shanks with an extra spray of rain. Shanks swallowed the thick, insistent cry that attempted to follow and pulled harder, voice hoarse. 

“Buggy, please. Please stop looking.”

“Stop touching me!”  the other boy screeched. 

A loud shout made Mihawk’s head turn sharply as he glanced at a pair of small teenagers huddled together in the rain. Their soaked clothes and saddened expressions made them look smaller than they already were. The two stood out against the gray of the surrounding space, one with bright blue hair and if Mihawk wasn’t mistaken, a bright red nose the size of a clowns. The other boy had shoulder length fiery red hair, and even despite emanating anguish and sorrow, gave off an air of confidence. Probably cockiness, it was fairly common for young boys around the age he looked.

Buggy slapped Shanks’ hand away and shot a glare at him. The venomous look barely lasted a heartbeat as the blue-haired boy’s expression melted with the tears flooding his face, making him look like a small child ripped from his parent. Shanks supposed that’s just what they were. 

“Leave me alone.” Buggy said with a massive sniff. He rubbed vigorously at his eyes and whirled around, marching through puddles in the direction of the Inn. 

Shanks let out a wobbling breath. At least it got Buggy away. He took a minute to drown in the feeling of the storm battering his skin and the now distant murmur of Marine guiding each other down the stairs. He didn’t turn, not wanting any more images of dark red mixing with water on the wooden stage. Instead, he tipped his hat down, taking in its presence on his head, the brim shielding the last of his dry hair from the rain. And he followed the retreating figure of his friend into the alleyways of the town.

Mihawk shook his head, there was no reason for him to be here. He hadn’t come here solely for the execution, he had a target to find. As rain battered his face he swore to himself to try to find a hat next time. He strode back up the walkway toward the rest of Loguetown as he turned in the opposite direction of the shouting of new-to-piracy idiots who thought they could find the greatest pirate treasure in the world.

It took him a good while to catch up with Buggy, still wanting to give the other boy the time to breath before they left the island. He finally fell in beside him almost directly outside the Inn. While Buggy’s face was still bright red and messy, he had stopped crying, now staring seriously down the street ahead of them. 

“So what’s the plan?” He mumbled after a good moment of quiet. 

Shanks glanced at him before following his eye down to the docks, watching the rough waves battle the shoreline. 

“I think…” Shanks began. “I’ll go adventuring for a while.” 

This made Buggy freeze to the spot. “What about Laugh Tale?” 

Shanks stopped and cocked his head, eyebrows pinched in concentration. “I won’t go. I can’t go, Buggy.”

The blue-haired boy’s face scrunched with muddled anger. “Didn’t you say it yourself, Shanks? You said your crew would reach Laugh Tale one day too!” 

“Yeah.”  Shanks lifted his chin. “But I’ve changed my mind. For now. I’m not ready to go for it yet.” 

“WHAT?” 

Buggy was practically bristling despite the rain. His eyes were wide with disbelief, looking at Shanks like the longer he stared there would be a chance he told him it was a lie. All a joke. But Shanks continued on.

“We’re still kids! Without a crew, or any idea of anything! If that’s how Roger…” he swallowed the ache back and shook his head. “We have so many years to prepare and build ourselves. Come with me, Buggy!” 

The clown boy stared hard at Shanks’ outstretched hand like he was frozen in time, waiting for his brain to catch up. Then, he exploded. 

“I’m not going to work under you, idiot!”

“...Huh?”

“You coward!” 

Shanks yanked his hand back with a start, almost sure Buggy was going to smack him with his wildly flailing limbs. He spluttered for a good while as Shanks watched before finding his point and stabbing at Shanks with a finger. 

“You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

Shanks did not even have the time to unravel an answer from the words. Buggy was so quickly taking off down the street, past the Inn, leaving the redhead with a spattering of puddle water. This time, Shanks did not follow. He stood, listening to the last echoes of Buggy’s shrill screaming bounce through the town and fade into the pouring rain. A slow rumble of thunder later, Shanks realized he was truely, utterly alone. 

   His mission was complete. One less marine casting their shadow on what little good was in this world. Now he just needed to clean his blade and he could set sail for his next quarry. Since the chaos of the execution had died down, the docks were fairly empty. The building he had chosen to use as his sanctuary was old and covered in cracks from years of wear and undoubtedly many storms which brought the ocean to its doorstep. He braced his foot on a small barrel just under the roof of the walkway and watched as fresh water added itself to the churning waves. He pulled his handkerchief from a pocket in his jacket and began to meticulously clean his sword.

“...other,” Shanks ground his teeth. “FUCKER!”

The remaining citizens parted from his radius with an alarmed murmur as he slammed a foot into the nearest empty fishing crate. Hot, molten rage flooded his veins, spiking with the splinter of wood beneath his shoe. Like a plug had been pulled, the agony Shanks had shoved down spilled through every inch of his body and set it aflame. He didn’t fight the urge to run and found himself pelting towards the docks. 

Though he had no original goal in mind, his gaze found a target. A precarious stack of baskets left to the mercy of the storm. He let out a bellow and sent the pile flying, colliding with the wall of ocean water charging into the shore. 

    As the storm lessened, a sudden commotion made Mihawk glance up from his blade as he glanced up to see the same red-haired boy from the execution causing an aberrant disruption. He raised an eyebrow as he watched the teen release what seemed to be unfettered anguish into every movement he was making. With one last swipe of his rag, he slipped Yoru onto his back and moved to make his way back down to his boat, stepping down to go the long way around the side of the dock, giving the young man a wide berth.

Mid kick, something stirred behind Shanks, tugging at his attention through the cloud of anger. He swung his head around and caught the glint of a massive blade, the golden guard encrusted with delicate jewels. The man whose back it was fixed on was slinking away through the rain, clearly disturbed from his spot beneath the cottage awning. With the long, dark cloak trailing gracefully just above his boot, the swordsman cut a distinct figure. One that set Shanks’ memory on a scramble to recall the silhouette. 

“Hey!”

Mihawk froze. Turning slowly and hoping that exclamation was intended for someone else. Unfortunately he couldn’t be so lucky. “Can I help you?” He looked over the worn straw hat as it clung to the hair of the dripping wet frame in front of him. He was within sight of his boat now, and was sorely tempted to ignore the hysterical youth.

Piercing yellow eyes locked onto Shanks as he approached, a bitingly sour response on the stranger’s tongue. Shanks was certain that despite the youth of the man, that glare had sent many weaker souls retreating without even a flash of the deadly sword. Somehow, having him turn only had Shanks’ fury dissolving. He pushed onwards, finally coming to stand before him and having to look up to peer at his face. 

“You look familiar.” Shanks ventured. “Are you on a wanted poster?”

Mihawk couldn’t help but chuckle, “I’ve had my share.” He tilted his head slightly, surprised not only that he had met someone who could so easily match his gaze, but who also had a set of unique eyes himself. He found himself staring into deep red pools, full of an intensity that he had not felt before. “They call me the marine hunter.” He disclosed before he could stop himself.

The last stubborn residuals of anger were smothered by a bolt of satisfaction at the confirmation. Shanks took a breath and let himself recover a grin just for the dark-haired man. 

“I do know you. Know of you at least. Your fame precedes you.” He leant to study the blade strapped to his shoulders. “Has to be the coolest sword I’ve ever seen. How does it handle? I’ve got my own, but it’s nothing like this one.” 

Shanks itched to feel the weight of it in his hands, but restrained himself from reaching. There was an edge to the very air around the swordsman, keeping him from getting closer. 

Mihawk took a step back as if to guard Yoru from the wide eyes and questions, but couldn’t help but want to show her off nonetheless “Yoru is a unique blade,” He unsheathed Yoru, taking care to take another step back and out of reach of the eager young man. “It is one of the only black blades known to exist.” He gave it a flourish with the slightest smile, feeling satisfaction at the soothing noise it made as it cut the air. He paused a moment before snapping back to reality and remembering he needed to continue to his next destination. Giving one more small swish of his sword, he sheathed Yoru again, and looked over the teenager in front of him once more, “I have more pressing things to do, you should go back to, wherever it is you came from, before the storm returns.”

“Oh!” Shanks stood straighter, blinking at the man poised to walk away. “Well, good luck with all your…pressing business. But hey, if you ever get sick of ‘marine hunting’, let me be the first to know, yeah? I could use a master swordsman like yourself on my crew.” 

Shanks shook the rain away from his eyes and pulled his hat firmly down, tossing a wide smile at the swordsman. “I’ll have a bounty poster of my own soon enough, I’m sure you could manage to track me down.” 

Receiving a skeptical look in return, Shanks only grinned further, giving a mock salute to send himself off. “Just keep your eyes on the newspaper and you’ll see the name: Shanks.” 

He spun around towards the Inn, with a final wave behind him. “See you around, Mihawk!” 

Mihawk watched incredulously as the small teenager ran back up the beach, wondering how he was so full of excitement when mere moments before he had been angrily attacking anything in sight. He always had a hard time understanding people and their emotions, something he had accepted from a very young age. He finally reached Hitsugibune and cast off without looking back. A faint feeling of something churning in the pit of his stomach, sympathy perhaps, for the red-haired pirate with no crew. Still, he had sworn off companionship and was planning on keeping it that way, he wasn’t about to get betrayed again. Better not to feel anything than suffer the pain of that loss anew.

Chapter Text

Mihawk was bored, he had just cut through another young pirate trying to stake a claim on the title of greatest swordsman. There were times he almost felt bad for these teenagers who ran at him, swords swinging, with little-to-no experience. He was about to start using his Kogatana instead just to make the fights last longer. A small “puru puru puru” sound began ringing from inside his jacket and he let out a sigh. 

     The snail let out a click as he activated the receiver and gave a monotone greeting. “Hawk-Eyes,” The unmistakable low tone of Fleet Admiral Kong came over through the line. “We have an assignment for you.” Mihawk rolled his eyes at the term, “assignment” knowing full well this was just their code for killing another run away pirate, probably one whom they let escape. 

     Not caring if his tone came off as tired as he felt of these activities, Mihawk responded, “Of course, Fleet Admiral, I am here for your bidding as always, where pray tell is my next target?” “Centaurea”  “I see, and WHOM am I to execute this time?” “A young upstart calls himself, Red-Haired Shanks.” 

Across the sky, the last tendrils of sunlight dyed the horizon red. The heavy darkness of the night was beginning to creep over the last of the day’s colour, scattering the first stars above the island. A cool breeze brought in with the evening rustled the trees. It was enough to shower leaves onto the ground, yet easily drowned away by the endless cheers of a crowd. 

Centaurea was alive with music and dance, the thunder of feet almost perfectly in rhythm with the instrumental chorus. It was also alive with booze. So much Shanks had thought he must have died during the fight and somehow gotten into heaven when he was offered a free tab for the night. Nursing what must have been his sixth mug of beer, Shanks sang loud as he was knocked side to side by his crew. 

This was the first time Mihawk had taken Hitsugibune this far out of the Grand Line, she held up fairly well, he was proud of the design he had chosen for his vessel. It provided exactly what he needed, just enough space for himself to travel, and a small amount of intimidation factor as well. 

     He tied the mooring line around the side of a small dock a good distance away from the flickering lights of the town. The flickering lights which Mihawk assumed to be a town on fire. That was usually the way with pirates. He walked with long strides up the beach as his ears began to catch traces of shouting coming from his destination. Mihawk sighed to himself as he prepared to fight another crew of unruly looters. 

“Where in hell did you find that?” 

Beer splattered on Shanks’ boot as Hongo yanked him around by the shoulder, yelling across the square. The young Captain peered through the crowd to see two of his newly named officers dragging a massive case in tow. Lucky Roux dumped the chest at Shanks’ feet and swiped a drumstick from a passerby before giving his explanation. 

“Marine Base.”

“Back of the Captain’s private quarters.”  Yasopp added with a kick to the thick lock and chain, an eager grin on his face. “What do ya reckon is in this bad boy?” 

“Grandline maps?” Hongo suggested. 

“Marine information surely.” Limejuice wandered up by the doctor’s side, Beckman trailing behind. 

The only clue giving away the older first mate’s curiosity was his grumbled suggestion over the lip of his cup. “Weaponry–” 

“I’ll tell you what,” Shanks interrupted. “How about we get our eyes on it. Whoever here can crack it open gets dibs on their share of the contents.” 

Just as his crew reached for their tools, he waved his mug in the air. “Uh uh, no assistance. Bare hands only, boys.” 

All of them froze for the shortest heartbeat, before Shanks was flashed with a collection of dangerous smiles. 

“Me first!”

“Fuck off!” 

Shanks burst out laughing as a majority of his crew turned into a tangle of wrestling limbs, shoving each other away from the box.

Mihawk finally reached the gates on the outskirts of town, looking around, he realized that all the buildings seemed intact. There was no screaming or crying echoing down the streets, instead he realized the voices he was hearing were off-key singing and jovial shouting. The flickering lights were coming from a series of campfires, cooking all sorts of meats and stews. People were drunkenly chasing after each other in a ludicrous childlike way, and those who weren’t running were dancing to music that seemed to be fighting the vocals for which could be further off-key. The eye of this storm of chaos seemed to be a particularly large fire near the town square. 

     Though his boots hardly made a sound, a sudden silence was falling in his wake as he made his way toward a vaguely familiar looking straw hat. As his vision finally focused on his target, the hatted figure lifted his head in a laugh, revealing shoulder length crimson red hair. A connection was made in his mind, Red-Haired Shanks. A faint voice from a memory replayed in his head as he recalled the teenager he had run into at Gol D. Roger’s execution, “Just keep your eyes on the newspaper, and you’ll see the name, Shanks.” A moment of hesitation halted his next step as he realized he had seen this boy before.

     He forced himself forward even as his thoughts began to increase in speed. Looking at Shanks, Mihawk couldn’t really call him a boy anymore. He had grown into his lanky figure, the man standing in front of him looked as though they now shared the same height. Toned arms shone dimly in the firelight as the captain raised a drink to his lips. As Shanks lowered the mug away from his face, Mihawk noticed that he was not the only one now sporting a beard. The darker stubble along the younger man’s face suited him. It was wilder and more natural, unlike the cleanly cut way Mihawk kept his own facial hair maintained. One thing that had not changed, the pirate’s red eyes were still filled with a playfulness and a hunger for something Mihawk did not understand, especially given that he now felt frozen in their gaze.

A hush rippled through the town square, just as a presence fell into the back of Shanks’ mind like a droplet in a still pond. The music ebbed away as he lifted his head to stare straight through the crowd, now parting slowly to reveal the figure striking at their nerves with just his walk. 

After the sharp strike of his aura, the matching eyes caught him. The bright intelligent yellow scanning him from boots to straw hat, more intense the closer he got. Shanks couldn’t even hear the tap of his steps as he slunk forward. The man was catlike and poised on his toes with barely concealed strength, ready to fight with a grace unseen on earth. Shanks could see the beauty in his movement from the very first glance. 

The swordsman came to a stop before him. From beneath the brim of his hat, a sharp pretty face peered unflinching at Shanks. Every detail of his expression seemed carved from marble, from the delicate frown to the carefully trimmed beard decorating his jawline. Shanks had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing right, a single word breathed out with the next heave of his chest. 

“Mihawk.”

Mihawk shook his head slightly, observing the rowdy crowd of misfit pirates surrounding the young captain. “So you found yourself a crew then?” 

“Uh huh..” Shanks began. Then began again, standing a bit taller with a grin. “Of course. Did you believe so little in me all those years ago?”

“My thoughts regarding our meeting were minute to begin with.” Mihawk said, almost hastily. “The irrational delusions of a boy’s daydreams were none of my concern.” The wanted poster in his breast pocket seemed to start burning into his skin as he remembered the reason he was here. “I hear you stirred up some trouble?”

Shanks chuckled. “What is a pirate’s goal if not to stir up a bit of trouble?” He waved his now half empty beer mug around the gathering, hearing the quiet unsheathing of weaponry as his crew members began to recognise the dangerous face. “I suppose it’s not my reputation for a party you’re here for. What’re your orders then, Greatest Swordsman?”

The slight buzz of alcohol in his veins did not inhibit the hard stare he shot at the man. He could feel the flare of tension behind his back, Beckman stepping up enough to brush against his captain's shoulder. 

“I’m afraid my orders are to bring you in, dead or alive. I was told nothing regarding your crew, so I suppose they are free to go.” Mihawk had a feeling Shanks’ crew was not about to let anyone arrest him without a fight. He’d had enough dealings with the next generation of pirates to realize they seemed to have an undying loyalty that he himself could not understand. 

Yasopp hissed, “You damn Government dog, Red-Hair ain’t going nowhere without–”

“Ah ah ah,” Shanks shoved the rifle in his marksman’s hand down. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here alright?”

He waved to the rest to stand back before tipping his head to the side, observing the calm unguarded exterior the swordsman projected to his crew. Shanks hummed, took one last massive sip of his beer and handed off the mug to Hongo. 

“I have a proposal for you.”  He crossed his arms and kept on smiling. “You and I both know I won’t come quietly, but I’ll still make it simple. Just yourself taking on my boys really ain’t all that fair so how about a one on one. Rumor has it a duel is the way to go with you, is that right?  How about it, Hawk Eyes?”  

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, “If by a way to go, you mean a way to meet your demise quicker, then you are correct. No man has come close to besting me. However, if it will satisfy you and prevent the need for further bloodshed, I accept your challenge.” He unstrapped Yoru from his back and strode past the tense pirates to an empty patch of dirt near the edge of the town square. Turning around to face his new opponent, he adjusted the brim of his hat slightly before taking a one handed fighting stance.

Shanks gave the signal for his crew to stay put before following the man to his chosen battle ground. He couldn’t contain a small laugh at the serious pinch of the man’s expression where he brandished his weapon in a tight, perfectly balanced stance. 

“Wow, you’re certainly eager.” A giddiness flooded Shank’s body, very much not from the booze this time, making him feel light on his feet and unable to stop his stupid grinning. He unsheathed Gryphon from his side, fighting the nerves to hold it steady. He quirked an eyebrow. “You believe this will be over quickly, but I promise I’ll last as long as I need.”

There was an undertone to all of Shanks’ words that puzzled Mihawk, something he felt he was missing. Regardless he flourished his blade and began side stepping as he waited for his challenger to make the first move. Shanks countered his movement much smoother than even some men older than them, matching pace as they circled like predators waiting to pounce. A flash of steel reflected firelight as the red-haired young man finally advanced. Yoru moved as an extension of Mihawk’s own arm as he blocked swiftly, smoothly knocking the smaller blade back, and its wielder along with it.

Shanks lunged over and over, clashing in a loud singing of metal against metal. He knew his own blade was smaller, but had hope that the heft of the other man’s sword would slow his movement. That hope was quickly dashed with the blur of jabs combatting his attempted hits. The man might as well have been brandishing a dagger by his grace and pinpoint accuracy. Still, for every slash Mihawk paid back to him, Shanks dodged for his life, dancing on his toes to stay in range. 

The man had a talent that Mihawk had not encountered before. A sort of raw energy that was unlike anything the swordsman had felt. While Mihawk clearly still had the upper hand, he had never felt this alive in battle. He watched his rival’s scarlet mane flow with his swift instinctual movements as he concentrated to keep pace. The grin on Shanks face was unnerving, he had to know he couldn’t keep up with a trained swordsman forever. As they twirled in their dangerous dance, the dim light started to trick Mihawk’s eye. He continued to study his counterpart’s face, thinking he spotted a wink at one turn before the face once again became cast in shadow.

Mihawk’s eyes were hardly leaving Shank’s face. He could feel them burning into his skin even when he glanced away to shield himself. His heart was already racing with the duel, but the insistent golden gaze was setting his nerves alight. There was no aggression, not quite matching the challenge in them only minutes before. It was almost akin to curiosity. With something else simmering deep below the surface that Shanks couldn’t unpack. But perhaps…maybe. Maybe. 

Shanks brought Gryphon back with a heavy swing, catching Mihawk’s answering strike in a stalemate of power, blades trembling with the force of it. 

“Hey,”  Shanks’ arms shook, voice escaping strained. “Have I lasted long enough to have a go handling your sword yet, Hawk Eyes?”

Mihawk lost his footing, it was brief and he caught it within a second, but the falter was enough to let Shanks push him back for the first time. His eyes darted between the two red eyes in front of him as he analyzed the tone in Shanks voice. It reminded him of the way women would talk to him at bars, something he knew the meaning of but had no interest in. Why then, did the way Shanks was talking to him stir something he had not felt before. Almost a kind of excitement, though he had almost forgotten what that felt like too. Equal surges of interest and caution hit him in waves as he struggled to gain control of his own mind again. A third rush of emotion overtook the other two as anger at feeling so vulnerable caused him to swing and knock the sword out of Shanks hands, not at all the kind of move he would normally make, far more brash than anything he was accustomed to doing in a duel.

The hilt of his weapon ripped from his grasp before Shanks could take his next breath, the sheer force of the blow throwing his position open. He barely kept his feet flat on the ground, while the bright flash of the massive blade still swung before his eyes. Shanks hissed through his teeth and swung his arms up. Instead of covering his chest or neck, he thrust them high, palms out, staring down the dark weapon to the sharp gaze beyond. The sword froze still, along with its wielder, deadly tip flashing just beneath Shanks’ chin. The sudden absence of battle sounds left them in the echo of each other's heavy breathing and the distant clatter of Gryphon falling to the earth. 

“You win.”

Shanks swallowed against the dust in his mouth, sweat dripping from his forehead. He scanned Mihawk’s still battle-tight figure, managing to crack a small smile against the ferocity he found blazing in those yellow eyes. 

“So. Am I going dead or alive, greatest swordsman?”

There was a slight ringing in Mihawk’s ears, he was trying to clear his head of the thoughts which had been plaguing him. “It would be shameful for me to take you in now. A true duel should not end in disarming in such a fashion.” Mihawk lied, he didn’t even know why he did it, but he was certain the other captain wouldn’t know the full list of rules of swordsmanship. He waited, watching as Shanks slowly lowered his hands. He slide Yoru back onto his back, eager to be out of this perplexing man’s presence. “I am sure we will meet again, at which time I will best you properly.” 

Shanks had to pause for a moment to fully process the words of the swordsman, watching the man fix his hat with his own arms still raised in surrender. Once Mihawk had placed his weapon back he didn’t return his gaze to the captain, instead spinning around with a flourish of his coat to stalk right back the way he appeared. Beyond the heave of his chest, Shanks’ stung. Like a puppet pulled by a string, he found himself striding right after him, ignoring the confused murmur of his crew. 

“Oi, Shanks,” The captain heard Beckmann begin. 

Shanks spun on his toes, waving him back into the crowd with a half-hearted glance. “Uh huh, yeah, can you grab Gryphon? I’ll be back soon, alright?” 

And he took off, matching the quick pace of the swordsman before the dark shape of the man vanished into the shadows of the town. Once he rounded the same corner, the tentative sound of the band slowly rose to fill the night again, the chattering crowds becoming echoed through the alleyways. 

Shanks had to be more imbecilic than Mihawk thought if he was planning on trying anything by sneaking up behind him. Mihawk had noticed the moment they had passed the rest of the Red-Haired pirate’s crew that he was being followed. At this point, they had passed back out of the village gate. If Shanks was going to make a move now was going to be the time. Mihawk started to take in his surroundings, looking for the spot to strike before he let the young captain get the upper hand. He slowed his stride, allowing for his pursuer to close the distance between them. As soon as he heard the footsteps approaching his own, he moved with precision, unsheathing the small blade he carried around his neck. Turning to come face to face with the red eyes closing in behind him, he shoved the red head against the nearby cliff and held the knife against his throat. “What are you hoping to accomplish, Red-Hair?”

Shanks’ back slammed into the hard rock of the cliff, an arm pushing achingly hard against his chest. Already another blade sat cold and sharp against his throat, keeping his head pinned back. The swordsman’s low voice rippled through him, the abrupt heat of his body so close skyrocketing the rhythm in Shanks’ chest. 

He let out a breathy laugh, meeting his narrowed glare. “Woah, woah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle ya. Figured you could sense my intention.” 

Shanks tracked the further furrow in Mihawk’s brow, the man’s only movement from his threatening position. “Although,” Shanks smirked, laying his head against the rough stone. “This isn’t too far off from what I had in mind.”

Mihawk’s eyes flickered back and forth between the fiery pair in front of them. Slowly an understanding dawned on him. Something, in his thousands of calculations of the outcome of his duel with Shanks, that had not come to mind. His breath was growing increasingly unsteady and out of his control. He was suddenly aware of how close his face was to his rival’s. The slightest shake began to start in his hand as he struggled to determine his next move. He clenched his jaw and stepped back, sheathing his Kogatana. He couldn’t help but run his gaze up the shadowed figure in front of him, studying the lean muscular frame and continuing to notice details that he had not noticed prior. 

Mihawk wasn’t saying a thing. Shanks pushed himself off the rock, trying to read the silent backing away of the other man. He hadn’t really gone that far at all, now peering at Shanks like were an animal to study. The quiet lapping of waves was setting the captain on edge, the earlier heat-of-the-moment confidence slipped away in the face of Mihawk’s hard, fixed expression. 

He adjusted his hat, tugging at the straw brim. “Listen, I was taking a chance. I don’t–” Shanks frowned, while still soaking in the undivided attention of the pretty swordsman, finally catching his eye. “I thought it would be a waste to let someone like you go without trying.”

Mihawk blinked but he wasn’t paying attention to the other man’s words. He looked around, double and triple checking that the beach was truly empty except for his present company. The raw confidence that leaked off of Shanks was drawing him in and as long as no one ever knew, he could match that confidence long enough to find out what it was that seemed to be so important to normal people. These sensations that seemed to come so easily to everyone else. He at least knew where to start. Mihawk took a deep breath and willed every fiber of feeling back out of his body, something he was well practiced in. He took a step forward again, cutting Shanks off with his movement. His heartbeat was betraying his attempts at staying stoic as his gaze wandered up the length of the stunned face in front of him. A slender hand tentatively removed his hat, setting it gingerly on a large rock beside him. He blinked again, before leaning into the kiss.

What. The. Hell. 

Shanks knew what he was intending to do but still. The lips promptly pressed to his put him into a daze, stood stiff with his eyes squeezed shut. Not a single word uttered from the swordsman beyond his demand for an answer with his knife brandished close. Now, moments later he’d accepted Shanks frankly wishful offer. It had to be a dream. Perhaps he’d been knocked out in the duel. By the alcohol at the party? That had to be–

Mihawk’s kiss drew away enough for Shank’s to feel the cool breeze. The captain reacted like he should have done when he first felt that pretty mouth against his, hauling the swordsman back with two hands around his face. Dream or not he was making the most of this chance. 

Fuck . Mihawk didn’t usually use sailor’s language but that was the only word that entered his mind as he experienced his first kiss. His nerves were searing with ecstasy and desire for more experiences. He wanted to feel the warmth of the body starting to press against his own. His hands moved as if by their own accord, one traced along Shanks’ spine as the other settled into his salt-sprayed hair. The quiet sound that came out of the red-haired pirate as he played with the titular locks was intoxicating and made him want to continue to explore all of these new sensations further.

Mihawk was clumsy with his mouth. Shanks held back the chuckle of delight threatening even through the ongoing kiss. The awkward rhythm juxtaposed so sharply with the precision and practice in his swordwork, he almost couldn’t believe it. But the clear want chasing the tease of Shanks tongue struck right through, stoking the fire in the captain’s veins. He caressed Mihawk's carefully trimmed jawline before dipping to graze his fingers down the center of the man’s bare chest. Eventually, he settled his hands around his waist under the coat, pulling until they were flush against each other.

Mihawk didn’t know what was more captivating, the way Shanks asserted his dominance in this second form of duel, or the new sensations he was feeling as he pulled reactions from the young captain with each touch and movement of his own body. If this was another battle being fought, Mihawk was uncertain if it was one he’d be able to win. While he was undoubtedly more skilled with a sword, Shanks seemed to have already gained the upper hand between them, guiding him with unmatched finesse. 

     Shanks slid one hand back out from under his coat, wrapping around Mihawk’s back. Distracted at first, Mihawk almost didn’t hear the all-too-familiar click of the strap affixing Yoru to his back. Mihawk broke away from the kiss, and swiftly ducked himself under the offending limb. “I’m sure there are several far more available and interested individuals back the way you came.” He brushed off his coat as nonchalantly as he could. 

Shanks felt like he’d been slapped in the face with how fast the cool ocean breeze hit him. His hands stayed suspended in the air, no longer supported by the warmth of a body. 

“Uh,” he began intelligently. The captain blinked at the swordsman now tugging at his clothes, eyes fixed on the redness of his ears still visible in the dark. 

“Perhaps.” Shanks tried to peer around the man’s hunched shoulders. “But I’m not here with them, am I? And you seemed plenty interested a moment ago.”   

Shanks immediately caught the sting of a mighty scowl as it was thrown in his direction. Still, he didn’t step away. Recovering his nerve, he used the opportunity to slip into Mihawk’s line of sight, or at least try to. The swordsman stubbornly kept his eyes to his own hands as he fiddled with the strap securing his sword. 

Shanks winced. “Oh, I shouldn’t have assumed, huh?” He lifted his hands, not unlike how surrendered to that sword minutes before. “Listen, you’re in control completely. If you have changed your mind, that's totally fine, man.” 

The captain studied Mihawk’s stiff expression, draped in silvery moonlight perfectly highlighting his sharp golden gaze. Shanks reached up and pulled at the fraying string of his straw hat. 

“I did mean it though. Why would I want to be with other ‘individuals’ when I have a man as beautiful as you putting up with me?” 

Mihawk had never been called beautiful before. A small spark ignited somewhere in his core, a warmth that was new which called on him to look back up at the begging red eyes in front of him. He swallowed down the urge telling him to continue their entanglement and instead met the gaze with his coldest stare, “I have no desire to put up with any more of your antics this evening, Red-Hair.” He spoke the man’s title with the same coolness before turning to retrieve his hat. He straightened the brim over his eyes, and moved to make his way back toward the dock.

Shanks watched Mihawk retreat with his feet stuck to the sand. He was still trying to process the events that took place here on the shore. It was so quick that for a heartbeat Shanks figured he must have conjured it all up in a moment of insanity or drunkenness.  Yet, his lips were still hot. His fingertips still echoed the feeling of skin beneath them, the shudder of another’s breath under his palm. Once Shanks could barely hear the crunch of boots, he scrubbed his hands furiously over his face and let out a groan. 

Mihawk kissed him first. The realisation chimed like a bell knocking in his brain, ringing out over and over. Shanks sank down to sit with his head on his knees. He could only try and will the adrenaline out of his system with very little luck. The trails of Mihawks’ presence still ebbed in the back of his head, slowly slipping from his consciousness as the lithe figure disappeared into the night. 

Shanks doubted this was his final encounter with the greatest swordsman. And if it went any way he hoped next time, he knew he would be the luckiest man alive. 

Mihawk’s footsteps were unsteady. Or rather, they were not as silent and catlike as he usually made them to be. They were that of an average man. A man who had thoughts outside of his mission. A man who had to contend with being confused and having emotions he didn’t think were possible. He almost had the urge to look behind him, but he knew he’d have to meet those unwavering crimson eyes staring back into his own. 

     What was he going to tell the fleet admiral? He hadn’t even considered that yet, so caught up in his own. . . feelings. He could give the same lie he had given Shanks, that it would have been dishonorable to continue their fight. The admiral wouldn’t care about that though, and would surely send him after the pirates again. Send him back toward the very thing he was fleeing. Not the duel, no, the man. The fiery haired young captain who seemed to have set that fire to his very beliefs. He knew he was going to have to face him again, he’d stay wary, who knew what would happen if he let his fellow swordsman under his skin again.

Chapter Text

Mihawk tried not to think about his birthday. He never understood why some people insisted on celebrating getting older. Getting frailer was nothing to celebrate. He’d already plucked three gray hairs from his sideburns this morning, that was nothing to celebrate. He was sitting in his favorite oversized chair, at ease in his drawing room, trying to focus on reading and not thinking about the date. He had tried to make himself comfortable, wearing his white silk shirt, and leaving his hat on the table beside him. Yoru was leaning against the fireplace, its hilt casting reflections of gold around the room.

As he reached halfway through his third chapter, an unfamiliar sound echoed through his mansion. While the sound was unfamiliar, he knew what it meant. It was the front doorbell. How anyone would have the courage to ring his doorbell he didn’t know, surely whoever it was had no idea that this was his home.

Glancing at Yoru, he stood slowly, donning his hat in one fluid movement as he made his way down the stairs. The stranger at his door was no threat. He would dispel the intruder with his Kogatana. He reached the door, and opened it swiftly, moving to threaten the trespasser’s throat with his blade.

Shanks didn’t have to wait long for Mihawk. He knew he wouldn’t. He guessed that with the lack of willing visitors to the island, just the sound of the doorbell would have Mihawk up and suspicious.

He really should have expected the killing intent, slight but precise, that sliced through the air, a heartbeat before the door swung open and sharp eyes gleamed on the other end of the blade. The knife was cold on his neck. 

Shanks raised his hand in surrender, brandishing the newly bought wine bottle as he smiled brightly at the swordsman. 

“Hey, Hawky!”

Fortunately for the straw-hatted pirate standing in front of him, Mihawk had the utmost control in himself when it came to even the smallest of weapons. The blade of his knife didn’t even pierce skin as he froze in place. “Shanks, what the devil are you doing here.” Keeping any emotions he may be feeling from his tone, Mihawk looked over the young pirate standing in front of him. He wore the same white button down shirt and overly baggy shorts that he always did. However there was something that drew his golden eyes attention. There were three faded scars sliced into Shank’s left eye. Studying the pattern, he was honestly surprised there was an eye left. He let his guard down as he scanned both eyes in front of him for answers.

Shanks, though still up against the sharp metal, used the moment Mihawk’s shoulders loosened as one to take the man in. The signature coat was missing, instead replaced by a light, ruffled shirt. This too seemed to align with the swordsman’s aversion to buttoning his clothing, leaving almost all of his well muscled torso on display for Shank’s eyes to wander. Finally he made it back to the golden gaze resting questioningly on him from beneath his brim. Despite the clear display of comfort in the shirt, the man had still put the hat on to slice through the ‘intruder’  at his home with his smallest knife. 

Shanks swallowed, heart jumping once in his chest. “Er…You gonna put that down?”

Snapping out of his concern, Mihawk was suddenly aware that he was still holding his Kogatana against the man’s throat. He pulled his arm back, and sheathed the small blade, clasping it back around his neck, as he did so, he inquired again, “You still didn’t tell me what you’re doing here. Or for that matter, how you found me.”  Mihawk was also vaguely aware of the scan Shanks had just given him, but he was trying to focus on the bigger question at hand. This was no time to get distracted by wandering eyes, and wandering thoughts.

Ah, well, good deduction methods I suppose.” Shanks laughed. He waved the liquor bottle in front of Mihawk’s eyes, giving him a wink. “As for your first question, happy birthday! I have offerings, now let me in, Hawk Eyes.”

He took a step to bustle past the confused Warlord, shoving the massive door further open with his hip and jabbing him playfully between his exposed pecs. Shank poked his tongue out at the frown that produced before spinning into the entrance hall, eyes gluing to the ceiling. 

“Holy fuck, this place is massive.” 

Mihawk felt his stoic pale complexion gain the lightest bit of color at the casual way Shanks made his way into his home -and life - again. His gaze followed the worn hat as it made its way past him,“Shanks,” Mihawk swallowed down any hint of sentiment, “I’m not in the mood for your roguery tonight.” The spot that Shanks had touched on his chest burned, it was as though he had awoken his skin as well as his feelings.  

Shanks dragged his gaze from the towering walls to pin Mihawk with an incredulous look. “What are you in the mood for then? Brooding?” 

He once again attempted to introduce the alcohol to the conversation. “I have something to help with that.” He tilted his head to the side, giving him his best persuasive expression from between crimson bangs. “C’mon, I’m sure you have plenty of time to mope later.”

“Alcohol cannot fix everything.” Mihawk said with a sigh. He knew where this would end, and was not looking to make this day even worse than it already had been. Anytime this particular man was in close proximity, he found himself very confused by his own thoughts and actions. He had made himself a model swordsman, his only desires were that of the blade. He enjoyed a good book, and a glass of wine on occasion. This was not one such occasion however, with present company, it would only result in mistakes.

It’s not for fixing,” Shanks corrected. “It’s for forgetting. And having fun instead.” 

He peered at Mihawk for a moment before stalking back to him. Instead of slipping past him, or moving him out of the way, Shanks reached his free hand over the man’s shoulder to push the mansion door. The entrance closed with a booming thump, echoing down the empty castle halls, and leaving Shanks face to face with the world’s greatest swordsman, barely inches apart. 

Shanks grinned, taking in the rise of his brows with the warmth of his body. “You sure you can’t have a little fun, even for our birthday, Hawky?”

Mihawk tried to form words, but knew that they would not come out as smoothly as he would like. He took a deep breath, unable to stop his walls from crumbling as he looked into the eyes of the only man whom he had ever allowed this close to him. Pausing one more moment, he finally spoke, “one, drink.” His voice had a shake that most people wouldn’t even detect, but he knew Shanks was more clever than he let on, he met the amused gaze and gave the slightest of head tilts to signify movement to somewhere with glasses, and chairs.

He led Shanks into the living room, and went to his liquor cabinet to get two tall stemmed wine glasses. He set the glasses down on a table next to the cabinet and allowed the red haired pirate to pour the wine.

Shanks felt Mihawk’s gaze burning into his skin, the yellow irises flickering between his working hands and his face. Nerves almost caused a tremor as he poured but he kept his eyes down, knowing the moment he looked the man in the face his confidence would fall to pieces. He slid the bottle back to the swordsman to occupy him and grabbed both the glasses from the table, making his way to sit on the wide, decorative couch against the far wall. When Mihawk closed the cabinet doors and looked over, Shanks raised one towards him. He took a sip from the other, the rich warmth of the wine fueling the teasing expression he offered over the rim of the glass. 

As he set the bottle back down on the table, Mihawk realized his mistake in allowing Shanks control of their drinks, he considered his options of avoiding closer proximity to the handsome young pirate. However, he had already gone this far, and felt as though at this point, he had little control over the situation. Begrudgingly he sat next to the red haired man. He took his glass and took a larger sip than he usually would, eager to be done with this charading gesture. “So are you going to tell me what happened to your eye?” Mihawk asked, in an attempt at conversation, and at breaking the tension that seemed to be seeping in from all directions.

“Ah.” 

In all honesty, Shanks had forgotten the injury would be new to the swordsman. Actually, he forgot it had happened at all most of the time, once the bandages were off, until the occasional change in temperature that made it sting. He pulled back the hand wandering to touch his own face and frowned. 

“Nothin’ too important really.” He stared into his glass, watching a trickle of wine meet the rest. “Someone caught me off guard. Got what was coming to me for being stupid.” 

Shanks chuckled lightly. 

The idea of being caught off guard was almost entirely foreign to Mihawk. He had never lost a fight. The only time he ever felt off guard was, well, with the present company. He listened a little too intently to Shank’s explanation as he realized he had almost finished his wine already. Eyeing the remaining contents of the bottle sitting in the opposite corner of the room, Mihawk glanced over to see how far into his own glass his companion was. Having barely touched any of his wine yet, Shanks seemed preoccupied in his own thoughts. Mihawk almost had the urge to reach out to snap the darkened look off of the usually carefree face beside him.

He could feel them burning, he realised, once his attention was brought to them. Like the memories that threatened his consciousness were reaching out to claw at the newly healed wounds from beneath his skin. The cacophony of voices roaring over the clashing of blades and booming of cannons. The searing agony that ripped through his face. Red had soaked his vision, turning the battle field into a dark, blurry mess. And Shanks remembered the laugh, loud and low, rocking through his haki as his own blood splattered onto his boots.  

As the frown on Shanks’ brow intensified Mihawk couldn’t keep his apprehension contained, as if on its own, Mihawk’s hand reached out to lightly touch the red haired pirate’s leg. “Shanks, if it’s an uncomfortable subject.” He heard the slightest bit of concern in his own voice and toned it back out, “What I mean to say is, we need not talk of such things. After all, no man wants to discuss his weaknesses.” Mihawk set his now empty glass down, and sat up a little straighter, crossing his arms. Shanks seemed to be present again, and about to say something infuriating as usual. Mihawk glanced back across the room, focusing on nothing in particular, his eyes flitted around for something to draw his attention.

Mihawk had touched his knee. Shanks blinked the thoughts away to track the hand’s movement back to Mihawk’s crossed arms. Though the swordsman had turned away, Shanks could see the tension in the slight rise of his shoulders. Shanks couldn’t fight the thrill of excitement. Mihawk touched him. 

“Of course you wouldn’t want to talk about it, Mr I-Have-No-Weaknesses-Whatsoever.”  Shank grinned, leaning forward in an attempt to catch his attention. “You sure you don’t have any new scars hidden away you want to show?”

Shanks leaned into his line of sight enough that Mihawk couldn’t focus on anything else if he tried. Brief flickers of memories flashed through his mind as those words carried thoughts of nights spent in dark corners and cabins, ruffled hair and warm skin. For months these images lay dormant in the swordsman’s mind, but now they felt as fresh as though they had just happened. Had the wine really affected his senses that badly? “Unlike you, I don’t allow myself to be, ‘caught off guard.’” He tasted the lie as soon as he said it, unable to look away from the red pools staring into his own golden eyes.

Oh really?”  Shanks purred, chasing the waver in Mihawk’s tone. “You sure there’s not even a nick in your perfect skin, Hawky?”

He placed his wine down beside Mihawk’s empty glass to scoot close enough to bump their thighs together, warmth seeping between them. 

Heart leaping beneath his rib cage, Shanks slid his eyes up the swordsman’s figure with a murmur. “Do you want me to check the places you can’t see?”

Shank’s movements did the exact thing that Mihawk had just claimed could not happen. Caught completely off guard, his stern posture melted. Arms falling from their locked position, Mihawk tried to distract himself from the inflection in Shanks voice by tightening his fists, feeling his own nails dig into his palms. His body began to turn against him as he felt his breathing become uncharacteristically unsteady. Trying to hold his breath to hide this fact as he muttered “I do own a mirror.” Mihawk tried desperately to concentrate on anything other than the body next to him, hoping to find a way to avoid the impending encounter.

Shanks’ body was buzzing. Mihawk was nervous, he could tell, avoiding his eyes like his very life depended on it. Yet, he was not moving away. 

Shanks was close. He was right on the edge of the precipice, toying with the risk, the danger that came with each inch closer. One word from the greatest swordsman would have him tumbling back the way he came or taking the last step over. 

“Everyone has a weak spot.” Shanks raised his eyebrows, words rough in his throat. He reached a hand up and caught the retreating man by the rim of his hat, pushing the thing away until he found those bright golden eyes. “Give me some time and I’m sure I could find one, even for the greatest swordsman in the world.”

His last security net gone, Mihawk turned back and searched the red eyes next to him, knowing already what he would find. The look asking for permission, and longing for connection was the final nail in his coffin. Grabbing the back of Shanks’ long hair Mihawk closed the remaining gap between them and pulled the pirate captain in to kiss him with the intensity that had been hovering in the room from the moment they had entered it. Losing every remaining bit of his defenses, he allowed himself to be lost in the feeling of Shanks’ body against his own. Directing his movement with his free hand, he pulled Shanks onto his lap, reveling in all the sensations he had been denying himself since the last time this man had thrown himself into the swordsman’s life. 

Shanks found himself enveloped with heat and touch and the intoxicating smell of wine and steel. The insistent press of the swordsman’s lips against his own had him groaning, clasping Mihawk’s face between his hands to tug him in even further. Fingers dug firmly into his hair, others trailing against his lower spine until they worked a shudder from the captain. Shanks pinned Mihawk down to the couch by his hips and opened his mouth to bite onto the swordsman’s lower lip.

Mihawk’s grip tightened as he pulled Shanks further into the kiss. The dormant feelings that had been trying to work their way loose had sprung out to take full control of his actions as he moved his hips in time with his red-haired lover. A low sound released from his throat as the pain and pleasure of Shank’s playful nips made him long for so many more sensations that he had been lacking. He found one end of the sash that kept his fingers from the warm skin just underneath and pulled until he was finally able to reach his target.

Shanks rocked forward as deft hands tugged away the first layer of clothing between them and hot palms found purchase beneath his shirt. He hummed approval into the swordsman's open mouth. Though his brain was buzzing until his thoughts muddled, he managed to gain the sense to return the favour. Shanks dragged his grip from Mihawks sideburns down his throat to rub at his tight, well-sculpted chest, his hands wandering until the other man’s shirt barely clung to his shoulders. 

Shanks drew away for a heartbeat, if only to stare at the body slowly being revealed, that pretty, elegant neck now clear of the ruffles. He couldn’t help himself. Shanks bent and latched on to the sensitive spot just beneath his ear, teeth grazing it as the swordsman’s fingers explored under his clothes. 

Shanks’ latest attempt at conquest was almost enough to completely make Mihawk submit as he subconsciously tilted his head to allow further access. However, he was not about to allow the young captain another victory. Growling slightly he grabbed the now-bare waist he had been caressing and used his well-practiced balance and movement to shift Shanks onto his back. Pausing, he couldn’t help but admire his slightly disheveled prey. The look in the red eyes below him called him forward as he slowly leaned down, meeting the stare.

Shanks heaved a breath as he found himself splayed on his back, Mihawk looming over him with his thighs pressing insistently against his own. A few strands of the man’s dark hair fell over his forehead, his gaze so hot and intense it practically pinned Shanks down all by itself. As the swordsman got slowly closer, Shanks wiggled, if just to be irritating, and smirked at the tension in the muscle he pushed on. 

His eye caught on the gold of The Kogatana, swinging from the string around the swordsman's neck. Shanks caught it with a single finger. 

“Little bit defensive there,” he huffed. He met the sharp glare with half-lidded eyes. And dragged Mihawk closer by the blade. “You really think I could break you down, Hawk Eyes?”

“Don’t make me put it to your throat again.” Mihawk muttered before closing the gap between them once more. This time, having more open access to all of Shanks’ chest, he only kept his lips locked with the other man for a moment before taking his turn kissing down the length of the exposed torso. As he reached where the buttons blocked his path, he took his time carefully unbuttoning each one and continuing his trail downward until the shirt was fully out of his way. He sat back up, venturing to check that his actions had merited their desired response. The lost look on Shanks’ face was the answer he was looking for as he allowed emotion to display on his own face, a slight smirk of satisfaction before he lowered his attention again. 

Shanks’ whole body felt like it was on fire. The charged, but gentle, trace of Mihawk’s lips on his stomach, unfairly followed by a rare, devious smile had his face burning and heart running a million miles an hour. He gasped sharply through his teeth as the swordsman’s next kiss landed dangerously high on the inside of his leg, warmth flooding into the fabric. Shanks had to bite back the sound that jumped up his throat. As his mouth worked closer, Mihawk’s hand pried the button on his pants loose, purposely brushing his palm on the bulge beneath. Shanks’ hips bucked into the touch and he quickly found a grip in the other man’s hair. 

He hissed, “C’mon.”

“My my, someone sure is eager.” Mihawk tilted his head to make eye contact, raising one eyebrow in a playful way that only Shanks would ever know he was capable of. Deciding not to toy too much longer, he pulled off the rest of the garments blocking his way. Running his left hand down Shanks’ thigh, he gripped the pirate’s hip tightly, pulling him closer as he positioned himself more comfortably. Still not breaking his line of sight on the slightly vacant red eyes, he leaned down and began to run his tongue along the red-haired captain’s shaft. The response was instantaneous as the body under him bucked against his teasing. The moan that the young pirate had tried to stifle the first time, could not be held back as Mihawk expertly continued finding the spots that he knew would elicit the most reaction.

The hot, wet heat suddenly around his dick sent shudders up Shank’s spine, setting his nervous system alive with pleasure. With their history, Mihawk went down with all the knowledge that damn near broke the man as soon as his mouth was on him. Shanks’ jerked against the hold on his lower body, but the swordsman held firm. Instead he was forced to expel his energy by messing with Mihawk’s carefully styled hair, pulling with every talented lap of his tongue. His eyes almost fluttered closed, but he forced them open. That pretty face was devastating to watch as the greatest swordsman bobbed his head, yellow eyes gleaming almost as much as they had in the midst of battle. He had to see more. 

Shank reached out and took handfuls of Mihawk’s shirt by the ruffled collar, giving it a rough tug. 

“Off,”  he commanded hoarsely. “I wanna feel ya, Hawky, take it off.”

Focus pulled, Mihawk stopped and gave a scoffing laugh. With controlled fluidity, he removed his shirt, enjoying the wide eyes looking up at him. He continued with the buckle on his pants, stripping all remaining clothes and casting them aside. The hungry expression on Shanks’ face just increased his confidence as he leaned down and left a mark just under the collarbone of the breathless man he held pinned with desire.

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that” He crooned into his lover’s ear. He ran a hand back down the exposed skin, grabbing hold of the hard member he had been savoring earlier and began stroking rhythmically. 

You-” Shanks’ voice broke off into a whine. 

He hooked his arm around Mihawk’s shoulders and pulled him in until their bare chests collided. Despite the confidence, the swordsman’s breathing quivered, uneven in his ear. It wasn’t just his heart racing between them.  

‘Pretty’ was being chanted over and over in Shank’s fuzzy brain. So fucking beautiful. Mihawk had been quick to pounce on him again and block his view. But what a view it had been. Graceful, but charged with power in every movement. Just a glimpse of the familiar mole on his pelvis, usually hidden away, caused a thrill in his stomach. 

“Shit.” Shanks groaned, a thumb on his tip causing a roll of heat. Yep, that was enough of that. With all the strength he could summon from his shaky limbs, the captain forced himself up and tipped them both the opposite way. There was resistance, but surprise gave him the advantage. 

Shanks shoved Mihawk’s wrists to the cushions and planted himself on the swordsman’s thighs. “I said,” Shanks leaned down. “I wanna feel you, baby.”

Mihawk was still slightly stunned by the sudden shift in power as Shanks lowered himself against his body. Allowing someone else to best him was not something he usually took to doing, but there was a certain pleasure in the way the red-haired pirate had him pinned. The lack of control was almost intoxicating. He closed his eyes, granting Shanks even more reign over his body. He willed his lover closer as he felt one of the hands pinning his wrists move down the side of his torso and tighten around his hip bone. He was too far gone to keep his breath from shaking. He was starting to form a more composed sentence in his mind but was quickly distracted by lips touching his skin just above his collarbone. “Fuck, Red.” He muttered, eyelids fluttering but remaining shut, submitting to the man on top of him.

Shanks could feel the low hum of Mihawk’s voice where his mouth met the swordsman’s body. He smirked against the warmth and dug his fingers into the tense muscle beneath to balance himself. He only gave a small lap of his tongue in warning before he sucked the skin between his teeth, determined to leave dark, obvious marks on that porcelain surface. Mihawk’s wrists flexed beneath his grip, a sharp intake hissing beside his ear that sent a wave of arousal to Shanks’ groin. With renewed motivation, Shanks ground his hips down until the swordsman’s length was pressed hot and hard to his own, a choked sound escaping the other man. Chasing the subdued shudders, Shanks moved to set a deliberately slow pace with the rock of his body. 

Mihawk could not stop the moan that escaped his throat as their shafts pressed against each other. Feeling provoked by the speed Shanks was moving, and the continual marks being left on his body, he twisted one of his wrists free from its restraint to grab the long hair tickling his chest and pull Shanks back into a kiss. Catching the young captain off guard, Mihawk shoved his tongue into his mouth, teasing around Shanks’, trying to provoke more intensity in his movements. 

Shanks melted into the kiss as Mihawk’s graceful fingers held steadfast in his hair. He let his body fall onto the swordsman’s, feeling their chests bump, hearts hummering beneath the skin. With his own hand he wandered Mihawk’s heaving side. Shanks’ nails drew red lines down his torso until they slid low and the captain wrapped his palm around them both and gave a tug. Shanks’ own noise was quickly forgotten as Mihawk’s back arched. His remaining hand tightened on the swordsman’s hip and he found a faster pace with the flick of his wrist. 

The feel of Mihawk’s body twitching into his grip had Shank’s almost losing his rhythm. Waves of heat were lapping down his spine and pooling in his gut, threatening to spill with every barely concealed whine from the greatest swordsman. Shanks had to break the kiss a few times to gasp and groan into Mihawk’s open mouth. He decided instead to bury his face into the other man’s neck, taking in the familiar scent of his hair, now mingled with sweat. 

He shivered as Mihawk’s grip loosened and fingertips ran down his neck, to his shoulder blades, to find the dip of his lower back. Nails bit into his skin pleasantly, holding him steady while he hovered shakily over the man. Shanks was already riding the edge with Mihawk’s arm enveloping him. 

Mihawk ran his nails slowly up and down Shanks’ back, urging him on as he felt the wave of euphoria release through his body. Shanks removed his hand, sliding his other one up to caress Mihawk’s face. He lifted his head to stare at Mihawk, looking pleased with himself, but there was also a hint of discomfort hidden in the red eyes. Raising an eyebrow and glancing down, Mihawk knew the cause. He slid his hand around to grasp Shanks’ still pulsing cock, he flicked his golden eyes back up to keep eye contact as he helped the other man reach completion. He knew the exact pace to get him there, and it was not long before he felt a weight on top of him as all strength left Shanks body. He stroked the bright hair draping along his neck absentmindedly as he waited for the young pirate to regain his usual energy.

     As he came down from his high, Mihawk had a strange sense of calm. No longer desperate for Shanks to disappear, in fact, he hoped his lover never left his side. The ease he felt as he moved onto his side to make room for the fiery hair to lay on his pillow was something he had forgotten he could feel. He pulled Shanks’ body against him tightly by the waist, not wanting to let go. He wished he wasn’t so proud, that he could tell the man in front of him how he felt. He knew the type of man Shanks was though, tomorrow he’d probably be gallivanting off with some group of women. He wasn’t the kind of man to want to settle down, to want someone to tell him they loved him. 

     Suddenly Mihawk’s guard started to return, just enough. He wouldn’t show it, not tonight, but he knew that he couldn’t tell the red-haired captain what he was thinking. His beloved Shanks would never reciprocate the raw emotion hidden in their love-making. 

I love him. The weight of those words, though only in his head, crashed into Shank’s awareness like a cannonball into a ship’s hull. The sheer sudden force of them took them right to the tip of his tongue where he had to clamp his mouth shut and swallow them back. They sat his stomach, in his head, making his body feel heavy as he lay bare and rung out with his back pulled flush to Mihawk’s chest.

Though the feeling ached, Shank’s pushed it to the back of his mind once more, where it had always been and where it would remain as long as the swordsman stayed distant. He may have the man’s hands on his body but Mihawk alway seemed to keep his mind out of reach. And Shanks had decided long ago he would never push for it.

Eyelids growing heavy, Shanks let them fall closed, committing every touch, even the slow breath on the back of his neck, to memory.

Chapter Text

Mihawk woke with a start, his body was sweating and he felt ill at ease. Looking around his room at his familiar surroundings, he steadied himself. There was nothing abnormal to be seen, he clasped his hand around his Kogatana to be sure it was there and available should he need it. Fully awake now, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Still, he’d go about his day and stay on guard in case something came up.

He stepped downstairs and into his drawing room, trying to find one of his favorite books to sooth his mind. As he began to settle himself in front of his bookshelf he started to become aware of a quiet tapping coming from the corner of the room. Raising an eyebrow and turning on his heel to face the noise he narrowed his gaze to focus his eyes on the sound. Barely visible, a small piece of paper was crackling and shuddering under the weight of an untouched tall glass wine bottle shoved to the back of a side table by the window. The wine bottle had been left by Benn Beckman days earlier. The paper trapped beneath it, a note from Shanks- or so Mihawk thought. He hadn’t actually opened it. Yet now, it seemed to be trying to open itself.

Moving closer, slowly, as though the paper might jump at him, Mihawk approached the gift he had been trying to forget about. As he finally got close enough to see what was making the strange sound, the paper fully gave way and turned to ash where it was pinned. A Vivre card. With sudden realization, the pit in Mihawk’s stomach became more hollow as the knowledge that somewhere the man attached to this card was suffering, possibly dying, entered his mind. Acting on an instinct he usually did not give permission to, he strode quickly out of the room, fluidly slipping Yoru onto his back as he lowered his hat over his brow. The Vivre card clutched in his hand, he allowed it to guide him toward the sea as he closed his castle door behind him. 

Fuck, that hurts! 

Shanks hissed through his teeth as an icy cloth was slapped on his forehead, conflicting with the deep burn beneath his skin. He could feel every pulse of hot blood coursing through his body, thumping in his veins like it threatening to break through. The rough application of the cloth had him feeling every stitch in the fabric like a rash. 

“Gentle, Hongo.” Shanks croaked. 

He cracked an eye open just in time to catch a venomous glare shot his way. 

“You,” Hongo blew loose hair out his face, looking sour. “Have no room to talk. If you hadn’t gotten the damn thing infected, you’d be fine.” 

Hongo pushed himself around the small doctor's office on the wheels of his chair, gathering ointments, gauze dressing, and all manner of tools. 

Shanks groaned, “Have a little sympathy for the dying.” 

“You’ll get it when you’re dead.”  

A sharp tug on the stump of his arm pulled a cry from the captain’s throat. 

“And you ain’t dying yet,” Hongo continued. “Now this is gonna hurt. Your reckless filth has earned you more dead tissue and it’s gotta go.” 

If the shivers of fever hadn’t already been bad, they certainly would have gotten worse at the touches on his raw, damaged flesh. Shanks didn’t dare glance at the equipment glinting in the doctor's gloved hands as they closed in on the wound. 

“What ever happened to your anesthetics?”

“Used the last of it on your first opp and haven’t had the time to mix more.”  Hongo gave a grimacing smile. “Grit your teeth, Captain.”

Mihawk could just make out the Red Force through the fog as he approached the massive ship. Hitsugibune had helped him make good time as always, and he had arrived just a few days after his departure from Kuraigana. Tying his ship beside its much larger counterpart , Mihawk leaped with almost cat-like grace onto the planks of the dock before turning to look up at the oversized hull of the Red-Haired pirate’s vessel. The crew had carelessly left the rope rigging dangling down the port side, that should make this easy Mihawk thought to himself. Grabbing hold of the rope, he climbed nimbly up the side of the ship and cast himself onto the deck as he was quickly surrounded by Shanks’ men. While these men were normally boisterous and loud, they seemed all too somber and defensive. Swords were raised as murmurs swept through the crowd. Mihawk was not in the mood for this, he turned a circle, eyebrow raised, as he locked eyes with each man in turn. “If I wanted you dead, you would already be so.” He said dryly. “I am here to see your Captain.” 

Glances were exchanged between crewmates as they seemed to speak telepathically to each other, almost as if deciding what to do. “The doctor is with him now, Hawkeye.” A familiar voice carried out over the men as Benn Beckman climbed atop a barrel near the mast to call out over the mass of bodies. A prick of concern stabbed at the sensitive nerves being exposed by this entire encounter as Mihawk calmly responded, “So he’s gotten worse then?” “Aye, his wound’s been infected, you know the Captain, can’t sit still, gotta be on the move, be off doing some sort of exploration or another.”

Mihawk gave the smallest twitch as his mind wandered to what sort of explorations Shanks might have been up to, before reminding himself of the situation, “How serious is it?” He asked the first mate. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

Shanks did grit his teeth. He bit down hard until he thought they might crack with the pressure, trying to bar the shouts from ever touching his lips. But every scrape of the tool brought more scorching pain to his limb. By the fifth or sixth scour of the wound, Shanks felt like his nerves had been doused in acid, and he began to struggle to keep himself still. He found himself digging the fingers of his remaining hand deep into his thigh, almost relishing the different sting of his nails. 

Finally, Shanks relinquished his control as the slow cut of the knife became worse. Worse than the adrenaline-rushed, clean bite of the Sea King as it stole his whole left arm from his body. This time it was the crew, his crew, not some small boy in need of a brave face. He could yell now, like he needed, and he knew each one would follow him no matter what reached their ears. So he did. 

Mihawk had never felt as much pain as he felt in the moment he heard Shanks’ cry come from the infirmary. Forgetting his cool demeanor, he parted the sea of men between himself and the door as he hastened through the barricade. He had seen far more gruesome sights in his time as a warlord, and yet he still felt himself pale as he looked upon the open avulsion where Shanks’ left arm should be. Every instinct was telling him to rush to the younger pirate’s side, but he also knew that the doctor was doing his work, and a distraction might make everything far worse.

Though his Haki was muddled with pain and his heartbeat drummed in his ears, Shanks couldn’t mistake the clack of the door handle hitting the wall of the office. It took him a good moment to pry his eyes open wide enough and blink away the moisture blurring his vision to peer across the room. It took twice as long for his foggy brain to piece the sight together. 

Past Hongo’s head was the dark shape of a wide-brimmed hat, topped with a soft white plume. The wide shoulders pulled up, frozen and tight, draped in crimson and black. Shanks might have thought the haze had conjured a figure to ease his mind until his gaze locked onto sharp golden eyes. 

Not in Shank’s wildest imagination could he have come up with that look on the swordsman's face. So unguarded, so shocked. Flooded with more emotion than Shanks could recall ever seeing the man display. 

Something stirred in Shanks chest. Stirred, then surged out with the next burning rush like an animal clawing its way out of a cage. His chest heaved with low guttural sounds, not meant for the crew surely hearing his ordeal. Hot tears spilt from his eyes without permission or warning.  

When Shanks opened his mouth he barely recognised the voice that escaped. “Mihawk…”

Mihawk felt his body move on its own, almost numb as he approached the man he had told himself to forget. Reaching the other captain’s side, he glanced down at the pale hand grasping for something to distract its owner from the pain. Tracing back up to Shanks’ face, Mihawk could no longer hide any sense of distress he was feeling for his fellow swordsman. He met the tear-filled red eyes with his own golden ones and reached out absentmindedly to sweep away the sweat-drenched red hair stuck to the younger man’s brow. 

As Shanks flinched again, Mihawk turned his attention to the doctor across the bed from him, “How much longer is this going to take?” The doctor didn’t even glance away from his tools as he grunted, “I’m almost done if the captain would sit still.” Another cry rang out into the otherwise silent cabin, echoing in Mihawk’s ears long after the noise had stopped. Suddenly there was a tight squeeze on his wrist, he had to turn off his own reflexes telling him to twist out of the grip as he made himself aware of what was latched onto him.

Mihawk. Mihawk. Mihawk. 

Though Shanks could no longer work around his cries to say anything aloud, his brain helpfully supplied the name, over and over, like a chant to drown the pain. The solid arm in his grip was tense. But in the world rolling and churning with the fever, it was a strong and sturdy anchor. 

The swordsman had been saying something to Hongo, Shanks realized. The emptiness beside his own voice now seemed chasmic without the soothingly low elegance of his tone. He needed to hear it again. Even just the smallest whisper. 

Shanks blinked his eyes clear of the blur, finding Mihawk’s sharp eyes already fixated back on his face. He could have almost laughed at his expression. The hesitance fighting with the concern plain as day in the pinch of his eyebrows and frozen stance. If Shanks had been able to open his mouth without yelling in pain, he would have teased the greatest swordsman about his awkwardness. 

Instead, Shanks managed to loosen his hold enough to drop his touch lower. Mihawk’s hand was cool beneath his sleeve, especially his fingers. The captain bumped his knuckles against the lithe digits before weaving his own between them and tugging gently, but insistently, on the swordsman’s arm. 

Mihawk blinked as the snap of thread brought him out of his daze. “Finished!” the doctor declared, “this time, you are going to tell me if the stitching rips THE MOMENT IT HAPPENS.”  “Trust me, I don’t want to go through that again.” Shanks said, catching his breath at last. Latching the case of sharp objects, the doctor turned and finished rewrapping the stump where Shanks’ powerful left arm had been, and bowed his head as he left the cabin.

Shanks was still holding his hand. Mihawk’s skin suddenly felt extra sensitive as he felt warm fingers rub against his own. He swiftly but gently pulled his hand away and crossed his arms. Clearing his throat to summon back the depth in his voice, Mihawk spoke, “What in the devil possessed you to fight a sea king alone?!”  He heard the hint of concern still expressing itself in his words, but didn’t care.

Shanks swallowed back the disappointment of Mihawk letting go and groaned, “You two don’t let up, do you?” He corrected, “You three. Go get a room with Benn and Hongo to gossip behind my back so I don’t have to hear it anymore.” 

He reached back up to scrub his eyes, trying to use his sleeve to soak up the sweat and tears. When his breathing finally steadied enough, he let out a sigh, leaving his hand over his face. 

“A kid.” He mumbled. 

“Was the loss of your arm worth some child?” Mihawk gestured down at the spot where he still expected an arm to be. “The risk of your life? Surely your life means more than that, there are people who expect-” Mihawk paused, eyes darting the room as though looking for the words he was trying to say, “Your crew, for example, barely function as it is. You really think Benn could pull them together?” Mihawk hoped the fear and anger in his voice came across more at the idiocy that he was describing than for the true reasons he knew deep down he was feeling.

“Okay, first of all, cranky,”  Shanks heaved himself upright a little, wincing at the pull in the new stitches. “Who put the stick back up your ass? I’m alive! I’m fine! And my crew is perfectly capable, on their own or not, thank you very much.” 

He waved his hand at the swordsman. “Second, it wasn’t just some kid. I spent time with the damn brat, so screw me for getting attached I guess. Screw me for wanting a child to actually grow up and be somebody. It was a split second decision and I made my choice.”

“This is why I don’t form attachments.” Mihawk tasted the lie and swallowed it just as quickly, speaking far more calmly he continued, “You would be wise to keep away from doing so yourself, Red Hair. It’s a lesson I learned very quickly on the Grand Line. Why do you think I don’t have a crew?”  There was far more to this as well, but he was not about to explain himself to Shanks when he was being so brash.

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Shanks before he could second guess it. “ ‘You don’t form attachments’? Bull. Shit.”

A boiling mixture of confusion, pain and anger brewed in Shanks’ stomach, crawling up his throat. “Why are you here then? Don’t suppose you just happened to wander onto my ship, into this cabin by chance, like the loner you claim to be? You found me over and over for duels by fucking accident? How you can live with so much cowardice I’ll never understand.”

“Perhaps you’re right, I had grown a certain fondness for our duels, but you have ruined that interest of your own volition.” Mihawk made his tone even colder. He had to pull away, before he let Shanks in again, he couldn’t stand the emotions anymore. He had to shut him down for good this time. “Yes, some part of me wanted to seek you out, to either confirm my rival was dead, or check just how far you’d fallen. Your delusional state truly seems to validate the latter.” 

“Tell me, do you think the average rivals do what we do?”  Shanks fixed Mihawk with a heavy, unrelenting stare. “You want to forget every duel that ended with you in my bed, me in yours, on frankly any damn surface that was close afterwards? Cause I fucking won’t.” 

He bared his teeth, tapping his own forehead. “Not when I can still remember every inch of your skin or the way you sound when you’re close, oh greatest-swordsman. But I suppose it all meant nothing to someone incapable of human connection.”

These words cut into Mihawk sharper than any wound he had sustained. Shanks wasn’t wrong, he too had images of tan skin glistening with sweat, the voice whispering in his ear, describing him in ways he would never think to describe himself. The images were mixing with emotions now, the feeling of giving in, of letting Shanks have full control, he wanted to give Shanks control now, he willed Shanks to fight him enough to wear him down like he always did, “I’m glad you understand. I’ll be taking my leave of you, don’t expect to see me any time soon, I will be looking for someone worthy of garnering my approval as my new rival.” He turned his back, waiting to walk away, praying to some unknown deity that Shanks would grab his wrist again. 

He counted three seconds, five, Shanks stayed silent for the first time in his life. Mihawk’s last words, and any other meaning they could be misconstrued for, became the last sound either of them made. He strode toward the exit, taking care not to let his eyes stray from the door, he loosened his clenched fists and switched off the last bit of sentiment left in his mind as he prepared a cool farewell to the crew outside. 

What. The. Fuck. 

As the last of Mihawk’s coat tails whipped out the door, Shanks could only stare in complete shock, rigid and stuck on the bed, with his stump still sending aching waves through his body. The final blunt words of the swordsman absorbed into the sludge of his feverish mind. They rung in his ears like an echo, each digging deeper than the scalpel on his flesh. And still, he couldn’t understand a thing. 

A shallow gasp rattled his lungs as he slumped back down. He was about to clench his eyes shut and hope to wake up somewhere else, when a flicker caught his eye. A pale shape inching across the floorboards towards him. When he peered closer, he saw its edges had darkened with ash, no longer burning but crumbling away in patches. 

The sight of the discarded vivre card had all hopes of this being a sick, twisted fever dream collapsing in Shanks’ chest. This was real. He gripped at the bandages covering his wound. 

When he had thought the knife on his injury had been the worst pain of his life, above the eye, above losing one stupid arm, the world had put on bets to prove him wrong. In the swordsman’s wake, was the agony of not only a missing limb but a missing heart.