Chapter Text
The car seat was too soft. Shanks sank his fingers into the synthetic leather, counting the stitches like a man anchoring himself.
"Can we all agree Luffy is Shanks’ favorite son?" Sabo asked, glancing at Shanks, who lounged in the passenger seat as Beckman drove. The car was already nearing the restaurant—supposedly the place with the best meat in the city.
The sharp scent of car cleaner tangled with the lingering hospital antiseptic clinging to their clothes. Luffy was sprawled with his head on Ace’s shoulder, his breathing steady now, though the shadows under his eyes remained stark.
"I’m the favorite?" Luffy mumbled, lifting his head slightly to peer at them all.
"I don’t have a favorite," Shanks replied, genuine indignation roughening his voice more than he’d intended. Favorites mean hierarchy, and hierarchies are just synonyms for suffering , he thought, his own family flashing through his mind.
The restaurant emerged between towering buildings, its marble columns catching the sunset like a gilded invitation. His stomach clenched.
"Really? Because I’m pretty sure Luffy mentioned wanting to eat at a place like this before," Ace shot back, crossing his arms.
"Pure coincidence," Shanks said, twisting to glare at the three of them crammed in the backseat. Ace arched a brow, defiant.
"Hmm. Delicious coincidence, then."
Beckman adjusted the rearview mirror with a precise flick—just enough for the boys to catch their own reflections pinned under that icy stare. "Stop needling Shanks." A calculated pause. "I’m the one who picked the restaurant."
The boys kept arguing, but their words dissolved into a distant hum. The billboard now filled the windshield—too gold, too large, like an altar for people who’d never needed to ask twice. The car glided to a stop in front of the restaurant, its tinted windows mirroring the imposing facade of dark wood and gilded trim.
Beckman killed the engine in one smooth motion and handed the keys to the waiting valet, the metallic jingle making Shanks blink fast, like a man snapping back to reality. His gaze swept the surroundings a fraction longer than necessary—old habits died hard.
"Reservation for Benn Beckman," Beckman said, his voice as polished as the reception’s marble.
The blonde woman in a navy vest scanned her list with a professional smile—one that flickered into recognition the moment her eyes landed on him. "Ah, yes! Right this way, please."
Luffy was already squirming behind them like an overexcited puppy, nose twitching at the air. "Meat smell! Good smell!" His eyes shone with lighthouse intensity, and Sabo had to grip his hood to keep him from bolting before they even reached the table.
"Control, Captain," Shanks laughed, stretching his arms overhead. The motion was cut short by an exaggerated yawn that made Ace roll his eyes.
"You look like a satisfied cat," Beckman observed dryly, adjusting his cuff.
"And you look like a stuffy butler, darling. Relax—we’re out of the hospital now." Shanks slung an arm around Beckman’s shoulders, fingertips still faintly trembling. Beckman just sighed—and didn’t pull away.
The second floor stood empty exactly as Beckman had planned. The fading afternoon light filtered through heavy velvet curtains, bathing everything in amber and creating an intimate atmosphere that clashed with the restaurant's lively buzz below. The widely spaced tables resembled isolated islands in a sea of silence.
Luffy climbed onto the chair at the round table's center like a pirate boarding a ship's deck. His knees knocked against the solid wood surface, making the silverware clink in protest.
"Did you rent out the entire floor?" Sabo asked, running fingers over the glossy leather menu. His sharp gaze swept the room, analyzing every detail - wine bottles lined up like soldiers, crystal glasses gleaming excessively. Beckman recognized that look: the same one Sabo used when planning heists.
"Business," Beckman answered, sitting with the posture of a man who'd never leaned back in a chair. His jacket's fabric barely whispered. "Easier to keep... situations controlled."
Ace hooked a chair with his foot, making it screech against the oak flooring.
"Translation: you don't trust us to behave in public."
Shanks laughed, already holding a water glass—how he'd gotten it so fast remained a mystery worthy of his talents. The ice cubes clinked as he raised it like a champagne flute.
"Beckman's just being cautious, brat. After the sushi bar incident..."
It was then that Beckman noticed the shift: Shanks’ posture, suddenly too upright; the fingers holding the glass with an elegance that felt almost foreign; the aura that now belonged more to an aristocratic parlor than the alleyways where they used to hide. It was as if, in that setting, he’d become someone else—or perhaps remembered someone he used to be.
“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!” Luffy yelled, flailing his arms like an octopus mid-attack. A passing waiter bumped the table, nearly toppling a salt shaker. “The fish was still moving! I was just helping!”
Shanks smiled, and for a brief moment, Beckman saw memory flicker behind his eyes: Luffy plunging his hands into the sushi bar’s aquarium to “rescue” a live snapper, tossing it into the ornamental fountain like buried treasure. Water splashing across all the patrons, and Shanks laughing so hard he cried while footing a tripled bill for damages.
“And how exactly were you helping?” Ace asked, prodding, his grin barely hidden behind the menu.
Beckman closed his eyes for a long second, as if appealing to the heavens for patience, while Sabo hid a chuckle behind his own menu.
The waiter—a middle-aged man with impressively thick eyebrows—approached, his expression carefully neutral.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Would you like to start with some appetizers?”
Shanks didn’t hesitate. “Yes. All of them.”
The waiter blinked. “A-all of them, sir?”
“Everything on the menu. Twice.” Shanks smiled—the kind of smile that made people wonder if he was joking and decide it wasn’t worth the risk to ask. “We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?” Ace muttered to Sabo.
“Surviving the hospital, I think,” Sabo murmured back, watching as Luffy leaned across the table, trying to read the menu upside down.
Shanks rested his chin on his interlaced fingers, elbows planted firmly on the pristine white tablecloth. His smile turned razor-sharp as he looked up at the waiter:
“And a bottle of your finest red. Something that makes us forget hospitals ever existed.”
Without lifting his gaze from the menu, Beckman reached out and rotated Luffy’s menu right-side up with a single, practiced motion. His voice sliced through the air like a sheathed dagger:
“Cancel the wine. Fresh juice. For everyone.”
His gaze slid first to Luffy, who was licking his lips at the photo of a bleeding steak, then to Ace, who was pretending not to be impressed by the prices, and finally to Sabo, already calculating the caloric value of each dish. At last, his eyes landed on Shanks—who rolled his eyes with exaggerated exasperation.
“Killjoy.”
Beckman leaned forward, fingertips resting on the table. The chandelier’s light caught on his glasses as he spoke—low enough for only Shanks to hear:
“You took methylphenidate today. Don’t even think about mixing it with alcohol.”
It was less a request and more a reminder—that particular tone that said I counted your pills this morning.
Shanks opened his mouth to protest, but a crash cut him off—Luffy, of course, had fallen off his chair trying to reach the breadbasket at the center of the table. With a theatrical sigh, Shanks bent down, grabbed him by the collar of his coat, and hoisted him back into the seat with a motion as automatic as it was affectionate.
“You’re going to break the table before the food even arrives,” he muttered, smoothing the boy’s messy hair with the flat of his palm.
Luffy laughed, still halfway upside down, and Shanks laughed with him—that open, unguarded laugh that made the world, for a moment, feel simple again. Ace and Sabo exchanged a quick glance—as if, in that moment, they weren’t seeing the red-haired fool who’d agreed to play the role of responsible adult, or the man they called “dad” in public, but their old partner-in-crime.
It was in that lull of laughter that Sabo leaned back in his chair, waiting for the waiter to finish setting down the starters before speaking. His eyes narrowed, carrying that sharp analytical glint that always surfaced when he smelled something beyond the obvious.
“How rich are you, exactly, to book out an entire floor of a restaurant?” he asked, those blue eyes scanning Beckman with the precision of a lie detector.
Beckman didn’t flinch as he folded his napkin across his lap. “Rich enough for this to be a tax nuisance, not an expense.”
Shanks nearly spat out his water. Then he added,
“Translation: ‘rich enough to buy this place ten times over, but prefers not to catch the tax office’s attention.’”
He nudged Sabo under the table with his foot.
“Wrong question, kid. The real one is: how many of these places does he own?”
Luffy chewed at the air, imagining. “As many as the hamburgers I can eat in a day?”
“More,” Beckman replied flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Though we don’t usually measure wealth in units of restaurants.”
Ace snorted, tossing a piece of bread onto the table. “Okay, but why rent out the whole floor? It’s not like we bite.” A beat. “Well, Luffy bites—but only if the food tries to run.”
That’s when the waiter returned with a pitcher of juice, circling the table to fill their glasses. Beckman waited until he’d walked away before answering, lowering his voice:
“Three reasons.” He counted them off on his fingers. “First: keeps ‘casually curious’ dirty cops from showing up at the next table. Second” another finger “no one sees if Luffy decides to eat the plate with the food.” He shot a look at the boy, who already had half a meatball stuffed into his mouth. “Third” he raised his middle finger “if we need to discuss... family business, there are no witnesses.”
Sabo nibbled on an olive, thoughtful. “Fair enough. Still feels excessive.” His left eye twitched—the one Beckman had come to recognize as his investigative mode switching on. “So... how many zeroes are in your bank account?”
Shanks burst out laughing as Beckman rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He’s not gonna tell you, Sabo. Men like Beckman measure wealth in more... practical terms.” His eyes glinted with mischief. “So tell me, Beckman—how many politicians are in your pocket?”
“Four,” Beckman replied without blinking, then took a sip of water. “This week.”
The entire table went still. Even Luffy froze mid-bite, cheeks stuffed. “You’re joking,” Ace said, leaning forward.
Beckman simply raised an eyebrow—answer enough.
The waiter arrived with the main course, and the sight of roasted ribs made Luffy yell like he'd just found treasure. The talk of money vanished with the first bite—but Sabo kept watching Beckman with new curiosity, like a puzzle he was itching to take apart.
Shanks, meanwhile, raised his glass in a silent toast toward Beckman, his eyes clearly saying: You just got a lot more interesting to these brats.
Beckman responded with the barest lift of his glass—and maybe, just maybe, the hint of a smile.
“Well, since Luffy’s clearly Shanks’ favorite, that leaves Ace and me to fight over Beckman’s inheritance,” Sabo said with calculated cheer, stabbing a piece of meat like he was planting a flag.
Shanks nearly choked on his pineapple juice. “I don’t have favorites! That’s slander!”
Beckman dabbed his mouth with his napkin in a motion so precise it felt surgical. “You three are like a plague—uninvited, uncontrollable, and surprisingly expensive.”
“Inheritance is a basic civil right,” Sabo shot back, eyes gleaming with the unshakable logic of someone who’d absolutely read every property law at the city library.
“I’ve got the last name!” Ace cut in, thumping his chest. “Benn Ace, remember? On paper, stamped and signed. Legal heir.”His grin was pure predator—like a shark catching the scent of blood.
"That was a strategic maneuver to—"
"Protect us!" Sabo cut in, brandishing his fork. "Which proves we’re long-term investments. And investments yield dividends."
Luffy, who’d been busy trying to eat a bone, glanced up confused: "What’s a ‘dividend’? Is it edible?"
"It’s like the fat around a picanha," Shanks lied, picking up his fork as if it were a quill—pinky extended like someone had once taught him this was "elegant." Beckman watched, intrigued, as Shanks piled more food onto Luffy’s plate.
Ace reached for the salt, only for Beckman to snatch the shaker first, holding it just out of reach. The teen glared murder but said nothing, just huffed and returned to eating.
"Then I want lotsa dividends," Luffy declared, shoving an entire meat chunk into his mouth.
Shanks then whispered, as if only Beckman could hear: "Don’t bring it up again—they’re getting clever."
The debate dragged on for twenty minutes and two rounds of pretentiously named dishes. Sabo quoted inheritance statistics, Ace threatened to sue (despite having no idea how), and Beckman countered every argument with a law professor's patience. until finally, with a sigh carrying the weight of all his life's poor decisions, he declared:
"First, for anyone to inherit my empire, they'd need to actually manage it." A pointed look at Sabo, then Ace. "And second, I'd have to be dead."
The silence that followed was broken only by the metallic scrape of Shanks' knife through meat. The redhead eyed Beckman with a smile that didn't reach his eyes: "That could be arranged, darling."
The table froze. Even Luffy stopped chewing.
Beckman didn't blink. "Try." His smile was a blade. "But remember I updated my will this morning."
Shanks tilted his head, genuinely impressed. "Did you actually?"
“Of course not.” Beckman took a sip of wine. “But now you’ll be lying awake at night thinking about it.”
Sabo and Ace exchanged looks—truly impressed, for the first time, by the level their “parents” were playing at.
“So… does that mean we’re disinherited?” Ace asked, disappointed.
The waiter set down the fondants like he was delivering a ransom. Luffy stabbed his with the fork before the plate even touched the marble—the chocolate bled, revealing a filling as artificial as the smiles on Beckman’s pamphlets.
Beckman let out a deep sigh, one that came straight from the bone, and pulled five pamphlets from his jacket with the precision of a grudging origamist. He spread them across the table like tarot cards flipped by fate, the glossy paper shining among silver spoons and crumbs.
“If you really want to fight over my inheritance,” he began, with the patience of someone who’d regretted this whole conversation four sentences ago, “you might want to start by picking a decent school.”
A pause sharp, clean.
“Sabo.” Beckman lifted the pamphlet, finger landing precisely on the word Crime, crossed out in red pen. “I’ve already edited your ‘suggestions.’”
“No. ‘Schools for Delinquents’ is not a valid option, Sabo.”
Sabo, mid-sentence, closed his mouth with a quiet snap. Ace snorted. Luffy licked his spoon.
The pamphlets bore names in serif fonts and crests that looked like they’d belonged to families who’d founded empires. Each brochure was a quiet threat: boys in navy blazers, golf courses in the background, smiles trained for future elections.
“These places have auditoriums bigger than hospitals,” Ace muttered, flipping through one with suspicion. “And for this price… do they include replacement souls with the diploma?”
Beckman didn’t even blink. “You’ll need a new soul, yes. Your current one has too many report cards to be recycled.”
Shanks rested his chin on his hand, watching the scene with a glint in his eye. “You’re really trying to raise elite corporate villains. It’s adorable.”
“Or at the very least, functional heirs,” Beckman shot back, pointing at Luffy, who was currently trying to use his spoon as a strawberry catapult.
Sabo lifted one of the pamphlets like he was analyzing a war contract. “This one offers classes in ‘applied geopolitics for financial markets.’ Is that real or just a disguised spell?”
“Jelly politics?” Luffy looked up.
“It’s real,” Beckman said, arranging his cutlery with surgical precision. “And you’re going. Even pests need pedigree if they want to swim with bigger sharks.”
Luffy raised his hand like they were in school: “Do they teach barbecue?”
“If you pass calculus, I’ll let you start a barbecue club,” Beckman replied without looking up. “But only if it’s properly taxed.”
The silence that followed was as thick as the fondant now melting on their plates. Even Shanks stopped stealing pieces of Beckman’s chocolate—a miracle rivaled only by the day Luffy refused a second helping of meat.
Ace crushed the brochure in his hand, the glossy paper hissing in protest. “This is worse than prison. At least in jail they don’t make you wear a bowtie.”
Beckman leaned forward, elbows on the table with a grace that turned even casual movements into veiled threats. “Prison doesn’t serve wagyu for lunch either. Think of this as... a long-term corporate coup.”
Sabo, always the strategist, was already drawing imaginary lines between brochures with his fork. “If I pick the one with an exchange program, can I negotiate a non-extradition clause as a bonus?”
It was just provocation, really.
“We’ll negotiate once you can conjugate verbs in at least three languages,” Beckman replied, discreetly moving sharp objects out of Luffy’s reach.
Sabo tore the exchange program pamphlet in half — he had no plans of being sent away from his brothers anytime soon.
Shanks watched the scene unfold with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. His fingers tapped against his glass of juice, tracing patterns only he seemed to understand. “Beckman, love, are you trying to raise elite corporate overlords, or are you just recreating your own school trauma in miniature?”
Beckman’s spoon paused mid-air. “I’d rather be murdered by a business partner than by a poorly made spreadsheet.”
“You’ve got an accountant for that, right?” Shanks nudged.
“Three. And one’s a fugitive.”
Luffy, who had been attempting to balance a spoon on his nose, jolted so hard the cutlery rattled. “You’re gonna be murdered?!”
“Eventually,” Beckman and Shanks replied in unison, as casually as if they were discussing the weather.
Then Shanks reached across the table—blatantly ignoring Beckman’s personal space—and plucked the most conservative-looking pamphlet from the pile. “This one. Arabasta Kokusai Gakuin. They offer astrology.”
Beckman raised an eyebrow. “You’re suggesting we send our dyslexic son to one of the most academically rigorous schools in the country?”
“I’m suggesting,” Shanks said, spinning the pamphlet between his fingers, “that you stop pretending this is about education and admit you’re buying access. At least I’m honest about what I’m doing.”
The room seemed to drop several degrees.
Beckman dabbed his lips with his napkin in a motion so slow it bordered on theatrical. When he spoke, his voice was smooth—sharp and controlled like the edge of a drawn blade. “And what exactly are your intentions, Shanks?”
The redhead smiled, showing every one of his teeth. “To give them what we never had. A choice.”
The silence that followed was taut, almost reverent—until it was sliced clean by the wet, unmistakable sound of Luffy swallowing an entire fondant without chewing. “I choose the one with the biggest cafeteria!”
The tension dissolved instantly, like sugar dropped in a hot cup of coffee. Beckman let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face. “God help me—the one school with an all-you-can-eat buffet just became our top contender.”
Sabo and Ace exchanged a glance. That didn’t sound like such a bad option, actually. Maybe they could even negotiate a few classes in explosives as an extracurricular activity.
As the boys launched into a lively argument over who would be able to modify the school uniform into something less “tragically uncool,” Beckman felt something warm press against his foot beneath the table—Shanks’s shoe, steady, anchoring, like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.
He didn’t move away.
They never brought it up again.
They let the boys choose for themselves which school they wanted to attend — a small act of trust, a quiet gesture that they too had the right to chart their own course.
Night came slowly, like a quiet tide rising, filling every corner of the house with patient shadows. The mansion felt suspended in time, like a ship anchored in calm waters. Shanks was still awake.
The boys slept in their rooms, still only partially furnished — We need more decorations, he thought, as if trying to paint the deck before the next voyage. He moved through the hallway with footsteps so soft they barely touched the floor, as though honoring the silence of a sleeping sea.
Sabo slept with a book open on his chest, breathing evenly.
He had probably surrendered to the weight of dense pages in the middle of some solitary crossing. Shanks approached, gently removed the book, marked the page, and set it down on the bedside table. Then he pulled the blanket up with the quiet care of someone adjusting a sail in the dark — a simple task, but essential to keep the course steady.
In the adjacent room, Luffy slept soundly, buried under a mountain of blankets. They'd discovered he was sensitive to the cold—a detail almost impossible to imagine in daylight, yet as undeniable as the rhythm of the tides.
Further away, Ace murmured in his sleep. His words came like echoes from a poorly tuned ship's radio: broken phrases, fragments of thought. But every now and then, between grumbles, there was an unexpected tenderness—as if a gentle breeze slipped through the storms he insisted on carrying.
Shanks lingered in the doorway like a captain keeping watch over his crew, anchored in the safe harbor of night. The air held that fragile serenity unique to calm tides. He cast one last glance into the room—brief but full—before turning silently down the hallway, his steps light as a man adrift among constellations. Even with sails furled, he still held the helm.
The door creaked faintly—a sound nearly imperceptible to anyone not awake at 3 AM. Beckman didn't move, but his eyes opened in the darkness, trained to recognize intrusions, even the most subtle ones. Shanks' silhouette stood out against the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains, barefoot, with an old book tucked under his arm and shoulders slightly hunched, as if bearing an invisible weight.
"You awake?" Shanks whispered, his voice hoarse, more a breath than a question.
Beckman didn't answer. He knew the other would notice the shift in his breathing, but he let the lie linger between them, an unspoken agreement. Shanks smiled, the pale light revealing only the outline of that gesture, and slipped into the room with the quiet grace of someone accustomed to forbidden spaces.
The mattress dipped slightly as he lay back, maintaining a careful distance—as if fearing mere contact might unravel a confession. The book—a worn volume of Greek mythology—rested on his chest, its yellowed pages smelling of dust and old ink.
"Ever seen Perseus’ constellation?" Shanks murmured, eyes fixed on the ceiling where shadows could be anything. "They say he carried Medusa’s head as a trophy, but no one mentions the weight. Imagine holding your own monster by the mane, knowing one slip turns you to stone."
Beckman turned his head to look. Shanks was smiling, but his fingers drummed the book’s cover in an erratic rhythm, like a code no one had taught him to decipher.
The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged. Beckman closed his eyes again but let his arm hang loose, knuckles grazing Shanks’ wrist by accident. An invitation. An anchor.
"You've got the wrong room, Your Majesty," Beckman muttered into the darkness.
Shanks huffed a quiet, genuine laugh—muffled as if afraid to scare the night away.
"Came because someone insisted on locking all the windows," he said, setting the book on the nightstand with exaggerated care, like it might shatter after another night exposed. "And I can't sleep."
His tone was light, but the confession lingered there, hidden between words like a splinter in the grain. He tugged at the blankets with studied nonchalance—too deliberate to be natural—and burrowed into fabric still warm from another body.
Now he watched Beckman.
Silence settled again, thick but different—not absence of sound, but a minefield of things left unsaid.
"It's not about turning to stone, with Medusa," Beckman murmured, eyes still closed. "It's about facing your own reflection."
Shanks didn't answer, but his breath hitched—almost imperceptible, almost. He turned his face upward, studying the ceiling cracks like they might spell some answer in the plaster.
"Beck—" he began, and the shortened name sounded more intimate than he'd perhaps intended.
"I know," Beckman answered before he could continue, his voice rough with sleep—or something deeper. "But not now."
Shanks nodded, aware the other couldn't see. Yet the anchor remained. Those knuckles still brushed against his wrist, and he didn't pull away.
Beckman moved with unhurried familiarity, each gesture precise. He opened the nightstand drawer, retrieving a small glass vial and a blister pack of pills. No words were needed—the ritual between them was ancient by now, and Shanks accepted it with the quiet resignation of someone who understands their own chaos.
He swallowed the pills with a sip of water from the half-full glass Beckman handed him—already waiting on the nightstand as if they'd known he'd come.
"Obligation or kindness?" Shanks asked, turning his face toward him, but Beckman was already settling back as if the question had been addressed to the ceiling.
"Logistics," he answered after a beat. "You're easier to handle asleep than anxious at 4 AM talking about constellations."
Shanks smiled slowly, his eyelids already growing heavy. The medication worked fast—especially on days when he was exhausted before even lying down.
"You know me too well," he murmured.
"Someone has to."
Shanks fell silent for a few seconds, his body sinking gradually into the mattress as if surrendering to some inevitable force. They stayed like that for a while. Then, right before slipping under completely, he slurred in a voice almost childlike:
"You think... Luffy really is my favorite?"
Beckman opened his eyes.
"Why ask that now?"
"Because sometimes... I treat him differently. And Ace and Sabo notice. They keep saying I have a 'favorite son.' That he's my 'little hero project.'"
"Because he is," Beckman said, blunt.
Shanks huffed a quiet laugh.
"But I don't want them to feel less," Shanks murmured, words slurring at the edges. "It's not that I love him more... It's just—with Luffy, sometimes it feels like he needs more. Like he's made of glass. He internalizes everything. He's not fiery like Ace or sharp-tongued like Sabo. He just... I don't know."
Beckman studied his profile in the dim light—eyes nearly closed now, thoughts spilling through the cracks between wakefulness and dreams.
"And they only say it to get under your skin," he said. "Ace and Sabo know you'd die for any of the three."
"Still..." Shanks' voice faded as sleep pulled him under. "Hope it never comes to that."
Beckman didn't reply. He simply tugged the blankets back over Shanks' shoulders where they'd slipped, then stayed awake awhile longer, listening to his breathing deepen into silence.
🔹
Sabo wasn't enjoying this. It was nine in the morning, and he was being forced to lie on the grass and stare at the sky—or, as he preferred to call it, "confronting the utter uselessness of human photosynthesis." Okay, he wasn't literally looking at the sun, but the rule was clear: fifteen daily minutes outdoors. Apparently, his vitamin D levels were so low they'd nearly become a medical case study.
"At least I'm the only truly healthy one in this family," he grumbled, sprawled on the lawn like a disgruntled cat. "I don't need to eat every three hours or sleep standing up." He shot a dry look at his brothers, who were currently attempting to climb a tree like two hyperactive raccoons.
"Sabo's being annoying!" Luffy yelled from above, clinging to a branch with his face smeared in dirt.
"At least I'm not some plant that needs sunlight to survive," Ace retorted, dangling just below him.
On the porch, Shanks flipped through a book with the serenity of someone who had no intention of intervening. His phone beeped; without even glancing at the screen, he pulled a mermaid bar from his pocket and tossed it to Luffy, who caught it mid-air and immediately started chewing.
"Don't gloat, Sabo," Shanks said, his eyes returning to the ancient myths in his book. "The universe loves playing tricks on smug people."
The next instant, Shanks got smacked squarely on the back of his head. Beckman materialized behind him like a disciplinary shadow, walking past with the elegance of a man never in a hurry—yet making absolutely clear the smack was intentional.
"Stop encouraging them," Beckman chided.
"That was uncalled for," Shanks countered.
Still sprawled on the grass, Sabo narrowed his eyes. Shanks had vanished for two hours that morning and returned with a stupid grin and a suspicious stain on his coat. The most logical explanation? An affair. But this being Shanks... homicide seemed more likely. Yet Beckman hadn't complained or even looked concerned, so Sabo shrugged and let it go.
"I mean, my genes are objectively superior," Sabo declared, reclining with arms folded behind his head and a smugness so punchable—had anyone around mustered the energy for morning violence.
Ace didn't hesitate. "Superiorly annoying, maybe."
"Or su-pe-ri-or-ly full of yourself," Luffy drawled from the treetop, now attempting to balance a branch on his nose like a circus act.
"Or just plain superiorly annoying," Beckman muttered from the porch without looking up from his newspaper, his still-steaming coffee beside him.
Shanks lowered his book just enough to peer over the pages. "Or, I dunno... a fungus. One of those resilient types that survive in hostile environments. Pretty under a microscope, but deadly with prolonged exposure."
Sabo arched an eyebrow. "You're comparing me to mold?"
"Pedigree mold," Shanks shot back, grinning. "If that helps."
"He's not wrong," Beckman added, flipping a page as if discussing the weather. "Even poisonous mushrooms have sophisticated life cycles. You’re just... photophobic and passive-aggressive. The class fungus. A French fungus."
Ace nodded solemnly. "Noble mold."
"Premium mold," Luffy corrected, the branch still dangling from his nose.
Sabo sighed dramatically. "Jealous. I’m the only one here with actual physical and mental discipline."
"Ah yes. The pride of the fungal kingdom," Shanks teased, now closing his book and stretching his legs across the porch railing. "Speaking of problematic bodies—Beck, did you schedule Ace’s checkup?"
"Next week," Beckman replied, now focusing on his coffee. "With the specialist. We’re running a full battery of tests—confirm the narcolepsy and rule out anything else." He shot Ace a look. "No skipped meals this week. And no sleeping in trees."
Ace grumbled. "I only slept on a branch once—"
"Once with a freefall," Beckman countered, raising an eyebrow. "Let’s not repeat that experiment, yeah?"
As if the universe were laughing at his words, Luffy chose that moment to tumble from the tree—a direct plunge into the bushes—only to emerge grinning, leaves stuck in his hair. "We picked a school!"
Shanks and Beckman exchanged a glance. This was news.
"Arabasta Kokusai," Luffy announced with the gravity of a boy who thinks he’s chosen Hogwarts. "Biggest cafeteria."
"And an exchange program," Sabo added, still sprawled on the grass, now with a faint smirk. "Plus a debate club, celestial navigation courses, and a library that looks like a cathedral."
"And the ties are slightly less ridiculous," Ace added with a huff. "Still hideous, but tolerable."
Beckman lowered the newspaper, eyeing the three with an expression caught between pride and suspicion. "You actually discussed this?"
Sabo nodded. "School Selection Committee. Nightly sessions. Presentations. Luffy voted based on dessert quality, Ace on dress code, and I... well, I made a spreadsheet."
Shanks blinked. "You... held an election?"
"More like a bloodless coup," Ace said. "But democratic."
The morning heat had grown heavy when the black car—discreet but expensive enough to make Beckman frown behind his newspaper—glided smoothly down the street and parked with surgical precision in the neighbor’s driveway. The engine shut off with a controlled sigh, no fanfare.
From the passenger door emerged a tall man in a light blazer over a buttoned-up collar. He moved with rehearsed elegance, each step premeditated. His slightly tousled blond hair almost contradicted the rest of his composure— almost .
From the other side stepped out a boy of about fourteen, silent, dressed in a dark hoodie and holding himself with a closed-off posture.He didn’t look bored, or curious. Just... alert. Like someone used to lingering in the background — even when there’s no stage to hide from.
He and the adult exchanged only a few quiet words, barely audible. Then, with practiced movements, they unlocked the front door and stepped inside without once glancing around.
Shanks glanced up from his book and let out a low whistle.
“New neighbor,” he remarked, resting the newspaper on his stomach like a man settling in to watch a play unfold.
“Too quiet,” Beckman muttered without turning his head.
“Maybe they’re just normal,” said Sabo, without much conviction, sprawled back on the grass again with his arm draped over his eyes.
“If they were normal,” Ace replied, balancing a twig between his lips like a makeshift cigar,
“they wouldn’t have moved here in the first place.”
"Maybe they're fugitives. Hiding out," Luffy suggested, dangling upside-down from the lowest tree branch. "Or vampires."
"Vampires don’t move in during the day, Luffy," Sabo countered, arm still draped over his face. "And even if they did, you’d invite them to dinner by day two."
"If they’re vampires and bring candy, it’s fine," Luffy declared with childlike wisdom.
"You’re all unbearable," Ace muttered, the twig still dangling precariously from his mouth.
Five minutes later, a moving truck rounded the corner, gliding smoothly to a stop in front of the newly occupied house. Two movers hopped out and began unloading with near-robotic efficiency. No kicked furniture, no toppling boxes—everything was methodical. Almost choreographed.
Shanks tilted his head as if watching a nature documentary.
"This is unnerving," he said gravely. "They haven’t dropped a single box."
"Shocking," Beckman added, sarcasm dripping. "A move without screaming or swearing. How do they manage?"
Sabo lifted his head. "I bet the boxes are alphabetized. People like that sort their spices by color."
“I already hate them,” Ace muttered.
“You hate anyone who doesn’t throw their shoes onto the roof,” Beckman noted dryly.
Shanks shrugged. “If they’re normal, they’ll move out in three months. If they’re weird, they might actually survive here.”
“Someone should go say hi,” Luffy offered, currently trying to flip himself right-side up on a tree branch without falling.
“Don’t be polite, Luffy. You’ll scare them,” Sabo replied, already draping his arm back over his face.
“Scare them? I’m delightful!”
Ace grunted. “You licked a tree yesterday. The whole thing.”
“It looked edible!”
The sound of moving boxes sliding through the front door next door continued, calm and unhurried — without friction, without fuss.
Shanks stretched in his chair, still watching. "Want to bet how long until they realize they live next to a daycare for sociopaths?"
"We're not a daycare anymore," Beckman said, flipping a newspaper page. "Just problematic."
Eventually, the brothers returned to their self-assigned tasks—Sabo philosophizing about vitamin D, Ace biting his nails in boredom, and Luffy attempting to climb one branch higher.
The neighbors' arrival passed like a breeze: noticed, remarked upon, and promptly filed away in the family’s emotional chaos.
Yet... Shanks kept watching longer than he’d admit. And Sabo, discreetly, noted in his mental ledger: ‘Potentially interesting neighbors. Observe.’
Now, Rosinante had a plan. A simple one — almost boring in its design: settle down in that quiet country with his newly acquired younger brother, Trafalgar Law, carry out his duties with diligence, and above all, keep a low profile. Emphasis on low.
No deep connections. No neighborhood drama. No drawing attention, ever. Just him, the kid, and a functional routine. A clean life. Quiet. Controlled.
On paper, it sounded entirely doable.
What he hadn’t accounted for was the unexpected visit from his new — and aggressively curious — next-door neighbor.
“Are you a giant?” asked the tiny creature standing in his front yard. Big eyes, feral curiosity, and black hair so tangled with twigs and leaves it looked like he’d emerged from a forest, not the flowerbed.
Rosinante stumbled back in surprise, face tightening in alarm, the key still halfway in the lock — as if the mere sound of that question had tripped a silent alarm in his brain. He blinked, then glanced around, half-hoping the question had been meant for someone else. A real giant, maybe. But no — there was no one else. Just the kid. And those eyes, sharp and far too observant.
He crouched down awkwardly, nearly losing his balance, and the rumpled hem of his coat flared out like a white flag of surrender. His posture had all the grace of a giraffe trying to hide behind a lamppost — hopeless, but oddly endearing.
“Careful, Cora-san,” Law muttered beside him, perched with stoic detachment and balancing a box of books in his arms. “He might bite. Worse — he looks like the type to carry something contagious.”
“I’m not infectious!” the gremlin shouted, utterly scandalized, as if that were the worst accusation he’d ever heard — then immediately sneezed so violently that a bird took flight from the tree nearby.
“Exactly what a viral carrier would say,” Law replied under his breath, with the calm authority of someone who’s read at least one medical quarantine handbook cover to cover.
Before Luffy could officially invade someone else's home — and possibly try to open a moving box with his teeth — two silhouettes appeared on the other side of the fence, striding over with an expression far too exhausted for that time of day.
“Seriously, Luffy?” Sabo said, hands on his hips, using the tone of an older brother who had seen this movie three times too many. “You can’t just barge into someone’s yard and interrogate them about their height.”
“But he is a giant!” Luffy protested, dramatically pointing at Rosinante, who instantly raised his hands in a silent, universal gesture of please don’t drag me into this.
Ace arrived moments later, hopping over the fence with the kind of smooth ease that suggested he’d done this before — probably for reasons not entirely legal. He gave Rosinante a once-over, then glanced at Law, and offered a small, respectful nod.
“Sorry about that,” Ace said, giving his younger brother a quick pat on the head — the kind used to calm down an overexcited hunting dog. “He’s harmless. Allegedly.”
"Depends on the time of day," Sabo added, crossing his arms. "Or their sugar intake." He gestured toward the neighboring house with attempted diplomacy. "We live there." His finger then pointed to their own home, his smile that of a prophet foreseeing chaos. "If you need help—or an antidote—just scream."
Law observed the three brothers with the expression of a man who'd just found an instruction manual written in hieroglyphics. His left eye twitched faintly—the only sign that, deep down, he already missed the silence of five minutes ago. Still clutching a box of books, he muttered to Rosinante:
"They definitely reproduce via spores."
Rosinante didn’t reply. He just stared at the sky with the resignation of a man whose life had just been launched into a strange new orbit.
From the porch across the street, Shanks raised a hand in a slow, friendly wave, fingers swaying like poorly folded welcome flags. He watched with quiet amusement as the three boys—his pseudo-sons—traipsed across the lawn like clumsy spies on a reconnaissance mission.
"Should we intervene?" Beckman asked without looking up from his newspaper, his coffee cup balanced precariously in one hand.
Shanks tilted his head slightly, gaze still fixed on the unfolding spectacle beyond the fence. "No. He can handle himself."
Beckman turned a page with the calm of a man who’s insured against all foreseeable disasters. "The kids… or the neighbors?"
Shanks smirked, that infamous sideways grin that usually preceded some chaotic prophecy.
"The neighbors. The kids are... inevitable."
Beckman made a small noise in the back of his throat—almost a laugh. "They didn’t even look scared."
"Of course not. It’s a canon event," Shanks murmured, reclining with the satisfied air of a man who’d planted chaos and was now harvesting entertainment. "He’s about to experience the ASL-Experience™ Premium. And no one comes out the other side the same."
Silence.
Outside, Luffy tripped over his own feet, Sabo attempted diplomacy with the grace of an ambassador surrounded by monkeys, and Ace walked away like a man signing a ceasefire under protest.
Shanks sighed, but it was a light sound—almost affectionate. "I think he held up well."
Beckman finally lowered the newspaper. "You mean the new kid?"
Shanks shrugged. "He hasn’t run screaming yet. That’s progress."
And in the background, standing there with a box of books in his arms and a faint twitch in his left eye, Rosinante looked very much like a man questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.
"So you’re not a giant?" Luffy asked, head tilted all the way back to stare up at Rosinante’s lanky silhouette against the pale blue sky.
Rosinante blinked. His wrinkled dress shirt bore an ink stain on the hem, and his expression still carried the groggy disorientation of jet lag. He crouched down until he was nearly eye-level with Luffy, hands braced on his knees, and mustered a calm smile.
"No," he answered, with restrained politeness. "Just... very tall."
"Tall," Luffy confirmed thoughtfully. "But not tall enough to be a tower. You need to grow more."
Next to them, a lean, pale boy balanced a box labeled 'BOOKS / FRAGILE' in his arms. His black hair was impeccably disheveled in a way that seemed deliberate. Law watched Luffy with the expression of someone examining an overly curious insect.
"He seems cool," Luffy declared, craning his neck to peer into the box. "You guys new?"
"Yes," Rosinante replied, standing up again with awkward grace. "I'm Donquixote Rosinante. A prosecutor." He hesitated for a second, as if almost apologizing for it. "And this is my brother."
"Trafalgar Law," the boy said without looking up. "I'm fourteen. And I don’t do small talk."
Ace raised an eyebrow and jerked his chin. "You look like someone who reads medicine labels for fun."
Law didn’t even blink. "And you look like someone who doesn’t read at all."
"The hell—?" Ace took a step forward, only to be stopped by Sabo’s casually intercepting hand—cool as a breeze snuffing out a fire.
"Forgive Ace," Sabo said, smiling with the diplomacy of a man who’d survived condo board meetings. "He only knows how to introduce himself after a fight."
Rosinante laughed, more relaxed this time. "And you are?"
"Sabo," he replied with a slight nod. "The responsible one, unfortunately."
"Liar," Luffy and Ace chorused instantly.
"These are Luffy and Ace, my brothers," Sabo added, his tone practical—the voice of someone who’d introduced them far too often. Luffy had already edged so close to Law that he seemed moments away from climbing the box.
Law observed Luffy like a scientist facing a hazardous experiment. His black hair was disheveled in a way that felt almost deliberate, and his narrowed eyes suggested he was already mentally counting down the seconds until chaos erupted.
"What's in there?"
"Books," Law answered flatly.
"You read them?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
"Most of them."
"Even the dictionary?"
"Especially the dictionary."
Ace narrowed his eyes. "Do you do that by choice or is it a punishment?"
Rosinante stifled another laugh, adjusting his coat collar where it was starting to stick in the afternoon heat.
"Well," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans, "it’s been a pleasure meeting you all. We’re happy to have such... lively neighbors."
"They're always like this," Sabo warned, with the resigned tone of someone who’d tried to stop them and failed. "Sometimes worse."
"But we don’t bite," Luffy assured, flashing a wide grin full of teeth.
"Not often," Ace added thoughtfully.
"Only when provoked," Sabo finished, sighing.
Law stared at the three of them for a moment, expressionless, watching as they wandered back to wherever they’d come from. Then he slowly turned to Rosinante and said, in the flattest voice possible:
"Can we install an electric fence?"
"Law…" Rosinante sighed, though his eyes were smiling.
"With spikes," Law clarified, hauling the box inside like he was retreating from a warzone.
Shanks was still on the porch when he closed his book with a quiet sigh, setting it aside. Beckman put down his newspaper, adjusted himself in his chair, and watched with attentive eyes as the brothers approached.
Luffy came bounding over with the boundless energy of someone who never tires of exploring. His clumsy hops left a trail of carefree laughter—maybe because he’d found an adult less traumatizing than usual, or simply because he’d made "friends" in the neighborhood, which, for him, was more than enough reason to celebrate.
"Have fun?" Shanks asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and that light irony only he could pull off.
Luffy stopped abruptly, as if he needed his full attention to answer. He adjusted his backpack with that wide, childlike grin of someone who’d just discovered something wonderful.
"Definitely!" Luffy replied, with the casualness of someone discussing the latest episode of their favorite cartoon. "The new neighbor is a pros-e-cu-tor , and the grumpy one reads tons of books!"
The word "prosecutor" dropped like a stone into the seemingly calm lake of their lives. Shanks and Beckman exchanged a brief but loaded glance—an entire conversation held in silence.
Meanwhile, Sabo walked a few steps behind, arms crossed with that critical expression only he could make look so natural.
"I give them a month before they move out," he said dryly, his tone sounding more like a prophecy than a simple observation.
Shanks raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking into a half-smile. "What? Don’t like our new neighbor?"
"Liking is irrelevant," Sabo countered. "I’m calculating odds. Normal families don’t last long around here."
Beckman made a low noise that could’ve been a stifled laugh or a sigh of resignation. "Are you including us in that definition of 'normal family'?"
"Never," Ace chimed in, arriving last with his hands in his pockets. "We're the gold standard of dysfunction."
Luffy, already distracted, was poking an ant on the ground with his foot. "I'm hungry."
As if triggered by a keyword, Shanks rose in one fluid motion. "Solid point, Captain. Lunchtime—before Luffy starts chewing the rug."
Beckman stood more slowly, gathering the newspaper with precise movements. "We also need to start preparing for the interview," he added, eyeing each of the boys. "If you're serious about that school, you'll need to look presentable."
The groans were nearly unanimous, but Shanks was already steering Luffy inside with a hand on his shoulder, humming something about extra dessert for good behavior. Sabo followed with a stoic face that hid a thousand calculations, while Ace dragged his feet, making sure to enter last—though not without casting one final glance at the neighbors' house, where they were still hauling boxes inside. Strangers , he thought.
The door closed behind them.