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Shanks had been comatose for a few hours now, lost in a parallel universe only accessible to madmen, with nothing but a terrible headache pounding at his skull for company. The night had been restless, an understatement, really. It wasn’t his first hangover, but this one would definitely leave some scars. You see, Shanks wasn’t your ordinary drunk, no, he was an extraordinary one. A clairvoyant man who was perfectly aware of his own exceptional state of intoxication. He wasn’t one of those men who occasionally lost their way only to find it again later. His drunkenness was permanent.
So why did he need to sink so deeply into such a state ? Because when reality frightened or disheartened him too much, alcohol was his only ideal and legal way to avoid facing it. In a world that moved either too fast or too slow, alcohol gave him a place of rest, brief and illusory perhaps, but still welcome. It allowed him to press pause when he no longer had the will to face his fears, when everything felt too hard, too uncomfortable. Alcohol granted him that sweet escape, that tender release from responsibility. Why look at yourself in the mirror when you could just put it off until tomorrow ?
And the problem quickly became insurmountable, because tomorrow was always tomorrow. That was why Shanks had consciously decided to take a break from their exploration of the seas. Some of his crewmates insisted that their captain had deliberately chosen to strand them on this deserted island because he no longer knew exactly what course he was on. But Shanks simply needed time to think, and what better place to recharge than a peaceful haven lost in the middle of the ocean ?
He had taken a liking to the island despite the heat. On the Grand Line, every island had its own climate, and it was rare to find one where you could drop anchor without facing unexpected storms. But Shanks had been charmed by the island’s somewhat unique shape, like a stretched peanut. A band of bright white sand stretched along both sides of the small archipelago, no more than three or four kilometers long. A hill rose at one end, steeper than where they had set up camp, with denser but shorter vegetation. Except for these two peaks, the entire island seemed covered in forest. The coastline was lined with palm trees growing on a grassy embankment torn apart by fallen trunks, scattered coconuts, and fan palms.
Shanks and his crew hadn’t moved from this island for weeks now, spending their days emptying barrels of rum without a thought for tomorrow, because tomorrow was always tomorrow.
As the first light of dawn appeared, Shanks’s eyelids remained closed, he wasn’t ready to face the day yet. His red hair, dampened by morning dew, curled softly in places, brushing against his face. Rocked by the sound of the waves, he let his mind drift. Sometimes he liked to let his spirit float into the unknown, erasing the reality around him, as if the world were just a farce and men were fools.
Lazily sprawled on his makeshift hammock, Shanks would have loved to hibernate for a few more days, snug in his precious black cape, but an ear-splitting scream disrupted his plans.
“Hawk-Eye’s coming !” Yelled a distant voice.
Mihawk ? Like pieces of a puzzle, his mind slowly reconnected to reality. His thoughts gathered quickly, and his eyes finally opened to a scene worthy of the greatest pirates on the Grand Line. All around him, members of his crew lay scattered—some snoring loudly, completely knocked out by the night’s drinking, while others rushed to empty their battered stomachs and clumsily prepare for the imminent fight.
Shanks smirked at the scene of utter decadence. Ever since they’d set foot on this island, they hadn’t stopped celebrating without even drinking a single drop of water. Speaking of which, the redhead cast a discreet glance toward their rum reserves. Roger used to say you should cure evil with evil, and Shanks wouldn’t dare disappoint the late Pirate King.
But again, he was interrupted.
“It’s Hawk-Eye ! He’s here !” Bellowed the same sailor as before, stumbling into camp.
Shanks squinted toward the horizon. Half-blinded by the sunlight, he raised a hand to shield his eyes. Once they adjusted, he finally saw the tall, slender figure of the Warlord captain walking across the beach. His long black cape floated gracefully in the wind, while Yoru, his faithful cross-shaped sword, stood proudly on his back.
What could Mihawk want with me ? Shanks wondered. He was curious, though not particularly worried. He knew his old rival well enough, and nothing in his posture suggested he had come to fight. Although it was often hard to read the world’s greatest swordsman, Mihawk always seemed so... impassive.
“This is an unusual place for a man of your... stature,” came Mihawk’s clear, resonant voice, instantly drawing the attention of the groggy crew. In a panic, some grabbed their weapons awkwardly, ready to fight. Hawk-Eye approached calmly. The morning light illuminated his pale skin, making him look almost divine. His short black beard, with two upward-pointing sideburns, contrasted sharply with his white complexion. His long open cape revealed a perfectly sculpted abdomen. Around his neck hung the Kogatana, symbol of his title as the greatest swordsman in the world. As usual, he wore his wide-brimmed hat adorned with a large plume.
“You’d better reassure the crew before some of them have a heart attack and die early,” murmured Ben Beckman, Shanks’s first mate, with a raised eyebrow. His long black hair, tied neatly in a ponytail, framed his serious face.
How did Beckman always manage to look so calm yet authoritative in every situation? Shanks had wondered that for years and still had no answer. But as always, Beckman was right, and the captain had to step in.
“Lower your weapons, lads !” Rasped Shanks, waving a tired hand in a mock gesture of peace. “We’re in the presence of a great Warlord,” he added with a half-smile.
The crew obeyed quickly, though they kept their weapons within reach. Still sluggish from the alcohol coursing through his veins, Shanks forced his heavy limbs to move, swinging his legs off the hammock and onto the ground. He groaned, his missing arm throbbed painfully, and his body struggled under the toll of days of excessive drinking.
“Show Mihawk some... respect,” he managed to say, his stomach churning. His head spun worse than a storm in East Blue.
“I’m not in the mood to fight today, Hawk-Eye,” Shanks added, holding his head up with his good hand. “Got a bit of a hangover,” he grimaced. Obviously, no one needed him to point that out.
“I’m not here to fight,” Mihawk replied with a sigh, already exasperated. “Not when you’re barely half the man you used to be,” he added, locking eyes with Shanks.
Shanks never forgot Mihawk’s most striking feature, those eyes. Sharp and mesmerizing, ringed in black, with irises of deep gold. Shanks sometimes felt like diving into them, drowning in their molten depths, surrendering to the fiery current within...
He was still lost in his drunken daydreams when a cold wind slipped under his half-open white linen shirt, brushing against his bare chest. It bit into his skin, stealing away the warmth from his body. Shanks shivered and pulled himself together. Time to put Mihawk in his place before he got too comfortable.
“I could still take you (in a fight),” Shanks declared confidently. “Even with one arm tied behind my back !” He laughed, lifting his cape to reveal his missing left arm.
His entire crew burst out laughing at the poor joke, everyone except the unflinching Hawk-Eye. After all, even one-armed, the captain of the Red Force still wielded his sword, Griffon, with deadly skill. If anything, the only thing he envied Mihawk for might have been the size of his sword...
Still half-drunk, Shanks wondered if Mihawk might be overcompensating for something. The thought made him erupt in uncontrollable laughter again, his body shaking with mirth. Mihawk, unimpressed, rolled his eyes. He seemed utterly bored by the chaos, his face a mix of confusion and mild disgust.
Calmly, he reached under his coat for something. The sudden movement made the crew tense and grab their weapons again, but Mihawk stayed composed and pulled out a simple rolled parchment, holding it up for them to see.
“I recently met someone who might interest you,” he said coolly, stepping toward Shanks. “A boy you mentioned a few years back,” he added mysteriously, handing the parchment to Yasopp, the crew’s sharpshooter.
Yasopp grabbed it eagerly and unrolled it before the curious crew.
Shanks shot to his feet the moment he saw what it was.
“Luffy !” He exclaimed, staring closely at the bounty poster.
It was a wanted notice of the Straw Hat boy grinning widely. He did it ! Thought Shanks, remembering the boy’s words : I’ll gather a crew as strong as yours, find the greatest treasure, and become King of the Pirates!
A wave of nostalgia washed over him, memories of that year in Fushia Village, Luffy’s hometown, where it had all begun. He had grown fond of that kid who dreamed of becoming a pirate and longed to join the Red Force crew. Shanks had recognized in him the same traits once possessed by Gol D. Roger ; unyielding determination, passion for freedom, and fearlessness in the face of the unknown.
He shook his head, returning to the present, and proudly held up the poster for everyone to see.
The crew gathered around with eager faces.
“I can’t believe it ! Luffy’s become a pirate !” Exclaimed Lucky, as Shanks pulled him into a brotherly hug.
“A captain, even !” Added Ben with an approving smile.
“We’ll have to start watching our backs,” joked Yasopp, pointing at Luffy’s bounty. The crew roared with laughter.
“Bring out the rest of the booze !” Shouted Shanks suddenly, waving Luffy’s bounty in the air. Finally, a good reason to drink again.
“I thought you had a hangover,” Mihawk remarked dryly from behind him.
“Relax and pull the stick out of your ass,” Shanks teased, turning toward him with a grin. “Come celebrate with us !”
“I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt,” Mihawk finally conceded, though not without a warning glare.
Shanks was pleasantly surprised by his rival’s answer. He’d always loved teasing Mihawk, but rarely did the swordsman give in.
“Then let’s celebrate properly !” Declared the Red Force captain, as his crew erupted in thunderous cheers.
Around midday, the party was already in full swing. Red-Haired Shanks’ crew had set up makeshift tables and improvised stools using palm trunks that covered the island. Everyone was busy transforming their camp, ravaged by days of debauchery, into a true open-air banquet. Some were already gulping down rum from pierced or halved coconuts, while others were roasting sea boars on spits under the hungry gaze of panda sharks prowling not far from the island. The island now echoed with the merry songs of pirates and the vibrant festivities that had only just begun.
Having not sobered up for about a week, Shanks let himself be carried away by the contagious energy of his comrades-in-arms. His drunkenness usually unfolded in several distinct phases that followed one another almost imperceptibly. He was currently in the phase of Euphoria, a pleasant one, for the most part.
Between two heated discussions about Luffy’s supposed exploits, Shanks suddenly wondered where his “feather-hatted friend” had gone. He searched for Mihawk with some concern, not seeing him amid the general commotion. He finally spotted him a bit away from the boisterous crowd, sitting alone on a latan tree trunk that had probably suffered too much from the heat. Mihawk seemed absorbed in a task that clearly mattered to him: polishing the curved blade of Yoru and restoring the golden guard adorned with red pearls. Shanks cursed that cruciform sword inwardly, it got more attention than he did. That needed to change immediately, and so he hurried toward the man isolated from the rest of the world.
“Mihawk ! Is our company really that boring to you ?” Shanks exclaimed in a mock-offended tone.
“I just need a little peace and quiet. You’re a bit too noisy for my taste,” Mihawk replied calmly, finally lifting his eyes from his sword to look at the man approaching him.
“Admit it, it’s a change from your gloomy castle lost on that creepy island of Lugubra,” Shanks teased cheerfully, stepping closer with a mug of rum still full in his hand.
“At least there, I don’t have to endure the off-key and endless songs of pirates drunk to the marrow,” Mihawk retorted, casting a disapproving glance at the merry bunch of clowns who had been assaulting his ears for almost an hour.
Shanks smiled at the remark. It was true, Ben, Yasopp, and Lucky weren’t particularly blessed in that regard. Their liquor-fueled serenades were far from pleasant, even for someone three sheets to the wind.
“Let’s just say they have other talents…,” Shanks admitted, sitting beside Mihawk while making sure not to invade the swordsman’s personal space.
The latter didn’t seem to mind much, despite his well-known dislike for other living beings.
“So, tell me, how did your meeting with Luffy go ?” Shanks asked eagerly, almost bouncing with impatience. He couldn’t wait to hear Mihawk’s story.
He shifted more comfortably on the shared trunk, turned toward Mihawk, and rested his hand lightly on his thigh.
Mihawk allowed himself a faint smile at the sight of the red-haired man, suddenly brimming with energy like a child about to hear a grand tale. Despite his imposing stature and mature face, Shanks could appear so boyish in his behavior at times.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Garp was the one who contacted me first,” Mihawk began, setting his sword down beside him, so Shanks wouldn’t be disturbed, “he told me about a fugitive to apprehend,” he specified. “Nothing unusual so far, our exchanges usually revolve around bounties and vendettas. Of course, when he said my target was a young boy pretending to be a pirate, I thought it would be child’s play. But then the Vice-Admiral added something that piqued my curiosity,” he admitted. “He said I shouldn’t underestimate Luffy, because he was unpredictable…” Mihawk finished thoughtfully, stroking his mustache, a habit he had developed over the years whenever something troubled him.
“I find it strange that the Hero of the Marines himself would go after Luffy, who can’t possibly be much of a threat,” Shanks commented, implying something deeper.
“Don’t take me for a fool, I’m not blind,” Mihawk shot back quickly. “I soon made the connection between Luffy and Garp, though it didn’t strike me right away,” he admitted with difficulty.
“My friend ! I would never ridicule you ! You know I hold you in far too high regard to mock your occasional lack of discernment!” Shanks declared, waving his good hand in a supposedly reassuring gesture.
Mihawk gave him an odd look, as if debating whether to decapitate him or congratulate him. In the end, he did neither and simply continued his story, ignoring Shanks’ provocation.
“So, I headed for East Blue, in the Sambas region, after hearing a rumor,” he said, without naming his source. “Honestly, it wasn’t hard to find his exact location, discretion clearly isn’t one of Luffy or his crew’s talents,” he remarked, casting a sideways glance at the group of drunken pirates howling nearby.
“My investigation led me to the Baratie, where I first ran into a drunkard babbling all sorts of nonsense about his clash with the Marines. I was about to turn away when, in his rambling, he suddenly mentioned Luffy’s name…” Mihawk was suddenly cut off by an overexcited Shanks.
“So, what happened next ? Did you meet him right away ? What did he look like ? Was he okay ? Did he find a crew ?” Shanks blurted out, barely forming coherent thoughts.
“No need to get worked up, you’re making me dizzy,” Mihawk sighed, also somewhat tipsy from the alcohol he’d started drinking earlier to endure the day. “But yes, I did end up meeting him, right after accepting a ridiculous duel request from one of his crewmates who wanted desperately to defeat me and become the world’s greatest swordsman,” he concluded, suddenly recalling his fight with Zoro.
“Oh, really…” Shanks leaned in with interest. “A duel against the legendary Warlord himself... The boy’s either bold or suicidal, but I respect him for daring to challenge you, even if he surely regretted it afterward,” Shanks noted, fully aware that Hawk-Eye Mihawk never went easy in a duel. He would know.
“Well, to be honest, I decided to spare his life,” Mihawk said bluntly.
Shanks nearly choked on his own tongue, but quickly composed himself, seeing a golden opportunity to tease the Warlord.
“That’s not like you at all ! Don’t tell me… you fell for him ?” He cried theatrically, loud enough for his entire crew to hear.
Mihawk instantly glared at him, resting his hand sharply on his sword in warning.
“Shanks, I wasn’t planning on killing you today, but I could make an exception, just for you,” he growled with a predatory smile.
The redhead instinctively backed away on their log, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the terrifying swordsman. Good lord, Mihawk could be terrifying sometimes. Their personalities had always clashed, yet somehow they always found common ground through their frequent verbal sparring.
“My deepest apologies, my lord, it was only a little joke,” Shanks said with a dazzling grin, rubbing the back of his head with his good hand, clearly nervous.
“Pff, it’s crazy how much you resemble him…” Mihawk muttered cryptically. “Not sure that’s a good thing,” he added under his breath.
“Resemble who ?” Asked Shanks, surprised.
“Luffy, of course… You’re alike in more ways than one,” Mihawk said with a visible grimace of despair. “He’s proud, arrogant, and eats as much as you drink,” he added, eyeing the rum mug Shanks was chugging straight from the rim.
Shanks nearly choked again, then burst into hearty laughter, losing control of his hand. Several drops of rum splashed onto Mihawk’s face, who seethed in anger.
“Luffy may still be a kid, but you’re definitely a more troublesome one,” Mihawk grumbled, grabbing Shanks’ black cape to wipe his face without asking.
“Don’t hold back, please,” Shanks remarked sarcastically, though he let Mihawk use his cape without protest. “You can be such a princess sometimes,” he added with a raised brow.
“Better a princess than an unmanageable and hopeless child,” Mihawk retorted with dignity, still wiping away the last traces of rum from his face.
Shanks watched him with fascination. The swordsman was always so precise and elegant in his movements. Suddenly, Shanks felt a strange urge to see that dexterity up close, he leaned in slowly, inch by inch. The closer he got, the tenser his body felt, his pulse quickening until his whole frame trembled.
“Shanks, are you all right ?” Mihawk asked, noticing his rival’s odd behavior.
“Uh, yes… I thought there were a few drops of rum left on your face, but of course, you’re so meticulous there aren’t any !” Shanks stammered, wondering if he was losing his mind for getting so flustered over something so trivial.
He was spiraling again into his drunken confusion. The more he drank, the fewer inhibitions he had; the drunker he was, the more he said and did things he normally wouldn’t, despite being naturally outgoing. This was just another product of excessive drinking.
“You should stop drinking so much, it clouds your judgment, and you can’t even control yourself anymore,” Mihawk scolded, snatching the mug of rum from Shanks’ hand and downing it in one go.
“Hey ! What are you doing ?” Shanks exclaimed, stunned by the sudden act.
“I’m trying to stomach the fact that you’ve become a shadow of yourself lately,” Mihawk growled, throwing the mug aside.
That wasn’t like him, he was usually in complete control, an expert at hiding his emotions. But perhaps the alcohol was affecting him too. Or maybe he was simply frustrated to see his rival wasting away, drinking his days away without a care for tomorrow.
“No, it’s been going on for a while,” Mihawk continued coldly. “Ever since you lost your arm, you’ve been like an empty shell, a lost soul wandering aimlessly across the Five Seas…”
“Mihawk, why so serious all of a sudden ? I forgot how badly you handle alcohol,” Shanks said with a forced smile, desperately trying to lighten the mood.
He hated the turn this conversation was taking. Mihawk’s tone made it sound like every word was meant to wound him. And when Shanks met Mihawk’s eyes, though dull and glassy, they still burned with anger and disappointment.
“I just want to stop you from becoming a worthless drunk, fit only to drift across the Calm Belt,” Mihawk shot back bitterly. “Tell me, Shanks, don’t you think it’s time you came to your senses and became again the great Emperor I once respected ?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m exactly the same as I’ve always been.” Shanks knew his words were hollow.
People drank to forget, and he was no exception. But it hurt to admit that truth, let alone say it aloud.
“I thought bringing you Luffy’s wanted poster would pull you out of your stupor, but you seem unaffected,” Mihawk sighed. “Honestly, I feel like I’ve wasted my time on you.”
“You’re lecturing me about insensitivity ?” Shanks snapped, the alcohol in his veins boiling with rage. “You can’t even bother forming your own crew. You’d rather parade around with Garp and hunt pathetic pirates, or mope alone in your lifeless castle !” He spat.
Silence. Only silence answered him. Time seemed to stop, and Shanks instantly regretted his words. He had spoken out of anger, amplified by his drunkenness. He hadn’t meant a single one of them. How had things escalated this far ? He’d never lost control like this before. It felt as if some dark force had suddenly filled him with hatred.
“Well, it seems we have nothing more to say to each other. I’ll be leaving,” Mihawk said curtly, rising to his feet and slinging Yoru across his back. “Just know this, if our paths cross again, it’ll be for the last time,” he warned, staring straight into Shanks’ eyes before turning away toward the shore.
Shanks knew. Since losing his arm, he’d believed himself only half a man, broken, unworthy of captaining the Red Force. But that wasn’t true. Losing his arm had been the best decision of his life, because it had saved another life and not just any, but Luffy’s. Not once had he regretted that choice.
But losing Mihawk… that wasn’t like losing an arm. It was like losing a part of his soul. One of the worst decisions of his life, and he only had one life to live. He would regret, every single day, letting go of a brother-in-arms who meant more to him than he’d ever admit.
Snapping out of his daze, Shanks jumped to his feet and ran after Mihawk, hoping it wasn’t too late.
In the distance, life went on peacefully, and under the first lights of dusk, the pirates now sang in unison :
“Love has pierced my heart, and money brings no joy.
But I await a charming soul, my rich and fearless sailor.”
The wind howled over the deserted island, carrying with it the salt, anger, and wounded pride of two men bound by everything and divided by everything. Sand clung to his skin, and Shanks ran.
His boots sank into the dune, heavy, clumsy. He had no balance left, the alcohol running through his veins partly to blame. But still, he ran, breathless, his lungs burning from the wind and regret. Ahead, Mihawk’s dark silhouette stood against the fading light, his stride stiff and commanding, like a man who refused to look back.
“Mihawk ! Wait !” Shouted Shanks, panting.
No answer. Only the cry of gulls and the distant rumble of thunder.
He sped up, nearly stumbling, but didn’t stop. “You’re really going to leave like this ? After everything we’ve been through ?”
Mihawk finally stopped, slowly, without turning around. His straight, rigid back looked carved from stone. When he did turn his head at last, his golden eyes gleamed with restrained anger.
“Been through what, Shanks ? Years of fighting to see which one of us would fall first ?” He asked, irony sharp in his voice.
The redhead stepped closer, eyes glassy. “No... Years of understanding each other without words. Of surviving because of one another.”
“You talk about understanding, but you don’t understand anything anymore,” Mihawk replied coldly. “You and your smile, your crew, your ideals… You don’t fight. You run.”
Shanks clenched his jaw. “You think I need a sword to prove who I am ?”
“Yes.”
That word, sharp as a blade, hit harder than a direct blow to the chest. Shanks felt anger rise, hot and consuming. “Don’t you see what I’m trying to protect ? This isn’t about pride, Mihawk. I just don’t want to lose you, that’s all.”
Hawk-Eye stepped back, his gaze locked on him. “You’re already losing me.”
The phrase fell heavy, like a sentence. The wind whipped Mihawk’s black coat, and the sea roared around them, indifferent.
Shanks stepped forward again, helpless, his hand raised in peace.
“Listen… I don’t want us to part like this,” he pleaded. The words sounded more like a torment than a request.
Mihawk sighed, lowering his head slightly. For a moment, it looked as though he might give in. But his fingers brushed the hilt of Yoru.
“You talk too much, Shanks. And I… strike too fast.”
His sword flashed in a black whistle. The motion was precise, instinctive, merciless. Shanks didn’t have time to move, his muscles dulled by drink. The blade passed close, grazing his cheek in a clean, thin line, from which a bead of blood instantly welled.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The wind had stopped ; even the sea seemed still. Shanks raised a hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of blood between his fingers, then slowly lifted his eyes to Mihawk.
The swordsman’s gaze remained cold, barely trembling. His eyes flickered imperceptibly between anger and regret.
“There,” he said in a low voice. “Now we’re even.”
Shanks stood frozen, breath short, unable to find words. The taste of salt, iron, and shame burned on his tongue. He realized that no victory, no battle, no glory had ever hurt him as deeply as that single act.
The island kept the scars of their clash ; open wounds that would never heal, lines carved by a deep trauma, a friendship perhaps broken forever. Facing the sea, Shanks and Mihawk stood motionless, separated by barely ten paces, like two beasts torn between instinct and memory.
Shanks was the first to move. He wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, then let out a short, joyless laugh. “Your blade’s still as sharp as ever… even when it’s me you’re cutting.”
Mihawk didn’t reply right away. His golden eyes stayed fixed on the sea. Slowly, he sheathed Yoru, the great black sword whose edge still seemed to hum from the strike.
“You provoked me, Shanks. What did you expect ?” He asked with an irritated sigh.
“I wanted to see if you still had a heart,” Shanks answered, voice cracking.
Silence. Only the distant cry of a seagull, lost again in the crash of the waves. Mihawk finally turned toward him. “Don’t project your doubts onto me.”
Shanks gave a faint smile, the one he usually reserved for his men, for drunken nights, for the simple joys aboard his ship. But that night, there was no crew, no laughter to drown out what lay unspoken.
“You’ve been avoiding me for months, Mihawk. Chasing nameless duelists and ghosts. And when we finally meet, it’s to try to kill each other on a rock in the middle of nowhere. You call that worthy of us ?” He asked sharply, frustrated by Mihawk’s contradictions.
“I call it honest.”
“Honest ?”
“Yes. You lie with your smile. I strike with my sword. That’s the only difference,” Mihawk shot back dryly.
Shanks sighed. The breeze stuck his hair to his forehead, longer now than it had been back when he still wore Luffy’s straw hat. He turned toward the sea, unable to meet Mihawk’s eyes.
“You think I laugh to hide ? You know me better than that.”
“I knew you,” Mihawk corrected. “Before you lost your arm. Before you became... a stranger.”
That word, in his mouth, sounded like an insult. Shanks gritted his teeth, his fist clenching. “You want me to be who I was ? The man who lived only to cross swords with you ?”
“That was the only Shanks I respected.”
A strangled laugh escaped the redhead. He stepped closer, slowly, eyes darkening. “And I respected the man behind the blade. But he’s gone too.”
Mihawk turned away. The reflections of dusk danced over his black coat, like embers on armor. “I’m not lost. I’ve just stopped waiting.”
“Waiting for what ?”
“For you to come back.”
The words fell raw between them. Shanks wasn’t sure he’d heard right. He searched Mihawk’s eyes for irony, but found none. Only that cold, honest flame he’d known since their first duels.
The wind rose again, whipping sand around them. Behind them, the sea churned; silver waves curled fast and broke at their feet.
“You know,” murmured Shanks, “if you really wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t have needed your sword.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Then why ? Why do you insist on fighting me ?”
Mihawk pressed his lips together. “Because it’s the only language we ever shared. Steel, scars, exhaustion. When you lost your arm, you stopped speaking to me.”
Shanks laughed then, truly, but the sound was hollow. “I remember a man who said words were useless. That silence was enough.”
“Silence is only bearable when there are two.”
Shanks looked up, and in that gaze flashed recognition, a shared loneliness.
He took one step, then another. His boots sank into the sand, damp from the tide. Mihawk didn’t move, his face stoic, but his breath betrayed a tension he hadn’t felt in years.
Shanks stopped a meter away. “Then speak. Tell me what you’ve been holding back all this time.”
Mihawk folded his arms. “You think I need to confess ?”
“No. But I need to hear it.”
The swordsman sighed, eyes half-closed. “You want the truth ? Fine. I was furious when you left, furious that you gave your arm to a boy. I thought you were mocking me, mocking everything we built through our duels, through those nights spent comparing scars like fools.” He paused, his voice dropping. “I thought you’d rather die slowly in someone else’s glory than live still in mine.”
The wind died. Shanks felt a knot tighten in his throat. “It wasn’t against you, Mihawk. Luffy... he had that fire. The same one we had when we still believed the sea could be conquered. I wanted him to have his chance.”
“And I wanted us to have ours.”
Shanks’s face softened. “You talk as if…”
“As if what?”
“As if what we had went beyond the sword.”
Mihawk held his gaze. “And what if it did ?”
A long silence. The sea crashed against the shore, steady, relentless. Shanks closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to laugh again, to find some line to deflect, to dodge the truth. But nothing came.
“You’re an idiot,” he said simply.
Mihawk raised an eyebrow. “You’re only realizing that now ?”
“No. I realized it long ago. I just pretended not to see it, because…” He hesitated.
“Because ?”
“Because I was afraid of what I might say.”
Silence again, but not heavy this time. It vibrated. An invisible thread stretched between them, ready to snap or bind them forever.
Mihawk stepped back, as if to flee the tension, then stopped. His eyes fell on Shanks’s missing arm.
“You say you lost your arm to give Luffy a chance. But maybe you gave it to me without knowing it,” he said fiercely.
“Stop, Mihawk.”
“No. Let me finish. You took away my only equal. My only compass. And you expect me to stay calm ?”
Shanks raised his head, anger flashing. “You think it was easy for me ? Every time I set sail, I thought about our fights, about the way you lifted your sword, proud and precise. I told myself that if I ever saw you again, I’d have nothing left to offer you.”
“Then why did you ask me to drink with you ? Why did you want me to stay here with you ?” Mihawk pressed, his face marked with doubt and confusion.
“Because I wanted to see you.”
Their gazes met, burning, heavy with years of silence. Neither moved. Then, slowly, Mihawk took a step toward Shanks.
“And now ? Have you seen what you wanted to see ?”
Shanks nodded. “Yes. And it terrifies me.”
“Why ?”
“Because I’ve never known how to fight without a sword… and now, I feel like I’m losing a battle I never meant to fight.”
Mihawk smiled, a rare, almost tender smile. “Maybe it’s time you lost one, Shanks.”
Their voices were swallowed by the wind’s growl. The air smelled of rain, the sea, and something indefinable. Night crept in, washing away the sky’s colors.
Shanks sank onto the sand, exhausted. Mihawk remained standing for a moment, then joined him, sitting by his side. No words passed. Only their breaths, slowly falling into rhythm.
“Are you going to leave ?” Shanks asked hoarsely.
“I don’t know.”
“You could stay.”
“And do what ?”
“Nothing. Just... stay,” Shanks offered, longing for the swordsman’s presence more than anything.
Mihawk closed his eyes. The sound of the waves filled the air, like a heartbeat. The silence settled, not heavy, but charged with meaning, with an anticipation neither dared break. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what would happen between these two men, bound and opposed since forever.
Shanks turned toward Mihawk, eyes still bright from their storm of words and the tempest that had raged inside him for years.
“You know... I’ve always thought losing you would mean losing a part of myself. Even after losing my arm...” he confessed, lowering every wall his heart had built to shield him from moments like this.
Mihawk didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the horizon, his fingers sifting through the sand, as if searching for a buried truth.
Then, in a low, rough voice, he admitted. “You think I wanted to stay away ? That I wanted to ignore what I felt ?”
“Then why did you ?”
“Because watching you suffer would have been worse than hurting you myself. Because... because I’ve always been afraid of what I might feel if I got too close.”
Shanks smiled, a real smile, his first in hours.
“As always, you dramatize everything.”
“As always, you hide your wounds behind a laugh.”
The redhead moved closer until their shoulders brushed. The warmth of Mihawk’s body surprised him. He felt a strange mix of exasperation and relief.
“You know... years ago, I would’ve been incapable of taking this step,” admitted Shanks.
“And now ?”
“Now... I can’t turn back.”
Mihawk’s breath grew more noticeable. Shanks lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed the swordsman’s arm. The simple touch made them both shiver, and something long-buried stirred between them. Mihawk didn’t pull away. Instead, he placed his hand over Shanks’s, electricity passing between them.
“I thought the sea could separate us,” Mihawk murmured. “That distance, time, everything... could make us forget what we were to each other.”
“And ?”
“It didn’t work.”
Shanks nodded, overwhelmed by the emotions he’d buried for so long. He shifted closer, their knees nearly touching. Their closeness, their contact, it was heavy with meaning, transforming into an unspoken confession no words or blades could ever express.
“Mihawk... I... I don’t know how else to say this. But I don’t want to lose what we have. I don’t want to lose you. Not you,” Shanks said, his voice trembling.
“I don’t want to lose you either,” Mihawk replied quietly.
Their foreheads touched, breaths mingling. Far from shouts, battles, and laughter, only this invisible, fragile, and fierce bond existed, woven through years, forged in blood and steel.
Shanks closed his eyes for a moment, and Mihawk did the same. Their hands tightened together, no words needed. Each breath seemed to say : “I’m here.”
The twilight spread over the island, the sky ablaze with shades of orange and purple, as if the sea itself were burning under the weight of the dying sun. After hours of tension, cruel words, and fleeting glances, the two men had finally found each other again. Their argument had carved a chasm between them, but they had chosen to lay down their weapons, both literally and figuratively. And tonight, on this isolated beach, the sharp words had fallen silent, replaced by a raw tension, a visceral need to reconnect.
Shanks had collapsed onto the sand. He had abandoned his heavy black coat, crumpled like a defeated flag. His red hair caught the last rays of the sun, and a provocative smile danced on his lips, barely masking a vulnerability he only showed to those who knew how to look. Mihawk, standing straight as a blade, was a few meters away, his sword Yoru planted in the sand like a sentinel. His black coat billowed in the breeze, and his hawk-like eyes, usually cold as ice, burned with a new fire, a mix of raw desire, lingering anger, and a tenderness he would never admit, even under torture.
“Are you going to keep playing statue until the sea swallows us, or are you finally going to take responsibility ?” Shanks teased, his voice playful but vibrating with an urgency he couldn’t hide. He arched slightly, a provocative gesture, an invitation disguised as a challenge, his eyes sparkling with mischief and concealing a deeper need.
Mihawk fixed him with a piercing gaze, his eyes sliding over Shanks like a blade grazing a throat. “Always so talkative…” he murmured in his deep voice, tinged with an obscene menace that made Shanks shiver.
Mihawk rose slowly and approached Shanks with an almost animalistic stride. He grasped a stray lock of the redhead’s hair, his fingers accidentally brushing Shanks’ cheek in a contact that sparked electricity through their bodies. That fleeting, burning touch ignited a tension they had suppressed for too long, a fire threatening to consume everything.
Shanks sprang to his feet, sand clinging to his pants, and in his haste, he collided with Mihawk’s chest, their breaths mingling, hot and irregular. “Come on, Dracule,” he exhaled, his smile fading to reveal a need of rare intensity. His eyes shone with a mix of defiance and desire. “We’ve played at ignoring each other long enough. You know what I want. Show me you missed me.”
Mihawk didn’t respond immediately. His golden eyes scrutinized Shanks, taking in every detail of his face ; the scar slashing across his left eye, the insolent curve of his lips, the provocative glint in his gaze. Then, without a word, he grabbed the collar of Shanks’ shirt and pulled him into a fierce, devouring kiss, a clash of lips and teeth that held no tenderness. It was a claim, an assault charged with the frustration of days spent apart, swallowed anger, and repressed desire threatening to break them. Shanks moaned into the kiss, a rough, hungry sound. His hand gripped Mihawk’s shoulders, tugging at the fabric of his coat as if he wanted to tear it to reach the skin beneath.
They pulled apart just enough to breathe, panting, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the salt-saturated air. “Fuck, I missed you, you bastard,” Shanks growled, his voice trembling with raw emotion. His brain had well and truly abandoned ship. Focused on the intense eyes of his dominant, Shanks gradually tuned out the outside world. Mihawk was only inches from his face, and now the redhead could feel the swordsman’s breath on his lips. Shanks let out an uncontrolled sigh of frustration. “Stop holding back and show me you’re in the same state as me.”
Mihawk flashed a predatory smile, his fingers slipping nonchalantly under Shanks’ shirt, grazing the warm, scar-littered skin. “You talk too much,” he murmured in a low growl that resonated deep in Shanks’ chest, making the pirate shiver. With a sudden motion, he shoved Shanks to the ground, pinning him against the still-warm sand of the setting sun. “Down,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. “And shut up, or I’ll gag you.”
Shanks, now half-sprawled on the ground, let out an indecent groan, his eyes sparkling with a fiery glint, tinged with an unusual submission for a man of his caliber. “Gag me, then,” he goaded, a provocative challenge, but his body was already ready to yield under Mihawk’s authority. He propped himself up slightly on his elbow, a smug smile barely masking the rising excitement trembling through his muscles.
Mihawk didn’t need to be asked twice. He tore Shanks’ shirt off with a sharp motion, buttons scattering into the sand like droplets of water. The pirate’s torso, marked by years of battles, was bared to the dying twilight, his scars gleaming like maps etched into his flesh. Mihawk ran his fingers over those wounds, his nails lightly scratching patches of skin, drawing a hiss from Shanks. “You’re too slow and indecisive,” the redhead growled, but his voice broke when Mihawk bit his neck, his teeth sinking hard into the flesh, leaving a pulsing red mark on the salty skin.
“Silence !” Mihawk commanded. His hands undid Shanks’ belt with surgical precision. With agile but impatient fingers, he tore off the pants, exposing the redhead’s hips and thighs to the sea breeze, sand clinging to his damp skin. Shanks, half-naked, arched beneath him, his hand desperately grasping at Mihawk’s shoulder as if it were a lifeline, but the swordsman seized his wrist and pinned it violently above his head, his gaze burning with animalistic dominance. “You move when I tell you to,” he growled, his eyes gleaming with a mix of menace and desire that sent shivers through Shanks from head to toe.
The redhead, breathless, flashed a smug smile. “Damn, you’re sexy when you’re like this,” he murmured, but he obeyed, his body relaxing under Mihawk’s iron grip, his dilated pupils revealing an assumed submission that contrasted with his usual insolence. The swordsman, satisfied with this surrender, released his wrist to slide his hands along Shanks’ body, his nails tracing red lines down his flanks, then to his groin and the insides of his thighs. Shanks cursed under his breath, his hips rising instinctively, his body thrumming with anticipation under the pernicious caresses inflicted upon him.
Mihawk rose, shedding his own coat and shirt in a fluid motion, revealing a chiseled torso shaped by years of discipline and combat. Every muscle seemed carved from stone, and Shanks whistled in admiration. “Always gotta show off, huh ?” He quipped, but Mihawk cut him off by grabbing his hips, flipping him roughly onto all fours in the sand. “Not a word,” he growled in a dangerously sexy voice against Shanks’ ear, his lips brushing his nape before biting down hard, drawing a guttural moan from the pirate.
Shanks, submissive but still provocative, turned his head to shoot a burning look over his shoulder. “Go on, Dracule,” he breathed, his voice trembling. “Show me what you’ve got. Take me.” His raw, direct words made Mihawk’s eyes gleam with a fierce light, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey.
The swordsman didn’t respond with words. Instead, he gripped Shanks’ hips, his fingers digging into the tanned skin with such force that they left bruises, and tore off the pirate’s remaining clothes, leaving him completely exposed, his skin glistening with sweat and sand under the fading light. He aligned himself against Shanks, his own pants undone just enough to free himself, and thrust into him with a powerful, brutal stroke, tearing a hoarse cry from the redhead. The sensation was raw, almost painful, but Shanks surrendered completely, his hand clawing at the sand, his body arching to meet each thrust with desperate greed.
“Fuck, yes,” Shanks rasped in a long moan of pleasure, his voice ragged, his breath erratic, his hips pressing against Mihawk as if begging for more. “Harder, Dracule, damn it, make me feel every fucking second.” His pleading words were both a challenge and a surrender, and Mihawk, relentless, responded with a fast, savage rhythm, his hands holding Shanks in place with a force that allowed no resistance.
Each thrust was an act of domination, a way to claim the redhead who, even in submission, remained an untamable storm. Shanks moaned unrestrainedly, his curses mingling with the roar of the waves, his body trembling under the intensity of the repeated assaults from the one dominating him. Mihawk growled, his fingers digging deeper into Shanks’ hips, his nails leaving red marks on the damp skin. He quickened his pace, his movements becoming frenzied, sand flying around them as their bodies collided with staggering violence.
Mihawk leaned down, biting Shanks’ shoulder, his teeth leaving a blood-red imprint, and whispered against his skin, “You’re mine, Shanks. Completely mine.” Shanks, lost in pleasure, nodded, a high-pitched moan escaping his lips. “Yes, I’m yours,” he replied, his voice trembling and broken by the intensity of their coupling, his body surrendering fully to Mihawk’s dominance. A fire blazed fiercely in his lower abdomen as he felt himself losing touch with reality. The swordsman slid a hand under Shanks’ hips, his fingers wrapping around his length, stroking with cruel precision that tore a cry from the pirate. Each movement was calculated to push him to the edge, each caress a blend of pleasure and pain that made Shanks tremble from head to toe. “Damn it, Mihawk,” he moaned, his hips pressing against the swordsman’s hand, his body vibrating under each assault.
The rhythm became chaotic, their bodies streaked with sand, glistening with sweat, the sea roaring in echo to their cries. Mihawk pulled Shanks’ hair, forcing his head back to kiss him, a messy kiss, full of teeth and growls, their tongues battling in a struggle as wild as their bodies. Shanks, at his limit, clung to the swordsman’s neck as best he could, his hips pressing eagerly against Mihawk’s length. “Harder,” he begged, completely overwhelmed by pain and pleasure. He couldn’t take it anymore; a sheen of sweat coated his skin, his senses were lost, and his muscles were taut to the point of breaking. “Take all of me, Dracule. Make me yours.”
Mihawk, reveling in the sight Shanks offered, quickened his pace further, his movements almost punitive, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through the redhead’s body. He slid a hand to the pirate’s nape, holding him firmly against the sand, his other hand continuing its relentless caresses. Shanks, completely submissive, let out desperate moans, his curses becoming incoherent, his body at the mercy of the swordsman. “Fuck, I’m gonna…” he gasped, but he didn’t have time to finish. The pleasure overwhelmed them, a devastating tidal wave tearing a guttural cry from Shanks, his body convulsing, his hand clawing desperately at the sand as if trying to anchor himself to reality. Mihawk, swept away by the wave of pleasure, growled, his fingers digging into Shanks’ hips one last time as he surrendered to his own climax. Their bodies reached ecstasy in perfect synchrony.
They collapsed, panting, their limbs entwined, sand clinging to their sweat-soaked skin, the sea and sweat mingling with their flesh. The sky was now a deep indigo, the stars twinkling like discreet witnesses to their embrace. Shanks, still face-down, turned his head to flash an exhausted but mischievous smile at his “tormentor.” “Damn, Mihawk, are you trying to kill me or what ?” He murmured in a hoarse, almost broken voice.
Mihawk, lying beside him, gave a satisfied, almost arrogant smile. “You’ll survive,” he replied, his hand lazily sliding over Shanks’ back, tracing the red marks he’d left, scratches, bites, bruises that testified to their burning passion. “But I can do it again if you insist.”
Shanks let out a tired laugh, rolling onto his back to gaze at the starry sky. “Give me five minutes, and we’ll see who dominates who,” he joked, but his tone was softer now, tinged with an affection he no longer tried to hide. He reached out, brushing Mihawk’s arm, a simple gesture but heavy with meaning, like an anchor after the storm they’d just weathered.
They lay there, exchanging murmurs and breathless laughs, their bodies still vibrating from the intensity of their embrace. The argument that had separated them was now just a memory, dissolved in the raw, sensual passion that had reunited them. They spoke in low voices, about everything and nothing ; the seas they’d sailed together, the battles they’d shared, the nights like this when the world seemed to stop for them. The beach, the sand, the sea, all conspired to offer them this moment of intimacy, a refuge in the heart of the Grand Line.
Mihawk, usually so reserved, surprised himself by letting his hand rest on Shanks’ chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly steady. He recalled their first encounters, years ago, when their duels were as many clashes of swords as dances of repressed desire.
Shanks, always quick to break the silence, murmured, “You know, for a guy who hates talking, you’ve got a hell of a way of expressing yourself.”
Mihawk raised an eyebrow, a smug smile on his lips. “And you, for a guy who talks too much, you know how to shut up when it matters,” he replied wryly. Shanks laughed, a hearty sound that echoed in the night, and for once, Mihawk didn’t try to silence him.
They lay side by side, sand still clinging to their bodies, the sea breeze caressing their skin. The night enveloped them, soft and deep, and they talked on, their voices mingling with the song of the waves. Shanks told stories of his crew, adventures on distant seas, while Mihawk, more taciturn, let slip fragments of his past ; duels against forgotten foes, days spent contemplating the sea alone. But tonight, he wasn’t alone, and though he’d never admit it, that thought warmed his heart.
Time stretched on, and they stayed there, their bodies drawing closer again, no longer in the frenzy of earlier but in a softer, more precious intimacy. Shanks rested his head on Mihawk’s shoulder, and the swordsman didn’t push him away; instead, he caressed the redhead’s face with tenderness.
Together, they watched the stars, listening to the murmur of the sea. Tonight, they were neither the emperor of the seas nor the world’s greatest swordsman. They were simply Shanks and Mihawk, two souls bound by wild desire, an unbreakable connection, and a night that seemed like it would never end, on a forgotten beach in the heart of the Grand Line.