Chapter Text
The reprise
Shanks meanders the beach with the confidence and the balance of a drunken fool. Gleefully, he occasionally turns to urge Mihawk to follow him, making sure the other man is actually trailing after him. Begrudgingly, Mihawk keeps following him.
He has been humoring Shanks' antics for way too long today - or more accurately, some god-forsaken combination of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
He has been awake for too long; the rejuvenation from their half-haphazard nap is wearing thin. He really should have called it a night hours before Shanks insisted on grabbing drinks and dancing, out of all things. Staying for dinner was a reasonable call, but everything beyond that? Pure folly - it seems Shanks is not the only fool wandering the beach at night.
Pure, unfiltered drowsiness - both from lack of sleep and from the obscure amount of alcohol - fogs up his mind. He feels weary, tense, and loose, all at once. The pleasant ache from their previous activities is turning more insistent. It's angrily nagging at him to rest, to avoid overexertion.
It's a dangerous state to be in.
They're both wanted men. One call from the town's people, and they'll end up in a marine siege, fighting with self-inflicted handicaps.
Shanks seems unbothered by all this. Whether it is because the thought does not cross his mind or because he trusts his crew to have his back, Mihawk cannot tell. The redhead seems to float on the night breeze, light and jubilant. Radiant in the moonlight.
Some day, if he keeps indulging Shanks like this, he'll end up paying for it. He isn't so sure he already hasn't.
They end up walking the same path they returned on in the morning. Mihawk’s ship is docked at a cove, a bit of a way from the town. He would rather entrust his vessel to nature than to the townsfolk.
Shanks kicks the sand at the tide line, sending pebbles flying. He spends a moment disturbing the sand, combing for something. After a bit, he seems to find what he’s looking for and holds it against the moonlight.
The light catches faintly onto the pebble, giving it a green shine and revealing it to be another piece of sea glass. Shanks turns to beam at Mihawk, proudly showing off his findings and beckoning him closer.
“Don’t you think Uta has enough?” Mihawk asks. He nods at the piece of glass when Shanks gives him a puzzled look.
“Ah, yeah. I was trying to find one for myself”, Shanks explains, turning to toss the glass piece into the sea. It skips along the waves before sinking below.
“I want a yellow one”, Shanks speaks before Mihawk can ask, “They’re the prettiest.”
Mihawk blames the rakish wink sent his way on the alcohol. He answers with a pointed roll of his eyes. It might be for nothing, since Shanks turns to look at the tides again and prominently misses the gesture altogether. He leans to peer at the sand, evidently looking for more pieces of glass.
Side-eyeing him, Mihawk isn't sure if there's truly any meaning behind what Shanks is saying. It could be him, somehow, trying to be witty with his frisky comments. All the implications seem awfully blatant and bold. Getting increasingly audacious every time they meet. Yet, they're spoken so easily, with no real merit or weight.
Mihawk fails to find the humor in that. The whole thing is a pointless, gormless endeavor, asking to disturb the balance and lines between them. It's a humiliation ritual, one he should not be entertaining.
One, he unfortunately, finds himself considering. It's a foolish mistake to make. Not a fatal one, no. But a mistake nonetheless.
But Shanks smiles at him, so gleeful in his mission to find sea trash, that it is difficult to see the danger in indulging for a little. Just for a while. (He has been telling himself that too many times today.)
Almost unconsciously, Mihawk lets his eyes map along the shoreline. His gaze picks apart colorful pieces from the drab of the sand, keening for specs of amber. In the dim light, it's not an easy task - especially since he has enough dignity not to crouch down and crawl around. Unlike his companion, who's happily kneeling in the sand, hands wrist deep in the tide.
There are lots of green and brown pieces, barely distinguishable from the dark rock pebbles. The amber ones are rarer, but by no means more valuable. They're mostly made from older bottles, used for medicine and antiseptics. Containing rarer liquids, the bottles were better kept and not transported in large quantities. Unlike the glass from the beer bottles, carelessly shipped and flung overboard in storms. Never missed nor looked after, and now scattered all along the beach.
Evidently, it seems like Shanks isn't having any luck finding the ones he is after. There's a frown on his face while he squints at his palm, trying to differentiate glass from rocks. The man is not deterred, such a feat seemingly impossible for him. He just tosses the undesired pieces back into the ocean and keeps diligently looking for more.
Shanks' observation skills could use some honing, since Mihawk can pinpoint several pieces that might be what they're looking for. He walks towards the one that seems most promising. Doing so, he leaves Shanks behind a bit, continuing to walk along their way.
There is not long left; his vessel getting closer. If Mihawk strains his eyes, he can see the place where their duel had raged on the previous morning. The protruding destruction carved into the bedrock, the deep gashes cutting through the shore.
With their fumbled sleep schedule and night spent dallying, their duel seems like decades ago. He should be less lenient about entertaining Shanks. Out loud, he would claim the day to be wasted. But, incidentally, Shanks is, unfortunately, his most worthwhile opponent. It's difficult not to be intrigued by his company when so few come even close in comparison.
Reaching his prize, Mihawk picks up the piece and tilts his palm to let the moonlight hit the pebble. It is, indeed, an amber piece of sea glass. A smooth, round piece with a golden, cloudy shine to it. Even if it's worthless, it's difficult to deny its beauty.
Mihawk has seen plenty of highly esteemed pieces of jewelry and gemstones gaudier than the natural, simpler beauty of the glass stone.
Self- satisfied with his find, he turns towards Shanks, only to find the other man completely lagging behind. He is still kicking pebbles at the tideline with poor success. Completely unaware that his companion has already found what they're looking for. Truly, he should look to improve his observation skills.
With a scoff of disdain, Mihawk pockets the sea glass and turns to continue his walk. Intrigued to see if Shanks is astute enough to notice he is being left behind.
Unsurprisingly, he is not a completely lost case, and it doesn't take long before Mihawk can hear him sprinting on the sand.
"Oi! Wait for me!" Shanks hollers and careens into Mihawk's arm full force.
He clings on, wrapping Mihawk's arm into a makeshift hold, and matches their steps. It's unclear whether he truly stumbled and needed a handhold to not fall on his face, or whether it's all for a show. And an excuse to get close. Once again.
"C'mon, don't think you can leave me behind so easily. You're such a rude bastard", Shanks sighs. He throws one forlorn look over his shoulder, probably lamenting his failure to find a pretty piece of glass.
Mihawk decides to hold onto the piece he found a little longer. He is not yet convinced he wants to give Shanks the satisfaction of getting what he wants. He should toss the glass pebble into the sea, along with any amity he foolishly might harbor towards the other man.
"Never claimed to be anything else", Mihawk retorts. Shanks laughs at that, clapping Mihawk on the shoulder like he told the funniest of jokes, before fixing his hand back around Mihawk's bicep.
Shanks has been awfully touchy today; sinking his teeth into every opportunity to crowd Mihawk's personal space.
He should be more diligent about keeping Shanks at an arm's length. If he keeps up like this, he'll have to confess he fell victim to the cheap charms Shanks fields. Honeyd smiles, soft looks, and all the treacherously lingering touches. Served along with cheap booze and cheaper entertainment. And isn't that an unacceptable notion?
Yet, he lets Shanks stay close. Two fools, indeed.
Their destination gets closer, but Shanks seems to be keen on stalling their journey as much as possible. He pulls to a full stop, still hanging onto Mihawk's arm. Before he can ask, Shanks points ardently at the sea:
"We should go swim!"
It's such a sudden ask, an idea so ludicrous, Mihawk is taken aback fully. Shanks grins wide, bounce in his steps when he leans his weight to pull Mihawk closer to the shore.
The tideline is the same as it has been their whole walk - a rough, rocky shore with dark, cold ocean. The waves are mild, calmly churning sea foam against the rocks. But with the weather so brisk, there is nothing inviting about them. Mihawk pulls a vexed breath, truly questioning his companion's sanity.
"No."
"Ah, c'mon! It would be fun! I used to swim so much with.. " Shanks pauses, words waning into a whisper before he recollects and continues, "Ah, well, I used to swim a lot, back then. When I was younger…"
There's sadness to him, a sudden change in the mood. Shanks dips his chin down, expression turning pensive. His eyes keep tracing the white foam of the waves.
Mihawk doesn't know what he means, isn't privy to the story behind the riddle. He isn't going to ask, he never will. But tonight he is determined to steer Shanks away from the waves.
"That's lovely, but no — the water is ice cold. I'm not swimming, and I'm certainly not going to save you if you end up drowning because you're too drunk to float", he says. Not softly, no, but less harshly than he would have preferred.
He grabs hold of Shanks' wrist and pulls the other man towards the grassy bank. Shanks comes along easily, head tilted curiously. The sad tilt of his brows eases, replaced with curious confusion.
Mihawk leads them to the grass, chooses to ignore the dewdrops wetting the ground, and sits down, pulling Shanks with him. Shanks sinks next to him and wastes no time setting his head against Mihawk's shoulder. He leans close, becoming a warm weight against Mihawk's side.
For a moment, Shanks keeps looking towards the sea, face curtained by his hair in a way that blocks his expression. He stays silent. It's difficult to tell whether he is just lost in his thoughts or if he is being haunted by true, deeper melancholy.
Mihawk lets him be and turns his own gaze towards the sky. The night is slowly slipping away, the sky turning a vibrant shade of dark blue and dimming the stars. The deep night doesn’t seem to last here. Or the time has slipped by faster than he anticipated.
Looking up, mapping the horizon, he can still make out the constellations, finding the ones that would help lead him back home. He should follow them and leave.
But the night seems suddenly so serene. The wind ruffles the grassy hills, cool, but not yet bitingly cold. Not with them leaning against each other, sharing body heat where they're pressed together. His body aches gently. There's the nagging tiredness, telling him to rest. To lean fully against the warmth of another and, for once, succumb to the suffocating need for closeness.
It's not quite safety he feels, but something softly akin to it. A place to rest - a person to stay with. Just for a bit. A taste of softness.
The sea calls for him, but Mihawk is content to stay a bit longer. Fully willing to blame the alcohol for this mishap. For this lapse in his judgment.
For the lingering tenderness when he nudges Shanks - pulls the piece of sea glass from his pocket, and presents it to the other man.
With a quiet gasp, Shanks takes the glass and lays it carefully on his palm. He holds it against the moonlight, marveling at the golden sheen. For a man who has surely seen countless riches, he holds the glass piece with such a careful reverie that it could convince someone that the piece has worth.
“These yellow ones are pretty”, Shanks sighs, smiling loose and lopsided. His eyes are half-lidded, gaze soft, almost adoring when he turns to look Mihawk in the eyes.
The implications of his words are not subtle. Shameless and bold; again, he speaks easily, as if such an admission doesn’t mean anything.
Mihawk’s never sure how to answer. Especially now, being the one caught instigating a moment of softness. Unwittingly exposing a weak spot, leaving the tender and ugly underbelly of human need for closeness unguarded.
Brushing the comments and gestures off is the most logical thing to do; treat them as lightly as they’re spoken. But nights like these make it harder to do. Nights like these make words feel heavy. Earnest and true.
Shanks is warm against his side.
It’s the drinks in him talking - the prolonged closeness casting a spell over them. This close, it's difficult to see the danger, but easy to pick a fight he cannot win.
Staying silent would be the best course of action.
“Is that so?” he asks anyway, giving Shanks an opening.
The other man perks up at that, lips curling into a wider smile. Eager and ready to strike. An opportunist, with enough charm and patience to wait for the right timing before tearing into what he wants.
“Yeah... Reminds me of your eyes.”
Mihawk knew Shanks would say something like that, yet the softness of it all shakes him. His neck prickles, and despite his pride, he cannot maintain eye contact.
Shanks doesn't back down.
"I have been wanting to kiss you all evening", he sighs, as if a statement like that is easy to admit. Filled with levity and brashness.
Shanks is a true fool, carelessly exposing his throat to danger. A man with little to no desire for self-preservation. Or one so arrogant and boisterous that he doesn't even consider the danger. Mihawk's never quite sure which one is the case. He is starting to think it might be a grave mix of both.
"Hmm'mh, so you have", Mihawk hums, and he knows he'll be haunted by the way Shanks keeps looking at him. Eyes warm and searching; openly, unabashedly wanting. In the dim of the early morning, shadowed by his hair, they look dark brown, missing the warmth of cognac.
"But you won't let me", Shanks states, voice dipping into a sad whisper. He doesn't pull away, stays leaned close. His thumb brushes along the smooth surface of the sea glass. A soothing motion, a weak defense against the uncertainty hanging between them.
The sea seems to hold its breath. The morning not daring to break while the simmering heat between them turns tangible.
"I don't think it is a good idea."
"Why?"
Mihawk hates the question. The true answer would be so telling; it would give away the heaviness he carries when they are like this.
"You're drunk."
It's a cop-out answer. One that does nothing to deter Shanks.
"So? I want you drunk, I want you sober - makes no difference to me", Shanks admits easily. His eyes search the stars before turning to Mihawk. They’re deep and dark, with no trace of levity. "And you're not telling me no..."
Mihawk knows he should be telling him no - firmly and with finality. But it’s the weakness of flesh, finding allure in the concept of truly giving in. And his conviction is waning with the stars.
With each beat of silence, Shanks leans closer. His eyes flutter around Mihawk’s face, lingering on his lips before rising to hold eye contact. The tilt of his head, the plea in those eyes. Up close, they’re warm, having found their color. Clay-red and all-consuming.
There is a tremble in each breath - Mihawk cannot tell whether it’s his own or Shanks’ that quivers.
Uncertainty constricts his throat, settling heavy against his windpipe. He should leave. He should get up. Take a brisk walk towards his boat and set sail. Or at least lean away, tilt his head towards the sea. Turn away and shut this foolishness down.
Mihawk winces when careful, gentle fingers reach for his knee. The digits nudge him, ever so gently urging him to angle himself towards the other man. The hand radiates warmth, even through the thick fabric of Mihawk's trousers. The touch burning, yet tender. Coaxing him closer.
Shanks waits. This time, there's intent behind his closeness. Undeniably, there's more to his resolve than a whim driven by misguided want. The drunken, unled fumbling is gone, his eyes staying focused and sharp.
Yet, Mihawk hesitates, leaving them both leaning close, sharing a breath.
Shanks raises his other hand, slowly tapping his fingers against Mihawk's upper arm. When he doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away, Shanks lets his hand rise a path along the shoulder. He trails his fingers along Mihawk's neck, reaching for his cheek.
He is tender and careful. Unwavering and bold, sure of himself and of what he wants. Daring to ask for it.
An antithesis to what Mihawk feels.
But he refuses to be passive in this.
So when Shanks' palm curls along his jawbone, Mihawk leans in and closes the gap between them.
With the movement, in an instinct to hold onto something, he weaves his fingers tightly onto the fabric of Shanks' shirt. There's a surprised breath, a momentary fumble, before Shanks catches both of them.
His hand slips to Mihawk's neck, steadying the kiss.
The other hand digs into the meat of Mihawk's thigh, gripping on tight and trying to pull him closer for a better angle. Or maybe just to hold on for stability. There's a tremor to him, a shudder Mihawk can feel when he lets Shanks pull him closer.
The kiss is a slow, deep press of lips. It's two pairs of hands clenched too tightly, pulling too hard, for it to be romantic. It's unsteady breaths, both tasting like the remnants of alcohol. Rough lips, chapped from the wind and the sea.
There's a smoldering heat, an ugly need. A disgusting want for closeness.
Shanks shifts his grip, taking hold of Mihawk's waist and tangling his fingers into black hair. He leans back, pulling the other man with him.
Almost drunk on the want, Mihawk follows him, leaning over and pressing Shanks into the ground. He braces one hand above Shanks' head, tangling his fingers into red waves wherever he can reach them. Tugging at the strands, he uses the grip to align Shanks' head to better fit the new position.
Shanks grunts, and Mihawk isn't quite sure whether it's from pleasure or pain. He knows the clench of his fingers is rough, talons gripped in a steely hold. But Shanks keeps pulling him closer, his hands holding on just as tightly. The way his lips keep chasing Mihawk's indicates no discomfort, no desire to back down.
So he presses closer and lets the world dim into a dull buzz. Lets the warmth smolder and burn between them. And for a mercurial, fickle moment, there's just the feeling of heat between their bodies. Pulses too quick and heartbeats too loud; obscene and ravenous under their skins.
A visceral want, one that leaves even the strongest of men vulnerable and weak.
Mihawk pulls back.
He doesn't go far, stays leaned over his companion. With a steadying breath, the world comes back to him. A gust of cool night breeze sweeps the heat from his neck. His slowly calming pulse settles enough for the churning of the waves to be the loudest sound once again.
Shanks blinks his eyes open as well and licks his lips. He looks dazed, flushed, hair in disarray, before his eyes focus again. His fingers caress Mihawk's side, trailing a titillating path from his waist to his ribs and back again.
The piece of sea glass lies on the grass, dropped and discarded in their fumble for closeness. Idly, Mihawk wonders whether one of them will have enough wit to remember to take it with them.
For a moment, they just stay like that. Measuring each other with gentle uncertainty. Eyes dark. Pulling deep, almost labored breaths. Willing nothing to shake - not their limbs, not their breaths. The heat stays, lingering in the space between them.
Tension coils in Mihawk's core. The uncertainty - of where to go from here, of where to put the cloying tenderness and desire - creeps along his throat.
His hand resting on Shanks' side twitches, fingers reaching for nothing. Or maybe for everything. Unsure whether to stay or withdraw. He wants more - wants to reach for it all and take, deeply so - but he shouldn't take any of it. He should go. Cut the tension, and his losses, and go.
The sea calls to him, a familiar sound of the waves beckoning him back to safer waters.
Shanks is warm and alive under him. A tempting, inviting warmth. He is capricious - unruly in a way that makes him unpredictable. A wild, untamed beast masquerading as a man made of ease and charm. Everything his instincts warn against: Uncharted waters, a dumb danger to let loose.
But there's a certain allure to a danger like that. Shanks looks at him, head tilted softly. Gaze open, his brown eyes warm and inviting. His hands are gentle as they hold on, curiously caressing along Mihawk's sides. Occasionally, his fingers curl just below Mihawk's nape, sending chills down his spine.
There's a promise of something tantalizing; of a tangible heat and pleasure - a true carnal temptation. Offered so freely and eagerly.
Mihawk shifts, a bit restlessly adjusting his position. When he tilts his head inquisitively, Shanks just smiles and shakes off a little huff of laughter, a gentle chuff of air. He grins, roguish and ever so cocksure of himself. Not weighted down by the closeness, unafraid and audacious.
This seems so easy to him; to reach and take what he wants. To give parts of himself, ever so carelessly, into someone else's hands. To lace his fingers together behind Mihawk's neck and pull him down enough to steal a kiss.
“You should stay the night”, he whispers, voice hushed against Mihawk’s lips. He is not even pleading this time, eyes half-lidded, and lips upturned into a gentle, self-satisfied smile.
Mihawk doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him no. A reckless misstep, a danger he can't fight like this.
The air hangs heavy over them.
And yet… He doesn't tell Shanks no.
The night slips slowly into dawn, dark skies turning into a mellow blue.
Mihawk rises from the bed, moving carefully and quietly, so as not to wake up his companion. Shanks doesn't stir, nestled peacefully under the plush blanket. Morning is rapidly turning into day outside, sunlight seeping into the room and coloring everything warm.
Methodically, Mihawk moves to clean himself, quickly rinsing off the remains of their closeness. He doesn't turn on the bathroom lights or look in the mirror. He moves and collects his clothes, thrown on the floor in their haste to claw at each other. He stops, about to pull on the borrowed shirt.
His eyes drift to the nightstand where the early sun rays are reaching for the little glass pebble. An unassuming piece of glass, trash from the sea. It shines faintly golden, basking in the light.
Maybe it's cruel - to leave like this.
But the world is not kind, and his heart feels heavy - an ugly thing, constricted and caged between his ribs. It feels alive, struggling painfully against its restraints.
He drops the shirt back down, leaving it unceremoniously on the floor. It lands on a spot of sunlight, gleaming in the light. Mihawk moves to the window to close the curtains, dimming the room.
He stays put for a moment, letting his eyes get used to the darker light. It means nothing that his gaze lingers on his sleeping companion. Shanks looks content; comfortable, and satisfied - a lion licking its limbs. A man skilled at getting his way.
Mihawk turns to strap his boots and pull on his jacket. The bed sheets rustle, and he freezes, standing still, coiled and wary.
"Leaving already?" Shanks' voice is rough, a quiet murmur in the dimness of the room. It holds no disappointment, only asking.
"I told you I won't be staying for long."
"Hmm'mh, you stayed quite a while anyway." He is not sure if Shanks is mocking him or just stating facts.
Mihawk finishes dressing fully before turning to look at him. The man looks like he is still sleeping, lying under the duvet, eyes closed. Serene; his heart must be light, careless, and unconfined. Young and free. Not capable of feeling the heaviness Mihawk feels trapped in.
"I did", he admits, quietly, "You're quite persistent when you want something."
Shanks laughs warmly, his eyes opening, searching to meet Mihawk's gaze.
"Aye, with you I gotta be", he says, easily, lightly. For a moment, they just stare at each other. Mihawk forces his eyes to stay steadily on Shanks.
"I see", Mihawk doesn't really know what to say, what to make of this. It's a danger he doesn't know how to fight - he feels like he already lost, anyway.
He turns to leave.
"Hey... wait a bit", Shanks stops him, his voice quieter than before. The lightness is gone, and there's no trace of warm mirth in there. Mihawk stops, but doesn't turn around to face him again.
"Are you..?" Shanks struggles to find words, his voice weirdly rough, uncertain, "Ah, hell, Hawkeyes. Just... come here for a bit?"
Mihawk pulls his lungs full of air, holds it for a moment, before releasing an exasperated sigh. He should just leave.
He turns to Shanks, his shoulders set back and posture rigid, and makes the short walk back towards the bed.
Shanks stares at him, brows furrowed; pensive and serious. He sits up fully and leans forward, hands on his thighs. His eyes never leave Mihawk’s. The duvet pools onto his lap, leaving him mostly bare - yet his posture feels cautious, disguising his intent.
"What?" Mihawk asks curtly, voice colder and harsher than he intends. He refuses to shy away from Shanks' stare, standing his ground by the bed. Shanks' frown deepens, eyes searching for something he cannot find.
"Did this..." Shanks pauses for a moment, gesturing with his hand, "Ruin something? Between us?"
Shanks hunches over a bit, tilting his head in an almost pleading manner. His hair sways with the movement. He looks young and unsure, so unlike his usual boisterous levity.
Taken aback, Mihawk stares for a moment.
And… Maybe there's some heaviness on his heart as well.
Mihawk shakes his head and reaches out, letting his fingers land on Shanks' neck, tracing a pulse point. He is warm, burning, and his pulse flutters fiercely - ugly and alive under Mihawk's fingertips. Shanks stays still, waiting for the answer.
Mihawk contemplates for a moment, letting his fingers linger on Shanks' neck, petting the length of his adam's apple. Shanks shivers, closes his eyes, and leans into the touch.
Unafraid, but restrained, still waiting.
"No", Mihawk decides, "Nothing is ruined."
"Good", Shanks smiles, bright and gorgeous, his whole face lighting up, "Don't fucking scare me —"
Mihawk cuts him off, taking a firmer grip on his neck and forcing his head up so he can lean down to press their mouths together. Shanks lets out a startled breath, but recovers quick enough to reciprocate. He grabs the cord of Mihawk's kotagana, pulling him closer so the kiss can last.
When Mihawk feels a warm hand reaching out for his side, he pulls back, putting a bit of force on Shanks' neck to prevent him from following.
"I'm still leaving", he tells Shanks, stepping back, "I have stayed long enough."
"You never stay long enough", Shanks sighs, eyes warm and inviting. Tempting. He lies back down, stretches the full length of his body onto the soft mattress. The duvet rides lower, barely decent anymore. His hair falls into a halo around his head, and he looks radiant, even in the dim light. Open, tangible, and oh, ever so tempting.
"But, all right", Shanks lets him go, frees him from the temptation. Mihawk turns and makes his way to the door.
"See you later, Red."
"See you soon, Hawkeyes."