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The vivre card takes Mihawk to an island in the south, where he finds Shanks sprawled out on a rocky ridge overlooking the shore, above the Red Force. Shanks has an arm folded behind his head and a bottle dangling loosely from his other hand, indolent under the afternoon sun, and he raises the bottle as Mihawk approaches.
"I had a feeling you'd turn up today," he says. "Care for a drink?"
Mihawk surveys him coolly. "It's hardly past noon, and yet you've already taken to degeneracy. How very befitting of you."
"Lighten up. I've only had one so far," Shanks says.
"For now," Mihawk says.
Shanks lifts a hand in apparent surrender. "Don't look at me like that. You know that it takes more than this to dull my edge."
"The day is still young. Give it time, and you may fall short of your claim,” Mihawk says.
"Your words are, as always, sharp enough to draw blood but twice as lovely, and all the sweeter for it," Shanks says, grinning shamelessly. “What else have you got for me?”
On another day, Mihawk might have been willing to entertain his nonsense, if not for the prospect of an actual fight after weeks of lacklustre skirmishes—challengers seeking to make a name for themselves, bounty hunters and marines after his head; each encounter had left him wanting, piling up into a ravenous hunger that had driven him across the Blues, in search of satisfaction that only Shanks could provide.
"Spare me your frivolities. I've come for a challenge, not your idle chatter. Will you give it to me?" Mihawk says.
Shanks groans pathetically. "Always straight to business with you, isn't it? Why not take a moment to relax and enjoy the view? It's a fine day for it, and the company is nice too, if I do say so myself."
Mihawk looks out across the water—it's nothing he hasn't seen before—and aims a pointed stare at Shanks.
"The view does not hold my interest. You do. Draw your sword, Red-Hair."
"Careful, darling. A man could take those words the wrong way," Shanks says.
"Or perhaps a man should search elsewhere for a worthwhile opponent," Mihawk says idly.
Shanks makes no move to stand.
"Alright, no need to get your feathers ruffled. You'll get your fight soon enough," he says. "Just indulge me for a moment longer." He pats the ground beside him, a wordless invitation.
This is hardly the first time that Shanks has kept him waiting, and if he pushes harder, Shanks will likely give in, though not without a show of reluctance.
"Don't be so cold. We have all day for a tussle, and we haven't seen each other in a long while. Sit with me for a bit," Shanks says. And then, softer, "Please."
Mihawk regards him silently.
He unstraps Yoru and settles down on the ground next to Shanks, a safe distance away. He tells himself that he does it to stave off further whining, not because Shanks had asked.
"There you go," Shanks says. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Speak for yourself," Mihawk says.
Shanks takes another pull from the bottle and sets it aside. "So, how have you been these days? Still carving a bloody swath through the navy's ranks, as they claim?"
"You ask as though you don't already know the answer."
"Maybe I want to hear it directly from you, instead of through the grapevine," Shanks says.
Mihawk turns his eyes out toward the sea. "There's not much to tell. The fools after my head have only become more numerous and dim-witted as of late, and I deal with them accordingly." They traded wolves for lambs the longer he sailed these waters, until their pride outpaced their ability and made them laughably weak, not even worth the trouble of drawing Yoru. "There is little satisfaction to be found in easy victories, if they can even be called that. Consequently, I've spent the past few weeks bored out of my mind. As I am now," he adds. "Will that suffice, or shall I regale you with all the mundane details of my travels?"
"I won’t mind as long as it's you doing the talking," Shanks says, and when Mihawk shoots him a sidelong glance, Shanks flashes a grin. "I could lie here all day just listening to that voice of yours, Hawkeyes."
"And I would prefer not to waste my breath while you laze about like a common hound," Mihawk says. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
Shanks rolls onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. I’ve got you sitting here with me, haven’t I? I think that counts for something."
"Hardly by choice.”
"Then why haven't you gone yet?"
Mihawk looks at him evenly. "You know very well why.”
"Admit it. You missed me," Shanks says, boldly.
"I will admit no such thing,” Mihawk says. “You overestimate yourself."
"I don't think I have," Shanks says. A pause, and then he slides closer to Mihawk, holding out the bottle. "Care for a taste? It's good stuff."
Mihawk eyes the label briefly, impressed despite himself—it’s an excellent vintage, likely pilfered from some noble's stash or acquired through nefarious means; it doesn't seem like Shanks' usual fare.
"I asked Benn about what you might like," Shanks says, unprompted. "He picked it out."
"It's not terrible," Mihawk says, and takes the bottle.
"High praise, coming from you," Shanks says.
Mihawk raises it to his lips, savouring the full-bodied taste of red, and when he lowers the bottle to pass it back, he finds Shanks watching with dark eyes, pinned on Mihawk's throat as he swallows. He takes the bottle back but doesn't drink, turning it absently in his hands.
"Speak your mind," Mihawk says.
"Just enjoying the view," Shanks says. His voice drops lower. "It's a fine sight for sore eyes."
"If you are that starved for scenery, perhaps you ought to turn your stare elsewhere."
"Don't feel much like looking anywhere else when I have you right here in front of me," Shanks says, but he looks away then, out at the ocean, and drinks deeply. A trail of sweat slides down his jawline, catching the sunlight as it trickles down into the hollow below his throat, drifting down over his chest and further still.
Mihawk follows its descent, and tears his gaze away.
In all his years of sailing, he has experienced every extreme of the elements—the intolerable heat of a desert noon, the battering fury of a hurricane approaching on the open sea, the rain lashing down in cold sheets in the midst of battle—yet he's never felt such sweltering warmth as he does when this wretched man is near. Shanks radiates heat. Mihawk knows no other who burns so hot. It sets him on edge and gets under his skin like nothing else can, maddening and unbearably compelling, all at once.
He wants to be challenged now. He wants to be pushed past his limits, and he wants Shanks to be the one who pushes him. No other will do.
"How much longer will you laze about? The day wears on, and I am not inclined to waste it any further," Mihawk says.
Shanks waves a hand at him. "Rushing won't get you anywhere. Sometimes you have to learn to enjoy the moment," he says, closing his eyes and stretching out like the layabout he is. "Celebrate life's simple pleasures while you can."
"I prefer to celebrate with my blade, not lolling about like a dolt."
"A little patience is called for now and then."
Mihawk has a good mind to pry him off the ground and shove him over the ridge. "I've been patient long enough, Red-Hair."
"You can afford to be patient a little longer," Shanks says, smirking widely. "Don't you think that the build up adds to the fun of it?
The bastard knows exactly what he's doing, winding him up for no apparent reason other than his own amusement.
Mihawk doesn't even need to be provoked any further—he's already primed for a fight, craving a taste of the battle that Shanks has held tantalisingly just out of reach for far too long. And Shanks knows this as well, which is likely why he's even more aggravating than usual.
"I grow weary of your dawdling, Red-Hair," Mihawk says sharply. "Have you forgotten how to wield your sword? Is that why you insist on stalling?"
Shanks grins at him. "Oh I know exactly how to wield my sword, Hawkeyes. You should know that better than anyone else," he says. His voice drops into a low rumble, just above a purr. "Haven't you always enjoyed my handling of it?"
And there it is—his infuriating habit of tossing out veiled insinuations that leave Mihawk unsettled as much as they spark fury. Shanks wields his charm as surely as he wields his sword, wheedling and prodding until Mihawk permits a reluctant inch that he turns into a mile. He flirts shamelessly like a seasoned rogue or a boy playing at conquest, or something between the two, and every time Mihawk indulges him as he indulges few others, until he loses sight of the line between indulgence and something far more treacherous.
Shanks never pushes for more than Mihawk will give him—if indeed he wants more at all—but it doesn't stop him from laying it on thick at nearly every opportunity. Mihawk has learned how to weather his shameless flirtations; sometimes, he's willing to push back.
Such as now. Mihawk looks at him. "Draw your sword, Shanks."
That yields a satisfying reaction: Shanks goes abruptly still, looking back at him with a strange expression, caught somewhere between surprise and delight. "Did you just—really, Hawkeyes," he purrs. "Say that again."
Mihawk rolls his eyes and stands with Yoru in hand, settling into a low guard. "Get up and face me. Or are you all talk and no substance?"
Shanks rises to his feet and draws his blade at last. "What will it take to hear you say my name again?" he says.
"Impress me, and I might consider it," Mihawk says. He advances on Shanks without waiting for an answer, and Shanks steps forward to meet him halfway.
***
The truth is: Mihawk has nothing but the sword.
When he carved out his place in the world, he shaped himself to fit it, stripping away all the trappings of softness and sentiment until he became the blade itself—one that cuts swiftly and cleanly, never hesitating.
Never again.
In the early days of his solitude, Mihawk wonders what else he might have become if he hadn't gone down this path. He imagines a softer version of himself, one who doesn't know the weight of steel in his hands, or the precise arc of an overhead strike; one who doesn't know the harsh sting of loss, or the worth of trust—that is to say, immeasurable in the right hands but worthless otherwise. He can scarcely picture it—this other life, this other man, could hardly be called himself. He wonders if without the blade, he would have lived to this point. If he would have anything to live for at all.
But he doesn’t dwell on hypotheticals. He has the sword, and the glorious uphill climb of bettering himself day by day, and that's all he needs.
It’s enough, for a time.
***
They trade blows until the sun sinks low in the sky. Mihawk unleashes a torrent of strikes that has Shanks steadily backing up, and then Shanks steps in, lightning-quick, under Mihawk's guard to tap him lightly on the side, but before it can land, Mihawk pivots on his heel to lash out with a kick that knocks him back.
"Almost had you there," Shanks says, grinning through the sheen of sweat on his brow.
"Delusion does not become you," Mihawk says. "Again."
Shanks darts in with a feint toward Mihawk's left, and then he draws back and strikes low. Mihawk angles his sword to redirect the blow, flowing easily into a counter that gets parried just as quickly, but he had been waiting for it; he shifts with the momentum, twisting his wrist sharply and stepping in close.
They push against each other, blades shaking under the strain. Finally, Shanks disengages with a swift shove that sends Mihawk skidding back a few steps.
This is what he has been chasing: the glorious struggle of facing an equal. His heart pounds a triumphant beat in his chest, singing a wild refrain. Every sense sharpens to a razor's edge, soaring high with each breathless clash. Nothing else compares.
This moment, above all others, is when he feels alive.
But it cannot last forever. Shanks is flagging, his form growing sloppy after hours of fighting. Mihawk isn't far behind either—the tremor in his arms is getting difficult to ignore.
They meet again in another deadlock. Mihawk shifts his stance to get more leverage and pushes harder, willing his sword to give just that little bit more. It takes him a moment to realise that Shanks is watching him over their crossed blades.
Mihawk stares back.
Something has shifted between them, an invisible tension finally reaching its breaking point. Mihawk watches the fluttering pulse beneath Shanks' jaw, watches the rise and fall of his chest, and when he glances back up, Shanks is still staring.
"Focus on the fight," Mihawk says.
Shanks laughs weakly. "Trying my best here, darling. You’re not exactly making it easy, looking at me like that."
"Blaming your distraction on me? I expect more than cheap excuses from you," Mihawk says. There isn't much pushback from Shanks anymore, which is a weakness that he can exploit; he sees it now, the clear path to victory. The fight is his for the taking. It's clear that Shanks sees it too.
But Mihawk is not ready to end it.
He eases off. Shanks straightens, turning with Mihawk as he moves away until they're standing apart, sizing each other up across the distance. Then they step into the motions of another duel, slower than before, but no softer. They're both pushing the limit, as if there's something to be won; what, exactly, Mihawk doesn't know, and he isn't sure that Shanks knows either.
Eventually, Shanks gets the upper hand when Mihawk misjudges a parry and his blade goes skidding off to the side, opening him up for the kill, and he finds himself with the tip of Shanks' sword pressed to his throat. They freeze where they stand.
"I've got you," Shanks says, breathless.
Mihawk watches the play of shadows across his cheeks, his mouth, his jaw, all cast in shades of deep red by the fading sun. Red like his hair. Red like his damnable eyes in the right light, looking right at Mihawk, always seeking something beyond what he will say aloud, never asking, always waiting.
"So you have," Mihawk says.
Shanks makes a sound, low and ragged in his throat, and sheathes his blade. Mihawk mirrors him without thinking, and then Shanks is suddenly stepping in close, reaching out to hover by the side of Mihawk's face, the motion halting just before it connects like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch. Like he's waiting for something.
“I’m just a man, Hawkeyes. I can only take so much," Shanks says. "You tempt me so sweetly every damn time—you must know what you do to me."
"And what would that be, exactly?" Mihawk says.
Shanks exhales slowly. "You really don't know, do you?" he says, almost despairingly. He withdraws his hand. "Sometimes, you seem like something right out of a dream. A beautiful one."
Mihawk waits for the crude joke that's sure to follow, but Shanks doesn't say anything else.
"Speak plainly," Mihawk says, when the silence stretches on for too long.
"I don't think you want that from me.”
"Your assumption is incorrect. Stop hiding behind riddles and tell me what you mean."
Shanks makes an aborted motion as if to reach out again. He sighs. "You give me the edge of the blade, Hawkeyes. Always the edge. Never the hand that wields it. But I want to have more than just that." He laughs, humourless. "Can't blame a man for trying."
The irritation that has been steadily piling up in Mihawk’s chest finally spills right over into fury. "You already have it, fool. I come to you as a sword goes to its sheath, as a ship to a harbour—always to you." He steps forward, seizing Shanks by the front of his shirt and hauling him close. "You are the only one I yield to. And apparently you do not know this. Tell me, is this a position I would allow another to take? Would I have permitted anyone else this close? Does this seem like the mere edge of a blade to you?"
"No," Shanks says, strained. "Not at all."
Mihawk releases him, breathing hard. Shanks looks at him, wide-eyed and slack jawed.
The rage recedes as quickly as it had risen, a spark of reluctant amusement taking its place.
"You drive me to madness," Mihawk says.
Shanks snorts. "I could say the same about you."
They stand together, cooling off in the heavy silence.
Mihawk moves first, taking a step back. A flash of dismay passes across Shanks' face before it smooths over into a grin, and the fury returns, clawing its way up his throat—Mihawk wants to seize him by the front of his shirt again and shake him until he tells Mihawk what it is that has him acting the way he does. He wants to fight him again, and when he wins, he will demand answers for everything that Shanks refuses to give voice to; what he wants from Mihawk that isn't already his for the taking, as though he hasn't taken enough already; what is it that he's waiting so patiently for.
Some of it must show on his face, because Shanks steps forward into his space again. "Easy there," he says. "You might cut me in half if you glare any harder."
"Has it ever occurred to you to simply ask?" Mihawk grits out. "Where has all your boldness gone?"
"When I'm with you, it's hard to be sure about anything at all," Shanks says. “You are not easy to reach, Hawkeyes. You make it difficult for a man to know where he stands."
"Then ask me, so you can be certain," Mihawk says.
"Hawkeyes—"
"Ask," Mihawk says again, tight. "I will not repeat myself. You posture and jest, and you clearly want something from me, but you do not ask, you only wait for it, and then you have the audacity to look at me like that—as if I would not give it to you when I don't know what it is that you even want. So speak plainly, and tell me."
Shanks goes still. His gaze flits across Mihawk's face, searching.
Mihawk looks back evenly.
Finally, Shanks draws in a breath and says, "I don't have the words in me right now, but if you will allow it, I'd like to show you."
Mihawk inclines his head in assent.
Shanks lifts his hand slowly, as though he's expecting Mihawk to draw away. Mihawk stands his ground as that hand rises higher and comes to a stop by the side of his neck, inches away from contact.
"May I?" Shanks says.
"You may," Mihawk says. And seized by a sudden impulse, he adds, "Shanks."
A visible shudder works its way through Shanks' frame. He swallows.
"I'm going to touch you now," Shanks says.
And then there's pressure, light at first, on Mihawk's neck. Fingers brush over where a blade had been resting just minutes ago, running along the length of his throat. Tracing up the underside of his jaw and sliding down his cheek, then finally settling at the nape of his neck. A thumb rests at the pulse point beneath his jaw, right over his heartbeat.
Shanks leans in closer, until the distance between them shrinks down to inches. He doesn't bridge the gap. His eyes flick down to Mihawk's mouth, and back up. Dark red and gleaming.
He's waiting again.
Waiting for Mihawk.
Mihawk thinks back over the course of their interactions and it clicks into place with sudden clarity—the glances, the touches that lasted longer than necessary, the way Shanks had looked at him then, just as he's looking at him now.
Shanks wants him. That much is clear.
This is what Shanks had been trying to show him without words, or perhaps too many of them—for all his flirtations, he never once pushed for more, and Mihawk had thought nothing of it, hadn't entertained the notion that Shanks might have truly wanted him in this way. But he does. All this time, Shanks had been offering himself, over and over, waiting for Mihawk to catch on.
Mihawk doesn't know what sort of expression he's making, but Shanks inhales sharply, pupils flared out like spilled ink.
"Hawkeyes," Shanks says, ragged. His thumb shifts minutely over Mihawk's skin. "Is this permission?"
"Permission?"
"To kiss you."
The words hit Mihawk like a spark struck from a whetstone.
"Just a taste, if you'll let me," Shanks says, almost pleading. "Anything at all. Whatever you are willing to give me."
A kiss should be easy enough to grant.
A kiss is nothing at all—inconsequential, even, in comparison to the gift that Shanks has been giving him every time they meet—the gift of his company, the gift of a fight like no other, and everything else in between. A kiss, then, should hardly matter.
He hesitates anyway. It's not the action itself that's unsettling; it's the prospect of allowing another person into his space for reasons other than bloodshed or combat, or anything that might lead to it. Touching, beyond the simplicity of battle, is a different sort of intimacy than the physical connection he finds in the moment when blades meet.
But Shanks is already standing on the line, with his hand gentle around Mihawk's neck, thumb moving in idle circles at the side of his throat.
The question is whether Mihawk will let him cross over.
"And if I say no?" Mihawk says.
"Then we go on as we have before," Shanks says. "I'm a big boy, I can take no for an answer. But I'll always be here if you want me. I'll wait however long it takes."
"Then you are a much bigger fool than I ever took you for.”
Shanks huffs a laugh. "Maybe so. But I wouldn't call myself a fool for wanting you. You are well worth the wait."
Mihawk stares at him, pulse beating double-time.
"And if I say yes?"
"Then I'm yours for as long as you want me," Shanks says.
He sounds unruffled, but his fingers twitch slightly. He's watching Mihawk like a man awaiting judgement, eyes bright and hot.
It surprises him that Shanks would desire him so strongly, when he has all the freedom in the world to chase after pleasure wherever he may find it, and there is no shortage of those willing to give it to him—all of them easier, softer, and warmer than Mihawk will ever be.
Yet, here is Shanks, standing before Mihawk, as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be. As though he has never wanted anything more, enough to wait however long it might take for Mihawk to notice, and he's willing to wait even longer, until Mihawk is ready to take what he's offering.
Mihawk doesn't want to stop him here. He wants, abruptly, to know what it would feel like to kiss Shanks, what it would feel like to be kissed by him, and he wants to know now .
"Do it then," Mihawk says.
Shanks exhales, and then his other hand comes up to cradle Mihawk's jaw. His thumb strokes lightly over Mihawk's cheekbone.
Mihawk breathes in slowly. He blinks.
And then Shanks moves in and touches their mouths together.
It starts as a gentle press of lips, a barely there pressure that lasts for a second or two before Shanks pulls back slightly. It doesn't feel like anything remarkable. Just skin meeting skin, dry and slightly chapped. Not much different from touching anywhere else, but somehow more charged, in a way that Mihawk can't quite place.
"Is this alright?" Shanks says. He shifts his hand to tangle into the hair at the nape of Mihawk's neck, brushing the pad of his thumb over the shell of his ear. A shock jolts through Mihawk, starting from the point of contact and racing all the way down to the tips of his fingers.
Mihawk draws in a sharp breath.
Shanks smiles faintly, the corners of his mouth turning up. "I'll take that as a yes."
"Is that all there is?" Mihawk says.
"That's not even the half of it," Shanks says.
He presses closer until their bodies align, heat bleeding through like a forge fire blazing to life. Mihawk's first instinct is to pull away, but Shanks crowds him in, one hand shifting down to slide settle at the base of Mihawk's spine, under Yoru’s sheathe. A dangerous place for a hand to be.
Dangerous, like Shanks himself.
Mihawk leaves a hand on Shanks' hip in return, brushing a nail over the bare skin where his shirt has ridden up. A threat or a concession. Perhaps both.
A breath punches out of Shanks.
He angles Mihawk's head slightly and slots their mouths together, this time much more than just a touch; he nudges Mihawk's lips apart and licks into his mouth, tasting like the wine they'd shared earlier. The sensation is strange but not unpleasant.
When Shanks finally pulls away, they're both breathing unevenly. Shanks looks at him for a moment longer before he leans in to kiss the corner of Mihawk's mouth.
"Was that good for you?" Shanks says. "Or do I need to try harder? Have I won your favor yet?"
"You always had my favor," Mihawk says, distracted. "But you can try harder regardless."
Shanks smirks slyly. "Oh? Is that an invitation to kiss you again?"
"If it gets you to stop talking, then yes."
His words have the desired effect; Shanks laughs and seals their mouths together once more. Mihawk allows it—welcomes it, even, when he has a brief moment of clarity in which he considers how strange this is, that they are standing here doing this at all. But Shanks is touching and kissing him so easily, as if it's natural for them to be doing this, and the longer it goes on, the more he thinks that maybe it isn't so strange after all.
They part again with a soft sound, but before Mihawk can decide whether he wants to move back in for more, Shanks tips his head down and kisses the side of Mihawk’s neck, open-mouthed. He works his way up to Mihawk's ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and nipping gently, and Mihawk tenses up, full-bodied, another shock running through him.
"Sensitive there, aren't you?" Shanks says.
"Apparently so," Mihawk says stiffly.
"Nothing wrong with that," Shanks says. He kisses Mihawk's throat again, dragging his teeth over a patch of skin, and then he closes his lips around it and sucks lightly. A noise tears its way out of Mihawk before he can stop it, startling them both; Shanks draws back slightly to grin at him, and the look on his face is purely wicked.
Mihawk stares back, unmoored. His neck tingles. His chest aches. What have you done to me, he thinks. And then, more.
A split second of focused intensity descends over Shanks, and he says, "I’d wager you don’t give many people the chance to get this close. Am I wrong?"
"Why do you ask?" Mihawk says warily.
"Just wondering how I measure up on the grand scale." Shanks thumbs at his jawline. "Or am I your first?"
"You are," Mihawk says. "Does it matter?"
Shanks falters. "Really? Not even once?"
"You are the only one who has been bold enough to try. And the only one I would ever allow," Mihawk says impatiently. "Now cease your blathering and kiss me again."
"I don’t need to be told twice," Shanks says, and leans back in.
***
When Mihawk first sets out on his own, he has no plans other than to learn and fight and push himself further, and no destination in mind except to chase the horizon wherever it may lead. He sails from one island to the next, seeing for the first time all the splendor and cruelty of the world with his own eyes.
And the people who might call the ocean home: adventurers, pirates, marines, and every other manner of colorful character, scattered all throughout like stars dotting the sky.
He crosses blades with many, and while most fall short, there are a handful who offer him something of worth. One by one, he imprints the lessons taught into his blade, turning them into strength. And with it, he writes his name in blood across the Blues, taking his pick of worthy challengers until they run dry, and then venturing into the Grand Line and the New World, where the stakes are higher and the fights more thrilling than ever before.
It slakes his thirst for a while.
But it stops being enough.
The longer he sails, the more it feels like something is slipping away from him. It's harder to lose himself in battle. The swords that meet his own don't cut quite as deeply as they used to. And he grows restless.
He turns the empty space inside him over and over again, seeking out new pleasures in search of a fulfillment that eludes him. He throws himself into wine and hard spirits, and on a singular regrettable occasion, opiates, and whatever else he can find to fill the emptiness. He reads. He naps. He settles on sparsely populated islands and holes up for weeks, picking up hobbies when they pique his interest.
It turns out that he is very good at cooking, acceptable at gardening, and passable at embroidery. At one point he tries his hand at music, and though he plays well enough, every note feels as though pouring sand into a sieve, and he abandons the endeavor in disgust.
There must be something out there that can satisfy him. A master of the blade who can keep up with him, and give him the brutal struggle he's looking for: a battle that pushes him to the brink, where nothing is held back and victory is an uncertain thing until the very end; a fight so savage it takes every ounce of strength and skill to claw his way to the other side, barely alive and desperate to face that blade again. A fight he can remember for the rest of his days, and keep coming back for more, and get it every time.
Mihawk will settle for nothing less.
He doesn't find it for years.
His earliest memory of Shanks is this: a boy, nearly a man, staring at the Pirate King's head, carelessly left out on the execution stage for the masses to gawk at. Amidst the clamor of the crowd, he had been utterly silent, clutching that battered straw hat to his chest like a shield. Mihawk might have spared him only a passing glance and moved on if not for his eyes, two pits of fathomless dark, shining like coals freshly stoked by the flame. They slid over to Mihawk, locking onto his own for one blazing moment, before looking away.
As Mihawk had walked past, he'd glanced back to see that boy raise the hat to his head and tie the string beneath his chin with trembling hands, then turn and vanish into the crowd.
His eyes had stayed with Mihawk for days after.
***
They trade kisses until the sky rumbles overhead and a light drizzle begins to fall.
Shanks pulls away, turning his face up to the clouds. Raindrops slide down his cheeks and catch on his lashes like tiny crystals, glinting in the light of dusk. He looks luminous, flushed and damp and faintly smiling.
Mihawk reaches out without thinking and pushes back a stray lock of hair from his face, and abruptly Shanks looks back at him, that sharp edge of want returning full force. When Mihawk drops his hand, Shanks catches it and brings it to his cheek, leaning into the touch.
"Shall we head back to my ship?" Shanks says.
"Is this an invitation for further debauchery?" Mihawk says dryly.
"Only if you want it," Shanks says. "We don't have to do anything else if you're not feeling up to it."
"But you would not be opposed to more."
Shanks rolls his shoulders, glancing away. "Can you blame me for wanting you?"
Mihawk, running on pure instinct, taps Shanks on the cheek and turns his head back to face him, and when Shanks finally meets his eyes again, Mihawk kisses him, closed-mouthed. He pulls back before it can turn into anything else, taking in with minor gratification the way Shanks follows him for a brief moment, chasing his mouth before he seems to remember himself and draws back with a rueful look.
“You aren’t playing fair," Shanks says.
"On the contrary, I am not playing at all," Mihawk says sharply. "I am here because I want you, and I am willing to let you have your way with me, if that is what you desire."
"And if I desire more than one night?" Shanks says.
"Then you best get to work and convince me," Mihawk says. "Take me to your ship, Red. Show me what you have to offer."
They descend from the ridge and make their way back to the shoreline, where the sea swells to lap at the tips of their boots as they wade out into the shallows and onto the Red Force. The crew is scattered about on deck, drinking and gambling away the night, and they cheer raucously as Shanks leads Mihawk past them and down below deck. A few of them aim smirks in Mihawk's direction, as if they know exactly what he and Shanks had been up to, and what they're going to get up to now.
Shanks stops by a cabin door and pushes it open, then steps aside to let Mihawk pass. Mihawk ducks into the room, looking around with mild interest—there's not much here except for a bed and a desk tucked into the corner, and an assortment of articles scattered about. Clothes draped over the back of the chair, boots kicked haphazardly underneath; a few maps pinned to the wall and one open on the desk, covered in scribbled notes and markings; an empty sake bottle and two cups sitting atop the dresser. Very Shanks, Mihawk thinks.
"Sorry for the mess," Shanks says. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. "Didn't expect any guests, you know how it is."
"I take no issue with it," Mihawk says, looking over his shoulder. "Is this where you entertain your lovers?"
Shanks shifts, and smiles faintly. "Not exactly. You are a first in that regard."
Mihawk considers him for a moment—considers what they might do here, together. And considers further the implications of that admission.
"Come here," he says.
Shanks shuts the door and comes to stand before him. They look at each other wordlessly. There is only a few inches of space between them, just enough room for a sword to pass through.
The air feels charged. Something has to give.
Mihawk sets Yoru down by the foot of the bed, and then he turns back around and steps into Shanks' space.
"Show me how you want me," Mihawk says.
Shanks, very slowly, slides his hands up to Mihawk's coat, pushing it off his shoulders. Mihawk holds still as it falls to the floor, neither helping nor hindering. Those hands work at the buttons of his blouse next, slipping each one free until the fabric falls open.
Here's another first: Mihawk isn't a stranger to nudity, but he isn't used to having another person undress him, nor take clear pleasure in it. Shanks isn't even hiding it; he runs his fingers over Mihawk's collarbone, tucking a thumb into the divot between and tracing over the slope. He tugs Mihawk’s blouse off entirely and drops it by the coat.
The look on his face is ravenous.
Mihawk wants to kiss him again.
They reach for each other at the same time. Shanks walks Mihawk back until the bed hits the back of his legs, and he goes down, sinking into the mattress with Shanks hovering over him. They part long enough for Shanks to kick off his boots and strip out of his top, tossing it carelessly aside until he's half bare above Mihawk.
Mihawk has no proper frame of reference for how they should be doing this, but Shanks navigates them both through it, and then they're both grinding against each other in a steady rhythm that builds on itself. Shanks pulls away from his mouth and drags his tongue down the line of Mihawk's neck, and this time he bites down, sending a fresh wave of heat lancing through him.
"How is it?" Shanks says. "Good?"
"Don't stop," Mihawk says. The arch of Shanks' throat is right there, too tempting to resist; he dips his head and bites back, and Shanks jolts with a grunt, hips jerking against Mihawk's like he can't help himself.
"Fuck. You'll be the death of me," Shanks grits out. And then he leans down and catches Mihawk's mouth again in a bruising kiss.
Mihawk loses his pants at some point between the frantic grind of their bodies—he's not quite sure when that happens, Shanks must have slipped a hand down and pulled them off while Mihawk was otherwise occupied. They're pressed together, their cocks lined up side by side. Shanks' mouth is sealed to his neck, and as he works a bruise into the skin with his teeth, he curls a hand around them both, and begins stroking slowly.
It's not like touching himself at all; Mihawk feels more than just a dull kind of pleasure. He feels good—better than good. He feels alive.
It's almost like a duel—every move that Mihawk makes is met in kind with pleasure or pain, and he is just as caught up in it as he would be in combat, perhaps more so, and to compare it to anything else would be a disservice. This is just as good, in a different way entirely. This, too, could turn him into a wild thing in pursuit of ecstasy, one who would chase after this high forever. He wants Shanks to fight him, to touch him, he wants his hands all over him, and he wants—
He wants Shanks. All of him, in every way and form.
They reach the peak together just like that, pressing in close and moving together with increasing urgency until the tension breaks, and Shanks surges forward with a gasp. A hot streak splashes onto Mihawk's stomach, and then Shanks jerks the hand between them once, twice, and Mihawk bows up into that touch, riding out the waves of pleasure as he comes undone in turn.
Shanks touches him through it, stroking gently until Mihawk reaches down and takes his wrist to stop him.
"Sorry, got carried away," Shanks says. "Was that too much?"
Mihawk tightens his grip and pulls that hand up, examining it in the dim light. There are old scars scattered across the palm, and more than a few calluses worn from years of hard use. It's a good hand. A swordsman's hand, no doubt about it. But now it's covered in their mess.
"Was that all you wanted from me?" Mihawk says.
Shanks stares at him. "Not even remotely."
Mihawk turns that hand over to brush a thumb over the center of Shanks' palm. "Good," he says. "Because I am not yet finished with you."
Shanks makes a noise like he's been punched in the gut.
"Show me everything. I will not settle for anything less," Mihawk says.
"Anything you want," Shanks says hoarsely.
And he reaches for Mihawk once more.
They continue long into the night, until Mihawk eventually stops counting how many times they come apart together, and instead looks into the future, imagining more of this: Shanks with him, matching blades with him, wanting him and touching him, until the next time he comes along. Again and again, until the end of their days.
And when it's over and Shanks lies asleep, arm thrown over Mihawk's waist, Mihawk drops into an easy slumber.
He does not dream of anything at all.