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He’s only doing this because he’s drunk, Mihawk reasons. He only ever does this when he’s drunk.
There are two kinds of drunk, in his experience. The first is the quiet, buzzy kind of warmth that comes with a nice Ghaldean red, a book, and a ghost island with no one else around for miles. He’s not a hedonist. He knows his limits. He knows what he likes, and what he doesn’t. There’s not a lot more room for growth or self-reflection in that department.
But then there’s the second kind of drunk - and somehow it always seems to happen around Shanks.
Shanks and his stupid “one more drink!” Shanks and his stupid, grinning face, holding out a bottle of sake with a dopey grin and challenging him to another round.
For some reason, Mihawk can’t say no to Shanks.
It’s the seventh of May, and the island they’re on is another ghost island, one that no Log Pose will point to. Shanks and his crew have set up a temporary hideout here, presumably to hide, but you sure wouldn’t be able to tell, with the way that they’re all carrying on.
This is their first time meeting Mihawk in person, for many of them. Half of them seem caught between star-struck and terrified, what with the stories they’ve all heard about him carving ships into pieces and sinking entire navies. The other half seem grimly determined to accept his presence and go on about their day as if he’s just another pirate. But they all twitch at his every move, as if they’re trying to prove that they’re not scared of him or anything, trying to convince themselves that they can protect their captain from him if they really have to.
Shanks is the only one who is completely, infuriatingly oblivious to all of this. He orders his men to bring out the reserve booze, and then, because there is booze, there must naturally be singing. And because there is singing, of course there has to be a bonfire, especially once it gets dark.
Normally, ghost islands are ghost islands because there is something deeply wrong about them underneath the surface. And sure enough, on this one, it’s because the sky splits open at night and fills with glowing blue fireflies that shatter and explode when touched.
They also, incidentally, explode as soon as they come into any contact with warm air. Which then, of course, results in a nice show as long as you are sitting safely within the circle of the bonfire’s heat. If you don’t mind getting bug juice all over your food and your clothes.
Mihawk discovers the original purpose of the cave - as a place to hide once the air fills with deadly insects. At the same time, he discovers that he does not enjoy the sight of spectacular mini glowing fireworks when he knows that they’re made up of bug-splatter.
Shanks pulls him deeper into the cave, laughing at him the entire way. Mihawk is well into the second-type-of-drunk category by now, so he doesn’t cut Shanks up after his fifteenth “Mihawk is a princess and is squeamish around bugs” joke. They’re not even funny jokes. Shanks just keeps making them, and then laughing his head off.
This is ostensibly supposed to be a tour, but Mihawk has no idea why Shanks would think that a hideout cave home to about forty unwashed, unkempt, lawless pirates is worth a tour. It’s not like this is a grand palace or anything. There can’t be anything here worth seeing that he hasn’t already seen on a thousand ships before. Bunk beds, hammocks, common areas. Cards from card decks spilled all across the floor, maps spread out on tables, unlit lanterns, and piles of books.
Fine, it’s not as awful as he expected it would be. Especially after Shanks opens a secret doorway cut into the rock and reveals an entire interior chamber, carved out of the stone, cut into patterned hexagonal shapes by some animal or creature. The entirety of the chamber is lit with a soft blue glow that comes from tiny blue ovals that fill the walls like jewels.
Which, then, of course, explains the mystery of the ghost island. It’s not an island, it’s a hive.
“Look, but don’t touch,” Shanks whispers, watching Mihawk gleefully. “The last time someone touched one of these eggs, they ended up sick for a week.”
“I am not going to touch that,” Mihawk says dryly. “I’m not stupid.”
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Shanks asks, still watching him.
Mihawk pinches the bridge of his nose, between his brows. “And you decided to shack up right next to them, for some reason?”
“Ah - ah - you would think so. But you see -” Shanks starts to explain, before Mihawk grabs him and kisses him.
In his defense, he is drunk, and he only ever does this when he’s drunk. Also, in his defense, Shanks almost immediately collapses back into the doorway, dragging Mihawk with him.
The kiss is wet and a little sloppy, because Shanks only ever gets drunk in a very specific kind of way. The kind that leaves you stumbling and half-blind, with a killer hangover the next morning.
Mihawk knows, because he’s seen it so many times that he’s lost count.
Shanks hooks his arm around Mihawk's neck. His hand slides up into his hair, almost knocking off his hat. Mihawk just barely saves it, before Shanks breaks off the kiss with a sharp, desperate gasp.
“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore,” he says.
Mihawk pulls back to look at him. Shanks meets his eyes, looking flushed all the way down to his chest, his mouth soft, his cheeks red. He looks wrecked, and Mihawk hasn’t even done anything to him yet.
“You’re the one who dragged me down here,” Mihawk says.
Shanks feels bonfire-warm against him. He always runs a little too warm, which is why Mihawk suspects he’s never seen Shanks in winter clothes. No, with him, it’s always shirts with unbuttoned collars, open vests, or nothing at all.
“It was just an invitation,” Shanks says, before leaning back against the wall to make an offering of himself, “I didn’t expect you to say yes.”
Mihawk crowds against him, his blood singing hot in his veins.
Yeah, right. When has Mihawk ever not said yes?
He puts his hands around Shanks’ waist, greedy for skin. The loose fabric of the white shirt comes away easily. Shanks shudders at the first hit of cold air against his stomach.
“Then don’t complain,” Mihawk says.
“I’m not.” Shanks pulls at him, wanting more skin contact, but Mihawk is too busy pulling at the drawstring of his pants.
Shanks hisses at him, then yanks him away from the doorway.
“Not here,” he says, and then leads him into a different room. A more private one, the captain's quarters, most likely. They won’t be disturbed here.
“Do the others know?” Mihawk asks, curious, watching the way Shanks’ red hair clings to the back of his neck.
When they were younger, Shanks had grown it out once, as an experiment. It hadn’t lasted long - not very practical for fights, not when you’re a wanted man. Mihawk had convinced him to cut it short again, back then, but sometimes he wishes he hadn’t.
Shanks laughs, “About you? No.”
“No, about you.” When they get to the bed, Mihawk loses his patience and grabs Shanks by the arm. They go crashing down on the bed, with Mihawk’s arm making a cage around Shanks’ midsection.
Shanks makes a sound, alarmed, when Mihawk drops a threatening kiss against his shoulder. It’s followed by a hint of teeth.
“Yeah,” Shanks gasps out. “Some of them do.” And then he moans, low and vulnerable, when Mihawk bites down in a fit of irrational jealousy.
He is able to get away with it for only a moment, though, before Shanks flinches and nearly breaks his nose with an elbow.
“Fuck! Hawkeye, what was that for?”
Mihawk grabs the arm that had gotten free and slams it back down onto the bed. They struggle for a moment, but it’s not much of a contest. Without haki, Mihawk wins ten duels out of ten. And without an arm, Shanks has no leverage. It doesn’t help that Shanks is loving this, squirming against Mihawk only to be held down harder.
Mihawk leans down, pressing a kiss against the back of his neck. It doesn’t help that Shanks goes weak every time he does this, either.
“You deserved that,” he says, unsympathetic. “You’ve been winding me up all night. You knew this was coming.”
Shanks tilts his head, meeting him halfway into a kiss that turns surprisingly sweet.
His mouth opens a little, soft and willing. Sometimes, Mihawk wishes that Shanks would put up a bit more of a fight. He shouldn’t let Mihawk just come here and take advantage of him like this.
“I never know, with you,” he says.
He turns over, their brief contest forgotten, and pulls Mihawk into another kiss.
If it were up to him, Mihawk would have set down rules. Boundaries. Guidelines. Things like “no kissing” or “no looking at me like that”. If they’re both here just to fuck each other senseless, then there should be no need for lingering touches or sweet kisses.
But this is always what gets him, about Shanks.
With Shanks, there are no rules. No guidebook. Just the two of them, fumbling around by instinct.
If it were up to him, Shanks would be naked and spread open around his fingers by now, writhing against the sheets, unable to speak. If it were up to him, the whole thing would be a silent affair, an agreement they’d come to over a shared look over the fire, with none of this stupid banter.
But he doesn’t always get what he wants, with Shanks. Instead, he gets a loudmouth, sweet-talking bastard. A bastard who whines loudly when Mihawk stops kissing him, and says his name under his breath like it’s a curse.
If they were capable of doing things properly, their clothes would be folded neatly on a nearby chair or table, instead of thrown haphazardly on the floor, or still caught on limbs, creating a messy tangle. If Shanks would just shut up and slow down, Mihawk could be railing into him by now, instead of covering his mouth, telling him not to be so loud.
Shanks, especially Shanks when he’s drunk, is both reckless and impatient. Instead of waiting for Mihawk to get properly settled on the bed, he gets his hand on Mihawk’s cock as soon as it’s free. Mihawk growls at him in frustration, but Shanks is too busy dragging his palm against the underside of his cock, his eyes bright and fascinated.
A pulse of wild heat thrums through him, almost like a blow, and it’s not fair. Mihawk is not some inexperienced cabin boy fumbling around in the dark for the first time. He isn’t new at this, and he isn’t that easily manipulated. But he can’t help but be a bit disarmed by the way Shanks smiles up at him, giddy and drunk.
“Hawkeye,” he says, “are you gonna give me a hand or not?”
“Don’t,” Mihawk warns, but it’s too late. Shanks has dissolved into giggles, which makes him even harder to pin down, especially when a Mihawk is already trying to cover up his mouth.
“Get it?”
“No,” Mihawk snarls, and in a fit of frustration, finally gets his hand around Shanks’ cock.
“I can explain,” Shanks gasps, still laughing. “It’s beca - ah - ah -”
Mihawk buries his face in Shanks’ shoulder, so that he doesn’t have to look at him. The shoulder that cuts off, several inches beneath the socket, into a scarred, healed-over stump.
“Shut up,” he says bitterly. Sometimes, he thinks he mourns the loss of Shanks’ arm more than Shanks ever did.
Something had changed out there, in the East Blue. Shanks had come back as a different man, and it wasn’t just because of the missing arm. Mihawk had confirmed it, after a few halfhearted duels. His ability with the sword was still there, just forever limited by the missing limb. Instead, something else had taken its place.
He had come back with a quiet sense of purpose, and Mihawk had lost his.
Mihawk had thought, after meeting the boy in the straw hat in East Blue, that he had finally figured out why. But now, he is no longer so sure.
“Hawkeye,” there's a kiss pressed against his temple, and Mihawk squeezes his eyes shut. This would have been another one of his rules. A subcategory or corollary to the “no kissing” rule. But it’s too late now, anyway.
“What?”
“C’mere,” Shanks coaxes, oddly gentle. “Look at me.”
Mihawk drags himself up to give Shanks an annoyed, accusatory look. Or at least, he tries to, before he feels Shanks’ fingers against the side of his face, tracing a line down from his temple to his jaw.
His heart nearly stops. There’s a reason why, out of all the rules he’d have to come up with and enforce if he had it his way, “don’t look at me like that” would be at the top of the list.
“How do you want me?” Shanks asks, partly as an apology.
“Just like this,” Mihawk replies immediately.
He finally manages to pull the rest of Shanks’ clothes off of his unresisting body. The rest comes easily. This is familiar territory. He knows where to touch, and where to press. There is a map, here, where the guide posts are sounds and sensations.
When Shanks hooks an arm around his neck and buries face in Mihawk’s shoulder, and nods, Mihawk tries to go slow. He really does. Shanks is not a delicate man, neither of them really are. But sometimes, when the moment gets too intense, it’s Shanks who looks away.
This is the part that’s always blessedly silent. No words, just unformed gasps and strained breaths as Mihawk slowly works Shanks open.
Shanks shudders through the first few thrusts, his hand gripping the back of Mihawk’s shirt. Then, deliberately, he relaxes.
A better man would have given him time to adjust. Would have spent more time warming him up, making sure he was comfortable. Would have praised him for doing so well. Mihawk merely grits his teeth and bears down on him, harder, until Shanks gasps in surrender and opens up completely for him. His hips twitch reflexively in an effort to get away, but Mihawk has his hands on them now. There’s no way out.
Mihawk prefers it rough, and mindless. There’s no point in thinking about why they’re here. If they’re already here, then there’s no point in hesitating about it either.
Which is why he is fucking into Shanks gently, of all things, rocking into him slow and steady, only going faster once Shanks shifts impatiently against him. He watches, riveted, as Shanks arcs back against the mattress and loses his sanity by degrees. Around his cock, Shanks’ body ratchets tighter and tighter, until Mihawk is nearly shoving him against the bed with each thrust, stopped only by the arm Shanks has against the wall.
This isn’t perfect, but it’s close to it. The only sounds Shanks is letting out are low, broken-off moans. If he pushes hard enough, and just right, he can get Shanks’ voice to crack, which does insane things to his ego.
These are the only times that Mihawk lets himself look at Shanks - to really look, and take him in.
Most people probably see Shanks and see a pirate, a hard man, lawless, with three scars over his left eye and a missing arm. Not a peaceful man, more prone to laughter than violence, too soft-hearted for his own good, too trusting and vulnerable in front of someone he should have considered an enemy.
Like this, Shanks is spread out in front of him, completely open like a book. He rocks back against Mihawk with a frantic kind of urgency, eyes squeezed shut as if he can hide his thoughts. He had probably never expected to see Mihawk again. He probably hadn’t even allowed himself to hope.
After all, it had always been Mihawk seeking him out, in the past, looking for a duel. And now, he had no reason to. Or, rather, no excuse.
Mihawk has a vivre card tucked into one of his coat pockets, but Shanks has nothing of his.
Beneath him, Shanks hooks a leg around his hip and tries to drag him even closer. Mihawk gives in, leaning down over him, shifting his weight into his arms so that Shanks doesn’t have to bear his full weight. The new position makes him groan. It feels like Shanks is reeling him in, forcing him to sink further and further into his tight, wet heat. His hand at Shanks’ neck comes away damp. Everything around him stinks of booze and sweat and sex.
Normally, he would hate this. Normally, he’d consider it pointless and disgusting and demeaning. Normally, he’d consider it a loss of control.
But Mihawk is drunk, he reasons. He only ever does this when he’s drunk.
So he buries his hands in Shanks’ hair, and fucks into him mindlessly, and mouths a wet stripe against his neck and bites into his ear, then kisses the resulting wild groan out of his mouth until Shanks is writhing against him, desperate for air. He wraps his hand around Shanks’ cock and grinds their hips together, chasing the little shivers of sensation that run up his spine, into the back of his throat, the top of his head. His tongue feels useless and heavy in his mouth, which is a good thing, because then he won’t say anything that he might later regret. Shanks is already embarrassing enough for the both of them, with the sounds he’s making, soft and broken-open and vulnerable. Mihawk will never, ever let anyone else see Shanks like this, because what will happen to him then? He’d be kidnapped and sold like a slave, no matter how many crew members he had willing to protect him with their lives.
There’s a reason why Mihawk doesn’t consider himself a good man, and part of the reason is this: he hears, in between gasps, soft pleas for him to slow down, to go easy, that it’s too much, too fast. And instead he buries his face into sweaty red hair and starts to thrust in even harder.
Eventually, even Shanks forgets how to be loud. His arm gives out, and Mihawk has to cover the top of his head with a hand before it crashes into the wall. He doesn’t slow down, though. If anything, he just tightens his grip and speeds up.
There’s usually no warning, before Shanks comes. He usually has to be fucked into incoherence before it happens, but after that, he becomes totally obedient. Mihawk can do anything he wants, when Shanks is like this. A part of him suspects, deep down, that if he could open his mouth and issue an order, Shanks would actually follow it. Which is another reason why Mihawk, even half out of his mind, prefers silence.
This time, Mihawk barely manages it. He is so wrapped up in Shanks that he can barely even tell where he begins and Shanks ends. At some point, he and Shanks have even started holding hands, their fingers intertwined messily above his head. There’s a heat building up inside him that threatens to destroy him if it is fed with any more oxygen.
His throat works, his Adam's apple bobbing, his mouth opening. And distantly, Mihawk realizes that if he doesn't stop now, he is probably going to say something.
So he muffles his words blindly against the side of Shanks’ neck, and feels Shanks shudder and convulse against him. In the end, even that isn’t enough, so Mihawk bites down against his collarbone, and eventually whites out.
When he comes to, Shanks is cradling his head against his chest, playing with his hair, and humming an old, familiar tune.
Binks Sake. Of course. It wasn’t like any other pirate song existed in the world. Or if there was, you wouldn’t know it, given how popular this one was.
Mihawk struggles briefly with himself before deciding to give in and relax. If he tries to leave now, when Shanks is in such a good mood, Shanks will probably sulk about it for weeks. Not that Mihawk would be around to see most of it anyway, but still. He’s not a gentleman, but at least he knows how to act like one.
He does, however, bat at Shanks’ hand once Shanks starts pulling on his ear.
“Stop,” he says.
Shanks pauses for a moment, and then deliberately tugs at his ear again.
“You didn’t stop when I asked you to,” he says petulantly. Mihawk glares at him briefly, before Shanks covers his eyes with his feathered hat, plopping it over his head.
Mihawk pushes his hat back, then realizes that Shanks is grinning at him with no hard feelings at all.
“You asked for it,” he says half heartedly, before pulling himself up into one elbow, looking down at Shanks.
Now that Shanks no longer has easy access to his hair, he steals back Mihawk’s hat and starts playing with the feathers on it instead.
“So,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Where are you headed to next? Found anyone else interesting enough to fight?”
Mihawk snatches the hat out of Shanks’ hands with a flick of his fingers. “No,” he says.
“No one else is promising?” Shanks asks, smiling. “With the number of pirates entering the Grand Line, I thought for sure you’d have found somebody else to fight by now. There must be scores of them every year.”
Mihawk scoffs. His mind flashes back to the green-haired Roronoa Zoro, bleeding out on the deck of the Baratie. But that was one exception, out of the whole lot. The pirates entering the Grand Line by now were all too young to have heard Gold Roger’s words at Loguetown. Just kids, really, chasing after stories. Almost none of them had shown any promise.
And they were all too scared of him, anyway, now that he had become one of those stories.
“Not all pirates are like you, Shanks.”
“Really?” Shanks’ grin widens. “Is that a compliment, Hawkeye?”
“Shut up.”
Mihawk chucks his hat at Shanks’ face, who catches it just in time and puts it on. It looks ridiculous on him, but Mihawk doesn’t look away. For some reason, it puts him in a good mood instead.
“What are you even doing nowadays? Other than working for the navy?”
“I don’t work for the navy,” Mihawk says lazily, watching the feather on his hat sway in the air. “I’m a pirate.”
“You still work for them, though.”
Mihawk eyes him, “They’re not as fun to fight as pirates are.”
Shanks settles back against the bed, sighing. Mihawk’s hat tips over until it’s covering his eyes.
“One day, you’ll realize that the people in the navy are just like all the other guys you fight out there.”
“Sure they are,” Mihawk says easily. “But the point remains.”
Shanks doesn’t reply for a moment. Like this, it’s like he has his old straw hat back. He had always liked hiding under it when it was too hot out, or if he was too lazy, or if he was thinking too hard and didn’t want anybody else to know.
“You should join my crew,” he says.
Mihawk freezes.
It’s not like he hasn’t considered it before. It’s not like Shanks hasn’t thought about it before, with how transparent the guy is. But it’s the first time either of them have said it aloud.
“Me? Work under you?” He’s not even sure that he heard it right. “Why should I?”
Shanks peeks up at him underneath the brim of his hat, his lips pressed together into a tight line. “Only if you want to,” he offers.
Mihawk stays silent for a long while.
“What about you?” he asks finally. “Aren’t you tired of it? Living out here in the New World, having to fight Kaido and Big Mom all the time?”
“There’s still something I have to do here.”
“What is it?”
Shanks hesitates, looking conflicted.
Mihawk feels a rush of betrayal. Instantly, he knows that he shouldn’t have asked.
What does Shanks need to do here that is so important that he is willing to throw away his arm, his pride, and his life?
Sailing these seas, fighting anyone who enters this territory, but never expanding it. It’s almost like he’s waiting for something. Maybe it’s one of the kids he keeps talking about, this new promised generation or whatever. Maybe he’s waiting for enough pirates to enter the Grand Line, or for the World Government to change some policy. Maybe he’s waiting for someone to die, or for the era to change.
But whatever it is, Mihawk isn’t even sure if it’ll ever happen, and if Shanks isn’t willing to tell him, then maybe he isn’t so sure either.
Fine, then. If Shanks wants to hide away on a ghost island, fight his little guerilla war and wait, he can. Mihawk is not willing to swear his life to a man that can’t even button up his own shirt properly.
“Forget it,” Shanks says, quiet. “It’s not fair to ask that of you. Forget I asked.”
Mihawk lets out a breath, and tries not to let any emotion show.
This is the other thing about Shanks. He’ll never push when it comes to things like this. Mihawk wouldn’t be able to say no to him if he asks, and so Shanks just never asks.
“That’s a bad habit,” Mihawk says, his voice clipped. “Asking random people to join your crew when you have no idea what their intentions are.”
Shanks looks over at him, and then bites down a smile.
“Oh Hawkeye,” he says. “You’re not half as mysterious as you think you are.”
Mihawk, who is seriously considering the merits of leaving without another word and throwing his vivre card into the ocean, hums disbelievingly.
“One day, I’ll tell you,” Shanks says, which immediately scuppers Mihawk’s plans to throw his vivre card into the sea. “I promise. Can you wait until then?”
Something in his voice, a thin thread of uncertainty, makes Mihawk sigh and lay back down on the bed, tugging Shanks closer until his head is resting on his shoulder.
“Fine,” he says, suddenly feeling a wave of tiredness wash over him. “Have it your way.”
Shanks mumbles something into his shoulder, something insulting or something grateful, Mihawk doesn’t know. Eventually, the alcohol wears off, and with it, the sense of reckless danger.
Mihawk watches the shadows play out against the ceiling of the room, thinking. He doesn’t know if either of them will make it to that day. They’re pirates after all, and there are no guarantees. There are larger forces at play here, and Shanks is just one cog caught up in all of that machinery.
He is a lot of things now: Emperor of the Sea, captain of the Red-Hair pirates, the defender of that final stretch of territory in the Grand Line. A man that everyone listens to, from Yonko to marine admirals to even the upper echelons of the World Government. But he isn’t free.
There is something chaining him down here, and Mihawk won't be the one to break him out of it. He doesn’t even know where to start.
But he finally falls asleep, he can’t help but dream. And what he dreams of is a rising sun, breaking just over the horizon of a dark, dark sea.