the act does not bother dragon, nor does shanks pretending not to know him. because it's true, he doesn't know him—not any more than anyone who lives in the world and reads the news does. the revolutionary does not expect to be met with blown-wide eyes and teary gratitude. he was a little thing, small enough to fit under his arm along the slim length of a war rifle. certainly not old enough to possess any awareness of the carnage going on around him, nor the evil that took his mother, that took his brother, and perhaps telling him now would be a new kind of cruelty. uncharacteristically, dragon hesitates. it's been a long time since he allowed himself that luxury. the scar in his shoulder aches with the memory of his failure.
‘no, it's just—’ silver eyes narrow as they lock with the emperor's. what good is there in telling him now? the shame can't be washed clean, and the truth cannot give shanks back what he lost. it wouldn't change anything. i wasn't strong enough to save your brother then, but i am strong enough to save the world now. the tail of his cape flutters with a faint breath of wind, pulled loosed at the tip of dragon's fingertips. there's no mistaking the striking red hair. dragon's stare shifts imperceptibly somewhere beyond shanks, peeking into the flash of past he carries with him. the memory of god valley sears into him until he smells the smoke. there's no need to burden shanks with that knowledge. ‘we have met before, though you cannot possibly remember me. you were just an infant.’
Shanks’ grin doesn't falter. It never does, not when the sky splits open when he clashes with Whitebeard or when a blade kisses his throat in past encounters with Mihawk. But inside his chest, something lurches like the silver crescent brought down as it beheaded the man he had come to associate as the closest thing to a father back in Loguetown when he was fifteen and naive of the ways of the world and piracy.
An infant. The word lands heavier than any discomfort that seizes his innards after one of his usual hangovers. His head feels noticeably heavier, the throbbing sensation both achingly familiar and nauseatingly unwelcome as his Adam’s apple attempted to swallow the bile that refused to be stifled.
God Valley. The name has always been a bruise he never pressed; Roger’s crew had spoken of it in hushed tones whenever they spoke of his origins, the way sailors talk about spooks and imaginary ghosts anytime he swabbed the decks as an apprentice, clamming up anytime they noticed him within earshot. Shanks had been there? Found in that treasure chest...and possibly saved by Monkey D. Dragon of all people?
Never before has he questioned his past, yet, this is the second instance that’s made him wonder why destiny mercilessly chooses to tangle itself so intrinsically to his. He’s always opposed the notion of his origins, vehemently so. Yet, Shamrock had little qualms with turning his world upside down as he tried dragging him to his rightful place in Mary Geoise when he was a young captain, still so green and impressionable and whole. Back when his face was a spitting image of his elder brother, instead of this crippled excuse of a yonko with his scarred eyelid and missing arm.
The thought is absurd. The thought is terrifying.
He wants to laugh. He wants to demand every detail–what happened there, had his mother also been a redhead, was she still alive and out there somewhere, why was it him and not Shamrock who got saved. His fingers faintly twitch toward the nonexistent bottle at his hip, needing the burn of sake to steady the sudden tremor in his gut. He can’t stomach this conversation otherwise.
But his face stays easy, lazy, the same half-lidded grin he’s worn since he was eight and bluffing admirals as he wore Roger’s captain hat as it drooped low, the frayed ruby edge slipping over his brow and partially obscuring his crimson, mischievous eyes as he shoved another bar of chocolate that he’d stolen from Buggy’s stash down his throat as he sat on their opponents’ corpses.
“...An infant, huh?” he drawls, tipping his head just enough for scarlet strands to spill across his brow. Shanks scratched at his stubble, the gesture casual, before allowing his fingers to linger near the hilt of Gryphon. “Guess that explains why I don’t remember. You always this generous with strays you pick up in the army, Dragon, or was I special?”
