Shanks remains silent, but he looks at Mihawk through a squinted eye, the other lid closed to the harsh light of the setting sun. He breathes, his chest expanding with the air, and exhales. He rests fully into the earth.
“You’re trying to comfort me,” he says, but he sounds mournful. “How pathetic do I sound that I made Hawkeyes Mihawk try to comfort me? I need a drink.”
Mihawk is likely to agree, but instead, he says, “I am not attempting to comfort you. I am attempting to understand you.”
“So, you’re being selfish?” Shanks asks, grinning. He wears an expression meant to goad Mihawk.
Mihawk astutely looks towards the horizon. “I am,” he confirms with a nod. “I would like to know you.”
It is a confession of Mihawk’s highest caliber. He is not capable of much in terms of speaking what he holds close to his chest, but he knows the simple gesture of knowing someone is intimate.
He does not dare to look at Shanks.
“You already know me,” Shanks says softly, and before Mihawk can interject, he continues, “maybe not everything about me, but you know me. You knew I would be here, in the East, on this island. You knew I didn’t actually want to stop our duels. You knew, when everyone else didn’t, just how deeply I grieved my arm. You know much about me, Mihawk, more so than any man on this earth.”
It is a consolation.
Perhaps it is pathetic, but Mihawk takes it, for any piece of Shanks is rare.
Mihawk always made it a point to never have his back to the door. He didn’t have his back to anyone. Even while he was having a drink at the bar at the Baratie, he had his back to the bar. The bartender wasn’t going to do anything but keep refilling his wine glass. Scars on a swordsman’s back would always be nothing but shame. Mihawk was a man with honor, integrity. Even when the World Government came knocking. Sure, he’d come when called. That was understandable. That was part of his contract. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t take the long way to get there.
As Mihawk sat at the Baratie, his eye constantly darting between the door and the clientele, he started to deeply contemplate life. As he usually did when he had a little wine in him. He didn’t intend on getting wasted. He was better than that. A bit more refined than that. Mihawk knew when he had enough. Mihawk knew when to stop. He had a rule. Four glasses of wine or two of something dark; rum, whiskey, scotch. After that, he was done. He would be pleasantly buzzed, but not falling over on himself. That was fine with him.
Still, Mihawk thought about what could’ve been. What could’ve been if he had declined the offer of becoming a Warlord. What could’ve happened if Zoro had defeated him at that very locale. What could’ve happened if…That was a rabbit hole he was not nearly drunk enough to fall down. When matters of the heart stirred in his chest, Mihawk needed to be back at Kuraigana Castle for that. And plastered. Those would be the nights when Mihawk would throw caution to the wind, empty his cellar, and wake up with no recollection of how he got to bed and a nagging feeling he needed to apologize to Perona.
However, Mihawk finished his third glass of wine and started to feel strange. He didn’t think he’d feel so strange after only three glasses. Four was his limit and even then, he wouldn’t be overly drunk. It made him wonder if his tolerance had slipped. Until he saw the chalky residue at the bottom of his glass. He didn’t think much of it. If Mihawk couldn’t tolerate a little poison, then he would’ve been dead years ago. Poison was a coward’s way. But Mihawk scratched his head, wondering how he could’ve been poisoned. He had his drink the whole time.
Regardless, Mihawk wasn’t going to fall so easily. Instead, he turned to the bartender and slid his glass across the wood top, “I think I’ll call it for the evening. Thank you.”
And in the next breath, Mihawk was hooded and sucker punched right in his stomach. In that moment, he could’ve thrown up, but whatever was in the bottom of his wine glass had taken full effect. The delay lured him into a false sense of security. He could feel Yoru being taken off his back. He could feel his dagger being taken from around his neck. Quickly, Mihawk was entirely disarmed. And in that moment, Mihawk felt naked. He could still feel his clothes on, but he was naked. No matter how much he tried to swing for a punch, nothing was connecting. He could hear Zeff barking at whoever woke up that morning choosing violence, but Mihawk’s body grew heavier with every passing moment. And he fell to the ground.
By the time he woke up again, Mihawk felt cold cement under him. He had no idea how long he had been out for. Moments? Hours? Days? His head sat like an anvil on his shoulders and his stomach felt like a hive of bees had settled in. He wanted nothing more than just a simple glass of water, but given the nature of how the night ended, he doubted any kind of hospitality.
“So…” a voice thundered from the doorway, “This is what he treasures so much…”
Mihawk knew that voice had to be talking about Yoru. No one cared for Mihawk. Mihawk barely cared for Mihawk. The World Government only cared about Mihawk when he was doing something for them. The Cross Guild wasn’t much different. To even think of Crocodile and Buggy like anything remotely resembling family was absurd. They were a collective powder keg and nothing more than that. Even Perona or Zoro was a stretch. The only reason Zoro would think about coming after Mihawk was his own selfish desires. After that, no one would come for Mihawk. He was a loner for a reason. Which meant something Mihawk really didn’t want to think about.
Someone else was defiling Yoru. Certain things in this world were sacred. Yoru was one of them. Yoru was definitely one of them. No one wielded Yoru but Mihawk. Yoru. Was. Sacred. That was enough to get Mihawk to start rattling his chains. Regardless of his limited energy supply, he wouldn’t stand for something so crass.
“And look at that,” the jeers continued, “You’re awake.”
“Get your hands off her…” Mihawk growled, still feeling unnecessarily heavy. Was it the chains? Was it the hangover? He didn’t know. And as long as Yoru was in someone else’s hands, he didn’t care.
“Her who?” the man wondered, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Yoru…” Mihawk bared his teeth, “Get your hands off my sword.”
“Your sword…?” the man stayed back in the shadows. Sure, Mihawk may have been a bit incapacitated at the moment, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still Dracule Mihawk. That was like standing next to a cage with a sedated bear in it. Just because the bear was sedated didn’t mean that sedative couldn’t wear off. Just because the bear was caged didn’t mean it couldn’t tear through the bars, “You thought I was talking about your little toys? No, no, no. That’s not what I meant at all.”
“What else could you be talking about?” Mihawk snapped, “Show yourself!”
“If you insist,” the man came into view a little better. And Mihawk’s heart sunk to his feet. He knew that face. Chiseled features, pretty eyes, fire red hair, “Dracule Mihawk, yes?”
“Yes,” Mihawk tried to hold himself together, but when that face was looking back at him in a much more regal packaging…Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
“Look at you…” a hand poked through the bars of Mihawk’s cage, grasping tight at Mihawk’s jaw. A strong left hand, “You are a pretty one. I’ll give you that. Now, let’s see if you’re enough to get him out of his hole.”
“Shan…” Mihawk stopped himself. He knew what this was. He was being used as bait. But to what end? He looked like…Like him. But there was one thing missing. Or in this case, there was one thing not missing. And that wasn’t a prosthetic, “Who are you?”
“What do you mean, dear?” the man awed, “You know exactly who I am.”
“No, I don’t,” Mihawk snarled, “Clearly, you’re trying to play off as Shanks. But you are not Shanks. He has half the arms, but he’s twice the man. What do you want with me?”
The man just smirked, throwing Mihawk back down to the floor, “I want to get my little brother out to play…”
Shanks doesn’t know how he got here, lying on his back on the soft grass and Mihawk riding him with abandon.
tags under the cut
Additional Tags: Trans Dracule Mihawk, Love Confessions, Vaginal Sex, Top Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks, Bottom Dracule Mihawk, Bottoming from the Top
relationship: mihawk/shanks
tags: blood, knives, swords, delayed gratification, top!mihawk, bottom!shanks (+read rest of the tags on ao3)
summary
“My eyes are up here.”
Mihawk does not roll his eyes, but it is a near thing. “Yes, but that is not where your sword is.” He keens his neck for further emphasis on the way Gryphon’s flat edge threatens to bruise his skin.
Shanks stares unblinkingly at him, then allows his gaze to flicker down just below the waistline of his trousers. “My sword isn’t there either.”
Mihawk concedes.
