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SHANKS

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[redforce]

( it isn't hard to find him, if one pays the slightest bit of attention to his habits, which generally involve alcohol in some form or another. set knows this about him better than anyone else in the house, probably, aside from the straw hats — but even they don't fully understand why, or how much, or how frequently. there are some things they're better off not knowing. understanding who shanks is or how he copes isn't something they need to worry themselves with, especially not with so much else going on. (that hasn't ever stopped koby from trying, nor has it stopped shanks from letting him, but that's just how they are.)

so it isn't a surprise when set eventually joins him in the wine cellar — an inevitability, more than anything. that's how they are, always drawn back to one another, always seeking each other out to share these private moments, vulnerable moments.

he tips his head into the gesture, closing his eyes briefly to center himself against the weight of each point of contact, realigning himself toward the blazing red sea he knows should be there, now only an afterimage burned into his mind. when he opens his eyes, he lists forward with a familiar lazy-tipsy-coy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, his hand slipping across set's waist and up the length of his spine. )

Missed me that much? ( an easy deflection as much as it is a half-hearted attempt to mask why he's once again turned to the bottle. why it's easier to reach for liquor first than for flesh and blood. without waiting for an answer, he presses a slow, indulgent kiss to set's lips, savoring the taste like he would a particularly fine vintage. eventually, he pulls back, his voice softer, more earnest. grateful. relieved, to not not be alone. to not have to shoulder this on his own like he always has. to not have to be the strong one for a little while. to know he can let the grief sink into his bones and he won't drown, not as long as set is holding him, keeping him afloat. ) I knew you'd come find me.

[redsoil]

The house whispers of deaths.

[ The staff. The Balfours he has befriended so openly, defiant of any perceived antagonism between their existence as host, and his as guest. There is always a murmur to be heard, news of sex and death and revelry and other scandalous subject, if only one listens and observes. Set, for all his cajoling and bright-manic behavior, is someone who hovers — patient, collecting and collating, for whatever end he may need such information for. Like now, where he can simply locate his fae-bound partner and know what has transpired. The death of someone he cares for. ( Thankfully, Set considers with the elevated, inhuman attribute of his divine mind, it is not Koby or Nami who has met an end. The damage to Shanks would be far greater, in that case. )

He tucks a strand of the man's hair behind his ear, and does not urge him to ignore the bottle he is forced to set aside in order to touch the wargod. Instead, he curls his fingers along his rough jaw, incapable of hiding the brief wrinkle of his nose as he feels the abhorrent!! beard growth there. Even still, not a word of complaint leaves him, as he closes his own eyes and pushes the full of his mouth to Shank's own, to his cheek. With delicate pressure, precision befitting someone marketed as a brute, but hiding such elegant depths. ]

I knew you would have need of finding. I hear one of your dear friends is dead, now. The details elude me, but Nami and her green-haired brute have no need of my company. Not the way you, or even Koby, might. [ Because Namizorosanji hate Set. <3 Koby and Shanks do not. ] Is it louder than you can bear, again?