( mihawk's arrival had been ... unexpected, to say the least. not entirely a surprise, exactly — they're both more than capable of finding each other if they really want to — it's just, well. shanks left a decade or so ago under the impression mihawk wouldn't bother, so he hadn't either. whatever was broken between them they couldn't fix. better to cast the pieces into the sea and sail as far away as possible, better to pretend it meant nothing at all. (shanks still can't say for certain what they actually were or if it ever did mean anything. maybe they were both just lonely. maybe they were both looking for someone else, hoping it wouldn't matter that neither one of them could be someone they aren't.)
the sentiment catches shanks off guard. he'd been prepared to tell mihawk to get lost, to saunter off to his little dinghy of a boat and leave him be — but then mihawk brought him something, the only thing, truthfully, that could soothe his ire: luffy's wanted poster, freshly printed, direct from marine headquarters, no doubt. on any other day, under any other circumstance, the thought of that might have reopened old wounds, might have reawakened the long-forgotten sting of betrayal. instead, it was pride he felt swell up within him, to see luffy finally on his way to fulfilling his dream. the dawn of a new age at last.
and so, they celebrate. there's no sense digging up the past when there's rum to be had. no sense asking mihawk why he felt compelled to bring shanks luffy's wanted poster when the reason doesn't really matter. (it does matter, but they would have to be much more sober to untangle why. mihawk remembered, after all this time. mihawk went out of his way just to deliver a piece of parchment, knowing shanks was washed up somewhere far away from civilization and likely wouldn't have discovered luffy's bounty on his own for another several months. mihawk, rather than do as he was told, let luffy go. with enough alcohol, maybe shanks can drown out the enormity of what that means.)
the problem is: he wants to ask. he wants to ask a million things. why this? why now? what happened to them? where do they go from here? does any of this change anything? does it even matter?
the other problem is: he doesn't know how.
(the elephant in the room is still there, of course. it always has been, looming over shanks like a shroud, endlessly performing its unique balancing act. it's the one thing he's never been able to let go.)
the solution: shanks' hand brushing up mihawk's neck, his palm settling warm against mihawk's cheek, reeling him in until their mouths collide for the first time in years. it's easy to hide behind words, to construct a carefully fortified wall to conceal one's true feelings, but there are always cracks in moments like these: moments of intimacy, vulnerability. shanks only ever thought he knew mihawk when they were separated by nothing other than flesh, mihawk's distinct energy buzzing under his skin and in his head, indecipherable gibberish to anyone less discerning. that much hasn't changed.
the beach, his crew, all of it falls away, the sounds of their raucous celebration becoming distant, muffled, like listening to it through a seashell. warmth radiates from his skin, though he can't tell if it's coming from the sun or the alcohol or the twist of arousal in his belly, stoking the forge of an old flame. in a hush, conspiratorial: )
So, it is true what they say. ( his mouth slopes lopsidedly against mihawk's. ) You do taste better with age.
you never call me when you're sober
the sentiment catches shanks off guard. he'd been prepared to tell mihawk to get lost, to saunter off to his little dinghy of a boat and leave him be — but then mihawk brought him something, the only thing, truthfully, that could soothe his ire: luffy's wanted poster, freshly printed, direct from marine headquarters, no doubt. on any other day, under any other circumstance, the thought of that might have reopened old wounds, might have reawakened the long-forgotten sting of betrayal. instead, it was pride he felt swell up within him, to see luffy finally on his way to fulfilling his dream. the dawn of a new age at last.
and so, they celebrate. there's no sense digging up the past when there's rum to be had. no sense asking mihawk why he felt compelled to bring shanks luffy's wanted poster when the reason doesn't really matter. (it does matter, but they would have to be much more sober to untangle why. mihawk remembered, after all this time. mihawk went out of his way just to deliver a piece of parchment, knowing shanks was washed up somewhere far away from civilization and likely wouldn't have discovered luffy's bounty on his own for another several months. mihawk, rather than do as he was told, let luffy go. with enough alcohol, maybe shanks can drown out the enormity of what that means.)
the problem is: he wants to ask. he wants to ask a million things. why this? why now? what happened to them? where do they go from here? does any of this change anything? does it even matter?
the other problem is: he doesn't know how.
(the elephant in the room is still there, of course. it always has been, looming over shanks like a shroud, endlessly performing its unique balancing act. it's the one thing he's never been able to let go.)
the solution: shanks' hand brushing up mihawk's neck, his palm settling warm against mihawk's cheek, reeling him in until their mouths collide for the first time in years. it's easy to hide behind words, to construct a carefully fortified wall to conceal one's true feelings, but there are always cracks in moments like these: moments of intimacy, vulnerability. shanks only ever thought he knew mihawk when they were separated by nothing other than flesh, mihawk's distinct energy buzzing under his skin and in his head, indecipherable gibberish to anyone less discerning. that much hasn't changed.
the beach, his crew, all of it falls away, the sounds of their raucous celebration becoming distant, muffled, like listening to it through a seashell. warmth radiates from his skin, though he can't tell if it's coming from the sun or the alcohol or the twist of arousal in his belly, stoking the forge of an old flame. in a hush, conspiratorial: )
So, it is true what they say. ( his mouth slopes lopsidedly against mihawk's. ) You do taste better with age.