Mihawk Spends The Late Half Of His Twenties Running From His Own Happiness - Blog Posts

"You love me," he jokes.

"I do," Mihawk doesn't joke in general.

Shanks gags around the accidental mouthful of jerky, desperately trying to push it down. Or up. Mihawk doesn't look up, in fact, doesn't budge at all, eyes stuck to the same word in the line.

"The—" Shanks wheezes. Shanks chokes and coughs and wiggles like a dying roach before spitting the sorry chunk out and rasping "the fuck you do" with teary eyes.

It sounds offended. A little bit hurt, metaphorically and literally. Mihawk pulls his knees up to his chest, shuts the book closed between them and clutches freezing fingers into tight fists. Then, folds his arms too for a good measure, as Shanks slides across the crow's nest in one hurried effort. It's a mere few seconds of wailing, creaking and yelping in a small space between the railings before the book he was reading tumbles down, down, down, and Shanks pulls himself up, up, up, squeezing in between Mihawk's thighs. It looks fucking scary. It feels fucking scary, with everything swaying and moaning around them from the sudden commotion and Mihawk hears a splash as he desperately clings to Shanks' collar, body pushed into awkward angles beneath the weight of another.

"What is wrong with you?!"

Shanks has that face on, one of mad childlike stubbornness, with pouting frown and searching eyes, and the wind is oh so harsh against Mihawk's back. He doesn't know what to do, every muscle very much frozen in something akin to animalistic panic. Shanks pushes for both of them, forehead pressing into his with skull-cracking force.

"Say it again."

"No."

"Captain's order."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You're on my ship."

"That's not—"

Hands let go of the railing and touch his chin. No, cup. Hold between two palms, fingers brushing loose hair away, shaking, begging. "Mihawk, please."

Mihawk pulls the collar and bites into the sodden mouth. Hard enough to make the dry lip pop with blood, not hard enough for the bastard to let go. He keens instead, scooting in closer, so much that his knees slide almost entirely under Mihawk's behind and tip him over. There's a moment of cold fear and hearts dropping as Mihawk's head and hat fall between the spindles and someone shrieks "what the hell is going on up there" from the deck.

"Got it! Nothing!" Shanks wheezes, yanking Mihawk on top of himself, slapping a cheek to the bare chest. A few heartbeats later, a sheepish confirmation comes. "Got it?"

Mihawk squeezes his thighs and nods with a gulp, fingers stupidly not letting go of the hat's brim.

God, help them all.

The wind blows and blows, the breaths get slower, the tense muscles grow tired, and Mihawk feels himself slouch. Shanks rubs his ear slowly, almost as surprised at the loss of contact, and blinks up — all blood and snot and dried tears Mihawk rolls his eyes at.

"You're a pig of a man," he sighs, not sounding half as annoyed as he intended, not half as disgusted as he should be, wiping the scrunched face with a sleeve.

"Let me try," the captain whispers, and Mihawk waits for him to push his arm away, confused, but lips meet lips in a gentle press again and, oh, oh Shanks definitely tries.

Mihawk laughs into his face, into his neck, elbows finding rest on his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist in surrender. He cradles the heavy red head as the man, the boy, runs the last of his quiet tears into his shirt.

"I'm so fucking tired of you."

"You're too young to be tired of anything, Red."

Shanks pulls away and slumps back, running palms along Mihawk's lost in the air forearms, holding his wrists gently. Not slim enough for the ring of fingers to connect around them, not firm enough to be meant for holding.

"I can't promise you anything," he tries once more, staring empty at the thumbs caressing him.

Shanks looks up with the same pout. "You just did."

"That wasn't a promise."

"Then let me try again," the grip grows tighter. "Until I get it right."

He won't, Mihawk knows.

They try again.