Chapter Text
Mihawk kicked open the door to the lower cabin, the crack of wood vibrating through his leather boot. Blood dripped from his sword Yoru, sweat from his brow. A strange looking boy about his age scrambled to attention from inside the small room, nearly tripping as he worked the trousers of his Marine uniform up and over his legs. He had blue hair that was messily tucked into his cap, and his nose was an odd shape and color, unlike anything Mihawk had ever seen. When they made eye contact the boy screamed- no, screeched more like- and backed up into the wall with a hard thunk, arms outstretched and pants left drooping about his thighs. Mihawk noticed those thighs, very white compared to the rest of the boy's body, and he noticed the tight, juvenile pair of underwear above them.
“Wh-who the heck are you!?!” he stammered, in an angry, shrill voice that seemed to bounce around the room.
“I’ve killed everyone else already,” Mihawk replied, a little surprised with himself. Ordinarily he didn’t answer such questions from his prey, but this one seemed to have caught him off guard. Was it the nose? No. It was the thighs, more likely. Mihawk thought to himself, adjusting to grip Yoru with both of his hands, that he may be at a point where ignoring his puberty would do more harm than good. He was at that age. No, past that age really.
“That’s what all the commotion was about!?” the boy asked, sounding more impressed than frightened or resentful. His eyes were the same pretty blue color as his hair, and his cheeks looked ruddy , warm. Mihawk raised his sword, pointing it at the center of his chest in a swift, deliberate motion. But he didn’t attack.
“Woah, woah, woah!” the boy shouted, attempting to step further away, but simply knocking his body against the wall and kicking over a woven bag near his feet. He looked down at himself then and made a strange face, as if suddenly realizing something dreadful. He swallowed, audible, visual. Mihawk watched the skin of his throat glide over his larnyx as it moved. He smiled, wide and panicked.
“Wait- no, listen, I’m not a Mar-”
Mihawk sliced, a coldly precise strike that severed the boy’s head clean off his shoulders. A quick death for the marine Mihawk was getting nervous to look at. The hat upon the boy’s head slipped, a surprisingly long length of hair sneaking its way out, and then something very strange and unexpected happened. Instead of hitting the floor, the head flew back up, mouth stretched into a grimace, eyebrows furrowed. It floated there, a few inches above his neck, where his body was still standing, chest heaving, not a spec of blood.
“Hey, you flashy asshole!! What’s wrong with you? At least let me finish my sente-!!”
Mihawk stepped closer and swung Yoru around with the best of his finesse. Wide, sweeping motions, fast enough to make the air whistle. They sank into the boy’s skin but did no damage. Instead, he simply split apart, from head to toe. His neck, his chest, his stomach, his white, naked thighs. Mihawk stopped, lifting his chin slightly and watching intensely as the pieces came back together with little popping noises, until he was a whole person again. As if nothing had occurred.
“You!!” the boy yelled, angrier than before. He scrunched his red face around his round nose, one foot stamping against the floor as he yanked up his pants and finally buttoned them. “I’m not a marine, dammit! I’m a pirate! A pirate! ”
Mihawk lowered his sword hesitantly. “You’re wearing a uniform.”
“Because I was trying to escape!” he retorted, as if it should have been obvious. He gestured toward the corner of the room, where some shackles and a messy pile of street clothes were laying. “They arrested me and stuck me down here, but I escaped and found the clothes. I’m happy you killed them! So let me go!!”
After a long, awkward pause, Mihawk wiped the blood of his blade with a handkerchief and sheathed Yoru. “Did you eat a devil fruit, pirate?”
“B-by accident,” he murmured in response, suddenly seeming sheepish. He scratched at his chin, which was well structured and handsome. A good bit more defined than Mihawk’s even though he suspected he was the older of the two of them. “Uh, anyways, I’ll take a rowboat and be out of your hair!!”
He said it as if he was already exiting the room, but he wasn’t. He was still pressed against the wall, looking increasingly nervous as his temper seemed to wane. Mihawk raised an eyebrow.
“I’m going to burn this ship.”
“O-ok?” the boy answered, eyes squinting as he brushed a strand of hair from his face in a jerky movement. Now that it was free of his hat, it hung a little past his shoulders, slightly wavy, a blue so bright it almost seemed to glow. Mihawk crossed his arms.
“All the rowboats, too.”
“What!? Why?” the boy erupted, gesturing frustratedly in the air with his hands. He was immature. Impulsive, reactive. Childish, in a way Mihawk had shrugged off a long time ago. But his body seemed the opposite, starkly contrasted. His hairline was masculine, his shoulders broad, his hands thick and calloused. Mihawk wondered then if the boy across from him had been ignoring his puberty as well. Or had he already touched another person? Been touched by another person? Mihawk abruptly turned on his heels.
“Carry that case of wine out,” he ordered, not looking over his shoulder. “I’ll allow you passage on my boat until we reach the next island.”
The boy hadn’t changed out of the marine uniform. He’d come out of the cabin grumbling, hair neatly hidden in his cap once more and a rattling case of wine bottles tucked in his arms. That was against Mihawk’s expectations. He’d thought the boy would change, but there he was, sitting across from him, fumbling with the buttons of the military style garment. Finally one unfastened, and then two more under that, revealing flushed and sweaty skin. The boy’s face was in the same state, even his lips looking redder, wet and stained from the copious amount of wine he’d consumed.
Mihawk had been partaking, too, albeit much slower. He rubbed his thumb over the bottle in his hand, wishing he had a proper glass to pour it in. His companion lifted his own bottle, bending his neck and opening his mouth as he shook out the last drops. Then he laughed, loud and from his gut, before tossing it over his shoulder and out into the sea.
He was good company, Mihawk thought.
He’d complained a lot about the small size of Mihawk’s boat when they first boarded, but then he helped out diligently, getting them set on a steady course. He had a fair amount of practical advice, too. Clearly he had more sailing experience. Or, rather, it seemed he’d been taught by someone skilled and wise for many years. Mihawk wondered who, and how the boy had ended up alone.
He was talkative, too, that boy. The type that could fill the silence without effort. Words seemed to flow from him, melodic almost, rising and falling in pitch and volume. He didn’t seem to mind Mihawk’s short and sparse responses. People usually did. Then they’d also be quiet, whether out of politeness or annoyance Mihawk wasn’t always sure.
But Mihawk didn’t actually enjoy silence all that much. The boy pointed out and named every fish and bird they came across. He talked about islands he’d visited, complained about the marines, told bad jokes and laughed at them. When it grew dark, he’d sat very close to Mihawk and showed him all his favorite constellations. He smelled a bit, an adult sort of musk that became more evident when he lifted his arm to gesture towards the night sky. That’s when Mihawk had suggested breaking into the alcohol.
That had created more physical distance between them, which Mihawk realized gave him a sense of relief. But it’d also made them both a little hazy, or in the boy’s case unmistakably tipsy, and hot. The kind of heat that built up from the inside. So the boy had unfastened his shirt quite low and shaken it out in an attempt to cool himself. The uniform didn’t fit him well to begin with, but now it was stiffly hanging off of him, well starched fabric struggling to keep its shape as he moved around carelessly. If he’d bent over, Mihawk would see through it, through the space created between the boy’s body and the shirt. A naked chest, the wrinkles of a folded stomach, at least one nipple if not both.
“Hey! Are you listening?” came the boy’s voice suddenly, ripping Mihawk out of his imagination and back into the world. The lapping of water against wood, the taste of wine on his tongue, a set of blue eyes glaring into his own.
“Are you crapping out already!?” he asked, pausing to laugh and hiccup. He gestured to the bottle in Mihawk’s hand. “You stopped drinking.”
Mihawk considered it, swirling the contents slightly. Then he stretched his arm, holding it towards him. “I’ve had enough. Finish it.”
“No way!!” the boy hollered, cheeks blooming into an even deeper shade of pink. “I’ve already had twice as much as you! If you’re done, I’m done! I don’t wanna be the only one plastered!!”
It’s too late for that, Mihawk thought to himself. He gave his companion a terse look. “It’s good wine. Do not waste it.”
“You’re the one wasting it!!” he cried, shoulders raising up slightly and finger pointing accusingly. He looked very annoyed, and Mihawk thought he was ugly then. Ugly, by all conventional standards, but also, somehow, lovely. Cute. Maybe because he was fun. Yes, Mihawk was having fun with this boisterous, unpredictable, silly person. He wanted to see more of his reactions, his lively and easy to read expressions. He wanted to see his body, too, because Mihawk was attracted to him. Though, that was likely just his puberty.
“Ahhhugh!!” the boy snapped, swiping the bottle from Mihawk’s hand with a bothered, resigned face. “I can’t handle those eyes of yours staring at me like that! Fine! Fine! I’ll drink it!!”
Mihawk continued staring as the boy downed the contents, a thin stream of red escaping from one corner of his lips. He wondered what he’d meant by ‘those eyes.’ Clearly he was implying there was something distinctive about them, but whether he thought it was good or bad couldn’t be deciphered from those words alone. Mihawk received both kinds of remarks about his eyes on a regular basis. It did not concern him, or it never had concerned him before. He fidgeted with the dagger around his neck.
“There, you happy?” the boy asked with a dramatic cadence. He tossed that empty bottle overboard too, then sighed heavily. He removed his hat, hair spilling out, damp and wavier than before. He held the cap in one hand, using the brim as a fan and circling it around his head. “Whew, it’s so damn hot.”
His other hand floated off his wrist, a sight Mihawk still wasn’t used to, and scooped up his hair to reveal his nape. Then he fanned over it, and one single bead of sweat trickled over the skin, down, down into the open neck of his shirt. The blue strands at the base curled delicately. Then they were hidden from him again as the boy let his hair back down, gently tucking it behind one blushing ear. He turned to give Mihawk a lidded look, mouth pursed.
“Well? You happy?”
“Your hair is beautiful,” Mihawk told him. It came out matter-of-fact, even though he had not meant to say it at all. “You should wear it down.”
That earned him a deep frown, and then the boy closed the distance. One hand gripped into Mihawk’s collar while the other tapped aggressively against his chest with the forefinger. “What!!? Where do you get off making fun of me, huh!?”
The movement caused the boy’s shirt to slip off his shoulder, lopsided on his frame. Mihawk struggled not to look at it, and instead answer with eye contact. “It was a compliment.”
“I don’t wanna be called beautiful, especially-“ he paused mid-sentence to hiccup, eyes a little wet, a lazy tongue slurring his words. “Especially by some pretty boy like you!!”
He reached to cup either side of Mihawk’s face then, and he’d essentially crawled into his lap, and Mihawk could smell him again. His thumbs traced over the hair growing near Mihawk’s cheeks. “What? Think because you got cool sideburns and a big sword that you’re some pinnacle of man? Ha!!”
Mihawk felt a pinch of genuine annoyance. It seemed to do battle with the rising pressure in his groin, tempering both sensations. He spoke through tight lips.
“No.”
“Yeah, right,” the boy responded, pure sarcasm. Then somewhat abruptly his face seemed to soften, as a new thought masked over his unwarranted anger. Then just like that it returned, though less insulted and more frustrated. He squeezed in on Mihawk’s face a little harder. “A handsome swordsman. I should’ve known you’d be a flashy asshole.”
Mihawk didn’t know what to say. He wanted to fling the man off of him and let him sink into the ocean, but he also wanted to pull him closer. This was precisely why he’d known it was a bad idea to keep avoiding puberty. There he was, being insulted by some impish weakling who had no manners and even less wit. He should have visited a prostitute long ago. Sated the curiosity, eased the need. He didn’t have any interest in letting such things dictate his life. They never had before.
They never had before.
So, why then? So suddenly? He’d seen the precipice in the distance, been aware of it. The changing of his body, his senses, his desires. But it still seemed far off, under control. Something that could be ignored for a little longer. Now the edge was right under his feet, but how had it gotten there? He was teetering, unbalanced, unsure.
“You know,” the boy whispered, and Mihawk realized he’d been staring at him for an extended period of silence. The hands on his face moved inward, thumbs affectionately petting the soft skin of Mihawk’s upper lip. “You’d look really nice with a mustache.”
Mihawk stumbled off the edge, a hand reaching out on its own, curling onto the boy’s collar and flinging it down. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d torn the buttons off, and now it hung loose around the boy's body. He was more toned than Mihawk had imagined. Manlier. Sexier .
The word sent a chill down Mihawk’s spine, even though it only existed in his thoughts. His heart was pounding, fiercely and loud. Sex. He’d been diligently avoiding that word, too.
“Oh,” the boy in his lap said, so soft it could barely be heard, and yet it was loud to Mihawk, echoing in his head. The boy looked down at himself sheepishly, then back up to Mihawk through his lashes. “You wanna mess around?”
Again, Mihawk couldn’t respond. He felt like a child, more than he had in over a decade. Life typically felt so resolute. He liked something, or didn’t. He wanted something, or did not. He would do something, or he wouldn’t. But he felt hesitant, vulnerable. He hated it. He was frustrated.
Mihawk let go of the boy’s shirt and looked away. The air became thick, tense. He felt his companion crawl off of him, sitting in an awkwardly polite position a foot or so away. He wondered again if it was just him, or if the other boy on that small ship alone in the middle of the sea also felt the same way. But he had said ‘mess around’, and it sounded natural. So he’d already ‘messed around’, hadn’t he?
“You tried to kill me today.”
A harsh breeze blew up and over the boat, ruffling his blue hair around his downturned face. Mihawk had looked back at the words, not really processing their meaning but feeling grateful for the break in the tension. The boy puffed out his cheeks, pulled his knees up to his chin and hung his arms around them. When he looked back towards Mihawk, he’d rested his head on one knee, eyes bright even in the dark.
“Are you … really not gonna say anything about … you know?”
Mihawk felt a strange sensation in his cheeks, a sparkle in his stomach. “About what?”
The boy pouted, and grumbled. “Y-you know … my … nose …”
“Oh,” Mihawk responded, immediately and with genuine surprise. Surprise, and a little entertainment too. He’d been wrapped up in his own thoughts, so naturally his mind had gone to completely different places. His nose? So that’s what was on his mind? Strange guy. Mihawk liked him. He titled his head and smiled.
“Your nose …,” he said soft and slow, thinking of his answer as it left his mouth. “It’s big and red.”
The boy's eyes widened and welled with tears, lips quivering as they stretched into an angry frown. Then he scrambled, and Mihawk was dodging something before his mind fully processed what had happened.
A bottle of wine.
He’d throne a bottle of wine at his face, and it’d smashed against the railing of the ship and then plunked into the ocean water below. A few shards of glass and a splash of red liquid decorating the wood behind him. He wasted it.
“Whose nose is big and red!?” came the boy’s voice, strained and shrill. “How dare you! I’ll kill you!”
Mihawk whisked his head back forward, brow furrowing, eyes narrowed. “You asked.”
“When the hell did I ask!?”
“You asked, ” he repeated, and Mihawk could sense something about to snap in him. He watched the boy move, hand reaching towards another bottle from the case, and Mihawk sprang into action, effortless and decisive. He had the boy thrown to the other side of the boat in seconds, looming over him in the dark, one boot on his chest. The boy coughed, air having been knocked from his lungs, a tear leaking from one eye.
“Stop wasting the wine.”
That earned him a defiant look, and Mihawk wondered if the boy would use his fruit power, split into pieces and float around, escape him. And if he did, how would Mihawk counter it? But that didn’t happen. Instead, the boy wrinkled his face and blew a raspberry. Red tongue peeking from red lips, eyes narrowed into slits, spittle dancing in the air.
He’s blowing a raspberry at me, Mihawk thought, spine tingling, head starting to ache. He’s blowing a raspberry at me, that audacious brat.
Mihawk squatted over him in a swift motion and grabbed the boy’s nose. Then he twisted his wrist, fingers pressing in cruelly tight, letting his temper guide the motion. The boy cried and slapped hands against him to no avail, feet kicking up from either side of Mihawk’s body in a fuss.
“Ow! Ow ow ow! Not the nose! Not the nose!”
He pulled at it then, wondering if the round, strange thing could also be chopped off that cursed body. The boy made a very strange noise then, and then completely changed gears, repeating, “Sorry! Forgive me!” over and over in his raspy voice. Mihawk scoffed.
He felt frustrated again, but in a different way than earlier. What was he doing, getting into a boyish scuffle with some imbecile? It was a waste of time. Why had he let the boy get under his skin? It was frustrating, in that it felt nice. Like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. Like having something long lost returned. Once again, Mihawk realized he was having fun.
He let go of the boy’s nose, but didn’t move back, instead resting hands to either side of his head and staring, face not very far away. The boy rubbed at his nose gingerly, eyes wide and wet, hair splayed about his face half-hazardly.
“Sheesh,” the boy whispered, half his face still covered by his hands as his blue eyes peered upward. One of his thighs came closer, bumping into Mihawk’s torso seemingly on accident. “You’re really strong …”
Mihawk felt a warmth grow from the center of his chest outward through his entire body. His heart rattled in his chest and his mouth felt dry. He brought their faces closer, unable to tame the intensity he could feel in his eyes.
“Ask me again.”
The boy blinked at him, then pressed both palms against Mihawk’s chest and gave a halfhearted push. “N-no way, leave my nose alone …”
“Not that,” Mihawk husked, feeling impatient, anxious. “The question before.”
There were a few silent moments, the boy looking genuinely confused before a realization settled over his features and his face got very red. His chest began to raise up and down rapidly. Mihawk felt the hands against his torso twitch slightly, as if suddenly aware of the bare skin underneath. He repeated himself, his own voice sounding distant and dark in his ears.
“Ask me again.”
The boy turned his head away, lips curling into a nervous half smile. He’d said it so easily before, but this time it came out with great effort, short pauses between each word.
“You wanna mess around?”
“Yes,” Mihawk answered instantaneously, and he let one hand push against the boy’s jaw until they were facing each other again. He stared for one more moment, then kissed him.
He’d never done it before, so he felt clumsy and unsure. Mihawk had begun to wonder if the boy really didn’t have experience either, because he’d seemed so nervous the second time he’d propositioned Mihawk, but he maneuvered their kiss with ease and confidence. Was it drunken brazenness? Or had he done such things plenty of times before?
Either way, it felt amazing. The boy sifted hands through Mihawk‘s hair, urged his lips to part, licked eagerly inside his mouth. He made unabashed, lewd noises. He guided Mihawk’s hands across his body, showing Mihawk his favorite places to be touched like he’d shown him his favorite constellations. He’d done it before, hadn’t he? Probably all the way. Mihawk ignored the thought, focusing in on the current moment.
The way it felt to have their sticky chests pressed together, the texture of a tongue against his neck, a palm pressing into his groin. It was pleasurable, intense and sensual. Better than Mihawk had imagined. He was turned on, sweaty and hazy-minded. The boy undid their pants and held their erections together in one disembodied hand. It felt insanely incredible, even more so when he began to flick his wrist, milking them against each other. Carnal, masculine, dirty. An overwhelming sort of pleasure.
So much so that Mihawk couldn’t kiss anymore, just buried his face into the boys neck, soft hair pressed into his skin. So much that his stomach flexed and clenched and his mouth gaped open and his hand squeezed into the other boy’s shoulder helplessly. So much that he came, suffering through the waves of it with shuttery breaths and twitching hips.
The boy rolled them over then, getting on top of him, sitting his weight onto Mihawk’s still sensitive length. He looked down, desirous and pointed, bearing into Mihawk’s eyes in a way few others dared. Like he wasn’t afraid to be looked back at, or even that he wanted to be seen. So Mihawk looked, lips tight, neck tense, as his companion grabbed at himself and masturbated. He looked and looked, the image burning into his mind. The moon backlighting him, the slight glow of his round nose, the fold of his navel, his hard, pink nipples. The furious movement of his hand, making a lewd, sloppy noise, the swollen head of his erection. Mihawk watched until the boy came, spraying semen across his stomach without hesitation, letting a loud and feminine moan leave his throat.
They kissed again, much slower than before. Romantic, maybe? Romantic, Mihawk hoped. Then they collapsed side by side, panting and letting their hands lightly rest against one another. Neither of them spoke, but eventually they regained their breathing and fell into a deeper silence, wrapped only in the sound of the sea at night.
What was happening in his heart and mind wasn’t just a newly adult man’s desire for sex. Mihawk realized it, laying there under the stars, sweat dripping down his neck. Ironically, considering they’d just cum on each other, it didn’t feel like it had much to do with sex at all. Or maybe, sex was just tangential to it. Mihawk desired something different , something he knew instinctively was much harder to obtain even though he wasn’t sure exactly what it was in the first place.
“We should keep in touch,” Mihawk whispered, pausing to swallow and glare at the sky in his nervousness. “I’d like to see you again.”
There was a long bout of silence, one that Mihawk’s skin sizzled under. The boy talked so much, but he was quiet then. Was it too much to ask? Had he been a bad kisser? Was he actually mad about the attempted murder?
The boy finally made a noise. A soft one that reverberated through his nose. Mihawk rolled his head to the side, and saw that his companion was asleep. Mouth wide and languid, a peaceful look about him. Mihawk laughed, a little bitter but mostly joyful. He had not laughed in a long time, so it felt foreign in his throat. The boy stirred at the noise of it, plopping onto his side so that he was even closer to Mihawk. He squeezed his hand and mumbled gently.
“Sh..anks …”
Shanks. A name? Was that the person the boy had learned to do all those things with? Shanks. Boy or girl? Were they similar in age? Older? Much older? Where were they? And why did the thought of them hurt so viscerally?
Mihawk shrugged the boy off and rolled to the other side of the boat. He didn’t sleep. In the morning, he knocked his passenger out with a sharp thwack to the neck before he had the chance to wake up. Then he dropped the limp body off on the shore of a small island and sailed fast and far away.
It was unlikely he would meet the boy in the marine uniform again. He didn’t even know his name.