A Series of Firsts
First Meeting
He is fifteen years old, and he'll call himself a man if you ask him, even though the rest of the world still views him as a boy. He can use a sword, and if you ask him he'll tell you that he can use it well, but once again the rest of the world will call him an amateur.
He's going to make something of himself one day, and he'll tell anybody who will listen before trying to bribe them into getting him a drink. Yes, he's fifteen, but he likes to have fun when he can. He was part of Roger's crew, after all, and he'll tell anyone who'll listen all about that, too.
He's currently in a little town halfway down the Grand Line, telling his life adventures to a group of men considerably bigger and older than himself, when his finely-tuned danger senses begin to prickle. Inconspicuously shifting so that he can look around without drawing attention, he soon spots the reason for his discomfort.
It's a boy, and he can't be much older than Shanks himself, but there is something different about him, something emanating 'danger' and, unfortunately for him, to Shanks danger is often equated directly with a burning curiosity to go find out why.
Muttering a hasty excuse, he makes his way over to the dark-haired boy who is currently examining the swords at a vendor's stall. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that this piece of scrap metal is worth that amount," the teen was saying, arms crossed over his chest as he glares at the shopkeeper, who seems to be at a loss for words. "If you get even a quarter of that price I'll quite frankly be amazed."
Turning on his heel, he stalks off quickly, and Shanks is forced to run to keep up. "Hey! Hey!" he calls, waving and immediately clapping a hand to the straw hat on his head when a stray gust of wind kicks up. "Hey, wait a minute!"
"What?" the boy doesn't turn and doesn't slow.
"That was a little harsh, don'tcha think?" Shanks finally catches up.
"I'm doing him a favour," the dark-haired teen replies slowly. "He'll get a lot worse than a stern talking-to if anybody with influence actually buys one of those swords and finds out after the fact." He finally stops and turns, causing Shanks to suck in an amazed breath. The other boy's eyes are golden, catching the sunlight, and as sharp as a hawk's. "Now. Do you have a reason for bothering me?"
"No, I just…I'm Shanks," he holds out a hand impulsively.
"Mihawk," the other replies, shaking the proffered hand stiffly. "Now, I have to get going."
And with that, he's gone, although Shanks can't shake the feeling that this won't be the last time he'll meet this Mihawk character.
First Fight
He's twenty-five, and it's been ten long years since he last set eyes on the man now known around the world as the greatest swordsman that the Grand Line has ever seen, but he recognizes those vivid eyes immediately. "Oi! Mihawk!" he calls, waving much the same way he had a decade earlier, and Mihawk turns, that same indifferent look on his face as he makes his way over.
"Shanks. You're making quite the name for yourself out there," he says with little emotion, and everything about him is stark and sharp, right down to the precise points on his moustache, sideburns, and goatee. He stands ramrod-straight, arms crossed over his chest once again, dressed in clothing that probably cost a fortune.
Shanks, in comparison, still has that tattered old hat on his head and is wearing nothing more than an old t-shirt, self-cropped pants, and a pair of sandals; his hands are in his pockets and he's slouching somewhat. It occurs to him then that one couldn't ever meet two men so very different, and yet somehow through everything they were brought together again. "So are you," he finally shrugs. "I hear you're pretty good with a blade."
"I hear you're not bad yourself," Mihawk counters.
"Is that a challenge?"
"Do you wish it to be? I'm rather in a hurry, but I suppose I can spare five minutes to take you on," Mihawk concedes
"Better slot a little more time into your day than that, old friend," Shanks grins. "And then the loser buys the winner a drink."
Mihawk never actually says whether or not he agrees to the terms, but he goes to fetch his sword, so Shanks can only assume that it's a 'yes' in one way or another.
First Time
He's twenty-seven, and living in a small village with a boy he foresees great things for, but it's on a rather innocent supply-run that he runs into Mihawk again, and this time the tension between them could be cut with a knife. Two years have changed a lot, and now they stand not merely as two ambitious youths, but as buccaneer and privateer, warlord and pirate lord, and as Mihawk unstraps the great black blade from his back Shanks knows that, in spite of all of their meetings in the past two years, this one will be a clash that's felt around the world.
However, in a way he is more than glad that the altercation takes place on a deserted island, because what happens after the fact would be rather hard to explain if anybody saw it.
The night is warm, at least, even though the demeanour of the man beside him is nothing less than ice-cold, and Shanks isn't sure whether this can be blamed on the fight (a tie, as all of their fights are. He has no doubt that Mihawk can beat him, but the other man always holds back. It's infuriating, to say the least, but if Shanks ever confronts him he merely denies his obviously half-hearted attempts) or on what has happened since then, and Shanks merely observes Mihawk standing by the fire.
He's looking remarkably casual and dishevelled, which isn't necessarily surprising, but wearing only a pair of breeches and without the rather intimidating wardrobe additions of that ridiculously gaudy hat and caped coat, he looks only about half the size. He turns, then, golden eyes flashing in the firelight, and Shanks pulls on his own pants before standing up and moving to the fire.
They're silent for a long time, at least until Shanks moves to slide his arms around Mihawk's waist and rest his chin on the other man's shoulder. To his surprise, Mihawk doesn't move away, but he lets out a rather heavy sigh and continues to stare at the water. "What are we doing?"
"Well, you're ruining the afterglow of perfectly good sex," Shanks replies flippantly, although he isn't expecting a reaction.
"Not that," Mihawk shakes his head, and while Shanks is mildly pleased that Mihawk doesn't refute the 'perfectly good sex' claim, he is now officially confused.
"Then what?"
"Us. We're…"
"Enemies," Shanks fills in the blank with a nod. "And?"
"And enemies generally don't sleep together, or else I've missed that particular memo," Mihawk has taken to glaring at the ground, now.
"So? We're pirates, Dracule," Shanks feels compelled to point out, and if Mihawk's eyebrow twitches imperceptibly at the use of his first name, both men choose to ignore it. "We make our own rules."
"I'm not a pirate," Mihawk protests. "I never was."
"Maybe not, but you're no government dog, either," Shanks tightens his arms. "Besides…you're killing the mood," he grins, unable to stay sombre for long. "I think there's still some rum left, so let's grab it and continue the celebration. What say you?"
Mihawk doesn't answer, but Shanks grabs the rum anyway and collapses on the sand, smiling in the flickering firelight.
First Understanding
He's thirty, and this is his first sight of Dracule Mihawk in nearly three years. A lot has changed since their frantic night on the beach, although the most noticeable difference is probably the fact that Shanks is now sans his left arm.
"I heard."
"I've noticed, or else you wouldn't be here," Shanks pokes at the fire with a stick, glancing around furtively. His crew is all asleep, thankfully, although he's sure that if they were awake there would be a riot going on. Mihawk's name is known by nearly every pirate now, but none of Shanks' crew…not even Ben…knows exactly the relationship that the two men have.
"I suppose a rematch is out of the question?" Mihawk has that impressive blade strapped to his back, and Shanks knows what this means: even missing an arm, the swordsman expects him to fight.
"You're sorely mistaken if you think I've…" Shanks holds up his hand and swallows. "I've lost any of my touch."
"You're drunk," Mihawk notes, completely unsurprised, as the red-haired man staggers to his feet with a mug still in his hand. He totters into the bush, Mihawk following, until he suddenly tosses the mug aside and turns, all traces of inebriation swept from his being. "And apparently a better actor than I remembered."
"Still up for that rematch?" Shanks asks, unsheathing his sword with a fluid grace and aiming the point at the dark-haired man.
"Only if you are," Mihawk draws the black sword and swings it almost experimentally, the force of it flattening plants in every direction.
"Or…you know…" Shanks places his sword down gently and moves forward, customary smirk in place as he positions himself right in front of his old rival. "We could just skip the fight."
Mihawk looks ready to protest until Shanks grabs his collar and pulls him in for a kiss, and from then on in the hawk-eyed man is strangely silent.
Shanks knows he'll be gone before morning; but he also knows that, someday, he'll come back and they can pick up where they left off. And it's a strange thing, that this non-romance is the one constant he has in his life, but somehow he knows without even thinking about it that it will always be a constant.
And, truth be told, he's rather content with that.
~Owari~
A/N: I know it's been forever since I've posted OP-fic, but this was an old fanforall prompt from over on LJ, and since the manga has been hinting at these two for a while I thought I'd post it up. Reviews are loved!