It was the same as it had been the last time. And the time before, which was about it. But all the circularity was to be expected. Mihawk had found that to be true for a lot of things once he passed thirty.
There were a few slight differences, of course. New people to ignore, a different name for this and that committee he'd never cared about in the first place, and the discovery that as little as he'd regretted falling asleep in front of Sengoku and his repulsive caprine companion seven or eight years ago, he somehow cared even less today.
But it was not the cheap thrill that came from taking Doflamingo's seat or the need to escape the monotony of life on the raft or, God forbid, a genuine interest in the topic at hand that had caused him to sacrifice his lead in the one-sided competition with Hancock to maintain the worst attendance record at meetings of the Shichibukai.
Quite the contrary: it was, in fact, one of the many items on the laundry list of constants that had brought the World's Greatest Swordsman to the oppressive whitewash of HQ on this particular occasion.
He had experienced all kinds of enlightenments once he passed thirty. For example, he had realized that a life spent simply waiting for Roronoa Zoro to gain the skill necessary to defeat him would be a life wasted: everyone needed a hobby. And - yes, he had no difficulty admitting it to himself - he had come up with the most perfect of distractions.
The sound of chairs sliding and scraping out on the overly pristine marble floor told him it was time to open his eyes. From beneath the rim of his hat, Mihawk took in the awkward procession of foppish top officials and colorful ex-pirates wearing expressions ranging from irritation to indifference until he saw his chance to move. The sleek, black boots slid from the table top and came to rest by the chair legs with a careless clack. With a painstakingly calculated pace, Mihawk crossed to the impressive arch of the exit, falling into place right on target and with an incidental air that belied none of his efforts.
He cached a satisfied smirk beneath a brief bow of the head before putting on his best condemning scowl for the rows of starched soldiers standing primed along the path to port.
But the most astute eyes on the Grand Line were not wasted on the sea of salutes, rather on what lay directly before them: the proportionally petite posterior of Bartholomew Kuma. Not a single movement went unnoticed, not a solitary factor unaccounted for.
Until the last possible moment, he waited - this was, after all, the main point of the game - and then acted with a precision and swiftness that so few others could even hope to possess.
The smack of open palm on unsuspecting ass was more magnificent than expected.
Kuma glanced down. Mihawk continued at an unconcerned gait, descending with devastating grace to his raft.
No words were wasted: the message could not have been any clearer.
Doflamingo's jaw stuck in the middle of a word, then fell a few centimeters more as Bartholomew Kuma, outwardly as emotionless as ever save for an unmistakable ruddiness under the expressionless lenses, gave an equally silent answer.
Enormous hands undid the work of their smaller counterparts, freeing the raft from its moor at the dock.
"My thanks," Mihawk caught one of the gloved paws on the retreat and planted an extravagant kiss upon a massive fingertip. "May the sea treat you kindly."
Kuma nodded deeply before rising and taking several backward steps.
"And perhaps when our paths next cross it shall be under less dull circumstances." Mihawk put a boot to the end of the dock, prepared to shove off until the shrill "Fuffuffu" of Doflamingo's laugh caused him to pause.
It was always alarming how much more obnoxious it sounded now than it had when he heard it last. Yet another change.
"Well, well, well! When did this little scandal start?"
Mihawk let a huff of disdain escape his lips as they slid into a sneer. With a haughty tilt of the head, he pushed off.
"Why do you think I come to these meetings?"