Chapter Text
The Colour of Hibiscus
I.
The first time Ace seeks out Shanks, it’s not entirely his choice. That is to say, when he realises Shanks is moored at the island they’re approaching, he almost tells his crew to turn around—but his first mate, Deuce, has other ideas.
“Stay the course,” he says. “It’s best to face Red Hair on your own terms, you know.”
Deuce has said this type of thing before, usually when Ace least wants to hear it: when they’re passing through snowy fields, or see someone with hair the colour of hibiscus. Ace always replies with fuck off and leave it alone and can’t you shut up about it? Deuce, though, laughs every time.
“I don't know what's going on with you, but there’s only one other man you’ve ever run from like this, and he’s dead. You’re bound to bump into Red Hair eventually.”
The most annoying thing is that Deuce is right: the oceans aren’t big enough that Ace can ignore Shanks forever. Unfortunately, avoidance is one of two ways he usually deals with his problems—the other involves a lot of punching. See, he’s been managing the Roger Problem his entire life using a mix of the two methods, but he can’t fight Shanks, nor can he forget him entirely; Shanks has become a permanent fixture in the mayhem of his thoughts, like some gaudy ornament he can’t throw out.
Ace has a bad habit of collecting keepsakes.
“It’s definitely the Red Hairs, Cap!” calls Saber from the crow’s nest. He throws a jeering look at Deuce and adds, “Never know, Deu, this might be something to add to your storybook!”
“You won’t be in it either way,” Deuce fires back.
Ace jumps down from the quarterdeck, looking portside. When he squints, he can just about make out a large ship docked at the upcoming island. He grips the railing with force.
“It’s definitely them?”
“That’s what I said, Cap!” Saber looks down at Ace. “Good news for you, isn’t it?”
“Good news for all of us, more like,” says Deuce. “Ace can finally get the stick out of his ass.”
It's no secret among the crew that Ace has some kind of problem with Shanks. He's pretty sure Deuce thinks it's something to do with Roger but, since he refuses to talk about what happened, the crew have long since devolved into gossiping among themselves. There’s probably a bet, too, not that he's heard word of it.
“Don’t get pissy,” Deuce adds. “We’re just looking out for you.”
Ace crosses his arms, slumping against the railing. “M’not pissy,” he grumbles.
The island they’re headed for, Majora, is under the protection of the Whitebeard Pirates. There’s not much to be found there except for what the locals cultivate, but they’re known for producing delicious fruit and legendary mead. Their main city, Orchard, is built right on the waterfront with a harbour large enough that Ace’s crew doesn’t have to dock beside Shanks’ ship, but do so anyway. The assholes.
“What a beauty!” Saber whistles. “We need a ship like her, Cap!”
Ace can’t help but agree. Up close, Shanks’ ship, the Red Force, is an incredible vessel with a stunning figurehead: a vermillion dragon, ornamented black and gold. From what Ace can see, there’s currently no one on board, but he’s uncertain whether that’s a boon.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Deuce steps in Ace’s way when he tries to help the crew with unloading. “We’ll sort out the supplies. You sort out shit with Red Hair.”
“What? Come on, Deuce. We’ve just landed.”
“The crew’s in agreement. We had a meeting.”
“Official meetings require snacks.”
“Oh, there were snacks.”
“And I wasn’t invited?”
“Ace, stop stalling and go find the guy, or I will find him for you.”
It’s not an empty threat, Ace knows, so he flips Deuce the finger before jumping from the ship. There’s fishermen and dockers scurrying about the port, sea salt hanging thick in the air. He takes a second to find his feet. Once he’s sure his hat is on straight and there's money in his pockets, he sets off for the nearest pub.
Skull, another member of his crew, is speaking with the harbourmaster. “Be safe, Captain!” he calls after Ace.
Ace waves at him over his shoulder, his ears pinkening. He's pretty certain Skull's the only one with any real idea about what happened with Shanks, but he's been kind enough not to say anything. Well, he surely wouldn’t hear the end of it if Skull did spill the beans...
As predicted, the Red Hair Pirates are easy to find: they're in the nearest inn, drinking their weight in the local mead. The room’s incredibly stuffy, overwhelmed in sight and sound by the sheer amount of people. It's so busy that Ace has to elbow his way through the crowd just to get to the bar—which is when, from somewhere to his right, he hears a familiar, spirited laugh. He does his best to keep cool, but he can't control the way he rubbernecks toward it, a hand held to his hat.
Somehow—perhaps because the universe has a way of fucking with Ace specifically—Shanks is even more handsome than memory serves, with dark, discerning eyes, rough stubble, and a billowy top that flaunts his muscular chest. His hair—a shade of red Ace can’t easily forget—shines rosily in the soft light of the sconces. He’s sitting with three members of his crew, although Ace only remembers the name of the first mate, Benn Beckman. When they met, he had seemed a rather stoic man, but he was softer than he was hard, perhaps by virtue of good company. Shanks, however, had been nothing but...
Suddenly parched, Ace catches the barkeep’s attention. “Got any whiskey?” he asks.
"If you’re not picky," they say.
Ace downs four fingers of the stuff despite his better judgement. He needs whatever help he can get right now, even if his devil fruit makes it very difficult for him to get drunk. To that end, he orders another whiskey before sauntering toward Shanks with as much confidence as he can muster.
Shanks’ eyes are on him from the moment he steps away from the bar.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says insouciantly, as though his heart isn’t a beat away from breaching his ribs. He hops up on the tabletop in front of Shanks and takes a sip of whiskey. “Must be my lucky day.”
“Oh?” Shanks smiles. “And what would that make my day?”
Even his voice is better than remembered. It runs like honey off a knife, rich and playful.
“I dunno,” replies Ace. “A whole lot more expensive?”
Shanks chuckles, leaning forward. “Are you trying to cause me trouble, little flame?”
“Trouble?” Ace repeats. He brings his whiskey to his mouth, his breath fogging the glass. “Naw, no trouble. I’m a good boy, aren’t I?”
It’s only after Ace has spoken that he remembers he’s not actually alone with Shanks, no matter how intimate the moment feels. Mortification threatens to drag him under as Benn Beckman, sitting beside Shanks, puts his head in his hands. Opposite them, the other two crewmates start chortling. Shanks, though—Shanks doesn’t laugh. He looks at Ace with eyes so black and penetrating that Ace has no option but to look back.
“You’re a very good boy,” he says quietly. His warm fingers slip up Ace’s bare calf, hidden beneath the table. “Took you a while, but you came back to me, didn’t you?”
Ace bites the inside of his cheek.
“Chief!” interrupts one of the crew. “Don’t tell me you’re fucking the firecracker?”
“Yasopp,” Benn warns.
“Yeah, yeah,” Yasopp grouses. “Just a surprise, is all. Isn’t it, Roux?”
Lucky Roux wallops Yasopp with a leg of lamb, at odds with his humongous smile. “Sure is, fella, but it’s none of ya business!”
“Damn right,” agrees Shanks. He stands with ease—not drunk, then—and beckons Ace to follow him. “We'll speak later, boys.”
Yasopp snorts loudly. “Sure we will, Chief.”
“Yasopp,” warns Benn again.
“Yeah, yeah.”
So, Ace follows after Shanks, drink in hand. He's led to the back of the inn and up a stairway, then to the very last room at the end of the corridor. The scent of sweetgrass and sage lingers, undoubtedly burned by the innkeep. It's a nice enough room, furnished simply, with a little window that allows the oncoming sunset to shine through. When the door closes though, the space feels incredibly small—smaller still when Shanks steps in close, a smile on his lips.
“It’s good to see you, Ace."
Ace grins with bravado. “I'm a sight for sore eyes, I know.”
“Benn tells me you’ve been causing trouble.” Easy-going as always, Shanks makes himself at home, throwing his robe behind him on the bed. His hair is cast with orange tones from the setting sun. “Not that I’d expect any less from my little flame.”
“You know me. I do what I can.” Ace downs his drink, putting the empty glass aside. “I haven’t heard much of you, though.”
“What can I say? I’m a man of mystery.”
“Bit of an understatement.”
“Really? I think I’m an open book.”
The effort Ace expended in approaching Shanks is beginning to show: he’s not certain what he should say or do next. Shanks, though, smiles that charming smile of his and reaches toward Ace. Unexpectedly, he takes hold of Ace’s hat—“Hey!” Ace protests—and plops it atop his own head.
“Well, what do you think?” Shanks tips the hat forwards, grinning at him from under the rim. “Am I handsome? Dapper? Dashing?”
A laugh snorts out of Ace. Shanks actually looks a bit ridiculous, but it’s a sight he won’t soon forget: debonair smile and dishevelled hair topped with a burnt orange hat. Ace’s hat.
“I think Luffy will buy you a matching one if he sees you in it.”
Surprise flitters across Shanks’ face. He touches the hat again, thoughtfully this time. “Luffy got you this?”
“He said I was the odd one out.” Ace shakes his head fondly. “Somethin’ about all pirates needing a cool hat.”
“Well, he was right. Nothing beats my old hat, though.”
“Mine was a gift from Luffy. Can’t top that.”
“Ah, then I guess I can agree. Only because it’s yours.”
The space between their bodies has diminished entirely, and Ace doesn’t know which of them bridged the gap. He takes a deep breath, hands hanging cluelessly at his sides. Whatever is happening here—whatever Shanks is up to—is not what he had been expecting. Shanks has been throwing him off from the moment they stepped inside this room.
“I thought about you a lot, you know?” Shanks murmurs. “The confidence you had in approaching me… Not a lot of people try to meet me as their equal, Ace.”
Ace swallows, then raises his chin defiantly. “You thought about me?”
“Gods, baby, how could I not? You’re gorgeous, fun, and capable. I’m lucky to be able to get this close to you.”
As if to prove his point, Shanks’ thumb traces a soft line down Ace’s cheek, catching on his bottom lip. Ace sways closer with a tremulous exhale.
“D’ya wanna get luckier?” he asks hoarsely.
The chuckle Shanks lets loose is warm and rumbling. He brushes Ace's hair aside, two fingers trailing along his ear, across his neck, and pressing there until his head tips back and their mouths gently come together. It's hardly a real kiss, but Ace’s heart throbs; his head swims. All of the tension shudders out of his body as he surrenders to the urges he’s been resisting, slipping one hand beneath Shanks’ low neckline to indulge in his exposed skin. Suddenly, it feels like all he can do is kiss Shanks harder, hungrier; like he’s finally found what he’s been missing for weeks and weeks and weeks. A lifetime, maybe, if he were to look hard enough.
“Shanks,” he breathes, his trepidation forgotten. All he needed was permission to want, to take. "Fuck..."
Their kiss is so engrossing that Ace doesn’t notice he’s been walked backwards until he hits the wall. Pressed into place, he pulls Shanks in as close as he can get, panting hotly when soft lips trail across his jaw. His hat has fallen from Shanks' head, but it's just as nice to see it dangling from his neck, the rope drawn taut against his sun-kissed skin.
“Why’d you take so long to come see me, gorgeous?” Shanks asks between kisses. “What kept you?”
Ace laughs breathlessly, feeling foolish now. "I guess I didn't expect you to mean what you said."
The admission, foolish as it is, makes Shanks fall still. He pulls away ever so slightly, caressing the length of Ace's arm. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, gorgeous.” He leans back in, the rope shifting across his neck. “Do you think I ask every pretty lad I come across to join my crew and warm my bed? No, princess. Just you.”
“So why me, then?”
Shanks smiles. His hand finds Ace's waist. “Because I want you, sweetheart. What other reason does there have to be?”
There's urgency in the way Ace kisses him, then. He’s still bewildered by this—by them—but Shanks is tracing circles into the dip of his waist, and their kiss is bruising, and Ace wants like he’s never wanted another person before. Fuck, just what is it about Shanks that has him so helpless? And how is he supposed to resist coming back to him if their reunion makes him feel like he's never been so awake? Like he's so desperate to see Shanks naked that, if needs must, he would rip his clothes off with teeth alone?
Set to the task, Ace scrabbles at the buttons of Shanks' shirt, briefly considering burning the damn thing into ashes. His enthusiasm is met with warm laughter from Shanks, who nevertheless removes his shirt, allowing Ace the pleasure of watching swathes of golden skin become exposed to the pastel sunlight. Shanks has his fair share of scars—his arm most notably of all—and they make Ace’s mouth water, eager to taste.
“Fucking finally,” he mutters, tracing the divots in Shanks’ torso. “S'not fair I didn’t get to see you naked last time.”
“Oh? Well, that's easily fixed.”
Having put his sword aside, Shanks kicks off his sandals and his trousers, shunting Ace from one train of thought to another. It's something else, seeing him get undressed, revealing beauty Ace has only dreamed about—has only ever touched, up until this moment. He admires the tapering of Shanks’ abs into firm obliques and the impressive cock that hangs heavy beneath, remembering how it felt to have it between his legs, inside of him...
His hands are steady as he shrugs out of his shirt, but his heart races. “Can I suck your cock this time?” he asks.
Head tilted, Shanks gives a playful hum. He puts his hand on Ace’s belt and pushes until Ace hits the wall again, then kisses him, sucking on his bottom lip. The taste of cheap whiskey is shared between them, spicy and stinging. When he pulls away, he's smiling so disarmingly that Ace, fuzzy-headed, can only stare.
“Aren’t you full of great ideas, baby?”
Just like that, Shanks drops to his knees, the sight of him so arresting that Ace’s stomach flips: here is the great Red-Haired Shanks, emperor of the New World, naked and kneeling for him. He bites his lip, his nails digging into his palms as Shanks unfastens his belt and shorts, exposing his flushed cock. His clothes fall down his legs, catching on his boots, and he feels briefly insane with the surreality of it all.
“Hold on,” he says, remembering his previous line of thought. “I was gonna blow you. I really wanna blow you.”
“Aw, in a sec, gorgeous. I’m a bit busy right now.”
The indignation that seizes Ace is quickly silenced by the way Shanks pins him by his hip against the wall and swallows his cock down to the hilt. A ragged moan forces its way out of him, overwhelmed by the soft, wet heat of Shanks' mouth. He strains against the grip holding him down, his toes squirming in his boots as Shanks works at him with long, languid sucks and dragging lips that dizzy him. Whispers of haki reach out to him, their fingers sizzling against his skin, and he melts back into the wall with a gasp that's staggered and broken.
“Ah—Haah!—Shanks…”
How is it fair that Shanks is this good at everything he does? Ace has to wind his hands into Shanks' hair just to keep a hold of himself, pulling hard whenever a long stripe is licked up his cock and finished with a tease of teeth. He tries to hold back, pleading for Shanks' mercy between whines of his name—but Shanks’ nails dig into flesh, and his tongue laps at the underside of his cock, and he looks up at Ace with eyes that burn away the last of his strength. Tense, overpowered, euphoric, Ace comes with Shanks’ name on his lips and crimson hair between his fingers, gasping through the endless aftermath.
“Beautiful, baby.” There’s a rasp in Shanks’ voice that sends shivers across Ace’s skin. As he stands, he strokes up Ace’s flank. “You look so gorgeous when you come.”
Ace is still catching his breath. His knees wobble beneath him. “Now can I suck your cock?” he asks shakily.
Shanks grins. “Anything for my princess." He sits on the edge of bed, knees spread, and puts a pillow on the floor in front of him. “Come here, then.”
Ace goes, but almost trips over himself; his clothes are still entangled with his boots. Huffing, he steps out of it all, then settles on the cushion between Shanks’ legs. He can’t help but lick his lips at the sight Shanks makes: he’s put Ace’s hat back on, his thick erection hanging heavy a between his legs.
“Good boy, Ace. You’re so pretty.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know you are, princess. The prettiest.” Shanks caresses the corner of Ace’s mouth, then up his jaw, into his hair. “Why’d you think I’m always looking at you?”
“‘Cause you’re shameless.”
Shanks guffaws. “Well, so are you, baby. Asking to suck my cock like that...” He tugs lightly on Ace’s necklace, bringing him closer. “Go on then, princess. Help yourself. It’s all yours.”
Perhaps Ace is the shameless one; he’s already getting hard again, but he can’t help it. He’s wanted to suck Shanks off even before he knew what he’d be working with, and finally getting the opportunity to satisfy that desire has his mouth flooding with saliva. One hand braced on Shanks' leg, he leans in and nuzzles Shanks' cock, mouthing at his balls. The heady smell has him sighing soundlessly, relaxing into his impulses. With enthusiasm, he takes hold of Shanks' cock and licks up his shaft until he reaches the head, then wriggles his tongue against the slit, his eyes drooping closed as he savours the taste. In turn, Shanks runs his fingers through Ace’s hair, groaning.
“That’s it, princess… Get comfortable.”
Encouraged, Ace swallows Shanks down at last, his knees spreading wide on the pillow. He has to abruptly pull back when he takes Shanks in deep enough that it stops his breath, but Shanks soothes him with little scratches against his scalp and sweet, whispered words that make him redouble his efforts. The more Shanks pets his head and twirls his hair and calls him pretty, the harder he works, his jaw aching as he takes Shanks deep into his throat again and again. What he can’t reach of Shanks’ cock he works at with his hand, pumping fast but firmly.
“Look at me, sweetheart. Be a good boy.”
Warmed by the words, Ace peers up at Shanks through big, wet eyes. Shanks is still wearing his fucking hat, and seeing it makes Ace aware of just how hard and aching he is between his legs. He rolls Shanks’ balls between his fingers then grabs for his own cock instead, squeezing every time he sucks Shanks into the back of his throat. He knows Shanks says something but he’s too far gone to hear the words, working his mouth in time with his hand—until Shanks uses his hair to yank him still, eliciting delicious stings that go straight to his cock.
“Listen, princess, I’m gonna fuck your mouth, okay?” Shanks says. “Give you exactly what you want.”
The very thought has Ace moaning, and he allows himself to fall slack. In turn, Shanks pulls him in even closer, his hand woven tightly through Ace’s hair, supporting the weight of his head.
“That’s good, baby. I’ve got you.”
Shanks’ pace is slow and controlled at first, savouring every pump through Ace’s swollen lips, but it’s not long before he’s fucking into Ace with unrelenting fervour. Ace relishes in the way his name is drawn into ragged gasps through Shanks’ talented mouth; the disciplined strength Shanks demonstrates in the thrusting of his hips. Haki starts bleeding through the cracks in his restraint, rattling the furniture around them—and Ace, at the bite of it against his skin, tugs faster at his cock, becoming so dizzied from the show of power that he simply hangs there, drool building in his mouth, eyes fluttering in bliss. He moans as Shanks' fingers tighten in his hair, as his cock drives in deep, as he bucks up into his own hand and comes to the feeling of Shanks spilling down his throat...
He doesn’t realise his head has fallen to Shanks’ thigh until he's gently turned toward the light.
“Gods, baby, aren’t you a dream?” Shanks murmurs. His nails score across Ace’s scalp, and Ace liberates a breath he didn’t realise he was holding; reciprocated oral has never made him feel so out of sorts. “There we go, sweetheart. Good boy. You have a lovely mouth.”
“Mmhm,” Ace says uselessly.
“How about we get you on the bed, sweetheart? Up you get. Perfect, baby. Drink this.”
Ace downs the water in one move, then pushes the glass back at Shanks and collapses on the bed. Chuckling, Shanks gets in beside him and holds him close, nose to neck. He smells of a stiff sea wind and sweet tobacco, and Ace has the gut-sinking realisation that he doesn’t really know anything about Shanks, that he doesn’t know if Shanks smokes, or if the tobacco scent comes from someone else. For fuck’s sake, he doesn’t even know what Shanks wants from him. Ace came here expecting filthy, casual sex, yet nothing about this feels filthy or casual.
Aren't they on the same page? Isn't this about sex?
"You look like you're thinking real hard, gorgeous," Shanks says. "Fancy a bath?”
“With you?” Ace’s voice is croaky. He glances up at Shanks, startled to realise Shanks is still wearing his hat, although he takes it off a moment later. “Yeah, sure. Sounds nice.”
“I’ll get one running, then. Hold on.”
With Shanks in the bathroom, Ace simply lies still and listens to the sounds of water glugging into the wooden tub. He keeps his eyes closed, savouring the fading feeling of full-bodied bliss. In the time it takes Shanks to get the bath filled, he almost falls asleep.
“Ready, gorgeous? I’ll wash your hair.”
They decide to sit back-to-chest in the circular tub, so Shanks climbs in first with Ace following behind. When Ace initially gets in, there’s not much discomfort, but the further he submerges, the more the water upsets his devil fruit. He almost sinks beneath the surface—fortunately, Shanks catches him around the stomach before he goes under.
He takes hold of the edge of the bath. “Thanks,” he says. “Now ya know why I’m a shower guy.”
“Sometimes I forget it’s not only the sea you sink in.”
“Would you ever eat a devil fruit?”
“No.” Shanks doesn’t hesitate. “I like swimming, and I love the sea. Always have. I don’t want to make an enemy of her.”
“Always?” Ace looks back at him. “Even when you were a kid?”
“I became a pirate at a very young age, Ace. The sea is all I know.”
“‘Sea Legs Shanks,’ they should call you.”
“Hah! What a Jolly Roger that would make.” Shanks’ hand slides up Ace’s chest, then down his arm. “Want me to wash your back, baby?”
“Sure.”
It’s difficult for Shanks to wash Ace with only one arm, but he takes it in stride, laughing with Ace when the slippery bar of soap shoots out of his hand and into the back of Ace’s head. He lathers the suds in wherever he can reach, his touch lingering enough to tickle and tease. By the end of it, they’re less preoccupied with Ace’s cleanliness and more with kissing each other breathless.
“I’ll do your hair, too, if you like.”
Ace laughs. “Will you hit me again?”
“Only if you ask very nicely.”
It’s easier for Shanks to wash Ace’s hair: he empties the shampoo into his hand then rubs it atop Ace’s head, massaging pleasantly. Sighing, Ace relaxes into the touch, eyes drifting shut. It’s quiet but for Shanks’ breath in his ear and tinkling of the water around them, and Ace feels serene enough to murmur, “Tell me something about you.”
Shanks pauses, then resumes his attentions. “Hmm, about me? Anything you wanna know in particular?”
“No.” Ace reconsiders. “Do you smoke?”
“Oh no, that’s all Benny. He’s a proper snob about it, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. There’s this specific island in Paradise known for growing the best tobacco and he’s always on at me to go get some. Says it’s better in every way.” Shanks snorts. He tugs softly on the ends of Ace’s hair to ensure the shampoo has spread. “Now, me? I’m a saké man. My hometown makes its own brand, West Blue Brew. I drink it whenever I can get my hands on it.”
“But when we…” Ace makes a vague gesture that has Shanks grinning. “You had a flask of rum.”
“So I did. An old habit, that.” Shanks pats Ace’s head. “I’m done, princess. Let’s get you rinsed off.”
By ‘rinsed off’, Shanks means dunking Ace strategically in and out of the water as Ace tries not to drown while laughing. Once they’re sure the soap’s gone, Ace wipes the water from his face and pushes his sloppy hair out of his eyes. He turns in the bath, facing Shanks with a wide smile. Shanks, after a moment of looking, smiles back.
“I’ll wash your hair?” Ace poses.
“Don’t drown, little flame.”
Something inexplicable has Ace holding his breath as he soaps up Shanks’ hair and cards his fingers through the strands. Perhaps it’s the way Shanks’ eyes close, or the small exhale he lets out, but Ace finds himself biting his lip as he rolls the ends of Shanks’ hair between his fingers.
“You know,” he says quietly, “your hair always reminds me of hibiscus flowers.”
Shanks opens one eye. “I’ve not heard that one before.”
“Yeah, I bet people are always telling you your hair’s coloured with the blood of your enemies, or something.” Shanks laughs. “But it’s not, you know. It’s the colour of red hibiscus.”
“You like flowers, huh?”
“Yeah, I do.” Ace finishes washing Shanks’ hair, then leans back, grabbing the bath so that he doesn’t sink. “Now you know something ‘bout me, too.”
The way Shanks regards him is full of inscrutable meaning. He pulls Ace in close, on top of his knee, and Ace’s breath catches. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want only one thing from you, sweetheart? If I’m gonna know you, I want to know everything.” Shanks’ eyes—a maroon so dark they appear black—pin Ace in place. “I don’t do anything by halves, angel. And certainly not you.”
Ace tries not to swallow his tongue. “You’re just saying that ‘cause I’m naked in your lap.”
“Well,” Shanks grins, “it doesn’t hurt, does it?”
When Shanks embraces Ace, there’s no doubt in Ace’s mind where they’re about to go, and he knows it’s not his best idea—but Shanks kisses Ace senseless and Ace, devoid of sense, lets it go past the point of no return. At his most vulnerable—submerged in water—Ace gives himself to Shanks again, knowing full-well that he shouldn’t; that the more he lets Shanks in, the more Shanks carves a place inside of him that he won’t be able to fill…
But the sex is fantastic, so Ace forgives himself. Just a little.
-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-
Come morning, things are more difficult than expected. Ace wakes with Shanks pressed up against his back; Shanks’ arm strewn over his waist; Shanks’ nose in his hair. He listens to Shanks’ breathing, brushes his fingers over Shanks’ calloused hand, and asks himself, heart pounding, what the fuck am I doing?
“Morning, gorgeous,” Shanks mumbles as he wakes. He presses a sleepy kiss into the back of Ace’s neck; Ace bites the inside of his cheek, eyes closing. “You’re so warm.”
“Made of fire,” he says back.
Shanks curls in closer, yawning. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
It’s just Ace’s luck, of course, that some of Shanks’ crew are also at the inn eating breakfast. He sees Benn Beckman and the other two from last night, Yasopp and Roux, still sitting at the same table.
“Did some of your crew sleep here last night?” he asks Shanks.
“Nah, just me. Beck thought I’d get too drunk to walk back. I fell off the gangplank last time, and it was only by luck that he found me.”
Ace snorts. “Idiot.”
“It was a good night. I won seven rounds of poker.”
“And a major hangover, I reckon.”
“Smart-mouthed as ever, baby.”
They order food from the innkeeper, then make their way over to Shanks’ crew. Ace is surprised to be welcomed with nothing more intrusive than a few knowing smiles and hearty hellos.
“Yasopp lost his gun to Limejuice,” Benn says.
Shanks guffaws, settling in the booth. He pats the seat beside him, so Ace slides in. “Again, mate? You know he’s a better card player than you.”
“Yeah, I know.” Yasopp snorts. “I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“He never learns, Boss!” inputs Roux.
“What’s Lime got you doing, then? Is he gonna give it back?”
“Sure, so long as I cover for him in the kitchens for a week. Early mornings.”
That makes Ace laugh, capturing everyone’s attention. Before they can ask why, he explains, “It’s nothin’. Just, my crew doesn’t have a proper cook right now so we’re all doing what we can, but we have to draw straws when it comes to breakfast. I think any of them would trade a gun for the same thing.”
“Are you any good?” Benn asks.
Ace, surprised, blinks at him. “At cooking? Oh, yeah. I’m the best at it actually, but I’m also the best at navigating, so I tend to stick to that. What the captain says goes, and whatnot.”
“Exploiting your position,” Shanks tuts playfully.
Ace laughs again. “Says the one who imports his saké from the West Blue.”
Their food arrives, and Ace digs in, absolutely famished: seeing Shanks again has used up more energy than he expected. Unfortunately, he eats too quickly, and the sudden, heavy sensation of sleep sets over him.
“Shanks,” he says faintly. “I’m gonna—”
He’s asleep before he finishes the sentence, but he wakes before his food goes cold. He knows so because he wakes up in it.
“Ace!” Shanks helps Ace sit up, pulling a slice of bacon from his cheek. “You should’ve mentioned you’ve got narcolepsy, baby. Had me worried for a sec.”
“Runs in the family,” Ace mutters, then freezes and corrects, “Adoptive family.”
Gol D. Roger might’ve had narcolepsy, but what would Ace know of it?
“I’ve seen Garp’s attacks before,” Shanks agrees. “Never quite as bad as that, though. He’s normally only out for a minute at most.”
“Yeah.” Ace rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “They get bad when I’m running on empty, and then when I eat, well…”
Shanks smothers a smile. “Worn out, sweetheart?”
“You could say that.” Ace glances at the clock on the wall, and his eyes bug when he realises it’s almost midday. “Shit, that’s not the time, is it? Because Deuce will—”
“Deuce will what, Ace?” interrupts the devil himself. “Hunt you down and carry you back to the ship?”
“Told ya,” Ace mutters to Shanks. He stands, half-way through eating a sausage. “I’m coming, I’m coming, Deuce. I just need to finish my breakfast.”
Deuce crosses his arms, frowning heavily enough that his mask crinkles. “You haven’t eaten yet? What the fuck have you been doing all morning? When I told you to go find Red Hair, I didn’t mean for you to disappear for twelve hours.”
At that, Ace falters, then glares at Shanks and his crewmates, all of whom are all laughing at his expense.
“Yeah, Ace, what were you doing all night?” Shanks teases.
“You prick,” says Ace.
Shanks’ laughter rises. “You heard him,” he tells Deuce. “He was doing me.”
“Shanks!”
“Aw, come on, gorgeous. Why’s it gotta be a secret?”
“It’s not a secret. There’s just nothing to tell.”
Deuce is the one to laugh at him now. “Yeah, okay, sure. Nothing to tell. Fuck me, Skull was right. He said you were mooning—”
“I was not!”
“Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it, but get back before late, Captain. You know you said—”
“I know what I said. I’ll be there.”
“All right. Catch you later, Red Hair.”
As soon as Deuce is gone, Ace sits back down and begins devouring his breakfast. “Not a fucking word,” he warns Shanks.
Shanks, grinning wide, winks. “Not one, baby. I wouldn’t dare.”
Fortunately, the rest of breakfast goes smoothly, even with the light ribbing Shanks’ crew gives Ace—he knows how to hold his own, after all. In fact, by the end of it, he’s made reluctant friends with Yasopp, traded recipes with Roux, and wrangled a laugh out of Benn, who’s been trying all morning to be the voice of reason.
“Well, this has been great, but I gotta run before my crew mutinies and leaves without me.” Ace stands, tipping his hat. “See ya later, assholes.”
Shanks grabs him by the belt. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Naw, I think I covered it.”
“Oh, really?” Rising to his feet, Shanks takes Ace by the small of his back and leans in. Their gazes meet. “Aren’t you gonna miss me?”
“Guess you’ll find out next time.”
“Then you’ll need something to remember me by, won’t you?”
“Yeah right. Like anyone’s ever forgotten you.”
Ah, shit. Ace has gone and said too much again—but the way Shanks regards him almost makes up for it: a flash of surprise chased away by delight. He presses on Ace’s back until the last of the distance between them is closed, then kisses Ace so zealously that Ace is given no choice but to submerge his hands in Shanks’ cloak; to pull until he and Shanks blend together.
When they part, breathing hard, Shanks slips from Ace’s hands like seawater. “Thought it best not to take any chances,” he says, grinning. “Now I know you’ll miss me!”
It’s only after Ace has left, pink-eared from the provocative whistling of the Red Hair Pirates, that he realises Shanks has sneaked a piece of paper into his pocket—a vivre card. He pauses in shock outside of the inn, flipping the card over. On the back, written in a line of blocky chicken scratch, it reads: “So you can always come back to me.”
Ace knows they can’t continue on like this for long. He and Shanks are like two juxtaposed currents, destined to flow in opposite directions. Yet that night, he sits in his cabin, heart in his mouth, and traces over Shanks’ writing until the words are burned into his memory.
Who says they won’t end up at the same destination? Ace has yet to meet a beast more unpredictable than the sea.