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Mihawk was already long gone by the time he realized the predicament he was in. It seemed backwards that the blood appeared first, starting with a slow trickle down his chest as if giving him a warning of what would follow. Eventually, the pain arrived, too. A sharp, slicing pain he was more than familiar with.
This can’t be true, he thought, cursing his luck as he tried to staunch the bleeding that only seemed to intensify by the minute.
Unfortunately, denial offered little solace when there was only one rational explanation for his injury. For Roronoa’s injury that now adorned Mihawk’s chest, a clean, diagonal cut meant as a reminder.
“Suppose I made the right decision, sparing his life,” Mihawk murmured to himself, to Yoru.
Had he gone for a killing blow, well, somebody would’ve found his rotting corpse floating on the waves eventually. What an interesting mystery that would’ve made, him dead from a sword fight, yet nobody to claim his title nor his sword.
His cut had been enough to bring Roronoa down and close to death. Mihawk had calculated it carefully—the other man would live, as long as he had the fortitude to fight.
Not a trifling injury for Mihawk either; it had been dealt by the best after all. The pain grew gradually, crossing from distracting to agonizing before he reached dry land.
Heading to a Marine facility was out of the question. Once they saw Roronoa’s scar—and Mihawk had a feeling they would—they’d put two and two together.
His tentative trust in the government didn't stretch to allowing them to have information of this magnitude. They may not have been able to use the knowledge against him right now, but there'd eventually be a time it would happen.
The status of a Warlord was convenient and mutually beneficial. Regardless, Mihawk wasn't naive enough to think it was permanent. He'd lived long enough and seen too much to delude himself like that.
Even going to a regular doctor ran its risks. They could be bribed or threatened into revealing information, and unfortunately, gossip about any of the Warlords was always bound to find a buyer.
But this was East Blue, which meant Mihawk’s best option was an old friend. He wasn't a trained physician but knew enough that he'd be better than nothing. The option wasn't entirely safe, but neither was life in general.
Despite the blood loss and the pain, Mihawk clung to consciousness. He had to keep a steady course or risk someone finding him and taking advantage of his vulnerable state.
He nodded off more than once, losing chunks of time, but managed to crawl his way back to alertness enough times to correct his course till his boat finally, finally hit the shallow sand of the beach.
Looks familiar, he thought hazily as he lifted his head to look around. He had no energy for anything more. With any luck, he'd be found before he bled out under the setting sun.
“There you are,” Koushirou’s familiar voice filtered through the darkness. “It's been a while.”
Mihawk blinked his eyes open, immediately regretting the choice when the sunlight assaulted his senses. With a groan, he moved to push himself up.
“Take it easy.” Koushirou hurried to support him. “You were in bad shape when you arrived.”
“Thank you for this,” Mihawk said, squeezing the other man's shoulder. “And I'm sorry.”
Sorry for disappearing for years and only showing up when he needed something. Sorry for being there for his daughter's birth but not the funeral.
“You're always welcome here,” Koushirou said. “And I got your letter, it was appreciated.”
It hadn't been enough, Mihawk thought bitterly. But he'd never been good with loss, his own or other people's. And he wasn't sure that was something you could learn.
Koushirou cleared his throat. “I saw you clashed with Zoro, surely he didn't cause this?”
At Mihawk's bewildered look, he clarified, “It was in the paper.”
Mihawk sighed, pressing a hand to his still-aching chest. “It's a long story.”
Koushirou didn't need to be sworn to secrecy; he had too much to lose by revealing this information.
“Don't wait so long before visiting next time,” Koushirou said.
His tone was light, but Mihawk didn't miss the hidden reprimand.
“I'll do better,” Mihawk promised, chastised.
“And were you to run into Zoro… Give him my regards. And treat him right.”
“He may not want anything to do with me beyond rivalry,” Mihawk said.
He didn't know whether Zoro had any inkling of the situation they were in, but this bond between them didn't obligate him to anything. Mihawk would let him decide how things proceeded when they met again in the future.
“I think you'll find he might surprise you,” Koushirou said with an enigmatic smile.
Mihawk had barely left the Shimotsuki village when he was struck down by another injury.
What is it this time? he wondered, cursing as the pain in his ankles made him stumble. He hadn't made it out of East Blue, choosing to recuperate and renew his wardrobe before entering the Grand Line.
It went against his preferences, but he had to make adjustments lest he wanted the whole world to see the matching scar he sported with Roronoa.
And speaking of the devil, he had to be in trouble again. The new wounds felt almost bone-deep, bleeding enough to soak through Mihawk's socks, ruining his boots from the inside out.
As if that wasn’t enough, he could feel a migraine approaching, the pressure behind his eyes increasing and making him squint at the bright sun.
Gritting his teeth, he shuffled into his hotel room and hoped he'd survive this one without having to consult a doctor.
And then, barely weeks later, Mihawk’s head was ringing with another unexpected attack. How reckless are you, Roronoa? It had been years since Mihawk had been injured, decades since anything serious, and his body was no longer accustomed to this rate of damage.
Luckily, it seemed this time wasn’t too serious, yet the wounds still ached, and the blood loss left him woozy. Such is the road to the top, he had to remind himself. He’d never put much weight on the whole soulmate business—or craved one for himself—but if it was to be so, at least he’d been given one with guts.
That was something to be proud of. Something to look forward to.
However, that did little to lessen the embarrassment when just days later, Mihawk was left collapsing on Boa Hancock’s arms, feeling like he’d been struck by lightning.
“Are you alright?” she asked, peering down at him with a frown.
Mihawk blinked, trying to clear his head and get his limbs under control once again. “I may be coming down with something.”
Hancock scoffed. “You should’ve stayed home. These Warlord meetings are pointless, anyway.”
“You’re quite right,” Mihawk agreed, finally able to stand again.
He was finally granted a longer period of respite, although not entirely free of scrapes and bruises. It allowed him to relax again, and he had to admit that despite himself, he’d been worried about Roronoa’s well-being.
It wasn’t Mihawk’s place to interfere—that would’ve done more harm than good—but it didn’t stop him from fretting in the small hours of the night about the crazy escapades of Roronoa’s foolhardy captain and their effects on the swordsman.
The papers were rife with the chaos they left behind wherever they went, and Mihawk could only sigh in relief when he realized how close they’d come to dying.
What fools, going against Crocodile. But those fools had won, somehow, through luck or skill.
It hardly surprised him when news of Enies Lobby reached his ears. Someone else might’ve worried, but for him, there was no reason. His muscles ached, and he’d have a few new scars soon, but he was alright, which meant Roronoa was too.
Until, of course, he wasn’t.
Mihawk’s saving grace was that he was on Kuraigana when it happened. At first, he wasn’t even aware that something had happened. He was simply walking to his room, wine glass in hand, and the next thing he knew, the stone floor had risen to greet him.
Somehow, his body had reacted before his mind even became conscious of the pain—and when it happened, he wished the knock to his head had rendered him senseless.
Mihawk knew pain intimately; his earliest memories were painted with it, and the path he’d forged for himself had taken him through things he wished he could erase from his mind. Still, he’d never experienced anything quite like this.
Is this what dying feels like? he wondered as he writhed on the floor, clawing at the tiles. It didn’t seem to come from a specific source, a blade to the stomach or a bullet he could’ve understood, but not this inescapable, all-consuming agony that assaulted his every cell.
He wasn’t sure whether it was possible to survive this. All he could do was be thankful when the blessed darkness finally swallowed him.
Waking up on the floor, Mihawk spent a fleeting moment wondering whether he'd had too much to drink. But no, such miscalculations were a thing of the past.
His muscles, his very bones, protested his attempt to stand up, hinting at how long he'd been lying prone on the stone floor. His spilled wine had long since dried, leaving an ugly stain behind.
Shaking, Mihawk made it up on all fours but not further. He cursed, letting out a pained hiss. At least he'd been saved from the humiliation of anyone seeing him like this, crawling to his room like a sick animal.
Climbing on his bed sapped the last of his strength, and he shivered, pulling a blanket over himself. What had happened? It had to be Roronoa, the bane of his existence.
And if Mihawk was this bad off, was Roronoa still breathing? He brought a trembling hand to the scar on his chest, tracing it lightly. Surely he'd know if Roronoa was… gone. And as dreadful as he felt, it wasn't the type of hollowness he imagined would follow the loss of a soulmate.
If only he'd come to me, Mihawk thought vaguely. I'd keep him from harm.
The mattress dipping alerted Mihawk that he was no longer alone. It was worrying that he hadn't sensed the presence earlier, and worse yet, he couldn't quite bring himself to spring into action even now that he knew she was there.
“Hey,” she said. “Are you alive?”
Mihawk didn't recognize her voice or her face when he finally forced his eyes open. At least she didn't appear threatening—he must've left Yoru in the hallway.
“Why are you here?” he countered, voice raspy with sleep.
“I don't know!” she huffed. “I didn't ask to be. But it's lonely, I'm sick of talking to the Marines.”
Mihawk wasn't awake enough for this. “The Marines?”
“They keep calling! And since you were sleeping, I picked up.”
Right, the execution. “That's still weeks away.”
She looked at him like he had two heads. “It's this week. Not that I care.”
With a groan, Mihawk pushed himself up. The past… however many days were hazy, since he'd spent them mostly in bed and still didn't feel entirely recovered. However, the summons he'd received had been clear—fail to show up and lose your title as a Warlord.
No matter how tempting it was to spend another month in bed, he had to get going.
“I have somewhere to be,” he said.
“Typical, waking up just to leave me alone,” she whined.
“You could come along,” Mihawk suggested, despite not even knowing her name. “I'm certain it'll be interesting.”
“I don't trust them. Marines.”
Neither do I. “You’ll still be here when I return?”
She shrugged. “Where would I go?”
“Look after the garden then. If you would.”
Waking up in a strange place with a stranger looking over him was enough to send Zoro into immediate action. Too bad his body was nowhere near recovered enough to actually cooperate.
“Idiot!” the girl admonished him. “You're worse than Mihawk.”
That was enough to give him pause. “You know Mihawk?”
She scoffed. “Where do you think you are? This is where he lives.”
Truth be told, Zoro had no idea where he was—the decision to leave his crew had been out of his hands. “Where is he?”
He wasn't certain he wanted Mihawk to see him like this, weak and incapacitated, but his sudden appearance probably called for an explanation.
“He's been summoned on Warlord business.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand.
Zoro sighed. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, getting a chance to recuperate so he could be useful again. Not knowing what had become of Luffy and the others bothered him, but he had to accept he couldn't do anything about that without a plan.
He took a better look at his companion—peculiar eyes and wild, pink hair. Hadn't he seen her somewhere before? Before he could place her, she was yapping again.
“He's got the same scar, you know,” the girl said, tapping Zoro on his bandaged chest heedless of his injuries. “His ankles, too.”
Had she fucking stripped him while he was unconscious? “How'd you know? You his mistress or something?”
The girl made an indignant sound. “He changed in front of me! I didn't ask him to.”
“I call bullshit, there's no reason for him to have identical scars.”
“I'm not lying!”
Zoro rolled his eyes. “Sure, and I'm his soulmate.”
The girl let out a theatrical gasp, slapping her hand onto her mouth. “You are.”
“I was joking. Obviously.”
“No, no, it makes sense now! You've clearly gotten your ass kicked, and he was… hurt. Before he left.”
Zoro frowned. “He was?”
It was hard to imagine anything touching Mihawk; he was strong enough to be nigh unbeatable.
“I dragged him out of bed, but he wasn't looking good.”
Zoro wasn't ready to believe it, not based on this chick’s word, but even the possibility he'd caused Mihawk to suffer didn't sit well with him. He'd made all his choices thinking he knew the risks and possible consequences, but he'd never even considered—no, it was too ridiculous a thought to even entertain.
“Wake me up when he gets back.”
It took days for Mihawk to return, and when he finally did, Zoro could tell Perona hadn’t been lying. He looked wrecked, dark circles under his eyes and his usually impeccable clothes stained with blood and dirt.
Mihawk stepped into the room, dragging his feet as if Yoru’s weight was too much to bear. The moment he spotted Zoro, his eyes widened in shock.
Zoro cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hey, funny coincidence.”
“At this point, I won’t even question it,” Mihawk said after a short pause and sat heavily on the sofa. “I saw your captain.”
“You did?” This information had Zoro perking up immediately. “How is he?”
“Alive, the last time I saw. He was being aided by Trafalgar Law, I believe he’s a surgeon.”
“He was injured?”
Mihawk frowned. “The paper hasn’t arrived? I’m certain they detail the events there.”
“No, it hasn’t! What happened?” Zoro asked, insistent and not caring how rude he was being.
Mihawk gave him a tired look but lapsed into a description of the events of that day that had both Perona and Zoro on the edge of their seats. So much had happened, and Zoro couldn’t help but feel guilty he hadn’t been there to support Luffy.
“It seems Hancock takes your captain’s well-being seriously. I will contact her to inquire about his condition.”
It was an unexpected offer, and without even thinking, Zoro had grasped the man’s hand between his own. “You will? Thanks.”
The expression on Mihawk’s face was bewildered, but he didn’t pull his hand back. And the longer their contact lasted, the nicer it felt, Zoro realized. This was no time to get distracted, yet he couldn’t ignore the soothing warmth radiating from Mihawk. It seemed to travel up Zoro’s arms and envelop him in a peaceful cocoon where nothing—or nobody—else mattered.
Zoro’s gaze wandered towards Mihawk’s chest, remembering what Perona had said about the scar. However, it was impossible to confirm because Mihawk had switched from his earlier style to a white shirt that covered most of his skin.
“You changed your clothes,” Zoro said.
“You care about that?”
“Maybe,” Zoro muttered.
Now that he thought about it, he could remember Nami pointing it out some time ago. Both she and Robin always read the newspaper and took note of anything related to people they knew. Somehow, Mihawk’s change in style had been important enough to register to her, important enough that she’d mentioned it to Zoro.
Back then, he’d done little more than glance at the picture, thinking Nami’s interest was mainly based on her own obsession with fashion. But the change had occurred right after Baratie, almost as if there had been something to hide.
“Do you ever get migraines?” Zoro asked, not missing the way Mihawk’s fingers twitched against his palm.
Almost reluctantly, he replied, “Occasionally.”
Zoro hummed, thoughtful. Before Alabasta, he’d never experienced one, but Chopper had said it wasn’t unheard of for them to start later in life. The desert sun and the stress from the battle and his injuries had been the likely causes, according to him. Zoro had accepted the explanation, but perhaps it hadn’t been his own ailment at all.
Finally, Zoro let go of Mihawk’s hand, only to reach out to place his hand on his—
“Guys!” Perona interrupted. “I’m still here.”
Zoro’s head whipped around painfully fast. “Fuck. I forgot about you.”
She made a face. “I can tell!”
“I should go,” Mihawk said, breaking the fight before it could start. “I need a bath.”
He moved to stand up, swaying a little but disguising it fast. Just not fast enough to escape Zoro’s notice.
“I’ll make sure you make it without collapsing on the stairs,” Zoro offered, pushing himself up.
Mihawk looked sour at the mention of his weakness. “You’re not much better yourself.”
Still, he didn’t move to stop Zoro as he followed a few steps behind, determined not to lose his way—he didn’t even know where Mihawk slept.
“I know what you’re planning!” Perona cried after them, and Zoro threw a look over his shoulder, daring her to do something about it.
Apparently, Perona wasn’t as big a liar as Zoro had assumed. For one, Mihawk wasn’t shy about undressing in front of guests, pulling off his shirt the moment they reached his room.
Yeah, she hadn’t been lying about the scar either. Zoro watched, eyes glued to Mihawk’s pale skin as the man kept shedding his clothes, seemingly unbothered. The scar across his chest was identical to Zoro’s; he’d seen his own reflection enough times to know.
There were other scars too, some Mihawk’s very own, but multiple that Zoro recognized as twins to his own. He grimaced as Mihawk pulled off his boots, revealing his ankles.
Some things Zoro wouldn't have changed even if he were allowed a do-over. Thriller Bark, taking on Luffy's pain, had been worth it regardless of the consequences.
But Little Garden? Had he known he wasn't just cutting into his own flesh, but Mihawk's as well… he would've thought twice about it.
Nothing he could do about it now, though, except step close, trace a finger diagonally over Mihawk's chest, whispering, “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”
“I didn't want you to know,” Mihawk said.
“Why?” Was Zoro not good enough?
Mihawk sighed. “I didn't want it to affect your choices. You have no obligation toward me because of this.”
“But what if I—” Zoro paused for a moment, steeling himself for rejection, “—what if I want it?”
Mihawk didn't say anything, just moved his hand slowly to Zoro's waist, where he was still covered in bandages. But even through those, he could feel the hot press of Mihawk's palm, sending desire coursing through his blood.
It seemed Mihawk was allowing him to set the expectations for how this would go, and there was no doubt in Zoro's head as he tilted his head, catching Mihawk's lips with his own.
He'd kissed people before. They'd mostly been transient affairs, centered around mutual pleasure. Never anything like this.
It was as if the moment Zoro gave him permission, Mihawk stopped holding back. His arms wrapped around Zoro, pulling him close, yet never close enough.
Even when there wasn't an inch between their bodies, Zoro's mind insisted he had to get closer, and he ended up tackling Mihawk on the bed, earning a pained hiss from him.
“Sorry, sorry,” Zoro murmured between kisses, ignoring his own body's protests at the sudden movement.
Mihawk was still wearing his pants, and Zoro had never gotten the chance to start undressing, but that seemed like a distant concern, and they grinded their bodies together, both already hard and panting.
The need to be inside Mihawk, to have Mihawk inside him, was all-consuming, enough to drive a man insane. But it'd have to wait till they'd both had a chance to rest.
For now, this had to be enough. Their bodies slotting together perfectly, the smell of sweat filling the room as Zoro dragged his hips back and forth, his cock rubbing against Mihawk's.
“Fuck, that's good,” Zoro gasped, too far gone to care that he was about to come from dry humping alone.
“Yes,” Mihawk echoed, arching his back.
It didn't seem like he had the capacity for anything more sophisticated either, which made it less embarrassing that Zoro's stamina was already running out.
He gripped Mihawk's hip tight, rutting against him desperately, seeking release. The thing that finally did him in was Mihawk throwing his head back, panting out a curse as he dug his nails into Zoro's back, through bandages and all.
Groaning out Mihawk's name, Zoro rolled his hips one last time before coming undone, the orgasm rushing through him with devastating force and leaving him shaking.
It took a moment for him to collect himself enough to realize Mihawk was still hard, waiting patiently even though he couldn't entirely keep his hips from twitching and seeking more friction.
“I've got you,” Zoro said, voice rough.
He reached his hand into the tight space between them, wrapping his hand around Mihawk's cock. It twitched eagerly against his palm, and the first, slow stroke he gave it earned a deep groan from Mihawk.
“Faster,” he demanded, fingers digging into Zoro's bicep.
He grinned down at Mihawk. “As you wish.”
It lasted less than a minute, every stroke pulling obscene sounds from Mihawk's throat, making Zoro grow hard much sooner than he'd expected.
“Roronoa, I'm—” Mihawk's warning died in his throat as Zoro squeezed him hard, sending him over the edge.
Zoro drank in every detail of Mihawk's expression, eyes squeezed shut, his lips slightly parted as he panted through the assault of sensations.
“I really need a bath,” he said once it was over, still out of breath.
Zoro pressed his face into Mihawk's neck, hoping that wasn't a subtle way of telling him to get off him. He was too comfortable—not to mention horny—to want to do that.
There was no way Mihawk couldn't feel the rock-hard press of his cock against his thigh, but he was older than Zoro, and not as well rested, so he probably needed a bit more time before round two.
“This doesn't change anything between us,” Zoro said, voice muffled by Mihawk's skin.
Mihawk let out a chuckle, the vibrations travelling down Zoro's body thanks to their proximity. And yeah, maybe it had been a stupid thing to say. One probably couldn't have sex with someone—your soulmate, no less—without changing anything.
Zoro lifted himself up enough to look Mihawk in the eye. “You know what I mean. I'm still going to beat you.”
“Hmm, I wouldn't expect anything less,” Mihawk said in response, still looking amused. “I won't go easy on you, don't worry.”
“Good. Now can we…” Zoro drifted off, rolling his hips against Mihawk's thigh.
Mihawk closed his eyes, looking like he couldn't believe Zoro was ready to go again. “I wasn't joking about the bath. You'll have to join me.”
Zoro had never been the biggest fan of baths, but for once, he had no objections.