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"I thought," Shanks said, stomping up the hill past curious children as they trooped back to their village, "you wanted to rest! I thought I'd find you napping in a hammock with a book on your face, a little pot of tea next to you like the old man you are--"
"Hey, Redhead." Marco watched him, head tilted to the side. He stood in a small patch of sun at the crest of his hill, a tiny sliver where the light still reached in the late afternoon.
Shanks waved his arm down the slope as he approached and lowered the heavy pack on his shoulders to the ground. "Instead," he complained, "I find you working!"
"You want to come in for a snack?"
Shanks eyed Marco's posture. The loose, easy set of his shoulders, his wry grin. Blue eyes crinkled with amusement behind the neat red frames of his glasses. Shanks stepped forward, arm open, and Marco swept him into a ferocious hug.
"And drinks," Shanks said, returning the embrace with a lopsided squeeze, "I hope." He tucked his face into Marco's neck; the other man smelled clean and sweet like the soap he favored, a bit like the evergreens that grew on every corner of this island.
"Of course," Marco said warmly as he pulled away, picking up the package and leading them both into his house.
It was a smaller one than the wooden behemoth Shanks had visited the first time, on the next hill over. He didn't want to renovate or tear the larger one down, Marco explained, in case Jozu or any other Whitebeard-sized crewmates ever wanted to visit and stay the night, so he had built a cabin for himself. One elderly gentleman, retired from carpentry but not from busybodying, supervised him through the whole process.
Shanks explored the house while Marco took up in the kitchen, poking his nose into each room and making a round to familiarize himself. The whole place was tidy and warm, decorated sparingly but with thoughtfulness and care. That cozy study lined with bookshelves, his neat little bedroom and the many pillows and blankets piled on top of his unmade bed, the roomy bathroom with the bathing area and a deep wooden soaking tub. A clean, simple kitchen with that familiar cast iron stove and a deep, wide sink.
Shanks rejoined him shortly and listened close while Marco spoke fondly of Oidee and Tama, a little girl from the village and her pet sphinx. She'd insisted on helping him build the house so he'd let her hold planks while he hammered, or fetch him tools as he needed them while Tama napped in the shade.
There was a pair of young brothers who regularly trekked up the hill to 'train' with Marco (they often brought him warm sphinx-wool clothing from their grandparents), an elderly woman who came to him with all sorts of aches and pains from too much gardening (and a lot of fresh vegetables from her garden), a few older men who held weekly poker nights in the village center (and cleaned him out every time). Shanks, who knew Marco's intimidating poker face and merciless reputation at the card table, caught his knowing little smile and snorted.
It comforted him to know that an entire village had taken it upon itself to keep Marco busy, make him feel needed in the same way the Whitebeard Pirates always had. Looking out for others was, oftentimes, the only way to make sure Marco took care of himself as well.
"What's that?" Shanks asked, joining Marco at the counter and peering over his shoulder to watch him take an oiled rectangle of dough and stretch it between his hands. Marco frowned in concentration as he grasped it gently between his fingers and began to pull it outward. Each time he stretched the dough, he let the sagging middle slap against the wooden grain of his counter until it'd reached the full span of his arms.
"Hand-pulled noodles," Marco answered, pinching the middle of the long strand and then ripping it down the center. "Thatch taught me, a long time ago. You'll like it."
He tossed the noodle right into a boiling pot of water on his stove, then picked up another piece of dough to do the same to it. When they were cooked he dropped both servings into another pot of a dark, savory sauce being heated on the side. He ushered Shanks toward the table to sit, then turned back to the stove to portion out the noodles. Marco added a handful of sliced cucumbers to garnish each bowl, then used chopsticks to cut Shanks's portion into more manageably-sized pieces.
The act rankled, reminded him too much of when he was a kid and Marco was tasked with watching him, but Shanks reminded himself that the Whitebeard Pirates didn't lack for one-armed crewmembers and Marco of all people had never seen it as weakness; That thoughtfulness was just second nature to him.
Shanks forgot to be annoyed about it completely when Marco broke out the alcohol, a distilled grain liquor infused with dried fruits and spices. Its label declared it a specialty of the Long-Arm tribe.
Then Marco slapped a pair of chopsticks into his hand and sat beside him with his own bowl. Marco had to brace his with his off-hand while he ate, struggling more with the single long, chewy noodle than Shanks did with his own serving.
"This is good," Shanks commented, loudly slurping down another mouthful of the meaty, garlicky noodles swimming in brown sauce and chili oil. It really was a combination of all his favorite flavors and textures. Marco was, as always, infuriatingly competent at everything he put his mind to. "You could've been a chef."
"Thanks," he answered, eating slowly. When Shanks cleaned out his bowl, Marco switched in his own.
"You sure you don't want more?" Shanks asked, even as he dug right in. Marco didn't answer, but watched him with a vague, hazy smile.
When Shanks reached the bottom of that bowl too, he stared mournfully at the puddle of sauce and ground meat at the bottom. In another life, he'd simply pick up the bowl and scoop it all into his mouth. As if reading his mind, Marco plucked the chopsticks out of his hand and replaced them with a spoon.
"I'm not," Shanks complained, "a little kid anymore. You don't have to--" he gestured at himself with the spoon.
"I know," Marco said, laughing gently. "You became a dependable adult somehow."
"I was always dependable," Shanks protested, and scowled at Marco when the older man reached over to ruffle his hair. "And I've been an adult for twenty years."
Marco was, Shanks concluded after they drank for a while longer, acting strange. For the entire length of time Shanks had known him, Marco had only ever seemed to tolerate him and now, rather than stiffen up each time Shanks leaned into his space as was his habit, Marco seemed to turn into it, to welcome the touch, and even initiate it. He spoke freely about his peaceful days with the villagers now-- a rarity when he was at sea and couldn't reveal all the movements of his crew to a rival.
Still, Shanks didn't think too much of it; it had been months since Marco last saw his family and probably just as long since he'd had the amount of physical contact he was accustomed to from his crew. They were a noisy, affectionate crowd and the Phoenix was downright cuddly with some of the other Whitebeard pirates, Vista and Jozu and Izou and Thatch, who were closest to him in age and who had spent decades sailing with him. When there were inter-crew parties Shanks used to watch them hang out all together in a big pile, heads on shoulders, arms around waists. The gathering would more often than not devolve into a scuffle, a wrestling match, affectionate roughhousing. Marco always looked so happy and safe with his family, at peace in a way that Shanks couldn't help but envy.
With the way those children had clung to and climbed on him though, Shanks wondered if that truly was the reason Marco was so amenable to physical touch from him now.
"This must be," Marco said after washing their used dishes and utensils, "boring for you, huh?"
He rejoined Shanks, sitting across the table as he topped off their cups and took a sip of his own drink. The movement lacked his usual swagger, the lazy confidence he kept up in front of others. Shanks realized quickly that it was because Marco was self-conscious about this idyllic life on Sphinx; he found it painfully endearing.
"What's wrong with boring?" Shanks shot back, slouching low in his seat. He had his arm slung over the back of the chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. "Are you happy here, Marco?"
"I suppose."
"Then it's fine," Shanks said. "I like guys like that." His eyes crinkled at their corners as he regarded Marco's wry expression. "Mr. Rayleigh's boring," he pointed out. "Beck's boring," and Beckman was one of his favorite people in the world.
"Beckman is dealing with a lot," Marco protested. "Namely, you."
"See!" Shanks laughed. He suspected that Marco liked Beckman a lot, too, more than he liked Shanks himself sometimes. They were both cautious, loyal men who cared deeply about others and spent much of their time making it so that people like Shanks and Whitebeard could be as free and happy as they wished. "Two boring peas in a pod."
"He could've come up with you," Marco offered. "Might've been a nice break."
"Next time," Shanks said. "He'd love this place. Maybe we'll retire here, too. You can build us another house and everything."
Marco hummed thoughtfully. "Are you planning on retiring?"
"Someday." They both knew it would be difficult, especially with Shanks's stature in the world. He was one of many aiming for Pirate King, a position that put him at odds with Big Mom and Kaidou and the World Government itself. "It'd be nice, don't you think?"
"Yeah," Marco replied, though he wasn't feeling particularly optimistic about it. He shook his head to clear it of those pessimistic, maudlin thoughts and watched Shanks scratch the back of his neck, push a fringe of hair out of his face, then check his nails and grimace at the state of them. "Hey," he said, "you want a bath?"
Shanks looked at him in surprise. He had only come to Sphinx this time to deliver a few months' worth of medication and supplies that Marco had requested for the townspeople, but he wasn't about to pass up a hot bath. Out at sea, saltwater showers were the norm. "It's been a while since we made land, so sure." He gave Marco a sly grin. "Join me, Bluebird."
"I will. The tub is really big." Marco looked sheepish. "I built it myself, but I thought I'd use it more often than I have. It takes a long time to fill up, so I don't usually bother."
"Afraid you'll drown in there?"
Marco took off his glasses and left them on the corner of his desk. He gestured toward the bathroom, prompting Shanks to follow him in. "It's not that big."
The Wano-styled tub was deep enough to require a bench around the inside and it would fit both men with room to spare. Marco let the steaming hot water run while he and Shanks sat down on the stools in the bathing area and scrubbed themselves clean.
"How are the islands we handed to you doing?" Marco asked while he lathered up Shanks's hair. He was meticulous and efficient about it, soapy fingers massaging gently across every inch of scalp, the base of his skull, behind his ears. He even dug his thumbs into the aching tendons in his neck and shoulders. Shanks was tempted to ask if this was something he did often, but decided he didn't actually want to know.
"Honestly? They've been helping us a lot." Shanks chuckled when he felt Marco pull his hair up along the midline of his head, standing the strands on end with the soap. "Setting up trade routes with the other islands under my flag, sending us regular tributes. It feels like they're doing more for us than we do for them."
"Good," Marco said. "The ones who've been with us longest have a lot of experience supporting the fleet, so they'll serve you well."
"I told all of them I didn't need them to do so much, but they kept insisting." Shanks had more than a sneaking suspicion that it was because Marco had expressly told them not to accept a declination. Those islands weren't anything like his own subordinate fleets, who would offer yet ultimately cave in to Shanks's refusal to accept a tribute; they had a rock-solid conviction that mirrored Marco's own when it came to matters of reciprocity, which Shanks was admittedly a little weak to. "Said it would throw their operation all out of whack if I didn't take all that surplus. We haven't had this much fresh produce in years, so..."
"I told you," Marco said. He batted at the tips of Shanks's hair, allowing the sudsy locks to flop sideways as he moved on to lathering up his back. "They've got a lot of experience. They know what they're doing."
Shanks would, if asked, claim to be a trusting guy. He took weak crews under his protection and demanded nothing from them against the advice of everyone who cared for him. He did a variety of things that his first mate classified as naïve and reckless.
Still, Marco knew that he had only lent his flag to islands and pirates who could never become a threat. They were his protectorates and would never be anything else, nor would he pull them higher; they could, if they wanted to, become stronger but none of them saw a need to and he would never find himself relying on their strength to save himself. With equals, Shanks rarely formalized alliances and simply preferred to drift in and out of orbit as he pleased.
Shanks was at least self-aware enough to admit that after his entire crew disbanded when he was fourteen, he had a hard time putting himself in others' hands. He doubted, down to his core, that anyone would truly come to his aid when he needed it, and so he became so strong that he'd never need it. There were two clear exceptions to that rule: Beckman, his first mate, a relationship that needed no further explanation, and Marco himself.
Marco was careful and jaded, but for all that cynicism he was happy to give himself over to those he trusted to take care of him, and those individuals numbered in the thousands. It was a side effect of sailing with Whitebeard for a captain, a man who lifted others up with him and pushed them higher whenever he could. Edward Newgate saw it as a father's duty to help his children achieve their potential and was always so proud to see them become strong, whether as people, crews, or entire islands.
So Marco grew up with the luxury of stability, a rare thing for any pirate, and he had known Shanks for so long and been such a presence in his life that Shanks could hardly doubt Marco's ability to come through for him. What if you could have that, was the message Marco sent when he placed some of his favorite islands, full of people who had so capably supported his family, into Shanks's hands. I want this for you, too.
Shanks sat quietly while Marco rinsed him off, a big, warm hand in his hair to ensure he'd gotten all the shampoo out, and to keep the soap from running down his face and into his eyes.
"They've been a real asset," Shanks said. "I'll need to figure out how to repay them."
He tensed at the press of Marco's palm to his spine, fingers splayed halfway down his back. "You can thank them," Marco said thoughtfully, the events of the last year and a half weighing heavily on his words, "by staying alive, Shanks."
When it was Shanks's turn to scrub Marco, he took his time. It was more ritual than necessity; Marco was flexible enough to wash himself thoroughly, but he loved the process, the reciprocity, the intimacy of sharing a bath. Shanks was usually ambivalent about it but with the broad planes of Marco's naked back right in front of him, all those sinewy muscles on display as they stretched and flexed under his skin, he was happy to indulge.
Shanks had seen that back cut, shot, impaled and otherwise hurt more times than he cared to remember. It was completely unscarred, an enviable state for any swordsman, but he knew Marco couldn't care less about that even when he was experimenting with swordplay. Marco used his body as a shield for his family, so it didn't matter to him how and where he let it be damaged; no scars would remain. There was only one mark he wanted on that body, and he had the ability to keep it that way.
'Mr. Rayleigh told me about you,' Shanks had said to Marco once, when he was six and Marco was twelve and it was Marco's last quarantine in the baby zone until he was allowed to fight alongside his crew. 'Why don't you have the Celestial Dragons' mark?'
Rayleigh had not very long ago told Shanks about his lineage, about Mary Geoise, God Valley, and the Figarlands. He didn't believe in withholding information from Shanks, although Shanks wondered occasionally if it might have been better if he did. At six he was too young to understand the implications of what Rayleigh had told him, and he didn't think it would be such a big deal to ask Marco about it, as he often took questions about the world to the older boy.
'I didn't,' Marco had answered, voice cold, 'let them put it on me,' and then he'd said nothing further. Shanks didn't press after that; it was usually harder to get Marco to stop talking once he got started, so the silence was a cue that he recognized and took.
Shanks was fifteen by the time he got the story out of Marco, and it was only because he'd been sporting his first tattoo at Roger's execution and they'd had weeks on board the same ship, exhausting all other venues of conversation. Marco had worn a seastone band for two months to ensure that the tattoo would stick, and Shanks had asked again about the hoof brand the Celestial Dragons must have tried to put on him.
'They did try,' Marco had said, and he'd been with Whitebeard for long enough that the memory of it didn't haunt him as it did when he was a child, 'but it hurt so much, I did everything to make it stop.'
By which he meant that he'd hurt himself even more until the Celestial Dragons had no choice but to remove the seastone from him if they wanted a living slave. There were half a dozen attempts to put the brand on him but the effort it would've taken to properly restrain him and keep him alive until he healed was more trouble than any of them were willing to go to when they could've had a perfectly obedient Marco for that amount of time instead.
'There's no shame in being branded,' Marco had insisted. With how many of Whitebeard's crew were Fishmen and ex-slaves, he was always adamant about that. 'I was just a stubborn little shit.'
'You still are!' Vista had called back.
So: Marco's back. Shanks knew it, and all that it carried, very well. He didn't mind getting to know it a little better.
"Did you ever wish you could swim?" Shanks asked. He eyed the narrowing of Marco's waist, the way it met the sharp bones of his hips. Ran the soapy towel in his hand over the jut of his scapula and drew it down the knobs of his spine. "I could take you sometime, if you want to know what it's like."
"I know what it's like," Marco said, sounding amused. "I went diving with Namur all the time."
"Huh."
"We used to trade off," Marco explained. "I'd take him flying, so he'd take me swimming." He couldn't do much of the actual diving, but of the devil fruit users Namur always claimed to like him most. Largely because he never had to worry about Marco dying of decompression sickness, and could take him as deep as he wished even without a resin bubble to protect him. Marco was like that with all the division commanders; anything they could do, they were happy to share with him.
"That crew really spoiled you," Shanks said, voice dripping with envy. Did he want to be spoiled, or to be the one spoiling?
"Pops said he'd make sure I knew everything the world had to offer," Marco told him, his voice going soft and wistful, "so some dirty punk couldn't impress me with a pile of treasure."
"He's made it really hard to impress you," Shanks begrudgingly admitted.
"Are you trying to impress me?"
"Always, Bluebird."
"Do you know," said Marco after a few seconds, turning his head to catch Shanks's eye over his shoulder, "what I like most about you?"
"That I'm strong and cool and handsome?"
"Those are nice qualities to have," Marco said, smiling warmly at him, "but it's your kindness."
"Uh, I'm not--"
"You are," Marco interrupted. He blinked slowly, and grinned wider at the flush that suffused Shanks's ears. "Even if you don't think so."
"It's just annoying," Shanks grumbled, and he hurriedly pushed Marco's head forward again so that that glacier-blue stare would stop burning him. "Ruins the mood when people go and get hurt in front of me, is all."
Once they were both clean, Marco helped Shanks into the tub first. Shanks would have said the other man was being unnecessarily paranoid, but he wasn't going to turn down that firm but gentle grip on his elbow, or the hand on his waist. Marco sank in after him with a groan, going boneless in the water as it reached up to his neck. Shanks moved closer, sitting on Marco's left so he could grab if Marco accidentally slipped under, and snorted.
"What?"
"With my arm and your devil fruit," Shanks said, "we're really gonna be in trouble if something attacked us right now."
"Should've brought your first mate," Marco joked. "He can haul us both out, I bet."
"You really like him, huh?" Shanks fixed him with an intense look. That was the second time Marco had mentioned Beckman, which would be perfectly fine if he didn't get that look on his face like he was thinking about a particularly tasty meal. "I don't blame you, Beck's smart and cool and everything."
"Don't be jealous," Marco drawled. He smirked, deep blue eyes narrowed in invitation.
He and everyone else knew that Shanks was sweet on him, the way a sail was sweet on the wind or the tide was sweet on the moon. Marco had been a constant in his life for decades, not always near but somehow always present when Shanks needed him most. That peculiar Observation Marco honed in service to his family would occasionally be turned on Shanks and it was those times that he remembered all over again how much he wanted Marco, how much he wished all that care and devotion would always be oriented toward him.
It was an idle, silly wish. A pointless one, too, because he had something better: he had Marco's trust.
"Who's jealous?" Shanks retorted. When he straddled Marco's lap and wasn't immediately shoved away, he grinned. Leaned down to kiss him. The Phoenix met him halfway.
Marco moved slowly, hands coming up to Shanks's hips to steady him and pull him closer. Breaking the kiss, he rolled his head back against the rim of the tub and bared his neck, that unblemished expanse of tanned skin. In the water Marco was perfectly helpless, making soft noises of approval as Shanks kissed, sucked, and bit every unguarded inch. Shanks returned to his mouth after thoroughly marking him up and grinned at the way Marco's lips parted, the gentle lap of Marco's tongue against his own. He could still taste chili oil and liquor on their breaths.
Shanks kissed him until they were hard under the water, the small of his back braced securely in the circle of Marco's arms as he rolled his hips down. He reached between their bodies and took them both in hand, stroking roughly until Marco gasped into his mouth and shuddered beneath him. Marco looked at him with hazy, gold-ringed irises as the first orgasm rolled through him, and didn't soften at all in Shanks's grip.
"Been a while?" Shanks murmured against his cheek.
"Phoenix," Marco explained. He was weakened in the bath, but the water didn't change his basic constitution. "I can go as many times as you want, so I didn't see a point in holding back."
"Marco," Shanks groaned, voice ragged, "you're killing me."
Marco's fingers dug hard into his hips as Shanks's hand continued to move, determined to test his claim. His abdominals flexed at the overstimulation, and he breathed hard against the impulse to flinch away. He said, "I've barely even started."
Marco was not, as it turned out, helpless at all in the water. He hooked his big toe into the stopper at the bottom of the tub and pulled it free while Shanks sucked more marks onto the pretty column of his neck and collar, and when the water dropped below knee-level he scooped his hands under Shanks's thighs and stood up. The younger pirate moaned his approval into Marco's ear as his weight settled more fully against his front, and wrapped his arm around Marco's neck, his legs tight around slim hips.
"Hold on," Marco warned as he stepped carefully out of the bath. They were both still wet and slippery, and he didn't want to send Shanks back to his ship with a concussion.
Besides, the way Shanks clung to him like an overgrown koala was awfully cute, and Marco didn't mind the way he was pressing little kisses and licks over the blue flames erupting all over his neck as they burned away those marks he had left.
Marco let him down gently once they were on solid floor, pulled a towel off a rack and helped Shanks dry off. For himself, he just let cool flames consume the moisture still lingering on his skin and in his hair.
"Should we," Marco said thoughtfully as he bundled Shanks into the fluffy towel, "have a safeword?"
Shanks looked at him with a mix of delight and apprehension. "Are we gonna need one?" he asked.
"I don't have anything crazy in mind," Marco was quick to reassure him. Just based on Shanks's expression when he found out that a refractory period only existed in theory for Marco, he could think of several scenarios where a safeword might come in handy, and that wasn't even getting into the things he wanted to do to the younger pirate. "We can just take it slow," he said.
Shanks understood, with annoyance, that he was being played. Marco knew exactly how to dangle something shiny in front of him and whip it away at the last second; he'd been doing it for as long as Shanks could remember. That knowledge didn't keep him from stumbling into the same trap over and over again but he knew he'd never truly come to harm, playing into Marco's hands like that.
"Oh no," Shanks said. "Now that you've put it on the table, I really want to know what you're thinking."
Exasperation mixed with fondness on Marco's face. "How about I just show you?"
"Please," Shanks breathed, and allowed Marco to catch his wrist and pull him toward the bedroom.
It was dark outside now, and chilly, but Marco had stoked the fire in his hearth high and there was some sort of heat distribution system within the floors that kept the whole house toasty even at their current altitude. Shanks wanted to say something about it, but the words fell out of his head when Marco sat on the edge of his mattress and gave him a view he'd been dreaming of for ages, weight settled back on his hands and tattoo on display as Shanks stalked forward.
"This is familiar," Marco commented when Shanks settled in his lap again. He curled forward, eyes laughing. "You used to be much cuter, though."
Shanks scoffed, but he accepted Marco's hands on him, the way they peeled him out of that towel, one palm firm on the small of his back and the other coming up to cup his face, caress its way down his neck and across his chest. Marco traced every faint scar with the feather-light brush of fingertips, leaned in to press tender kisses to all the ones he could reach.
"Think you like me better like this," Shanks murmured, his voice soft. He was, as ever, enthralled by the Phoenix.
"You know I do."
Marco was gentle when he laid Shanks out onto his sheets, sat between his legs and leaning over him as if he'd peered directly into Shanks's favorite fantasies and decided to bring them to life. He let Shanks run his hand across the raised edges of his tattoo, tracing the bold lines of it across his sternum and the hard muscles of his chest.
Marco fixed him with a look that was equal parts patient and searching, pushed himself up on one hand and scooped his other arm under Shanks's knee. He hiked it over his bent leg and pressed in close, grinding them against each other as Shanks arched his back and groaned.
"Tell me if you want to stop," Marco said, "okay?"
"You're seriously underestimating how much I want you," Shanks told him breathlessly, pressing his heel into the small of Marco's back and nudging him closer. "I'll take anything you'll give me."
He gasped as Marco pulled back and rolled his hips forward again, moving with the cool assurance of a man who was in control of his body at all times. Marco's rhythm was steady, his hips perfectly positioned to give Shanks all kinds of delicious friction where their flushed, leaking cocks were trapped between their bodies.
Marco ducked his head, pried Shanks's mouth open with his lips and tongue and teeth, swallowed his moans as they rocked against each other. Shanks scrabbled for purchase on Marco's back, nails digging into the generous mass of his trapezius muscle as he pushed his hips against the uncompromising weight that had him pinned him to the mattress. He was embarrassingly close from just this, and the only warning he could give Marco was an urgent squeeze to his shoulder.
It was enough; Marco broke for air and stilled, let his weight settle against Shanks's front as he shifted his attention to sucking and biting at his neck, humming contentedly each time Shanks squirmed beneath him.
"Marco," Shanks whined, "don't stop."
Marco shushed him, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes and tucking it gently behind his ear. The look on his face was kind, eyes soft as he pressed kisses to Shanks's cheek, his forehead, his mouth. He pulled Shanks off his shoulder and kissed his knuckles, nuzzled into his palm and held on tight. "Wait," he said. "Can you wait, Shanks?" Then, sweetly, "For me?"
Shanks made a guttural, frustrated sound, torn between ignoring the man to take his pleasure and going along with Marco's request. It was so rare that Marco asked anything of him, at least without turning it into an exchange. Their dynamic wasn't transactional so much as it was compulsively mutual; neither of them could stand to let a favor stay unreturned.
Shanks was the rare recipient of Marco's irritation, the one person who could instantly set off that famously long, slow-burning fuse. He loved that peek under Marco's carefully maintained composure, the man behind Whitebeard's unassailable, unflappable first division commander. He wanted, more than anything, to see Marco selfish, vicious and greedy.
So Shanks waited. He waited as his arousal receded to a point where he wasn't quite so dangerously close to finishing, and he waited until Marco pulled away from him and crawled down his body, and all that waiting seemed worth it when Marco took him into his mouth and licked and sucked and bobbed his head until Shanks's thighs were trembling. Shanks bucked up into that willing mouth until his tempo grew erratic, heat pooling thick and low in his belly.
Marco pulled off just before Shanks could come, laughing quietly at the sound of pure distress he let out. The older man put his hands on Shanks's hips and held him down against the mattress; the teasing kisses Marco pressed to his spit-slick shaft then were disconcertingly light, devoid of the pressure Shanks craved.
"Marco," he begged, voice strained as realization dawned on him that he'd maybe, possibly, bitten off more than he could chew. "Marco, c'mon."
"Oh Shanks," Marco answered, showing a sliver of teeth, "I asked you to wait."
Hours later, Marco sat with his back propped against his headboard. Shanks was collapsed on top of him, head lax against his chest. Marco ran his fingers through red hair that was so soaked-through with sweat that it looked the same shade as wine, idly brushing the locks from Shanks's forehead, his cheek, his neck as the sweat cooled and evaporated from his skin. Marco had cleaned them up a bit, a perfunctory wipe down with the towel he'd discarded earlier, but he still badly wanted a shower.
Shanks stirred eventually, blinking sleepily as he rearranged himself in Marco's arms. He sighed at the gentle kiss pressed to the scars over his eye. "That was..."
"Good?"
"Brutal," Shanks groaned. He accepted the cup of water Marco pressed into his hand and drank gratefully.
It was, Marco supposed, closing his eyes, a bit cruel to hold him on the edge for as long as he had. Even crueler to wring a few painful, dry orgasms out of him after the first one. Maybe a little unnecessary, especially at their age, to use his flames of regeneration to keep him going just that little bit longer. Through all of that he'd fingered Shanks until he begged to be fucked, and then fucked him until he finally pleaded for Marco to stop.
Marco made a soft, pitying sound. Cooed, "So you didn't enjoy yourself?"
"You know I did," Shanks grumbled back. Having Marco's attention singularly focused on his ('pleasure' wasn't the right word, considering how Marco had tortured him) experience had been intoxicating. He was exhausted, sore all over, and already wanted to do it again.
"Oh," Marco laughed, "so you just wanted to complain. Should I apologize? I was having a little too much fun."
"Fuck," Shanks said quietly. He'd felt it. The way Marco played with him was careful, full of intent and curiosity. He took Shanks thoroughly apart, moving and positioning him to find optimal angles with the kind of attention he usually devoted to elaborate wooden puzzles. Marco had catalogued every whimper and moan with unusual concentration, and filed them away for later. He'd smiled gently the whole time, an expression Shanks wasn't sure he'd ever be able to associate with anything else. "I like this side of you," he breathed.
Marco cracked one eye open at him. The long, lethal lines of his body shifted as he gathered the younger pirate closer. "Hm?"
Shanks leaned up. "This selfish side." He laughed at Marco's frown, kissed it away. "It's cute," he told him, "I like you more every time I see it."
"Annoying," Marco complained, turning his face away from Shanks as he pressed more kisses to his temple, his cheek, his neck, to his clavicle. Stubble scratched him all the way down, and Marco shivered at the sensation.
"You like it, though."
"We should get cleaned up," he said.
Shanks was absolutely delighted to learn, after they'd had a quick shower, dried off and gotten dressed, that Marco was cuddly. He'd sighed and rolled his eyes and looked so inconvenienced, but when Shanks slipped under the covers and fit himself against the other man, Marco's arms immediately wrapped around him and pulled him flush.
Shanks drifted off with Marco's nose smushed against his nape, one arm draped over his side and the other tucked under his head. The last thing he remembered was the softest kiss to the topmost knob of his spine, and a contented sigh against the back of his neck.
He woke to cool morning light filtering through drawn curtains, and an empty bed. Not unexpected, as Marco was always up at the crack of dawn, but before Shanks had a chance to wonder if he was going to have to hunt the Phoenix down to have a conversation, Marco ducked back into the bedroom as if he'd been waiting.
"Are you hungry?" was the first thing he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. He had put on a shirt, and had a sheaf of papers in his hand. "I was just looking over the list of supplies you brought, but I can make something."
Shanks pushed himself upright, then to his feet in front of the bed. Every muscle in his body twinged in protest, but his legs took him obediently forward until he was right up in Marco's personal space. He tried to say something; the words ran up on the hazy fog of sleep that hadn't quite cleared and came out as an unintelligible mumble instead.
"Morning to you too," Marco said, smiling. He cupped his free hand around Shanks's cheek and pulled him in for a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, which handily answered all of Shanks's questions about whether or not things would be awkward between them moving forward. Figures that Marco would just take it in stride. "If you want to go back to sleep," he added softly, "I'll wake you up for lunch."
"Nah, I'm. It's fine." Shanks groaned, digging his fingers into the inner corners of his eyes to flick away the crust that had gathered there overnight. "I have to head back today, so I'd rather. Awake. Y'know?"
"Sure."
Shanks shook his head to clear it, then stepped around Marco to read the paper over his shoulder. The list was populated with the names of medicines Shanks didn't recognize and wasn't too fussed to learn; he'd simply told the former Whitebeard Pirates' medical resupply island that Marco had asked for a shipment to Sphinx and within a day was given a huge pack to bring him. "Did I get everything?"
When asked, the liaison told him that while most of the other islands would send resupply ships of their own, Whitebeard handled deliveries to Sphinx personally. It was, he'd always claimed, a good excuse to check on everyone and show his children off to all his old friends. Shanks was happy to inherit that task.
"Yeah, it's all here. Thanks for making the trip." Marco rubbed his chin, brows furrowed in concentration as he mentally calculated the space, weight and distance this particular delivery required. "I'll figure out some way to make it up to you."
"Stop, stop! You don't have to do anything."
"Redhead--"
Shanks cut him off with a hand to the back of his neck, and a gentle shake. "Don't give me that spiel about reciprocity," he said, "I already know what you're gonna say. Just let me use this as an excuse to come see you."
Marco gave him a look that was so touched, so vulnerable, that Shanks felt his jaw slacken at the sight. "If you insist," he said, and made a confused sound when Shanks pushed his hand against Marco's cheek and forced him to look away.
He allowed Marco to coax him into the kitchen for breakfast after that with the promise of fresh rice, hot soup, and grilled fish. It was a simple but tasty meal as it always was when it came to Marco's cooking, and he happily drank the tea that was set in front of him.
"What time do you need to go?" Marco asked, slouched in his seat across the little round table. He was still perusing the paperwork, flipping through the pages as he read.
"I want to cast off before nightfall, so I'll stick around until the afternoon." Shanks picked up his used dishes and took them to the sink; he came back not to his seat but to stand behind Marco and drop a hand to his hair, ruffling it as he leaned over his shoulder. "Beck had some questions, actually, if you could take a look at some of those figures from the last year. 'S in that stack."
"Sure. I'll get him on a snail."
Shanks went to sleep after all, sprawled out on top of the sheets in a sunbeam while Marco chatted with Beckman at his desk. They were having a blast, saying stuff like 'This yield is on the low end of their normal range so you can check in if you're worried,' and 'The berry exchange rate in that region is always terrible this time of year,' which Shanks found intolerably dull. He wasn't going to deprive Beck of the chance to talk logistics with a rare kindred spirit though, and listened to them animatedly discuss how to optimize potential returns from protectorate islands until the boredom caught up with him.
The sound of the transponder snail's receiver clicking into its cradle was what pulled him from his nap, and he grinned at the sight of Marco's paperwork all marked up and annotated for Beck to look over. He yawned loudly as he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "First mates have it hard, huh?"
"First division commander," Marco corrected absentmindedly.
Shanks never did understand that impulse; it was ludicrous for Whitebeard's crew to claim that the division commanders were all equal in rank when Marco was their clear second-in-command and had been for a long time. "At some point," he drawled, gesturing for Marco to join him at the edge of the mattress, "you're gonna have to explain the difference to me."
"Vice captain isn't really a position you can just leave," Marco elaborated slowly, leaning into the arm Shanks curled around his waist, "so Pops made divisions. It theoretically split responsibility, so other shipmates can learn the role more easily and take over if they have to. Didn't really work that way in practice, though."
"Right, you guys didn't have a second division commander for ages, and no one ever replaced Thatch."
"I used to wonder if that meant he wanted to get rid of me, and--"
"Get rid of you?"
"Obviously he said no." Marco laughed, but the sound wasn't a happy one. "He would've liked it if I always stayed with the family, but if I could've been happier somewhere else, he wouldn't say a word against it."
Shanks remembered well how openly upset Whitebeard was when Oden wanted to sail with Roger, even if just on loan. He'd been so huffy about it, sulking all by himself on the beach while Oden packed up his family and his belongings, and even Marco couldn't cajole him back to the crew. Captain Roger had laughed so hard when the Whitebeard Pirates returned the pile of food they'd tried to give with a warning to keep Oden and his family fed.
'He's just like a big, sweet kid sometimes,' Roger had said, still chuckling, fond tears in his eyes at the thought that that could be the last time they ever saw each other. And then he took an exasperated punch on the shoulder from his first mate.
'You're one to talk!' was the answering shout from his officers.
Marco was different from Oden, though. Oden rushed ahead, did as he pleased; he was selfish in the way captains were selfish. Whitebeard knew Marco's first thought was always for others, that what he wanted would be second to the needs of his family. If he had even the slightest whiff that his departure would hurt them, he would've set aside whatever dream he'd have otherwise pursued. "Must've been hard for him," Shanks said quietly, "holding back like that."
"I was never gonna take him up on it," Marco said, his voice stuffy, "but hearing that was nice."
Shanks looked up when Marco wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Ah... Marco?"
"It's fine," Marco sniffed, trying to reassure him. "Shit, Shanks, I cry all the time now. Other day, Oidee said I was her best friend and I had to go inside for a minute."
Shanks held him tighter. Hoped, futilely, that it was comfort Marco was willing to take.
The Whitebeard Pirates were an emotional, soft-hearted bunch to begin with, their captain included, but Marco had always been their calm center. Edward Newgate would hate to see his first son so worn down, even though he must have known how hard Marco would take his death. It was cruel, Shanks thought, the things captains asked of their right hands.
"She's really lonely," Marco said with a sad little smile, dry-eyed now but suddenly, awfully, tired. Maybe it was just that he'd grown up in Whitebeard's care, but he was never any good at ignoring lonely kids. Shanks wasn't either, but he didn't get his feelings tangled up in the same way. "Her other best friend's a sphinx. The boys're all afraid of Tama so they don't play with her, and she's up here all the time making me read to her and falling asleep midway 'cause she's too little to understand the, Practical Applications of Wapometal or whatever brick she pulled off the shelf."
Shanks resolutely didn't think about how patient and sweet Marco was with all those children. Absurd fantasies wouldn't serve either of them right at this moment, but he was tempted all the same. He leaned in instead, pushed his nose into the underside of Marco's jaw and announced his presence with a scratchy kiss to his neck.
"I'm fine. Promise." Marco turned his head and absently pressed his lips to Shanks's temple, like he'd been doing it for years. He didn't even seem to notice the way that gesture punched the air right out of his lungs. "Older I get," he said, "the more things get to me, I guess."
"Are you eighty?" Shanks mustered after a few seconds of silence. He tried to sound casual, like his stomach wasn't doing all sorts of weird acrobatics about it. "You really do have the heart of an old man."
"Feels like it sometimes."
"But you don't know what it's like to feel old," Shanks told him, mutinous. "I morning-stretched a little too hard last month and strained my neck for a week."
"I get weird cramps too," Marco argued, trying not to laugh. "They just also heal immediately."
"See!" Shanks let himself be pulled into Marco's lap and held like a stuffed toy, firmly, like squeezing him could soothe all hurts. He liked the idea of it; guardian of Marco's bruised, tender heart. "You have the constitution of a damn twenty-year-old."
"At least," Marco shot back, petulant, "I don't still have the attitude of one."
"Ouch," Shanks said.
"I can hear your liver crying. My Observation is really strong, you know? It says, 'Please! I need a vacation!'"
"So full of shit," Shanks laughed, relaxing in Marco's grasp as a hand came up to his side and pushed that cool blue fire into his abdomen. A little balm for his poor liver before he put it through its paces again. "You didn't even get me drunk last night."
Marco walked him back to the port after lunch, banter flowing fast and easy between them like they were filling up for the lean months ahead. Beckman emerged from inside the cabin and hopped down to the pier when they approached the Red Force, acknowledged Marco with a nod and accepted a ream of marked-up documents with a grin. "Thanks," he said, clasping Marco's hand and pulling him into a chest bump.
"Those are records dating back three years," Marco told him, still close enough to Beck that he stood mostly in his shadow. "You can use it to cross-reference any figures that seem off, or call me if you're still having trouble with it."
"I'll do that."
Then Marco made a half-aborted move to adjust Shanks's cloak around his shoulders, and ended up patting him awkwardly on the back instead. "You know how to reach me," he said to both captain and first mate, "if you get in over your heads."
"Always good to know you've got our backs," Beck answered sincerely.
"Be safe out there," Marco told them.
Shanks waited for Marco to turn to him and didn't let him get another word out before he pulled him down into a deep, slow kiss. The crew wolf-whistled and cat-called them from the deck, and Beck laughed out loud at Marco's flustered expression when he was finally released. The Phoenix was painfully reserved about his personal life, but didn't seem to begrudge Shanks's declaration; it was, he had to admit, much more expedient than relying on the Red-Hair Pirates rumor mill.
They exchanged a few quiet words before Shanks gently grasped his hand and gave it a squeeze-- somehow a more intimate gesture than the kiss from earlier-- and then they pulled apart.
"Beck," Shanks said, patting his first mate on the chest as they turned away to board the ship, "you should come up next time."
"Don't just invite me into someone else's house," Beck answered, exasperated as he followed.
"I'm not inviting you into someone else's house," Shanks shot back, "I'm inviting you into Marco's house."
"Real sorry about him," Beck called over his shoulder.
"What? Don't be!" Shanks turned around to wave, grinning wide. "I didn't say anything that wasn't true."
They carried on like that until they were back on deck. Marco expertly undid the Red Force's mooring line, standing back as her crew hauled it aboard. He didn't wait for them to sail away, summoning his wings with a quick burst of flame and taking to the skies.