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suddencolds · 7 months ago

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Atypical Occurrence [1/?]

Happy birthday to my dear friend, @caughtintherain!! I wanted to give you some Vincent suffering to chew on for the occasion, so please take this fic (or, first part of a fic) as a gift <3

this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! chronologically, this fic takes place a month or so after the last installment leaves off :)

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit)

—

Vincent is late.

Yves tries not to stare at the empty seat across from him. The meeting—their first meeting of the day—started five minutes ago. If there’s anything Yves knows, it’s that Vincent always comes in early.

In stumbles Cara, handling a morning coffee with probably more espresso shots than anyone should have at 8am. Then Laurent, briefcase in one hand, paging through a folder of files in his other. Then Angelie, Isaac, Garrett, Ray, Sienna. Then they get started, and Yves turns his attention towards the graphs projected onscreen at the front of the room, and tries very hard not to think about Vincent.

It’s five minutes later that the door swings open, near-silent.

Sienna—who’s presenting—stops, for a moment, to look back at Vincent from where he’s standing in the doorway, which means that of course, everyone looks.

Cara turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow. Angelie frowns at him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, quietly. “It won’t happen again.”

Isaac shrugs. Angelie looks a little concerned, but she turns back to her work, anyways. Sienna resumes her presentation. All in all, it’s nothing—or it should be nothing. Probably traffic, on the way here; a particularly unlucky commute. An unlikely occurrence, but—to anyone else—not anything worth dwelling over.

It might be a sufficient explanation, if Yves didn’t know better.

Vincent takes care to close the door quietly behind him, then heads over to the only open seat, across from Yves. He unzips his briefcase, quietly, unobtrusively, and takes out his laptop. Yves tries to focus on what Sienna is saying—she’s giving a review of a client’s current investment strategies; he’d reviewed her work on this just a couple days ago.

Vincent asks good questions throughout—he always has a good sense of what areas still lack clarity, Yves has found. Today is no exception. He takes part in the meeting with such calculated precision that Yves almost misses it.

Almost misses: the slight stiffness to his shoulders, as if it’s taking more than the usual amount of effort to keep himself upright. The way in which he clears his throat before speaking, like it might actually hurt. The way he rests his head on one hand, halfway into the meeting—as if even now, barely forty minutes into the workday, he’s already exhausted.

It’s subtle enough to go unnoticed, subtle enough that Yves wonders if he’s just reading too much into it—if, perhaps, Vincent is fine, after all.

—

He doesn’t see Vincent again until lunch.

Or, more accurately, he doesn’t see Vincent again until he’s headed down for lunch with Cara and Laurent. Vincent is already on his way out of the cafeteria, a takeout container in hand.

“You’re not going to eat here?” Yves asks.

Vincent doesn’t look at him. “I have some work to get done at my desk,” he says. He clears his throat again, like it’s irritating him.

“Okay,” Yves says. Vincent turns to leave, and Yves thinks of a hundred ways in which he could possibly prolong this conversation, and then decides against it. Vincent is already so busy.

“You look tired,” he settles on, instead.

He expects Vincent to dismiss this, to reassure him that it isn’t true. But Vincent looks up at him at last, blinking, as if he’s surprised that Yves noticed at all. His eyes are a little dark-rimmed underneath his glasses.

He doesn’t deny it, which is as much of a confirmation as Yves needs.

“The sooner I can get this work done, the sooner I can go home,” he says. Yves supposes he can’t argue with that.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” Yves says, even though he wants to say more, even though he feels like there’s more that he should be saying. “Don’t work too hard.”

Vincent nods, at this, and resumes walking.

—

Yves is probably overthinking it. There isn’t anything concrete, really, to justify his concern.

Vincent’s lateness to the meeting could just as easily be the consequence of an alarm he’d forgotten to set, his exhaustion just as easily a side effect—of recent late nights in the office, of arbitrary changes to the projects he’s on, of last-minute demands from clients.

The next time he sees Vincent is at the end of the work day. Yves always takes the elevators on the north end of the building—they’re ones that lead directly out into the parking garage. When he gets out to the hallway, Vincent is already standing there, waiting for the elevator.

Yves watches Vincent stiffen, slightly. Watches him raise one hand up to his face to shudder into it with a harsh, “HHihH’iKKTSh-hUH!”

A thin tremor runs through the line of his shoulders, as if he’s too cold, even though the office air conditioning is no colder than usual. His hand, cupped to his face, remains there for a moment more before he lowers it.

He sniffles, then, rummaging through his pocket for—something. When he doesn’t find it, he just frowns a little, sniffling again.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

“Yves,” Vincent says, his shoulders stiffening a little. He clears his throat, turning around so that he can address Yves properly.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s turning sharply away, tenting both hands over his nose and mouth for—

“Hh-! hHiH—HIHh’DZSSschh-uhh! snf-!”

“Bless you again.”

Vincent sighs. “Don’t bother.” He really looks exhausted, Yves realizes. During their brief interaction at lunch, he’d already sensed as much, but the harsh white glare of the bright corporate lighting only makes it more evident.

Vincent looks a little paler than usual, if only slightly, and there’s a slight flush that spreads itself over his cheekbones. He looks—well, nearly as put together as always, distilled only by the slight crookedness of his tie, as if it’s been on too tight; the near-invisible sheen of sweat over his forehead. The slight redness to the bridge of his nose, the slight shiver to his hand as he reaches up to adjust his collar.

Yves frowns, taking this all in. “You look kind of…”

“Terrible?” Vincent finishes for him.

Yves winces. “...Well, terrible is a strong word. I was going to say, you look like you could use some sleep.”

“I’m… feeling a little off,” Vincent says, staring straight ahead, as if it’s not an admission at all. But Yves suspects, from the way he avoids eye contact, that perhaps it was something he was intending on keeping private. “You should keep your distance.”

The elevator dings. The sliding doors part, and he steps inside.

“First floor?” Yves asks, hesitating next to the panel of buttons.

“Yes,” Vincent says. Then, quietly: “Thanks.”

“You know, now that busy season is over, the world is not going to end if you take a sick day,” Yves tells him. “Even if you do like, twice the amount of work as everyone else on the team, if you needed to call out, I’m sure something could be arranged.”

Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly. “I must look pretty bad if you’re saying this to me.”

“Yes, I was lying,” Yves says. “Clearly, you look terrible.”

It isn’t true at all—even here, even like this, Vincent doesn’t look terrible, not even in the least. But Vincent still smiles, at this—a tired smile.

The elevator doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” Yves says, impulsively. “Seriously. Tissues, soup, medicine—whatever. It’s not far of a drive.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” Vincent says. “I will see you tomorrow.” And then he steps out of the elevator, and Yves is left with an inexplicable sinking feeling in his stomach. As far as he knows, it has no place there. Obviously, Vincent can take care of himself. Obviously, Vincent can handle a cold. Yves has nothing to be concerned about.

—

The next day is rainy—a constant, torrential downpour, which makes his commute to work take almost twice as long as it usually does. It wouldn’t be spring here, Yves supposes, without dreary weather like this.

Back in uni, when he rowed crew, they’d practice out for hours out in the rain. Now that he spends the majority of his day inside, he supposes he can’t complain. The shelter of the office building is a reprieve.

Vincent doesn’t show up.

“I think he’s out sick,” Cara says, when Yves asks. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him take a sick day before.”

“For how hard he works, he definitely deserves one,” Garrett says.

“He seemed fine yesterday, when I saw him,” Cara says, with a shrug. “Probably came on quickly.” Yves nods.

But that isn’t quite right, is it? Vincent hadn’t seemed fine, had he? Yves thinks back to the things he’d noticed—Vincent, uncharacteristically exhausted during the meeting, though it was clear he’d been just as engaged as usual. Vincent, shivering in the elevator, telling Yves to keep his distance. How poorly had he been feeling already, yesterday? How poorly does he have to be feeling today to have called off of work for it?

He finds some time just before lunch to text.

Y: how are you holding up? Y: yesterday’s offer stands if you need me to bring you anything!

He doesn’t get a response from Vincent, which is a little concerning. He checks his phone halfway through lunch, and then twice more, in between his afternoon meetings, just in case he’s missed a notification.

“Are you expecting a text from someone?” Cara says, looking a little curious.

“Just a friend,” Yves says, which is and isn’t true.

To make a point—to Cara, and possibly to himself—he shuts his phone off. He very pointedly does not look at it again for the remainder of the hour.

It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally gets a response.

V: Sorry to get back to you so late.

Yves sits upright, fumbling with his phone to get it unlocked. The text bubble pops up again, somewhat intermittently, to show that Vincent is typing.

V: If it’s not too much trouble, there’s a blue folder on my desk labeled 2-A.

Yves blinks at this, a little disbelieving.

Y: you’re asking me to bring you work files? Y: arent you supposed to be resting 🤨 Y: paid sick leave, remember? as in, leave your work at work??

V: I meant to pack them yesterday.

Y: that’s like a genie grants you 3 wishes and you ask for an extra day of assignments Y: terrible waste of a wish if you ask me

V: As a genie, you’re quite judgmental

Y: ok ok Y: as your loyal lamp dweller i’ll be over around 8pm with folder 2-A Y: you need anything else?

V: Nothing else V: You can just leave them outside my door

A beat. Then Vincent sends:

V: Sorry to trouble you

Yves thinks of twenty responses he wants to send to that text. Then, thinking better of himself, he shuts his phone off and gets back to work.

—

It’s a little past seven when he finally checks out of the office.

Outside, the rain hasn’t even begun to let up—it falls, straight and heavy, in large, globular droplets. The streets gleam with water. Yves leaves his umbrella in the trunk, tunes out everything but the static of the rainfall, and drives.

Yves has only ever been to Vincent’s apartment once—to pick him up for the New Years’ party Margot hosted—and even then, Vincent had met him at the door. But he recognizes the unit, nonetheless.

For a moment, he considers leaving the folder of files outside of Vincent’s door and taking his leave.

But it’s windy, and he’s afraid the papers might fly away, torn up by the biting wind, and get lost face down in a puddle somewhere, which would defeat the purpose of him coming here in the first place, and would probably also breach some employee confidentiality policy. So instead, he knocks.

It’s silent for a moment. Rain beats down on the slanted rooftops, a constant thrum.

Yves is about to reach out to knock again, when the door swings open.

There stands Vincent, in a pale blue hoodie and loose-fitting pajama pants, with neat rectangular cuffs.

He looks tired. It’s the first thing Yves registers—the unusual fatigue to his expression, which he can’t quite seem to blink away; the flush high on his cheekbones. The way he holds himself, his shoulders stiff, carefully, defensively; as if despite his exhaustion, there’s a part of him which wishes to appear presentable still.

It’s only a moment later that he’s taking a halting step back, ducking into a hoodie sleeve. Yves catches the shiver of his expression, his eyebrows pulling together, before it crumples, and his head jerks forward with a harsh—

“hHihh’GKkTT—! Hh-!! iHH-’DZZSCHh-uuUh!”

The second sneeze sounds louder and harsher than usual, even muffled into the fabric of his sleeve. It betrays his congestion all at once.

“Bless you,” Yves says.

Vincent emerges, sniffling a little. When he speaks, he sounds a little hoarser than he did yesterday. “I thought I said you - snf-! - could leave them on the front step.”

“You did,” Yves says, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “But it’s windy, and it’s raining. I figured you’d prefer to have your files intact. How are you feeling?”

Vincent blinks at him. He’s leaning heavily against the doorframe, Yves realizes, one hand gripped tightly around the frame, his knuckles white from the pressure, as if it would take him too much effort to stay upright otherwise.

“Alright,” he answers. “Thanks for making the trip here. I… it must’ve taken longer, in the rain.” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if his head hurts, as if the light coming from outside is exacerbating his headache. “If you ever need me to pick something up for you, I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Yves says. Despite himself, he reaches up to press his hand against Vincent’s forehead.

The heat under his fingertips is alarming, to say the least. Yves blinks, lowering his hand, and tries to keep the worry out of his voice. “Have you taken your temperature?”

Vincent shakes his head. “I don’t think I have a thermometer.”

“Have you eaten, then?”

Vincent averts his glance, looking sheepish. “I… was planning to stop for groceries, yesterday,” he says. Planning to.

Yves thinks back to the elevator ride yesterday. Vincent had probably already been feeling very unwell, then. And yet, he’d talked with Yves as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I’m feeling a little off, he’d said, as if anything about his current affliction could possibly be characterized as “little.” I will see you tomorrow—as if he had really, genuinely been intending on showing up at work.

“So I take it that there’s nothing in the fridge, either,” Yves says.

“If it’s any consolation, you’ll be pleased to know that I slept,” Vincent says, in lieu of answering.

Then he shivers—the sort of concerning, full-body shiver that is a little concerning, coming from someone who is usually unaffected by the cold—and Yves is immediately reminded that the door they’re speaking through is open.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“You probably shouldn’t,” Vincent says, before his expression scrunches up, and he’s ducking away with a— “hh—! hHih-II—TSSCHHh-UH! snf-!”, smothered hurriedly into the palm of his hand. He sniffles, emerging with a slight wince. “This came on pretty quickly. It might be the flu.”

“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I got my flu shot in the winter. And anyways, I’ll be careful.”

Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Then, frowning, he says, “I’d feel terrible if you caught this.”

That’s the least of Yves’s worries—he doubts he’s going to catch this. Even if he does, it will just mean a few days off of work. Not the end of the world, by any means. Nothing to warrant the expression on Vincent’s face—Vincent looks upset, as if he’ll really can’t think of anything worse than Yves catching this. Like even the thought of it is worth being upset over.

Yves shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, seriously.” He pushes past Vincent to step inside and shuts the door behind him. “Here, I’ll set these down on your desk. Where is it?”

“Down the hallway, to the left,” Vincent says.

Yves takes the folder, leaves his shoes at the door, and heads inside.

Vincent’s bedroom is small and organized—it’s the kind of bedroom that’s tastefully minimal, in the sort of unified manner that implies that everything in it has been carefully arranged. There’s a small white desk in the corner, a stack of files arranged neatly next to Vincent’s laptop, its lid halfway to shut. There’s a bookshelf, leaned up against the wall far; the bottom shelf looks to be filled with textbooks; the top shelf lined with books, both in Korean and in English. The walls are painted slate gray, the carpets lining the floorboards picked out to match, and there are pale blue curtains hanging from the windows, pulled tightly shut.

There are signs here, too, of his illness, but they are subtle. A tissue box, nestled between his pillow and the headboard, half empty. A waste bin at the foot of the bed, conveniently in reach. A small bottle of aspirin on the bedside counter; an empty packet of cough drops sitting at the edge of his nightstand.

Yves sets the folder at the end of Vincent’s desk, next to the rest of his files, and turns to face him.

“You’re not going to work on these until you’re feeling better, right?” he asks.

“Only if I can’t sleep,” Vincent says, which Yves supposes is a satisfactory answer. Then he twists away, his eyebrows furrowing, lifting a loosely clenched fist to his face to cough, and cough.

The cough is harsh and grating—his entire frame shudders with the force of it, his breaths shallow and raspy. He really sounds awful. This must have come on quickly, Yves thinks.

If it’s upsetting, seeing Vincent like this, it’s even worse to be standing here, in his room, doing nothing. So—if only to make himself useful, if only to convince himself that there’s something he can do—Yves ducks out into the kitchen.

The pantry is meticulously organized—glasses lined up in neat rows; stacks of bowls sorted by size. He fills a glass with water, shuts the cabinets, and takes it back to the bedroom.

By the time he gets back, Vincent is sitting at the edge of his bed. His glasses are folded neatly, left at the very edge of the countertop.

“Here,” Yves says, crossing the room, holding out the glass for him to take.

“Thanks,” Vincent says, taking it gingerly from him. He takes a small, tentative sip, and then another—his hands are a little shaky, Yves notices. “You - snf-! - should really go.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you’ll be fine on your own,” Yves says.

“Of course I will be,” Vincent says, with all of his usual certainty. He lays down, pulling the covers over his body. “I have been fine on my own for years.”

It’s meant to be reassuring, Yves supposes. But he doesn’t feel reassured in the least.

“Thank you again for bringing me the files,” Vincent says, at last, shutting his eyes.

“You could’ve asked me to get you groceries,” Yves says. “There’s a supermarket not far from here, right? And you’re out of cough drops.” He takes a few steps over, towards the desk in the corner of the room. “These—” He examines the bottle of ibuprofen on the table. “—are expired.”

“Just because you’ve extended this kindness to me,” Vincent tells him, “doesn’t mean I should take advantage of it.”

Yves blinks, a little taken aback. “It’s only groceries. I wouldn’t have minded, really.”

“See,” Vincent says, with a note of—something in his voice. It sounds a bit like resignation. “That’s just the kind of person you are.”

Yves doesn’t know what to say, to that.

Before he can think up a fitting response, Vincent’s breathing evens out. Yves lets himself listen to the shallow, steady cadence of it. Lets himself acknowledge the heavy, painful feeling in his chest for just a moment. Then he shuts the lights off and heads back out into the hallway.

[ Part 2 ]

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #i wanted to end somewhere more conclusive but i was falling asleep at my keyboard trying to end this so #please take this for now 🙏#my fic #it is very late rn so i am scheduling this for the middle of my work day tomorrow... now i need to run to sleep T.T #i will finish off the latter half of the house visit in the not too distant future!#yvverse #ps caughtintherain if you are reading this ily and i am so grateful to you for letting me consult you abt these two 😭😭 and i hope it's #okay for me to post this as a gift jafkhjfslk ANYWAYS pls read this at your leisure and happy birthday again!!!

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aimbutmiss · 8 months ago

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The day started like any other normal day. And it was, to Mihawk at least.

Yes, it was his birthday, but he never really cared for the occasion. Was he grateful for the life he was given? Of course he was. But he never saw the point in celebrating. He remembered the day when Shanks had showed up out of nowhere, ten years or so ago. He was overjoyed to see the man, hands itching to reach for Yoru, but the man stopped him with a whine.

"Nooooo, I come in peace! We can't fight, not today of all days!"

He held up the bottle in his hand with a bright smile. "We're gonna party until the sun goes down and comes back up!"

A frown pulled down on Mihawk's face, who was not quite understanding the situation. "What are you talking about?"

Shanks' smile quickly dropped too. "Don't tell me you forgot your own birthday."

Ah, right. So that's what this was about. The man had told him his date of birth some time ago, and in his surprise and perhaps slight tipsiness, he had admitted that they shared the same birthday. In hindsight, he should have known the red head would pull something like this. It was definitely in character. He sighed in frustration.

"I'm not quite the type to celebrate. You know I don't like to party like you folk."

"That's nonsense!" Shanks walked up to him and slapped a hand on his back, strong enough to send a normal man flying. But of course, Mihawk didn't move an inch. "Parties are like, the best part of being a pirate! And even if I respect your mysterious and lonely guy schtick, it's your damn birthday! You can make an exception for one day of the year."

He looked up, reminiscing about the past. "The captain was very firm about that. He would throw me and Buggy the most extravagant parties. He never once forgot; can you believe that?"

The captain he was talking about was indeed the King of the Pirates, Gold Roger. It had shocked Mihawk at first, learning about Shanks’ past. But the more he got to know the man, the more it made sense. A man of his caliber couldn’t have come from anything else. Shanks was a very talkative drunkard, so Mihawk was used to listening to stories about that time of his life. And frankly, he quite enjoyed it. These men in his stories and the stuff they went through were like straight out of legends... He gave a small smile to the excited man in front of him. "I guess I could indulge you just this once, but only because it's your birthday too."

He snapped out of the memories and slowly got out of bed, having had enough nostalgia to last him the day. But he was stopped by a floating hand pulling on his night gown.

"Stay."

Mihawk looked to the source of the muffled protest, which happened to be the blue mess in his bed. "Let go, Buggy."

"Nooooooo..."

He sighed as he sat back down on the bed, fingers immediately going for the soft blue locks. An approving hum came from the clown as he brushed through his hair with his long fingers.

This sleepy man, with whom he shared a bed, was one of those from Shanks’ stories. Except he was nothing like them. He wasn’t brave and fearless like in the stories, he was weak. But he knew exactly what he was and what he was capable of, and Mihawk loved him for that. He was charming beyond words, and a little stupid, but Mihawk was into that, as embarrassing as it was.

“Get back into bed and get your birthday cuddles.”

Mihawk chuckled at his partner. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

He got up to leave for the bathroom. “Do you know where Crocodile went?”

“Nope! How should I know?” Buggy answered way too quickly, which made the swordsman’s brows furrow.

“Hm. He’s probably in his office like usual.”

“Yes! That’s it.” Buggy exclaimed in triumph, for what he didn’t know. “He’s such a workaholic.”

“Indeed.” He replied nonchalantly as he reached for his razor.

“Wait!” Buggy ran out of bed to his side with a smile. “Let me do that for you.”

Mihawk stared at him with a raised brow. “You want to help me shave? For what reason exactly?”

“It’ll be relaxing! I’m good with my hands, you know.” Buggy wiggled his brows suggestively, which made his lips curve just the slightest bit. The clown could be funny sometimes, mostly when he wasn’t trying. Oh, how he loved this silly man.

“You literally have no reason to do this.”

Buggy sighed in frustration. “I’m just trying to pamper you, birthday boy. Take it or leave it.”

Mihawk thought about it for a second, and reluctantly gave the razor to the clown. “You better not mess this up. I have a very particular- “

“I’m aware, dear. Just trust me.”

He gently held his face and got to work, carving out the intricate design with capable movements. After he was done, he wiped his face with a fresh towel and gave him a kiss on the cheek to seal the deal.

“Was that a part of the service?” Mihawk jokingly asked.

“Only for you, handsome.”

Mihawk was never one for being coddled, always believing that being spoiled was being looked down upon. He didn’t need special attention and privilege to make it in life. But this, this he could get used to.

He pulled Buggy into a kiss that started innocent, but quickly grew more desperate. He was sneaking his hands under Buggy’s polka dot pyjama shirt when the man pushed him away.

“Nuh uh.”

“Nuh uh?” Mihawk stared at his boyfriend in bewilderment.

“Not now. I’ll give your birthday gift at night.”

Mihawk frowned. “It’s my birthday now too. What difference does it make?”

“God, you’re impatient. Night. No negotiating.”

Mihawk pursed his lips and didn’t protest. He was not happy, though.

Buggy stayed with him throughout the day, keeping him company and making sure he stayed away from the beach.

Yes, Mihawk could tell. But to be fair, Buggy wasn’t exactly being subtle. But he didn’t say a word, indulging in whatever the man was planning.

A surprise party, perhaps? God, he really hoped it wasn’t that. Crowds and being the center of attention didn’t agree with his constitution.

And where was his other partner (both in romantic and business contexts), Crocodile? He wasn’t in his office like he initially assumed. He was sure Buggy knew where the man was but refrained from asking questions. He was quite sure the two situations were somehow connected.

That in itself was quite ridiculous to think about. Crocodile didn’t seem like the type of man to care about birthdays either, like himself. Maybe Buggy had somehow convinced him? It all seemed very unnecessary. He knew the clown had good intentions, but he would have been fine if no one acknowledged his birthday at all. It wasn’t of importance to him, simple as that.

Then why was this bothering him so much? He tried to focus on Buggy’s rambling but that feeling did not leave.

Why did it feel so wrong to be celebrated just for existing? To be loved and cared for?

Don’t get him wrong, he wasn’t unhappy with it. Quite the opposite actually. But it just felt so… foreign. He needed time to adjust, to make his peace with it.

He thought he had gotten over this particular problem after he formed a relationship with his two business partners. It had taken a lot out of him to simply let them in, to feel comfortable in their presence, to not fret from every touch… And even though he trusted them completely, here he was doubting his place.

It just didn’t make sense. They were wasting their time and effort for an inconsequential event that would pass by, leaving nothing changed. So, what if he got a year older? What did that change? Why did they care so much about something he himself didn’t care for? To show their love? But Mihawk already knew they loved him.

“Earth to Mihawk, hello?”

Mihawk snapped out of his thoughts, staring at Buggy’s concerned eyes. “Hm? Sorry, I got lost in thoughts. You were saying?”

“I was saying I want to walk along the beach… You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’m alright, just a bit sluggish today. And sure, we can go for a stroll.”

He walked hand in hand with Buggy, trying to ease his mind and keep small talk going. He wasn’t big on physical touch, but he really appreciated the warmth of Buggy’s hand then. The clown always had a way of comforting him without trying. Mihawk stopped walking when he saw the dinner table placed on the beach. That certainly wasn’t there before. It was adorned with red roses and lit candles, setting a romantic atmosphere. Crocodile was standing beside the table, looking at his pocket watch.

“You’re late.”

“I know! I got lost in my speaking, and hawk eyes didn’t try to stop me so I lost track of time…”

“You and your big mouth… I guess it’s alright, we didn’t miss the sunset.”

Crocodile walked up to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and sharing a chaste kiss.

“Happy birthday, hawk eyes.”

“Thank you.” Mihawk broke the eye contact as he felt his cheeks get hotter.

Crocodile gave a sly smirk. “Someone’s being bashful.”

“Well, I didn’t expect… this. I was convinced you were throwing me a party.”

Buggy frowned at the thought. “Of course not! That would make you uncomfortable, wouldn’t it? That’s the last thing I would want on your birthday. A private dinner on the other hand…”

“Is much more your style, is it not?” Crocodile completed Buggy’s sentence.

Mihawk was the luckiest man alive. He gave his lovers a small smile. “Yes, indeed it is. You are too thoughtful.”

“It’s literally the bare minimum but okay.”

“I can’t believe this, but I agree with the clown. What kind of partners would we be if we didn’t know your preferences?”

Mihawk sat on the chair the taller man pulled out for him as Buggy poured him a glass of wine, one of his favorites that happened to be quite expensive.

“I just don’t quite get what’s so important about this day, or what you would go through all this trouble for.”

Crocodile and Buggy shared a glance and turned to him with sad eyes.

“Because it’s the day you came into this world, and therefore to our lives? Because we love you?”

“Indeed. I don’t see what’s so confusing about us wanting to cherish the man we love, to show him how much he means to us. Is that a problem?”

Mihawk stared at the two in astonishment and eventually, a big smile stretched across his lips. “No, not at all.”

The swordsman had a lot to learn about love, about being loved, but he had two perfect partners to help him through the steps. He could get used to celebrating his birthday if it meant he got to share it with the people he loved. Maybe that’s what he had been missing all these years to give this day a meaning. Company.

And after dinner, Buggy didn’t forget about his promise from the morning. Easy to say Mihawk went to sleep a very tired but satisfied man.

#not too happy with this but I'm too sleepy to care #I was gonna make this more angsty but I used all that energy on my shuggy post so mihawk gets to be happy today :)#it's kinda funny to think this could be happening consecutively with the shuggy post #mihawk learning to accept love on his birthday while shanks gets used to the lack of it #me? picking favourites? haha no way #anyways happy birthday mihawk!!#one piece #buggy the clown #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #cross guild #cross guild polycule #bughawk #red haired shanks #this is almost 2k words btw!!#maybe I'll try to improve it a bit tomorrow and post it as a fic on ao3 who knows

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