Chapter Text
"Tick... tick..."
Colorful lightbulbs hanging outsides the tents of Karai Bari Island keep glistering in the rain and harsh wind. Their light is captured by countless puddles. The sky begins to get dark even it is just a little past four o’clock. As daytime gets shorter, the temperature on Karai Bari Island also drops day by day. Under the influence of the brief sunlight and the cold temperatures, the activities of the Cross Guild also gradually decrease, with only the security team and the supply group members regularly going out to sea for patrols or purchases, while the rest of the members stay on the island preparing for winter.
After yet another rainstorm, the island feels even colder and damper. The few members on duty retreat into their tents for warmth. However, on the road to the dormitory for high-ranked members, the sound of heavy boots crushing puddles and leaves echos loudly in the quiet island. The sound comes from Dracule Mihawk, the greatest swordsman in the world. His usually emotionless face is now tainted with concealed anger.
Upon entering the dormitory building, Mihawk forces himself to pause and calm down. He shakes off the tiny raindrops clinging to his hat and takes a deep breath. The air he inhales is as cold as it is outside. Even though the dormitory has been converted from a dilapidated castle, the leaky structure does little to keep the strong winds out. When they arrived on the island, improving infrastructure became one of Crocodile’s priorities, to ensure they wouldn’t run out of resources easily and could work efficiently. Aside from Mihawk, all the high-ranking members live in this dormitory. As for Mihawk, known for his solitude, he was assigned his own castle, by Crocodile.
Compared with the cold, Mihawk radiates heat with his anger bubbling inside.
Mihawk comes to have a word with Crocodile.
Ten days. It has been ten days since Crocodile showed up in their daily meetings.
It’s rather ironic. If any other member besides Crocodile had been absent, the others would probably have just waved it off. But now, the one who hasn’t shown up (and without a good explanation, no less) is Crocodile—the workaholic Crocodile, the Crocodile who always makes sure each document and order is properly handled.
Even though he hasn’t neglected his responsibilities and has assigned tasks through Daz, Mihawk has keenly noticed errors that never appeared in the documents he previously handled. His work efficiency and quality have declined significantly compared to before. Some of the documents that were originally Crocodile’s responsibility have now fallen to Mihawk (assigned through Daz, which left a strange taste in Mihawk's mouth). Thanks to the sudden increase in workload (why do so many documents and details have to go over by Crocodile?), Mihawk has had to sacrifice his daily lunch break.
That's fine. Mihawk knows he can handle paperwork. If Buggy can fill out those documents and lists accurately, then he's even more confident in his abilities.
No, what irks Mihawk is that Crocodile, for no apparent reason, has left him and Buggy to one side while he hides in his room, doing who knows what. Although a voice in his mind reminded Mihawk, “No, Crocodile had Daz tell us that he hasn't been feeling well lately,” another, more somber and petty voice in his head immediately retorted, “Crocodile wouldn't get sick that easily.” And, “If he were ill, he should be seeing a doctor instead of holing up in his room and not seeing anyone.”
Moreover, Mihawk has noticed over the past few days that Mr. 3 has repeatedly sneaked into Crocodile's room, each time leaving with a pale face. With Daz, the former members of Baroque Works on this island are all present in that room. Mihawk is not naive enough to think that their simultaneous presence in Crocodile's room means the latter suddenly wants to hold a reunion.
Mihawk's eyebrows furrow as he gets closer to Crocodile's room. When they agreed to work together and establish the Guild, shouldn’t that mean they would not hide things from each other? Crocodile is well-aware that both Mihawk and him have trust issues, as he kindly pointed out. So Mihawk could only assume that after he shown his trust, Crocodile would handle it, and their partnership, more carefully.
Yes, partnership. Another thing novel to Mihawk. Damn it, they are partners! Shouldn't partners be honest and trust each other? Is Crocodile plotting something that they shouldn't know about?
Mihawk pauses his steps, and the corridor returns to silence.
Compared to the anger that almost overwhelmed his senses a moment ago, he knows what he actually feels are emotions quite foreign to him. At first, it was confusion and worry. As the days passed, and still no sight of Crocodile, his heart sank. The sensation of panic followed him like a shadow: during meetings, he occasionally looked up out of habit to look across the room, only to find the absence of that familiar and reliable figure; as he irritably flipped through old documents for references, his gaze fell on elegant and neat handwriting that reminded him of Crocodile; after opening a fine bottle of wine and seeking someone to share it with, only to remember that the person he thought of was shutting out visitors... Mihawk has to admit that compared to the anger of possibly being betrayed, what stung him more was... loneliness.
But he has never been one to dwell on feelings, and acknowledging them now—putting a name on them now—is not his priority.
Crocodile must answer his question today, or answer to his sword.
Crocodile's room is located in the deepest part of the building, providing him with the utmost privacy possible. As Mihawk rounds the corner, he sees Daz standing in front of Crocodile's door with his hands behind his back, as immovable as a stone. He walks straight towards the door, reaching for the doorknob without acknowledging Daz's presence. Before his hand can touch the knob, Daz quickly steps in to block his action. “The boss is not seeing anyone at the moment, Master Mihawk.
Mihawk looks at Daz, who doesn’t flinch at the sight of his piercing golden eyes. He has always been aware that although Daz is now a member of the Cross Guild, his loyalty lies purely with Crocodile.
"Tell Crocodile that it is I who wishes to see him." Despite Mihawk's expression betraying no emotion, anyone can detect the subtle threat in his voice.
“He is not seeing anyone. This is his order.”
Mihawk slightly raises his head, gazing at Daz with his golden eyes, which imperceptibly narrow, making his world-renowned gaze even sharper. But Daz simply looks ahead with a stern expression; it is evident that his loyalty to Crocodile far surpasses any fear he might have of the world's greatest swordsman.
Mihawk inwardly sighs. While he would approve of such loyalty under any other circumstances, it is a considerable inconvenience now.
Mihawk has no desire to harm Crocodile's subordinate, and Daz is a rather exceptional assassin. However, Mihawk is not in the mood to deal with him right now: how do you deal with an impenetrable wall with words or any method other than force? His presence here signifies that his patience has worn as thin as ice under fire..
As the two are locked in a stalemate, a loud muffled noise comes from inside the room, as if something heavy had fallen to the floor.
The perfect mask on Daz's face cracks instantly; a flicker of panic flashes through his eyes. He quickly turns, yanks the door handle open, and strides into the room. Mihawk follows closely behind, his right hand already reaching behind him to grip the hilt of Yoru, but the scene before him causes his brain to momentarily cease functioning.
White. Everywhere is white. A massive, solid block of white sits in the middle of the room, with white droplets occasionally falling from it and quickly solidifying on the floor. The smell of wax fills the air, coupled with the air being several degrees warmer than outside, causing Mihawk to feel momentarily dazed. He composes himself, following the solidified wax on the floor, and sees another member of Crocodile's secret little team, Mr. 3, lying unconscious on the ground, only opening his eyes and taking a deep breath like a drowning man gasping for fresh air after Daz shakes him vigorously awake.
Seeing that Mr. 3 is out of danger, Mihawk scans the room: the wardrobe door is wide open, clothes and bedding are piled like a small mountain on the king-sized bed, with two pieces of fabric that look like… curtains? Meanwhile, where the curtains should have been—the room’s only window—is sealed with a solid white block, presumably made of wax. The wax doesn’t stop at the window. As Mihawk looks around, he notices that even the surfaces of the desk, wardrobe, bookshelf, and other furniture are covered with melted wax from candles.
After years of sailing the Grand Line, Mihawk is no stranger to ... well, strange things. But he certainly isn’t prepared for… this. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to erase this absurd scene from his memory. Only after a few moments of reflection does he realise the greatest incongruity since entering the room: where is Crocodile?
"What is going on with all of this, and where is Crocodile?" Mihawk asks, his arms folded across his chest, one leg crossed over the other, tapping rhythmically. His golden eyes scan back and forth between the two men sitting in front of him.
They are in Daz’s room, seated on the sofa. Daz remains upright and stone-faced, while Mr. 3, slumped next to him, though still pale, is breathing normally.
His cold, stern voice repeats the question. Under the weight of Mihawk’s formidable aura, Mr. 3 trembles and glances at Daz, who is sitting beside him. After a long minute, Daz sighs in defeat. "Boss... is still in his room..."
Upon hearing this, Mihawk raises an eyebrow, searching his memory: the enormous white pillar of wax... the mountain of bedding and clothes on the bed... the scattered papers on the desk...
“He’s been lying in bed all along... under those piles of bedding...”
Mihawk frowns, realising now that it was indeed possible; they had just made such a commotion, and the little mountain made from cloth on the bed had shown no reaction, which had made him overlook this possibility entirely.
“If he’s in bed, why doesn’t he get up?”
“Boss... is probably...” Daz hesitates for a few seconds, “unable to get up.”
Mihawk immediately lowers his leg and stands, his towering figure exuding an almost palpable dominance as he looks down at Daz. The air around him, once charged with a controlled energy, now thrums with growing intensity, like a storm on the verge of breaking.
“He is fine!” Mr. 3 shouts, raising both hands, but his sharp voice quickly drops to a barely audible mumble. “Ah, no, actually, he’s not doing that well...”
“Explain.” Mihawk grinds the words out between his teeth. He has never felt that these two in front of him are so difficult to communicate with. His patience is wearing thin.
“Well, Master Mihawk, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the weather’s been really cold lately,” Mr. 3 says with a timid smile.
“It has cooled down a bit recently, but I don’t understand how that relates to what we’re discussing. The weather on the Grand Line is always unpredictable,” Mihawk responds coldly.
Mr. 3 shakes his head dramatically. “It’s not just a little cooler! It’s freezing, with biting winds and frost hanging off trees! Haven’t you noticed how everyone is bundled up so tightly?”
Daz and Mr. 3 both glance at Mihawk’s clothes. Mihawk is still wearing his signature black coat, but underneath, his shirt has been replaced with a velvet one, all the buttons properly fastened. Aside from that, he hasn’t added any extra clothing.
“Fine, the weather is cold, whatever,” Mihawk doesn’t want to get caught up in a weather debate. “But how does this relate to Crocodile?”
“Master Mihawk, have you been to Arabasta? Despite being so hot during the day, the nights there can be quite chilly, enough to freeze a person sleeping in the desert. And the reason for that is, first, we need to understand the concept of specific heat capacity,” Mr. 3 puffs out his chest and extends a finger. “Specific heat capacity is a property of a substance, representing the amount of heat it absorbs or releases when the temperature of one unit of mass changes by 1°C...”
Click. Mihawk unclasps Kogatana.
“Ahhhhhh!” Mr. 3 cries in fear, quickly covering his head. “The specific heat capacity of sand is extremely low, so the desert has very poor heat retention! Please don’t kill me!”
Mr. 3 curls into a ball, hiding behind Daz. Mihawk raises Kogatana, signalling Daz to continue explaining.
“And the boss’s Devil Fruit is a logia type, the Suna Suna no Mi, which means that to some extent—”
“He is sand,” Mihawk finishes Daz’s sentence.
Ah, Mihawk sighs softly, leaning back and sinking into the sofa.
Some of the little puzzles he’s had about Crocodile now fall into place—why Crocodile always wears that fur coat, why they never see him at those Warlords’ meetings held in winter.
“How long has this been going on?” Mihawk rubs his brow and asks wearily.
“At first, he could still work; he just had to stay next to the fireplace all the time. But four days ago, we ran out of charcoal, and he could hardly sleep at night. We thought it would be fine once the supply ship arrived, but it hasn’t come yet. So, Galdino has been using his powers to make candles to keep the boss warm for now.”
“But it seems my powers couldn’t last long enough...” Mr. 3 lowers his head, his voice trailing off as his topknot droops with the decrease in volume.
Mihawk remembers the meeting from a few days ago when they discussed the delay of the supply ship. Due to the storm, it won’t arrive for another two or three days. He studies the two in front of him carefully; the heavy dark circles under their eyes and the stubble on their faces speak volumes about the physical and mental strain they’ve been under these past few days.
Although it still bugs Mihawk that the trio has kept a secret from him, he understands their reluctance to reveal Crocodile’s yet another weakness. No, he is not ready to completely let it pass that Crocodile hadn’t told him about his problem and kept him in the dark. But Mihawk knows that there are more important matters at hand right now than pointing fingers. Before he can think the whole thing through, he finds himself speaking.
"Good work, gentlemen." Mihawk nods at Daz and Mr. 3, his tone calm but firm. "Now, let me take over. You two should rest."
Mihawk wipes the sweat from his forehead and lets out a long breath. He looks down at the pile of wood scattered around his feet, contemplating how to turn as much of it into charcoal as efficiently as possible. After talking with Daz and Galdino, he believes the most practical and pressing thing to do right now is to raise the temperature in Crocodile’s room. Therefore, he plans to make as much charcoal as possible, at least to hold out until the supply ship arrives.
He had just cut down many trees and chopped them into blocks, which only took him a few quick slashes of his sword. But after hauling the wood back to his castle, a complication arises: the wood has been soaked by the rain. He’ll have to dry it out before starting the next steps. If only Crocodile could help. His power could instantly suck the moisture from the wood. But then he remembers—it’s precisely Crocodile’s ability that has him lying in bed, unable to do anything. Devil Fruit powers truly are both a blessing and a curse.
With a sigh, Mihawk picks up a shovel and starts digging a pit in the ground, planning to dry the wood.
By the time Mihawk finishes everything and reaches Crocodile’s room, the clock has already passed midnight. All he wants now is to lie down and get a good rest. But as he takes the charcoal from his room to bring to Crocodile’s, intending to start a fire for him, he realises that if he burns the charcoal at the normal rate, it might not last long enough.
Mihawk stands with his hands behind his back, leaning against the fireplace. He gazes at the small mound on the bed while deep in thought, trying to figure out how to allocate their charcoal wisely until the supply ship arrives. If he wants to play it safe and ensure that Crocodile can get up and work during the day—Mihawk knows how much Crocodile hates falling behind on progress—then at least over the next couple of nights, he needs to reduce the amount of charcoal burned.
How did I get caught up in all this trouble? Mihawk wonders. Ever since joining the Cross Guild, one problem after another has disrupted his life. No, his peaceful life was probably shattered long before that, back when the Warlord system was abolished… And all these troubles started with… the man lying on the bed just a few meters away from him.
But you stay. Although he is still not entirely understand why he agreed to work with Crocodile. It just felt the right thing to do. He has always respected the man, not just his strength, but also his intelligence and style of doing things. Well, he doesn’t run away from the first sight of trouble. Once he sets his mind to something, he sees it through—be it mastering swordsmanship, running the Cross Guild, or even taking care of a half-dead-from-cold Crocodile.
Mihawk pushes himself upright and walks to the bedside. His cold, sharp face betrays no emotion, but anyone who knows him well would notice the subtle flicker in his golden eyes. As a pirate, there was a time—long ago—when he lived cramped in narrow cabins with others, sharing tight spaces or even baring himself without much care. Heck, his everyday attire might still seem barely clothed to some. But that was many, many years ago. Besides, he isn’t sure Crocodile shares the same perspective. This man’s usual attire is the polar opposite of Mihawk's-a strict contrast, wrapped tightly from the throat down.
Mihawk reins in his wandering thoughts. Now is not the time for overthinking considering Crocodile's current state. We will cross the bridge when we get there! Shanks’ overly cheerful voice rings in his mind. Perhaps he should borrow Shanks' carefree wisdom for once.
Removing the layers of coverings piled on Crocodile is just like peeling an onion. A blanket, a curtain, a towel, another blanket, and then a quilt... Where did he even find so many blankets? Mihawk wonders, genuinely perplexed. When he finally uncovers Crocodile, the man is curled tightly into a ball, cocooned in layer upon layer of clothing, resembling a silkworm.
Mihawk gently pushes Crocodile’s shoulder. Crocodile's body trembling uncontrollably, showing no response to Mihawk’s prodding or calls. For the first time, Mihawk acknowledges that Daz and Mr. 3’s dramatic concerns might not have been entirely exaggerated.
But clearly, they lack basic knowledge about staying warm. Has no one told them that wearing too many layers to bed can actually make things worse?
When Mihawk saves Crocodile from all the heavy coverings, he could finally takes a good look at the man. The frustration and reluctance he felt earlier dissipate the moment he sees Crocodile’s weary, pale face. The deep furrow of Crocodile’s brows makes the scar on his face appear even more jagged, while lips that are usually curled in a self-assured smirk are now tightly pressed together, his jaw clenched. His normally perfect slick-backed hair is tousled, scattered across the sheets from repeated tossing and turning. Mihawk reaches out to brush aside a strand of hair covering Crocodile’s eyes but stops short before touching him.
Why had he only now realised something was wrong with Crocodile? If he hadn’t come today, how much longer would Crocodile have stubbornly endured this? Mihawk halts his spiraling thoughts and refocuses on the immediate task at hand.
When he reaches for the golden hook, he hesitates briefly, debating whether to leave it in place to avoid unsettling Crocodile when he wakes. Having another man in you bed is alarming enough, but also waking up without your weapon? Not that Mihawk is afraid of the hook. After all, Mihawk has enough confidence in his reflexes and observation haki to react if Crocodile attacked, even in his sleep. But the cool touch of the metal convinces him otherwise-it only added to the discomfort. If he was going this far already, he might as well ensure he slept comfortably.
After making sure the blankets are not too heavy but fit for keeping them warm, Mihawk slips into the bed. The two are separated by no more than a fist’s width-a proximity that, for Mihawk, marks the closest he’s been to anyone in years.
“For Utopia,” Mihawk mutters to himself, staring at the ceiling, and closes his eyes.