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It's still raining.
He manages to shake the marines off for now, but Shanks still keeps walking forwards, mindlessly placing one foot in front of the other, not caring where he's heading to.
His nose fills with earthy scents of rain hitting dirt, of rusty metals and old bricks, of the crowd's joy and delight. His ears fill with the sound of rainfalls, of people shouting, spitting curse words over the dead man.
—Not salty scents of seawater. Not laughter of pure joy nor adventures.
And no warm embrace of Buggy's pheromone, no soft mumblings nor flashes of blue in the corner of his eyes.
Shanks is all alone.
"Watch where you're going, kid!" Someone bumps into him somewhere in one of the dirty alleys. The other's busy telling tall tales about how they're going to get their hands on the ultimate treasures of the Pirate King.
And Shanks let himself stagger back before falling to the ground.
Splash!
He lands in a puddle, dirty water splashing everywhere. The boy himself is soaking wet and some drops reach the adult still standing beside him.
"Oi! Brat! You looking for trouble?!" The man in the front grabs his collar. Followed by a punch to the face, "Take that!"
His friends join in a few punches later, and Shanks lets them. He tastes and smells even more blood in his mouth when they're done.
"That's a warning, brat. Don't forget you were once beaten up by the future pirate king!" With a laugh, they leave him alone, bruises and bleeding on the dirty ground.
Soaking in the dirty puddle, Shanks stays completely still for a long while, before a sound leaves his mouth, "Ha!"
The boy whips blood dripping down his chin, it doesn't stop, so he lets it be, washing down with the pouring rain.
Amidst all the blood and foreign dirt smells, Shanks drinks in his own pheromone. To his surprise, there's no anger, just unbearable sadness and distress.
Loneliness.
He's so pathetic.
Shanks stares up the gray sky. The straw hat hangs from his neck while raindrops hitting his face. It hurts.
"G— Gather up all of the crew," and by the time he knows it, his lips already move on their own, singing a song he long knows by heart.
Binks' sake.
"It's t— it's time to ship out. Binks' Brew."
The boy sings and sings, even though his voice is broken and far out of tune, but there's no one to correct him, no one to tease him for it.
Not anymore.
He's not even sure he wants to continue being a pirate anymore. Not after his captain leaves them. Not after the person he wants to be with the most rejected him so heartlessly.
But what is Shanks if not a pirate?
Captain, Buggy, What should I do?
"The wind. It blows," he closes his eyes, letting fresh water drip down his face. And his pheromone takes up space on the land, not the ship, not the wind nor the sea. No comforting scents of people he loves joining him, "—To where, who knows?"
Shanks doesn't cry. He's cried enough already. And even though Rayleigh-san doesn't like them drinking, now he really, really wants to.
"The waves will be— be our guide," he continues singing. But even to his own ears, the song has no warmth, no joy, and no voice of the others humming along.
Shanks fails. He's a failure, a disappointment, a shame.
Captain left him. The crew— the pack abandoned him. Buggy, his alpha rejected him. It hurts.
(No, they're not even— Buggy's not even his. He's not accepting Shanks.
He's worthless.)
"O'er across the ocean's tide, rays of sunshine—" he drags his voice, and is then interrupted by a hiccup, "F— far and wide."
"The birds, they sing, of cheerful things in circles passing by."
Shanks stops. The last lyrics weren't his.
The stranger quiets down as well. It's hard telling people apart in the rain, but the faint smell that reaches his nose tells him that the stranger's an alpha.
An alpha greets an omega in a dirty alleyway— seas , even Shanks knows it can't be good. The boy knows he should problably run, or at least gets up on his feet. But he's so tired, his eyelids refuse to open, and his legs feel so sore he doesn't want to stand up.
After what feels like forever, the stranger speaks, his voice echoes in the small space.
"Hey," he greets. And when Shanks doesn't reply, he repeats, "Hey, kid. You dead?"
The boy cracks an eye open, and what greets him is a sight of a man standing under a shade. Tall, broad shoulders. A cigarette between his teeth.
Shanks still doesn't answer.
"I saw you with those pirates," he feels his heart drops, before the man adds, "Beaten up real bad, huh?"
"Ha!" Shanks doesn't ask why he didn't come for his rescue. It's none of his business anyway, "This? It's nothing."
"Tough thing we have here, do we?" said the man, cigarette rolling from one corner of his mouth to the other.
The boy stays silent when the stranger adds, "You gotta fight for yourself more, boy. Luckily there's no alpha in that group. Or else you—"
"Or else what?" Shanks cuts him. The corners of his mouth tug up, mocking his own fate, "If there were alphas, then what? Would they rape me? Or worse, mark me? Would I be sold, chained up like a fucking pet only to be used by even more people?"
This time, it's the man who keeps his silence. And Shanks' expression drops to what it previously was; indifferent, dead to the face of the world.
"I don't care," in the end, the boy whispers. Letting his head drop, "Not anymore."
Silence washes over them the same way as the rain. And Shanks is drenched from head to toe, his ever flowing energy leaving him like they're never here.
An unfamiliar pheromone is the only thing keeping him company. It's not Buggy's or even Rayleigh-san's, just— alpha's.
"Hey," this time, it's Shanks who speaks up. His gaze is still on the floor as he continues, "Can I ask something from you?"
The alpha doesn't answer, but that's fine. It's not like he'll be able to say no anyway.
He looks up from the puddles on the ground, stares right into that pitch-black pair of eyes as he said. It's not an offer, nor request or plea.
It's an order.
"Bite me."
…
"Excuse me, what?" Benn's eyes snap back to the other. Crimson red stare right into his soul.
Is this kid serious?
The boy doesn't answer, just— looking, staring at him. And even though he's beaten up on the ground, covered in blood and sweat and rain, Benn is hyper-aware of the fact that the person in front of him is an omega. Smells and looks like a child who just presented but still an omega. The scent's sweeter than any stories he ever heard.
And Benn's just a man, an alpha in his prime. It doesn't help that where he grew up on— the small village two islands away from here— doesn't have any omega. So for him, meeting one for the first time surely—
"No," his reply comes out firm and short, more certain than he actually feels. Because while it sounds so tempting, it doesn't feel right, not in the slightest.
They wait a beat, those red eyes never leave him.
"Really?" Asks the red-haired boy. He doesn't smile, and his tone gives away nothing. Like a lifeless puppet. Only thing remotely human about him is his scent, and it screams help .
Benn puffs in smoke, clearing his mind from that alluring scent a little, "Really."
"Oh, but you will," says the boy, finality in his tone. And Benn can see ghosts of who the boy used to be; stubborn child who had people spoiling him rotten, "You'll bite me."
"I won't."
"You will," he emphasizes each syllable. Raging storm in those red eyes. There's a hint of challenge shines in them, but in a weirdly uncanningly broken , hurtful way. And Benn wonders what they were like when they were completed . "You'll force me down. Mark me against my will. Tell the world I'm yours. You won't care even though I'm screaming, begging for you to stop."
He adds, "You'll ruin me."
Benn doesn't notice when his cigarette drops to the ground, but the sound of it landing in one of the puddles is what snaps him back to reality.
"You're insane."
"After today? I'll tell you I'm not surprised, not in the slightest," The red-hair sniggers, baring his teeth, it's not a smile.
Benn pats himself down and finds another cigarette. His fingers' trembling when he lit the thing up. The air feels unbearably hot even under the rain, and his pants tighten. Fuck.
And the pheromone doesn't help. It screams of helplessness, of despair and sorrow. Something so small and vulnerable; just perfect for—
Now Benn regrets showing up to the boy. He just finds him interesting, drawn in by a scent he never encountered before. Never thought he's going to end up in this kind of situation. Effects of omegas' pheromones are scarier than he thought.
"What's your price?" If he can't escape this, at least he'll try not to be defrauded, hopefully. (But Benn knows full well the boy can rob him blind, and he'll willingly let him. Damn omegas and their pheromones.)
A moment of silence, then, "Buy me drinks," he says, "Until I pass out, then you can do whatever you want," and he eyes Benn's pants. Again, his expression is dull, indifferent to anything in the world.
"How old are you anyway?" His brow twitches. Looking the other up and down; he can't be older than fifteen, which is further supported by his hazy pheromone that clearly belonged to a newly presented child (if omegas' scents work the same way as alphas', that's it). And while Benn hasn't grown up in the best environment, he knows it's not right.
(And he knows he's being a hypocrite, but it makes him feel a little better about himself, at the very least.)
"Old enough," Says the boy, "You're in or not? If not, I'll go find someone else."
"No," his jaw snaps shut. His hands twist, and he has to physically stop them from grabbing the kid. Instead, he looks elsewhere, asking, "Seriously, do your parents know about this? Or any adults who're taking care of you?"
The boy quiets down again, then, "Dead," his voice doesn't even crack, it's as still as the dead water. And every sailor knows when the water's dead, it means storms are coming.
Benn puffs in smoke, feeling it travel down his lungs, then back up, "Alright."
"Follow me, then," he says, then a quick look at the boy makes him pause, "Can you stand up?"
The boy doesn't answer verbally, just slowly rises to his feet, swaying a little. A worn-out straw hat hanging from his neck, and a sheathed sword on his hip.
Everything happens so fast. And soon, Benn finds himself with the boy, in a room on the second floor of some old tavern. The keeper didn't even bait an eye seeing him bringing in a child.
Now, what?
Benn tries keeping a straight face, but internally? He'd say panic is a painfully understatement.
The sweet scent lingering in the air, perfectly mixes in with his own. Red hair dripping water down the sheet beneath him. And he never thinks the white shirt clinging to the boy's shivering body can be this distracting.
The man clears his throat, moving his eyes somewhere else, "I'm Benn Beckman," he tells the boy, because his mind's as blank as the shirt, and he doesn't know what else to say.
A beat, then, "Shanks."
Silence greets them again, and Benn's not really good at breaking it. He's never good at making normal conversations, let alone with an omega, or a child with trauma.
"Alright, Shanks."
Then what? What should he— what can he possibly say?
Maybe he can start with, "How old are you?" —It sounds stupid.
"Fourteen," but Shanks answers anyway. He then glares up at Benn sitting on a chair beside the bed, "What? Chicken out now?"
"No," the man quickly says, he doesn't know why.
Benn knows how the world works, but fourteen . He feels sick to the gut, especially when he himself is affected by it, when his instinct purrs in content.
Benn knows things won't be the same after the execution of the Pirate King. Not even a day passes and he already sees people setting sails, chasing after the so-called treasure hidden somewhere in the Grandline.
And he, like most people, doesn't think of the consequences. Of things being left behind.
Like this child.
"Then what are you waiting for?" asks Shanks. And there's something swirling in those crimson reds, like the eyes of the storm or the raging waves below. Challenging bold sailors to dive right in, "Ruin me."
"Why?" Benn questions, the taste of smoke on his tongue helps ground him to reality, keeping his attention away from the more distracting scent.
No answer. Shanks only swings his legs out of the bed, "I'm leaving."
"Wait," Benn places a hand on the boy's shoulder. It's cold and wet, trembling a little, and so small in his palm.
Shanks glares at him. And then, in one fluid move, brushes Benn's hand away, easily as breathing.
"Loser," the boy spats, turning away. Benn's hand is thrown to the side, and he lets it stay frozen mid-air.
There's strength behind that move. And practice. And something else he can't place his mind into.
"Wait," Benn snaps himself back, using the said hand to grab a bottle he ordered beforehand, "You said you want a drink, yes?"
The boy frowns, asking, "Are you kidding me? Orange juice?"
He shrugs, "You didn't say what kind of drinks."
Benn doesn't know what happened next, but Shanks ends up staying, plopping back down on the mattress with the juice bottle in his hand.
He doesn't drink, however. Only stares like he just notices Benn's presence for the first time.
The man clears his throat, putting away the used cigarette before lighting up the next, "So," he starts, anything to keep his mind and eyes out of somethings— inappropriate, "What's up with the pirate song?"
"It's Binks' Sake ," the boy corrects him. Hands tightening around the bottle.
"Right, Binks' Sake," he inhales, and it takes all his self control not to sigh, "You want to be a pirate?"
Shanks bites his lips, eyes cast down. And when Benn thinks he won't talk anymore, he says, "I am."
"Sorry, what?"
The boy looks up, red eyes shining with unshed tears under the dim light, a hint of something alive flashes in them.
"A pirate," he repeats, "I'm a pirate."
There's something in his tone, making it sound commanding — no… not quite, it's more like stating a fact, the same way people say the sky is blue and the seas have waves. And— Benn doesn't know how to place it, but Shanks makes it sound beautiful, captivating , somehow, even coming from a beaten up fourteen-year-old.
But then the boy deflates , for lack of better word. His shoulders drop and his gaze lands back to his hands, sorrow seeping its way back in his scents, "Or was ," he mutters, "I'm not one anymore."
There must be a story here, but it's not Benn's to pry.
Then the boy's back looking at his own hands, a faraway look on his face. And Benn put his cigarette down, absentmindedly rolling it between his fingers.
After a while, the man clears his throat, "You know," he starts, "I had a family. And a girlfriend."
"So what? I don't c—"
"And they died," Benn interrupts, and the boy snaps his jaw shut so fast he can hear his teeth clattering to each other.
In other times, Benn may laugh at the sight, but not now.
"My sister was a marine, died in duty," he continues, free hand reaching down, stroking the rifle he puts beside the chair, "And when we're trying to bury her in her favorite spot on a mountain, there's a landslide."
Benn smiles, and he bets it's like Shanks earlier, more like baring his teeth than a real thing, "After that, my girlfriend dumped me, saying she found her true soulmate or whatever."
He puts the cigarette back, inhaling the much needed smoke, "But," he says, "I'm still here. And that's all the matter."
He then looks at Shanks. The boy grips on the sheet hard enough to turn his knuckles white, the orange juice lying somewhere on the blanket.
Benn turns away, giving the boy his privacy. And they stay like that for a while. Benn smoking, and Shanks trying his hardest not to cry.
"I'm worthless," Shanks says in the end, his eyes never leaving the blanket.
Benn stays silent, and the boy continues.
"Captain left me. The crew disbanded. And Bugg—"
There's a small hiccup as Shanks trails off. And Benn hums in response, letting the other know he's still listening.
Taking in a shaky breath, the boy continues, words flowing out like raging waves, "Buggy, he says he hates me. Says he doesn't want us to be in the same crew anymore. That he won't accept me. That we'll never—"
Shanks' voice is so quiet, his body almost curls into a small ball, like he doesn't want a soul to see him. All the while, his pheromone screams the loudest, forcing everyone to notice as it explodes with despair and distress, of someone who's been crushed by his own fate. Even then, the storm is still there. Broken, but still desperately trying to live on.
It's beautiful .
"We promised we'll form our own crew one day," then Shanks laughs, it's short and bitter, "How naive of me, thinking we'll be together."
His smile drops when he speaks next, "He left, then there's marines—" he cuts himself short, waits a few more beats before adding, "I don't care what happens to me, not anymore."
The boy ends his story. And Benn breaths in the silence hanging heavily in the air.
That's… much more than he thought.
"Shitty day," he breaks the silence, but even to his standard, the comment's terrible.
But Shanks laughs nonetheless, and it sounds a little more genuine, more alive , "Yeah."
Not knowing what to do, Benn silently hands him another bottle, this time a blueberry juice.
Shanks stares at the offered item for a long while, then he mutters, "You know, Buggy has blue hair," and, "You better drug me with this."
Then the boy grabs it. Raindrops' still dripping down his chin when he chucks the juice down in one big gulp.
"And what if I do?" Benn asks, because— let's be real. He's a grown alpha, and Shanks' an omega child. The boy follows him, a stranger, to a room before being given a drink— things can go pretty ugly from here.
Shanks should take better care of himself.
"That'd be great," he smirks, finishing the juice, "At least it means I'm worth all this effort."
Benn bites the end of his cigarette, knowing from experience that sweet, reassuring words won't help any of them in this case. And he waits another minute before speaking again.
"We're good?"
Shanks throws away the now empty bottle, then grabs the orange one lying beside him and empties it too.
"I feel like shit," he says after finishing the juice, and Benn offers him the next, a grape juice, "Everything hurts, and I'm fucking cold right now."
"No doubt, you were standing under the rain," and didn't even try to run when those people beat you to the pulp — Benn doesn't say the second part aloud.
"Yeah, I was stupid ," he giggles anyway, and looks like he knows full well what Benn didn't say, "Should've beat them up instead."
"Yeah? Like you can win against a bunch of grown men, shrimp," and Benn finds himself chuckling along. The thing's contagious, alright.
"It can't be that hard," the boy grins, and the room seems to light up somehow. Maybe it has something to do with the pheromone, "Actually, bet I can still take them all down with a blindfold on."
And his eyes scan around where Benn's sitting, likely to find another bottle or two.
"Sure, kid, sure," he reaches for the bag beside his feet, fishing out another random juice and giving it to the boy, "But before that, why don't you change out of those damp clothes and let me take a look at those wounds?"
"Hey! I'm pretty strong, mind you," With a pout, Shanks crosses his arms in defense. And Benn chuckles. The childish act is new to him, but welcoming nonetheless.
He can't remember the last time he let himself be this comfortable around others. Maybe ever since he was left alone.
And it feels nice.
"Hey, Benn," Shanks calls, the drinks left half empty in his hands. His tone's suddenly serious. And it rings with authority— no, more like power . It'd be more believable if the boy says he's a runaway prince or something of sort instead of a former pirate.
"Yes?" And he's here, a loyal servant, waiting for his commands.
"Say," a pause, "What do you think about being a pirate?"
"Pirate?"
"Yeah," the boy licks his lips, "You know— setting sail, adventuring, treasure hunting, and basically doing whatever you want."
"With you?"
"Yeah," he grins sheepishly, a hand flies up to play with his damp red hair, "If you don't mind following me, that's it."
And Benn doesn't know what's gotten into him, but his reply comes falling out within the next breath, his brain barely processing the words. Must be the pheromones.
(He doesn't even think of how absurd it is, for an adult to follow a mere child, for an alpha to follow an omega. Or worry if they'll survive out in the seas. It just feels right, and that's all that matters.)
(And he definitely doesn't expect the kid to actually be that strong. But, well, things happen.)
"Sure, captain."