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Buggy tips a flagon of ale down his throat, three already empty in front of him. His free hand detaches, scuttling on the table like a crab towards a pile of food and grabbing two chicken legs. As he sets the flagon down, empty, he raises the chicken to his mouth and gnaws on the skin. Ace has to stand up and lean over to grab the chicken, but he notices Buggy’s eyes watching him while he does it. Good to know the food’s not the only thing distracting him.
“Want another drink?” says Buggy, mouth still full.
“Sure,” says Ace—never turn down anything free as far as you can trust the source, after all.
In Luffy’s case, it would be to never turn down anything free, period. Somehow, Luffy’s out in the world, though; somehow, he’s strong enough to get away with trusting, like he always has, a strength Ace doesn’t have. What would it be like, to have the devil’s own luck wrapped around him like Luffy has? True, despite the world’s best efforts, Ace is alive, with a bounty slapped to his head, wanted for who he is and (separately, because no one knows it’s him) for who that man is, the part of him that matters distinct from the part he wishes would leave him alone.
Buggy’s knuckles knock Ace on the side of the head.
“Not going to fall asleep on me again, are you?”
“No,” says Ace, taking the drink.
Buggy’s like that, too. He’d flaunt a secret like that and no one would believe him, or no one would listen or care. He runs his mouth and gets into scrapes, but his crew thinks the world of him, and—Ace hadn’t been able to keep a crew on its own. He’s not unhappy where he is; he won’t allow himself to be. This is the most he’s ever been part of a team, and he’d still failed as a captain.
The ale is lukewarm, but not the worst Ace has had on a ship. The company makes it better, and that’s the main reason he’s here. He reaches for Buggy’s face, runs his thumb along the stubble on Buggy’s jaw, knotting his fingers into Buggy’s hair and pulling him into a kiss. His lips are greasy and his nose gets in the way, and no matter how many times they’ve done this the fabric of his gloves feels weird on Ace’s skin.
“We can eat more later,” Ace says.
“Yeah. Sure,” Buggy says, between breaths, trying to play his wordlessness off as nonchalance.
Ace can recognize a charlatan when he sees one, if only because he’s seeing himself.
A lie by omission is a lie. Everybody lies. Adults who press the importance down on children that lying is bad do it themselves, sometimes in the same breath. Adults who don’t say that lie just as much. Kids lie, out of fear or manipulation or bravado or fun or seeing how far they can take the tale. The Whitebeard Pirates are Ace’s family, but they’ve all lied to him at some point, about stupid shit like whose turn it is to do a chore. Ace lies, the secret sticking deeper into him than the needles that had tattooed him, marking him with more permanent ink. The outline of the lie is ugly; when it finally shows it will be worse.
They have accepted him; they have elevated him; he is as good as spitting on that trust. He can’t be around it all the time, or he’ll start to incinerate from the inside, burning hotter than his fruit allows.
Buggy, though—would he care? He’s old enough to have remembered when that man was still alive. They could have crossed paths, if Buggy were on a pirate ship. Maybe Buggy’s parents were Marines who’d been killed—but why would he be a pirate, then? Even if he did, it wouldn’t feel like a betrayal. They don’t trust each other very far, except when they do, which isn’t often. What’s one lie among the others, even though Ace sees through at least half of Buggy’s? What’s this lie when neither of them expects the truth?
Ace normally has no trouble going to sleep, anywhere at any time. Buggy’s quarters on his ship are ostentatious, twice the size of the barracks and stuffed with treasure, like he doesn’t trust his crew to have it in the hold. To lack that within a crew should be sad. Ace squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them; the same bronze bust of a historical figure stares back. Buggy’s body is folded over him like a sheet grabbed from the floor where it had fallen and tossed back onto the bed. Ace sighs. The lack of trust should be sad, but maybe it’s also freeing.
“You remind me of someone,” Buggy says. “A little.”
His hand is at the small of Ace’s back, attached to his arm, and Ace leans in, like he’s eager to hear a secret.
“Who?”
Buggy sighs. “No one you’d know.”
Ace waits. Usually people—in particular, people like Buggy—will say they don’t want to talk about a subject and then do it anyway, despite no one grabbing the bait like a cat with a feather on a string. Buggy slurps his ale. Maybe he doesn’t; maybe there is a secret. Maybe he had expected Ace to pull away again—more likely he’d just spoken without thinking.
They’re not the kind of people who push. But for a brief, wild moment Ace wants to offer a secret for a secret, tell Buggy all of it. They don’t do that, though, and Ace is not so weak that he’ll take anyone, that he’ll risk this rickety, conditional thing they have. Like planks on a worn rope bridge, the conditions are laid out in front of them both; they’re not to be messed with.
“I think it’s the eyes,” Buggy says.
He turns and kisses Ace on the mouth. They don't say much after that, and later Ace isn’t sure which of them had been stopped from saying something that he shouldn’t.