Chapter Text
Year 1499
Somewhere on the Grand Line
It was as if the entire sea had become enraged by the captain’s decision. One moment, the sun was warming the deck; the next, following the captain’s words, it vanished behind dark storm clouds that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Buggy clung tightly to the railing as the Oro Jackson was tossed about by massive waves like a toy in the hands of an angry child. The only things reaching his ears were the howling wind and, strangely soothing amid all the chaos, the steady, calm heartbeat of Shanks, who was shielding him with his body. Under different circumstances, Buggy would have been furious that the red-haired idiot thought he needed protection, but right now he knew the risk of ending up in the dark, icy depths was all too real. He closed his eyes as another wave of saltwater crashed onto the deck with the force of a battering ram, and immediately afterward he heard the captain shout. Probably an order, but the words were swallowed by the roar of the storm.
Another wave came, larger than the previous ones. Shanks stumbled on the wet planks and moved even closer to Buggy, so close that Buggy could feel the warm, slightly damp fabric of his shirt pressed against his ear. He could hear Shanks’s heartbeat even more clearly now. The rhythm was slow and completely different from the frantic pounding of his own heart against his ribs.
The captain shouted again, but this time his voice was cut off by a ghastly screech that sliced through the air like a knife. Startled, Buggy opened his eyes, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. Whatever it was, it screamed as if it were being slaughtered alive, and the sound mixed with the howling wind, creating a symphony of despair. Shanks’s heart beat faster for a moment, but soon returned to its steady, calm rhythm as if nothing had happened. Something was still screaming somewhere in the distance, and the ship lurched atop another wave with such force that Buggy felt nauseous.
He blinked as another surge of water slammed onto the deck, spraying in every direction and leaving the taste of salt on his lips. Shanks shifted, and his breath brushed against Buggy’s ear.
“Hey, Buggy? Can you manage on your own for a moment?”
Buggy felt like growling at the bastard. Of course he could manage on his own! He wasn’t some weakling! He didn’t need anyone shielding him, and he certainly had no intention of ending up in the water as a drowned man.
Before he could even respond, Shanks was already gone. The bitterly cold wind struck Buggy like a punch the moment his living shield disappeared. He looked around the deck, which had descended into complete chaos. Several crew members, like him, were clinging desperately to stable parts of the ship, the panic obvious on their faces. Others ran across the deck, securing loose equipment and shouting over one another.
And amid all that turmoil stood Gol D. Roger, like an unshakable monolith. His red coat whipped in the wind. With a broad grin on his face, the captain kept shouting orders to the helmsman. He did not look worried.
He looked excited.
Buggy swallowed hard as a strange pain pierced his heart—sharp and unexpected—at the mere thought that this would be the last time he saw that man aboard this ship. In an hour, in a day, Roger would leave and abandon them to their own fate.
Still, he forced himself to look away from the captain and search for Shanks instead. And the moment he spotted the straw hat flapping wildly in the wind, he felt an overwhelming urge to curse loudly and call the red-haired bastard every insult he knew.
Shanks was struggling with a set of loose ropes that had tightened around the leg of a screeching bird like an executioner's noose. One hand gripped the railing while the other worked to free the frantic creature. Its black, iridescent wings beat wildly as it fought to escape, each movement only tightening the rope around its leg. Drops of blood mixed with seawater on the deck.
“Idiot!” Buggy shouted, but the wind swallowed his words.
He didn’t know whether it was anger or fear that clenched his heart as he watched Shanks balance on the slick planks, only a step away from plunging into the freezing sea.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he let go of the railing and rushed toward him.
Apparently, he had lost his mind as well.
But at least he was the kind of idiot who wouldn’t let Shanks die for some stupid bird.
Slipping across the rain-soaked deck, Buggy reached the red-haired bastard and grabbed him around the waist just as the ship lurched atop a massive wave and Shanks pitched dangerously toward the sea. Bracing his feet, Buggy tightened his grip on Shanks’s drenched shirt, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the soaked fabric.
He looked up at the redhead’s face. Shanks turned toward him and flashed a foolish grin, as though he had no idea he had just come within inches of falling overboard. Water dripped from his hair, and cheerful sparks danced in his eyes.
“You’re insane!” Buggy growled, yanking the red-haired idiot backward. “It’s just a stupid bird!”
“We can’t just leave it like this!” Shanks shouted over the wind, his voice carrying the conviction that abandoning an injured animal was the worst thing in the world.
“Moron! If you fall into the water, I’m not rescuing you!” Buggy yelled back, tightening his hold around Shanks even further.
Pressed against him like that, he clearly felt the moment Shanks snorted with laughter, his body trembling with barely contained amusement.
“You can’t swim anyway, Buggy,” Shanks replied without stopping his work on the ropes.
The ship bounced atop one of the larger waves, and another surge of seawater crashed across the deck.
“And whose fault is that supposed to be?!” Buggy snapped back, a familiar note of accusation creeping into his voice.
Shanks chuckled again, but his cheerfulness quickly faded. No longer feeling the tremors of laughter, Buggy lifted his cheek from Shanks’s back and looked at the redhead’s face.
Shanks had furrowed his brows and suddenly looked disturbingly serious.
Buggy loosened his grip on Shanks slightly and leaned over his shoulder to get a better look at the struggling creature. The rope had tightened around its leg like a steel ring. Swollen with water, slick with salt, and stretched taut by the strain of the sails, it was impossible to untie. It looked ready to snap at any moment. The bird flapped its wings frantically, trying to free its trapped leg, and with every struggle the rope bit deeper into its flesh.
“This doesn’t look good,” Buggy muttered, watching the dark blood trickle from the bird’s leg and drip onto the deck.
From the tension in Shanks’s posture, he knew the redhead understood the severity of the situation as well. Suddenly, he felt Shanks move, and redhead's wet hair whipped across his face. Buggy blinked when he realized Shanks was reaching for the sword at his hip.
“Have you lost your mind, idiot?!” he snarled, panic tightening his throat. “Are you trying to get us all killed?! That rope is holding up half the mast!”
Shanks looked at him through the wet strands of hair, a faint smile appearing on his face—one that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Catch it, Buggy!” he shouted.
Buggy barely had time to process what he meant before the red-haired idiot drew his blade in one swift motion and sliced through the bird’s leg just above where the rope had tightened.
The creature screeched even louder, and blood sprayed from the wound.
Buggy cursed under his breath as the animal launched itself into a clumsy flight straight toward an approaching wave. He let go of Shanks and detached his hands, sending them shooting through the air. He caught the ungrateful bird as it struggled weakly in his grasp, its warm blood seeping through his fingers.
Then, without warning, the ship vaulted over another wave and simultaneously made a violent turn that sent Buggy flying backward like a rag doll.
Shanks tried to catch him, but Buggy was too focused on getting his detached hands—still holding the bird above the churning sea—back where they belonged. After all, it would be pretty stupid to end up without hands.
And even more ridiculous to lose them because of some animal.
Come back! Come back! he thought desperately, sweat trickling down his forehead.
They returned at last, reconnecting with the rest of his body, and Buggy instinctively clutched the wounded bird against his chest.
Shanks moved toward him, reaching out a hand, but the ship turned again—sharper than before—and Buggy lost his balance for the second time. He staggered, crashing backward into Shanks, and fell onto his back.
Something soft cushioned his fall, and he heard a short, indignant screech beneath him.
Silence fell.
It did not come gradually. Everything went quiet at once. The wind stopped howling, and the waves subsided. The sea became calm so suddenly that for a moment Buggy wondered whether he had hit his head earlier.
He blinked in confusion and looked up at the sky. Not a single cloud remained, as if the storm had never existed. The sun shone brightly overhead. Somewhere on deck, a crewman laughed in relief—short and nervous.
Buggy looked down at the crow in his arms. The bird had exhausted itself and was no longer struggling. It lay completely still. Blood seeped from the stump of its leg, trickling between Buggy's fingers.
“Stupid New World weather,” he muttered under his breath.
He felt something settle against his shoulder. A warm, comforting weight rested there. Red hair brushed against his cheek, and water dripping from it ran down his face. Turning his head slightly, he glanced at Shanks from the corner of his eye. The redhead was staring at the bird, his brows drawn together and his expression serious. As if he blamed himself.
And he probably did.
Shanks was a capable pirate, but he disliked hurting others.
“Do you think it'll survive?” Shanks asked quietly.
Buggy looked at the crow again. Its eyes were closed, but its chest rose and fell in shallow, steady breaths.
“We should take it to Crocus,” Shanks said. He made a motion as if to stand, but stopped himself at the last second.
Silence lingered between them for a moment.
“Comfortable?” Shanks asked, amusement creeping into his voice.
Something shifted beneath Buggy. And suddenly, understanding struck him. His face began to burn as he realized, with utter humiliation, exactly who he had landed on. With a loud yelp, he sprang to his feet so abruptly that he nearly tripped over his own legs. The bird in his arms let out a weak, protesting screech.
Shanks burst into laughter—loud, genuine laughter—as he slowly pushed himself up from the deck and stretched like a cat basking in the sun. His soaked shirt clung to his body, and water dripped from the brim of his straw hat as he raised his arms high above his head with a satisfied hum.
Buggy felt his cheeks grow even hotter. He looked away.
And the longing that had haunted him for weeks made itself known once more. As usual, at the worst possible moment. The feeling reminded him of the emotions he experienced whenever he heard someone talk about discovering a treasure. It was not ordinary jealousy, but something closer to a relentless hunger that refused to fade no matter how much one ate. Along with it came the urge to confess what he truly felt. The urge was so strong now that for a second Buggy genuinely thought he might finally say it. He opened his mouth.
The bird pecked his fingers.
“Ow!” he shouted, and only the knowledge that the exhausted creature was bleeding out in his hands stopped him from throwing it onto the deck. “You ungrateful little bird!” he yelled indignantly, glaring at the crow. The crow merely blinked slowly in response.
“I think it's trying to tell us to hurry up,” Shanks said with a laugh.
Buggy looked at the bird. Then at Shanks, who had already started walking away, his hat tilted askew, his shirt plastered to his back and stained with dark patches of water and salt. For a moment, Buggy thought about what he had almost confessed. Then he tucked it back into the same place where he kept all the other things he had never put into words.
He followed after Shanks. The bird was warm in his hands. And heavy.
Finding the doctor was easy. One simply had to follow his voice, which carried across the entire ship. A soaking-wet Crocus was yelling at the captain for once again forgetting to take his medicine and then using the storm as an excuse. The remedies did not actually help, something everyone—including Crocus himself—had known for a long time. There was no effective cure for Roger's illness. The concoctions the captain took from time to time, whenever the doctor forcefully reminded him, served only to prolong the time he had already borrowed from fate.
Buggy preferred not to dwell on that for too long.
The captain, however, did not seem particularly concerned by Crocus's tirade. He laughed off one argument after another with the indifference of a man who had long ago made peace with whatever news the world might bring him.
“Crocus-san!” Shanks shouted, breaking into a run toward the doctor.
Buggy trudged after him, carrying the crow in both hands and silently praying that the bird would not start pecking him again. Crocus cut off his rant and turned toward them. Every trace of anger vanished from his face. The doctor looked Shanks up and down, then shifted his gaze to Buggy. One eyebrow rose noticeably higher when he saw the blood dripping from Buggy's hands and the crow it belonged to.
“What happened?” he asked.
“It got tangled in the rigging,” Shanks began, pointing at the bird.
“And Shanks had to help it and cut off its leg,” Buggy interrupted.
“Because there was no way to untie the knots,” Shanks added.
Both of them looked at the doctor expectantly.
“Well, it sounds like this bird needs immediate attention,” the captain remarked from behind them, an innocent smile appearing on his face. “You should take care of that, Doctor,” he added, patting Crocus on the shoulder and already preparing to make his escape.
“I am not a veterinarian!” Crocus growled. He grabbed Roger's arm with all his strength, causing the captain to stumble over his own feet and stop in place wearing an expression of thoroughly undeserved victimhood. “And don't even think about running away from your medicine!”
“What about the bird?” Shanks asked as Crocus began dragging Roger toward the infirmary.
The captain protested loudly that he was needed on deck, that cleaning up after the storm required his presence, that the medicine did not work anyway. He argued all of these points at once, in whatever order his desperation suggested rather than any logical sequence.
Crocus ignored him with the look of a man who had been dealing with the same behavior for far too many years. Hearing Shanks's question, the doctor let out a heavy sigh and paused without releasing Roger.
“Move it. You're helping me,” he barked at them, while Roger stubbornly tugged at the arm trapped in his grip and muttered complaints under his breath.
“And you! Stop squirming! You're taking your medicine, and that's the end of the discussion!” Crocus added, directing the remark at the captain.
Roger grimaced dramatically.
“I don't like it. It's bitter.”
“You're far too old to be acting like a child!”
For a moment, Shanks glanced back at Buggy. There was something so warm in that look that the familiar longing tightened around Buggy's stomach once again. Shanks's eyes crinkled with a smile, and Buggy's heart beat faster. The moment passed, however, when Shanks turned his back to him and hurried after Crocus.
Buggy looked down at the crow. The bird blinked lazily up at him.
The infirmary was a small but well-equipped room in the lower part of the ship. Shelves were packed with jars containing various substances, some of which Buggy preferred not to identify. Surgical instruments gleamed in the light of an oil lamp, and the air carried the sharp, clean scent of alcohol and herbs.
Buggy paused in the doorway, watching with amusement as Crocus, without a moment's hesitation, shoved the captain onto an examination cot and pressed a small vial of translucent greenish liquid into his hand. Roger held it up to his face and turned it thoughtfully between his fingers, watching the liquid swirl inside.
“Make sure he drinks it,” Crocus grunted at Shanks.
With a grin, Shanks saluted with two fingers and took up a position beside the captain, wearing an exaggeratedly serious expression.
“You know I don't need a babysitter?” Roger scoffed sarcastically, narrowing his eyes at Shanks.
“Really? I've gotten a different impression,” Crocus replied without even looking at him. He crossed the room to a metal table cluttered with parchment, books, and writing supplies, then swept everything onto the floor in a single motion. “Buggy, put it here,” the doctor ordered, already moving around the room in search of the tools he needed.
Buggy obeyed. The crow, however, showed no enthusiasm whatsoever for being examined. The moment Buggy removed his hands, it began beating its wings with the same desperate energy it had displayed while trapped in the ropes, spraying droplets of water and dark blood still caught in its feathers. The droplets landed on the table, the walls, and Crocus's sleeve. The doctor let out a heavy sigh.
“Hold her.” That was all he said before getting to work.
Buggy buried his fingers in the bird's feathers, trying to ignore the horrible cries it let out when Crocus cleaned the wound with a cloth soaked in alcohol. The sound was unpleasant in a way that was impossible to ignore. He held the bird firmly and watched the doctor's work with a grimace that deepened every time the ungrateful creature pecked his fingers with all the strength it still possessed. Crocus worked without haste. Even so, stitching up what remained of the leg took less time than Buggy had expected.
“I drank it,” the captain announced after several minutes, sounding distinctly pleased with himself.
“Every last drop,” Shanks added in exactly the same tone.
“Why are you telling me this?” Crocus muttered without looking up from the crow as he wrapped a light bandage around its leg. He worked carefully and with a concentration the bird clearly did not appreciate, given how stubbornly it continued struggling in Buggy's grasp. Crocus tied off the bandage and paused for a moment to stroke one of the bird's black wings. Then he turned toward the captain and sighed heavily. “I'm not your mother, Roger. You should be the one who cares about your health, not everyone else.”
“You know it won't make any difference anyway,” Roger said with a light laugh. “My journey is almost over.”
The air in the infirmary seemed heavier after those words. Standing beside the captain, Shanks hunched his shoulders and stared determinedly at the floor. His expression was rigid, his jaw clenched. Buggy felt something heavy settle in his stomach. A dull, constant weight that had haunted him on and off for weeks returned once more. Not wanting to think about it, he scooped the crow off the table and pressed it against his chest, burying his fingers in its feathers. The bird allowed it, which Buggy took as an unspoken truce.
“Of course that's what you'd think, isn't it?” Crocus growled. There was no exhaustion left in his voice now—only something sharp and bitter. He wiped his stained hands on a rag. “You selfish bastard.”
Roger opened his mouth, then closed it again. Buggy wasn't looking at him.
“Get out of here,” Crocus added. His voice had fallen back into its usual tone, flat and resigned. “I'm sure you all have work to do on deck. Let an old doctor get some rest.”
“Come on, boys. Let's get back on deck before Ray starts thinking we're avoiding our duties.”
Roger rested a hand on Shanks's shoulder and steered him toward the door. Buggy followed them, but stopped halfway. He turned back toward Crocus, not entirely sure why. The doctor stood with his back to him, both hands braced against the table. He didn't move. Buggy stared at him for a second and found that he didn't know what to say.
He wasn't even sure he should say anything.
In the end, he quietly turned away and left, closing the door behind him more carefully than usual. He caught up with the captain and Shanks in the corridor. Shanks walked on Roger's left. Buggy took his place on the right. Roger seemed lost in thought. Glancing at him from the corner of his eye, Buggy realized he was doing something he had been avoiding for quite some time. He was looking at the captain. Really looking.
At first glance Roger didn't appear unwell, but his skin carried a grayness that had not been there before, and dark circles lay deep beneath his eyes.
Shanks leaned forward to look at him. A broad smile spread across his face, and his eyes practically sparkled, causing the tension inside Buggy to ease for a brief second.
“Captain,” Shanks began enthusiastically, “do you think we could—”
He stopped.
The smile vanished so abruptly that Buggy narrowed his eyes, trying to understand what had happened. He looked at Shanks. Then at the crow resting in his own arms, its head tilted slightly to one side. Then back at Shanks.
And he understood.
He felt a faint phantom weight on his head, even though he knew nobody had touched him. The Crab, he remembered. Back then, Shanks had asked the same way, with that exact same gleam in his eyes:
Can we keep it?
Only now there was no point in asking. They both already knew the answer. Tomorrow the captain would be gone. There would be no Oro Jackson. No crew. Buggy tightened his grip on the bird's feathers.
“Ah, never mind. I just remembered I promised Gaban I'd help him organize the maps,” Shanks said with a laugh that failed to reach his eyes.
Roger watched him silently for a moment.
“Uh, you know Ray's going to give me a lecture if I let you sneak out of your duties,” the captain replied, dragging out the words in mock complaint while rubbing his cheek. “But fine. Go. Did you promise someone something too, Buggy?”
Buggy looked at the captain. He didn't answer immediately. He looked at the grayness of his skin, the dark circles beneath his eyes, and the calm, warm expression on his face.
“No. Unlike some people, I don't avoid my responsibilities,” he finally snorted.
Shanks leaned around the captain's shoulder and shamelessly stuck out his tongue at him.
“Say that one more time, Bugg, and someone might actually believe it,” the redhead shot back.
The captain chuckled softly. Buggy snorted loudly and handed the crow over to Shanks.
Shanks took the bird.
Then, without warning, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Buggy's cheek.
“Uh...” Buggy muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve.
The warmth on his cheek remained, even after Shanks had darted away.
“Come on, brat,” Roger said, amused, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Buggy watched as the crow hopped awkwardly across the deck. Crocus had said they could release it now, but the bird clearly preferred to stay—or perhaps it simply did not realize it had a choice. It looked like a strange mixture of stubbornness and confusion. Buggy had the uncomfortable feeling that he understood that all too well.
“The boys adopted another pet?” Taro asked as he emerged from below deck and leaned against the mast beside Doringo.
“Yep,” Doringo grunted, more focused on cleaning his sword than anything else.
Buggy winced as the crow landed beak-first on the deck with a dreadful screech and remained motionless for a moment, its head stuck between the planks. Shanks immediately rushed over to help it keep its balance on one leg.
“Leave it alone. It has to learn on its own,” Buggy muttered, grimacing as Shanks fussed over the bird.
“Don't be like that, Buggy,” Shanks said softly, crouching beside the crow with an expression of concern that irritated Buggy immensely. “It just needs a little support. Right? You're so brave. Don't listen to him.”
As if to prove just how misplaced those words were, the crow suddenly pecked Shanks's hand. The redhead jumped back with a quiet curse, and Buggy snorted with laughter before he could stop himself.
“I don't think it's forgiven you for the leg,” he cackled.
Shanks shot him an offended look that was only slightly less amused than his own.
Nearby, Buggy heard a resigned sigh. He glanced over and saw only the retreating back of Rayleigh. Ever since the events on Baterilla, the vice-captain's patience for their endless squabbling had dwindled to the point of practically no longer existing.
“Well, at least this time Donquino won't cook their pet,” Taro said with a laugh.
“I wouldn't be so sure,” Gaban snorted as he passed by without stopping. “Donquino throws everything into the pot.”
“Oi! I heard that!” the cook shouted indignantly from the galley doorway.
Buggy sat down on the deck and leaned back against the railing. Shanks joined him a short while later, finally giving the crow some space and settling it safely on the railing along the opposite side of the ship.
The Oro Jackson rocked lazily on gentle waves, drifting through the calm blue sea. If Buggy was being honest, the view was beautiful. Far too beautiful for something that was supposed to herald their final day together. A soft breeze pushed clouds across the sky and filled the sails only slightly. Buggy stared at the crow wearily. The familiar unease had settled over his mind again and refused to let go. It was a strange premonition. The feeling resembled the moment before a disaster strikes, when everything is still perfectly calm and that very calmness becomes the greatest source of dread. As if a storm were about to arrive—not a literal one.
As if something irreversible was about to happen.
Maybe it wasn't merely intuition. The captain was leaving the ship today. They might have minutes, perhaps an hour, before the island appeared on the horizon and Roger departed forever. The entire world Buggy had known was about to shatter into pieces. Yet something told him that wasn't all. Something else was approaching. Something he could not yet name.
He cast a furtive glance at Shanks, who sat beside him, watching the crow intently. Red hair fluttered in the breeze, and the straw hat hung from a cord against his back. His face was calm. For a moment, Buggy wondered whether Shanks felt it too—that thick silence before something that had not yet arrived.
The crow sat motionless on the railing. Buggy looked at it again and realized the bird was staring directly at him with those empty, gleaming eyes. He had the absurd impression that it knew something he did not. And that whatever it knew could bring nothing good.
As if to confirm his dark thoughts, the creature suddenly launched itself into the air with a loud screech that made Buggy flinch despite himself. The crow soared high overhead, its black feathers flashing in the sunlight. It circled the ship in a wide, lazy arc. Its cry drew the attention not only of Buggy and Shanks but also of Gaban at the helm and Oden, who stood leaning against the rail, watching the bird disappear toward the horizon.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
“It flew away,” Shanks said. His voice was barely louder than a whisper.
Buggy glanced at him. A small, sad smile had appeared on Shanks's face.
“In Wano, they say crows are symbols of war,” Oden said unexpectedly. His voice was unusually quiet, and Buggy had the impression the samurai was speaking more to himself than to anyone else. “They're also believed to be the spirits of the murdered and are considered messengers between life and death. Above all, they're regarded as omens of misfortune.”
“A terrible meaning for such beautiful birds, Oden-san,” Shanks murmured.
“It's only an old superstition,” Oden replied calmly.
Buggy looked away from the samurai and up toward the sky. The crow was already nothing more than a dark speck. It grew smaller with every passing second, becoming a dot. And then it became nothing at all.
Suddenly, a stronger gust of wind struck the sails. They trembled for a second before filling with a deep boom under the pressure of the air. The rigging creaked. The mast groaned beneath the new strain. The ship surged forward more sharply than it had in hours.
Buggy watched the clouds drift across the sky and listened to Shanks's steady breathing beside him. Calm. Measured. Completely unlike the chaotic pounding of his own heart. The familiar longing returned with twice the force, strengthened by the closeness and the sudden quiet. Buggy clenched his hands into fists and glanced at his companion's profile.
For him, it was never enough. After Baterilla—or rather, after the kiss he and Shanks had shared upon leaving that island—kissing had become something ordinary between them. At first, they did it under the pretense of practice. Eventually, they stopped pretending. But they never talked about what this thing between them actually was. And with every passing day, the hunger inside Buggy grew stronger. Exactly like when he saw a treasure he could never truly possess.
I love you, he thought desperately, looking at Shanks. But when he tried to open his mouth and say the words aloud, his throat seemed to close completely. The words remained trapped inside him. Again.
“Hey, Buggy?” Shanks's voice broke the silence unexpectedly. It sounded unusually calm. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon while the wind blew strands of red hair toward Buggy's face. “I promise I won't sail anywhere without you.”
Buggy blinked.
For a second, he had no idea what to do with that declaration. In the end, he laughed softly, disguising the tremor in his voice.
“Of course you won't. Without me, you'd get lost at sea.”
A crooked smile crept onto his lips.
Once, he would have been furious about being the second one—the lesser one, the one without some grand destiny written in the stars. Furious that it was not he who was meant to fill Roger's shoes. Once, that thought had been almost impossible to bear. But now he had accepted it and found something in that acceptance that resembled peace. If it was not meant to be him, then it could only be Shanks. And as long as they were together, Buggy knew everything would be all right. Even if, at that very moment, he felt his entire world crumbling apart between his fingers.
Then, a moment later, someone shouted from the crow's nest:
“Land! Land on the horizon!”