Chapter Text
The sound of birds chirping outside forced Shanks to wake with a groan of pure disgust. He wanted nothing more than to leap from the bed and chase the cheerful little creature down until it learned the meaning of silence. But the chirping suddenly stopped, replaced by the soft, wet sound of bones being chewed. Shanks smiled in quiet satisfaction.
“Thank you, Cleo.” he murmured to his mother’s plants.
The moment of peace was short-lived. His sour mood returned the second he realized he was awake… again. Slowly, dramatically, and already disappointed with life, Shanks pushed the black velvet blanket off himself and rolled onto his back. He stared at the canopy above his bed for a long moment, then exhaled a soft, weary sigh that would have made lesser men look for a therapist.
“Another day…Another endless stretch of mediocrity…” Shanks murmured to the empty room. He sat up, red hair falling across his face like a curtain of blood. The silver bells sewn into the edges of his nightshirt gave a soft, mournful jingle.
“Everything is so… dull..” He continued, voice low and theatrical. “The sun rises the same way. The neighbors smile the same empty smiles. People talk about weather and taxes and ‘how was your weekend’ as if any of it matters.” He pressed a hand over his heart. “I am surrounded by the ordinary. It is suffocating. I feel like I am becoming a sharp-tongued brat who is impossible to please. When the world refuses to offer beauty or danger or passion, one is forced to take what little interest one can find.”
A soft click came from under the bed.
Shanks didn’t even look down.
“Ace.”
Silence.
Then a small, frustrated huff.
A crossbow bolt shot upward through the mattress, missing Shanks’s left thigh by less than an inch and embedding itself in the canopy with a solid thunk. Shanks finally glanced under the bed. Two dark eyes glared at him from the shadows beneath.
“You’re getting slower.” Shanks observed mildly. “Yesterday you almost grazed my ear. Today you didn’t even make me flinch. I’m disappointed in you, little brother.”
Ace crawled out from under the bed, dusting off his black shorts, expression murderous.
“One day I’ll succeed.” the younger boy muttered.
“I look forward to it.” Shanks replied, standing and stretching. “It would at least make the morning interesting.”
Ace scowled, already loading another bolt into the miniature crossbow he kept under his pillow, but it malfunctioned much to the younger boy’s displeasure. Shanks simply ruffled his brother’s hair on the way to the door, earning a vicious snap of teeth that missed his wrist by centimeters.
“Breakfast?” Shanks asked over his shoulder.
“I'd rather see you choke on it.” Ace answered, his eyes narrowed and voice low and sharp. “… I want to slip something into your cup before you drink it, I promise it will be slow and painful.”
“Naturally.”
That was enough to make Ace chase after his older brother, the broken crossbow still in hand; the younger boy used it to break the older boy’s knees, but it was futile as he dodged with little effort.
---
The Gol.D house was already alive with cheerful activity by the time Shanks reached the grand staircase.
Roger stood in the middle of the foyer, sleeves rolled up, humming a funeral march while he polished a row of antique torture devices that hung on the wall like family portraits. He was using a soft cloth and what looked suspiciously like human marrow oil. The thumbscrews gleamed.
Rouge was on her knees in the parlor, carefully arranging a fresh collection of bones into an elegant centerpiece on the low table. A few still had bits of dried flesh clinging to them. She looked up when she heard her eldest son’s footsteps and smiled brightly.
“Good morning, my darling!” She called. “We’re deep cleaning today! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Ah, Shanks! Perfect timing.” Roger was beaming. “Help your mother with the femur arrangement, would you? She’s going for a ‘joyful despair’ aesthetic this week.”
Shanks descended the last few steps, taking in the scene with a faint, fond smile. He maybe hated the world, but he loved his family, so he didn’t hesitate to roll up his sleeve and join them.
The chandelier above them was being lowered on its chain by an unseen mechanism. Several of the crystal droplets had been replaced with tiny glass vials of what was almost certainly poison, his mother always insisted that liquid poisons have the prettiest colors. The carpets had been beaten outside and now lay rolled up, revealing floorboards stained in interesting patterns. In the corner, a large iron maiden stood open, its interior freshly oiled and the spikes polished to a mirror shine.
Ace appeared at the top of the stairs behind Shanks, still holding his crossbow, which was now fixed. He aimed it at his brother’s back, hesitated, then lowered it with a sigh of deep personal failure.
Rouge held up two nearly identical rib bones.
“Which one do you prefer for the left side, dear? This one has a lovely crack from when your father broke it during that duel in ‘98’ or this cleaner one from the tax collector last spring.”
Shanks considered them both with genuine interest.
“The cracked one.” He decided. “It has more character. More history.”
“Excellent taste, as always.” Rouge’s eyes sparkled. Roger wiped a bit of marrow oil from his cheek and gestured grandly around the foyer.
“We’re thinking of rearranging the Iron Maiden closer to the front door. First impressions matter, after all. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like the soft creak of impending doom.”
“Great idea, dad.” Shanks’s smile widened, just a little.
For the first time that morning, the dull weight in his chest eased.
This, at least, was not ordinary.
He accepted the cracked rib from his mother and knelt beside her, carefully placing it into the growing bone centerpiece while Ace skulked past them, already planning his next assassination attempt over breakfast. Outside, the suburban street remained quiet and painfully normal. Inside the Gol.D house, the family cleaned with love, laughter, and the soft, cheerful sound of polishing steel.
Shanks had just settled the cracked rib into the centerpiece when a soft twang sang through the air. He tilted his head a fraction to the left without looking up. The crossbow bolt hissed past his ear and buried itself in the polished iron maiden with a musical ping. Ace stood on the third stair, already reloading, face scrunched in pure frustration.
“You’re cheating!” the younger boy accused.
“I’m existing.” Shanks replied serenely, still arranging bones. “You’re just sloppy.”
That angered his younger brother, as intended, causing the boy to hurriedly reload another arrow, but he was stopped by Rouge’s gentle voice floating over from the parlor like black lace.
“Boys… not in the foyer, please. We have company arriving soon and I’d rather the first thing they see isn’t arterial spray on the good wallpaper. We only just got the bloodstains out from last month’s dinner party.”
Ace lowered the crossbow with a dramatic sigh of suffering. Shanks finally glanced at his mother.
“Company?” he questioned, his stomach twisted. Rouge hummed, carefully placing a yellowed skull between two femurs so it looked like it was smiling.
“Yes. Your father’s old school friend is coming by. The one who just moved into the neighborhood.”
Shanks’s hands stilled on the bones. A beat of silence. Then his expression shifted, subtle, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.
“…The ordinary one,” he said slowly.
“You met him before with your father, but this time he will be here with his son and wife, isn’t it exciting!” Rouge sang as she gestured around her. “We’re making everything perfect for them.”
“That man smells of paperwork and mild disappointment.” Shanks shot back while crossing his arms in anger. Roger chuckled from where he was polishing a particularly vicious set of thumbscrews.
“Now, now. Rayleigh is an old friend. A bit conventional, yes, but loyal. And his boy is around your age. It’ll be good for you to have someone new to… play with.”
Shanks stood. The silver bells at his waist gave a restless little shiver.
“You cleaned the iron maiden for him.” He said, voice soft with offense. “You rearranged the bone centerpiece. You oiled the spikes. For a man who probably thinks a ‘dark and stormy night’ is just bad weather.”
Rouge looked up, mildly concerned.
“Darling-”
“I’m leaving.”
“Shanks.” Roger’s eyebrows rose.
“I’ll return when the mediocrity has vacated the premises.” Shanks declared, already sweeping toward the door in quiet outrage. “I refuse to watch our home pretend to be welcoming for someone who wouldn’t know true beauty if it bit him in the throat.”
“My son.” Roger’s voice followed him, warm and gently scolding. “Hospitality is an art. Even the ordinary deserve to feel the embrace of our family… if only so they understand how small their world truly is.”
Shanks paused with one hand on the heavy front door. He looked back over his shoulder, red hair catching the low light like fresh blood.
“Then let them feel it without me.” He answered, chin high. “I have standards, Father. And today those standards include not smiling at a man who has never once considered the poetry of a well-placed guillotine.”
Roger’s laugh was low and delighted.
“Do as you please, my boy.” Rouge simply smiled, feeding a small, still-wriggling something to the piranha in her bowl.
“Don’t stay out too late, my love. And try not to traumatize the neighbors more than necessary.”
Ace, from the stairs, raised the crossbow one last time in silent farewell. The bolt missed Shanks’s heel by a polite inch as the door swung open.
“Sloppy!” Shanks called out before closing the door behind him, and hearing Ace’s scream of frustration behind it.
Shanks stepped out into the painfully normal suburban morning, silver bells whispering with every step. Behind him, the Gol.D house continued its cheerful, macabre preparations, polishing steel, arranging bones, and waiting for the ordinary world to walk through its gates.
He did not look back.
---
The bar didn’t have a name.
Or if it did, no one remembered it. It sat between a pawn shop that sold teeth and a laundromat that never seemed to wash anything clean. The windows were permanently fogged with something that wasn’t steam. The floor stuck to your shoes in places that suggested stories no one asked for.
Shanks walked in like he owned the place, no one looked twice.
Benn Beckman was already midway through his shift, sleeves rolled up, cigarette tucked behind one ear, methodically clearing a table that still had a knife embedded in it. He pulled the blade free without comment, wiped it on a rag, and set it aside with the rest of the “lost and found.” Shanks dropped into the nearest cracked vinyl booth as silver bells at his waist settled with a soft jingle.
“They’re cleaning for the ordinary.” He announced, as if continuing a conversation that had never stopped.
“The ordinary one?” Benn didn’t look up. He stacked plates that were only slightly chipped with dried blood.
“Rayleigh Silvers, Father’s old ‘school friend’.” Shanks said the name like it tasted foul and mocked the title. “The man who just moved in down the street. They oiled the iron maiden for him, Benn. They rearranged the bone centerpiece. My mother asked me which femur had more character.”
A wet, heavy thud came from the back of the bar as someone was thrown into the kitchen doors. Screaming followed. Then the distinct sound of a bottle breaking over a skull. Neither of them reacted. Benn gathered the remaining glasses, one of which still had a tooth floating in it, and headed toward the kitchen. Shanks rose and followed, continuing to talk as if they were strolling through a quiet garden.
“I left, of course. I refuse to smile and play host to someone who probably thinks a crypt is just an expensive basement.” Shanks leaned against the steel counter while Benn scraped plates into a bin that already contained things best left unidentified. “The entire morning was ruined. Ace tried to shoot me twice and didn’t even come close. The plants ate the noisy bird, and it barely improved my mood. And now my family is preparing our home like it’s a celebration for the most boring man alive.”
Something large and angry roared from the main room. A chair flew past the kitchen doorway and shattered against the far wall. A man stumbled in bleeding from the forehead, looked at the two of them, then wisely turned around and left. Benn started washing a stack of plates that may or may not have been used for finger food of the literal variety. His voice stayed even.
“You’re more worked up than usual.”
“It’s the principle of it!” Shanks replied, watching a cockroach the size of a thumb crawl across the counter. He made no move to kill it. “We are “The Gol.D” family. We do not dilute ourselves for the sake of polite company. And yet there they are, polishing the spikes and humming funeral marches like it’s a wedding.”
“Hmmm, Your parents don’t get excited over ordinary people.” Benn rinsed a glass, inspected it under the flickering light, and set it aside.
“What?” Shanks shot him a look.
“Think about it.” Benn lit the cigarette from behind his ear, exhaling smoke toward the stained ceiling. “You said they were deep cleaning. oiling the iron maiden. Your mother was arranging bones like it was an art piece. Roger doesn’t put that much effort into someone he finds dull.”
He glanced at Shanks, who still had a confused look.
“Remember when you talked about them the first time?” he reminded. “Your parents sounded over the moon. Excited it was this Rayleigh guy who moved into that vacant home. Not just any old friend. Him.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Shanks’s jaw tightened.
“Doesn’t it?” Benn kept cleaning, unhurried. “Your family doesn’t hand out respect easily. If Roger and Rouge are treating this man like he’s worth the colorful poison vials in the chandelier, then he’s not as ordinary as you decided he is the second you heard his name.”
“He’s conventional.” Shanks insisted. “I can feel it. He probably apologizes when he walks into furniture.”
“And yet your father still calls him an old friend with that tone he only uses for people who’ve survived something worth remembering.”
Shanks went quiet for a moment, fingers tapping against the steel counter. The silver bells on hanging around his wasiste gave a restless little shiver.
“…He’s still ordinary,” he muttered, though the conviction had thinned. “He has to be. The alternative would mean I misjudged someone, and I don’t do that.”
Benn took another drag, watching a fresh fight break out near the pool table through the kitchen doorway. Glass shattered. Someone screamed. A wet dragging sound passed by. Neither of them looked.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Benn said mildly. “But if your parents are this worked up, you’re probably going to have to face the fact that Rayleigh Silvers isn’t the ordinary person you want him to be.”
Shanks pushed off the counter, the bells at his waist giving a sharp, irritated jingle.
“I’ll believe it when he does something interesting.” He said, chin high. “Until then, he’s just another disappointment in a world full of them.”
“Sure, Shanks. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Benn huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, already turning back to the sink.
Shanks didn’t answer. He simply walked back out into the main room, red hair bright under the sickly lights, still clinging to his denial like it was the last dignified thing he had left. Behind him, the dangerous little bar continued its usual business, loud, bloody, and completely unconcerned.
---
Shanks walked the quiet suburban streets with his hands in his pockets and a sour look on his face as he muttered to himself things like..
“As he seems…yeah right.. Doesn’t it.. mister know it all..” He mimicked Benn’s voice.
As he entered the street of his home, the silver bells at his waist gave a soft, rhythmic jingle with every step, and any sound that was around him seemed to silence in his presence, mostly because the neighbors who were occupying it froze in horror as the sound reached them. Women who were gossiping on the window had slammed it shut before shutting the curtains and prayed that they hadn’t been noticed. A father who was winded and struggling to chase after his children suddenly had a boost of energy as he hoisted all 3 kids on his shoulder and ran inside his home, as if he was a soldier escaping flying bullets behind him. A frail elderly woman who was rocking back and forth on her porch had rocked herself so hard that she flew backward into a closed window, which shattered, allowing her to slip in as the jingle of the silver bells grew louder. Shanks would have relished in the fear and panic of the neighbours if he wasn’t already in such a sour mood. The afternoon had done little to improve his mood. Benn’s words still sat under his skin like a splinter he couldn’t quite dig out.
The old rusty gates squeaked open as he came closer, no hint of remote mechanism anywhere that would suggest it had a sensor of some kind. As he walked the path, he skillfully dodged the stones that hid the bombs that Ace planted on for him. The thought of bothering his younger brother did give him something to look forward to. Maybe he’ll even throw Ace on one of the stones to teach him a lesson in durability.
However, his mood soured again when he heard it. His hand inches from clamping around the handle
… Laughter.
Warm, familiar, and far too comfortable. It drifted through the heavy double doors of the Gol.D mansion, followed by his father’s booming voice and his mother’s delighted hum in response to something a feminine voice told her.
They were still here.
Shanks’s expression darkened. Before he could think, not really caring, he shoved the double doors wide. Roger and Rouge both turned at once, faces lighting up as he’d just returned from a successful duel.
“Shanks!” Roger beamed, arms spreading wide. “Perfect timing, my boy! Come in, come in! We were hoping you’d return before our guests left.”
Rouge clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling.
“You’ve arrived just in time to properly meet the Silvers family. We were beginning to worry you’d miss them entirely.”
Shanks’s gaze locked onto the tall man standing near the bone centerpiece. Rayleigh Silvers. The ordinary one. He then saw the woman sitting beside his mother with a gentle smile, probably his wife. Shanks didn’t care, as he already labeled her as “Ordinary” as well by relation. He spared no glance for the rest of the room. He didn’t notice the figure seated in the high-backed armchair near the fireplace, facing away from the entrance. He only saw the man his parents had cleaned and polished and rearranged the entire house for.
“You.” Shanks said, voice cutting cleanly through the warmth of the foyer. “You’re still here.”
Roger’s smile faltered just a fraction. Rouge’s hands stilled. Rayleigh turned fully, already raising a placating hand. His tone was calm, careful, the voice of a man who had clearly dealt with difficult people before and had no desire to make this worse.
“And you’re also here, Shanks.” Rayleigh joked with a gentle smile. “Your parents never stopped speaking so highly of you. I was just telling them it’s been a long time since-”
“I know who you are.” Shanks interrupted.
“Of course you do, we met before,” Rayleigh replied calmly. But Shanks wasn’t as calm as he stepped further into the room. The bells at his waist jingled once, sharp and cold.
“Who even are you?” Shanks challenged.
“Boy-” Roger’s cleared his throat but was ignored by the teen.
“My family spent the morning preparing for your arrival like it was a celebration. Tell me, do you always inspire this much effort, or is today a special occasion?” Shanks huffed. “Is it like your birthday or something? Other than that, I don’t see why you deserve such excitement, only because my parents love that kind of thing.”
Rayleigh gave a small, easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, clearly trying to steer the conversation back into safer waters for Roger and Rouge’s sake.
“No harm done.” He told Roger before turning to Shanks. “it’s still a habit of theirs to go all out for others, isn’t it? Even though I told your parents not to go to any trouble. It’s just a simple visit between old friends. No need for any of this to become-”
“Don’t.” Shanks cut in, chin lifting. “Don’t smooth it over. Don’t pretend this is normal. My parents don’t treat ordinary men like visiting royalty. So, either you’re far more interesting than you look… or they’ve completely lost their standards.”
The air in the foyer tightened.
Rouge’s expression flickered between concern and reluctant pride. Roger watched his son with a mixture of warnings and barely concealed amusement. Rayleigh kept his voice level, still attempting to defuse. Shanks noticed how his right hand kept gesturing up and down gently, as if signaling someone or maybe himself to be calm.
“I understand this might feel sudden. Your family has been very kind. I’m sure we can all just-”
“I didn’t ask if you understood.” Shanks said, taking another step closer. The bells chimed again. “I asked what makes you worth all this?”
Behind him, still unnoticed in the armchair, a certain blue-haired boy had gone very, very still, but his eyes were so sharp it could cut glass. Ready to lay the final hit on the guest of his parents, Shanks took another step forward, bells at his waist giving a sharp, challenging jingle. His mouth opened, ready to deliver the next cutting remark…
But he never got the chance.
A blue blur exploded from the high-backed armchair. He moved faster than anyone in the room expected. One second, he was seated with his back to the door; the next he was in front of Shanks, face twisted with pure fury.
“You arrogant red-haired bastard!”
The punch came first.
It cracked across Shanks’s cheekbone hard enough to snap his head to the side. Before he could even process the impact, he was pulled back by his shirt collar only for Buggy’s knee to drive straight up into his stomach. The air left Shanks’s lungs in a sharp, involuntary rush. His knees buckled, the only thing Shanks registered before losing consciousness for a second was the sight of mismatched sneakers that stood out against the black marble.
For the first time in his life, someone had actually caught him off guard.
Shanks hit the floor hard, one hand clutching his midsection, eyes wide with genuine shock. The silver bells at his waist gave a scattered, uneven jingle as he landed. No one, not Ace, not any of the neighborhood fools, not even the rare idiot who tried to start something, had ever managed to put him down before he saw it coming
.
His aggressor stood over him, chest heaving from the sudden movement. His voice rose, sharp and venomous, filling the foyer without a single pause.
“Who the hell do you think you are, talking to my father like that?!” the voice shouted again. “You think you’re better than everyone? You think that stupid red hair and those creepy little bells make you special?!”
Shanks, still on the floor, felt a finger jab his forehead. He opened one eye to catch sight of the one who bested him, but he was still a little disoriented, and the light shining behind him from the colorful chandelier cast a shadow over the face.
“You’re nothing but a spoiled, dramatic freak who gets off on looking down on people! Your whole family might be weird, but at least they have manners! But you?” Another jab made Shanks squint as he felt a sharp nail almost cut his skin. “You’re just a self-important jackass who can’t stand that someone else is getting attention for five seconds!”
Roger and Rouge had frozen. Rayleigh’s placating hand was still half-raised, expression caught between concern and the beginnings of a headache. The woman beside Rouge watched with amusement as she took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving the scene.
He wasn’t finished.
“And don’t even think about getting up and trying that superior act again. You want to know why your parents went all out? Because my dad is worth respecting, something you clearly wouldn’t understand, seeing how you caused your parents shame by disrespecting their guests! Stay down there where you belong, you absolute lunatic!”
Shanks remained on the floor.
One hand still pressed to his stomach. The other braced against the marble. His cheek was already beginning to redden from the punch. The usual sharp, mocking smile was nowhere to be found. He simply stared up at the blue-haired boy who had just knocked the air and every prepared insult clean out of him.
For once, Gol.D Shanks had nothing to say.
“Buggy-!” Rayleigh stepped forward, one hand reaching out. “That’s enough. Stop.”
Buggy didn’t even look at him.
“No. No, it’s not enough.” His voice climbed higher, sharper, completely unresponsive to his father’s attempt to pull him back. “He walked in here and tore you down like you were nothing. So, I’m going to tear him down ten times worse.”
He pointed at Shanks, still on the floor, and sucked in a breath. His father stopped back and his mother scotched forward in his seat.
“And another thing-!”
The insults kept coming. Rapid. Vicious. Every word designed to strip Shanks of the superiority he wore like a second skin. Rayleigh tried again to intervene, but Buggy only talked over him, blue hair shifting with every sharp movement of his head.
To Shanks, the words began to blur.
The edges of Buggy’s voice softened, then muffled, as if someone had pressed cotton over his ears. All he could hear clearly was the sudden, violent thumping against his chest, and blood rushing against his ears. It pounded so loudly it drowned everything else out.
His face flushed deep red, anyone watching would have called it embarrassment…It wasn’t.
Shanks’s eyes stayed locked on the boy standing over him. Buggy moved back, allowing the light to illuminate his face, and for the first time in his life, the rest of the room simply… vanished.
Buggy was… bright.
He wore a modern, circus-inspired outfit that somehow still looked like it belonged on a street at midnight. A loose, oversized sweater striped in loud carnival colors, hot pink, electric blue, sunshine yellow, and purple sleeves slightly too long, a silver chain swinging from one shoulder with every furious gesture. Ripped blue jeans hung low on his hips, white lettering scrawled across the denim like graffiti, a black strap dangling at his side. Scuffed sneakers one light blue, the other hot pink, planted firmly on the marble as if he owned the floor Shanks was currently occupying.
His hair was a vivid, living blue, the exact shade of a clear summer sky just before a storm. It was pulled up into a high, messy ponytail that left the undercut visible, long strands framing his face and spilling down his back in wild, rebellious waves. A few shorter pieces clung to his forehead, damp with the heat of his anger.
He wore.. makeup..?
Stars. Sharp, bright blue and pink stars painted at the corners of his eyes, their points dripping down his cheeks like colorful, furious tears. White and glitter across the lids. Tiny freckles of pink and blue scattered over his nose and under his eyes like confetti from a celebration no one else had been invited to. His actual eyes were a striking bluish-green, bright and blazing and so alive they made the rest of the world look like it had been drained of color.
Shanks stared.
Awe struck first, sudden, breathless, almost violent in its intensity. It knocked the remaining air from his lungs and left him hollowed out, as if the boy standing over him had reached into his chest and simply taken something vital.
Admiration followed hard on its heels, sharp and uninvited. It cut through the shock with startling clarity, the wild hair, the furious glitter of those eyes, the way every sharp gesture made the colorful stripes of his sweater flash like a warning and a celebration at once. Shanks had spent years looking down on the world. He had never once looked up and found something that made him want to keep looking.
Confusion crashed in next, swirling fast and disorienting. His mind scrambled for footing, this was the boy who had just punched him, who was still shouting, who should have been nothing more than another loud, ordinary irritation. And yet every beat of Shanks’s heart seemed to reject that conclusion with increasing desperation.
And then…
Oh.
The realization did not arrive gently.
It slammed into him with the force of both the punch and the knee combined, stealing whatever breath he had left and replacing it with something far more dangerous. His face burned. His fingers twitched against the cold marble. The silver bells at his waist gave a single, uneven jingle as his body refused to move.
He saw it in his parents eyes when they looked at one another. In the yearning stares when they were across the room. The sadness when they were out of sight, and the brightness that followed when they returned. Shanks could only imagine experiencing such emotions for himself…but could it be…
..He was in love.
Completely. Stupidly. Irrevocably.
In love…
He looked back up at the blue-haired boy who had knocked him to the floor without hesitation and was still shouting at him like he wanted to set him on fire, and somehow, impossibly, that only made it worse.
Shanks remained where he had fallen, cheek throbbing, stomach aching, heart trying to claw its way out of his chest. For the first time in his entire life, Gol.D Shanks had absolutely no desire to stand back up.
“Buggy.” Rayleigh’s voice cut through the foyer like a blade this time, no longer placating, but firm.
Hearing his father’s firm voice made the bluenette freeze instinctively. Buggy tested the old man’s boundaries long enough to know when to really stop with whatever shit he was pulling. Rayleigh stepped forward, caught his son by the shoulder, and pulled him back a full step away from the red-haired boy still crumpled on the marble.
“That’s enough. You are a guest in this house. You do not punch people and scream insults across someone else’s foyer. That was rude.”
Hearing the lecture being directed at him, Buggy spun dramatically to face his father, blue ponytail whipping, eyes still blazing from the unfairness.
“Rude?!” His voice became high-pitched for a second, making everyone around him flinch. “HE walked in here and insulted you first! We’re the guests, and WE still got talked down to like dirt! You expect me to just stand there and let some dramatic freak with bells on his waist call my father ordinary?!”
Rayleigh had a troubled expression, feeling unsure about how to handle the situation. Roger’s deep chuckle rolled through the tension. Rouge’s lips curved into a delighted, almost proud smile as she set her teacup down with a soft clink.
“The boy is correct, Rayleigh…” Roger said warmly. “Our son was the one who started it. He challenged a guest under our roof. That is a failure of hospitality on our part.”
“Indeed.” Rouge nodded, eyes sparkling. “Shanks was sharp-tongued and ungracious, and Buggy simply answered in kind… with slightly more physical emphasis. I rather admire the spirit.”
“I am not saying Shanks was right.” Rayleigh pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly fighting a headache. “I’m saying my son should have controlled his temper instead of immediately resorting to violence. There are better ways to handle disrespect.”
“And yet...” Roger replied, still smiling, “The result was rather entertaining. Still…Shanks.”
His voice shifted, warm but carrying the weight of parental command. It made Shanks wake from whatever trance he was in, if only for a moment, and turn to his father, who had a sharp look pointed at him.
“You will apologize. Properly. You insulted a guest in our home. That is unacceptable.”
“You know better. Back on my island, you’d have to either kill yourself or sacrifice the firstborn at any sign of disrespect towards a guest under your roof.” Rouge’s tone softened into something almost coaxing.
“How interesting!” Shakky’s eyes widened with interest.
“No! No no no!” Rayleigh rejected the idea immediately, feeling panic rising. He gave his wife a look but she replied with an innocent smile. “WE will accept a simple apology.”
“Always the humble man.” Roger said as he sheathed his sword and put down Ace.
“Aaaw!” Ace groaned in annoyance at not being a sacrifice.
Shanks was still on the floor.
His cheek throbbed. His stomach ached. But none of that registered clearly. His heart was still slamming against his ribs so hard he could barely hear anything else. Every time he looked up, all he saw was blue, vivid blue hair, furious bluish-green eyes, the bright carnival stripes of that sweater, the glitter and star makeup still glittering under the chandelier light.
He was in love.
The realization still sat in his chest like a live coal, but this time he was more accepting of the idea. He pushed himself up onto one knee, then both, swaying slightly. His voice, when it finally came, was rough and missing every trace of its usual mocking edge.
“I… was in the wrong.” He swallowed, eyes never leaving Buggy’s face. “I shouldn’t have spoken to your father that way. I was arrogant. And rude. And I had no right to.”
Rayleigh thought the action was too dramatic but shrugged it off as the family’s usual antics, but seeing how both Roger and Rouge looked stunned didn’t sit well with him. Buggy’s lip curled.
“That’s not a real apology.” He snapped. “That sounded like someone reading a script. If you’re actually sorry, you should be groveling.”
The words hung in the air.
Roger’s eyebrows rose with interest. Rouge’s smile widened. Rayleigh opened his mouth as if to intervene again-
But Shanks moved first.
Without hesitation, without a single sarcastic remark, Gol.D Shanks slammed his forehead on the cold black marble, shattering it slightly close to Buggy’s mismatched sneakers, making the bluenette let out a screech of surprise and jump with one leg up. Red hair spilling around him like blood, silver bells at his waist giving a soft, almost reverent jingle as he bowed.
“I am sorry!” He said, voice clear and steady and completely sincere. “I was wrong. I insulted your father. I disrespected you both under my family’s roof. I offer no excuses. Forgive me… or don’t. But I will stay here until you decide.”
The foyer went completely still.
Roger’s booming laugh died in his throat. Rouge’s teacup hovered halfway to her lips. Rayleigh’s hand remained frozen in the air where he had been about to intervene. Even Ace, who was in the middle of trying to steal his father’s sword from his waist, stopped dead.
Buggy stared.
His mismatched sneakers were still planted just inches from the small crack Shanks’s forehead had left in the black marble. His mouth hung open. The furious color in his face drained, replaced by pure, unfiltered shock. For several long seconds, the only sound in the room was the soft, uneven jingle of the silver bells at Shanks’s waist as the red-haired boy remained bowed, forehead pressed to the floor.
Then Buggy’s brain seemed to restart. He jerked upright, blue ponytail bouncing, and immediately tried to scramble for dignity.
“W-Whatever!” He snapped, voice a little too high. He crossed his arms hard over his colorful sweater and looked anywhere except at the kneeling figure. “Fine. You’re forgiven. Happy? It wasn’t even that big a deal. I’ve heard worse. You’re just… really dramatic about everything. Don’t make it weird.”
He waved a dismissive hand, though the tips of his ears had gone pink.
Shanks’s head lifted so fast the bells rang out in a bright cascade.
The smile that spread across his face was blinding, wide, genuine, and utterly radiant. Every trace of the earlier arrogance had vanished, replaced by pure, unrestrained delight. He stayed on his knees, staring up at Buggy as if the blue-haired boy had just handed him the moon.
“You forgive me?” He breathed, almost reverent. Then louder, voice bright with excitement, “You forgive me!”
He looked ready to start laughing from sheer joy. His red hair was still messy from the bow, it’s almost difficult to tell which was his hair and which was the blood seeping from the wound on his forehead. One cheek was faintly red from the earlier punch, but none of it mattered. He gazed at Buggy as the other boy had just become the most extraordinary thing in existence.
Rayleigh’s expression tightened with quiet concern. He glanced from his son’s forced nonchalance to Shanks’s glowing face and clearly did not like the combination.
Shakky, still seated beside Rouge, lifted her teacup again and took a slow, amused sip. Her eyes curved with open entertainment as she watched the scene unfold.
Roger recovered first. A deep, delighted laugh rolled out of him, filling the foyer once more. He clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp and final.
“There!” He declared, grinning from ear to ear. “All settled. Everyone is on good terms again. Wonderful! A little blood, a little honesty, and now we can move forward as friends. Come, come! Sit, both of you. Rouge, more tea! Ace, give back my sword. Today is a celebration of new bonds!”
Rouge beamed, already rising to fetch another cup. “How romantic.” she murmured under her breath, eyes sparkling as she looked between her kneeling son and the still-flustered blue-haired boy. Shanks remained on the floor a moment longer, smiling up at Buggy as if he never wanted to stand again.
Buggy, for his part, looked like he was already regretting every life choice that had led him to this exact second.
“Sorry to spoil your plans, but I believe my family and I should take our leave now.” Rayleigh said calmly making Roger’s delighted expression faltered.
“Leaving already?” He sounded genuinely disappointed, the kind of disappointment that made the iron maiden in the corner creak as if sharing his feelings. “But we were just getting started. There is still the bone-marrow tea to try, and Ace has been saving a particularly lively specimen for the dessert course.”
“Not really, the cops stopped me from getting to the monkeys.” Ace grumbled with his hands crossed. “Apparently, chilled monkey brains are “too barbaric” or whatever. It’s in the name!”
Rouge stepped forward, hands clasped, eyes wide with pleading charm.
“Must you go so soon? The afternoon is still young. We could show Buggy the greenhouse!” She tried to persuade the young boy. “The carnivorous plants are in full bloom this season. Or the attic! The attic has the loveliest collection of preserved regrets.”
Rayleigh offered a polite but firm smile, already guiding his wife toward the door with one hand, because he saw in her eyes how she was about to give in, while his other stayed lightly on Buggy’s shoulder.
“I appreciate the hospitality, truly. But after… everything, I think it’s best we head home. Buggy has to prepare for his new school, and I have to fill some reports.”
The Gol.D couple followed the other as they made their way to the double doors, still trying to convince them to change their minds.
“Stay a little longer, Silvers! The boy already cracked the floor for your son. That’s practically a declaration of eternal friendship. At least finish the tea. It’s only mildly hallucinogenic.” Roger tried again, voice warm and coaxing. He stood in front of his friend’s path. “Rayleigh. Old friend. One more hour. We can pretend none of the punching happened. Or we can reenact it for fun. Ace would love to try the knee technique.”
But Rayleigh only shook his head.
“Another time.” He moved around Roger, who reluctantly gave up. “Come along, Buggy.”
Buggy, still pink-eared and clearly desperate to escape the entire situation, scrambled after his parents without a second glance. The mismatched sneakers squeaked against the marble as he hurried toward the double doors.
That was when Shanks broke.
The moment Buggy’s colorful sweater disappeared behind his father’s back, pure panic flooded the red-haired boy’s face. He shot up from the floor so fast the silver bells at his waist screamed in protest. Blood still trickled from the fresh crack on his forehead, dripping onto the marble in neat little dots, but he didn’t notice.
“Wait-!” His voice cracked.
Shanks stumbled forward, nearly slipping on his own blood, arms outstretched as if he could physically stop the Silvers family from leaving.
“Please don’t go! I’m sorry- I’m still sorry! I’ll apologize again, properly, on the spikes if you want! I can do it better!”
Buggy froze mid-step, one hand already on the doorframe, looking over his shoulder with wide, alarmed eyes. Shanks kept talking, words tumbling out in a frantic, lovesick rush, the logic of the Gol.D family pouring from him without filter.
“If you’re still angry, I’ll make it right-” He started to negotiate. “I’ll lock myself in the iron maiden until sunrise! I’ll let Ace practice his crossbow on me until he finally hits something vital!-”
“Hey!” Ace called out in an offended tone, but was ignored as Shanks continued.
“I’ll feed my own fingers to Mother’s piranhas one by one while reciting poetry about how magnificent you are!”
Shanks fell to his knees with a strong thud and started moving forward towards Buggy and continued to beg.
“I’ll sleep in the crypt tonight with the spiders and the forgotten bones! I’ll do all of it, every single night, forever, if you’ll just stay a little longer! please. Don’t leave. I’ll hurt myself however you want. Just- just stay.”
Roger watched with pure paternal pride. Rouge pressed both hands to her cheeks, eyes shining. Shakky looked genuinely surprised. Rayleigh felt his stomach twist as he remembered seeing the same scene with Roger when he tried courting Rouge, but he still denied the possibility.
And Buggy…
Buggy stared at the bleeding, kneeling, desperate boy as if he had just witnessed the birth of a new and particularly unhinged religion. And he should know that, because back in school his club was described as a cult in itself.
“…What the actual hell is wrong with you?” He whispered.
“Nope.” Rayleigh said firmly.
“Ray-” Shakky wanted to say something, but her husband didn’t want to hear it.
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.” Rayleigh kept repeating, as he moved to bring his son back to his side.
“My friend, don’t be like that again.” Roger tried to joke, because h too understood what was happening, and unlike Rayleigh the patriarch of the Gol.D family is ready to explore the young love right this second.
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.” Rayleigh then took Shakky and held her over his shoulder.
“Dad..what the- AHH!” Buggy yelped, legs kicking uselessly in the air as his mismatched sneakers swung. “What the fuck, old man?! Put me down!”
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Rayleigh marched straight for the double doors, repeating the word like a mantra. He kicked the heavy doors open with one foot, never breaking stride, the wood slamming against the walls hard enough to make the poison vials in the chandelier rattle. Roger tried one last time, half-laughing.
“Rayleigh, don’t be like that again-“
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Not today. Not ever. Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Shanks was still on his knees in the foyer, blood dripping steadily from the fresh split on his forehead, when the reality of the situation hit him like a second knee to the gut.
Buggy was leaving.
Worse! Buggy was being carried directly toward Ace’s garden of hidden surprises.
Shanks’s eyes went wide.
“Wait-!”
He launched himself forward so hard the silver bells at his waist screamed. Blood sprayed across the marble as he scrambled, slipped, then regained his footing and sprinted after them.
“There are bombs- Ace planted bombs under the stones- WAIT!”
Rayleigh didn’t wait.
The moment his boot hit the path, he deliberately and powerfully stomped the exact stone Ace had marked. The tile cracked with a sharp click.
Then the world exploded.
A concentrated blast of black powder, rusty nails, and something that smelled suspiciously like fermented bat guano erupted upward in a dirty orange fireball. The force lifted all three Silvers clean off the ground and sent them tumbling through the air in a chaotic arc. Buggy’s terrified scream tore across the lawn. Shakky let out a startled laugh that turned into a whoop. Dirt, shattered stone, and tiny flaming bits of Ace’s “special mixture” rained down like confetti from hell.
Shanks skidded to a halt at the edge of the blast radius, heart slamming so hard the bells at his waist rang in time with it. For one frozen second pure terror painted his face, blue hair, carnival sweater, mismatched sneakers spinning through smoke and fire.
Then Rayleigh moved.
Still airborne, the “ordinary” man twisted with impossible precision. He planted one foot against the tall iron fence that bordered the property, using the metal spikes like a springboard. The impact bent the bars with a tortured screech. He rebounded, rotated mid-air while still holding both his wife and son, and landed on the sidewalk beyond the gate in a perfect three-point crouch that barely scuffed his shoes.
Dust and smoke curled around him. A few flaming bits of debris hissed out on the pavement.
Buggy was still screaming, upside-down over his father’s shoulder, blue ponytail whipping wildly. Shakky, also upside-down, casually fixed a strand of hair that had come loose and looked thoroughly entertained.
Rayleigh stood, adjusted his grip, and started walking down the street with only one word repeated.
“Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.”
Back at the edge of the smoking crater that used to be part of the front path, Shanks stood frozen, blood still dripping down his face, silver bells trembling.
The terror had already melted into something far more dangerous.
Awe.
Slow, breathless, almost reverent awe.
“…Magnificent.” He whispered, eyes locked on the retreating figure of the man who had just turned Ace’s best bomb into a personal trampoline.
Then louder, voice cracking with pure lovesick determination as he took one step, then another, after them:
“Buggy- wait! I’ll dig myself a new grave every night if you come back! I’ll let the plants eat my legs! I’ll-”
The double doors of the Gol.D mansion slowly creaked shut behind him on their own, as if the house itself had decided the show was over for now. Ace peeked out from behind an overturned planter, crossbow in hand, looking both impressed and deeply offended that his bomb had been used so casually. Roger draped an arm around Rouge’s shoulders, watching his son chase after the Silvers with open pride.
“Young love.” He sighed happily. “So violent. So pure.”
Rouge smiled, already planning the wedding centerpiece made of shrapnel and carnivorous vines.
And somewhere down the street, Rayleigh kept walking, still muttering “Nope” under his breath, while the blue-haired boy over his shoulder stared back at the bleeding, grinning, completely unhinged redhead who was now sprinting after them like the world’s most romantic natural disaster.
—
Buggy still couldn’t believe any of it had actually happened.
One minute he had been sitting in a gothic nightmare of a living room, minding his own business, and the next he was punching a red-haired psycho in the face for insulting his father like it was a hobby. Then the same psycho had dropped to his knees, cracked his own skull on the floor, and started offering to feed his fingers to piranhas if Buggy would just “forgive” him. And somehow that hadn’t even been the weirdest part.
The weirdest part was that after his dad threw both him and his mom over his shoulders and detonated whatever death-trap the little gremlin brother had buried in the front yard, Red Hair had chased them.
All the way home.
Buggy had watched from the upstairs window last night. Every time his father opened the front door to tell the guy to leave, the redhead was just… standing there. Bleeding. Smiling. Holding up fingers like he was counting how many times he’d been told to go away. His dad had finally threatened to call both the cops and animal control, and only then did Red Haired menace back off, still waving, still grinning like he’d won something.
Buggy groaned and dragged a hand down his face.
“Absolute lunatic.” He muttered to the empty space in his room before finally forcing himself to get up and prepare for the day.
The house was quiet. Too quiet, the way it always got once both of his parents left for work. His mom’s shift at the bar started early, due to opening delivery orders and organizing them before opening time. His dad had some consulting job across town.
Same routine as the old place. Same silence. Same note stuck to hide bedroom door with his father’s handwriting…
“Lunch money on the counter. Don’t set anything on fire. Love you!”
- Your Dad,
The note still caused a small smile, He was used to it.
It still stung sometimes, walking into a silent house before the sun was fully up, making his own toast, packing his own bag. But he never blamed them. They worked their asses off so he could have a roof, new sneakers that weren’t held together with tape, and a shot at a school that didn’t look like it was one strong wind away from collapsing. That was enough. It had to be enough.
New town. New school. New neighbors who apparently thought self-mutilation was a love language.
“First day…” He told his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Just get through it. Don’t punch any morons. Don’t make others feel stupid. Just don’t do anything that might make his dad drive all the way to his school where he will be greeted with his son being suspended. Simple.”
Buggy finished tying the last lace on his red shows with checkered bottom sneakers, grabbed the granola bar from his desk, and headed downstairs. The house still felt too quiet, the familiar quiet that usually meant he was on his own until evening. He was already mentally running through the plans of the day. His route to the new school, how he will scan the social hierarchy of students, what he will eat after school, maybe eat out to explore the town, doing homework when he gets home, maybe even plan dinner in case his parents suddenly weren’t able to come home early…. when the smell hit him.
Eggs. Toast. Something savory and warm that made his stomach growl louder than he wanted to admit.
He froze halfway down the stairs.
Were his parents were still home?
A small, surprised smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. Maybe they’d decided to stick around for his first day after all. Maybe Dad had pushed a meeting back. Maybe Mom had swapped shifts. The thought made something tight in his chest loosen a little.
He picked up the pace, granola bar forgotten in his hand, and stepped into the kitchen-
-and stopped dead.
He expected to see his parents waiting for him, maybe not even both just one of them, maybe none of them and the food was just prepared in advance, maybe even not food for him but a smell from the next door neighbors that sneaked it was from an open window.
The last thing he expected was the sight of the Gol.D’s red-haired son, standing at the table like he belonged there.
The red-haired menace was wearing his mother’s apron, the black one with the tiny, embroidered hydrangeas, tied neatly around his waist. He was just setting down the last plate of what looked like an entire breakfast spread that somehow managed to be both appetizing and deeply unsettling.
Blackened toast cut into little coffin shapes. Eggs with yolks so dark they were almost purple. Did it even come from a bird? . A small bowl of what might have been jam but looked suspiciously like something that had once been alive. Silver utensils arranged with the kind of precision that suggested someone had measured the angles. It wasn’t even his mother’s utensils, where did he get it from?
Shanks looked up.
The second their eyes met, his entire face lit up like someone had plugged him into a power source. The silver bells at his waist gave a soft, happy jingle.
“Good morning, my blue star!” He said, voice bright with pure delight. “I made breakfast. You shouldn’t start your first day on an empty stomach. I used only the finest ingredients- well, the finest I could find that weren’t still moving.”
Buggy’s brain short-circuited.
Then pure panic took over.
“What the fuck-?!”
He scrambled sideways, looked around frantically before his eyes caught the nearest lamp to him and snatched it off the side table, and held it up like a club, cord trailing behind him. His heart was slamming against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat.
“How the hell did you even get in here?!” He shouted at the intruder. “Y..You’re trespassing! Get out! Get out right now!”
Shanks didn’t flinch. He simply stood there in the apron, hands folded politely in front of him, gazing at Buggy with the same soft, utterly smitten expression he’d worn while bleeding on the marble the day before. If anything, the lamp only seemed to make him look more enchanted with how the light was shining behind him, like a god, it felt fitting to shanks, his beloved deity to worship.
“You’re even more radiant when you’re threatening violence,” he said sincerely. “The way the morning light catches the stars under your eyes is-”
“Out!” Buggy’s voice cracked. He swung the lamp and jabbed the it in Shanks’s direction when he didn’t move. “I said get out of my house, you absolute freak!”
For a second something flickered across Shanks’s face, disappointment, maybe even a quiet sort of sadness, but he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to stay. He simply reached up, untied the apron with careful fingers, folded it neatly, and set it on the counter.
“As you wish.” He said softly.
He walked past Buggy toward the front door without resistance, silver bells giving a low, almost mournful chime with every step. Buggy kept the lamp raised the entire time, body tense, ready to swing if the redhead so much as twitched the wrong way. Shanks paused on the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. He looked back over his shoulder, red-hair catching the early light, and offered a small, genuine smile that somehow managed to be both gentle and completely unhinged.
“A granola bar isn’t a healthy breakfast for you.” he said. “You deserve better-”
Buggy slammed the door so hard the frame rattled, threw the deadbolt, and pressed his back against the wood, still clutching the lamp. His heart was racing. The smell of the strange, carefully prepared breakfast still filled the kitchen.
He stared at the table full of coffin-shaped toast and dark eggs, then down at the granola bar still crushed in his other hand.
“…What the actual hell is wrong with that guy?”
—
Buggy locked the front door behind him and immediately regretted every decision he’d made in the last twenty minutes.
He had eaten most of it.
The coffin-shaped toast. The weirdly dark eggs. Even a spoonful of whatever that “jam” had been. It had tasted… good. Alarmingly good. And now the embarrassment sat heavy in his stomach alongside the food.
What if the guy had put something in it? Poison. Roadkill. Whatever the Gol.D family considered a “special seasoning.” He’d just inhaled half a table of suspicious breakfast because it smelled better than a granola bar and he was too hungry to think straight.
“I’m an idiot.” He muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder as he walked down the short path to the gate. “Complete idiot. First day and I’m already eating stranger danger cuisine.”
He was so busy scolding himself that he didn’t notice the figure standing just outside the fence until a hand was on the gate latch and pushed it open before he could reach it.
“Thanks.” He said automatically.
“You’re welcome.” He froze when a familiar, soft voice answered. Buggy’s head snapped up.
Shanks stood on the other side of the gate, red hair neat for once, silver bells at his waist quiet in the morning air. He looked completely unbothered by the fact that he’d been thrown out of the house less than half an hour ago. If anything, he looked pleased to be acknowledged.
Buggy was startled, but not as badly as before. The panic was quieter this time, replaced by exhausted disbelief.
“…Why are you still here?” He sighed as he massaged the bridge of his nose. Shanks’s smile was bright and simple.
“To carry your bag.”
Buggy stared at him.
“To carry my bag?” He repeated the and Red-hair nodded as he extended his hand expectedly.
“You broke into my house I assume after my parents had left…” Buggy said slowly, like he was explaining something to a particularly dense child. “You made an entire breakfast that probably took hours. I slammed the door in your face hard enough that I might’ve broken some of your fingers that I forgot were resting on the frame. And now you’re standing outside my gate asking to carry my bag?”
Shanks nodded as if all of that was perfectly reasonable, his open palms still waiting for the bag to be handed over.
“I am ready to do anything for you!” Shanks said with complete sincerity. “Carry your bag. Carry your books. Carry you to school if your feet get tired. Whatever you wish me to do, even if it was at the risk of my mortal soul, I would be honored to fulfill it for you.”
Buggy’s eye twitched. He then gave Shanks a one look over before the look in his eyes became that of suspicious.
“Is this some kind of elaborate prank?” He demanded. “Some messed-up initiation for the new kid? Did someone put you up to this?”
Buggy looked around, trying to find any sign of cameras or even a trace of people hiding in the bush’s. The accusation seemed to hit a nerve with the other teen because the change in Shanks was immediate.
The soft, lovesick expression drained away. His eyes darkened, and the air around them seemed to thicken, heavy and cold, like the moment before a storm. It wasn’t aimed at Buggy, he could tell that much, but it still made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Did he just see a flock of birds fall from the sky above them? Or was it just my imagination?
“Has someone tried to harm you?” Shanks asked, voice low and dangerously calm. “Trick you? Hurt you in any way?”
Several cars around them suddenly let out a loud alarm sound, as if a, invisible force threatened them. It freaked Buggy out. His father told him about how the Gol.D family seemed to have this uncanny energy about them, he swore that one Halloween night with Roger during their collage days he saw him talk to a ghost that lost its way back to his cemetery. He did tell him other stories but assured him that they never mean any real harm, that as long as you don’t harm their family you are automatically considered a long-lost cousin or something crazy like that. So, Buggy let out a short, incredulous laugh, trying to break the sudden tension.
“What, you gonna kill them or something?”
Shanks didn’t smile.
“Yes.”
The single word landed between them like a dropped blade, quiet, certain, and completely serious. Buggy’s mouth opened. Then closed. He didn’t expect such devotion. It was crazy, it was madness… it was almost flattering…
“…You’re not joking.”
Shanks simply tilted his head, waiting, the dark weight in the air still lingering around him like a promise. The tension felt as if it has been going for hours. Buggy then tightened his grip on the strap of his bag and took a deliberate step back, glaring daggers at the other teen, who suddenly looked like a kicked puppy by Buggy’s defensive posture.
“I’m not giving you my bag.” He said flatly, Shanks blinked not expecting the response. “Mostly because I don’t know where those hands have been. So, do NOT touch me with them.”
He pointed at Shanks’s hands like they were personally offensive, then turned on his heel and started walking down the sidewalk toward school. Shanks didn’t move unsure of what he should do next. His heart told him to stay away, and not touch him. Doesn’t that mean he doesn’t want to see him, hear him, know of his existence?!
He could make it happen….
For his blue he will make sure he doesn’t exis-
“…Well? Are you coming or not?”
Shanks froze but then realize that after a few steps Buggy glanced over his shoulder…waiting for him.
For a full second the red-haired boy just stood there, eyes wide, as if Buggy had offered him something sacred instead of a reluctant invitation. Then pure, radiant joy exploded across his face. The silver bells at his waist burst into a cheerful cascade of sound as he practically lunged forward to catch up.
“You ordered me not to touch you yet still asking me to come!” he said, voice bright with wonder. “You actually-”
Buggy plugged his ears when he saw how immediately Shanks prepared to launch into an over-the-top, half-sung declaration of gratitude, he did catch a few involved the words like “honored,” “blessed,” and “my blue star’s mercy~” complete with dramatic hand gestures that made a nearby squirrel flee in terror.
“Shut up!” Buggy snapped without looking at him. “I didn’t ask you to serenade me. Just walk. Quietly. Like a normal person.”
“As you wish!” Shanks replied instantly, still smiling so hard it looked painful. He fell into step beside Buggy, hands carefully clasped behind his back to prove he wouldn’t touch anything. “I shall be as silent as the grave. Quieter, even. Graves sometimes whisper.”
“That’s not better.”
“I could hum instead.”
“No.”
“Recite poetry under my breath?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I will simply bask in the glory of walking beside you on your first day-”
Buggy groaned and walked faster.
Shanks matched his pace without complaint, still glowing, still carefully keeping his hands to himself, and still looking like he had just won the lottery, the lottery, and possibly a small war.
The two of them continued down the sidewalk, one scowling, one radiant, already falling into a rhythm of sharp complaints and shameless devotion that somehow, impossibly, felt like the beginning of something neither of them was ready to name.