Surfacing [One Piece FF]

6

Buggy has never been blessed with much patience, especially not when something bothers or worries him. His brain simply snaps then, pumping a fatal mixture of panic, rage, and fear through his veins that instigates his temper and puts upset words or angry shouts into his mouth, with which he goes on the warpath without thinking twice.

So the second they enter the cramping utility room, and he is finally alone with Shanks, the bomb of impatience ignited inside Buggy during today's dinner explodes, resulting in him firing a blunt "You not hungry again or what?" at his friend.

"Huh?"

Buggy's demanding look turns into a burning stare. People playing dumb works like an accelerant on his fiery impulsivity.
"You know damn well what I'm talking about! Normally, you'd kill for grilled chicken, but today you hardly touched it!"

It goes without saying that most of the rarely-served delicacy ended onBuggy's plate, who, for once, appreciated the additional serving no one else at the table took note of. The thing is just: Shanks loves grilled chicken. He really, really does.

Shanks'mouth gives an acknowledging "Ah" away, but other than that, the redhead only shrugs while stowing an empty bucket away. Then, after a moment of Buggy audibly grinding his teeth, Shanks adds:
"Figured since you always say you're still growing, you need it more than I do."

"I don't!" Buggy corrects furiously and slams the door shut. "I will grow a lot taller than you! Just wait for it! And I certainly don't need your pity for that!"

"My...pity?" echoes Shanks and blinks perplexedly.

"Yeah, enough is enough! Keep your food on your plate from now on, you sneaky rat! This has been going on for almost three months now!" And Buggy fears Shanks cutting down on his food intake will start showing eventually...

"That's not true! And you—you got it all wrong. I just..." Shanks stammers, suddenly all flustered. Apparently, he had not expected to be able to create a simple timeline. What an asshole!

"You just what?" Offended, Buggy presses but earns himself nothing but a wobbly smile.

"Let me guess: You just meant well!?" The mere thought pisses Buggy even more off. What is wrong with this world that he is currently two centimeters smaller than that damn Shanks? Oh, and if it was only the height! Compared to Shanks, Buggy feels deficient in almost every aspect. Not only is he built slightly more delicate in general, but he is also uglier, less dare-taking, and of less importance. He is not more. He is no future captain material. Shanks has no idea how great he is. How much like Roger's heir he looks when the two crash their Captain's wardrobe after cleaning his cabin, dressing up in his impressive cloaks, fancy hats, and heavy leather boots to play with his binoculars or search his desk for hidden treasure maps and rare gold coins. Buggy does not need anyone to announce it; in these moments, he is overwhelmed by how clearly the future intermingles with the present and draws Shanks as the next King of the Pirates. It is equally fascinating, captivating, and blinding.

Here and now, however, Shanks is only a shadow of his future self. Swallowing a lump the size of a mountain, his gaze jumps over Buggy's shoulders and slams against the door. Guilt has left its imprint on his freckled face, and his lips are so close to disagree, to say no, but eventually, he just scratches his neck nervously.

Buggy is speechless. He had not expected his friend to back down but to fight back since that is what they always do. Yet, Shanks only smiles apologetically:
"I didn't know it was bothering you so much."

"Course it does! You know how Chef always warns us that if you don't eat enough, you get all sick and weak and pale, and your hair falls out, and then you look like one of those poor devils who got hanged and whose eyes and flesh are eaten away by the birds!"

Shanks does not know how to respond to this, and Buggy cannot even blame him because wow! He accidentally threw up a puddle of exaggerated concern based on the many stories Chef tells them whenever they refuse to clean their plates of the last bites of fermented veggies. It stretches right between them like an ocean none of them dares to cross. Above it hangs a sky of eerie, uncomfortable silence. Buggy'sgaze fixes on the lantern's steady oil-nourished flame; he can no longer stand locking eyes with Shanks. It would probably be best if Buggy just left, but a loud rumbling prevents him from translating his thoughts into action at the very last moment.

"You're hungry." He glares at Shanks, who stubbornly shakes his head.
"I'm not!"
"Oh, cut the crap! Let's just get you something from the pantry." Which is currently filled to the brim, thanks to the fact that it has only been two days since they set sail.
Turning around, Buggy snatches the lantern from the shelf. His other hand reaches for the door handle when all of Shanks' ten fingers claw into Buggy's forearm in raw protest.
"No, no, no! Listen, Buggy: I'm good. I don't need to eat. I mean, of course I need to, but I don't necessarily need dinner. I'm not even that hungry right now. Really! I had breakfast this morning and-and—" Close to nothing. Exactly. It is absurd. Even Shanks seems to understand it now, judging from how quickly he lets go of Buggy. "Chef is going to kill us if he catches us," he whispers defensively. His head hanging in shame and defeat.

In the dim shine of the lantern, Buggy eyes him from head to toe. Is tonight the night Shanks has decided to live the life of a coward? Surely not. He must be messing with Buggy. There cannot be another logical explanation for his odd behavior, especially when taking into account that Shanks is usually the "I'm all in for it"-type of guy who would accompany Buggy without giving it a second thought, so just in case they got caught, Chef would not know who to kill first. That is just how he is. Maybe Buggy needs to refresh his memory a bit.

"Come on, now." Without hesitation, he grabs Shanks by the wrist and guides them outside onto the empty floor. Somewhere on the way to the pantry, his hand slides down, closing around Shanks' unusually cold fingers. The question of whether Shanks had a stomach ache again during dinner today ripens on the tip of Buggy's tongue but tumbles down his throat the second they catch mumbled voices. Instinctively, both boys press against the wall in one smooth, simultaneous movement, with Shanks reaching for the lantern in his friend's hand. Buggy feels its slight swinging; the flame replaced by prompt darkness. The distant glimpse of light originating from the end of the floor does not touch them here.

As if turned into stone, they stand and wait, Shanks' hand still in Buggy's. Flat breaths roll over the right side of Buggy's face, and his ear is tickled by Shanks' stupid red hair. It is pure torture.

Eventually, two men pass by in the distance. The tension that has taken possession of Buggy has sealed both his mouth and nose, but he does not realize he has been holding his breath until Shanks forces his fingers out of Buggy's painfully tightened fist.
"Ouch! You're breaking my hand, chicken!"

"B-bullshit!"

"So no bullshit!" The teasing is carried by a lightness Shanks' voice had been void of for most of the day.
Equally embarrassed and surprised, Buggy's denial comes with a delay:
"I wasn't scared! I knew they'd walk past!"

Shanks replies with a snorted giggle. The amused sound is followed by a slick adjustment of their former connection as Shanks' fingers slip between Buggy's, filling the space between them before signalizing Buggy to keep going with a little squeeze to the hand and a shoulder-to-shoulder bump. Long fluent in each other's body language, they just know how to communicate solely with gestures, whether in the dark or broad daylight.

Side by side, they creep down the floor, turn left, and take a flight of creaking stairs. It is a detour, but hardly anyone uses these stairs this late in the evening. Buggy is still brooding over a decent response—it frustrates him when his fear prevails over him—when they reach their destination.

Shanks is initially reluctant, but as soon as he has taken a few bites, he eats like he has not consumed solid food in days. Buggy can only wonder as they sit on his bed after a successful return to their cabin, the leftovers of a small loaf of sweet white bread between them and Shanks enjoying red fruit jelly directly from the jar with a spoon. He should have eaten the grilled chicken. What on earth is wrong with him?