Surfacing [One Piece FF]

7

"Oi, Buggy! Wanna swap chores today?" A giant wave of excitement crashes right over Buggy's head. It is nothing but cold and unexpected, even though Shanks' face is inviting like sunshine.

"Swapping chores? Just like that? Why?" Buggy spits as if his mouth was filled with seawater. The salt in it taking the shape of a skeptical "What's the catch, redhead?"

"Catch? There's none." An unknown emotion wafts by, covering the corners of Shanks' mouth and thus distorting his carefree smile. Buggy cannot help but read it as a confession.
"Not buying it! Last time you asked me to swap chores, I ended up doing the laundry of the whole crew all by myself! So what d'you think? That I'm stupid or what?" Whatever Shanks has set up to get Buggy in trouble, Buggy does not take the bait.

"Right. That actually happened," Shanks says slowly and tilts his head as if he had indeed all forgotten about the "laundry incident," which is forever graved into Buggy's memory. "Didn't know you're still pissed about it, though. I told ya I got distracted on the marketplace! I didn't intend to leave for so long..."

"But you did!" Resentfully, Buggy leans towards the other boy. Their noses almost clash as Shanks snaps back: "I apologized afterward!"

"Well, screw your lame-ass apology! I had a shit load of work, and everybody held me responsible for you vanishing into thin air on this day!"

"So what? I'm held responsible for you stealing whatever you can get your hands on!"

"I'm no thief!"

"Bullshit! You steal all the time, and every man on the Oro Jackson knows it!" Their accusing words are physically accentuated by their hands pulling furiously on each other's collars. Their torsos bump into each other in the process, dooming their skin to smother the thin fabric separating their madly beating hearts.

"Say that again!"

"You always try to steal when we're sent to the market with Chef!" Shanks kicks against Buggy's ankle, just like he is wont to do when he happens to see Buggy's greedy fingers itching for golden cufflinks, a pair of drop-shaped jade earrings, or some other precious object proudly displayed on market stalls or in shop windows. The higher the price, the greater the temptation. Wealth is the ultimate ticket to Buggy's dream life. He has long accepted that he was not born to become King of the Pirates, but at least he can build a reputation that earns him some respect—and wealth plays a pivotal role in this process. Buggy does not expect his adventure-infatuated friend to understand, though. Shanks is a boy who can stroll through the streets of foreign towns for hours, and when he returns, his heart bursts with joy, and his pockets are filled with emptiness. It is truly ridiculous, yet Buggy is hooked on Shanks' endless babbling on those days, regardless of how often he tells him to shut up.

"At least I know that the North Pole is colder than the South Pole!" Buggy throws the first unrelated thing occurring to him into their argument as a bulwark.
"It's not, dumbass!"
"Sure it is!"
"You don't know shit!"
"Well, you don't know shit either!"

In a mirroring gesture, both boys stick out their tongues, which leads to them pulling an even angrier face than before, which, in turn, leads to them pushing each other away with an animalistic grunt. Death-glaring, Buggy stuffs some renegade blue hair strands under his beanie before crossing his arms. Not one damn person in this world is so freaking annoying as to pick a fight before breakfast, except for Shanks! Said redhead has not even combed his hair yet! With a derogative "Tss," Buggyclicks his tongue.
"Hurry up now! I'm not missing breakfast again because of you!"

"Oh, calm your tits! I'm as good as ready!"

"As if!" Buggy fetches the hairbrush from one of the wooden chests and throws it at Shanks, who is enough of a lucky bastard to catch it. Not that Buggy had expected something different. While watching Shanks detangling his hair in his annoyingly calm 'I couldn't care less because I'm going to put on my hat, but if it makes you happy, idiot'-attitude, Buggy asks:
"Why do you wanna swap chores again? I thought you liked your daily tour so much because you got to help Amiant, who always tells the best stories? Wasn't it also him who gave you this old, smelly children's book you used to read all the time?"

Shanks was practically beaming with joy the day he had stormed into their tiny cabin, the thick book in his hands and his jubilant chattering taking up all the space. How Amiant had gifted him the storybook, how no one had ever gifted him a book before, and how they could read through all the fairy tales of heroic princes, wicked witches, evil spells, and happy endings from now on.

Buggy had refused to, bluntly and persistently, simply since Amiant had favored Shanks for as long as Buggy could remember. Buggy could not recall ever having any noteworthy argument with Amiant. As one of the gunsmiths on board, Amiant taught the boys how to inspect and clean pistols to ensure their safe and efficient use. Every now and then, Shanks and Buggy are invited to assist Amiant with some easy repair work and earn themselves a lesson in shooting in return. Since both are quick learners with remarkably high accuracy, praise was always guaranteed. The words Amiant addresses at Buggy never seem to carry any sincerity, though. Instead, they give Buggy the impression of Amiantsaying them for no reason other than the people around to hear them. They are empty phrases lacking the substance to let any camaraderie grow between them, albeit they belong to the same crew, which is practically a family forged and defined by a shared history instead of a blood relation. Yet, nobody else on board seems to have the same sense of hearing as Buggy. Shanks has forever been looking up to Amiant, fascinated by the gunsmith's impressive skills and absorbing his thrilling anecdotes like a sponge. It is a pain in the ass. Most notably, the churning in Buggy's stomach that appears right out of nowhere each time Shanks brags about how Amiant has guided him through reassembling a pistole they had just given a new lease of life or how Amiant permitted him to taste the rum strictly reserved for the grownups. Not that Buggy never had a sip of alcohol here and there. More than once, curiosity tempted him and Shanks to pilfer a bottle with some leftover booze, lying next to a loudly snoring crewmember sleeping his hangover off. Neither of the boys was particularly fond of the taste or the hellish burn on the backs of their throats, but neither had the heart to openly reject the life elixir of real pirates either. All this still holds true for Buggy. But Shanks? He has undoubtedly become inured to booze. Buggy knows that the redhead is allowed to try whatever spirituous beverage Amiant has at hand. The biting proof has surfed on Shanks' breath more times than Buggy can count. Occasionally, however, the two definitely miscalculate Shanks' age-related low tolerance for alcohol. Either that or it had been as Shanks had claimed: Too distracted by their conversation, Shanks had slipped on the floor he had just mopped, hitting his coccyx so hard he had difficulties walking the following day, not to mention sitting. Of course, Shanks had denied being in pain, refused to stay in bed, and sworn he had been sober. Buggy had called him a liar but did most of their daily chores all alone nonetheless, with Shanks sticking around and acting all normal because pirates do not get hurt while cleaning. And quite frankly, Buggy would not have wanted the crew to know either if he had been in Shanks' position.

Much to Buggy's delight, Shanks' euphoria for Amiant has cooled off during the past few months. Buggy has no idea where the book with all the fantastic stories has gone, but what does it matter? It is not like he is missing how they used to read together. Absolutely not. But once upon a time, their nights were not butchered by Shanks' nightmares...

"You won't get in trouble if we swap today. I promise," is what Shanks says now, his full attention drawn to closing the upper buttons of his shirt. The profound sobriety in his voice kills off the jovial spark in his mischievous eyes. Before Buggy gets a chance to study his friend's facial expression properly, Shanks turns around. His movements weary and avoidant. In his neck, in this tiny free space opening up between the ends of his hair and the collar of his linen shirt, deep scratch marks scream at Buggy like a wild red beast bursting from the bushes.

Following a natural reflex, Buggy switches into defensive mood and groans "Alright, alright" on behalf of this mighty feeling in his chest that can only be a first-degree relative of the nightly worry instructing him to keep an eye on Shanks until he has fallen asleep again. These nightmares, they just will not go away...
Buggy is about to add a "But you owe me!" when it comes to his mind that the storm that raged last night surely shredded parts of the sails, and, therefore, hours of cumbersome stitching and sewing lay ahead of Shanks on Buggy's tour.

Certainly totally unaware of this, Shanks lifts his chin. The pale duplicate of a smile on his lips is a complete stranger to Buggy. It is a smile Buggy's future self would read as a testimony of pure relief and sincere gratefulness in retrospect. On that particular day in their youth, however, it is a smile Buggy could but curse as soon as every soul he runs into, including Amiant, starts pestering him with questions about the sudden reassignment of their responsibilities.