open 🤡 overflow

[youshidiots]

open post | overflow | nsfw
re-voicetesting.

Comments

[mostlyarmless]

[ the question prickles, a feeling less than annoyance but beyond mere ambivalence. as if shanks has ever been above cleaning up the messes of others—buggy’s too. buggy’s, specifically.

not that this is a mess, of course: this is the first time shanks has borne witness to any of the cross guild’s machinations inner workings in person. it’s still too soon to make assumptions, so shanks’ face retains its bland conviviality. even when croc’s arm lands heavily around buggy’s shoulders, even when that hook sifts its way easily through the river flow of buggy’s hair to gleam against his throat, shanks’ smile doesn’t drop. ]

... well. I already told your captain my first order of business. Which he’s welcome to address on his own time.

[ to ask simple questions first. how are you doing? how did you get here? is this what chasing the dream looks like, for you and me? ]

There’s been some unusual activity in some territory that’s subject to my oversight. A little investigation led me to your door. [ light on details, and with no ready tells as to the severity of this supposed activity. ] Seeing as two of you and I go back a ways ...

[ shanks shrugs. grins. ]

I thought, it’s a shame to come all this way for strictly business. —you’ve got a wine cellar and guest seating, don’t you, Hawkeyes? Don’t be stingy.

me earlier: haha what if i brought the whole cross guild! me now: shit how do i make them leave

[youshidiots]

[despite shanks already repeating himself about his primary purpose here, the only thing buggy chooses to properly acknowledge is the second. he pops his head off his shoulders to escape the pointed golden leash around his neck, marching a step forward with a finger aimed at shanks like he's caught him in a lie. hasn't he?]

I knew it, of course he's got some ulterior motive for showing up on our island! Of course you're not just - hey!... oh.

[he'd intended to reattach, but something's holding up his body - and a glance back reveals crocodile's hook once again, twisted in the empty collar of his big red suit. buggy subsides, his head drifting back toward his body with some urgency, raising his hands to his collar.]

Take it easy, Croccy... this fabric's hard to patch, y'know.

["Shut up," says crocodile, but he doesn't sound much worse than impatient, and he does untangle his hook from the costume. so buggy shuts up, although his head and his now-chopped hands continue to float just behind his body, critically examining the fabric for tears and shooting shanks a glare that promises to blame him if he finds any.

mihawk has been unsurprisingly silent so far; upon being addressed directly, he'd elegantly rolled his eyes away, as though this whole situation is so far beneath him that he refuses to even engage with it. but now his eyes meet crocodile's, and in the brief, wordless exchange that follows, buggy immediately recognizes permission. let him stay. why not?

buggy's stomach swoops. with dread, certainly. it couldn't be excitement, to have shanks here, with his stupid grin - confetti on his jacket - acting like the past isn't the past just because they might finally be sailing in the same direction. for him to just show up here (buggy invited him) and threaten to upend everything that buggy has built (he's really been nothing but polite, and anyway buggy didn't really build shit, did he?) can only be a trick of some kind, concealing some new act of imminent betrayal

(but was it really betrayal in the first place)

"All right, Red Hair," croc drawls, unconcerned by buggy's obvious dismay, or perhaps not actually noticing; he takes out his cigar and releases a plume of smoke to the rafters. "We'll roll out the Emperor's welcome. You can clarify this investigation of yours, and then be on your way." the cigar goes back to his mouth, and then he gestures with his head toward buggy.

"Our 'captain' will show you to the lounge."

buggy bristles at that, flushing right up to the roots of his hair (at what? the sneer in that word, or... the idea of being alone with shanks, even briefly?) but like every other barely veiled insult to his authority so far, his resentment boomerangs right off of his cross guild colleagues and lands squarely on shanks' shoulders instead. this time buggy - fully reattached once again - just throws his hands up and whirls around, costume billowing, stomping furiously toward the fabric curtains separating the big top from the rest of the pavilion.]

Sure! Why not! Just let him make himself nice and comfortable so he can dip into our stash at his leisure, not like we have shit to do or anything-- [no word to shanks directly, or even checking to see if he's following, until buggy just snaps back over his shoulder--] Hurry up!

❤️❤️❤️

[mostlyarmless]

Thank you kindly.

[ to crocodile, earnestly intended. let no one say shanks faltered today in his efforts at diplomacy.

he follows, obliging and still grinning, although his face softens again once he’s swept past the other two cross guild leaders and allowed the parting curtain to sway shut behind him. it’s a thin partition, so he doesn’t pipe up again until he knows logically mihawk and crocodile are well out of earshot, his voice carrying evenly from where he’s trailing behind buggy: ]

Was I really interrupting something?

[ the aforementioned “shit to do”. it’s not an especially layered question, at least for now, even if the knife-sharp edges of shanks’ perception had followed the language of glances and structured silence between buggy and his colleagues. shanks is still not checking for whether buggy is danger; he is aware, memories distant and bittersweet in the back of his mind, of the temptation to check for something else altogether. as if twenty years couldn’t make perfect strangers of anyone, couldn’t sweep away the last vestiges of anyone’s entitlement like a broom with jagged glass.

he’s here to be cordial. as professional as pirates can be.

which, shanks is also bemusedly aware, is not very professional. ]

[youshidiots]

Like you give a shit.

[out of sight and sound of any real audience, buggy sheds all aspects of performance, leaving only stinging bitterness behind. still raw underneath his protective camouflage, all these years later, but for the moment it's just the two of them. any performance now would just fall flat against shanks' even-keeled courtesy. what did he ever know about turning pain into art?

shanks wanted buggy alone, without the act, without the spectacle. for better or worse, he's got it, at least until the others rejoin them in the lounge.

the lounge itself, a privileged location exclusive to cross guild leadership, is separated from the big top by the long and narrow circus alley that buggy leads them down now, and in short order he brushes another curtain of heavy fabric aside to reveal a comfortable arrangement of couches, a round table made of polished dark wood surrounded by three high-backed chairs, and a stockpile of barrels and crates fashioned into a sort of pirate minibar in one corner, everything settled on a chaotic assortment of obviously plundered, ornate rugs spread across the floor. at even spacing around the outer edges of the space, other curtained entryways lead to private quarters: first mihawk, then crocodile, then buggy at the far end. it's in this direction that buggy stomps straight off, since his costume is wildly effective at garnering the admiration of the masses but doesn't suit well to slouching around close quarters with a bunch of men who aren't fooled by him in the slightest. he's getting changed first.

both hands pop off at the wrist; one pulls the captain's hat off his head, taking the immense cloud of cotton candy blue extensions with it, and hangs it up on a tall wooden post just outside the entrance to his own quarters. the other hand swats the curtain open so he can march through it.]

You owe me a treasure map. [BY the way. more than one, if buggy wanted to be really unreasonable about it.] I notice you don't have one of those tucked under your arm.

[mostlyarmless]

It’s on my ledger. Which I do intend to settle.

[ shanks doesn’t mind the debt, though: more tethers to a subtle and permanent history, when the world is increasingly unmoored.

he brushes a hand over the extensions and spares a moment of amused rue for the fact that the hair isn’t all natural—well, of course it isn’t, that wouldn’t make any sense, but he always wondered how long buggy would let it grow; it always came in well, bundled up under those hats of his when they were children. back then shanks had only been privy to buggy letting it down in the privacy of their quarters. he knows damn well what he thought about it back then, too. twenty years past, buggy probably wouldn’t care to know.

shanks leans against a post opposite, glances sideways to survey the room again. ]

I did mean it, you know. About that first order of business.

[ pressing the issue, a little. shanks can’t tell how much time they have alone together. the fact grates. ]

[youshidiots]

[although it's obviously been a while, buggy lost his concern for modesty around shanks when they were still kids too young to care; the only hiccup came in adolescence, when every time shanks took off his shirt he seemed to be leaner and taller and broader across the shoulders than the last time, and buggy could only salvage his own dignity by turning away before his flush illuminated the entire cabin.

that hadn't lasted very long. certainly not long at all past buggy's realization that shanks had been noticing him, too.

ugh. he hates the way these memories swim up so easily the second that shanks decides to insinuate himself back into buggy's life. they sting when pressed, like fresh bruises. turning his back on shanks right now has nothing to do with modesty at all.]

You expect me to believe you came all the way out here for a friendly hello?

[floating hands are efficient with hidden hooks and clasps: buggy steps out of his big red costume in just a pair of lurid pink boxer-briefs and, of course, the quintessential striped knee socks (it does get awful warm in there, under all those spotlights). his hair is, in fact, quite long these days, and thick with the extra care that comes from having an image to maintain on the scale that he does now; he hasn't been able to easily wrangle the blue mess of it back under a bandana since impel down. for now, his disembodied hands pull it out of his face into a ponytail, using a bandana this time to tie it like a ribbon.]

Anyway, you got your answer, didn't you? Because I'm doing great, obviously. The best I've ever been. Just see for yourself!

[that isn't supposed to be a lie; he can't imagine where the sour taste in his mouth is coming from. buggy grimaces, fetching a pair of loose linen pants and a sleeveless leather vest so well-worn it's practically velvet. then he approaches a brightly lit vanity tucked in one corner of the room, digs out a cloth, and begins to wipe the paint from his face. he's gonna need to ingratiate himself to his mistrustful colleagues after this melodrama, and this isn't the look for that job.]