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[youshidiots]

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re-voicetesting.

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[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.]