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Agony. Pure utter despair. It was all he could feel. He could still hear the words echoing in his head like a cruel soundtrack. “We’re too different now. I don’t love you like that anymore. Move on, and stop bothering me.” Buggy could be mean, petty, and stubborn, but he’d never been cruel. This, however, felt like the most cold-blooded act he’d ever seen from him. No tears in eyes as he told Shanks they shouldn’t be together anymore, no ounce of compassion. It was like he stabbed him straight through the chest and didn’t feel a thing. His apathy, his lack of care or consideration hurt worse than if he’d yelled at him. Shanks would have rather listened to Buggy berate him for hours than hear him resignedly say ‘I don’t love you anymore.’
‘Anymore.’ Shanks clutched at his chest, aching down to his bones. His throat felt raw, eyes wet, his face hot and sticky with his waterfall of tears. He let out another pitiful sob, bending in half, forehead pressed to the ground, as if in prayer. It hurt worse to know that Buggy did love him. But somewhere along the way it evaporated into nothingness. And it was his fault. He should have found him sooner, should have contacted him, should have chased him down that day in Loguetown… There were a lot of things he should have done differently.
The moon shone bright overhead, like a mocking spotlight on his back. His life felt like a sick joke at times. Born a knight, raised a pirate, forced to be a beast. Tonight was especially cruel, mental anguish tied with physical pain meant he could barely move. But he had to. He’d forgotten tonight was the full moon and he was on an island with people. He had to leave, save everyone from the terrible fate he would exact. He urged himself forward, his limbs stuttered and locked, as if trying to bind him here, trying to punish him even further. He pushed himself, forcing his legs to work, propelling himself forward with all of his might. If he could just push himself onto his little rowboat, he could isolate himself on the sea while he rampaged as a beast.
He struggled toward the beach, stumbling over his hand and feet. Not now. Just a little further.
It was as if he were struck by a javelin, a sharp heavy weight shooting through his chest, locking him in place. He absorbed too much moonlight, his transformation was beginning.
He could tolerate the pain when he’d spent most of the day drinking, but the situation with Buggy had sobered him. This night, his transformation felt like torture. Pure hell. He grit his teeth so hard they felt like they would shatter, the pain unbearable. It started in his hand and feet, bones lengthening, skin and muscle and sinew stretching until they tore and knitted themselves back together, fur growing in the fresh raw spots.
Shanks couldn’t catch his breath, his lungs expelling the air faster than he could suck it in. He felt light-headed, sick to his stomach. He retched as his legs and arms snapped and stretched, blood bursting from his open skin before being hidden by thick red hair.
All he could hear was his heart pounding in his ears, vision blurred by his tears that dripped down to make little spots in the sand. Move. He needed to move. He let out a wail, long claws fisting the sand. Drool seeped from the corners of his mouth, long fangs pushing aside his blunt teeth, his jaw snapping, reshaping to be snout-like, his mouth filled with blood and saliva.
The pain was awful, but the worst of it was the final part of his transformation: he would lose all sense of self. He never remembered what happened on nights like this. The lack of control over himself meant he was a danger to everyone. Constantly. He had hurt people he loved before, hurt perfect strangers, innocents. He never wanted to do that again. But he let his guard down, and now he doomed himself and the people on this island.
Shanks let out a growl, deep, animalistic. His vision grew darker. He blindly ran forward. Maybe if he went far enough he’d reach the sea and mother ocean would take him away, wash him from this earth. He felt the cold spray, could smell and taste salt, but everything went dark and he wasn’t Shanks anymore.
…
He felt so alone. Wretched. He needed his mate. Where was his mate?
The beast let out a long mournful howl.
He needed him.
…
The hairs on the back of Buggy’s neck suddenly stood at attention. He glanced behind him, into the dark forest, but there was nothing there, at least, nothing he could see within the dense shadows. He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. It was eerie waiting here in the dark on the beach. He told his crew to stay nearby and the bastards must’ve sailed toward town to drink. They usually did when Buggy was meeting up with Shanks. But this time was different. He wasn’t going to spend the night, wasn’t going to give his crew the day off or linger on the island enjoying the local scene. He wanted off the island, back on his ship, and to be far far away from here, from him.
Buggy tugged at his hair, as if punishing himself for letting his thoughts drift back to Shanks. He was already feeling annoyed at himself, at this whole situation. He could see Shank’s distraught face, could hear his pleas, like a movie playing over in his head specifically designed to make him feel guilty. He physically shook his head. NO. He wouldn’t feel guilty about this. He decided a long time ago that he’d only pursue the things that made him happy, and Shanks... didn’t make him happy. Not anymore.
The back of Buggy’s neck tingled again, this time the skin at the base of his skull tightened and he whipped around. He sat there, staring at the forest’s edge, searching the darkness for signs of something, anything that could be a threat. But nothing was there. He couldn’t help but linger, staring a little while longer at the trees, eyes following the way the branches and leaves swayed with the wind. A strong gust had Buggy’s blue hair whipping into his face, the trees shuddering, their drying leaves like hundreds of voices whispering out to him. Buggy brushed away his hair and turned away from the trees. If his crew wasn’t going to be here to pick him up, then he’d have to hoof it back to town. He really didn’t want to risk running into Shanks. Knowing him, he was probably at one of the bars drinking himself sick.
Guilt tugged at Buggy, but he shooed it away. This was the best for the both of them. Besides, it wasn’t his fault that Shanks had a drinking problem. Seas knows he tried to help him rein it in, sneaking away beer bottles, replacing cups of rum with water, with soda. He spent too many nights fighting with Shanks, too many nights rubbing his back while he got sick, too many nights curled up alone while Shanks stayed out all night. No more. He just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t try to force help or change when it wasn’t wanted.
Buggy turned to look at the tree line once again. He should get moving, the night was only getting colder, and it felt as though a storm was coming, despite the cloudless sky. The moon shone so brightly, gleaming down on him, on the dark water, making it seem as if it shimmered. He was reluctant to move, holding out hope that his crew would be back at any moment, as if they had simply stepped away and not abandoned him on this side of the island.
He let out a resigned sigh and shuffled off the sand and onto more solid ground, not looking forward to making his way through the dark forest with no sunlight to guide him. At least he had the moon. He glanced up at her once more before he stepped foot into the darkness.
“Mother Moon guide me.” Was his thought, his prayer, his hope, as he left the comfort of the shore. Buggy slowly made his way through, tripping over roots, steadying himself on thick trees, straining his eyes to find whatever path he could through the dense forest path. He wandered in further, into darkness and crowded trees, keeping his head down to watch his feet, arms outstretched as he attempted to navigate through. He looked up and realized he had no idea where he was. He turned on the spot, trying to remember which way he came from. It was impossible to know, here in the dark. He glanced up, hoping to see the moon, but her light was obscured, the dense leaves creating a roof that hid him away, that hid away the world. Buggy took a shaky breath and searched his pockets for his compass, pulling it out. He brought it up to his eyes, attempting to see the needle.
ARWOOOOO!!!
Buggy jumped out of his skin at the sudden howl, his compass slipping through his fingers, landing somewhere on the pitch black ground below him.
“Shit.” He hissed, crouching down to pat at the ground, “What the hell was that!?” He scrambled on his hands and knees, sweeping over the forest floor, but he couldn’t find his compass.
Another howl. Closer this time. It filled Buggy with a sense of dread, of loss, of mourning. His chest ached.
“Fuck it.” Buggy pushed himself off the ground and shuffled faster through the forest. Whatever made that sound, he didn’t want to run into it here in the dark. Navigating the gnarled roots, the slippery leaves underfoot, the low branches and prickly bushes became an even bigger hurdle now with the looming threat that he wasn’t alone in this forest. He kept bumping into trees and tripping over roots and rocks, all the while fighting off the panic that threatened to consume him. He was sure his mind was playing tricks on him, that the sound of heavy paws, of twigs snapping and trees swaying had to be from the wind. Had to be.
The hairs on the back of Buggy’s neck raised once again, and now Buggy started running. It felt as through something was terribly close, like he could hear growls and panting if he paused for long enough. He wouldn’t. Branches whipped his face, shoulders slammed into dense trees, but he didn’t feel a thing. The only thing he cared about was getting out of this damned forest and back into town.
Another howl. Much much closer. Loud enough to make Buggy curse and jolt. He could hear snuffling and the wet plap of a lolling tongue. Buggy sprinted as fast as he could, chest heaving, his body struggling to pull in air, terror seizing his lungs. He tripped and slid against the forest floor, hands and knees struggling to find purchase. A low deep growl sounded behind him and Buggy couldn't breathe. He shot up and kept going. Otherwise he knew that whatever was hunting him would catch up.
His side ached, he could only manage sharp wheezing gasps but he pushed himself. If he could just get out of this forest, he felt like he’d be safe. He had to make it to town, to get to his ship. Get out. The forest started to become more sparse, the moonlight leaking through small gaps in the leaves and Buggy followed their growing glow like a lifeline. He was close, he could feel it. So close to safety. He couldn’t hear the beast, and it spurred him on. Maybe he lost it. Whatever the case, he wouldn’t stop running.
There. Over the hill he could see the glitter of lights from the town, could see the vast darkness of the nighttime ocean. Relief washed over him and he let out a crazed laugh. Finally. He was going to need a drink after this. He broke past the forest and into the brush of tall grasses. He gave himself a reprieve, clutching his knees as he sucked in air, trying hard not to pass out. He steadied his breathing and started making his way through the small field. Hopefully there was a path to town. It didn’t matter. He’d roll down the hill if he had to. Anything to get away from that cursed forest.
Something solid slammed into him, dropping him to the ground so suddenly he felt something snap in the arm caught underneath of him. Pain radiated up his forearm and he tried desperately to move off it, but the heavy pressure only pushed him harder into the ground, making him cry out. Something cold and wet touched the back of his neck and he stayed still. Hot breath tickled his hair, washed over his skin with a sickening heat. Buggy couldn’t move, even if he wanted to. He felt like time slowed down, like his heart itself paused its beating.
Sharp teeth sank into his shoulder and he screamed, the fangs like daggers, cutting through his clothes and skin like paper. His shoulder felt warm, soaked with blood, washed with the hot breath of the beast.
“Let go!” Buggy cried in a panicked plea. But the beast’s teeth sank in so deep that Buggy swore he was touching bone. The creature yanked his head back and his shoulder popped out from his socket, skin tearing. It was agony, Buggy retched from the sudden terrible pain, the smell of blood filling his senses. He clawed at the ground with his good arm, desperately attempting to drag himself away. If he could only get on his feet, he could run.
But as he pushed himself he felt lightheaded, his vision spotting. Buggy grit his teeth and summoned the last of his strength. He pulled his legs up under his body and shoved backward, forcing the beast backward, but it didn’t release his arm, only pulling harder like a sick game of tug-of-war. Buggy couldn’t release his arm from the beast’s maw, and made the terrible decision to leave it. The beast could have it, as long as it let him go. He pulled sharply but the pain was too much, too overwhelming. It brought him to his knees, a dizzying wave of nausea prevented him from moving. The beast pulled sharply and his arm detached. Buggy nearly passed out, his stomach heaving, the hot surge of blood did nothing to stop the cold that gripped him. He felt so weak, dizzy, but he pushed away from the beast, stumbling, trying hard to run but he felt lopsided, too heavy on one side. He didn’t make it far, the beast pushed him onto his back and Buggy’s head slammed into the ground, making stars sparkle in his vision. He tried to blink them away but he could barely keep his eyes open. He looked into the face of the beast. Red fur, wolf-like, terrifyingly huge and vicious looking. It had three long scars over its left eye. Missing a left arm too. Like...
Buggy breathed in sharply, tears he didn’t realize were falling, soaked his face.
“Sh-shanks?” He whispered, the realization hitting him.
The beast growled, its teeth clamping down on Buggy’s neck, but he’d already passed out, the trauma too much, the blood loss forcing his body to sleep. Shanks picked Buggy up by his neck and shook his unmoving body until there was a snap. He dropped the lifeless body and sniffed it, ensuring it wouldn't move again. He was so hungry and his prey smelled so good. He tore and shred and ate and ate and ate until his maw was bloodied and his belly was full.
...
Shanks shivered, the chill of the morning was even more sharp against his bare skin. He was naked, and suddenly remembered why. He shot up, with a gasp, looking down at himself. He was covered in dried blood, naked as the day he was born. Beside him was a severed arm, mostly gristle left with white bone shining through at certain points. His stomach dropped, guilt and fear sat like a lead weight. He hurt someone. Again. Gods he prayed it was only an arm. Slowly he stood, his whole body aching from his intense night. He had to find who the arm belonged to. He had to make it right.
He glanced around, attempting to re-orient himself. In the distance was the ocean, the town. Close to Buggy. He could even see the clown pirate’s jolly roger waving in the wind, down along the other ships docked there, his own on the other end. He couldn’t think about him right now, not while he had to retrace his steps from last night.
He looked behind him at the forest, quiet and cool, barely a breeze so it looked unnaturally still. He remembered the forest. But not as the beast. As the man who had struggled to run from it. He failed. Like so many other things in his life. He looked down at the arm. It was fresh. A disturbing trophy from his hunt. He didn’t want to look at it any more. He skimmed his eyes over the field, hoping for clues as to the fate of the person he stole the arm from. There were a few gaps in the tall grass, likely from him hunting last night. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself to check them. Maybe if he was lucky he’d be able to find scraps of his clothes nearby.
He waded through the grass, the stiff stalks scratching his waist and thighs, the ground freezing against his bare feet as he hesitantly stepped closer and closer to the first opening. He glanced down. Bloody pawprints. His. He shook his head and moved on. That was probably the leftover from the poor bastard who lost his arm.
It felt harder to take the next step, the weight of his self-loathing like an anvil around his neck. He had a responsibility, to keep himself away from others, to manage the beast, but once again he failed. Couldn’t even do something as simple as pay attention to the moon. He pinched the space between his eyes, warding off the tears that wanted to come. This wasn’t the time for self-pity. He maimed someone. He shouldn’t be so selfish.
He resolved himself once more, but as he approached the next open space, he noticed a lot more blood. There were bits of clothing strewn around. He bent down to look at the scraps. They were ruined, rusted with dried blood, tattered from his teeth and claws. Worse, they weren’t his. He didn’t wear colors like this, what little could shine through the dirt and grime. His gaze was drawn over to the last opening. He watched it, trepidation keeping him rooted. Fear began to settle, and suddenly he felt colder than the early morning chill. He let out a shaky breath, the warmth of it clouding the air, reminding him where he was.
Avoiding a problem doesn’t make it go away.
A lesson he learned long ago. He could barely feel his hand and feet now, the cold settling in to the point of numbness. He was grateful for it. It was better than the ache in his chest, than the sharp grip of dread. He knew before he even saw it. He knew when he saw the arm, really. It wore a glove, the same one he’d held in his own hand, the soft leather unforgettable. But he didn’t want to believe it. He was always great at pretending.
He closed his eyes when he saw the legs. Just for a moment longer, he could pretend. With his eyes closed, he could pretend he didn’t know who the legs belonged to. But his body wouldn’t let him delude himself. Grief seized his throat, impossible to swallow, hard to draw breath. He was choking on his own agony.
He stood in place, shaking from head to toe, eyes squeezed shut so tight it hurt. His eyes burned, threatening to leak the tears that welled. He sucked in a breath so sharply it stung his lungs, the air rattling like a death knell.
He opened his eyes. Through the blur, he could see Buggy’s shoes. Unmistakable.
He could feel the hot tears searing his skin as they made trails down his cheeks. His throat vibrated, he was sure he was making sound, but he couldn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. If there was even a chance, a hope that he could still help him, it died when he laid eyes on Buggy’s hollow chest. He saw bone, bloodied and white, his soft intestines missing, revealing his spine. There was nothing left inside of him. It was inside of Shanks now.
He dragged his gaze up to Buggy’s face, nearly left untouched. Shanks could almost pretend he was sleeping. He dropped down to his knees and reached out a tentative hand, fingers brushing Buggy’s cheek: icy. He ran his fingers through his blue hair, messy and bloodied. He’d done this motion so many times, starting at his scalp and going down to his shoulder. There was no soft smile for him now, no huff of annoyance, no warmth.
He could hear it now, the wailing. This was all his fault. Buggy was right to leave him. All he knew how to do was hurt, destroy. Shanks curled into himself, coughing sobs forcing themselves out along with the torrent of tears. He cupped Buggy’s face in his hands and pressed their foreheads together, dripping hot tears over his cold lifeless skin.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He sobbed, holding onto him like he would disappear.
The silence he received was unnerving. Buggy always has something to say. Had.
Shanks grit his teeth so hard against the wave of pain and guilt, he thought they would shatter. He scooped Buggy against his chest and held him tight. He felt so wrong. Too heavy. Too light. Too still. It didn’t matter.
Shanks sat on the cold hard ground and clutched Buggy tight, petting his blue hair as he cried into his torn shoulder. He sat there and pet his hair until the sun warmed his skin, until he could hear voices, until a gentle hand laid on his shoulder. And even then, he didn’t let go. He’d never let go.