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Shanks was impressed with himself. Buggy was also impressed with Shanks, but like fuck was he going to show it.
The Red Force towered over them, imposing, foreboding, and appropriately crimson. The sails were deep white and billowing in the wind, the Jolly Roger flapping and unfurling, the dye of the three scars so saturated they still looked like fresh blood. The thick ropes creaked as the ship bobbed on the waves.
Buggy wasn’t looking up at any of it. He was gazing down the barrel of one of the cannons, a black tunnel filling his vision. The bronze barrel stared back, empty and unloving as staring into the abyss.
He reached out and touched it, the surface oddly smooth in its newness. Every cannon Buggy had ever fired - from the Oro Jackson to his own Big Top - the cannons were well-used, gritty with rust and residue gunpowder. He couldn’t afford shiny new cannons. Best he could hope for was stolen or scrapped, with a scrub down and a lick of paint. This cannon seemed oddly pale in the same way a newborn seems oddly rosy.
“It’s beautiful,” he mumbled.
“Ain’t it?” Shanks looked down from his own ship as he spoke to see Buggy caressing his canon. His self-assured smile softened into fondness.
Buggy's own smile dropped just as fast. “The fuck you mean “Ain’t it”? You’re this proud of a boat? You came all this way to show me your fucking boat, with its fucking new paint job and its fucking sails and its fucking cannons?” he stroked the cannon again at the word, “What is this, compensating?”
Shanks laughed. “I’m agreeing with you, Blue.”
“You don’t know what I was calling beautiful! Maybe, uh, maybe a really cool fish jumped outta the water!”
“Did it?”
“No, but that’s not the point!”
Shanks laughed again. He took Buggy by the arm and led the way onto the deck. Buggy spluttered and protested the whole way as if his pace wasn’t matching Shanks’ with ease.
The cannons were as beautiful from the deck as they had been from the port, and every last one was shiny and new, touched only by the hands that installed them. Shanks had wiped them as they’d come into port, his crew teasing him just as affectionately as when he’d changed his bedding that morning and put a bottle of rum in his cabin.
Buggy twirled, the cannons seeming to glitter in his eyeline, unable to pick which to run to first. His kilt swirled around him, a pale pink fabric with a yellow tartan so close in saturation it was difficult to see. The fabric reached just below his knee, worn with the appropriate socks with pink ribbon peaking out the fold, as they’d been taught in Alba where the kilt had originated. Buggy was keeping the fold of his socks in place with Roger’s Jolly Roger, the curled moustache hiding the pin.
It was the softest Shanks had ever seen him, and it made his heart light in his chest. Buggy could lead a soft life in the East Blue, dressing in pale colours without fear of drenching them in blood. He could twirl and dance, carefree and at ease. It was a life Shanks yearned for. It was a life Buggy deserved.
Shanks grabbed Buggy by the arm, “There’s more,” he said, “Come look.”
Before Buggy could protest or complain or throw one of his tantrums at being told what to do – especially by Shanks – Shanks dragged him into the cabin. Inside was lit by candles, the rum placed strategically by a candle so Buggy could see its label and year in the light, bottle of lube barely tucked behind. The curtains were drawn. The bed was made, together with one of the plushies Buggy had made in their youth sat atop the pile of pillow like a king surveying his domain. Several candles sat atop the dresser Shanks had had installed, the random bits of make-up hidden in the drawer after Mihawk’s dry comments on his lack of understanding about make-up.
Buggy's make-up wasn’t the kind that could be bought at a counter – he made it himself, flowers and powders and balms mixed into pastes only Buggy had the chemistry expertise to be sure was safe to use. He was wearing it in flicks today; a flat white base with pastel pink and yellow and blue flicked in vague diamonds around his eyes, his Jolly Roger tattoo on his forehead cut back out. His lips were pink with a blue line, his blush was yellow, his eyebrows were blue as his hair. It was an art piece more than a mask, experimental and intentionally odd, the flicks clinging to the uncoverable nose in a mosaic of colour.
“What are you showing me?” Buggy snapped.
Shanks pulled him in close and pressed a kiss to his lips. Buggy tensed with irritation, but as Shanks wrapped both arms around him he melted into the hold. Shanks pulled Buggy's shirt open as he pushed him to the bed.
The bed sank under them. Shanks had picked out the bedding, a soft cotton in a pale blue gingham like the hammocks they’d had as boys, smaller than the rest of the crews and almost cute. Shanks had been eager to grow out of his, but Buggy kept his until he was sleeping with both legs fully hanging out of it and had still cussed Shanks out for replacing it.
Buggy rolled them both over. His hair was loose, and it framed his face in the candlelight. Shanks sometimes found himself thinking dreamily about Buggy's hair; it suited him in a way he found it hard to describe. Mihawk’s hair suited him because it was so stark, sharp black against his pale skin. Buggy's hair suited him in a soft way, brightening him without oversaturating him, like sunlight filtering through crystal clear water.
Shanks giggled as Buggy stripped him, first his shirt then opening his trousers. Buggy’s hands were caressing him like they’d missed him, like they’d never noticed the tantrum Buggy threw every time the Roger boys saw each other. The fingers that had curled into his shirt to shake him were now cupping him, teasing trails up his balls and down in his shaft in a smooth motion, as if he’d been practicing to see him again.
Buggy's lips were still on his and Shanks let him lead the kiss, Buggy's tongue mapping out Shanks’ teeth as if he could forget their layout. Shanks ran both hands up Buggy's thighs, the limbs toned with acrobatics, and Shanks once again thanked any deity listening for guiding Buggy to his home in the circus.
True to their days in Alba, Buggy wasn’t wearing anything under his kilt. Shanks’ chuckle was swallowed by Buggy's kiss, and he began to copy Buggy's movements on Buggy's own cock. Buggy sighed into Shanks’ mouth, a minute smile pulling on the corner of his lips.
They both jumped in shock as someone hammered at the door. “Captain! Marines! We’re under attack!”
Shanks was still trying to unpick who exactly had said that, who exactly had interrupted them, as Buggy jumped up, his shirt open. He dove out of the room, pulling a thin pen from his shirt pocket and twisting his gathered hair around it with as much natural ease as breathing.
Reluctantly, Shanks followed, rebuttoning his trousers. True enough, a Marine ship was headed for the otherwise peaceful East Blue island.
“Maybe they’re just passing through,” Shanks called out to the crew, “Just refuelling.”
Buggy was straddling one of the cannons, a cannonball sat in his palm like it didn’t weigh 30 pounds. “What?”
“I’m just saying, don’t give ‘em a reason to fight it they’re not here for one.”
“Red-Haired Shanks,” someone boomed through a megaphone, their voice so warped Shanks couldn’t have recognised them if they’d been his lifelong best friend, “You are under arrest on behalf of Dame Barrymore of West Craven Caves…”
The voice seemed to dim as Buggy looked back at Shanks, eyebrows raised in a mix of “I told you so” and “Gimme the nod”. And nod Shanks did.
Buggy loaded the cannon like it was a reflex. He straddled it to adjust it, his stance wide and his back rolling under his open shirt. His kilt covered the cannon as he moved, and Shanks knew without looking that he was biting the tip of his tongue.
The Marine ship was still approaching. Its captain or admiral or whoever was in charge was still rambling down the megaphone. Shanks was still staring at Buggy as he shuffled back to bend over the cannon.
The cannon fired. It hit the Marine ship right in the middle of its open-mouthed skull of a figurehead, ploughing clean through the wood. The Marines had to dive off the ship as the deck split open, splinters of wood following them as if it was trying to claw them back. The cannonball didn’t reach the other side, slowing and stopping just behind the mast. And exploded.
The mast fell without warning, the sails billowing out and sagging into the water. The ship tried to sail forwards without it, pushed by the tide rather than a will of its own, and as it tried to drag the mast with it the mast dragged back. The ship tilted a little, then a bit more, then a bit more, then as the greedy ocean beat against the wood it tilted a lot more. And then it was on its side, its crew swimming away in every direction.
Buggy was half bent, half squatted over his cannon of choice. Shanks ran to join him in watching as the ship sank, the displacement causing a powerful suction that dragged more than half of its fleeing crew in and down with it.
“Fuck, Buggy,” Shanks whispered.
Buggy was grinning wide, his hands gripping the shaft of the cannon with excitement. His kilt was still splayed over the cannon’s base as Buggy leant over it, craning his neck for the best view.
The Marine ship’s mast was still floating atop the water. As some of the Marines managed to drag themselves up from under the water, they clung to the wood like a raft, a few of them getting themselves trapped under the great sails.
Buggy went to stand. “Fuck!”
“Hm?” Shanks tore his eyes from the Marines.
Buggy was squatting awkwardly, tugging on his kilt. The cannon hadn’t been fully fastened down, a couple of the bolts missing at the back of the weapon. As it had launched, the force of the shot had made the cannon rock and it had come to settle on the edge of Buggy's kilt as he’d straddled it. And now he was trapped over it, pulling on the thick fabric.
Shanks burst into laughter. Buggy's head rose to him, boiling with fury.
“Don’t just fucking laugh at me!” Buggy snapped, “Help me move this thing!”
Shanks took hold of the cannon with both hands, pushing to try to rock it forwards. It was no use; the cannon was heavy and the edge of the kilt was well and truly stuck.
“Just take it off,” Shanks said, laugh still bouncing his words.
“In front of your fucking crew?!” Buggy snapped.
“They’ve seen me naked, they’re fine.”
“Yeah, but you’re a whore!”
Shanks laughed again. Buggy gave the cannon another push, and it still didn’t move.
“Try pulling on the kilt,” Shanks said.
“What do you think I’m doing?!”
“Look, just pull, and I’ll push, okay? One… two… three!”
Shanks pushed down on the cannon. Buggy gripped his kilt and pulled, throwing his weight back.
Buggy landed hard on the deck, his legs kicking up, and Shanks got a full view of his Buggy balls and shaft. The Red-Haired Pirate crew laughed into their hands. Buggy kicked and sat up.
A piece of the kilt, a couple of inches wider than the cannon on each side, was still underneath. Threads of the fabric blew in the wind, thin and pathetic. Buggy smoothed his hands over the kilt. The piece had come from the top layer of the kilt, almost reaching the whole way around it, the rip just a couple of inches above the hem. Buggy's hands shook, his head bowed.
“Shit, Blue,” Shanks said, hands still on the cannon, “I’ll buy you a new kilt.”
“Like fuck you will!” Buggy jumped to his feet like he hadn’t been on the verge of tears, shaking his fist like those tears hadn’t squeezed out and left tracks down his painted cheeks, “I don’t need shit from you, Red-Hair! You fucking hear me, you flashy bastard? I don’t need your shit!”
Shanks broke into laughter again. Buggy seized him by the arms and shook him, still yelling. The crew were still laughing into their hands.
“Come on,” Shanks said, his hands on Buggy's chest, “Let’s go get a drink. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate fucking what, exactly?!” Buggy snapped in his face.
“A fight avoided. I’ve got rum. You saw it, right?”
“Of course I saw, you flashy bastard!” and Buggy dragged Shanks back to the cabin.
Shanks pounced on him before the door had clicked closed. Buggy staggered and flopped onto the bed with an exaggerated oof, Shanks on top of him.
“You’re so hot when you’re protecting me, Blue,” Shanks murmured.
Buggy rolled his eyes and tried to shove Shanks off. He was pinned face down, his legs splayed, Shanks’ body heavy on his back.
“Straddling my cannon,” Shanks rolled his hips, grinding into the small of Buggy's back, “Bent over in your skirt…”
“It’s a kilt,” Buggy snapped.
“And shooting off over the sea.”
“You’re fucking gross!” Buggy managed to roll them and tried to jump up, reaching for the rum.
He barely swiped it before Shanks pulled him down into his lap, both arms tight around Buggy's waist. Shanks peppered Buggy's neck with kisses, pulling Buggy's shirt open.
Buggy sighed, somewhere between irritation and acceptance. He ripped the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spat it out and took a loud glug from it. He swapped the hand holding the bottle to dump his shirt on the floor.
Bottle lowered, Shanks rolled them both again. He took up the bottle of lube that had been behind the rum and squeezed some onto his fingers.
Buggy arched his back to take another drink without choking. Shanks found himself marvelling at the shift of Buggy's back, the roll of the spine and shoulders, the muscles pulling with ease. Buggy had always been the bendier of them both, taking to acrobatics with ease, cartwheeling at the top the mast and walking on his hands on the deck to avoid leaving shoeprints and folding himself into tiny corners, achieving amazing feats even before his devil fruit. The circus was a natural habitat for him; Shanks had known it since they were young. As angry as Buggy had been at the suggestion, it had been a homecoming for him, and he’d fit into his role as comfortably as he fits his gloves.
Shanks gave Buggy's hole a soft stroke before he pressed a finger in. Buggy sighed, shifting to kneel and bow low to rest his arms on the mattress, bottle propped up in his clenched hand. He peered over his shoulder at Shanks, his kilt flipped up his back.
Buggy grunted as Shanks worked him open. Shanks leant over him to steal the bottle of rum and Buggy released it with only a half-hearted “Fuck off”.
Shanks took only a quick drink before he put the rum down and returned his full attention to Buggy. Buggy sighed as Shanks thrust his fingers a little faster, pressing his ass back into Shanks.
“Spread your legs for me, Blue,” Shanks mumbled, “Nice and wide.”
Buggy tutted but did. He hummed with pleasure as he spread himself open for Shanks.
Shanks shoved his trousers off, vaguely aware he hadn’t even fastened them before dashing out to deal with the attack. He gave himself only a quick stroke of lube before he lined himself up.
Buggy gasped. He wasn’t quite ready, his hole still tight on Shanks’ cock. Shanks groaned at the warmth, his hands tight on Buggy's hips.
“Shanks – fuck!” Buggy choked out, “Go easy – Red!”
His whines, pitchy and pouty, only spurred Shanks to fuck him harder. Their hips knocked against each other, thrusts firm.
Buggy's fingers curled into the sheets, his mouth chattering with gasps of “Shanks – ah – Shanks!” his mouth barely able to form the words before another moan was forced out of him.
Shanks fucked him deep, watching the way Buggy's shoulder’s rolled, his neck craned as his back arched, the way his messy bun slowly unravelled with each thrust. He almost regretted dragging him into the cabin, the candlelight too low to be the spotlight Buggy deserved. He should have taken his chance at the cannon, Buggy held still by its weight, his hands gripping the shaft, his body bent over the still-warm weapon.
Maybe it was for the best Buggy wasn’t a permanent fixture aboard the Red Force, wasn’t bolted down like the cannons should be. Shanks would have to stay sat on his hands not to bend Buggy over every last cannon, christen every last one with a bulls-eye blast and an adrenaline-fuelled fuck, regardless of the crew seeing him or not. They knew Shanks was a whore. They knew Buggy was Shanks’.
Shanks came with a gasp, quicker than he’s meant to. Buggy pulled away from him, jerking himself to orgasm, his back still arched, the shadows between his muscles deep in the flickering light.
Buggy rolled over, and his hand detached to seize up the rum again. Shanks laughed.
“Love the kilt, babe,” Shanks said.
“Fuck off,” Buggy said.
“Love the guard dog behaviour, too.”
“You callin’ me a bitch or something?!”
And Shanks laughed as Buggy laid into him again.
On the deck, the Red Force’s shipwright tried to rescue the piece of kilt, only for the fabric to keep fraying and unravelling in his fingers. In the end, he gave up and just bolted the cannon down over it, initially planning on not telling Shanks but inevitably telling him anyway as they pulled away from Orange Town. Shanks’ face had lit up; now the cannon that Buggy had christened would always have a little piece of him. Now Shanks’ favourite cannon would have its own marker.
Over the years, the fabric lost its colour in the sun and the rain. Newcomers and guests were warned not to move it. it would be many years before it would become dislodged, the rectangular piece directly under the cannon protected from fading.
Buggy still wore the kilt, simply re-hemming the missing piece and adorning it with safety pins. He never thought of Shanks when he wore it, but of the brand-new cannon still slick under his hands, the easy load of it’s first shot, the virginal rock under him.