Chapter Text
The pain is what wakes him up.
Buggy gasps, sitting up, trying to force air into his lungs. It feels like something very heavy is crushing his chest, making every breath tortuous, every attempt to drag more air in making him feel like he’s being stabbed from the inside; like his ribs have been shattered and are now painfully digging into the organs they’re supposed to protect.
Sitting up provides some measure of relief, but just barely. He continues breathing, because there’s nothing else to do, and slowly the pain eases somewhat, or maybe he just gets used to it.
His skin feels clammy and he’s sweating profusely, but if he has a fever, he doesn’t know it. All he feels is the freezing cold, his body slowly growing numb, the cold so sharp that it feels like he’ll never be warm again, frozen needles traveling through his veins, stealing the heat from his body.
He pulls the covers closer to him, but he already knows it won’t help one bit. He’s been feeling like this for days, the pain only getting worse with each passing day. He shivers violently and he can feel tears pooling in his eyes, the pain slowly becoming more focused. It feels like his chest has been hollowed out, his heartbeat slowing to the point of it being concerning, the pain growing more acute.
It feels like punishment somehow. Perhaps it is: gods know he deserves it. After everything--
Don’t think about him! He chides himself, but it’s too late, Shanks’s memory coming to the forefront of his mind. The pain flares, as if someone had reached into his chest and was viciously squeezing his heart, sharp nails digging into the soft tissue.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
The memories start playing inside his head, like a carousel, showing some of their best moments. He feels like he can remember every smile, every laugh, every shy kiss. A smile comes unbidden to his lips, the memories tasting bittersweet: he had been so happy once, if only--
His stomach turns and he ends up emptying it next to the bed. He groans dramatically, looking down at the mess, knowing he needs to get up and clean, but his body feels heavy. The pain, once so sharp, has receded somewhat, but it’s not gone, not completely.
He forces himself out of the bed, going to get a mop and a bucket. It’s not the first time he’s been sick these last few days, so he’s made a point of keeping one close by, but once he’s done he has to go wash it out, lest it starts stinking of vomit. He waddles down the corridor, holding onto the walls for support, feeling lighthearted and once he reaches the stairs, he seriously considers leaving it all for tomorrow him: this is a problem he doesn’t feel like dealing with tonight.
But if the sickness continues to progress as it has, he doesn’t have many expectations for tomorrow.
Once he emerges above deck, he’s greeted by darkness, the waxing moon providing very little light thanks to the heavy clouds. The sea breeze blows lazily, barely ruffling his loose hair and so providing little comfort for his heavy body.
He looks upwards, staring at the stars distractedly. He can't remember the last time he lied down on deck just to watch them and a wave of longing threatens to drown him.
What is he doing, really?
He thinks back to Captain's execution, in his mind eye he can see the swords coming down, can feel the ghost of Shanks’s warmth at his side. The pain returns and he sighs: he shouldn't have left the other teen behind.
But what else could he possibly have done? After Shanks said… what he said , what hope was there for them? If he could turn his back on something as huge, why wouldn't he do the same to Buggy later?
You’ve got to leave before you get left, he tells himself, but with each passing day, he believes it less and less.
He wonders, not for the first time, if his mysterious illness is punishment for his crimes. He ran away, leaving the other teen practically stranded on an island swarming with Marines and other dangerous pirates. Between the two of them, Shanks has always been the strongest, but against what other enemies might be out there--
Well.
He's fine, he tells himself as the pain seizes him once more, making him double over before he falls onto his knees, fighting for breath. He needs to worry about himself, he has no time to worry about that idiot.
But as he sinks on his knees, the world getting darker as consciousness slips away, he can't help wishing Shanks was here.
Some days are better than others, but he knows this isn't sustainable. He needs to find a cure for whatever odd illness he's contracted: sailing on his own was never going to be easy, but sailing while he's just a moment away from fainting…
Well. That's just suicidal.
He's been looking for a doctor, really. Every island he’s stopped at for provisions, he's made sure to visit the local doctor, but so far none of them have managed to provide any answers, just shaking their heads sadly and suggesting he tries his luck at a bigger island.
Bigger islands come with more dangers though and he’s in no state to put on any semblance of a fight. But even if he was willing to risk it, he fears he might not find a cure anyway: whatever is happening to him, it's nothing like any other sickness he's ever even heard of. His best shoot might be looking in the Grand Line, but--
He shivers just thinking about it. The Grand Line is no place for the likes of him.
He sits on deck and forces himself to breathe as another cold spell takes over him. He hugs his legs close for comfort, crying softly to himself as his body is wrecked with the pain of a thousand frozen needles piercing through his every limb.
He’s scared and in pain and alone. Not for the first time, he wishes Captain had never given that gods-forsaken order, that he still had his family , that there was someone to hold him and tell him everything is going to be fine .
(He wishes Shanks wasn’t a fucking liar . So much for his promises of always being by his side.)
The trip up the Reverse Mountain is as hellish as he remembered it. Made worse, perhaps, by the fact that a) he’s the one manning the ship on his own and b) his small ship is barely a step above a dingy, nowhere near as sturdy as the Oro and therefore far easier to topple over, which would be bad enough for any expert swimmer, but it’s twice as bad for a devil fruit user like himself.
But the ice that has settled underneath his bones is far worse. He doesn’t want to die, but if death is the only way to escape this torment… well, then it’s not much of a choice, is it? He’ll either be dead or wishing for death soon , and if there’s one thing Buggy learned while sailing with Roger was to never accept his fate lying on his back, to always put on a fight.
(Even if, you know, he was a liar too . Because the man that was executed in Loungetown certainly hadn’t put on a fight.)
Lady Luck is a fickle mistress, but she likes Buggy well enough and so, against all odds, she delivers him safely to the Grand Line. His eyes water up at the sight of the peaceful waters of Paradise (or well, what passes as peaceful in the Grand Line) and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to soldier on.
It’s gonna be fine , he tells himself as the icy needles dig themselves into his very bones, his chest caving in, stealing his breath. He’ll find a doctor who can tell him what the fuck is wrong with him and then he’ll get a cure.
(He doesn’t really believe that. But maybe if he repeats it enough times, he will. )
Drum Island is well known for having some of the best doctors in the world. Buggy was never a fan of winter islands, but it’s even worse now: with the cold that has settled in his bones, the island’s weather makes his whole body ache, every breath making pain shoot up his spine.
If he doesn’t find a cure here…
Well. He supposes he’s as good as dead, then. He knows he can not continue sailing, knows his body won’t hold much longer. The pain flares at random intervals, following no discernible pattern, the intensity varying: sometimes it’s just a mild annoyance, sometimes so terrible that it makes him puke or lose consciousness. He feels weakened, feverish, empty inside.
(It reminds him how alone he is)
Drum’s doctors might be the very best, but they are as out of answers as any other ones he saw before. To go looking for the witch , as the locals call her, is a desperate move on his part, his body protesting with every step he takes up the bloody mountain and as he stands outside the woman’s house, he wonders if, perhaps, he should just accept his fate and go lie down.
The pain in his chest certainly suggests that’s the wisest course of action.
Dr. Kureha examines him with painstakingly thoroughness, not saying a word. After describing his symptoms and answering her questions, the woman had looked properly intrigued and as she checks him over, her eyes are alight with morbid curiosity. She isn’t gentle and she has no bedmanner, but honestly, Buggy is in no state to care about those ridiculous things, so he endures the woman’s examination in silence, only complaining every time the pain flares up.
“Most intriguing,” Dr. Kureha says, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “If you had to pick one place where the pain seems stronger, what would you say?”
It’s a stupid question, honestly. The answer is everywhere.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me that, kid. Focus: where it hurts worst?”
Buggy scowls, but complies. If he had to pick one place-- “The chest,” he replies finally and Dr. Kureha nods, as if she had known all along. Perhaps she had and that gives Buggy hope.
She presses one finger in between his sternum. It doesn’t hurt, despite the force behind the touch which is… odd. Shouldn’t that make the pain flare up? “Does it feel like your chest has caved in? As if there was a hole in it?”
Buggy nods eagerly, hope creeping in, because if she knows what he has… surely she can offer a cure?
Dr. Kureha pulls away, lips turned downward briefly before she quickly recovers her detached manner. “ Huh . I wasn’t aware men could contract it,” she muses to herself as she goes looking for something in the shelves. “Then again, they’re not even supposed to exist, so…”
“What?” he asks, sitting up, a mighty frown on his face. The locals had warned him Dr. Kureha was odd , perhaps a tad nut s, but they assured him she was one of the bests, so--
“What do you know about your parents?” she asks, ignoring his own question and Buggy’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest, making him wince. “I thought as much,” she says, nodding to herself. “Abandoned?”
Buggy nods curtly, looking away. “What does that have to do with this?”
Dr. Kureha hands him a vial and he takes it gingerly. Normally, he’d be wary of any drink a stranger offers, but just then pain shoots across his chest, making him double over and so he hurries to shallow it up as soon as the pain recedes enough for him to sit back again. “Kujas are notoriously cage-y about their culture and customs,” Dr. Kureha says, leaning against the wall. “Amazon Lily is an island of women, but since children can be found and they have survived for centuries, logic says they must reproduce somehow. Now, some animal species have developed clever methods for conception that do not require males, but as far as the medical community has been allowed to study them, Kujas are like your average woman, just prettier.” Buggy hums, uncertain of where this is going, but it’s clear Dr. Kureha can not be rushed and trying to press for answers will only earn him her ill will. “So, conception must happen the regular way. But then a new question arises: how can you ensure only daughters will be conceived? Men are the ones who carry the chromosomes that assign sex at birth and while-- debatable-- there are ways to increase the odds of conception of a son or a daughter, there’s no real guarantee. Now, it is possible that Kujas have developed some genetic oddity that allow their bodies to destroy any sperm carrying the “Y” chromosome but--”
“Can you get to the point?” Buggy asks, because honestly, he has no idea, nor any interest in whatever the woman is babbling about. He had helped Crocus at the infirmary from time to time, but that was mostly because he was angry at, and therefore avoiding , Shanks, rather than because he had any interest in medical matters.
The pain in his chest is worse this time around and he gasps for breath as his chest seems to collapse into itself. He had thought Dr. Kureha’s medicine had provided some measure of relief, but clearly his few moments of peace were just a fluke.
“You’ve just thought of someone,” Dr. Kureha states and Buggy pursues his lips unhappily. The doctor huffs, amused, shaking her head. “As I was saying… if selective conception isn’t the answer, that only leaves us with one possible answer to our little conundrum: it’s not that Kujas don’t birth boys, they just don’t raise them.”
Buggy blinks, processing the implications. “Are you suggesting my mother was Kuja?”
Dr. Kureha hums. “I suppose it’s possible your father was the one with Kuja’s blood, but you’ve just told me you don’t know anything about your parents,” she says, matter-of-factly. “So yes, if I was a gambler-- and I’m not-- my money would be in your mother.”
Fucking hell. He has no idea how to feel about that. For many years he wondered about his parentage, but-- “Wait. You arrived at this conclusion… how?”
Dr. Kureha sighs, picking the bottle she had discarded earlier on her desk, her earlier enthusiasm while discussing reproductive habits somewhat dimmed. “Your sickness,” she replies and Buggy’s stomach clenches. “I suspect it’s love sickness.”
“That’s impossible,” Buggy replies, because he is familiar with the condition: he had seen the way Shakky had seemed to waste away as she and Rayleigh--
No. It’s just not possible.
“We don’t know how the sickness works,” Dr. Kureha says matter-of-factly. “As I said, Kujas are notoriously closed off to the world and, as far as I know, no one has gotten to study the aliment up close.”
“There’s no cure,” Buggy says, suddenly terrified.
The doctor sighs. “From what we know, nothing other than reciprocated affection. What I gave you earlier… It'll help with the pain, but it’s palliative. If you live, you’ll be forever in pain.”
Buggy scoffs. “If I live,” he hisses sarcastically. “Love sickness is deadly.”
Dr. Kureha offers him a rueful smile and Buggy groans, burying his face in his hands. He’s not Kuja, his mother had left him behind with no clue of who she was… but she gave him her blood and with it, the curse of her people.
Just his luck.
Love sickness.
Of all the things in this world, of all the deadly things that could have killed him, it has to be something as stupid as love. He almost wishes Dr. Kureha had left him as in the dark as every other doctor before her had; he can’t decide if knowing for sure that he’s going to die is any better than the uncertainty of not knowing what was going on with him.
Before, at least, he had had hope. Now--
Dr. Kureha is right, there’s not much information out there about love sickness , all he has to go by are stories and rumors and what he himself had seen of Shakky and Rayleigh’s “relationship”, which isn’t much honestly: they had run into the former Empress a few times while sailing with Roger, but it’s not like he witnessed firsthand how things worked between them, had just heard all the whispered tales from their crewmates. He honestly hadn’t cared overly much; all that romance business seemed boring , but now he’s kinda wishing he had: perhaps Shakky’s story would have given him some clues on what to do now.
Still, he knows what he ought to do. He knows what course of action would provide some measure of hope at least: he needs to find Shanks.
But the mere thought makes him sick in his stomach and despite the pain in his chest, he refuses to subject himself to the humiliation of begging for affection. Shanks doesn’t want him, that’s a fact , and he won’t embarrass himself like that, nor will he place his former best friend into the position of forcing himself to love him in an effort to save his life. He’ll have to find another way.
And that means--
It’s time to make a call.
As it turns out, it’s not Rayleigh the one who answers the Den Den Mushi.
Considering he didn’t actually provide Buggy with his number and he had copied it from Crocus’s notes, he hadn’t had much hope he would talk to him, but since Shakky is the one who actually picks it up, it works out for the better really.
“I’m lovesick,” are the first words out of his mouth as soon as Shakky greets him and the following silence has him regretting all his life choices. Finally Shakky sighs sadly, asks him where he is and after telling her he’s in Drum, she informs him she’ll see him in a fortnight.
She arrives in ten days.
By then, the pain has gotten so bad that he barely eats and spends most of his day lying in bed. Dr. Kureha has been a good-ish host so far, offering him food and a place to stay when she could have simply sent him away after figuring out she couldn’t be of help. It’s partly because she’s curious about the sickness and this is a unique opportunity to witness how it progresses firsthand and partly guilt no doubt, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.
“Poor little fish,” Shakky says when he wakes up and finds her sitting next to the bed, running a hand through his hair gently. “I hadn’t thought men could get love sickness.”
There are many ways in which Buggy could reply to that, some more cutting than others, but honestly, he finds it’s no use: what would be the point of arguing with traditions that have been going on for millennia? “Did you know?” he asks, because, honestly, that’s the one question that keeps doing rounds inside his head. He has resigned himself to his fate (more or less), but he’d want to make peace with it too.
Shakky hums. “For what it's worth, Ray always wanted to tell you,” she says gently. “I kept telling him there was little point: if anything, the knowledge would only bring you pain.”
She’s not wrong about that. Still-- “Did you-- did you know my mother?”
“I brought you to Roger and his crew,” she replies, which isn’t the answer to his question, not quite. “Don’t pursue this line of questioning, little fish.”
Buggy bites his lip. He wants to know, but at the same time, he supposes he doesn’t . “Why did you come?” he asks instead and Shakky offers him a small sad smile.
“Why did you call?” Answering a question with another is rude , a fact Rayleigh would often remind them of, accompanied by a bump in the head. Buggy scowls and Shakky laughs goodnaturedly, but she still doesn’t reply, only waits for him to answer her own question.
Ugh. Adults . “I don’t wanna die,” Buggy confesses quietly, staring at his hands linked over his lap. He feels stupid and ridiculous, childish for wishing for the impossible, but--
Shakky’s smile is full of fondness, wistful as she reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind his ear. “Then don’t,” she tells him and Buggy scoffs, looking away slightly annoyed. “There are two ways to cure love sickness,” she continues and Buggy looks back to her, heart in his throat. “To have your love reciprocated,” she says and he resists the urge to scream, because really? he knew that one already. “Or for your beloved to die.”
Buggy blinks, processing and a second later a wave of nausea makes him heave, although nothing comes up, seeing he hasn’t eaten in the last couple of days. Still, bile burns his throat on its way up, leaving a nasty aftertaste in his mouth.
“No,” he says, shaking his head furiously, the mere thought bringing tears to his eyes. No, no, not that! How could that even help, when the mere idea of Shanks dead makes his chest squeeze painfully, makes it hard to breathe? How could he ever survive that?
Shakky shrugs non committedly and it occurs to him he said the last part out loud. “Love sickness is the breaking of the heart,” she replies with another shrug. “Hard for someone to break your heart when they’re dead.”
Buggy pulls his legs closer to himself, hugging them in an effort to comfort himself. “So death is my only option.”
Shakky tilts her head to the side, considering. “You said you didn’t want to die.”
“I’m not killing Shanks!” he screams. You might have gotten him killed, a voice whispers viciously in his ear, but he dismisses it: he’s not dead, he’d know it if he was.
Shakky hums, leaning back on her seat. “I knew there was no way I could take Ray down,” she mumbles, pulling out a cigarette from her jacket’s pocket. “I figured that if I played it dirty, I might succeed, but then Roger would hunt me down, so I’d be dead anyway,” she shrugs, pulling out her lighter, but not bringing it close, just toying with it for a beat.
Buggy makes a face. It’s not… he couldn’t take Shanks down either, of course, but that’s not what he meant. It’s not-- even if he could find a way to, he’d never--
You left him alone on an island full of enemies , the voice from earlier informs him and he shakes his head once again. He did , but it wasn’t his intention, he’d never-- he wouldn’t--
Shanks is fine , he tells himself with determination. He refuses to entertain any other scenario.
Shakky hums, bringing his attention back to the present and making him look in her direction once more. “I suppose your reluctance to harm him makes sense,” she says, finally lighting up her cigarette. “I also imagine that’s why you’re wasting away so quickly too: the deeper the emotion runs, the quicker the sickness spreads.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, wary, his age old insecurities springing forward. His strength (or lack of it) has always been a sore spot and--
Shakky takes a drag of her cigarette, holding the smoke in as she carefully considers her answer. “When I meet Ray… I had been sailing for almost a good decade with my sisters,” she says, which, again, is not an answer , but he suspects he’s better off not pointing it out. “I was drawn to his handsome looks and brutish strength and of course, the fact that he was an excellent lover helped too.” She laughs as Buggy winces in disgust: there are things he really really doesn’t want to know about his old mentor. “He was… an oddity . I had gotten used to men throwing themselves at my feet the minute they spotted me, readily handing over whatever I asked of them for something as simple as a smile,” she continues, a small amused smile playing on her lips. “Ray was much too levelheaded for that nonsense and much too busy keeping his Captain alive to be overly concerned with me. I liked that. It intrigued me .” She stands up, starting to pace the room. “Is that love, little fish? Curiosity? The desire to know someone better, to understand what goes inside their heads?”
She pauses, as if waiting for an answer and so Buggy gives it some thought. What is love, really? Does he know?
He thinks of Shanks and that bright grin he’d throw his way, making his heart speed up for no reason. He thinks of endless afternoons sitting together, talking about everything and nothing, easy laughter and shared secrets. His chest caves in, but he’s well used to the feeling by now and so he ignores the pain.
When he looks up once more, he finds Shakky giving him a soft smile. “For most of us, our love comes way past our teenage years and without that much of a build up,” she tells him, no longer waiting for his answer. “But yours, little fish, had years in the making. You grew up together and the feeling grew along with you.”
Memories spring forward then, of childish games and childish hurts. The good, the bad, the boring and the exciting. His heart squeezes in his chest, but it’s not painful, just full of longing.
Buggy rubs his chest absentmindedly. He still doesn’t want to die, but he supposes… it’s not as bad. At least, for a time, he knew happiness and honestly, what right does he have to want more?
(But he is a pirate at heart and he’s greedy . Good as the last decade has been, it’s not enough, could never possibly be enough.)
“There are only two ways to cure love sickness,” Shakky repeats and Buggy looks at her once more, frowning a bit at her tone. “But you can survive it, if you’re willing to put in the work.”
Oh. “What do I have to do?”
Shakky smiles ruefully. “It’s very simple, little fish,” she says, taking his hand in hers. “You need to want to live, more than you want him. You need to love life more than you love him .”
Well. That might be tricky.
I want… Buggy thinks and interrupts himself as he watches the sun sink behind the mountains. He’s cold, colder than what’s humanly possible, even bundled underneath the heavy rabbit fur Dr. Kureha lent him to use as a blanket, but the cold from the outside helps to distract him from the cold inside.
I want… he thinks again, watching how the sun paints the sky in shades of fiery red and orange. The answer comes easily: it’s obvious really. He wants the same thing he’s always wanted, but he needs to figure out a new one: he can’t have what he wants, so he must search for something else .
I want… treasure beyond my wildest imaginations. Gold, jewels, invaluable objects. I want… power and strength and recognition.
I want… (love).
It’s a start, he imagines. Not a very good one, but a start nonetheless. He can survive, he knows he can , because he really doesn’t want to die. He will not let his life get cut short by that idiot; he’s cost him plenty already, he won’t let him cost him his life too.
Shanks doesn’t want him, fine . He doesn’t need him.
He’ll survive this.
When he comes back in, Dr. Kureha is sitting in front of the fire, staring at the dancing flames, lost in thought. He tries to slide in unnoticed, but the woman looks up just then, giving him a quick once over before she scoffs, amused. “All these years of training and they do nothing, but a bit of positive thinking and voila! good as new.”
He scoffs, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Hardly,” he protests quietly. “I’m still freezing.”
“The cold will never leave,” Shakky says, walking into the room, carrying a whisky bottle with her, making Dr. Kureha raise an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t mind doctor, but few things warm the soul quite like whisky.”
Dr. Kureha snorts, gesturing for her to help herself and Buggy hesitates for a beat when she passes him a tumbler: Rayleigh would let them drink beer and pretend not to see when they stole some rum, but whiskey--
But hey, he might die soon, so what’s the harm? He takes the glass gingerly and takes the smallest of sips, a fact for which he’s grateful as soon as he swallows. The whisky burns all the way down, setting his stomach on fire in a most unpleasant manner.
Shakky’s smile is full of mirth, making Buggy scowl. He takes a bigger sip then, only to be contrary, but he can’t help the face he makes, which makes the woman laugh good naturedly. “As I said, whisky is good for warming up.”
“It tastes awful,” Buggy protests, placing the tumbler down. He frowns, considering her words. “Doesn’t it, really?” he asks, pulling the blanket tighter, hugging himself, feeling childish, but needing the comfort.
“No,” Shakky replies, serious and sad as she takes a sip of her own drink. “Closeness helps, but it’s always there,” she continues, swirling her glass distractedly. “You learn to live with it.”
Buggy sighs, going to sit with his back to the fire, letting it warm him up as much as possible. Dr. Kureha is watching him closely, lips pressed tightly, evidently unhappy and she startles a little when Shakky offers her a drink. The doctor huffs, taking the glass and raising it in a silent toast that Shakky returns.
For his part, Buggy buries himself deeper under his blanket. He’s never been good with the cold and to think it’ll never leave him now--
Gods, how he hates that bastard.
(And yet, how he wishes he was here.)
Buggy shivers, the cold in his bones overruling the warmth from the fire. Shakky hums, pulling him tighter against her chest, humming softly as she runs her fingers through his hair, in the most motherly gesture he’s ever seen from her. “It’ll come and go,” she tells him, scratching the nape of his neck. “You learn to live with it,” she repeats.
Buggy hums; his eyelids feel heavy, but sleep eludes him. It’s nice to be held like this though: Roger and Rayleigh had been affectionate in their own ways, but never cuddly. Buggy always craved a warm embrace, but never quite learned how to ask for it, not without feeling weak and pathetic for wanting .
He doesn’t know if Shanks ever figured it out or if he was just touchy by nature, but he’d often reach for him, throw an arm around his shoulders and pull him flushed against his side. At night, he’d insist on climbing in Buggy’s bed, claiming he slept better like that, since it was warmer, always waking up draped like an octopus around Buggy’s frame.
He shakes from the cold and burying himself against Shakky helps little. The woman holds him tighter, rubbing his back comfortingly. “There, there, little fish. Don’t think about him.”
By now he’s figured that thinking about Shanks triggers the pain and the cold, but not thinking about him is easier said than done. For so long he was such a big part of his life, it’s hard to think of anything of his past that doesn’t involve him in one way or another. “Why do you call me that?” he asks, hoping for a distraction.
Shakky’s lips curve upwards wistfully and she throws a quick glance in the direction Dr. Kureha disappeared an hour or so ago. The older woman had many questions about Kujas and the love sickness and while Shakky had answered most, she had kept her answers short and vague until the doctor scoffed and, figuring she wasn’t getting any more intel, had simply stayed to drink in silence.
Kujas are notoriously closed off about their ways and culture, so he’s not surprised by Shakky’s secrecy. He imagines that whatever she’s about to say pertains to their tribe, although Buggy isn’t sure if he has any right to claim them as his . His mother’s blood is what has cursed him to this awful torment, but-- “Kujas have two mothers; the one who carries us in their wombs and the ocean. We have our births in the water, so the babies can be introduced to their other mother; it’s considered unlucky otherwise,” she explains and her lips twist briefly at this, but she quickly recovers, shaking her head. “Swimming comes naturally to most babies, most can at least float somewhat, but you… you were blessed, little fish. You weren’t one of us, but your mother blessed you all the same.” She runs her fingers through his hair, wistfully staring at the blue strands. “She’ll never drown you.”
Buggy laughs bitterly. He certainly avoids giving her the chance now. “I’m a devil fruit user. I get into the water, I sink like a dead weight.”
“She won’t drown you,” Shakky repeats stubbornly, smiling a bit more and Buggy huffs, but lets it go. It’s not like it matters, he imagines. “The elders didn’t know what to do about you: you were evidently blessed by our mother, but you weren’t one of us, not in the traditional sense,” she continues, still playing with his hair. “I thought sending you with Ray made the most sense: that way I could keep an eye on you in case… in case there was something we hadn’t seen.”
Buggy hums. He grew up just fine, he thinks, he had a family who loved him the best they could, even if sometimes he felt like he didn’t belong. Still, he had never truly missed his mother, not exactly: he had just felt unwanted. In some ways he imagines he was, but at least now he understands why .
It’s a bit of an empty consolation.
The sun is starting to set by the time he finally makes it to the shore.
His breath catches in his throat as he stares at the way the sun paints the water red, like blood. He’s always been a bit poetically inclined, even if he’d never say any of the things he thinks out loud, but whenever he and Shanks were apart for whatever reason, he liked to watch the setting sun because it reminded him of the idiot.
His heart clenches and the pain flares, but it doesn’t make him double over and he considers that progress.
He steps closer to the shore carefully, letting the water lick his feet. He can feel the strength draining out of him right away, but he can keep walking for a little longer, until the water reaches knee high. He thinks of what Shakky told him and he does not believe the ocean will spare him, not really, but he doubts he can drown like this. He kneels down, letting the water reach higher and while his body feels heavy, moving slowly as if he was half asleep, the water doesn’t pull him under.
He used to love to swim so much, the ocean was the one embrace he could always count on, loving and comforting as a mother’s. The thought almost makes him laugh out loud now, but the way the cold has started to settle underneath his bones again steals what little joy he can find.
He stares as the sun continues its way down, giving room for the moon to come up. Once, in a small town somewhere, he overheard a group of young women trying to cheer up one of them, telling her you don’t die of a broken heart. It hurts like hell, sure, but you eventually move on.
Except, Kujas don’t .
It’s unfair, really. To think he’ll never love again, that his heart will never race at the sight of someone, that his stomach won’t flutter with a million butterflies. He’ll never experience the joy of being in love and knowing it, of enjoying the warmth of the closeness of his beloved.
To think, he loved Shanks and never knew it and now that he’s lost him for good…
He’s crying, he realizes with a start. Shame makes him want to wipe the tears straight away, but he lets them fall. He’s alone and he’s mourning, not only his recent loss, but the loss of the future. He mourns for what it was, yes, but he also mourns for what will now never be.
And that, somehow, it’s worse.