Chapter Text
25 years ago.
The 274cm, diabolically humongous man walked into the orphanage, not to adopt but to talk Rayleigh, the owner of the place, his old friend. The orphanage's building itself was old with small creaks in the pale-blue cement walls with overgrown grass surrounding it. However, it was an undeniably solid place that was evidently kept clean. Floors seemed to be swept daily, the furniture had no signs of stains and it smelt of a faint mixture of mint and jasmine. The windows were squeaky clean as well, although they did creak whenever a strong gush of wind passed by.
Rayleigh sat behind the counter, seemingly working on some documents as his left palm laid under his chin. Once he heard the footsteps of an obviously heavy man, he smirked, knowing all too well it was his friend. Who else in this boring neighborhood would be the cause of such heavy footsteps?
"Plannin' on adopting another kid, Roger?" He asked sarcastically, looking up from the documents.
Roger held what seemed like a cardboard box full of mechanic tools on top of his right shoulder and a large smile plastered on his face as usual.
"Hahahah! Ah, Shanks is so much work already. Anywho, got the tools you asked for, Ray," he replied, gently dropping the box on the floor. "Say, what do you need these for anyway?"
"There's a broken fan in the teen's boys' room. Gotta be fixed," Rayleigh replies, sighing all while smiling.
The man had bought the building with the little money he had in his pocket five years ago and created an orphanage to house as many children as he could. Fortunately, the neighborhood they were located at, Foosha, was full of good people and had a strong community, hence everyone voluntarily pitched in every month to support the living finances of the orphanage as adoption alone was certainly not enough.
"You know I could just fix that for you, Ray," Roger offered.
"Yeah, but the boys said they wanted to learn how to fix things around the place," the other replied, smiling.
"Those are some good kids you raisin' there!" The mustached man laughed.
Suddenly, the roof of a head of blue hair could be seen shyly walking over to Rayleigh's desk, avoiding Roger's glance at all cost. The boy tugged on Rayleigh's shirt with such little confidence you could mistake him for a lost fawn in the woods. Rayleigh turned his chair to look at the boy and gently smiled.
"Something wrong, Buggy?"
The boy's grip on the man's shirt strengthened, turning into a fist as a single tear fell from his left eye.
"They're..um...mean," Buggy muttered while wiping away his tears.
"Who's being mean to you, kid?!" Roger said in a voice a bit too loud to be casual. Buggy's head whipped to see the large man and flinched. The boy quickly stepped behind Rayleigh's figure and asked who this man was with such a small voice the blond man barely caught it.
"Kid, bullies ain't right--" Before Roger could finish his passionate speech on bullying and standing up for yourself, Rayleigh interfered.
"Alright, alright, Buggy, why don't you go hangout in my office for a little while? I'll be there in a few minutes. In the meantime, you can have some time for yourself, huh? How's that sound?"
The blue-haired boy simply gave two nods and practically ran away.
...
Roger's arms were crossed and there was an evident tint of worry and anger in his eyes that were raging for an adequate answer. Rayleigh sighed, knowing this was going to happen. Roger's sense of morality was too good for the sake of the man. It's a cruel world out there.
"Buggy came in just last week. He was found in the Skive End neighborhood side, apparently was a street rat kid--couldn't even eat three times a week." He explained in a soft voice.
The taller man's hands turned into fists, vein popping from his forehead.
"And now he's getting bullied here? That's what's goin' on?" Roger asked, furious.
Rayleigh leaned back on his chair, right palm on his forehead now, looking stressed.
"Seem's like it. Little guy's had a hard life and now he's struggling to fit in here. I don't know what to do, Roger, I can't force friendships but I can't isolate the poor kid either--he needs friends. He needs love and I can't give him completely what he needs."
After a few seconds of silence, just before Rayleigh was going to say something to break the silence, Roger beat him to it.
"You know," He said, lifting his head up to look at his troubled friend. "Shanks has been pretty lonely--I was thinkin' he could use a friend!"
Another thing about Gol D. Roger. He's always been a spontaneous guy who spurs out unexpected and crazy suggestions in the mere moment or faced every obstacle coming his way with a blow.
Ray gaped and stood up from his chair in such force that the chair spun away from impact.
"Roger, don't make impulsive decisions you can't promise."
"Who said anything of impulsive decisions? I've been thinkin' of getting another kid for a while now! Hahahaha!" Roger replied with his signature grin plastered onto his face. A smile so powerful and genuine that it may just prevent wars from breaking out.
Rayleigh is in disbelief. "Wha--You just told me Shanks is so much work a few minutes ago.."
"Well, I changed my mind!"
"What do you mean you changed your mind! You just said you've been thinking of getting another kid for a while. Be serious, Roger," The blonde man exclaimed, defeated from the other man's absurdity, causing him to fall back into his chair. He looks up to see his friend and it seems Roger had calmed down a bit as well.
"I am serious, Ray. Sure, Shanks is a lot of work but two kids ain't nothing I can't handle compared to what we did back in the old days, right? This is good for Shanks too, you know?...You know I can't leave that boy, Buggy, here too. I know you're a good uncle to these kids but like you said, you just don't got the time to give special attention to some that need it." Roger smiled, although it was completely different from his usual, careless type. This smile was soft, gentle, and contagious too--clearly, as it got Rayleigh smiling back at him. The blonde man knew his friend was a good father who raised kids better than anyone he could think of. He was well aware he wasn't going to let go of Buggy and he also knew that it would be the best for Buggy to be raised by Roger. There were so many complications but he ultimately decided it was best to just face the truth.
"He's timid and shy, been through a hell of a lot in such a short life. Don't know if he'll get used to you, Rouge and Shanks so easily." Rayleigh said, smirking as both he and Roger knew this was Rayleigh's way of encouraging the adoption and admitting poor defeat.
Roger's smile beamed with all 32 large teeth being exposed. The next moment, a small figure with hair blue as the ocean and a nose too round and too red for his sake appeared at the doorway, sneaking looks from the small sliver opening of the door--it seems as so that Buggy had been listening to their conversation all along. It's not surprising that they didn't notice him as growing up a street rat, the first rule of survival is to learn how to be swift and unnoticeable. Roger burst into an outrageous laughter full of delight, amused by the boy.
"C'mon kid," He exclaimed. "Come to Roger!" The ravenette reached out two welcoming large, bulky arms, evidently calling the boy over for an embrace.
Buggy's eyebrows furrow with suspicion and worry as he looks over at Rayleigh for reassurance. However, when the blond man gave him a gentle smile--confirming that the man is safe, in Rayleigh and Roger's utter surprise, Buggy runs to Roger's arms and hugs him tightly. The boy clings to the man ever so tightly as if the world depended on it. It felt so right to him for some unknown reason--he felt safe and protected by this large man he had met only a mere 10 minutes ago.
18 years ago.
Shanks and Buggy fit each other like two peas in a pod. They would run around the house, the workshop, and Gol’s Mechanics Store like feral animals. The once-timid, wounded blue-haired boy had become nearly unrecognizable—now a roaring bundle of laughter. And of course, that laughter was always shared with his best friend, Shanks.
To sum up their bond: if one was climbing onto the counter to steal sweets, the other was already standing guard at the door. If one had an idea—no matter how chaotic or impractical—the other was already halfway through executing it. They were inseparable.
Shanks, all sunshine and scraped knees, had a habit of pulling Buggy into trouble with a grin and a “Trust me!” Buggy, skeptical but equally restless, would grumble the whole way through—then laugh the loudest when things worked out. Or exploded. Either was fine. Customers at the store would smile as the boys dashed by—a blur of red and blue—shouting about engine parts or racing toy boats made from old soda cans. Roger would shake his head, feigning exasperation, but his eyes always softened as he watched them.
“They’re gonna tear this place down before they turn ten,” he’d mutter.
Rouge, Roger’s fiancée, would chuckle into her fist, gazing at the two with a soft smile. She thought of them and cared for them as her own sons.
To Buggy and Shanks—Blue and Red—the world was small, warm, and filled with gears, laughter, and the smell of oil and fresh bread. Life was simple, and their little heads had no space for stress or worries about the future. They were the epitome of living in the moment, enjoying every little bit of it—together. At night, they’d fall asleep mid-conversation on the couch, the TV still on, heads drooping against each other, with some wild plan half-formed in their dreams. It was more than friendship. It was the kind of bond only childhood can forge—when love isn’t said, it’s just there. When home is a person, not a place.
And for Buggy and Shanks, that person had become each other.
15 years ago.
"Hey, Bugs?" Shanks called, his head dangling over the edge of the top bunk.
It was 11 PM, well past their bedtime. Buggy had already been drifting off, but his eyes reopened slowly at the sound of his name. The bluenette sat up on the bottom bunk, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Yeah?"
The redhead didn’t reply right away—he just stared at Buggy, quiet and curious.
"The blood’s rushing to your head from hanging like that. If you’ve got something to say, just sit on my bed,” Buggy mumbled, yawning.
Shanks chuckled and agreed, climbing down from the top bunk to sit on the bottom, facing the blue-haired boy. After a bit of rustling to settle in, he was staring again. Buggy had always looked a little more delicate than the other ten-year-old boys—his lashes were long, his features soft, and his ocean-blue eyes seemed to glow under the dim light, like a summer sea reflecting the sky. Impossible to look away from. Shanks would never admit any of this aloud, knowing it’d probably end in a fight.
His hair was getting longer too—almost to his shoulders. Rouge had suggested he grow it out, claiming he’d look great with long hair. Shanks silently agreed, but again, never told him. Buggy had gotten flustered at the suggestion, unsure at first, but eventually decided to go along with his mother figure’s advice.
Now, Shanks was sitting directly in front of him, their knees barely brushing, the mattress dipping beneath their weight.
“What?” Buggy asked, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Shanks to hesitate.
“You ever think about the future?” Shanks finally asked, resting his elbows on his knees, palms under his chin, looking up at Buggy with eyes that looked... desperate. A look Buggy had never seen before.
Buggy blinked, still far too sleepy for anything sentimental. “Not really. Why?”
The redhead laughed—but not his usual boisterous laugh that bent him over backwards. This one was light as a feather, but heavy with something else.
“Just wondering where we’ll be in, like, fifteen years. You and me.”
“Hopefully not in bunk beds,” Buggy replied, rolling his eyes.
Shanks laughed again, using that same strange, soft laugh. It unsettled Buggy. “You think we’ll still be together?” he asked, gaze fixed on Buggy.
Buggy paused, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “Of course we will. Don’t be stupid,” he said, a faint blush creeping onto his face.
Shanks smiled but didn’t look away. “Can I try something?”
Buggy’s eyes narrowed. He was confused. First, waking him up past bedtime, then asking a weirdly sentimental question—and now this? Since when was Shanks hard to read? They understood each other better than anyone, but tonight, Buggy couldn’t get a read on him.
“What?” he asked, puzzled.
Five seconds passed with no answer. Buggy was about to speak again when he suddenly felt something soft on his lips. It only lasted a second—so light it could barely be called a kiss—but it sent a jolt through him.
Shanks leaned back, eyes still on him.
Buggy’s face turned bright red. He kicked Shanks off the bed, screeching, “W-what the hell, you idiot?! Go back to your own bed!”
He yanked his blanket over his face and turned toward the wall.
Shanks giggled as he climbed back to the top bunk. “I love you, Bugs,” he called out, far too giddy.
After a moment, Buggy’s muffled voice answered from under the covers—barely audible, but Shanks heard it.
He always did.
“Love you too.”
12 years ago.
Buggy stormed into the house, slamming the door hard enough to make the walls rattle. He didn’t say a word to anyone inside—not even a glance—just charged straight down the hallway like he was trying to outrun something. His face was flushed, streaked with tears, and he clutched an empty tote bag like it had personally betrayed him.
Shanks was on the couch, watching some silly TV show while Rouge and Roger were out visiting Rayleigh before dinner. The second he heard the stomping echo through the hallway, he jumped up and rushed in, panting, brows furrowed in concern. “Bugg-Bugs! What happened?”
Buggy spun around sharply, eyes wild and glassy. “Just leave me alone, Shanks!” he snapped, then turned and continued down the hall. God, he wanted his own room at this point.
Shanks froze, stunned, one hand gripping the stair railing. “What—what do you mean? I’m just trying to—”
“I said leave me alone!” Buggy shouted, his voice cracking. “I don’t want to hear it right now, okay? I don’t want your dumb voice, your dumb concern, or your stupid, dumb questions!”
He slammed the door to their room shut with every ounce of strength he could muster.
A beat of silence followed. The words hung in the air—harsher than he meant them.
Shanks just stood there, mouth slightly open. His expression flickered—hurt, confused—before he composed himself. Slowly, he walked to their door. He didn’t dare barge in. Even he knew better than that.
Instead, he spoke softly from the hallway. “Okay… I’ll just— I’ll be here if you want to talk, Bugs. You know that, right?”
On the other side of the door, Buggy sat on the bedroom floor, knees pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. He squeezed his eyes shut and cursed under his breath. Then he stood.
He knew he’d just hurt his best friend—his brother in all but blood. His Red. And he needed to fix it.
The bag slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a soft thump as he walked over to the door. Every fiber in him screamed to crawl into bed and shut the world out, but he pushed past it. Slowly, he opened the door.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Barely audible.
Shanks looked at him with more worry than one person should be able to carry.
“I didn’t mean that,” Buggy whispered, eyes on the floor. His voice cracked. “I just—I went to get the flour, like Rouge asked, but there were these teenagers outside the shop. They started laughing at me. Making nose jokes. Loud ones. One of them even tried to poke it—like it was some damn carnival game.”
Shanks’s jaw clenched.
“I tried to ignore them, but I couldn’t. I yelled. Then I ran. And now you’re looking at me like I’ve ruined everything and I feel like—” Buggy broke off with a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I just feel gross.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” Shanks said, stepping closer. “They did.”
Buggy finally looked up, guilt all over his face. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Shanks sat beside him—close, but not touching. “You’re allowed to be upset, Bugs. You’re allowed to be angry. You were scared and humiliated and trying to protect yourself. I get it.”
Buggy nodded miserably. He knew Shanks didn’t get it. No one really did.
“And for the record,” Shanks added, eyes narrowing, “if I ever see those losers again, they’ll wish they never said a word. Nobody talks to my Blue like that. Not while I’m around.”
Buggy let out a breathy laugh—watery, tired. “You’re ridiculous. And stop calling me Blue. You know I don’t like it.”
“But you call me Red!”
“I get to. You don’t.”
They fell into silence for a moment after the short banter. Then Buggy leaned his head onto Shanks’s shoulder, letting the quiet between them settle into something softer.
...
But that day—
That cruel, stupid day outside the shop—
Wasn’t just an isolated moment.
It was the beginning of something heavier. Something that burrowed deep into Buggy’s chest and refused to leave. It was the start of a quiet unraveling. The kind that doesn’t announce itself. The kind that creeps in slowly and sinks its teeth into the softest parts of you.
From that moment on, Buggy began to change.
He didn’t cry again. Not where anyone could see.
Instead, he got louder. His voice sharpened—teasing, snide, always one step ahead of being mocked. He painted his face like a clown, exaggerating his features, turning himself into something larger than life. Bright red nose. Bold, theatrical makeup. If people were going to laugh, he’d give them something to laugh at—on his terms, not theirs.
It became his armor.
He had always been insecure about his round, red nose, ever since he first learned the concept of “beauty standards.” At first, it was just an observation. The people in magazines didn’t have his kind of nose. Neither did actors in movies, classmates at school, or neighbors down the street. That quiet awareness turned into self-hatred. Because it was always the first thing people commented on. And even when they didn’t, they still stared at it—just a second too long.
So Buggy thought:
If he was loud enough, maybe they wouldn’t hear the fear behind his words.
If he was funny enough, maybe they wouldn’t see how much it hurt.
If he looked ridiculous on purpose, maybe no one would notice how ugly he felt without the glitter.
Covering up was his way of surviving.
But it was eating him alive.
Shanks noticed.
He watched from the sidelines, quiet at first. He saw how Buggy’s jokes turned meaner. More defensive. More desperate. He saw how his smiles stopped reaching his eyes, how his laughter sounded just a bit too forced. He saw the mask forming—and it broke something in him to know Buggy felt like he needed it.
When he tried to talk about it, Buggy shut him out.
“Drop it,” Buggy would scoff, waving him off. “You’re reading too much into things.”
But he wasn’t.
And they both knew it.
And that broke Shanks’s heart.
Why was his best friend—his brother, his Blue—hiding himself?
Why did he feel like he had to change?
Shanks didn’t understand. And Buggy knew he wouldn’t.
How could he?
Everyone loved Shanks. No one believed they were brothers at first. And when they found out they weren’t related by blood, they’d say:
“That makes sense. The blue one’s just so weird. So ugly compared to Shanks.”
They never even used Buggy’s name.
Just “the blue one.”
Which made Buggy hate being called Blue even more.
Still, he refused to open up.
And every time Shanks tried, Buggy built another wall.
Over time, their relationship drifted. Slowly. Silently. Like a boat untied from the dock.
Buggy’s feelings—the anger, the shame, the anxiety, the crushing sense of not being enough—kept piling up. Quietly. Dangerously. Layer by layer, until even he couldn’t tell where the act ended and the real him began.
He didn’t even know who he was with Roger, Rouge, or Shanks anymore. His parents had begun to worry, too, but brushed it off as a teenage phase.
They had no idea.
10 years ago.
Buggy was fifteen when he left.
He didn’t leave in a blaze—no shouting match, no slammed doors. In fact, no one was home when he walked out.
Before stepping through the front door, Buggy stood there for a full minute, staring at it. Remembering the first time he saw it, clinging to Roger’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping him afloat in a storm. Back then, life was simple. Easy. Wonderful.
He left a short note, scrawled in rushed handwriting and placed in the center of the dining table like a paper ghost.
“Don’t look for me. I’m fine. Just don’t.”
He didn’t say it was because he couldn’t take it anymore—the weight of being seen. Of being loved.
Roger, Rouge, and Shanks had always looked at him like he was whole. Like none of the things he hated about himself even existed. But Buggy could feel them. Every time someone stared too long. Every time he caught a reflection. It twisted something deep inside his chest.
He couldn’t keep pretending anymore. Not even around Shanks.
So he left.
He broke it off with a stunned, barely-breathing Shanks behind the garage at Gol’s. Told him some half-baked lie about “needing space” and “growing apart.” He didn’t look him in the eye once. He couldn’t. Because if he did, he’d fall apart.
Rouge was devastated. She tried to stay composed, like always, but the tremble in her voice when she asked Shanks, “Did he say where he was going?” gave her away.
Roger was louder about it—angry at first, assuming it was a teenage tantrum. But when they found Buggy’s belongings gone, his phone off, his tracker disabled, panic set in.
They called.
They texted.
Over and over.
Come home, Buggy. Please. Just let us know you’re safe.
But Buggy didn’t answer.
Three days later, he was listed as a missing person. But when the police realized he’d run away, they dropped the case—dismissing it as a rebellious phase. “He’ll come back on his own,” they said.
Roger was livid. He and Rayleigh stormed down to the station, demanding they take it seriously. After weeks of arguing, the police started dodging Roger’s calls altogether. They banned him from inquiring about the case. Said he was being “unreasonable.”
Rouge tried to stay hopeful, but it wore her down. Everyone could see she cried herself to sleep.
Shanks took it the worst.
The first day, he refused to believe it. Buggy had to be messing with them—hiding out somewhere, ready to pop out and yell, “Gotcha, idiots!”
Shanks checked every spot they’d ever claimed: the workshop’s back room, the rooftop hideout, the bookstore, even the busted vending machine that only spat out Hawaiian Blue soda. Nothing.
The second day, something shifted.
He stopped eating.
Stopped talking.
He sat by the window, knees pulled up to his chest, forehead pressed against the glass like if he stared hard enough, Buggy might come back.
By the third day, when the police brushed it off, something inside him cracked.
After that, it was like Shanks disappeared too—but in a quieter, crueler way.
His body was still there. But everything that made him Shanks—the spark, the light, the laughter—had been hollowed out.
He cried himself to sleep every night for the next few months.
As for Buggy, he ran 13 neighborhoods over that night, eventually leading him to the border of a city next door. And so he entered. He dragged his duffle bag behind him like it weighed a thousand pounds but never stopped running with streaks of hot tears flowing down his cheeks until he almost passed out. He ended up where the streets felt unfamiliar, the lights too bright, the air strange. No one knew him here, and for now, that felt like the closest thing to peace.
Eventually, his feet led him to a 24-hour convenience store. His legs gave out against the side of the building, and he slumped there, breathing heavy, face sticky from sweat and tears. His outfit choice wasn't really helping either. His white tee was damp from sweat, grey sweatpants too thick for any active activities. He had stopped wearing clown-themed clothes a few months before, he just got tired. Tired of this mask. He wanted to start over, a second beginning. The cold can in his hand clinked softly as he tilted it up.
Third time drinking a beer in his whole life!
It still tasted terrible—like metal and bitterness and something sour that clung to his tongue long after he swallowed. But it numbed him, dulled the guilt that clawed at his ribs. And for a moment, he wasn’t the boy who abandoned his best friend, home and family. He was just someone else. Someone unrecognizable. He loved them of course, more than anything else in the world. But he knew he was hurting them and himself by being who he isn't. It was for the best, he thought.
Deep into his thoughts and possible regrets, Buggy didn’t notice the girl staring at him just a meter away until she crouched down beside him.
“Hey,” she said, her voice calm but a little amused. “You gonna throw up or what?”
Buggy blinked, caught off guard. She was around his age, maybe a bit older, with black curls and wore a white cap despite the fact it was well past midnight. She looked like she belonged here—like someone who’d had to grow up a little too fast.
“I’m not drunk,” he mumbled. “Well. Not anymore.”
“You look like shit,” she said bluntly. “What happened?”
He laughed dryly. “I ran away. Left my best friend, brother, my Red, my fucking family. Everyone. And I don’t even know why except I couldn’t breathe being there anymore. I was hurting me and them.” He rubbed his face with his palms. “I feel guilty as hell but I’m not going back. Not now. Not like this.” Buggy didn't know why he was sharing so much to a stranger but at that moment, it felt like the right thing to do. His mask had been growing creaks ever since two years ago and it had exploded. Plus, the girl didn't seem like someone who would judge anyway.
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
“What about you?” he asked, glancing at her sideways.
The girl slid down to sit beside him. “No parents. Cheap apartment. I live alone. Been that way a while.” She stood up quickly after and offered a hand to him. “You got somewhere to stay?”
He hesitated, then shook his head.
“You got money?”
“A little. Brought enough for a couple nights at some hotel. After that, I don’t know.”
The girl looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know… I’ve been needing a roommate. Place is kind of a dump, but it’s warm and quiet. Rent’s hella cheap if we split it. Way better than a hotel.”
Buggy stared at her. She didn’t know him. Didn’t owe him anything. Was she a kidnapper? Serial killer? Stalker? Some kind of kinky sex worker? Who knows. But something in her eyes urged Buggy to trust her. She looked at him with understanding, something he hadn't felt in a fucking while. Or maybe never. This mystery girl was broken just like him she was offering a place—a chance.
He took her hand.
“…I’m Buggy.”
“Alvida,” she said, helping him up. “Come on, Buggy. You look like you could use a mattress and a shitty microwave.”
He let out a tired laugh, following her under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, the can abandoned behind him. The guilt didn’t disappear—but for now, he’d found something close to a second beginning.