"Portgas D..." And then something shifted. Like a smothering. A cool blanket over what once had been a fire. He blinked a few times, then rocked back at the hits, suddenly floundering a little on what to do. The anger wasn't banked exactly, more confused. It had meant something and abruptly meant nothing. Less than nothing. Which was somewhat weirder.

Sabo dismisses the best line. So what if he does? So does nearly everyone else. That was the whole point, wasn't it? Anyway, it's hard to focus on that when suddenly it seems almost like it's going to turn into Brokeback Mountain. Maybe that's a little far but it's still disturbingly intimate to be held like that even if there's tension in the other guy.

Sabo pulls out of his grip, fingers shifting and twitching, longing for something to hold and twirl.

"I think I've got the wrong guy," he says, and he means to sound sheepish but his voice comes out as sheet rock regardless. "Sorry about that." Not that he can make himself sound sorry at all. Because he isn't. Not really. There is something about him but Sabo doesn't know what. And it must be a case of mistaken identity because otherwise he'd recognize a name wouldn't he? Especially one like that.