Chapter Text
≈ THREE ≈
≈ Int. First-Class Suite B-52-56 ≈
≈ Bedroom ≈
≈ Nighttime ≈
Following the chaos of the night, Sabo stood in the same dimly lit bedroom he had shattered, stripping away the remains of a night he would rather forget.
Through the cracked mirror above the vanity, he caught Rob’s reflection. His bearded face was a fractured image – fitting, somehow. He stood in the doorway, hands behind his back. Watching.
The blonde’s gaze dropped at once, focusing on the buttons of his damp shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin.
He could feel Rob’s presence approaching in slow steps. When he arrived just behind Sabo, his voice was unexpectedly tender.
“I know you’ve been melancholy.”, he said carefully. “And I don’t pretend to know why.”
There was something clutched behind his back. He shifted; and out from behind it, he let something appear:
A large, black velvet jewel case.
He held it out in front of Sabo’s lowered head like it was a peace offering. Like there was peace to be restored.
The blonde lifted his gaze to meet his fiancés’ with empty eyes. Then he took the case numbly, fingers brushing over the plush fabric without feeling much of anything.
“I intended to save this for the engagement gala next week.”, Rob explained, not dropping his syrupy tone. “But I thought tonight … perhaps a reminder of my feelings for you …”
Feelings.
Sabo almost smiled. Almost.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, then carefully lifted the lid of the box.
He was greeted with a monstrous blue stone that glittered so violently under the bedroom lights, it almost hurt to look at it.
“Good gracious …”, he breathed thinly. “Is it a-“
“Diamond.”, Rob supplied proudly, stepping closer, puffing his chest a little. “Yes, it is. Fifty-six carats, to be exact.”
Gently – too gently – he lifted the necklace from the case and moved behind Sabo, fastening the jewelry around his throat. The cold weight of it settled instantly against the blonde’s exposed skin.
Sabo didn’t miss the subtle tag of fabric – how Rob carefully pulled his shirt higher to cover the burn mark on his shoulder. An attempt to smoothen the image of him in his choker. To make it perfect.
He turned him toward the mirror, resting a hand on the small of his back.
The cracked glass reflected them both: Sabo, a vision. Deep blue contrasting his pale skin, matching his eyes, making them shine despite the puffiness. And Rob, standing behind him like a shadow.
“It was once worn by Louis the Sixteenth.”, Rob said, smoothing his hands down the blonde’s shoulders admiringly. “They called it Le Coeur de la Mer. The-“
“Heart of the ocean.”, Sabo finished quietly.
He brought his fingertips to the stone, brushing over it. It burned cold even through the pads of his fingers, as though it was a heart of ice.
He had no words. No gracious thankfulness. No emotional reactions.
He could tell this was a remarkable piece. That Rob probably must have gone through tremendous efforts to acquire it. And yet, he knew precisely what it meant.
“Rob. That’s … “, he needed a moment to come up with something suitable. “… overwhelming.”
Their eyes met in the mirror. Two pieces in a portrait that didn’t quite fit, no matter how much sense it could make in theory.
“It’s for royalty.”, Rob said reverently. “And we are royalty.”
He raised his hand to Sabo’s neck, absently tracing over his throat, his shoulders, the curve of his collarbones. He seemed disarmed. Unguardedly in awe. Worshipful, even.
But Sabo couldn’t help it. No matter how tender his touch was, all it did was disgust him.
“There’s nothing I couldn’t give you.”, Rob mumbled.
His nose pressed against the blonde’s hair, breathing him in like a man intoxicated.
“Nothing I’d deny you … if you would not deny me.”
Rob leaned in so their eyes could meet without the mirror between them, and Sabo stared into the handsome features of his fiancé. The practiced sincerity. The self-adoration hidden beneath.
It could have fooled him. It almost had.
But Sabo knew better.
Because Rob’s gifts were never gifts at all. He made no gifts that didn’t reflect light back onto himself. Illuminate the greatness that was Rob Lucci.
Perhaps once Le Coeur de la Mer had been a symbol of kingship. Of power. Of love.
But now, pressed against his skin, it was an anchor.
If only he would’ve jumped …
… but then he wouldn’t have met the freckled madman, ready to jump right after him.
≈ Saturday, April 13, 1912 ≈
≈ Int. Third-Class ≈
≈ General room ≈
The general room was the social center of steerage life. In stark contrast to the opulence of first class, it was a loud, boisterous place. Pure and beautiful chaos.
Mothers hurrying after their toddlers, elderly women bickering amongst each other. By the window, two men were hunched over a chessboard like their fate depended on a single pawn. A group of girls sat at the shabby table in the corner, doing needlepoint and gossiping in at least three languages.
The piano – unmistakable centerpiece of the general room – was painfully abused by the Irishman once again and somehow, no one even thought to stop him.
At a table near the back, Deuce was struggling to get a conversation going with an attractive Russian lady - Robin - who sat surrounded by equally mysterious friends.
It wasn’t going well.
“Italian?”, Deuce tried, pinching his fingers together. “Maybe some little English?”
The woman gave him a long, dispassionate stare.
Ace, lounging beside him, took a sip of his beer-filled mug and chuckled.
“Forget it mate. She’s internationally out of your league.”
The blue-haired man shot him a glare. But before he could even retort, Robin’s gaze shifted to something catching her attention behind Ace. She held her gaze. Sharp and focused. Deuce turned to see what she saw. He blinked. Squinted. Sat a little straighter. Did a full-double take.
The freckled man, more curious than concerned, followed their eyes to see what had brought the general room to a full stop.
And saw him.
Sabo.
In here?
The blonde man walked in like he’d taken the wrong turn right out of a museum exhibit. He looked obviously out of place - dressed in his first-class attire, black suit this time, perfected with a hat on his head and gloves decorating his fingers.
That was how you spotted a first-class man among the rest. Not the shoes. Not even the posture. It was the gloves. Anyone wearing gloves who wasn’t holding a tray? Must be a rich guy.
The activity in the room stopped immediately. A hush fell through. One last sound of the piano faltered into a final, awkward chord.
Sabo, for his part, looked like he was trying very hard not to bolt while also trying not to visibly appear as though he wanted to bolt. His hands were neatly clasped before him like he didn’t know where else to put them.
And he was stared at. Some with resentment - especially the men; some with awe, especially the women.
He was unmistakably looking for someone.
As soon as he spotted Ace, their eyes locked.
The freckled man rose smoothly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for a first-class porcelain doll to come waltzing into steerage just to find him.
The blonde smiled and walked towards him with his absurdly clean shoes clicking against the worn wooden floor.
“Hello, Ace.”
At the table, Deuce and now the Irishman, looked floored.
It was somehow the slipper fitting Cinderella – if Cinderella had freckles and dirty boots.
“Hello again.”, Ace replied, smiling right back.
Sabo took in who were presumably his friends – curious, polite – giving them a curt nod before his eyes were back on Ace.
“Could I speak to you in private?”
The freckled man blinked. “Uh … “
He looked at Deuce, who was still frozen with his mouth hanging open, and then motioned towards the hallway.
“Yes. Of course. After you.”
Sabo nodded. Then he turned.
And Ace followed him out, but not before tossing the men a shrug that read don’t look at me, I didn’t plan this shit.
When the door swung shut behind them, they left a silence so profound, you could only hear the Irishman mutter under his breath:
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
≈ Ext. Boat deck ≈
≈ Daytime ≈
They walked side by side along the boat deck, the boards beneath them creaking. Passengers were lounging in steamer chairs, reading the newspaper or chatting beneath parasols, but more than a few turned to glance at the mismatched pair.
Now Ace was the one feeling highly out of place in his suspenders and rolled up sleeves. Though they both looked awkward for different reasons.
They stopped at the railing, the ocean wide and sparkling before them. Very different from last night. A breeze tugged on the blonde’s coat. There was fittingly awkward silence before Sabo broke it.
“Mr. Portgas, I-“
“Ace.”, the freckled man corrected gently.
“Right. Ace … I feel like such an idiot.”, he exhaled. “It took me all morning to work up nerve to face you.”
The freckled man simply shrugged. “Well … here you are.”
“Here I am.”, Sabo echoed, taking pause. “I … I wanted to thank you for what you did. Not just for … pulling me back.”, he said, then inclined his head. “But for your discretion.”
Which Ace visibly found amusing. It earned a soft huff of laughter from him.
“Yeah. You’re welcome, Sabo.”
The blonde looked at him sideways. “Look. I know what you must be thinking. Poor little rich boy. What does he know about misery?”
Ace grimaced.
“That’s not what I was thinking.”, he halted, then simply said: “What I was thinking was … what could have happened to this guy that he thought he had no other way out?”
Sabo blinked at the ocean; his lashes low over storm-colored eyes.
“I don’t- … it wasn’t just one thing.”, he said quietly. “It was everything. It was them. Their whole world. I felt like an insect trapped in amber.”
He spoke in a rush.
“I just had to get away … just run and run and run. And when I was at the rail, there was no more ship. Even the Titanic wasn’t big enough. Not enough to get away. And before I’d really thought about it, I was over the rail. I was so furious. I thought I’ll- … I’ll show them!”
Ace arched a brow. “By being dead?”
That made Sabo snort. He bit back a smile – both ashamed and amused.
“God.”, he muttered. “I am such a damn fool.”
The freckled man shrugged lightly. Like he didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t judging.
“That guard dog last night. Is he one of them?”
“Guard dog?”, Sabo blinked, his brows furrowing. Then he realized.
“Oh! Rob.”, he said with a humorless laugh. “He is them.”
Ace already knew, but something in him wanted to hear it out loud.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
“Worse, I’m afraid.”, the blonde said after a beat of hesitation.
He reached into his coat and tugged one glove off with a flick, exposing his left hand, holding it upwards.
His diamond ring caught the sunlight with a flash.
Ace leaned in closer, whistling lowly. “God, look at that thing! You would’ve gone straight to the bottom.”
They laughed. It was the kind of laugh that surprised them both for a moment. Brief and bright, causing a passing steward to look their way, frowning at the freckled man and recognizing him as clearly not one of their own.
Unlike Ace, Sabo noticed. He met the man’s eyes and held them with polite venom until he sent him off muttering.
Still eyeing the ring, the freckled man tilted his head.
“So …”, he said casually. “You feel like you’re stuck on a train you can’t get off cause you’re marrying this fella.”
“Yes.”, Sabo said immediately. “Exactly.”
“Okay.”, Ace squinted, scrunching his freckled nose. “So don’t marry him.”
The blonde let out a quiet scoff.
“If only it were that simple.”
“It is that simple.”
Sabo looked away with a dry huff. “Please don’t judge me until you’ve seen my world.”
“Well … I guess I will tonight.”
It was clear that the conversation took a wrong turn, because there was painful silence, and the blonde was eager for a detour. He looked around, searching for a topic. Any other topic. He indicated the sketchbook caught in between Ace’s suspenders.
“What’s that?”
The freckled man followed his gesture. “Just some sketches.”
“May I?”, Sabo asked, but the question was rhetorical. He was already reaching for it.
He slid the book out with his gloved fingers and took a few steps to the nearest bench, sitting down without much ceremony. He curiously flipped through the pages.
“Wow … “, he mumbled with honest admiration. “These are quite good! Really, they are.”
Ace chuckled, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well, they didn’t think much of ‘em in Paree.”
“In Paree.”, the blonde repeated amusedly, but didn’t stop moving through the sketchbook.
As he turned one of the pages, a few loose sketches dislocated themselves from the back and caught the breeze, fluttering up and away, taken by the wind.
Ace scrambled after them instinctively - managing to snag two – but the rest were gone, over the rail.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry!”, Sabo stood up abruptly.
“Truly.”, he exhaled when he saw the drawings were not to be saved.
“Don’t worry about it.”, the freckled man waved him off with a cheeky smile, still holding the two papers. “Plenty more where they came from.”
Ace snapped his wrist, shaking his hand in a flourish. “I just seem to spew them out.”, he said. “Besides, they’re not worth a damn anyway.”
For emphasis, he simply held the two rescued sketches up. Then he tossed them over the rail behind him, too.
Sabo clutched the rail, watching them spiral down into the Atlantic.
Then he laughed, startled once more by the absurdity. “You’re deranged!”
Ace smiled easily. Maybe a little proud that he made that pretty man laugh. “Probably.”
Sabo flopped back onto the bench and returned his attention to the sketchbook, flipping another page.
“Well, well …”, he smirked, looking up the freckled man for a second.
He had stumbled upon a spread of nudes; both men and women, drawn with soft charcoal lines.
His smirk softened when he really took them in, transfixed by the languid beauty that Ace had created. The figures were loose, lounging, but very alive. The eyes, the hands, the body. They didn’t feel like anatomy studies. Way more vulnerable. Uncomfortably intimate.
A blush crept up Sabo’s neck. He angled the book a little higher as a pair of elderly passengers shuffled past.
Once they were gone, he cleared his throat, trying to be very adult.
“And these were drawn from life?”
“Yup.”, Ace said, leaning back on the railing. “That’s one of the great things about Paris. Lots of people willing to take their clothes off.”
Sabo studied one sketch in particular, running his fingers across it.
A woman posed half in sunlight, half in shadow. Her hands were gracefully tucked under her chin.
“You liked this girl.”, the blonde noted. “You drew her several times.”
“She does have beautiful hands.”, Ace said simply.
Sabo’s lips curved teasingly. “You must have had a love affair with her.”
“No!”, Ace chuckled, tapping the railing. “No. Just with her hands.”
After a moment, the blonde closed the book carefully, like it deserved to be handled right, and raised his head again.
“You have a gift, Ace.”, he said. “You do. You see people.”
Ace looked at him intently. Maybe for a little too long. Too direct.
“I see you.”
The blonde’s pulse caught. Not intentionally, it just did.
“And …?”
The freckled man didn’t look away. Only the tiniest upcurve of his lip.
“You wouldn’t have jumped.”
≈ Ext. A-Deck ≈
≈ Early evening ≈
The sky turned gold, then pink, then a deepening violet. Somehow, they ended up talking all the way into the evening. Sabo and Ace leaned shoulder to shoulder against the aft rail on A-Deck, glowing in the final wash of sunlight.
The ship’s lights flickered on one by one, casting a soft halo over the promenade. Sabo glanced sideways, studying the man beside him.
Strong jaw. Loose black hair that the wind kept trying to ruffle. Freckled nose and cheeks.
He’d just finished telling a story - his story - involving something about trees and missed trains but had stopped before the end.
“So then what?”, Sabo asked, nudging his arm. “Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”
Ace shrugged lazily, a grin tugging on his mouth.
“Well … logging started feeling too much like real work. So I headed down to Los Angeles. Ended up on the Santa Monica pier. Swell place. They’ve got a rollercoaster and all that. I sketched portraits there for ten cents a piece.”
Sabo blinked. “A whole ten cents?”
Ace tilted his head, a little offended.
“That was great money. Some days I’d pull in a dollar - a dollar. That’s ten people, if you’re counting. But it only worked in the summer. When it got cold, I thought I’d head to Paris, see what the real artists were doing.”
Sabo looked out at the horizon.
“Why can’t I be like you?”, he asked dreamily. “Just … head out for the horizon when I feel like it?”
Then he turned toward Ace, voice a little softer.
“Say we’ll go there sometime. To the pier. Even if we never do. Just say it.”
Ace didn’t hesitate.
“We’ll go.”, he nodded. “We’ll drink cheap beer and eat hot dogs and ride that rollercoaster until we throw up - well, you definitely will - and we’ll rent horses and gallop down the beach like a pair of outlaws.”
He gave Sabo a playful once-over.
“But you’ll have to ride like a real cowboy. None of that side-saddle stuff.”
Sabo shot him a look. “Please. I’d ride better than you in a week. But sure. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two.”
Ace leaned in a little, dropping his voice into a pretty good southern accent.
“What? Like how to chew tobacco like a ma-an?”
“Like a man …”, Sabo repeated dryly, then lifted his eyebrow. “Or how to spit like a ma-an. Rob would hate it if I even remotely engaged in that kind of thing. But really, why should only men like him or you be allowed to spit? Seems unfair.”
Ace laughed at that, head tilting back. “What, they didn’t teach you that in finishing school?”
“No?”
“Well. I can’t let you go through life uneducated.”, he grinned, suddenly grabbing Sabo’s hand. “Come on. It’s easy.”
“Ace, no-“, the blonde protested, stumbling along as Ace dragged him further right along the rail. “Ace, seriously! I couldn’t possibly-“
“Here.”, the freckled man said, coming to a stop. “Watch closely.”
He leaned over and spat – a perfect arc sailing over the side and vanishing into the water.
Sabo recoiled. “That is … disgusting!”
“Your turn.”
“No way.”
But all it took was a beat - just one moment of looking out over the ocean, something wild and boyish flickering behind his eyes - and he started screwing up his mouth.
He spat. Sort of.
A pathetic little bubble of spit dribbled from his lip, caught the breeze, and rolled pathetically down his chin before finally surrendering to gravity.
Ace blinked at it. “That was … pitiful.”
Sabo wiped at his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, unamused. “I’m not exactly built for this.”
“Yeah, clearly.”
The freckled man leaned in, adopting the tone of a very serious teacher.
“Okay. You gotta hawk it down first - like this - HNNNKKK - then roll it on your tongue, bring it to the front - like thith - take a big breath, and PLOW!”
He demonstrated, launching another spit comet off into the blue.
“You see the range on that thing?”
“Mhm.”, Sabo hummed. “Majestic.”
“Now you.”
After giving a quiet sigh, the blonde did go through the motions:
The hawk, the tongue-roll, the inhale. Ace coached him through it.
“That’s the spirit!”
Then the spit launched. A near perfect arc.
“See, that was great!”
Sabo wiped at the corner of his mouth.
“Really?”
≈ ≈ ≈
Just as Ace was winding up for round three, a trio of footsteps clacked down the deck behind them.
Feeling their presence, Sabo turned. So did Ace.
There stood Didit. Koala. And some finely dressed friend of theirs, all staring at the both of them in stillness, having seen … well, everything.
“Mother!”, Sabo said in a panicky voice, hesitantly stepping closer.
But his mother was frozen mid-step, her gloved hands held before her like she’d just been shown an execution.
Her gaze flicked to Ace - shirt rumpled, suspenders loose, mouth … damp.
“This is … Ace D. Portgas.”, Sabo blurted an introduction. “The man that saved me.”
Didit blinked. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
Then she turned her gaze on her son, head tilted slightly, as though she was still trying to process the horror of what she’d witnessed:
Her only child gobbing off the back of the most luxurious ship in the world, coached by some … steerage gremlin.
Ace opened his mouth. And Koala, discreetly as ever, looked at him and gestured to her own mouth. The freckled man sheepishly cleared the spit trail off with his arm.
The stare of Sabo’s mother flicked back to him. Cold. Appraising. Like he was a strange insect in her drawing room. Like he was possibly contagious.
She didn’t look frightened - just deeply offended by the implication that she might be expected to acknowledge his presence for more than a second.
Beside her, Koala smiled to disarm the situation.
“Well, Ace … sounds like you’re a good man to have around in a sticky spot.”
From somewhere deeper in the ship, a trumpet rang out:
Call to dinner.
And the red head rolled her eyes. “Why do they always insist on housing dinner like a damn cavalry charge?”
Sabo laughed awkwardly, already inching toward his mother.
“Shall we go dress, mother?”
He took her arm and quickly turned her away from the scene - but not before glancing back over his shoulder, catching Ace’s eye with the smallest of smiles.
“See you at dinner, Ace.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Ace waved after Sabo, still processing the interaction.
Koala watched the retreating trio, then turned to him with growing concern.
“Young man.”, she tried to gather his attention. “Young man!”
The freckled man blinked and finally looked at her, a little glassy-eyed.
“Do you have even the slightest comprehension of what you’re doing?”
He considered. Not for long, though.
“Not … really.”
Koala sighed out through her nose. “You’re about to walk straight into the bloody snake pit.”, she said, looking him up and down. “What exactly are you planning to wear?”
Ace looked down at himself.
Rumpled shirt, loose suspenders, bare forearms. He vaguely gestured to the whole ensemble.
“This?”
She scoffed like that was the most tragic thing she’d ever heard.
“I figured.” she muttered, looping her arm through his. “Come with me.”