Chapter Text
The bright, golden light of the early morning sun crawled slowly across the wooden planks of the Moby Dick’s aft deck. The salty sea breeze carried the crisp, refreshing chill of the Grand Line, chasing away the lingering shadows of the night.
Ace slowly returned to consciousness. He felt incredibly warm. A massive, rising and falling weight pressed firmly against his side, radiating the intense heat of a roaring furnace. He cracked his right eye open, squinting against the blinding sunlight. A mountain of thick, coarse white fur filled his entire field of vision. Stefan had shifted during the night, effectively using Ace as a highly convenient, human-sized pillow. The giant dog snored loudly, releasing warm puffs of air that ruffled Ace's messy black hair.
Ace stared up at the clear blue sky. He took a deep, experimental breath, filling his lungs with the fresh ocean air. The suffocating, crushing weight that had paralyzed his chest for the past twenty-four hours felt significantly lighter. The agonizing knot of guilt still existed deep within his heart, but the conversation with Whitebeard had acted like a healing balm. Pops understood him. Pops shared the exact same brand of devastating grief. Ace felt a profound sense of grounding, anchored by the immense love of his captain.
Loud, stomping footsteps shattered the peaceful morning quiet.
"Stefan! Wake up this instant, you giant lazy rug!" Haruta’s voice echoed across the deck, completely destroying the serene atmosphere.
The Twelfth Division Commander stomped into view, wearing a bright green sash and a look of profound annoyance. Haruta marched directly toward the sleeping pair and planted both hands firmly on his hips.
"We made a deal, Stefan!" Haruta complained loudly, pointing an accusing finger at the snoring animal. "You promised to play fetch with the cannonballs this morning! I need to burn off some energy! Get up!"
Stefan let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded remarkably human. The dog kept his eyes firmly shut and deliberately let his massive head roll completely over, crushing Ace’s left arm under an extra hundred pounds of dead weight. Stefan entirely refused to abandon his post.
Ace groaned, trying to pull his arm free. "Haruta, the dog clearly prefers sleeping. Leave us alone. We are busy resting."
Haruta puffed out his cheeks, crossing his arms in a dramatic display of indignation. "You both act like boring old men! Pops possesses more morning energy than the two of you combined!"
Before Haruta could launch into another loud tirade, the heavy wooden doors of the galley swung wide open. A heavenly, rich, and utterly irresistible aroma flooded the deck.
Thatch stepped out into the sunlight. The Fourth Division Commander wore a pristine white chef’s apron over his usual clothes. In his right hand, he held a weapon of mass persuasion. It was a colossal, bone-in piece of roasted Sea King meat. The exterior possessed a perfect, caramelized crust, dripping with savory brown juices and glistening with a secret blend of spicy honey glaze. The steam rising from the meat carried the distinct scent of garlic, rosemary, and slow-roasted perfection.
"Step aside, Haruta," Thatch announced, his voice brimming with confidence. He raised the giant meat bone high in the air like a conquering hero holding a sword. "You completely lack the proper tactical approach. To move a stubborn beast, one must appeal to its basest, most primal instincts."
Thatch stepped closer to the sleeping pile of boy and dog. He lowered the meat, waving the steaming, dripping masterpiece mere inches from Stefan’s black nose.
"Oh, Stefan," Thatch cooed, adopting a ridiculous, high-pitched voice. "Look what Papa Thatch made for you! A delicious, juicy, prime cut of the finest meat! Smell that glaze! "
Stefan’s nose twitched violently. The dog’s eyes remained closed, but his nostrils flared, rapidly taking in the intoxicating scent.
However, Thatch made a massive, fundamental miscalculation. He completely forgot about the other feral glutton currently lying on the deck.
Ace’s Devil Fruit metabolism demanded a truly terrifying amount of calories on a daily basis. Ace’s eyes snapped wide open. His pupils dilated. His stomach let out a roar that rivaled the sound of an angry sea monster.
In a display of terrifying, synchronized speed, both Ace and Stefan lunged forward at the exact same millisecond.
Jaws snapped shut. Teeth met caramelized crust.
"What the—!" Thatch yelled, stumbling backward in pure shock as the heavy bone was violently yanked from his grip.
A hilarious, chaotic tug-of-war instantly erupted on the wooden planks. Ace gripped the right side of the massive meat chunk with both hands, his teeth sunk deep into the tender flesh. Stefan clamped his powerful jaws firmly around the left side of the bone, planting his massive paws firmly against the deck for leverage.
Stefan let out a deep, rumbling, warning growl from the back of his throat.
Ace narrowed his eyes fiercely and responded with a feral, animalistic snarl of his own, completely matching the dog’s aggressive tone. Ace pulled backward with all his core strength. Stefan yanked his head in the opposite direction, pulling Ace halfway across the floorboards.
"Let go, you greedy mutt!" Ace managed to yell through a mouthful of meat, his voice muffled but furious. "This belongs to me!"
Stefan barked around the bone, a muffled sound of pure defiance, and shook his head violently, sending droplets of spicy honey glaze flying across the deck.
Haruta collapsed onto the deck, clutching his stomach, howling with uncontrollable laughter. Tears streamed down Haruta's face as he watched the Second Division Commander literally wrestling the ship's dog for a piece of breakfast.
Thatch stood frozen, staring at the absurd spectacle, before he too burst into loud, booming laughter. He slapped his knee, pointing at Ace.
"Ace! You absolute animal!" Thatch wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "I cooked that specifically for the dog! You have a massive buffet waiting inside the mess hall!"
"Finders keepers!" Ace roared back, losing his grip slightly as Stefan gave a particularly strong yank.
Ace decided to cheat. He activated a tiny, controlled spark of heat around his hands. The sudden spike in temperature startled Stefan. The dog yelped softly, immediately releasing his grip on the bone to protect his sensitive nose.
Ace capitalized on the victory instantly. He rolled away, sitting up against the railing, and began tearing into the massive piece of meat with terrifying speed, completely ignoring the honey glaze smearing across his cheeks and nose. Stefan sat down, looking profoundly betrayed, letting out a pitiful, high-pitched whine.
Thatch walked over, still chuckling, and tossed a second, slightly smaller piece of raw steak directly to Stefan. The dog caught it mid-air, his tail wagging furiously, immediately forgiving the betrayal.
"You truly possess a bottomless pit for a stomach, my friend," Thatch smiled, dropping down to sit on the deck right next to Ace. Haruta crawled over, still giggling, and sat on Ace's other side.
Ace chewed the delicious meat, suddenly hyper-aware of their presence. The memory of last night crashed into the forefront of his mind. He gripped the bone tightly. He fully expected them to mention the broken cup, the screaming, the horrific rejection he had thrown in their faces. He braced himself for the gentle interrogations, the pitying looks, the heavy, serious conversations.
"So," Haruta started, leaning forward with a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. "We face a serious crisis this morning. We require your specific expertise, Ace."
Ace blinked, swallowing the food. He looked from Haruta to Thatch. Both commanders wore expressions of pure, unadulterated mischief. They completely ignored his red-rimmed eyes. They acted exactly the same as they did every single day. The total absence of pity or anger flooded Ace’s chest with a wave of profound, staggering relief. They truly forgave him. They wanted their brother back.
"My expertise?" Ace asked, wiping his greasy mouth with the back of his hand. "Expertise in what?"
Thatch reached into the deep pocket of his apron. With the dramatic flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Thatch produced a small, perfectly clear glass bottle. The bottle contained a thick, vibrant, blindingly bright neon-pink liquid.
"Behold," Thatch whispered reverently. "The ultimate instrument of chaos. I traded three crates of premium East Blue rum for this beauty at our last port. The merchant called it 'Flamingo's Revenge'."
Ace leaned closer, examining the glowing pink substance. "What does it do?"
"It is a highly concentrated, semi-permanent hair dye," Haruta explained, rubbing his hands together like an evil villain. "It reacts instantly to hot water. Once it sets, it takes absolutely weeks to fade out completely."
A slow, wicked smile began to spread across Ace’s face. The heavy sorrow of the previous day receded, entirely replaced by the thrilling promise of causing absolute mayhem.
"Who is the target?" Ace asked, his voice dropping to an excited whisper.
"Marco, obviously," Thatch replied, completely deadpan. "The man possesses far too much dignity, acting like the responsible older brother all the time. He desperately needs a splash of color in his life. Plus, he insulted my lemon meringue pie last night. This means war."
"I support this war completely," Ace agreed, tossing the clean meat bone into the ocean. "But Marco possesses incredibly sharp Observation Haki. He senses danger from a mile away. How do you plan to get the dye into his shampoo bottle without him noticing?"
Thatch smiled a brilliant, dangerous smile. He reached out and aggressively ruffled the white fur on Stefan's neck. "We utilize the ultimate distraction. Marco absolutely loves this giant fluffball. He completely loses his serious demeanor whenever Stefan asks for belly rubs."
"Here is the master plan," Haruta chimed in, drawing imaginary lines on the wooden deck with his finger. "Marco conducts his morning inspection of the rigging in exactly twenty minutes. You, Ace, will intercept him. You will ask him an incredibly complicated, utterly boring question about the New World weather currents. Marco loves explaining things. He will stop to give you a lecture."
"During the lecture," Thatch continued, taking over the explanation, "Stefan will deploy the 'Sad Puppy Eyes' maneuver. He will tackle Marco's legs and demand attention. Marco’s Haki will focus entirely on your conversation and the dog. That creates a blind spot."
"And while Marco is distracted," Ace concluded, his eyes shining with pure delight, "You sneak into the commanders' bathing quarters and swap the shampoo."
"Exactly!" Thatch beamed, giving Ace a high-five. "The pink dye looks exactly like his regular coconut shampoo. He will step into the shower, use the hot water and BOOM! A majestic, glowing pink bird emerges from the steam!"
"This plan is perfect," Ace declared, jumping to his feet, the fiery energy completely returning to his veins. "Stefan, you know your mission. Go find Marco."
Stefan let out a sharp, affirmative bark. The dog trotted away toward the front of the ship, completely ready to betray the First Commander for the sake of a good prank.
Twenty minutes later, the trap sprang perfectly.
Marco walked across the main deck, holding a thick clipboard, his sharp eyes scanning the ropes and sails for any signs of wear. Ace leaned casually against the main mast, waiting for his moment. As Marco approached, Ace pushed himself off the wood and blocked the path.
"Hey, Marco," Ace called out, pasting an expression of intense, academic curiosity onto his face. "I reviewed the navigation logs from last week. I fail to understand the correlation between the erratic magnetic fields of the specific winter island and the sudden drop in barometric pressure. Can you explain the theory behind the localized wind shears?"
Marco stopped. He blinked slowly, staring at Ace in profound shock. The Second Commander voluntarily asking a complex academic question regarding navigation felt entirely surreal. Marco immediately raised a skeptical eyebrow, his instincts buzzing softly.
Before Marco could question the sudden thirst for knowledge, a massive white blur launched itself across the deck. Stefan slammed heavily into the back of Marco's knees, knocking the First Commander slightly off balance. Stefan immediately flopped onto his back, exposing his stomach, and let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine, completely burying his nose beneath his paws.
Marco sighed. The severe, skeptical expression melted entirely away, replaced by a soft, affectionate smile. He dropped the clipboard onto a nearby barrel and knelt down.
"You are an absolute menace, Stefan," Marco murmured softly, digging both hands deep into the thick white fur, thoroughly scratching the dog's favorite spot behind the ears. Stefan’s tail thumped a joyous, rapid rhythm against the floorboards.
Ace maintained eye contact with Marco, nodding seriously. "Yes, the wind shears. The sudden vertical drafts. Tell me about them."
Marco kept scratching the dog, looking up at Ace. "Well, yoi, the localized magnetic fields create a barrier that traps the cold air..."
As Marco launched into a highly detailed, entirely boring explanation, Ace shifted his gaze slightly. Over Marco’s left shoulder, he spotted Thatch sprinting silently down the adjacent corridor, holding the small bottle of Flamingo Pink dye. Thatch threw Ace a massive, victorious thumbs-up before disappearing into the bathing quarters.
The mission was a complete success.
Two hours later, the mess hall buzzed with the chaotic, joyful noise of the lunchtime rush. Hundreds of pirates crammed around the long tables, clashing tankards and shouting stories over the roar of the crowd.
The commanders sat gathered at their usual massive round table near the kitchen doors. Ace sat firmly wedged between Jozu and Fossa. He actively devoured a mountain of spicy seafood pasta, his mood lighter than it had been in months. Haruta and Thatch sat directly across from him, vibrating with an intense, barely contained anticipation. They kept shooting eager glances toward the heavy oak doors of the hall.
"You two look absolutely ridiculous," Vista commented, delicately slicing a piece of steak. "You resemble a pair of eager children waiting for a festival. What exactly did you do?"
"We did absolutely nothing, Vista," Thatch lied smoothly, taking a sip of his wine. "We simply appreciate the beautiful day."
The heavy oak doors suddenly groaned loudly, swinging wide open.
The noise in the mess hall died instantly. The silence swept across the room like a physical wave, starting at the entrance and rippling all the way to the back walls. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Forks paused halfway to open mouths.
Marco stood in the doorway. He wore his usual dark trousers and an open purple shirt. His expression remained incredibly calm, radiating his usual aura of bored authority.
However, his hair looked completely, utterly, and undeniably spectacular.
The spiky, pineapple-shaped blond hair was entirely gone. In its place stood a vibrant, blinding, magnificent crown of neon flamingo pink. The color looked incredibly aggressive, catching the light of the chandeliers and practically glowing in the dim room.
Marco stood completely still, his sharp eyes slowly scanning the silent crowd.
A single, muffled snort broke the silence. One of the newer recruits failed to contain his amusement. That single sound acted like a match dropped into a powder keg.
The entire mess hall erupted into absolute, chaotic pandemonium.
Pirates howled with laughter, slamming their fists against the tables. Some fell out of their chairs, clutching their stomachs. Jozu let out a deep, rumbling laugh that vibrated the plates on the table. Vista choked violently on his wine, coughing into his napkin while his shoulders shook uncontrollably.
Marco closed his eyes, taking a long, slow, exceptionally deep breath. He opened his eyes and locked his gaze entirely onto the commanders' table. He began a slow, deliberate march toward them.
Thatch immediately panicked. He dove sideways, attempting to hide his large frame entirely behind Jozu's massive, diamond-hard shoulder. Haruta simply slapped both hands over his mouth, vibrating with silent, hysterical laughter.
Ace leaned back in his chair, throwing his head back, and released a loud, genuine, ringing laugh. The sound felt incredibly good. It felt like breathing pure oxygen after spending hours underwater.
Marco reached the table. He stood directly over Thatch, crossing his arms over his chest. He glared down at the chef, his expression promising a slow, agonizing demise.
"Thatch," Marco stated, his voice completely flat, devoid of any inflection.
"It looks fantastic!" Thatch squeaked from behind Jozu. "It brings out your eyes! It makes you look friendly and approachable!"
"You ruined my entire aesthetic, you absolute menace," Marco hissed, leaning closer. "I look like a flamboyant sea urchin. I look like Doflamingo's cousin."
"It highlights your incredible bone structure!" Haruta offered unhelpfully, wiping a tear from his cheek.
"I will personally ensure every single one of your precious kitchen knives disappears into the ocean, Thatch," Marco promised, his voice low and dangerous. He turned his terrifying pink-haired glare toward Ace. "And you. Asking about barometric pressure. I should have known you possessed an ulterior motive, you little gremlin."
Ace grinned widely, entirely unrepentant. "I acted purely as an innocent bystander, Marco. My thirst for knowledge remains genuine."
Marco let out a long, long sigh, dropping heavily into his empty chair. He reached out and grabbed an entire bottle of wine, uncorking it with his thumb, and took a long swig directly from the glass.
"I hate all of you," Marco grumbled, staring mournfully at the table. "You all are the worst siblings in the entire world."
"We love you too, Pinky!" Thatch cheered, bravely emerging from behind Jozu to pat Marco on the shoulder. Marco immediately swatted the hand away, sparking a fresh wave of laughter around the table.
Ace sat back, watching his brothers bicker and joke. The warm, chaotic energy of the family washed over him, completely validating Whitebeard's words from the previous night. They accepted his flaws. They loved his chaotic nature. They simply wanted him present, sharing the joy and the madness of their daily lives.
As the laughter slowly died down, replaced by the normal, loud conversation of the meal, Ace’s gaze drifted naturally around the round table. He spotted Fossa lighting a cigar. He saw Rakuyo stealing a piece of bread from Namur's plate.
Ace counted the heads.
He stopped. The warm feeling in his chest cooled marginally.
The chair situated two spaces to his left remained entirely empty. Izou was missing. The Sixteenth Division Commander always attended lunch punctually.
The memory of the shattered red lacquer cup instantly flashed across Ace's vision. He remembered the look of pure, profound shock and deep hurt on Izou’s meticulously painted face. Ace had struck his hands. Ace had screamed those horrific words directly at him.
The guilt flared up, sharp and biting, but this time, Ace completely refused to let it consume him. He refused to run away and hide in the crow's nest. He deeply desired to fix his mistake.
Ace stood up from the table. He grabbed a clean, wooden tray from the center stack. He walked with total purpose toward the massive buffet tables lining the wall. He carefully selected a bowl of perfectly steamed white rice, a serving of delicate, glazed grilled fish, and a small, immaculate plate of sweet bean paste mochi—traditional Wano dishes that Izou absolutely favored over the heavy, greasy meat the rest of the crew devoured.
Ace returned to the table, holding the prepared tray firmly in his hands.
The commanders noticed his serious expression. The loud banter slowly faded away. Marco put down his wine bottle, his pink hair completely forgotten. Thatch stopped arguing. They all looked at Ace, their expressions shifting to a quiet, profound understanding.
"I need to go see Izou," Ace announced, his voice steady, carrying an absolute certainty.
The silence stretched for a single, heavy second. Then, a wave of gentle, incredibly warm support washed over the table.
Vista offered a soft, refined smile, raising his wine glass in a silent toast of encouragement. Thatch reached out and delivered a solid, reassuring pat to Ace’s arm. Haruta beamed, giving him two enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Marco looked at Ace. The First Commander's eyes shone with a deep, immense pride. Marco gave a single, firm nod.
"Tell him we saved him a piece of cake," Marco said softly.
Ace nodded back. He turned away from the table, gripping the tray securely. He walked purposefully through the crowded mess hall, completely ignoring the noise, keeping his eyes locked entirely on the heavy oak doors. He pushed them open and stepped into the quiet corridor, walking forward to offer his brother the apology he deserved.
The corridor housing the private quarters of the Whitebeard Commanders offered a stark contrast to the chaotic, roaring energy of the main mess hall. A thick, plush red carpet absorbed the heavy thuds of Ace’s boots, creating a muffled, respectful silence. The air here smelled faintly of polished mahogany and the salty sea breeze drafting through the high portholes.
Ace walked slowly, holding the wooden tray firmly with both hands. The delicate porcelain bowls rattled slightly, betraying the violent trembling in his fingers. The scent of steamed white rice, glazed fish, and sweet bean paste mochi wafted up to his nose, a physical reminder of his mission. He had promised Pops. He needed to make amends for his feral reaction the previous night.
He reached the heavy oak door bearing the painted numeral '16'. He stopped, taking a long, deep breath to steady his racing heart. He shifted the tray entirely to his left hand, balancing it carefully against his forearm, and raised his right hand. He rapped his knuckles gently against the wood, a hesitant, quiet rhythm.
"Enter," Izou’s voice pierced the thick wood instantly, carrying a tone of calm, composed authority.
Ace pushed the brass handle down with his elbow and nudged the door open with his shoulder. He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
Izou’s cabin served as a masterclass in elegance and meticulous organization. It completely rivaled the quarters of Vista and Namur, the other two commanders who prioritized also tidiness. The sixteenth commander's room smelled wonderfully of sweet camellia hair oil, sharp black ink, and burning sandalwood incense. Silk screens featuring painted cherry blossoms divided the space. Various firearms and beautifully crafted katana rested on polished wooden stands, completely free of a single speck of dust.
Ace briefly compared the immaculate sanctuary to Marco's cabin down the hall. The First Commander’s room currently resembled a disaster zone, perpetually buried under mountains of scattered paperwork, half-empty coffee mugs, and whatever ridiculous prank items Thatch had decided to hide under the bed that week.
Izou sat behind a low, dark wood writing desk, a calligraphy brush poised gracefully in his right hand. He wore a simple, elegant purple kimono, his dark hair pulled back perfectly.
Izou turned his head toward the door. His dark eyes locked onto the young fire user. The relaxed, focused expression on Izou's painted face vanished entirely, replaced by a sudden, rigid stiffness. He placed the brush down on the inkstone, giving Ace his complete, undivided attention.
Ace stood frozen near the doorway. The courage he had mustered in the mess hall evaporated completely. He felt incredibly foolish holding the tray of food. He stared down at the tips of his black boots, his cheeks burning with a deep, humiliating heat.
The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Izou waited patiently, offering Ace the space to speak first.
Ace swallowed hard. He lifted his head slightly and extended the tray outward, presenting the meal like an awkward peace offering.
"I brought you some food," Ace stammered, his voice sounding rough and completely unnatural to his own ears. "Marco told me to tell you the kitchen saved you a large piece of cake. They want you to join them for dessert."
Izou lowered his gaze to the wooden tray. He examined the perfectly steamed rice, the delicate fish, and the traditional sweet mochi. The sight of his favorite dishes, carefully selected by the brother who had yelled at him the night before, caused a shift in Izou's demeanor. The tension bled out of his shoulders. His eyes softened, radiating a warm, gentle appreciation.
Izou stood up gracefully, the silk of his kimono rustling softly in the quiet room. He walked over to Ace, reaching out with both hands to accept the heavy tray. He carried it over to the corner of his immaculate desk, setting it down with practiced care.
"Thank you, Ace," Izou said softly, his voice carrying genuine warmth. "Please tell the others I will join them later for tea, assuming a few of them remain available."
Ace nodded quickly, his anxiety demanding a swift exit.
"Right. Okay," Ace muttered, already taking a step backward toward the exit. "Are you busy working? Do you require assistance with the paperwork? I can..."
Izou chuckled, a light, melodic sound that filled the cabin. "No, Ace, I completely finished my paperwork an hour ago. I simply preferred the solitude of my cabin this afternoon. I needed a moment of quiet."
"Oh," Ace said, his hand reaching blindly behind him for the brass doorknob. "I interrupted your quiet time. I apologize. I will leave you alone now."
He turned the handle, desperately wanting to escape the overwhelming sense of his own guilt.
"Ace, wait," Izou called out, his voice suddenly firm and commanding.
Before Ace could pull the door open, Izou crossed the room with surprising speed. The sixteenth commander reached out, his elegant fingers wrapping firmly around Ace’s wrist. The grip felt warm and incredibly grounding, anchoring Ace to the spot.
Ace froze entirely. He slowly turned his head, looking back over his shoulder. He expected a reprimand. He braced his body for the lecture he completely deserved.
"Yes?" Ace asked, his voice trembling slightly. "Do you want me to bring you a different drink? Thatch brewed fresh tea..."
"No," Izou interrupted gently, his dark eyes searching Ace's face. "I wanted to offer you my sincere apologies regarding the events of yesterday evening."
Ace widened his eyes, a look of unadulterated shock washing over his freckled face. He stared at Izou, struggling to process the words.
"Apologize?" Ace repeated, his voice rising an octave in disbelief. "Why would you apologize? I acted like a feral monster! I slapped the cup out of your hands! I screamed terrible things at you! I completely ruined the evening!"
Izou released his grip on Ace's wrist, letting his hand fall to his side. His expression remained incredibly gentle, filled with a deep, knowing sorrow.
"You carried a massive burden yesterday, Ace," Izou explained, his voice smooth and comforting. "We all noticed your profound distress. We simply hoped a formal declaration of our family bond would lift your spirits. We made a terrible mistake. I should have discussed the idea with you privately beforehand. Springing a highly emotional ritual on you without warning was stupid of me."
Izou took a small step forward, closing the distance between them.
"I need you to understand something very clearly, Ace," Izou stated, his tone carrying the weight of unwavering loyalty. "My feelings of brotherhood exist entirely independent of your choices. I consider you my brother, period. Your participation in any ritual remains completely optional."
The breath completely left Ace’s lungs.
The immaculate cabin vanished from his vision. The scent of sandalwood faded, entirely replaced by the smell of damp earth and pine needles. The face standing before him shifted. The elegant makeup and dark hair morphed into a soot-stained face, bright blue eyes, and a missing front tooth.
'My feelings exist entirely independent of your choices. I consider you my brother, period. Your participation remains completely optional.'
Sabo had spoken those words. Sabo had offered the exact same unconditional love, demanding absolutely nothing in return. Sabo had offered him an escape route while simultaneously anchoring his heart forever.
The dam holding back Ace's emotions shattered completely. The tears he had successfully suppressed throughout the morning broke free, spilling hot and fast down his cheeks. He clamped his jaw shut, fighting a violent tremor racking his entire body.
Izou noticed the sudden, overwhelming physical reaction. His eyes widened in immediate concern. He raised his hands, a look of worry crossing his face.
"Ace?" Izou asked, his voice laced with anxiety. "Did I say something wrong? Did I upset you further?"
Ace shook his head rapidly, sending tiny droplets of tears flying across the room. He took a massive, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with air. Pops had trusted him with his darkest memories the previous night. Izou offered him unconditional love right now. He needed to trust his family. He needed to stop running.
"I had a brother," Ace confessed, the words tearing out of his throat in a hoarse, desperate whisper.
Izou went completely still, giving Ace his total, undivided attention.
"A second brother," Ace continued, his voice shaking violently. He stared down at his boots, completely unable to meet Izou's eyes. "Before I joined this crew. We shared a cup of sake together. Me, Luffy, and him. We promised to be brothers forever. "
Ace swallowed a painful lump in his throat. He gripped the fabric of his own shorts tightly.
"Yesterday marked his birthday," Ace whispered, the final word cracking in half. "And he is dead."
The heavy silence crashed down upon the room, thick with the agonizing weight of a decade-long grief.
Izou closed his eyes for a brief second, his expression morphing into one of devastating realization. The pieces of the puzzle slammed perfectly into place.
Izou stepped forward immediately. He wrapped his arms securely around Ace's trembling shoulders, pulling the younger pirate into a tight, all-encompassing embrace.
Ace collapsed against the sixteenth commander. He completely surrendered his rigid posture, burying his tear-stained face deep into the crook of Izou's neck. The smooth silk of the kimono felt cool against his hot skin. The scent of camellia oil surrounded him, offering a deeply grounding sense of safety. He wept silently, his shoulders shaking with the force of his release.
"Oh, Ace," Izou murmured softly, resting his chin on top of Ace's dark hair. His hands rubbed soothing, rhythmic circles against Ace's back. "I am so deeply sorry. I completely lacked this context. I caused you immense pain by forcing that memory to the surface. Please forgive my ignorance."
Ace shook his head against Izou's shoulder, his fingers gripping the back of the purple kimono.
"You didn’t know," Ace sobbed, his voice muffled by the fabric. "I hid the truth from everyone. I apologize for screaming at you. You all act as my family. You are my brothers. I simply feel terrified of replacing him. "
Izou tightened his embrace, squeezing Ace reassuringly. "Of course, Ace. We will abandon the sake ritual entirely. We will discover an entirely different method to celebrate your place in this family. You hold absolutely nothing to fear."
Ace let out a wet, watery chuckle, pulling his face away from Izou's neck. He wiped his eyes aggressively with the back of his hand, sniffing loudly. A small, genuine smile broke through the tears.
"Please," Ace requested, his voice still raspy but carrying a hint of his usual humor. "Please skip the tattoo idea. I completely refuse to tattoo your face onto my skin."
Izou blinked, a look of astonishment crossing his elegant features. He stared at Ace, his mouth parting slightly.
"How did you guess my backup plan?" Izou asked, genuinely bewildered.
Ace let out a louder, brighter laugh, the sound echoing wonderfully in the quiet cabin. He leaned back, resting his hands on his hips. The crushing weight on his chest felt significantly lighter.
"He suggested the exact same thing ten years ago," Ace explained, shaking his head in amusement. "You share a very similar thought process. You possess a weirdly identical brain whenever you act calm and rational."
Izou smiled brilliantly, a look of deep affection warming his eyes. He reached out and affectionately ruffled Ace's messy black hair, completely ruining the natural spikes.
"I accept that comparison as a compliment," Izou stated warmly.
The sound of heavy, stomping footsteps echoing down the corridor shattered the peaceful atmosphere. The footsteps approached rapidly, accompanied by the distinct sound of two people arguing loudly.
The brass handle of the cabin door twisted violently. The door swung wide open, hitting the wooden stopper with a loud thwack.
Marco stood in the doorway, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. Vista stood right beside him, twirling his magnificent mustache with a look of pure exasperation.
Marco possessed an incredibly sour expression, his eyes narrowed in a dangerous glare. His open purple shirt revealed the tattoo on his chest. However, the true spectacle rested entirely upon his head. The vibrant, blindingly bright, neon flamingo-pink hair caught the warm light of the cabin, practically glowing with aggressive color.
"Well, well, Portgas," Marco drawled, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Do my hugs completely fail to satisfy you? You seek out Izou for your emotional support needs now?"
Ace wiped the last lingering tear from his cheek and immediately deployed his sharpest grin. The vulnerability vanished, instantly replaced by his fiery, combative spirit.
"Shut up, you giant roasted flamingo," Ace fired back instantly, pointing a mocking finger at the First Commander's head. "Your hugs feel like getting wrapped in a prickly, boring blanket. Izou smells much better than you."
Vista let out a booming laugh, slapping his knee. "He speaks the truth, Marco! You smell strongly of old paperwork and Thatch's terrible cologne!"
"You lack the right to speak about my scent, Vista," Marco grumbled, running a hand through his aggressively pink hair. "And you, Ace, possess a terrible memory. You cried on my shoulder during the winter storm incident last month."
"I cried because you forced me to drink three bottles of terrible rum while wearing seastone handcuffs on a dare!" Ace protested loudly, crossing his arms. "And you completely lost your dignity that night! You spent an hour sobbing because you misplaced your favorite pineapple pen!"
Izou, who had taken a step back to allow the new arrivals to enter, finally raised his eyes to look directly at the First Commander.
Izou had skipped the lunch service. He had completely missed the spectacular reveal of Thatch and Haruta's masterpiece. He stared at the neon pink hair.
Izou's eyes widened to comical proportions. He went completely rigid.
In a display of desperate self-preservation, Izou spun entirely around, turning his back to the entire group. He slapped both of his hands violently over his own mouth. His shoulders began to tremble. A high-pitched, muffled squeak escaped from behind his hands, sounding remarkably like a dying teapot.
Vista released a massive, heavy sigh, shaking his head in profound defeat.
"Unbelievable," Vista groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I lost fifty berries today. I made a firm bet with Blenheim. I bet on Izou maintaining his stoic composure upon seeing the pink hair. I deeply believed in your geisha training, Izou. You disappointed me."
Ace burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, clutching his stomach. He watched Izou vibrating violently near the desk, the sixteenth commander completely failing to contain his hilarity.
"He looks magnificent, Vista!" Ace choked out between laughs. "He belongs in a circus!"
Marco closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath, visibly counting to ten in his head.
"We came here out of concern," Vista stated, turning his attention back to the young fire user. "We worried you might say something incredibly stupid to Izou and cause another disaster. However, it appears you managed your apologies with surprising maturity."
Ace stopped laughing, adopting a look of offended indignation. He pointed a challenging finger directly at the swordsman's chest.
"I possess excellent manners," Ace declared confidently. "I know exactly how to apologize! I simply refuse to apologize to you, Vista, because you continue to wear those ridiculously tight shirts solely to impress the nurses in Pops' medical ward! It looks pathetic!"
Vista’s jaw dropped. A bright red flush of anger instantly crawled up his neck, disappearing under his thick mustache. He rested his hand heavily on the hilt of his sword.
"You insolent, disrespectful little gremlin!" Vista roared, drawing his blade an inch from the scabbard, the metal glinting dangerously. "I will chop your ridiculous smiley-face hat into tiny pieces!"
Ace did not wait a single second. He deployed his Devil Fruit instantly. He transformed his legs entirely into roaring orange flames and launched himself straight through the doorway, slipping right past Marco's shoulder.
"Catch me if you can, mustache!" Ace's voice echoed loudly down the corridor, followed by the sound of rapid, frantic footsteps.
Vista drew his sword entirely and sprinted out the door in hot pursuit, his heavy boots pounding aggressively against the red carpet. "Get back here, you brat!"
The noise of the chase rapidly faded down the hallway, leaving a sudden, quiet peace in the sixteenth commander's cabin.
Marco stood alone in the doorway. He dropped his head, letting his chin rest against his chest. A profound look of exhaustion settled over his features. He reached up and massaged his temples, completely drained by the chaotic energy of his siblings.
He slowly looked up, directing his exhausted gaze toward the back of the sixteenth commander.
"Izou," Marco pleaded, his voice carrying a tone of utter desperation. "Please. You represent the very last shred of sanity on this entire vessel. If you lose your mind today, I will personally jump over the railing and sink to the bottom of the ocean. Tell me you possess a solution for this disaster on my head."
Izou took three deep, consecutive breaths, forcing his trembling shoulders to still. He slowly lowered his hands from his mouth. He turned around, his face completely flushed, his eyes shining with unshed tears of mirth. He bit the inside of his cheek with incredible force to prevent another bout of laughter.
"Sit on the bed, Marco," Izou commanded, his voice shaking noticeably. He gestured toward the mattress with a trembling hand. "Allow me to eat my lunch first. Once I finish my meal, I will examine the damage and attempt save something."
Marco grumbled a series of colorful curses directed entirely at Thatch, Haruta, and neon birds. He trudged over to the bed and collapsed onto the mattress, burying his pink head in his hands, completely resigning himself to the mercy of his remaining brother.