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Losing Ace was.
Is.
Still so very painful. One look at the scar marring his chest is enough to confirm the thought. The unthinkable, losing family, losing a brother. The one who had raised him, the one who poured all his love into their childhood, only ever silently asking for some love back. Losing Ace – it had felt like a hand, reaching into his chest, grabbing his beating heart and ripping it out, crushing it, tearing it into literal shreds, tossing it onto the gravel and spitting on it like it’s trash.
It felt like glass – bursting into million shards.
It felt like ice – breaking as the cracks shattered.
It felt like a billion things all at once, and somehow also like nothing at all.
These days it feels like a numb old wound. A scar, still pinching a little every once in a while, marred skin rough under his fingers. It feels like a nightmare, still haunting him on bad nights. Some days, Luffy will trace the scar, the reminder, the promise, and wonder aloud; was it meant to happen? As a warning of the strength of the New World? Without it, would Luffy have lead his entire crew into an early grave?
Would the scar have stood for his entire crew?
(Luffy stops asking with his face unusually stern, serious, when Nami had hugged him then, sobbing, apologising for not being there.)
(It’s not her fault.)
(It’s not Luffy’s either.)
(But he stops asking – for his grief has waned, but his crew’s hasn’t.)
Luffy traces the scar, the reminder, the promise–
And he feels it burning. Burning bright, like it feels like the colour red, of what red means, what it feels like. And it feels like fire, like flames, like magma searing his skin– as he feels the blood roar in his ears, heart going a mile a minute, raging in his chest, pounding at his ribcage when Tesoro shows him Zoro–
(First Mate Roronoa Zoro, the Pirate Hunter, the Right Hand of the Future Pirate King.)
(Luffy’s First Mate.)
(Luffy’s Family.)
Tesoro taunts and he gloats, the image of Zoro still aloft – Luffy wants to go wild – crowing of bets and games, death and blood, of pain and punishment, of execution. And Luffy sees Zoro bound in treacherous gold, gaudy and horrible, limbs immobilised and head hanging down, like he’s waiting for a blade to separate it from his neck.
(“Don’t you dare come any closer, Luffy!”)
Luffy feels red. Hot and cold. Numb yet shaking. All he feels is fire, fire, fire–
(“Do you think I deserved to be born?”)
Zoro blurs in front of his eyes, raven hair falling in soft waves, freckles splattering over tanned skin like star constellations, dark russet eyes and red, red beads tinkling gently and Luffy feels his right palm run hot. Heated by scarlet blood, seeping through his fingers, a sensation so real his fingers curl– he can’t breathe but he wants to scream, everything screaming for a fight, for a race to get to him, get to him, get to him before they do, don’t fail, keep running, no, no, no–
(“Thank…you…for loving me…”)
Franky’s yell drowns in the roar in his ears, in his mind, like waves crashing in a storm and whirlpools pulling you under and Luffy throws himself forward, thunder and lightning pumping through his veins as he aims for Tesoro. He feels red, sees red, like beads from a broken necklace– he attacks, lungs burning, mind wild, teeth baring and his scar pinching and stretching.
Luffy feels it, the scar, the reminder, the promise – that no one will ever get hurt like this ever again.
(The Ox Bell rings sixteen times, echoing over Marineford, just like the cries of agony and despair two weeks ago.)