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The nameless "shipwreckee" (as he'd gotten to calling himself) was always a waxing poetic.
It didn't take much of a genius to realize there were very, very few words to describe the man in front of him. He'd been hallucinating some, granted, but the man seemed real. Real enough.
His boots crunched above the sand. He was backlit by sunshine and, if not for the sheer tackiness radiating off of his outfit, shipwreckee might've instead declared him a divine messenger glowing with holy light. Shipwreckee figured himself pretty close to death anyways.
His freckled face was carefully shaded by a bright orange cowboy hat. The brim sat above messy black hair that clung to his forehead and neck. His yellow button-up was undone, and shipwreckee could thus make out that the freckles spanned his entire muscular torso as well.
"The name's Ace," he began. Too enthusiastic considering the situation, he thought. "Nice to meetcha, stranger!"
–—–—–—–
"—and that's when he threw us back in the jungle for another two weeks, the damn geezer," Ace said, fiddling with a couple of logs.
Deuce—that's what this Ace guy had began to call shipwreckee (he insisted their names match)—listened to the story carefully, snickering between quips. "He sounds like a real piece of work."
This was only their third day of knowing each other. It turned out that having someone else actually made things easier, but it wasn't like Sixis offered enough resources to argue about sharing them in the first place.
"It came in handy, didn't it? Look at where we are!"
"Trial and error at 10 years old isn't the safest way to go about acquiring those skills," Deuce shrugged.
He brushed a piece of his hair out of his face. He couldn't be talking—most of his survival knowledge was scraped from fantasy books. It was too soon to tell how useful any of it would be.
"Aha!"
Ace had set up the logs in a campfire-ish position. He seemed proud of his work, looking up at Deuce for approval.
"We don't have any kindling, let alone something to light it with, so we can't do anything yet."
Ace looked to the sky, and back to Deuce. "I could go grab some dry leaves from the edges of the forest?"
"It's nearly sunset. We can wait."
The paling sun offered the horizon orange and golden shades of dusk. The ocean waves reflected it, bathing the Sixis beach in yellow.
It was a sight to behold.
Their first two nights shared were no different, as well as the few Deuce had spent alone (he found out Ace had been here for six whole days in the same breadth). The sunsets on Sixis, ironic as the beauty was, were picturesque. Effervescent. Sublime.
It was no shocker when Ace asked him to explain those word choices to him. Whether he was genuinely clueless or just wanted to hear him talk was...up to interpretation. It made Deuce's heart swell, really—no one had ever listened like Ace did.
He listened the same, to Ace's stories. Family. Goa Kingdom. His fleeting dream to take to the seas. Everything in-between.
Deuce sighed.
"What's wrong, Masky?"
"Just thinking, is all," he murmured, uninterested in correcting whatever name just came out of his mouth.
He closed his journal, lightly drumming his fingers against the cover before setting it to the side.
"'Bout what? You do a lot of thinking."
"What's so appealing about becoming a pirate, anyways?"
Maybe it was just Deuce's sheltered upbringing, but nothing about Ace screamed 'pirate'. Why would he want to paint a target on his back like that? Not to mention the crimes pirates committed—did someone so kind really dream of that sort of thing?
Not to mention his brother. Ace was a better older brother than Deuce's would ever be. Why would someone abandon that? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.
"And your family, to boot," Deuce continued. "Your grandpa's a little rough around the edges, but I'm sure he cares about you. Your brother too! If you miss him so much, why don't you go back?"
"My brother wants to be a pirate, too."
"Your parents, then. I'm sure your mom must miss you like crazy."
Ace pursed his lips. His body language was getting more closed off by the second.
"She—uh, she died when I was born."
Deuce's lips parted to offer sympathy, but all he could muster was digging a bigger hole for himself.
"What about your dad?"
Ace shifted uncomfortably.
"He's dead too."
His words were short. Curt. His brows furrowed in some sort of contention.
"Don't you have any good memories of him?"
Deuce was grasping for straws and they could both tell. He wanted—needed—a reason to feel justified in his jealousy.
It was hard to tell when exactly his feelings spiraled from curiosity to envy and disapproval.
"He was a good-for-nothing criminal," Ace said, matter-of-factly. "Dead before I was born. Good riddance."
He seemed more upset than uncomfortable as the conversation drew on. His eyes were glued to the ground.
"Who cares about that stuff?! It's not like you're carrying on his legacy. If it was someone like Gold Roger, then, yeah—I'd get it. Who wouldn't want to die, in that case, you know? But you're a seperate person from whoever your damn father is!"
Ace clenched his fists in the sand.
"Ace?"
"Fuckin'—damnit. Hell. I'm gonna take a walk."
He stood up and avoided any sort of eye contact with Deuce in the process.
"Ace! The sun is going down!"
Deuce stood and grabbed Ace's arm. He was quick to shake his arm away.
"You said it yourself. It doesn't matter if someone like me lives or dies!"
"Like hell I did!" he snarled, following Ace's footsteps. "Nothing I said could have even remotely meant tha...t..."
His words trailed off.
Ace stopped in his tracks, knuckles white from his clenched fists.
"You don't mean...?"
"Just—" Ace's eyes began to well up. "I'll talk to you in the morning. We can work on the boat some more."
Ace ached. Deuce was kind. His first friend on the seas (however coincidental their meeting was), and he—
"I...I don't need to make friends with a pirate in the first place!"
—he already hated him. It made sense. A lot of people did, whether they knew it or not. He would make enemies as a pirate, wouldn't he? And he would make enemies as Gol D. Roger's son. He hoped Deuce could just forget he met him.
They both stormed off. Their friendship was over as quick as it had started.
Shipwreckee, the man formerly known as Deuce, was left to sleep alone under the moonlight.
–—–—–—–
"Fire's better than rubber for battle, I'd reckon..."
Ace flared up (in the most literal sense of the phrase). Fire licked up his arms and shoulders, coalescing into one at the nape of his neck and flickering out all the way to his hat.
It was a sight to behold. Oh, this would make a good chapter, Deuce thought.
"Ace," he began, breathless from shock.
Shipwreckee—no, now it was Deuce again—had just gotten through nearly assaulting Ace to steal the food he'd found. And Ace had still been gracious enough to split the fruit with him, after everything. Oh, god, Deuce felt sick. He was just as terrible to Ace as the folks in his hometown had been to him.
Before it was devoured in its disgusting entirety by the two starving men, the fruit was a bright orange, swirly in the shape of flames. A bit of heat seemed to radiate off of it.
It was their fucking luck it was a Devil Fruit.
"Much better than rubber," he confirmed, peering down at his shoulders and running a hand unscathed through the flame.
He outstretched his arm, hand in a finger-gun position. With a fiery charge, he shot a barrel point-blank. A second attempt at a farther barrel fizzled out a little over halfway.
"You got used to that quick," Deuce huffed, watching the first barrel go up in flames.
"I don't know how to get the flames off of me," Ace interrupted, far too dignified.
The flames took a bit more effort to snuff out that to create, then. Ace kind of just...stood there.
"Try taking deep breaths?"
Ace closed his eyes and inhaled. Exhaled, inhaled, exhaled.
Deuce simply watched. Ace was alight, glowing and shining and everything in between. Don't stare at the sun, they say, but Ace was brighter and he was far too entrancing for anyone's sake.
His eyes softened as Ace finally dialed back the flames.
"It feels like getting used to a new muscle, like learning to wiggle your ears or flare your nose," he said. He peeped one eye open before opening both.
"You describe it well. Maybe you should do the writing," Deuce teased.
"I love to tell stories, but I think I'd leave the wordy stuff to you, Deu. You're a really nice writer."
Deuce flustered. He'd really only shown Ace rough drafts by now.
"You...think so?"
"I know so! I know I fell asleep really fast when you read stuff to me that first night, but that's just 'cause I like your voice and stuff."
Deuce covered his face with his hands. That only served to implicate him further, though—his blushing mess of a face wasn't visible under the mask in the first place.
"You gotta come with me so you can write about me when I'm famous and powerful, and, uh...really cool, and stuff," Ace continued.
Deuce would like that. But it was a selfish wish, wasn't it? Why would Ace even entertain the thought of forgiving him?
"I dunno."
"What's stoppin' you?"
"I don't have much going for me. You're already so strong, and—and you got...the Devil Fruit powers now, too, you know? I'd drag you down..."
He stated it so matter-of-factly that Ace ached at it. A sigh followed.
"Are you...upset? That I got the Devil Fruit powers instead of you?"
Deuce's first instinct was to take the defensive, but—
"No, I..." He trailed off. "A little bit. Yeah."
—it was true. Maybe he was a little jealous. He was a jealous person. But he didn't want to fight with Ace again.
Half of him expected Ace to shame him for it, if not abandon the idea altogether. After all, the guy was starving, and he still split a fruit with him. With him, who had dismissed him as nothing more than his father's name; with him, who had planned to assault him with a stick for the aforementioned fruit; and, him, who was weak. Perhaps that was the worst crime of all.
But Ace wasn't that kind of man, was he? He leaned towards Deuce and took him into a hug.
"I don't want you for your strength. I want you 'cause you're my friend."
Friend? Were they friends again, after everything?
"I'll be a liability and nothing more."
He thought about it for a moment. "I don't mind protecting you."
"And what if I mind being protected?"
Deuce's voice cracked. He held his sleeve up to his mask and wiped off the beginnings of tears.
Okay. Ace needed to change how he was approaching this, then. He pulled away and put his hands on Deuce's shoulders. He looked him square in the eyes.
"What if you protect me, too?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm pretty reckless, aren't I?"
Ace trailed his grip down to Deuce's hands, taking them in his own.
"Yeah," Deuce agreed. He smiled softly.
"And you said you're pretty much pre-med, aren't you?"
His eyes widened as he grasped what he was getting at. Ace grinned—it was that sweet, cheeky grin that was recognizable as no one else but his.
"Are you telling me to become a doctor for you?!"
"No! No," Ace clarified, dropping his hands. "You don't gotta do stuff you don't wanna. But you're real good at that stuff! More than you give yourself credit for, I'd reckon!"
"You really think so?"
"Yeah, and...you could be my ship's doctor, if you wanted..."
Deuce deliberated. Oh, he wanted to sail with Ace. He did; he said it was the adventures he'd pen down. It wasn't the stories, though, and it would never be the stories–he could write about anywhere and anyone and have it be sufficient. It was Ace, and it would always be Ace. He wanted to stand by his side, and if he could shine even a fraction as bright as him he thought he might die a happy man.
"I think, to some degree, I had already entertained the idea of tagging along."
Ace's eyes lit up. "Really?! Will you sail with me, Deuce?"
He was bright and beaming and covered in sunshine, and oh god Deuce's heart lept out of his chest.
Ace wasn't the type of man he had to prove himself to. He smiled.
"If you'll have me, I'd be honoured to, Ace."
–—–—–—–
Some time had passed, and the two had made great work on a flame-powered boat to get them off of this godforsaken island. They planned to call it Striker.
Deuce figured dawn was a good time to think about things. He was awake either way. He twiddled with his pen in one hand, journal resting in his lap.
The first slivers of sunlight crept above the horizon line. Slowly but surely, patient as could be. The days seemed to blend together.
Another sunrise meant another day of labor-intensive work. Better sleep had certainly meant more energy, but there was only so much Ace's do-it-yourself campfires could do for the hunger pangs that kept the two of them awake. Despite Ace's stamina and constitution, Deuce figured he was even hungrier after the devil fruit—burning calories quicker, and all.
He watched the sun go up on Sixis with a rather content mood, given the situation. Their state of life was processed and accepted by now. He was, naturally, quite resigned internally, but Ace's attitude was contagious enough to quell plenty of his knawing anxieties. If they got past the initial annoyance, just being around the man long enough could fix anyone, Deuce thought.
He reached a hand over to shake Ace awake at the shoulders, but hesitated.
Ace deserved a glimpse at the beauty of the dawn on Sixis. That said...Deuce thought him even more captivating.
His dark hair was splayed across his face, all messy over his eyes and forehead. The sun finally rose all the way above the horizon line, and with it came light crawling up Ace's tanned skin.
God, he was beautiful.
...And that's what it was, wasn't it?
Deuce smiled as he found the perfect words to pen down.
Ace reminded him of the sun.
–—–—–—–
The Striker was quiet.
Ace was asleep.
"You're like the sun. You're my sunlight, Ace," Deuce murmured. His words were hushed. It was for the ocean and the ocean alone to hear.
–—–—–—–
Calm waves lapped around the Striker. They had no proper anchor, but with the sail up and no flame propulsion, it was near still.
Ace was laid at the edge of the boat, shoulders splayed across the edge. Deuce was laying with him—or, on him, really—head on his chest and shoulders in his lap.
The full moon shone brightly overhead. Stars littered the deep blue sky, and in turn were being recorded in Deuce's journal.
Without looking up from his sketches, he spoke, "Did you know the sun shines nearly four-hundred thousand times brighter than a full moon?"
Ace turned his attention from the constellations. He moved a hand to brush some blue hair out of Deuce's face.
"And I still only need one of you."
Deuce looked up from his journal and backwards at Ace. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You called me your sunlight, didn't you?" he cooed. "You're my moon."