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The sea was ink-black, sprinkled with the reflected diamonds of a thousand stars. A gentle, warm breeze swept across the deck of the Moby Dick, carrying the salty tang of the Grand Line and the soft snores of a few hundred pirates who had partaken in a little too much grog. It was peaceful. Quiet.
Well, mostly quiet.
If one were to listen closely, past the rhythmic sloshing of the waves against the hull, they might hear the frantic, rhythmic pitter-patter of small feet, followed by a slightly larger, significantly angrier set of footsteps.
Haruta, Commander of the 12th Division and currently the most wanted man on the ship, was performing a retreat.
This was not running away, he told himself, it was a strategic repositioning to a more defensible location.
He skidded around the main mast, nearly tripping over a sleeping Namur, and threw himself behind the massive, throne-like chair that sat in the center of the deck. He pressed his back against the cool wood, knees pulled to his chest, trying to quiet his heavy breathing.
— I know you're around here somewhere, Haruta, yoi! came a voice, tight with restrained fury, from the starboard side.
Haruta slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. Marco the Phoenix, First Division Commander, reliable older brother, and usually unflappable second-in-command, sounded like a teakettle about to whistle.
Haruta peered around the massive leg of the chair. He couldn't see Marco, but he could imagine him: arms crossed, eyebrows twitching, probably surrounded by a faint, involuntary aura of blue flames, and best of all holding a stack of painfully, vibrantly pink paperwork.
It had been a masterpiece of a prank. A stroke of genius, really. And it had all been Thatch’s idea, which made it even better because Thatch always took the fall.
Haruta settled back against the chair, a wide grin splitting his face. He loved this ship. He loved his crazy, chaotic family.
He thought back to earlier that day. The sun had been shining, the crew was lively, and Thatch, as always, had been plotting.
Thatch was the Fourth Division Commander, the head chef, and Haruta's absolute favorite partner in crime. If the Whitebeard Pirates had a sun, aside from Pops himself, it was Thatch. He was loud, he was boisterous, he smelled perpetually of freshly baked bread and roasted meat.
— Alright, listen up, pipsqueak, Thatch had whispered dramatically that morning, pulling Haruta behind a stack of supply crates.
— I have acquired... the payload.
He opened his hand to reveal a small vial of incredibly concentrated, lethally spicy red pepper extract, procured from a questionable merchant on their last island stop.
— The hot sauce? Haruta’s eyes had gone wide. Thatch, Marco is going to kill us.
— Marco is currently stressed about supply logistics and budget reports, Thatch reasoned, waving a dismissive hand. He needs a jolt! A little spice in his life! Literally! Besides, I'm not putting it in his drink.
— You're not?
— No, that's too obvious. I'm putting it in Vista's tea. And Jozu's water. And Blamenco's... whatever Blamenco drinks. Thatch had grinned, a manic glint in his eye. But for Marco... I have something special.
That "something special" had been a very potent, very permanent (at least for a few days) pink dye, sneakily mixed into the inkwell on Marco's desk.
The execution had been flawless. Thatch handled the drinks during the mid-morning break, while Haruta, being small and stealthy, infiltrated Marco's cabin and swapped the ink.
The results had been spectacular.
Haruta chuckled softly into his hands, remembering the sudden, simultaneous roar that had erupted across the deck just after lunch. Vista had spit his tea in a perfect arc over the railing, coughing violently. Jozu had frozen, his diamond skin appearing in patches as if reacting to an attack, face red as a tomato.
And then, from Marco’s cabin, a shout that had startled the seagulls for miles around.
— Thatch, Marco had said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried across the sudden silence of the deck. Haruta.
They hadn't waited at all and scattered like roaches when a light turns on.
Unfortunately for Thatch, his pompadour made him a highly visible target, and Marco, in his phoenix form, was very fast. The chase had been brief, ending with a very dignified First Commander grabbing the Fourth Commander by the collar and, with a smooth, practiced motion, tossing him straight over the side of the Moby Dick.
The splash had been tremendous. The crew had cheered. Thatch had surfaced, sputtering and laughing, yelling something about how the water was refreshing and his pompadour was ruined.
Haruta, meanwhile, had utilized his superior hiding skills to evade capture until nightfall. And now, he was in the safest place on the ship.
He leaned back, gazing up at the stars. It was moments like this that made everything worth it. The battles, the injuries, the constant threat of the Marines—it all faded away when he was here, surrounded by his brothers, driving them absolutely insane.
— Gurarararara... The low, rumbling sound vibrated through the deckboards and straight into Haruta's bones. He froze, his grin vanishing.
Above him, the mountain of a man stirred. Whitebeard, Edward Newgate, the strongest man in the world and the father they all adored, was awake.
Haruta didn't move a muscle. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still, Pops wouldn't notice him. He was very small, after all, and Pops was very large.
Clink.
The sound of a massive sake jug hitting a ceramic bowl echoed in the quiet night.
— It seems, a deep, booming voice rumbled, sounding suspiciously amused, that I have a stowaway behind my chair.
Haruta sighed, realizing the jig was up. He slowly poked his head around the chair leg, looking up, up, up into the face of his captain.
Whitebeard was looking down at him, one massive eye cracked open, a fond smile hidden beneath his magnificent, crescent-moon mustache. He took a slow sip from his impossibly large bowl of sake.
— I'm not a stowaway, Pops, Haruta whispered loudly, trying to keep his voice down so Marco wouldn't hear. I'm... taking tactical cover.
— Tactical cover, is it? Whitebeard chuckled, the sound like boulders grinding together. Gurararara. And what fearsome enemy are you taking cover from, my son? A sea king? A marine admiral?
— Worse, Haruta said gravely. Marco.
Whitebeard’s shoulders shook with silent laughter.
— Ah. The angry bird. Yes, I saw him earlier. He seemed quite... colorful.
— He was very pink, wasn't he? Haruta couldn't help the giggle that escaped him. It was supposed to just be the paperwork, but I think he rubbed his face when he got frustrated.
— He did indeed, Whitebeard confirmed, taking another slow drink. He had a very fetching pink handprint across his cheek when he came to complain to me about his budget reports.
Haruta clamped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he tried to contain his laughter.
— Did he really?
— He was most displeased, Whitebeard said, his voice entirely devoid of sympathy. He muttered something about wringing your neck and using Thatch as bait for a sea king.
Haruta shuddered dramatically.
— See? Tactical cover is absolutely necessary. He's ruthless, Pops. He threw Thatch overboard! Thatch could have caught a cold!
— Thatch has the constitution of a seahorse, Whitebeard rumbled. A little seawater won't hurt him. Though, I imagine he is plotting his revenge as we speak.
— Oh, definitely, Haruta agreed, relaxing a bit. If Pops wasn't going to hand him over to Marco, he was safe. He shifted his position, turning to sit next to Whitebeard's massive foot, leaning his back against the thick, muscular calf.
It was warm there, radiating a comforting heat that cut through the cool night air. Haruta felt the tension seep out of his shoulders. This was his favorite spot. Whenever the ship got too loud, or the battles got too fierce, or he just needed a moment of quiet, he would find Pops. Just being near him felt like being wrapped in a thick, protective blanket.
Whitebeard looked down at the small commander leaning against him. His eyes, usually fierce and intimidating to the rest of the world, were soft with affection.
— So, Whitebeard said quietly, what other mischief have my children been up to today while an old man tried to nap?
Haruta grinned.
— Well, let's see. After the pink ink incident, Thatch and I thought things were a little too quiet in the galley...
For the next twenty minutes, Haruta regaled Whitebeard with the full, unedited tale of the day's pranks. He told him about the hot sauce in Vista's tea, acting out Vista's sputtering reaction with dramatic flair. He told him about how they had carefully switched all the salt and sugar shakers in the mess hall, leading to some very confused pirates trying to eat sweetened fish and salted coffee.
Whitebeard listened, interjecting with an occasional rumble of laughter or a raised eyebrow at their audacity. He never scolded them, never told them to behave. He knew his crew. They were wild, boisterous, and chaotic, and he wouldn't have them any other way.
— ...and then, Haruta finished, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, Jozu tried to drink his water, but his mouth was so on fire from the hot sauce we snuck into his soup earlier that he actually choked, and his diamond form activated while he was coughing, so he sounded like a clinking chandelier!
Whitebeard threw his head back and roared with laughter, a booming
— Gurararararara! that echoed across the deck, probably waking up anyone who was still asleep.
— Shhh, Pops, quiet! Haruta hissed, looking around nervously. Marco will hear you!
— Let him hear, Whitebeard rumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. If a father cannot laugh at his children's antics, what good is he?
— You won't be laughing when he makes us do inventory for a month, Haruta mumbled, leaning back against Whitebeard's leg.
— Inventory builds character, a new voice chimed in from the shadows.
Haruta yelped and scrambled backward, throwing his arms up to defend himself.
But it wasn't Marco.
Stepping out from behind the main mast, dripping slightly but looking entirely unbothered, was Thatch. He had a towel draped over his shoulders, his pompadour miraculously re-styled, and a large wooden tray balanced carefully on one hand.
— Thatch! Haruta hissed, relieved but annoyed. Don't sneak up on me like that! I thought you were the angry pineapple!
— Please, Thatch scoffed, sauntering over to the captain's chair. Marco went to his cabin an hour ago to try and wash the pink off his face. I saw him scrubbing with a pumice stone. It’s not coming off anytime soon.
Haruta grinned wickedly.
— Excellent.
Thatch turned to Whitebeard, bowing slightly, balancing the tray perfectly.
— Evening, Pops. Apologies if our... activities... disturbed your rest today.
— Not at all, Thatch, Whitebeard said, his eyes dropping to the tray. In fact, I found it quite entertaining. Though, I believe Vista is currently threatening to turn you both into sashimi.
— Vista has no appreciation for the culinary arts, Thatch sniffed dramatically. He lowered the tray, setting it carefully on the deck between Haruta and Whitebeard. Speaking of culinary arts, I brought late-night snacks.
Haruta's eyes lit up. He scrambled closer to the tray.
On it sat three large mugs of warm, spiced cider, and a plate piled high with intricately decorated cupcakes.
Haruta gasped.
The cupcakes were frosted in thick, white buttercream, and carefully piped onto the top of each one, using dark chocolate icing, was a perfect, majestic, sweeping crescent-moon mustache.
— Thatch, these are beautiful, Haruta breathed, reaching for one. Only the best for the captain and my favorite accomplice, Thatch said, taking a mug of cider and handing one to Haruta. He grabbed the largest cupcake and offered it up to Whitebeard.
— A tribute, Pops. To soothe any ruffled feathers from today's chaos.
Whitebeard looked at the cupcake, his massive hand dwarfing it as he gently took it from Thatch. He looked at the frosting mustache, then reached up to stroke his own.
— A striking resemblance, Whitebeard rumbled approvingly. He popped the entire cupcake into his mouth, chewing slowly. Excellent, Thatch. Though, it could use more rum.
— Everything could use more rum, Pops, Thatch laughed, taking a bite of his own cupcake.
He plopped down on the deck next to Haruta, crossing his legs.
— So, Haruta. We have successfully antagonized the First, Third, and Fifth Division Commanders today. Who is our target for tomorrow?
Haruta chewed on his cupcake thoughtfully, getting a smear of white frosting on his nose.
— Well, Izou's been acting a little too smug lately. He needs to be taken down a peg.
— Izou, Thatch mused, rubbing his chin. Tricky. He’s very observant. And he has guns.
— We just need a distraction, Haruta said, leaning in conspiratorially.
— What if we...
The two of them began to plot, their voices dropping to urgent, excited whispers. They tossed around ideas, rejecting some for being too dangerous (involving explosives near the gunpowder stores), and others for being too boring (just hiding his makeup).
Whitebeard sat above them, listening to their scheming while he finished his jug of sake. He watched them bicker and brainstorm, their faces lit by the soft glow of the ship's lanterns.
He loved all his children, every single one of them. But there was something special about these moments, the quiet times in the dead of night, when the rest of the world was asleep, and he could just be a father.
— If you wish to distract Izou, Whitebeard suddenly rumbled, causing both Thatch and Haruta to jump.
They looked up at him, surprised. Pops usually stayed out of their pranking, acting as a neutral (if amused) observer.
Whitebeard leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice in a mock whisper.
— He is very particular about his kimono sashes. If one were to, say, temporarily misplace all the silk ones and replace them with rough burlap... he would be so horrified he wouldn't notice anything else you did.
Thatch and Haruta stared at him, mouths agape.
Then, slowly, identical, wicked grins spread across their faces.
— Pops, Thatch whispered in awe.
— It's brilliant! Haruta cheered, pumping a fist in the air.
— He'll be so busy complaining about chafing, we could paint his guns neon green and he wouldn't notice!
— Exactly, Whitebeard said, leaning back and closing his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face. However.
He opened one eye, fixing them with a stern, powerful glare that brook no argument.
— You will swear, on your honor as pirates, that you will never tell Marco I suggested this.
— We swear! Thatch and Haruta chorused instantly, crossing their hearts.
— If Marco finds out I am aiding and abetting your foolishness, he will give me another lecture on 'setting a good example' and 'captaining responsibly', Whitebeard grumbled, taking another sip of sake. I am too old for his lectures.
Thatch and Haruta burst into laughter, trying to muffle the sound behind their hands. The idea of the great Whitebeard hiding from Marco's scolding was too funny.
They sat there for a long time, the three of them, eating mustache cupcakes and drinking spiced cider under the stars. They refined the plan for Izou, incorporating Whitebeard's burlap suggestion, and even discussed a potential future prank involving Namur and a very large, fake shark fin.
Haruta leaned back against Whitebeard's leg, his belly full of cake and cider, his heart light with laughter. He felt Thatch bumping his shoulder playfully as he explained the logistics of acquiring that much burlap unnoticed.
He looked out over the deck of the Moby Dick, the ship swaying gently with the breathing of the ocean. He listened to the soft snoring of his crewmates, the low, comforting rumble of Pops's breathing, and the excited chatter of his best friend.
He felt the warmth of the colossal man beside him, a literal and figurative shield against the harsh realities of the world.
He felt the camaraderie of the man next to him, a brother who would follow him into any battle or any ridiculous prank.
Haruta closed his eyes, a soft, contented sigh escaping him.
He was a pirate. He lived a life of danger, wanted by the Marines, constantly targeted by other crews. His life was chaos and noise and fighting.
But right here, sitting on the deck in the middle of the night, covered in frosting and plotting petty mischief with his father and his brother...
He felt completely safe. He felt loved. He felt entirely, wonderfully at peace.
There was absolutely nowhere else in the entire world he would rather be.
Except maybe hiding behind Izou's door tomorrow morning with a bucket of neon green paint.
Haruta smiled into the dark, drifting off to sleep against Whitebeard's leg, dreaming of pink flamingos, burlap sashes, and the endless, beautiful chaos of his family.
