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Haruta sat perched on the very edge of the Moby Dick’s magnificent figurehead, his legs dangling over the dark, churning ocean.
This time, the ship was truly silent.
It wasn’t the tense, suffocating quiet that had followed Thatch’s murder. That silence had been filled with a bubbling, frantic energy, the rage of a family wronged, the desperate search for Teach, the panicked anxiety of Ace running off into the dark.
This silence was different. It was the hollow, echoing quiet of a graveyard. It was the crushing stillness of a family that had been broken, shattered, and swept away by the tide.
Hundreds of their brothers had died at Marineford to save Ace.
The defeat left a vile, coppery taste of ash and blood in Haruta’s mouth that no amount of water could wash away. Over the years, Haruta had learned to respect the death of a pirate in combat. For the crew, dying while protecting their family was the most beautiful, honorable death imaginable. It was the pirate way.
That was why Thatch’s death had shaken them to their very core. It hadn't been his time. He hadn't fallen on a battlefield defending his brothers from the Marines or a rival crew. No, he had been slaughtered in the dark by one of their own. Betrayed by family.
But Ace... Ace had died saving his family.
God, Haruta would have loved Luffy. Haruta was absolutely certain they would have been the best of friends. Ace had never, ever shut up about him. He had painted a picture of a crybaby, a total idiot, a boy who was recklessly joyful, always smiling, and who was, without a doubt, Ace’s greatest pride in the entire world.
Haruta felt like they already knew Straw Hat Luffy. And seeing him on that blood-soaked battlefield at Marineford, Haruta could do nothing but bow to his immense mental fortitude. He was just a kid, a seventeen-year-old boy thrust into a war of hardened veterans, warlords, and admirals. Yet, he had fought until his body gave out. He had fought to the bitter end.
And, of course, Ace had sacrificed himself for him.
Haruta couldn't be mad at Ace. They knew, deep down in their bones, that they would have done the exact same thing for any member of the crew. If an admiral’s fist had been aimed at Marco, at Vista, at Izou... Haruta would have thrown their own body in the way without a second thought. But understanding it didn't make his death any less tragic. It didn't make the hole in Haruta's chest hurt any less.
At the very least, Ace had been able to say goodbye to Pops. He had been able to thank him for everything, to tell him he was the greatest father in the world, before the light faded from his eyes.
Ace had died. And then, Pops had sacrificed himself for the rest of them.
Haruta closed his eyes, but the image was burned into the back of his eyelids. The colossal back of their father, completely devoid of a single coward's scar, standing tall in the middle of a massive pool of his own blood.
Pops had died protecting them. He had ordered them to survive.
The commanders had been forced to physically drag their weeping, thrashing brothers away from the battlefield, fleeing while their father was torn apart.
Haruta clutched his knees to his chest, the ocean wind biting at his face. I regret it so much, Haruta thought, a fresh wave of agony washing over him. I regret never telling him how much I loved him. I just assumed he knew. I assumed we had more time.
Haruta didn't remember much of what happened immediately after Marineford. The escape, the immediate aftermath, the frantic medical triage—it was all a blurry, grey nightmare. They had only reconnected with reality a few days later, when Izou had quietly knocked on the door to Haruta's cabin.
Izou had looked like a ghost, his usually immaculate makeup completely washed away, leaving him looking frail and exhausted. He hadn't said a word at first. He had simply held out a small, bloodstained pouch.
Inside were a handful of large, red beads. They were covered in dried blood, soot, and the dust of Marineford.
— I need string, Izou had whispered, his voice completely hollow.
Haruta had nodded numbly. He had gone to one of his chests—the one specifically reserved for pranks and traps. The chest was covered in a thin layer of dust now. As Haruta rummaged through it, his fingers brushed against a cold tin of neon green paint.
Haruta stared at the tin for a long, agonizing second. Then, he swallowed hard, ignored it, pushed it to the side, and pulled out the tough, durable cord he usually used to string tripwires.
— I'll help you, Haruta had said softly. Sit on the bed.
Izou hadn't argued. For the next hour, the Commander of the 16th Division and the Commander of the 12th Division sat in total silence, carefully washing the blood and dirt from the red beads with a damp cloth, before painstakingly re-stringing them onto the cord.
When they finished, there were exactly fifteen beads left over for Ace's bracelets. Izou had silently handed one to Haruta.
Haruta had tied it onto a thin cord and hung it around his neck. The next morning on the deck, Haruta noticed that every single commander was wearing one. Marco had it tied securely to his belt. Izou wore his on a delicate bracelet. Vista had attached his to the hilt of his favorite sword as a lucky charm.
Haruta had also noticed the former Spade Pirates. Every single one of them had a brand new, raw tattoo on their arm. It spelled SPADE, but the 'A' was crossed out, replaced by Whitebeard's iconic jolly roger.
Everyone was mourning in their own way. Everyone was paying tribute to the brothers they lost.
But the death of Pops... that was something entirely too vast, too complicated to comprehend.
Marco still hadn't accepted it. Every single morning, like clockwork, the First Commander would walk out onto the deck with a stack of damage reports or supply lists. He would walk toward the center of the deck, his eyes fixed on his paperwork, right up until he stood before the massive, empty throne.
Then, Marco would freeze. He would stare at the empty wood, let out a shaky, devastating sigh, turn around, and walk back the way he came.
In fact, the main deck had been more or less deserted by the entire crew. No one wanted to face that empty chair. The physical absence of the strongest man in the world was a black hole that sucked the breath out of everyone who looked at it.
Haruta took a deep, shuddering breath of salty air. He couldn't sit out here forever.
Slowly, Haruta pushed himself off the figurehead and walked across the massive, empty expanse of the main deck. It was just Haruta, the ocean, and the giant chair of their father. Haruta kept his eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to look at the wood, and made a beeline for the galley.
Inside, it was quiet. Haruta methodically brewed a pot of strong black coffee, found an old, dented thermos in one of the cupboards, filled it, and headed down into the belly of the ship, toward the infirmary.
Marco didn't sleep in his cabin anymore. He hadn't since the war. He practically lived in the medical bay, burying himself in casualty reports, medical supplies, and the grueling duties of leading a broken fleet.
Haruta gently pushed the infirmary door open. Marco was sitting at a small desk in the corner, his head buried in a towering stack of papers, his blond hair tied back in a messy, greasy knot.
He looked up at the sound of the door.
— Oh, Haruta, Marco said, his voice raspy and exhausted. What can I do for you, yoi?
Haruta walked over and gently set the thermos down on the corner of the desk.
— Here,Haruta said softly.
Marco froze. His tired eyes locked onto the metal thermos. He stared at it for a long, terrible moment. His hands, which had been holding a pen, began to tremble. He looked up at Haruta, his eyes shining with a sudden, panicked grief.
— Don't,Marco whispered, his voice cracking. Don't do this to me, Haruta. Please.
Haruta froze, the air violently expelled from his lungs. It was the exact same reaction as the night in the galley weeks ago. Haruta had just wanted to help. He had just wanted to make sure Marco drank something.
Haruta lowered his head, shame burning in his chest.
— I-I'm sorry...
He left the thermos on the desk and practically fled the room.
Haruta's feet carried him automatically through the corridors, up a flight of stairs, until he stopped dead in his tracks.
He was standing in front of Thatch's cabin.
No one had stepped foot inside this room for two months. It had remained sealed, a tomb of memories that everyone was too afraid to disturb.
Haruta reached out a trembling hand and pushed the door open. It creaked loudly in the silent hallway.
Despite being shut tight for months, the room instantly smelled like Thatch. It smelled deeply of dried spices, rosemary, garlic, and sea salt. Haruta inhaled a shaky breath, letting the familiar scent fill his lungs, and walked in, letting the door click shut behind him.
He walked over to Thatch’s bed and slowly sat down on the mattress.
— I miss you,Haruta whispered to the empty room. You always had the best ideas. We don't know what to do.
Haruta let his gaze wander around the messy, lived-in space. His eyes eventually landed on the heavy oak desk in the corner. There was a messy pile of documents sitting on top of it. Curiosity overriding his grief for a brief moment, Haruta stood up and walked over.
The top paper was an advertisement from a News Coo catalog. It was for the newest, most luxurious model of a musical Tone Dial snail. The most expensive one on the page had been heavily circled in red ink, and next to it, in Thatch's messy handwriting, was written: HARUTA, in all capital letters.
Beneath the catalog was a piece of lined paper. It was a list. Thatch had calculated the exact amount of Berries he expected to get from selling the strange, purple Devil Fruit he had found. Beneath the number, he had made a list of what he wanted to buy with the money.
1. Spoil Haruta so they can buy better prank supplies (and so they don't hold a grudge against me).
2. Get a new, heavy-duty thermos for Marco and buy a carving knife to engrave a phoenix on it (the chickens are getting old).
3. Wano Kimono. (There was a note next to this indicating Thatch was exchanging letters with a merchant in the New World to win an authentic silk kimono at an auction for Izou).
4. Five crates of vintage South Blue sake. Pops' favorite.
The list went on and on. There were ideas to spoil Vista, to get new armor for Jozu, to buy rare books for Namur.
Haruta stared at the paper, tears pricking his eyes. Thatch was going to become incredibly wealthy from that fruit. And he hadn't written down a single, solitary thing for himself.
Haruta gently moved the papers aside. Beneath them was the thick, leather-bound notebook Thatch always carried around the kitchen.
Haruta opened it. It was filled with recipes. But it wasn't just a cookbook. Attached to almost every recipe was a massive fold-out sheet of paper, listing the names of the entire crew, categorized by division. Next to every single name, Thatch had meticulously noted their food allergies, their spice tolerances, and whether they liked or hated specific ingredients.
Haruta flipped through the pages until he froze.
It was the recipe for the spiced cider and the buttercream mustache cupcakes.
At the very top of the page, next to the title, was a doodle. Thatch was notoriously terrible at drawing, but Haruta instantly knew who the two stick figures were. It was a massive, hulking figure with a crescent mustache, and a tiny figure sitting next to it. Pops and Haruta.
Haruta gently traced the messy drawing with a trembling finger, before carefully closing the book.
Turning away from the desk, Haruta noticed the large wooden chests at the foot of the bed where Thatch kept his clothes. Haruta knelt and opened the first one.
It was full of yellow neckerchiefs. Dozens of them.
Haruta remembered a day, years ago, when a Marine captain had managed to slice through the yellow scarf Thatch always wore. Thatch had flown into a blind, terrifying rage, beating the Marine to a bloody pulp with a savagery Haruta rarely saw from the cheerful chef.
When Haruta had asked him later why he was so violently attached to a piece of cloth, Thatch had explained. He pulled out his chest and showed Haruta. He had exactly sixteen yellow scarves. On the inside of each one, embroidered in yellow thread so it was invisible to anyone else, were the names of every single crewmate in a specific division. One scarf for the 1st Division, one for the 2nd, and so on.
— I don’t mind looking like a sentimental pirate, Thatch had laughed, his eyes warm. It means I get to carry the love of my family around my neck wherever I go.
He had added, with a proud grin, that Pops had absolutely loved the idea.
— Of course Pops loved it, you sentimental idiot.
Haruta had teased him. Thatch had ruffled Haruta's hair and promised to make one for the 12th Commander, which Haruta had vehemently refused.
Now, kneeling in front of the chest, Haruta counted the scarves.
There were fifteen.
The scarf for the 12th Division was missing. Haruta squeezed his eyes shut, a jagged sob tearing through his throat. He understood immediately. Thatch had died wearing Haruta’s division around his neck.
Haruta let out a shaky breath and prepared to close the lid, when something tucked in the corner of the chest caught his eye.
It was a brown paper parcel, tied with string. Written on the front, in Thatch’s scrawl, was: For Haruta. From your favorite brother.
It was a running joke. Thatch told everyone he was their favorite brother, especially the other commanders. The tragic, unspoken truth that the crew only realized after he was gone, was that it wasn't a joke. Thatch had been everyone's favorite.
Haruta reached out with shaking hands and tore the paper open.
Inside was a scarf. But it wasn't yellow. It was a brilliant, striking shade of blue—the exact same color as Haruta’s eyes.
And embroidered all over it, in massive, obnoxious, bright yellow letters, were the words: THATCH IS MY FAVORITE.
It was the ugliest thing Haruta had ever seen. Thatch knew damn well Haruta would never be caught dead wearing it. He had probably made it just to see the look of absolute disgust on Haruta's face, thinking it was the most hilarious prank in the world.
Haruta stared at the ugly blue fabric.
Then, the dam broke.
The tears Haruta had been fighting for weeks finally, truly overflowed. They fell in heavy, hot drops, staining the blue fabric. Haruta brought the scarf up to his face, burying his nose in it, inhaling the lingering smell of spices and the chef who loved him too much.
Haruta fell forward, curling into a ball on the floor of the cabin, clutching the final gift from his favorite brother tightly against his chest, weeping with a violent, agonizing intensity.
He couldn't stay in here. It was too much. The ghosts were too loud.
Haruta scrambled to his feet, clutching the scarf like a lifeline, and bolted out of the cabin. He ran blindly through the corridors, up the stairs, ignoring the few crewmates who stared at him in alarm. Haruta burst out onto the main deck, running toward the only place in the world he wanted to be.
Haruta skidded to a halt in the center of the deck, his eyes wide and blurry with tears, staring up at the colossal, empty wooden chair.
The image of their last conversation flashed through Haruta's mind. The massive hand on his back. The deep, rumbling voice telling him they wouldn't fall apart.
— How?
Haruta choked out, his voice echoing across the empty, silent deck.
— How do you expect us to get back up without you, Dad?
Haruta choked on a sob. He stumbled forward, approached the massive chair, and climbed up onto the seat. He scrambled all the way to the back, wedging himself tightly into the corner where the giant armrest met the back of the chair.
Haruta pulled his knees to his chest, curling into the smallest ball possible, clutching the ugly blue scarf tightly in his fists.
He pressed his face against the cool wood of the chair. It still smelled faintly of the strong, vintage sake Pops always drank. The scarf in his hands smelled of Thatch’s kitchen.
Haruta squeezed his eyes shut, crying until his throat was raw and his lungs burned. He lay there, shivering in the cold night air, desperately trying to imagine the booming laugh of his best friend and the warm, heavy, protective hand of his father resting over his shoulders.
If anyone had walked out onto the deck of the terrifying Whitebeard Pirates that night, they wouldn't have seen fearsome warriors. They would have only seen a small, broken child, crying in the dark, desperately searching for a father who was never coming back.
But the deck remained empty. And Haruta wept alone.
After several long minutes, Haruta felt a current of air, a soft rustling, then something warm and gentle pressed against him. He opened his eyes slightly. Marco, in his phoenix form, had approached silently and was letting out soft, pained chirps.
Haruta kept crying.
— Mar… Marco… it’s too hard…
Marco let out a low, heartbroken trill and gently rubbed his beak against Haruta’s wet cheek.
Haruta cried even harder. He clung desperately to the soft golden feathers, burying his face in Marco’s neck. If it hurt the phoenix, Marco didn’t show it. A quiet creak sounded beside him. Izou had climbed onto the chair as well. He placed a gentle hand on the top of Haruta’s head. Tears had completely ruined his makeup, but Izou didn’t care.
More sounds filled the deck. Jozu and Vista settled on the floor, backs leaning against the side of the massive chair. Little by little, the main deck filled with the rest of their brothers and sisters. Every face was streaked with tears as they sat silently around Pops’ empty throne.
Haruta’s heart clenched painfully. He reached out, grabbed Izou’s hand, and squeezed it tightly while keeping his face buried in the warm feathers of Marco’s neck.
They cried together until the sun rose, mourning the absence of their father.