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The lapping of the waves against the hull of the Moby Dick had always had a soothing effect, but that evening, for Portgas D. Ace, the sound of the ocean was drowned out by the deafening tumult raging in his own chest.
Sitting cross-legged on the bunk in his cabin, fists clenched on his knees, the young man stared at the wooden floor without really seeing it. His breathing was ragged, and an unusual heat — that had nothing to do with his Devil Fruit — radiated from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.
He had just done it. He had spilled it. The heaviest, darkest, most toxic secret of his existence. He had stood in front of that gigantic man, that monster of power that was Whitebeard, and he had shouted the truth, expecting to see disgust twist the old emperor’s features. He had prepared himself for rejection, for insults, for the bisento’s blade crashing down on him. After all, he was the spawn of the demon. The son of Gol D. Roger. The one who should never have been born.
But the blade had never fallen. Instead, there had been that laugh. That great booming laugh, free and warm, that had made the ship’s deck tremble.
— And so? You’re scared over so little? Your father’s identity doesn’t matter at all! No matter who sired us, the ocean is vast and it welcomes us all. We are all children of the sea.
Ace closed his eyes with a groan, burying his burning face in his palms. Just thinking about it again made him feel like his brain was going to melt.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Whitebeard had added that sentence. That damn sentence that kept looping in his head like an insistent refrain.
— You are my son, Ace. And I love all my children.
I love you. The old man had said it with disconcerting ease, as if he were announcing that the sky was blue or that water was wet. No hesitation, no conditions. Just an absolute truth, tossed out with a big paternal smile. Ace had been so shocked that his legs had nearly given out beneath him. He had mumbled something incomprehensible, swallowed a miserable sob, and finally nodded, accepting the vacant position of Second Division Commander that had been offered to him for weeks.
Now he wore the tattoo. The purple cross proudly adorned his back. He was a commander. He was a son. He had a family.
A small flame escaped from his right shoulder to lick at the wood of the wall. Ace jumped and extinguished it with a frantic slap.
— Calm down, damn it, he muttered to himself.
He stood up and began pacing back and forth in his cabin, agitated. If they were a family… if Whitebeard, Pops, loved him… and if the other commanders had accepted him despite his countless assassination attempts on their captain… shouldn’t he make an effort too?
Up until now, his relationships had boiled down to fighting, eating, and sleeping. With Luffy and Sabo, there had never been any need for grand speeches. Punches, shared pieces of meat, and promises shouted at the sea had been enough. But here, surrounded by these older, wiser men who offered him such open affection… Ace felt an irresistible, almost painful need to give it back. To make them understand that he cared about them too.
He had to tell them.
The very idea gave him cold sweats. He stopped dead in the middle of the room. Telling other men, his brothers, that he loved them? Him, “Ace of the Flaming Fists,” the thug from the South Blue, the guy with a black hole where his heart should be?
— That’s impossible, he groaned, dropping onto his bed face-first into the pillow. I’m going to look like an idiot.
The door to his cabin opened with its characteristic creak.
— You already look like an idiot, commented a phlegmatic voice.
Ace shot upright, hair disheveled, and glared at Masked Deuce who had just entered, a logbook in hand. The first member of the Spade Pirates, the one who had followed him since Sixis Island, knew him inside and out.
— Deuce! Knock before you come in! Ace grumbled, cheeks still flushed.
— I did knock. You were too busy groaning into your pillow to hear me. What’s wrong with you? Are you sick? You’re red as a tomato, is your Fruit acting up?
Ace looked away, suddenly very interested in a splinter on the floor.
— No. I’m perfectly fine. It’s just… hot.
— We’re on the Grand Line, it’s fifteen degrees outside and raining, Deuce pointed out, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. Spit it out, Ace. You accepted the commander position. The whole ship celebrated it. Pops looked thrilled. You should be up on deck drinking with the others.
Ace fiddled with the hem of his shorts.
— Pops… he said some things. About the ocean. And about us.
— And?
— And he said that he… that he loves us all.
Deuce raised an eyebrow behind his mask, waiting for the rest.
— It’s driving me crazy, Deuce! Ace suddenly exclaimed, leaping to his feet, embarrassment turning into frantic energy. How can he say that so easily? And more importantly… am I supposed to say it too?! To the others? To Marco, to Thatch, to you?
A long silence settled in the cabin. Ace held his breath, expecting his friend to mock him.
Suddenly Deuce’s shoulders started shaking. A little sniffle escaped him, then a chuckle, and finally he burst into loud, hearty laughter, almost doubling over.
— Stop laughing, you bastard! Ace snapped, fists igniting. This is a serious problem!
— Ace… my God, Ace, Deuce panted, wiping a tear from under his mask. That’s what’s got you like this? The great Portgas D. Ace, terrified at the idea of saying sweet words?
— I don’t want to say “sweet words”! the brunet protested, turning beet-red. I just… want to act like a family member! If they do it among themselves, I have to adapt!
Deuce finally calmed down, wearing a gentle smile.
— Listen, Captain… sorry, Commander. You don’t have to make a romantic speech. You’re not good with words, we all know that. Your emotional intelligence is about on par with a rock.
— Hey!
— But if it really matters to you to show them you appreciate them, try. Do it your way. Start with the easiest ones. Thatch, for example. That guy is pure sunshine, he’ll never judge you.
Ace swallowed his pride and thought about it. Thatch. It was true the cook was kindness personified. He had been the first to talk to him normally when he was still chained up on this ship.
— Yeah… Yeah, you’re right. Thatch. That’s a good start.
Thirty minutes later, Ace stood in front of the heavy doors of the Moby Dick’s kitchens. He took a deep breath, puffing out his chest, as if he were about to face a Marine vice-admiral.
It’s easy, he repeated to himself. You go in, you say something nice, you say you care about him, and you leave.
He pushed the doors open. The air was saturated with delicious smells: roasted meat, Grand Line spices, fresh bread. Thatch was at the stoves, ladle in hand, humming cheerfully while stirring a gigantic pot.
— Hey Thatch, Ace called out in a voice meant to sound manly but that cracked slightly at the end.
The Fourth Division commander turned around, his face splitting into a huge grin when he saw the newly promoted.
— Ace! My little commander! Come here! I was just making your favorite dish for tonight. A good red-spiced sea monster stew, sound good?
Ace approached, throat tight. Thatch’s smile was so sincere, so disarming, that every word the young pirate had prepared vanished from his mind.
— I… yeah, that sounds great, he stammered, gripping the edge of the work table.
— You hungry? Thatch asked, offering him a piece of warm bread. You’ve got a weird look on your face. You’re a bit red. Did you get sunburned on deck?
This is the moment. Tell him.
— No, I… Thatch. Listen. I wanted to tell you something.
The cook stopped stirring, wiped his hands on his apron and turned fully toward Ace, giving him his complete attention, eyes sparkling with kindness.
— I’m listening, kid. What is it?
Ace swallowed. The silence in the kitchen suddenly became deafening. He opened his mouth, desperately searching for the word “love” or “appreciate” in his rusty emotional vocabulary.
— You… you make good food.
Thatch blinked, surprised, then burst out laughing.
— Well thank you! But I think you’ve already told me that a hundred times since you started eating here.
— No but… it’s not just the food! Ace hurriedly added, panicked at the thought of missing the mark. It’s… it’s you. The food you make… it’s you. Wait, no, you’re not food. You’re… you’re a good guy. I like… I like…
His face heated dangerously. His hair started smoking.
— I like it when you’re in the kitchen! he blurted out all at once. Because… because you smell good! Well, you smell like meat! And meat is good!
Thatch stood there dumbfounded for three seconds, his gaze swinging between total incomprehension and amusement. Then he roared with laughter, so hard he had to lean on the table to keep from falling.
— Oh, Ace! You really are something else! he cried, wiping away an imaginary tear. Don’t worry, I like you too, kid! And I promise I’ll keep smelling like meat just for you!
Ace felt shame swallow him whole. He had just told his adoptive big brother that he loved him because he smelled like meat. He spun on his heel, unable to stand the situation a second longer.
— I gotta go… do something. With fire. Far away!
He bolted so fast his boots left scorched marks on the floorboards, accompanied by Thatch’s warm laughter echoing behind him.
Crushing failure number one.
The next day, Ace was determined not to let it get him down. If Thatch was too distracting with his food, he had to try with someone more serious. Someone like Izou or Vista.
He found them on the aft deck in the middle of the afternoon. Vista was meticulously polishing his swords while Izou checked the mechanism of his flintlock pistols. The atmosphere was calm, the sun gentle. A perfect situation for a dignified, brotherly confession.
Ace advanced with military steps, forcing himself to keep a straight face.
— Vista. Izou, he began, voice grave.
The two commanders looked up, surprised by the young man’s solemn tone.
— Ace? Something wrong? Izou asked, frowning his perfectly drawn eyebrows.
— Enemy ship in sight? Vista added, his hand instinctively sliding toward the hilt of his saber, an excited smile under his mustache.
— No. No enemy. It’s private.
Ace stopped in front of them, feet apart, fists on his hips. He had spent the night preparing this sentence. It was dignified. It was manly. It was perfect.
— Since my arrival on this ship, he declared with the stiffness of a plank of wood, I have had the opportunity to observe your behavior. You are honorable warriors. I therefore wish to inform you that I feel a deep brotherly attachment toward you, and that your presence on this ship is… is… extremely pleasant to me!
He released the last words a little too loudly, eyes wide, breath short as if he had just run a marathon.
The deck seemed to freeze. The clinking of weapons stopped. Izou and Vista slowly looked at each other, then stared at Ace, who was already starting to regret not throwing himself overboard instead of speaking.
Izou put away his pistol with exasperating slowness. He approached Ace, face concerned, and raised a graceful hand to gently place it on the young pirate’s forehead.
— You’re burning up, Ace, the sharpshooter noted.
— I’m made of fire, Izou, Ace gritted out, stepping back.
— Yes, but right now you’re bright red. You’re coming down with something. Tropical fever, maybe? Did you eat spoiled fruit on the last island?
— I’m not sick! Ace protested, waving his arms. I’m making a declaration of friendship, you bunch of idiots!
Vista let out a deep baritone laugh and slapped Ace hard on the back with his free hand. The impact made the young man stumble and nearly sent him sprawling.
— Wahaha! That’s the beauty of youth! Vista roared. You’ve got the heart of a lion under that rebel shell, huh Ace? Don’t worry, we like you a lot too! But next time, relax, you look constipated when you use complicated words!
Izou smiled softly behind his kimono sleeve.
— Welcome to the family, Ace. But still go see the nurses, you’re sweating buckets.
Ace fled, growling unintelligible insults, head down, ears smoking. It was a disaster. He would never be able to look them in the eye again.
Evening fell, wrapping the Moby Dick in a starry cloak. Ace sat on the figurehead, knees drawn up to his chest, face sullen. He stared at the dark sea, feeling stupid. Why was it so hard? He had faced death dozens of times without flinching, and here he couldn’t manage three pathetic words without acting like a feverish eccentric.
— You planning to jump or just admiring the view, yoi?
Ace startled and nearly slipped from his perch. He caught himself just in time and turned to see Marco, the First Division Commander, leaning nonchalantly against the railing. His half-closed eyes and eternal blasé expression barely hid the glint of kindness that never left him when he looked at his brothers.
Especially the newest one.
Marco was… different for Ace. Marco was the one who had hit him the hardest. The one who had patched him up when he got hurt from going after the old man. The one who had sat with him in the cold, talking about the ocean, about Whitebeard, about what it meant to wear the mark. If Ace was going to manage to say those words to anyone, it was to him.
Ace slid down from the figurehead and landed lightly on the deck beside the bird-man.
— I was looking at the sea, he muttered, not daring to meet his gaze.
— I heard about your exploits today, Marco noted, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Thatch is convinced you want to eat him, and Vista thinks you’ve been reading too much crappy poetry. Trying to set a record for awkward situations in one day?
Ace groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.
— Don’t you start too.
— I’m just observing, Marco said, sitting on a crate and inviting Ace to do the same. What’s eating you, kid? You’ve looked tense since yesterday. Since you talked with Pops.
Ace sat down heavily beside him. Marco’s presence was strangely soothing. The Phoenix’s calm, immortal aura helped stabilize his own flames.
— He told me he loved me, Ace suddenly whispered, as if it were a heavy secret.
Marco didn’t seem surprised. He gazed at the dark horizon.
— That’s what he does. He’s our father.
— But… Marco, you know whose son I am! You know, I told you all! Ace burst out, voice trembling with an emotion he could no longer contain. I’m a monster. I’m the one the whole world wants dead before I was even born! And he doesn’t care. None of you care.
Ace clenched his fists, head lowered, dark hair hiding his eyes.
— It’s driving me insane. I… I’ve never known how to handle this. With my little brother it was simple. But you… you’re all so kind to me. And I don’t know how… how to give it back. I want to tell you that I… that you all matter to me. But every time I try, I mess it up and look like an idiot!
A long silence settled. Ace expected Marco to laugh too. To mock his clumsy lost-kid awkwardness.
Instead, he felt a warm, calloused hand settle on the back of his head. A rough but deeply tender caress that ruffled his hair.
Ace looked up, surprised. Marco was watching him with an expression of infinite softness, an affectionate smile lighting up his usually phlegmatic face.
— You really are an idiot, Ace, Marco breathed, voice full of affection.
— Hey…
— You don’t need to say anything, yoi.
Marco withdrew his hand and rested his elbows on his knees.
— You think words are that important? Look at yourself. You wear our mark on your back. You cried when Oyaji took you in his arms. You threw yourself in front of a cannon last week to protect Haruta. You help Thatch with the dishes even though you hate it.
The Phoenix turned his head toward him, his piercing blue gaze piercing through Ace’s defenses.
— Love on this ship isn’t declared with well-turned phrases or poems, Ace. It’s lived. It’s shown when you share your meat, when you keep watch during the storm so others can sleep, when you smile stupidly looking at the crew’s mark in the mirror. We know you love us, idiot. You radiate so much gratitude it’s visible from miles away.
Ace remained frozen, eyes wide. Marco’s words felt like a soothing balm on a burn. The tight knot in his chest, that anxiety of not being “worthy” of their affection, dissolved instantly, replaced by a soft, comforting warmth.
His eyes stung. He sniffed loudly and rubbed his nose with his shirt sleeve, refusing to let a single tear of weakness fall.
— You’re annoying, Marco, he managed to mutter, voice breaking. You’re really an annoying big brother.
— I know, yoi, Marco replied with a small laugh. It’s my job. Come on. Pops called for a night banquet to celebrate, and if we don’t hurry, Teach and Thatch are going to devour all the meat reserves.
Ace smiled. A real smile, frank, bright, and relieved.
— Let them try.
The main deck was bathed in torchlight and the sound of laughter. Just as Marco had predicted, an improvised banquet was in full swing. Barrels of alcohol flowed freely, the crew’s music echoed into the night, and everyone was celebrating life.
At the center of it all sat Whitebeard. The big man drank his sake from his oversized bowl, watching his sons with immense pride.
Ace made his way through the crowd, slapping hands with Vista, dodging a pint spilled by Jozu, and stealing a piece of steaming meat from Thatch’s plate on the way, earning an affectionate insult from the cook.
He arrived in front of the captain’s massive armchair. Whitebeard lowered his eyes toward him, his battle-scarred face lighting up.
— Gurararara! So, my new commander, enjoying the party? the old man boomed.
Ace sank his teeth into his piece of meat, chewed, swallowed, then fixed his determined gaze on the Emperor’s.
— This ship… it’s my home, Pops, Ace declared in a loud, clear voice that carried over the surrounding noise. And all of you… you are my family. I will give my life for you if I have to.
Whitebeard remained still for a moment, eyes wide at the fierce candor of his son’s declaration. Then his monumental laughter exploded, making the stars tremble.
— Gurararara! Keep your life, you insolent brat! Your father just asks you to live it fully, with us!
Whitebeard’s enormous hand came crashing down on Ace’s back with a force that sent him sprawling face-first onto the deck, right in the middle of Deuce and the former Spade Pirates.
Ace got up rubbing his scraped nose, cursing the old man’s excessive strength. But when he looked up, he saw the smiles of the entire crew turned toward him. Deuce raising his mug in his direction. Marco nodding in approval. Thatch, Izou, Vista, Namur… All of them.
And for the first time in his life, hearing his brothers’ mocking but love-filled laughter, Ace didn’t blush with embarrassment. He let out a sincere burst of laughter, grabbed a mug of beer lying around, and raised it high toward the starry sky.
— To the family! he shouted, a radiant fire burning in his eyes, far more beautiful than the one from his Devil Fruit.
— TO THE FAMILY! the Whitebeard Pirates roared in unison.
That night, Ace eventually fell asleep right on the deck, leaning against Jozu’s snoring flank, belly full and heart overflowing with a new warmth. He still hadn’t uttered the three fateful little words. But listening to the steady breathing of his brothers around him, he knew he would never need to.
He was home. And he was loved.