Chapter Text
Obsessed.
According to the internet — specifically the kind of website people quote when they want to sound clever in arguments — an obsession is an intense focus on or preoccupation with a person, activity, or thing. Usually to the point of thinking about it constantly.
There are different kinds of obsession, of course.
Take hobbies and interests, for example. Fans who follow games, shows, books, and bands with a dedication that borders on religious fervor. They know every fact, every release date, every line of dialogue. They collect merchandise, defend their favorites online, and can somehow turn any conversation back to the thing they love. People call them obsessed.
Then there is romantic obsession. The person who checks their phone every two minutes. The person who rereads messages over and over, analyzing every word and punctuation mark. The person who memorizes schedules, favorite drinks, and the way someone smiles when they’re trying not to laugh. The person who calls, texts, and finds excuses to be close to the object of their affection, even if that affection isn’t returned. People call that obsession too.
And then there are the unhealthy kinds. The intrusive, dangerous kinds. The kinds that turn into stalking, possessiveness, and an inability to accept boundaries. Those people are called obsessed as well.
But there is a difference between obsessive and obsession.
Obsessive describes a person who exhibits a compulsive or extreme focus on something.
Obsession is the state itself — an overwhelming preoccupation with a person, object, or idea.
So, technically, calling Marco obsessed wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But it wasn’t exactly nice, was it? Obsessed sounded ugly. Sharp around the edges. A little desperate. Infatuated, though. Now that was a much better word. Infatuated sounded softer. Warmer.
It sounded like lingering glances and racing heartbeats. It sounded like smiling at your phone for no reason. It sounded like memorizing someone’s coffee order because you wanted to. It sounded like admiration. Like wonder. Like the dizzying sort of affection that made your chest feel too full.
And if Marco were being honest with himself, Ace wasn’t an obsession. Ace was a masterpiece. And Marco was simply a man with very good taste. A man completely infatuated.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Ace on the other hand was completely fucked. Now, he could blame that on a lot of things.
He could blame it on his laziness. He could blame it on the alarm clock sitting crooked on his bedside table, the one that only seemed to work when it felt personally inspired to do so. He could blame it on the beers from the night before. He could blame it on Sabo, who had insisted on “just one more round,” which had somehow turned into five.
He could blame it on Luffy, who had burst into Ace’s room at two in the morning because he’d found a documentary about pirates and declared it “life changing.”
Really, Ace had at least a hundred excuses. But about a hundred excuses ago, they had started losing their charm.
Which was how Ace found himself sprinting down the alley behind the Windmill Tavern with one boot half untied, his backpack slamming against his shoulder, and his dark hair sticking up in every possible direction. He shoved through the back door hard enough to make it bang against the wall.
“Ace, you’re late. Again!” Dadan’s voice cracked through the tavern like thunder.
Ace barely slowed. “Car broke down!” he shouted over his shoulder as he tore across the kitchen.
“You don’t have a car!”
He pushed through the next door, laughter already bubbling in his chest.
“That was your excuse last week!” A dirty rag came flying at his head.
Ace ducked instinctively, and the rag smacked into the wall behind him. “Still counts!” he yelled back.
“Get changed before I decide to kill you!”
Ace grinned and disappeared into the tiny staff room.
His locker sat in the corner, dented and scratched from years of use. It was plastered with stickers that overlapped one another in a chaotic collage — band logos, cartoon characters, a faded sticker that read World’s Okayest Bartender that Deuce had given him as a joke, and a handful of doodles scrawled in permanent marker.
There was a tiny flame in one corner. A badly drawn skull wearing a cowboy hat. Luffy’s attempt at a monkey that looked more like a potato with limbs. Ace dropped his bag on the floor and yanked open the locker.
Truthfully, Dadan should have fired him years ago.
He was late so often that it had become less of a bad habit and more of a personality trait. But he was good at what he did. Very good. And Dadan, despite all her shouting and rag throwing and threats of bodily harm, had always had a soft spot for him. Not that she would ever admit it.
Ace had practically grown up in the Windmill Tavern. The first time Garp had dropped him off, he had been small, surly, and deeply suspicious of everyone. Garp had muttered something about police business and disappeared for the day.
Ace had expected to be bored out of his mind. Instead, he’d discovered magic. The tavern had been alive. Music spilled from old speakers in the corners. Amber lights glowed warmly against rows of glass bottles.
People laughed until they were wiping tears from their eyes. Friends greeted each other like they hadn’t met in years. Strangers became friends over shared drinks and stories.
The whole place felt like a living thing, breathing and laughing and glowing. Ace had fallen in love with it immediately. At first, he just lingered. Then he started helping. Wiping tables. Sweeping floors. Collecting empty glasses.
At twelve, he marched up to Dadan, planted his hands on his hips, and demanded a job. Dadan had squinted down at him, grunted, and shoved a dish rag into his hands. That was that.
Not long after, Sabo started working there too. One year older and, according to Sabo, infinitely more mature. According to Ace, unbearably smug.
Dishwashing quickly turned into water fights. Sweeping turned into sword battles with broom handles. Inventory checks somehow led to missing bags of chips. The fact that Dadan kept them employed remained one of life’s greatest mysteries.
When Ace was fifteen, Sabo left to work with Dragon. Administrative assistant work. Important work. The kind of work that made Sabo feel like he was changing the world.
Luffy took Sabo’s place shortly after. Which meant that instead of fifteen year old Ace and sixteen year old Sabo causing chaos, it became fifteen year old Ace and twelve year old Luffy.
Dadan threatened to kill them both at least once a week. No one believed her.
When Ace turned eighteen, Dadan shoved a Smart Serve booklet into his chest and told him to get certified. He passed. Barely. And just like that, he was behind the bar.
At first, he was a disaster. He mixed up orders. Forgot garnishes. Dropped bottles. Once he shook a cocktail without securing the lid and managed to spray half the bar. Another time he accidentally served someone straight gin instead of vodka and spent the next ten minutes apologizing while the customer laughed himself breathless.
But Ace learned fast. He had quick hands, an easy smile, and a memory for names, drinks, and tiny details that people never expected him to remember.
Customers liked him. They liked his laugh. They liked his shameless flirting. They liked the way he made everyone feel like they mattered.
Before long, he wasn’t just good at bartending. He was one of the reasons people kept coming back. So when it came time to decide what he wanted to do with his life, Ace looked around the only place that had ever felt entirely like home and said, “Yeah. This works.”
Now he was twenty four years old. Still bartending. Still chronically late. Still hopelessly in love with the warm lights, loud laughter, and constant motion of the Windmill Tavern. And if he was being honest, he was damn good at his job. Actually, he was the best bartender at the Windmill Tavern. At least according to himself.
The illusion shattered when a rag smacked him square in the face. Ace sputtered as he peeled it off.
“Quit daydreaming,” Deuce said, glaring at him from across the room. “We already know you get enough sleep with how late you are every day.”
Ace grinned. Deuce stood with his arms crossed, blue hair tied neatly back, his expression fixed somewhere between annoyance and fond resignation. They had been friends for a year now, ever since Dadan hired the sharp tongued nursing student to help with the evening rush.
Ace had liked him immediately. Mostly because Deuce gave as good as he got.
“You’re just mad that even with an hour less of work, I still get more tips than you.”
Deuce rolled his eyes. Ace shrugged into his uniform shirt, smoothing down the small windmill patch over his chest. He clipped on his nametag. The clear plastic was decorated with stickers and tiny fading doodles, just like his locker. A smiling sun. A cartoon flame. A tiny skull. Nothing matched. But it was perfect nonetheless.
“You only get such good tips because of that doctor,” Deuce muttered.
Ace tried to look unaffected. He failed spectacularly. A grin spread across his face anyway. It was true. Marco tipped obscenely well. Not just Ace — everyone. Servers competed for his table. Bartenders volunteered to make his drinks.
Makino had nearly tripped over a chair once trying to reach him first. But Ace was always faster. Because unlike everyone else, Ace wasn’t motivated solely by the tip. The tip was nice. But the man giving it was nicer. Much, much nicer.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Marco always arrived sometime after five. Not exactly five. Never exactly five. But close enough that Ace had started measuring his evenings by it.
If the clock over the bar crept past five thirty and the front door still hadn’t opened to reveal broad shoulders, blond hair, and the kind of calm smile that made Ace feel like he’d forgotten how to function, the rest of the shift felt wrong.
Like a song skipping. Like a joke with no punchline. Like pineapple on pizza. Which, as far as Ace was concerned, was a crime against humanity.
Tonight, the tavern was quiet. Tuesday nights usually were.
A few regulars occupied their usual spots. The old couple by the window split a basket of fries and bickered affectionately over the crossword. A group of college students clustered around the pool table, arguing loudly over rules none of them actually knew. Some construction workers sat at the far end of the bar, nursing beers and watching the hockey game on the mounted tv.
It was busy enough to keep everyone moving. Slow enough to leave room for boredom. Which left Ace was polishing a glass that had already been polished three times when the front door opened.
The cool evening air swept in first. Then Marco.
Ace straightened so fast he nearly dropped the glass. Marco stepped inside with the same quiet confidence he always carried. Tall. Broad shouldered. Blond hair gathered loosely at the nape of his neck. Blue eyes sharp enough to pin Ace in place even from across the room.
He wore dark jeans, a pale purple button down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the sort of easy smile that should honestly be illegal.
Marco was what one might call a catch. He was handsome. Funny. Smart. Kind. Ridiculously generous. A successful doctor. Close with his family. Great with kids. Single — as far as Ace knew, criminally single.
And if there was some secret flaw lurking beneath all that perfection, Ace had yet to find it. Well, except for the fact that the man liked pineapple on pizza. That was it. That was his one defect. Ace considered it manageable. Illegal but manageable.
Before Marco had even reached his usual stool, Ace was moving. Makino was halfway to the table with a notepad in hand when Ace swooped in.
“Borrowing this,” he said, plucking it from her fingers.
Makino smirked. “Of course you are.”
“I’ll bring it back.”
“You’d better.”
Ace flashed her a grin and practically vaulted another table..
He was at Marco’s side before the doctor had fully settled into his seat.
“Marco! The usual?”
Marco looked up, and the smile that spread across his face was enough to make Ace feel absurdly pleased with himself. “I’m starting to think you know me too well.”
Ace leaned on the table, trying and failing to appear casual. “It’s a gift.”
Marco chuckled, “Yes, the usual, please. Though I’m still waiting for my brothers.”
Ace nodded. Most of the Newgate brothers had a complicated relationship with punctuality. Then again, Ace was late to work almost every day, so he wasn’t exactly in a position to judge.
“You got it.” Ace turned, already smiling. He could feel eyes on him as he walked away. Not Marco’s. Well, probably Marco’s too. But mostly the other staff. The sort of glares that said “we all know exactly what you’re doing.” Ace ignored them.
“Remind me why we’re friends,” Deuce muttered as Ace slid behind the bar.
“Because I’m delightful.”
Deuce snorted, “That’s not it.”
Ace grabbed a tray and three glasses of water, “Take your time figuring it out.”
He balanced the glasses with practiced ease and returned just as the tavern door opened again. Two more familiar figures entered. Thatch, grinning like he had never had a serious thought in his life. And Izou, elegant as ever and carrying himself with the patient air of someone accustomed to managing his brothers.
Ace set the waters down just as they approached the booth. “Here you go.”
Marco blinked up at him. “Why three waters —”
“Hey, Marco!” Thatch slid into the seat opposite his brother.
Ace bit back a grin as Izou sat beside Thatch and accepted his glass with a grateful nod.
“How do you always know?” Marco asked.
Ace shrugged. “Magic?”
Marco’s mouth curved. Ace tried very hard not to stare. He failed, but he liked to think he failed charmingly. Pulling Makino’s notepad from his back pocket, Ace clicked his pen and flashed the table his best smile.
“Alright, gentlemen. Other than some agua, what can I get you?”
“I’ll take a beer,” Thatch said immediately.
“Just water for me,” Izou said with a weary sigh. “I’m driving.”
Ace nodded solemnly. “A tragic burden.”
Izou gave him a look that was somehow both fond and deeply unimpressed.
Ace turned to Marco. And there it was again. That little spark of anticipation. The one that lit in his chest every time Marco looked at him.
Marco held his gaze for a moment, blue eyes calm and unreadable. “I’ll have a beer too, yoi.”
Ace raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you driving later?”
“Walking, actually,” Marco said, the corner of his mouth lifting.
The words were simple. And yet heat rushed up Ace’s neck so quickly he was certain everyone at the table could see it. He forced himself to keep smiling. “Well, alright then.”
He scribbled a few meaningless lines onto the notepad. There was no real need to write anything down. The Newgate brothers ordered the same things nearly every visit. Predictable. Comforting. Safe. And if Ace had begun looking forward to their routine more than he probably should, that was his business.
“I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
As he turned, he caught Marco still watching him. And he nearly walked into a chair.
——————————————————————————————————————————
Ace made it back to the bar without colliding with any furniture, which he considered a personal victory. He slid the order pad onto the counter and leaned across it dramatically.
“Two beers, pretty please.”
Deuce didn’t even look up from drying glasses. “One, you work here.” He held up a finger. “Two, grab them yourself.” A second finger joined the first. “Three, I’m not your slave.” A third raised, only for the first two fingers to fold down, leaving the middle one standing.
Ace clutched at his chest. “Words hurt you know?”
“Good.” Deuce tossed him a bottle opener.
Ace caught it easily and grinned. “You know, I’m starting to think you don’t actually enjoy my company.”
“Split your tips with me and I’ll call you my best friend.” Deuce blew him an exaggerated kiss.
Ace snorted as he grabbed two chilled bottles from the cooler. “Well, when you put it like that, how could I refuse?”
“You can start by handing over the doctor’s money.”
“In your dreams.”
Deuce leaned against the bar, folding his arms. “I swear, if he ever stops coming here, your income is going to drop by thirty percent.”
Ace popped the caps off the beers. “That’s not true.”
Deuce raised a skeptical brow.
Ace considered it. “Twenty five percent.”
“Thought so.”
Ace balanced the bottles on his tray. The truth was, Marco tipped generously enough that the staff had started noticing patterns. Whenever Marco came in, Ace somehow became very interested in serving tables. Whenever Marco sat at the bar, Ace found a dozen reasons to remain directly in front of him.
And whenever Marco smiled, Ace temporarily forgot how to function. Completely unrelated facts, obviously.
Ace returned to the booth, setting the drinks down with a flourish. “Your beverages, gentlemen.”
Thatch lifted his beer in salute. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.” Ace tucked the tray under his arm. “Ready for food?”
Izou laughed softly, “You already know what we want.”
That was true. The Newgate brothers were creatures of habit. Thatch always ordered the steak. Izou always got the pasta. And Marco — Ace grinned. “Steak for Thatch, pasta for Izou, and pizza with the grossest topping known to man for Marco.”
Marco placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
Ace pointed his pen at him. “It’s pineapple on pizza, Marco.” A beat. “I will never support your crimes.”
Thatch burst into laughter. Izou covered his smile behind his hand. Marco only shook his head, looking deeply put upon. “You can’t judge it until you try it.”
“I’m not putting warm fruit on my pizza.”
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s a betrayal of everything pizza stands for.”
Marco’s eyes gleamed. “You’re very passionate about this, yoi.”
Ace leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “And I’m right.”
For a moment, Marco simply looked at him. The noise of the tavern faded into the background.
Ace was suddenly, acutely aware of how close they were. Close enough to see the faint laugh lines at the corners of Marco’s eyes. Close enough to notice the way his lips twitched, like he was fighting a bigger smile. Close enough that Ace had to resist the absurd urge to keep leaning forward.
Marco’s smile turned soft. Dangerously soft. “Maybe one day I’ll convince you.”
Ace swallowed. “Not a chance.”
Marco chuckled, and the sound settled warm and heavy in Ace’s chest.
Thatch cleared his throat loudly. Ace jerked back, face warming. “Right. Food.” He scribbled the order — more out of habit than necessity — and straightened. “Back in a bit.”
As he turned away, he shot Marco a quick wink. Marco’s expression shifted. That same look again. That unreadable flash in his eyes. Something with intent. Something that made Ace’s pulse jump even though he couldn’t quite explain why.
Ace returned to the kitchen window and handed the ticket to the cook. Then he drifted back to the bar, leaning beside Deuce as if he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes flirting shamelessly.
Deuce arched an eyebrow. “Well?”
Ace watched Marco from the corner of his eye. The doctor was listening to Thatch ramble about something animatedly, smiling into his beer. Even from a distance, he looked unfairly attractive.
Ace sighed, “He’s perfect.”
Deuce barked out a laugh, “You’re hopeless.”
Ace rested his chin in his hand. “He’s handsome.”
“Mhm.”
“Funny.”
“Sure.”
“Smart.”
“Terrifyingly.”
“A doctor.”
Deuce nodded. “Stable career. Excellent benefits.”
“Great with kids,” Ace hummed.
“Which is weirdly high on your list.”
“He’s close with his family.”
“A giant family,” Deuce pointed out.
Ace sighed dreamily. “And he tips like he’s trying to pay off my future mortgage.”
Deuce snorted, “There it is.”
Ace elbowed him. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” A pause. “You’re obsessed.”
Ace’s gaze drifted back to Marco. To the relaxed line of his shoulders. To the way he listened when his brothers spoke, like every word mattered. To the way his smile reached his eyes. The world seemed to narrow whenever Marco was around. Everything else dimmed at the edges.
Ace let out a soft, helpless breath. “I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed.”
Deuce smirked. “No?”
Ace tilted his head, searching for the right word. Something softer than obsessed. Something that felt less embarrassing and more honest. His smile turned almost shy. “More like… completely infatuated.”
Deuce stared at him for a moment. Then he burst out laughing. “What are you, a Victorian poet?”
Ace smacked his shoulder. “Shut up.”
Deuce was still laughing, “Completely infatuated? Who even says that?”
“I do!” Ace crossed his arms, trying to look offended and probably failing.
Deuce wiped at his eyes. “You’ve got it bad.”
Ace grinned, unable to deny it. “Yep.”
——————————————————————————————————————————
Across the room, blue eyes lifted from the conversation at the booth. They found Ace instantly. As though drawn there. Marco’s expression remained calm. Relaxed. Anyone glancing his way would see nothing unusual. Just a man enjoying a quiet evening with his brothers.
But his gaze lingered. Steady and unwavering. Following the line of Ace’s smile. The freckles scattered across sun warmed skin. The easy way he laughed with his head tipped back.
Marco had long since memorized every detail. The way Ace drummed his fingers when he was bored. The way he bit his lower lip when concentrating. The way he brightened whenever Marco walked through the door. The way he flirted like breathing and somehow still seemed unaware of the effect he had.
Marco took a slow sip of his beer. His brothers continued talking around him, but their voices blurred into background noise.
Because Ace was laughing. And Marco found, as he always did, that nothing held his attention more completely. His eyes remained fixed on the freckled bartender bathed in golden light.
Really how could he not be obsessed?