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Marco woke up on the Mini Moby and wished he was somewhere else. There was nothing wrong with Mini, he loved their ship. But on Father’s Day, of all days, he couldn’t help but think about how they should’ve been on the Moby Dick herself, with Pops laughing from his big chair and Thatch chasing Ace around in vengeance for the latest development in their ongoing prank war. Yes, there was nothing wrong with the Mini, but it should’ve been the Moby. It should’ve been their fleet of huge ships that barely held their entire family of thousands.
No matter what he did as captain, it still should’ve been Pops. He could do everything right and it would still be all wrong, and Seas knew he hadn’t gotten much right lately.
He kept his eyes closed as he wondered, for a moment, if he should simply skip the day. It would be easier if he stayed in his room, quietly did his job, pretended that Thatch would come knocking at his door to drag him to dinner any minute now. It would be easier for the crew too—wouldn’t it?—to not have to face their shoddy replacement captain on the day they’d surely be missing Pops more than ever. He could stay here alone, then go out tomorrow and pretend today had never happened. Not eating for a day wouldn’t hurt him, he could go at least a week without food or water; without Thatch, he’d learned that the hard way.
He had responsibilities, though. Pops’ treasure was his family, and now that he was gone, it was Marco’s job to protect that treasure. That meant being present even when it hurt, being there for anyone who needed it, holding everything together regardless of if he was falling apart.
If Marco couldn’t face the crew’s first Father’s Day without a father, who would make sure everyone else got through it?
As usual, that was the logic that pushed him now that his heart was left behind beside two lonely graves: he wouldn’t wish this job on anyone, so he just had to do it himself.
Marco opened his eyes. He stood up. He got dressed. He took a deep breath.
He opened the door.
There was a cup of coffee on the table outside his door, set up so he wouldn’t trip over paperwork people left him. It was fresh, with steam still rising from the mug Thatch had gifted him years ago, reading World’s Okayest Brother. A little note rested beside it, in Vista’s looping handwriting: Don’t overdo it.
Marco didn’t smile. He wasn’t sure he could. But something in him felt the slightest bit lighter.
He brought the mug inside and sat at his desk. Coffee acquired, and he barely had to leave his room. A small victory to start the day. The small things counted for a lot these days, when the big things were too much.
He frowned at the papers before him, in perfectly squared stacks. Hadn’t he fallen asleep at his desk the night before? Why were the papers so neat? For that matter, why had he woken up in bed?
One slip of paper wasn’t in the stack; in fact, Marco didn’t remember it at all. He picked it up and read: You’re too old to fall asleep at your desk. Take a nap and do it properly, old man. Kingdew’s handwriting this time. Bemused, Marco stared at the slip for a long while. There were his answers, he supposed. The answers raised questions, though. How did Kingdew have time to check on him? Why did he bother when all the Commanders were swamped? Every single crew member was doing the work of three people to keep things running these days.
And Marco was not that old. Even if he was, the phoenix would take care of any injuries he got, whether from battle or from sleeping wrong. But he wasn’t old. Not that old.
Marco shook his head and sipped his coffee. He had to focus.
The coffee was perfect. He didn’t smile, but for a moment, he almost didn’t frown.
First in his stack of paperwork was a transfer request. The Second Division had been leaderless for a long time before Ace, but many of the people who had stepped up in the interim had di—were no longer there. The few that remained were out of their depth, unable to fill the void Ace had left behind now that he was—after he’d left. They’d all gotten used to his presence so quickly; now his absence gaped. Haruta had proposed to transfer a number of the former Spades to the Second, hoping they would be able to pick up where Ace left off more easily. Marco was doing his best, but he had his own division and the whole crew, and Ace’s organization system was enigmatic at best.
Marco downed half the mug of coffee before getting through the first page, already anticipating the various Commanders he’d have to track down to get approval, not to mention who to move where to make up for the former Spades’ transfers—
He turned the page and was met with a fully filled out and signed form. Another page turn, another completed form. Namur had filled out the paperwork from the Fourth and even the First as far as he was able, in addition to that of his own division; he’d even recommended three members of his own division to fill the gap Deuce would leave in the medical division.
They always needed more doctors these days.
What would’ve normally taken an hour or two or longer was done in ten minutes. The transfers were complete. There was even a note saying the former Spades had already been notified of the pending changes.
It wasn’t just the transfers, either—more than half of his paperwork had been filled out, all the little things that most people would know but Marco always ended up taking care of because no one else bothered with it. He recognized the handwriting of several other Commanders and some other division members.
It was a strange delight of his, observing how his friends wrote. Well, that’s what Pops had said: Life is full of strange delights, I’m glad you’ve found one of your own. It wasn’t strange to Marco. It made him feel less alone when he was cooped up in his room taking care of the tedium of keeping the ship running smoothly. He saw Izou’s graceful confidence in his slender cursive, Haruta rushing from one thing to the next in their cramped scrawl and how letters ran into each other like he wasn’t even looking as he wrote, or Jozu’s reliable strength in his organized blocks of lettering. He’d seen Ace’s boldness in how hard he pressed pen to paper, leaving grooves under his letters and ink bleeding through, or Ace’s restlessness in the telescopes and compasses doodled in the margins, or—
Marco set down the page he was holding before he crinkled it. He had to focus.
And that was probably it, wasn’t it? Everyone would be caught up in their heads a bit, today of all days, so maybe they’d buried themselves in work to try to think of something else.
He stood up. His mug was empty, and the walls of his room felt like they were bearing down on him. Marco didn’t mind smaller spaces, but the phoenix got antsy when he didn’t let her stretch her wings. There was plenty to do out and about on the ship, and he needed some air.
The first stop was the navigation room. Pop’s absence left a power vacuum—a familiar anger threatened to boil over, the Marines should’ve known better than to pick a fight where one of the great powers of the seas would inevitably fall, but they’d let the world fall into chaos because it suited their whims and prejudice and hatred—and their territories had become war zones as hotheaded rookies scrambled for a slice of glory. Courante Island had called for help as they were flooded with a new wave of opportunistic pirates; fights were breaking out everywhere to the point where it wasn’t safe for civilians to stay, but with so many forces descending on the New World it wasn’t safe to leave either.
Let them come. By the time they arrived, most of the rookies would’ve picked each other off, if they survived to reach Courante at all. For all the confidence of the remaining Whitebeards had been shaken, Marco knew they were still strong enough to take care of the new mess. He probably could’ve flown out and handled it in a week by himself, and he would’ve if his worry for the crew’s wavering stability hadn’t gotten the better of him.
Besides, the world had to remember. The Whitebeard Pirates were not to be crossed.
Even if they didn’t have Whitebeard himself anymore.
They were still strong. Even now, they were strong. They had to be. Marco had to believe that was true. If it wasn’t, he was a liar to everyone who was counting on him.
Marco kept a neutral face plastered on as he passed his siblings on his way, exchanging quiet nods and waves. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t up for conversation that morning. He timed his breathing to his footsteps, forced the tension away from his shoulders, and kept his eyes trained ahead and above. He was calm and collected. He was fine, so there was nothing to worry about.
The walk wasn’t long, but it felt like an eternity.
He barely lifted a hand to knock when the door to the navigation room swung open and Haruta blocked the doorway. “En route to Courante, everything’s in working order,” they reported. “Four days until landfall, but longer if the Courante Twister acts up.”
Marco grimaced. That was the other reason he avoided flying to Courante; it had a resident twister storm. Normally the eternally swirling column loomed on top of the island’s mountain, but occasionally it wandered into the ocean and kicked up a hurricane. In the worst case, the mountain erupted and the twister flung lava in every direction, turning everything within a twenty-kilometer radius into a boiling death trap. Seasoned travelers like them knew to have underwater travel ready in case they had to go under the lava spray, but most people didn’t—yet another reason those rookies were profoundly screwed.
“I thought it would be five days,” he mused.
Haruta made a vague gesture. “Favorable currents.”
Fair enough. “Any updates on the island’s situation?”
“Squard was in the area, so his crew’s defending the Western shore.” Haruta made a distasteful expression. Marco was sure his own attempt at a neutral face was failing miserably.
Of course Pops had forgiven him immediately, that was just how he was. That didn’t mean Marco felt the same. He could be charitable enough to appreciate the great lengths Squard had gone to redeem himself since the battle at Marineford, but he was sure that if they arrived at Courante to find Squard dead, most of the Whitebeards would quietly celebrate his downfall.
“Good,” he said. He didn’t care to stand up for Squard, and even if he did, Haruta wouldn’t give a singular flying fuck.
“Good,” Haruta said.
They stood face-to-face in the doorway for a drawn-out moment.
Marco shifted to try to get a look inside. “Can I come in?”
“Why? I checked everything, it’s all good to go.”
Technically Marco didn’t need to go in and check himself, the navigation division would take care of it, but he usually did anyway. It was his job to make sure everything was working together, not just each division in isolation, and technically other Commanders could do that, but they usually didn’t. Haruta certainly didn’t—he had to know everything happening everywhere and that took every waking moment and then some, there was no reason for him to check the currents. And yet.
Haruta stared at him flatly.
Marco shrugged and relented. “Okay, thank you.”
It was the same in the other divisions, every place he checked: someone was waiting there to assure him that everything was shipshape, nothing to worry about.
Odd.
Marco had gone from surprised to puzzled to concerned by the time he was heading to the kitchens. It was barely lunchtime, and he was somehow already running out of things to do for the day. He hadn’t run out of things to do for the day in… ever. It was simply unheard of. Something very strange was going on.
Before he could enter the dining hall, Eline, one of the stand-in head chefs, blocked his way. “Marco, hi!” She shoved a tray of food into his hands, and just like that his hands were full. He couldn’t open the door without risking dropping something.
“Hello, Eline. How’s—”
“Everything’s in order, sir!” A sharp nod punctuated her too-chipper tone. “Nothing to worry about!”
Marco stared her down. This was getting ridiculous; he was almost certain now that some of the crew was hiding something from him. He let a touch of observation haki trickle out, just enough to get a read on her without giving anything away, but he could detect nothing but guileless determination. The dining hall behind her was restless, uneasy, but that was the new normal. Gone were the days of cheerful banquets; now, every meal was a reminder of how quiet things had become, how wrong everything was, how many people were missing from the seats.
“Are you alright, sir?”
He nodded automatically.
“Excellent! Now go eat, you can’t run a ship on an empty stomach.” She shooed him away and left as abruptly as she had come.
Marco stood frozen a moment longer.
He started to return to his room. His feet sped up under him without his intent, pulling him faster, faster, faster back to the safety of being alone in the quiet. He fumbled the tray onto the table by the door just enough to get it open and retreat inside and slam it behind him and—
They wanted him gone, was that it? They were proving that they could handle everything without him, they were trying to make him go away and leave them alone, they were sick of him. He was right, he shouldn’t have gone out at all today, he shouldn’t have bothered everyone when they were clearly busy picking up the slack he’d so carelessly left, he was useless, he was a failure, he was making everything worse—
He was spiraling.
Marco sank to sit with his back pressed against the door. “You’re spiraling,” he told himself out loud. His voice died on the stale air, its emptiness stabbing into his mind with how alone, alone, alone he was—
“Stop that,” he said, louder, but his voice cracked, it couldn’t fill even this little space.
He tried to slow his breathing, but it didn’t slow his thoughts.
He tried to name five things he could see, but there were too many things, not enough things, and none of it meant anything anyway, his old room was at the bottom of the ocean.
He pressed his feet and hands into the floorboards and extended his observation haki as far as it would go, down, down, down into the ocean waves. Rise and fall, inhale and exhale. Pops loved the ocean. He loved it so much, he loved every last one of them so much, but he was gone and he could never love them again—
Pops would be so mad if he knew he was thinking like that. Wherever Pops was, whatever happened after the lungs stopped breathing and the heart stopped beating, he still loved them. If that wasn’t true, nothing in the world had any meaning at all.
If Pops could forgive Squard for stabbing him in the middle of a decisive battle, surely he could still love Marco for trying to protect what little they had left. Surely it counted for something that he was fighting to keep this family together, safe, strong. Surely he wouldn’t have made Marco his first mate if he hadn’t trusted him to lead the crew if the worst happened.
Not everyone was as forgiving as Pops—
“Now you’re jumping to conclusions,” he muttered. He stood up, scowling at nothing in particular. He would get up and survive the day out of spite if that was what it took. He’d left his food outside, hadn’t he? Oh well, never mind that. Something like hunger was beginning to stir in him, but he didn’t think he could eat right now. He went to his desk instead; maybe he could find something to occupy himself with, some long-term project he’d neglected out of necessity.
The mug from the morning was gone. Centered on the desk was a worn book, one of Pops’ favorites. It was a collection of old sailors’ tales, Pops certainly knew them all by heart, but he was often found thumbing through the book anyway. And on top of the book, another note, this one in Izou’s writing: Take a break.
Marco let his fingers ghost over the cover’s fading illustrations. He was almost afraid to touch it, like it would become a phantom if he dared believe it was real. Lovely things didn’t last.
His hand came to a rest and settled beneath the title.
The book did not vanish.
Ever so gently, he lifted the cover and turned it open. It was heavy; the book was enormous, Pops-sized, and each page was thick and smelled of ancient, secret things.
Marco sat down. He didn’t have much to do, and the book was here. Maybe Izou was right—Of course I’m right, he heard his friend’s voice in his head—maybe he should take a break. Maybe he should stay here, safe and quiet and alone with memories that were only bittersweet because they could never be real again.
He read. Each word breathed through his head in his father’s voice, warm and deep and secure. He could almost feel the large, calloused hand on his shoulder, or imagine Thatch interrupting to give the characters silly voices, or see Ace’s eyes light up with excitement behind his own eyelids.
Someone knocked at the door.
Marco startled. How long had he been reading? He was almost through the giant tome. No, no, no, he’d wasted so much time, he must’ve missed something important, he had to get it together and keep moving. He lurched out of his chair, ignoring the ache in his knees, and answered the door.
Izou stood there. “Shall we go to dinner?”
Oh. He hadn’t forgotten something. Just dinner. Hunger woke up in him again. Had he eaten at all that day? He glanced at the table beside the door. Lunch was gone, replaced with another note in Curiel’s handwriting: Stored in the kitchen for later. He bit back a curse; he’d forgotten, become careless, and now he was worrying people for no reason.
“Marco?”
He forced himself to focus. “Thank you for the book.”
Izou smiled and silently offered him a hand.
So Marco followed Izou to the dining hall. The feeling that there was something going on, something he’d missed, returned tenfold. Izou often had an air about him like he knew more than he cared to reveal, but it was more than that, it was the strangeness of the whole day. Marco couldn’t imagine anything important could happen on the Mini without Izou knowing, either—though to be fair, he would’ve said the same of himself most days.
Marco stretched his observation through the halls. Something was off. He had to know what was wrong, he had to know so he could fix it and do his job and take care of everything—
But he couldn’t find anything. Almost like someone was blocking him out.
He glanced at Izou, only to find them watching him with a poker face that could impress even Revolutionary Dragon.
So he was right: whatever was happening, Izou was in on it.
Marco faced straight ahead. He wanted to feel some way about all of this, but he didn’t. There was only an emptiness he’d come to recognize and dread. The crew was keeping a secret from him, and it was something big. Maybe they were going to kick him out, remove him from his post and his home and his family—wildly improbable even as it occurred to him, but once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave. He could never live up to Pops’ legacy, and clearly the crew could manage without him. They’d seen how weak he really was and had decided to cut their losses. They’d seen him fail to save one person after another after a million others, Thatch and Ace and Pops, and couldn’t trust their family’s wellbeing to a doctor who had failed in every moment it had mattered the most. They’d seen him stumble and flounder and knew they needed someone better if they had any hope of survival.
And Marco couldn’t find it in him to care.
The thought burrowed deeper, deeper, deeper, and he didn’t care. He’d already lost everything, what was everything else? If the crew truly thought it was for the best, he wouldn’t argue. He could never fight his own family. He trusted them. He would do as they said. He would give up pretending he had any measure of control over this sinking ship and let them rid themselves of his dead weight. He would dive into the ocean himself if they asked him to.
Izou jostled his arm. “You worry too much.”
Marco couldn’t respond. His throat was dry. They were at the door to the dining hall and he couldn’t get a word out before Izou opened them and pushed him inside.
It was full. Everyone was there, every last person lined the tables and filled the hall with the familiar clamor of a happy family. Every table was stacked high with dishes, and chefs kept coming and going, bringing out more food or rotating who was eating and who was cooking. Mouthwatering scents trailed in their wake, seasoning the air. Bright colors glowed from every direction, but nothing was so bright as the laughter, the tangible joy, the life and love of a family coming together.
As Marco stumbled through the doors and Izou pulled him further inside towards the Commanders’ table, heads turned and cups were raised in a chorus of greeting. A sea of smiling faces welcomed him.
Except at one table.
One table matched all the others in every regard except its seats were empty. It was fully set with food and plates and silverware, but no one sat there. At the head of the table, there sat a chair larger than all the others. Extra food surrounded one empty plate. One chair was pulled out, as if for a chef to come and go as needed.
Izou led Marco to the table beside that one, where the seats were occupied with Commanders, close friends, those who had stepped up where they were needed. Only one plate there was empty, but dishes of all his favorites were nearby.
Jozu grinned at Marco as he sat down beside him. “You were overthinking it, weren’t you?”
Marco still couldn’t speak, now for an entirely different reason.
Across from him, Vista twirled his knife like a tiny sword. “We decided to give you a day off, but no, of course you spent it worrying,” he lamented.
“I got him to read a book,” Izou said, practically preening.
Vista waved him off.
“We’re terrible at this,” Haruta commented through a mouthful of dessert he’d somehow gotten his hands on early. “He looks like he’s going to cry.” Namur elbowed them sharply, which escalated into a small-scale food fight.
Jozu patted Marco on the shoulder. “Just ignore them.”
They were right, though. Marco was indeed losing the battle against his tear ducts. He rubbed his eyes preemptively; the nice thing about Haruta saying the quiet part out loud was that there was no point in pretending anymore. “Thanks, guys,” he finally managed.
Jozu pulled him in for a sideways hug.
Then he pushed him away. “Now eat something, I know you’ve only had coffee today.”
Marco opened his mouth to protest (lie) and stopped cold. “How do you—”
“I’m a spy,” Eline proudly declared behind him, leaving a basket of bread rolls on the table and leaving again before Marco could properly give her an affronted look.
Haruta took a moment from their food fight to throw a chunk of pineapple at Marco. “Take better care of yourself.” The pineapple landed on his forehead and stuck there.
Marco laughed.
He hadn’t thought about it. He didn’t know when he’d stopped fighting back tears and started smiling, couldn’t pinpoint the moment the weight on his chest lifted, but the weightless feeling stayed. It didn’t collapse the moment he noticed it.
He felt warm. He was surrounded by his family, who he loved and who loved him back—and it was strange, in hindsight, that he had so much faith in them but had failed to recognize the faith they had in him, that he trusted their bond so deeply but forgotten he was part of that bond as well. The hall was filled with joy.
So Marco did the only thing he could think of. He ate the pineapple.
Haruta applauded. Namur took advantage of their distraction to pour gravy on their head. The meal proceeded in a familiar chaos. Marco realized as the night went on that he hadn’t simply enjoyed a meal in a long time. He was always doing too many things at once to live in the moment with his siblings.
He’d missed this without noticing. Missed one of the things he hadn’t realized he still had left to love.
He turned to Izou, who was also simply existing. “How long have you been planning this?”
“A couple weeks.”
“And you all…?”
“Everyone but you.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Namur said, pointing his fork at Marco, “you’re a workaholic.”
Izou rolled his eyes, but after a moment’s thought, he grew serious. “Because we already grieve every day,” he answered, weighing each word before allowing it to be heard. “Because sometimes it’s too easy to only think about what we’ve lost. Of course it is, we’ve lost so much, but…” Izou stared into his cup, swirling it slowly. “We haven’t lost everything. And we thought Pops would like it if we spent his day celebrating what we have left.”
Vista stood up and raised both arms in a quieting gesture. Slowly but surely, the dining hall quieted.
He held up his cup towards the unseated table. “To those who have passed.” His solemn voice carried through the hall, to every corner and crevice. Everyone in the room lifted their cup in kind, towards the table of ghosts.
Then he turned to the room at large and raised his cup again, not towards anything in particular, but his eyes met Marco’s as he called out, “And to those who remain!”
A cheer swept through the room, echoing and multiplying and blossoming into the night, not letting up for a single breath until every soul in the room was certain that wherever their fallen family rested, they could hear their voices.
As the feast wound down, everyone at the table made sure to hug Marco before he left, and Jozu insisted on walking him back to his room. The hallways were deserted, but somehow didn’t feel empty with the echo of laughter still settled across the Mini. It had been a long time since Marco had felt this kind of tired; not wrung out and discarded, but satisfied, like he could rest. He felt more real than he had in months. He felt alive.
Even though so many others weren’t.
It wasn’t fair.
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
Jozu’s voice startled him out of his thoughts. Marco didn’t know when he’d become so easy to read; maybe he hadn’t, maybe his friends knew him too well. He could only shrug in response.
Jozu gave him a smile, small and distracted, but it faded quickly. “Do you know what I was thinking as we sailed away from Marineford?”
Marco tripped, barely righting himself before faceplanting among the floorboards. They’d just agreed they’d had enough of grief, why was he bringing up that awful day?
His shock seemed to be answer enough for Jozu. “You can guess a lot of it, I’m sure. But the—” He had to pause for a moment. Neither of them were walking anymore, destination forgotten. “The main thing I was thinking was, thank the Gods you survived that.”
Marco didn’t know what to say to that. Whatever he felt, shock didn’t come close to describing it anymore. Grief was a constant, regret too. Guilt, maybe, that Jozu had wasted his worry on him. There was bitterness, perhaps terror. But it didn’t make sense, nothing did. Marco couldn’t look at him anymore. It hurt again and he didn’t know if he could face it.
“Of course you’re surprised,” Jozu said. “Even if it occurred to you that you might die fighting for Ace, I guess you didn’t think about how much we would miss you. Marco, we don’t know how much you can heal from. I don’t think we’ll ever know until it’s too late. Everything got so bad, I thought we might lose you too, and—and then we didn’t.”
“You’re right.” He swallowed a shaky breath. “You’re right, I don’t get it.”
“Marco, look at me.”
He didn’t want to. He really didn’t. But he knew Jozu wouldn’t back down, and he couldn’t stand waiting. So he looked up.
Jozu was smiling at him, same as he always did, without judgement or blame. “Of course no one can replace Pops, or Thatch or Ace, but Marco—no one can replace you either. I think you’re the only person who can’t see that. You do everything for us, and somehow you still don’t notice how much we need you. This crew, this family, we couldn’t have survived everything that’s happened without you.”
“We still might not.” There were countless islands after Courante, countless allies and civilians who needed help, and dangers far worse than a permanent windstorm. They were strong enough to last the next week, of that he was certain. After that, though?
The traitor was still out there. Sooner or later, there would be a reckoning. Every day they spent spreading themselves thin and scrambling to recover spent strength, their enemy grew as well, unburdened by grief or responsibility. They were doomed to a fight they couldn’t refuse, a fight they couldn’t win, a fight the Whitebeard Pirates could not survive. And no matter what he did, Marco could only lead them closer to that end.
Jozu nodded with death in his eyes. He saw it too. Marco hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, hadn’t wanted anyone else burdened with his fears, but he saw it too. “I know. I know, but no matter what happened before or what happens next, I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Marco closed the distance between them and hugged him, and his brother hugged him back. “I’m glad you’re here too.”
Because all he really needed to do was keep his family safe and happy for as long as he could, right? He’d been doing that. He would keep doing that. He would fight for them until he was dead, and it would take an awful lot to kill him.
He was doing his best for the people he loved, just like he always had.
Maybe—just maybe, just for now—that could be enough.