I've been binge watching One Piece and I was reminded of just how much I love Ace and Marco. It was just a matter of time before I wrote about them, and here it is! My denial and Marco's lucky break.
Marco liked to think that, with all of his experience as a pirate and all of the battles he had seen in his life, he didn't fall for the same trick twice. And indeed, it wasn't the same trick. It was some new idea the Marine's had had at some point, when they decided that they really wanted to make Marco miserable.
At first, he thought it was just a canon. Those were common on ships, and this one was no exception. There were at least 15 canons on the ship that the Marine's had turned to face the small vessel that he sailed (Alone, these days, after the disastrous attempt on Teach's life) towards the winter island. Marco had taken to the sky, intent on avoiding being hit, and for the most part it worked. He dodged all of the canon balls, though his ship didn't fair as well.
He watched it sink, sad for the small skiff. It was no Moby Dick, but it carried him well.
That was his mistake. That split second of being distracted was all it took something to come hurtling through the air at him.
He saw the glint of metal an instant before something slammed into his throat. Cold washed over him, his wings vanished and the fire went out, inside and outside of his body. Marco was sent flying, plummeting out of the sky and towards the earth.
He choked, scrabbling at the seastone wrapped around his throat. Blood slithered down his back, staining his shirt. Something pierced his chest with cold pain. More seastone.
He fell, into the dark grey clouds that covered the island. Down, through the freezing condensation, with the snow that floated so gently around him he dropped through the air with the grace of a boulder.
He twisted, trying desperately to rip the collar off of his throat. He saw white, snow piled high beneath him, coming in fast. Too fast, he ripped at the metal, tore into his own skin and shouted into the screaming wind around his ears.
He hit the ground. Everything went white.
It was white when he woke up. His ears were ringing, his neck burned and his chest was screaming at him. Everything hurt. Everything was cold, a cold that sunk deep into his bones, chilling his whole body.
It called to him, a deathly whisper to let go of the fire that flickered inside of him and succumb. To join his father and his fallen brothers.
On shaking legs, Marco stood.
The white snow was dyed red with his own blood, seeping steadily out of his chest. He couldn't tell if everything was blurry because he had lost so much blood or if it was because of the snow storm he had crashed into.
He stumbled forwards, the snow up to his knees impeding him. Every step he had to take was a fight to put one foot in front of the other. He nearly collapsed at ten steps, but managed to grab a tree to hold himself up. He was breathing hard, cold air burning hard in his lungs. He could breath, but only barely.
Marco slugged another step, then another. He didn't know where he was going but he knew he couldn't stay where he was. He couldn't afford to stay in the snow, in the cold, out in the open where anyone might find him.
Where the Marine's might find him.
His eyes, usually half lidded anyhow, slipped further shut. The white grew behind them. The ringing in his ears turned static. Marco pushed himself to go further. He couldn't stop. He couldn't afford to stop.
He stumbled, suddenly, away from the trees and into a clearing. There was a light, warm, yellow, flickering in the air ahead. The phoenix pushed himself towards it, too cold now to feel anything at all. The snow was lower here, even though the trees weren't around to cover the ground.
A path, his sluggish brain supplied. I found a path.
He was beyond the point of shaking when he finally got close enough to see that the flickering yellow light was a candle set into a window. A cabin, he realized, in the middle of the snowy woods. Marco brought a hand he could no longer feel to the wooden door and knocked weakly. He couldn't even hear his own strike.
The pirate fell forwards, his head hitting the wood, his shoulder catching the door frame. Things had started to spin and blur again. The hope he felt for the little light faded into the frigid invasion of his bones.
His eyes started to close. Was this is it? Would he really freeze to death on a stranger's doorstep? What would Pops say to that?
The door opened suddenly, and Marco pitched inside. He heard a yelp, startled and strangely familiar, though he couldn't place why, before hands grabbed him by his shoulders.
"Hey! Hey! Are you okay? What are you doing out here in the storm, are you cra- oh god, is that blood?!"
Marco knew that voice. He knew he knew that voice.
The phoenix lifted his head, forcing his eyes to see beyond the black coat and the thick white scarf. Up, past the strong jaw and the freckles, splattered across the face, to the black eyes that he knew so well.
"Ace," his voice was harsh with cold and blood that had been creeping up from his chest. The man stood before him, brows furrowed. Marco couldn't take anymore after that. It was too much for his body, too much for his aching, broken heart.
His legs gave out and the phoenix fell into white oblivion.
When he woke up he was warm. Warmer, in any case. The bone deep cold brought about by the seastone collar around his neck. His chest still hurt, but less now.
At first, Marco didn't move. The pain of breathing was proof enough that he wasn't dead. A good sign, probably. Marco opened his eyes, slowly. The white had left his vision, in its place was brown. Wooden planks cross over his head, fitted together. A lantern hung from the ceiling nearby.
Marco sat up, slowly, wincing at the pull on his chest. At least the bullet didn't seem to be inside of him. That was a good sign. That didn't stop his head from spinning and his stomach from trying to shove itself into his throat.
He made a face before looking to the left and finding a stone wall. They weren't brick, they weren't uniform. They were fitted together but the sizes were uneven. Not made by a professional. His eyes left the wall, cross the hatched quilt spread across his lap. A sun smiled at him with dark glasses. The floor was wood, same a the ceiling. There weren't corners, the house was a circle, and only one room. He could see the front door, and the blood he had no doubt left on the floor in front of it.
There was a burning wood stove, and beside it a man with wavy black hair was stirring a pot. The owner of the house. Marco had dreamt that it had been Ace whose house he found. He could smell the food from across the room, some kind of stew. The table only had one chair. The house was surprisingly sparse for such a small home.
Marco couldn't find any pictures or personal touches. In fact the only parts that seemed to indicate the kind of person that lives there was the quilt and the long black coat hanging by the door. The house had no memories, no personality.
Marco reached to touch his ribs, finding the hole that had been there before had been covered by thick bandages. His shirt had been taken away at some point. His fingers slid up to his neck, where the seastone still choked him. He could feel the bruise forming underneath it, the skin delicate and painful. Around it were burning scratches from Marco's frantic attempts to free himself.
Now that his head was a little clearer and he was out of the woods Marco had the sense to feel around the collar, the metal wrong under his fingers. There was a hing for it that bumped along the front, where it had impacted his throat. Along the back he found a crack that ran its length, and a keyhole.
"Oh," the familiar voice came back, striking Marco right between the ribs. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"
Footsteps crossed the room and Marco forced his eyes up, to the face he knew he'd dreamt before passing out. His breath left him again, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
"Ace," he barely breathed the name. He looked up at the face, freckles and dark, fathomless eyes. His hair was longer, down to his shoulders now, and whatever baby fat he'd had before was gone now. Even with two more years on him, that was a face that Marco had ached to see for two long, long years.
Perfect lips turned downwards into a frown.
"You called me that before. I'm sorry but, do you know me?"
That stopped Marco's thoughts. Did he know him? Of course he knew him! He was Ace, the Fire Fist, the Second Division Commander. He was Marco's brother, his lover, he was the one they had all gone to war for. He was the one they would have torn the world assunder to rescue. The one that they failed.
Instead of voicing all of these thoughts he asked, "You are Ace, aren't?"
The man ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. The gesture was enough to make Marco's pulse change. Had he really missed Ace so much that such a simple gesture could do that?
"Well um, truthfully sir, I don't know."