As they always were, attending the funeral was hard on him. He never found it easy, and probably never would; how were you just suppose to let go of someone whom you loved so deeply and who loved you in turn? And Marco knew, without a doubt, that this was why there was a little whispering in the back of his mind, trying to tell him that they weren't dead, that Ace wasn't dead don't bury him yet.
...
He kept the old wanted poster of Ace; it was painful to look at yet more painful was the thought of throwing it away. Though, and perhaps this was his mind simply playing tricks on him, wasn't the picture wrong? Had Ace always been facing the camera directly, hat obscuring his eyes and smile that wide?
...
Surely, he must be losing his mind. How else could he explain finding his room in a state of disarray when he swore it had not been left it that way, or supplies from his desk disappearing when he knew they should be there? Either he was slowly going insane, or someone was having a lot of fun messing with him.
...
It wasn't odd for his candles to go out sometimes; even on a ship such as theirs, drafts still wormed their way between cracks and seeped through seams occasionally. He made sure to keep matches with him just for this reason. What was odd was an unlit candle lighting itself just as he entered his room.
...
The knocking at the porthole was what woke him up; the realization that it shouldn't be possible for someone to knock on it was what made him sit up. As the brief panic faded, he tried to be logical; what he heard must have been the fragment of a dream, he had been just awake enough for some noise his mind created to sound real. Then he heard the knocking again, coming from the bathroom mirror.
...
There was an undefined shadow sitting in the corner of the bathroom; only in the reflection of the mirror, however. The room itself appeared fine at a glance, free of anything that was out of place, yet the mirror revealed that clearly it was not 'fine'. Marco yet again believed himself to be going crazy, seeing things that clearly did not (should not) exist, even though in some small, dark corner of his mind he knew better than that.
...
After going through two mirrors and a hell of a lot of sage, Marco decided that he was just going to ignore the shadow; nothing had happened so far and it seemed to only want to sit in the corner. He almost immediately regretted and revoked that decision when the shadow was no longer 'undefined' nor sitting but standing, and in a form all too familiar to him; he got rid of the mirror for good. Any alcohol in his room went too.
...
Sleep had become a hard won battle for him. Not because he could not get to sleep; nor was he awoken by phantom knocking from impossible places. No, it's because just as he begins to fall into slumber a cold hand strokes his shoulder and a voice he should not hear calls his name.
...
"Marco, I'm cold." His voice was nothing more than a whisper in his ear, yet it was more the fact that his skin really was icy to the touch that made Marco shiver. "Should I warm you up then?" He asks with a chuckle, running his hands along bare hips that seem just a little too pale now that he takes a second look. The wide smile is normal, but the pitch black, soulless eyes make him wake with an unpleasant start and cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach as he realizes he's clutching Ace's hat to his chest.
...
Marco's breath caught as the knock on his door came; at the midnight hour, just as it had for several days now. The flooring creaked as whoever, whatever, shifted its weight and then knocked again; he wasn't going to answer it, wasn't going to acknowledge it. He just couldn't bear to find out what was on the other side of that door; it would just kill him to confirm it.
...
He waited, patiently, even though his heart was pounding and his palms were sweaty; he would perhaps regret this, yet Marco was going to go through with his decision - when his midnight visitor arrived, any moment now, he was going to open his door and confront them (and if it were merely someone playing a prank on him, they would receive an earful).
Then the floor creaked and a rap of knuckles on his door sounded throughout his quiet room and, though some part of his mind screamed against the movement, he opened the door before the echo had fully faded - and his knees nearly buckled at the sight before him for what was in front of him should not have been and it made his blood freeze and his words lodge firmly in his throat because before him stood Ace, paler and thinner (and hatless) but no worse for the wear than he remembered until the other tilted his head back; the too wide grin was a perfect mockery of what it had once been but the eyes of pitch sent Marco stumbling back from his door as a chill of terror ran up his spine.
"Marco," The thing sounded like Ace even, though it's voice was raspy and hollow and ugly and only made Marco step back further as it stepped over the threshold and spoke, "I'm so cold, Marco, won't you warm me up, like you promised?" yet the blond could do nothing, say nothing, only focus on the entities black, hollow eyes as it stepped ever closer to him, close enough to touch him with its icy hands, close enough to tug him close and pull him in, close enough to lean up and kiss him and slide its abnormally slimy tongue into his mouth and all he could see was black, black, black, until he awoke, fevered and drenched in a cold sweat; it was a dream, he told himself, an ugly nightmare come to haunt him and guilt him and it was working, these damnable things were going to drive him to insanity if he did not rid himself of them - and then he caught sight of his open door, and then the fresh dirt along the floor, and Marco knew it had been no nightmare that had visited him.
...
It came to his room again; it did not knock, barging into his room as though it had every right to now that it had been invited in once. It crawled into his bed - he did not push it away though he should have. With Ace's voice it begged to be held - Marco caved to its sweet words and embraced it; and for a moment or two, he could pretend that he still had the real Ace beneath him.
...
He was beginning to feel lethargic - several nights spent embracing a reanimation of his lover instead of sleeping was beginning to take its toll. He managed to hide it well enough; he only received a few passing comments that he wasn't looking as in good health as he normally was - nothing that wasn't waved off easily enough. Marco never made mention of why he was tired no matter how often he was asked; he couldn't, not without risking losing Ace again.
...
His nakama were too nosy; they were all but demanding to know why he wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, why he spent all his time in his room. Their questions were almost never ending - he smiled and waved them off with vague answers even though his nerves felt grated and frayed. It was none of their business, and not a one of them would understand; Ace was here, Ace needed him, Marco could not turn him away.
...
"Marco," The blond cracked open an eye, leveling Ace with a sleepy glare. "You won't leave me, will you?"
"What are you talking about, brat," He grumbled, swatting at his lover. "Of course I won't; I love you, and I promised, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Ace grinned, though he only caught a brief glimpse of it; his eyes felt too heavy to keep open anymore. "You promised me forever. So, I'm gonna hold you to it, okay?"
...
It was a small island; it was beautiful in a gentle way, with flowers and fields and small breezes. The most notable features of the island, however, were much more tragic - three graves, two of which were remnants of a war long over, but the third was newer, less weather beaten, yet still the grave of a great man. A man once given the epithet of 'phoenix'.