The Sun and Sea – Chapter 11

'Marco, Polo'

Main character(s): Whitebeard Pirates
Set: Canon, pre-Strawhats
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Warning: IMPLICATIONS OF SEXUAL THEMES, slavery

Note: this one is really self-indulgent – mostly because it's more Marco!centric than based around any of our four mains. However, Ace and Luffy are still included, so I guess I can stick it here. If there are any problems, I'll repost it separately.

And! This story has hit 3,000 views and thirty reviews, and I'm so happy! Thank you all so much for your support, and as a celebration, I'm working on the sequel to Rogue IV (because apparently a lot of people like it). Stay tuned for that!

Marco, for as long as he can remember, has been a slave. It's not barbaric to him. It's the way the world works – for there are people who have power, and have something called freedom, and then there's him and he has neither and he's never thought to ask why. After all – he's not the only slave in the world. He's a nameless face, another thin body in a crowd of sallow faces and dark eyes, and nobody here has the time, nor the motivation, to show him any pity.

Considering himself lucky has often helped the youth. He's lucky that, out of the three sections of work that his kind are divided into, his young body was deemed unsuitable for manual labour or – god forbid – that kind of work, that left young men and women staring sightlessly at the walls, trails of blood on their legs that weren't scrubbed away quite thoroughly enough. Instead, he was given scribing; Marco's taught from a young age how to write in a dozen different languages, and how to roughly map out towns and islands and something wide and vast that he's told is called 'the sea'.

Of course, Marco doesn't always have his name. Until he's free, at least, his name is a number- 042395. It's as ingrained into his brain as it is into his forearm, inked across his young, pallid skin. His existence is one of muted pain, of watching a world without colour as it flows past him, of watching the fate that's sure to befall him happen to thousands around him every day.

That is, until he meets 779765.

Of course, he's a new one. 779765 insists that Marco calls him 'Thatch', because that was his name before he was taken from his home, and though it takes Marco a while he eventually gets used to the name on his tongue. Until now, a name has been something reserved for the Powerful people, for people with the thing called 'Freedom' who can wake up every morning so look out over the vast body known as the 'Sea'.

Thatch is the one that gives Marco his name. They share a cell, now, and there's barely enough room for one – let alone two ten-year olds. In a tangle of cold, thin limbs, Thatch's newly shaved head rests on Marco's shoulder. 'Let's call you Marco, okay?' he says. 'That way, you can always say 'Marco' and I can always answer!'

042395 tries the name out on his tongue. 'Marco…Marco…'

'Polo!' Thatch grins, and it lights up the whole world, and that spark in Marco that was quashed from when he was very, very young flares back to life. 'See! We can always find each other.'

Months pass. Marco writes his new name over and over on sheets of stolen paper, traces the letter 'M' onto the steamy windows of the scribing room, murmurs his own name over and over whenever he feels afraid – and Thatch always replies, is always there. Thatch is in manual labour (he and Marco are around the same age, but he's taller and his muscles are more developed). Whenever Marco can, he steals glances at medical scripts, tries to find ways to ease the pain of manual slavery out of his best friend's limbs. It doesn't do much, of course, but Thatch seems to appreciate it and that's enough.

Nights are cold and dark, and when Marco is abruptly moved from his faction of work to the faction he's always been the most scared to join, it's only Thatch murmuring 'I've found you, I've got you' over and over into his ear that stops him from slipping over the edge. It hurts, far worse than the ache of his hand after scripting for days and days, far worse than anything he's ever felt. Thatch promises him that, when they grow up, they'll find home. Somewhere. Someday. 042395 believes him.

But of course, they're empty words. When the pair are around fourteen, give or take a few years, the slave industry that they've been under the thumb of for so long – Marco since he was born and Thatch since he was nine – starts to fall into dept. They need to sell more and more just to stay above the poverty line, and one of the sacrificed slaves is Thatch. Suddenly Marco's alone in his cell every night, silent and freezing cold, no voice whispering fairy stories into his ear every night. He says his own name into the dark, hopeful, tears in his eyes, and nobody answers. They can't find each other.

Years pass, and the light in Marco's eyes fades. At some point, he's sold too, but he's not naive enough to hope that he'll be reunited with his best friend (hell, they were more like brothers). Days pass in a blur. Something covered in stiff swirls, shaped vaguely like some kind of fruit, is forced into his mouth. He gags and yells out, bitter juice filling his mouth, but he's forced to swallow and something heavy clamps down on his ankle. Every movement, now that he has the thrice-damned cuff on his ankle, is an immense effort.

He's sixteen or seventeen (who knows anymore?) when the walls around him finally come crashing down. He's close to death, because disease is unavoidable in a place like this, and has been deemed a lost cause. A useless slave with a useless devil fruit that never manifested itself. But when bangs and screams and the sounds of battle fill the air one night, and fire licks past the window, a huge figure with a low, warm voice and concerned eyes carries him away from the flames and the wreckage of the slave building that used to hold him. It's fallen. Marco realises with a jolt as the world falls away; he's free.

Marco isn't the first to join the old man's crew – there are five or six others, and they treat him like something between a troublesome nephew and a little brother – but he's the first to call him Oyaji. Suddenly, he has that amazing thing called freedom and he wakes every morning to the sound and smell of the ocean all around him, spanning for miles and miles at every side. Of course, he never forgets Thatch. Oyaji promises him, with the same low, warm voice one would use when calming a cornered wild animal, that they'll find his old friend and they'll give him freedom too.

Five years, six years pass. Marco's devil fruit proves to be far from useless. The New World beckons, more dangerous and exciting than anything he's ever seen. Their family grows and grows, and suddenly, Marco's a big brother to hundreds of kids, outcasts, pockets of power that yearn to roam wild and free. He loves every minute of it, but the sweet taste of morning sea salt on his tongue is dulled by a yearning to see that redheaded kid – man – again. Every day, Marco misses him more.

"Hey, Marco?" Ace asks. It's a night of stormy weather, and they're on watch together, near the bow under the rich, midnight sky. "You know I showed you Luffy's bounty poster the other day?"

"Your kid brother, yoi?" Marco considers his younger friend. "I remember. Why?"

"Not now but, when he enters the Grand Line, I'm gonna head over and meet him. It's been such a long time." Ace's eyes grow faraway, and Marco knows that he's reminiscing on better times, younger days. "Is that okay?"

Marco sighs. Pirates don't take 'time off' – but Ace has never been ordinary in any aspect, and pirating is no exception. "You'll have to ask Oyaji. You know we don't play the 'mom and pops' game on this ship, yoi." Ace's pleading eyes meet his and Marco crumbles. "But… I guess it's fine by me."

"Thanks, Marco!" Ace is practically jumping in his seat (the kid is so excitable, it gives Marco a headache to be completely honest). "It's just… he's my brother, you know?"

Marco runs, runs harder than he ever has before, and the auburn-haired man with chain-shaped bruises on his wrists sprints towards him as a building crumbles into dust behind him. Marco's crewmates behind him are confused – undoubtedly so, because the only one who knows about Thatch and Marco's past is Oyaji – but they watch without moving to intervene.

"Marco!" The phoenix yells his own name, voice breaking, and Thatch raises his face in a smile so blindingly bright that it makes tears well up in his eyes.

"Polo!" Thatch replies, and then their arms are around each other and they're hugging so tightly that Marco prays to god that he won't have to let go for a long time. They smash into each other, spinning with the impact, barely staying upright as they stumble blindly through the dust. Each holds the other so tightly to them that it feels like their backs might break, but they don't let go.

Marco is finally home, and as Thatch sheds a few tears into his shoulder and he lets a few of his own fall, he knows that he and his brother are going to be just fine.

Marco smiles, ruffling Ace's hair. "I know," he says.

(A few hours later, Marco wakes to Ace's head on his shoulder – how did they manage to fall asleep on watch? – and panicked voices, and then he's running hard to reach the main deck. He's on his knees beside a cold body, and blood is on his hands and he whispers his own name, chokes it, screams it. Nobody answers.)