(So guess what guys?! It's Marco's birthday! YAY! So, in appreciation of our favorite phoenix, I decided I'd write the next installment of Maybe this Year, in celebration of Marco's awesomeness. So yeah. Here you go. Hope you enjoy!
This chapter is FLUFF. Really. That's just about it. And it takes place BEFORE chapter 1.
No warnings this time. Seriously. This chapter is so fluffy you'll turn into a sheep.)
Marco gave a tired sigh, settling down on the floor with an aged, worn book. He preferred sitting on the floor to sitting on a chair, or on the couch. It had become a little ritual of his, every night, to steal some pillows off his bed, make a pot of tea, create a makeshift…Marco didn't even know what to call it. Bed? Nest? Chair? On the floor, and settle down in the silence and stillness of the night, letting the day's tension roll away. He was comfortable. He was in his own home, all the problems of the day having already come and passed, and he had a nice cup of tea. What more could he ask for?
Marco lifted his first cup of tea, taking a moment to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth and aroma of the steam. He took a sip, mindful of the still near-scalding temperature, enjoying the flavor. Chamomile. Chamomile and honey. Sighing contentedly, Marco placed the tea beside him to cool, then cracked open the book. Fairy tales. Short stories. Poems. None of them held any deep significance, any commentary on the human condition or any of that grown-up nonsense. No, this book was something old, something from Marco's childhood.
He could still recall the warm, cozy winter nights, spent tucked up in a blanket, surrounded by his brothers and sisters, lying beside the fireside. Hot chocolate for everyone, everyone except him. He hadn't had much of a sweet tooth, even then. He always had tea. Chamomile, to help with insomnia.
And then there was Pops.
Sitting in his big old armchair, the book looking ridiculously small in his hands. He read them every story, every poem in this book hundreds of times. Warm and real and loving. Marco remembered the rosy glow that covered those nights. The way his siblings would nod off one by one beside him. The way that, if he still couldn't fall asleep, Whitebeard would hand him the book, and ask him to read it to him. He'd stumbled over the words at first. But Whitebeard would just sit there and listen, smiling at him, and eventually Marco too would nod off, sometimes falling asleep on top of the book itself. It didn't matter that by now Marco could almost recite the book, cover to cover. It still helped him get to sleep on those nights when not much else could.
Marco gently opened the front cover, careful with the aged binding. He flipped back the first few pages (yellowed. He'd spilled a lot of tea on this book over the years) and let his eyes rest on the words of the first story, his mind instantly conjuring the characters, sounds, and scenery of the tale.
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt…
The story swallowed Marco, and he didn't count the moments as he became immersed in it, only pausing every now and then to take a sip of tea. Minutes passed, Marco unaware of it. The old clock ticked on the wall, filling the dull lamp-glow with the quiet murmur of time.
He'd just reached the fourth story when he was softly roused from his trance by a sound.
Footsteps.
Bare feet on the floor.
Marco looked up, half expecting to see an eight-year-old Thatch or Namur, trying to hide all evidence of the tears they'd shed. Marco found himself smiling comfortingly automatically, the traditional question slipping from his mouth before he had time to realize how different this situation was from how he'd comforted his brothers in his youth.
"Nightmare?" he asked softly, voice sympathetic and non-demeaning.
It was only after he'd asked the questions that all of the differences between back then and now actually registered. This wasn't Thatch. This wasn't Namur. He wasn't ten years old.
And Ace hadn't made any effort to hide his tears.
He was still sobbing, in fact. They made hardly any sound, and Marco wondered sadly why Ace would have to learn to weep silently.
"I…I saw your light and I…" Ace said shakily, trailing off. Still partially wrapped in the warmth and nostalgia of so many nights like this he'd spent before, Marco didn't hesitate, didn't weigh the consequences, didn't try to guess Ace's response. He just acted like he always had.
Still smiling at Ace, he patted a spot on the mess of pillows beside him.
Ace hesitated for a moment, shoulders trembling slightly with his continued tears, then slowly approached. Marco could see some vestige of his dreams still darkening his eyes, still making him wary, afraid.
Marco didn't really want to think about what Ace's nightmares consisted of.
Eventually, Ace settled down beside him, far enough away that no part of him even came close to touching Marco. Marco pretended not to notice, instead lifting the teapot and pouring Ace a cup. He still brought a second mug, just out of habit. All these years and he still thought his little brothers would come to him after nightmares.
He set the cup – the tea at the perfect temperature for drinking – in front of Ace, a silent invitation, but not a demand. Ace's sobs continued, silent, hitching his breath, and he made no move towards the offered drink.
Marco didn't ask. He knew, after all these years, how to recognize the difference between bad dreams and nightmares. You ask about bad dreams. You talk about bad dreams, because that makes them better. But you never, never ask about nightmares. So Marco didn't. Instead, he flipped through the pages, coming to rest on a specific story.
"Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing." Marco angled the book so Ace could see the picture. He saw light confusion in Ace's eyes, but his tears seemed to be slowing.
"In the book it said: "Boa constrictors swallow their prey whole, without chewing it. After that they are not able to move, and they sleep through the six months that they need for digestion.
I pondered deeply, then, over the adventures of the jungle. And after some work with a colored pencil I succeeded in making my first drawing. My 'Drawing Number One'. It looked like this:" Again, Marco turned the book, and this time Ace studied the image with interest, but confusion was still evident in his posture. Marco realized he'd never had this. He'd never had anyone read him storybooks before. He'd never had anyone show him the pictures. Marco felt such a surge of outrage and protectiveness that even he was shocked by it. He continued reading.
"I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups, and asked them whether the drawing frightened them.
But they answered: "Frighten? Why should anyone be frightened by a hat?"
My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant. But since the grown-ups were not able to understand it, I made another drawing: I drew the inside of the boa constrictor, so that the grown-ups could see it clearly. They always need to have things explained. My 'Drawing Number Two' looked like this:" Ace had inched a little closer, but Marco pretended not to notice, still turning the book far enough so he could see.
The story continued, and with every time that there was a new picture, Marco found Ace a little closer, a look of such wonder in his eyes that Marco wanted to scream. What kind of person wouldn't read a child picture books? Ace, so much the adult, so forced to be the adult, and yet so much the child.
Ace was now close enough that Marco didn't even have to turn the book anymore, and Ace could read it over his shoulder. The tea, Marco was pleased to note, was mostly gone by now. Marco could tell Ace was getting sleepy, but he could see all the wonder of the stars shining in his eyes. Marco had always loved this story for just that reason. It captivated any reader, opened up the universe to be something far more beautiful and colorful than reality.
"I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her…I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her…" Ace was truly nodding at this point, and Marco smiled at him tenderly.
"I believe that for his escape he took advantage of the migration of a flock of wild birds. On the morning of his departure he put his planet in perfect order. He carefully cleaned out his active volcanoes. He possessed two active volcanoes; and they were very convenient for heating his breakfast in the morning. He also had one volcano that was extinct. But, as he said, "One never knows!" So he cleaned out the extinct volcano, too. If they are well cleaned out, volcanoes burn slowly and steadily, without any eruptions. Volcanic eruptions are like fires in a chimney.
On our earth we are obviously much too small to clean out our volcanoes. That is why they bring no end of trouble upon us.
The little prince also pulled up, with a certain sense of dejection, the last little shoots of the baobabs. He believed that he would never want to return. But on this last morning all these familiar tasks seemed very precious to him. And when he watered the flower for the last time, and prepared to place her under the shelter of her glass globe, he realized that he was very close to tears.
"Goodbye," he said to the flower.
But she made no answer.
"Goodbye," he said again.
The flower coughed. But it was not because she had a cold.
"I have been silly," she said to him, at last. "I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy…"" Marco felt a strange kind of heartache creeping into his chest.
"He was surprised by the absence of reproaches. He stood there all bewildered, the glass globe held arrested in mid air. He did not understand this quiet sweetness.
"Of course I love you," the flower said to him. "It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That is of no importance. But you – you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy…let the glass globe be. I don't want it any more."
"But the wind-"
"My cold is not so bad as all that…the cool night air will do me good. I am a flower."
"But the animals-"
"Well, I must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if I wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful. And if not the butterflies – and the caterpillars – who will call upon me? You will be far away…as for the large animals – I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws."
And, naïvely, she showed her four thorns. Then she added:
"Don't linger like this. You have decided to go away. Now go!"
For she did not want him to see her crying. She was such a proud flower…" Marco wondered, for honestly the first time, what had become of the flower. This part of the story struck a little too close to home for it to be the usual, lighthearted, sweet moment it normally was. For another moment he wondered what happened to the flower, then he realized he already knew.
The real flower had nightmares.
The real flower needed chamomile tea and children's stories to sleep peacefully.
The real flower had drifted off to sleep by now, face soft, breathing softer, head resting gently on Marco's shoul-
WHAT.
Marco resisted the impulse to sit bolt upright and thusly disturb the quiet breathing of the person beside him. Instead, he craned his neck slowly, gently, trying to use other sensory input to confirm the exact nature of the pressure on his shoulder.
Ace's head.
Ace's unruly black hair rubbed softly against the bare skin on his neck. It was soft, warm. His eyes were closed, his face perfectly relaxed, set in a posture of pure peace, no uneasiness or unhappiness tensing his expression. His lips were parted softly, like a baby's, air quietly passing between them in tiny, relaxed breaths. Marco felt an unbidden smile pull at his face, warmth filling his torso. He'd forgotten what it felt like, to be, even if just for a moment, someone's savior.
After a moment's hesitation, Marco slowly raised a hand, careful not to disturb his sleeping charge. He brushed his fingers gently through Ace's hair, sweeping it carefully out of his face. Ace shifted slightly in his sleep, mouth closing and pulling into a tiny smile. Marco couldn't help but smile back tenderly.
Slowly, doing everything in his power not to wake the sleeping Ace, he slipped one arm behind Ace's back. Ace barely stirred, continuing to sleep on, oblivious. Marco slowly slid the other under his knees. The sleeping Ace gave a tiny moue of dislike, brow furrowing, but he still didn't wake.
Marco carried him gently back into his room. Thankfully the covers were already pulled back from Ace's no-doubt panicked flight from bed earlier. Marco lay him softly on the mattress before gently settling the blankets back over him. Ace relaxed as soon as Marco's arm was no longer in contact with his legs – already placed on the bed – instead moving to cradle his head as he lowered it slowly to the pillow. Once Ace was settled, Marco moved to pull away, only to find one of Ace's hands fisted about his shirt. He smiled a little, and chuckled somewhat sadly. So very like a child, he thought. He tenderly prized Ace's fingers away, bending a little to replace Ace's hand at his side.
Before he could think about it, before he even realized what he was doing, Marco bent a little further, hovering a breath above Ace. Slowly, he lowered his face that last centimeter, pressing his lips tenderly on Ace's forehead.
"Goodnight, Ace," he whispered into his hair.
He wondered, melancholically, what nightmares Ace's four thorns hadn't been enough to protect him against. But he realized it didn't matter. Not anymore.
Because Marco would always, always be here to chase the tigers away.
(A/N: …Honestly, this came out a little more depressing than I had planned. But I hope you still enjoyed it! Happy birthday, again, to our dear Marco! He's such a sweetie, he probably deserved a happier one-shot for his birthday. Sorry, baby, I promise I'll do better next year~!
Anyway, please review! It really helps me out and motivates me to update! Review as a present for Marco!
Oh, and can anyone (it should probably be obvious at this point…) guess which story it was that Marco was reading to Ace? Birthday cake to those that get it right! Hope you enjoyed, see you next update!
Stuff'nStuff
PS: I PROMISE I'LL RESPOND TO REVIEWS IN THE NEAR FUTURE! LIFE'S BEEN HECTIC AND I'VE BEEN BUSY, BUT I'LL GET AROUND TO IT SOON!)