Insomnia had never seemed like such a monster.
Marco's unsure of when it actually begins, but by the time he's consciously thinking about it, he's so tired. Marco knows he was asleep a lot initially, an ever-pressing haziness accentuated by warm sunshine or Luffy's embrace. As he starts being more awake, his days blur by in stilted conversations and sunblock and gardens. They almost breeze along in comfort, a cutting contrast to his nights that burn everlasting.
If it's not memories assaulting him from Thatch, from the war, from Punk Hazard. It's turning around and looking at Luffy, innocent and shining and much too good for Marco and trying not to choke on his guilt. Or it's just nothingness, a numbness that clings on to him, and shakes him awake just as he's falling asleep. It threatens to de-escalate Marco's world to ones and zeroes, to a language that he can not understand, a wavelength he cannot tune into.
Marco twists and turns and aches and burns, but he does not sleep.
His body is fine, always perfect and primed for battle and life. But Marco, not Marco the Phoenix, but Marco the man, is so very tired. So very done.
At first, the long nights are annoying, then frustrating.
After a while, they're haunting.
(Summarized in an unheard plea. I just want to sleep.)
Marco gets into bed, exhausted, and then… doesn't sleep. His eyes are heavy, and he cannot keep them open, but he's learned to be terrified of the silence inside his head, and the darkness behind his lids.
No rest swings by.
Marco begs, scrambling for a god he doesn't believe in, pandering his devotion for some rest, but none comes.
When the teams leave for Dressrosa, Luffy kisses him goodbye. Marco's been shivering all morning, and he stands -still in sleepwear- on Sunny's deck, going back to bed is at the forefront of his mind. If he didn't get to rest the night before with Luffy, whose mere presence grounds Marco more than anything these days, he has little hope now that he'll be gone. The thought makes Marco swallow uncomfortably.
This is the first time Luffy and he will be apart since the younger man carried him off Punk Hazard. Marco doesn't like the tightness in his chest or the twitching of his fingers. He places one hand on Luffy's head, looking down on him, trying to put what he's feeling into words, but nothing solidifies in his mind. Luffy smiles up at him, vibrating with energy.
He stretches on his tiptoes, or maybe he cheats with his Devil Fruit, either way his lips press chastely against Marco's mouth. (Perhaps he takes some of Marco's panic with him.) The former Whitebeard pirate is aware of several stares on them, but if anyone disapproves, they keep it to themselves. The thought makes Marco take a step back, trying to keep his eyes off their audience.
(Don't look at me.)
"Take care of Sunny for me," Marco nods even though fighting is the last thing on his mind. Even now, he's cautious and skittish, he doesn't want to let Luffy go, but he also knows Caesar is going to be brought up any minute. If Marco never sees the scientist again, it'll be too soon. He's worried, but treading along with the Dressrosa team is a sure way to get someone killed. Marco is nauseated by the thought, but the blackness edging his vision only makes it truer.
"Be careful," he murmurs, a prayer and an order and a plea. Nearby, Zoro snorts. Marco meets his gaze on reflex, and he finds nothing there but mild amusement.
"He'll make a mess of this, don't doubt it." A growl surges from behind the swordsman, from where Trafalgar Law is leaning against the mast.
"He better not," the surgeon grumbles.
"...But he'll be fine," Zoro continues undaunted as if he hadn't heard Trafalgar at all. Marco smiles wryly.
"I'll take your word for it." Marco is inordinately touched by Zoro's smirk. There's nothing gentle in it, but perhaps there's a sliver of understanding, a connection. Marco's not sure what the feeling is, but it's welcomed.
When they leave, Marco goes back to toss and turn in his empty bed.
Marco knows its Big Mom's ship. The multi-colored, singing monstrosity is impossible to miss.
That old geezer isn't around to protect you anymore.
He thinks he's going to freeze.
That fruit of yours is going to help me take over the seas.
Something splinters.
As a fellow professional, you can tell that you've been all but designed to be taken apart. This is going to be revolutionary.
The Sunny, the Straw Hats, Luffy.
(No more, no more, please.)
No one's going to take it away from Marco.
No One.
Sanji calls for him again, he's clearly wary of how Marco's going to react.
(Stop it! You cannot die here.)
Marco's going to sink that ship.
Marco's arms are flames when something fixes itself to his shirt, pulling him back from where he perches on the railing. It's almost too late to hold back when he realizes it's Sanji. Marco looks at him, a little like he has never seen him before, but with a distant echo of complaints at Marco's peckish eating. It's enough to hold him still for a moment.
"What do you think you're doing?" The man's tone is unbothered, his characteristic drawl full-on display, but his brows are furrowed and he bites down hard on his cigarette. Marco looks down where he's made up of sharp blades and burning blue, isn't it obvious? "We cannot attack an Emperor without talking to Luffy." Marco's puzzlement must show on his face, is he… does he want Marco to ask… for permission? What?
Marco's… not had to ask anyone for permission in more than two years ever since, since-
Listen well, Whitebeard Pirates, I'm going to give you a Captain's Order, for the last time.
Marco doesn't have a captain, he doesn't. Marco's not sure what expression he wears but Sanji's grip slackens, and Marco shoots off in the air like hell is at his heels. His heart is pumping panic, a hummingbird beating Marco knows well. It's the fear of pain, never of dying. Prolonged suffering, nightmares, memories… those are the things Marco's afraid of. They melt off him as he focuses because Marco might be tired, weak, and very sad but he's also too gone to care, more of him inhabiting death than life. Maybe Ceasar scooped out something vital in him through his experiments, and Marco's just been living without a part of him. Perhaps he will live without it for the rest of his days.
His sanity? His happiness? His stability?
He doesn't need any of those things to tear the Big Mom pirates to shreds, small fry that they are. Small fry, and how dare they? Every cannonball that grazes Sunny brings rage ringing back into Marco's head, slamming into the bell guarding his self-control, cracking beyond repair, and leaving him dizzy.
Take care of Sunny for me.
It's been a long time since any blood Marco's seen wasn't his own, and as his talons sink and tear and twist into a hurricane of limbs and pained groans, it takes him a moment. The pirates may be cannon fodder, but they're still the crew of an Emperor of the Sea. They catch on to Marco's sudden hesitation, a blip in the avenging angel that had swooped upon their deck, and they capitalized on it. Marco barely feels the sword that stabs right through his chest. Simultaneously, he is left dazed by the bullet that crosses his skull.
It grounds him as blue fire explodes, Marco's full wingspan stretches for the first time since Sphinx. He shouldn't be emboldened by the terrified cries of those who recognize him, but it makes his blood sing. Marco's so scared, even now. As he ducks and leaps and flies and rips, Marco's terrified. (It's time someone else is scared for a change.) He's too experienced, too war-weary to end up covered in blood, but the lack of wetness doesn't leave his hands any more clean.
At some point in the rhythm Marco's fallen into, a dance he despises as much as he knows it, Sanji's own fire joins the fray. Marco barely spares him a glance, but there must've been a question in his eyes because the cook huffs and says:
"Luffy said to crush them," Marco's too out of it to answer, looking around in the lull of the confrontation, waiting for whatever big fish are riding this ship. Something tugs at his heartstrings, though.
Marco, it's over. You're safe now.
He looks around to the corpses, and he's not sure why they feel like a betrayal. They spell something for him, a dawning understanding that there's something wrong with him. Figures approach, and Marco's flames are delirious with anticipation. A quiet part of his mind ponders that maybe, Caesar didn't take anything, maybe, he left something behind. A parasite taking root in Marco's soul that keeps him awake and whispers obscenities and heresy, that thrives on the taste of victory and blood. A parasite that wants to feed on fear, whether Marco's or anyone else's, doesn't seem to matter.
Marco's vaguely aware that he knows the pair of Big Mom's pirates getting closer. It's distant recognition that assures that they've never crossed blades before, not really. The phoenix inside of him, or the parasite, or whatever was left of Marco after Punk Hazard, rises to the challenge. Electric blue extends, and it might not burn, but it's certainly lethal. He hears a snarl, and it takes him a moment to realize it's himself. Not the phoenix's melodious war cry but Marco's own human throat that growls a threat too primal to be put into words.
And then, Marco's memories become disjointed because there's a shot, there's pain (everlasting suffering), and then there's cold. Marco looks down at his thigh, which has gone numb all of a sudden, and there's dark red spreading quickly across the blue fabric. Marco looks at it, suspended in time, lost within a thousand similar memories.
Drip, drip, drip.
He sinks two fingers into the ripped hole of his pants, a morbid, enhanced version of poking a bruise and wonders at the way his blood coats his fingers. It's warm and slick. He presses in further, and the pain jolts him into reality, realizing how quiet the world had gone only when it becomes loud, loud, loud again. Sanji stands in front of him, the posture of his broad back unmistakeable angry, one flaming leg raised in warning to any who shall approach, but all Marco can think is…
No.
Not again.
Nonononononononononono.
He might whimper, whether in his concave chest or in real life, he doesn't know because Marco cannot breathe. His chest seizes against itself, rubbing organ and tissue together and not leaving any room for air. Instinctively, Marco hunches onto himself, mindless of his unresponsive leg or the growing wetness beneath him. He's a collapsing star, falling onto himself, desperately trying to keep himself together. His back aches, and for a terrifying moment, Marco cannot see, everything falling out of focus and the Phoenix -in human form- screams.
Or tries to, because only a horrible, throat-tearing shriek emerges. Too low to call for help.
It's so cold.
So cold, so cold, so cold, so cold, so cold, so cold.
"Marco!"
He's slipped, there's wetness underneath him, slick and cold, cold, cold, cold. Marco tries to answer, that's his name he knows, but… there's...
"Luffy…"
He knows, when his hands trail down bandages and pale skin. When the kiss that meets his want is careless and inexperienced. When the eyes that meet his are black depths that beg to forget.
Marco knows he should've said no.
But it was so cold.