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The atmosphere on the Moby Dick was, to say the least, electric. It was only natural; after a hundred failed assassination attempts and a persistence bordering on the absurd, Portgas D. Ace had finally lowered his weapons. The brat was no longer a prisoner or a reluctant guest; he was, by his own right and choice, a son of Edward Newgate.
A month had passed since Ace accepted the mark. A month in which tension transformed into camaraderie, and nightly banquets became the norm. However, the final seal was missing. In the hierarchy of the Whitebeard Pirates, a tattoo was not a mere decoration; it was a declaration of belonging, an invisible armor that shouted to the world who had your back.
Phoenix Marco, the First Division Commander, often found himself observing Ace from a distance. At first, it was routine surveillance, ensuring the impulsive, freckled youth didn’t do something stupid. But as the days passed, that vigilance transformed into something else.
«It’s just curiosity» Marco used to say when he couldn't find a better word to express his true feelings for that intrepid and fascinating captain.
«You’re a dense idiot» Izou, along with some of his other brothers, would sigh or shake their heads when giving their opinion on his "curiosity."
Marco didn't know whether to feel offended, but his curiosity only increased day by day. Seeing the way Ace devoured food with tender, childlike enthusiasm, the raspy laugh that erupted from his chest at Thatch’s jokes, the intensity in his gaze when he spoke of his dreams... Everything about Ace was a vibrant storm of life that seemed to draw Marco in like a moth to a flame. Marco had never felt such a strong inclination to protect someone in his family before, and that was saying a lot.
Ace, for his part, felt a strange attraction toward Marco. The Phoenix’s imperturbable calm contrasted with his own whirlwind of emotions, anchoring him somehow. The way Marco looked at him-with that mix of seriousness and a soft teasing in his eyes-made an unusual warmth spread through his chest. It wasn’t the fire of his Devil Fruit, nor the heat of the anger that usually consumed him, but something subtler, softer, and above all, sweeter. Of course, it was something he couldn't quite understand.
«I want to see Marco» Ace would often surprise himself with these kinds of thoughts that made his cheeks flush and confused him even further.
But it was something he couldn't avoid. He’d find himself searching for Marco’s presence on the deck, and a strange disappointment would wash over him when he wasn’t nearby. Ace thought it was admiration; it had to be admiration.
How wrong he was.
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— So, have you decided yet? — Thatch asked with a huge, curious, and expectant smile.
Ace, who was sitting on the gunwale with his legs dangling over the blue sea, nodded with a wide grin.
— On my back — he replied simply — I want it to be as big as possible, so it’s the first thing all those idiots see when I turn my back to them to fight for Pops.
A roar of approval rose from the nearby commanders who had overheard. Marco, leaning against the main mast, smiled lazily, though his eyes shone with brotherly affection, or so he told himself.
— Izou is the man for the job-yoi — Marco said, closing one eye — His hands are as precise with a needle as they are with pistols — He smiled lazily, praising his brother's skills.
Ace felt his stomach flip seeing how attractive Marco looked in such a relaxed and confident pose. His cheeks took on a slight reddish hue as he looked away.
— Marco isn't lying, little brother — Thatch’s cheerful voice brought Ace back to reality — Izou is one of our best tattoo artists — The cook smiled tenderly while speaking of his lover.
— I hope so — Ace grinned and playfully stuck his tongue out when Thatch pushed him, laughing lightly.
Marco watched the interaction with a soft smile.
«Tattooing the Whitebeard symbol is a sacred event» Marco couldn't help but think with a strong sense of expectation «And therefore, it is not a private act, at least not for us as commanders and Pops as the captain» That afternoon, in one of the largest rooms of the Moby Dick, a table with black and purple inks and a cot had been prepared.
Edward Newgate, the imposing Captain of the Whitebeard Pirates, sat on his massive throne, watching with a gaze that mixed the severity of a captain and the tenderness of a father. Around him, the commanders formed a semicircle of expectation. Marco was in the front row, his eyes fixed on Ace with an intensity that almost burned.
Izou, impeccable in his kimono and with his hair perfectly tied back, calmly prepared the tools.
— Sit down, Ace — Izou ordered softly.
Ace walked toward the center. He wore his characteristic open yellow shirt, as always, but for the process, he had to take it off completely. The young man paused for a moment, a shadow of doubt crossing his grey eyes, a hesitation Marco noticed immediately. The Phoenix felt a pang of concern.
— Is something wrong, Ace-yoi? — Marco asked with his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes betrayed his worry.
— No, it's just... — Ace hesitated for a second before inhaling deeply and shaking his head to clear the useless thoughts — Forget it. Let’s do this.
With a fluid motion, Ace shed his shirt and turned to lie down on the cot, exposing his back to the light and the sight of his family.
The silence that followed was not born of expectation, but of a collective shock of horror.
Izou, needle already in hand, froze. Thatch dropped the sign from his hands; the beautifully written words "New Little Brother on Board" were forgotten as the poster hit the wooden floor. Even Whitebeard narrowed his eyes, and his grip on his Murakumogiri tightened until his knuckles turned white. Needless to say, every commander had a similar reaction.
Marco, in the front row, felt the air leave his lungs. He stared at the scars that disfigured Ace’s skin, and a cold, unknown rage took hold of him. They weren't sword cuts, nor burns, nor whip marks. They were two areas of rough, deformed, and deep scar tissue, starting from the base of the shoulder blades and extending outward, as if something had been torn out by the roots with brute violence. They were marks of an ancient and cruel mutilation, and the sight made the Phoenix feel a primal instinct to fly, tear, and shred the person responsible.
— Ace... — Thatch’s voice trembled, losing all its usual joy — Wh-what is that? Who did that to you!?
The young pirate didn’t turn around. His shoulders tensed, and his head bowed forward, hiding his face behind his black locks.
— They're old — Ace murmured, his voice barely a whisper struggling against the knot in his throat.
Whitebeard leaned forward, his shadow covering Ace like a protective cloak.
— Son — the old pirate’s voice rumbled like low thunder —These scars tell a story of pain that no child should carry alone — Whitebeard spoke in a soft, fatherly tone — But if you do not wish to speak, I will not force you.
Ace clenched his fists against the soft fabric of the cot, unsure whether or not to tell what he had suffered years ago. Given his obvious doubt and discomfort, the silence only stretched longer, causing the commanders' silent fury to grow. They wished they had the culprit in front of them right then to dismember him. Marco felt his own body tremble with a silent rage that made his blue flames threaten to emerge uncontrollably.
«This is my family now» he thought. «They deserve to know»
Finally, Ace let out a shaky sigh and spoke.
— I was born... different — Ace began, and the air seemed to chill — My mother wasn't just a 'D'... She was also part of a race called Lunarian — Speaking of his mother, everyone could notice the love, melancholy, and sadness in the freckled youth's words — Being my mother's son, I inherited her beautiful wings.
A collective gasp of horror and shock ran across the deck as they understood the reason for those scars.
Marco, being a Zoan-type Devil Fruit user, specifically, being a damn Phoenix, knew what it was like to have wings, the freedom they gave. The idea that Ace’s had been stolen from him filled his chest with sharp pain, along with unimaginable rage and a thirst for vengeance.
— They were large and a stunning black color — Ace continued with a bitter smile no one could see — Small at first, but they grew with me. They allowed me to fly and go wherever I wanted... But above all, they made me feel free — he admitted, his voice slightly trembling.
— What happened, Ace? — Marco asked, trying to sound calm and firm even though his entire being screamed to destroy the guilty party.
— Bluejam — Ace spat the name like venom — He was a low-life pirate, a despicable guy who worked for the nobles of the Goa Kingdom. We had an altercation with him and his pathetic crew when he was ordered to get rid of me and my little brother Luffy. But that son of a bitch lost, and we thought he died in the fire... but he survived and came back when I was still wounded.
Ace tensed, and the scars on his back seemed to vibrate with the memory of the trauma.
— He said wings as beautiful as mine would be worth millions on the black market... so he chained me up and tore them off — Ace felt sharp, painful phantom stabs in his scars as he remembered and spoke of that night — He didn't use a knife; he used his own hands and a dull saw to make sure it hurt like hell... in the end, he left me there to bleed out and die.
For a moment, the only sound on the Moby Dick was the creaking of the ship's wood, until the familiar and terrifying pressure of Whitebeard’s Conqueror's Haki leaked out unconsciously, making the sea around the ship begin to churn in violent swirls.
Thatch was red with rage, his hands shaking with the urge to unsheathe his swords. Jozu had transformed his arms into diamond, reflecting a cold and dangerous light. Izou, normally the most serene, had an expression of absolute murderous coldness. Vista felt a primal need to find that bastard Bluejam and skin him alive. Haruta was already thinking of all the torture methods he knew and how many more he could learn once they caught that wretch.
The other commanders were going through the same dark train of thought.
Marco, on the other hand, felt a physical pang of pain in his own shoulder blades, as if Ace’s scars were his own. The image of the freckled youth, chained, with his wings torn out, provoked a wave of anguish in the Phoenix that left him breathless. It was in that instant, with Ace’s face hidden by his hair and his scars exposed to the world, that Marco realized. The fascination, the protection, the warmth in his chest, the need for his presence... It was all love. A love that had grown silently, without him recognizing it until this painful moment.
— Where is that man? — Vista asked, his voice devoid of its usual chivalry — Tell us his location. It doesn’t matter if it’s in the East Blue or at the bottom of Hell, we will go for his damn, filthy head.
Ace finally turned halfway, looking over his shoulder. To everyone's surprise, there were no tears in his eyes, only a resigned acceptance.
— It doesn't matter anymore... He's dead — Ace revealed indifferently — I still don't know who or what it was that killed him, but I found him a month later rotting in his hideout.
That was a lie. Ace did know who had done it, but remembering the expression on Luffy's face, his younger brother, who was the personification of adorable and innocent, only made the urge to vomit return and a cold fear run through him. So no, he was not going to talk about that. Not now, not ever.
— It does matter, son — Whitebeard growled, his voice heavy with almost uncontrollable weight and ire — Because they hurt you before I could protect you. If that man were alive, I would sink an entire island just to see him beg.
Ace looked at Pops, and then his eyes met Marco’s. In the Phoenix’s gaze, Ace saw a depth of pain and rage that bewildered him. But he also saw something else: a vulnerability he had never before attributed to the stoic commander. In those blue eyes that usually seemed so imperturbable, Ace saw a reflection of his own pain, and a silent promise that he would never be alone again.
It was in that moment, seeing the rawness of Marco's emotion for him, that Ace realized. It wasn't just admiration; it was something more. An invisible thread that bound them, a need to be near Marco’s calm that contrasted so perfectly with his own fire. Ace felt a blush rise up his neck and realized that what he felt for Marco was much more than simple admiration. It was love, a love so deep that it was obviously reciprocated in the Phoenix’s eyes.
Ace couldn't help but smile slightly.
— Thank you — Ace said sincerely — Thank you for loving me so much that even old scars are reason enough for you to want to protect me — Small tears of happiness gathered, but Ace wiped them away quickly — Izou, please, do the tattoo.
Izou nodded, wiping a solitary tear that threatened to ruin his makeup. With renewed determination, he began the work. The rhythmic sound of the needle was the only thing breaking the respectful silence. The commanders didn't move. They stayed there, firm, like guards of honor. Whitebeard remained on his throne, watching as the purple and black ink began to cover his youngest son's back.
Marco, for his part, could not look away. The pain in his chest began to subside, replaced by a wave of determination. He would protect Ace with his life. It was a silent promise he made in the depths of his being.
The tattoo was masterfully designed. The great skull with Edward Newgate’s iconic white mustache was placed right in the center of Ace’s back, and the crossbones spread precisely over the scars of the torn-off wings. It was undoubtedly poetic; where the world had taken his wings, his father had given him his protection. And where a monster had tried to destroy his spirit, his new family and Marco, offered him a new flight.
When Izou finished, he wiped away the excess ink and blood with a damp cloth.
— It's done — he announced with a proud and happy smile.
Ace stood up and walked toward a mirror that Namur had previously brought. The young pirate observed his reflection. The scars were no longer the first thing that caught the eye; now they were just the background of a much larger and more powerful symbol. The symbol of the Whitebeard Pirates.
— It turned out perfect — Ace said, putting on his orange hat and adjusting his red bead necklace — Right, Pops?
Pops let out a deep laugh that made the air vibrate, a laugh that dispelled the tension and bloodlust that had reigned minutes before.
— Prepare the banquet! — the old man ordered — Today we celebrate the official joining of my newest son!
Ace laughed loudly, happy and satisfied with this outcome. But his eyes couldn't help but search for Marco’s, and when he found them, the Phoenix returned the look with an unusual spark of tenderness and promise burning in his blue orbs. Ace felt the warmth in his chest, and the blush returned to his cheeks. A genuine smile, without bitterness, spread across his face.
That night, Ace drank and laughed until his lungs ached. He no longer felt the need to hide his scars. He walked with his back straight, proudly exposing his new tattoo.
The wings of flesh and bone were gone forever, it’s true. But as he looked at Marco, who watched him with a new and obvious adoration, Ace realized that he no longer needed to mourn his lost wings, because he had his family-and with them, and with Marco by his side, the sky would always be his.
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Poem:
Under the canopy of a sky that barely understood him, The boy wore his wings, two pieces of eternal night, A glow of obsidian that burned upon his back, Jewels of feather and shadow, gem pure and bright.
He was a gale of instinct, of claws and of zeal, Wild guardian of those who dwelt within his breast; Whoever dared touch his world, would find the ordeal Of a charcoal angel, standing firm at the test.
But fate is a wolf with a rusted fang,
And a shadow of the past, that oblivion did not eat, Claimed in blood the debt of a time that once rang: Midst screams and steel, his treasure met defeat.
The void remained where flight once beat.
The scars remained, the absence and the cold, The ghost of a plumage the wind no longer sways.
Though the executioner is dead and turned to mold, The trauma is a wound that in the silence stays.
The winters passed, years of shadow and of fear, Searching in the corners for a solace out of reach, Tied to the memory of that cruel tangle near,
Where his very essence, broken, began to bleach.
But time, at times, has hands of silk and grace, And by the warmth of a fire that never dies away, The youth found the love that in the soul finds space,
That sweet caress that makes every wound decay.
Wings are no longer needed to reach the height, For he has the refuge of arms that call his name.
In the kiss of his family, in that peace so bright, The monsters of the night are put to shame.
That boy of black wings, now a man of light so clear, Understands that flight is carried deep inside.
Though cruel fate marked his back with pain and fear, He sleeps at last in peace, loved with nowhere to hide.