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By the time it reaches triple digits, losing starts to feel routine.
Portgas D. Ace no longer remembers which fight was the first where he didn’t get back up right away. Somewhere between the cracked ribs and the days where his flames refused to answer him properly, the losses blurred together into a single, grinding exhaustion.
His body knows before his mind does.
Every breath pulls sharp through his chest. Old bruises bloom beneath his skin, layered over others that never quite faded. His hands shake when he clenches them, not from fear, but from how often they’ve been driven into the deck of Whitebeard’s ship and forced back up again.
A hundred times.
A hundred defeats.
And still, he’s here.
The hold is quiet except for the slow creak of the ship and the sound of his own breathing. Ace sits with his back against the bulkhead, knees drawn up, staring at the faint scorch marks on the floorboards. They’re his — careful burns, controlled just enough not to break through.
He learned early on that burning his way out only earned him concerned looks and firmer smiles.
They don’t call this place a brig.
They call it rest. Recovery. Time to think.
Ace lets his head fall back against the wall.
What am I even doing anymore?
Every time he challenged Whitebeard, he told himself it would be the last. That next time would be different. That he’d find the opening, land the hit, prove that he didn’t belong kneeling at anyone’s feet.
Instead, each loss carved something out of him.
Not his pride — that burned stubbornly on.
But his certainty.
The worst part is the quiet afterward. Whitebeard’s laughter, booming and fond. The crew’s approving murmurs. The way they look at Ace like he’s already theirs.
Like it’s only a matter of time.
Ace presses his palms flat to the deck and summons fire.
It comes — sluggish, thin around the edges.
His jaw tightens.
Pathetic.
His thoughts drift, unbidden, to his crew.
Wherever they’ve been sent “for their safety.”
Are they scared? Angry? Relieved to be rid of him?
He imagines their faces when they realize their captain couldn’t even keep himself free — let alone protect them. The shame coils tight in his chest.
What kind of captain does that?
The answer comes too easily.
A bad one.
And with that thought come other ghosts.
Sabo’s grin, defiant and fearless, frozen forever in memory.
Luffy — too small, too reckless, too trusting of the world.
Ace squeezes his eyes shut.
If I can’t even beat Whitebeard…
If I can’t protect my crew…
How is someone like him supposed to protect Luffy?
The thought slips in quietly, wrapped in exhaustion instead of fear.
Maybe… this is it.
Maybe joining is the only way left to keep anyone safe. Maybe swallowing his pride is better than failing everyone again. Maybe this ship — this impossible man, this crushing presence — is the only place strong enough to hold someone as weak as—
Ace squeezes his eyes shut.
The thought doesn’t feel new.
It feels rehearsed.
And with it comes the memory, unbidden and heavy.
___________________________________________________
Whitebeard hadn’t raised his voice.
That was the worst part.
“You’re distracted,” Whitebeard had said, leaning on his bisento like the deck itself belonged to him. “Hard to fight properly when you’re worrying about other people.”
Ace had bristled immediately. “My crew can handle themselves.”
Whitebeard had hummed, unconvinced. “Maybe. But not against the New World.”
The words weren’t sharp. They didn’t need to be.
“They’ll slow you down,” Whitebeard continued, calm and certain. “Make you hesitate. You won’t grow if you keep looking backward.”
Heat had flared in Ace’s chest. “They’re mine.”
Whitebeard’s gaze had softened, and the air had shifted with it — subtle, settling, like gravity remembering its place.
“I know,” he’d said. “That’s why I had them escorted somewhere safe.”
Ace’s breath had caught.
“What.”
“Relax,” Whitebeard had chuckled. “They’re alive. Fed. Protected.” A pause. “Far from here.”
Far from you.
Ace had stepped forward, flames licking at his shoulders. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Whitebeard hadn’t moved.
Hadn’t needed to.
“You’re too angry to see it,” he’d said gently. “You came here alone. You fight alone. You’ll die alone if you keep going like this.”
The pressure in the air had deepened — not crushing, not painful. Just there.
Ace remembered his shoulders lowering without permission. His anger stuttering.
Whitebeard had smiled then, wide and paternal.
“You don’t need them right now,” he’d said. “What you need is strength.”
Ace swallowed. “And if I don’t agree?”
Whitebeard’s voice had dropped, warm as a promise.
“Then stay until you do.”
Later — after the fight, after the loss, after the exhaustion — Whitebeard had spoken again, quieter.
“You burn yourself up trying to be everything to everyone,” he’d said, offering sake. “That kind of fire doesn’t last.”
Ace hadn’t taken the cup.
Whitebeard had set it down anyway, close enough that the smell lingered.
“Stay with us,” he’d said. “You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”
At the time, it had sounded like mercy.
Ace exhales shakily and opens his eyes.
___________________________________________________
The hold is quiet again — but the memory lingers, heavy as the promise it left behind.
Only now, alone and stripped of everything that once anchored him, does Ace begin to wonder when exactly all the things that comforted him were taken away.
And when the promise of family was placed carefully in the empty space left behind.
The ship shifts.
Not with the tide.
With presence.
Ace’s eyes snap open.
This one is different.
Loose. Bright. Familiar in a way that punches straight through the fog in his head. It doesn’t press down — it cuts through.
Hope hurts when you weren’t expecting it.
Footsteps pound down the stairs.
“Ace,” Marco calls, sharp now, uneasy. “Stay put—”
Fire erupts beneath Ace’s feet.
He launches upward on instinct alone, body moving before doubt can catch it. Heat roars back to life around him as he bursts onto the main deck, arm already drawn back.
“WHITEBEARD—”
He skids to a halt.
The world tilts sideways.
Standing beside Whitebeard is a man Ace hasn’t seen in months, red hair bright against the sky, expression frozen between shock and disbelief.
Shanks.
For a heartbeat, the deck goes utterly silent.
Shanks’ eye widens. “Ace?”
The fire around Ace’s fist dies instantly.
His arm drops. His knees lock. The breath leaves his lungs in a rush he hadn’t known he was holding.
Shanks. Here. Real.
Someone grabs Ace’s shoulder hard. “Careful! Don’t let him attack Red Hair!”
“I won’t—” Ace starts, then stops.
Because he can’t explain why he won’t.
Shanks takes one step forward.
The air tightens — familiar, heavy, insistent.
Whitebeard’s presence rolls outward on instinct, settling like a hand between Ace’s shoulders, urging him down, quieting the turmoil in his chest.
And then Shanks’ Haki rises to meet it.
Not crushing.
Unyielding.
The pressure snaps apart like glass under strain, and Ace gasps, sharp and sudden, clarity slamming back into him so hard it almost hurts.
Shanks’ gaze sweeps over Ace — the way he stands too stiff, the exhaustion he’s no longer hiding, the scorch marks that tell a story without words.
Understanding hardens his expression.
Whitebeard rumbles a laugh. “You know the boy.”
“Yeah,” Shanks says quietly. “I do.”
Whitebeard looks at Ace with certainty, not cruelty. “He’s got fire. Pride. No roots. A man like that needs a family.”
Ace flinches.
“It’s only right,” Whitebeard continues, “that I give him one.”
The words sink in, heavy and warm and dangerous.
Ace feels the old pull, the creeping thought that maybe this is what he deserves. That maybe wanting anything else is selfish.
“No,” Shanks says.
The word cuts clean through the deck.
“Family doesn’t decide for you,” he continues, stepping fully between Ace and Whitebeard. “Family gives you choices.”
Whitebeard’s smile fades. “You think I’m hurting him?”
“I think,” Shanks replies evenly, “that if he wanted to stay, you wouldn’t need to keep his ship and crew out of reach.”
A murmur ripples through the crew.
Ace’s hands tremble at his sides. He wants to speak. To say I was trying to leave or I didn’t choose this or I don’t know who I am anymore.
Nothing comes out.
Shanks doesn’t wait.
He turns just enough to look at Ace. “You got a way off this ship?”
Ace swallows.
Shakes his head once.
That’s all it takes.
Shanks turns back, calm and lethal. “I’m taking him.”
Whitebeard’s presence flares, firm and refusing. “He belongs here.”
Shanks bares his teeth in a smile that promises consequences. “No. He doesn’t belong anywhere he can’t walk away from.”
His Haki rolls outward in full — not an attack, but a warning written into the air itself.
“Anyone who tries to stop us,” Shanks says mildly, “answers to me.”
Silence.
Whitebeard studies Ace again — really looks this time. At the boy who hasn’t bowed. Hasn’t begged. Hasn’t chosen.
Something unsettles in his expression.
Ace doesn’t hesitate.
No one grabs him.
As he passes Shanks, his shoulder brushes the older pirate’s arm — brief, grounding, real. Ace exhales shakily, something inside him finally unclenching.
Shanks claps a hand on his back. “Good to see you
alive, kid.”
Ace laughs, broken and breathless. “You too.”
They don’t look back.
Behind them, the sea stretches wide and open.
For the first time in a long while, Ace doesn’t feel weak for wanting to leave.
He feels strong for choosing to.