Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You find yourself staring fixedly at the store front, with the shutter halfway up, and the doorbell with a note on it, poorly stuck with duct tape.

BROKEN- JUST LIKE MY HOPES AND DREAMS. KNOCK OR YELL VERY LOUDLY. – A.

You look back at your phone, where you have pulled up the page with the opening and service hours of the Baterilla tattoo parlour, confirming that it should be open even if you are early. However, the sign with the name on it is turned off, while the strange LED decoration of coconut and palm trees hanging above the door is on, its bright colors so different from the RGB lights you are used to.

You take off your headset, turning off the music, and breathe in deeply. The air coming from inside the parlour, even from where you’re standing, carries a curious mix of scents: the sharp tang of ink and worn leather mingling with an oddly unsettling undertone of lavender and mint. It’s comforting and strange all at once, like a place out of time.

You draw a deep breath, again, to try and gather all your half-baked bravery together, to then knock hard on the metal of the shutter, and to hell with it.

The sound, eerie and somber, of metal being knocked on glass, makes its way almost all the way down the rather quiet street, sending shivers down your spine.

The street is peaceful except for faint echoes of children playing somewhere nearby and the distant barking of a dog. It’s quiet, almost sacred. A sharp contrast to the turmoil twisting inside your chest.

You decide to retreat your hands safely into the big pocket of your trusty hoodie, the grey one with the pixel hearts drawn on the front and the nickname you use online etched on the back, Oden, an old friend in this new adventure.

He wouldn’t be scared of something like this, you think, not Oden, the famous MMA champion you admired growing up. In a way, Oden is still fighting for you, with you, even when you don’t realize it.

A hero, a legend in your eyes, a man who fought fiercely and unapologetically, much like the version of yourself you’re still learning to become. That nickname has been a quiet talisman through years of doubt and struggle, and your internet alias basically since you could afford a computer.

And only a few seconds pass before you hear, from inside the store, a clear sound of footsteps, and a bell chiming, along with the glass door, still half hidden by the rolling shutter.

“ Yeah? How can I... ah, dang it...”

A hand, ornated with black nail polish and several silver rings, a red and white bracelet on the wrist, peeps out from under the metal, raising the shutter at once and revealing the boy who was speaking.

Oh, and what a boy.

Dark hair, ink-like waves into a pale face, two huge brown eyes, fiery yet soft, bordered with half-smudged black eyeliner, a dash of adorable freckles on top of a cute nose half-covered by a band-aid, and a smile that leaves you speechless. To top it all off, a black sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, from which several tattoos peep, ripped dark jeans, and combat boots with purple laces. A main character, indeed.

You suddenly feel like you’ve fallen into a boss fight.

Hells, the adrenaline sure is the same.

Welp. Game over.

Loot my heart if you want it.

The boy looks at you for a minute tilting his head to the side, perplexed, inadvertently flashing the studs he is sporting and letting just a bit of tongue out of those perfect teeth, as if he's thinking. For a moment you see a flash of metal, then his eyes brighten, and he's so cute that your mouth feels dry as sand, like when you get lost playing online and you only realize at three o'clock in the morning, hours after your last energy drink.

“ Ah, you must be, err, Yamato? My four o'clock date, right?”

“ Well- um. Appointment, yes? I hope it's okay if I'm early.”

The words roll off your tongue easily, since even though it's not your first language, you've been speaking Goan from the moment you first stumbled upon the internet.

 “ Sure, don't you worry, man. It means we'll open the store together, if you don't mind, after we do business, I guess. I’m Ace, the owner, we talked over text.”

You just nod, not at all sure how to respond, and he looks you up and down.

Ace’s eyes linger just a little too long, a softness hiding behind the spark of his oh-so-casual grin. He brushes a loose strand of hair away from his eyes, a little nervous gesture that betrays some of this smooth confidence. You don’t notice at first, too caught up in your own clumsy excitement, that he repeats the gesture a couple of times, before speaking again.

“ Sure you're tall! I couldn't tell at all from your profile picture. Do you work out?”

“ I- um, yes. Weights, mainly. And I run a lot.”

I’m also a big nerd, in case you wanted to know.

He nods, pleased, moving from the doorway and inviting you inside with a gesture.

The room you find yourself in, however small, is quite comfortable: a grey, rather beaten-up sofa, placed next to the entrance, on which you see a black leather jacket and a satchel also made of leather, and then a huge, full-length, metal-edged mirror, resting on the wall to the right of the entrance. Immediately in front of the door, a modern-style desk, all glass and black metal, paired with two small leather armchairs. And then paintings, pictures, photographs, every wall is full of reproductions of tattoos. On the side to the entrance, next to the mirror, a small corridor, with a door slightly ajar.

You feel the space wrap around you like a quiet sanctuary, a small refuge from the expectations and shadows of your past, not because it’s perfect or new, but because it holds the stories of people choosing to mark themselves, to own their bodies and selves. This unusual, colorful shop with its strange smells and warm lighting feels like the first place in years that’s just for you. Here, you’re not the son your father wants, not a project or an obligation. You’re just Yamato, a person carving out a new life. And for a moment, you feel an unusual calm, allowing it to coat you heart, studiously beating in your ribcage. It’s a place of transformation, and quiet rebellion. Something you crave more than you can say. And for once, it has nothing to do with language.

 “You haven't tried the doorbell, have you? The intercom's been broken since before I set up store, and no one's been able to fix it, trust me, I’ve tried everything...” he continues to blather, motioning you to follow him to the desk.

You take a seat on one of the chair, thinking that he’ll take the other one, as would be logical to do.

But this gorgeous guy wouldn’t know logic if it walked up and introduced itself, apparently.

Instead he moves over a paper coffee cup and picks up a folder, previously open on the desk and for what you can see full of pictures of ears, belly buttons, earrings, piercings and whatnot, to then climb over the glass top, mere inches from you, closer than he needs to.

You’re not one to turn down a lucky spawn, anyway.

“ So! I remember that you wanted a piercing, not a tattoo, which surprised me, because usually people who just want a poking tends to drop by unannounced and not make an appointment.”

He chuckles, looking down at you from his seat, scrolling through the sheets as if looking for something.

You just nod, blushing slightly, flustered, shy.

Hells, he’s so pretty.

I feel like a fool.

Perks of being an antisocial nerd, I guess.

“ Well, I...I wanted ear holes, yes.”

“ Oh, some classic holes? Got it, got it. At both ears, not just the right one?”

“ Yes, that's correct.” You murmur, beginning to fiddle with your hands in embarrassment, mimicking your lucky key combination, like you always do when you’re nervous, J-K-L.

Come on, Oden! Be a man!

New goal: don’t screw it.

It's your first adventure since you've been in Goa!

You can make it, and you can also maybe not look like an idiot in front of the cutest guy you've ever seen?

“ What about the earrings? Do you have a preference?”

“ ... The shape, you mean?” you ask, puzzled, looking up, and he looks at you, a knowing smile still on his face.

“ Yes, that's right, kind and color. I have barbells, or studs like mine, or maybe something more comfortable, with that big headset of yours? Sure, it’s just for the first few weeks, then you can change them out. Is this your first time?”

“ ... I beg your pardon?”

“ Your first body modification, I mean. Or have you done anything else before? Are you afraid of needles, perhaps?”

Clearly you've never seen testosterone needles shots, pretty boy.

Try that, for a challenge-

“ No, I don't-not anymore, no. But yeah, I don't have anything else, neither tattoos nor piercings.”

“ Well, then the first one is on me,” he retorts, suddenly closing the folder only to drop it on the desk with a rather comical bonk!, then he stands up.

“ Why, no, I-can't allow-”

The words die in your throat when he, instead of going around the desk to get to the drawers, he leans out from where he is, sprawling over the glass top and practically forcing you to admire his rear end.

Well, shit.

“ Here you go! Everything is nickel free obvi, but I have stainless steel, or titanium, like these in black, and also something in silver or gold and ... why are you red in the face?"

Again with the dry mouth. Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a soda.

“ I’ll… I’ll take this ones, the golden pair." You answer, fanning yourself with one hand, the heat creeping up from your neck. "And besides, it’s...um. Is it hot in here? I'm not used to this kind of weather.”

“ Oh, did you move here recently? That's why you didn't look familiar!” he says, waving a finger in the air, while with his other hand he keeps holding the piercing jewelry box.

“ Also, 'cause I definitely would've remembered such a handsome guy,” he continues, winking at you as you keep blushing.

Take that, gender dysphoria.

“ Oh, um, thank you. Yes, I moved in a couple of months ago.”

“ Got it, got it. And how come Foosha? Which it's not that big of a city, that is.”

This is also true. Foosha is a small town anyway, although it is already bigger than your previous home in Onigashima, if you can even call it a home, and from where you managed to run away after years of troubles. And with what joy you left the nest, considering your father's aims for your future and your life.

“ This is already a big step for me,” you reply, hinting at a shy smile “ My hometown was rather ... stuffy, you know? I needed a fresh start.”

He makes an understanding sound, nodding, thoughtful.

“ Then I’m morally obliged to treat you, man. First piercing and a fresh start? I absolutely cannot let you pay for it.” He nods seriously, causing you to giggle, complicit in his banter.

“ Besides, it just means that you'll have to return the favor by coming back to do something else, or just to see me, perhaps” he keeps talking, flicking his hair out of his face in a playful move, flashing you a oh-so-pretty smile.

Oh, heck, he's funny too?

Yamato, damn it, you can't have a crush on the first guy you meet!

You’ve been in Goa for two months!

Even if he’s the prettiest guy you ever saw. And funny. And…

“ Well, I'll let you have it this time, then. But to reciprocate I'll have to ask you out, at least.”

Oh gods, what did I do?

Ace's eyes widen, with a sparkle in his pupils, suddenly lit up. He then gives you that pretty smile once more, surprised, and hopeful.

You think you just imagined the slight swallow, the chapped lips being wetted by his tongue, soft and quick, like he doesn’t want you to notice. You think you just imagined the nervousness in the way he scratches the back of his head, a habit he hasn’t lost despite his confident swagger.

Trying hard to keep it professional, not to give himself hope.

Hope that you can feel building in your chest, surprised, brightly promising.

Stop looking at me like that, it’s not good for my head.

“ Is that so? Well, I have a hard rule against going on dates with my clients, so I'm afraid you'll have to ask me again as soon as I finish the job,” he smirks, scheming, warm, alive.

Game over.

Player Two found.

Ace grins again, like he’s caught in on some private joke, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking about, and then motions toward the small corridor by the entrance.

“Come on, I’ll show you the spot where we’ll do the piercing. It’s not some grimy back room or anything; I keep it clean. Sterile even, I swear.”

“ That’s totally reassuring,” you murmur over his laugh, following him and trying not to stare at the tattoos peeking from his rolled up sleeves, delicate lines curling around his forearm, a small sleepy cat near his left wrist, some sharp geometric lines. There’s an artistry to them that somehow fits perfectly with the softness in his eyes. You wonder briefly if he designed them himself, or if they hold some secret meaning.

There’s a time and place for every though, you think, faintly.

The room is small but tidy, with a reclining leather chair, a stainless steel tray with neat little tools arranged carefully on top, and a small bright lamp casting a pool of light on the chair’s armrest. Next to it, another chair, simpler, almost a stool with just the tiniest bit of a backrest, probably to leave Ace with enough space to work. You notice a faint hum from a sterilizer in the corner. The lavender scent grows stronger here, mixed with something metallic, maybe the faintest trace of antiseptic.

Ace turns on the light above the chair and pulls out a pair of gloves from a box on the side. He’s methodical but not robotic, as if this ritual is second nature but still special in its own way.

“So,” he says, tying his sleeves back up with a snap, “tell me, how’d you find me? I don’t advertise much beyond word of mouth and some posts on the local boards.”

You glance down, fingering the cuff of your hoodie, thinking about what you read, and heard, about the man. And yet nobody let you know you were about to lose it over him. “I saw your page online, but it was actually referred to me by a… well, someone I know. The photos were really good, and the reviews made it sound like a place where people actually cared.”

He chuckles, soft, proud.

“That’s good to know. I do care, mostly. Gotta have that, you know? And reviews don’t lie, most of the time, that is.”

He smiles, soft and pretty, and so real, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and makes you think that, yeah, he probably means it.

“ And who’s that someone you know?”

“ Uhm, his name is Izou? He’s the… the brother of a friend of mine.”

“ Oh, you know Izou? That’s nice! We used to work together!” his smile gets bigger, probably reminiscing some good memories, and you just nod, quiet.

No use in telling him you and Kiku, your best friend, have been online friends for quite some years, being both originally from Wano and meeting casually in a Goan game lobby almost by chance, as if fate had brought you together on this virtual journey, being both trans and passionate about MMORPGs. Your mind flashes briefly to those long nights grinding dungeons, keybinds set just right, your fingers twitching as if still holding the controller. And also, you’re both fans of Oden, which is why you struck up a conversation at first, talking about old matches and other MMA fighters.

Yeah, no use telling him they are the reason you’re here, not in this parlor, but in Goa, in Foosha, alive.

It's connections that keep the world going, after all.

You keep staring at that pretty smile, as your heart starts ticking faster. The warmth of Ace’s presence is different from any you’ve felt in a long time, and it’s pulling you forward even as your nerves try to yank you back.

“Okay,” he says, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“First time, huh? That’s always the hardest. But hey, no rush. I’ll walk you through everything, and if you want to stop, just say the safeword.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“And what’s the safeword?”

“ Pineapple!”

You chuckle, lightly, as he beams a flashy smile, pushing his hair back with a head movement, funny and a bit flamboyant, to make you relax a little, you belatedly realize.

“Thanks, Ace. I really appreciate it.”

He smirks, pretty even in that.

“I’ll try to make it as painless as possible. Apart from the actual piercing part, tho. That’ll sting a bit, but hey, it’s worth it.”

You laugh nervously.

“I’m ready. Sort of.”

Ace flicks open a small box and pulls out two shiny studs, the kind you’d seen on his fingers earlier.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll clean your ears first, then mark the spots to make sure they’re symmetrical. You’ll get to look in the mirror and say yay or nay before the needle even touches you. How does that sound?”

You glance up at the mirror near the door, identical to the one in the entry in everything except size.

“Sounds good.”

“ Great.”

He gently wipes your ears with a disinfectant wipe. His fingers brush lightly against your skin, and your breath catches. You remind yourself to focus. You are so sure you’re blushing.

“Alright, here comes the marking.” He carefully dabs a tiny black dot near your earlobe, one for each ear, holding gently you chin to make sure you don’t move too much.

Yeah, screw blushing, you can feel the redness in your face by sheer temperature.

You lean forward and study them in the mirror, getting a bit distant to look at them at the same time and carefully avoiding to focus on the glistering red all over your cheeks.

“Looks good to me.”

Ace smiles softly from his stool while you get back into your chair.

 “Cool. Okay, get comfortable and take a deep breath.”

You do, clutching the armrest as the sharp prick surprises you for a fraction of a second, then it’s over.

“See? Not so bad.”

You touch your ear tentatively. It’s a little sore but nothing unbearable.

Ace is already unscrewing the backs of the other stud and inserting it carefully into the gun.

“Now for the other side, before we lose momentum.” He says, flashing you that cute smirk once again.

While he works, your mind drifts to how this moment feels like more than just getting a piercing.  

It’s like a reclaiming.

A small step. Your first real act of rebellion.

This is me. I’m free.

Ace glances up and catches you staring at him.

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, a little embarrassed to be caught staring, yet too out of it to really care.

“Yeah. It’s just... kind of amazing. I didn’t think I’d feel this calm.”

He shrugs.

“Sometimes, all you need is the right spot and the right company.”

“ Ah, that’s what it was, then”

You both laugh softly.

After the second piercing, Ace cleans up, and then leans back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, the confident grin back in place.

“So,” he says, smug “about that date you mentioned?”

You swallow the growing flutter in your chest and try to sound casual,

“Yeah. I meant it. I owe you.”

He gives you a mock stern look.

“I’m holding you to that. How about this Friday?”

Then he adds with a grin, “And just so you know, I’m not letting you pay for a thing. This one’s on me, consider it part of the ‘fresh start’ package.

You smile, nodding in a hurry, biting your lower lip slightly, feeling a strange new hope weaving through your nerves.

When you finally step back out onto the street, the late afternoon sun bathes the town in a golden glow, and the distant hum of the city feels less intimidating.

For once, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Chapter Text

It’s going to be fine.

Everything is going to be fine.

It’s only a date with the most handsome guy you’ve ever met.

And you just need to not act like a fool.

How hard can it be?

You’ve done harder things. Beaten tougher bosses.

Except none of them ever smiled at you like he does.

You take a deep breath, nervously adjusting the collar of your linen shirt once again, a simple white one. It’s the nicest thing you own for this warm climate you’re still not used to, you reason to yourself, deliberately leaving a couple of buttons undone because you feel like you can't breathe.

And maybe to show off a little, who’s to say?

No harm in that, you think, fiddling with the last closed button, near your solar plexus.

You then move on to fixing your hair, tied up in your usual half-bun, and adjusting your earrings, still the same ones you got the day you had your ears pierced, which was actually only a few days ago. You like how they catch the light, golden and pretty, always reminding you of the step you took . A small rebellion, a quiet affirmation of who you are. Something to start from, once again.

You take another look in the mirror, meeting your anxious eyes and a face that, all things considered, you find acceptable.

Fixed hair, a well-kept face, your best shirt, some nice jeans.

We’re only going for drinks, at the end of the day.

You take a quick pic, sending it to Kiku, that only replies with a fire emoji, after a couple of minutes.

Could be worse, you think, looking at your watch.

6:56.

You still have a few minutes to panic. Or reload a save, if only life worked that way.

Or at least that's what you think, before you hear your phone ring.

 “ Hello, hello?”

“ Hi, handsome. I’m actually a little bit early, do you mind?”

" Not at all. I'll be there in a minute," you reply, feeling butterflies in your stomach.

Simp.

It's just a date.

A first date.

You take another deep breath, swallowing forcibly as you put on your shoes, going safe with a pair of black Converse, and then leave the house.

It’s going to be just fine.

***

The evening air is warm but forgiving as you walk outside. The streetlights cast soft pools of amber light on the pavement, and the distant hum of traffic feels less like noise and more like the city breathing, a sound still new and unnatural to your ears, and yet calming, somehow. Like the thought that life goes on anyway, even if you’re not looking.

You’re not sure why that makes you feel better.

 You check your phone again, hands a little shaky, the screen lighting up your face like a beacon.

“Almost there ;)” Ace texts.

You smile at the message and shove the phone back in your pocket.

The pub isn’t hard to find, just a cozy little place with a faded neon sign that reads Partys Bar, just a few minutes from your small apartment. It’s the kind of spot that feels lived-in and safe, like a second home for anyone who knows it. You spot Ace leaning casually against the doorframe, like he owns the place, a soft grin playing on his lips as soon as he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm.

“Hey,” you reply, trying to sound cooler than you feel.

He offers his arm, and you take it, heart beating faster at the contact. It’s a simple gesture but it feels like a lifeline, steadying you in a world that suddenly seems full of infinite possibilities and terrifying risks.

Inside, the bar smells of polished wood, citrus, and faintly of hops. Soft music hums from the speakers, a blend of indie rock and lo-fi beats, setting a cozy backdrop. You notice the bartender, a woman with soft, dark green hair and an easy smile, who gives Ace a friendly nod as you both approach the counter.

“Good evening, what will you have?” she asks Ace.

“An IPA for me, thanks,” he replies with that cute smile.

He turns to you. “What about you, handsome?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure.

“Do you have Asahi beer?” Your accent makes the question stumble out awkwardly, and you fidget with the hem of your shirt, hoping not to spill anything on yourself. And to not look like a fool, perhaps.

The bartender nods politely and gestures toward a small table near the window. You follow Ace over, heart still doing somersaults.

You need to calm down, Oden.

And try not to look like-

“ So, what’s your deal?” Ace asks you, as soon as you have sat down, taking off his black denim jacket with a shrug, casually leaving it draped over the chair.

“ What do you mean?”

“ Like… what do you do, for a living, in your life? Hobbies, work, things like that”

Ah, yes, of course, a normal question.

-an idiot.

Mission failed. Dialogue tree collapsing.

Try and reboot with something that’s not so dumb, or that doesn’t sound like a panic ramble.

“ I’m a veterinary student, and I work in an animal shelter, I just got the job actually since I moved like, a couple of months ago” you answer, fiddling with the loose hair draped over your shoulder.

“ I moved to Goa to study, actually”

“ Really? You go to uni? I thought you were older than me. I’m twenty-four, by the way.”

You freeze for a second.

Shit.

“ I, uhm, I am, I’m … I’m twenty-nine. I started later than usual. I did a year in Wano, where I’m from, but then I moved because I got a scholarship. You know, e-sports are very popular right now.”

“ Ah, I see,” he shrugs, like the fact that you’re still at uni at almost thirty is not ridiculous, to then put his elbow on the table and his face on top of his hands, getting closer to you and offering you a kind smile.

“ Veterinary, then? Seems cool! You’ve always liked animals?”

“ I do, yes! I’m trying to specialize in exotic mammals, but my favorites are the domestics,” you say, still fiddling with your hands, starting to tap on the table you usual lucky keys combination, J-K-L, nervous and unprepared, like a surprise boss battle.

And yet you feel so happy to be here.

“ Are you more of a dog person or a cat person?”

“ I like both, honestly, but I prefer cats!” you keep blabbering, as your date keeps looking at you with that soft smile on his lips.

The bartender suddenly materializes next to your table, passing you both the drinks.

“ How’s it going, Ace? He seems nice” she asks, with a kind voice.

NPC familiarity detected, your brain supplies, unhelpfully, and only now you realize that Ace probably choose this place cause he’s a regular.

“ Oh, it’s going nicely, Makino, thanks! Can I ask you to make sure not to let him pay?”

“ No, I’m the one that asked you out, I’m supposed to pay!” you blurt out, and the woman looks at you surprised, to then going back to her usual smile.

“ You asked him out? And he said yes? That’s … unusual.”

You turn to Ace, who blushed suddenly, spitting out his beer just at the first sip and risking drenching his graphic tee, black with the My Chemical Romance logo on the front.

A critical hit, you think, biting back a smile, taking a sip of your drink.

“ I- Makino! Please don’t-“

“ Unusual? What do you mean?”

She gives you a funny face, placing a finger over her lips like she’s not supposed to tell. Ace’s face is flaming red now, and he fiddles with his white and red bracelet nervously.

“ Let’s just say that this is not his regular first-date spot.”

“ Maybe we should not say anything,” he mumbles, taking another gulp off his beer, and Makino just laughs.

“ I’ll leave you to it, then. Have a good one, and call if you need anything”

She nods goodbye, then goes back behind the counter.

You stare at your glass for a moment, then look up at your date, still red in the face.

“ You don’t … date that much?”

He shrugs, although you can see he’s evidently embarrassed, as he’s still fiddling with that same white and red bracelet he is wearing, next to his watch.

“Makino has known me since I was a child, she likes to tease me. But, yeah ... and even when I do, this is not usually the place I take people for the first night.”

“ Why not?”

“Well, it's kind of my home turf, safe haven, that kind of things. I used to hang out here with my brothers when we were kids, and that didn’t change when we become teens. We didn’t have that much to do, you know, we didn’t have much at all honestly, but there was someone to keep us steady, at least. Our dad’s the quiet type, always keeping to himself and not much time for us, and my old man, our grandpa, always loud, giving us grief about our life, our choices, you know how that is.”

 “Are you close? With your siblings, I mean,” you ask, a little hesitant, your voice softer than you intend, surprised that he’s so open about something so personal.

I would be caught dead before I talk about my father at a first date, you think, amused. Or at all, to be honest.

They must be tight, surely.

He nods, scratching at his temple like he’s trying to shake a memory loose. “Yeah. I’m a couple of months older than Sabo, and three years ahead of Luffy. But I always felt like I had to keep an eye on both of them. Still do, even though they’re technically grown now. Eldest sibling mentality, I guess.”

You glance at him, curious.

Months? That sounds… odd.

You decide not to dwell on that, tho. This question will have its place, too.

“What are they like?”

Ace huffs out a laugh, the kind that starts in the chest and warms up everything else, reaching his eyes, sparkling with care, and love. “Luffy is … pure chaos. All stomach, no filter. Once, I took this girl out, you know, first proper date I’d planned in months, and halfway through, Luffy just … shows up. Apparently he overheard me say we were getting barbecue, and he decided that was a good enough reason to crash it. Sat down, asked if we were ordering ribs, cause he surely was. Didn’t even blink.”

You giggle, covering your mouth. “Did he at least let you finish the date?”

“Barely. He ate more than both of us combined, and I’m sure, cause I’m the one that footed the bill.”

You smile behind your drink, glancing at Ace again just in time to see the way his eyes crinkle when he talks about his siblings. You like it more than you should.

“And Sabo’s... worse, in his own different way,” Ace adds, sipping his beer. “He knows everything about everyone. Once, we were barely out of high school, he made this whole murder-board thing, like with actual red string and all, trying to guess who I had a crush on.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh yeah. Fully unprompted. And the worst part? He was right. Didn’t even gloat. Just gave me this smug little nod, like ‘told you so.’”

You laugh again, a softer, breathy kind of sound, eyes dropping to your glass. “They sound like a lot.”

“They are,” Ace says, and when you look back up, he’s smiling at his hands like he’s remembering something sweet. “But they’re mine. And I guess, in some weird way, I’m theirs.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just reach across the table, letting your fingers brush against his in the quiet.

“Well, thank you for letting me in.”

He finally meets your gaze, to then smile, still blushing all over his cute freckles, oh-so-pretty.

And maybe I should let you in, too.

***

It’s late, later that you though, since you started to talk, beer after beer, question after question, getting to know each other, the words rolling easily off your tongue. Almost midnight, you realize, staring at your phone for a moment, standing right outside the door, after not enough time and quite enough beers, the night air cooler now, the stars faintly blinking above.

I never saw them so clearly, you think, quietly taken by their beauty.

It’s always foggy in Onigashima, the sky covered by the smokes from the factories night and day.

“ Thank you for paying … even if I told you not to.” Ace’s voice snatches you away from your thoughs.

You scoff, hiding a half-smile with a cough, holding the door open for your date.

“ I told you, I’m the one that asked you out, I was getting even.”

“ Yeah, but if you-“

“ You gifted me the piercings. That’s the least I can do,” you say, while he gives a wave to Makino, to then close the door behind himself.

“ Fair enough. I’ll let it slide… this time.” He answer, a teasing glint in his eye, to then make way to his bike, and you just follow, confused for a minute.

“ … this time?”

“ Yeah, next time is on me tho.”

You can feel yourself getting blush in the face, as you try to avoid his gaze, fiddling with your hands, as you keep walking.

You had a great night, sure, and you’d love to do this again. But do you even… deserve it?

Ace, at first glance, seems like the kind of person you’re not supposed to fall for, all fire and noise and charm that never quits. He’s funny without trying, loud in the best kind of way, the kind of presence that fills a room and pulls you into it without asking, a real main character. And gods, he’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes your stomach hurt a little, and your IQ drop, sheer focus over his pretty face.

He talks fast, laughs loud, and somehow still manages to really see you. He remembers the little things you say, and even the things you didn’t mean to say, not now, maybe never. He asks questions that feel like he’s digging for treasure, not flaws. Like he wants to truly know you. And you tell him a lot. More than you meant to, probably.

But not everything. Some things stay tucked away, behind the usual smile or a well-placed joke. Not because you don’t trust him, but because you’re not ready to be looked at like you’re breakable. You’d rather he saw you as interesting, maybe even mysterious. Not something to be fixed. Not someone that got broken so many times before, by the person that should’ve loved him the most in the whole world.

Still, talking to him feels natural. Being near him feels like a dare you want to take every time, a primary quest you will play save after save just for the thrill to live through it once more.

The thing is... Ace knows. He knows you’re hiding something, that there’s something more behind your mask. You can feel it in the way he looks at you, he looked at you, while the words were slipping out of your mouth, at every story you told, every half-lie, quiet, curious, like he’s waiting. But he never pushes. He just gives you space to hide, even as he lights up every room you try to disappear into.

And he’s … pretty, so pretty. Recklessly, outrageously beautiful. The kind of charm that gets under your skin and stays there, burning and pulsing, trying to claw its way out. He makes you laugh when you don’t want to, and feel seen in ways that are equal parts terrifying and addictive.

Did I mention how pretty he is? I did? Well. It’s worth saying again.

But… before things go further, well… he deserves to know. About you. About the version of you that existed before you could finally breathe.

This, at least, I can give him, can’t I?

Am I not men enough to deal with it?

“ … as long as you want a next time, that is.”

You snap your head back, looking at your date, dumbfounded.

He stopped a couple of steps away from you, and he’s scratching his head with a hand, the other hidden in the pocket of his black straight jeans, or as he dubbed them, my only straight thing.

“ I would love to,” you murmur, placing your hand over his, moving it to his cheek. “ … Maybe a coffee shop?” you add, teasing, remembering the many loose coffee cups you saw in the parlour.

He looks up, blushing slightly, then makes a mischievous face, taking away his hand, allowing you to cup his face.

“ Can I ask you something?”

“ Whatever you like.”

“ Can I kiss you?”

You can feel the air shift, closer, warmer, intimate.

Your heart does a little flip, then another one, as you keep staring at his beautiful eyes, dark and bright, rimmed with black makeup, brown like warm coffee, steady and inviting, something you could get lost into without even realizing. And maybe you did already.

You nod, quick and hurried, and he tilts his head on the side, giving you a smile so pretty you are almost breathless.

Then you’re leaning in, both almost at the same time, and you just close your eyes.

Lips over lips, soft and hesitant, with the sweet taste of beer still clinging over, and then you have his hands over your shoulder, warm, hurried, steady, like he’s afraid you’ll leave.

It’s clumsy, and short, and hushed.

It’s the best kiss you’ve ever got.

And maybe this guy really sent your brain to the gutter, cause when you try to move back, and he instead pulls you over him once more, your only reaction is to shut your eyes harder and grab him by the collar, sneaking your tongue in between those sinful lips, hot and intoxicating.

Your heart keeps thumping into your chest, happy, drunk, and you can just give in, letting this boy take whatever he wants from you, and then some more.

It’s like hitting a romance route you didn’t know you’d unlocked. And now there’s no way in hell you’re not playing this through, not by choice.

Achievement unlocked: got kissed by your crush and didn’t immediately die. Progress.

When you pull back again, still hovering over his mouth, breathing hard, feeling like you lost all of the braincells that you managed to bring into adulthood, drowned in this exhilarating exchange, you decide for some godsforsaken reason to speak and break the mood.

"... You have a tongue piercing?!"

Ace opens his eyes, red in the face and breathless too, just like you, and instead of answering he just shows you his tongue, with a small metal ball in the middle, opening up his mouth, like he’s asking for more, making you widen your eyes and swallow suddenly. Then he smirks, the smartass, in a way that makes you understand that he knows exactly what he is doing to you.

“ What, you didn’t like it?”

You shake your head, hard, and he just chuckles, keeping his hands on your shoulders, so impossibly close you can almost feel his heart, beating fast in his chest. Or maybe that’s yours, still dancing, like a teen having his first kiss. You are almost sure that your heart did just clip through your ribcage, to be honest.

"Sure I liked it! It’s just- it was-"

"Weird?"

"Warm."

"Well, of course. It's metal, it gets to the same body temperature as me, and I'm always running a little hot."

"Yeah, you're hot."

Ace stares at you for a moment, while you abruptly get blush all over your cheeks, then he smiles.

Great. Cool. That definitely didn’t sound like I just button-smashed my mouth. "... come again?"

" I-ahem, I mean..."

"How about I kiss you a bit more?"

"Yes please, shut me up."

He happily obliges, cupping your face in his hands, soft and warm and inviting, and your brain fully short-circuits once more.

Somewhere, into your brain, a loading bar is spinning.

Please wait. The player is overwhelmed.

You think you’re supposed to say something, when you are forced to move away again.

Maybe make a joke. Maybe breathe.

Instead, you just lean your forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut once more.

“I’m so doomed.”

I haven’t felt this light in months. And that’s terrifying.

He laughs softly, his fingers brushing your cheek like he’s saving you to memory.

“Yeah,” he says, “me too.”

Chapter Text

“ You're back!”

You look up from your smartphone, surprised to see Ace's figure leaning against the doorframe, a cup of coffe in his hands, his usual warm smile on his face, just like the last night you saw each other.

Which was… not that long ago, honestly, maybe a couple of days back.

And yet he’s the only thing you can think about when you’re not together.

And the way he kisses you, warm and hungry, and so soft. Something that happened, more than once, to your absolute delight and also some vague sense of guilt.

But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To set the record straight. To tell him everything. To let him choose.

“ Oh! I thought ... I didn't want to bother you, I thought you were working,” you mutter, barely blushing and fiddling with the sleeve of your jacket, the bomber with all the patches you collected over various Comic-cons.

Coward, snide a little traitorous voice in your head. You quickly shush it.

No time to be a coward, not today, no sir.

“ No bother at all! Come in, come in. Did you have any ideas about that tattoo you were telling me about the other night? Or did you stop by just to say hi? Which, I promise you, is very much appreciated from a thoughtful date like you.”

He winks at you, taking his usual seat over the desk and motioning you toward one of the chairs.

“Yeah, well, I was thinking...I've made up my mind on what I'd like to do, as my first tattoo.”

“ Great! Then from now on, and until the tattoo is finished, you're my client, not the guy I'm dating, got it?” he smirks, and you roll your eyes, amused by his antics.

“ We've only been on a couple of dates...” you murmur anyway, fiddling with your fingers.

Sure, it’s not your first time here, nor the second. Not even the first time sitting in this exact chair while Ace rambles about tattoo inks and color theory like he’s auditioning for a science documentary, or a talk show. Although he would do numbers, for the share, you see.

You remember your first time here as a non-client like it was yesterday.

Probably because it was about a week ago, to be honest.

You’d come by the studio late, barely off your uniform from work, the one with the white T-shirt and the dogs etched in the back, tired but wired, after a quick change and a brisk walk, anxious to see him, to get some peace in your scrambled brain.

And it’s kind of weird, that a boy that you’ve met just a month ago can give you some peace, isn’t it? And yet he did, he does.

He offered you the comfiest chair, the one you quietly take every time, and made you tea in a mug shaped like a skull. Mint and honey, for your throat, he said. I like that shirt, he said. Something dumb and niche, that you grabbed from the wardrobe without even looking, that morning. Something comfy, one of the few clothes item you brought during the move, an old-school anime logo most people didn’t recognize unless they were really into it. The kind of thing you used to watch with Ulti, in the long summer afternoons of your childhood, before things got different, before you drifted apart.

“I love that show,” he said at the time, pointing at it with his free hand, the other one as usual taken by a cup of coffee. “I always related to the main character. Always wanted to be something more, something different. You ever feel like that?”

You did. More than he could possibly know. But instead, you just laughed and nodded, said something dumb and easy, with the guilt clawing into your heart, like, “Don’t we all?”

He didn’t push, then. Just smiled and moved on, talking about how he used to watch it with his brothers, and then to try and recreate the crazy adventures of the protagonists, three kids running in the woods, carefree and dumb and against the whole world.

You wonder now if that had been a test. Or maybe an invitation.

Maybe you’re only just answering it now.

But at least you’re answering… right?

“ And we’ll keep them coming, don't you worry. Now, lemme see.” Ace says, peeling you off your memories, and you swallow forcibly, suddenly worried, uneasy on your chair.

Come on, Oden! Be a man!

Well. Whatever that means anyway.

You glance at your phone again, thumb brushing over the screen. You’ve stared at this image a hundred times already, since your last date, staring it awake at night, unable to sleep, to rest, to find your peace alone.

It felt brave in the moment, meaningful. Quietly loud, in a way. Now, sitting here with Ace watching you with those maddeningly pretty eyes, dark and curios, like they want to pry open your head to peek inside, it feels like a gamble. Like handing him a secret he didn’t ask for and hoping he likes the shape of it.

Would he know what it means? Would he care? Or worse, what if he thought it was some aesthetic nonsense you pulled from Pinterest? What if he thinks you’re a poser?

You didn’t choose it randomly. You picked it because of everything it meant, about who you are, and who you’re not, and the body you’ve made your own. A symbol of starting over, of not being ashamed anymore. Rebirth, reboot. You, again. Not a rebellion, not quite, but a statement, a purposeful choice.

But still, there’s that little treacherous voice in your head, whispering.

What if this is too much? What if it makes him look at you differently?

What if he doesn’t want you anymore? It wouldn’t be the first time, Yamato.

Or did you forget?

You shake the thought off, just barely, and turn the phone toward him.

“Well I... I’d like this.”

 You turn the phone in his direction, showing him the image on the display.

Ace leans over, grabbing the phone from your hand.

A power button.

You watch his face like it’s a loading screen you’re terrified might freeze.

You’ve done this before. Not often, never lightly. You were the talk of the city, for a while, but every time you told someone it felt personal, it felt private. And you’ve done this enough to know there’s always a pause, always a shift. Sometimes it’s small, a little discomfort behind the eyes, like your father. Other times it’s something worse, and then nothing anymore. You try to brace for it now, but your chest still tightens, instinctive, protective.

Scared.

What if he smiles politely and never asks you out again?

What if he says something nice, but it’s the kind of nice that means goodbye?

What if I blew it?

“Well, it's cute, and it's certainly suitable for a first tattoo since it’s quite tiny, though...”

“...Though?"

Oh hells, he doesn't know what that means, it's too niche, I'm an idiot.

“ I guess you want this cause you’re a gamer, which is valid, but if I'm not wrong, the symbol has some meaning in the community.”

Oh, he knows then! Great, awesome.

“What community?”

Yeah, I'm an idiot.

Ace raises his left eyebrow, looking at you in disbelief.

“Man, seriously? I find it hard to believe you don’t know what I mean. Us queers, obviously.”

“Oh. Yeah,” you mumble, cheeks warming.

“What meaning are you talking about, I mean?”

Ace holds his chin in his hand, thoughtful. " If I'm not mistaken it's quite popular in the trans community, as to signify power over one's life, you know, rebirth and..."

"... and reboot. And queers never die. Isn’t that the saying?"

He looks at you, dumbfounded for the first time since you met. Unfairly cute even in this case.

Oh, hells.

I  blew it, didn't I?

"...Yamato, if you're doing what I think you're doing, that's the weirdest way of coming out of the closet I've ever seen."

"... Well, it worked though, didn't it?" You mutter, eyes downcast, thumping with your finger on the desk. J-K-L. J-K-L. J-K-L.

" You know what? Fair point. Should we talk about pronouns, then?"

You look up, puzzled, confused enough by his words to stop. He’s smiling.

"...  what about pronouns?"

" Let me try again. I'm Ace, he/him, quite queer, no labels more than that. What about you?"

" I'm... Yamato? Sometimes Oden. He/him, even if I… came to that part a little later, I'll say. Bi, if we’re talking about sexual orientation, also.”

He stares at you startled for a moment, blinking quickly a couple of times, surprised.

Like he’s quick-saving.

" Oh.”

Oh.

Oh.

I blew it.

“I thought it was the other way around." He adds, taking a sip of coffee. You blink something like, five times.

"... I beg your pardon?"

“ Sorry, I got it backwards, that’s all. I thought you were saying you were a girl, not a boy. My mistake.”

You smile, trying to hide it by barely sticking your tongue out and biting your lips, while you tuck some of your hair behind your ear.

Each time is like the first, your heart fills with joy.

The magic of being properly recognized, you’d guess.

" What about you? ‘Quite queer’ covers a lot of ground"

" I doubt I'm the more interesting one, of the two, but since you insist,” He replies, waving his hand, as if to speed up his talk. And risking tipping up his cup in the process. ” I've never had much interest in defining myself more than that. Gender-wise I don’t really care, and as of orientation… well. This world is confusing enough as it is. Boys? Girls? In-betweens? I fancy them all, no preferences." 

Worthy of a main character.

“And... would you still want to date me? Now that you know?"

You ask it softly, still playing with your hair, avoiding his eyes.

Ace reaches out, cups your chin and kisses you.

Oh.

 It's the first time someone has kissed you from this angle.

You're usually the taller one.

It’s kinda… nice.

“ Didn't I just tell you I like guys? Of course I want to date you still. It’s not like something changed since half an hour ago, you were a guy then and you are one now. So, still happy to date you, man. If you want me, that is. All in.”

You smile, nodding, and he affectionately wrinkles his nose, cupping your cheek in a soft caress.

“… that’s after I finish the tattoo, of course, since technically right now you're my client and not the guy I'm dating."

" Kudos for remembering that before things escalated."

" Yeah, don't report me, please, I’m not good with police forces," he chuckles, then turning to look again at your phone screen.

" Now, what about color, and placing? Where are we tattooing this? Or was it just a ruse to tell me?"

“ No, not a ruse. I was thinking right here, in black.”

You reply, feeling curiously lighter, tapping gently on your left collarbone.

“ Good spot” he agrees, gently sliding down from the desk to put down his cup and grab all that is necessary.

" ... you know, if you have questions you can go ahead and ask me," you mutter, as he retrieves the ink, pen and gloves.

" Sure, and I'll ask you one right away. You should take your shirt off, if that doesn't make you uncomfortable. Otherwise we can just try and move around it."

You shrug, getting up to slip off your jacket, abandoning it on the couch next to you, and the t-shirt with the vintage Street Fighter logo you were sporting follows soon after.

You don't particularly enjoy getting naked, but you don’t really mind either, not anymore. It's been several years since your top surgery, and even the scars you have left are not that noticeable at this point.

You remember the first time you looked at your chest without the binder, without layers, without the weight of something that didn’t belong to you. Just bare skin and angry lines and bandages. You were in the hospital bathroom, door locked, heart beating so loud it made your vision blur, like you could feel it clipping through your ribcage.

You touched the new shape of yourself with trembling fingers, unsure if it was real. It was. It is.

You didn’t cry. You just breathed. Like coming up from underwater.

Like you were just then learning how to breathe, for the first time.

" Shall we set up here on the desk, rather than the lounger in the other room?" you ask, pulling yourself from the memory.

“ Sure, as you wish,” he replies, tying his hair back in a low bun, then taking everything he needs on the desk, by his side.

" … and also because this is certainly not how I imagined having you horizontally, at least for the first time, you know."

" ... things you say to all your clients, right?"

" Oh, whoops. Your fault for being too handsome, loverboy," he replies, with a cheeky smile on his lips and a dust of red over his freckles.

Redness that, you are sure, is also spreading across your face.

Loverboy?!

You sit back down where you were, suddenly thunderstruck by a thought that makes you blush even more.

" ... wait, you fantasized about having me in bed?"

‘...And you haven't? We’ve being goin’ out for almost a month, I am gravely offended by that, Yama," he retorts, playful, but the blush increases.

You watch him in silence as he prepares the tracing and applies it to your collarbone, letting you see and waiting for your approval, to then put on his gloves.

" The tattoo is small, but the area is not the most painless, so if you need a break tell me, OK?"

Ah, there. Now he's become professional.

" ... I might even distract you with a kiss, if you want."

So much for professionalism.

" Sure. Let's get started."

You flinch, just a little, a moment only, at the first sting. It’s not pain, not really. More like static under the skin, a burn pressed into you, steady and sure.

Like fire scratching your skin, crawling out from the inside.

His hand steadies you, fingers light against your ribcage as he leans close, his breath warm and smelling faintly of mint and honey. You try not to think about that. You try not to think about how gently he’s holding you, like he’s making sure you stay anchored, not just still.

Like he wants to hold you, again and again.

And you’re starting to think that you’ll let him.

***

" Are you satisfied? I must tell you, as a matter of company policy, that we don't offer refunds," he grins, putting the equipment away and cleaning over the desk, as you look at yourself in the mirror, a little more inked than before.

You stare at the symbol inked onto your collarbone, mesmerized by this small thing, really, barely the size of a coin, a smudge of ink that still it feels like a banner, a secret handshake between the person you were and the man you are now.

Funny. Years ago, you’d stare at mirrors and feel nothing but disconnect. Like watching someone else’s life through glass. Now, it’s not perfect, you think it never will be, but this? This feels like you. The version of you who got to make choices. Who got to survive, against all odds.

Ace doesn’t say anything more, waiting for your reply, but he gets behind you in the mirror’s reflection, eyes on the same mark, mouth relaxed, an half-smile full of meaning, full of affection. Like he gets it. Not fully, no, only someone who’s been through like you have can get it fully, but … enough. Enough that you don’t feel like you have to explain every inch of your past just to be held in the present.

The light flickers for a moment, attracting your gaze on the lamp, right over the mirror. Inscribed on the wall, a decal phrase catches your eye for a second.

“What’s more punk than going against the system, simply by existing?”

Ain’t that just the truth, you smirk to yourself.

“ Yama?”

" Oh- yes! It's perfect, Ace, thank you!" you reply, flashing him a bright smile, and he nods, pleased.

" Always glad to hear that."

" How much do I owe you?" you ask, grabbing your t-shirt and trying to put it on without pulling too much skin.

" Oh, nothing at all."

You turn toward him suddenly, surprised, as he sticks his tongue out at you.

" Ace! Come on, you can't keep on not charging me! That's a terrible marketing strategy!"

" Money is fake and society is a mess. Besides, I'm afraid it means you'll have to take me out to return the favor."

“ Are you like this with all the customers?’ you scoff, and he pauses for a moment, a finger on his lips, as if thinking about it.

Smartass.

"Technically, now that the tattoo is done, you’re back to being my date. Anyway, to be honest, you're the only one I’ve ever said something like this. And if I'm lucky, and all goes to plan, I won't need to try again, y’know?"

"Lucky...?"

" I'm not really into anyone else right now. In fact, I haven't been into anyone for a long time, not in the way I like you. So..."

He shrugs, raising his hands, but you can still see a bit of red on his cheeks, beyond the mask of the show-off he's wearing.

" Well, good, I guess, cause it's the same for me," you reply, taking a couple of steps in his direction.

He looks up, pulling you to him from the front of your t-shirt, and then he stands on his toes to give you a full-on kiss.

 You suddenly realize he's holding you just from the right side, the one without the tattoo, as not to hurt you.

Cute.

" Well, then... I'm not rushing if I say you're my boyfriend, right?"

You barely shake your head as a smile spreads across your face.

Boyfriends.

You like how that sounds.

***

And yet, eventually, you have to go.

The studio door swings shut behind you with a soft chime, and the city air hits your skin like a reset button. Crisp, a little damp, full of neon glow, old pavement warmth, the faint green bite of early summer blooms pushing through the concrete. And promises.

Ace walks you out, locking the place with one hand and stuffing the key into his back pocket like it’s an afterthought. You give in a bit, allowing yourself to stare for a moment at that pretty hands, still a little ink-stained from the cleanup. Soft and warm, and on your skin, mere moments before.

“You want me to drive you back?” he asks, taking off the bike keys from a carabineer, hanging from one of the loops of his torn jeans, his voice casual, but not too casual. The kind of casual that’s been practiced, like he’s pretending it’s no big deal when you both know it kind of is. Like he’s not offering you something that would keep him tethered to you just a bit longer.

You shake your head, for once calm. Peaceful.

All of the noises in your head are… well, not gone. But muffled. “Nah. I like the walk. Helps me… think.”

He tilts his head, almost like he wants to ask think about what, but doesn’t.

“At least write me when you get back?” he says instead. “So I know you made it safe. Or, like, alive. Preferably both.”

You smile, heart twinging at the way he says it like it’s a joke, but not really. Not entirely.

“I will,” you promise, zipping up your bomber jacket. “You better answer, though. I don’t like being left on read.”

He smirks, giving you another one of his pretty, pretty smiles “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You start walking. The air feels different now. Not lighter, but clearer. Like something’s been sifted through and named.

When you glance back, he’s still there, watching. Not waiting for you to turn around. Just… making sure you leave okay. Like you’re something worth sticking around for.

Your collarbone twinges, just slightly, under the gauze.

A little ache. A little proof.

Still you.

Still here.

And someone’s waiting for your message.

Chapter Text

It’s a hot, slow shift at the animal shelter, and the AC is broken.

You fan yourself lazily, silently mourning your beloved bomber jacket, exiled in your wardrobe since the second week of June. In its place shorts and some last-minute T-shirts that still feel wrong against your skin.

You were not made for this kind of heat. The air is thick, like it’s trying to glue itself to your lungs.

Man, what I wouldn’t give for a cold energy drink, you think, tugging at your uniform where it clings to your back. You puff your fringe out of your face, already damp with sweat you didn’t know a forehead could produce.

This early in the month and already it’s like walking through soup.

On the other side of the room, Dr. Kawamatsu is fixing the bandages on one of the shelter dogs, a rather aggressive white fox terrier.

You really have your antisocial, nerdy nature to thank for this job.

After all, if you hadn’t been an Oden fan, Kiku would never have asked about your nickname during a game of Among Us on a random Goan server.

And as a result, the two of you would never have become friends, you would never have found out about the scholarship at Foosha University for e-sports, and you would never have ended up here.

And if it weren't for Kiku, or rather her brother Izou, you wouldn't have this job, since he was the one who recommended you on her behalf.

Yes, thank you for the geekiness, oh great Street Fighter gods, you mutter to yourself.

Your phone suddenly lights up, and you can see the pretty face of your even prettier boyfriend before answering, tearing you away from your thoughts.

“Hello, hello?”

“Hi, sweetheart. Am I bothering you?”

“You could never,” you answer, and he gives you a soft laugh.

“ Are you busy on Friday night?”

You frown, glancing at the office’s calendar, neatly hung on the wall next to the reception.

“I don’t think so. Why? We going somewhere?”

“I just found out that my little brother, and his little friends, have a gig. D’you like to meet them?”

Oh.

We’re moving fast, aren’t we?

Your brain short-circuits, already imagining what to wear, how to act, whether you’ll say something weird, and you certainly will, but it doesn’t matter. The answer’s already bubbling up.

“… I mean, don’t feel like you have to, Yama. I’d just-”

“I’d- yeah- love to!” you blurt, way too loud, and slap your hand on the desk like that’ll make you sound normal, and not at all like your motor functions are trying to bail you out of your mouth.

Your boss yelps from the other side of the room.

“ Yamato! Don’t startle me like that!” he screeches, and you slightly bow, apologizing, with warm cheeks, and this time, it has nothing to do with the heat you're unused to.

“ Sorry, Kawamatsu!” you shout back, and he just grumbles something.

You wince at the phone, too.

“Sorry, ahem, I just - uh. Yeah. That sounds really nice.”

There’s a pause. Then a chuckle.

“You’re cute when you panic,” he says, almost snickering.

You bury your face in your hands. “I’m never showing my face at this desk again.”

“Guess I’ll have to come pick you up, then.”

“As I was saying, that sounds nice. Where? What time? What should I wear?”

Ace simply laughs, sounding so carefree and pretty.

“ I’ll drop by your place at around eight, so don’t worry about getting there. The place is rather… well, punk-skewed? If you have something like that, otherwise dark colors are good enough.”

“ Great! I’ll see you then, I guess,” you answer, still warm all over your cheeks, mentally rethinking your afternoon.

Punk-skewed, ah? I need something better than the linen shirt.

***

You fix your t-shirt, a last-minute buy, to pair it with some shredded jeans, fiddling with the hem.

The top is black, with stylish cuts along the sleeves and back, a bold new addition to your usually subdued wardrobe. Ace had declared it punk enough on sight. The jeans, faded gray, torn at the knees, are an old staple.

To complete the look, your fearless black Converse, a leather bracelet you borrowed from Ace, and a dog tag hanging from your neck. That last one came from work; technically borrowed, though Kawamatsu had laughed when you asked for it and handed it over as a gift.

He’s kind like that.

Ace looks at you softly, holding open the door for you, with the name sign, Cross Guild, on top of it.

And if he isn’t a pretty punk vision, tonight more than usual, bathing in the sign’s neon lights; a black, distressed tank top, that reveals more skin than it covers, and some black shorts, with his usual combat, lace-coded boots. He has a pair of dangly, silver earrings, his dark hair is slicked back, a haze of black kohl ringing his pretty eyes. His usual red-and-white bracelet, a bandana tied to his upper right arm, and a weird bolo tie hanging from his neck, with a bull’s head medallion, round up the look.

Your heart did skip a couple of beats when you saw him earlier, riding his bike with an extra helmet for you.

“ You know, you clean up dangerously well for a self-proclaimed dork.” He says, winking at you and moving to the side to let you enter first.

“ Yeah, I can get pretty-“

The words die on their way out of your mouth, as you suddenly realize the sheer amount of people in the same little room you’re about to get into.

You are already in, actually, thanks to Ace’s little pushing.

You step inside and the noise hits you like a brick: thick, distorted guitar pouring off the speakers in the middle of the room, vocals shouted more than sung. The place is packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, heat rising off the crowd like steam. Someone bumps your arm without looking. Then someone else. You grit your teeth, clenching your fists into the fabric of your shirt without even realizing it.

The air reeks of stale beer, sweat, and too many cheap aftershaves battling it out. A herd of humans mingling and laughing and shouting, all in various shades of black and purple, deep colors and leather jackets, and the occasional pop of brightly dyed hair.

You catch a whiff of something metallic and old, maybe from the rusted chain curtain that smacked against your back as you came in. You edge sideways, toward a wall plastered in peeling flyers and marker-scrawled graffiti, trying to find some space that isn’t already breathing down your neck. Looking for space. Just a little space.

The big windows up front offer no relief, just smeared glass and too much light bleeding in from the street, flickering with passing cars and neon signage. You can see out, but it doesn’t help, not really. Doesn’t make it feel any less like a cage. The stage, empty and barely lit up, pulses in the center like a heartbeat you can’t sync up with, and already your fingers twitch for the exit.

You feel your throat close up a little, edging toward a wall, trying to pretend you’re okay.

 “… Yama?”

You shift your gaze to Ace, looking at you, a worried expression on his face.

“ It’s everything all right?”

““Yeah, it’s just- uh, many… mobs? No, uhm, too many… humans.”

“ … you mean people?”

You shrug, the words swimming in your head, Goan and Wano and panic crashing together, too many words, too many voices, the lump in your throat closing a bit more of your airway.

“ I don’t… do crowds,” you mutter, your eyes moving from one side to the other, scanning the loud mass for a safer place, for silence that isn’t here.

Ace steps a little closer, his body a small shield against the chaos. “Darlin’, we can leave if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No, that’s not-” you try to reply, but Ace cuts you off gently, his hand brushing your arm.

“Actually, I don’t like how distressed you are. We’ll be leaving right now.”

“No-o,” you whine softly, reaching for him, your fingers wrapping around his hand like it’s the only solid thing in the room. And if that makes you feel a bit better, that’s nobody’s business.

“I wanna meet your brother, and his friends. We’re staying.”

Ace looks at you, frowning, lips pressed together in that serious way of his. But then he softens, his expression melting into a pout that’s almost comically cute in contrast to the blaring chaos around you.

“All right,” he says, finally, “but only on one condition: if you feel sick, tell me immediately.”

“Deal,” you say, a little smile cracking through the tension in your jaw.

He leans in and gives your cheek the lightest stroke with his thumb, grounding you like a warm anchor in stormwater.

“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the deeper part of the venue. “Let’s go find a better place than right in front of the door.”

***

You managed to steal a small table, close enough to an opened window to make you breathe properly again, and it only took your boyfriend to ask nicely to a couple of older-looking guys to have it.

Who would’ve thought that punks are so nice, you think absent-mindedly, fanning yourself with your hand.

Yeah, this summer in Goa is going to be a nightmare.

Too many people, too much noise, everything that’s been suffocating you since that small-town life where you were the odd one out.

But I’m not the odd one out anymore. I have Ace, now.

“How’re you hanging, pretty boy?” the very subject of your thoughts asks, dropping into the seat beside you and handing you one of the bottles he brought.

You take a few gulps before answering, breathless from the heat. “Better now.”

He gives you a fond smile.

 “ Offer’s still standing, we can leave-“

 “ I’m fine, it’s the heat that’s been bothering me,” you grumble, but your voice cracks under the heat and nerves, and you feel your cheeks warming up, while you start tapping on the glass.

Oh, sure, you hate crowds with all of your heart.

They’ve always made your chest tighten, a sharp reminder of the queer kid who never quite fit in, antisocial and ostracized, in a town so little everyone knew your name.

But maybe if I could look less like an idiot, and more like a man… maybe things wouldn’t feel so heavy.

“ That’s fine, I get it. Summer’s gonna be a disaster for you.”

“ … is it not summer already?” you ask, suddenly worried.

Ace laughs, jokingly bumping your shoulder.

“ You’re funny. We’re only in June, it’s going to be so much worse, you have no idea.”

“ Well, great. How about you just kill me now?” you deadpan, and suddenly, everything goes dark.

Uh, Street Fighter gods? It was a joke, I’m sorry, you think in a flash, before realizing that the punk mass of humans is starting to chant and cheer, and immediately the stage is bright and full of people.

Up front, a blonde guy grabs the mic like a lifeline, fingers full of rings curling around it with practiced drama. He’s pale as a ghost under the pulsing stage lights, cheekbones catching the red glow like sharp edges. Deep burgundy eyeshadow fans over his lids; thick black liner clings to his lashes, turning his stare into something between mischief and menace.

He’s wearing a torn fishnet top layered under a cropped graphic tee that reads “CHEF’S KISS” in cracked white lettering, the hem riding just above a faint trail of ink disappearing beneath his waistband. Tight black jeans cling to him like a second skin, ripped at the knees, held up by a studded belt and with a few chains hanging from it. A sleek black guitar hangs from his back like an afterthought, more like an accessory than an instrument, glinting with stickers and scuffed metal.

He brings the mic to his lips with a smirk so confident it borders on arrogant.

“Hello, my lovely ladies-” his voice lilts, buttery smooth with a rasp at the edges, “-and you useless other humans!”

A ripple of laughter and hollering answers him. He paces the stage like it’s a catwalk, hips loose, eyes twinkling beneath blond bangs.

“I’m Sanji, and we are the Strawhats! And tonight, we hope to please you …” he pauses, letting the crowd hang on it, “…all night long!”

He winks dramatically, blowing exaggerated kisses into the sea of hands at the front. A group of groupies squeal, reaching for him like he’s a rockstar god descended to flirt with mere mortals.

You just smirk, watching him play the room like a finely tuned instrument. It’s a performance, sure, but it’s a damn good one.

 “ That’s the singer?”

“ Yeah, the last addition to the group,” you hear Ace’s voice, faintly, close to you, covered by all the noise.

You turn to look at him, noticing even in the dark that he’s blushing.

“ … Something you want to tell me?”

“ We- well. We dated briefly, a couple of years ago, but honestly, it was going nowhere. We matched a little too well, if y’know what I mean.” He smirks, still red in the face, and you just roll your eyes. To then move your arm over his shoulder, but not because you’re jealous, not at all, no sir.

As Ace snuggles a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours with comforting warmth, you drag your eyes back to the stage, unable to stop them from locking on one of the performers. There’s something magnetic about the bassist, a quiet gravity that pulls your attention like a tide.

He’s got tanned skin that catches the flickering stage lights like polished bronze, the kind of complexion that looks kissed by the sun even in the dead of night. His hair is punk-dyed in a sharp, vivid green, cut messily like he did it himself at midnight with a razor and no regrets. He too is sporting a fair amount of black kohl on his lower lashes. A few dangly golden earrings catch the light as he moves, glinting like knives every time he turns his head.

He wears loose black cargo pants slung low on his hips, stuffed with too many pockets and probably zero patience, paired with a distressed deep green tee that clings just enough to hint at muscle. The sleeves are cut off completely, raw edges curling, revealing ink-slicked arms and shoulders built like someone who lifts more than just instruments.

His bass, a matching forest green with worn edges and duct tape patches, is gripped in his hands like a weapon. He doesn’t just play it; he holds it like he’s about to beat someone with it. His fingers curl along the neck with deliberate strength, knuckles taut, the whole instrument pulsing with the low, rumbling sound that thunders through the floor and into your ribs.

There's no showmanship in him like the singer. No blown kisses or practiced smirks. Just a storm simmering under his skin, barely contained by the beat.

And he’s staring intently at the blonde, like he’s ready to eat him alive.

Or maybe…?

“ The bassist?”

“Zoro. He’s been friends with Luffy since elementary school,” Ace says, a note of pride in his voice. “I taught him how to play. So of course he’s the punkest of them all.”

You just chuckle, the sound barely audible over the music, and shift your gaze to the guitarist.

He stands a little off to the side, but he’s hard to miss, with  a mellow sort of confidence in the way he moves, like the music lives in his bones. He’s wearing a faded brown vintage T-shirt, soft and sun-bleached at the edges, hanging a bit loose on his frame like it’s been his favorite for years. His grey jeans are worn down to near-threadbare in places, the knees frayed open and streaked with what looks like paint or old grease, like he’s lived a whole life in them, and then some.

A black bandana wraps around his head, partly covering his thick, dark afro curls that spill out around the edges in soft coils. It doesn’t look carefully styled, more like he tied it on mid-rehearsal and forgot to fix it, but it works, grounding his whole vibe in something real and effortless.

And then there’s the guitar: a bright yellow electric beast slung low across his torso, its glossy surface catching every flash of stage light like a beacon. It shouldn’t fit the understated look, but somehow it does, bold and joyful like a scream in color.

His fingers move over the strings with easy precision, not flashy, not showboating, just feeling it. Every note seems to hum up through the floorboards and settle under your skin.

He doesn’t need the spotlight. He is the rhythm tucked behind it.

 “ That’s Usopp. They did all of high school together, he’s funny,” Ace laughs, when you point at him.

“And then…”

And then the pièce de résistance, him in the flesh, your boyfriend’s little brother.

The main character in the life of your main character.

Luffy.

He’s already behind the drum kit, hammering away with reckless joy, each strike echoing through the venue like thunder made of laughter. There’s no build-up, no dramatic pause; he’s just in it, heart first, like he was born in the middle of a beat and never stopped moving.

He’s grinning wide, impossibly bright, a toothy smile so vivid it feels like a sound of its own. There’s something about it, infectious, loud, alive. He radiates this wild, untamed kind of energy, like he’s the sun at the center of a very messy, very musical universe.

He’s wearing a simple red tank top, the fabric clinging to his shoulders, already darkened in spots with sweat. He has too some dark makeup over and around his eyes, red eyeshadow and black liner, and around his neck sits a dark leather choker, snug and worn, the kind that says this means something. And hanging from it, a thin, weathered string, tied in a way only Luffy could pull off, attached to the one item that names the band itself.

The hat.

You don’t even need to see it to feel its presence, swinging somewhere behind him, caught up in the chaos of his drumming like a silent witness to everything he’s survived, and everything he’s yet to become.

This is him.

Loud. Bright. Unruly. Free.

And at the center of it all, exactly where he’s meant to be.

 “ Well, they seem… fun?” you say, in the chaos, and Ace laughs.

“ Yeah, they’re crazy. And also pretty good, I swear,” he says, holding up his beer when Sanji starts to sing.

And so you keep quiet, a soft smile on your lips and your lover close to your heart.

***

“ … and that’s all for tonight! Thank you for your time, and for this amazing ladies, my number is-“

“ Cut it out, love-cook!” The bassist grumbles into the mic, grabbing the singer by the scruff and shoving him offstage. The rest of the band quickly bow, laughing and shouting as they tumble backstage, their exit half-drowned by the crowd’s cheers and applause.

You laugh, a little tipsy, still clinging to your boyfriend’s arm.

 “They’re really good, Ace!” you half-shout over the lingering hum of the amps.

“I know, right?” he grins, clearly proud, then tilts his head back and downs the rest of his beer in one long gulp. “Anyway, once they finish packing up the gear, we were thinking of moving the party to my place.”

He smirks, eyes glinting in the low light.

“You feel like coming? Or I can drive you home now, if the night’s already been too much.”

“Of course I’m coming,” you say, mock-offended. “I still haven’t properly met them, have I?”

He chuckles, warm and easy like honey, the sound settling low in your chest.

“Well then,” he says, leaning in a little, “got any ideas for how to kill time? It’s gonna be at least half an hour…”

There’s a mischievous spark in his eyes as he winks, and you roll yours, sticking your tongue out.

“Do you have something in mind?”

“Oh, I was thinking something like…” He trails off, grinning.

The pause is suggestive. And very on-brand.

Ace grabs you by the neck of the T-shirt, getting closer and looking at you with those big, dark, languid eyes, and you can’t hold yourself from diving into his mouth.

Hungry, and hot, and sweet, with the beer taste still lingering on those soft lips, making you feel like you’re about to burst, the heat crawling under your skin, so good and holy, refreshing.

“Great, that’ll definitely be a highlight in therapy this week.”

You pull away abruptly, cheeks burning, as Ace turns to glare at the speaker.

The guy standing there is tall and lanky, leaning with one shoulder against a pillar like he owns the place, or at least thinks he does. His blond hair is wild and wind-blown, chopped short on the sides but left longer up top, the kind of deliberately messy that takes actual effort. A faint but striking scar curves down over his left eye, giving him a look that’s equal parts troublemaker and survivor.

He’s dressed in a blue denim vest and a faded blue band tee, sleeves cut off clean to show off toned arms adorned by an old black armband and some surprisingly delicate inkwork. Around his neck, a couple of layered chains jingle faintly when he moves, one of them clipped to what looks like a tarnished gear pendant. And then there are the shorts, black, slightly too snug, and very familiar.

Your eyes drop to the fraying hem, the tiny bleach stain on the left pocket-

Wait a second.

You flick your gaze to Ace’s shorts. No stain.

Back to the blond guy.

Identical.

“Oh my,” you mutter. “Are those-”

“SABO!” Ace explodes, voice somewhere between outrage, surprise and disbelief.

He just grins, all charm and zero shame, popping the collar of his sleeveless denim vest like this was always part of the plan.

“They looked better on me anyway,” he says with a wink.

Your boyfriend abruptly stands up, launching himself at the new arrival with a sudden, full-bodied tackle. The other guy just laughs, catching him like this happens all the time.

“Hi, big bro. Did’ya miss me?”

“You asshole!” Ace shouts, half-throttling him. “You told me you were staying in Lulusia all week!”

“Yeah, I lied. Big deal,” the blond shrugs, entirely unbothered.

Ace flips him the bird, muttering something obscene under his breath.

You blink, watching them bicker and scuffle like a pair of oversized kids, limbs tangled, insults flying. It’s like a live-action cartoon.

Then, in perfect unison, they both turn to you.

The blond smiles, warm and shameless. “You must be the oh-so-handsome boyfriend who turned my brother into a hopeless simp.”

“…And you must be the chaotic gremlin middle sibling,” you say, standing to greet him properly, and he throws his head back in a laugh that sounds like mischief.

“He’s funny. I’ll give you that, Ace.”

“Yeah, try and act like I don’t talk about him constantly,” Ace grumbles, nudging Sabo in the ribs.

Your eyes widen a little. “...You talk about me constantly, baby?”

Ace’s ears go red instantly, and he starts stammering out a weird combination of denials, apologies, and vowel sounds that make zero sense, like you’re not supposed to be surprised that he’s smitten about you. But maybe it was the pet name, you’re not sure.

Sabo cackles like he’s just won the lottery and leans in toward you, all mock-conspiratorial. “I’ll give you one better, he talks about you even when he’s asleep.”

“Not my fault I’m narcoleptic,” Ace mutters, clearly trying to change the subject. Sabo’s still grinning like a gremlin.

“You’re narcoleptic?” you ask, blinking. “You’ve never fallen asleep around me.”

They both freeze and look at you like you just caught them stealing from the cookie jar.

Well… never in an unusual context, your brain supplies helpfully.

Yeah, shut up, you.

I am you, dumbass.

“I- um- I never fall asleep… while I’m riding?” Ace blurts, fiddling with the cord of his bolo tie like it might save him, and then promptly turns beet red.

“I mean! I- I just-”

“Yeah, no. Cut it out. That was way too dirty to salvage,” Sabo smirks.

Ace punches him in the arm.

“Don’t worry, Yamato,” Sabo says, rubbing his shoulder and grinning. “He’s gonna nod off eventually. He just has some control over it, he’s stubborn like that. Embarrassed too. Doesn’t want you seeing him pass out mid-fry.”

“That’s not- shut up!” Ace growls, hitting him again.

“Oh come on, caffeine can only do so much,” Sabo continues cheerfully. “You should see this guy in the morning. Triple-shot espresso just to blink properly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re a caffeine addict?”

“Something like that, technically,” Ace mutters. “Doesn’t even work that well. But I can pretend it does, and that has to count for something.”

You chuckle, but there’s a flicker of recognition now.

You had seen him this morning, nursing his coffee like it was a lifeline, quiet in a way you hadn’t thought twice about. Just Ace being tired, you’d assumed.

But apparently it was something more.

Sabo just laughs harder, catching another punch for his efforts.

***

“ … and this is Nami, long-time friend and part-time manager” Ace says, finishing the proper introductions.

You bow slightly, with a polite smile.

“ Well, I’m Yamato. It’s nice to meet you all.”

Luffy and Usopp erupt in noisy agreement, practically vibrating with chaotic energy. Zoro gives you a small nod from where he’s leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Sanji flashes a smooth, practiced smile.

But Nami?

Nami stares at you, not unkindly, but sharply, like she’s already cataloging every detail about you.
Her eyes are locked on your hair, calculating. Scheming.

She’s got that kind of presence you feel before you see her: poised but dangerous, like she knows exactly how to get what she wants and how fast she can get it. Her vibrant ginger orange hair is cut in a sharp, asymmetrical bob, one side tucked behind a pierced ear with a small constellation of hoops and studs, coupled with the sharpest eyeliner work you’ve ever seen. She wears a black mesh top layered under a longshirt with hand-painted storm clouds on the back, paired with ripped high-waisted shorts and fishnets that’ve seen better days. A weathered utility belt slouches low on her hips, more fashion than function, even if you see a multitool, a switchblade, and a silver pen peeking out from it.

Chunky combat boots complete the look, scuffed and stomped-in, one lace untied like she dared it to trip her and won. There’s a faded tattoo wrapping around one thigh, looking something like a map, maybe something else entirely, and another one, bright blue, over her shoulder.

You’re pretty sure she could talk her way into or out of anything.

And right now? She’s definitely figuring out how to win you over, or dismantle you in thirty seconds or less.

You probably shouldn’t be scared. That’s not manly, right?

“ You have such pretty hair, Yamato. Do you dye it on your own?” she says, voice smooth, leaning over you.

You just nod, shy as usual, fiddling with your turquoise tips, sitting down beside Ace.

“ Did you ever think about cutting it?”

“ Cu- no, not at all! I love it.” you say, shocked, and she laughs.

“ Yeah, I can see that, sorry.”

Yeah, fuck it, she’s terrifying.

You just stare at her, startled, while Ace gives her a threatening glare that just makes her laugh harder.

“ As I’m sure you know already, Ace’s been talking about you and your pretty hair, and your handsome face and all of that since the day you met. I was simply making fun of him,” she says, still a smirk on her lips, and you turn to your boyfriend, blushed again.

“ Is today ‘Make-Fun-Of-Ace Day’ or something?” he mutters, pouting.

“Every day is ‘Make-Fun-Of-Ace Day’ if you commit yourself!” shouts Sabo, coming back from the kitchen with some more booze, and Luffy starts cackling.

“He never mentioned you were this… buff,” comes a new voice.

You turn and find yourself eye-to-eye with Zoro.

Sanji scoffs, next to him. “He surely did, Mosshead. You probably just weren’t listening, as usu-”

“Do you do any sports?” Zoro trumples over the other’s voice, still staring, and you just nod, feeling a little uneasy.

“I run a lot, and I used to do MMA. But I stopped about … ten years ago.”

“Why?”

 I started transitioning, I needed money and nobody wanted to train with me anymore; that enough for you? you think, bitterly, taking a deep breath.

“ I started to work, so no more time for training.” You say instead.

Zoro’s glare sharpens. “That’s dumb. You miss the motivation?”

“Nah, Zoro! Behave, you oaf!” Nami shouts at him from across the room. Sanji quickly kicks Zoro’s shin, but he just scoffs again.

Ace’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Zoro,” he simply calls him, voice suddenly flat.

Not loud. Disappointed.

That lands harder than yelling.

“That’s enough.”

The green-haired punk flinches, finally meeting Ace’s serious gaze. “...Of course. Sorry.”

Ace nods and stands up suddenly. “Thanks. Yama, I need a bit of air. You coming?”

You scramble on your feet, following him on the balcony.

As soon as you’re alone, he sighs, scratching the back of his head.

“ I’m sorry, darlin’. He didn’t mean it like that, I promise.”

“ Well, he’s allowed to have his opinion, I guess,” you shrug, but Ace shakes his head in disagreement.

“ No, that’s not… he’s… an idiot, sure, but he’s not mean. He seems kind of cynical, but really he’s just shy.”

“ You know him well.”

“ My brother has been bothering him since, like, fourth grade. He’s basically another little brother to me,” he says, looking out into the skyline, and you just smile, soft.

“ No foul taken, baby. Don’t worry.”

“ I do worry, cause I wanted things to go swell, and-“

“ And they are. If you say that he’s just shy, I believe you,” you answer, getting closer and holding him.

He drops his head over your chest, sighing.

“ … did you at least find the others nice?”

“ Your siblings are a menace to society.”

“ Yeah, fair point. I do love them for that too.”

***

It’s pretty late, when Nami starts yawning, and loudly demands them to leave.

Sanji gets up without a word, lightly kicking Zoro in the shin, fast asleep on the rug, and Usopp starts blathering about an illness related to the inability to drive at night.

“ I’ll drive,” grumbles Zoro, waking up abruptly, still sprawled on the floor.

“ Yeah, letting you drive is how people end up in missing persons reports. Gimme the keys, Usopp, I’ll do the honors, for my lovely princess,” says Sanji, yawning tiredly, and Zoro mutters something about a nosebleed pathetic…?

“ I’M NOT PATHETIC, MOSSHEAD!” shouts the blond, suddenly much more awake, and Nami just sighs.

“ I’m leaving…”

“ Yes, my darling, we’re all-“

“… without you, if you don’t hurry.”

The others nod tiredly, crowding the door, at least until Sanji pulls Zoro's ear, just above his shiny gold earrings.

 “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mossy?”

Zoro grumbles again, batting away the cook’s hand to straighten up, turning toward you.

“ I’m sorry about earlier. I’m a personal trainer, and I’d like to train with you. How does that sound?” he says, like he’s reading from somewhere over your head, to then turn over the others, making a face like he’s trying to say ‘Happy now?’

“ I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m broke,” you answer, with a raised eyebrow, and he turns toward you once again.

“ Oh, no money needed. I don’t take cash from friends,” he says, serious, and you stutter for a second.

“ I-uhm. Well…”

“ You’re going to train with Yamao? I wanna come too!” says loudly Luffy, running toward you all.

“ Well, you have to say yes, then,” smirks Ace in your direction, and you just gulp.

“ … sure. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.” You answer, polite as usual.

Zoro just shrugs, to then wave good-bye and disappear over the door.

Nami sighs, motioning toward him, silently instructing Usopp to go after him.

You watch Usopp groan dramatically and shuffle after Zoro like he’s been handed a death sentence, mumbling something about “babysitting muscleheads.” Sanji quietly follows them, waving goodbye and then stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Nami pulls on her jacket, already halfway out. “He’ll wait for you,” she says over her shoulder, almost casually, but with a knowing smile. The door swings shut behind them with a soft clunk.

Ace looks at you, crossing his arm in front of the door.

“ Well, I hope you’ll stay the night, since it’s way too late for you to get back home and I’m too drunk to drive you, pretty boy.” He says, mock-stern, waving a finger in front of you.

You chuckle lightly, cheeks warm as you nod, following him toward his bedroom.

“ You’re staying on the couch, Lu?” you hear Sabo’s voice from the other room.

 “Mhm,” you hear him say, sleepy. “Too late to walk. Plus, the couch is comfy. Kinda smells like snacks.”

You huff out a laugh, and after that the silence falls over the little flat.

Ace kicks off his boots with a tired sigh, then wipes the smudged makeup from his face. He rummages through a nearby drawer, finally pulling out something soft and clean.

“Here,” he says, holding out a crisp white t-shirt to you. It looks almost new, the fabric smooth and light.

You grin, trying to hide the flutter in your chest. “Pretty boy, I appreciate that, but there’s no way I’m fitting into one of your shirts.” You’re absolutely not staring at him as he starts changing, and Ace’s cheeks flush a warm shade of pink. And his neck, and his chest.

Cute.

“It’s not mine- I bought it for you, it’s your size.” He pauses, eyes hopeful. “Now, if you want to stay naked, I’m not going to fight you on that. But…”

“Wait. You bought it for me?” you whisper, voice catching a little.

He smiles softly, stepping closer to brush a short, gentle kiss against your lips.

And what a thing. To be in someone thoughts, even like this.

Your heart does a little flip.

You slip out of your clothes and pull the shirt on, the fabric hanging loose but comforting. Collapsing onto the bed, you sink into the mattress with a sigh.

Ace follows without hesitation, settling down and curling up over your chest, his breath warm against your skin, pleasant in spite of the climate. The quiet rhythm of his breathing grounds you both as the night wraps around you like a soft, protective blanket.

You shift slightly under Ace’s weight, careful not to bother him, and stare up at the ceiling. The apartment is quiet now, save for the low hum of the fridge and Luffy’s slow, steady breathing from the living room.

Somewhere outside, an engine turns over. Zoro, probably, if he managed to get the keys, leaving like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just called you a friend with all the grace of a man chewing gravel.

You think of the way he said it.

“I don’t take cash from friends.”

Like the word wasn’t natural in his mouth, but still true.

Your eyes flick toward the door, just for a second.

Maybe Nami was right. Maybe he’s not bad, just a little… lost in translation. A little rough around the edges. You’re not sure yet.

But for the first time, you think you’d like to be.

You close your eyes, the steady rhythm of Ace’s breath a quiet anchor against your skin, as you let the day finally settle.

Let the silence speak.

Chapter Text

You’ve been sitting on Ace’s worn-out couch for a while now, the cool air of his apartment a relief from the brutal heat outside. It’s the early hours of the afternoon, the kind of hour when the sun hangs heavy and unforgiving, painting long, wavering shadows on the sidewalk. You finished eating a while ago, just something simple, thrown together with lazy coordination and Ace’s insistence to help you, and the plates still sit on the coffee table, one tipped slightly against an empty glass.

The faint hum of the city drifts through the open window, mingling with the sharp scent of salt from the nearby harbor and the occasional distant squawk of gulls. The air inside is still, comfortably chilled, but it only makes the thought of stepping back out into the sweltering street feel even worse. You should’ve left at least an hour ago. You both know it. But you haven’t moved.

Ace flicks his eyes over to you with that familiar half-smile, like he’s reading your hesitation and letting you sit in it.

 “Hey,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, “don’t even think about leaving yet. Kiku’s calling soon, right?”

You nod, adjusting the laptop on the coffee table and grabbing your backpack. “Yeah. I was just gonna head out, actually.”

Ace shakes his head. “Nah. Stay here. First of all, it’s so hot you’re going to die as soon as you get out the door. And second, I wanna meet this Kiku you keep talking about, even if it’s just on screen.”

You glance up, surprised by how easy it is for him to say it. There’s something about the way he speaks, like he means every word. You can’t help but smile.

 “You actually want to meet her?” you ask, softly, a bit surprised, putting down the backpack.

“Yeah, why not?” Ace shrugs. “She sounds like trouble. Besides, you talk about her all the time.”

“ Well, she is my best friend,” you smile, fingers moving to start the call setup.

Ace leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “By the way, you coming to the little witch’s birthday? It’s soon.”

“Little witch?”

“ Ah, sorry, Nami, I mean. It’s on the 3^rd, but I think we’ll celebrate Saturday.”

“ Sure, I guess. Why the name?”

“ Zoro used to call her Witch, still does, really, hence I called her little witch. Old habit die hard, I guess,” he says, making a face.

Cute.

You laugh quietly, and Ace’s expression grows a little softer.

“I’ve known them since we were kids,” Ace begins, voice light but laced with nostalgia. “We met back when I was in middle school and Luffy was still in elementary. Zoro and Luffy ran into each other at this random kickboxing competition, or was it kendo? Anyway, Luffy was just there to shed off adrenaline or something. Garp was always pushing us to do sports, as kids.”

He waves his hands dramatically as he talks, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Zoro was at a different school then, but after that? He switched to ours. Totally not because Luffy dragged him there, of course.”

You snort. “Subtle.”

Ace grins wider. “And Nami? She was already at our school. Zoro knew her from before; they were in the same group home when they were little. Small world, huh?”

“They’ve both been adopted?” you ask, eyebrows lifting. His nod is quiet, thoughtful.

“Yeah. Maybe that’s why we all clicked. We were all kind of… patched together, y’know? Me, Nami, Zoro, Sanji. And in a way, Luffy and Usopp and Sabo, too. All different flavors of broken-child syndrome.”

You look at him, and your smile softens. His expression falters for just a second, like he’s not sure how much he should be saying.

“I mean... I told you that before, right? That I was adopted.”

You shake your head, then shrug gently. “It’s okay. You’re telling me now.”

And that’s why he has two months over the middle child, you think, the old voice in your head briefly resurfacing.

The laptop lets out a dignified little chime, call ready to connect! sparkles over the monitor.

Except now, you kind of wish you could keep talking about him instead.

“I can… reschedule?” you offer, glancing at the screen.

Ace shakes his head. “Nah. Let’s answer. We can finish this later.”

You take a deep breath, settling your hands on the keyboard.

Connecting…

 “Oden!” she greets warmly in Wano, her voice rich and bright. “Long time no see.”

Your face splits into a smile instantly. “Yuu-kiku! It’s so good to see you, girl. Hey, I’m with Ace right now, he wanted to meet you. Mind if we switch to Goan?”

“No problem, dear,” she replies smoothly, the transition seamless. Her accent is practically nonexistent now, polished by years of travel and international performances. “So, this is the infamous Ace I’ve been hearing about.”

Ace raises a hand in greeting, grin already blooming. “All good things, I hope.”

“Not at all!” Kiku laughs, eyes gleaming. “Yamato’s been ranting non-stop. Very dramatic. Lots of pining.”

“Excuse me,” you say, deadpan, “I am famously subtle and dignified.”

“Famously dramatic, you mean,” Kiku fires back, crossing her arms. “You sent me three voice messages in a row the day after your first date. One of them was just you breathing and saying, ‘He has freckles, Kiku. Freckles.’”

Ace raises both eyebrows at you, his smile teasing. “So that was the first impression, huh?”

You groan, covering your face. “This was a mistake.”

“No, no,” Kiku hums, already enjoying herself. “I like him.”

The three of you slip into easy conversation. Kiku asks about the town, how you’re settling into Foosha, and Ace quickly jumps in to mock your inability to handle the heat.

“Yama nearly melted the other day trying to walk two blocks,” Ace says, elbowing you gently. “He was ready to commit a crime for air conditioning.”

“It’s not even that hot,” Kiku says, stifling a laugh. “You’re not dying. You’re dramatic.”

You lean toward the camera. “It’s humid and the sun is cruel. I wasn’t built with this temperatures in mind, Kiku.”

Ace grins. “You should’ve seen him trying to pick an ice cream flavor. Fifteen minutes in front of the freezer. I aged.”

“They didn’t have yuzu! You know I take food seriously,” you huff. “It’s called being cultured.”

“Oh, please, you’re not that picky with-” Ace starts, and you cut him off with a scandalized look and a hand slapped over his mouth.

Kiku leans her chin on her hand. “You two are adorable. Gross, but adorable.”

“Still weird we’ve never met in person, though,” Ace says after a beat, directing it at Kiku.

“Well,” she shrugs, “I’m always touring. Dance life. You try flying across seven time zones with pointe shoes in your luggage and see how many weekends off you get.”

“She’s a ballerina,” you explain to a puzzled Ace. “Professional. Touring full-time. We’ve too only met once in real life, back when I first landed in Goa. She flew in to help me settle. Stayed, what, two days?”

“Yamato barely said a word at first,” Kiku adds, amused. “You were so awkward. And this was after we’d been friends online for, like, eight years.”

“Oh, come on!” you protest, while your cheeks go warm. “I cried all over you as soon as I saw you! I was just stirred up, emotional, call it whatever you want. You are the reason I’m here, after all. I thought you were a … a superhero.”

Ace laughs, glancing between you. “You kind of still talk about her like she is.”

Kiku shrugs, satisfied. “Well. I’ll take it.”

A comfortable silence settles in for a moment, and then, naturally, easily, you bring up Izou.

“He’s been helping me a lot since I moved here, with advice and all,” you say, quieter now.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t have lasted the first week without him, only a phone call away.”

Kiku’s expression shifts, still soft, but sharper somehow. Her eyes flicker, just for a moment.

“ My brother, you mean?”

“ Yeah? How many Izou do you know?” you ask, perplexed.

Ace glances between you both, his eyes shifting.

“ Izou… you know Izou because he’s Kiku’s brother?”

“ Yeah? Wait, why do you? Didn’t you work together?”

Kiku snaps her finger, like she finally placed the last puzzle piece.

“ OH! I know! You’re… what’s the name … Firefist! Firefist Ace, isn’t that so?”

Ace jerks his head toward the laptop, his face red as a tomato.

“ How- How do you…?”

Kiku laughs out loud, head tipping back. “That’s why you looked so familiar! Izou showed me pictures, back when he was still living in Foosha.”

“What? What are you talking about?” you ask, frowning.

She points at Ace, grinning ear to ear. “This punk was one of the reformed teens. TroubleTeen project. Izou used to run programs back in the day, he talked about him all the time. Fire hazard with a temper, I think were his exact words. And Firefist was his nickname, since he was basically a pyromaniac with a kick for roughthousing.”

Ace groans, sinking into the couch, hands dragging down his face. “Please stop.”

“No, no, don’t be shy now. You used to break windows and set things on fire and curse at the mayor, wasn’t that you?” she teases, fully enjoying herself.

You glance sideways at Ace, trying to hide a smirk. “You… never mentioned that part.”

“I didn’t think it’d come up! And anyway, not so soon,” he mutters, cheeks a bright shade of red.

Kiku chuckles. “Don’t worry, he mellowed out by eighteen, I think. Still angry, but less flammable. If I remember well, that is.”

“ Very well, indeed.” He answers, tight-lipped, and you grab his hand.

“ Hey. It’s okay. We all have a past, you know?” you murmur, softly.

Ace exhales slowly, visibly trying to recover. “It’s not… I’m not proud of that. But it’s true. Garp forced me join when I was fifteen. I was a walking disaster, and they didn’t know what to do with me. I’d been picking fights, getting into trouble with cops... He hoped maybe structure would fix me.”

He pauses, almost smirking. “It didn’t, honestly. And I didn’t make it easy, anyway.”

His voice softens as he continues, posture straightening. “But there were good people. Izou, and Marco, they became like older brothers to me, they didn’t treat me like a lost cause. And Whitebeard, the old man, he treated us like family. Real family. Not just troubled kids. Real people. He was…” his voice dies down, a sad frown taking over his pretty smile.

You squeeze his hand, soft, warm. His fingers tighten around yours.

“I could’ve left earlier,” he says. “Most people did after a couple years. But when Whitebeard got sick… I couldn’t go. He was the reason half of us stayed on our feet. After he passed, everything felt like it was coming apart. I just... couldn’t walk away from that.”

Kiku’s expression turns gentle. “My brother always talked about how proud he was of you. It’s intense, but I never expected you two to cross paths.”

Ace shifts in his seat. “It’s just… mh.” He gets quiet, avoiding your eyes.

“ Baby?” you ask, soft, and he shakes his head.

“Well, I… after all that, maybe you see me differently, now.”

You hold his hand once more, bringing it to your lips for a soft kiss. “Honestly? It just makes me like you more. You came through it. That says more than anything else.”

Ace finally meets your eyes, and there’s something raw in his face. Gratitude. Maybe disbelief.

Kiku sighs dramatically. “Alright. I like this. You two are a weirdly good match.”

Ace’s relief is almost visible. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.” He says, more like his usual self, grinning from ear to ear.

She laughs softly. “You two are a handful.”

Ace lets out a breath, finally leaning back into the couch like some weight has lifted off his shoulders. You can tell he’s still a bit on edge, but the warmth in his eyes when he looks at you tells you he’s grateful.

Kiku leans closer to the camera, smirking a little. “So, Ace, if you don’t mind me asking…what was it really like? TroubleTeen, I mean. Izou’s stories always end in weird metaphors and half-truths.”

Ace laughs quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“At first? Total disaster. I was like a fuse with no off switch. Garp figured the place might drill some sense into me, or wished, more likely. Honestly, it just made the explosions louder.”

He shakes his head, a touch of fondness in his voice. “I think I nearly set the rec room on fire … twice.”

He grows quiet for a moment, then continues.

“But... it changed. Izou kind of anchored everything. Marco had this way of keeping people from tearing each other apart. And Whitebeard, even when the cancer hit, never let the place fall apart. He kept showing up. So I did, too.”

Ace glances down, thumb brushing yours.

“I started working there when I aged out. Did odd jobs. Saved everything I could. That’s how I opened Baterilla, eventually, even if I still needed a bit of help. But those years... they stuck with me. Some of it hurt like hell, but some of it was real good, too. The kind you don’t shake off.”

Kiku nods slowly, her eyes reflecting something deeper than just curiosity. “Sounds like it was rough, but you found family there.”

Ace shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. “Yeah, family with scars and fire. But family nonetheless.”

You smile at the two of them, feeling the threads that tie your worlds together growing stronger. “It’s crazy how tangled all of this is, huh? Friends, family, and history, all woven tight.”

“ What’s crazy is that we’re still connected, after all of this years.” Ace says, his smile getting bigger.

“ I really should text Marco, I haven’t heard him in a while.”

“ … Wait, this Marco you’re telling me about is not Phoenix, right?” you ask, suddenly taken by this though.

Ace stares at you.

“ … Yes?”

“ … he’s my RA in uni. He’s the one that invented the e-sport scholarship.”

“ Yeah, and that’s the reason Izou knew about that,” Kiku laughs, as you and your boyfriend just stare at each other for a second and then laugh along.

You sit back, the weight of the past easing as the future stretches open. The connection you share, with Ace, with Kiku, with the lives and stories that brought you here, give you purpose. Feels like a fire you don’t have to fight alone.

And then, Kiku tilts her head thoughtfully, a mischievous grin spreading over her lips. “You know what we need to do next?”

Ace groans once more. “No. Please, no.”

She ignores him. “We need to call Izou.”

***

A few days later, after entirely too much scheming between you and Kiku, the plan is set in motion.

You’re back at Ace’s place, sitting cross-legged on his couch, laptop in front of you, the familiar loading chime of a video call ringing through the speakers. Kiku’s already online, stretching with her arms over her head, looking far too smug for someone who hasn’t told her brother anything yet.

Ace fidgets beside you. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” you say honestly, with a smile hovering on your lips. “But we’re doing it anyway.”

“He’s going to roast me alive,” Ace mutters.

“He’s going to love it,” Kiku says, deadpan. “In the way that makes him roll his eyes, sigh dramatically, and then tell you what you did wrong.”

“Great,” Ace mutters, pulling a pillow into his lap like a shield. “Just … great.”

The screen splits, and suddenly Izou’s face appears, immaculate as always, hair tied back, expression neutral and professional as he glances between the three of you.

“What’s this?” he asks immediately, in Wano. “Conference call? Are we staging an intervention?”

“Hi to you too,” you answer in Goan, trying not to laugh. “It’s not an intervention.”

“Unless it’s for Ace’s fashion sense regarding his pillowcases,” Kiku quips.

“Hey!”

Izou raises an eyebrow, finally giving the screen a proper once-over. His gaze settles on Ace.

“Wait a minute,” he says, voice suddenly sharper. “Is that-”

You and Kiku glance at each other. You give her the smallest nod.

“Surprise!” She says lightly.

Izou squints. Then blinks. And then?

“WHAT.” He leans closer to the camera. “Is that- Firefist? Firefist Ace?”

“Oh gods,” Ace mutters, holding the pillow like a lifeline. “It’s happening.”

Izou sits back, scandalized in the most Izou way possible. “You mean to tell me that my ex-juvenile delinquent of a firestarter is-” he waves a hand at the screen, “-dating Yamato?! My Yamato?! The Yamato I told about your parlor?!”

You’re trying very hard not to laugh. “Technically, yes.”

Ace covers his face with one hand. “Izou-”

“- this kid I’ve been yelling at over text for like, five years, the one who liveblogged a Swan Lake performance while calling the villain ‘a dramatic pigeon’, and cried at the ending, is dating you? The boy who once set a vending machine on fire because it wouldn’t give him tea?!”

“It was coffee and it stole my money,” Ace mutters. “You know I live on caffeine and bad choices.”

Kiku wheezes off-camera.

Izou dramatically puts a hand to his forehead. “Oh, I’ve cursed myself. I created this chaos. This is my fault.”

“Uh, Yeah? You literally told me about the parlour,” you remind him, smirking.

“I did not tell you to fall in love with my most volatile employee!”

“I don’t even work for you anymore,” Ace protests, still holding his pillow.

“That’s not the point!”

There’s a beat.

Kiku finally cuts in, her voice warm. “He’s different now, Izou. You know that, you told me yourself.”

Izou lets out a sigh so dramatic you’re convinced it was rehearsed.

He folds his arms. “It’s just strange, alright? I still remember when he barely reached my shoulder and wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t instant ramen and beef jerky.”

“Hey,” Ace grumbles. “I eat vegetables now.”

“I’m so proud,” Izou deadpans.

Kiku laughs, eyes gleaming “You should be! He’s been telling me all about how you sent Oden straight to Ace’s parlour.”

“ He wanted to have some piercings and I knew a place, what was I supposed to go? Didn’t think we’d end up in this.”

Ace’s face flushes a deep red, and he scratches the back of his neck nervously. “ Yes, you don’t need to tell me, I know I’m not good enough for him.”

You all go quiet.

Is that what were you worried about, pretty? You think, in a flash, while your heart does a weird flip.

“ … that’s not at all what I said, Ace. “Izou says, suddenly serious. “ It’s just that, as a teen-“

“Yeah, well, I was a bit of a disaster back then. You probably don’t want to be reminded of that.”

Izou chuckles, wagging a finger. “Oh, you don’t say. I remember you nearly burning down the place more times than I can count.”

Ace groans, covering his face for a second before peeking out. “Not helping.”

Izou leans back, folding his arms, less theatrical, more thoughtful. “Still. You went from chaos incarnate to someone I’d actually trust near flammable materials. That’s something. You fought like hell to be better, and I saw it. Don’t think I’d be sitting here if I didn’t believe in the person you are now. Of course you’re good enough. Don’t let your old guilt fool you.”

You squeeze Ace’s hand, a quiet show of support.

Ace swallows, looking away.

You clear your throat. “If it helps… he really means a lot to me. And I think maybe I mean something to him too.”

“You do,” Ace says quietly, hand brushing yours where it rests on the cushion between you.

Izou looks between the two of you, expression shifting. The sarcasm completely gone. His voice, when he speaks again, is softer.

“I’m happy for you,” he says. “I am. Really.”

You smile.

“But,” he adds, pointing a stern finger at Ace, “if you hurt him, I will come for you. And I will bring ballet shoes. Pointy ones.”

“I believe you,” Ace says, hands up in surrender.

“And for the record,” Izou mutters, rubbing at his temple, “I do not want to think about my former TroubleTeen having a functioning adult sex life. I raised you better than that.”

Kiku groans. “Oh my god, he just said it-”

“IZOU,” you shout, face burning. “We’re not even-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Ace mutters. “He knows when you’re lying, trust me.”

Izou waves a hand, laughing now, warmer, easier. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you alone. Sort of. You’ll be hearing from me. Frequently.”

Kiku smirks. “Told you he’d love it.”

“I didn’t say I loved it,” Izou grumbles.

“ But you did, didn’t you?” you laugh, and he shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

The three of you talk a little longer, teasing and catching up, and when the call finally ends, the screen going dark, the room feels different. Lighter.

Ace leans back against the couch, exhaling. “That could’ve gone worse.”

You grin. “You were so red I thought you were gonna burst a blood vessel.”

“He’s still terrifying.”

“He’s also the reason we met,” you remind him.

Ace turns his head, looking at you properly.

“Yeah,” he says, softer. “I guess I owe him more than I thought.”

You nudge your shoulder into his. “You owe him, and I owe him. But mostly, he just gets to gloat now.”

Ace groans again, throwing his head back.

You smile, leaning into him.

Outside, the sun’s already setting. And inside, you feel something settle: not an ending, not even a beginning, really, but something that feels right. Real. Tangled, complicated, warm.

And maybe a little bit scandalous.

Chapter Text

As soon as the bell rings, you let out a long sigh, relief washing over you.

Done for the day, at last.

Sure, you’re taking every additional summer class, a need more than a want considering you arrived mid-term in spring, but this does not mean you are happy about it.

And the heat of July clinging to your neck and back, covered by one of those dumb t-shirts you bought soon after moving, is proof enough.

You had to settle for the biggest things the shop had, being tall and broad, meaning a lot of plain shirts, and some… questionable patterns.

Like the bananas on the one you’re wearing right now.

Not my fault I’m tall, you mutter to yourself.

And beefy, too, a small voice, much too similar to your boyfriend’s, pipes up, catching you off guard.

You shake your head, brushing the thought away, and quickly stuff your laptop and water bottle into your bag. No goodbyes. You don’t have many friends here yet, meaning none at all.

The other students are nice enough, and you can manage a certain amount of small talk without dying inside, but that’s where it ends.

You’re an antisocial nerd, plain and simple.

Honestly, it’s a miracle from the gods that you haven’t ruined your chances with Ace.

Apparently, he likes nerds.

And hey, it’s not your fault your brain practically short-circuits at the mere thought of deeper conversations.

Passing through the classroom doors, your phone buzzes insistently in your jeans pocket.

A phone call, the holy terror of every human being incapable of socializing, you think in a flash, grabbing the phone like it’s about to explode.

But it is your boyfriend's face that refreshes you, his big, pretty smile blessing your screen.

“Hello, hello?”

“ Hey, darlin’. Done with class?”

“ Yeah, finally. I was about to head home.”

“ Got work this afternoon?”

“ No, actually, Kawamatsu gave me the day.”

You don’t bother explaining to him that your boss, also a Wano native, gave you the day to prep for Tanabata, one of the most important festivals that you used to celebrate in your home country.

Here? Not so much.

“Perfect! Wanna swing by? We can have lunch together.”

“ At the parlour?”

“ No, my place.”

Your cheeks flush immediately, heat prickling behind your ears. Ace keeps talking, completely unaware of the weight his words carry, or maybe the way they’ve made your heart speed up. It’s not just about lunch. Inviting you to his place, even if this is not the first time, means crossing a line you never feel right for, or prepared at that, and the sudden closeness makes your stomach twist. And yet the though makes your heart go all gooey.

Just like the first time.

You bite your lip and murmur, fiddling with a loose strand of hair, trying to steady your voice.

“… sure. Do you want me to cook something?”

 “ Ah, I’m inviting you, that wouldn’t be fair. Also, I have nothing in the fridge. Luffy’s fault.”

“ How did you survive before meeting me?”

“Out of spite, and sheer luck, I suppose.”

You chuckle. Honestly, you’re the lucky one here.

“ I’ll be there in ten, babe.”

You slip the phone back into your pocket and take a slow breath, feeling the sticky summer air wrap around you like a heavy blanket. The hallway buzzes with the scattered noise of students packing up, their voices a distant hum compared to the pounding of your own thoughts. Ten minutes isn’t much, but somehow it feels like enough time to shed some of this day’s weight, at least until you step through Ace’s door, where things are a little lighter, a little warmer. You straighten your shoulders, trying to shake off the exhaustion, and then you start running.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

***

You scratch your nose absent-mindedly, waiting for your boyfriend to open the door.

Should’ve brought something, you think suddenly, biting your lip.

Your mind suddenly flies to your first time here, at this very apartment.

It has been nearly a month since that night, the first time you’d come over to Ace’s place after you officially started dating. He’d told you while you were at the parlour, with the intention of just keeping him company, that he had the place all to himself that evening.

You hadn’t thought twice before teasing him, your heart fluttering with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

“So,” you’d said, raising an eyebrow, “you have the place to yourself?”

Ace’s grin was lazy but full of something unreadable, seated on his desk like usual. “Yeah. No Sabo. No Luffy. Just me.”

And, yeah, you misread the meaning entirely. The way his eyes flickered, the slight smirk on his lips…

It felt like an invitation of a very different kind.

“Oh?” you teased back, stepping closer, in between his legs, opened like an invitation, lowering your voice, “Does that mean... you want me to come over?”

Ace chuckled, a flush blooming over his oh-so-darling freckles, He shook his head, the playful look fading into something softer, quieter.

“Nah. I just wanted some peace and quiet, honestly. But you’re welcome to crash. Just wasn’t planning for fireworks.”

Your cheeks warmed, the moment suddenly shifting from playful anticipation to a calm kind of intimacy that felt even more real. No grand gestures, no flashy romance, just the two of you sharing space, finding comfort in silence and the soft glow of the TV, half-eaten takeout containers all over the coffee table.

You realized then and there that intimacy with Ace wasn’t always about what you expected. Sometimes, it was in the stillness, the unspoken trust, and the gentle closeness that didn’t need words.

But the mindblowing sex was also-

The door opens, brusquely gripping you away from your memory and your dirty thoughts, and a familiar blonde head peeks out.

“ Yamato! You made it!”

“ … oh, hi, Sabo! Didn’t know you were in town.”

“ Yeah, who does?” he chuckles, moving aside to let you in.

“In an unexpected turn of events, Luffy and I just happened to get home at the same time, so we’ll be having lunch with you and Ace.” He adds, gesturing with his hands in the air.

“That’s nice,” you say softly, leaving your bag by the door and turning toward the room.

The living room is the kind of space that feels like a constant exhale, loud, a little messy, but undeniably lived-in. Most of it has Ace’s stamp all over it, from the half-burned incense on the windowsill to the slightly scorched potholder hanging by the kitchenette. The kitchenette itself is functional in the loosest sense: a few pans piled in the sink, a bottle of cooking oil with a sticky ring around the cap, and a big fridge plastered with magnets and doodles Luffy made with a marker meant for something else.

The couch has definitely seen better days. Its dark cushions sunken from too many naps and Netflix marathons, and it’s actively occupied by an upside-down Luffy. A slightly crooked lamp stands loyally beside it, next to a rug that doesn’t match anything else in the room. A coffee table is sandwiched between the couch and the TV, covered with an insane amount of coffee cups, snack wrappers, a deck of cards, and a single glove no one seems to claim.

The TV stand is more chaos than furniture, cables tangled like seaweed, game controllers fighting for space with random knick-knacks, and a speaker that crackles like it’s auditioning for retirement. The TV itself is often on, even if no one's watching; today, it’s playing a butterfly documentary, likely put on by Luffy before he got distracted by snacks.

Plants, mostly the unkillable kind, pothos and snake plants and one brave aloe, sit by the balcony door and in random corners. Ace insists he waters them. Luffy says the rain does it. One has googly eyes taped on.

The dining table in the middle of the room looks more like a battlefield than furniture: half-covered in takeout menus, receipts, loose change, and what seems like the beginnings of a puzzle no one will ever finish. A container of wasabi peas sits dangerously close to someone’s notes, Sabo’s, if you had to guess. Ace is currently seated in one of the four mismatched chairs, the orange one.

Near the door, a storage unit groans under the weight of kicked-off shoes, helmets, spare keys, and an umbrella someone swears they’ll fix. There’s a neat little stack of books there too, Sabo’s touch, like a quiet little rebellion against the rest of the room’s chaos. His touch is less evident, but the occasional neatly folded throw blanket or properly placed coaster gives away when he’s been around.

The whole place feels like a mix between a frat house and a hug. It’s loud, unpredictable, and half-falling apart. But it’s home, in the strange, sticky way only something made by Ace and Luffy could be.

It’s the home you always wished for.

“ It’s really not!” half-shouts your boyfriend, from the table, amidst what it seems like a million flyers spread across it.

“ … isn’t it?”

“Oh, Yama! Hi, darlin’!” Ace jumps up, a big grin on his face, almost running over to plant you a kiss.

“Please, disaster child, I’d like to keep my nightmares Ace-less as long as possible,” deadpans Sabo. Ace makes a face at him.

“You can close your eyes, you know. It’s free.”

“I’d argue, but I’ve already lost IQ points just by being in your vicinity.”

Ace sticks his tongue out at Sabo, then pulls you toward the table. Sabo follows, taking a seat into his chair, the yellow one.

Luffy, still upside-down on the couch and intently stuffing his face with chips, gives you a half-hearted wave in passing.

Is he not going to choke, eating like that? You think, to then shrug, turning your attention back to your boyfriend.

“Here, Yama! I wanted to order some takeout but have no idea what you’d like.”

“I’d say his taste is horrible, considering he’s dating you. But maybe you’re just a mishap in judgment.”

“How about you mind your own business, Sabo? I’m handsome.”

“Your confidence is truly immune to evidence.”

Is this what a normal sibling relationship looks like? you wonder, a bit confused, as you grab one of the flyers from the table.

“Oh, yikes. Everything here is spicy.”

The witty banter suddenly quiets, and when you look up, even Luffy is staring at you.

“… Is it something I said?”

“You don’t like spicy food?” Ace asks, incredulous, while Sabo bursts out laughing like a maniac.

“Karma! Karma for all the times you bought the spiciest dishes just to avoid sharing, you capsaicin gremlin!”

Ace turns toward him, red-faced.

“Cut it out, plot twist!”

“Plot twist…?” you ask, confused.

“Ah, I’m adopted,” Sabo says with a grin, and Ace rolls his eyes.

 “We’re all adopted, genius. Sabo just … came to us a little later in life.” he mutters, grabbing one of the flyers and swatting Sabo with it.

“That’s not even a plot anymore, it’s just our origin story.”

“ Shut up, Batman-wannabe.”

“I prefer Red Robin, thank you. And anyway, Luffy wasn’t adopted.”

“He wasn’t?”

“I wasn’t?”

“Since we’re doing origin story, Yamato,” Sabo says, leaning back in his chair and ignoring his younger brother. “Dragon, our dad, is the one that took us in. He’s not a big talker, unlike the little one, but he always had warm food ready, and his door was always open. Ace was already there when I showed up, and I think I was … nine?”

“Nine and scrawny,” Ace says. “You had a bowl cut.”

“You had a rat tail!”

“You wouldn’t recognize style if it hit you in the face,” Ace says, smugly.

“I distinctly remember you wearing a carton box for a shirt once,”  Sabo shoots back.

Luffy, still upside-down on the couch and halfway into the chip bag, chimes in, “I remember! Sabo cried the first night with us.”

“I didn’t cry!”

“You definitely cried,” adds Ace, nodding.

“Trauma is valid!” Sabo insists.

You laugh softly, trying to keep up. “So… Dragon took all of you in?”

Ace nods. “Pretty much. Well, Luffy was already there when I got there at four, he’s Dragon’s kid by blood, but no one ever made a big deal out of it. He never acted like we were any less his sons. Just kind of... handed us toothbrushes and made space.”

 “He showed up to every school festival. Always stood way in the back. Never said much, but he brought snacks,” says Sabo, a bit softer now.

Luffy perks up. “He makes the best burritos.”

Ace grins. “Yeah. And he always packed three, even before Sabo lived with us.”

Sabo pauses, then adds with a small, fond smile, “Says he was waiting for me. I used to think it was coincidence. He’s not great with words, but he always showed up when it counted. He never drew lines. We were just… family. That was it.”

Luffy flashes a peace sign over his head, eyes never leaving the blaring TV screen. “Ace stole my snack once. I punched him. That’s family.”

“Only because I let you,” Ace scoffs from his seat, tossing a once-flyer, now paper ball at him.

“You cried,” Luffy adds, a smug grin tugging at his lips.

“I was six!” Ace shoots back, voice cracking with indignation.

“Skill issues,” Sabo chimes in with a lazy smirk, lounging with his legs propped over the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You look at the three of them, messy, loud, too much, and feel something warm settle in your chest.

“I get it now,” you murmur.

“Hm?” Ace tilts his head, turning toward you.

“Why you three are like this. It just... makes sense. Disaster siblings. Chaos-forged.”

Ace beams. “Dragon calls us high-functioning hurricanes, but yeah, close enough.”

Luffy chimes in, once more “Yeah, Dragon’s nice. Sends me pizza money. Always checks in, even if it’s just, like, a single thumbs-up emoji. And he brought me my brothers. What more can I ask?”

There’s a short pause. The two elders stare at the younger brother, suddenly springing into action to throw themselves over him.

“ Oh, you golden retriever of a human!”

“ My cute, cute hat gremlin brother! What would we do without you?!”

“ Die?”

Sabo sighs, settling back over the couch, leaving Ace sprawled over Luffy’s, and flips a flyer over. “Alright, chaos children. Emotional time is over, hungry time is starting. Can we please just pick a restaurant before I wither away?”

“Wait!” Luffy suddenly bolts upright, almost launching Ace away. “Can we get that one curry place? The one with the cartoon lion on the menu?”

Ace sighs dramatically from the floor, having tumbled there, and throws his head back like this is the greatest betrayal he’s ever suffered.

“Well, there goes all the good stuff. Guess baby-tier menu it is.”

You cross your arms, sticking your tongue out at him. “Sorry for having taste buds and not a stomach made of molten steel.”

Sabo grins. “I’m just glad we’re finally ordering something edible. Last time, I lost a bet and a layer of my tongue.”

Luffy perks up. “Can we get dumplings too?”

Ace raises an eyebrow.

“Only if they’re lava-filled.”

“Deal,” you say.

Eventually, the order is placed, and the chaos is subdued by hunger, just like Sabo said.

And while waiting, sprawled on the couch with Luffy talking your ear off, Sabo arguing half-heartedly from the floor, and Ace drooping asleep over your shoulder, you wonder if Dragon ever knew, handing out those toothbrushes and rice balls, what kind of family he was quietly building.

He probably did.

***

The takeout spread out in front of you all looks like a small colorful storm; mild curry bowls, fried rice, four bao buns, some pork ramen, kung pao chicken, steamed dumplings, chow mein noodles, crispy spring rolls, sweet-and-sour chicken, mild mapo tofu, sticky ribs, scallion pancakes, and that suspiciously red “boundary tester” dish Ace insisted on trying. There’s also an entire side tray of egg tarts and two tubs of sesame balls, just because Sabo said dessert counts as a separate stomach.

Luffy sits cross-legged on the floor, his back against the couch, happily shoveling dumplings into his mouth with no regard for table manners or utensils. His cheeks are stuffed, and every now and then he throws a sideways glance at Ace on the couch, as if silently daring him to steal another snack. Sabo smirks every time, slurping happily his ramen, while comfy on a bean bag chair he pushed out of the bedroom to leave the couch to you and your boyfriend, placing it next to his little brother.

Ace grabs the receipt and holds it up like a trophy.

“Alright, disaster team, listen up! Since I’m the eldest, I’m paying for lunch. No arguments.”

You blink, caught off guard. “But- I invited myself over, so-”

Ace cuts you off gently, lowering his voice just enough to keep the others from catching the shift.

“First of all, you’re my guest, and well… I kinda know things are tight for you right now, with uni and work and all of that. So, don’t worry, all right?”

He glances away quickly, eyes flickering with a mix of care and a desire not to embarrass you in front of Sabo and Luffy.

They are grandly ignoring you anyway, bickering over the last steamed dumpling.

You felt a warm squeeze in your chest, the subtle protection in his words hitting deeper than any bold declaration. You offered a small, grateful smile, trying to steady your voice.

“Thanks, Ace. I appreciate it.”

Sabo, lounging in his chair, cracks a mischievous grin and throws in his two cents. “Whoa, since when did Ace turn into the responsible eldest brother? What’s next, him organizing a family budget?”

Ace snorts, but the smile in his eyes softens. “Money is a scam and society is fake, buddy. But I can’t have my little siblings starving because of me. I’m the eldest.”

At this, you try to protest once more. “But, by your own logic, I’m older than you. Shouldn’t I pay?”

Ace laughs, shaking his head as he rolls his eyes. “Age’s just a number. You’re older, yeah, but I’m the eldest brother here. That counts more.”

“ Yeah, daddy is a state of mind.”

“ Sabo, I’m gonna choke you in your sleep.”

Sabo shrugs with a playful smirk, prudently changing the subject.

“Lucky me, the middle child, gets to stay out of this mess.”

Luffy, still sprawled on the floor and chewing on the last dumpling like it was the best thing in the world, lifts his head just long enough to shout, “I vote Sabo pays next! I’m just here for the snacks.”

“You food-stealing disaster, was that the last one?!”

You grin, crossing your arms and leaning back in your spot on the couch. “Being older and part of the disaster team should at least earn me a spot in pole position for next time, right?”

Ace’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he shakes his head, throwing himself back on the couch next to you. “Like hell. You’re off the hook, handsome, just because I like you.”

The room bursts into laughter, the noise wrapping around you like a familiar, messy blanket. But when the laughter dies down, Ace’s voice softens, just enough that only you could hear.

“Really, I just want you to breathe easy. Don’t worry about this stuff.” He gives your hand a light squeeze, raising his arm to hold you.

“Consider it me looking out for you, in my own messy way.”

You meet his gaze, feeling something warm and fierce in his eyes. A quiet promise, a shield.

Your voice caught slightly. “I’m lucky to have you.”

Ace’s grin softens into something almost shy. “That’s my line.”

Meanwhile, Sabo leans back in his chair, amused and relaxed. “Well, since Ace’s paying, the real question is, who’s buying next time?”

Ace’s grin goes wide and challenge-ready. “Challenge accepted. Next meal’s on me, again, plot twist.”

Luffy, still happily chewing away on the floor, gives a muffled, “I’m in,” as a whole bao bun disappears into that black hole of a mouth.

You laugh softly, feeling the warmth of family settling inside you. For the first time, at peace.

Chapter Text

The balcony creaks under Ace’s weight as he shifts beside you, stretching one leg across the peeling floorboards. The sun’s low enough now that the edge of the roof casts long slashes of shadow across his bare shoulders. He’s stripped down to a loose white tank top that clings in places where he’s still damp from sweat, the fabric thin and worn soft at the edges.

His black denim shorts are ripped just above the knee, threads hanging like scars. One pocket is held together with a diagonal line of mismatched safety pins, and there’s a patch stitched over the back with what looks like an old band logo, half-faded by sun and time. A few silver rings glint on his fingers, his usual red-and-white bracelet at his wrist, and a single chain hangs low around his neck, catching the light every time he shifts.

You pass him the last rice ball from the chipped plate between you.

 “Mercy,” he mutters, taking it anyway, like he hasn’t eaten three already.

“You’re quite a handsome devil, but if you keep making these, I’m gonna start thinking you’re trying to fatten me up.”

You lean back against the railing, smirking. “Bold of you to assume that wasn’t the plan, pretty boy.”

He grins, rice grains stuck to his cheek. “Guess I’ll just have to … roll with it.”

It’s easy, moments like this. Simple. There’s a rhythm to your life here now; quiet dinners, grocery runs with half-forgotten lists, waking up tangled in a pile of limbs and sun-warmed sheets. Even the cicadas have become part of the soundtrack. Loud, relentless, alive.

And it’s strange, how quickly this little corner of the world has started to feel like a place you belong. Maybe not feel, but almost. Like maybe, if you keep breathing long enough, the air will finally agree to stay in your lungs. And you don’t have to run anymore.

Your eyes flick toward the water, still glowing faint gold in the sunset. The breeze lifts your hair. You close your eyes.

***

The first night alone in Foosha, the quiet hits you like a punch.

Not the sharp kind, not loud. The kind that waits. The kind that stares at you from the corners of a too-small apartment with nothing in it yet except secondhand chairs and a mattress still rolled in plastic.

You sit on the floor, laptop open in your lap, fingers hovering above the keys like you might reach for someone, but you don’t know who.

Outside, the crickets start up, soft and patient. The waves drag themselves across the shoreline like they’re too tired to crash. The smell of wood smoke floats through the open balcony door.

You’re not crying, but you’re not breathing right, either.

You’d imagined this move a hundred ways.

Foosha had been the word you repeated like a promise, soft, round syllables, a small town with a smaller port and a reputation for being safe. Kind. Quiet. An E-sports scholarship, your ticket out. And some friends, maybe, to help you out.

You’d never heard of it until Kiku sent the listing in a group chat, all caps:

[Yu-KIKU]: this place is TINY and CUTE and no one will know you. cheap rent. do it.

[IZOU]: I checked the crime map. literally zero reported stabbings. move. live. heal, kiddo.

It had been a joke, at first.

For you at least.

You’d been sitting on the floor of your father’s office, barely twenty and still covered in bruises, head full of ideas, plans, delusions maybe, the glow of the desk lamp painting ugly shadows under your eyes, over your arms. He’d told you again that day how you were squandering everything. That you owed him your future. That boys like you didn’t survive on borrowed time.

You’d said nothing. Just nodded. Nothing to say, not anymore. Just swallowed it. Like always.

And then you saw Kiku’s message.

You messaged back, hand shaking.

[ODEN]: do you think i could actually go?

It took Kiku all of three seconds to reply.

[Yu-KIKU]: yes.

[IZOU]: you deserve to want things.

And maybe that was the moment. Not the move itself. Not the planning, or the scheming, or the last time your father’s voice snapped down your spine like a whip.

It was the words.

You deserve to want things.

***

The first few days in Foosha are a blur of movement, even after the years it took you to actually do it: papers to sign, things to scrub down, a fridge to fill with groceries you can’t cook yet. You burn rice twice. You give up and eat cup noodles on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the stars, so foreign to your eyes.

And for a while, that’s enough.

Just… being not there. No one watches you walk down the street. No one misgenders you. No one asks what your father’s planning, where he is, what he’s doing. You’re no one’s investment. You’re no one’s proof of concept. You’re just a guy who can’t make rice.

I’m no one.

The thrill of it is dizzying. You walk without looking over your shoulder. You smile at strangers and dogs alike. You let the sun touch your face without apology.

For the first time, your body feels like it’s yours. Like you own all of it. Like you can stitch together all of the snippets of yourself you managed to bring with you.

But the quiet always comes back.

It creeps in when your phone doesn’t buzz for hours. When you laugh at something and realize there’s no one there to hear it. When you want to talk about the sky, or the funny-looking cat on your windowsill, and all you have is a blank room and a cracked mug that used to hold tea.

***

It’s the fourth night when it really sinks in: you don’t know anyone here.

Not really. Not yet.

Izou doesn’t live in Foosha, not anymore. And Kiku never did, back at her own life after just a day with you.

You’re alone.

The thought doesn’t make you panic, not really. But it does hollow you out a little. Like all the fight you used to escape burned up faster than you planned, and now you’re standing in the ashes wondering what comes next.

You send a voice message to Kiku. Your voice sounds raw. Not quite broken. Just honest, in the worst way possible.

“Thanks. For everything. I- uhm. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m doing it. And that’s because of you.”

She replies a few minutes later. Her voice is warm and sure.

“I’m proud of you, Oden. You’re out. That’s not small. That’s huge.”

Izou sends you a meme, a old school one, revealing his age. It's dumb and comforting.

Then, nothing again.

Just the balcony. The sea. The kind of silence that doesn’t hurt. Not yet.

***

And now, everything is different. You still have you apartment, tiny and cute, and mostly empty, since you spend all of your free time here, in this very house, on this very balcony, with your very boyfriend.

And still sometimes it feels like a daydream.

A boyfriend? You, socially inept nerd-ass? And so pretty, so loveable, so…

Ace lets out a quiet burp, shameless, and slouches dramatically across the railing, making you snort.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Romantically disgusting,” he corrects, chugging his beer.

“Barely.”

He casts you a sidelong glance. “Only cause you’re still trying to play it cool, handsome.”

You open your mouth to fire back, but then you catch his eyes, and you stutter. Soft, unreadable, dark, like he’s thinking something he hasn’t quite decided how to say yet.

He’s like that sometimes. Fire on the outside, quiet smoke underneath, his dusky eyes to the sea.

There’s something about the way Ace stares out at the horizon sometimes, like he’s chasing ghosts you still have to meet.

The balcony's rusted railing is warm beneath your arms, soaked with the last of the day’s sun. That sticky, breathless kind of heat that clings to early August. Foosha’s quiet stretches out in the distance, crickets starting up in the grass, waves lapping soft against the shore. You can smell the sea salt, the smoke from someone’s old grill, the faint scent of yuzu from Ace’s hair, still stealing your shampoo, like he thinks you won’t notice.

You kind of like it, your smell on him. Like it belongs to him, the same he does to you.

It’s been a couple of months since you got together, even if in a way it feels like you’ve known him your whole life. This place looks more and more like a home to your heart, and the balcony’s become your favorite place to sit when the world slows down. It’s the kind of stillness you’re still getting used to. It’s the kind of stillness you’re still unsure if you’re allowed to enjoy.

Ace leans beside you, barefoot and beer bottle hanging from one hand.

“You never really talk about your family,” he says.

He says it gently, no pressure, no pull. His usual kindness shining in his careful words. Just a question, hanging loose in the space between you. Like he already knows the answer won’t be easy. Like you’re worth asking regardless. And maybe you’re starting to believe that you are.

You flinch a little anyway. Just a breath. Just enough to know it hit something.

You could lie. Say the usual, the same things you told him before: divorced, distant, dad’s a businessman, y’know how it is. Nothing serious. But this boy, stubborn and pretty, loyal and kind, deserves more than the usual half-lie, more than you can give him.

And so you try.

You exhale, stale and sharp, the kind of breath that carries too much history. The wind stirs your hair. You don’t look at him when you say it. You don’t have the courage to do so.

“My father hit me.”

Flat. Like it’s a fact, like you’re reading it from some old medical report.

And you have to believe it is, and you are, otherwise you’ll freak out like you did many times before, without getting anything out of this confession besides a panic attack.

Ace doesn’t flinch. Just stays beside you, solid and steady, his presence a quiet kind of anchor.

You catch a slight furrow in his brow, a silent go on, but you don’t. Instead, your mind flashes back to nights curled up in a too-small bed, the sting of words you wish you could forget, the heavy silence that swallowed you whole.

You hate that you’re still haunted by it. You hate that your own thoughts betray you, replaying the loneliness like a broken record.

You’re weak. You’re too much. You don’t deserve anyone’s care.

You’ll come crawling back.

You swallow the thought. You have to. Now or never.

“He didn’t yell. That would've been too obvious. No, he... he hurt in silence. Like everything was an inconvenience. Like love had to be... earned, with perfection. Like love was a transaction I kept failing to pay off. Maybe I did. Some part of me still believes it is my fault.”

You shift your weight against the railing, spine pressing into the metal.

“My whole childhood was… Silence. Years of silence. Always having to tip-toe around his bad mood, around his rage, his hangovers. Nights where the only sound was my own breathing, trying not to wake anyone, empty silence, like the world was holding its breath, waiting for me to mess up. The constant pressure to be perfect… or else. I wasn’t just confined by expectations, I was trapped. Like Onigashima was less a home and more a cage. A golden cage, sure, but a cage nonetheless.”

You gulp, holding your hand to your mouth, to quietly recover your calm.

“Sometimes I thought... maybe I didn’t deserve to be anywhere else.”

Sometimes I still do.

Ace watches you carefully, his head tilted. But after a moment of silence, the other shoe drops, and you keep talking.

Your voice lowers. “He wanted me to take over his company. His legacy. Said my life was his investment. I told him no, and he said I was wasting everything. That’s why I left Onigashima behind, why I’m here, why I moved almost halfway across the globe. To breathe a little better, I suppose.”

Ace glances sideways. “You still talk to him?”

“Sometimes. When I answer.”

When the voices get too loud, and I can’t pretend anymore that everything is all right.

When my guilt has the best of me.

He just hums, and you keep going, and to hell with it.

“Once, I spilled some quality booze on the carpet. I was seven. He looked at me like I’d burned the house down. Called me clumsy. Said it was an expensive mistake. Said it wasn’t a slap, it was correction.”

Your throat tightens as the words scrape out, rough, spikes in your mouth. “And I believed him. Because no one told me not to.”

Ace’s fingers tap against the neck of his bottle, not nervous, not impatient. Just there. Listening.

But I’m too far in to stop here, aren’t I?

“I came out to him when I was sixteen. Said I was a boy. Said it like it was the most courageous thing I’d ever do, and dammit, sometimes it still feels like my greatest achievement. He just looked at me and said that I could call me whatever I wanted, but he was the one supposed to clean my mess-ups. I mean, I always knew he didn’t want me, that I was more of a burden than a surprise, but still.”

A laugh slips out, dry and rusted, too much emotion for this memory. “And he worst part is … I didn’t even care. He called me his son, right there, in the same breath. I clung to that one word like it meant everything. Like it made it worth it. I used to think that if I just… if I just acted like a son hard enough, maybe he’d love me back. Not for my usefulness, or lack of, you know. Just for… existing. But that was dumb.”

Your jaw aches from the tension you didn’t realize was there.

For a long beat, Ace is silent. Then, quietly, he matches you.

“That sounds… a lot like the shit I used to tell myself.”

You turn, and he’s watching the horizon, shoulders pulled in like he’s holding something just beneath the skin. He has a hand softly placed over his chest, almost over his heart, over his peony tattoo.

“I never knew my birth parents,” he says, clutching lightly at his top. “Mom died just after I was born. Too fast for anyone to prepare. And Roger, my biological dad, he was gone before I even got here. Quite famous, too. Everyone had an opinion about him. Some said monster. Others said hero. But they are just shadows, to me. Faces I couldn’t quite hold onto.”

He breathes out, bitter and soft all at once.

“Or at least, that’s what I like to think. I pretended for a long time that I wasn’t scared of being forgotten. That I wasn’t... broken, because of that, because of them.”

You want to reach out, to bridge the gap between your two broken halves. But your hands stay heavy in your lap.
Instead, you meet his gaze, tired, honest, fierce, and find a quiet understanding there.

“I didn’t want to scare you with the full story,” Ace admits, fiddling with his hands. “I figured if I told you everything... you might run. Or maybe I was just scared of facing it myself, once more.”

You nod, the truth settling like dust in the air between you.

“I get that. I do.” Your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “There were nights I wished I could disappear. When the silence wasn’t peaceful-”

You laugh bitterly, a sound you barely recognize as your own. “I was my worst enemy. Still am, some days.”

He glances your way, eyes unreadable in the dusk light.

“But now it doesn’t matter, not really. I didn’t get to decide who he was, my father. Or who I was. Only who I am now, I guess.” He says, softly.

You nod. You know that story a bit too well, wearing a name like a chain you didn’t pick.

“Garp was supposed to raise me, technically,” Ace adds, voice low. “But he passed me off to Dragon. Said he wasn’t the right kind of man for it. Too rigid. Too loud. Dragon was… quieter. Scary, yeah. But he tried. He gave me a home. And my brothers. I’m grateful, for what he gave me. A family.”

The question comes out before you can stop it. “Did he ever hurt you?”

Is that something every father does?

“No. Never.” He shakes his head slowly, a soft smile on his lips, like the very thought is ridiculous. “But I brought my own ghosts. My own fury, my own fire. When everyone tells you your name is a warning label, it does something to you. Like a ticking bomb, waiting to explode at the worst time.”

The silence between you deepens, but it doesn’t press.

“I used to think I was poison,” Ace says, so softly you almost miss it. “Like I ruined her. Like I killed my mom just by being born. Just… a walking consequence.”

Your breath catches at the edges.

“I think part of me still believes that,” he adds, quietly. Like a truth he’s only just realized himself.

Like it’s going to become true, if he dares to say it out loud.

You reach out, brush your fingers along his wrist. He doesn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

He doesn’t answer, not with words.

“And you’re not poison,” you say, firm this time.

He finally looks at you. His eyes hold something fierce and tender, like maybe he believes you. Or maybe he wants to.

“Neither are you,” he says, then he gives you a soft smile.

“ Didn’t mean to steal your thunder, darlin’.”

“You can have some of it. Hells, take all of it, it’s yours to take, I’ll share happily,” you say, and he looks at you, eyes big, biting his lips, trying not to cry.

The night folds in around you, cicadas humming, the stars cracked open overhead. The wind shifts, bringing the scent of honeysuckle and wood smoke.

You lean into him, your shoulder brushing his. He lets you.

And for a while, neither of you speak.

The silence isn't heavy this time. It just… is.

Real. Steady. Yours.

You deserve to want things, Izou said once. Maybe you’re finally starting to believe it.

Chapter Text

It's not long since you've been dating, in the grand scheme of things, yet one thing about Ace you already have clear, crystal clear.

He is nuts.

No, not in the clinical sense of the word, but more because he always manages to surprise, to subvert the world's ideas of him, and you too, approaching life like a quest log, checking off challenges one by one, one level after the other.

Such a cute guy, with those long brown ringlets of his, and the pretty dimples, and a speck of oh-so-darling freckles on his nose, the smile always on his face, sweet and kind.

And what does he do for a living?

Tattoo artist.

And yes, as he told you, tattoo artists are the nicest people on earth, but still he’s the only one you have met, so you don't have all that much data to go by.

In Wano, tattooists are few, and definitely infamous, but it seems like in the rest of the world things are different? Besides, Ace is so ... polite. Especially since appearances are deceiving.

In fact, as you've heard his grandfather lament several times before on the phone, the only time Ace looks like a proper young man is when he's dressed from head to toe, which to your shameful delight rarely happens, since he has tattoos all over him.

His back, of course, with that huge mustached skull and bones, quite pirate-like, and his left arm, with the writing dedicated to his brothers, but also the flames and the lines tattooed on his right arm, from the wrist to the shoulder, and then the sinuous, long-bodied dragon on his right ankle, the tiger cub on his left ankle, the red peony on his left collarbone, the watercolor hydrangea on his right collarbone, and much, much more.

You asked him about the tattoos some time ago, mostly naked and cozy up your bed, not in a nosy way, just soft and curious, tracing the inked dragon on his ankle with your fingertip as he lay stretched out on the sheets, half-asleep.

He didn’t speak right away. Then, he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow.

“They’re kind of like… save files?” he said, surprising you. “Marks of where I’ve been. What I’ve survived. Who I’ve loved.”

He started pointing them out slowly.

“The flames are quite obvious. Power. Control. Pain, too. I got that after a really rough time, y’know, TroubleTeen and all of that … when I thought I had to fight everything, and everyone. That I had to burn things down. And it’s… a reminder that I don’t want to. Not anymore.’”

He touched the small cat on his wrist, smiling faintly. “For a stray I used to feed. Her name was Luna. She’d wait for me after every shift, right after I opened the parlour. When she died, I… I couldn’t not remember her.”

He showed you the geometric bands around his other wrist, thin precise lines. “For balance. When I got these, I was trying to fix things in my head. My routines. Keep myself grounded. That was when I started doing yoga, too.”

Then, the red peony on his collarbone.

“This one... it’s for my mum.” He didn’t elaborate. Just let the silence hold the weight. You didn’t press him for an explanation.

And finally, he smiled as he traced the little tiger cub on his ankle.

“Sabo says this is me. Small but bitey.”

You snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

“Rude,” he replied, with mock indignation. Then he softened again. “But really… I like carrying my stories with me. Even the painful ones. Especially the painful ones. If I’m gonna wear anything forever, it might as well be the truth.”

He’s not as simple as society wants you to believe, that’s all.

Because from a guy dressed in black leather and lace-coded combat boots, tatted to the bone, with nail polish and eyes rimmed in black kohl, bulky earrings and a tongue piercing, you would hardly expect the softness, politeness and good manners that Ace has.

Good manners that, for one reason or another, have often gotten you into trouble.

Or maybe it’s the idiocy.

And that, surely, runs into the family.

“ So, what do you say? Blue? Purple? Or maybe rainbow? It’s really… to dye for!”

Sabo, an eager smile on his face, lifts the boxes one at a time, while Ace mulls over the question, thoughtful, holding his chin and ignoring his terrible jokes.

“ Well, I have no idea, to be honest. I know I’ve got to buy some bleach, though, because Nami told me that my natural hair it's unlikely to catch whatever I’d pick, so we're on the safe side with that.”

“ Bleach, I'm on it,” Luffy nods smugly, more serious than you've ever seen him.

Then he flashes an all-toothy grin, looking like his usual boyish self again.

“ What do you think of green? Zoro says it's the best color ever.”

“ Zoro has spent the majority of his life going around doing a seaweed cosplay, I don't think it's a good idea to listen to him,” mumbles Sanji, accompanying you along for the ride, dye expert that he is.

Not that the others are beginners, that is: between Zoro who’s been dyeing his hair since he was fourteen, Nami with her tried-and-true ginger, Usopp and his endless hair combos and Sanji who has been struggling with touch-up and regrowth since high school, there is a certain level of knowledge shared throughout the group of friends, and everyone wanted to give your boyfriend some advice. You, in comparison, dyeing just the very tips of your hair and only in a muted turquoise, are a noob.

And yet you started to enjoy their company, inserting yourself in their outing with Ace, getting closer to them all, in a way, even if they are almost as crazy as they look.

Maybe a little more.

You have still fresh in your memory last week’s adventure, when you went all together to the beach, and how easy that was.

It was Nami’s idea, of course. She said the warm season was picking up, being that August is in full swing, they needed “vitamin sea,” and no one dared argue when she had that glint in her eye that meant your protest will be ignored anyway, or so help me gods, you will pay. So, the beach it was.

And what a weird view they where, punked up even for a beach episode special, you thought.

Luffy had on black board shorts covered in bright red skulls, a ripped red vest over nothing, and a pair of chipped goggles pushed up into his hair like a crown, besides his usual hat, dangly over his back. Ace was shirtless, naturally, wearing cut-off cargo shorts and a chain necklace that clinked softly when he moved, a bandana with flame patterns tied loosely around his wrist and his usual red-and-white bracelet. Sabo leaned into the chaos in black swim trunks and a sleeveless white tee with a tiny embroidered anarchy sign. Zoro wore dark green swim trunks with spikes on the waistband, not sharp enough to injure, but definitely a choice, and a torn-up tank top that said “Don’t Talk to Me.” Sanji kept it simple but sharp: low-slung pinstripe swim shorts, a mesh shirt, and rings on nearly every finger. Usopp had a sunhat spray-painted black with silver studs, checker-print swim trunks, and a leather belt over his hips he insisted was for “utility.” Nami, effortlessly queenly, wore a high-cut red-and-black bikini with a fishnet dress over it and chunky platform sandals, gold hoops glinting in the sun. You settled for a gray T-shirt and the red bermuda shorts, the only ones you own, bought for the occasion.

You all tumbled on Usopp’s minivan, Merry, stuck one over the other, close together like sardines in a tin, the smothering hot of the Goa summer making you almost pass out.

Thank the gods for that angel of your boyfriend, who packed ice-cold water and snacks, fresh fruit and trail mix, and a portable fan, and that also kept you busy the whole drive, with jokes and little stories, to distract you from the street and the stifling heat.

You weren’t on the beach even ten minutes before chaos unfurled like a bad sunhat.

Zoro fell asleep right on the sand and got a tan so uneven it looked like camo print. Sanji, at Nami’s request and completely unable to tell her no, tried to grill shrimp on a disposable barbecue and nearly melted the plastic cooler it was holding it. Luffy cannonballed into the water without checking the depth and emerged grinning, with seaweed stuck in his hair like a crown. Usopp refused to go into water, clearly making up a weird illness about sand and sea-salt. Sabo forgot sunscreen and insisted he was “naturally resilient” until his entire back turned lobster red.

And Ace? Ace was, somehow, the calm in the middle of it all. Sprawled out on his beach towel under a striped red-and-white umbrella with your head on his stomach, playing with your hair absentmindedly, half asleep and content, while the others bickered over whether beach volleyball counted as a real sport, over Zoro’s snorts and Usopp’s whines.

“This is nice,” you whispered, and he gave you the softest of smiles.

That is, until Luffy tried to bury Zoro in the sand and accidentally buried his flip-flops too.

“ ... Why not red?” you propose, snapping out of the memory, in a timid voice, fiddling with your fingers your lucky key combo, as always when you’re nervous, and suddenly they all turn to you.

“ Red? Of course! You’re a genius, Yama, darlin’!” exclaims Ace, reaching you in a couple of steps and smacking a resounding kiss on your lips, after pulling you down to his level by the light black hoodie you're wearing, the one with the thumbholes.

You barely blush, still unaccustomed to certain public displays of affection, while your boyfriend's brothers mimic retching in chorus and Sanji merely chuckles.

“PDA, PDA!”

“ Yeah, that’s exactly what this is, congratulation for having eyes.”

“ Red, then?” asks Sanji, grabbing the right box, a pretty shade of mahogany.

Ace smiles, flashing his perfect teeth.

“ Red it is!”

***

“…Again, are you sure about this?” you ask, watching warily as Sanji stirs bleach powder into the developer in a small plastic mixing cup. The chemical smell is already thick in the air, stinging your nose.

Ace grins, completely unbothered. “You know what they say, go big or go home, right?”

You groan. “Please. For once in your life, just go home. There’s no reset button if this goes sideways.”

“But I am home!” he laughs, tossing his head with infuriating confidence. “Besides, I got dared!”

He says it like that settles everything, as if getting goaded by one of Luffy’s Twitch followers during a late-night livestream is a perfectly reasonable excuse to permanently alter his hair. And judging by the way everyone in the room laughs you’re the only one concerned.

That’s Ace for you. Stupidly brave. Stupidly charming. And stupid. Especially stupid. Let’s not forget that last one.

“Honestly, you could just do the tips,” Sanji suggests, still mixing the bleach with practiced ease. “It’d look cool, and way less nuclear if it goes wrong. If you don’t like it, you can always cut it out.”

Ace pauses, tapping his chin dramatically, like he’s considering the fate of nations.

“You know what? Hell yeah!” he says, snapping his fingers. “That way I can match with Yama!”

He beams at you like it’s the most romantic idea anyone’s ever had. Before you can even process that, Luffy starts clapping like a seal.

“I wanna match too!”

Ace rolls his eyes. “Find your own boyfriend, you mooch.”

“What?! Yamao is my friend too!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“Knock it off, both of you,” Sabo says, smacking the back of their heads with the kind of accuracy only long-suffering siblings can manage.

Ace yelps. “Ow! That’s workplace harassment!”

“This isn’t a workplace,” Sabo deadpans. “It’s a circus. And you’re both the clowns.”

You stifle a laugh behind your hand, watching the chaos unfold. This group might be loud, impulsive, and occasionally ridiculous, sure.

But damn if it isn’t starting to feel like a kind of home, too.

***

Ace checks himself in the mirror, turning away on all sides to get a better look at his blazing new tips, a deep red fading into his natural dark brown like fire licking at the ends. He’s barefoot, wearing a threadbare band tee with the sleeves cut off and holes starting to form around the collar. His lounge pants are some old black shorts, probably stolen, cinched low on his hips and safety-pinned in one spot where the drawstring gave out.

“ Sanji, you did a really good job. You should do it for a living, really.”

“ No thanks,” he retorts, laconically, the cigarette between his lips already lit.

“ I have enough on my hands juggling the Baratie, the band and avoiding starvation to your brother and the other idiots.”

" What about the girls?" retorts Sabo, with an evil smirk, munching on some chips, and he simply gestures with his free hand, his blond hair a little tousled but still swept to the side. He wears a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off a few faint scars and inks, and dark jeans with just a couple of subtle rips. A simple silver hoop earring catches the light as he flicks a cigarette ash into a cup, smirking.

"The girls are smart, I don't have to worry about them. Then I do it anyway, but that's just because they are awesome and wonderful and deserve all of my attention."

“ Well, thanks for the help anyway, it was much appreciated,” Ace smiles at him, bowing his head slightly, serious and composed like he didn’t almost fall asleep in the middle of it, and the cook simply smiles back.

“ What do you think, darlin’? Do you like them?” your boyfriend asks you, coming over to be admired better.

In the background, you see Luffy trying to sneak a hand into Sabo’s chips packet.

And Sabo consequently giving him a slap.

“ You look really good, babe,” you reply, going back to look at your boyfriend, moving a few locks out of his face and tucking them behind his ear, to better look at his cute face. And you keep speaking, a little quieter.

“ I know I’m not the only one to think so… but still, it feels kind of special, getting to be the one who says it like this. I think you’d look good in anything, cause you’re too pretty.”

Ace reddens at the speed of light, pink and blush all over his face and ears, and his brothers burst out laughing, holding their bellies.

“ It's-it's the first time I've ever seen him so embarrassed!” half-shout Sabo, while Luffy nearly rolls on the ground with laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, mock me all you want! Meanwhile, I’m here with my boyfriend, and I’m better off than Idiot Number One, with his… SiTuaTiOnShiP,” Ace mumbles, pointing at Sabo and making exaggerated quotation marks with his fingers. “...and then Idiot Number Two, who’s been single like, forever,” he continues, gesturing at Luffy.

 “ Big bro, we talked about this, I'm ace.”

“ No, I’m Ace, silly, you’re Luffy.”

“ A jerk, that’s what you are” retorts Sabo, still laughing.

“ Yes, Idiot Number Three,” cackles Luffy.

“ Hey! I'm the eldest, Number One is mine!”

“ We're the same age, dummy.”

“ I'm still older than you, younger dummy.”

“ By mere months?!” Sabo replies, shoving Ace on the shoulder.

“A whole lot of two months and nineteen days,” Ace shoots back, making a face.

This idiots…

My idiots.

***

The house is quiet, for once.

Luffy passed out on the couch hours ago, one sock on, one sock gone, a documentary about beetles still playing softly in the background. The others trickled out after a while, Sanji leaving for his shift at Baratie and Sabo swiftly disappearing in the room he shares with his little brother, until it was just you and Ace left cleaning up plastic cups and forgotten chip bags.

Now, you’re both curled up on the balcony, wrapped in a light blanket that smells faintly of laundry detergent and beach salt, the heavy summer air still warm against your skin as the city lights blink lazily in the distance. Somewhere, the last fireflies flicker in the dark, and a faint breeze carries the scent of cooling ocean waves, a soft reminder that August is already halfway gone.

Ace has gone quiet.

Not his playful quiet, the kind where he's building up to a joke, or a story. No, this is a different kind of stillness. A weighted one. His thumb rubs a slow line over your knuckles as he stares out into the dark.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, his voice softer than usual, barely a notch above the wind.

“For sure.”

He hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Sometimes… I don’t know where I stand with them. With Luffy’s friends.”

Ace’s voice breaks a little, low and unsure.

“Do you ever feel like we’re still just kind of… orbiting them?”

You blink, then glance at him. He’s not smiling, not joking.

He’s just staring at the skyline like it might offer an answer he doesn’t want to say out loud.

“I mean, I’ve known them for years,” he goes on, his thumb absently tracing the back of your hand. “Zoro and Nami, mostly, they’ve been Lu’s classmate since elementary school, we basically grew up together. Usopp too, kind of, he joined them while I was in high school, though he was more of a myth back then, the legendary scholarship boy. Sanji’s the last to join, and yet… I’ve got history with them all, in a way. Luffy always dragged me into everything anyway, me and Sabo both, so I wasn’t exactly invisible.”

He pauses, then huffs a quiet laugh that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes.

“Still, things changed. Sabo is away more time that he’s in town. We grew up, went different ways. Now I see them and it’s like… they’ve become this whole unit. This … crew, really. And I guess part of me wonders if I’m still part of that, or if I’m just Luffy’s big brother tagging along for nostalgia’s sake.”

His words hit you like a boss fight you weren’t prepared for. Unexpected, heavy, and needing all your focus to get through without a wipe.

He looks at you, then. Not quick or apologetic. Open.

“I guess I just worry,” Ace continues, eyes back on the horizon. “That I’m being kept around because of Luffy. That they laugh at my jokes out of politeness. That they include you because you’re with me, and I’m with him. And I worry about you too, in all this. That it’s obvious we’re not exactly woven in, like we're guests at someone else’s party, and we don’t know when it’s polite to leave. That maybe I’m dragging you into something half-belonging to me, but not really to you.”

Your chest tightens, and you reach up to brush a strand of freshly dyed his hair behind his ear.

No cheat codes, here, Oden.

You need to go all in.

This one’s about real talk.

“Ace… you’re not tagging along. You're part of it. You were one of the first pieces of it, whether they say it or not. You care about them like they’re your own, don’t you?”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “They all feel like younger siblings, at this point. Even if Zoro would punch me for saying that. And Nami would probably make me pay emotional rent.”

“Exactly,” you smile. “That feeling? That means it’s real. You’re not outside the circle. You just think you are.”

He’s quiet again, eyes on the city below.

“I guess I just want to make sure they like you. Not just tolerate you because of me. You don’t deserve that.”

That stops you cold for a moment. You squeeze his hand.

“I don’t feel tolerated. I feel... seen. Mostly because you’re with me, sure. But I’m not there for them. I’m here for you. Always. Whether we’re surrounded by friends or standing in a room where no one knows our names.”

And, sure, sometimes you feel like an outsider loading into a party late, trying to sync up with a team that’s been grinding together for ages. Clumsy at first, unaware of inside jokes, but not without hope for a clutch play.

He finally looks at you, for real this time. His eyes are shiny in the dim light, the kind of expression people miss if they only ever focus on the fire and not the boy holding it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “I... I don’t say this stuff much. You know I suck at it.”

“You don’t suck. You’re just used to covering up, and let me tell you, I have some experience in that field.” He smirks, and you nudge your shoulder against his.

“But I see you. I like the quiet parts, too.”

He leans in and kisses your temple, your hair, light, lingering.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” he says softly.

You smile, feeling the weight lift just a little. “That’s my line, ”you whisper, leaning into him as the breeze picks up, wrapping the blanket tighter around you both.

For a while, you just sit there in the hush between heartbeats, two satellites orbiting a world not quite yours.

And somehow, still feeling like home.

Chapter Text

You are, as usual, worried.

Sure, Zoro invited you to his gym, but what if it was just for saying, and he doesn’t want you there? It has been some months, too, but with work and uni and all of that, you managed to push and push until…

“Are you sure you don’t want to come too?” you ask, fumbling with the helmet strap before Ace leans in, deft fingers unfastening it for you.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got work to do. Maybe next time, though? And hey, Luffy’s going to be there, so you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” you lie, pouting slightly.

Ace just chuckles, all punked-out charm in his shredded red shirt and black cargo shorts. “Sure, sure. What I mean is, I trust those guys with my life. I know they won’t let anything happen to you or make you uncomfortable. But if anything does go sideways, I’m just a call away, got it?”

“Didn’t you just say you have work?”

“And I’ll drop everything if you want to leave. Deal?” he says, brushing a lock of hair from your face before rising on his toes to kiss you, warm and sweet.

You lean in, savoring the soft press of his lips and the faint taste of coffee and mint, and whatever candy he’d been chewing earlier. Then he pulls back, just a little smug.

You keep talking, with a small huff, “I still think a bit of sport would do you good.”

Ace raises an eyebrow. “I do yoga, thank you. At this very gym, by the way.”

“That’s not really what I meant.”

“Every sport is valid,” he says with mock pride. “Besides, you weren’t complaining the other night. You went on and on about how flexible I am.” He smirks, winking at you, a faint blush spreading on his cheeks.

Yeah, good point.

 “Well, sure. But MMA is...” you begin, raising an eyebrow and trailing a finger along the collar of Ace’s shirt, eyes glinting with challenge.

“I can hold my own, thank you,” Ace snorts, leaning in to press a quick, deliberate kiss to your lips, lingering just a second longer than necessary before slipping his helmet back on with a grin.

“I’ve been in more fights than I can count. And even before yoga, I used to play baseball in high school with my brothers, so I’m not totally unathletic.”

“…Do you still have the uniform?” you ask, voice lower, almost innocent, you ask, trying to sound casual.

“I guess, somewhere in my wardrobe. I doubt it fits anymore, though. Or at best, it’s very tight-fitting. Why?” he asks, giving you a long look when you fail to come up with an excuse fast enough.

“…No reason.”

“You’re a pervert, Yama,” Ace says, smirking.

“Yeah, can’t argue with that,” you reply, scratching your nose to hide the grin tugging at your lips.

“Still, you are flexible, and-” you try again, brushing your hand against his hip with mock innocence.

“And I’m leaving,” Ace blurts, scarlet blooming across his cheeks as he stumbles back a step, flustered but smiling.

You laugh, watching him climb onto his bike. “See you later, babe!”

He drives off with the engine roaring and one hand raised in a lazy wave, but not before casting a final glance over his shoulder, grinning like he’s already thinking about payback later.

Well, here we are, you think, turning toward the entry.

Come on, Oden.

Be a man.

Matcha Dojo, stands on the plaque, next to the door.

What a silly name, you think, almost laughing.

It’s cute in a way you can’t relate to Zoro.

Then, you take a big breath, and you finally decide to enter.

The gym stretches wide and open, a seamless blend of glass and warm wood that invites natural light to spill across the polished floors. The design strikes a perfect balance, sleek modernity softened by organic textures, creams and greens creating a calm yet energizing atmosphere.

Standing in front of you, the reception desk anchors the space. Behind it sits a girl with bubblegum-pink hair that falls in loose curls, the color almost glowing under the harsh August sun streaming through the big windows. She wears a gothic-inspired dress, all black lace and mesh that somehow manages to look both edgy and lightweight enough for the heat, and eyeliner sharp enough to stab someone. Her expression is perpetually grumpy as she scrolls through her phone, fingers tapping absently on its screen and legs crossed one over the other, dark gladiator sandals barely reaching the cool tiled floor. In front of her lies a matching pink laptop, its cheerful color clashing with her mood, and a reusable metallic coffee cup nearby releasing a faint, sweet scent of strawberry, a small comfort in her otherwise unimpressed demeanor.

To the left of the desk, a large studio reveals itself , apparently the gym’s biggest room, clearly set up for yoga. Neatly arranged balls and mats hint at mindful stretching and balance exercises. Right now, though, the room hums with the focused energy of a Pilates class, bodies moving rhythmically, muscles engaged in controlled flow.

On the opposite side of the reception, a smaller, cozier room bubbles with noise. Voices mingle with the unmistakable laughter of Ace’s little brother, a bright, carefree sound that stands out against the calm, focused atmosphere elsewhere. The warmth and life from that side of the gym adds a charming contrast to the polished professionalism that defines the rest of the space.

The girl suddenly notices you, taking her eyes off the phone.

Her purple coffee cup and her bubblegum-pink laptop have a dozen mismatched stickers each, some peeling at the edges. You recognize a few: an old N64 logo, an Animal Crossing leaf, one ominously pixelated Hollow Knight. Then a little ghost, the Cult of the Lamb main character, and the cute Boo from Super Mario.

Okay, maybe this place isn’t completely about gains.

“Welcome to yada, yada, yada. Can I help you?” she says, popping her bubblegum.

Also strawberry, yes. The smell is getting a bit much.

“Cool stickers,” you say, nodding.

She arches a brow. “You play?”

“For sure. I’m more into MMORPG, but, still.”

She hums, pensive, popping her gum once more.

“You do give ‘beefy RPG tank main’ energy.”

“Guilty.” You smirk, and she just stick her tongue at you.

“ Well, what can I do for you, oh beefy nerd?”

“ I-uhm. I’m supposed to meet Zoro?”

She lifts her eyebrow, starting to tap something on the laptop.

“ Your name?”

“ Ah, Yamato. But I’m not a patron, so…”

She snaps her fingers, suddenly staring at you with renewed interest.

“ You’re Ace’s boyfriend?! He really scored, dang it!”

“Ahem, thank you…?”

“ I’m Perona, by the way. Wait here a minute, would you?”

She smiles, getting up and peering through the door of the small room.

“ Oi, Mossy! Ace’s catch is here”

Mossy?

“YAMAO!” yells Luffy, tumbling out of the room and almost over Perona to come and hug you. He’s dressed in a sleeveless red tank top that shows off his lean frame, paired with loose navy shorts, and he’s barefoot. His straw hat bounces on a string around his neck as he moves. You smile, letting him do as he pleases.

“ Hi, Luffy. How are you doing?”

“ Can we spar fist? Zoro says he wants to study something-something and we should anyway!”

“ Sure, whatever you want,” you answer, amused, as Zoro makes his entrance, bickering with the girl, waving his hands in the air. He’s wearing a sleeveless dark green tank top, tight enough to show off his defined muscles and a few tattoos peeking from under the fabric. His black workout shorts have a few deliberate rips, giving them a rugged, punk feel. A worn bandana is tied around his wrist, and his usual black boots are swapped for sturdy, scuffed combat sneakers.

“ … I told you already not to call me that!”

“ Sure, sure, only a certain someone can do it,” she snickers, and you can see the vein in his neck bulging.

He turns toward you, deflating visibly, to then take a big breath.

He lifts a hand halfway, like he’s about to pat your shoulder, or maybe say something, but aborts the motion halfway through and scratches his head instead.

“ Yamato. You already met my sister, it seems. I’m sorry,” he deadpans, referring to the girl.

“ Your … sister?” you ask, confused, quickly glancing from one to the other.

Punk hair? Check.

Grumpy? Check.

Clearly on the Kinsey scale? Check and check.

“ Yeah, you do look alike,” you murmur, and she just snickers.

“ I hope not, he was adopted.”

“ You were adopted too, haunt queen,” he snorts, bumping her on the side.

"You’re just jealous, you couldn’t summon vibes like mine with a Ouija board and Spotify Premium." She answers, flapping her hair over her shoulders, clearly making fun of him.

He just growls, rolling his eyes and grumbling away, grabbing Luffy from his previous position, still tangled up to you, to then move swiftly to the left of the reception.

“ … wrong room, GPS rejects!”

He grumbles loudly, while Luffy starts laughing, turning over and almost running toward the other room.

You quietly follow them, a bit shy, like usual.

Even if you got carried away with Luffy's enthusiasm, Zoro seems...still pretty disengaged, that is.

Perhaps it is true that he only invited you as a courtesy to Ace.

The smaller room carries a different pulse than the rest of the gym, you realize it as soon as you step into it. Still refined in its design, but with a rawer edge. Like the rest of the spaces, it’s built with the same clean lines and thoughtful use of natural materials: warm wood paneling frames the walls, and narrow windows near the ceiling let in slants of daylight. But here, the glass is reinforced, and the wood bears the scuff marks of impact, subtle reminders that this room is meant for movement, not stillness.

The floors are padded with high-quality black mats that absorb the sound of footsteps, designed for both grip and give. Their surface is faintly worn in the high-traffic areas, a soft sheen where countless drills have taken place. Sleek wall racks hold neatly organized gear, gloves, focus mitts, headguards, all in black and muted tones, fitting the gym's understated, modern palette. Nothing is flashy, but everything is purposeful.

Mirrors line one side of the room, not for aesthetics, but for technique, reflecting movement, posture, intent. A few posters with minimalist silhouettes of fighters in motion decorate the space, their clean lines matching the visual language of the gym while nodding to the discipline practiced here. You suddenly realize that most of them have writings in Wano, with inspiring words like Strength, Power, Pride.

There’s a faint scent of leather, sweat, and eucalyptus lingering in the air; the latter from a diffuser tucked discreetly in one corner, doing its best to keep the atmosphere balanced between intensity and focus. On the side of it, two small doors, probably bathrooms, or changing rooms.

And cutting through the muffled thuds and quiet grunts of sparring comes the bright laughter of Luffy, who has gotten a few steps ahead of you, high, unbothered, familiar already. He darts between two heavy bags hanging from the ceiling like oversized fruit, his energy infusing the room with something light, alive. Amid the sharp discipline and quiet grit, his presence is a reminder: even a place built for fighting can feel safe.

 “ Changing rooms are this way,” says Zoro, pointing at the little doors, but you’re already taking your gloves out of your bag and quickly tying your hair back.

“ No need, thank you, I’m ready” you smile, all tooth, to your opponent, that just smirks.

Well, let’s see how much of a man are you, Oden.

***

You step onto the mat, heart pounding harder than you expected, a white tee and some red sweatpants your only armor for this level. It’s your first time sparring with Luffy. You’ve never trained together, you barely know each other to be honest, and it makes sense if he was scared, since you are almost fifteen inches taller than him.

Yes, apparently, that is not the case.

This guys are all insane, aren’t they?

Across the mat, Luffy bounces lightly, all lanky limbs and goofy energy. He’s grinning like he’s just invited you to the best game ever.

The room feels bigger than it is, the glass and wood reflecting every movement back at you. You shift your weight nervously on your bare feet. Across the room, Zoro leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching with that quiet intensity trainers have when they’re waiting to see if you’re ready.

He seems competent, to be honest. And he’s the one who suggested this sparring match, for better or worse.

Luffy bounces lightly on the balls of his feet, grin wide and easy. His scrawny frame looks almost fragile next to your bulk, in his funny looking red tank top and blue shorts, having momentarily forgo his hat, but there’s a spark in his eyes that throws off your calculations. He’s humming some nonsense tune under his breath, something goofy, childish.

"Gonna fight a giant, punch him in the shins..."

You rub the back of your neck and try to steady your breathing.

“You sure you want to do this, right?” you ask, voice rough.

Luffy shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s just sparring. Serious fun.”

Maybe it isn’t a big deal, in the end.

And you’re just overthinking like usual.

Zoro steps in, voice clipped. “Focus up. Luffy, no singing. Yamato, no hiding.”

You glare at him in disbelief, and he suddenly clears his throat. “Do your best, I mean. Show us what you’ve got. Now, gloves on.”

You hear the edge in his voice, but it’s not cruel, just the awkward bluntness of someone who doesn’t do pep talks well. Or at all.

You meet Luffy in the middle of the mat and touch gloves. Your heart thunders louder than the bell.

You start slow, watching, feeling out the distance between you. You throw a cautious jab. Luffy ducks under it, cackling like a maniac, and darts away like a breeze.

Luffy tags your ribs with a light jab and says, “Boop.”

You blink, cheeks burning. “Hey, this is serious.”

He grins wider. “It is serious... fun.”

Alright, then, you think, with a smirk.

You fist bump twice, a move often performed by Oden before entering the ring, then you push forward, your breath steadying now, fists tighter, more focused. Even if it's been a while, the rhythm of it still lives somewhere in your body, the stance, the movement, the timing. You’ve done this before. Your shoulders remember. Your feet know where to go.

You throw a solid combo of jab, hook, low kick, and Luffy actually has to work to dodge, slipping back with a grin that’s more impressed than mocking.

“ We out of the tutorial?” you mutter, and Luffy laughs.

“Oof, okay,” he cackles, dodging a second strike to then jump back. “Yamao got moves. Level two!”

You keep pressing, still smirking. You're not as fast as you used to be, it’s been years since you last sparred like this, you were lighter, younger, leaner, but you can still read him, his patterns, his tells. You cut off his escape to the left, land a grazing hit to his arm, feel the impact through your knuckles. That small success steadies you, sharpens your focus. You hear Zoro’s voice from the edge of the mat, low and dry.

“Better. Don’t crowd your own swing. Stay loose.”

It’s advice, not praise, but it sticks.

Luffy circles again, still playful but more alert. The laughter’s still there, but now it’s laced with effort. He feints, you don’t fall for it. He bounces in, you catch his leg with a check.

“ Nice try, buddy. I’ve played enough Soulsborne to see that coming,” you bark a laugh, and hear someone make a small sound of surprise.

Was that Zoro or Luffy? You ask yourself. You’re not sure, too taken by this song and dance.

It feels good. Last time you felt this free you still were in the wrong clothes, in the wrong body.

This feels better that I remembered.

But then, you overreach. One punch sails just a little too far, and that’s all it takes.

Luffy ducks low, fast, faster than you can adjust, slipping inside your guard. His elbow lands cleanly at your ribs, not hard enough to hurt, but exactly where it needs to. Before you can recover, his foot sweeps your legs from under you.

You hit the mat with a thud. The world tilts.

Silence.

Then Luffy’s voice, a little breathless, genuinely surprised.

“Whoa! That worked?”

He laughs, and you can’t help but join him, even as your cheeks burn.

Impressive, you grumble in your head.

Yeah, what a fool I am.

Zoro claps once. “Clean sweep, nice. Good control, Lu. Yamato, the footwork is solid, and your figure is good, but you lost balance too easily. Maybe cause you’re a bit rusty.”

Luffy offers you his hand, quiet for once, his eyes sparkling.

You take it. It’s steady, warm.

“You okay?” Luffy asks, panting a little, eyes bright with something like awe. There’s no teasing in his voice, just surprise. Curiosity. Excitement.

You nod, sitting up, and then back on your feet. “Yeah,” you say, pushing a breath out slow. “You’re faster than I thought.”

“And you-” He grins, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “You almost got me! That was really cool, Yamao.”

At his words you feel a sudden spark in your chest, not from the match, but from the way he’s looking at you. Like he wants to see what else you’ve got. Like he’s genuinely excited to go again.

You smile, small but real.

Not a complete fool, maybe.

Zoro steps closer, quiet as always. He stops just beside you both, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

“It was…” He hesitates, then shrugs a shoulder like he’s brushing something off. “Good start.”

You glance at him, not expecting more, but you catch something in his face anyway. The slight crease in his brow. The way he doesn’t correct his posture like you saw him do before. Something tight, quiet, flickering behind the cynicism.

“Rest five minutes,” he says. “Then again.”

Luffy  lets out a happy little exhale, almost a laugh, like he just got picked for a second round of his favorite game. “Again, again! I wanna see what else you can do,” he says, bouncing a bit on his toes. “You’re really good, Yamao! Ace talks about you aaaaaall the time, and he didn’t tell me how cool you are!”

You blink at that, surprised.

He says it like it’s a fact, not a compliment.

Oh, you think, a little caught off guard by that big smile. It is a family thing, then.

“ Before we go again, I’ll take off my tank top tho, it’s too hot!” smirks Luffy, looking at you, shimming out of his clothes without waiting for an answer.

“I’m good” you say, rolling your shoulders, even if you feel your armpit sweaty and hot all over the place. You have some lovebites you really want to keep to yourself.

And even though you lost, even though your legs still ache and your hands feel heavy, you step off the mat feeling lighter. Straighter. Taller than when you walked in.

Taller that you felt, all that years ago.

***

You can barely see the sun in the sky, almost down for the night, when Zoro decides you did enough, and Luffy disappears in the bathrooms to shower.

The gym is quiet, the three of you only still there.

Perona left with the Pilates instructor, after the last class ended, telling you with a smirk that she can’t wait to have a drink together, and gossip about Ace’s childhood with you.

You laughed, surprised, mostly at Zoro’s frown and Luffy’s grin.

As she walks past Zoro, she threw a knowing look over her shoulder.

“Don’t forget what Sanji said, and try not to-“

 “I’m not,” Zoro muttered, crossing his arms defensively, talking over her.

She raised her eyebrow.

Not to… what?

“Could’ve fooled me.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder with a smirk.

“If that’s you being nice, maybe don’t be nice. You’re freaking intense.”

Zoro rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, and you caught a faint blush rising under his tanned skin.

Then she was gone, and it was just the three of you again.

But in the meantime you had at least another three match, and now you really are tired and sweaty.

“ Weh! It was a great session, I’ll admit, but I can’t wait to be home and shower, too,” you laugh, towel-drying your hair from the sweat, perched over the reception, and Zoro just tilts his head, confused.

What, Sanji’s teasing about his hygiene was legit?

“ … Why wait? We have showers, in the changing room. I’ll give you a key,” he says, causing you a sudden spike in high blood pressure.

“ NO- I mean, it’s fine, I’ll just- I’m not a patron, and I surely can’t afford to become one, so-“

He keeps staring at you, holding a magnetic key, more perplexed that he was bare seconds ago.

“It’s my gym. I can… give out keys to whoever. I mean, not whoever, but. Like. Friends.”
He clears his throat. “You count. That’s what I meant.” he mutters, placing it on the counter.

Friends…?

“ It’s just… I don’t have a change of clothes, that’s all,” you say, fiddling with the towel in your fingers, without touching the key.

Also, really, I have no money. And I know you’re friend with Ace, but this doesn’t mean you like me. Even if today has been … nice. Weird, but nice.

He looks at you still, his head tilted to the side again, then he takes a big breath.

Like he’s scrounging some bravery, to ask something.

“ Do you… have body issues?”

You freeze for a minute, the towel still in your hands.

“ … I’m sorry?” you ask, voice low. He just shrugs.

“ No, I mean…you don’t want to go into the changing room. You didn’t want to take off your shirt, even if it’s really hot, today, and also the other time, at the beach, and you clearly aren’t used to this climate. When we first met you, you almost had a heart attack when the witch suggested you to chop your hair. And… I just… the cook has them, you know. He told me you could be… like him.”

I didn’t think you’d be watching me this closely, you think, then you suddenly remember that this is a conversation, and you should answer.

“ …Bi?”

“ Queer,” he replies, and you just huff.

“ Aren’t we all? Besides Usopp, that is.”

He nods, thoughtful, remaining silent for a moment, as if recalibrating.

“ I meant… gender-wise.”

Ah. That’s new information.

“ YE- I mean, yes, I’m... uhm, I’m trans,” you murmur, scratching the back of your head.

“ Got it. Is that why you aren’t comfortable with the men changing room? Do you prefer to go into the women?” he asks, without batting an eye.

“ I… no, it’s the other way around. I’m a trans man.”

“ Ah, of course. Sorry. So, is he/him still the right set, yeah?”

You nod, gulping down a knot you didn’t realize was building up into your throat.

“You’re the first person I’ve told here. Aside from Ace, obviously. And I guess his brothers know, too.”

“Only if you asked Ace to tell them. He’s not the type to share unless you say so.”

You smile, a quiet laugh escaping.

“Yeah. That’s him allright.”

He keeps looking at you, to then clear his voice a bit.

“ Ace is- I mean. He’s my friend, and you make him happy. And I’m .. glad about that. That he found you.”

“ Technically, I’m the one that found him.” You smirk, then you go back to being serious. ”Is that the reason you’ve been so … polite to me, today?”

He nods, unbashed.

“ Cook told me you might think I have something against you, if I act like my usual self.”

Ah, that’s what that was about, with Perona.

“ … and you don’t?”

“ I’m just like this,” he mutters, a faint blush over his tanned cheeks, and you almost laugh.

“ I see. So the questions you asked me, the other time…”

“ I was curious. Didn’t get why you dropped MMA, with a form like yours. But now I guess it was some sort of dumb transphobic discourse?”

You shrug.

“I was getting uncomfortable sparring with the girls, and no-one from the boys wanted to fight me. After a while I just started working, as I said before, so…”

Zoro leans his weight against the counter tapping the keycard once, then again, like he’s not sure if you saw it.

“Well, door’s open. If you come back again, you can just use that.”

You glance at it, and back at him.

“If… if you want to, I mean.”

Then he just watches you, calm, unreadable, but not cold. Never cold.

Like he can see you, for who you truly are.

 “…Thanks,” you say quietly, taking the key, and this time, you mean it.

He nods, like that's enough. Maybe it is.

Behind you, the changing room door creaks open and Luffy emerges, towel around his neck, hair still damp, tank top forgotten somewhere inside.

“Yama-oooooo,” he sings, beaming, “Are we getting smoothies or what? I’m starving!”

You laugh, not because it's particularly funny, but because it’s easy. The way it is with him. Like you’ve known him your whole life.

“Yeah, sure. I could use the sugar.”

“Me too!” he grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet again. “Zoro, you coming?”

Zoro shakes his head, already halfway back toward the smaller room. “I’ve got to lock up. You two go.”

“ Will you make it home without getting lost?” you tease, and he just blush, faintly, over his cheeks and nose.

“ … I have Rona’s number on speed dial, if I don’t.”

“ Not Sanji’s?”

“ … that too,” he murmurs, and you just widen your eyes, to then grin.

Ah, puppy love…

Luffy shrugs, grabbing your wrist like he’s done it a thousand times before. “Let’s go, tall guy. I’ll text Ace and tell him you didn’t die, so he can meet us for smoothies.”

You look back, just once, as Zoro reaches the door. He doesn’t wave, but he pauses long enough to nod.

Small, respectful, maybe even a little proud.

You nod back, a little taller again.

Outside, the sun’s dipped past the skyline, casting long amber streaks across the glass façade, that late-summer kind of light, slower, softer, like the season knows it’s almost done. You step into the fading light with your shirt damp, your body aching, your knuckles sore and your heart steadier.

The nameplate glints behind you as the door swings shut.

Matcha Dojo.

Still a silly name.

But maybe it doesn’t feel so silly anymore.

Maybe next time, you'll stay a little longer. And ask about that name.

Maybe next time, you'll win.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

Chapter Text

You’re all cooped up in the brothers’ shared apartment, an end-of-summer rainstorm piercing the evening sky as it has all day. The table is a warzone of pizza boxes, chip packets, empty coffee cups, snacks, cookies, sticky dice, open notebooks, and a haphazardly folded map that Sabo has tried to draw with exacting medieval accuracy using a slightly-too-expensive set of colored pens.

If this whole conspiracy-theory-journalism think doesn’t work out, he has a future as an artist, you think absent-mindedly.

“You black-tee Casanova,” says Sabo, pointing at Ace with dark eyes, like he personally offended his entire worldbuilding.

“Here, next to me. Luffy, next to Ace, thank you. Yamao, here on my other side.”

“...Is there a reason you sat me away from my boyfriend, oh great Dungeon Master?” Ace asks, complying with a raised eyebrow and crossing his legs.

Sabo shrugs, adjusting his notes, one pen in his mouth and another behind his ear.

“Maybe this way you can keep your hands to yourself and avoid giving me nightmare material.”

“That was one time! Besides, now I can play footsie with him, so-”

“No footsie allowed,” Sabo snaps, pulling the pen from his mouth and throwing it at him. Ace just pouts, ducking slightly to avoid it.

“Now, please, present your characters so we can start.”

Luffy clears his throat, grabs his character sheet, and reads aloud.

“I’m Lucy, 'cause Sabo said I can’t name my guy Luffy.”

Ace nods solemnly, uncapping his first beer.

“I’m a punch wizard and I wanna punch people.”

“No, Lu, we decided you’re playing a monk.”

“Ah, yeah. I’m a monk and I wanna punch people.”

“Fucking... Ace? How about you?” says Sabo, turning toward the eldest.

Ace grins, flashing a pretty smile and winking at you.

“I’m Firethorn, a great and famous bard known for his... fiery music.”

Sabo nods, looking mildly unnerved, then turns to you.

“Yamao?”

“I’m Inuaki, a dog Tabaxi paladin. I’m loyal to Kamawe, the Tabaxi goddess of vengeance, and I’m looking for the man who killed my parents,” you recite, only half looking at your sheet.

Sabo exhales, clearly satisfied, and looks back at his brothers.

“See? That’s how it’s done, menaces.”

“Perks of being a nerd,” Ace smirks, and you stick your tongue out at him, only slightly embarrassed.

“Now, we are in the kingdom of England, and-“

“The hell’s an England?”

“I made it up, Ace. Shut it.”

***

“Okay,” Sabo says, reading his notes, sweeping back his hair like a DM about to lose control of his table.

So soon into the night? You think, opening your second bottle, and Ace quietly gestures you to pass him the bottle opener.

You throw it at him. It hits him square between the eyes.

Ace makes a face, then he shrugs, unfazed.

 “You all wake up in the wreckage of a burning caravan-”

“I cast Fire Lick to set the flames higher,” Ace interrupts, grinning as he gulps his freshly opened beer.

“Why would you-why would your bard even do that?” Sabo asks, clearly exasperated.

“I’m a passionate soul,” Ace says, winking at you once more. You just snort. “And the fire matches my whole thing, y’know.”

You lean on your elbow, already tipsy, giving him a lazy grin. “You just want an excuse to take your shirt off again, pretty boy.”

“I do have charisma 18, handsome. What’cha gonna do about that?”

“I thought you meant in real life,” Luffy mumbles through a mouthful of cold pizza.

***

Sabo scratches his head and reads from another sheet, breathing deeply.

Ace's head droops as if he is about to fall asleep.

He probably is.

“A cloaked stranger approaches your party, holding a scroll sealed with the crest of the King of England-”

Luffy snaps his fingers like he suddenly has the best idea ever, interrupting Sabo and startling Ace awake.

“I punch him!”

Ace chuckles, rubbing his eye. You turn to Luffy, horrified.

“Wait a minute, he could be useful!”

Sabo sighs, again, his forehead resting over his palm, his face half-buried in his hand, radiating pure regret.

“Roll for initiative.”

***

The game pauses when Luffy mistakes his own inventory list for an enemy and tries to punch it. Again, that is.

Ace stands up, stretching like a smug cat, then disappears into the kitchen.

“Break time. I’m making something with cheese and danger,” he announces, yawning.

“ You sure you don’t want help?” you ask, and he just gives a little laugh.

You keep sipping your beer, the third or fourth of the night, leaning your head back against the chair.

Not at all worried, that is.

“Then make sure to not burn the apartment down. We’ve had enough fire problems already, and they were all your fault, baby.”

“Just your taste buds, handsome.”

He returns fifteen minutes later with the biggest cup of coffee you’ve ever seen, a plate stacked full of grilled cheese sandwiches, two bowls of popcorn placed respectively on the table and in front of Luffy, and what he proudly calls combat stew. You’re not convinced it is legal or even edible.

“What’s in this?” you ask, eyeing the slightly steaming bowl of reddish… something Ace puts in front of you.

Ace winks and gives you a soft kiss on the top of your head.

“Love. And paprika. And three other things I won’t say.”

He then turns toward Luffy to bring him one of the sandwiches, sprawled on the couch where he is.

Sabo, taking advantage of his brother’s back being turned, silently mouths to you, “cup noodles and canned tuna,” then makes a zipping motion across his lips.

Wait, but what’s the third thing? You think a moment too late, already tasting it, just mildly terrified.

“I mean, it’s… good?” you say, trying not to sound too catastrophic. Or insulting. It’s not that bad, really.

“Protein builds character,” Ace grins, sitting down beside you and tugging your legs into his lap.
“And characters build empires. Also, it is the foundation of every good dungeon crawl.”

“Ah, so you did watch Dungeon Meshi, after all.”

Luffy makes grabby hands toward the other sandwiches, half-hanging off the couch and with his mouth full.

“This is the good monk-fuel! Cheese!”

You take a bite of the grilled cheese. Greasy. Crisped. Perfect.

“…Damn it,” you mutter. “I actually like this.”

Ace leans close and murmurs, “You’re welcome. I made yours extra gooey.”

You elbow him. He kisses you anyway.

***

Ace reads from his character sheet, mumbling aloud and almost dropping his dice on the table.

“So, if I do that… yeah, I seduce the barmaid to get information.”

“I cast Burning Hands under the table.” You retort immediately, and he smirks at you.

“Jealous much?”

“Shut up, pretty boy.”

Sabo interrupts you both, waving his hand in front of you.

“That is not how that spell works, and-”

“Oh, it works exactly how I want it to, DM,” you retort, pointing at him with the neck of the bottle.

Ace sticks his tongue out, teasing you. “Roll for it, darlin’.”

“I’m the DM, Ace, shut i-”

“Nat 20!” you beam, and Luffy starts cheering.

***

“You suddenly find yourself off the path, and in front of you – Scafell Pike. The tallest mountain of England.”

“… Can I punch the mountain?”

“Luffy, fucking hell, why would you punch a mountain?!”

***

You stand at the edge of the ruined town, where fire still smolders between blackened beams.

Sabo’s voice softens as he describes the child in the rubble, holding onto a half-burned doll.

“I kneel,” you say, more serious than you'd been all night. “And I tell her… ‘I swear on my goddess, no harm will reach you again. Not while I draw breath.’”

Even Luffy goes quiet. For five whole seconds. That’s a win in your book.

“That was beautiful,” Sabo says, genuinely.

“She gives you a necklace. It glows faintly. It’s… it’s a relic.”

You exhale slowly, letting the scene settle.

Then Ace leans into the table and whispers with absolutely no shame,

“You’re hot when you’re vengeful, handsome.”

You sigh. “We are in a ruined village, Ace.”

“Exactly. Ruins. Fire. You on your knees. It’s working for me.”

Luffy nods, not understanding but supportive. “Yamao’s always hot when he talks about justice. Or when he fights. Or when he eats. That’s what Ace said the other day, anyway.”

“Thanks, Lu, I know I can always count on you. You really are a golden retriever of a human.”

You give up. “My paladin walks away. He’s silently screaming.”

“While being extremely majestic,” Ace adds. “I’m inspired.”

“Is that a real mechanic?” Sabo asks, raising an eyebrow and flipping pages.

“It is now,” Ace says.

You open another beer.

***

“Okay, okay.” Sabo says, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, miraculously still intact after a catastrophic meeting with Luffy’s Fist of Power, and shuffling behind the Game Master screen like he is being actively tortured.

Maybe he is, you reason, nodding to yourself.

“You’re standing at the edge of a shattered temple. Columns fallen, blood on the altar, and you all hear… this low, guttural growling echo from beneath the floor.”

Luffy immediately slaps his hands on the table. “I punch the floor.”

“No you don’t,” Sabo sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, glasses raised over the fingers.

“Yes I do. I’m the monk. I have also… Fists of Justice? That sounds like something Gramps would say.”

“You’re not Gramps, and you’re also at 2 HP.”

“I have snacks,” Luffy counters, holding up a crumpled bag of chips as if that helps.

Ace snorts from his seat, shirt forgotten somewhere, one leg hooked over the seat of the chair, an elbow resting on his knee, like a chaotic bard-prince.

He looks so good, though.

“I cast Firebolt at the altar. It’s probably cursed. Also, it looks at me funny.”

Sabo groans and flips through his notes. “Why would it-? You can’t- Fine. Roll, Captain Brood.”

Peacefully staring at your pretty beloved from across the table, you lean your chin on your hand, smirking.

Like someone watching a house slowly catch fire.

“I just want it on record that my paladin is not with these two. I’m in the back. Praying. Probably rethinking my life choices.”

Ace blows you a kiss from the other side of the table. “You say that, but you always follow me.”

“I’m literally a dog; besides, last time I didn’t, you seduced a goblin and the goblin became our landlord.”

“That goblin had emotional intelligence, you know,” Ace defends himself, yawning.

“You know what? I’m definitely rethinking my life choices, now.”

He gasps, insulted. You stick your tongue out at him.

Luffy throws a dice. It bounces twice on the map, lands on a 1.

Sabo doesn’t even blink.

“You slam your fist into the floor,” he says flatly, oh-so-ready. “Your monk takes one point of damage. From the floor. Congratulations, Gramps would never.”

Luffy groans dramatically and flops sideways over the table, grabbing some leftover chips and stuffing his mouth.

“The hell?! It would have been better to be a punch wizard!”

“You chose to fight a marble floor, vibe hazard,” Sabo replies, deadpan. “It’s not even enchanted.”

Luffy pouts. You nearly spit your drink from laughing.

“That’s what you get for trying to intimidate the tiles, I guess.”

“I was making a statement!” Luffy argues back at you, pointing across the table with a cheeto-stained hand.

“Yeah, well, now your hand’s broken. Hope the tiles were moved.”

“I surely was, Lu, don’t worry,” says Ace, and Luffy just nods, still pouting.

Sabo shuffles his notes with a barely hidden smirk.

Ace leans back in his chair and grins, looking over at you.

“Although, I’m still waiting for when we fight something that’s not Luffy’s impulse control.”

You just lift an eyebrow, unfazed. “Honestly? At this point, impulse control is the final boss.”

***

“Can we fight God yet, Sabo?”

“I feel like we already are.”

“ … can I punch him?”

***

The quest continues. Chaos reigns free.

Luffy’s character is now bleeding out in the temple. Nobody knows his blood type, not even him, who at the question answered Red?, with his usual boyish smile.

Ace’s bard is writing a breakup song to his own reflection, after somehow dyeing his hair raven black, for ‘emotional closure’.

You have become the de facto group healer despite picking a subclass called Oath of Vengeance.

And Sabo? Sabo’s trying to keep the table from bursting into actual flames.

Badly, at that.

The reluctant DM sighs, rubbing at his temples. “Okay. You see a squad of guards ahead. They’re blocking the path. Ace, put those dice down. Behind them, the artifact you’ve been hunting for weeks.”

“I punch them.” Luffy shouts, jumping up and slapping his hands on the character sheet, barely containing himself.

Sabo sighs again, throwing him a paper ball made from his previous attempt at a plot, and a lot of lost hope.

“No. You are half dead. How about you try diplomacy, for a change.”

“But-!”

“That was not a suggestion, cranky pants.”

You raise a hand, acting sober then you feel. “I’d like to approach the guards calmly and ask what their terms are.”

Sabo turns to you, visibly relieved.

“Thank you-“

“I seduce them.” Ace cuts him off, leaning over the table to steal some beef jerky from Luffy.

“- Never mind,” Sabo mutters, and closes the notebook.

***

Later, after Luffy’s monk has been revived for the fifth time and Ace’s bard has somehow acquired a flaming lute by rolling a nat 20 on ‘dramatic entrance’, the party stumbles into an underground vault.

“There’s a plaque on the wall,” Sabo narrates, somber.

“It reads: ‘Laws are threats made by the dominant socioeconomic ethnic group in a given nation. It’s just a promise of violence enacted. Police are basically an occupying army, you know what I mean?’”

There is a long silence.

Maybe I drank enough, tonight.

“...No?” Luffy says eventually, head tilted.

Ace looks at you, a soft light in his eyes, like he’s proud of him. “He gets it in his soul. He just can’t explain it.”

“I thought this was a quest for treasure,” you say toward Sabo, ignoring them both.

“It is,” he says, still serious. “But sometimes the real treasure… is collective liberation.”

Luffy chimes in, still munching on the beef jerky. “I was hoping it was snacks.”

“ Not the mountain-punch? That’s progress.”

***

Sabo pinches the bridge of his nose, again.

The soft clack of dice hitting the table makes him flinch, like a man expecting impact.

Across from him, Ace is grinning way too smugly for someone who just tried to seduce the town priest mid-battle. Or at all.

Somewhere in the long gaming hours you did shift places again, and now you’re once more next to Ace, with your legs on his lap and his arm around your shoulders.

And it only took three attempted footsie to convince Sabo that this would be better, for real.

"Okay,” Sabo sighs, flipping through his notes. “Ace, your bard punches the floor in frustration and breaks his hand. Take one damage. Great roleplay, by the way.”

Ace shrugs. “Am I imitating Luffy, plot twist? Anyway, worth it. The floor was asking for it.”

“I mean, technically, the floor did give him emotional resistance damage earlier.” You murmur thoughtfully, curled up next to him and half in his lap, and he nods, mock-serious.

Luffy beams up, an all-toothy grin. “THE FLOOR’S A BOSS?? Can I fight it?!”

“ Lu, again?”

Sabo ignores him. For now.

“Thanks for the trauma, I guess,” he mutters dryly, jotting something down.

Party is weak against marble, or something like that, you think.

Ace raises a brow. “Not my fault you have daddy issues, and against flooring at that.”

You choke on your drink, a Monster straight from the can.

Although, after that, maybe you’ll get back to the booze.

Sabo doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, but you didn’t help either.”

Luffy claps. “Whoa! That was, like… really personal.”

“It’s a roleplaying game, Luffy,” Sabo says with a sigh. “Your character doesn’t even have a dad.”

“Oh,” Luffy says, cheerful. “I just thought we were doing trauma bonding.”

“Aren’t we always?”

Ace raises his beer with his free hand.

“To trauma bonding!”

You clink your can to his bottle, a half-smirk on your lips.

“To emotionally unstable parties and daddy issues!”

Sabo closes his binder with an ominous snap, dragging the attention back to him.

“You enter the next room, little psychopaths. Roll initiative, and focus.”

The table goes quiet.

“…What’s in the room?” you ask, with a bravery you do not possess.

Sabo smiles, the slow, sadistic smile of a Dungeon Master pushed past his limit.

Oh, fuck, we broke him.

“A mimic. No, actually, six mimics. Not that your characters know, as they’re all disguised as therapy chairs.”

Ace squints, making a face at him. “Is this because I said your villain was hot?”

“No,” Sabo says calmly. “It’s because you tried to sleep with them and then set their manor on fire.”

“I needed a distraction!” Ace protests.

Luffy shrugs. “You did say the carpets looked flammable.”

You lean toward Sabo, nudging him gently.

“C’mon, DM. You like us. Help us out.”

“…Do I?” Sabo deadpans, reaching for his beer. “Do I really?”

***

The party stands at the edge of a cursed ravine, skeletal wyverns circling above. A fog of necrotic energy rolls across the broken stones. Sabo clears his throat behind the DM screen.

“Okay,” he says, voice dry, exhausted but with a gleam in his eyes that promises trouble.

“Ahead of you: a corrupted paladin, ten feet tall, black armor smoking with unholy fire, a sword that whispers in tongues, an- Luffy, no, you cannot punch the sword.”

“But what if it’s evil?” Luffy grins, already rolling dice.

Sabo doesn’t even argue. He turns to Ace instead.

“Your turn. What does your bard do? If you flirt with the guy, I will break your neck.”

Ace stands dramatically in his chair, a hand theatrically draped on his chest.

“I cast Inspiring Performance!”

Sabo narrows his eyes. “Please define inspiring, rockstar reject.”

Ace pulls out his lute, also known as his bass with some last-minute, badly sticked paper flame cutouts, and strums a few chords.

“It’s a ballad of friendship, obviously. Something to unify our hearts in the face of darkness.”

“Oh gods,” Sabo mutters.

Ace launches into song, uncaring, a pretty smirk on his lips.
“Through danger and fire we stride side by side,
With loyalty burning and passions we hide.
But one of us shines like a moon in the snow,
Whose biceps I notice wherever we go-ooo”

You freeze for half a second, then groan, already feeling the heat rush to your face.
Your hand comes up automatically to cover it, but it does nothing to stop the flush.

“Ace,” you say, voice low and mortified. “Seriously?”

He winks at you and keeps going.
“He’s got a club and knows how to swing it,
Makes my hit points rise every minute.
He’s brave, he’s bold, he smells like pine,
And gods help me, I wish he’d make me his shrine.”

Luffy nods, thoughtful. “Yamao’s muscles are shrine-worthy!”

You let out a strangled noise and half-turn away, ears burning.

“I’m using my reaction to hide behind a rock,” you mutter, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

Sabo rubs his temples. “Ace. I swear. This is not the time for your gay thoughts. And that’s not even how bardic inspiration works.”

“Isn’t it?” Ace grins. “Yama seems pretty inspired. Look at that blush.”

You try for a glare, but it falters halfway.

“I’m flustered,” you admit under your breath, “not empowered. And definitely not drunk enough for this shit, babe.”

Ace just blows you a kiss, looking far too pleased with himself.

Sabo sighs and jots a note on his session paper, reading aloud while writing.

"Add necromantic silence trap next session. Bard-proof. Ace-proof too."

Ace plucks one final note, struts around the table, and plants a kiss on your head, to then drop another beer in front of you.

“Anyway, +1 to everyone’s morale. You’re welcome.”

“You didn’t even roll for that,” Sabo says flatly.

Ace raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t I, though?”

 “If we’re inspired, can I punch the sword now?”

Sabo closes the module. “That’s it. I’m bringing back the mimic therapist chairs.”

***

You're several more beers in. Your notes are smudged with ink and coffee and chocolate. Someone, probably Luffy, has gotten cheese dust on your dice. You’re half-asleep in your chair, legs once more draped over Ace’s lap, and he’s rubbing lazy circles against your thigh while strumming his cursed lute-bass.

“I cast Inspiring Performance again,” he declares proudly. “To raise morale.”

Sabo’s eyes narrow. “Ace. I swear to all gods-”

Ace strikes a chord and starts to sing in that soft, faux-sultry bard voice that means you should probably leave the table.

“Oh, dog boy of the silver blade,
With a rear that makes even villains afraid,
Justice may be your righteous path,
But damn, I’d worship that ass in a bubble bath.”

“ I’m surrounded by idiots,” Sabo murmurs, hiding his face in his hands.

You blink slowly, lifting your drink.

“…Okay,” you murmur. “I’m too drunk for this to even be a problem.”

“Then it worked,” Ace beams. “That’s morale right there.”

“ The booze?”

Luffy cheers. “Butt bard magic! It’s effective!”

Sabo shuffles his notes violently. “You know what? You’re all cursed. Cursed with insight into things I never wanted to know.”

You rest your head against Ace’s shoulder. “That’s fine. I’ve made peace with it.”

He kisses your temple and mutters, “You should. It’s a holy relic, really.”

You don’t even dignify that with a response. You're just grateful he stopped rhyming ass with mass.

***

“ … Sabo, can I punch the mountain, now?”

“ … You know what? Whatever. Roll.”

“ It’s a 20! That’s good, right?”

***

By the end of the night, your paladin is married to a chaos god, Ace’s bard has acquired a cult following and he’s become emo, and Luffy has added an eerie familiar “dragon punch” to his list of homebrewed moves.

Sabo’s campaign notebook is dog-eared and slightly singed.

Sabo, too, looks one breath away from setting you all on fire.

You play until 2:30 a.m., when Luffy is passed out on the couch, and you are fully cuddled up next to Ace, who’s still half-reciting bardic poetry like it’s gospel, dedicated to his most beautiful mate.

“Dog boy with the battle bark,
You act tough but you’re soft in the dark.
Loyal like moonlight, hot like the sun,
I’d let you chew my heart just for fun.

You bite, I burn,
It’s a hell of a match.
So how ’bout you stop growling
And just scratch where I itch?”

“ That’s cute, and not at all a innuendo parade.” you murmur, and he kisses you on the head.

“ You’re cuter, darlin’, and everything is a innuendo if you believe enough.”

“Next session,” Sabo mumbles, interrupting you, furiously scribbling notes, “we’re gonna do politics.”

“No,” you and Ace both say in unison, and Luffy just mumbles something about meat.

Chapter Text

The apartment is quiet in the kind of way that makes your chest ache, soft light slipping through half-drawn curtains, the muffled hum of the city just outside, and the faint, clinging smell of leftover curry in the air. Outside, the trees are just starting to shift, with edges of leaves tinged in gold and red, like they haven’t decided whether to let go of summer yet.

The windows are cracked open, letting in a breeze that smells like pavement after rain and the first bite of fall. You’re half-covered by a soft, worn red blanket you borrowed from Ace’s bed, sleeves pushed to your elbows, your bare feet pressed into the cool floor. The late lunch you made easily morphed into a lazy sprawl on the couch. You are basically sure that Ace has fallen asleep next to you, until he stretches his legs out with a sigh and slumps further into the cushions.

"I survived a Monday, and for what?" he groans, head tilted back dramatically. "A Tuesday? Absolutely disgusting."

You bark out a laugh, the kind that warms your ribs. “Seriously. Should be illegal. Monday’s already a scam. It’s like starting a new quest and falling through the floor five steps in.”

Ace smirks without opening his eyes, but then shifts slightly, fishing around in his hoodie pocket.

He jangles something, like a loot drop you weren’t expecting, before he pulls something out and holds it toward you.

A key.

It dangles from a curious keychain, a little spade, like the card suit, matte black with a small flame etched into the center. The metal is smooth and cool, the edges clean, purposeful. It feels heavier than it looks.

“I, uh… got a copy made for you,” he says, voice a little rough. Trying to sound casual, to maintain his charade, but it frays at the edges. It’s too soft, and you both know it. “To the apartment. Not that you have to take it or anything, just, figured, y’know, since you crash here sometimes, or something like that, it could be useful, and… yeah.”

He wants you close, a little voice quips up from your head.

Your fingers close around it slowly. The spade charm catches a thread of light as it swings between your hands.

You glance down, then up at him. For a moment, your eyes meet, and something flickers, a warm, almost shy glow in Ace’s usually confident expression. Your heart stutters, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy of the gesture and the way the light hits his face.

“This keychain… it’s custom, isn’t it?”

Ace rubs the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish, a blush slowly creeping over his darling freckles, like the cooldown timer on a shy emote. “Yeah. Thought it kinda… fit.”

“ And it isn’t a pun to your name?” you give a soft chuckle, but to your surprise, he just blushes more.

“I mean, kinda? A little bit? It’s just that… the spade felt like you. Strong. Steady. Sharp in ways that don’t make noise. And the flame’s… well. Me. It’s us, together.” He says, voice going quieter with every word spoken.

Your breath catches. It’s not just a key. It’s an invitation. Not just a key, but a checkpoint, a save point in the game of your lives together, a place where you don’t have to worry about dying or restarting.

A gesture of trust. Permanence. A space you’re welcome in, without knocking, without apologizing. A promise. Your throat tightens before you can stop it.

Your fingers close around it slowly, like clutching a rare drop you’ve been grinding for. You run your thumb over the warm metal, the little spade charm nestled between your fingers, and for a split second, your eyes flick back to Ace, noticing how his jaw tightens just a bit, as if he’s nervous too, like this moment means more than he lets on.

Actions that speak louder than words.

“Ace,” you say, voice soft. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s not a big deal-”

“No,” you say, looking up, eyes bright. “It is.”

And then, like the words have been waiting just beneath the surface, like you’re finally ready, you add, quietly.

“I want to tell your brothers. About me.”

Ace blinks. “About you…?”

 “About… me. About being trans.” you say, steady now. “ I feel… that’s only fair. They told me about their past, and they… they deserve to know mine.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It just… is. Full of something real, something shared.

Ace leans in, brushing his fingers against yours where they still hold the key.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you hold his gaze, feeling the quiet strength in his touch, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours, and for a heartbeat, it feels like a secret shared just between the two of you.

“You sure?”

You nod. “I don’t want to hide from them. I know they matter to you. And… I want to be seen. All the way.”

He gives you a slow, crooked smile, the kind that makes your stomach do that stupid little flip.

“Then I’ve got your back,” he says. “Every step.”

You nod, heart beating like you just cleared a boss with 2HP and no potions left.

New quest added to the diary, Oden.

Starting in…

***

Sabo is on his bean bag, dragged from the bedroom and planted in the middle of the living room, his laptop balanced on crisscrossed legs. He’s dressed in a neat, soft white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and dark joggers, comfortable but still put together. His face is serious, focused, for once really working on something.

Probably writing an article, you think, a small voice reasoning from your mind.

Luffy sprawls out on the couch, munching on popcorn with the kind of intensity usually reserved for boss fights, his attention locked on the bee documentary flickering across the screen, a silent tribute to the importance of pollinators. He’s a walking contradiction in a baggy red hoodie half-zipped over a wrinkled white tee and loose gym shorts, chaos incarnate even in his lounging clothes.

Ace stands behind the couch, arms crossed, then shifts and perches on the armrest between his brothers. His outfit’s an effortless punk take on cozy: a loose white tank top layered under an open flannel shirt, paired with black ripped jeans rolled up just above his socked feet. His eyes flick to you as you clear your throat.

Both of them turn toward you, Luffy with a distracted glance, eyes still half on the screen. Sabo’s gaze sharpens, a curious spark catching light in his expression.

“Yamao? Is this an intervention?” Luffy asks, chewing a mouthful of popcorn.

“An intervention about what?” Sabo adds, closing his laptop slowly and resting it on the coffee table, his focus now entirely on you. He’s alert now. Waiting.

Ace reaches down and plucks the remote from Luffy’s hand, killing the documentary mid-flight.

“I was watching that!” Luffy protests, eyebrows shooting up, already trying to wrestle his way into his brother’s arm to retrieve the lost good.

“Shut it. You need to listen for about… ten minutes. Then you can go back to your lovely creepy crawlies,” Ace says, voice low but firm, holding the remote high with his left and keeping Luffy still with his right.

“Okay!” Luffy throws up his hands in mock surrender, slumping back into the couch. But his eyes are curious now, too.

You sigh, your heart tightening with the weight of what you’re about to say, fiddling with your hands. You look from Ace to Sabo, noticing how Sabo’s expression has softened, waiting patiently.

But it’s Ace you find your gaze settling on, like always, quietly admiring the way he takes charge in this moment, his calm confidence, the slight crease of concern between his brows, the way his hand rests gently yet firmly on Luffy’s arm. There’s something reassuring in his presence that makes your chest feel a little lighter.

“I had a copy of the keys made for Yamato,” Ace says, voice quieter now, nodding toward you. “Already gave it to him. That cool with you two troublemakers?”

“Uh, sure? That’s what you needed to tell us?” Sabo grins, but you can tell he’s alert, waiting for more.

“No, it’s… I need to tell you something,” you interrupt, feeling the weight of two pairs of eyes pinned on you now, standing in the middle of the room, in front of them all.

“Well, uh, before I unlock the door to your base or anything… I figured I should roll for transparency first.”

“Go ahead,” Ace encourages gently.

Now or never.

“I am trans. A trans man.” The words drop like a truth bomb mid-cutscene, too late to pause, but exactly where the story was meant to go.

Sabo widens his eyes for a split second, then takes in your full appearance with a slow, thoughtful gaze, surprised but steady.

Ace leans over the armrest and gives Sabo a sharp slap on the back of the head.

“That’s rude, plot twist.” His voice is scolding, but his eyes sparkle with affection.

“I-I’m sorry! I just didn’t see that coming.” Sabo rubs the back of his neck, sheepish.

You smile, hiding a laugh behind your hand as Ace shoots his brother a glare that’s half amused, half warning.

“What’s that?” Luffy asks, jumping up and down on the couch, curious.

Ace turns to Luffy, but it’s Sabo who offers the explanation.

“Ah, you see, so, when he was little, people thought Yamato was a girl.”

“They did?” Luffy’s eyes go round.

“That’s how Iva explains it, usually, yeah. Isn’t that so?” Sabo turns to you.

You nod, a little caught off guard by the simplicity of this explanation, almost childlike. But it’s kind. You go with it.

“Pretty much, yeah. I was born in a girl’s body, so that’s why-”

“Well, that’s dumb.” Luffy says it bluntly, cutting across your sentence.

Everything stops for a moment. You freeze. Your chest tightens, breath catching in your throat. The tone, the words, your stomach twists.

Ace straightens on the armrest, alarmed. “Lu-” he says sharply, already bracing.

“… sorry?” you manage, heart sinking.

“I mean, did you tell 'em?” Luffy asks you, words open and guileless.

“… Did I tell them… what?” Your voice is thin, almost bracing for impact.

“That you’re a boy. Duh.” Luffy shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You pause. Something shifts. The words settle in your ears differently now, reshaping your fear into confusion, then into stunned relief.

“Oh. Well, eventually, yes, but-”

“Then it’s dumb. Why would they think you’re a girl?” Luffy presses, eyebrows drawn in frustration on your behalf.

“I was… I had a different body. A girl’s body, I mean, and-”

“That doesn’t matter! They should’ve listened to you!” Luffy insists, wide-eyed and firm. “It’s your body. You know if you’re a girl or a boy. And you told us. You’re a boy.”

And just like that, something inside you unclenches. The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escapes all at once. The heat behind your eyes fades into something softer.

Ace leans back, exhaling slowly with a hand over his heart. “Hells, Luffy. Warn a man next time, would ya?”

Luffy tilts his head, confused. “Why? I said what I meant.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Luffy, but you know… people.” You shrug, a smile on your face.

“Ah. Yes. People.” Luffy nods sagely, as if he’s been personally wronged by the concept.

You laugh. Just a little. But it’s real.

“Is that why you have daddy issues, Yamao?” Sabo interjects suddenly, catching you off guard.

Ace gives him a glare sharp enough to kill a cutscene. Sabo immediately shrinks into the bean bag.

 “I mean, ahem, if you… want to… tell us? I’m sorry, that was rude, ignore me.” Sabo’s voice trails off, awkward but sincere, and mostly scared about Ace, it seems.

“…And how do you even know about that?” you ask, blinking, more surprised than anything else.

You look at Ace, still eyeing at his brother like he’s planning a fratricide.

Ah, that’s how.

Sabo throws his hands up like he’s under arrest, growing paler.

“No, I mean- Ace told us something, y’know, after the D&D campaign the other night? He didn’t say much, I swear! Just that… you had a bad relationship with your father and we shouldn’t bring it up? Which I guess… I just did. Shit.” He says, glancing at Ace, who is still glaring daggers right at him.

“And that’s exactly why I said not to bring it up, Sabo D. Blake.”

Sabo winces. “Yikes. Full government name. You are pissed.”

Ace doesn’t raise his voice. But his tone lands heavy. “It wasn’t your place.”

“I know, I know,” Sabo says quickly, palms up. “I wasn’t thinking. Curiosity got ahead of me, but, you’re right, and… yeah. Should’ve kept my mouth shut. I’m sorry, Yamato.” He looks at you now, genuine, embarrassed.

Ace sighs, tension slipping off his shoulders, rolling his eyes. “I don’t just throw around warnings for fun, y’know.”

Sabo lets out a breath. “Yeah. Turns out… you were right. This time.”

Ace snorts, but his expression softens, some of the tension bleeding out.

“I’m always right, plot twist. I’m the eldest.”

Sabo grins, sheepish. “ Yeah, I’m going to let it slide, since I fucked up. But I really am sorry, Yamato. I should’ve known better.” He adds, turning back to you. Serious, a bit shy still.

“It’s okay,” you say gently like easing off a high-stakes run. You slide down onto the floor, hugging a pillow to your chest. “I don’t mind talking about it. Not with you guys.”

Ace stands up quietly, then settles down next to you on the floor. He reaches out and takes your hand in his, his touch steady and warm. You squeeze his hand back, surprised at how much the simple contact grounds you. There’s a flutter in your chest, soft but unmistakable, that makes your cheeks warm.

“My father is an abusive, controlling asshole. That’s why I have daddy issues, like Sabo so charmingly put it. Weirdly, he’s not transphobic. But one right doesn’t fix two wrongs, y’know?”

“I suppose,” Sabo mutters. Ace squeezes your hand.

You smile. “Ace was trying to protect me. But it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about him. Or my transition. Not with you. Not anymore, I mean. It’s just that…”

You take a breath, scratching the back of your head with your free hand, gathering your thoughts before continuing.

“It’s just… Ace gave me a key. And before I barge into your space, I wanted to be honest. That’s all.”

“Are you dumb? That’s the reason?” Ace stares at you like you’ve just glitched, or you’d just admitted the biggest secret in the world. You wave a hand at him, dismissive.

“Babe, I appreciate the sentiment, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve triggered a ‘you don’t belong here’ cutscene.”

“…come again?”

“That people were uncomfortable with me. A trans person. In their space. Not the first time, no.”

“But- this is your space too!” Luffy interrupts, sounding protective, and you almost feel your heart clutch.

“Yeah! You’re here more than I am,” Sabo chimes in. “Honestly? It’s great. Means someone’s keeping these two gremlins in check.”

You smile, the warmth sinking in deep.

 “I appreciate the sentiment, but-”

“No, really, I’m not kidding. I’m very grateful to have you here, Yamao. I’ve never seen Ace so happy, and I know it’s because of you. If I had to, I’d give you my keys, you bet.” Sabo says warmly, and Luffy nods in agreement.

You settle back onto the floor, the weight of their acceptance lifting some of the heaviness you’ve been carrying. Ace squeezes your hand gently. “This is your space too.”

Luffy, ever the simple heart, adds with a goofy grin. “Keys or no keys.”

Sabo smirks. “Yeah, no secrets here. We’ve got your back, brother. Always.”

The room feels lighter, warmer. Maybe this moment is the start of something new, not just for you, but for all of you together.

And somehow, that’s enough.

***

You quietly step out onto the balcony, the September night wrapping around you in a soft, cool embrace. The air carries a faint scent of wood mingled with the crispness of drying leaves. Above, the sky fades into deepening blue, dotted with the first tentative stars.

You lean against the railing with the only company of the old cherry tree on the street below you, fingers gliding over the cool metal like tracing the edge of a forgotten map,  smooth, familiar, and leading somewhere uncertain.

A bit like I went into this day, you think.

A soft clearing of a throat pulls you from your reverie. You turn to see Sabo standing there, hesitating slightly before stepping closer and settling beside you. His shoulder brushes yours gently, a quiet offering of comfort.

“You wanted to talk?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, eyes fixed on the distant city lights. “Yeah… I just wanted to say I’m sorry about earlier. For pressing about your dad when Ace said not to.”

You shrug, cheeks warming. “It’s alright. I get it.”

And you do, really. The curiosity, the want to know. Maybe because he cares, unlike so many others.

There’s a pause, the silence filled only by the faint hum of the city and a soft breeze stirring the jasmine.

Sabo runs a hand through his hair, then glances at you. “ It’s just… sometimes I feel like everything is a big puzzle, and the only way to understand things is by having all of the pieces, of the info. That’s why I’m so curious, I guess. Maybe I think that if I do that I’ll understand myself better.”

You look at him funny, and he gives a small sigh.

“I don’t … really remember much from when I was little. Before I was nine, I mean.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Why’s that?”

He swallows and rubs the scar over his eye, almost absentmindedly. “There was an accident… something bad. It left some marks.” He gestures vaguely toward the faint burn scars on his shoulder too. “Probably wiped out my early memories.”

You frown slightly. “That sounds… hard.”

“It was,” he admits softly. “I tried looking into it later on. Found some old files about my birth parents. Not exactly easy reading, and probably not legal to see. Definitively not legal to see.”

You bite your lip, hesitating, then ask, “Did you learn why it happened?”

Sabo shakes his head. “Not everything. Just pieces. But I think… it explains a lot of the missing parts in my past.”

You nod slowly, your fingers tightening around the railing. “Must be tough, not knowing.”

He exhales, the sound almost lost in the night. “Yeah. Sometimes I wonder what I missed out on… What could have been. My birth parents, they were far from perfects, from what I read. At least with Dragon, I found someone who tried to be better.”

He pauses. “Still, even then… I didn’t always feel safe.”

Your chest tightens with empathy, and you glance down at your hands, which have folded in front of you. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, mirroring Sabo’s earlier movement.

A quiet moment stretches between you. It’s not heavy. Just full. Shared.

Sabo turns to look at you directly, eyes softer now. “Thanks for letting me say that. Sometimes it’s easier out here, away from everyone.”

You smile shyly. “Thank you for the lore drop.”

You catch the quirk of a grin at the edge of his mouth.

“I mean it,” you add, a little quieter. “I’m glad you told me.”

He nods, and the buffer clears between you, the air lighter, the September night a gentle backdrop to a shared checkpoint.

Chapter Text

The notes of Megalovania start coming out of your phone, and you just give it a half-hearted glance when you realize Ace’s face is showing on the screen, his pretty smile on the last selfie you took together.

You scramble to pause your game, moving your headphones to answer.

“ Hello, hello?”

“ Hi, loverboy. Am I waking you up?”

“ Not at all. Just finishing a game,” you answer, taking off the headset and saving as a precaution.

It would not be your first time, getting lost in conversation while talking to Ace and ending up forgetting about it, only to have to restart from the previous save. Your boyfriend has the great ability to get you distracted in a minute flat of conversation, and then boom: two hours of progress gone to the void. Classic.

 “ Cool, cool. You’re home, then?”

“ Yeah, why?”

“ Can I come over?”

“Sure thing, baby.”

“ Good, cause I’m already here. Open up?”

You smile, hanging up the phone and getting up, making your way towards the door.

Ace greets you with a loud smack on the lips and a paper bag in your hands.

"Brought you lunch," he says, kicking off his boots and leaving them in a messy pile by the entrance. You catch a glimpse of his outfit: a faded black band tee stretched just right, paired with black shorts, ripped and bleach-stained, that hang loose but with a rough edge.

He shimmies out of his leather jacket, throwing it carelessly onto the coat rack.

"Oh, thank you! How did you know I hadn't eaten yet?"

"You have the day off work, and study too, if I’m correct."

"...okay?"

"I doubt you've left your desk before now," he laughs, as you pull a couple of plastic containers out of the bag, the kind they use in restaurants.

You just stick your tongue out at him, taking a quick glance at your desk, barely visible from the other room: your mouse still glowing, the headset tossed on top of the keyboard.

Well, at least I saved, you think, sending a mental apology to the Street Fighter’s gods.

You start then opening the boxes and taking a look, placing them one by one on the coffee table in the living room, in front of your tiny TV.

"Chicken and broccoli?"

“Yesterday you were complaining about how you hadn't put enough muscle in, according to Zoro,” he jokes, taking the chopsticks out of the kitchen drawer, the purple ones for you and the orange ones for him.

“But there should also be fried rice, and I got you also that salmon I had the other time, the one you liked so much; also, I think your muscles are quite nice, but that’s just my opinion,” he continues, opening the fridge door and grabbing an energy drink for you and a beer for him, then walking back towards you.

“And you?” you ask, ignoring the dig at Zoro’s comments, and your almost obsession to follow them through since you become a semi-regular bonus patron of Matcha Dojo.

The guy’s got a point, tho, says a little voice inside your head.

The same voice that tracks stats like strength and stamina like you’re still grinding for a better endgame build.

And how about you shut up? Traitor.

“Ah, just the spiciest stir-fried chow mein from the restaurant, and some mapo tofu. Also some fried bread, and a bit of greens, and som tum with extra chili. And coffee, of course.”

“You're a monster.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m your favorite,” he chuckles, leaving everything on the table and sitting down on the floor, dark hair loose on his neck, a pretty smile on his lips, a warm spark in his eyes.

You sit next to him, looking at all this goodness.

And the food isn't looking bad either.

“Thanks, babe. I appreciate it, really. You didn’t have to- I mean… I know I’ve been kind of… stuck in my own head lately.”

You used to flinch at this kind of kindness, half-expecting it to come with strings or some kind of quiet judgment. But Ace never asks you to earn it. He just shows up, food in hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like loving you is simple. Like you’re deserving of it.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just scoops a bit of rice into your container like it’s the most natural thing in the world, to then give you a soft look.

“Final prep is a bitch and you’re just taking a well-deserved break. Besides, that’s why I came,” he says, shrugging. “Sometimes your head needs backup.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking for thanks. He never does.

“Thanks,” you say anyway. “For the food. For showing up.”

“Always,” he replies, grinning with a piece of chicken already halfway to his mouth, grabbing the container with five chillies drawn on it and starting to dig in happily.

“You’re too good to me.”

“I’m just smart,” he says, stealing some more chicken from your container. “If I take care of you, I get cuddles. Win-win.”

You roll your eyes, and he just snickers.

“ Did you have a nice morning?” you ask, also starting to eat, and he nods, mouth filled to the brim, and then some.

“ Shure. I inked three guys, a cow, a butterfly and a phrase respectively. Cow-guy was super kind, butterfly-guy was quiet the whole time and the phrase was a live, laugh, love kind of bullshit, so you can guess how that went. And then I did a couple of holes.”

“ That’s an innuendo, if I ever heard one.”

He blushes slightly, playfully pushing your arm as you giggle.

“ Pervert.”

“ A real pervert would ask how spicy that thing really is, and how bad would my mouth hurt after I kiss you.”

His eyes go big, and you have to physically restrain yourself from tackling him here and now.

“ …. I can go brush my teeth?”

You smirk, to then keep eating, quiet.

He just stares at you for a moment more, to then pout.

“ Well?”

“ Oh, who’s the real pervert then? Eat while it's hot, we can make out later."

" Liar," he mutters, still pouting, to then resuming eating, in his usual chaotic and messy manner.

Cute.

And I fully intend to keep my word.

***

Tongues tangled, his body hot on yours, straddling you, close, intoxicating.

Ace grabs you by the hair, moving your head so he can deepen the kiss, moaning softly into your mouth.

Well, I told you I was going to stick to my word, didn't I?

The spicy taste of chilli, still noticeable in your boyfriend's mouth, tingles your tongue slightly, and even though you usually hate spicy food, well... this time you'll make an exception.

You grab Ace's waist, pulling him towards you, his naked chest against yours, his t-shirt thrown somewhere, as he starts to give you a string of light, gentle kisses on your lips, on your face, on your neck.

You tilt your head to one side, allowing him to do as he pleases, and then you let your head fall back on the sofa, your throat exposed, a clear invitation.

Ace goes on kissing your neck, no doubt leaving you with a few hickeys that you won't really know how to explain to Zoro tomorrow when you meet for sparring.

Smartass.

Still, you just can't bring yourself to stop him.

Suddenly, he returns his focus to your lips, sliding his hands down from your hair to your shirt, pulling you towards him, as if he’s trying to take it off, to lift you up.

 “Do you want to... mmmh... go somewhere?” you murmur, your voice hoarse with desire, pulling away from those warm, soft lips for a moment.

“On top,” he replies, between kisses.

On top?

“Babe, there isn't- What top?”

“ I want you-“

“ I want you too, pretty, but-“

“ I want you on top,” he interrupts you, continuing as if you had not spoken.

“ … on top of what?”

“ On top of me,” he insists, eyes stubbornly shut, his face redder than you've ever seen it before.

You’re 99% sure your brain just blue-screened.

You remain silent for a moment more, while he vigorously continues to kiss you, his eyes closed, his lips pressing on yours, again and again.

“It's not that - I don't - want to, but...” you reply, between kisses that are becoming faster and faster, deeper and deeper.

“But?”

“I think - Ace!” you laugh, raising a hand toward his face and running your fingers through his hair, to hold him back just a little, just for a moment.

He pouts again, like a child who has had his toy taken away.

“But... I think I'm too heavy,” you end up saying, and he just scoffs.

“ I can bench press you, and I will.”

“ … I’m almost 300 pounds.”

“ Yeah, I can definitively take you.”

“ Ah, so we're back to thinking about sex, then?”

“You’re impossible.”

“ That’s not a no.”

“ I can take you both ways,” he concludes, with his blush spreading on his chest, and you bite your lips, holding the though just for a second more. Just a second, tho.

“ That sounds-“

“ It sounds dirty, cause it is dirty. Now get on top of me and shut up.”

He announces, pulling you towards him once again by your shirt, until you lose your balance.

This is exactly why you never invest in agility builds.

The landing is rough, and the floor digs into your knees, but Ace's laughter against your collarbone makes it impossible to complain. You’re half-sure your elbow's bruised, and his hair's a total mess, but none of it matters when he looks up at you like you’ve just fallen from the sky and landed in the right place.

You tumble awkwardly to the ground, and you barely manage to protect your boyfriend's head with your hand, scoffing at him, while he simply opens up his mouth to stick his tongue out of those perfect lips, to tease you, or to tempt you, you're not sure.

Only one way to find out.

You climb on top of him, legs spread beneath you, your weight on your knees and hands, fixed to the ground.

You move closer to his face, shifting your weight onto your forearms and starting to kiss him on the neck, jaw, ear. Soft and warm, tempting.

“Is this what you wanted, baby?” you whisper, close to his ear, and he trembles for a moment, making a low moan, full of desire, full of...

Then he kisses you again, hard and deep into your mouth, and there's no more time to think.

Your mind goes blank, just vibration feedback and a loading screen where your thoughts used to be. Not that you need them, anyway.

Your hands rush to his belt, quickly unbuckling it while he kisses you again and again, your mind in a daze, your breath shallow as you pull his shorts down from his hips.

 “ What about you, hm? Am I the only one that’s-“ he starts to whine, before getting abruptly interrupted by a slow, calculated grind, letting him feel you even with your sweatpants on.

“ Are you really going to complain? Now, pretty boy?” you chuckle, low and sultry, and he gets redder.

So pretty.

“ Sh-shut up and kiss me,” he grumbles, clinging to you with his legs, crossing his ankles behind your hips.

Close, close, you almost can’t breathe.

And what a way to go and let go, you think, hot and bothered, biting and marking all of his pretty skin, everywhere you manage to get, as he moans into your ear, unbashed, beautiful, honest.

Like that’s the only thing he can do.

You manage to find your rhythm, a bit clumsy, a bit desperate, oh-so-real, his hands in your hair, your breath on his shoulder, the world narrowing to the press and pull of skin.

Everything else fades, like it’s just the two of you, just instinct and the quiet sounds of need you don’t need to hide.

***

“ I have eight missed calls from Luffy,” he tells you, phone in one hand, your hair into the other, as he strokes your head, resting on his collarbone, both lazily sprawled on the couch.

 “ Did something happen?”

“ Nah, I guess he wanted to bug me, or something. He sent me something like fifteen different emoji strings,” he chuckles, and you follow, giving him a soft, satisfied smile.

You nuzzle into his shoulder, taking in the faint smell of citrus and ink, his usual scent, the one you love so much.

“ You need to tell me how much was lunch," you murmur, realizing with appropriate delay that you have abandoned plates and silverware on the coffee table, and how it is a miracle they did not roll down, in the heat of the moment you just shared on the floor.

Like animals! You hear your usual, too-critiquing voice screeching in your head.

Yeah, and I liked it, fuck off, you answer, unfazed, and your brain is quiet once more.

“ I have zero intention of letting you pay me back.”

“ Fine. Next time is on me, then.”

“Sure thing, man.”

You scoff, looking at him, still with his eyes glued on the screen.

“We were making out twenty minutes ago, and we’ve been at it for the last twenty minutes. Do not call me man.”

“ ...  mmh … how about daddy?” He answers, absent-minded, still scrolling through his lost calls.

You widen your eyes, taken aback, to then smirk, like you just landed a frame-perfect combo.

And in a way, it feels even better than that.

Game over.

He somehow falters, pulling himself back together, suddenly realizing what he just said and trying hard to backpedal. You can almost hear the buffering noise behind his eyes, braincells scrambling to find something to say.

“ I mean! I didn’t-“

“ Daddy’s fine, baby,” you purr out, as he gets redder and redder in the face.

You stretch out beside him, still smiling, cheek pressed to his chest as his heart hammers beneath you, like a drummer just after the drop.

“Careful with the dialogue options, pretty boy,” you murmur, eyes closing, voice low and warm.
“Some choices have… consequences.”

And you’re about to find out.

Round two?

***

And yes, you did eventually move to the bed.

You both lie tangled under the blankets, Ace’s steady heartbeat humming beneath your hand, as you stroke gently his back. His breath is warm and slow against your skin as the quiet settles around you.

You remember the first time you heard it, racing under your ear, nervous and unsteady, the two of you curled up like a secret, after a night not too different from this moment. That night, neither of you said much, content in your own brain, shy and satisfied, like a shared secret. Now, his heartbeat feels like punctuation to your own. Like an answer.

You trace light circles on his back with your fingertips, feeling the calm weight of him beside you. After a few moments, your voice comes out softer than usual, almost like a question meant just for yourself.

“Do you ever think about... what comes next? After all this?”

Ace stirs slightly, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. He offers a small, sleepy smile, the kind that makes your heart feel lighter.

“Well, I… sometimes,” he whispers, perching his chin over your clothed chest. “I guess... I hope it’s something like this. Quiet, with you. No rush, no noise, just... us.”

You nod, brushing your lips gently against his temple. “Me too. I wonder if we’ll always be like this, even when things get messy or confusing.”

His hand finds yours beneath the sheets, fingers intertwining softly. “Messy is okay,” he says quietly. “Messy feels like home. Just like you.”

A slow smile curls your lips as you close your eyes, savoring the simple warmth of the moment. “I like that,” you murmur. “Feeling like home.”

Ace shifts closer, his breath tickling your ear. “You know… we don’t need to figure it all out right now. Just... right here. Right now.”

You lean into him, your voices dropping to soft murmurs. Words aren’t needed anymore. Just the gentle rhythm of two hearts slowing together. Like they’ve been together their whole life, all of eternity, again and again.

You keep peppering kisses on his head, soft and cozy, letting the quiet wash over you. In this calm, you find something you didn’t know you were missing.

A steady place, a safe space, a shared future that feels quietly possible.

And for now, that’s enough.

The quiet lingers, comfortable and complete. It stretches out, until it naturally slips into something lighter, something more like the two of you, after everything.

“Hey,” Ace whispers after a moment, “wanna watch something dumb on Netflix? Something we don’t have to think about?”

“ Did we do too much thinking for your maxed out brain, pretty?”

“ I’m not the one that only thinks of sex, here,” he laughs, and you feel your ears getting hotter.

“Could’ve fool me. What are we are doing, Netflix and chill backwards?”

“ Sure, something like that.”

“Fine, we need to clean the coffee table before something grows on it anyway” you mutter, side-eyeing the abandoned takeout boxes from earlier, still undisturbed on the living room, barely visible from the open door, and the bed you’re in.

“Too risky,” Ace replies dramatically. “Could be the start of a new lifeform. I vote we let it evolve and name it later.”

“Bold of you to assume it hasn’t already claimed the remote.”

“Then your TV is stuck with re-runs of that B-movie about space sharks.”

You laugh as he makes an exaggerated horror face, but neither of you move.

“ No getting up?” You ask softly.

“ I’m comfy right here,” he half-pouts.

“ Besides, there’s a reason they invented the app.”

 “Good enough. As long as you pick something with explosions or really bad acting.”

He grins, pulling his phone from the side table and flicking through the shows. You lean back into the cushions, letting your body sink into the bed. His head finds your chest again, fingers fiddling with his phone still.

The screen flickers on, and you both settle into the rhythm of shared silence, occasionally exchanging tired smiles or quiet jokes.

Minutes later, Ace’s breathing slows, a soft rumble of sleep catching him mid-sentence during some ridiculous plot twist.

As Ace dozes off beside you, you find your gaze drifting to the shape of your arm, your chest, the way your body fits into his now without hesitation.

There was a time you would’ve flinched at this kind of closeness.

Even wanted it but couldn’t imagine feeling at home in it.

Now, in the slow calm of shared warmth, you think that maybe this is what being okay feels like.

Feeling like home.

Not perfect. Not finished. But here.

And enough.

You stroke his hair gently, watching his face relax, the tension of the day fading away.

For a brief moment, everything feels perfect.

Just you, him, and the simple happiness of being exactly where you belong.

Chapter Text

You must’ve been seven. Maybe eight. Maybe younger, still. You tried to forget.

You’d spilled his expensive drink on the living room carpet, a rare, some carefully chosen Scotch.

He didn’t yell. Instead, he stared at the stain like it was a personal insult.

And when he turned around, his face was blank. Not angry. Just deciding.

Then the slap came, sharp and fast, and it wasn’t the pain that stunned you. It was the silence after.

The way he talked. The things he said.

“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t hit you. I corrected you. You’re clumsy, you make mistakes that cost money.”

And you believed him. Because that’s what you were learning: love wasn’t gentle, and mistakes had a price.

And he made sure to always make you pay.

I’m sorry.

***

You were sitting under the old cherry tree behind the school, legs crossed awkwardly in your uniform skirt, always uncomfortable, for some reason.

Ulti was beside you, swinging a stick at the tall grass like she was training for battle.

You didn’t know how to say it. You barely knew what it was.

You were not even eleven, you think. Maybe ten, young and naïve and ready to take the world.

A world that didn’t want you.

Princess of Ice, Little Monster, Oni Princess, or simply mistake. All names you’ve heard before, and none of it was a compliment. You’ve always felt like you were too much, useless, wrong.

And maybe you are, and you’re alone in this, in this wrongness, in this mind that didn’t match your body.

But it had been pressing in on your chest for weeks. The need to speak. The strange, tangled feeling you got when you went to the bathroom. When people called you “she” and you didn’t look up. Like they were calling someone else.

Ulti was your best friend. If there was anyone who might understand, even if just a little, it was her.

Is that not what best friends are for?

So you tried.

Now or never.

“Hey,” you said, voice low, fiddling with the loose threads on your skirt, another damage you’ll certainly pay for.

“Do you ever… feel like you’re supposed to be something different?”

She blinked at you. “Like… a bird?”

“ No?”

“ A dinosaur, then?”

You huffed a short laugh. “No. I mean like… when people talk to you, and it doesn’t sound right. Like they think you’re someone you’re not.”

Ulti tilted her head, frowning. “You mean like, they think you’re mean but you’re not? Is someone being mean to you, Yaya?”

“No,” you said, a bit more forcefully now. “Like they call you something, and it just feels wrong. Like it’s not … you. Or it’s not your place. Like your skin is too tight or your reflection doesn’t match your insides.”

She looked at you then, longer. Less confused. More quiet.

You didn’t expect her to say anything brilliant. You didn’t even expect her to get it. But she reached out and ripped a blade of grass, twirling it between her fingers before finally asking:

“Do you want them to call you something else?”

You nodded.

She nodded back, like that was that. “Okay. What should I call you, then?”

You shrugged, because back then, you didn’t have the words. Not the right ones. All you knew was that “girl” didn’t feel right, and “daughter” made your stomach twist, and every time someone expected you to act a certain way because of how you looked, it made you want to run away and never come back.

“I don’t know,” you said. “But not… that.”

She was quiet again, and for a while you just sat together in the sun, the leaves rustling gently above. Then she leaned over and bumped her shoulder into yours.

“Whatever you figure out,” she said, “I’ll still beat you at kickball.”

You smiled. It was the first time you’d said any of it out loud. And the world didn’t fall apart.

But you should’ve know that your luck always runs out.

***

You must’ve been fourteen, fifteen maybe. That awful age where you’re too old to be cute and too young to be trusted.

Ulti had dared you to come. Said there was a lake behind the old rice fields that froze over every winter, and that it was solid enough to skate on if you brought the right shoes. You’d never skated before. She had, once, during a school trip to the capital. She bragged about it like it was a badge of honor.

You remember the cold first. Not in the air, but in your bones. In your fingers, through the borrowed gloves. In your shoes, wet and too tight. The kind of cold that made your lungs burn when you laughed too hard.

But it was the first time in weeks you’d laughed at all.

The lake was real. Frozen all the way through, a pale sheet of dull silver ringed with reed-stalks and bits of fallen branches. No one else was there, just you and her and the empty sky. You’d taken turns sliding across it like idiots, slipping and screaming and grabbing onto each other’s sleeves to stay upright.

“Don’t fall, Yaya!” Ulti yelled, her scarf flying like a cape behind her.

“You pushed me!” you called back, but you were laughing too hard to mean it.

You’d bruised your hip after the third tumble. Ulti didn’t stop teasing you. “Princess of Ice, huh? Maybe you’re more of a court jester.”

You stuck out your tongue. “Shut up.”

You weren’t supposed to be out that long. Your father would be furious. But you hadn’t told him. Of course you hadn’t. You told him you were studying with a friend. Left your phone at home, so he wouldn’t check your location. You were learning already how to lie. How to vanish, just enough to feel free. To be yourself, just for an afternoon.

Ulti collapsed beside you near the bank when the sun started setting, cheeks flushed from the cold, breath rising in little ghosts.

“My toes are gonna fall off,” she declared.

“You’ll live,” you muttered, tucking your hands deeper into your sleeves.

She bumped your shoulder with hers. “You’re smiling.”

You hadn’t noticed. You were.

You turned to her. “You ever wish stuff could just, like... stay the same for once?”

Ulti snorted, tossing a chunk of ice across the lake. “What, like us falling on our asses out here forever?”

You rolled your eyes. “No, idiot. I mean, like… this. Hanging out. Not having to deal with all the other crap.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged and kicked at a patch of snow with her boot.

“Yeah,” she muttered eventually. “But life’s not exactly good at staying put.”

You picked at a scab on your knuckle. “Figures.”

She glanced over at you, sideways. “What, getting sentimental on me now?”

You huffed. “Shut up.”

She smirked. “Make me.”

But she didn’t say anything else. And neither did you.

Not until later, when your socks were soaked and your fingers were numb, and you both knew the sun was setting too fast.

And she caught you looking out at the lake again, like you were trying to take a mental picture.

“What?” she said.

You shrugged. “Nothing. Just... I’m gonna remember this. That’s all.”

She made a face. “You’re such a dork.”

But her voice was softer this time.

And she didn’t look away.

You skated one last time, even though your feet hurt and your fingers were stiff and raw.

Even though your father would scream when you got home.

Even though it wouldn’t matter to anyone but you.

You didn’t know then that memory could be warmer than the moment itself.

Or that people could slip away, just like ice under your feet.

But that day, you were just a kid on a frozen lake.

And she was your best friend.

And for once, the world didn’t feel like it was trying to crush you.

Not yet.

***

“I said I accept it,” he muttered, hands gripping the steering wheel like it owed him something.

You sat in the passenger seat, still catching your breath from telling him the truth.

Sixteen, scared out of your mind. And hanging to his words like it was the only thing that mattered. Maybe it was, back then.

Be a man, be a man.

And men aren’t scared.

“But don't mistake that for a green light to run wild. You think the world cares what you call yourself?”

“ I’m not- I’m not changing my name.”

“ I’m not talking about your name.”

You didn’t answer. He kept talking, like your input meant nothing.

Maybe it did, for him.

“You can be whoever you want. But at the end of the day, you're still my child, my son, whatever, but mine. And I’ll still be the one cleaning up when you screw it all up.”

But you didn’t listen, not anymore, not after that word. My son.

And you lulled yourself into that, happy and hopeful, like a puppy with a new toy, discovering the world for the first time.

***

The air smelled like dry leaves and old smoke, the way it always did in Onigashima when summer gave up and autumn took over. You’d skipped lunch again, too much buzzing in your chest.

Ulti found you behind the gym, where no one ever went unless they wanted to hide or smoke.

She dropped beside you, plopping her lunchbox down between you with a thud. “You’re being weird again, Yaya.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were trying to be brave, but your throat was tight and your hands were sweating inside your sleeves.

Be a man, Oden.

Finally, you said, “I need to tell you something.”

Ulti blinked, perplexed. “Okay…?”

“I’m a boy,” you said, before you could talk yourself out of it. “I mean, I’ve always been. I just didn’t know how to say it before. But I know now.”

You waited. Not for fireworks or screaming, but maybe a breath. A pause. Anything.

Ulti stared at you.

Oh, no.

I blew it, didn’t I?

Then she frowned, chewing the inside of her cheek like she was thinking really hard. Finally, she said, “Okay. That’s… a lot. But I get it. If that’s who you are, that’s who you are.”

You let out a shaky breath. Relief, almost dizzying.

“Thanks,” you said. “I was scared to tell you.”

“I mean,” she shrugged, “you’ve always been weird. But you’re still you. I don’t care what you call yourself.”

You nodded, grateful. This was good. This was-

“Wait ‘til big sis Maria hears her favorite tomboy’s a he now,” she added, grinning like she was making a joke.

You flinched.

“I’ve always been,” you corrected, quietly. “You just didn’t know.”

Ulti blinked. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

But she kept going like nothing happened. Talked about her biology homework, or a dumb rumor someone spread about Page One, her kid brother, punching a teacher.

You didn’t say anything else, but the buzz in your chest was gone.

Replaced with a dull thud.

The next week, she slipped again.

And the week after that, twice more.

“She’s just being shy.”

“She never liked math.”

“She and I are about to go ice skating.”

You corrected her, every time.

And every time she winced, said sorry, promised to remember.

You believed her. For a while.

But eventually you stopped correcting her as often, because it felt like patching holes in a boat that was already sinking. And part of you wondered if she did get it, or if she just didn’t want to lose you, so she agreed without listening too closely.

She was your friend. Maybe your first real one. Maybe your only one.

But she didn’t see you the way you needed to be seen.

And you were starting to understand that that hurt, even if it wasn’t on purpose.

And the dice are never in your favor, if you don’t know where you’re going.

***

You’d saved for weeks, doing odd ends job, helping old Noriko walking her dogs, washing cars, tutoring here and there, and gods knows what.

Bought it online, one of those sketchy sites full of weird ads, had it mailed over a post office box, a secret, shameful.

Hid it in your backpack. Wore it around the house like a secret, something to be guilty about.

Like you had to be liable, for being yourself.

He didn’t mention it. Didn’t even glance up from the documents he was signing.

You thought you were oh-so-clever.

But stealth was never your strong suit, more used to barging in unannounced.

Later that night, at dinner, he spoke, the first words you heard him say in all day, toward you at least.

“Hope you can breathe in that thing.”

No anger, just the usual disinterest.

You laughed it off. Because it was better than a fight. Because it was easier to pretend his silence meant peace.

***

He didn’t hear it from you.

No, that would’ve been too straightforward, too respectful.

Instead, it leaked out at a board meeting, whispered by some careless executive who thought it was gossip, not family.

Someone blabbing about hospital stay, and a surgeon, supposedly the most renewed one in Wano.

When you finally confronted him, standing in his glass-walled office overlooking the factory complex, he didn’t even flinch.

Just looked at you like you were a minor inconvenience disrupting his empire. As you were. As you are.

“You’re not exactly in my business,” he said, voice clipped and precise.

“As long as you don’t embarrass me, and you wait the end of high school. Your grades are bad enough as it is.”

No warmth. No pride.

No real acceptance. Just a clear line drawn between his carefully curated public image, his legacy, his company, and the messy, unpredictable life you were living.

The life he was allowing you to live, for some time still, before taking your rightful place, next to him.

You wanted to ask if he was disappointed, angry, or maybe even hurt. But those questions stuck in your throat, because you knew the answer.

He didn’t care enough to hate you.

He just wanted you to stay quiet. Invisible.

Because in his world, silence was control, and control was power.

***

He’d been planning it since you were born; you'd take over his business, carry the name, do something “solid” with your life.

You told him no when you were nineteen, the first time, right outside of high school. Sitting at the meeting table, in his office, hands sweating, heart pounding.

“I need to do things for myself. Surgery, and… and I want something else. I want out.”

Dumb words, yet rehearsed in your head a thousand times.

Be a man. Be a man. Be a man.

He looked at you for a long time, cold, angry.

You could barely breathe under that gaze.

Then he spoke.

“So you’re really throwing it all away? For what? To chase some fantasy?”

“It’s not a fantasy. It’s my life.”

“No,” he said, his voice going flat. “It’s my investment walking out the door.”

You didn’t answer. It had been years since you had had anything to say, anything at all.

***

The light creeping through the blinds was a pale, washed-out blue. One of those mornings where it’s hard to tell if the sun is rising or if the sky just never got around to sleeping.

You were laying still in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet, just the hum of something mechanical down the hallway, and the soft rhythmic beeping of the monitor next to you. The kind of quiet that used to make you feel restless. Now it just felt... earned.

You moved your hand slowly across his chest, over the thick bandages that wrapped it tight. Still tender, still sore, but even the pain felt honest. Familiar, somehow.

Like your body was finally starting to match up with something you’d known all along. Your whole life. Twenty-two years of knowing, of hiding.

Your chest didn’t rise the same way anymore. That used to scare you, the idea of something changing so permanently. Now it felt like breathing was finally... yours. Like the air was meant for you.

Like I own it.

Like this body is finally mine.

Or at least, the first step.

Nobody was coming to visit. Your only support in this, Maria, is already outside the door, quietly waiting for you to be ready to face the reality of your choice.

When asked, you told the nurse not to call anyone.

Not that there’s anyone else to call, that is.

Ulti crossed your mind, like she did every now and then. A flash of blue hair and a too-loud laugh. She’d probably still say something insensitive if she saw you now.

Say she “got it,” but laugh in that way she used to when she thought you were just being dramatic.

It’s been a couple of years, since you last spoke. You still hear about her, sometimes, through some old classmates, or the usual Onigashima gossip, where everyone knows everything about everyone.

You did drift apart after high school. She hadn’t liked the changes, to your body, to your head. Or maybe she just didn’t like having to think about what they meant.

It still hurt, in a weird, distant way. Like pressing a bruise you’d forgotten was there.

But she wasn't here. And that made it easier.

Easier to breathe, easier to think.

The nurse came in, gave him a soft smile, adjusted something on the IV line.

Asked if you needed anything.

“No,” you answered, your voice cracking a little. “I’m good. Really.”

And for once, you meant it.

You don’t need a celebration, or a party, or flowers. Or someone sitting by the bed, holding your hand.

The only thing he needed was this quiet, sterile little room. This stillness in your chest. This version of you, right, free, real. The next step, close, so close you can almost feel it in your bones.

You turned toward the window. The light was getting warmer now, tinting the sky a soft orange. A new day starting.

You know exactly what you’re going to do, for once in your life.

And if the dice are unlucky, then… maybe you need to change them.

***

You spotted her before she saw you.

Ulti, leaning against a vending machine like she still owned every room she walked into. Hair longer now, curled up at the ends, still dyed that impossible blue that made her look like she belonged in a videogame fight scene. Same attitude. Same boots, probably.

You hadn’t seen her in years, not since you both left Onigashima High. Just mutual updates passed around through old classmates, and social network, and internet lurking.

 “Ulti’s studying communications.” “Ulti got into a scrap with her RA.” “Ulti says she saw you in a poster for that animal rescue event.”

You almost turned around. Almost kept walking.

But then she saw you.

“Hey! Yamato? No way!” She jogged up before you could vanish, smile wide like you hadn’t spent the last six years carefully carving out space from everything she once misunderstood.

You nodded once, polite. “Hey.”

She stepped back to look you up and down. “Wow. You look... different. All grown up, huh?”

You waited. Knew it was coming.

“You still got the long hair, though. I like the dye job, it suits you. You were always so pretty, you know? You’d be unstoppable if you leaned into it.”

And there it is.

You didn’t flinch this time. Not outwardly.

“I prefer handsome, actually,” you said, casually. Flat. Letting the correction stand like a speed bump.

Low, but firm. Even with your heart thumping into your chest.

Be a man, Oden.

She blinked. “Right. Handsome. Sorry, that’s what I meant.”

You could tell she didn’t. Not really. She never did.

She tilted her head. “I heard you’re doing vet stuff now? That’s so sweet. I always said you’d be a good dog-mom.”

You inhaled slowly. Counted four heartbeats. Exhaled.

You didn’t correct her this time. Not because it didn’t matter, but because it wasn’t your job anymore.

Maybe it never was.

“Yeah, I’m in first year, I had… other business to attend to.”

She smiled, softer now. “Well, I’m proud of you, really. Even if I don’t totally… get it, you know.”

Well, this is true, at least.

 “I know,” you said. Not defeated, not angry.

Simply not interest, not anymore.

Silence stretched for a beat too long. She fidgeted with her soda can. You thought about saying something else.

About what it meant to really try to get it, to relearn someone, to let go of what you assumed they were just because you knew them once.

But you didn’t.

Because you were tired. And she hadn’t asked.

And you’re allowed to want better things.

No. You deserve to want things, better things, better friendships.

“Well,” she said, brushing hair behind her ear, “I’m late for class. But we should totally catch up sometime, for real.”

“Maybe,” you said.

She smiled like she didn’t hear the "maybe." Like the door was still wide open.

You watched her walk away, sipping from her drink, back into her world. The one where you were still ten and confused and not quite real.

You turned back to yours, to your notes, your textbooks, your escape plan, ready and in motion. You’d built something she never got to see.

And maybe she never would.

***

The study was colder than usual, or maybe it just felt that way to you.

The lights outside flickered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but you barely noticed, your gaze locked on your father’s sharp silhouette against the glass.

His voice broke the silence, calm but with an edge that cut deeper than any shout.

“You think you can just walk away, Yamato? Throw away the name, the money, the future I built? You don’t get to decide that.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. You’d rehearsed this moment in your mind for years, every word, every argument. But hearing it out loud was like a cold slap.

He doesn’t see me. Doesn’t really hear me. It’s always about his legacy.

This is not about you. For once, this is about me.

“You didn’t build it for me, and I’m not walking away,” you said, trying to steady your voice.

“I’m walking toward something that’s mine.”

His laugh was harsh, brittle, a sound with no humor, no warmth.

Slowly, he stepped forward, deliberate, like a force you couldn’t stop.

“ Veterinary? You’re a fool, you won’t make it one month-”

“ I made it one year already. I’m leaving tomorrow, to Foosha.”

“ Foosha? In Goa? There’s nothing waiting for you, there.”

There’s nothing for me here, too, you think, bitter.

“ Foosha University has the best veterinary course in all of Goa.”

“Sure, great, go have your fun, a little adventure. But you’ve got one chance, one shot. Take it, or watch everything you think you want burn to ashes.”

Your heart pounded, but you held his gaze.

You got tall, taller than him, without noticing.

And how could you? It’s been years since you’ve been eye to eye.

I’ve been afraid before. I can’t be afraid anymore.

Come on, Oden. Be a man.

“Maybe it’s time something burned.”

His hand shot out, fast and expected, not a punch, but a shove that knocked you against the cold wall. The sting of impact was familiar, an echo from years past you’d tried to forget.

It’s the same old control, just a different day. But I’m not a child anymore.

“Don’t think I won’t stop you. Don’t think I won’t break you.”

You caught your breath, feeling the heat of old fear flare up, but also a stubborn flame of defiance.

“You don’t own me.”

For a moment, his face was unreadable, then he turned away, voice frosted over with icy distance.

“You’re making a mistake. And when you realize it, you’ll come crawling back.”

You didn’t answer. You just walked out, each step steady even though your hands shook.

Maybe I’ll never be free of him. But I can’t stay chained to a life I never wanted.

***

You packed quietly. Your pc, your documents, the important stuff.

And then some clothes, a couple of memories, the bomber jacket that kept you warm during night shifts and odd ends jobs, some old shirts from high school, the bracelet you made with Ulti as kids, your headphones, your first real spending in a life of savings.

You’re off to the airport, and then Goa, to Foosha, the little city full of wind turbines, the place you’ll pick up the bits of your life you were allowed to have and finally stitch them together.

 He stood in the hallway, arms crossed, watching you place the last minute things in your backpack.

“I don’t understand what you’re running from, Yamato.”

“You.” you murmur, softly. No reason to lie, not anymore.

He flinched, barely, regaining composure a moment later. Then shook his head like you were being ridiculous.

“You always were too sensitive.”

And you almost cried. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t surprise you.

I may be sensitive but you’re inconsiderate and that’s worse.

But you don't say it, not out loud.

You already know it wouldn't do any good.

And it doesn’t matter, anyway.

It never did.

***

He called, after a month of radio silence, the same month he said you wouldn’t make it thru.

You answer, for some reason.

Maybe because of that book, delivered directly to the shop, an accusation disguised as a peace offering, only your name on it, nothing more.

Maybe because you were lonely. This city, new and chaotic, alive in a way you still don’t get, so big compared to Onigashima, where everyone knows each other, where everyone knows you, the boss's weird son, to be kept away from if you don't want trouble. If you want to keep your job.

There’s a reason you basically lived off online friendships, for all your teens, telling almost no one your real name.

There’s a reason you felt more like Oden and less like Yamato, in your hometown.

Nobody wanted Yamato, in Onigashima.

He asked how the city was. Polite, detached.

You said you’d found a job, and a tiny apartment.

You don’t mention that it’s thanks to that connections he knew nothing about.

Peace, freedom.

“So, you're still doing all that livestock crap?”

“I’m working for an animal shelter.”

And you know that too well, don’t you, father?

“Same thing.”

Pause.

“You coming home for the holidays?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Click.

You’ll come crawling back. You’ll come crawling back. You’ll come crawling back chants a little voice in your head, traitorous, caustic, abrasive.

Shut up, you think, throwing yourself on the bed, covering your face with your hands, trying not to cry.

And he’ll make you pay, keeps going the voice, strangely hoarse, too much like your father's to be a coincidence.

You hate being alone.

Chapter Text

 “ … just- Forget about it! As usual! It doesn’t matter, it never matters with you!”

The words tear from your throat in a ragged scream, raw and frayed like the inside of your chest. You shout them in your mother tongue, sharp and bitter, as if the syllables themselves could cut through the thick silence of your bedroom.

Your voice is hoarse from yelling, rough with frustration, and you’re only a heartbeat away from breaking down. You pace the small space like a caged dog, every step heavy with years of anger, hurt, and desperate hope. The walls seem to close in on you, the dim light flickering against your skin like shadows of old ghosts.

Why did I even imagine this time would be any different?

He doesn't care, not really, not in any way that matters. Maybe he misses you, but it’s the kind of missing that poisons instead of heals, toxic, upsetting, the kind that corrodes rather than connects. And yes, part of you still aches for him too, with that old, familiar ache, weird and contorted, warped by time and damage, but still alive, still burning.

But he’s still him. Still the same controlling bastard who spent years clipping your wings under the guise of care. The same man who never truly saw you, as you are, but only the version of you that fit into his plans. The kind who said he supported you, that he loved you, but only on terms he got to dictate. Your name? Your body? Maybe those weren’t problems for him. He rolled with it. Asked the bare minimum of questions. Didn’t yell. Didn’t rage. And you mistook that for love.

But your freedom? Your future? Luxuries you were never allowed.

They belonged to him, locked away beneath his iron fist, his cold expectations. A different story. A story that was never yours to claim, not while he was holding the reins. Not while he could still bark orders and expect your whole life to fall in line.

He didn’t want you, not really. He wanted the echo of his own ambition walking around in your skin. A mirror with legs. Every time you tried to live for yourself, he called it rebellion. Every time you chose differently, he called it betrayal. You weren’t a son to him, no, not one he could simply love. You were a complication first, and then a project. A tool. A legacy.

And when you finally walked away, when you finally chose yourself, for once, it wasn’t just defiance.

It was survival.

So why, why the hell should things be different now that you're gone? Why should he get to act like anything's changed, like he’s suddenly entitled to your time, your voice, your trust? Why do you keep picking up the phone when he calls, hoping this time it’ll be different? That this time he’ll say something you’ve been aching to hear for years?

He calls now. Of course he does. Not every day, but enough to remind you that you’re still within reach, to keep the leash tight, questions that sound like care but feel like traps. And you still pick up, sometimes. Out of habit. Out of that ingrained, stomach-deep fear that silence means guilt. That you are the one abandoning him. And every word from him feels like barbed wire wrapped in small talk. Every "How are you?" is just code for Are you ready to come back and behave? Are you ready, to fall in line, to be what I wanted out of a son?

And yet, because you’re dumb and hopeful, like a puppy, you keep waiting for the moment it’ll be different, the moment he’ll say something real, something true. That he’ll admit he was wrong. That he’ll stop pretending this was all out of love and not control. But he won’t. He can’t. Because to do that would mean acknowledging who you are now, who you’ve always been, and not who he tried to force you to be. Not who he spent years trying to beat into his place.

Because that’s how he trained you: to see his cruelty as discipline, his control as love, his violence as your fault.

No, he wasn’t the kind of father people whisper about. He didn’t break bones or scream in public. He was neater than that, the great Kaido, entrepreneur extraordinaire. Methodical. Precise. A slap here, away from curios eyes. A shove there, to make you quiet. Bruises that bloomed under sleeves, always long, even in your childhoods summers, before the binder, before the changes. A backhand when you talked back, the metal taste of blood in your mouth. A fist, once or twice, when you pushed too far. You learned not to cry, not to flinch, not because it didn’t hurt, but because if you let it show, he’d call it weakness.

Quick hands and cold eyes. Always followed by “You pushed too far” or “You think the world won’t hit harder?” or “You’re too sensitive.” And you believed him. You told yourself you deserved it. You were loud. You were difficult. You were wrong. That’s what he taught you,  not with lectures, but with bruises and stitches, hurried and hidden, from the press, from the world.

And somehow, you never saw it as abuse. You still hesitate to call it that. It was just… normal. It was just your normal. Discipline, he called it, and you just… believed him. He never left marks that showed. He never broke anything but your trust, and your heart. And still, part of you believed that’s just how fathers were. Easier to think that way, isn’t it? That you were just a difficult kid. That it was your fault for provoking him. That he only did what he had to do, a good, loving father.

But deep down, you know better. You’ve always known.

Still, some traitorous part of you listens to his voice, like a dog with all of its tricks mastered. Hears his voice and reaches for the ghost of the man you wished he’d been. The father you made up just to survive the one you had. That imaginary man who never raised his hand, never raised his voice, never asked you to choose between being his child and being yourself, between his love and your freedom. That could love you, with all his heart. No conditions more.

But that man isn't on the other end of the line.

The one who calls now? That’s the same man who used to hit you when you stepped out of line, then told you it was for your own good. The same man who said he loved you while building a version of you he could control he could use as a pawn for his own gain. Polished voice, tight grip. Control, disguised as concern. And now that you’re gone, that you’re finally far enough to hear the difference, now that you’ve built something for yourself, something real, something free, he’s not mourning.

He’s losing.

And he hates losing.

Your father’s voice croaks ominously over the phone, answering too in rapid Wano, briefly punctuated by the flashes of lightning outside the window, like the past half hour, finding you tired and angry, the words of your first language tangled in your head with the ones from Goa, hurting, colliding together, mingling in your head split by the worst headache you’ve ever experienced.

“ Sure, sure. Are you not an adult? Or are you a parasite, perhaps? You’re just having some fun there in Goa, aren’t you, Yamato? And then you’ll crawl back when you fail, like you did many times before-”

“ CRAWL BACK? You’re insane! If you really think I’m getting back in that hellhole of yours you really –“

Then your words shift, slipping into the smooth flow of Goan, sharp and clear, pissed off as you are, too angry to focus on the words.

“- you really are out of your mind!”

“ You say that, now, but-“

“ Fuck off!” you screech, hanging up abruptly and throwing your smartphone toward your bed.

You throw yourself on the bed, too, to scream into the pillow, instead then the void.

Fuck off, bastard. I’ll make it on my own. I don’t need you, I never did.

I need no one.

The silence that fills the room after you hang up is heavy, suffocating. Your breath feels loud, uneven, like thunder rolling just beneath your skin. The rain outside taps insistently against the window, each drop a small hammer echoing the pounding inside your chest, your head.

You press your palms against your eyes, hoping to block out the raw ache that blurs your vision, but the pain spills through anyway, sharp, relentless.

Your room feels like a cage. The walls close in, the shadows lengthen. The air is stale, heavy with memories you wish you could forget. You remember the quiet mornings when your father’s presence hung over everything like a storm cloud you couldn’t outrun. His voice, low and cold, cutting through your thoughts like a blade. The unspoken rules, the constant need to measure your words, your actions, your very breath.

And now? Now you’re here. Alone, but not free. Not really. The phone rests face down on your bed, close to you, like you’re still waiting for him to call back, and you’d answer, stupid and hopeful, a puppet in his hands.

You want to scream. To break something. To run far away until the noise in your head quiets down. But all you can do is sit there, trembling, caught between anger and grief, between what was and what might have been.

You can feel the tears forming in your eyes, wetting the heels of your hands, still pressed on your sockets, useless and unwelcome.

Just like you, says a little voice in your head.

You hear the door open, slightly creaking, barely audible over the sound of the rain and thunder.

“ I suppose it didn’t go well?”

“He called me a parasite. Said I’d come crawling back when I fail. Again.”

You answer, empty, without getting up, without moving.

You hear some rustling, then a soft thump next to you.

Ace starts caressing your head, seated on the bed.

There’s a moment more of silence before he speaks, voice hesitant, somehow distant.

“Your dad’s just a bitter old asshole. You don’t have to listen to him.”

You chuckle, with no heat, no warm, nothing.

A puppet with the strings cut.

A hollow sound for your hollow heart.

“Yeah, easy for you to say.”

He suddenly stops moving, withdrawing his hand as if he had been burnt.

“… What’s that supposed to mean?”

You scram up, looking at him with so much…

Idiot! So much, what? He’s not the bad guy in this!

Yeah, and he’s no saint either!

“It means you never had someone like that, hovering over you, planning your life without your input, breathing down your neck at every mistake. You didn’t grow up terrified of saying the wrong thing. You don’t get it”

Ace gets up, offended, facing you full on, now angry himself.

“ Yeah? I didn’t. I had no one to correct mistakes or to plan anything, not an adult at least, no one to trust. So, excuse me if I don’t know how to deal with that shitty father of yours.”

“ Oh, and you think that’s worse? Worse than having someone that tears you down every day, calling it caring, calling it love?”

He takes a step back, and you can almost see the hurt in his eyes.

Yamato, you dumbass, what are you doing?

… why are you doing this?

“ I would’ve killed to have someone, no, anyone, to care enough, to have my dad alive to hate.” he blurts out, hurt, wounded.

Just like you.

You freeze on the spot, like someone threw a bucket of ice water on you.

Like the storm is inside, in his voice, and not in the rain, still pouring.

Ace hesitates, looking like he regrets it immediately.

“ I- I mean-“

“ And you think that’s love? That’s caring?”

“ No, of course not, that’s not what I meant, Yama, I-”

“ Yeah, you never mean it, do you? You just shut down, or walk away,” you murmur, averting his gaze, turning your back to him, staring intently at the window, at the rain that started pouring out while you were on the phone, ominous, like his words, like yours too.

But he won’t have the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

“I just... I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

You keep quiet, while tears start to run down your face.

Not this time.

“Can’t we just... not do this tonight?”

You choke out a laugh, hollow, with quivering lips, looking at the rain outside, a perfect match to the tears on your face.

“Yeah. Sure. Just forget it.”

Silence.

You just hear his breathing, once, twice, then the ghost of a hand over your back.

Nothing more.

Then you hear his footsteps, and the door, closing behind him, creaking like your heart.

You don’t stop him.

No, not this time.

You gave enough already.

But maybe, to the wrong heart.

***

It takes longer than you expect to find the strength to leave your room. Your limbs heavy, your head feeling like it’s about to burst, weighed down by the storm still raging inside your chest, by thoughts still clinging in your mind. Every step toward the living room feels like wading through thick fog.

You’re not ready to face Ace again, not yet. But when you finally do, the apartment feels hollow, colder than before. Empty.

He left...?

You don’t know when, or how, but the quiet absence of his presence fills the space like a wound. And somehow, someway, that’s what hurts you the most, in all of this hellish afternoon, that quietly slipped into a night.

He left.

You’re not even worth a fight, the little voice croaks maliciously.

You cross to the window and stare out at the rain slashing down in relentless sheets, the sky a roiling mess of slate and thunder. The droplets blur the world beyond, just like your thoughts, chaotic, swirling, sharp.

Your heart clenches painfully in your ribcage, tight and raw.

You're angry, of course, but you didn't want ... this isn't what you wanted. Not this. Not the silence he left behind.

Did he even take an umbrella? You think to yourself, feeling a tinge of guilt. What if he gets sick?

You picture him stepping out in the heavy, violent rain of this October that has just begun yet suddenly feels cold, with his shoulders hunched, clothes soaked through, and the anxiety prickles at your skin.

You shuffle over to the entrance and glance down. The umbrella bin stands by the door, and there they are, both your umbrella and his, leaning side by side, close together, untouched, forgotten in the chaos. The sight twists your gut like a knife. So close. Yet miles apart.

Just like you wish you could be with him right now, close together, not fractured and distant.

Regret coils in your chest, bitter and sharp.

Am I really not even worth a fight…?

You already know what you said wasn’t really meant for him. It was anger redirected, aimed at your father, the root of all this mess, the ghost hunting all your bad days. But Ace… he’s always the one who bears the brunt. And as much as he tries not to, he can’t help but dramatize, to make mountains from molehills. He’s a main character, after all.

That’s one of the reasons you like him, though.

Your hands tremble as you move to the kettle, fumbling with the water and the cup. The porcelain slips once, twice, nearly shattering, but you catch it each time, your fingers raw from the effort to steady yourself. The tea feels like a poor substitute for warmth, but it’s all you have. Eventually, you give up on making it perfect and sink down onto the tiny couch, the same couch where you shared so many dinners, so many kisses, so much love.

You curl up, pulling your knees to your chest and burying your face in the soft crook of your elbows. You don’t want to cry again, no, but do you even have a choice? The tears start to spill, slow and silent at first, then gathering speed, hot and helpless.

Is there anything, in this life, you have a choice over?

Where are you, Ace?

Why did you leave?

Am I not worth even a fight?

Did my words hurt you so much?

Did I…

Your thoughts spiral in endless circles until a sudden noise shatters the stillness.

A loud thump!, like fists beating on wood, fast and insistent.

No, not beating… knocking.

Heart pounding, you spring to your feet and race toward the door, fingers fumbling with the lock as you throw it open.

Ace.

Of course.

He stands there in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, rainwater dripping from the tangled strands of his hair, clinging to his face. The smudged makeup streaks down his cheeks like dark rivers, mixing with the rain and tears you’re sure he’s fighting to hold back.

Wet clothes, wet shoes, wet eyes.

His eyes, usually fierce, defiant eyes, are watery, glassy, and barely meet yours. He’s trying, really trying not to look at you. Not to let you see the cracks beneath his bravado. Not to let you catch him before he falls apart. Not to cry.

"I can't go home like this," he murmurs, voice low and rough, barely more than a whisper.

You scoff, the sound brittle and harsh, even as a tight lump settles in your throat. It takes a moment to steady yourself, to find some semblance of strength so you don’t crumble right here, right now. You force your face into a mask of indifference.

No tears, no softness. Just grit.

"What? You scared you're going to catch a cold?"

Your words are sharper than you intended, but you can’t stop yourself. Because despite the storm raging outside, and the one in your heart, part of you is relieved he’s here. That he’s not gone for good.

That he still cares.

That maybe you are worth a fight.

Yamato! You immense idiot! Stop hurting him, you asshole!

He’s back! It has to count for something!

He shakes his head, quick and sharp, sending droplets flying from his tangled hair, little rainstorms all around him. You watch, stunned by how something so simple, something so small, can make your chest twist in a weird mix of frustration and longing.

How can you be so mad at him, and yet still find him so, so painfully pretty?

What a simp you are, Yamato, you think bitterly, but there’s no denying it.

"I can't go home knowing I disappointed you, I hurt you," he answers, a whisper more than anything.

"Let me explain. Please," he keeps going, still his eyes downcast.

Not loud, not boisterous.

Not warm.

Not himself.

Just... Scared.

"Please" he repeats, holding the bottom hem of his hoodie like a lifeline, like he’s trying to ground himself. Fingers curling around the fabric as if it might hold him steady against the storm both outside and inside. His whole body barely moving, not just from the cold rain soaking him through, but something deeper.

He’s shivering, you realize.

"I just... I don't want to sleep alone tonight."

He shakes his head, again, softer this time, as to correct himself.

“ I don’t want you to sleep alone, too. Not after that phone call...” His words stumble out, hesitant but honest. “ I know… I know it’s not enough, I’m not enough, but you hate to be alone after you talk to him, and…”

The silence hangs thick between you.

Was that so obvious? The way you’re trembling too, not from the cold, but from the ache in your chest? You don’t say anything. You just keep looking at him, waiting. Waiting to see what comes next, what he’ll say, what you’ll say.

"… and I- I'm sor-"

"Don't apologize if you don't mean it," you retort, rolling your eyes, as you grab him from the hoodie, pulling him into your arms.

And maybe to hide your eyes from him, wet again.

This fool. We hurt each other, and still his first worry is me, still he thinks of me.

Ace relaxes immediately, holding onto you. Like a lifeline into a hurricane.

“But I do mean it, I promise, I just… I didn’t mean it like that. What I said, about your dad, about mine. I don’t know the first thing about dads and, and I was… I’m scared. You are hurting and I don’t know how to help, I never know how to help.” He croaks, hiding his face in your chest, ashamed, and yet honest, true, raw.

“And I’m all shook up, because what now? Now you know, and I’m fucked, and you’ll leave me. Everyone leaves. My dad left, and my mum left, and if you want to leave too you are right, you are the only one that’s right, cause I’m-“

" An idiot," you interrupt him, brusquely.

It pains you, to hear him like that, hurt. Broken.

And it pains you to know that it is partly your fault.

Everything is your fault, Yamato, you hear the same voice whispering in your head.

Every-

No, shut up. Not now.

"Yes ... I'm sorry, Yama. Please don't-"

"I’m an idiot too. I'm not leaving you over this," you keep going, still holding him.

Soft and warm, in your arms.

Safe. Where he’s meant to be, close together, close to you.

"We both… we both said dumb things. And I was mad, I’m still mad, a little. But I never stopped wanting you here. And you are an idiot, but you are my idiot, and you are stuck with me now. Get it in your head. I'm not leaving. And next time, we stay, and we talk. Both of us."