Whitebeard Pirate Week Day 3- Whitebeards Birthday
Reallllly late on this one but here is my submission on day 3 for @whitebeard-pirate-week
SFW Angst/ implied Marco x Ace Plot: Gathering to celebrate Pop's birthday together Word Count: 2,043
Perpetually tired eyes gazed out the window at the bright spring day, watching the grass sway slightly in the breeze. His curtains danced on the same gust that filtered in through the window that was left ajar. Marco let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, a grumbling huff.
Marco leaned back in his chair, feeling two of the feet lift off the floor, something he used to scold Ace for doing. He grimaced at that thought, the smiling freckled face popped into his mind for a fleeting moment. He didn’t need to pile on extra sadness, not when today already weighed so heavily on him.
Bringing the chair forward, the two hovering legs clacking against the ground when the phoenix righted himself. Flipping the front page of his small desktop calendar, ripping off the previous date, crunching the paper in the palm of his hand, letting the ball roll from his palm as he stared at the calendar’s new sheet, today’s date. April 6th.
It was his birthday. He focused on the framed picture on his desk. Marco blinked, letting it all sink in as the sun started to shine through the window, slowly crawling across the darkened room, chasing away the shadows. Marco winced when he felt it against his face suddenly. His attention snapped to the clock on his wall, how long had he been staring at the photo on his desk?
Time might not mean anything to someone who ages differently, counting years differently, that didn’t mean others didn’t have time to keep. Not everyone could play in the sands of time, kick it around, lay back in the grains and take a long slumber. Most men grasped at the slippery substance as it shifted without mercy, sifting through the clutching terrified fingers that longed for more.
They’d be here soon, he pushed the chair from his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose collecting up the red frames folded next to the photo of smiling faces, souls departed but never out of his heart nor his mind. He slipped on his glasses, adjusting them, a hand running through messy blond hair before he went to put on something more fitting for the day.
Shrugging on the purple shirt, tying the teal sash around his waist before he sat down at his desk once more, wrapping the straps of his sandals up his legs, all with a sombre expression as thoughts bombarded him from all sides.
Marco exited his cottage and closed his eyes, the fresh mountain air chilled his cheeks, a bracing contrast to the sunshine that brought warmth in the early springtime of the island. Heading up the grassy hill he spared a glance over to the dock, seeing ships of varying sizes docked, bigger ones out to sea as rowboats brought people towards the shore.
It was the busiest he’d ever seen on the island of Sphinx’s harbour. Sails he recognised; some he didn’t wave in the wind. The smell of the sea could reach him here, filling his senses with familiarity, a nostalgia. He climbed the hill once more, the trees are slowly showing their blooms, coming out of their shy slumber.
Marco’s glum expression changed when he saw those gathered around the final resting place of his partner and father. Everyone noticed the phoenix and rushed to greet him. Slaps on the back, arms around shoulders being pulled into brotherly hugs, gentle touches on his arm and sympathetic glances.
He even had his face grabbed between two feminine hands as Whitey pulled him down, kissing his forehead before ruffling the sprout of hair on top of his head. When Marco’s lop-sided smile grew, the woman chuckled, his eyes crinkled in fondness.
“Look at you, baby pineapple all grown up huh?” she teased, hands on her hips.
“You don’t age a day do you Bay?” Marco hummed as he rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought.
“You’re one to talk!” Came another voice into the fray, Vista with his greying hair, crow’s feet and laugh lines.
“Not everyone ages as much as you do overnight.” The three turned and saw Izou, just as beautiful as ever, a smirk on his painted lips as he walked forward, taking Marco’s hand, and squeezing it.
The remnants of the Whitebeard Pirates gathered after what seemed like a lifestyle, reality had made these past years feel like rolling decades. Marco sat with his brothers and sisters atop the grassy hill. Some brought food, some brought drink, and some just themselves.
Sake was poured, a cup for all that had shown up. Not all had collected this day, some lost to the sea, still hurt by the past and some scattered to the wind never to be seen again. Those who had shown up for their late father’s birthday lifted a sake cup brimming with the sort Pop’s had liked the most into the air.
Everyone chanted ‘Happy birthday’ Marco with tears in his eyes, a smile on his face lifted his cup into the air, the sun catching on the liquid, a sparkle, a simple acknowledgement from the spirits, gone unnoticed by the crowd.
He downed the cup before he stood up, going to Pop’s stone, and tipping the cup that had been perched on the sun-bleached headstone, the sake rolling down the grainy surface and into the ground. Marco repeated the process with Ace.
Pop was old, he didn’t have much longer to live, they all knew that. Ace, however, should have been here, Ace and Thatch should have been at his side as the remainder of the crew drank and toasted in their father’s memory. He felt himself tearing up, watching the orange hat dance in the breeze, the flowers Marco carefully tended to wave their petals before he tipped the sake over the stone.
His shoulders slumped until he felt a hand on his shoulder, he glanced over and saw Izou. He offered him a smile, grasping Marco’s bicep, pulling him from thoughts that lapped at him like the incoming tide, preparing to engulf him into nothingness.
“Come on Marco, sit with us, Vista is about to tell us a story.” Marco nodded to his friend, resting his hand on Izou’s as he was brought back to the circle.
The day was filled with tears, laughter, and embarrassing stories. Reminiscing about their time together as a family, times from a better place. They spoke of those gone but not forgotten. Marco gripped the sake cup and laughed when Haruta recalled the first week Ace had joined, how he tried to kill Pop’s over and over.
How the tall man held Ace by the collar of his shirt like a scolded feral cat he’d plucked from the street. Marco recalled those days fondly, how he set down the bowl of stew at the angry man’s feet, the smile he gave Ace, the first time they’d interacted.
The sun started to set, the pastels of the day melding and mingling with the dark tones the night brought down with it, chasing the last golden beams across the edge of the world, pushing them down below the waves as purples and blues filled the sky.
Jozu brought over a large lantern, adjusted it in place, hanging it over the group, using the tree. Marco watched as it cast a warm glow over the congregation. Some of the others started to light smaller candles around Ace and Pop’s grave.
Each tiny flame looked like a firefly, hovering in place, listening to everyone’s stories of how they met the man they had all grown to call ‘Pops’ the sake never stopped flowing. Marco couldn’t get drunk but indulged in the act of drinking with his family.
He pressed his lips to the edge and sipped the alcohol as he listened to everyone chatter around him. Then the question was asked, one that Marco nor Whitebeard had ever told a single soul.
“You never told us, how did you meet Pop’s, Marco?” Izou asked as he watched the doctor’s face for a reaction.
Marco had been the first member of the whitebeard pirates, even before Vista and Whitey.
Marco had been sipping sake when the question had been posed to him, he sipped a little fast and coughed, eyes wide, the red frames sliding down his nose as he stared at Izou. Everyone seemed to lean into the middle, closer to Marco, desperate for the story they’d never heard.
“Even now that’s all you guys want to hear huh yoi?”
Everyone simply nodded, Marco chuckled and set down the sake cup, resting hands on his knees as he closed his eyes. He thought back to when he was young, he’d not even been a teenager when he’d first met his father.
--
He remembered the blue, the flames that had suddenly changed everything for him. The foul taste of the fruit he’d bitten into, the older village children exchanging looks, they’d tricked the poor boy into eating something so life-altering as a devil fruit.
And when he’d sprouted wings, tail, talons they’re rushed to tell everyone. He was labelled a monster, a demon, this wasn’t like any devil fruit anyone had heard of. Each stone that had been cast against Marco, each hit against his skin, the marks had flickered with blue flame, changing, healing.
He recalled the panic in his zoan side when he’d accidentally transformed into the Phoenix. The terrifying sounds that came from Marco, the pained squeaks as bigger rocks hurled at him, the feeling of sticks hitting against his flaming wings as he beat them, desperate to get away from those he’d called family.
His body might have learned to heal as he escaped into the night, towards the docks, but the heartache was thundering through him, his pulse too loud in his ears, voices he didn’t recognise all the sounds bouncing around, off one another.
Marco had collapsed under the dock, scared, and shaking. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he slowly transformed from the glowing creature back into a scared boy. He hugged himself and whimpered, sand sticking to his clothes and skin as the waves got closer to his trembling form.
“You need a hand, kid?” came the booming voice.
Marco’s eyes snapped open and stared at the blond man with the strange white crescent moon shaped facial hair.
The smile on his face was large, he was huge and yet he didn’t feel like a threat, he crouched down to Marco and offered his hand. He bit his lip, looking at the offered hand. Whitebeard tsked, he had an idea what had happened.
He’d seen what looked like an entire village chasing a glowing blue bird to the docks, giving up when the luminescence faded away. The bird must have been this boy. Whitebeard pulled something out of his satchel, a half-eaten pineapple.
“Here, it’ll sweeten up your mood kid.” He watched as Marco tentatively took it.
“How about you come with me? I’ll be your new family, people like us have to make our own families sometimes.” He watched Marco bite into the pineapple, through its skin and grimaced before bursting out into laughter.
Marco knew from that moment, that this would be the person he belonged with.
--
“Truth is, it’s such a long time ago I don’t remember!” He laughed at all his companions’ groans.
The Phoenix smiled, half-lidded eyes glanced over to the grave of his father, the story of how they met was to be between them only, just another thing they shared, a deeper bond than any. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes before another member of the crew broke into song.
Pop’s favourite.
Tonight wasn’t all about sadness, it wasn’t a time to lament on those who couldn’t be here, who’d been taken. It was a night to celebrate the people who were gathered here, for every person Whitebeard had touched, for every moment in his presence. To bask in the memories of joy, family, and the shared times they’d been blessed with.
Marco stared into the sky, watching the stars, three standing out so much brighter than the others. He smiled back at the sparkling gems.
‘Happy Birthday Pop’s
