Chapter Text
An Adoption in Progress
The next few days aboard the Moby Dick could only be described as:
Dangerously hospitable.
Aegis, self-declared “kidnapped guest going through the process of unwilling adoption,” quickly learned that Whitebeard Pirates hospitality was less “make yourself at home” and more “we’ve already built you a room, here’s a personalized mug, and Pops has adopted you by osmosis.”
From the moment he stumbled out of his hammock each morning—hair a mess, shirt askew, and voice hoarse from oversinging at dinner—someone was already shoving something into his hands.
Food.
Affection.
Praise.
(And sometimes literal glitter, courtesy of Izo.)
The galley was never empty. Neither were his arms, because Thatch insisted he needed at least three helpings of breakfast to “fuel that diva-sized ego.”
And god help him—
He loved it.
It started subtly.
Whitebeard never needed to say it.
He didn’t gather his sons in dramatic circles or carve titles into stone. He didn’t roar “you are mine” from the crow’s nest or hand out fancy tokens with “Property of Edward Newgate” etched in gold.
No, Whitebeard’s love was quieter than that .
It slipped in like sea foam—soft, steady, inevitable —curling around your ankles before you ever realized you’d waded in too deep.
And Aegis, blinded by laughter and late-night stories and the kind of warmth he hadn’t felt in years, didn’t notice the tide creeping up.
He should’ve.
He really should’ve.
Because somewhere between his fourth prank war with Ace and the tenth time Thatch pulled him into an impromptu kitchen musical, something shifted.
No grand speeches. No solemn ceremonies.
Just a massive hand ruffling his hair when he passed by.
Just the weight of Whitebeard’s presence behind him during a performance.
Just a deep, fond chuckle when he strutted through the deck like a drama queen reborn.
It didn’t feel like a declaration.
But it was one all the same.
Aegis had been adopted.
And, hilariously, he hadn’t even noticed.
A Regressed Menace
To be fair, Aegis was not in the right mindset to catch subtle emotional shifts.
He was, in his own words, a “kidnapped guest in the throes of an unwilling adoption.” A grown man pushing thirty, yes, but also—
A gremlin.
A menace.
A teenaged soul wrapped in velvet and illusions, armed with a fruit that could make anything look fabulous.
Somewhere in the haze of affection, food, praise, and praise disguised as insults (Marco), Aegis had… regressed.
Not physically. He still had crow’s feet if you looked close. Still woke up with lower back pain.
But emotionally?
He matched Ace beat for beat.
And that was terrifying.
Because Ace should’ve been the kid. He was emotionally constipated, and as reckless as a lit match in a fireworks factory.
But Aegis?
He latched on.
And together, they became chaos incarnate.
Crimes Against Sanity (and Dignity)
It started small.
A whipped cream mustache on Marco while he napped on deck.
Then:
Aegis filled Thatch’s pristine galley with
clucking illusory chickens
—hundreds of them—none of them real, all of them
obnoxiously loud
.
Thatch screamed. Ace filmed it. Aegis took a bow.
Then came the Vista Incident.
Replacing his sword with a baguette. Not just any baguette, but one made of edible mirage—warm, crusty, and glittery .
Vista didn’t notice until mid-practice.
The sparring partner was fine. Probably. (It was Jozu.)
Then, of course, came the Love Letter Massacre.
Moby Dick’s seagulls—tame, obedient, weaponizable—were sent across the ship with forged letters of devotion allegedly from various crewmates.
One note read:
Dearest Izo, your eyes pierce me more than your fan ever could. Let me be your next accessory. – Thatch
Thatch turned purple.
Izo?
Unbothered.
He read it once, folded it, and burned it with a lighter from his manicure set.
No one ever tried again.
Except Aegis. Once.
He almost put glitter in Izo’s shampoo.
But he caught The Look™.
One brow, perfectly arched.
Fan: opened. Slowly.
The air around him dropped ten degrees.
Aegis turned to Ace that night, pale as a ghost.
“Izo scares me,” he whispered, clutching Ace’s shoulders.
Ace, solemn as a monk, nodded. “As he should.”
The Mascot of Mayhem
And the crew? They adored him.
Even when he filled the crow’s nest with illusionary kittens.
Even when he serenaded the ocean mid-dinner in a glittering ballgown made of seagull feathers and projected light.
Even when he convinced Namur that Marco’s fruit made him allergic to compliments.
Aegis became more than just a stowaway.
More than just a traveling bard with a devil fruit and too many lies.
He became their mayhem incarnate.
Their court jester.
Their middle-of-the-storm laugh when the skies turned gray.
He was the storybook come to life.
The boy with too much past and not enough future who made now feel like magic.
Jozu wore his glitter eyebrows for an entire day .
Blamenco offered to be Aegis’ backup dancer.
Rakuyo tried to duel him in interpretive dance.
Even the toughest division commanders started cracking smiles when he entered a room.
Somewhere between the meals, the pranks, and the spontaneous “Guess Who” games (in which Aegis impersonated half the crew flawlessly ), he became part of them.
Even if he still insisted—loudly, daily—that he was “just visiting.”
No one believed him.
Marco would roll his eyes. “Sure you are.”
Thatch would ruffle his hair and say, “Yeah, and I’m a marine.”
Ace would grin and shout, “You’re not leaving ever! ”
And Whitebeard?
Whitebeard just watched it all. Laughed that deep, belly-deep laugh of his, rich as thunder and calm as tides.
He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.
But when Aegis fell asleep at the table, face down in a bowl of pudding after another day of chaos—
When he woke up with a blanket tucked around his shoulders, and a mug of tea steaming beside him—
He knew.
Or maybe not in his head. Not yet.
But his heart knew .
Because Whitebeard didn’t need to announce his love.’
Didn’t need to say “you are my son.”
He just was.
A warm presence at your back.
A safe place to land.
A laugh loud enough to drown out the silence you didn’t know was there.
And Aegis?
Aegis was already part of the crew.
He just hadn’t figured it out yet.
But Whitebeard had.
He looked out across his deck, at the chaos and the glitter and the boy with stars in his lies and scars in his laughter, and thought:
“Another son. Whether he knows it or not.”
The Golden Trio
Amongst the blur of names, laughter, and chaotic pirate energy, three figures shone brightest.
Marco. Thatch. Ace.
They were a trio in their own right, orbiting each other with that effortless closeness only forged through fire, time, and mutual shenanigans. Each one was loud in their own flavor of charisma, commanding attention without asking for it.
And Aegis—
Aegis was drawn to them.
Like a moth to a well-dressed, annoyingly powerful, extremely touchy flame.
Marco had that perfect kind of dry, unbothered energy that Aegis lived for.
Reminiscent of Beckman—cool, deadpan, razor-sharp with just enough warmth under the surface to keep you guessing. He had the patience of a saint and the sarcasm of a devil, sipping juice like it was wine and judging Aegis with the faintest twitch of his eyebrow.
He was also, infuriatingly, unflusterable.
Which, naturally, became a challenge.
“I swear,” Aegis huffed one afternoon, draping himself across a barrel like a heartbroken maiden, “do you feel nothing, Marco? Not even a twinge when I swoon so beautifully?!”
“Try harder,” Marco replied, not even glancing up from his book.
Thatch, on the other hand, was all sunlight and chaos, like Yasopp.
He cooked like a magician, smiled like a conman, and teased like a lifelong brother. He could charm a sea king out of its scales and Aegis out of his dramatics—which was saying something.
Thatch had a way of making everything feel like a party. Meals, chores, midnight walks on deck—they all became stages. And Aegis? He was always performing.
When Thatch wasn’t flipping pans in the galley, he was letting Aegis cling to him like a dramatic scarf, usually while Aegis feigned fainting from “too much handsomeness in one room.”
“You’re terrible,” Thatch said once, carrying Aegis bridal-style after an extremely exaggerated collapse.
“I am fragile,” Aegis sniffed, one hand over his heart. “Handle me gently.”
“You’re a theatrical gremlin.”
“I accept that.”
And Ace—
Ace was fire given joy.
Not quite like anyone Aegis had known. Not like Shanks, or Luffy, or even the Red Force as a whole. Ace was reckless, loud, bright, alive. He made things happen. Conversations turned to adventures. Questions led to chaos. And he gave Aegis the kind of laser-focused attention that made him thrive.
He watched Aegis with wide, sparkling eyes, soaking up every story like it was gold. He poked and prodded, dragged him into races, pranks, beach brawls, and hammock-lounging conversations under the stars.
He made Aegis feel fascinating.
“You made that illusion from scratch?!” Ace asked one evening, jaw practically on the deck.
“You should definitely perform at the next island festival,” Thatch insisted, slinging an arm over his shoulders.
Marco, sipping something disturbingly pink with a tiny umbrella in it, raised an unimpressed brow. “You’re more dramatic than Ace. That’s impressive.”
Aegis beamed.
Radiated.
Ascended.
“Why yes, yes I am,” he said, fanning himself with one hand. “I’m quite the talented bard, you know. I once had an emperor propose to me after a performance.”
(It was a lie.)
“He what?!” Ace gawked.
“Don’t worry,” Aegis sniffed, tossing his hair. “His crown didn’t match my aesthetic.”
(Also a lie.)
The more he talked, the more they listened.
The more they listened, the more he performed.
Tall tales became monologues.
Stories became reenactments.
Simple dinners turned into full-blown theatrical events, complete with costume changes (thank you, Izo), and dramatic backlighting (courtesy of Ace’s flames).
Thatch would toss flowers made of napkins.
Ace would cheer like a hype-man at a concert.
Marco would raise a slow, sarcastic 10/10 sign made from scrap wood.
And Aegis?
Aegis basked.
He laughed until he cried.
He posed until his back twinged.
He preened like a spoiled cat on a sunlit windowsill.
And for a moment—
Just one dangerous, golden moment—
He forgot.
Forgot the weight in his chest.
Forgot the ticking clock.
Forgot that these men—these bright, brilliant men—were walking toward a storm they couldn’t escape.
Forgot what he knew was coming.
Because here, on this ship, with these ridiculous, affectionate, too-alive pirates—
He felt almost… home.
And that—
That was the most dangerous part of all.
Too Bright to Touch
Aegis hadn’t meant to get this attached.
Really. Truly. He hadn’t.
From the moment he found himself aboard the Moby Dick—a ship that shouldn’t exist in his timeline, a family already halfway written into tragedy—he told himself this was temporary.
A detour.
A scenic mistake.
A pitstop on his long, chaotic road back to Shanks and the Red-Haired Pirates.
Back to his real home.
He repeated that mantra daily.
Hourly, when necessary.
Especially when the Whitebeards started dragging him into dinners, sparring matches, card games, and spontaneous karaoke battles like he’d always been there.
He told himself not to get involved.
Not to get comfortable.
Not to get attached.
But then—
Ace.
Ace was…
God, Ace.
He was the kind of boy stories were too scared to write down.
The sun in pirate form.
Loud. Blinding. Impossible to ignore.
All raw heat and golden noise, with a voice like gravel and laughter that cracked like fireworks across a summer sky.
He wasn’t just warm.
He was too warm.
The kind of warmth that made Aegis want to step closer even when it hurt.
The kind that made you forget the fire could burn.
And oh, how it would.
Aegis hadn’t meant to stay.
But staying turned into lingering.
Lingering turned into loitering with intent.
And loitering turned into—
“YOU CHEATED!” Ace screeched, halfway across the deck, finger thrust like a dagger toward Aegis, who sat at the center of a destroyed card table, grinning like a cat caught with feathers in its mouth.
“I absolutely did not, ” Aegis said, reclining back like a king in exile, cards spread out in a perfect royal flush that shimmered just a little too unnaturally. “I’m just very good at poker. It’s called skill, sweetheart.”
“Your cards are glowing. ”
“It’s ambiance.”
They’d started with a quiet game of cards. Just the usual suspects: Thatch, Vista, Ace, Aegis, and the occasional bystander hoping to win some rum or pride. It had been civil. Friendly. Almost boring.
And then Aegis decided losing was beneath him.
A subtle flick of his fingers. A glimmer beneath the table. Reality nudged just a touch to the left.
Nothing serious.
Just enough to ensure he always had exactly what he needed. A draw from a deck that bent kindly to him. A fold when the stakes weren’t worth it. A convenient mirage of the Joker when he needed it most. And maybe he made it obvious, because it was fun to tease Ace.
The Whitebeards called it “luck.”
Ace called it “BULLSHIT.”
And now?
Now Ace was launching himself across the table like an angry, shirtless meteor.
“CHEATER! FRAUD! DEVIL-WORSHIPPER!”
“You’re just mad I won again! ” Aegis laughed, barely dodging as Ace tackled him sideways, knocking them both into a heap of overturned chairs and spilled ale.
They wrestled like boys too powerful to be trusted, limbs everywhere, cards flying like confetti as Thatch howled with laughter and Vista calmly sipped his wine like this was Wednesday entertainment.
Aegis ended up pinned, hair in his face, Ace straddling his waist triumphantly.
“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t fry your smug little face off.”
Aegis blinked up at him.
“Because I’m cute and you like me.” he said, not really meaning it.
Ace’s eye twitched. He raised one fist. It caught fire.
“You are insufferable. ”
Aegis only grinned wider. “And yet? Here you are.”
The Food Fiasco
It began, as many wars did, with eggs.
“I swear to every sea god, if you touch that yolk—”
“I’m not touching it,” Aegis said, already nudging the perfectly runny egg onto his own plate. “I’m simply redistributing resources. ”
“You touched it! That was MY yolk!”
“It looked unguarded.”
“It was on my plate— ”
“It’s called maritime salvage, Ace. I’m a pirate.”
Ace lunged across the breakfast table, making drinks spill and the soup went all over—
Aegis shrieked, leaping back with a dramatized gasp and both hands held aloft like he was being mugged yet giggling.
The crew had grown mostly numb to their antics. Thatch occasionally placed bets. Marco once suggested handcuffing them during meals. Izo tried that once.
It did not work.
“You’re gonna die for that yolk,” Ace growled, stalking him around the table, but he was smiling, eyes bright.
“Then let me choose my last words!” Aegis declared. “ ‘It was delicious.’ ”
The Narcolepsy Incident
It started innocently.
Too innocently.
The kind of calm before the storm that only happens in a Shakespearean tragedy or a dinner scene on the Moby Dick .
Aegis was mid-monologue. Obviously. Arms flailing, voice pitched perfectly between drama and scandal . He was recounting Thatch’s alleged attempt to seduce a sea king with a fishing net, a fake pearl necklace, and “the voice of a man who knows how to lie to royalty.”
Ace was across from him. Laughing. Listening. Poking at his food like it had insulted his mother.
And then—
THWUMP.
Face-first.
Into his rice.
Gone.
Not a slow collapse. Not a sleepy nod. A full, cartoonish plank.
“ACE?!”
The scream Aegis let out could’ve summoned sea kings. It definitely summoned all attention in the dining hall.
Two chairs fell. A tray launched itself into the air like a tragic supporting character. Thatch may or may not have been knocked over.
“IS HE DEAD?!” Aegis howled, lunging over the table like a grieving widow in a soap opera. “HE’S DEAD. HE’S DEAD IN HIS RICE. HE DIED EATING! WHAT A TRAGIC, BEAUTIFUL IDIOT—”
The dining hall paused.
Whitebeard didn’t even look up. “He does that.”
Aegis froze. Mid-fling. One hand dramatically gripping the edge of the table, the other clutching the edge of Ace’s sleeve like he was about to reenact Titanic .
“…He what. ”
Marco, sipping from a cup with the soul of a man whose patience had long since expired, said, “He’s fine. Narcoleptic.”
“ NARCO- —what now?!”
Marco shrugged. “He falls asleep randomly.”
Aegis blinked rapidly, brain catching up. “ Randomly?! You mean—he just— collapses?! ”
“Yup.”
“WHILE EATING?!”
“Happens.”
“WHILE WALKING?!”
“Oh yeah. Mid-step, too. Once saw him fall asleep on a roof.”
“THAT’S—THAT’S A CURSE! THAT’S A FAIRY CURSE!”
Aegis spun, eyes wild, pointing at Ace’s unconscious form like he’d just discovered forbidden knowledge.
“This isn’t a nap, this is POSSESSION. Someone get the salt, the holy water—”
Ace snorted.
A little wetly.
Lifted his head slowly, blinking the way someone might after a brief encounter with the astral plane.
He looked around, vaguely confused, rice stuck to his face like edible confetti.
“…Did I miss something?” he asked groggily.
Aegis collapsed into a seat with a wheeze so dramatic it could’ve gotten a standing ovation in a theater.
“You died in front of me,” he said, voice trembling, a hand over his heart like a woman in mourning.
Ace frowned, wiping a grain off his chin. “Nah. Just zonked out for a sec.”
“‘ZONKED OUT’?! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN TO ME?!”
Ace paused. “…Buddy?”
“ WRONG. A muse. A beacon. A problematic golden retriever of a man who is not allowed to perish in front of me without warning!”
A pirate to the left passed Aegis a damp rag.
“For your tears,” they said solemnly.
He took it. Daintily dabbed his eyes. Sniffled. Clutched it like a mourning veil.
Ace blinked. “So… what were we talking about?”
Aegis stared at him. Then flopped backwards with a dramatic groan.
“We were talking about you not scaring ten years off my life with your spontaneous slumber DEATH ACT.”
“It’s normal though!”
Thatch, from the floor where he’d landed in the chaos, grumbled, “He fell asleep while sparring once. Mid-punch.”
“Mid- punch ?!” Aegis shrieked.
“Knocked the other guy out on the way down,” Marco added helpfully.
Aegis placed the rag over his face.
“I need a priest,” he whispered. “Or a sedative. Or both.”
Ace patted his shoulder vaguely, laughing at the whole thing.
The Age of Fire and Lies
Aegis knew. He knew.
He wasn’t some clueless, time-turned idiot without context. He remembered the anime.
Ace was what, nineteen?
(He dies at twenty. Fuck, Aegis barely had time here.)
(The thought slips in like a knife, cold and sharp, right between the ribs.)
And yet… Ace didn’t feel that young.
He carried himself like a chaotic child with no brakes, no filter, and no self-preservation instincts. His arms were scarred, his grin was reckless, and his heart—god, his heart—was worn wide open on his sleeve.
He wasn’t just a guy.
He was a storm. A wildfire with legs.
And Aegis, despite every warning bell in his skull, gravitated toward him more than anyone else.
Because Ace was easy.
Effortless, really.
Easy to laugh with.
Easy to poke fun at.
Easy to fall into rhythm beside—like they’d been doing it for years instead of just a few strange, golden weeks.
Aegis didn’t have to try around him. Didn’t have to measure his words or posture his charm like a blade. Ace never asked for that careful balance, never demanded masks or explanations. He just was. All heat and honesty, all chaos and crooked grins.
And gods, he was so stupid.
Not in a cruel way. Not in the way that stung or soured.
Just… delightfully gullible.
Aegis had discovered it entirely by accident. They’d been at lunch—something messy and spiced and utterly devourable, a meal Thatch called “kitchen jazz” and Aegis secretly adored—and the conversation had lagged for a beat.
So, naturally, he filled the silence with nonsense.
“Well,” he said lightly, swirling his soup as if it held visions, “this reminds me of the time I tamed a Sea King.”
Ace, mid-bite, perked up immediately. “ What?! ”
Aegis didn’t miss a beat. “Mmhmm. Off the coast of Baterilla. Mean bastard, too—teeth like ivory daggers and a grudge against boats.”
Ace leaned in, wide-eyed, already enraptured.
“I had no weapons,” Aegis continued, lowering his voice, letting it grow dramatic and dangerous, “except a harp made of coral, a half-empty bottle of perfume—vanilla and gunpowder, for the record—and the lullaby my mother used to sing when the storms got too loud.”
Ace gasped, audibly.
“You sang to it?!”
“I sang at it,” Aegis corrected with faux seriousness. “The key is to make the Sea King afraid of the high notes.”
Silence. Just long enough for the bait to sink.
And then—
“ That’s incredible, ” Ace breathed, eyes round as coins. “Like, damn, no wonder you’re still alive. You serenaded a sea monster into submission— with perfume?! ”
Aegis sipped his soup. “I’m a man of many talents.”
And for a blissful, glorious moment—
Ace believed him.
He sat back, brow furrowed in intense mental calculation, as if trying to imagine the logistics of perfume-based Sea King diplomacy.
Across the table, Thatch choked on his drink.
He set his tray down, eyes watering, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Then, between hiccuping wheezes, he leaned over and stage-whispered, loud enough to carry across three tables:
“ You know he’s bullshitting you, right? ”
Ace froze.
Turned slowly.
Stared at Aegis like a man discovering betrayal for the first time in his life.
“You lied?! ” he asked, horrified.
Aegis, shameless, wiped his mouth daintily and shrugged. “ Embellished. There’s a difference.”
“You made up an entire lullaby-based survival strategy! ”
“It could work.”
“It could not! ”
Thatch, wheezing with laughter, added helpfully, “He once told me he dated a Celestial Dragon and lived.”
Ace’s head whipped around so fast he nearly knocked over his bowl.
“ Okay that one’s definitely a lie, ” he said, eyes narrowing like a detective who’d finally caught onto the game.
Aegis raised a brow. Met his gaze. And grinned—wide, wolfish, teeth gleaming like stolen stars.
“Or is it? ”
There was a beat of silence.
A breath of anticipation.
Then— “OH, THAT’S IT!” Ace howled, launching himself over the table with fire in his eyes and vengeance in his soul.
Aegis shrieked, kicked back his chair, and ran like the drama queen he absolutely was, shouting, “ I REGRET NOTHING! ” as Ace gave chase.
They bolted through the galley like children drunk on sugar and freedom. Crew members ducked and dodged, laughing or swearing or simply moving their food to safer tables.
By the time Marco walked in, they’d already looped the hallway twice and overturned three chairs.
He didn’t even look up from his logbook.
“Third time this week,” he muttered to Izo, who sipped tea without blinking.
“Better than when they fought over that mango.”
“Oh gods,” Marco groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
Later, when Ace finally caught him (which was inevitable; fire moves faster than flair), they collapsed in a heap of tangled limbs and laughter on the sunny part of the deck. Both panting. Both bruised from the floorboards. Both grinning like idiots.
Ace shoved him. “You’re the worst.”
Aegis shoved back. “You love it.”
“Shut up.”
“You love it. ”
“I’ll set you on fire.”
“I’ll just sing to it.”
Ace groaned and flopped over, muttering, “I hate you.”
But his smile said otherwise.
And Aegis—lying there under the sun, watching the way Ace's laugh crinkled his eyes and softened his entire being—knew he was in deep.
Private Performances
If Thatch was the one who showered Aegis in compliments like confetti—loud, boisterous, half-sarcastic but still warm—and Marco the one who sniped at him with bone-dry wit and too-knowing eyes—
Then Ace…
Ace was the one who adored him.
Not with subtlety.
Not with restraint.
Not with anything even close to chill.
No, Ace adored the way he did everything else.
Loud. Immediate. All-consuming. With a kind of reckless sincerity that made your ribs ache just being near it.
Sometimes it would start with a whistle.
A call across the deck.
Sometimes just a hand grabbing Aegis by the wrist, dragging him up the steps two at a time as the sky spilled gold across the world.
“ C’mon, sunset’s waitin’! ”
The first time it happened, Aegis thought Ace was setting up for a prank. Maybe Thatch had roped him into some absurd bet involving fireworks and seagulls again.
But no.
Ace simply pointed toward the sky like it was a curtain call. Like the heavens had split open just for them.
And then, casually—like asking someone to pass the salt—
“ Sing for me? ”
No audience.
No stage.
No demand.
Just Ace.
Just him.
So, Aegis did what he always did when the world grew quiet and soft around the edges—he performed.
He plucked songs from the ruins of memory.
Melodies from places no longer on maps.
Old love ballads sung in ancient dialects.
Haunted hymns. Pirate shanties. City songs. Lullabies.
He wove them all together with a voice like smoke and silver. Gentle when it needed to be. Sharp when the air begged for it.
And his Devil Fruit?
It listened.
No grand gestures. No booming illusions. Just the little things.
A flicker of light behind his shoulder like fireflies dancing in time.
The waves glittering with star-dust shimmer as they rolled gently against the hull.
Clouds above them curling and parting in rhythm to the beat—slow, like breath.
It wasn’t a show.
It was a secret.
A private performance carved from dusk and silence and salt.
And Ace?
Ace would sit through it like a child at the edge of a miracle. Sometimes cross-legged with elbows on knees, leaning forward like he didn’t dare blink. Sometimes stretched out with arms tucked behind his head, half-smile slung across his face like a hammock—lazy and sun-warm and utterly content.
“That one was amazing,” he said once, after Aegis finished a particularly melancholic tune that ended with the wind singing harmony. “You ever think of doin’ that for a living?”
Aegis deadpanned. “ I am doing it for a living.”
Ace blinked. “Oh. Right.”
A beat.
“Still. You should perform for kings or something.”
Aegis snorted, one eyebrow arched to the heavens. “Too many kings. Not enough worthy ones.”
And Ace—
Ace beamed.
Like he believed, with all his ridiculous wildfire heart, that Aegis was the most worthy thing to ever walk this earth.
Aegis tried to roll his eyes. Tried to look annoyed. Tried not to feel it.
But the smile got him. Small. Crooked. Soft at the edges.
He hated him for it.
He adored him for it.
He ached for it.
Because that smile? That blinding, too-honest smile?
It made him want to believe it too.
A Quiet Ache
It happened every time.
Every damn time Ace laughed— really laughed, head thrown back, teeth flashing, dimples deepening like craters in the sun—
Something in Aegis’ chest twisted.
Tight. Sharp. Familiar.
And every time Ace looked at him like that —like Aegis had just pulled the stars down and handed them over wrapped in ribbon—that invisible crack in his ribs split just a little wider.
Because he knew.
Knew what the world had planned for Ace.
What was waiting.
What was coming.
Not just death.
No.
Execution.
Chains. Betrayal. A scaffold above a screaming crowd.
A grave that shouldn’t exist.
A life snuffed out by the very fire that made it shine.
Unless Aegis did something. Anything.
(But what can I do? What can I change? I’m not a god. I’m barely holding myself together.)
He told himself it was futile.
That timelines were stubborn things.
That the future was set, carved in something stronger than stone.
But even as he whispered those truths to himself like prayer, like penance—
He kept singing.
Because in those quiet, honey-soaked moments—
When Ace clapped and whooped and shouted “ Encore! ” like he was in a crowd of thousands—
When his freckles caught the last light of the sun and made his skin glow like something unreal —
The weight in Aegis’ chest went still.
Not gone.
But quiet.
He could pretend.
Pretend the Moby Dick wasn’t a ghost ship sailing toward a tragedy already written.
Pretend he hadn’t seen this story’s end.
Pretend he wasn’t going to lose another home.
Pretend—just for tonight—that maybe he could fix it.
That maybe if he sang loud enough, bright enough, true enough—
He could rewrite it.
Rewrite him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the sky was dipped in indigo and fire.
The sea whispered against the hull like it knew secrets.
The salt in the air was sharp and alive.
And Ace—
Beautiful, reckless Ace—
Was still here.
Still grinning.
Still demanding songs.
Still burning like a star that hadn’t yet fallen.
So Aegis opened his mouth.
And sang again.
And again.
And again.
As long as that fire stayed.
As long as that smile still shone.
He would sing.
Even if the world was listening.
Even if it hurt.
Teenagers at Sea
It was surreal, honestly.
Aegis hadn’t acted this carefree in years .
With Ace, it was easy to forget the weight on his shoulders.
Easy to forget time. Death. The looming knowledge that this all ends in tragedy .
Because Ace dragged him from moment to moment, breath to breath.
And for the first time in so long, Aegis let himself live.
They shared food, got into trouble, challenged each other to stupid bets, and argued over the dumbest things, like whether Aegis’ illusions counted as "cheating" in a race (they did, and he still lost).
They acted like kids.
Sometimes Aegis would catch Whitebeard watching them with this quiet, fond smile.
Other times, he’d find Marco nearby, arms crossed, smirking knowingly.
But the worst was Thatch.
Thatch knew .
He was the one who kept calling Aegis “baby brother.”
At first, it was a joke.
Now?
He says it with affection. Real affection.
And every time Aegis tries to argue, Thatch just throws an arm around his shoulders and says, “Too late. Should’ve run while you had the chance.”
He never did.
He could’ve .
But now?
Now it was warm here.
Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
And Aegis, for all his dramatics, for all his self-preservation…
He didn’t want to leave.
Not yet.
On the Moby Dick, if Ace wasn’t hanging off Aegis’ arm like a needy koala, then Thatch was dragging him off somewhere ridiculous.
And somehow, they were always arguing (jokingly).
“Your boots are objectively ugly,” Thatch would say one afternoon, looking down his nose at Aegis’ current illusioned outfit. “I don’t care if it’s 'Bootchi'—”
“—Gucci—”
“—it looks like a cursed banana peel.”
“Oh please,” Aegis would snap back, flipping his hair and flicking sparkles from his fingers. “You literally wear pink aprons with dancing fish. You have no fashion authority here.”
“Those are limited edition! ”
“They should be limited to the trash! ”
“I’ll throw you in the trash!”
“ Try me, Captain Broke! ”
Somewhere nearby, Marco would sigh as he flipped a page of his book, not even looking up. “You two are insufferable.”
But there was always a grin tugging at his lips.
Thatch had a way of matching Aegis' energy in a way that was less… emotionally intense than Ace. But Thatch? Thatch was easy. Loud. Ridiculous. He was a prank partner, a sparring partner, a gossip buddy, and sometimes, in quieter moments, a voice of reason when Aegis’ nerves frayed under the weight of secrets.
Instead, he’d just say things like, “If you get put in the same division as me, we’re naming it The Beautiful Bastards. Deal?”
And Aegis would roll his eyes, smirk, and respond, “Only if I get top billing.”
“You get top billing when you can beat me in poker.”
“Bitch, I always beat you,”
“Without cheating you haven’t!”
“I definitely can without cheating!”
“So you admit that you cheat—”
They got kicked out of the galley once because they were arguing so loudly about whether mango or pineapple belonged on pizza (they both liked both, but neither would admit it during the argument).
They roped Izo into a fashion runway contest once, and then immediately regretted it because Izo swept the floor with them in three outfits flat.
They broke into the treasure hold once just to “rate the aesthetic value” of Whitebeard’s loot. (Marco caught them. Marco was so tired.)
There was a night, just once, where Aegis had a nightmare. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and made it hard to breathe. He didn’t remember what it was about—just that it was dark, and cold, and something bad was coming .
When he woke up, drenched in sweat, shaking, trying not to make a sound, there was a light knock on the door to his quarters.
He opened it, only to find Thatch holding a plate.
“Brought you cake,” the man said. “Don’t ask how I knew. Just eat it.”
Aegis stared at him. “It’s three in the morning.”
“Yeah,” Thatch said, shrugging. “Cake hours.”
He didn’t ask. Didn’t pry. Just sat with him, talking about absolutely nothing of value—gossip, drama, weird recipes he wanted to try. And Aegis slowly calmed down, his hands no longer trembling by the end of it.
That night, something settled in place. Something real.
If Ace was the brother he never thought he’d have, then Thatch was the best friend he never knew he needed.
Aegis didn’t know when it happened. Didn’t know the exact moment it became real.
Maybe it was the time Thatch stole one of his illusion dresses to “test the fit.”
Maybe it was the time they got locked in a closet together (and Aegis accidentally kneed his groin).
Or maybe… it was just the way Thatch looked at him like he belonged —no expectations, no strings, just, “You’re here. And you’re mine now, deal with it.”
And Aegis, who had spent so long performing for a stage with no one in the audience, didn’t realize how much he needed that until he had it.
Until he had them.
Pretty Bird
It started off innocently enough.
Truly. Just another lazy day aboard the Moby Dick , sun glittering on the sea, seagulls screaming overhead, and the air thick with the scent of salt, citrus polish, and testosterone. Aegis had been reclining across the upper deck rails, draped like a decadent cat in a sunbeam, basking in the lull between Ace dragging him off on wild adventures and Thatch demanding a spontaneous runway duel at cannonpoint.
Then he saw Marco.
The First Division Commander, Phoenix of the Whitebeard Pirates, legend, healer, and beloved pillar of patience and order—stumbling out of a logistics meeting like someone had siphoned half his life force through his eyebrows.
His brow was furrowed into a scowl sharp enough to cut rope. His usually composed expression held the subtle glassiness of a man rethinking every life choice. And in his hand—a clipboard bristling with papers and dotted with ominous red stamps.
The final insult?
He was sipping something green. Violently green. From a chipped mug that smelled like liquified regret, wilted kale, and despair. It looked like something aShrek would brew.
Aegis watched him walk. Watched him rub his temple. Watched him sigh.
And he decided, without hesitation or mercy:
Marco deserved better.
Marco deserved him .
The first time it happened, Marco had been mid-stride on the main deck, clearly on his way to somewhere important—or, at least, somewhere unpleasant. He almost walked right past.
“Ah-ah-ah!” Aegis sang, slipping directly into Marco’s path like a conjured vision of chaos and style. He struck a pose so dramatic it involved at least three completely unnecessary wrist flicks and a leg pop that could only be described as flirtatiously aggressive.
Marco froze.
He blinked.
“…what now, yoi?”
“You, Commander Marco,” Aegis said, tilting his head with regal concern, “look like a man in desperate need of something vitally important.”
Marco stared, gaze heavy, clipboard under one arm like a shield. “Yeah? What?”
“My presence , obviously.”
With a flourish, Aegis gestured to himself, cloak fluttering behind him despite the lack of wind—thanks, of course, to a well-placed illusionary breeze that smelled faintly of bergamot and ego.
The silence that followed was profound. Not even the ship creaked.
“Aegis,” Marco muttered, pressing fingers to his brow. “You’ve been spending too much time with Thatch. Or maybe that’s just your personality, yep,”
And then—he kept walking.
Aegis grinned like he’d just been proposed to. Success.
From that day forward, it became a personal mission.
Marco was, to Aegis’ artistic and spiritual horror, a walking embodiment of chronic workaholism. A martyr to schedules. A man with the posture of someone physically carrying the burdens of three war fronts, four accounting departments, and at least one wayward sibling at any given time.
And Aegis? Aegis was a goddamn solution.
He began inserting himself into Marco’s day like glitter in a rug—unwelcome at first, but ultimately inevitable.
“Are you eating ?” he’d ask, sliding a tray of food onto Marco’s desk uninvited. “Hydrating? Sleeping? Practicing mindfulness? Doing your skincare routine, Commander Dadbird?”
Marco would squint at him. “Are you harassing me?”
“Yes,” Aegis answered sweetly. “But aesthetically. One could never have enough of Aegis the Illustrious,”
He left illusionary bouquets on Marco’s desk. Once, they sang in three-part harmony. Another time, they exploded into a flock of glitter-doves when touched. (That incident earned him a tired sigh and a muttered, “I hate glitter,” but the flowers weren’t thrown away.)
He brought tea. Herbal, caffeinated, or, on one memorable occasion, entirely imaginary but accompanied by a six-minute performance on the “healing vibrations of aroma illusion.”
Sometimes he didn't say anything at all. He just perched nearby while Marco worked, flopped across a crate, conjuring tiny illusion seagulls to juggle while providing sarcastic color commentary. (okay, so he would say something)
“Ooh. Shipping manifests. Spicy. Is that… pickled onions? The drama.”
“…you’re going to drive me insane, yoi.”
But Marco never once told him to leave.
Then came the grand gestures .
One day, Aegis turned the entire main deck into a glowing musical set-piece, illusion fireworks spelling “Relieve Your Stress, Daddy Phoenix” in swirling letters above Marco’s head while an ensemble of illusion dancers—shirtless, of course—performed synchronized choreography to the sound of violins and bass drops.
Marco had tripped over a barrel mid-step and nearly fallen into the sea.
“…Aegis, you need a hobby.”
“I am the hobby!” Aegis had declared, spinning into a split that absolutely no one asked for.
But it wasn’t just the chaos. Not always.
There were quiet moments.
Rare ones.
Moments when Marco sat at his desk a little too long, shoulders hunched a little too far, the glow of his phoenix flames dim, eyes ringed with exhaustion no amount of mythical healing could banish.
Those were the moments Aegis truly dialed in.
He’d appear without warning, conjuring a full massage illusion chair behind Marco, complete with ocean sounds and faint harps. Once, he filled Marco’s cabin with a hot spring illusion—steamy, silent, the air thick with the scent of lavender.
He showed up in a white robe and spa sandals, holding two cucumber slices like sacred offerings.
“It’s time to unburden yourself, beloved.”
Marco’s expression didn’t even flinch.
But he sat down, and they had a wonderful talk about birds while lounging on the massage chair. Yep, their voices were vibrating and all.
And more than once —more than he ever admitted—he laughed. Soft, genuine chuckles. Little smiles hidden behind weary sighs.
Sometimes, he’d just watch Aegis. Quietly. Like maybe—just maybe—he enjoyed the interruption.
One evening, as the sun burned orange on the sea and the crew was blissfully occupied elsewhere, Aegis sat beside Marco on the edge of the ship, legs swinging.
For once, he said nothing.
Neither did Marco.
They sat in companionable silence, wind in their hair, horizon stretched before them in gold.
And then, softly:
“You’re exhausting.”
“I’m fabulous .”
“…but thanks, yoi.”
Aegis blinked.
Then smiled. “You’re welcome. My presence is a gift. ”
Marco was the prize. The elusive, emotionally repressed bird man of structure and quiet dignity. Aegis was determined to enchant him, harass him, heal him with a relentless barrage of affection, nonsense, and style.
He was the boss level in a game of emotional sabotage.
And Aegis?
Oh, Aegis was winning.