When he opened his eyes, there was nothing but darkness around him, but he could still see the familiar sight of cage, the coldness of rocky grounds under his body, and the unbearable stench of rotting human flesh. He's back again in his cage, back in this hellish life.

He told himself for a long time now, he won't cry. He won't give his captors and torturers the satisfaction. No matter how bad it was, he can't cry.

And he won't. He has to hold on.

Just like he's been told to do.

They tortured him for even longer than usual, demanding him to tell them where he had escaped to and how he could appear again in his cage. When he won't tell them anything, they hurt him even more, throwing everything they had until each men in the room was left panting and out of energy. He passed out 4 times and during the last time, it took him a while to wake up again after they took off his new cuffs to heal, but he still kept his mouth shut.

He won't tell them. He won't have that beautiful hope be tainted by these men.

He'll hold on through the pain, because Ace, Pops and everyone promised it'll be worth it, and he believed them.

It rained one day, and the only reason he knew was because the rainwater dripped into the jail they were kept in, and even when the water has submerged most of the floor, no one came to check.

In the midst of worried whispers from other slaves, he sat in his little cage and hummed a familiar tune, hugging himself in lieu of another pair of arms that always seems to bring warmth.

They're not the same, he knew, but for a second, he can pretend.

He lost count of the day he woke up again in this little cage, since he last saw his dream, and he's starting to lose hope.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was no 'future'. Maybe it was just a dream. Maybe they were right and this is where he'll live his entire life and die.

Maybe there will never be a life for him beyond this place.

For days since he came to terms with this, he repeated his own resolve to himself: He told himself for a long time now, he won't cry. He won't give his captors and tortures the satisfaction. No matter how bad it was, he can't cry.

But this is just too cruel.

For the first time in years, he let the tears fell, mourning that beautiful dream of family, of companionship, and of love.

They saw his tear tracks the next day, when they drag him out for their daily dose of entertainment.

The Noble who owned him saw it and laughed. He vowed to be able to see them come out himself, and thus, his abuse for the day began anew and much more intensely.

But he simply lay there, letting them do whatever they wanted. Not a single drop came out, because he can't anymore. All of his tears are gone.

And so was his hope.

He's starting to forget about that dream.

It started from that day when the Noble became frustrated and banged his head repeatedly against the table. Things had been hazy ever since, like his sight and the dull headache throbbing in his head and now, he realize he couldn't remember that dream to the fullest again. It was blotchy, and so many things were gone from his memory, like the colour of Izou's kimono, the birds, and the warmth of Ace's embrace and his smile.

His breath turned shallow at this revelation, leading some of the other slaves around him to ask if he's alright. He couldn't answer them, not when he started screaming, clawing at his own face, begging for those little memories to return, for the pain to stop, to please, let him have them, he didn't care that they're not real, they're all he has now.

They never did came back, and as day goes by, even more of them left him, leaving only blank dots in his mind.

The walls shook, and he heard screams from outside of the dungeon. Something terrible happened, and even the slaves around him began to panic.

He closed his eyes and turned away from the chatter. Death can come and he won't care.

He's just too tired.

Maybe if he dies, he'd be able to see that dream again, he can meet Ace, Pops, and the others again. Everyone else whose name has long since left his deteriorating mind, along with Pops' face and Ace's smile, but it's okay, because he'll be back with them, and he can learn anew.

So he waited, a ghost of a smile making its way onto his bleeding lips when he heard the door being slammed open, and people started screaming around him.

He's coming home.

When he woke up, everything was bright and he laid on a soft surface, softer than anything he had ever felt. A bed, he realized after opening his eyes further, though how he came to that realization, he couldn't tell.

There's a man next to him, sitting by his bedside. He was massive, with crescent shaped moustache just as big as him and long blonde hair, but unlike the exterior, everything about him was kind and gentle. He smiled, and something tugged in the back of his mind when he saw it, as if he had seen it before, "Hello, son. Are you alright?"

He didn't answer, because his throat hurts and he didn't know what to say. The man was silent with unconcealed sadness, before he ask again, "Do you have a name? Something i can call you with?"

A name? Did he have one? Everytime he was refered to it was always with words like 'the prisoner', or 'that little fuckwit', or multiple ways to call him that doesn't really constitute a name.

And yet, he remembered something else. Something foreign, faces that he never seen before yet felt so familiar, all of them calling him.

"Marco,"

"Marco? What a nice name. My name is Edward Newgate, dear boy. Nice knowing you,"

Edward Newgate smiled at him again, wide and jolly, and he can't help but smile back, somehow feeling like he can trust this man.

When Marco woke up again, he knows all memory of that dream was gone, though strangely enough, he can still remember its existence.

But instead of trying to cling to it again, he woke up to the sight of Edward greeting him with a plate of hot food, and felt nothing but safety. Like he didn't need to hold on to it anymore.

Days later, Edward asked if he ever thought of becoming a pirate, and if he wanted to join his crew.

Marco nodded over a spoonful of porridge, because he felt like there wouldn't be any other answer more fitting than that.

Marco had only been a part of 'Whitebeard Pirates' for 2 weeks, when he accidentally called Edward 'Pops' instead of Captain.

Edward had only laughed, a sound that shook the sea itself, and his face lit up so brightly Marco can't feel bad for his mistake, "Oh, i like the sound of that, it has such a nice ring to it. Okay, from now on, call me 'Pops' instead,"

Learning how to walk was one thing, and learning how to speak properly was another. But learning how to fly seems like an unachievable dream, despite everything Pops said.

It's not even noon yet and Marco already felt tired, his body aching from falling over and over despite his regenerative ability. This would mark a full 2 month since he first attempt to fly, all resulting in him just crashing back on deck and during that one risky time, nearly drown with no one but Pops, also a Devil Fruit user to help. Since then a new rule was established that he could only train in islands they docked to, which just put him even further behind on his training, "Maybe Phoenixes are flightless birds,"

"Nonsense, my son, we've done the research and we both know they're not. You'll get it one of these days," he said with a chuckle, leaning back against tall tree before offering his hand with the palm upturned, "Come on now, i'll give you another boost,"

Reluctantly, yet strangely still determined, he stood up and climbed on that large hand, wobbling slightly when the hand moved upwards. Instead of putting it above his head, Whitebeard raised him up to eye level, his smile patient and comforting.

"Do not give up, Marco. You were meant to fly, after all. Free like the birds in the sky,"

He finally stayed airborne long enough for it to constitute as a flight several days later. That very same night, he dreamt of warm fire telling him he had done a great job, and woke up confused yet somehow feeling prouder than he had ever been with himself.

Pops has a 'friend', at least, that's what Marco thought he is, since both Pops and Roger would always deny it and call each other rivals instead. Rayleigh said his observation was accurate, and he thought so too, because they often cross each other's path and instead of fighting like a true enemy, the four of them will end up working together. Also, Roger would sometimes give him toys or souvenirs, calling himself 'the cool uncle', and after an incident a month prior, Rayleigh taught him Haki, and would ask for his progress every time they meet again.

Right now, it was one of those days where they were after the same treasure, and the aftermath involves both of their small crew running away from the marines. They hid in a small town called Baterilla, and Roger won't stop eyeing a young red haired waitress.

"She's so goddamn beautiful. Wife material. I wanna marry her,"

"You'd have to have the balls— Eh, i mean, the courage to ask her out first before you can propose," Pops commented over a tankard of ale, using a fork to give Marco two of his uneaten sausages after seeing him eyeing for them. He often does that lately, because Marco is 'a growing boy' and needs more nutrients than he. Roger accused him for giving more space for alcohol, "So far, you've only been planning your future dates and wedding without even talking to her once,"

"I'm working on it," the man groused, scratching the beginnings of a moustache that's starting to grow, something Pops accused him for wanting to copy his style. Their entire relationship was full of jabs and exchanges like that, "Can you guys imagine though? We'll have so many beautiful babies, i mean, just look at her. What should i name our first child? It's got to be something great, something awe-inspiring, something… something fiery! Like her hair! Oh my god, her hair, did you see how soft they looked? How many dates do you think it'll take until she'll let me run my hand through them?"

Rayleigh only chuckled and Pops rolled his eyes, but Marco stopped nibbling on his sandwich, when he felt another nudge in his mind and said, "Ace,"

Roger turned to him, eyes unblinking, looking like he just reached divine revelation. He then grinned widely, and reached over to ruffle Marco's blonde hair. The boy giggled at the gesture, "See, i always knew you're my favorite kid for a reason. Ace, now that is a great one. Gol D. Ace, or maybe Gol D. Ann, if we have a girl. Oh, i can already imagine it. Here, do you want my fried potatoes? Eat up, eat up,"

"Again, you'd have to ask her out first and hopefully not thrown out like the last one. Here you go, balance out your diet while i'm here, hm?" Rayleigh quipped, before depositing a piece of his seasoned fish and a hefty helping of salad on Marco's plate as well, just like the other two before him. The boy's plate was now full again, and Roger's not even finished transferring all of the thick potato chunks from his. They always did that every time the 4 of them meet, and Marco never once complained even though he already felt full. For him, it's better to have stomachache from being too full, than to ever feel the pangs of hunger back during those years in captive.

Marco had his plate licked clean by the time Pops started a wager on Roger being accepted or not with Rayleigh, much to Roger's irritation. Stomach full and drowsy from a long day, he fell asleep cradled in one arm by Pops, with Roger's red coat as a blanket and his straw hat on his head - "Don't use my kid as your hat hanger, Roger," - while the man finally worked up the courage to come up to the waitress.

Roger ended up going out with her the next day, while they were still hiding out in Baterilla. The prospect of that wedding and children, as he said in joy, was as sure as getting One Piece.

As Pops and Rayleigh started to jokingly bad mouth Roger in good nature in front of Portgas D. Rouge, Marco can't stop looking at the beautiful, smiling woman, and thought her freckles and smile familiar.

Pops' family grew larger by the day. At Marco's 16th birthday, - the day Pops found and rescued him, because he doesn't know his true date of birth - there's over 700 people on board who threw him a party, not counting the crew's closest allies that also stopped by just for the celebration.

Over the years, Roger's crew had also grew larger and he and Pops truly became rivals in vying to become the 'King of Pirates', but like every other year, without fail, he sent Marco a present through Coo. This year, it was a blue scarf made of the finest silk in all 4 seas, the shade so close to his Phoenix's flame, along with a heartfelt congratulations letter from him and Rayleigh that he kept hidden in his journal.

On board, they had recently recruited Fossa, a young swordsman as well as a damn good tattoo artist, "Well, if i'm still a law-abiding citizen, i would say you're too young for my services, but what the hell, kid, you're more adult than some of the adults i've seen in my life. Plus i need to give you a present so tattoo it is," the older man told him when Marco came up to him during the party, asking if he can have one, "So, what's it gonna be? Rest assured anything i make will be good,"

When Marco opened his jacket and reveal the slave mark, a mark he had hidden away from everyone for so long, he added quietly that he's good at making tattoos disappear as well. But that's not what he wanted.

3 weeks later, the 16 years old strutted proudly to the crowded deck in mid daylight with his shirt open, Roger's scarf tied around his waist like a belt and a newly healed tattoo that took nearly his entire chest on display. Whitebeard's jolly roger was proudly presented on pale skin, completely concealing the Mark of Slave.

He thought that there were tears on Pops' eyes when he first sees it, looking to all like he was touched by the gesture but Marco knew otherwise. Pops knew this was him showing that he had put behind his past, drowning it in this new life he was given, something that he will hold tall and proud. The mark of his saviour, of the man he calls father, of his family, over the mark that tells of a degrading life of torture and misery.

Fossa ended up doing nothing but tattooing people for the next few months, an idea that now become more or less an unspoken rule on board their ship. Not that they ever need to enforce it, new recruits usually do it by themselves, some even competing on having the largest on their body. So far, Marco's always win.

That position goes up in flames, with the arrival of a boy wielding fire.

He woke up with a shuddering breath and bathed in cold sweat, dream forgotten though he could hazard a guess as to what they had been.

Before he could even adjust himself with his surrounding, his head suddenly gave a painful but relatively manageable throb, making him hiss. His first initial assessment was that he caught sight of the window, and that it's bright outside, which means he probably had slept for quite a while. Still, his entire body felt lethargic and tired, urging him to take another doze.

As if. He's pretty sure he had been doing nothing but sleeping.

Turning to his side, he found a covered bowl on the bedside table, along with a tall glass of water with condensation dripping all around it. There's no note or anything, but it was obviously left for him, and the faint smell that wafted from underneath the cover when he lifted it up made his stomach growl. It was seaweed soup, he found out after the first sip, already lukewarm but he was hungrier than he thought when he finished the entire thing in only a few seconds.

There's something strange about it, however, something he can't quite peg down once he was done feeding himself. It tasted just like any other seaweed soup he ever had, and yet there's a tug on the back of his mind and his tastebud, as if the taste was nostalgic somewhat. He doesn't know how to describe it, but it felt like something old, something in the brink of revelation in his mind and the tip of his tongue that he just can't spit out.

The more he tries to think about it, the more his head was started to pound, so he gave up.

Once he was done with his meal, he found that he was still ravenous, which was odd since that much food would usually keep him full for a while. In the end, as his stomach gurgled, he decided to search for more sustenance, and carried both bowl and glass with him outside. Making his way over to the door without wobbling was a chore, but he made it somehow, and once he opened the door, the first thing he was greeted by was a couple of passing crew members, who turned to him and widened their eyes, "Oh, good morning, Commander Marco!"

Their voices and smiles were cheery, but somehow he can't help but feel like they're a bit forced. For a brief moment, he wondered if something was wrong out there in the who knows how long he's been asleep, but the chatter hear could hear from the deck were relaxed enough that there won't be any emergencies, and there's nothing to suggest any sort of fight brewing, "Uh, yeah, morning,"

"Don't you think you should be resting a bit more, Commander? You still look pale,"

It's not like he had the chance to check what he looked like since he woke up, but he did feel woozy. Still, "I've been doing nothing but sleeping for the last 2 days, and i'm pretty sure i've been asleep for days before that. I'm starting to think that my headache was caused by sleeping too much,"

He might be imagining it, but he could've sworn that the two suddenly grew tense.

Marco wasn't sure what had happened to him in the span of days. The last thing he remembered was the fight in the middle of the storm, and afterwards, he felt like he's been sleeping for a long time, conscious of his own unconscious state but unable to do anything or force himself to wake up. There's bit and pieces that were hazy, most that he cannot recollect anymore without feeling like his head is splitting into two, and deep in his subconscious, he felt like he didn't want to remember.

He was told, sometime in the midst of his in and out lull, that he got sick for days since that fight, which he thinks is an impossibility on its own right, but the proof can be felt all over his body. The doctor who examined him was an older woman he didn't recognize, and during that examination, he could hazily remember Ace and Pops being there, hovering behind her worriedly. He fell unconscious again during their rather tense discussion, and when he woke up the next time, he was back in his own room.

Since then, Marco had spent at least 2 days lying on his back, going in and out of sleep, and feeling oddly sympathetic to Ace's narcoleptic episodes. He wasn't told what he was sick with, or maybe he did but he honestly cannot remember a lick of it, and this was the first time in so long that he could stand up on his two feet - albeit shakily - and didn't feel like he's going to drop dead any time soon.

Which is why he waved off the crew members' concern and made his way out to the deck, bowl and glass held loosely on both hands.

Stepping out to the deck, the cold breeze greeted him by blowing at his heated skin, making him shiver pleasantly, and his head felt light after seeing the first unfiltered ray of sunshine. It was so weirdly freeing, and he took in a deep breath of what he knew by heart to be spring air as if he hadn't had air for so long. The sound of people shouting orders and the sail flapping about was familiar yet he felt like he hadn't heard them for so long, and for a second, he closed his eyes, letting the rest of his senses bathe in them.

"Marco! What are you doing up?!"

His enjoyment did not last long when he heard his name being called out, and the blonde commander turned to find Thatch standing a few feet away, mouth agape and a crate with the word 'oil' stamped on the side of it. Kitchen ingredients then.

"Hey,"

"Don't 'hey' me! You're supposed to be resting," the chef stomped over to him, expression indignant, "Look at you! You can barely stand up on your own! Go, go, go back to sleep,"

"Thatch, i've been doing nothing but sleep. I just want to stretch my legs and give these back to the kitchen," he lifted the empty bowl and glass in his hands. Then, as if on cue, his stomach rumbled, and he winced, "And maybe look for something else to eat. Felt like i barely ate in days,"

And oddly enough, he didn't feel like he's exaggerating.

Thatch looked conflicted, and after a while, he grumbled and cocked his head over, "Fine, i'll make you something quick, but promise me you'll go straight back to bed, alright? Damn fool can't even stand up properly and he's already prancing around the ship,"

Marco quirked his brow at his fellow commander's mutters but still followed suit, albeit on a slower pace.

Along the way, he was stopped by various crewmates, some striking a quick conversation and others just giving him a short greeting, but most always seems to urge him to take a rest or take it easy. It was strangely attentive of them all, so he tried to dissuade their worries, but it doesn't seem to be working. It got worse by the time he and Thatch arrived in the dining room, with the kitchen hands immediately taking the bowl and glass away from him as if they're some great burden that needs to be relieved from him as soon as possible, and a pot of tea was offered to him without him needing to ask while he waited for his food.

"We still have some of the ingredients for seaweed soup left, Commander Thatch, should we prepare them?"

"Yeah, good idea, take that fresh brisket from the fridge and add them in too to make it more filling,"

"The soup will take a while, Commander, would you like something else while you waited? Are you still feeling headache?"

"Commander Marco, would you like anything else while you're waiting? Do you want your tea reheated, do you want other leaves? I can take out some honey if you like to go with it, it'll make you feel fresher,"

"Oh, Commander, excuse me, but that chair is rather uncomfortable. Here, use this one instead, it's not as hard as that one,"

What is even going on anymore? He didn't remember the 4th Division to be this fussy, considering that this is probably right after breakfast and all of them had their own jobs to do, but it seems like at least half of them dropped everything they need to do to cater to him, even though he just wanted to eat.

He was going to ask, when the door into the dining area creaked open, "Marco, heard you're down here,"

The blonde looked up from his mug to find Jozu making his way over. So far, he was probably the only one who acted normally, sitting down quietly as he would do per usual instead of immediately hounding him to go back to rest. That said, he's not quite sure what Jozu is doing down here at this time of the day; the man should be somewhere on the deck now, supervising and training rookies, as well as managing his division's chore.

"What's happening, really?" he asked finally when the rest of Thatch's subordinates went back to the kitchen, leaving him alone with Jozu on the table, "Everyone's been acting strange since i woke up, you'd think i was dying or something,"

Jozu was silent, expression unchanging, but Marco caught that seconds of unnerving silence, "They're just worried. People on this ship care for you more than you think, and the thought of one of our own hurting in any way, or even losing them is unimaginable,"

Which was… an odd thing to say, not to mention eerie, "What's… what's that supposed to mean?"

The paramecia didn't reply, returning to his stoic demeanour.

"Here you go," whatever thought that ran through Marco's head was cut short by Thatch walking over and placing something under his periphery, followed by his subordinates doing the same. By the time they're done, Marco found the empty table now filled with at least 6 different types of food, all of them seemingly freshly made instead of just leftovers from breakfast. Marco almost thought Thatch forgot he's making food for him instead of Ace, "Eat up, you'll need a lot of food to recover quickly,"

There's something about the placement of these absurd amount of food that seems familiar, something recent, but no matter how much he tried to remember, he kept drawing blank. Worse yet, thinking made his head spin.

What a terrible affliction.

Still, he can't waste this amount of effort so he ate slowly, and during the time he tried to work his way through, people began to fill into the dining area, some of them individually and others in groups, and all of them would come over even for a while to where he sat just to ask if he's feeling better and if there's something they can help him with. Haruta even turned around after walking away and pulled him into a hug, almost making him spill sauce on the commander's green shirt.

"What exactly's going on? Did something happen while i was unconscious?"

Jozu's eyes flickered at the word 'unconscious', his expression unreadable and shuttered.

Again, he received no reply.

Then next time he woke up, the sky outside was much darker, and he knew before opening his eyes that he wasn't quite alone.

"I had the strangest dream," he muttered lowly, blinking every last bit of sleepiness out of his eyes and sure enough, found Ace sitting by his bedside. The last time he woke up was the only time Ace wasn't around, because even in the depths of slumber, he can still feel the constant warmth that kept vigilance over him, and it was the only thing that made his frustrating state bearable. This time, he can actually made out the other man's figure instead of seeing him as a blurry blob and hearing his voice distantly in his mind.

There's a hand placed on the side of his face, caressing gently, thumb running along his scruffy jaw that must've formed in the past couple of days. Maybe he should ask Ace if he could bring in a razor, but he'd much prefer it if he's allowed to shower on his own.

Above him, he didn't know how to explain it, but Ace looked downcast. Marco reasoned that he is simply worried, remembering how distressed he had sounded talking to the doctor from before, and wondered what exactly is it that made him look that sad, "What's the dream about?" the younger ask in a low whisper, his hand trailing down to his neck and chest, simply touching and doing nothing else.

Marco felt his hand stopping, right in the middle of his tattoo, on top of—

"I don't actually remember anymore," the blonde said, sighing and closing his eyes briefly, "But they felt real, almost too real,"

The hand on his chest curled into a fist. The moment he saw Ace lowering his body on top of his, his arms immediately found themselves pulling him close, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have his lover close. He thought he heard Ace sob against his collar but he's not too sure, so Marco only pulled him closer still, running his hand up and down the younger's back, "What got you down? You look upset,"

Ace shook his head, hair mussing over his naked and sweat damped skin. He should really go and take a shower, but it doesn't look like Ace is willing to let him go any time soon.

"You sure?" the blonde murmured against raven hair, "You know you can tell me anything,"

Slowly, Ace pushed away against his arms, with Marco loosening his grip and moved to straddle the older. The hand on his chest started wandering again, tracing over the wound - the mark - and with s hitch of breath, Marco released his hold on Ace to grab ahold of the hand by its wrist, wanting to push it away.

But Ace wouldn't budge.

"Ace…,"

"My birth name is Gol D. Ace,"

Marco blinked, and felt disbelief once he managed to gather his thoughts, "Huh,"

"For as long as i can remember, everyone told me that if one really exist, Roger's child doesn't deserve to live. That they'll be a monster, an abomination," Ace's face twisted unpleasantly, with discontent and something akin to anger when he met Marco's eyes again, "Do you think that too, now that you know that child really exist? Does it disgust you, now that you know that monster's on your ship, talking to you, sharing your bed?"

His words dripped with a lifetime worth of hatred, either to the world or to himself, and Marco would know. It's the same voice that rang in his head every night, haunting his every sleep, laughing at him from every old bumps and ridges along his skin, taunting him that even with the ability to heal himself, they will never truly go away. Ugly, tiresome, and dark, and he hated it that it could come out of Ace's mouth of all places.

"No," he shook his head, his grip on Ace's wrist tightening, "Why would i ever be?"

"Not even after i told you what everyone says? After everything Roger has done? It doesn't bother you at all that your captain's rival's son, the most hated man in the world, is right now here with you?

"I don't care about what people i've never met has to say about anything. And unlike them, i know your father," Marco answered truthfully, "But even if i didn't, even if everything the world knows of him and hated him for was right, then i still wouldn't have cared,"

"Why?" And with that one question, he doesn't look angry anymore, Ace just looked… desperate, distraught. It's the face of someone who was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, a life filled with anxiety and expecting for the next bad thing to come, a life filled with fear for something out of their hand. A lifetime worth of rejection would do that to someone, he realized, and that was not a life he would wish on anyone.

Much less to someone he treasured as much as Ace.

"Because right now, what i have with me is just you. Nothing else, not your past, your ancestry, none of it mattered to me,"

He couldn't help but smile when Ace's face slowly melted into something mellow and disbelieving, his breath hitching slightly like he was pushing down a bubbling emotion. It disappeared quickly, turning melancholic once more, as Marco felt the raven's hand splayed over his chest. And behind that unblinking, knowing stare, there's something made cold chill of realization run down Marco's spine as much as Ace's next words did.

"Then how come you think what's in your past would matter to me?"

The way his fingers traced down the mark under the tattoo was too precise, following the shape he knew seared into his mind and body, even though he knew he never let Ace get that close. It's possible that he saw it while he was asleep and made the connection, a symbol that could be found in plenty of others in this ship, hidden away unlike Pops' mark that they bear proudly. It is possible that Ace only knew of that, and nothing else.

But those eyes spoke otherwise. Those stormy grey, as dark as a rainy Grand Line skies eyes looks deep into his soul.

"I don't know how you—"

"And it doesn't matter how i know," Ace sank his body down on top of him, their foreheads pressed together and their eyes so close Marco can see his own reflection in them, "But i promised that i will love and cherish you no matter what, good or bad, and that's exactly what i will do,"

The decision to tell Ace of his past did not come easy, but it did come eventually. It had been the first time in his life that someone was there when he was jolted out of sleep from those all too vivid sight of cage, from the arms holding him down, the smell of rotten, unclean human flesh and the constant darkness. It was the first time he spoke of those years, reliving every moment as if it all only happened yesterday, with each pain seems to blossom on his body as he describe them.

His tongue felt like lead the entire time and he can't stop shaking. He knows that finally allowing Ace to be privy of that part of him, that past he had buried so deep like an old shame, did not miraculously stop those nightmares from coming, but he also knew that just like that night, Ace will be there the next time the terror woke him up, hand holding his, weighing him down.

He let himself to be held that night, worn out and exhausted, unable to shake of the feeling that while this was not the first time he was in Ace's embrace, it felt different somehow, oddly nostalgic and like it was something he had waited his entire life to return to, and that's all that matters.

Marco fell asleep that night in peace, knowing that after so long, he's finally home.

-END-

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