Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ace is staring at his hands when the ghost decides to visit.

Two black boots step into view, just enough for Ace to notice them. He doesn’t bother looking up; whoever it is, they’re not the boy he wants to see. Unless they can wash the smell of iron from his skin, Ace doesn’t care.

“Where’s the body?” asks the owner of the black boots, voice toneless.

Ace doesn’t blink. “I’m glad you weren’t there to see it, Sabo,” he tells the ghost. At least he thinks he does. It’s entirely possible his mouth never moved and Ace just hadn’t noticed. “I still see it when I close my eyes. There was more hole than torso. Remember the first time we ever killed a man and we kept dreaming about it for months after? I’ve hardly slept a wink.”

The ghost doesn’t answer. That’s fine. Expected, even. Ace started seeing his twin not too long after his death. They can hold a conversation most of the time, but other times, the ghost sits and stares while Ace talks for the both of them, or they just stare at each other. On particularly bad days, Ace can’t stand looking at him, and he lies curled up on his bed in his quarters with his face pressed to the wall while the ghost chatters. That doesn’t happen as much. Ace is used to it. Though, he never did find out if Luffy also—

“You were always the better brother.” Ace would attempt a bitter smile, but his face is a little numb. “You shouldn’t have trusted me to take care of L—of him. Never should’ve had faith in me. Never.”

At that, the black boots shift, but they don’t leave. “You still haven’t answered my question,” says the ghost. “Where is Luffy’s body?” And that’s odd, because in all the conversations Ace has had with his dead brother, Sabo has never talked about anything but the past, and he never speaks of himself.

Ace scratches at his palm. The skin feels dirty, and underneath has begun to itch. “Cleaned,” is all he says. He has to drag the words from his throat because, even if it’s not really Sabo, his twin always did hate it when his questions were left unanswered. After a moment, Ace forces out, “Don’t you think it’s too early for a funeral?”

There’s a pause. Squeaking, like the sound leather gloves make when you clench your hands into fists. “Yes,” the ghost answers tersely. It’s not an accusation, but it cuts like one. Then, “…I thought you didn’t care for funerals.”

“I fucking hate funerals.” Ace blinks. His eyes burn. “I fucking hate all of this.”

“You should,” says the ghost, sounding just like Sabo used to when he would scold Ace for being too rough with Luf—with. Him.

“You’d hate me if you were here, Sabo,” Ace croaks.

For a second, the ghost doesn’t respond. Then the black books step away.

“I want to.”

For some reason, that’s what gets Ace to break.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, suddenly breathless, and then the burning in his eyes spills over onto his cheeks. “I failed. I failed. I said I wouldn’t but I did and now Luffy is dead. I killed him. I killed our little brother, Sabo, I killed him. I killed him. What kind of brother does that?”

“I—”

“He’d hate me. He’d hate me. They all hate me. Why was he even there? I was never worth that. I’m nothing next to him. It was supposed to be me, it should’ve been me, Luffy was never supposed to die, it was supposed to be me—”

“Ace, stop—”

“I killed him!” Ace tangles his fingers into his hair, insides ablaze with rage and horror, pulling on the strands like that’ll make the pools of red soaking into the ground under his knees disappear. “I killed him! What part of that do you not understand?! Luffy’s dead because of me!”

He must be losing his mind, screaming at someone who’s not even there, but Ace doesn’t care. He’s long since lost the capacity to. Ace yells and cries and tears at his own skin because he’s filthy, he’s filthy, his little brother’s blood is still staining him and he’s filthy but he doesn’t know how to make it go away, it will never go away—it’ll still be there even if he scrubs his skin until it’s red and raw, even if he dunks himself in the sea and the creatures chip away at him until there’s nothing but bones.

It would only be fair, he thinks.

Ace isn’t sure how long he loses himself for. He thinks he hears someone trying to tell him something, but it’s hard to hear over the sound of his own wailing. At some point, though, a hand grabs him by the jaw and forces his mouth closed, and Ace’s eyes snap open, features already twisting to spit something with the kind of vitriol he hasn’t utilized since he was small and alone in Edge Town—

A familiar pair of eyes, one frigid blue and the other foggy, bore into Ace’s own like knives.

The ghost is still here. He’s never looked like this, Ace thinks distantly, but it suits him.

Neither of them move for a long minute. The ghost is looking intently at Ace, gaze darting across every inch of his body like he’s trying to figure out where he’s broken and what needs to be fixed. Ace doesn’t look anywhere but the ghost’s eyes, at the home he lost in them.

Then the hand around his jaw falls away, and what follows is sobs instead of screams.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Ace cries, body jolting forward with the force of it. The ghost’s eyes dart back up, like he’s shocked, even though this is far from his first time watching Ace break down. Ace can’t stop staring. “I’m so sorry, Sabo. I never wanted this to happen. You have to believe me. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Maybe if he keeps saying it, he can convince himself he’s talking to the real Sabo.

The ghost’s mouth opens, but no noise comes out. He must be leaving soon. Childishly, Ace doesn't want him to go. Not yet. He’s not ready to be alone again. Even though he looks different, and he’s looking at Ace with an intensity that's become foreign after so many years, the ghost is still the only reminder of home Ace has left.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is, they wouldn’t let me look at him,” he babbles. “I passed out and then when I woke up I could only see his face but then they took him away, said they needed to clean him up, but there was so much blood, that's impossible to clean, I’m still so dirty, Sabo—”

“What—Ace, what?” the ghost says. He sounds lost. Ace can only shake his head.

“I lost him. I failed. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sabo—I tried, I did, you have to believe me! I’m so sorry! It should’ve been me, you should hate me, it should’ve been me—”

A hand comes to rest against the back of his head, feather-light, and nudges him forward. Ace is so weak that he’s knocked off balance and into solid blue fabric, pleasantly warm, just like when he was young. Warmth wraps loosely around his back, like arms that can’t decide if they want to slip off or not. Ace shudders; the warmth tightens.

“I can’t hate you,” says the ghost, a heavy whisper next to Ace’s ear, like he’s exhausted somehow. “I can’t hate you no matter how hard I try.” When Ace curls up tighter, the warmth doesn’t leave. “You’re so annoying, Ace. Do you know that? You’re terrible.”

“I’m sorry,” Ace chokes out. Homesickness coils in his gut like clumps of sticker burrs. His brothers always complained about those in the summertime. “I’m sorry. You gotta believe me. I’m so sorry—”

“Stop talking, Ace. Just stop.”

Ace stops.

He doesn’t deserve this. He should get up, tell the ghost to go away, he shouldn’t be warm. Ace hates the cold, but it’s all he’s known ever since he woke up, and it’s all he deserves to know. Him. Not Lu—

There was only one person who could rival the sun. He was snuffed out in Ace’s arms.

This comfort, this imitation of Dawn, of the brothers he no longer has—Ace doesn’t deserve it. Any of it. Maybe the ghost doesn’t realize it. Maybe Ace needs to remind him. Maybe Ace should just hurry up and be the one to throw it all away; he wouldn’t have to wait for someone else to do it then.

But Ace hesitates. He bites his lip. Thatch used to tease that Ace wasn’t as grown-up as he liked to pretend he was. He’s never been a good person, and he’s always been prone to wanting things he had no right to.

And right now, he wants. He wants so badly.

Selfishly, Ace ducks his head, closes his eyes, and allows himself to hope that the ghost will still be there when he opens them again.