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The oldest childhood memory Ichiji has is one of boisterous laughter.
He can’t pick out the details clearly—but sometimes, as the dark waters of the Grand Line merge with the starless night sky, turning the horizon into a swallowing void, he will feel an echo of a memory better left forgotten, crawling up his spine like a cluster of spiders.
It’s not the boisterous laughter the spades pirates let out while partying, even less is it the grave, comforting rumble that resonates through the deck, as Whitebeard laughs in sheer happiness at his crew’s joy.
It is, as many things had been before Ichiji had left, different.
Grabbing the wooden railing of the Moby Dick’s crow’s nest, Ichiji can almost find himself in a different place, tracing patterns on a wooden surface with child-sized nervous fingers.
He catches a whiff of a stray gust of freezing wind coming from the north and suddenly he’s in a confined space, trying to breathe quietly to not alert anyone of his presence, hidden inside that wardrobe—
The sudden noise from the deck startles Ichiji out of his head. And surely, the air feels less cold now, the night reassuring as the crew celebrates finding unexpected treasure on the latest island.
Some of them have pulled instruments, while some are making physical demonstrations of how the search had gone, reliving the moments after Ichiji found the carving marks in that cave that spoke of something hidden inside.
That’s right, he should be focusing on that. He is part of a crew now. He is not there anymore.
“Hey, are you isolating yourself again?”
Ichiji doesn’t need to turn around to know the teasing expression Ace must be wearing. His lopsided smile charming, his dark eyes half lidded as if to whisper a secret. He looks like trouble, mischievous, like a child who is about to dip a finger into a cream coated cake.
Ichiji turns to face him either way. He likes to see it, and he is learning to enjoy things just because he likes them.
“You are here too.”
Ace reclines against the wooden railing, his arms flexing as he bends closer to Ichiji, closer than they have both allowed themselves to be around the other before. But only by a little.
“Yeah, because I’ve come to get you.”
He is not whispering, but the words caress Ichiji’s skin all the same.
The scent of rum reaches Ichiji’s nostrils, but even then, it is plain for him to see that Ace is not drunk. His body is relaxed in a careful manner, in the precise position that will let him jump away if Ichiji were to reach for his neck.
Or if Ace planned to reach for his.
Knowing that causes Ichiji the same kind of pain that applying cream to a burn does. It's soothing, but it is still pain.
Ace doesn’t fully trust him yet but that’s good, because Ichiji doesn’t entirely trust himself either.
Ichiji lets his eyes roam over Ace, following the planes of his face lit by the dim light of the party—though not enough to showcase his freckles.
(It’s inconsequential. Ichiji knows them by memory.)
When Ace reaches a hand towards Ichiji—his thumb barely grazing the line of his jaw, the curve in his neck—Ichiji inhales, acutely aware that allowing this would have cost him his life before. That it still could, if he didn’t enjoy the single second it lasts more.
The wind feels warmer than before. The fire and the humidity had made the temperature rise.
“Come on,” Ace says, clicking his tongue as he pulls away from the railing, smiling wider when Ichiji follows right after, “let’s join the party.”
There’s so many things he has learnt since he joined the Whitebeard Pirates.
For one, he has learnt how it was to be inside a ship that sails underwater — one that breaches the surface with thunderous vigor every time, as if the ship itself was breathing in a lungful of fresh saline air.
It feels like being reborn, everytime. To hear the waves crash as the sea startles by their presence, the gulls screeching above their heads like a welcoming song while water droplets turn into diamonds as the sun coats the deck once again.
This is the power that a Sea King must feel, that a Pirate Emperor has. This is the freedom that everyone strives for.
The first time, Ichiji had positioned himself in a terrible place at the side of the ship—the perturbed waves going over the rails and soaking him to the bone.
He had thought that he would be safe there, as he wasn’t the only one standing by, but he had failed to consider the simple fact that pirates were downright crazy.
He had put their expectant attitude to their excitement of being out in open air—to feel the breeze against their faces and see the blue sky again—and that had all been true, but also, a big part of the crew just enjoyed getting splashed each time they surfaced.
Somehow, his sunglasses had survived, and Ichiji had been grateful for it, because after the splash and cackles around him, the blinding sunlight might have just caused him a migraine.
Just like the rookies right now.
“Ah, fuck, I'm blind!”
“You idiot, who the fuck stares right at the sun in the middle of the day?”
“Goddamn it!!! My new shoes!”
At the back of the deck, sitting like a king, Whitebeard looks down at them with great patience.
He makes a sign for Thatch to bring out the liquor, allowing the cheerful ones in the crew to celebrate another iconic breakthrough, and motions to the rookies to follow Marco’s guidance towards the infirmary.
When he acts like that, he feels bigger than the world itself—all encompassing. Caring.
And Ichiji has long since understood why the crew speaks about him in such a way—with honest, evident affection in their voices when they call him Pops. Because when Whitebeard looks down at the whole bunch of bastards, beggars and thieves that he commands, he sees nothing but the crew he is proud of.
“Don’t think you can get away without drinking this time, Ichiji!”
With a firm clasp on his shoulder and ridiculous laughter surrounding him, the party reaches Ichiji, putting a stop to his musings.
A drink is pushed into his hand, followed by a cheer and a chant, and Ichiji takes a long gulp before the cooing starts, like he knows the embarassing assholes will do—he is not the youngest, but he was the rookiest, and some things have yet to change despite the new additions.
Soon, though. Probably.
Around him, the party hollers as Vesta lets go of Ichiji to grab his own glass and join him in his drinking, whooping until both their glasses are depleted and Ichiji’s face grows warmer.
“You should drink more, Ichiji!”
“Pass his glass along!”
“Stop elbowing me, Banshee! Little prince here won’t die because he drank right after breakfast.”
And Ichiji indeed doesn’t die, even if a second glass becomes three and then four.
His sunglasses get stolen some time after they serve him a fifth, but Ichiji can’t really complain much when right in his vicinity a bunch of dark curls under an orange hat pull him away from the chaos, distracting him.
The liquor has warmed his muscles, has turned his bones into goo, and Ichiji feels his entire body both saggy and light as he walks, his steps uncoordinated to the picking percussion of his heart.
This is the unfair thing about both alcohol and Ace, and why Ichiji tries not to indulge in either—they make it difficult for Ichiji to stand firmly on his feet.
Even now his skin still tingles in the places where Ace’s skin has brushed his own—in his arms as Ace had caged him with his body to lead him out of the crowd, on Ichiji’s hand, when Ace’ s calloused fingers had steadily taken Ichiji’s glass away. Swift and nimble and burning hot.
He might as well have burnt him in the process, with how his touch remains even as minutes pass, Ace gone in a blink—
“Ichiji, come here,” Whitebeard calls, his palm settling softly on his own thigh, waiting patiently as Ichiji tries not to stumble on his way there. Next to him, to his chair. Because Ichiji is not sitting on his knee, no matter how much Pop’s pulled his leg by suggesting it in the past—
“Boy, you get drunk so easily,” Whitebeard snickers. “You must drink with me more, build some resistance.”
“Your stupid sons are to blame,” Ichiji says, letting his head fall to the side. His brain feels so heavy inside his skull. “And your highly alcoholic beer hic so strong that it can make the likes of you drunk, too. Absolutely hic disgusting.”
He trips as he reaches his side, his body falling sideways as he struggles in standing, watching the floor coming worryingly closer to his face in a matter of seconds.
Then, there's a sudden yank from behind, on his neck, and the floor backs away from him, the wooden details of the deck indistinguishable as Ichiji’s feet leave it, and he goes up up up.
There’s another rumble wrecking the world, right by his ear, and Ichiji turns his head to look at Whitebeard, right at eye level. Now, this is new; he never thought he would be up there with the birds.
And Whitebeard laughs louder, once he catches Ichiji’s exasperated expression as he realises he is being held up like a kitten.
Hours later, as he is laying down on a litter with three other drunk pirates—limbs thrown over the other after stumbling into the mattress to immediately pass out—Ichiji can’t help but compare this new lifestyle to the one he had held proudly back in Germa 66.
It is only natural to compare. After all, while in the middle of that whole mess, with an elbow on his rib and loudly snoring on his ear, he feels the furthest away from the perfect heir Judge had designed him to be.
The ship had gone mostly quiet as the sun had risen, the crew having tired themselves enough with the celebration to take impromptu naps all around, and it leaves Ichiji with the perfect silence to collect his thoughts, carefully stitching them into a pattern he hasn’t had the time nor energy to internalize before.
And it is hard, even now while drunk, for him to admit that everything he had been told since he had a conscience was wrong.
Before leaving, there had been times when he had suspected it, but now it is undeniable. That mercenary way of living —where self-gain and cruelty were praised and reinforced even inside their weak and feeble family home—was and is wrong.
And calling it wrong is not enough, he knows, but he can’t do it yet.
It feels sacrilegious.
Maybe one day, once this tapestry of his past is done, he will be able to look up at it and face himself for what he was. He will be able to burn it, with the conscience of a man and not of a soldier nor a puppet.
Because as hard as it is to think negatively of that time, it’s even worse to remember it under the light of compliance.
Ichiji closes his eyes, a sigh escapes his throat. He has had too much of that already.
“Here you go, two chocolate chip muffins. Next!”
It's unnecessary to say—as he is in line inside the Moby Dick’s dining hall, hoping for people to not get all the strawberry fritters before him—that things are not like that anymore.
Ichiji sighs for what seems the twelfth time since he joined the line, counting the seconds that pass as some other crewmate stalls in front of the wide arrangement of sweets.
Dessert time is always a bit competitive here—Whitebeard’s crew have a propensity for sugar almost as strong as they do for alcohol— and Ichiji is sure that if they didn’t hate Big Mom’s guts to their core, they would probably love to stop by Isla Cacao.
Ichiji himself can't say he will go to such lengths for sweets, but he does enjoy the moment of picking something for himself, browsing over rows of trays with the metallic tongs in his hand.
He had enjoyed lunch plenty, too—seafood risotto tastes different when Thatch makes it—and ending his lunch with one of his favourite pastries is truly the icing to the cake. Enough to bring a smile to his face.
“That looks nice” Jozuu says when Ichiji sits in front of him, in the same spots where they had eaten lunch. His plate is filled with his own bounty, too—blueberry tart—and Ichiji nods appreciatively at his choice. Not bad, not bad.
Ichiji digs his fork in, too pleased at the crunch of the pastry to give any mind to Jozuu’s teasing on his table manners. No matter how many months he has been part of this crew, he refuses to grab at his food with his bare hands. Pirate or not.
The movement in the cafeteria is different than earlier—some deciding to take their desserts to their quarters or to the deck, while some others shift to other tables, looking for new company to talk to. So when the vacant seat next to him is suddenly pulled out, Ichiji is not surprised. A quick glance to his right is all he needs—the sight of the tattoo still burning behind his eyelids as he takes another bite.
Ichiji closes his eyes. The sourness and freshness of the strawberries mix well with the crispiness and sweetness of the sugary dough, and he hums, while inside his chest something melts, too.
He wonders, through the pleasant sweetness on his tongue, if Ace would ever tell him what his arm tattoo means.
Ichiji hadn’t been shy about his own—the men’s baths are open and the questions unavoidable, and so when Ace had glanced at it curiously, Ichiji had let him hear about it, never asking for an explanation about Ace’s in return.
It’s obviously not the same for him, but Ace doesn’t seem to have any reservations about acknowledging Ichiji’s like he does with his own.
He has even traced its pattern once before, under the dying flame of a lamp, while they sat on the rails of the deck with the sea at their backs.
His fingers had roamed all over Ichiji’s arm, starting from his elbow, up to the inner side of his arm, circling the curve of his shoulder without minding the unnatural coldness of Ichiji’s skin. His hand had even set comfortably on Ichiji’s shoulder before dragging it down, slowly warming up the skin until his palm finally covered the tattooed number one.
Ichiji hadn't been able to return the favour. It still feels like too much.
By his side, Ace is talking animatedly with Jozuu as he munches on his fourth eclair— a dessert that he insists has another, less prissy name on the island where he was raised.
When Ichiji had first joined the crew in their adventures (for survival at first, then for commodity and curiosity, and for attachment, at last), he thought of Ace as a carefree bandit.
One that hid his intelligent gaze under the shadow of his hat, cautious of the time he would need to unsheathe the dagger on his hip, never once to miss a strike.
Sometimes, when Ace smiles at Ichiji like that, with heavy eyelids that make everyone else fade around them, Ichiji is reminded of that first impression.
He feels evaluated. Hunted.
And Ichiji has yet to figure out why.
In all honesty, this little dance between the two of them terribly confuses Ichiji.
Ichiji doesn't know what Ace is waiting for nor what he wants from him.
He has seen him charm people on islands, carefree and beautiful, with a lopsided grin and dark eyes that shine in his determination on making them blush, maybe even steal a kiss before the night ends.
Whatever Ace wants, it is not that. When with him, Ace barely flirts. He mostly stares and lets himself be stared at by Ichiji, brushing their fingers together in encouragement when Ichiji gets shy about his own curiosity. Never once calling it weird. Never forcing him to wear his glasses even if Ichiji knows that with his prosthetic eyes he sometimes forgets to blink.
Instead, Ace grabs onto his hand, the one that is more iron than flesh, and takes it to his head, letting Ichiji feel the coarse texture of his curls between his fingers. Patiently waiting for Ichiji to get used to the warmth of someone else in a peaceful environment, without the aim to kill, without the distance between strangers.
Ichiji reaches out to poke at a curl over Ace’s forehead, holding it softly between his thumb and index finger. He rubs it between them before letting it go, watching it spring in place right over his brow, stubborn. And he tries to brush it away, too, careful as to not touch anything other than the curl, gentle as he had once thought he could never be.
And this is part of it all is new too—to be able to care for someone else to do this much. To even try to be.
Ichiji lets the distance between them settle once again, sitting on his heels as he waits for Ace to open his eyes. He sees him let out a deep breath through his nose, and then, imperceptibly, he sees him frown, as he sometimes does when they share moments like this.
His throat tightens as he waits for Ace to call him out —maybe this is the time in which he realises what Ichiji hides— for staining this little moments with selfish wants. Ruining them forever.
This delicate thing they have, this version of a friendship that Ichiji doesn’t have with anyone else on the crew, Ichiji wants to keep.
So he keeps his hands to himself and stares as Ace jokes about it being done too soon, heart fluttering inside his ribcage when Ace pulls his hand close once again.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what he wants when there’s few things he can get.
Ichiji runs his fingertips over the sheets of his bed, finding them slightly warm against his touch, uncommonly so. Up in the ceiling, either unnoticed or ignored by his fellow bunkmates, there are burnt marks from the times when Ichiji had woken up with a startle — light, spasmic carvings to which Ichiji had just added new ones to the pile.
Ichiji blinks sleep away, his pupils still smoldering hot from the beam, while in his ears, the echoes of the nightmares, of memories repressed, take their time to fade away.
His chest feels like it has been hollowed out from within, empty as the Queen’s wardrobe where he had hid into, many many many years ago. Painful as it ad been listening at the enraged screams of her mother’s despair.
Ichiji clenches his hands into fists, rubbing at his heavy eyelids before pressing them against his overheating eyes.
Being a conscious human being is hard. Regret, and the ache of wanting to be loved, is devastating.
Wanting means nothing to an unforgiving past.
Sometimes he thinks he will never be forgiven for who he was. He was an asshole during those first weeks with the crew—had gotten into more fights that he should have, and had taken offense to things that his pride could have taken without faltering.
He had huffed and bumped at anyone with his shoulder at any chance and had demanded an apology for it. And got offended when they didn’t.
Ichiji breathes in and out. He doesnt even know how it is that he became friends with them, let alone Ace.
Just earlier, while Ichiji was on duty on that night’s watch's rotation, he had stopped by to keep him company, smiling and laughing as if he hadn’t punched Ichiji during his first days on the Moby Dick for choking a cadet for looking at him wrong.
Ace hadn’t laughed at all then, not mockingly nor victorious nor cruelly. He had only stared down at Ichiji as he held his broken nose and mangled pride. With cold, deep anger.
But earlier, behind the wooden boxes under the furthest sail, Ace had laughed at something Ichiji had said—a stupid joke in a pathetic try to get him too look like that—with eyes blazzing with fiery passion and a smile that lit the entire deck.
What a sigh he was. What a free way to live.
Ichiji sighs. Laying there, cradled by the darkness that had followed him since he had been born, makes him ache for the warm embrace of Ace’s fire even more.
Surely, he can’t get everything he wants, but sometimes—foolishly, embarassingly—he can’t help but hope.
Earlier, while holding onto the wooden railing—muttering secrets to the other that wouldn't get lost in the crowd’s excitement—the space between their hands had felt heavy. Electric.
So much so that it had hurt Ichiji to just experience it, not knowing if he felt propelled to reach out or pull away. Instead, he had looked back at the expanse of sea, while Ace whispered, in the softest tone he had used with him yet—
“Tell me.”
Ichiji closes his eyes.
He only wants Ace to know that other ideal version of himself, the one who can hold his hand softly, that can smile easily, that can find wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when looking at a mirror.
The version of himself that doesn’t exist yet.
He can prove himself perhaps. If he tells him all the bad he did, that he was—perhaps it will showcase the good of now.
He can feel he is different, that he can do so much more, he can experience things now he had only thought were for others to go through.
He can show him that he has learnt, and next time after Ace asks, Ichiji will tell him—will prove him that he’s not everything his father had taught him to be.
He feels like a normal person again in the morning.
Ichiji wakes up on his bunk, looks for his shoes between the discarded clothes of his bunkmates on the floor, and eats breakfast with some of the few people that are awake at this hour, making idle conversation over a tray of pancakes.
He reports to Whitebeard, because he still can’t fully get out of the habit yet, and Whitebeard is patient. Ichiji has gotten better. Recently it is but a few comments on Whitebeard's poor habits rather than reporting his own actions, so not that different from the nurses.
He goes on with his chores, boldly written on a board nailed on the hall to the cafeteria. Some days it is helping with the sails, others it is to clean the cannons, or help to organize the kitchen pantry. Today he only has deck duty and another night shift and by midday he is already done with one.
He could do plenty of things, yet—In his free time he normally trains, or reads, or spends time with the crew on the recreational rooms under deck. There’s options.
Ichiji goes to sleep.
Because he feels terrible.
His mind keeps replaying that moment of Ace leaving him alone the night before after their conversation. His face closed, his fists clenched. Like he can't bear to look at him directly.
He has kept away from Ichiji’s path during the day too. No more glances while Ichiji is fixing the knots on the deck. No smiles while out under the sun, carrying the rum barrels back into the storage after a night of drinking with the crew. And he either is eating earlier or somewhere else but Ichiji hasn't seen him in the cafeteria during breakfast either and—
Ichiji misses him.
What did he do wrong?
Leaving his room, Ichiji walks through the halls and out onto the deck, nodding to Izou to signal the change of shift, and getting a soft pat on the arm from him on his way out.
With a ship the size of the Moby Dick, it is impossible to avoid having unsupervised corners where a stranger can sneak in (and doesn’t Ichiji know it), which is why the guard rotations are constant and done by many.
Ichiji is but one of them—another crewmate who wants to protect their home, not a soldier mindlessly following orders.
He should have said that to Ace yesterday.
But who the fuck knows what to say, when asked to tell more about yourself?
So maybe he should just go and fix this. Whatever it is.
With words.
Ichiji purses his lips. Annoyance slithering inside his chest.
He is not—good. At that.
He is not ignorant about where he falters. He knows that he is and has always been—stubborn. Even with things that benefitted him.
Arrogant.
It is probably why it even took him so long to accept the offer to join the Whitebeard Pirates, despite the gift that it was, in this everchanging world that makes it impossible to survive alone.
This ship, with its hundreds of rooms, communal spaces and labyrinthic corridors have welcomed him into its center, with a noisy wave of affection that extends even now through greetings and yells as he makes his way inside on his search for Ace.
And when he does, on his way to the library, it’s the sight of Ace’s tattoed back what reminds him of that.
Ichiji lets out a low breath, willing his racing heart to not break his voice. He wants to succeed in this. He is determined to do so.
And yet, before Ichiji can take the first step, or clear his throat, Ace turns around, fixing him with a gaze, and suddenly the floor is all Ichiji can focus on.
His mind is going a mile per second—embarassed, giddy, ashamed, shy—a tangled chaos that doesn’t even let him remember how Ace had looked at him. He is too nervous, he can’t look up.
“Hey, what’s up, look—”
“—yesterday I should have not—”
“—you said you were an experiment—”
“—and put you on the spot—”
“—I guess I just went too strong…Ichiji?”
Theres a touch against his side and Ichiji blinks when Ace grabs at his hand, pulling at it without finesse nor kidness. Like a wake up call.
“Hey, Ichiji,” Ace says, his voice serious, a frown between his eyebrows, “what's wrong?”
Everything.
Because Ichiji realises now that Judge might have been right in just one thing—that emotions make you a coward.
And Ichiji… Ichiji is fine with it. Mindblowingly so, frighteningly so. Because emotions give you excuses to do stupid things, too.
He changes the hold between their hands, grasping onto Ace’s before rising it towards the base of his neck, pressing his fingers against the smooth metal panel hidden under his hair, where the first enhancements had been drilled into his skull.
He sees Ace’s eyes widen, and his hand trembles in Ichiji’s hold, probably due to the shock.
Ichiji might be trembling a bit, too. A lot really. And perhaps this is what panicking is, indiscernible when everything feels too sharp around you.
Ichiji tries to take a breath in, and feels his face tense when his chest breaks with a shiver.
So he can’t even do that. Huh.
Ichiji can only remain there and bear this noise echoing inside his ears, this thundering that makes his body spasm with each passing second Ace holds his neck steady.
His heart threatens to explode when Ace’s finger rubs over the screws that hold the panel close, pressing into the source that keeps him breathing at this point.
This touch, this vulnerability.
It feels like being gutted open.
There's nothing in this that hurts, and yet the single brush of Aces fingers against the metal makes electricity lash through his nervous system, making Ichiji bend over and shake.
He might puke.
He still whines when Ace makes to pull away.
“Ichiji, wait—”Ace pants, and Ichiji realises he is curled up and pressed against his abdomen, laying his entire weight on Ace’s lap. “I will pull away if you let me, but you gotta let me get up first.”
Ichiji doesn’t want to. Can’t Ace see? This is him trying to make amends, showing him who he is, what he can’t ever get back, no matter how much he wants to.
Please. Accept me. Don’t go.
“I’m sorry,” Ace whispers, his right arm wrapping around Ichiji’s shoulders, his free hand softly caressing Ichiji’s shoulder blades while Ichiji’s fingers dig deeper into Ace’s belly. “I never wanted to make you cry. I’ve been trying to make you smile this whole time, actually.”
Please. Love me.
“I wanted you to smile at me.”
There’s a prickling in the corners of Ichiji’s eyes, where the tearducts should be, where the capillaries inflame as they are unable to do their work. It comes with a headache, as his brain tries to regulate these emotions the way it is supposed to, but can’t. And Ichiji hides his face against Ace’s abdomen, feeling the thin hairs prickle at his skin.
“I can’t cry,” Ichiji mutters, the admission making his face heat once again. Only on his side, though. He knows he cannot blush either. “It’s an outcome of the modifications.”
Ace’s touch staggers. His breathing is loud, and Ichiji would be enraged too, if you learnt time and time again that you keep being fooled by someone’s apparent humanity.
“I’m sorry.”
He doesnt know why he apologised.
He didn’t know his own voice could sound so small either.
“No, Ichiji, what—” Ace voice is stern, as firm as his hold when he grabs Ichiji by the waist and pulls him up against his body. Still craddling his neck, but now facing him so that they can look eye to eye. Sunglasses discarded on the floor. “I didn’t know what the fuck I was asking of you.”
Ichiji blinks at him. His eyes go over the guilty expression wrecking Ace’s handsome face, his lips stretched into an uncomfortable grimace.
“You must be so angry with me.” Except he hadn’t been. Ace is wrong. “I ran away instead of apologizing. So. Uh. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
Ichiji startles when his own fingers make contact with Ace’s cheek, the touch timid but insistent. He doesn’t want to hear this. It will actually make him angry if he does.
He doesnt know what Ace sees in his expression, but something must betray him, because Ace leans warily into his palm, without minding that Ichiji’s heart is about to crush his ribs.
“Hey, Ichiji” Ace rasps, his eyes closed tight as he asks, “Will you show me more of you some other day too?”
And Ichiji sees something wonderful then.
Something he hadn’t seen Ace do while in inland bars, while getting flirted with or even after stealing a kiss, once.
Ace blushes. Unelegantly, hotly. Vivid enough that it makes his freckles stand out stark on his skin and the flush to descend down his neck.
And Ichiji dares to hope.
“Sure,” he agrees, breathlessly. And Ace nods, eyes still closed, before looking up at the ceiling and take a deep breath.
“Cool,” Ace croaks, “Great.”
He presses his lips together, thinking, and then he asks, “Hey, is it too blunt to ask but…”
Ichiji makes a questioning sound. Ace grimaces and looks away for a second. Oh, he’s embarrassed.
“Can I keep trying to make you blush?”
Ichiji blinks at him. What.
Taking his silence as a yes, Ace holds his face and looks at Ichiji with care in his eyes, nuzzling at his cheek before laying a firm and loud kiss on it, burning him immediately.
A spark of fire that catches on through his face, all down his neck and lighting his chest up, like a bunch of fireworks going off.
Ichiji can’t cry, and he can’t blush, but whatever system he’s got in his head must be overheating, for sure.
“There it is,” Ace says with glee, rubbing at Ichiji’s cold cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes roaming over every detail in Ichiji’s expression that gives his embarrassment up.
And Ichiji—raptured in the cadence of his laughter—feels his chest ache with something he can't name. And he already knows, that this moment, of having a handsomely blushing man under him, pressing one, two, a dozen kisses against his dry cheekbones with sheer purpose, will become one of his fondest memories. Yet.