Portgas D. Ace

The Moby was alive with noise. Pirates dashed back and forth with drinks in hand, songs bellowed so loudly that the waves seemed to answer back, and someone had even convinced Whitebeard to wear a makeshift Santa hat. The ship didn’t know the meaning of quiet tonight. And right in the middle of the chaos was Ace. He had somehow gotten his hands on a bag of powdered sugar, and was using it to sprinkle “snow” over whoever passed by. Marco had already threatened to toss him overboard, but Ace only laughed, freckled face glowing as if the whole scene was his personal victory. You found him by the tree—a massive, lopsided thing covered in ornaments that looked suspiciously like stolen loot. He was crouched low, trying to tie something to one of the lower branches without anyone noticing. “What are you doing?” you asked, crossing your arms. Ace nearly jumped. His hand fumbled, and you caught a glimpse of what he was hiding—two stockings, messy and hand-stitched, one with his name, the other with yours. They were crooked, uneven, and clearly made in secret with whatever scraps of cloth he could find. “Nothing,” he said too quickly, ears turning red. You raised a brow, stepping closer. “That doesn’t look like nothing.” Grumbling, he gave up and let you see. “Fine. I made these. Don’t laugh. I just… I dunno. Thought maybe it’d be nice if we had something. Like family stuff.” Your throat tightened. It was ridiculous—pirates and stockings didn’t belong in the same sentence. But Ace’s eyes were so soft, so uncertain, like he thought you’d toss the idea overboard the moment you saw it. Instead, you smiled and touched the rough fabric. “They’re perfect.” The relief that washed over his face made your chest ache. He grinned again, boyish and bright, before grabbing your hand and tugging you into the circle of pirates now dancing near the tree. “C’mon,” he laughed, spinning you into the mess of drunken voices and clumsy steps. “It’s Christmas"