As much as Ace wanted to lift his eyes at his asker and see who this was, he couldn’t. Not when in the middle of such a big pile of cats, he could not.

Eyes concealed under the brim of his had and fingers intertwined over his stomach, Ace was quite the relaxed cowboy on a lazy afternoon. Only his loyal horse was missing, its role left to the capable paws of Kotatsu, on whose back Ace rest his. He was warm, as Kotatsu liked; and the lynx was soft, just what the doctor ordered - some softness for the man to rest his head.

As they napped, more felines came to sit and lounge next to them, and even more came along to form a massive pile of cats all sizes and colours. They were drawn to the unnatural heat, which prompted a communal nap and resulted in a loud, happy purr uttered in unison. This was the place to be.

Kotatsu opened a sleepy eye to acknowledge Lizard, closing it the very second he understood there was no threat to bother his captain with. Likewise, his tail slithered on the desolate ground, whipping a burly stray in the process.

As for Ace, he moved no single muscle at recognising the friendly voice. All these cats, though great in number, may make it hard for him to get up and move about but were hardly a hassle. 

It had taken him a while getting use to being the centre of attention for derelict felines in need of warmth, just like a good while had been needed to discover and master the powers of his Devil Fruit; but after the initial awkwardness of being followed by the four-legged critters, Ace could enjoy the idea of providing homely comfort to those who had none. He was, in a way, not very different from a stray cat.

“Can’t complain. How do you do?”

And what would this name be? Ace? Portgas? Gol? No, not that - in Ace’s mind, the third option did not even exist.

As for the remainder options, yes, both given name and surname held a special meaning to Ace. Part of this significance had to do with his other name - D. - as it was said those branded with it were believers of some sort. What Ace knew about his middle name he’d learnt from two elder men, Old Gramps and Pops himself, as he did not dedicate much time thinking of prophecies and mysteries alike.

That would have been quite a question to bring forth an lay upon Ace’s table, about whether he trusted in prophecies and sayings of old; ask him to expose his thoughts in the non-palpable things of the world and those of the spiritual realm. While it would be untrue to say he’d never cared for such things in his twenty years of life, it would also taste a lie to say Ace cared nothing about them, even if a big part of the image he showed was that of a carefree man?

How could he not care when his entire life ahd been and remained to be about questioning what was beyond the visible? How much power could a bloodline hold? How sin could an infant carry, if it did carry a bit at all? Oh, but he did…! But to what point and how exactly could he free himself from it? What made a man ‘good’? What value did the word hold in this world?

Yes, those were things Ace thought about. Perhaps not in the course of brotherly merrymaking or when carrying his father’s benevolent work, but in moments of loneliness and internal distress he would. It was a shallow and pointless exercise, riddles that would never be answered. Yet, Ace asked the same questions every day, lest he die before he even tried. While death could be regarded with passivity by he who had always expected it, there was no excuse for sheer inertia. At least anger made life move on.

Those were, however, moral and philosophical questions any other soul could think about. Of the mysticism around the name of D., Ace cared not. Whatever it was it was and he’d chase his dreams and goals all the same, who gave a shit about what someone had once written in stone History knew how long ago?

“My name, you ask? Yes, it does” And believing Nonny was asking him not about his surname - his mother’s name - but his given one, Ace proceeded. 

Names had meanings. Therefore, Ace’s name had to have one. He knew it was the name of a playing card - after all, had he not been captain of the Spade Pirates? - just like he knew it carried other interpretations in informal talk while the card itself was used for more elevated readings. Of those he could not speak by either knowledge or experience, but he’d seen fortune tellers make a playing deck the instrument of their trade.

Perhaps Ace had originally been a male name before the card appeared, meaning something grand like “king” or another something quite distant from it, like the name of the droppings for a specific species of bird. Or the card had come first and some person with a gambling fixation had decided it was nice enough for their son. 

Why had Rouge named him ‘Ace’ anyway and not ‘Johnny’ or ‘Zack’? 

Alas, she was not here to answer the question and Ace had little patience to visit a library and look up name meanings. As far as he was concerned, ‘Ace’ was special not because of its definition, but because of what it was.

“It’s not much… but it’s mine” His name. His very own and his alone, not Roger’s, not even Rouge’s. It could not be sold, traded or shared. It could not be erased. “No one can take it from me”

Other pirates could take his belongings. The Government might one day take his head and do with it and they willed. Two things Ace knew for sure - he would die with his boots on and holding his name in his possession. Maybe that was not much for a man to keep, for a soul to take to the afterlife, if it existed...

But to a boy turned man with little estate and who had done naught but to prove himself he had a right to exist, something as personal and non-transferable as a name meant a whole lot.

Ace was Ace. He was his own person. And in his name he reminded himself of that.

Holding a pile of a dozen CDs, Ace mused on Luffy’s question while he flipped each record in his hands, contemplating the cover pictures and the information printed over them.

There was The Offspring and Elvis, Cash and Beastie Boys, among others. The selection made Luffy’s question a lot more difficult than it seemed and made him sound smarter in his inquiries than he normally showed. Ace’s collection spanned most of the suggested genres and his taste went beyond them, as sometimes he would cover Disney songs along with his rocky, folksy favourites. 

“Most, I think… Wait, are you asking me what kind of music I like or what we should play?” 

The first one was more likely to be the truth. To hint at what he wanted was unlike Luffy, a boy who’d either condone or condemn with no hint of subtlety. He would let his brother know what the things he liked and those he didn’t, oftentimes to Ace’s annoyance - first, he would think his little brother was a cry-baby, huff and puff and complain about how much he hated kids who threw a fit. Then, he would realise Luffy was just that, the little one, and excuse Luffy’s stubborness and lack of conversational filters.

Ace handed the CDs to him for Luffy to choose, or at least take a look at the packaging. 

“What do you feel like listening to, little brother?”

Well he heard it wrong.

It was true Ace was a pussy magnet. Wherever he went, he attracted them, dozens of them, needy of warmth and affection, demanding it with hungry yowling. Cats adored him and followed him no matter how hard he tried to lose track of them with left turns, right turns and parkour movements on trash cans, pipes, rooftops and cornices. It didn’t help that Ace’s dashing post dining often resulted in him exuding the appetising aroma of fish.

He seldomly tried hard, anyway. Ace appreciated some feline company and as a rule did not mind being followed by a group of cats provided it did not go over an arbitrary number to make him uncomfortable. When a whole legion of cats was chasing him for naught but hunger and selfish interest, that’s when running was in order and when Ace would curse the friendly fellows.

Ace did have a pussy problem, as Rocinante thought, but there was another thing he owned as well: self-pride. Believe it or not, it can coexist with self-hatred. And he would not admit to the other man his hunch was right.

“Do not!” he spat, not unlike a child would. “You’re one to talk of animal problems, wearing a turkey for a cloak.”

It was not that bad a coat… It looked like an enormous blanket, comfy and warm. It certainly beat any piece of clothing made out of cats, for sure. 

Oh, but this was fun… To have a half-naked man question another’s taste in fashion! It was a battle neither could win.

Before questioning Law’s illicitly acquired authority and rebelling against it, a rebel with a wholesome cause, Ace scratched his chin as though something was amiss before his very eyes. Prolonging the scratch for dramatic effect, he tilted his head up and down, left and right in a slow and steady choreograph.

“Nah. I don’t see it” In spite of Law’s furious silence, Ace proceeded with his pantomime, scanning the room as fully as he could without ever switching his position. “No. Not a single one of them. I’m sorry, you wanna know what I’m talking about? Metal bars. Because this is a prison...?”

Law had waltzed in like the officer in a gluten-free bootcamp for proteinaceous offenders, up for a round of ‘I’m not taking any bullshit from you bread-loving maggots today’. Naturally, Ace couldn’t help feeling like a convict.

Just because Law had to care for his allergies, it did not mean Ace had to take part in the same diet of boring foods washed down with black coffee and a handful of psychotropics for dessert.

Bread was the staple food of life. If Law were to acquire power and channel it into banning bread, he might as well condemn an entire nation to starvation. There would be no bread in Law’s sad, twisted world, for which was a good thing the man did not dwell in politics. His ‘DEATH’ tattoos had never made greater sense.

“Right! As someone who’s actually been to bootcamp,” Military, not correctional. “I should tell you bread’s not among the list of forbidden things. In fact, even prison inmates eat it.”

Once seating cross-legged on the sofa, Ace got up and started a very civilian march to the kitchen, were the air cracked with low, soothing noises and filled up with an uncanny aroma. Law’s dictatorial tirade had quite by chance coincided with the hour Ace had been waiting for.

“Mr. Spotted Pants thinks he’s the president!” Ace gloved his hands with a cat-patterned pair of oven mitts - because they were just so cute! - and opened the oven’s door, allowing for the air inside to escape its own imprisonment and go right for Law’s nostrils. “I sure wanna see what he has to say about this!”

If Law was the prison guard doing his round and little bad cop theatre, Ace was the sassy jailbird who proudly flips him off between the jail bars, which is to say he presented Law with his latest batch of golden mini baguettes.

“UP YOURS, ROO!” A piece of bread was hurled at Law’s head, hot and all. 

If Law thought himself big enough to declare a world free of bread, he had better be man enough to face the consequences.

And sad Law would be, then, if his happiness depended on Ace’s ability to read subtle hints.

It was a funny thing. Ace could be perceptive, arguably more than people might think, as people don’t tend to think much of half-naked, narcoleptic young men - what’s the world coming to? - and he knew how to take hints as well. The tension accumulated in a fist was the prelude to a physical confrontation. A change in breathing might indicate fear, as might a barely perceptible shift. However, if these things were very well, to read code that was already ciphered was almost impossible.

For one, Ace did not understand why Law felt the need to rip the garment off his body. If he was feeling hot - and that would have been something! - why not undress it like any normal person? Law… it was foolish to think he was any more well-adjusted than Ace was, but this inadequate behaviour was far too outlandish for either of them. At least they were not in public, nor were they entertaining. 

Similarly, Ace did not comprehend what it was Law wanted him to see, so desperately. That waxed torso? He couldn’t recall one single instance where he had seen Law bearing chest hair, thick or thin. The tattoo? Hardly a novelty. The same could be said about any other of Law’s ink, unless he’d gotten a new design somewhere the sun did not shine. Could it be a small wound? A pimple? Not quite something for one to boast about, was it?

“And what exactly am I supposed to be checking out?“ Two pectorals, two nipples, two halves of the same heart design. Yes. All was in order. Nothing new to see here, pimple or ink or even a metal ring. Ace would not be surprised if one day Law came home with his nipples pierced.

He tried harder, eyes narrowed and focus increased to full capacity. In a way, yes, he was admiring Law’s torso… What? Didn’t hurt a bit. Plus, how was he supposed to find out what this new acquisition was if he closed or averted his eyes?

“Oh!” A very hopeful ‘oh’, this one. “I get it. You’ve been going to the gym! We should go together. What do you say, Roo? How about we have a little weightlifting face-off? First one to pant like a dog buys the other lunch”

If Law was truly serious about maintaining his athletic built and decided to a patron to the local gym, then Ace would gladly sign up for membership. It would be fun, to shake things up with equipment they did not have at home and add new exercises to Ace’s humble routine of which a jog around the block and the pull-up bar in his bedroom’s threshold were the foundation. It would be fun, too!

As for the challenge, Ace trusted his own strength and stamina and hence saw himself as a contender. If he won, they would go out for lunch. If he lost, they would go out for lunch. With his bad habit of dining-and-dashing, it was not like he’d ever truly lose anyway.