"Princess! Where are you going?"
"Hell, most likely. See you knuckleheads later,"
A Fire-Fist Pirate.
A girl drunk on life.
"You can't...you can't love others unless you love yourself,"
"Bullshit. I never loved myself...but you, oh god...you make m...
There were rules Isabelle made for herself, even if they were far in between:
1. Never be the one to half-ass shenanigans.
2. Forgive the people who hurt you but don't forget the bastard's name. Or just don't forgive them at all and make your life easier.
3. Don't fall in love. Don't.
Isabelle sat amidst her buckets of paint and brushes, the brush her brush lightly grazing the canvas.
Husky sunlight filtered through the open window, salty breeze lifting the curtains in a slow dance.
Isabelle trailed her brush through grey and red, adding some lustre to White Beard's cape.
She brought the flutter of their flag to life, Marco's indigo and turquoise flames, Oliva with her guns and pistols.
Isabelle hadn't let herself think about that moment when Ace had thrown his flames towards Imril's ship, the blazing heat sweeping across him, his onyx eyes veiled in gold.
He had looked like he was clad in the sun. Gold and red looked good on him, Ace.
That night when starlight dances on his cheeks--
She would have to use the darkest black on her pallet to get the colour of his irises right.
She paused, earning a trickle of watery paint to dribble down the canvas.
"Feel free to admire me," Isabelle sighed, sending a pointed glare to the freckled boy lolling against the doorframe.
"You don't need to tell me that," Ace replied easily, sauntering into her studio as if he owned it.
He stood with his back to her, facing her wall of sunrises. His skin glinted with a warm tan glow, dark hair floating lightly in the breeze coming from the open sliding doors.
Isabelle suddenly felt uneasy, like he could see through the pain in every brushstroke
"I just had a thought," Ace said, a grin in his voice.
"Oh no."
"I swear, it's a good one this time," Ace laughed, turning his head slightly to look at her. "I think I'll take on being the Second In Command,"
At some point, he smiled, all freckles and boyish grins.
At some point, his eyes softened and Isabelle...
She was just terrified.
Because what was this?
She just had a terrible, horrifying thought that she would spend the rest of her life searching for this:
When it's 4 in the evening and it's warm, the room floats in the smell of paint and there's a boy who looks at her just a tad bit longer to be just friends, just crewmates.
Ace went ahead and crouched beside Isabelle on the floor and plucked the dripping brush from her hands. He cleared his throat, toying with a bead in his necklace. "I was wondering if you'd transfer with me,"
Isabelle found herself thinking she could paint with the colours on his face and make the masterpiece of a lifetime.
It was her turn to laugh as his words settled in "What, transfer under your supervision and good judgement?"
"Yeah," Ace replied, easily
"Think you can handle me, Rookie?"
"Entertain me," Ace said, eyes bright and inviting. "And am I still a Rookie? I mean, being the Second in Command is pretty high up in the food chain,
He was speaking in almost a hush, playful, and Isabelle could smell the charred cloves in his breath, as if he just walked out of a late-night camp deep in some forest.
And well....
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She was instantly on her feet, successfully startling the boy and dusted the non-existent dust from her trousers.
"Dinner?" She asked, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders slumped.
"Why not,"
Isabelle had promised herself not to fall on love. But it was 4 in the afternoon and there was a boy in her studio who laughed like he was made of campfires and smelled like everything warm and wild.
And Isabelle knew she was screwed.
Because what if she keeps on being in love and suddenly one day...Just leave?
She was already making her way towards her tragic ending.
