The last impression Marco will have of Luffy is of big brown eyes staring forlornly back at him, of tiny hands clutching at his shirt as if they never want to let go, and a whispered, "I'm gonna miss you".

He kisses Luffy's forehead and sends him off with a reply of, "I'll miss you too."

Sabo throws his arms around Marco's neck, and the last impression Marco will have of him is a face full of soft blond hair and cheeks wet against his neck.

"It was nice, having big brothers," he says with a watery smile, and Marco laughs because he can't get any words around the lump in his throat. He sends him off, back to their grandfather, who is standing in the background with his arms crossed and his face set in a mask of disapproval.

The only one of the brats that isn't crying is Ace, ever the strong one.

But when Marco pulls him in for one last hug, he's shaking.

"We're going to set sail when Sabo and I turn 17," Ace whispers into his ear, voice determined. "When that happens, will there still be a place for us here?"

He sounds so young then, so much smaller than his ten years, and Marco feels his throat close up.

He doesn't answer – instead, he pulls back, smooths back Ace's wild black hair, drops a kiss on top of his head.

"Always," he murmurs, quiet as a breath.

Ace beams up at him.

"We have people waiting for us back at Dawn," says the boy, mature beyond his years. "Jiji needs us."

And Marco knows it's the truth.

Marco's known the brats for a grand total of three months now, ever since that day he rescued them from that disgusting excuse for a human being that had kidnapped them from their home island, but seeing them go hurts just as much as saying farewell to any of his brothers ever does.

He doesn't say the Whitebeard pirates need them too.

Because he's known, right from the beginning, that the brats weren't here to stay.

But somehow he'd found himself becoming attached to them, and he knows he isn't the only one. Thatch is going to be crying about this for the next month, he's sure, and Izo's going to disappear somewhere after this to touch up his makeup.

The days pass one by one by one.

They stretch into weeks and months and years.

And suddenly it's that time of year again, and seven years have come and gone.

It's that time of year that always makes his insides ache.

That makes him ache fiercely for something he hasn't had in a long, long time.

The sun is beating down, painfully hot, just like it had been on that day.

His brothers and sisters are out and about, doing all the daily chores necessary to keep a ship of this size running.

Their family has grown, in these past seven years. It's grown so big they don't all fit on one ship any more.

But no matter how crowded it becomes, no matter how much his brothers groan and grumble about not having any space to themselves, there are strange little empty pockets here and there that would seem strange to anyone not accustomed to them.

He's overheard newcomers asking about it sometimes, asking why that one little corner of the barracks is always abandoned, why no one dares claim that empty bed, why no one bothers to clean up the blankets strewn about as if someone has only just vacated it.

They ask if they can sit with Marco and Thatch and Izo for lunch or dinner, then stare in confusion at the three empty seats when they're told there's no room.

And Marco doesn't bother to explain because he knows someone else will.

It's that time of the year again, and Marco is sitting out on deck, next to his father, when he sets his sake bottle down.

"My son," he says, and Marco looks up, and he knows what's coming.

"Yes, oyaji?"

"How many years has it been now?"

"Seven years."

His father nods.

"Tell the navigators to change course.

It's time we set sail for Paradise."

"In seven years, come see us in Loguetown," says Marco, taking a page out of Shanks' book and plopping his own favourite cowboy hat down on Ace's head.

Ace looks down, letting the brim of the hat throw his face into shadow.

He's still shaking, but he nods once, then turns and runs back towards his brothers without another glance.

Marco's last impression of him is of a retreating back, and a tear-stained promise.