One Month With You
In the final month of your life, you cherishes fleeting moments with your crew, hiding a terminal illness until only memories—and a letter—remain.
red hair pirates x reader | whitebeard pirates x reader | strawhats x reader | ONE SHOT tags: angst, sfw, ooc, major character death, grief, terminal illness a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe and akward word count: 2.6k
masterlist | ko-fi
: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊
RED HAIR PIRATES
The sea was calm that morning, the kind of quiet that made even the waves seem to hold their breath. The deck of the Red Force was alive with chatter and light laughter, but you stood by the railing, letting the wind sweep through your hair. Your fingers curled around the wood, your gaze far off—not at the horizon, but somewhere past it.
One month. That’s what Hongo told you when he unknowingly confirmed your own suspicions. You’d been hiding the worsening symptoms for months—fatigue that sank deep into your bones, the relentless pain in your chest, the occasional blood you’d spit out into the sea, unnoticed.
You knew he’d figure it out eventually. He was too good not to.
But you hadn’t expected him to burst into your quarters the night before, shaking with barely restrained panic.
“What the hell is this?!” Hongo had yelled, thrusting a tattered medical report into your hands. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?!”
You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to be watched like a ghost who hasn’t died yet.”
Silence. Deafening.
“...You have a month, Y/N, maybe less. You’re—” His voice cracked. “You’re dying, and you're acting like it's nothing?”
“I have a month, Hongo,” you had said quietly. “Please… just let me have it. Don’t tell the others. Let me spend it with them. Please.”
He didn't answer for a long time. When he finally did, it was with a whisper: “You’re a fucking idiot.” But he pulled you into a hug and didn’t let go until your shoulders stopped shaking.
From that day, you lived more fiercely than ever. You laughed at Shanks’ dumb jokes and drank with him until the world blurred. You challenged Benn to silent stargazing contests, betting on how many shooting stars you’d catch. You dragged Limejuice to island carnivals and flirted shamelessly until his face burned red. You played cards with Hongo, even when your hands trembled too much to hold them.
They all noticed. The Red-Haired Pirates weren’t stupid.
“You’re real clingy lately,” Limejuice teased one night, bumping your shoulder with his. “You sure you’re not sick or something?”
You smiled, heart twisting. “Would you be mad if I said I might be?”
He laughed, oblivious. “Nah. I’d carry you myself if you keeled over.”
You didn’t say anything. Just leaned into his warmth.
Shanks was the hardest. He noticed too much. Noticed how often you disappeared below deck when the coughing fits hit, how your eyes stayed on the ocean longer than they should have.
“You thinking of leaving us?” he asked once, half-joking.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “No,” you lied.
Benn just watched. Always watched. He didn’t say much, but you could feel his eyes lingering on you, searching. You gave him your brightest smiles.
The day you left, the crew didn’t know.
You made breakfast with Chef-level effort, joking with the kitchen staff, slipping kisses to Limejuice's cheek and hugging Shanks tighter than ever. You sat with Benn for hours on the deck, your head on his shoulder, watching the sun creep across the sky.
“I think you’re my favorite,” you whispered, teasing.
He snorted. “Don’t let Shanks hear that.”
He didn’t know that was the last time he’d feel your heartbeat against his side.
That night, you slipped away. A letter for each of them tucked under your pillow. A note for Hongo too:
"Thank you—for letting me pretend I wasn’t dying. I love you all too much to say goodbye."
Morning broke in chaos.
“Where the hell is Y/N?!” Limejuice shouted, tearing through the ship.
“They’re not in the galley, or the crow’s nest!” Benn called out, panic rising in his usually calm voice.
Shanks was quiet, unusually still, staring at the empty hammock where your scent still lingered.
The notes were found soon after. One by one, hands shaking as they read your last words.
You didn’t say goodbye, but each letter bled with love.
“To Shanks — Thank you for making me feel like I belonged in the stars.”
“To Benn — You saw through me. Thank you for not saying anything.”
“To Limejuice — Thank you for reminding me how fun life could be.”
“To Hongo — I’m sorry I made you carry this alone. Thank you for letting me be selfish.”
They thought you ran. Were taken. Benn demanded a search party. Shanks was pale, silent, gripping your letter so tight his knuckles bled. Limejuice punched a wall. Hongo said nothing—for two days.
And then, he snapped.
He threw your medical file onto the table during a heated meeting, eyes wild. “They didn’t leave!....They died. And...I let them.”
The room fell to a breathless silence.
“You knew?” Benn whispered.
“They had a month. They begged me to let them spend it with us, like nothing was wrong. And I let them lie.”
Shanks stumbled back, as if struck. “No. No, they were… they were fine.”
“They were dying, Shanks! They couldn’t breathe without pain, they were—” Hongo’s voice cracked. “They spent their last strength loving us.”
No one spoke.
Limejuice fell to his knees. “We didn’t even say goodbye.”
Later that night, Shanks sat by the railing where you always stood.
“I hope you’re watching the stars from up close now, Y/N,” he murmured, tears streaking his face. “Because we’ll never stop looking for you in them.”
WHITEBEARD PIRATES
You’d always imagined dying quietly, maybe on an empty shore, wrapped in salt and wind. But fate had other plans. Your end would come not with isolation—but surrounded by laughter, drink, and the stubborn, unbearable warmth of the Whitebeard Pirates.
The diagnosis came on a cold, cloudy day—so ordinary it felt like a betrayal.
You'd passed out during training. Woke up with Marco’s worried face looming over you. He’d examined you in complete silence. But his shaking hands and tight jaw told you everything.
“It’s not good, is it?” you asked, voice barely a whisper.
“No,” Marco had said, the word cracking as it left him. “It’s... terminal. A rare degeneration of the lungs and heart. I don’t—there’s nothing I can do.”
You didn’t cry. Instead, you laughed. “So, what—you’re saying I won’t outlive my goldfish?”
He didn't laugh. He looked like he’d been stabbed. “You have a month. Maybe.”
You made him promise to keep it secret.
Just him and Whitebeard.
When Oyaji found out, he sat beside your bed and gripped your hand with those massive, shaking fingers. “You are my child,” he rumbled. “And if this is your last voyage… then let it be the greatest of your life.”
You had never cried before. But you cried then.
From that day, you threw yourself into every moment.
Ace was all fire and impulse, but when he was around you, something softer flickered beneath the surface. He took to dragging you along for sparring matches, even when you claimed your muscles ached.
“I need a challenge,” he’d smirk, sweat glistening down his neck.
“You just want to show off,” you’d tease, raising your fists anyway.
He was always careful not to hit you too hard. Not that you said anything—but he seemed to know. When you tripped one day, coughing blood into your sleeve when he wasn’t looking, he’d jogged over, helping you up without a word. His hand lingered on your arm just a second too long.
That night, you sat beside him, both of you perched on the edge of the ship with your legs dangling into the air.
“You’re weird lately,” he mumbled, eyes on the moon.
You bumped his shoulder with yours. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”
He blinked at you. “To be with us?”
“To be with you,” you said, gently. And he froze, eyes wide, like he didn’t know what to do with that.
“…You’re gonna break my heart, aren’t you?” he whispered.
You smiled, because you already had.
Izo became your confidant without even knowing it. With every eyeliner flick and matching kimono, you gave yourself permission to feel alive. They would hum as they painted your face, hands warm against your cheeks.
“You’re glowing,” they said once, adjusting the red ribbon they tied in your hair.
“Death becomes me, huh?” you joked, and they slapped your arm, scandalized.
“You joke about dying too much.”
You didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked. “It’s easier than pretending I’m not scared.”
Their fingers paused, lips parting. “…Are you scared?”
You looked at them in the mirror, the shimmer of gold powder across your eyelids catching the light. “Yeah,” you said. “But not when I’m with you.”
They smiled then, a bit sad, and leaned in to kiss your temple. “Then let’s live like hell until we drop, dear.”
Thatch was joy personified. It was impossible to be sad around him for long, and that’s what made it hurt worse.
He caught you sneaking dessert at 2 a.m. once and acted like you’d committed a crime.
“Oh-ho! So this is where my pudding went!”
“Your pudding? I thought it had my name on it.”
“I’ll accept bribes in the form of kisses or cleaning dishes.”
You kissed his cheek, and he nearly dropped the bowl.
Every stolen moment in the kitchen became a memory—dancing while covered in flour, whipped cream fights, drunken baking experiments that ended in fire. You’d laughed so hard your sides hurt, even as your lungs begged you to stop.
“You’re making memories,” he said one night, tousling your hair. “That’s what this is. You’ve been clingy lately. Like you’re trying to make every second count.”
You froze, the spoon halfway to your mouth. “…Would you hate me if I was?”
He blinked. “Nah. I’d probably try to hold on tighter.”
You didn’t tell him then. Just leaned into his side and let him talk about his dream of opening a cake café after he retires.
You knew you’d never see it.
Marco was the one who saw the cracks, and it destroyed him. You kept him close because you trusted him most—and that made it hurt more.
You caught him once crying at your door. He didn’t think you were awake.
You opened it, silently wrapped your arms around him, and whispered, “I’m still here.”
“You shouldn’t be this calm,” he rasped into your shoulder.
“I’m terrified,” you admitted. “But I’d rather spend what time I have being loved than dying slowly in a bed.”
He pulled back, staring at you with reddened eyes. “You could have told them.”
“They’d look at me like I was already dead.”
He said nothing, and you reached up to cup his cheek. “Promise me… promise you’ll wait. Let me leave on my own terms.”
“…Okay,” he whispered. “But I’ll hate you for it.”
You kissed his forehead. “I hope you do.”
You left them on a quiet morning.
Then you slipped away, leaving only a bundle of letters on Marco’s desk.
Your final message was simple:
“Don’t let them hate me for this. Please. Just let them think I ran.”
The ship erupted into panic by nightfall.
Ace punched through a wall. “They’re gone?! What do you mean GONE?”
Izo ran through the corridors, calling your name until their voice broke.
Thatch turned the kitchen inside out like he expected you to be hiding in the cupboards, laughing.
Marco couldn’t speak.
He stood at the rail, gripping the wood so hard it splintered beneath his fingers.
Whitebeard stood behind him, silent, his massive shadow cast across the deck like a shroud.
“Do I tell them?” Marco rasped.
“No,” Whitebeard rumbled. “Not yet. Let them rage. Let them mourn in their own way.”
“But—”
“They wouldn’t understand it now,” he said. “Wait.”
A week passed. Then two.
No sign of you.
Your room remained untouched. Your absence echoed louder than any cannon fire.
They scoured islands. Questioned strangers. Considered kidnappers, Marines, even betrayal.
Ace refused to accept it. “They wouldn’t leave us! Not without a word. Not without—something.”
He went to Marco, desperate. “You know something. Tell me.”
Marco finally broke.
He gave Ace your letter.
Ace read it once. Then again and again. Then crumpled to the ground, screaming into his fists.
“They died?! All this time—they were dying?!”
Marco stood frozen, guilt crawling like acid beneath his skin.
“They didn’t want you to mourn them before they were gone,” he whispered. “They wanted to be loved, not pitied.”
Ace couldn’t answer. He just sobbed, curled around your crumpled letter like it could still warm him.
That night, Whitebeard gathered his sons and daughters.
He read your letters aloud. One by one. Each one aching with truth, memory, and love.
“To Ace — You made me feel alive, even when I was already halfway gone.” “To Izo — Thank you for making me beautiful when I felt invisible.” “To Thatch — You made every day sweeter, even the ones I didn’t think I’d survive.” “To Marco — Thank you for holding my secret when it crushed you. I love you most for that.” “To Oyaji — You gave me a family when I had nothing left. Thank you… for letting me die a Whitebeard Pirate.”
By the end, the deck was silent.
No sobs. Just breathless grief.
They didn’t throw a funeral.
They held a feast.
Not because they weren’t mourning—but because they knew you’d hate to see them broken.
They told stories. Passed your favorite drink around. Laughed, cried, and danced with ghosts.
And when the fire died down, Ace stared at the embers and whispered, “I hope you found peace, flame-heart.”
STRAWHAT PIRATES
You didn’t plan on dying at sea, but the Grand Line has a way of making plans for you. The first signs were subtle: a lingering fatigue you chalked up to busy days, aches you blamed on training, the dull pain in your side that you laughed off when Chopper asked if you were okay.
You knew before he did. Deep down, your body had been whispering the truth long before the words made it onto paper.
It wasn’t until you collapsed in the hallway between the kitchen and the infirmary that Chopper realized something was seriously wrong. When you woke up, it was to the sterile smell of the medical bay and his wide, terrified eyes.
“I ran every test,” he said, voice trembling. “And then I ran them again. It’s… it’s bad. Really bad.”
You nodded. Your throat was too dry to answer.
“I—I can’t fix it. Not with what we have on board. Maybe if we got to a major medical port, but even then, I don’t know if—”
You reached out, resting a hand on his tiny shoulder. “How long?”
He hesitated, ears flattening. “A month. Maybe.”
You didn’t cry. Not then. Not even when he begged to tell the others.
“No. Please. Let me have this. Just a month, Chopper.”
“They’ll never forgive me.”
“They will,” you said. “If they knew now, it’d ruin everything. I don’t want pity. I want memories.”
So you began to live. Fully, recklessly, as if the pain eating away at you was just a shadow at your back.
You started with Sanji. He was the easiest to be around, the one whose affection was loud and constant. Every meal became a moment: you insisted on helping in the kitchen, even when he protested. You chopped vegetables until your hands hurt, stirred sauces while leaning against him, snuck little bites when he wasn’t looking.
“You’re here a lot lately,” he said one afternoon, handing you a bowl of soup.
“I like watching you work,” you replied.
He grinned. “You trying to steal my heart, love?”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Maybe.”
He went quiet for a beat. Then, more softly, “You look at me like you’re memorizing my face.”
You didn’t answer. Just smiled.
Zoro came next. You sparred with him almost every day now, ignoring the way your lungs burned, the way your legs shook. He didn’t say anything the first time you collapsed mid-match, just silently carried you to the infirmary.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he said.
“I need to,” you whispered.
“Why?”
You looked at him, really looked. “Because I don’t want to forget what it feels like to fight beside you.”
He frowned. “You’re acting like you’re running out of time.”
You forced a smile. “Aren’t we all?”
That night, he found you on the deck, staring at the stars.
He sat beside you, arms crossed. “You’re not saying something. I don’t like it.”
“I’m just tired.”
“I’d carry you, if you asked.”
Your heart ached. “I know.”
Luffy was harder.
He didn’t notice at first. You were careful around him—too careful. You laughed with him during meals, ran across islands with him, challenged him to stupid games on the deck. But he began to notice the way you lingered during hugs. The way you stared at him too long. The way your smiles didn’t quite reach your eyes.
One evening, you lay beside him on the figurehead, watching the horizon.
He turned his head toward you. “Are you gonna leave?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You look like you’re saying goodbye.”
You looked away. “I’m not. Not yet.”
He was quiet for a while. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to either.”
He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and didn’t let go until you both fell asleep.
ou made time for everyone else too.
With Nami, you spent lazy afternoons in the library, pretending to study charts. She taught you how to draw maps. You traced the oceans of the world with your fingers and imagined places you’d never see.
“You’re getting good at this,” she said.
“I want to leave something behind,” you murmured.
She didn’t understand then. But she would.
Usopp was a light in the dark. You asked for bedtime stories, exaggerated tales of heroism and romance. He performed them with full sound effects, arms flailing, voice booming.
“You always laugh now,” he noted one night.
“It’s easy, when I’m with you.”
He blushed, scratching the back of his head. “You’re acting like I’m the best part of your day.”
You smiled. “You are.”
Robin gave you quiet comfort. She didn’t ask questions. She simply read to you, let you rest your head in her lap, brushed your hair back from your face.
“You’re calm,” you told her.
“You’re storming,” she replied.
You didn’t deny it.
Franky built you a swing on the back of the Sunny, facing the sea. You spent hours there, feet brushing over the waves, eyes on the endless blue.
“Super chill, right?” he said, adjusting the ropes.
You nodded. “It’s perfect.”
He caught your hand before he left. “You’re not okay.”
You looked up at him. “No.”
“Okay,” he said, voice tight. “You don’t have to be.”
Brook played lullabies for you. Sweet, simple things. You danced with him once, slow and clumsy.
“If I still had a heart,” he said softly, “I think it would ache.”
You rested your head against his chest. “Mine already does.”
Chopper was breaking. Every day, he looked at you like you were already fading. You caught him crying in the storage room once, holding one of your jackets.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered.
“You’re stronger than me,” you said, hugging him.
“I hate lying.”
“I know.”
You waited until they docked at a small island for supplies.
You left at dawn.
Left behind the stargazer chair. The flowered book. The slingshot. The meals. The love.
Left behind a stack of letters in Chopper’s room.
When the crew realized you were gone, Luffy panicked first.
“They wouldn’t leave! They’d never leave!”
Zoro was already on the dock, scanning the shoreline. Sanji lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.
They searched the island. They waited at the ship. They called for you until their voices cracked.
You didn’t come back.
That night, Chopper gathered them in the infirmary.
“I didn’t want to break the promise,” he said, voice trembling. “But… they’re gone. They were dying.”
No one moved.
“…What?”
“They only had a month. They asked me to let them live… without pity.”
Nami burst into tears. "They should’ve told us,”
Zoro punched the wall.
Luffy stood in stunned silence, until he screamed your name into the ocean wind.
They read your letters together. All huddled in the infirmary, hearts shattered.
“To Sanji — You made me feel wanted, even when I felt like a ghost.” “To Zoro — You were my anchor. I always knew where I stood when I was beside you.” “To Luffy — Thank you for being the sun. I needed the light more than you’ll ever know.” “To the Crew — You made me part of a family. You made me more than a dying story.”
They held a quiet vigil on the deck.
Brook played your song one last time. Robin scattered petals into the sea. Chopper lit a lantern and let it drift across the water.
They stayed on that island for days.
Then, they sailed forward—quieter, heavier—but with your memory in their hearts.
You were their nakama.
You were their heart.
You always would be.
