Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

June 2000.

The rain is heavy and rigid with cold as Jotaro rushes across the university carpark. Professors are supposed to have priority spaces close to the offices, though today he’s been shunned from his ordinary convenience due to some idiot visitor who has decided to park in an allotted rectangle very fucking clearly labelled “Dr Kujo.” Jotaro is half tempted to file a complaint, half infuriated and half unbothered. Trivial anger has been stewing in his subconscious all day, but this morning had been too frantic for him to stop and fuss, and now he’s too worried about his teaching notes becoming drenched to properly care.

A brief flash of sound muffles against the pattering of raindrops as he approaches his own car and unlocks it from a short distance. He balances his work folder under one arm with a dangerously precarious attitude whilst opening the door, minding the abundance of puddles that have gathered in the dips of the tarmac around his spot. His folder is then placed in the safety of the passenger seat, piled on top of Kakyoin’s woollen coat that he must have left there yesterday.

Firm leather softens under his weight as he collapses into his car seat, the worn smell of a strawberry air freshener solidifying the end of his workday routine. Jotaro’s phone rings just as he is basking in the euphoria of loneliness, that shrill second guest demanding attention from his trouser pocket and souring his mood. Reluctantly, he fishes it out and flips it open.

“Incoming call: Holly”

Landmines are trodden on. His mind: a cacophony of bombshells. The tiny screen momentarily snaps to a blur. His breath shortens, the reflexes in his strong palm almost snapping the device shut with an indescribable force until Star Platinum gets there with lightning speed to stop him. What if she’s not well? What if she’s dying? She’s fucking dying. She’s dying again. The car suddenly feels too small, and Jotaro struggles to open the window, even the first hit of fresh air not quite enough to help. Hot Egypt sand. Blood.

A gentle “ora” guides Jotaro’s thumb to the answer button. Star Platinum’s presence is unmoving and hovers behind him, towering over his tense shoulders.

Jotaro’s eyes are shut. Holly’s voice filters healthily through the worn, small speaker.

“JoJo? JoJo? Are you there, sweetheart?”

Sweat slicks the tight grip of his shaking hand around the phone.

“Are you okay?” he blurts, monotone. A little too loud, perhaps.

There is a pause, and a long hum from her end of the line. “Yes, yes. I just wanted to talk.”

Star Platinum disappears. Walls of aching worry slowly unbuild themselves as Jotaro reclines back into his car seat and rids his waterlogged hat from his head. Silent anticipation. He is as internally restless as today’s unpredictable weather, desperate for her to get to the point. Luckily for him, Holly is never one to resist filling a lull in conversation.

“There’s just something I need to tell you, that’s all.”

Jotaro tightens. The void of bubbliness, the hesitation in her voice that sounds so foreign to her usual style of womanly babbling is as apparent as a flashing warning. He finds himself subconsciously sitting back up straight in his seat, the can of diet lemonade in the glove-compartment he was reaching towards suddenly of no interest to him now.

“What?” he asks in a low panic, disguising his heavy breathing with a cough.

“Your father is divorcing me.”

That? That is all? His father? The nerve of the bastard. Jotaro hasn’t seen him since he was twelve years old, and neither has Holly. Not even a call to either of them since the Tuesday evening he up and left for good.

Jotaro is temporarily eased, in a state closer to frustrated confusion than disappointment. Though his parents never officially ended their marriage, he knows Holly had always held hope his father would come back one day. For her sake, Jotaro will always be angered at his appalling absence in their lives.

But the timing is so surreal. Why does this bastard decide to finally cut Holly off now? Jotaro always had the inkling he was only holding onto the legalities of marriage because he was after Joseph’s inheritance. It feels as though the floodgates of childhood problems have been unlocked. Jotaro is twenty-eight, not twelve, and this all feels oddly inappropriate. Is he supposed to care? Nothing adds up, and it’s highly annoying. He has more than enough shit to deal with right now as it is.

Jotaro groans and rubs his forehead with one hand, mindlessly racking through some string of acceptable words to say.

“So?” he eventually stumbles, already coming across far harsher than he wanted, “Sorry, that was- sorry. I know that you’re probably disappointed. But he’s a scumbag, we’ve known that for years.”

Holly’s smile is somehow audible across the phoneline. “I know, it was silly of me to think anything could change,” she sighs, “But it’s just, oh you know, after everything that happened to Mama…it’s been difficult.”

Jotaro almost accidentally scoffs to himself. As if he needed a reminder of that. No one wants to think about their grandpa knocking up a college girl, but it seems the Joestars really are capable of all kinds. Poor grandma Suzie. Poor Josuke. Poor Tomoko. What a sorry load of shit.

“Yeah,” Jotaro mumbles, multitasking and strapping his seatbelt in, his phone balanced between his cheek and his shoulder, “I know. Our family is a damn mess.”

He tries to start up the car engine, his other hand resting on Kakyoin’s coat. The soft, expensive fabric rubs between his finger and thumb, feels like a dream on his skin. Feels like all things home and dear.

“It’ll all work out,” Holly beams, never the pessimist, “I’m sorry for telling you so suddenly darling, but I wanted to be the one to break the news,” she pauses at the sound of the exhaust, “Goodness, where are you? It’s already six in the evening. I imagined you’d be home.”

“Leaving work,” he grunts, struggling to start the car up properly. He keeps turning the keys too rough, but he finally gets it to function with trustworthy brute force. “I had to stay and grade extra papers. End of term stuff.”

“Oh, bless you. Well, have a safe drive home my sweet boy. Send Noriaki my love, won’t you?”

The windscreen wipers do nothing to help the cascade of water drumming on the glass. Jotaro has barely driven out of the carpark and yet he already feels his impatience growing by the second. Stupid fucking car. Stupid rain. Stupid parents and fathers and marriages and unfaithful absent bastards-

“Sure,” Jotaro replies hurriedly, “Yeah, I will. Tell grandma Suzie I say hi.”

“Okay! Bye JoJo, love you!”

Jotaro’s left hand forms an unintentional fist. The words come out quiet, but they bubble from the inner black pit of despair he’s had drilled into him from feeling like he’s going to lose his mother forever if he doesn’t say it back.

“Love you too.”

Holly hangs up. He tucks his phone away, still shaking at the fingers, his neck red and itching against the stiff collar of his shirt.

It’s a twenty-five minute drive from S-City to Morioh, thirty-seven when there’s traffic on the main motorway. Jotaro heads out onto the rain-soaked roads, swerving carefully around the University buildings until he’s out of the main entrance and into the city centre. He thinks sadly of his mother as the radio flickers between stations, the staticky lag from the rain making the charts all fuzzy sounding. Holly moved out to New York last year to help Joseph and Suzie out when the news of Josuke’s existence broke out amongst their family, and there’s no doubt she’s struggling even more with this bombshell dropped onto her.

He shouldn’t be driving in this condition. He should have known better, done a few more breathing exercises in the car while it was parked, sprayed some of that lavender mist he hides in the side pocket to ease his nerves. Long, long ago, Joseph had taught him a little bit of Hamon, and sometimes the breathing techniques work well in times of need. Now is not one of them. Jotaro is fuelled up and panicky, whether he likes it or not: there’s not enough room and everything is fucking touching him, and he can taste the hot rancid air of Egypt streets on his tongue, he can hear screams-

And he’s lost the steering wheel for one tenth of a second, and he’s almost hit someone as he changes lane. A flash of something jolts him back into reality, pulls his nervous system back together.

This is getting ridiculous.

Star Platinum’s firm grip glues Jotaro’s arms to the wheel, keeps them gently bent at the elbows and smoothly steering. Jotaro’s eyes don’t move an inch from his immediate view of windscreen wipers and tyres and traffic lights. Red. Green. He keeps well below the speed limit, even though there’s no need for it on such a main road. Billboards flash momentarily, neon signs of deep blue and purple changing bright displays as he whirls past, but he pauses to read no words or adverts. The sooner he can be home in one piece, the better.

He only begins to calm when he’s out of the bustling lanes and out onto the road leading to Morioh, all things commercial and flashy turning to palm trees and pastels. Yesterday he promised he’d stop at Tomoko’s to drop off a work application she’d asked him to bring from the University, but it’ll only be a quick detour.

Relocating to Morioh hadn’t been an overnight decision by any means. After last summer’s whirlwind of serial killers and new relatives and Stand arrows, this town had managed to hold its place as a home in Jotaro’s heart more and more by the day. Switching over jobs had been easy enough; Jotaro had only recently published his doctorate thesis at the time, and S-City University was quick to snatch him up for a researching and teaching position.

The tidy ordered streets look oddly muted, colourful houses un-kissed by the beaming sun he’s become so adjusted to. Jotaro drives into the town centre precariously, his most efficient route to the Higashikata residence well mapped into his system. He’s only begun to dry from the rain, and the thought of stepping back out into it is entirely depressing. He texts Kakyoin when he’s parked on the side of the pavement, shoving his damp hat back on his head as he types and dreads the cold.

“Will be home in 5. X”

Then it’s a deep breath, and he’s striding down the street, half-walking half-jogging up to the Higashikata’s front steps. He unwillingly parts his hand from the safety of being tucked into his coat sleeve so he can knock on the purple front door, flinching a little as his bruised, scarred knuckles hit the wood.

A muffled, “Coming!” echoes down the hallway as Tomoko rushes to the door. Jotaro waits with his hands borderline numb in his thin pockets, his eyes tracing the brown scratchy doormat he’s standing on, water dripping from the rim of his cap.

Tomoko pulls a very pitiful expression when she finally swings the door open and sees him standing there in such a sorry state. She pulls her cardigan tight and ushers him in, closing the door behind them. The welcoming relief of shelter deters him from moaning about his freezing discomfort, already absorbed in the homely atmosphere. He treads carefully on the woven pattered rug below him, glancing absently at his own reflection in the hallway mirror.

“My God,” she fusses as Jotaro follows her into the kitchen, spotless as usual in all its shades of deep pink cabinets and pale green décor. There’s baking equipment still out on the table, one lone mixing bowl holding a very tasteful looking batch of cake dough in it. “What awful weather for this time of year! Why don’t you boys ever have a proper waterproof coat on? Josuke is just as bad, he never listens and always end up getting his nice jackets drenched!” she pauses at the kettle before turning it on, “Drink, dear?”

Jotaro shakes his head politely.

“Just stopping by for this,” he says, fishing out the job application letter from his inside pocket and handing it over. “I can drop by tomorrow morning to collect it if you think you’ll be able to fill it in tonight. I know the guy who interviews for these positions, the sooner you hand them in the better.”

She unfolds it and scans the questions as she sips her own cup of tea, her intensely concentrated gaze examining all the empty boxes. Jotaro doesn’t blame her exasperation. All the University paperwork is unnecessarily tiring, and she’s only applying for a receptionist role.

“Thanks, that’d be great,” she replies with a little more enthusiasm, putting the paper away on the counter and lighting up. “Oh yeah, Noriaki stopped by today to help me with the garden, oh he was such an angel. I haven’t been able to sort it out for weeks. It was quite fun, mind you that was before the rain started.”

Jotaro leans against a work surface and crosses his arms, smiling to himself with sheer pride.

“Yeah, he’s great with that sort of stuff,” he praises, “Spends all day out in ours seeing to the plants.”

“He’s a godsend, I really needed the help today,” she stops to take another careful sip of her drink, “And what about you? How’s things?”

Not great. Awful. I keep seeing things. I almost crashed my car. “Fine,” Jotaro says, “Same old work. Holly called today. My dad’s finally divorcing her. She didn’t let on, but I know she’s devastated.”

Tomoko tuts and shakes her head, tapping manicured blue fingernails against her mug.

“Disgraceful. That man should be ashamed of himself after how he’s treated your poor mother,” she playfully rolls her eyes and nudges Jotaro on the arm as she walks past to wash her mug in the sink, “Men, amirite?”

Jotaro allows himself a genuine, small laugh. He does feel bad for Tomoko, even if she’s exceptionally tough by nature. Through it all she is a mother at heart, and as Jotaro watches her roll up her floral blouse and squeeze out the last of her washing up liquid, he is confronted with a near spitting image of his own Holly. Once Josuke had told him that she still cries when she hears the name ‘Joseph Joestar’. God knows the pain his idiot grandpa has caused her.

“Yeah, men,” he responds absently, suddenly realising just how quiet the house is. Usually at this time of day, the walls would be shaken by the sounds of two loud laughing teenagers. He uses this to diverge the topic of conversation, not wanting to venture into sympathetic material, “Quiet for a change in here.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” Tomoko despairs as she dries her hands with a tea towel. “They’ve been off their heads recently, the pair of troublemakers. They only seem to come as a pair, these days. Can’t separate them for more than one bloody minute without Josuke whining.”

Jotaro turns away as he smiles once more, pulling his cap down over his face. They walk back towards the front door. He knows. Kakyoin knows. Tomoko seems to be a little behind.

“Okuyasu’s a good kid,” he replies, matter of fact. He means it. After witnessing him in battle (and seeing his ability to wield that terrifying Stand), he has a lot of respect for the guy. He and Kakyoin also have a running joke that he reminds them an awful lot of Polnareff, to the extent where it’s almost scary. “Josuke needs him.”

“Of course, he’s such a sweetheart,” Tomoko yawns, propped against the doorframe. Jotaro wants to shiver just looking at the rain. “I only worry Josuke isn’t independent enough, sometimes. He needs to concentrate more on college, getting a job, or even a girlfriend, for god’s sake.”

Jotaro clears his throat and turns away. Fucking hell, talk about clueless.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll get round to that,” he mutters, stepping out of the front door and braving the rain once more, “I’ll be round tomorrow morning then.”

“Sure thing, thanks Jotaro.”

Rain. Car. Slam the door, start the engine. Now virtually everything is wet, or at least damp: the seats, his undershirt, his socks, even the steering wheel. If he weren’t still in a bad way, he would’ve attempted to have Star Platinum light him a cigarette as he drives, but considering his track record of concentration today, he knows better.

The desolate seafront passes by, worn white-painted railings sitting along the walkway, separating the roads and the beach sprawled out one level down: a pattern of protection from those stormy harmless waves that are crashing and rippling against today’s weather. Everything is a muted shade of blue-y grey, the sky and sea virtually interchangeable colours besides the contrast of white surf colliding with the sand.

Not that he’d ever brag about such trivial, superficial things, but the houses along here are gorgeous. His is no exception. It stands third in a row of seven: detached, white and modern, flourished with tall palm trees in the front and traditional Japanese details in its outer architecture.

Jotaro parks in the driveway and runs to the front door, keys rattling furiously in his hand as he stands lumbered with all his folders and bags. Stepping inside and closing the storm out behind him for the final time today feels like a heaven-sent miracle. Peace settles as he stands in the hallway and drops all his stuff to the floor by his shoes, unbothered and unwilling to deal with any of it now. He takes off the weight of his damp coat and shoves it on the radiator, along with his hat.

He can hear the radio playing from the kitchen. Rhythmic guitar and smooth drums soak into the yellowed light of the hallway lamps, stupidly uplifting. The house’s entrance is spacious and airy, furnished with neatly washed wooden shelves with books sitting on them, and plants in painted pots. Everything is organised and jumbled in a state of harmonious chaos, lived-in and settled.

There are many glossy photographs framed on the wall, varying in size, and age. Some are from Tokyo: Kakyoin smiling in winter clothes in the city snow, trips to restaurants, them with Holly on her birthday. A younger Joseph with a small Jotaro on his knee.

The central one is him and Kakyoin at Avdol and Polnareff’s wedding, the four of them stood in suits with their arms around each other on that glorious French summer day two years ago. Jotaro sometimes catches himself looking at it wistfully. One day. Jotaro tells himself. When I’m better. That’ll be us.

The heating must have been on all day; his cooled skin is soothed by a homely warmth, and the edge of dampness in his clothes is no longer unbearable. Jotaro rolls up the sleeves of his black turtleneck as he goes through into the kitchen and hovers in the entryway, his presence so far undetected by the other man in the room.

Kakyoin is stood stirring a pot on the stove, whistling to David Bowie on full volume. At the sudden realisation that he’s not alone, he looks over his shoulder in frenzied, pleasant shock, melting like butter at the sight of his boyfriend and instantly flashing a freckled-cheeked smile in Jotaro’s direction. He’s dressed in an adorable shambles of linen pyjama trousers and his ‘painting’ jumper, acrylic splatters still on the front of it. His almost waist-length hair is braided down his back, all the curly front pieces framing his face around in a mess. He pushes up his brown-rimmed glasses as he waves, wooden spoon in hand.

“You’re late! Five minutes? Your perception of time is so off.”

“Give me a break,” Jotaro smirks, hugging his boyfriend from behind and resting his chin on top of red curls, “Had to stop at Tomoko’s, remember? I didn’t know you were round there earlier.”

Kakyoin continues stirring the tomatoey vegetable stew he’s got simmering away and starts to flick open a small jar of herbs from beside him. It’s a damn good thing he’s in charge of all things cooking in this household: Kakyoin eats disgustingly healthy these days, obsessed with all things organic and ‘well-sourced’. No pesticides, no artificial flavourings, and no meat. Jotaro stopped putting up a fuss about it a long time ago. He’s paid to research causes of environmental damage and marine conservation, for fuck’s sake. If anyone should be against consuming animals, it should be him.

“It was fun,” Kakyoin says, meticulously sprinkling rosemary into the pot, “I re-potted one of her pear trees. Josuke came home for his free period, and we had a chat. Was nice to see him, he seems like he’s getting on well at college. Apparently, he’s already been learning how to do medical stitches. He’s gonna be a great nurse, isn’t he? You can just imagine it.”

“Would be good to have a nurse in the family,” Jotaro mumbles, perfectly content having Kakyoin held in his arms like this. “I give it one more day until he gets expelled for cheating with Crazy Diamond though.”

The wooden spoon is gently lifted, and Kakyoin tastes a little bit of his mixture before deciding it needs more salt. “He’ll only get caught if his teacher’s a Stand user,” he laughs, “I highly doubt it. And you’re one to talk. You used Star to steal all the answer sheets for all of our finals after Egypt.”

Jotaro’s heartrate goes up. He blinks furiously until his vision goes back to normal. Less than a second, he freaks out for. Impressively fast recovery for the mention of that word.

“Whatever,” he retaliates playfully, squeezing Kakyoin around his middle, “I don’t want to hear complaining after that got us both near perfect grades.”

“I didn’t need to cheat. I studied.”

Jotaro dips his index finger into the pot to taste the broth, for no other reason besides winding his boyfriend up, “Still cheated.”

Kakyoin starts batting Jotaro’s hand away, all the beaded jewellery stacked onto his slender pale wrist jangling about, “You were a bad influence on me,” he smirks.

“Is that so? Which one of us now has a PhD?”

“Oh please,” Kakyoin starts, turning the hob down and placing a steel lid on the pot, “Your teenage self would have spat in your face if he knew you’d become an expert on saving the population of starfish, you big softie.”

Not quite true. Jotaro’s bedtime routine as a child consisted of him begging his father to read him the same tattered marine life picture book every night. Same illustrations of glittering dolphins and fish, same pages of diagrams, hues of deep blue and turquoise. Every single night.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, happily defeated. His one-track mind is staring daggers at the stove. “Is it almost ready? I’m fucking starving.”

“Patience, Kujo.”

The two of them eat in the living room, Jotaro sprawled on the sofa with a bowl balanced on a cushion, and Kakyoin curled up into his side. Tastefully crafted Marimekko curtains shut out the storm, those splattered patterns of green and black flowers adorning the wall in thick, expensive fabric. The only dim light is that of the television, which accompanies them with a gameshow that neither of them really care about, and they casually fill in some of the answers every now and then when they feel confident on the trivia rounds. They never bother with sitting at the table nowadays unless they have guests over; it serves as more of a decoration and is almost always piled with Kakyoin’s drying canvases.

“Forgot to mention,” Jotaro mumbles, blowing on his spoon to cool his stew down, “Holly called today.”

“Yeah?” Kakyoin answers sleepily, his eyes transfixed on the tv screen as a contestant’s money pot goes up substantially. “How is she?”

“My parents are getting divorced,” he says, and for the first time today, it hits him with a tinge of sadness that most certainly comes across accidentally in his tone of voice. “It’s not a big deal though,” he rushes before Kakyoin has time to pity him, shrugging it off and continuing to eat between words, “I don’t care. I’m just worried about Holly.”

One of Kakyoin’s hands rubs a circle into Jotaro’s trouser-clad thigh. It’s obvious that he’s thinking through his options of words carefully before he offers a response.

“Oh JoJo, why didn’t you tell me as soon as you were home?” he begins quietly, before shaking it aside, “Never mind, I suppose that doesn’t matter. But it’s probably for the best, right? It was cruel of him to leave Holly waiting like that with no contact for so long. It almost feels like ripping a plaster off.”

“Exactly,” Jotaro responds, proud of Kakyoin for being so eloquently spoken and putting his thoughts into words, “That’s what I tried to tell her. She’ll still be upset though, she’s sensitive like that.”

The adverts roll on. Kakyoin begins to flick through channels, his calming act of physical touch on Jotaro’s leg enough to say two thousand words of pity that he obviously knows his boyfriend won’t want to hear.

Kakyoin’s cheek rests on Jotaro’s chest as he settles on a nature documentary and puts down the remote. “What did your grandpa have to say about it?” he asks quietly, hesitantly, his eyes heavy and pretty with sleep.

“Fuck knows. He hasn’t called. He has no place to talk about being a shit father,” Jotaro grumbles, finding the end of Kakyoin’s long braid and running the silken hair through his fingers, “Is it bad that I’m still pissed about his whole fuck up? It’s been what? A year since we found out? Shit, maybe I should just let it go. Suzie’s already over it.”

Kakyoin redirects his gaze from the bee that is pollenating a foxglove flower on the television to give Jotaro a reassuring shake of his head.

“No, I agree with you,” he offers in support, eyes now back to the screen, “You have every right to still be disappointed in him. He made a stupid mistake, sure, but it had serious consequences-” he slips and laughs a little under his breath, stopping himself immediately, “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just…oh my god do you remember what Jean said to Joseph the first time he saw him after he found out? I just thought about it.”

“Shit, I forgot about that,” Jotaro grins, memories of Polnareff’s loud dramatic swearing flooding back to him. He starts to laugh too, Kakyoin’s childish giggles pretty much infectious in the atmosphere in the room as he tries to imitate their friend.

“I zon’t believe you ‘ad the neurve, ju are a dirty old shit! Fuckeur!”

“Your French accent is terrible,” Jotaro chuckles, bending down and kissing Kakyoin’s flushed cheek, “Idiot.”

They continue to watch the changing shots of green spring English gardens on the television, quiet ends of laughter dissipating as they reminisce. Jotaro remembers the whole ordeal fondly. He misses Polnareff and Avdol a lot, as does Kakyoin. Whenever they all meet up and visit the warm old glow of their easy friendship rolls over them every time, as though no time or distance has separated them at all. As soon as Jotaro can request a holiday allowance from work, he’s dead set on taking Kakyoin over to Paris to see them again.

The plane will be a problem, though. Jotaro’s hand shudders a little as he grips the side of a cushion, plagued by the thought about being trapped in one. They always set him off. Before they’d flown to France for the wedding, he’d secretly popped five sleeping pills and drunk himself stupid at the business class lounge bar to ensure he’d be completely wiped out for the whole journey. He’d woken up in Paris in a right groggy state, and Kakyoin had been a little concerned, but Jotaro would take any measure for Kakyoin to not see him choke on his own breath for ten hours straight.

Jotaro zones out to the wildlife narrator talking about the lifespan of a ladybug as he focuses his light touch to the man slumped upon his resting figure, trailing down his neck, his arms, taking those slender elegant hands into his own, smiling absently at the sight of leftover acrylic paint dried into the cracks of his boyfriend’s fingernails. Royal scarlets, forest greens, crisp yellows. Scarlet as thick as blood from open wounds, greens shining like a desperate emerald splash, yellow armour, yellow clothes, yellow Stand, The World, its fist flying into his face-

A sudden jolt, half-interrupted.

“What was that?” Kakyoin mumbles sleepily, “You okay?”

Star Platinum grasps Jotaro’s right arm, digging into his skin with mountains of pressure, freezing his sudden reflex mid-way to punch the air on instinct.

“Yeah,” Jotaro reassures quietly, his arm retreating in shame to his side, Star Platinum finally leaving his view in a slow purple mist. He rubs Kakyoin’s back, leans down to kiss the top of his head, immersed in the scent of lavender hair oil. He’ll put his lover at ease, because there is no need for Kakyoin’s purest soul to ever, ever worry about his slip ups. Or know of their existence, for that matter. “Was nothing.”

His heart slows. He adjusts. Back to the presence of this warm, beige-painted room and all its shelves, all its furniture framing the space he owns as an inner escape: corduroys and soft cottons, pillows and faux-fur blankets.

“You’re so weird,” Kakyoin yawns, not meaning it, really. He’s draped over Jotaro like a cat, cocooned in the thick wool of his vintage jumper, blissfully unaware.

Context warps. The jab twists around in Jotaro’s chest, ricochets right back out again.

“You’re weird,” he retaliates, winning the competition of not meaning it.

But how many more times can he take the bullet before it tears through him whole? It is impossible to tell. Jotaro will not admit to anything getting worse. He looks down to his chest, to Kakyoin’s face nestled into his shirt in all its beauty. No, he will ruin this. He cannot ruin this. Kakyoin can never, ever know he’s this fucked in the head.

The clock of sanity looms heavy in his heart, perched on his back like his Stand during a battle.

How many days like this are left?

Chapter Text

Jotaro can confidently reassure himself that in his life post-1989, there are only two inevitabilities.

The first, ‘every night will be hell’. The second, ‘but the sun will rise in the morning.’

And so far, this strange sort of personal theorem has proved to be accurate without flaw.

Which is why he wakes the following morning already up at the finest hour of 5:46am, squinting at the sunrise. Wakes’ is a dubious way to put it, really. He’s been pulled in and out of washy sleep for the last few hours, stuck in a feverish stage of dream-purgatory.

Routine begins immediately. Is Kakyoin okay? Jotaro sits up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Under their shared duvet, Kakyoin is safely cradled in a sleep so peaceful looking that it’s highly enviable. Cautiously, Jotaro finds the top button of his boyfriend’s pale green nightshirt and undoes it, slipping his hand underneath to feel for a heartbeat. He hesitates, the backs of his fingers barely brushing the warm skin of Kakyoin’s chest.

3, 2, 1…There.

He exhales, satisfied. The room is fully light, the crisp white of the sheets and the walls reflecting today’s morning radiance. It beams in all its lush green potted ferns and light washed wooden furniture, most of it the work of Kakyoin’s precise hand-painting. Kakyoin’s sleek creative eye is to applaud for all small details of their home, evident in all aspects of it, scattered and lived in even the most ordinary of places.

Jotaro switches his stagnant alarm clock off rather angrily, already beating the timer by 14 minutes. He doesn’t know why he bothers with the useless gadget half the time, besides keeping it in place on his bedside cabinet for decorative purposes. Removing it would only arouse suspicion, he supposes.

Slowly, he makes his way over to his wardrobe, sliding back the heavy marble doors to reveal his side of it: a selection of expensive clothes all hung from metal hangers. He isn’t ashamed. He pulls out a drawer, changes into running shorts and trainers, and soon his attention diverges to the mirror.

Contrary to popular belief, Jotaro does not spend every waking minute falling in love with his own reflection. Now, that isn’t to say he isn’t proud of his appearance, but for fuck’s sake, he’d like to think he’s not quite that superficial.

He does a couple of stretches for convenience, just to check his form. Strong, built tattooed arms flex over his head, his near perfectly proportioned torso straining and flashing right back at him as his body tenses at his will. He checks his back, picking it apart under his own scrutinous perspective. It’s so almost there. A little more definition on the outer shoulders could do.

Then downstairs Jotaro goes, basking in the sunny light of their open-plan kitchen. With an unnecessarily stealthy manner, he pulls open a top cabinet and fetches four bottles, popping the caps of each and counting pills on the table: anti-nausea, painkillers, feroglobin, caffeine. He cradles them all in his hand and recounts, capsules of whites and reds and pale pastels rattling around.

Electrolyte mixture is then squeezed from a packet into a half-full glass of tap water, orange dust disappearing into the liquid. Jotaro gets all his pills down and then drinks the electrolytes, almost gagging because of how much he fucking hates the citrus flavour. He washes the glass in the sink and walks to the garage.

He spends the next twenty minutes lifting weights in there. Metals clash against concrete as he lifts and drops them to the floor, every strain of his voice echoing in the cooled solitude of the plain converted gym. Shaken with adrenaline, he ticks his reps off, marker pen slippery in his sweaty hand.

Upstairs he jogs, slips past Kakyoin’s still-sleeping figure into the bathroom, shuts the door hesitantly. In the shower he stands under a blistering cascade of water, cleans himself rigorously first with a honey body scrub and then once more over with a water-activated gel, lathers shampoo into his scalp, rinses, repeats, turns the water off. Once dried, he changes into usual work attire: black turtleneck, white trousers, black and gold belt, gold earrings, Tag Huer watch. He leaves his hair to air-dry and curl on its own, spritzes Armani Acqua Di Giò onto his neck and wrists, moisturizes his face.

And now, one hour later, now that he’s decent enough, clean enough, good enough… he goes to wake Kakyoin.

With chaos out of the way, Jotaro can attend to the thing he treasures above all else. This planned timing gives him the appearance of effortless ease, of natural perfection. In this relationship, he won’t settle for being anything less. He sits in place on Kakyoin’s side of the bed, adjusting his position just so he can reach over to stroke through his lover’s extremely long hair.

“Hey,” he starts gently, “Nori?”

Shuffling ensues. Kakyoin’s pretty face peers out from red strands as he looks up, blinking and rubbing his eyes. There’s a brief glimpse of confusion before he sleepily submerges into his pillow.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching out clumsily to grab Jotaro’s hand and tuck it under his resting cheek, “You smell nice.”

The rushed frenzy of morning calms to a halt at his touch, everything worth it and falling into place. Jotaro’s autopilot mind becomes human again, lost in the temptations of warm blankets and soft skin. He exhales into a smile, stroking Kakyoin’s cheek with his thumb, giving in just a small amount to what he aches for. Never too much.

“I’m heading downstairs, come have a drink with me if you plan on getting up now,” Jotaro says, leaning over to kiss Kakyoin’s forehead. “I’ll let you sleep otherwise.”

“Sure, I’ll be a couple minutes,” Kakyoin replies softly, readjusting his head as Jotaro releases his hand from his grasp. There’s never a moment in time where Kakyoin doesn’t look like a piece of art, and if he were a painting now, he’d be lying atop of a row of oil-brushed flowers.

After returning to the kitchen in a much easier state of mind, Jotaro turns the radio on and goes about preparing a double shot of espresso for himself. The mid-volume homeliness of Morioh-radio sets a distracting enough background noise for him to lose himself in for this moment in time. Espresso grounds are pressed and clicked into his coffee machine. It begins to whir away as it gets to work. A third layer of noise is added as he boils water in the kettle. A fourth, when clinking ensues as two artisan mugs are pulled down from the shelf: one placed on the counter, one placed under the machine.

A minute later. Green tea leaves are poured into a strainer. Off turns the kettle, and off turns the coffee machine. The presenter of Morioh-radio is left to politely read out the weather forecast.

One cup of double espresso. One cup of green tea. Both done, waiting on the table. Jotaro finally takes a seat, feeling most pleased with himself. Kakyoin enters the kitchen still in his pyjamas, his hair let down but clearly brushed through, slippers scuffling along the wooden floor.

“Thank you!” Kakyoin sings as he picks up his green tea and blows on it, already focused on breakfast. “You want eggs and avocado? I need to eat early; yoga is at 8.”

Jotaro nods, flicking through a lifestyle magazine that’s been left on the table. “Yeah, sure. Hanging with the housewives of Morioh are you?”

“You bet.”

An image filters in through Jotaro’s mind as he downs the rest of his espresso. That swanky sports centre in town, twenty or so middle-aged women in yoga pants and ponytails drinking green juices and swarming around his Kakyoin like irritating flies. Whatever. Kakyoin’s been going every week for months now, but the thought stills stings Jotaro at a certain weak spot.

“Tomoko’s coming with me today,” Kakyoin continues happily, cracking organic eggs into a pan.

Jotaro hesitates. “Oh? I was supposed to get her letter from her before work.”

“I’m sure Josuke will still be around by then to hand it over. He doesn’t go into college most mornings.”

“Right. Yeah.”

Jotaro should care a lot more about today’s details, but he’s not even listening. He’s leant over the table with his elbow resting, head propped on his hand, staring all too lovingly at Kakyoin’s back. Watching Kakyoin is all it takes. He’s so graceful, so methodical, so at peace.

It’s very important to Jotaro, for whatever reason, may that be his own masculine complex or his strong sense of over-protection, that Kakyoin spends his days at home while he works. In his early twenties, Kakyoin worked for the Speedwagon Foundation as an intelligence manager in the supernatural division, though it soon wore off his happiness due to all the stress and responsibilities pressed onto his young shoulders. He used to talk about quitting every day before his contract finally ended. Jotaro was still doing his master’s degree at the time, but he knew that as soon as he had a sponsored doctorate under his belt, he’d never make Kakyoin work a day in his life ever again.

But this is how it works, is it not? Jotaro knows his place, and he’s more than content with it. If his head is going to work against his body forever, overachieving and showing that he’ll be the best damn life-partner in the world is all he really has to fall back on.

He taps his fingers against the table. Jotaro is fucking desperate for a smoke already. A part of him is embarrassed to lean on his dirty habit this early in the morning right in front of Kakyoin, but his itching hands are becoming unbearable.

“What’s up?” Kakyoin asks, looking up confused from his avocado-mushing.

Jotaro is out of his chair and reaching across the counter to open a window. “Letting air in.”

He doesn’t elaborate until he’s successfully completed the task at hand and is sat back down at the table. Just as Kakyoin places a plate in front of him, Jotaro swiftly lights the end of a cigarette and inhales, his prickling urge temporarily relieved.

Compensating for his bad table manners, he pulls an arm around Kakyoin’s shoulder and kisses his cheek, smoke dissipating from his lips. “You’re the best,” Jotaro breathes. “I’m so lucky.”

And in a lovely, surprising turn of mood, he gets all blushy and flustered. Jotaro smiles to himself as he watches Kakyoin glow in a stunned silence, completely excitable as he unsteadily recovers.

“Sorry,” Kakyoin wipes his red cheek, even though there’s nothing there. He sits down, grinning giddily, “Just wasn’t expecting that,” he mumbles.

Jotaro is ecstatic as he breaks the yolk of his egg with his fork, lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “Watch your back,” he quips.

“Oh shut up.”

Shared smiles and light, rolling conversation fills the remaining half an hour they have alone until the day truly begins. They pile plates in the bubbled sink water when they’re done eating, and Jotaro packs his work bag in the hallway while Kakyoin waits leant against the wall, checking his hair in the entryway mirror. Before he knows it, Jotaro is shoving a white cap on his head, kissing his boyfriend goodbye, and getting into his car.

It's a rough start as soon as he’s out on the road. Leaving Kakyoin hits him harder than he ever knew, and his heart races with anxiety, pumped with fear of the unknown. He goes through this most days, but his hands are actually weak at the joints right now, and Star Platinum has to intervene once again with the steering wheel. The car CD player slowly connects, plays his favourite heavy metal album, the long introduction of Metallica’s ‘Fade to black’ all he has to focus on.

There aren’t any enemy Stand users, not anymore. Not in this town. Jotaro hums fixatedly to the first lyrics, his tobacco flavoured mouth numb and dry. Kakyoin won’t be attacked. Kakyoin will be okay.

First stop: Application Form. Jotaro parks his car and knocks on the Higashikata’s front door, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. The guitar riff is stuck in his head, though it’s a pleasant, comforting feeling. Today’s weather is fine, nothing special. Cloudy, mild.

He can hear chaos booming around the walls inside, loud trashy music and gruff laughter. Rolling his eyes, he jams his finger on the doorbell hard, leaving it to ring for a long time. This seems to be effective. Quick footsteps suddenly pound on the floor as someone runs down the corridor.

The door is swung open with rough force, and now Jotaro knows immediately who’s behind it.

Just as he reckoned, there looms Okuyasu Nijimura: shoulder-length hair half-up in a topknot, dressed in deep grey tracksuit pants and a black vest, gold rings piled onto the fingers of the hand that he’s currently waving right in Jotaro’s face.

“Yo! Jotaro!” he shouts, drowsy eyes lighting up, “Wassup, my man?”

Jotaro manages a friendly enough wave back, genuinely happy to see him. They haven’t crossed paths this week at all. “Hey. I need to speak to-”

Josuke’s voice calls out from another room and cuts him off, fighting with the bass-boosted monstrosity they’ve got currently turned up all the way in there.

“Who is it, babe?”

“Your nephew!” Okuyasu calls back, exploding into a coughing fit. He then turns back to Jotaro and lets him in, clumsily closing the door behind them. It’s only then that Jotaro gets a proper smell of the guy, and his reddened eyes make sense. “Josuke’s in ‘ere,” he continues, leading him into the living room. Jotaro hovers in the doorframe as Okuyasu staggers over to turn down the music.

Josuke is sprawled on the sofa, watching commercials on the tv with minimal interest, completely preened as usual. Of course, his hair is perfectly done. The tailored purple trousers, Dior-monogrammed white t-shirt and silver hoop earrings he’s turned out in look hilariously over-dressed in his surroundings, as if he’s about to walk in Paris fashion week. Typical.

“Hiya, Jotaro,” he says, reaching into a bag of potato chips and not even looking up. “How’s it hanging?”

“Alright,” Jotaro mumbles, somehow unfazed and lost for words at the same time. He watches as Okuyasu plonks himself by Josuke’s side on the sofa. “I need your mom’s letter.”

“It’s there,” Josuke points behind him to the windowsill, where a sealed envelope sits basking in the strip of light under the closed pale curtains. Crazy Diamond takes it and chucks it right in Jotaro’s direction, the lethal strength of it setting Jotaro’s fight or flight off.

Star Platinum is summoned in less than a second, one flash of purple reacting at lightning speed and catching the envelope flawlessly.

“Thanks.” Jotaro mumbles, a little dizzy. He pulls his hat down out of habit and absorbs his surroundings with a strange fondness. How he misses being a teen. There’s something terribly nostalgic about the state and the overall aura of the room; that grungy soaked daze, optimism and misbehaviour.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” he eventually asks in Okuyasu’s direction, tucking the envelope safely into his bag.

“Naaah,” Okuyasu responds happily, “I got the day off. Store’s bein’ checked and shit, you know how it is.”

Jotaro hesitates, not really following his logic, but he brushes it off. Sometimes with Okuyasu, it’s best to just nod along.

“Yasu’s stoned,” Josuke mumbles, pointing out an obvious so much that it’s comical. He’s still shoving more chips into his mouth. It’s almost in the tone of a humoured apology.

“I can fucking see that,” Jotaro retorts, loitering besides the television.

Both teenagers laugh, lounging about like a right pair of idiots. What a damn sight to see, and this early in the morning, too. Jotaro’s somewhat impressed that they’ve timed it so well, with Tomoko being out and all. She’s a much stricter parent than Holly ever was.

The patterned, floral rug beneath him spins as he stares into it, completely away in thoughts of his mother crying, alone…crying…sickness…thorns…

Black. He blinks, gripping the side of the wall. The flowers on the rug are once again clear. No one notices.

“When you gonna light one up with me then, Professor?” Okuyasu laughs, kicking his leg over the sofa arm and leaning back into Josuke’s side. “You’re my best hope, man. Josuke won’t touch shit.”

As stupid a suggestion as it is, Jotaro would be lying if he said it wasn’t really secretly tempting. He could do with a break from his own thoughts more than anyone. Living in a void of simplistic hope like Okuyasu sounds like fucking bliss. Unfortunately, Jotaro knows the solution to his complex problems won’t be as simple as sharing a joint.

“I’ll stick with cigarettes, but thanks for the offer,” he half-laughs, almost breaking with desire for a quick relief, saliva balling up in the back of his mouth. He swallows, envious. But he can’t crack here.

He turns away. An entire day of work still looms ahead of him, and his watch is as clear indicator as any that he really needs to get going before the rush-hour traffic causes trouble.

“Wait,” Josuke says quickly. Jotaro looks behind his shoulder to see Josuke propping himself up and giving him a very sympathetic expression, “I forgot to say, Mom told me about Holly and your dad. Sorry, that’s gotta suck dude.”

“Shit, yeah,” Okuyasu chimes in, “Sorry too. You gonna beat his ass?”

It touches Jotaro, admittedly. Bad fathers seem to be a mutual sore point in this room, for all fucking three of them.

“Trust me,” Jotaro replies, not wanting to be an absolute downer in this dire conversation, “If I knew where his selfish ass was, I would.”

That gets a snort out of them both. Satisfied that he’s saved face, Jotaro bids the two teens goodbye and finally starts his daily commute, the beginning inkling of a wider temptation brewing in the back of his mind.

He’s only a danger to himself. Jotaro taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives out of Morioh. He’s only ever going to be a danger to himself.

The University campus is already alive by the time he arrives in the carpark by the biology buildings. Students are loitering around and heading to various morning commitments on the grassy paths around him. It’s all quite fascinating. It’s no stretch to say his student experience was vastly different, though Jotaro will be the first to admit that perhaps he was just always the different one. Not many other people go through from undergrad to PhD completely silent and miserable.

Jotaro studied in Tokyo, loyal to his same university all the way from his first year to his doctorate. It just made sense, the whole arrangement. He was close to Holly and his grandparents, and Kakyoin was too working in the city for the SPW. Though Kakyoin was required to travel a bit here and there, most days consisted of them both returning to their apartment in the evening and having enough time to make a decent living for themselves. Jotaro saw no need for partying or socialising with other students: a natural introvert he is at heart, but it didn’t help that he was still deeply emotionally impacted from all the events of the crusaders’ journey. He and Kakyoin were support systems, crutches for one another. Back then, it was a little easier for Jotaro to open up about how shit it was for his head, though even still he never dared venture into specifics. Kakyoin was still in and out of hospital for his long-term wound recovery, at the time. Jotaro’s issues seemed stupid in comparison.

Perhaps he should have tried harder. Hiding has done him no good.

Whatever. Jotaro now strides up the stairs of the biology building, winding down halls to his office. Loud, purposeful, harsh footsteps. Long legs pound the ground rhythmically as he breezes past anyone else hanging around, his brim down low, slight scowl permanently welded onto his face.

Ignore, ignore, ignore. It’s the only way he can get any work done around here. Hanging about in the staffroom is a fantastic way for only one of two things to happen: the first, a group of women professors to start crowding around him in an annoying flirtatious effort, or the second, for some faculty leader to breathe down his neck about deadlines. No fucking thanks. Not worth it.

Room 157. Right at the end of the corridor. Keys are jammed into the lock of that heavy wooden door, adorned with an engraved metal plaque: ‘Dr Jotaro Kujo, Professor of Marine Biology.’

He follows through, shuts himself in. A flick of the light switch reveals the cosy organised chaos of his office, the old forest green carpet, the dark wood desk and shelves, stacks of books and papers and artifacts scattered. The blinds of his window are still open from yesterday. On his walls are large sweeping landscapes of oceans, structured maps, coloured ink prints of sea-life. Of course, his obligatory doctorate is framed on the wall, along with a photograph of the species of starfish he investigated for his thesis.

At his desk, he drops his bag to the floor and slumps into his chair, the flimsy material creaking under his size. The blank screen of his monitor stares right at him, his grumpy face brooding in the reflection. He softens it intentionally, allowing himself to relax as he turns his computer on. There’s no need for him to leave here until after 1pm, when he has his first class to teach. For now, he’s safe.

As he stretches his legs out under the desk, he accidentally hits one of the many almost empty whiskey bottles hiding underneath it, two of them now clanging together and rolling sideways on the carpet.

He swears under his breath as he reaches down to hold them in place, the reminiscence of the echoing glass ringing in the silent air. Luckily, the lids were on properly. He shoves them back into place.

Jotaro hasn’t touched them in over a month.

But they’re still there. Just in case. Stagnant, awaiting him like a row of sneering people. Awaiting his arrival back down that, deep, dark hole. A cushion to catch his fall if he needed it.

Distracting himself with paperwork sounds like a good option right now.

Jotaro knows he’s supposed to hate the duties of his job, complain about the long hours and repeated tasks, but to him there’s little emotive anger connected to it at all. There’s a peace in the mundane, for him.

Today’s lesson is already planned, but he spends the next hour going through his lecture notes anyway. Jotaro is completely indifferent when it comes to the teaching part of his role here. Even though he has the least classes of anyone else in his department, it drains him whole having to deliver hours’ worth of content to a room full of (mostly) eager eyes and ears.

Thankfully for him, most of his students choose to go to his more ‘approachable’ colleagues for questions. Besides the odd handful of female students who have thrown themselves at him in some horribly illegal romantic attempts, they mostly leave him be. Usually there’s only one or two a year, but it stills boils Jotaro’s temper regardless. Thanks to the blessing and curse that is Joestar family looks, no one around here takes him seriously as a professional.

It’s a well-known (and highly fucking embarrassing) fact that his nickname amongst the students and staff is “Dr Dreamy”, to the extent that even people who aren’t in his department refer to him as such, as if he’s some object for the entire university to degrade and goggle at. Jotaro hates it down to his very core. What would be an ego-boost for most makes him feel disgusting. Walking anywhere on campus is hell when he knows people are staring and whispering at him even when he’s got his hat down and the collar of his long coat pulled all the way up to his jaw. And it’s not even the whispers themselves, it’s what they whisper. Things they want to do with him, explicit fantasies. And the girls are loud and giggly about it, sometimes so loud that he can hear everything they’re saying as he walks by, like it’s some fucking joke.

Which is why he is only truly safe closed away in his office, where the only eyes gazing upon him are those in the picture that he has of Kakyoin on his desk: one he took across the table at a restaurant in Osaka on his 20th birthday. Those kind violet eyes would never treat him with a cruel, superficial stare.

His mobile rings just after 9. Jotaro quickly staples together his final wad of notes and rushes for his bag that sits an arm’s reach away, rummaging around until he can get the stupid loud device open and quiet as soon as possible.

Incoming call: Gramps

Jotaro huffs as he leans back into his chair, bringing his phone to his ear.

“Hello? Old man?”

There’s a moment of rustling noises before Joseph answers, clearing his throat first. Jotaro does the mental maths in this short period of time: it must be evening in New York, roughly 8pm at the latest.

“Jotaro? Ah, there I can hear you now. ‘Scuse the noise, there’s bloody construction workers still drilling outside.”

Jotaro leans on his elbow and quietly sighs. His relationship with his grampa is complicated. They’ve always been close, but with the occasional strains along the way. Joseph was pretty much his paternal figure for most of his childhood, especially when his dad left, and has always looked after Holly when times were shit. They’d drifted a little in his teenage years but then DIO happened and after Egypt…well, how could they not reconnect? Things were great after that, admittedly. Jotaro began to see Joseph as more of a friend. Though, last year had made things very difficult. Jotaro adores his grandma Suzie and seeing her crushed by Joseph’s unfaithfulness was hard.

But unlike the rest of his family, Jotaro did not blow up in Joseph’s face about it. The old man got more than enough mouth from everyone else, and Jotaro just simmered away his anger. He doesn’t excuse cheating by any means…but he understands.

Because after their journey, Jotaro and Joseph had a lot of time to bond, many of those occasions being over drinks at his house. And after a couple beers, Joseph would always divert to one topic with glossy eyes. That subject being a man called Caesar. A man he still loves, a man whose death led him to cover up suspicion and grief with a marriage.

So yeah. Jotaro gets it, sadly. Because if that were him, he knows he’d do the same.

“Right. Why are you calling, Jiji? I’m at work.”

“You spoke to Holly yesterday, didn’t you? I just wanted to know how you were feeling about everything. Believe it or not, I still worry about you, you piece of shit.”

Jotaro reclines into his chair and crosses one leg over the other, a half-hearted laugh accidentally escaping. He can’t believe the old man even attempted to fake being senile, the bastard.

“Pssshh. I don’t care. We always knew Sadao was a fucking loser. He’s dead to me.”

He hears Joseph erupt into laughter on the end of the line, muffled by faint construction noises.

“You have no fucking clue. I begged Holly not to marry him.”

Jotaro clicks the end of his pen, chuckling to himself.

“Should’ve tried harder, old man.”

There’s a group of people stood right outside of Jotaro’s room, and he can hear them chattering even with the door shut. It’s irritating him immensely, so he turns a loud fan on out of pure spite to drown them out.

“Anyway. So, things over your end are alright then? How’s everyone?” Joseph asks, clearly walking around in his garden by the sounds of birds in the background.

“Things are good. Josuke’s just started nursing college. He’s getting on well there, I think.”

Joseph stalls a little at the mention of Josuke but manages to quickly pick a sentence back up regardless.

“Ah, yes I did hear about that. Clever kid, he is. I spoke to him on the phone last week, actually. He really wants to come to the SPW conference, I’m trying to get him and that friend of his tickets.”

Jotaro had almost forgotten about the Speedwagon Foundation conference amongst all his other hang ups. In a couple of months, the Tokyo HQ branch is hosting a huge fancy exclusive event with all members and friends of the foundation to reveal their successes and advancements in science, business and technology. People are going to be flying in from all over the globe to be there, and it’ll be the most golden opportunity for anyone looking to network with social elites.

All of his family will of course be in attendance, along with their friends who have close ties to the foundation. Joseph is giving a speech (he is the current CEO, after all) but Jotaro is also expected to give a speech, as he is next in line to inherit the entire foundation.

“Shit. I still haven’t written my fucking speech.”

“Well, you’ve got a bloody while to worry about that. Get Noriaki to help you, you’re awful at anything related to words.”

Jotaro gets a post-it note and begins to scribble down a reminder, “Fuck off,” he groans, “You’re not exactly eloquent yourself, you loud mouthed bastard.” He sticks it to the top of his monitor, the messy word ‘Speech!’ sprawled onto neon orange paper in his horrible handwriting.

They spend the next ten minutes sharing ideas back and forth, Jotaro whining about how he got roped into all of this in the first place, and Joseph sympathising. They talk a little more about Josuke, about Holly, about Kakyoin. Just filling in the gaps of distance here and there, small details of everyday life that they’ve each missed out on. By the time Jotaro has said goodbye and put his phone away, he feels somewhat refreshed.

It's quite hard for him to get back to work, after that. He thinks of the stage, dark sophisticated lights shining down on him, SPW banners, a crowd. Kakyoin’s face, somewhere in the audience, glowing with pride in between rows of strangers. Wide eyes. Hushed silence, his cleared throat.

If there’s one thing his crazy family teaches him, it is that all things will settle. Though Jotaro knows his ancestors and friends have papered over cracks and struggled, happiness has been found by the Joestars in the most unexpected of places. He could even say the same had happened to him, though of course, it came at a tremendous cost.

Jotaro grades an assessment paper, humming away to himself. His shoe taps glass.

Scratchy lettering is written around this student’s essay, Jotaro’s comments and marks neatly settled in the margin. He pauses after the third page to read his last few corrections back, noticing that he’s just spaced out for almost a whole minute. Bad news. This happens more than he’d like to admit.

He swallows down hard at the sight of what he’s just written, frustrated shaky hands scribbling right over three particular comments in a humiliatingly unprofessional black smudge:

‘The journey isn’t over.’
‘DIO.’
‘Get out of my head.’

Jotaro discards his pen and slumps his face back down into his arms, folded over the desk. This is fucking hopeless.

Productivity is shoved aside. Jotaro excludes himself from reality, away in the clouds. He dreams of whiskey on his tongue, drugs in his blood. Kakyoin’s blushed cheeks. A cold sea breeze to completely numb his skin.

Chapter Text

Elegant weekend sun filters through the store-front window. Outside, tourists and locals intermingle in a curiously eccentric herd as they pass by on the busy pavements. Jotaro watches them all absently, scowling at a particularly large group of girls that have just caught his eye and turned to giggle at each other.

He crosses his arms and sighs, his back now turned and his attention shifting to the overpriced health food shop he’s lingering around in. Kakyoin is really squinting at a label on a can of chickpeas, his glasses stuck right up against his nose.

“Just put it in,” Jotaro groans, jangling the half-full basket that’s clutched in his hand. Someone across the store is staring daggers at him, at them. Jotaro is one second from blistering red across his vision, his tone accidentally too harsh for such a simple request in Kakyoin’s direction.

Numbingly oblivious, Kakyoin shrugs and gives up, chattering away light-heartedly about something that Jotaro can’t concentrate on as he places the can in the basket and moves on down the aisle.

Errands on a glorious weekend should be free from a bad situation. But Jotaro can’t relax, no matter how hard he begs of himself to. Leaving the house is tied to some sort of difficulty even at the best of times.

It’s all because Jotaro’s inner conscious seeks chaos like a magnet. If there is no problem, his imagination will churn overtime to create one. Without a need to punch, to grimace, to hurt…he is lost from his sense of self.

And someone is really testing that boundary today. The invasive stranger turns to glance at Jotaro for a fourth time with a judgemental flourish and he returns the exchange with a look of death, his dark features tense. This proves successful. She is horrified, taken aback. She leaves his view. His nails dig into his palm.

“Which ones do you like better, JoJo?” Kakyoin asks energetically, away in another world, two bags of apples shiny in his hands, “I think I might try using the rose ones to cook with.”

Jotaro’s arm instinctually moves to lightly graze the curve of Kakyoin’s waist. A protective effort. It’s all he can do right now to bring himself back to life.

“Sure, sounds great. Go with that.”

He almost has to speak through gritted teeth, his jaw sore from the building pressure. Jotaro is as sensitive as a hurricane, ready to spiral and drag anything in his path: consumed and raging like an all-powerful spirit. The ceiling is too low, the air too thick, every sound from every passing customer loud enough to shatter the inside of his ears.

Meanwhile, Kakyoin is pleased and unaware. He drops the fruits in the basket, humming along to himself.

In the process, he happily grabs Jotaro’s spare hand in an endearing move of public affection.

And unfortunately, horrifically, Jotaro flinches dramatically at the touch.

His hand recoils back immediately. Black static fills his view, snapping in and out of consciousness in a split second, nightmarish vampiric cackles ringing everywhere.

It’s like a scene from his darkest, most vivid night terrors. Hurt flashes briefly on Kakyoin’s face like a slap, and their little weekend bubble bursts into rain.

Jotaro panics like his life depends on it, a stinging heavy sensation brewing in his chest. Breathe. He flicks through damage control like it’s an already extensive list in his head.

“Sorry,” he breathes, “Was daydreaming.”

Kakyoin winds down, simply laughing hesitantly and fiddling with the end of his long braid.

“Idiot,” he mumbles adorably, clearly pretending to be mad. Or unclearly. Jotaro’s heart beats so fast with anxiety that he can’t really tell.

Ouch. Jotaro clears his throat and rubs the rim of his hat for security, looking at his shoes as he follows Kakyoin around the rest of the store like a lost puppy, still stunned in shock and deeply ashamed of himself.

He counts. He counts over and over. It’s either this or lose his breathing. His chest hurts, and at a time like this he’d usually lie down but this is not quite a convenient resting location, quite the fucking opposite, actually.

Desperate means. Jotaro summons Star Platinum to sneak behind him, and he carefully reaches his Stand’s strong hand into his own ribcage to take a gentle hold of his heart, squeezing it until his pulse slows substantially.

The edges of his vision start to go faint. Good. A little more. Perfect. Star Platinum lets go. Jotaro inhales deeply, a spark of Hamon igniting in his blood and resetting his system. Joseph’s random passed-down tricks aren’t half bad.

By the time they’re huddled over the self-checkout, weighing packed vegetables and placing them into woven shopping bags, they’re both quiet. Kakyoin especially. Jotaro notes it in his brain nervously like he’s jotting down a lesson, filed away in a shaking cage.

The temptation to stop time with The World is strong. But he lets seconds draw out into unbearable painful lengths of silence, besides the ruffling and beeping of the scanner.

“I’ll take these,” is the first thing Jotaro says, slinging the two heavy shopping bags over his shoulder and taking the weight from Kakyoin’s arms. It’s sickeningly gentlemanly, yes, but Kakyoin’s strength has never recovered fully from his injuries back in 1989 and Jotaro isn’t taking chances.

Kakyoin has grown past feeling patronised by such acts of kindness. He smiles a little half-heartedly, a little shyly. Sincerely enough that Jotaro feels warm inside.

“Thanks.”

They make their way out onto the street together, sun blinding their view as they walk side by side back to the car. People are everywhere right now, spilling onto the roads, snapping pictures of the town with cameras and sitting outside on café tables.

Kakyoin mumbles something about forgetting to replace his current reading glasses with sunglasses. He takes a lip balm out of his pocket and applies excessive coats of it. Jotaro fixates on how shiny his lips are once the wax is slicked across them, glittering in the sunshine. Honey flavour. Jotaro can smell it faintly in the air between them even when the lid is back on it. He suddenly craves sugar.

Once they reach the quiet side street where their car is parked, Jotaro unloads the shopping into the backseat and they both eventually climb into the front. The doors are shut, and the sound of the lock rings to confirm it. Jotaro does his seatbelt as he goes to start the ignition, but his gut feeling crushes him whole as he gets an overwhelming aura from Kakyoin sitting there so silently in the passenger seat beside him. He halts.

His intuition proves accurate. Kakyoin is looking down passively.

And then the worst thing that could have possibly happened, happens. Because for some reason, Kakyoin’s eyes start to well up with tears.

“Why do you n-never want to hold my hand in…in…,” Kakyoin chokes back a small sob, “…in public, any-anymore?”

Oh fuck.

Jotaro shuts down. What an enormous monster of a misunderstanding. And it’s all his fault, for being so fucking messed up in the head. He’s fucked up majorly, and the worst part is that there’s no way he can tell Kakyoin the truth. He didn’t choose for his body to react like that earlier. Unexpected touch sometimes sets off his nervous flashbacks. Like a landmine. Jotaro wants to bang his head into the steering wheel. Fucking pathetic, as always, and now he’s gone and made his boyfriend cry. He’s the worst person ever.

But he just sits still, tightens his hands into a fist. Then loosens them.

“That’s not true,” Jotaro replies as calmly as possible, not knowing what to look at. He picks his own lap to stare at. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to pull away.”

Kakyoin takes his glasses off as he wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve, before putting them back on with shaky fingers.

“It’s fine, I just- never mind. I’m fine-”

“No,” Jotaro interrupts firmly, his mouth dry and burning with shame, “It’s not fine. Talk to me.”

And Kakyoin does try to talk. But he falls at the first hurdle of a word, opting to turn away and cry into his sleeve.

It’s never an easy sight. Jotaro is prepared, yet still newly heartbroken as he leans over to hug his boyfriend tight. A solemn, quiet “C’mere,” breathes from his lips as he lets Kakyoin melt into his grasp. It happens. Kakyoin is a sensitive soul, too deeply wounded himself by his long past of loneliness to truly brush these sorts of little things aside.

“Nori, talk to me,” Jotaro attempts once more as he rocks Kakyoin gently, deliberately patient.

In the back of his mind, he pictures a water-tower. Blood spilling from an open wound. Kakyoin, talk to me. Please talk. Please wake up. Open your eyes, don’t die on me… Blood on his green gakuran, blood in his hair-

“Why did you stop?” Kakyoin whispers, trembling into his shoulder shyly. “Is it because people look at us?”

No. No, no, NO-

“Of course not,” Jotaro blurts, screwing his eyes shut. Every inch of anger he feels towards his own stupidity stabs right into his skin, prickling heat. Too fearful of misdirecting it, he exhales deeply, letting everything dissipate. “Since when have I ever cared about what people think of me? You know that.”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Kakyoin knows that. That’s why he’s fucking asking-

“There was no reason,” Jotaro continues right away, boiling with incompetency, “It’s just been accidents, baby,” he soothes, brushing Kakyoin’s hair with his fingers and talking close into his ear, cold metal from all his lover’s earrings pressing into his cheek, “I’m sorry.”

It does the trick, conceals all the hidden baggage like a fresh sheet of paper. White lies don’t hurt, can’t hurt. White lies haven’t failed Jotaro so far.

Kakyoin’s sweet voice muffles into Jotaro’s shoulder as he clings to him, “It’s okay,” he says, “I was just confused, I didn’t mean to get upset-”

“Shhh,” Jotaro cuts him off, “Don’t. Was my fault.”

He’ll happily take all the blame, lift it onto his shoulders along with the decade of burden he piles up there. The truth is never worth telling, no matter how painful it is to bend over backwards avoiding it.

With the rocky beginnings of that small storm now cleared, they drive home in lighter spirits. Jotaro pays close attention to the road in full preparation for a slip-up, one hand glued to the wheel and the other tracing circles into Kakyoin’s thigh.

All it takes is a flinch, a flash of neon, sometimes even water, blood, particular shades of yellow, the smell of sand, certain words. And the list grows by the day, all small triggers like a loaded gun in his head, building up for him to walk on eggshells around.

Seeing Kakyoin cry has opened up his vulnerable memories enough to shake him up for a few hours. That’s how it always starts: one small reminder and Jotaro becomes hyper-sensitive to anything relating to that day in Cairo. If an ambulance were to pass him on the road right now, for instance, he’d be fucked.

But he holds out hope, knowing that he’s only going to have to drive less than three minutes to get home. You don’t really see or hear ambulances in Morioh that often. The last time Jotaro saw one was with Yoshikage Kira’s head squashed under it, and that was more than a year ago.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a faint green glow, a familiar presence that does not faze him one bit. Slimy phantom arms are reaching around to hug Jotaro from behind. Hierophant Green.

“Can’t distract you while you’re driving,” Kakyoin smiles coyly, mumbling and turning away to look out the window. His eyes are still a little red around the edges, along with his nose.

What a fucking dork. Jotaro grins and shakes his head without caring or thinking too deeply about any of his current woes, the comforting gesture of his boyfriend’s Stand so silly and cute that he can’t help but feel suddenly elated.

“Idiot,” he snorts. Hierophant kisses him on the cheek, all shiny and wet and slightly gross.

Despite both their best efforts to resolve anything with words as well as they can, it goes without saying that neither Jotaro nor Kakyoin grew up with the gift of verbal strength. Though Kakyoin has evolved into a beautifully eloquent and thoughtful speaker, when it comes to some things, there is a mutual understanding of the importance of physical action. This is a prime example. It’s slightly socially inept and adorably awkward, but that’s just Kakyoin.

With Hierophant’s touch firm on his skin, Jotaro knows that no harm was done at all. A silent peace offering, if you will. And a very sweet one, at that.

“Ora,” he hears whining out of the backseat, Star Platinum seemingly summoned without him even noticing at the sudden appearance of Hierophant, “Ora.”

“Piss off, Star,” Jotaro grumbles, swerving gingerly around the corner and almost hitting the pavement “I’m concentrating.”

Kakyoin’s head is now turned, amused at whatever the hell Star Platinum is getting up to in the back of the car. Jotaro doesn’t give his Stand the time of day until he feels Hierophant being ripped from his embrace, and he catches on. Star is pulling Hierophant away by the shoulders, possessively claiming Kakyoin’s Stand for himself.

“Ora!” Star cries out in triumph, cradling Hierophant in the backseat. Kakyoin stifles a laugh. Jotaro pulls his hat down and turns red as anything, breathing out in confused, pained agony. Of course, they can both feel the sensation of their Stands holding each other, a ghost-like pressure in the air around them.

Star Platinum comforts Hierophant like he’s petting a sick animal, stroking its head and rocking it back and forth. Jotaro is mortified as he loses control of his Stand, praying that if he disengages his brain that Star will lose energy and cut it out.

“Manifestation of the soul, as Avdol says,” Kakyoin gleams, thoroughly enjoying this.

And it’s true.

Jotaro bites down on his tongue.

“Yeah yeah, whatever.”

Much to Jotaro’s relief, they return home free of notable situation, and their Stands slowly do fade from their collective conscious. Though Kakyoin is seemingly recovered and well-looking after their miscommunication earlier, Jotaro remains wary.

Things are packed away. They settle in the sitting room, lingering touches and soft conversation flowing like weather. They talk of pleasant sunny memories, school and early adulthood, stupid antics from simpler days.

And Jotaro rewinds, these times sweet enough and easy enough for him to mentally revisit without trouble. As they share stories, he takes his lover in with a sort of caution, his gaze like a time machine as he remembers the fresh-faced seventeen-year-old Kakyoin he met all those years ago: that shy, unobtrusive boy that could barely hold a conversation with him.

Funnily enough, he recalls all the time and effort it had taken him to persuade Kakyoin that it was fine for them to hold hands in school. Because it had been a damn struggle. He mentions this, apologising for the sore subject, yet Kakyoin just laughs at him.

“Wow, okay, we’re going there, are we?” Kakyoin jokes, prodding Jotaro’s cheek, “All I’ll say is that you were the hottest guy in school, and I had grown up a loner, so yes, I had a shock of culture pretty quick when you wanted to parade me around school like your little pet.”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Jotaro smirks, “I thought you might have gotten a kick out of it.”

To which Kakyoin pulls a face, rolling his eyes in despair. “You are so up your own ass,” he quips, smiling like a maniac. His hands have planted themselves firmly against the sides of Jotaro’s stubbled cheeks, cool slender fingers pressing into his skin, “When it comes to you, nothing’s changed.”

Kakyoin is so painfully wrong, too drastically unaware that everything has changed: Jotaro is a shell, nothing at all, a mind of shedding brittle layers, a man plagued by horrors.

But Jotaro is on cloud nine hearing that, those glorious words reaffirming that his plan has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Kakyoin has no fucking idea about any of it, and Jotaro is so proud of himself that he’s close to applauding his own efforts.

In his boyfriend’s eyes he is the same brooding arrogant delinquent, only brushed up and older. How fucking glorious, that one can live such a fucking perfect lie.

“Neither have you,” Jotaro says, his smug gaze piercing his lover’s own with purpose, “You’re still such a goody-two-shoes.”

Playfully offended, Kakyoin almost chokes on his own breath, before leaning right in to press their foreheads together.

“Oh, shut up,” he mumbles, “You’re secretly into it.”

Jotaro is dizzy as they exist so close that they swim in each other’s breath, prolonged eye contact making him intense. Kakyoin’s bottom lashes are insanely long. He’s so perfect, angelic. Jotaro can never ruin him. He can never, ever, ever ruin him-

Their lips meet all at once, too fast, just fast enough. Jotaro allows himself to bite down, to tug and taste light honey in his mouth, to take in everything he wants.

“Let me make it up to you.”

It’s the last coherent sentence Jotaro says in that moment, whispered roughly as he kisses under Kakyoin’s jaw. They are restless to the absolute degree. Kakyoin is silk in Jotaro’s hands, the most precious flowing delicacy he cannot let tarnish.

This is why I hide.

His lover’s tongue swipes over his own.

I do it for you.

Light fingers work at his shirt buttons.

Everything I do.

Jotaro soaks him in, half ashamed and half gloating in his own self-absorbed mirror. He is not okay. None of this is fucking okay.

To protect you.

Chapter Text

It is sparkling darkened gold in his intricately patterned glass, a liquid sitting so politely for him. It is waiting, calling him, a siren-like allure to its smell. Strong, neat, efficient.

Jotaro’s finger traces the rim of it, mouth watering as he swallows down on his own spit, any self-reflection drowned out by the hundreds of loud voices overlapping in this trendy packed bar.

Kakyoin, Josuke and Okuyasu count for three of said voices. The group of four are comfortably tucked away in a booth by one of the upstairs windows, their high late-night view of S-City spectacular and teeming with rich light and life. Shopping bags cram by their legs under the table from their pleasant day out, shades of lux whites and dark reds, filled to the brim with clothes. Most are Josuke’s doing, to no surprise.

Crumpled cigarettes are scattered in an ashtray between where Jotaro and Okuyasu are sat opposite each other. Empty glasses lazily await their next round. Broad, loud conversations and clinking drinks battle with the modern music filing out through the speakers on all three floors, noise swirling into one collective buzz.

Kakyoin’s head is resting on Jotaro’s shoulder, his slightly drunken weight so comforting in these drowned out, crowded surroundings. Jotaro has had his arm around him all evening. They are moulded into each other like stone, like rock. Unmoving.

So are the couple sat opposite them, it seems. Okuyasu also has his arm around Josuke, the sight of them unashamedly attached very touching. It’s as if Jotaro is looking into a warped mirror, the two teenagers he is facing a reminder of his own turbulent youth. It’s hard not to get a bit soppy about it.

The gossipy, light-hearted discussion between the group escalates through various topics, all of them hanging on to each other’s sloppy words, collectively invested. They’ve been here for an hour already at least, and yet Jotaro is still nursing a second glass of whiskey.

Dangerous overloads of temptation sit right under his nose, in that glass. There’s too long of a history there, too risky of a line for him to cross. Not here. Not here.

“Oh, you gotta believe me man,” Josuke slurs, elbows fully on the table as he addresses Kakyoin enthusiastically about his nursing classes, “We had to cut its stomach open. It was gross! Just like that rat Jotaro and I caught last year, and you could see all its insides and shit-”

“No way,” Kakyoin leans forward, the two of them wide-eyed and engrossed in the subject, “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious. We had to pull out its intestines.”

Jotaro returns his gaze from staring holes into his drink to smirk, “If you’re gagging at a cut open rat, Josuke, you’re gonna be the world’s shittiest paramedic.”

“I wish I was there,” Okuyasu chimes in eventually, roughly two seconds behind the rest of them. His greatly scarred left hand lifts a beer bottle, tipping it up so he can take an almighty swig of the stuff. “Sounds awesome. Feel bad for the rat though...shit… Imagine dyin’ so a load of college kids can stare at your liver.”

“It’s sad,” Kakyoin asserts, deep in thought, eyebrows slightly tense as he ponders, “Poor little creature.”

“Well, anyway,” Josuke shrugs, fiddling with his hair, “I passed the dissection. Some of the girls fainted. I think I’m better with blood after getting mauled by Stands left right and centre all last summer.”

“And did Crazy Diamond help?” Jotaro jabs as he picks up his glass of whiskey with sweat-ridden hands. It’s just one sip. It’s just one more sip. “You’ve got a piss easy cop out card.”

Josuke sips on the straw of his cocktail, glaring playfully. The drink is bright red, watermelon flavoured or something of the sort. Probably full of sugar. Jotaro just knows that Kakyoin’s biting his tongue about E-numbers or synthetic additives right now.

“He did not. Fuck you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jotaro sips his own drink, all in one go. He feels the warm burn of it down his throat, lingering at the back of his mouth. Rounded and spiced.

See? He wants to tell himself, Not that hard now, was it?

Maybe his brain purposefully wants to destroy all the memories of him chugging it in the car, throwing it up in the lecture hall bins after a day of teaching, stealing a glass before bed. Feeling itchy when one wasn’t near him in case he had to flush out a bad flashback.

But that was one long month ago, and he’s not like that anymore. He isn’t.

“Oh well,” Okuyasu suddenly yawns, slouching into the cushioned back of the booth, “Even if he’s a dirty little cheat with his Stand, Josuke’ll be a great nurse when he graduates, won’t you babe?” He gives Josuke a little shake, and Josuke smiles widely at him in response, straw still in his mouth. “I wanna have a go drivin’ a fuckin’ ambulance.”

“I think you’ll get him fired,” Kakyoin laughs, squeezing Jotaro’s hand under the table, “You’re both such liabilities, the pair of you.”

“You sound like my mom,” Josuke takes over, excitedly rushing over his words, “But she’s happy because me and Yasu are hoping to move out soon, and we won’t be causin’ trouble at home anymore. We’re saving. Dad’s given me loads of money this year. Speedwagon money,” he grins, “I’m talkin’ huge fucking checks. The Foundation’s been sending them to me every month in the mail.”

“Nice,” Jotaro and Kakyoin say at the same time, unplanned. “Extort the old fucker,” Jotaro adds, grinning evilly.

“Oh, I am,” Josuke flips his hand, smugly turning his nose up, “Who do you think paid for all these designer shoes I bought today?”

They all explode into a collective laughter, even Jotaro highly amused at the thought. For a moment, he is away from worry, just enjoying this time spent with some of the few people in the world he cares about.

Okuyasu slaps his knees and gets up, staggering slightly. “Right, I’m gettin’ another round. Same, as you lot?”

“You know me so well,” Josuke gushes, kissing his boyfriend on the nose.

“Oh, bless you, yes please,” Kakyoin smiles kindly, pushing his empty glass of white-wine spritzer to the side.

Jotaro panics. And he bottles it. “Yeah, thanks,” he says, instantly regretting it as Okuyasu gives him a thumbs up and walks away. He’s half tempted to drag him back by the shoulders.

But it’s just one more. One. More.

He zones out as Kakyoin and Josuke chat across the table. Out of the window, a long way below him, cars are queuing in a late-night traffic jam, red lights glowing in the dark sky.

Jotaro wonders where they’re all going, how many of them are unhappy. And he wonders if anyone has a story to tell like his but knows deep down in his aching ribs that they don’t, they can’t.

And he pictures himself running into the middle of the road, rain soaking his skin, screaming into the night as cars swerve past him. “I killed him!” he’d shout, shout until his lungs wore thin. “I killed Dio! I killed Dio with my bare hands, you pieces of shit!” And yet no one would know who Dio was. No one would care.

Everyone cheers when Okuyasu comes shuffling back to the table with drinks in arms. Glasses clink, words flow, and so does the alcohol. Jotaro doesn’t need to pretend to enjoy it, because God, this third whiskey tastes and feels fucking incredible. It’s almost like a long-lost, manipulative friend.

“I’m glad you’re able to relax tonight,” Kakyoin smiles up at him, affectionate words slightly quiet, “You’ve been so busy at work. It’s nice to see you having fun.”

Jotaro pulls him in, kisses the top of Kakyoin’s forehead. Twice, once for love and once more for show, because he adores making him feel loved in that cheesy, unconditional way.

“Yeah,” he whispers. It’s all he can muster, because he really doesn’t feel like lying through his teeth right now. Kakyoin has broken out into a shocked blush, looking as though he’s just won the lottery.

“Oi, oi! Get a room, you two oldies,” Okuyasu chortles, knocking back another beer. Josuke gets the giggles. He looks away from watching them, somewhat shyly. It’s nice, Jotaro thinks, for him to have some older gay peers to look up to when it comes to these sorts of things, to show him that it’s okay, that there’s nothing to be scared of. Josuke’s expressed this to him quite a handful of times. It’s sweet.

“Oh, like you two can talk,” Kakyoin teases, and the two eighteen-year-olds laugh.

This glass of whiskey hits Jotaro head-on, his body relaxed and languid, his guards up and arrogant. He feels that buzz he lost long ago, that buzz he used to feel as a teenager who thought he owned the world and everything in it.

His gaze snaps to a bartender who is up and waiting to a table near, nodding firmly and holding his hand up with his glass in it. “Another of these,” he calls out, and the waiter nods. Staff tend not to question Jotaro, not with his size and appearance. No one bats an eyelid. The other three are deep in conversation anyway. Jotaro can’t focus. He wants another fucking drink.

Jotaro picks up halfway through the conversation, his mouth watering just thinking about that next glass. “Was my dad like…totally cool with it?” he hears Josuke asking, wide-eyed and curious in Kakyoin’s direction, Okuyasu hanging onto every word. “If he doesn’t care about Jotaro, he won’t care about me, right?”

Josuke doesn’t know about Caesar. Jotaro reckons it’ll do him the world of good, but it’s not his story to tell.

Kakyoin gives Jotaro a side-eye, clearly hinting for aid. “Yeah, he didn’t mind at all. Like I said, our friends Mo and Jean were in a relationship too. It was just…normal. I don’t really know how else to describe it.”

“But you all stayed together in hotels right? Did you not feel awkward like…doing things?”

“Things?” Kakyoin half-chokes, tucking hair behind his ear, “As in?”

“Oh you know what I mean.”

The waiter comes over with Jotaro’s drink. He almost cries with delight as he gets it down in one go, playing it cool as he slams the glass back down on the table.

“Wasn’t us making a racket in the hotel room,” Jotaro interjects, slamming his empty glass clumsily back down onto the table and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “We were still on the holding hands stage, then. Couldn’t even kiss Nori without him turning red.”

“Awww,” Josuke and Okuyasu poke fun in unison. Josuke reaches over and pats Kakyoin on the head, not messing up his hair out of morals, of course, “Is that true?” he giggles.

“Maybe,” Kakyoin mumbles into his drink, a smile turning up at the corners of his mouth.

And as Josuke continues to interject rapid-fire silly questions in Kakyoin’s direction, Jotaro leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling, zoning out into the patterns of deep reds and brown within its decorations. Memories of Kakyoin young and shy and seventeen and blushing into his shoulder are the only parts of 1989 he can bear to remember.

Fondly, he thinks of grotty hotel rooms, where they were once safe, unscarred. When Jotaro thought he was unbeatable and unbreakable, was just happy to hide away after battle and kiss his new pretty boyfriend on hotel rooftops, trade souvenirs of stones and cherry-sweet wrappers and notes. And though he was by no means innocent then, he was in a bubble. Up until that fiftieth day…he had shone.

Pleasant memories. They won’t last long.

But Jotaro basks in the euphoria of this temporary whiskey-flavoured fix, letting his friends’ loud conversation swirl into a lullaby.

He’s missed this so fucking much.

“Going for some air,” he explains, voice low and on a mission as he gets up to stroke Kakyoin’s cheek and move past him out of the booth. Completely normal, almost expected. Jotaro likes to disappear on walks in social situations, half smoker’s habit and half from recharging his social tolerance. And Kakyoin knows, because his initially concerned look softens very quickly into an understanding, reassuring nod.

Jotaro slips past the masses of people huddling around tables and at the bar as he makes his way to the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets. Everyone here is young, pretentious. Well-dressed and showy. It was Josuke’s choice, after all. But Jotaro doesn’t mind, because in a place as ridiculous as this, he doesn’t stand out. His hand grips the gold banister out of caution, making it to the ground floor and manoeuvring himself to the main doors.

Naturally, it is chilly this time of night, and the dark sky melts all around him. Here, in the city centre, everything is plagued and polluted by light, light so neon and bright and brash. Jotaro sways into the crowds who are walking to and from, hanging around on the pavement outside and leaning against the outside wall of the bar, breeze heavenly on his skin.

He steps forward. The main road is a good four or so metres from his shiny shoes. Cars whirl by him so fast, too fast. One by one, each one a different person, a different story. They are unstoppable, constant. No breaks between them. It’s just over and over, car after car, flashes of headlights moving past him before he can blink or swallow down on his own spit.

Hypnotized, he stands, and he watches. How long for? He isn’t sure, because time doesn’t feel right. Time is too small a thing right now. Just cars, fast cars, and the temptation to disappear into the night just like them.

Jotaro doesn’t even want a cigarette right now.

“I killed him,” he mumbles under his breath, to no one, maybe to any dead ancestors that might be listening from up in the heavens. “I killed him,” Jotaro mumbles, so quiet only he can hear it because car horns are beeping and music is flooding from the bar’s open doors and people are lost in their own conversations. “I killed him,” Jotaro sways sadly, eyes closing. “I killed Dio, you pieces of shit.”

The wind is cold on his face. An embrace, he thinks, oddly poetic, perhaps from some spirit up there who might be interested in what he has to confess.

He steps forward, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself. A couple walks by and gives him a very concerned look. The road is three metres away, approximately.

“Star Platinum!” he roars, “THE WORLD!”

Purple flashes. Time stops.

Jotaro paces back and forth, face turned towards the sky, arms outstretched. The cars are still, frozen in motion, and the baron quietness feels eerily dystopian.

“I killed him!” Jotaro calls out, as if he were threatening someone in the midst of a brutal battle. “With my bare hands!” he laughs, tears brimming in his eyes. He has to get it off his chest, scream into a void. “He’s fucking dead! Dead! And he-” Jotaro steadies himself on a lamppost, drunkenly, “He almost took everything from me.”

Time re-starts. The traffic picks up speed again, colours whooshing past in a tragic rainbow, reds and greens and yellows reflecting in all the black tarmac. The pedestrian crowds return to their strolling, bustling and laughing.

Jotaro stands with the brim of his hat low, looking at his feet. Ashamed and silent.

Five minutes, seven minutes. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, huddled in his own personal shelter, guard up.

Until a hand taps his shoulder, and he turns to see Kakyoin waiting for him, smiling up at him gently. “You okay?” he asks, eyes too relaxed to be worried. “Hierophant came out all of a sudden. Did you summon Star?”

“Yeah, just for a bit,” Jotaro wraps his boyfriend in a hug, “I’m fine though.”

He admires Kakyoin under the neon lights, the way his white outfit and colourful accessories bask in the reflections of magenta billboards and green traffic lights. If Jotaro absorbs the world like the deepest shade of matte black, Kakyoin emits every beautiful shade of the rainbow wherever he goes.

But it’s dark, late early hours in this sprawling active city, and he keeps Kakyoin close out of paranoid instinct. No one else is allowed to look at him this way. If they do, they’ll have to run from Jotaro’s most intimidating glare first.

“I think you’ve drunk a bit too much,” Kakyoin soothes him, his head pressing into Jotaro’s chest. He isn’t lecturing, or disappointed, or particularly worried, much to Jotaro’s relief. He just seems amused, pointing out the obvious, “You’re going heavy on me, and you’re slurring.”

Jotaro can’t really argue against that. “Am I?” he offers heart-heartedly, his eyes droopy and full of sleep, then answers his own question. “Guess so.”

“There, there,” Kakyoin rubs his back, light-hearted optimism in his voice, as though he were talking to a small pet, “It’s okay. I’ll just get you some water on the way to the train station.”

He feels good, right now. Really scarily good.

Josuke and Okuyasu come staggering out the bar in hysterics soon after, informing everyone that they’re ready to leave. The four of them huddle together on the pavement, and Josuke whines about the cold, and Okuyasu (stoned) stares at a pigeon that he’s just decided to make friends with.

“Why is your face like that?” Josuke teases, poking Jotaro hard, the little shit, “You’re so funny when you’re drunk, oh my god.”

That’s one fucking way to put it, Jotaro supposes.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, and everyone laughs and pats him on the back because that’s just how things are. They all begin to walk down to the train station, to head home.

It’s not the first time someone’s said it to him. Because when you’re a 6ft’5 man built the way that Jotaro is, and acts like the way Jotaro acts, there’s nothing not funny about watching him mumble and stumble like a complete fool when intoxicated. He doesn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want it any other way. The last fucking thing he wants is sympathy. Or worse, questions.

He watches the cracks in the pavements pass as he walks over them in his shiny black boots, each step feeling increasingly non-existent as he lets his legs work in autopilot, barely even registering his sense of direction. If he weren’t holding Kakyoin’s hand right now, he might have ended up face first in a lamppost.

Kakyoin, Josuke and Okuyasu are in the midst of a passionate debate regarding the best flavour of gum to rid the taste of alcohol. He can hear them all shrieking, playfully arguing round and round in a circle. Jotaro smiles a little, happy to be an outsider looking in. What a stupid, special little bunch they are.

Kakyoin is happy. Kakyoin is the happiest and healthiest he’s ever, ever been.

So, Jotaro sucks it up, zips his damn mouth. By the time they’ve reached one of the main city parks, they all stop in a huddle. Trees rustle in the gentle, harmless breeze, a few other groups of late-night stragglers scattered on the grass.

“Sit down, you big baby,” Kakyoin jokes lightly, leading Jotaro to flop down on a bench. “Josuke and I are going to the store,” he says, patting him on the head, “Behave yourself.”

“Yasu will babysit you,” Josuke grins, clapping his boyfriend on the back and blowing him a kiss as he walks away with Kakyoin.

“I will?” Okuyasu flops down right by Jotaro’s side, shrugging his shoulders and smiling lazily, “Sure. Cool with me,” he gives Jotaro a poke on his arm, “Oi, oi? You alive, my dude?”

Jotaro leans his head right back, absorbed in the stars. “Yeah. I feel great.”

There’s a moment of quiet, only disrupted by the rustling of leaves, and shuffling about on the bench.

“Siiiiiick,” Okuyasu responds, arms behind his head, “Me too, bro. Me too.”

The lonely night’s ambience is enough to drift Jotaro to sleep. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his leather jacket and sinks back into himself, collapsing inwards, his soul resting.

Deep breaths. When all fails, deep breaths. There it is again, that timid glow of weak Hamon in his fingertips. Goddamn it, Joseph, he thinks, you stupid, stupid old man. I really am your grandson.

“Jotaro? Oi, Prof?” Okuyasu gives him an unintentionally hard prod, “You asleep?”

“No,” Jotaro grumbles, “No, I’m not.” He turns his exhausted head in Okuyasu’s direction, “Haven’t you got work in the morning? It’s 3am.”

The calmness on Okuyasu’s rugged features is enviable, at first. He simply sighs and smirks, his whole body completely languid. “Yeah. No big deal. Shift’s on my own, no one else’ll be in the store. I’ll sneak in a gram and take a nap.”

No one talks much of the teenager’s recent delve into drugs. No one seems to care. Jotaro wants to laugh, but he’s suddenly struck by an overwhelming gut feeling. Six months ago, Okuyasu’s old man passed suddenly, causing a little bit of an uneasy rift in his personality. Okuyasu had pretended not to care. Piece of shit, he’d whispered at the end of his funeral. They all knew his father was a terrible, abusive parent, and no amount of mutant curse could replace that.

Then came the smoke, the coughing, the numbingly slow conversations. Okuyasu shut the world out in his own little way, and everyone accepted it because that’s what a delinquent like him would do, is it not?

Jotaro shivers sometimes when he looks at the boy. Maybe they’re more eerily similar than he’d like to admit.

“That’s…” Jotaro stops himself, not wanting to sound like a lecturing parent. Any fake words of advice would make him the fattest fucking raging hypocrite in the universe. What would he have wanted to hear when he was his age? Probably nothing, if he’s being honest. “Good.”

And Okuyasu laughs, a big hearty warm laugh. He sounds like Polnareff. Jotaro looks at him and can only see a huge Frenchman red-faced in the middle of the desert, chortling at Avdol and his grandpa, Kakyoin watching with a gentle smile. Warm air…sand…

Black.

Jotaro’s hands clasp. He blinks, his arm steadying himself as his palm fixates to the bench.

Okuyasu is still laughing, grinning ear to ear. “’Good?’ You’d make a shit parent, Prof.”

Back to reality, Jotaro breathes in the cleaner air of his green, open surroundings. “I know,” he chuckles, staring down into his own lap, hat down low, “I know.”

Still in recovery, Jotaro zones out and closes his eyes. Wind whirls quietly, washing away the voices of those in the near distance. Okuyasu hums absently beside him. The ground is gravelly and dry. He is at the centre of the universe, a dot in this sprawling city, one spec of humankind.

And in the next three minutes, he remembers why he loves to drink. Why he used to love to drink. Because these new toxins flush monsters from his thoughts, and he can be at an ephemeral peace, if only for a moment. What follows doesn’t matter, not the horrible hangovers or the wretched dehydration or the dizziness. For a moment’s solace. Incredible.

The beginning spark of a plan ignites in his stomach, fiery and warm and exciting. He looks at Okuyasu. I can trust him, Jotaro thinks, eyes narrowing in concentration. I can trust him, right?

Kakyoin and Josuke return in eager spirits, shopping bag full. Josuke is eating his way through a big colourful packet of strawberry-shaped candies, and he feeds Okuyasu a couple. It takes no time before they’re making a game out of chucking them into each other’s mouths.

“Here, sweetheart,” Kakyoin hands Jotaro a bottle of water, the lid already off. His voice is extra careful. His hands are extra soft as they stroke the side of Jotaro’s face, grazing his stubble.

“I love you,” Jotaro mumbles in a slur, taking it from him and swigging it greedily.

It does help. Though Jotaro doesn’t want to diffuse this feeling any time soon, every inch of him is getting increasingly dry and irritated and sweaty. Kakyoin sits right by his side, his hands rubbing Jotaro’s thigh like a concerned, responsible adult should. “I love you too,” he whispers, his violet eyes watching Jotaro’s every move with great thoroughness. “You feeling better?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jotaro says, wiping his mouth with his hand, “I feel great.”

And it’s clear that Kakyoin isn’t sure to laugh at him or not, isn’t sure if it’s sarcasm or truth or a little bit of both. His amused face is hesitant. Nervous, even. “Right,” he responds, “Sure,” he smiles, a little patronisingly, “Let’s try and make this train then, yeah?”

He helps Jotaro stand. Once the group is back on their feet, reenergized (somewhat), they continue down the path through the park, headed to the other side of this area for the station.

Josuke and Kakyoin are naturally faster, given their slightly more coherent states. Jotaro purposefully hangs back, waiting until he’s just enough out of earshot. He casually walks side by side with Okuyasu, and takes a deep breath.

“When’s the earliest you open?” Jotaro blurts, his voice scratchy and sleepy, “The corner store?”

Okuyasu yawns, then crosses his arms as he walks. “7AM, my dude. Why?”

Jotaro shifts his hands around in his pockets, leaning towards him. “And what days do you work mornings?” he interrogates, ignoring his question altogether. His mind is rushing down one path, adrenaline pumping as he gets closer and closer to his secretive escape.

“Monday to Thursday. Why? What are y-”

“Do you sell Jack Daniels?”

“Yeah, duh…but why do y-”

“Perfect,” Jotaro breathes, pulling his hat down. The information slots itself into place, registering slowly.

Restraint breaks. A month clean, and for what, exactly?

Old habits die hard, harder if you’re Jotaro. He needs this. Drink is his grubby little secret, his cushion, and he has to re-embrace it. Jotaro can’t look at Kakyoin right now, the slim silhouette of his body walking a few good paces ahead of him making his stomach turn over and over with guilt. He’ll fall right back into this trap that awaits him with open arms. Lord knows what might happen if he can’t lean on this crutch. He thinks of bottles all in a row, pretty and blinking at him in the aisle, clinking, clutched in his arms.

Jotaro gulps down spit.

“Okuyasu. I need you to do me a favour.”

Chapter Text

1989.

“What’s going on?”

Kakyoin’s arms are crossed, his posture tense. His green uniform is perfectly ironed, sleeves turned up. Corrective glasses are perched on his nose. Scars run down his eyes. Half-healed.

“Jotaro,” he continues quietly, bending down, hand reaching out to touch his boyfriend’s shoulder, “Three teachers are out looking for you.”

Jotaro leans against the wall, slumped on the floor of the school bathroom stall, cigarette hanging from his straight mouth, brows tightened. Vodka-glazed eyes close, and his lips tremble. The chain of his uniform is still scuffed from sand and battle.

“I can’t do this. I can’t fucking be here.”

There’s commotion out in the corridor, stressed voices fading in and out of earshot, footsteps pacing and thumping distantly. Jotaro watches as Kakyoin locks the door and cautiously lowers himself to sit by his side, minding any unnecessary strain to his stomach.

A clear, glass bottle is lifted from Jotaro’s weak grasp. Kakyoin places it upright, away out of his reach. He takes Jotaro’s hand in its place, pressing it between his shaking pale fingers and squeezing reassuringly.

“Oh, JoJo…” Kakyoin whispers, stroking through his boyfriend’s hair. Jotaro’s black hat is upside-down on the floor. It must have slipped off when he fell. “Shhh, it’s okay,” he repeats, guiding Jotaro’s weary head to rest safely on his shoulder, “It’s all over now.”

“It isn’t,” Jotaro slurs, blood rushing to his head in a stressed frenzy. As he clings to Kakyoin’s side, he is overcome with nausea, jolting somewhat as he wraps his arms around him and sinks his face into Kakyoin’s chest, “It isn’t fucking over, it isn’t.”

Vanilla hair mousse. Blossom perfume. Cherry-lip balm. Jotaro could trace that smell from anywhere, from countless rooftops around the world, from shared hotel beds and battlefields and side by side camel-rides.

The floor spins. Jotaro’s knuckles are white as they clutch the coarse fabric of Kakyoin’s gakuran like a security blanket.

“I know it’s hard,” Kakyoin sympathises, his gentle words melting away with deep, loving worry. He kisses Jotaro’s forehead, his drunken-flushed cheeks, his chapped lips. “The five of us may never be able to look at the world the same. It might take years before we live free of fear,” his hands cup Jotaro’s face, flecked violet eyes watering, “But it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. It’s only been two weeks since we’ve been home. You’ll get used to it soon, you will, I promise.”

He doesn’t get it. But how can Jotaro tell him? The reminiscence of alcohol burns at the back of his throat, his limbs heavy. Behind him, he can feel heavy breathing brush his neck, claws of black, the ringing of evil laughter, a flash of yellow and time screeching to a halt. It rings shrill like a telephone, unbearable in his ears, back and forth, snapping out of conscious at the speed of one blink.

The walls of the stall are painted blue and grey. Jotaro regains his balance, finding Kakyoin’s waiting gaze like a deer in the headlights. He doesn’t remember his cigarette being put out, but it’s crumpled and ashy under his shoe.

“It won’t get rid of Dio,” Jotaro whines incoherently, pointing at the near-empty vodka bottle that’s an arm’s reach from his eager fingers, “I thought it would- I thought it would get him out of my head…”

Someone is in the bathroom. Kakyoin flinches at the sound of footsteps, cursing silently under his breath, holding Jotaro tight to prevent him from falling and making a noise.

“What?” he whispers, painfully quiet, his anxious face pressed right up close in Jotaro’s hazy view, “What was that? Speak slower, what do you mean?”

Suddenly, the stern voice of the school’s headmaster echoes right outside of their stall, booming around in the otherwise empty room.

“Kujo! This is a downright disgrace. First you get thrown in jail, then you galivant off school for fifty days, and now I’ve had four reports of you drinking and disappearing during class? I know you are in there, you idiot boy!” he kicks the door, “Give me one reason I shouldn’t permanently expel you right here on the spot! One reason, Kujo!”

And Jotaro couldn’t care less. He’s still searching for clearance in Kakyoin’s eyes, stringing together a better selection of words.

“Nori,” he chokes, low and under his breath, “Do you ever, see Dio? Hear him, like he’s right inside your head-”

“Kujo!” the headmaster roars, “Get out this minute, I am not playing games! I can smell that alcohol from here, and that smoke, you damn degenerate!”

But Kakyoin wasn’t listening. He is frozen, biting his lip, eyes narrowed in a seething anger that seems so foreign to his pretty features. Shaken hands let go, and he stands, Hierophant braced and helping him up. Jotaro watches from the floor in an uncoordinated heap.

Kakyoin flings the door open, staring the headmaster right in the face. Glowing green.

“How dare you talk to him like that!” Kakyoin snaps, fists clenched, composure flung away in the stagnant air, “You have no idea what Jotaro has been through! H-he went, he saved-” Kakyoin slaps a hand over his mouth, frustration heightening in his voice to a dangerous level, “You know nothing! Nothing!”

“Ah, Noriaki Kakyoin,” the headmaster folds his arms, shaking his head so smugly that it makes Jotaro want to punch him hard, “I should have expected to see you here,” he leans forward, “It’s a shame. Your grades are some of the best that we’ve seen here at this school, and to think you’d throw it all away for this…” his arm gestures to Jotaro with a flick of his hand, “This good-for-nothing delinquent. I’ll give you ten seconds to leave, and I’ll let this one slide. Off to class, now, please. I’ll deal with your new ‘friend’ on my own, thank you.”

“Fuck off,” Jotaro interrupts, slurring heavily, his eyes seeing red, “Fuck. Off.” He clambers to his feet, staggering forward, leaning against the doorframe past Kakyoin and getting right in the headmaster’s face, towering over him and pointing intimidatingly between his eyes, “I’ll give you ten seconds to leave us alone before I beat you to a pulp, you piece of shit!”

“We’re going home,” Kakyoin asserts quietly, his voice firm. He stares at the floor, delayed shock written all over his expression as he reaches for Jotaro’s hand and walks away, dragging him along with no choice on the matter.

They ignore the angry calls that follow them as they stride down the corridor together, pushing through door after door.

“What does he know?” Kakyoin grumbles, tears in his eyes, “I don’t even care, I just want to get you home,” his voice trembles at the end of his sentence, and he squeezes Jotaro’s sweaty hand, “You need to sleep and drink some water.”

Jotaro tries not to stumble over his heavy, purposeful footsteps.

At the end of the corridor, he sees a shadow. A vampire with his hands on his hips, leant back and cackling. Jotaro panics, blinks, but he’s already gone.

He tried. He tried to tell Kakyoin in the stall, and yet he really doesn’t want to try again. Any explanation of the things he’s seeing and hearing are no more than the ramblings of an absolute madman. They’ll lock him in a padded cell. Holly would lose her mind with worry.

And he can hear them all. Jotaro, are you okay? Jotaro, are you feeling better? What meds shall we put you on, Jotaro? Do you need some assistance, Jotaro? Jotaro? What’s wrong, Jotaro?

“I just want to go home” Jotaro mumbles, staggering to the left and clutching the wall, swallowing down vomit in his throat, “Can’t do this.”

“I know,” Kakyoin whispers, thumb stroking over the back of Jotaro’s fingers. Hierophant Green is wrapped around his back. His tear-stained face only stares dead ahead, looking on into the distance. “I know, JoJo. It’s okay. I’m here.”

---------------------------------

Now

Monday morning, Jotaro is buzzing.

He can barely contain himself as he stands in the hallway packing his workbag, crisp white shirt ironed and tucked into navy trousers, star earrings adorning his outfit just for good measure of this secret, special occasion.

Endorphins from his morning workout feel like nothing compared to this. The only way he can place it is equal to a child’s night-long excitement the evening before Christmas.

So, when Kakyoin shuffles down the stairs in his pyjamas to give Jotaro his usual daily hug before he leaves for work, he lets himself really enjoy it.

“Bye bye,” Kakyoin mumbles, rubbing his eyes, cheek smushed into Jotaro’s chest. And Jotaro explodes into an outburst of affection and a love so uncontainable that he doesn’t even feel the slightest bit embarrassed when he tells Kakyoin that he loves him “So, so, so much,” five times and kisses him all over his face until it’s flushed red with shock.

He even blows Kakyoin a kiss as he closes the door behind him, a spring to his step as he unlocks his car and climbs in with shaking hands. Electric guitar blasts from the tinny radio that’s half broken, and Jotaro speeds through Morioh with the windows down, arm dangling out the side.

At a red light, he sneaks a glance in the mirror and licks the inside of the teeth. His Calvin Klein shirt is thin enough that you can see the outline of the huge black shark tattoo that stretches from his shoulder to his neck, its tail illustrated almost all the way down his arm. His hair looks good today. Kakyoin said so.

At a corner he turns down a side-street, parks, and has to stop himself from running. His arms shove the double doors of the off-license wide open, the yellowed neon “Open” sign dangling and swinging with the impact. A bell rings as he enters.

For a place its size, it is crammed with shit. Shelves stuffed to the brim with junk and candy and all kinds of magazines and confectionary pile in an organized heap. And between it all stands Okuyasu, slumped over the counter with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, an energy drink by his side.

“Yooo, my dude,” he calls out, one tanned hand waving lazily, “You good?”

Jotaro nods, hands shoved in his pockets as he leans against the counter and exhales a huge cloud of smoke down the aisle. His right leg is bouncing.

“Yeah,” he slams a huge pile of fresh bank notes on the surface, right between a half-opened pack of gum and where the lottery tickets stand, “All for you. Hand ‘em over.”

Okuyasu grins, rolling the sleeves of his baseball jacket up and taking the money into his hands, chains and bracelets clanking on his wrists as he lights up, dollar signs practically swimming in his eyes.

“No sweat, Prof,” he assures, tucking it away into his pocket and disappearing for a second as he climbs into a store cupboard. Out he comes with a cardboard box duct-taped shut, so heavy that he’s visibly straining carrying it. He dumps it on the counter, patting the top. “Should keep you goin’ for a while. Most of it’s straight, but some is… a little concoction.”

Jotaro’s mouth turns up into a smile. Gratefully, he cradles the box in his arms, all the glass rattling about and confirming his deepest want is right under his nose. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, tipping his white hat down.

Once it’s settled in the backseat, he starts the engine, and continues his route to work. There’s plenty of room under his desk for it to hide. If he needs to, he can put some in his research boxes.

No drink nor drug will flush Dio out. But Jotaro prefers to put up a wall of delusion, knowing this damn all too well, choosing to ignore it for a sparkle of hope. What it will do is give him that extra boost, the ability to relax, live a little.

He thinks of all the things he can do while de-stressed and hazy. If he can figure out how to time it right for the evenings, he can perhaps take Kakyoin out on more dates, stay up later and make more time for them to indulge. And the mornings, oh if they could only continue to be this delightful! The thought makes him swoon. Hangovers and come downs be damned, this is it.

Every detail is planned to intricate lengths in his brain, solutions mapped out like a web. How could he have been so stupid, moping about like a pity party? It’s all about moderation. Moderation, towing the line. Drunk enough to ease his thoughts; not enough that anyone will notice. Or care.

In the smoking area outside his university block, Jotaro stuffs the box into a plastic bag and wraps it under his arm. He strides up the stairs, storming into his office with barely a grunt of acknowledgement for any one of his colleagues that passes by. Once the door is shut and he’s crouched down under his desk, his hands are shaken with nerves.

He unveils the box, tearing tape away with scissors and force until the lid is unsealed. Under it lies labelled bottles of spirits, golden whiskies and glimmering vodkas, some discoloured. He smirks. Concoctions. His fingers trace one of the written-on labels, sprawled handwriting making him gasp a little. His eyes widen. Valium. Alprazolam. He’s been dreaming of taking this shit since he was a teen. Where the fuck did Okuyasu get all this from?

‘Trust me, man. It’ll do wonders. Chill a little - O.’ is written on a sticky note.

He’ll have to slip him some extra cash for that.

Metallic packaging pops open. A pill is washed down without a second thought. Jotaro leans back in his chair, hand over his heart as he watches he ceiling fan go round and round. Today’s lecture is on chemical oceanography. He has half an hour before he’s stood in front of an entire hall of students, but he’s mentally happily floating, lost at sea. Surely no one will be close enough to notice whiskey-breath, but he sprays his mouth with mint-flavoured freshener anyway.

-----------

Leaving the lecture hall behind him three hours later, Jotaro marches back to his car, newsletter in hand. His workday has been cut short after two classes, a faulty fire-drill leaving staff out of their offices for the rest of the afternoon to be checked. He buys two packets of gum from a vending machine and walks back to his car with the keys jangling in his pocket, chewing three in one go. Strawberry flavour. Sugar free. He’ll keep them in the glove compartment for Kakyoin.

Star Platinum takes the wheel as Jotaro texts with one hand on the motorway. No rush hour commuter’s traffic for him, today. He speeds down a near-empty route, cherishing the solitude.

Heading home early, don’t ask. Broken fire alarm. Long story. See you in a bit. X

He contemplates making some sort of solid weekend plans, for once. Maybe he’ll do something with the Higashikatas. What a strange reality. When Jotaro first came to Morioh, he would have never imagined he’d be voluntarily spending time with his eighteen-year-old uncle: that once mysterious half-Japanese-Joseph-Joestar-offspring he was being forced to assess for threat.

But Jotaro really does treasure have so much family around him, loosely related or not. His circles are small, though he wouldn’t ever change that. Quality time with his token few favourite people is about as much as he needs to sustain a social craving. In that aspect, he considers himself lucky.

His phone digs.

Oh yeah? Riveting stuff, truly. See you soon handsome <3

Jotaro puts his phone away and retakes control of driving before thoughts of his love can run wild. But it’s a little late. Even Star knows, because he’s sat shaking a little in the passenger seat.

“Get a damn grip,” Jotaro says to his own Stand, smirking.

When a ghost manifestation of your soul is as mad about your boyfriend as you…that’s got to account for something, right?

By one o’clock Jotaro is home again before he knows it, slinging his satchel on the floor and rolling up his sleeves as he searches for Kakyoin, skin completely alive and itching. The drive back must have been in record time, much thanks to his pushing of the local speed limit. But if a ticket comes through the mail, so be it. All that drugged-up Jotaro wants is Kakyoin, and now.

The kitchen is empty, as is the living room. Jotaro jogs up the stairs onto their bedroom balcony, pushing back white curtains to reveal quite the idyllic scene.

Kakyoin is cross-legged on the floor, on a blanket in a matching beige set, a huge canvas stood up against the railings. He is squinting into the sun, tracing lines of a tree with his battered paintbrush, sweeping bright greens and deep browns across the page. Two palettes are coated with mixed acrylics by his side. The view outside shows the beach, and below them, the road the separates them from it.

“Afternoon,” he beams, twirling the brush in his fingers. Jotaro has just noticed there’s a pencil stuck behind his ear. Cute. “Look who’s skiving from work.”

“Fuck off,” Jotaro smiles, leant against the doorframe. The mid-day sun caresses his face like the wave of an old friend. “It was a ‘technical emergency’.”

Slowly, Kakyoin stands up and leaves what’s done so far of his work to dry. His fingers work at Jotaro’s collar, silence exacerbating the feigned innocence in his expression like melting sugar. He pulls Jotaro down with a tug of his shirt and leans up to kiss him hard, one arm wrapping around his neck, anchoring them in place.

Unexpected, but oh so welcome.

Under the influence, pace loses itself in the wind. There is no point trying to hide how bad Jotaro wants this when his emotions are on ten times clarity. Jotaro is likening Kakyoin to ripe fruit: right now he just wants to devour him, get his hands over and all around him, taste him like the flavour of sweet peaches and pears.

Naturally, he sways in place, tugging down on his boyfriend’s lip with natural instinct driving him on. He is gentle, he is always gentle, but this comes from the gut.

Time is used wisely, both of them now collectively driven. Jotaro can’t help himself as he picks Kakyoin up and carries him backwards to their bed, mouths saliva-slicked and sealed.

Jotaro’s eyes are wide and bursting with love; he needs no mirror to confirm it. He feels himself borderline, salivating to the core as he lies his boyfriend on his back and clambers on top of his slender, gorgeous figure.

“Someone’s in a good mood today,” he growls into Kakyoin’s neck, cautious hands rucking his shirt up and touching him in circles.

Kakyoin’s legs wrap around his waist. He plucks Jotaro’s hat from his head and chucks it on the floor, stretching out teasingly and gleaming up at his lover with breezy confidence, “How could I not be? You look so good in those trousers.”

Now more than ever, a delayed hit of substance gives Jotaro a buzz. Out of his own body, his muscles move on their own command. As the lovers devolve into a mess of tongues and grasps and no clothes, he is completely out of it.

The bed creaks. And by the time it’s thumping, and he’s hitching a breath in his throat and Kakyoin’s thighs have settled themselves either side of Jotaro’s hips, enveloping him with each lift and drop of his weight: It’s become a blissful state to be in. Velvety hands anchor themselves on Jotaro’s tanned bare chest, neat fingernails gently digging in as both men share a collective breathy groan.

The bedsheet is kicked away, the pillows pressed and smushed against the headboard.

Jotaro is wide eyed. Because it’s not as though he can help it. It’s not as though anyone would understand, because no one besides himself has ever seen Kakyoin like he is right now, and not while newly high.

“Kiss me,” Jotaro demands. It’s almost, almost a plead.

Admittedly, he turns even more starry eyed when his request is met with a wet, desperate snog. He loses himself in the sound of his own low erratic groans. Red hair brushes his face as he bites and pulls down on Kakyoin’s tongue, scraping his teeth, angling his own hips up, the impact of each hit spilling a strangled moan from his lover’s throat.

They are slow, taut and rhythmic. Kakyoin’s health problems still impact his stamina greatly, and Jotaro knows to tend to him with care. He too is beginning to grow dizzyingly out of breath, composure stripped away from the ethereality of the beautiful man in his grasp and the feeling of being taken into him with each upwards shove.

The ceiling of their room has no pattern. But at a glance there are swirling mixtures in its texture. Jotaro is a little enthralled by it, his quickening heartbeat and dizzy head not helping at all. His body does the right things and feels incredible things, and yet he’s still focused on the ceiling.

And as the feeling starts to taper and linger fondly in his nerves, his careful hands graze down Kakyoin’s stomach, the touch of finger to scar tissue making his boyfriend shudder and grip his shoulders reactively. And Jotaro realizes his skin is teeming with the shivers, and he’s already just…oh.

They find each other’s gazes immediately, foreheads pressing together as Jotaro takes Kakyoin’s flushed, exhausted body into his strong arms, cradling him in his lap.

Jotaro panics as he kisses Kakyoin’s sweaty shoulder, mumbling sweet words into it and playing it cool.

How fucking long was he just out of it for?

Pale violet, specks of blue. Jotaro stares at Kakyoin’s eyes like he’s an awe-stricken examiner of them. His face is so close that when Kakyoin breathily laughs at him, his eyelashes flutter against his own like small butterflies. Kakyoin rubs their noses together, his arms lazily thrown around Jotaro’s shoulders.

“I should steal you from work more often.”

Jotaro’s embrace lets itself become tight and unnecessarily protective. He lifts the blanket over them both, two sweaty bodies enfolded in crumpled white sheets. Blood thumps in Jotaro’s ears. Kakyoin’s chest rises and falls, a pace behind his own heartbeat.

Today, they are languid, drooping like flowers in a strong wind, slumped into each other’s arms in a bundle. Jotaro treasures the moment as if it were sacred.

Jotaro is a little scared. He doesn’t really recall the last five minutes. But he feels good.

Moderation. It’s a dangerously small price to pay, for a day as wonderful as this.

Chapter Text

There are white walls, doctors in white coats, white styrofoam cups. A silver-white phone pressed to Jotaro’s ear, tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

Jotaro checks his watch, then sinks back into his chair.

Holly is telling Jotaro all about her day while he waits for Kakyoin to finish his monthly check-up. He isn’t quite sober enough to register all this new information. Attempts are made to follow her constantly weaving tales of brunch conversation that pendulum swings back and forth between drama involving three of her friends that Jotaro doesn’t even particularly know.

As far as Sunday mornings go, it could be worse. The weather in Morioh has been glorious lately. When he finished his run earlier, he had stopped by the sea. He’s spotted a new pair of trainers in a magazine that he’s going to order in. He brushed Kakyoin’s hair today before they came out. Small, pleasant victories.

The smell of the hospital dizzies his head: that sickly sanitized air that hangs around like a corpse, sour anti-bacterial that punches him in the lungs. It’s always the same smell. Jotaro can close his eyes and be right back in that ambulance where Kakyoin was bleeding profusely through the stomach and Jotaro was grasping at his hand, shaking all over from delayed adrenaline.

So, Jotaro doesn’t close his eyes at all. He fears falling asleep in this chair so vividly that he’s sat bolt upright, concentrating on the ripples in his squeaky plastic cup, red bull and vodka sparkling in a gross mixture of dull orange.

“Mm, yeah, that sucks,...yeah that’s bad...oh she said that?...damn...” Jotaro mumbles into the speaker, about as invested as he is when Kakyoin watches reality housewife shows and he has to sit with him on the sofa and pretend to care about some shallow plotline.

He rummages around in his bag for a packet of gum. Holly is on an absolute roll right now.

“But then she started saying that I was silly for marrying a musician in the first place? Am I really silly, Jotaro? Oh my God, Maybe she’s right...even Papa said that at the time...oh no...”

Some people say that no news is good news, though that isn’t entirely true when it comes to Holly Kujo. Jotaro takes her eagerness to talk as a sign that she’s just coping in her own way.

Since there was no intention of conversation besides making sure she’s still alive and breathing and not cursed by another Stand, Jotaro wavers between what to say for too long, and she keeps filling the gap before he can.

“Anyway, back to you! Enough of my problems, is Noriaki done with that check-up yet? I hope he’s okay, bless his heart,” she chirps, walking around the house, judging by the sounds. Floorboards creek under slippers. Something is being switched on. A chair slumps as she sits down in it.

“Not yet,” Jotaro explains, shoe tapping on the leg of his seat, “He’s just getting a new prescription.”

A little hum comes from her side of the speaker, followed by a giggle. “Has anyone ever told you that when you talk about him, your voice goes softer?”

In the corridor, a nurse is wheeling by a trolley. Jotaro watches her come and go, whirling past. He scrunches his nose in embarrassment.

“Good grief,” he breathes in exasperation, speechless.

“It’s true,” she teases, hint to shut up not taken. Her voice goes all wistful, and Jotaro fears for his life. “He is just so perfect for you...”

And just like that, he knows precisely where this conversation is going. Jotaro braces himself, heart pounding.

“He is, yeah.”

“Still not tempted to put a ring on-?”

“God can you not,” Jotaro mutters, jaw aching with stress, his prediction correct. As if he doesn’t think about it every day when he wakes up, his soul sinking with every day that passes where he doesn’t spit that godforsaken question out. “One day. I’m just…not ready.”

He can’t even go there right now. Jotaro feels sick, final drabs of his drink sloshing in his hand as he leans back and shuts his eyes to close out the nausea. This is why. Kakyoin deserves so much better, he tells himself over and over. Jotaro is a fucking shell of a man. A joke. What kind of psychopathic liar would he be to himself if he even came near thinking he could provide Kakyoin with any kind of stability right now, when he’s on the verge of unleashing hell every three fucking seconds?

“You’ve been together ten years, you silly boy. He’s going to start to think that you don’t want-”

“Stop,” Jotaro asserts, holding back. For god’s sake, the last thing he wants right now is to get angry at Holly. “I know. I know that.”

She hums in response, apologetic. “Sorry darling, I don’t mean to upset you. You take your time and do whatever is best, okay? Mama will always support you.”

Always? Jotaro glares at the floor and watches the tiles merge into a maze of blur, imagining blood seeping into the cracks, red thick blood and desert sand and Kakyoin’s torn open wound. She has no idea.

Maybe she’s right.

And yet he still hides. When she’d picked up the phone and asked if he was doing okay, Jotaro genuinely had to think past the urge to scream out a gruff, tear-soaked ‘NO’. Today hasn’t been horrible. But he reminds himself of the way he felt his chest crushing when he walked into the hospital, the way he clutched a little too tight to Kakyoin’s arm when he had to leave him to go into the doctor’s office.

“Thanks,” Jotaro grumbles, genuinely trying to lighten up.

What was the point of this call, precisely? Frustration builds, and Jotaro becomes so fed up with himself that it’s eating away at his stomach. Here he is, already creating more problems for himself, more complexities for his already troubled brain to feed on. To think, all he wanted was the serenity of knowing his mother was breathing and unharmed.

“You sound ever so tired today,” Holly presents it in the tone of a heightened question rather than a statement. “Are you sleeping okay?”

How does she know?

“Yeah.”

The lie grits its way through Jotaro’s teeth far too easily.

“Well that’s good! What an improvement, your sleep was always so disrupted after that awful trip. Your grandpa was getting worried. I’m glad that’s sorted itself with time.”

“Sure,” Jotaro rushes, chewing on his lip. Last night’s nightmare circles in his immediate view. Every other crusader dead, rotting in the sand. They pretty much always are in his dreams. Either dead or dying in his arms. “Yeah it’s all fine.”

“That’s my Jotaro,” she glows.

Jotaro’s eyes burn an angry, flustered hole into the red ‘NO SMOKING’ sign on the wall.

“Right,” he grumbles, conflicted. “Are you...taking care of yourself?”

Another laugh. Holly’s bracelets jangle on her wrists as she clearly changes hand to hold the phone.

“Yes, my dear. More so than ever, I think.”

Quietly, like a sigh of relief, Jotaro relaxes a tad more. “Good.” He hears faint talking in the hallways, and a heavy door echoing as it closes. He strains his neck to see, leaning on his chair, but gets nowhere. “Sorry I think I need to go. Nori’s done.”

“Not a problem, sweetheart. Was lovely catching up with you. Bye, love you, mwah,” she kisses into the phone, once then twice.

“Yeah, love you too,” he replies, extra cautious to make it sound firm and unwavering, “Bye.”

He feels highly unstable as soon as his phone snaps shut.

Wallowing in paranoid bouts of could-have-beens and scenarios that never happened, Jotaro phases out and thinks to himself for a long time, the same sticking points filing to the front of his mind. He has to find better ways of hiding. Kakyoin is going to find out. Kakyoin deserves so much better. Kakyoin should have never met him.

Occasionally, there’s a quiet beeping noise. Jotaro freaks out. Whether it’s coming from his head or the waiting room, he doesn’t know. He can’t tell. He chews on a piece of spearmint gum.

It passes by the time he overhears polite conversation down the corridor, one of the voices Kakyoin’s, the other a female doctor. They’re laughing about something. Jotaro doesn’t recognize her from sound alone, but doesn’t expect to. All of Kakyoin’s long-term doctors and surgeons are from the Speedwagon Foundation, not here.

“Have a good rest of your day, Noriaki. Let’s get those meds kicking in and we’ll see if your bloods improve. The SPW will contact you on further questions.”

“Thank you so much. Yeah, fingers crossed. I’ll see you next month.”

Jotaro puts the pieces together, peacefully understanding. Nothing out of the blue. Kakyoin is okay.

Footsteps shuffle around the corner, and Kakyoin appears in the doorway, peering through into the waiting room and giving Jotaro a wave. There’s a small plaster on the inside of his elbow.

“All done,” he chimes. “Everything’s fine, just the usual.”

Nodding in approval, Jotaro clambers out of his chair and throws his empty plastic cup in the bin.

“Good,” Jotaro praises, forward and satisfied with that outcome. He throws an arm around Kakyoin’s shoulder and kisses him on the top of his head. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he half-grumbles, which makes Kakyoin laugh. If only he were joking.

They walk down the stairs, two flights, across the wards. The entrance is a wide and open-plan space, large glass front windows spanning the walls. Everything is so white and clean, too bright, much too bright for Jotaro’s groggy eyes.

As they’re about to walk out of the main doors, they spot Josuke in his trainee nurse scrubs, perched by the main reception. His hand is leaning on his hip, and he’s intensely gossiping to a member of staff. When he spots Jotaro and Kakyoin, he excitedly apologizes to his colleague and rushes over, clipboard tucked under his arm.

“Heya!” he exclaims, giving them a silly twirl, “What do you think, huh? I’m like, totally a real cool adult.”

He looks so mature and put-together in this context that it really throws Jotaro for a loop. His pale blue medical uniform is adorned with no outlandish accessories or his usual designer shit. Besides his ridiculous hair, heart-shaped stud earrings, purple nails, shiny eyelids…nope, screw that: Josuke has still somehow fucking managed to be a primadonna in his work clothes. It’s quite impressive, actually.

“Look at you!” Kakyoin beams like a proud parent. He wraps his shawl over his shoulders and lowers his green-framed glasses down his nose, reading Josuke’s official student name badge, “It’s so surreal to see you in action. How’s it going?”

“I’m enjoying it,” Josuke smiles ear to ear, flipping a page over on his clipboard, “I’ve been on the children’s ward all week. Been using Crazy D to entertain the sick kids with ‘magic tricks.’ It’s like, so hard to see them all hurt and stuff but making them feel a bit less shit is a good feeling, y’know?”

Magic tricks. Jotaro says nothing, but he can’t help feel amused as his memory reminds him of all the times Joseph used to do ‘magic tricks’ with him with Hamon when he was a child. Like father like son has never quite rung so scarily true.

“That’s so sweet,” Kakyoin gushes, “I bet Tomoko is so proud of you.”

“Let’s hope so,” Josuke shuffles about nervously and laughs under his breath, “I still need to pass my exams at the end of it,” he looks back up with a twinkling cheeky shine in his eyes, “She’s still totally bugging about me flunking most of my end of school shit. It’s so annoying.”

Jutting into the conversation from his reserved contribution of silent nods, Jotaro half-heartedly rolls his eyes. “You bought that one on yourself, kid,” he jokes, eyebrows lifting, “If I had a son that flunked his tests just to impress his dumbass boyfriend, I’d be pretty damn pissed too.”

Kakyoin stifles a laugh, retreating a little into Jotaro’s side. Josuke scrunches up his face and sticks his middle finger up.

“Watch it,” he grins, “And my mom doesn’t even know me and Oku are a thing, so shut up.”

That gets a snort out of Jotaro. “You’re kidding. She still doesn’t know? Good grief.”

“There’s no way she can’t tell,” Kakyoin teases, nudging Jotaro on the arm, “Not when he leaves the house wearing those earrings.”

“And those nails,” Jotaro adds.

They snigger. Josuke stamps down hard on Jotaro’s shoe with Crazy Diamond, and it fucking hurts.

“Fuck!” Jotaro flinches, cursing under his breath. Sure he’s faced worse, but he hit a spot that already had a bruise on it and it really caught him off guard. “You little shit!”

“Stop making fun!” Josuke whines, but he’s smiling too much for any of them to take him seriously. “You two are mean.” He kicks Jotaro in the shin again, same place, and drawing out the exact same reaction.

Josuke’s co-worker is gesturing for assistance. He nods at her and turns back, smoothing down his hair. “I’ve gotta go,” he huffs playfully, sticking out his tongue in Jotaro’s direction as he walks away, “Catch you on the flipside, losers!”

“Idiot,” Kakyoin says affectionately, when he’s out of earshot. Jotaro laughs under his breath, cap shadowing his face. They walk out of the hospital with his hand trailing strokes into Kakyoin’s shoulder, anchoring them together as one. He's sobering up fast, but that isn’t a terrible thing. He can hold out for now.

It’s only a three-minute walk home. The hospital is newly built by the harbour side, meaning that their own stretch of beach houses is just around the corner on the wide main road. Under rich sun they walk through the palm trees that are neatly arranged on the grass edges of the pedestrian walkway.

Jotaro makes a point of holding and swinging Kakyoin’s hand in these populated surroundings. He gazes over the railings, down onto the view of the beach. Tourists are relaxing across the sand in bright clothes and towels, sandcastles endearingly scattering the ground as children play. People are in the water too, low tide allowing paddling and people sitting in the shallows.

“Lots of Coho salmon will be gathering here soon,” Jotaro notes, coming alive, “Oncorhynchus kisutch. You can spot them for three or four weeks a year as they migrate.”

“What do they look like?” Kakyoin asks, sunglasses pushed up his nose.

“Green and silver,” he responds, lashes batting as he reminds himself how lucky he is to have someone this willing to listen attentively to his sudden marine ramblings.

“I want to see them,” Kakyoin comments, drifting away happily. He’s staring lovingly at a puppy that is lying by a bench, sprawled by its owner’s side.

“Sure,” Jotaro doesn’t like the fact he’s flushed across his cheeks. It’s just the midday sun. Even though he’s wearing a cap. “I’d love to show you.”

They turn the corner, about to change pavement. As they stand at the crossing and cars go by, whirring engines against the heat, languidly waiting in the stuffy air: Kakyoin tilts his sunglasses down and peers up to get a closer look at Jotaro’s face.

“Are you...?” he narrows his eyes playfully, taken fully aback. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” Jotaro grumbles. It’s definitely the alcohol. And the sun.

An opening for them to cross comes into view. As they slowly stroll across the warm grey tarmac to the side of the street where all the houses turn huge and white and balconied, Kakyoin swings their held hands with a little more purpose.

Even though the pair of them have barely exhausted themselves, they are sheened with sweat. When Jotaro gets through the door he takes his hat off before the large hallway mirror, and groans at the wet shine to his just-washed hair.

“Ugh, it’s worse than I thought,” he despairs.

Kakyoin deeply sympathises from the kitchen, standing over the table winding his waist length braid into a bun to get it off his neck, “I feel gross! I hate hot weather.”

Hat now discarded on the countertop, Jotaro walks right past him to the freezer, making a beeline for crushed ice. The drawer is almost stuck shut and he has to tug on it twice, ice around the plastic crackling with force. Whoever designed this needs the sack, Jotaro thinks grumpily. If the world’s strongest Stand user can’t pull it out, then who the fuck is this made for?

The drawer suddenly flings free, abruptly opening with Jotaro’s full-force pull. His fingertips are numb with cold as he drags out the bag of ice, finally.

“Hierophant, go look for the fan, it’s in here somewhere,” Kakyoin instructs, calmly tidying away some dried plates. His Stand spreads out over the entire house, thin green tendrils webbing every inch of their surroundings. It’s the ultimate lazy hack, and one that Kakyoin has admitted to using ever since he was a child. Jotaro shakes his head, smiling to himself as he drops the pale-blue ice bag on the counter. His boyfriend is a stupid kind of genius, sometimes.

“Ohhh, good idea,” Kakyoin suddenly lights up, eyeing up the ice. Jotaro actually has no idea what implication he’s managed to draw from it, but before he gets a chance to ask, Kakyoin continues, amused at something else that has crossed his mind already. “Do you remember when your grandpa and Jean fought over that last bag of ice in that hotel in Pakistan, and it melted all over the hallway carpet?”

“Pfft,” Jotaro grabs scissors and rips the plastic open, trying not to think about it too deeply. That day he’s referencing had actually been horrible. Steely Dan. That’s a name he hasn’t lingered on for a while. “Yeah. Fucking idiots.”

Hierophant tugs on something. Another one of its tentacles reaches up and opens a kitchen window.

“Ah found it,” Kakyoin triumphs. Behind his back, his Stand brings him their fan. “There’s gin leftover from last week in the cupboard for that,” he nods towards the ice, eyes darting around for glasses, fan cradled in his arms, “I fancy a drink, I think. Care to join?”

Care to join? Jotaro feels his blood pressure skyrocket, fingers almost slipping. This is as good as it’s ever going to get. And he doesn’t even like gin.

“Yes,” he rushes, saucer-like eyes deeply in love with the suggestion.

“Great,” Kakyoin says, humming to himself as he places two frosted coupe glasses on the countertop. Hierophant gets to work pouring everything.

When Kakyoin catches Jotaro playfully judging his use of his Stand for such a mundane, easy task: he narrows his eyes, smile turning up at the corners of his mouth.

“What? I’m not lazy,” he defends, hand perched on his hip, “I’m efficient.”

Jotaro enjoys this. The view of his home, his kitchen, his boyfriend suddenly overwhelms him. It is as if his eighteen-year-old self is peering through a gap in his own pupils, given a flash of what is to be.

“Whatever,” he retaliates, heading out of the backdoor to sit on the patio. He flashes Kakyoin a smirk on his way out, leant against the door as it pushes open behind his back, “Make it neat Hierophant, and don’t stir,” he points, teasing before he turns around, his awful James Bond impression making Kakyoin snort.

Their garden is particularly lush today, saturated greens and pinks and oranges under the sun. Bushes of fruits and foreign hydrangeas sit in unorganized beauty, tall vines from sweet peas and roses covering the fences that separate their land from the residents next-door. Jotaro sits on one of the chairs on their wooden patio, elbows leant on the table as he looks around and admires everything as though it is his first time seeing it. Kakyoin has done an incredible job keeping it so neat and pretty.

Jotaro cracks open a brand-new box of cigarettes, the deep red packaging of his beloved Marlboros clutched under one hand. Fortunately, their sitting area is well shaded, and as he reclines back into his chair he remembers other sun-soaked days where this table had been full of their friends: times where Holly and his grandparents had stayed over and sat out with them as one big family, times with Tomoko and Josuke coming over for dinner parties. Those empty chairs have held so many long, lovely nights.

Kakyoin appears from behind, the careful noise of the patio door sliding indicating his presence. He places a drink in front of Jotaro and sits beside him, sipping on his own gin, leaning back with a sigh. His protective sunglasses are already back on, his eyes closed behind them as he lounges.

“Better?” Jotaro jokes, unable to take his gaze off the image of his boyfriend basking lazily in this weather, now much more noticeably relaxed.

“Better,” Kakyoin smiles, agreeing wholeheartedly.

A flock of sea birds fly overhead, squawking. Jotaro watches intensely as he reaches for his glass, unable to pin their species down, much to his annoyance.

Mantras circle as he feels to coolness of the glass against his hand. Slowly, he must go slowly. He swirls it around, clear liquid rattling the ice. He takes a very restrained sip, and immediately puts it down when he swallows.

Now to fiddle with something so he won’t be tempted. Jotaro pulls a cigarette out from the unsealed box and finds his lighter, igniting it under the table, away from the slight breeze.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Kakyoin begins out of nowhere, the calm yet inquisitive tone of voice making all of Jotaro’s hairs stand up on edge.

There’s a cigarette between Jotaro’s teeth when he replies with a nervous “Yeah?”, the end of it cupped in the shelter of his hand.

“You know how it’s our ten year anniversary in three weeks?”

“Yeah,” Jotaro repeats, a lot slower. The fact that Kakyoin stopped after saying it makes him panic, and he becomes suddenly defensive. “Why’d you say it like that? I haven’t forgotten.”

One million tonnes of pressure sink atop his chest. Dread. Utter, utter dread. If Kakyoin is going to bring up what he thinks he’s about to bring up, Jotaro considers himself as good as dead.

“I wasn’t saying that,” Kakyoin smirks sleepily, “I know you wouldn’t forget, you’re such a sentimental sap.”

Relief. Jotaro regains the ability to function, feeling like an idiot for overthinking and resorting to such reactions.

“Right, sorry,” he mumbles, cigarette now lit. “Continue.”

“So, I was thinking, why don’t we do something? Y’know, properly celebrate it. You deserve a break from work. It could be fun to go all out for a change, have a trip away.”

It’s Jotaro’s turn to feel very pleased with himself, now. He exhales smoke and rests his elbow on the arm of his chair.

“Sorry to break the news, but I’m one step ahead of you,” he boasts, puffing out his chest, “Was going to be a surprise, but fuck it. I’ve already taken two days off work. I’ve booked a hotel down in the Manza resort for us, in three weeks’ time.”

Stunned silence exaggerates how rare of an occasion this is. Kakyoin is almost always one step ahead, of everything, really. With an intelligence and an attention to detail like his, it is near impossible to defeat his talent of planning. When it comes to things like this, he thrives on taking charge. But Jotaro decided a while back that for this anniversary, it is about time he took the initiative.

“You remembered that I wanted to go there?” Kakyoin softens, pouting and impressed, the way his head turns to the side signalling just how touched he must be. “Oh, JoJo.”

A mental tally is drawn. Mind games: 0, Jotaro: 1.

“Of course I did,” Jotaro stretches an arm behind his head, getting comfortable. His open body language is reminiscent of that old teenage arrogance he longs to claw back.

And now Kakyoin is clutching his glass with such a pleased sort of bashfulness that it makes Jotaro’s stomach flip. What he would give to read his thoughts. Perhaps he is already imagining it, the romantic aura of the coast in the evening, just them and a huge suite and a beautiful view.

Jotaro hopes that Kakyoin doesn’t have any expectations of ulterior motives. He knows what Holly would be telling him to do on this trip. It isn’t happening.

It’s really getting to him. Jotaro glances over at his boyfriend, and suddenly his pride turns into sheer worry. Kakyoin looks too excited, is too quiet. Perhaps he is thinking, ‘this is it! He’s finally going to ask me.’ Jotaro downs the rest of his drink, hands shaking. The alcohol doesn’t even hit him. Fucking tolerance abuse. He quickly peers over at Kakyoin again and feels absolutely sick with shame.

He wants to slam his fist into the table and wake himself up. He wants to ask, to plan to ask. But he can’t. For reasons no one besides himself will ever know, he can’t.

This could have been it.

Kakyoin leans over his chair to kiss Jotaro’s cheek.

“I’m so lucky,” he swoons.

Chapter Text

Sign, date. Paper slams on the pile.

After an entire morning of filling out assignment cover grades, they all start to look the same.

Especially, Jotaro is learning, when you’re struggling on less than an hour of sleep and newly emerging from a rage-induced panic.

Circled around Jotaro’s shoes are the reminisce of clawed, shredded pieces of paper from earlier. The accidental papercuts are still freshly stinging his fingertips.

Blood is smeared on the desk. Stupid. All he had to do was reach for a lousy couple of plasters, but the walk across the hall to the common room feels like a hellish expedition right now.

It wasn’t his fault that the fucking fire alarm test had gone off when he had taken a three-minute nap at his desk. It wasn’t his fault that the clamorous ring had sounded especially loud in his office, and it especially wasn’t his fault that it had sent his nervous system into a shivering angry mess, even when he’d held his hands tight over his ears.

As he scribbles another signature onto the bottom dotted line of another sheet, Jotaro wonders if this is really what it’s come to. Being on par with a dishevelled old war veteran doesn’t feel good. He’s acting more elderly and insane then his eighty-year-old grandpa. At twenty-eight.

He drinks from the bottle. By now, he must reek of it. The impact doesn’t hit quite like it used to, and half of his liquor is gone, even though the digital clock in the corner of his computer has only just struck 10:00am.

Lid screws on, and he shoves it in his lap. Jotaro cracks his knuckles and tries to start writing once more. But now blood is still seeping from his fingers, threatening to blotch the paper.

He groans, getting up from his chair and marching out of his office, two rooms down, swinging the door open. There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom. There has to be one in here.

Just as he’s grumpily praying that (for everyone else’s sake) he won’t have to encounter anyone whilst in this fragile of a state, he unfortunately runs into one of the other lecturers in his department. Jotaro can’t stand him. He’s half-tempted to turn around, but urgent times are calling.

“Kujo, the living legend!” the guy grins, that shit-eating smug voice obnoxious in the air. Jotaro has never cared to learn his name since he attempted to drag him along to pick up women at the Christmas staff meeting, and then had proceeded to call him a very derogatory and outdated name when he showed no interest. “What’s all that about there, eh? Got in a big fight yeah? Ha!”

Jotaro outright ignores him, stone cold expression unwavering. His vision is failing him. The zip is jammed. Of all times, the zip is jammed, and he is tugging on it desperately. All he asks for is to get hold of one plaster. Just one fucking plaster.

“I could imagine you in a fight, y’know,” the menace continues, just done washing his hands. He dries them right on his argyle jumper. “But those look like…papercuts? How’d you manage that?”

The bag opens. Jotaro rummages around for a plaster, seriously ticked off. Co-ordination, or lack therefore of, is not doing him any favours.

His womanizer of a colleague still won’t take the damn hint. Not even when Jotaro shifts him a quick, terrifying scowl.

“Woah, woah!” the Professor laughs, holding his hands up. “No need to get all scary, big guy. Could kill you to be bit more friendly round the office, no? Frowning that much’ll give you wrinkles, y’know.”

Jotaro rips a handful of plasters from the roll of them and swivels around, now looming over him. He staggers to the right, sweating.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Jotaro spits, gruff and intense. “Get out of my face, you fucking bigoted freak.”

Silence. Jotaro strides away, huffing as he slams the door to his office and hides once again. He’s never behaved like that in the workplace before. The bastard deserved that, payback a few months late. It will land Jotaro in trouble. He doesn’t care.

When he’s slumped back into his chair, he begins unwrapping the plasters one by one. The texture of them is oddly nostalgic, and he sticks them around his cuts clumsily.

“Fucking idiot,” he mumbles incoherently to himself, hand jittery and uncoordinated. “Fucking idiot, fucking idiot, fucking plasters, fucking noises.”

This pile of work needs to be finished, though Jotaro is unable to even comprehend the thought of a deadline when he’s moving at fifty-percent speed like this. His hand phases in and out of his view as he reluctantly picks up one more sheet, tiny wounds all put away and covered.

Jotaro stares at his hand. Fingers splay over the crisp white paper, his tanned complexion strikingly bright in contrast. Across his knuckles lie a horribly bumpy scar, the broken skin healed over and pale pink. Raised veins, dark hair, short nails.

When he was a child, he used to tell Joseph that he wanted a ‘robot’ hand like his. I want a cool silver hand, Grampa! And Joseph would bounce him on his knee and pat his head. It sure is, right? But you’re very lucky to have both your hands, little JoJo.

Grumbling nonsensical words into his paperwork, Jotaro decides that he’d much rather have both his hands severed off than have this head of his attached to his body.

A knock on the door makes Jotaro jolt, his heart thumping. Something is wrong with his pulse. He feels as though he’s been shoved into a suddenly unfit body, each tiny shock or movement making him weary and flushed and exhausted.

“Go away,” he snaps, head turned down, “Busy.”

The throbbing pain under his scalp won’t let him rest. It’s concentrated right at the front of his head, a mountainous pressure. Jotaro has to get his pulse down. He cracks a pill from the packet. He’s researched it well enough. Okuyasu knows his stuff. Benzodiazepine. Jotaro flushes it down with water. Alters neuronal signalling, slows transmitters. Jotaro read it from a medical journal he pinched recently in the university library. A 1968 study. Updated to 1992. Respiratory arrest, impaired oxygen exchange.

Another knock. Jotaro’s eyes are closed as he presses a thumb into his wrist and counts the seconds between each beat.

“I’m busy,” he repeats.

There’s shuffling.

“Oh, oh sorry, Mr Jotaro. I can go if this isn’t a good time. It’s not a big deal!”

Jotaro calms at the familiar voice but sits stiff. In a moment of panic, he shoves anything suspicious looking under his desk, under folders, into drawers. He smacks himself in the chest to cough and get the scratch in his throat out.

“My bad, Koichi. Assumed it was a colleague. Come in.”

The door creaks as Koichi politely lets himself into the office, knowing to close it behind him. He studies here at S-City, specialising in Mathematics. He’s had quite the fascinating growth spurt, a good four inches taller than he was last summer. University has also aged him, those childish curious eyes now hidden behind glasses and his hair combed and shorter. A brightly coloured energy drink is cradled under one of his arms, a red ring binder snug against his denim jacket.

There’s only one reason he’d be here. Jotaro’s heart sinks.

“It hasn’t happened again, has it?” Jotaro cuts right to the chase, eyes narrowing with anger as he immediately picks up on his nervous expression. This would be the third time this year. Poor kid. “Fuck’s sake. Are you okay?”

Koichi nods hesitantly and looks down at the floor.

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t mean to bother you, I just don’t know who else to tell-”

“No, it’s fine.” Jotaro leans forward over his desk. His headache still hurts. When he speaks, his tongue turns to glue, and the concern in his voice rasps. “What was it this time?”

For some reason, Koichi turns over his shoulder, paranoid. Jotaro clocks his body language like a professional. This isn’t good. It doesn’t help that this kid suffers from an already debilitating high-achiever syndrome. Anything piled on top of that is going to snap him in half, inevitably.

“It sounds so stupid,” Koichi mumbles, bottom lip trembling, “But I’m too scared to leave my room. They’re making my life hell.” He braves a glance back up, knuckles white as he grips his folder tight, “It’s not like I’m scared…I have Echoes to protect me…” he shrugs, tears brimming in his eyes, “It’s just…the words that hurt. And because they all live with me, it’s like I can’t escape it. I’ve missed so many classes because most days I can’t even bring myself to open the door and go outside.”

Since the last time he expressed his issues, things seem to have gone down a landslide. This is quite extreme, and the fact that it is disrupting his studies only highlights the urgency of needing to get it sorted. The easy way out would be for Koichi to move out of his dorm and get the hell away from these nightmare flatmates, but the waiting list is insane. Jotaro tried to arrange it over a month ago, and the reps still haven’t gotten back to him.

“Jesus Christ,” Jotaro breathes, leant on his elbow. “So you’re behind on work too, huh?”

“Yeah,” Koichi desperately scrubs his tears away behind his glasses with the back of his sleeve, “It’s really stressing me out.”

Jotaro ponders, eyebrows tight as he tries to concentrate and remain rational. He can’t exactly relate, but something deep within him sympathises greatly. Teens, students especially, can be fucking ruthless idiots. Koichi’s troubles remind him of how Kakyoin describes his time at school before they met. Intelligence comes at a cost.

Jotaro wishes Kakyoin were here. He’d be able to give much better advice than he ever could.

Jotaro kicks an empty bottle of whiskey, rolling it far under the desk, out of sight. His shoulders are straight, stern and confident.

“Those people are nobodies, Koichi. Do you think any of them would have been able to defeat Sheer heart attack like you did? Do you think any of them have the strength to wield a Stand like you? You’re a damn powerful kid. Don’t forget it.”

This seems to evoke a thought in him. After a short moment of silence, Jotaro worries he’s gone and upset him more. He can’t believe that he’s facing a student, a boy he is supposed to be unofficially mentoring, drunk. Swallowed down drabs of spirits ease their way down the back of his throat.

Koichi pipes up.

“What would you have done?” he asks. It’s no secret that he looks up to him. Jotaro finds it quite touching. “If this were you, how would you have dealt with it, when you were my age?”

“I don’t think you’ll like my honest answer,” Jotaro says, half-distracted by one of his plasters coming undone. He shoves his hands in his sleeves.

Koichi looks confused. “I don’t mind.”

There’s a strange sort of paternal instinct that kicks in when Jotaro talks to Koichi like this. In a father-ish manner, he automatically decides to try to cheer him up.

Jotaro smirks. “I would’ve beaten the crap outta them. Put ‘em all in the hospital.”

It works. Koichi lets out a laugh, sniffling.

“So you’re telling me to threaten them with Echoes? I feel like that’s unfair, since none of them are Stand users.”

“It’s only unfair if you give a damn,” Jotaro shrugs, leaning back. He chews on the end of a pencil to take the place of a cigarette that he really wants right now. “But that’s terrible advice. I’m not a very good role model, I’m afraid.”

Once again, Koichi takes a moment to let his information sink in. Jotaro reckons it would do the kid the world of good to just let go and stop caring about what others think of him for once. It may not be the morally righteous path, but Jotaro has gone through too much in his life to dictate what could possibly be right or wrong anymore.

What would Kakyoin say?

“You’re right though,” Koichi agrees, coming around to strength. He blinks nervously, “I should stand up for myself. It just… feels wrong. I don’t like causing conflict.”

Jotaro nods. “Well how about this? I’ll chase up the right members of staff and see if they’ll consider moving you sooner. I’m sure I’ll be able to push you up the waiting list if I cause a scene. In the meantime, you show those fuckers who’s boss.”

Koichi smiles, seemingly onboard.

“I’m surprised Yukako hasn’t gone down and sorted them out herself,” Jotaro adds, carrying on filling out his student forms. He looks up and raises an eyebrow. “No offense, but that girl is fucking terrifying when it comes to you.”

“None taken,” Koichi laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose and blushing at the thought of her, “I haven’t told her for that exact reason. She’s having such a good time studying in London. I don’t want to upset her when she’s so far away.”

Shamefully, Jotaro can’t fault him. He understands, albeit a little too hard.

“Right,” he mumbles, pretending to read a sheet thoroughly so Koichi doesn’t see the pain on his face, “Probably for the best.”

It comes to his realisation that there must be two kinds of secrecy. If Jotaro can look at Koichi’s situation and not label him as being selfish, then why is it so hard for him to cut himself some slack? But he knows what’s at stake. Consequences are varied, and in his own life, the resurfacing of everything he needs to be hidden is too far pushed down. Jotaro is selfish, because when he looks at Kakyoin, he is overwhelmed with guilt. And he hates himself for it.

Secrets. So many people around him, and they all carry one or two.

Jotaro thumps the guilt away with a stiff fist clenching in his lap, fastened around his own thigh. He knows that to hide is the only way, when one feels too cruel to let someone truly love them.

“Thanks,” Koichi says, looking a lot more awake than when he came in, “I’ll try and keep what you said in mind. Thanks for everything. I guess I’ll try being a little more...um…”

“More of a piece of shit? A scumbag? Ruthless?” Jotaro grins, fake brightening up for Koichi’s sake only, “Let it out on ‘em. Be a piece of shit. It’s fun.”

Laughter follows. Koichi looks far less uncomfortable. “You really are a bad role model,” he jokes. “But I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem,” Jotaro waves him goodbye as Koichi heads for the door, “Let me know if you need anything else, kid. I’ll send an email over now to try and sort something out.”

“Will do. Bye, thanks for everything Jotaro.”

The door closes softly. Jotaro turns on his computer and immediately sends a very sternly worded email over to one of his contacts that works for the university accommodation allocators. His fingers type fast, backspacing and re-phrasing until it’s somewhat borderline professional. He hates all the formalities of ‘Yours sincerely’ and ‘I hope this email finds you well.’ His style is blunt, neat, to the point.

Jotaro has no classes to teach today, only office admin. A small miracle. Getting through just the morning is doable. Kakyoin drove to S-City with him this morning on his commute and is currently looking around bookstores. At least it gives him an incentive to be productive. Jotaro has as long as it takes to turn in this godforsaken pile of paperwork and sober up, so that he can go to meet his boyfriend and drive him back home safely.

The drama of the fire alarm earlier is finally wearing off. Jotaro is mindful to stay well clear of anything remotely like it for the time being. On the positive side, he was alone when it happened. If anyone had seen the frenzied lunatic he’d turned into, it would have been game over.

He thumbs through the stapled sheets to count how many are left. Sixteen. Sixteen sheets separate him from misery and having a decent second half of his day.

With the desperation of an exhausted athlete, Jotaro grabs his metal water bottle and chugs it. Water has never failed him. Water, these days, is his most trusted friend.

Spearmint gum. There’s only one left. He’ll stock up on another pack at the vending machine on his way out, he notes as he chews down on that outer layer and releases that glorious saviour of mint that blankets all his sin.

And Jotaro ravages through his paperwork like a robot, hardwired on the last drabs of coffee, whiskey and pills. His heart rate is calm. He is efficient.

As he swears and scribbles, he tries to remind himself of joking around with Kakyoin in the car this morning, playing a hyper game of I-Spy, singing along awfully to Madonna, the last kiss they shared after he dropped him off in the city centre. The way he didn’t want to let Kakyoin go. And then, the silence as he continued to the University, dreading being alone, strung along by the twitching excitement to drink.

His signature flourishes as his pen drops to the floor. Dramatic, but he’s delighted with himself. Done. Fucking done.

Slamming the lid to the box shut, Jotaro collects his things and begins to get ready to leave. He combs through his hair using the reflection in his computer screen, which has since auto turned off. Cologne is sprayed, his coat is pulled over his arms, his hat readjusted.

As he locks his door shut, box cradled under his arm and bag slung over his shoulder, his phone rings. But his hands are full, and he has no choice but to ignore it for now, that persistent buzz sounding against his thigh behind the fabric of his trouser pocket.

With no intention of striking up conversation, or hanging around, he reluctantly goes into the staffroom. It’s a place Jotaro avoids at all costs. Today is no exception.

He drops the box into place, filing it away under the completed section. A group of his female colleagues who are stood around eating cookies and making coffee wave him a collective, animated “Hi, Dr. Kujo!” He mutters a sore “Morning” in return.

On the way to his car his head is so fogged that he forgets to buy more gum. He opens his phone to see, expectedly, that it was Kakyoin who had just called him. Once the air conditioning is on and his seatbelt is fastened, he uses Star Platinum to clasp the phone to his ear while he drives and rings back.

“Hello?”

Kakyoin picks up, the eventual background noise of many other faint voices diluting his own, the familiar bustle of packed shops and streets. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, just leaving now. Where should I meet you?”

“Hmm,” Kakyoin hums for a bit while he ponders the question, the sound of his fingers tapping on the phone accompanying it, “I’m heading out into the south parade. Not far from The Provenist, wanna do coffee there?”

Pleasant images of their trusty café shine into Jotaro’s thoughts, all its upmarket décor and spacious enclosed seats, all the plants hanging from the ceiling and the chilled out, fashionable staff. Now is not a day he wants to be dealing with change. This is a fantastic call.

“Perfect,” Jotaro affirms, slamming his foot on the break as he has to make way at a red light. “I’ll park round the corner, shouldn’t get ticketed if we’re less than two hours there.”

Star Platinum barks a stressed, “Ora!” the instance that the light turns green. This junction is a nightmare. Jotaro squints to look at the road signs, half convinced he might need some reading glasses.

“Alright! See you there, love you.”

“Love ya.”

He hangs up just as he makes a wrong turn.

“Shit!”

Jotaro smacks the steering wheel and presses his forehead into it. A car beeps angrily multiple times behind him, so he rolls down the window and gives the driver the middle finger like an immature teenager.

Eventually, he figures out where he went astray and finds himself coming down the right road. Madonna’s greatest hits is still playing in a loop from earlier. He guiltily cranks it up until it pounds in his ears.

The centre of S-City becomes clearer in his view. Today, the sky isn’t the bluest, but everything is sun soaked: the buildings, the grass of the parks, the other cars. Billboards flash as the road opens up and Jotaro can speed up, flying down the motorway like he’s in a movie.

He drums his hand on the wheel, less tempered. His heart is relaxed. His heart feels good. Such lows can only bring such highs, and he’ll enjoy this manic period of time while he possibly can. Meds in his blood, smooth synth in his veins.

By the time he’s mapping out a potential parking spot, he’s glowing with almost zero shame. Jotaro locks the door, and fondly strolls down the alleyway. This area of the city is unmistakably artsy and young. Tasteful graffiti is on the buildings, mandala flags plastered everywhere, overpriced food at every other stop. It’s grown on him. Though not entirely his cup of tea, it breathes fresh air.

His mood is lifted as soon as he swings the door open to his destination, the sheer noise of overlapping conversation and clinking cups and chilled music hitting him. One of the baristas recognises him, and they give each other a pleasant smile exchange. Jotaro likes the sort of people here. Out of the way, unafraid, free-minded people. The sorts of people who won’t give a man like him a second glance.

Kakyoin is already sat in one of the many dark green cushioned booths, curled up against the wall, book open on the table. Deeply concentrating. Jotaro slides in right opposite him, making his boyfriend jump out of his skin.

“Hey.”

Kakyoin’s eyes shoot up from his book.

“I didn’t even hear you,” he grins, shutting the novel closed, “How’s it been this morning? Did you finish the grade sheets?”

Jotaro leans over on his elbow, taking his hat off temporarily so that he can redo his hair, “Nightmare,” he says, and his leg has already managed to find Kakyoin’s leg under the table. He keeps them pressed, lightly nudging their touch together. “I got them done though, yeah.”

With a manner that could only be described as protective, Kakyoin takes hold of one of Jotaro’s hands over the table. Once again, Jotaro is analysing his own fingers too much, drawn into all the scars and discolouration. Kakyoin’s hand is much nicer, but that’s a given. Atop his own, Jotaro decides that it makes his own hand far prettier, far better.

A sympathetic face is pulled gently across Kakyoin’s face. He brings Jotaro’s hand up to his mouth and gives it a kiss.

“Proud of you,” Kakyoin says, kissing it again, perhaps half jokingly, perhaps with full seriousness. Being congratulated for such a mundane task should mean little, but after today, it makes Jotaro feel a hell of a lot better.

He realises that Kakyoin can probably tell he looks exhausted. The tender gesture gets to him, deep deep down. Jotaro offers his boyfriend a tired, meaningful smile.

“I need an Americano.”

“Already ordered. Long, two shots. Vintage blend.”

Jotaro could kiss him.

“You’re a saint, Nori.”

And impulsively, Jotaro does decide to lean over and kiss him, simply because he can. Because he wants to, and everything else today has felt so hopeless and shit, and it’s not like anyone in here is looking… or cares.

Since Jotaro doesn’t particularly want to discuss the details of his own day, he happily listens to Kakyoin’s recap of his morning in the city. Their drinks come, delivered in speckled taupe mugs that feel like stone to the touch.

“We should get some like these,” Kakyoin says, unsurprisingly eyeing them up. Jotaro is busy, almost shedding a relieved tear as he inhales the scent of black, strong coffee.

He drops a sugar cube in, watching with eager eyes as it dissolves. His spoon clinks as he stirs, once and then twice.

“Koichi came to see me again,” Jotaro comments, blowing to cool it down and bravely taking his first sip. It’s close to burning his tongue, but the pain is oddly dulled.

Kakyoin’s attention snaps from his neatly presented oat cappuccino. “Oh, really?” he says, brows lowering with concern, “Are things still bad?”

“Yeah. Kid’s really going through it. I’m still trying to get it sorted.”

Tentatively, Kakyoin defaults to his signature ‘thinking’ face, stern and lost in concentration. His ring-piled fingers tap on his mug.

“What did you say to him?” he asks. When Jotaro goes quiet, Kakyoin visibly disapproves, like he’s reading his mind. “Jotaro. What did you say to him?”

Jotaro sips his drink.

“Jotaro.”

“I told him to beat them up with Echoes,” he confesses guiltily with a smirk, already on the defence.

“Oh my God,” Kakyoin laughs, head in his hands, “I just knew it. You’re the worst influence, ever.”

This particular espresso roast is wonderful. Jotaro sips it and tries not to laugh himself, retrospectively regretting even saying anything at all. “Shut up,” he grumbles light-heartedly, “I think you should talk to him again.”

Images come to mind of last year’s summer during the hunt for Kira. Jotaro can feel himself sat in Morioh park under the blazing sun, watching as Kakyoin teaches Koichi how to use Echoes’ full potential, the whole gang sat sprawled under a tree, Josuke and Okuyasu annoying Jotaro and running off with his hat. On those quiet days it felt like they were getting nowhere, people still disappearing. But the threat of new Stand users and serial killers was not enough to dampen their spirits, not at that point.

Jotaro can feel himself back on that grass, looking over his shoulder and sharing a smile with Kakyoin, the two of them basically roleplaying parents to these three stupid teenagers they’ve somehow virtually adopted.

“Sure, I’ll give him a call at some point and invite him over to ours,” Kakyoin offers, useful and kind as always. God knows he could have benefitted from a mentor when he was Koichi’s age.

“Thanks, that’d be g-”

Suddenly, Jotaro feels something hot rising in his throat. He only just realises that his heartrate is racing, unpleasantly.

“-great, that’d be great.”

He assumed his stomach had absorbed this morning’s spirits. He assumed one cup of coffee wouldn’t mix with it too badly. He did not think this through.

Swallowing is only doing so much. Luckily, Kakyoin is rummaging in his bag. But alas, he picks up on something when he looks back up, a lip balm in his hand.

“You okay?” he asks nonchalant, taking the cap off.

Jotaro is trapped. He can’t hold it back. “Yeah,” he coughs, standing up, “I’ll just be a minute.”

Kakyoin doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong. He nods and picks his book back up while Jotaro paces around the corner of the café, going down some stairs. The walls are prettily pattered, large sweeping watercolours of plants hung by the mirrors.

The bathroom is empty. Jotaro slams a door behind him, collapses in a stall, and vomits.

It happens so quickly that by the time he’s sweating and staring into the toilet, he’s only just registering what he’s done. He spits out what’s left, flushes it away, and wipes his mouth with tissue, disgusted.

Standing up again takes time. His hand shakes against the wall, his palm clammy and cold. Jotaro lets his nausea settle, unpleasantly reminded of countless other times he’s been right in this situation, school days, disappearing from class and letting himself down just the same.

Shame, shame. Jotaro needs gum, but his pockets have nothing in them besides loose change, a packet of cigarettes, and a neon yellow lighter.

What a disgrace. His throat burns, and there is nothing on hand to soothe it. With little he can do besides beat himself up, he goes outside into the bathroom.

Jotaro knows he’s well and truly fucked when he sees himself in the bathroom mirror. Noticeably pale and sweating, he is void of life. It’s quite shocking. He splashes his face with water, but he still looks like shit, and the inside of his mouth still tastes horrible.

But he can’t stay in here for any longer. So, with his head held high, he makes his way back to the table.

As soon as he sits back down, he awaits a worried comment. Kakyoin takes one look at him and immediately does a double take.

“Why is your face wet?”

Jotaro puts up an entire weak wall of defence, not quite all there in the head. He is exposed, going into a battle he knows he’s about to lose. “Wasn’t feeling well.”

“Hold on- I just,” Kakyoin leans forward, inspecting him, much to Jotaro’s horror, “You were fine just a minute ago, right? I’m not going crazy.”

Jotaro clutches his jacket under the table, knuckles shaky and white. His heart is beating so fast it’s making him nauseous again. “Yeah, it was sudden and I-”

Kakyoin’s eyes go down to his lips, and he interrupts. “Jotaro, did you just throw up?”

Fuck.

Jotaro waves his hand, leaning back and hiding under his hat. “Yeah, but I’m fine now. Think I was just tired. Coffee disagreed with me, y’know. Had too much caffeine today, probably. Bad for my-” he pauses, sifting through some Kakyoin-isms, “Chakras.”

Kakyoin’s head turns around frantically, Hierophant Green braced. “Enemy Stand,” he mutters, clutching Jotaro’s shoulder, “It’s gotta be. You’re acting weird.”

Oh fuck.

“No, no, it’s not,” Jotaro panics, trying to stay outwardly calm. He takes his boyfriend’s hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “I’m just sick, Nori.”

Kakyoin winds down, still a little on edge. Hierophant disappears. “That’s… not good,” he softens, rubbing Jotaro’s shoulder, “Why didn’t you tell me before? You stupid man,” he smiles, “Let’s cut this short and go home, yeah?”

With no other choice, Jotaro agrees. They get up and walk slowly out onto the street, the fresh air comforting Jotaro’s burning throat as he takes a few shallow breaths in. Everything seems a lot clearer. He doesn’t like it.

Kakyoin goes straight to the driver’s seat, and Jotaro decides not to complain. As he shuts the door behind him and slumps into the passenger seat, arms dangling by his sides, Kakyoin reaches over and touches his forehead.

“Shit,” Kakyoin says, pressing down, “You’re really burning.” He goes to start the ignition but stops himself, looking strangely guilty. In a quiet and reflective voice, he turns back to Jotaro and averts his gaze downwards, “Are you overworking yourself? Jotaro, I don’t want this to all fall on you. I know you don’t want me to go back to work but I hate feeling like I’m making you-”

“Stop,” Jotaro mumbles, eyes screwed shut to get the light away, “Don’t. How many times have we talked about this?”

And Kakyoin takes a deep breath in, knowing he won’t win. But he tries. “I’m better now.”

“No, you’re not. Nori, you fainted three times last week. You’re on stronger meds.”

“Yeah, but it used to be every day, multiple times. I’m improving. I can’t let that hold me back for the rest of my life-”

Jotaro sits up straight, head pounding. This conversation is rottenly timed. “You are not well. I am never letting you get to that stage again. How many times did work stress put you in the hospital?” He opens his eyes, grabbing Kakyoin’s nearest hand with force and pulling him to face him dead on. “Never. Again.”

Kakyoin knows he’s right. Kakyoin must know he’s right, because he can read it right on his face.

“I know.” Kakyoin whispers, “But what are we doing this for? Can you promise me that if this gets too much for you, that you’ll retire early? You don’t need the money, Jotaro.”

“This isn’t about money. Have you ever considered the possibility that I enjoy my job?”

He’s smiling.

“You’re fucking weird,” Kakyoin says, starting the engine.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jotaro grumbles, putting his hat right on top of his face, covering it completely so he can take a nap on the trip home.

They make their way around the streets, diverging to get back onto the main road. Kakyoin drives a lot more carefully than he does, stopping sensibly at lights and always making way first.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Kakyoin blurts a minute later, slightly annoyed.

Jotaro groggily perks up, half asleep. “What?”

“My question,” Kakyoin repeats, “If this gets too much, you’ll retire early. Promise me. I mean it.”

Half of everything that comes out of Jotaro’s mouth isn’t real. He walks headfirst into this with no regrets, and only a bit of shame. If he doesn’t even trust himself, why should another lie even matter?

“Sure.”

And, a second later.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

To outsiders of the night, the shop window shows ‘closed’. The lights are dim besides old neon signs, the music is off.

“I’m not gonna lie, man,” Okuyasu says, slumped over the counter. “That shit’s all kinds of fucked up. You mean you ain’t even gonna try telling Noriaki?”

Jotaro passes the joint back. It has been reduced to no more than a burnt stub, but Okuyasu accepts the end anyway. Smoke clogs the air, a fog that graces the colourful packets and shelves around them.

“I don’t plan on it.”

He resists the urge to cough. Jotaro can’t go home yet, as much as he wants to. This is the only place he is safe to sober up, whilst in this condition.

Okuyasu screws his face up, putting his lips around what’s left of his crutch and exhaling.

“Yeah, I dunno about that, man. I don’t wanna be a downer but have you seen what happens to alcoholics?”

Jotaro grunts and sways to the left, swallowing back nausea. He leans right over the counter to steady himself.

“I’m not a fucking alcoholic,” he claims, deadpan. “Alcoholics are fucking stupid.” A cigarette is lifted from his pocket, the dangling of loose change ringing in his ears.

“Light this,” he orders, sticking it between his teeth. His hands are really playing up. It’s damn irritating.

Somewhat hesitant, Okuyasu clicks his lighter into place and touches the flame to the end of Jotaro’s cigarette, placing it back down onto the countertop with a satisfying force.

“What are you then, dude?” he asks, resting his head on his hand. His hood is up, his grey-tinted hair let down.

Jotaro can see himself in the reflection of the lottery stand. The thin glass that separates it shows his tired scowl, his muddy glazed eyes, his leather jacket half-slipping off his shoulders. He takes a drag, warmed through to the core.

“A fucking disgrace, Okuyasu.”

They share a quiet moment. Thinking it all through, ever the more slowly, Okuyasu stares out of the window. Light rain patters against the glass. The night harbours no people, only a few token cars parked on the other side of the sidewalk. Jotaro’s words bubble to the surface like oil, loosened by his current state.

“What does Josuke think? About…” Jotaro waves a hand in Okuyasu’s general direction, “This.”

Okuyasu turns his head, tutting. His sleeves are pulled over his hands, and he puts out the end of his ashy joint by squashing it under the grubby fabric.

“He don’t like it. When he first met me he thought it was cool, he wanted do drugs with me and shit. Not anymore, kinda makes him upset. I think it’s cuz he realised I’m not cool,” he laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy, “I’m just a junkie. Not so cool when you use that word, yeah?”

The floor thumps as Jotaro tries to stamp his leg out of pins-and needles. Waking himself up has to work right now if he wants to go home and see Kakyoin within the next hour.

“Right. Yeah.”

A neon light flickers, reflecting in the rain droplets. Okuyasu sighs.

“It’s not like it’s a fucking secret though,” he grumbles, hiding in his hoodie. “Everyone knows about my brother and my old man. Guess people feel sorry for me. I’m grieving, or whatever.”

Jotaro crosses his arms to shield himself from a strange chill, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

“Does that piss you off? Everyone knowing?”

This seems to strike a chord. Okuyasu shrugs, but it carries a form of troubled weight.

“Sometimes,” he confesses, “But Josuke just really cares about me, so I dunno. It’s nice.” He pauses to blow some hair out of his eyes, fiddling with the ash on the countertop. It swirls around his finger, black dust sticking to his tan skin.

“Right.”

Jotaro sticks his hands in his pockets. Lost for words. He wished he never bought anything up.

Okuyasu’s brows tighten, tense in deep confusion. He studies Jotaro as though he’s meeting him for the first time, as though he’s trying to work him out.

“You’re like, proper fucked up. Ain’t you?”

Taken aback, frozen, Jotaro looks away, twitching.

“No.”

A motorcycle whizzes past outside, the noise making Jotaro flinch. He blinks against the sudden flash of bright light that goes by in an instant, choking a little on nicotine. It isn’t enough to warrant a concerned reaction from his companion. He must just look like a stoned, drunk, fumbling mess.

“Chill, okay, sorry man,” Okuyasu jabs, more puzzled than anything. He coughs into elbow. “Just wonderin’ why you’re bein’ so secretive and shit. Cuz I’m the only person who knows you chug more booze a day than anyone I’ve ever known. Am I bein’ dumb?”

Jotaro looks his eighteen-year-old drug dealer friend dead in the eyes. He isn’t dumb, not at all. In fact, he’s scarily onto him. Okuyasu keeps going.

“My dad was a fucking alcoholic, man. I know one when I see one-”

“Do you have water? I need water,” Jotaro interrupts, ignoring him. He heads towards the fridges at the side of the aisle and takes out a bottled water, popping the cap off and swallowing it down like a madman.

When he looks back, he sees Okuyasu shaking his head and tutting.

“This is so fucked. I get why you wouldn’t wanna tell Noriaki, but-”

Jotaro steps forward, finger pointing lazily, plastic bottle swaying under his arm.

“Listen, kid. I’m saying this shit once. Noriaki knows I have had drink problems. He saw me all those days I used to stash vodka under my bed so my mother wouldn’t see. He hated it. But he saved my ass, hauled me off street corners and fights in classrooms. Time and fucking time again. I don’t want him to see me like that, ever, again. Not now. I’m not a fucking teenager anymore. And he should never have to deal with my fucked-up mistakes. I’ve, I’ve-”

Jotaro paces back, breath taken. His chest pounds. His voice staggers, icy cold in his throat.

“I’ve put him through so much shit,” Jotaro continues, almost tripping. Water spills a little before he catches the bottle. “He’s been through so much. I am a piece of shit human, and he deserves anyone, anyone else- he deserves so much better- the least, the least I can fucking do is just pretend that things are-”

Hot sand, knives frozen in time. Jotaro feels clocks ticking in his eyes, twenty-to-midnight, in Cairo time? No, Japan time. What is his mother doing? The knives shoot through the air, Dio cackles. Too slow, Jotaro! Useless, Jotaro!

Useless! Die, die Joestar! I’ve already killed your grandfather, I’ve already killed Kakyoin

“No!” Jotaro screams, turning around and clutching his hands over his face, “No! NO! NO!”

Silence.

Jotaro gulps air into his lungs, standing upright. His scream echoes around the store. Everything is gone. Only the still surroundings remain, along with Okuyasu, who is crunching on a chocolate bar and staring through him wide eyed and shocked.

“Yo… what the fuck?” Okuyasu mumbles, taking another bite, “Uh, you good?”

“Yes,” Jotaro pants, fists clenched. He turns back around and flashes him a wobbly smile. “I’m good.”

The crinkling of a wrapper is the only sound gracing the air. Okuyasu leans on his hand, face half turned, deep in concentration. Un-convinced.

Jotaro paces around in a little circle, hands in his pockets to warm them up, his eyes transfixed to the dirty white tiles. When he tries hard enough, he manages to un-see grains of sand in the cracks.

“I need to go home,” he mutters, checking his gold watch. His eyes swim on the label, red and blue and white, Tag Huer. It’s a beautiful thing. Cost him 660,000 yen. “Nori will get worried.”

Okuyasu seems to be still stuck in a slight shock. It probably doesn’t help that Jotaro has brushed off his own slight outburst with such ease. The kid is likely confused as all hell, believing he’s just imagined it all in a hallucination, or worse, that his boyfriend’s nephew is a fucking nutcase.

“Sure, man,” he says, walking around to the front of the store and ruffling through some bank notes. Jotaro thanks his lucky stars that Okuyasu is high off his ass and completely unjudgmental by nature, therefore already over whatever the fuck just happened right before his eyes. “Be safe yeah? You want a lil somethin to sober up?”

Jotaro leans against the wall. Seeing the shelves from this perspective fucks up his eyesight, all the colours of bottled drinks stacked in the fridge muddling into one: blues, greens, strawberry reds and pale lemonades.

“Not really,” Jotaro admits, pulling down his hat, “But I’m gonna have to. He’ll freak otherwise. What you got?”

A moment passes. Okuyasu gets a small plastic bag from his jean pocket and pulls a small white pill out. Jotaro knows exactly what it is and doesn’t even question it.

Carefully, Okuyasu drops it in his hand. A pin could be heard in the moments that follow.

“Cheers,” Jotaro mumbles, washing it down with the water remaining in his bottle from earlier. “This shit makes me so groggy.”

“Ugh, tell me about it dude,” Okuyasu lets out a gruff laugh, “Does wonders but I can barely stay awake on it. Come downs are shit too.”

Going outside does not sound pleasant. Jotaro can feel the chill even when he only pushes the door open a slight amount with his elbow.

“Still raining,” he despairs. Jotaro pulls his leather jacket tight around himself, a worthless shield. “Thanks Okuyasu. Take care.”

“You too man, you too.”

Stepping out sparks his senses immediately, every sensation of the wind and splatters of rain making Jotaro’s skin stand on edge. He prays he’ll feel better by the time he’s close to home.

He told Kakyoin he was going for a walk for some air and a smoke. Common practice. Jotaro likes to go down to the sea alone sometimes, various reasons to blame. Kakyoin doesn’t mind, didn’t mind today. He just warmly smiled, looking up from the television to remind him to wear a coat, and to stay safe.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Kakyoin had joked as Jotaro left the house. The guilt had almost shattered Jotaro whole, and yet he still closed the door behind him.

As he makes his way down to the railings overlooking the sea, he clutches on tight. Blue paint is peeling from the metal, and he only just realises that his palms are frozen to the touch.

The waves are dark, crashing against the sand and rolling over rocks. Jotaro lets them lull him to a peaceful slumber as he walks, unfocused on everything. He takes a longer route home, doing a few unnecessary loops around a nearby park. Buying his time is important, and it pays off. After a while he feels somewhat internally coherent. It will have to do.

He silently prays as he walks up his own driveway. Palm trees shelter his walk inside, and he pushes open the front door with a deliberate gentleness. The television is off, the hallway light dimmed. Downstairs, it seems, is vacant.

Jotaro gargles his mouth with salt water, standing over the kitchen sink and surprisingly proud of how little he’s shaking. He eats a plain roll of bread, slathers some jam on it, and drinks half a litre of organic orange juice.

He isn’t too startled when he comes upstairs to find another round of silence. It makes sense now. Kakyoin is already sat up in bed, lights dimmed to a deep orange glow. He’s wrapped in an additional crochet blanket, hair braided, silk pyjama trousers on, reading the same book he bought a few days prior. When he sees Jotaro, he lights up.

“Heya. Nice walk?”

Jotaro fights the urge to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Instead, he plays it down, chucking his jacket on the back of a desk chair and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Yeah. I’m fucking tired though,” he mumbles affectionately, pressing a hand to Kakyoin’s cheek and then kissing his forehead.

Kakyoin adjusts his reading glasses, keeping his page with a bookmark. He places his novel on the bedside table, and rolls over to face Jotaro properly.

“Wasn’t that the point?” he laughs softly, nestling into a pillow. He takes Jotaro’s hand and presses it to his face. Jotaro almost melts at how fucking lovely he feels.

Mindful of the side effects that are ready to hit him full on, Jotaro keeps his eyes open for as long as he can. He gets ready for bed excruciatingly slowly, pulling his clothes off one item by one and replacing his outfit with a pair of designated black shorts he saves for sleeping in. When he turns to look sleepily over his shoulder, he catches a glimpse of Kakyoin watching him intensely.

“What?” he jokes, voice groggy and newly happy. He climbs under their shared duvet. The weight of soft cotton is heavenly.

“Don’t mind me,” Kakyoin teases, curling up into Jotaro’s side, his careful arms wrapping around his cold, solid figure. “I just like watching you get dressed.”

The stillness of the room is threatening Jotaro to fall dead asleep on the spot. As he sinks into blankets and pillows and the feeling of his boyfriend cuddled into the left side of his body, he is overwhelmingly stimulated with glorious protection.

“Creep,” he jabs sarcastically, pulling Kakyoin closer with a smirk.

There’s a calm moment of quiet as the bedside light is turned off. Kakyoin laughs, mumbling a light-hearted, “Stupid,” aimed in Jotaro’s direction. They kiss each other goodnight, long and drawn out, once and twice. It’s so relaxing that it’s sending Jotaro away into dreams already, and as his hands wind into his boyfriend’s hair, he deems tonight a success.

The end of the day feels like a pressure lifted, like a breeze. No longer does Jotaro have to try, pretend, hide. He is unmasked, only here to close his eyes finally… and fall into a scarily heavy sleep.

He’s an inch from the goal. But Kakyoin is tracing a concerned hand over Jotaro’s back, ready to question something. Jotaro just knows it’s coming. Something’s coming.

“Jotaro…”

There it is…

“You’re shaking, love.”

Shit.

It’s even worse that Jotaro didn’t notice. Even when he concentrates, he can barely register his own body temperature at all. Is he freezing? Jittery? Rushing?

“I’m cold,” he lies, drawled words falling right into his pillow. Right after he speaks, he can hear his own voice reflecting back, lagging behind for a slow second. “Will warm up in a bit, in a… bit.”

Silently, he begs for Kakyoin to accept his response and leave it be.

No such luck. Unfortunately, he is blessed with the most attentive partner in the world, and Kakyoin isn’t having any of it.

“I’m getting you another blanket, hold on.”

Rummaging around in the dark, Kakyoin slips away from Jotaro’s grasp and hauls the crotchet throw from earlier back onto the bed. With cautious, caring movements he tucks it over the duvet, so that it covers Jotaro’s body.

Of course, Jotaro feels little to no difference.

“Thank you baby,” he whispers, appreciative nevertheless, hushed voice low. He holds Kakyoin like he’s using him as a human hot water bottle, breathes him in like fresh mild air.

Kisses faintly pepper his bare shoulder.

“I don’t want you getting sick,” Kakyoin says, his own eyes closing, “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“Nah, it’s not that,” Jotaro reassures, quite almost half asleep. His head is so drowsy from substance that it feels as though he is swimming in water far too deep. He can’t think straight. He talks without thinking, happily drifting away. “I’m all good, Nori. I’m all good,” he mumbles, pressing a languid kiss to Kakyoin’s mouth. “I’m okay. Won’t happen. Won’t get sick.”

Heavy with exhaustion, Jotaro is taken away, stars and circles in his mind, swirling in the darkness of his closed eyes.

Just as he falls asleep, and he isn’t sure if he actually heard it or if it were just a figment of his high, but Kakyoin seems to say:

“Then why do I worry about you so much, JoJo?”

---------------------

A few hours later, Jotaro emerges from what feels like half a death. His eyes can barely open, side-effects exhausting him. When he comes to his senses, he first scans the darkness, barely registering the time on his bedside alarm clock, 3:46am. When he tries to move, he finally realises that the reason for his sudden awakening is a pair of worried hands shaking his arm.

“Nori?”

It’s as though his words have been thickened, his throat croaky and chapped to the sound. Jotaro rubs his eyes, shuffling closer to his boyfriend, who is half-propped up on his side.

Kakyoin is breathing heavier than he should be. It’s pitch black, his face not even visible this deep into the night, and yet his demeanour terrifies Jotaro immediately.

“Sorry,” Kakyoin gets out, calm yet somehow also panicking under the surface. His hand lets go of Jotaro’s shoulder, coming down to rest on the pillow. “It’s just my chest…It woke me up and my head’s gone…I think I’m gonna faint.”

Usual procedure. Jotaro is armed and ready, slightly wobbly but there mentally in an instant.

“Meds,” he mumbles, calming Kakyoin down by stroking his hair. He can do it by touch alone. A box, a sheet of thin metal. Two pills, the proper prescribed kind, the same ones that Kakyoin’s been taking for the last ten years. They are, now, a familiar friend.

Water bottle at hand, Jotaro composes himself.

“C’mere,” he says, gently helping Kakyoin to sit up in his lap, passing everything over. He watches through the dark as Kakyoin swallows his meds down, and proceeds to put a hand right over his heart.

“Deep breaths,” Jotaro continues, protectively cradling this languid figure in his lap. He pulls the blanket over them both, letting Kakyoin lean into his shoulder for balance.

“I’m so dizzy,” Kakyoin complains, burying his face into Jotaro’s neck. His voice is so small, though so scarily at ease. “It’s gonna happen, I can feel it.”

It’s close. Jotaro resorts to stroking his back and counting down from ten. Awaiting Kakyoin’s weight to go heavy on him, to feel him lose consciousness.

Jotaro works on his own breathing, only able to cope by letting his drowsy thoughts take over. How many times has that been this week? Kakyoin’s bloods are supposed to be getting better. He’s been put on less dosages, he’s supposed to be improving, the doctors said. Time and time again, they promised. The doctors fucking promised, and yet it’s the same old shit.

It’s easier to deal with, now. But sometimes, today especially, Jotaro needs some self-assurance.

Kakyoin goes quiet, his body goes slack. Jotaro remembers how to come to accept what’s just happened. The meds are working, will bring him back. Jotaro keeps his hand feeling for Kakyoin’s heartbeat anyway, even though it makes him feel pathetic.

It’s a proud achievement, that Jotaro can do this now. It wasn’t always this easy.

----

The first time. Jotaro can play it in his mind like a perfectly shot feature film: May 6th, 1989. Exactly four weeks and three days after they returned home after Egypt. Four weeks and two days after Kakyoin had solidified his choice to never return to his horrible home and made a permanent decision to stay at the Kujo residence instead. Two weeks and five days after they’d started school.

Late evening. Jotaro sits on the messy carpet of his teenage bedroom, homework spread on the floor. Kakyoin is by his side scribbling away at algebra, stripey pyjamas and fluffy socks and a big blanket covering his middle.

Jotaro isn’t concentrating on his half-done schoolwork. Jotaro is looking at his boyfriend, and when Kakyoin picks up on it he can’t stop flickering his eyes between the open page of his book and his lips.

“Cut that out,” Kakyoin smirks, throwing a pillow in Jotaro’s direction and laughing loudly when it hits him right in the face. “I’m concentrating.”

“But I’m bored,” Jotaro whines, slumping down onto his folded over arms.

“But I want to get good grades. This is due in two days.”

His words are drawn out, his eyes glinting and shining. Jotaro forgets about how much he wants to go outside to smoke. He lowers his face, eyebrows playfully raising.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Jotaro mocks in his voice, pushing his weight onto his elbows and pinching Kakyoin’s cheek. He’s more than aware he’s right, right up in his personal space. The feeling is overwhelmingly in favour of this being welcome. “Forget about it, Nori…who cares…”

And his voice trails off, even though he was trying to be exciting and mysterious and Jotaro-like. They shove their mouths together and kiss as though they don’t spend every minute of every day together, as though it’s some sort of special occasion, or moment they have to cherish. It is neither. It is a Thursday, and they have nothing better to do.

Jotaro picks Kakyoin up, minding his newly tended to stomach injury. He’s only just been given permission to take the brace off and is now supported by a mountain of bandages. But he’s been doing well, walking fine, going to school every morning, energy levels impressive.

Things don’t seem so bad. Jotaro doesn’t want to think about his past, or how he fought Dio a mere month ago. Things slip away as they sit together on his un-made bed where they cuddle, tangled and kissing, talking dreamily about things that don’t matter at all. Kakyoin occasionally moans about needing to finish his algebra but he doesn’t seem eager to break away.

Jotaro feels Kakyoin’s hand firm and gentle around his jaw. They are arguing stupidly about whether or not they should prank call Polnareff, giggling at the concept like they’re on something.

“I just remembered,” Kakyoin says, cheeks blushed and pulling away from Jotaro’s kiss, “I have to take my earrings out before bed.”

“Pfft,” Jotaro teases, laying down, “Dramatic much. Can’t you wait?”

“No.”

“Good grief.”

Jotaro rolls over and kicks the blanket off, laying splat on his back. He starts thinking about smoking again but can’t be bothered to rummage around his messy room for a lighter. He watches Kakyoin straighten himself upright, his fingers going to take out the back of his right cherry earring. Jotaro smiles lazily. He’s so cute.

Kakyoin stops, earring in hand. And then, he suddenly collapses right back onto the bed.

“Nori,” Jotaro laughs, staying put. “Very funny, asshole. Don’t be a fucking pisstake, you scared me.”

But Kakyoin doesn’t move. The smile is wiped from Jotaro’s face like a car crash, like a stone pummelling the lands under a tall cliff.

“Nori?” he repeats, quieter. His hand goes right to Kakyoin’s chest. He sits stunned in shock, body unable to react, dread sitting atop his soul. Jotaro scoops Kakyoin into his arms and curses every horrible word he can think of under his breath, swinging his door open and running out of his bedroom.

His mouth goes dry when he first screams Holly’s name down the stairs. Jotaro’s hand grips the banister, Star Platinum helping him down as fast as he can, keeping Kakyoin still and safe.

“JoJo? JoJo what’s wrong dear?”

Holly is stood right by the sink, gloved hands dripping from bubbles and washing up liquid. When Jotaro appears in the kitchen with a struggling heart and stressed glazed eyes and an unconscious Kakyoin in his arms, she panics, as does Joseph, who is sat on the kitchen island with a cup of coffee.

Joseph is the first to react, walking over and surveying the scene. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Jotaro swallows, his hands shaking and tense as they instinctively grip Kakyoin tight, “He just collapsed, I-“

“Enemy Stand?” Joseph blurts, Hermit Purple glowing around his arms.

Jotaro shakes his head. His voice goes small. “No, I don’t know- he just- someone help him-”

“I’m ringing the Speedwagon doctors,” Holly says, phone already in her hand, pressing buttons with shaking hands, “Hold tight, darling.”

Her voice carries on the background as she speaks to the foundation when they pick up. Jotaro blanks out and stares at the wall, sickness brewing under his skin. His eyes are wide, his breathing shallow. The walls are suddenly dark, the smell of blood rancid in his surroundings, the calling of his name loud and ringing in Dio’s voice, clear as day. And Jotaro sees Kakyoin dead, up on that water tower, arms dangling by his sides, stomach gushing from the open wound.

“…thank you…yes as fast as you can, please. Yes, we will. Okay, see you in a bit, thank you, bye-”

Holly paces around the kitchen, finally hanging up and placing the phone back on its hanger. “They’ll be five minutes.”

“Great.” Joseph acknowledges, yet his eyes are transfixed on his traumatized grandson. He stands before Jotaro and furrows his brows with concern. “Here,” he says lifting Kakyoin’s unresponsive figure out of Jotaro’s grasp himself and putting his limp body down on the nearest sofa.

Jotaro doesn’t resist, doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.

“There there, my love,” Holly calmly repeats, standing by Jotaro’s side and patting him on the shoulder, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, my poor boy. It’s likely that he just fainted.”

Jotaro nods, unconvinced. He grips Holly’s arm and sits down on a kitchen chair, unable to move his eyes from the wall.

He has no hat to pull down, no jacket to hide in. Jotaro is just a teenager in hoodie and black sweatpants, trembling in his mother’s kitchen, afraid.

When the Speedwagon Doctors come and question him, Jotaro can barely look any of them in the eye, nor hold a sufficient conversation. Jotaro can’t work out what’s wrong with him, his hands are sweating, and he feels like a Stand is pressing on his chest, gripping his head and crushing it fully. Luckily, his grandpa is eager enough to take charge, and the two medics follow him into the other room in order to survey Kakyoin’s state properly while Jotaro sits in place, destroyed.

It starts. Jotaro closes his eyes and can only see an ambulance, can only feel the turbulence of an open road and dark Cairo streets, Kakyoin dying in the back, doctors rushing around his bleeding corpse…

“Just a minute,” Jotaro mutters to no one in particular, maybe to Holly or to anyone who might be listening. He runs up to his bedroom, runs for his life. It doesn’t even help when he shakily lowers himself into bed, headphones immediately drawn over his ears to get that horribly familiar sound of doctor’s voices out of his system. They’re still there.

He pulls the duvet over his head, shaking blood that isn’t even there off his hands. He screws his eyes shut and can still only see Kakyoin dead, Dio laughing, his own body covered and rotting in sand.

Jotaro’s fingers wind in his hair, his fingers clasping at his scalp. He rocks himself back and forth, turning up the volume on his Walkman until it hurts. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Go away,” he whispers, arms right around his knees, “Go away, go away, go away, leave me alone-”

Jotaro wants a drink, but he doesn’t. Jotaro wants a smoke, but he can’t move to get his cigarettes.

Dio still sits on his soul. No drink nor drug can flush him out. He wins.

-----------

So nowadays, this still stings. Jotaro can’t look away from Kakyoin’s half-unconscious body, sleeping in his bed, slowly breathing.

Kakyoin is okay. Jotaro is a man of science, a man of rational research and prestige, a Professor, yet he can’t see it himself. Through the dark, when he looks at Kakyoin, all he sees is a corpse.

It could be the drugs. It could be the chill he feels now as he wraps that crotchet blanket over his own shoulders and craves something to knock him out. It could be the late hours making him delusional.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t explain why Jotaro only now catches on to how much he’s shaking. He stresses, horrified at his own jittery hands. They won’t stop. Then, he realises. He’s been like this all night. And hasn’t noticed.

Jotaro gets out of bed. Rubbing his eyes with more force than is ever needed to rub your eyes, he blinks through the dark and goes downstairs into the kitchen, pulling drawers out.

He eyes up a certain little box. Okuyasu told him not to take more than two. But Jotaro’s scoured enough internet forums at his work computer.

Liquor in hand, he swigs it all down. One, two, three. Down they go, spiky sour spirits going down with them. He thinks about this disgusting mixture forming in his stomach right now. he drinks more liquor, sitting himself down at the kitchen table, sip after sip after sip. Neat and straight. Horrid.

He’ll go back to bed soon. Jotaro’s stomach hurts. His hands shake so much he can’t hold the bottle any longer.

A corpse. Jotaro sees a corpse, Kakyoin’s corpse, so he doesn’t dare close his eyes. The pills will drag him under.

All he has to do, is wait.

Chapter Text

Days off aren’t supposed to start like this.

Jotaro wakes mid-morning, no desire to lift a limb or even think about pumping his anger out with weights in his home gym. His face feels fuzzy, his heartbeat troubling him greatly. He is as good as emerging from a coma, sleepily weighed down from the aftereffects of last night’s drugs.

Moreover, there is no Kakyoin in sight. Just an empty space and a crinkled half of the white blanket where he is meant to be lying, was meant to be lying. There is no way he would sleep in this late.

Sitting himself up and rubbing his eyes does little to no good. Jotaro’s own room feels distant as he looks around, picking up on signs that movement must have happened: Kakyoin’s hair products and various discarded jewellery are laid out by the mirror, his dressing down is dangling on the back of the door, the wardrobe drawers are half pulled out.

Shit. Jotaro should have known better, should have set an alarm. He is needed nowhere, yet still feels guilt. This is out of place, and he does not like it.

With as much coordination as he can muster, he gets himself out of bed and into a boiling shower. Water scalds his skin for too long, and he scrubs himself with every scented soap under the sun. It doesn’t wake him up.

He stands on the bathmat a dripping mess, combing through his hair in the foggy mirror before him. Tending to his skin as normal, he lathers and washes away with rose water and SPF until he’s shining with it. He has no plans for anything and wants nothing more than to get right back into his nightclothes, or back into bed for that matter, but he gathers the strength to put on clothes: black cotton on black viscose, trousers and a t-shirt that he isn’t sure is even clean. After drenching himself in cologne and tutting over the state of his hair, he leaves to go downstairs.

It's only by the time he’s halfway down the stairs that he first hears it. Jotaro’s hand tightens around the pale wooden banister as his heart sinks, knowing exactly why Kakyoin has been so out of sight.

“I don’t want to talk about this now! I don’t want to talk about this ever, and certainly not with you!”

Kakyoin’s words travel from the living room. It’s startling, whenever this happens. Kakyoin rarely raises his voice ever, the only times Jotaro can remember being in battle. But it’s different. There’s one person, one person only that Kakyoin would ever talk to like that these days…his mother.

Jotaro has made a lot of enemies in his life: The guys in his class who used to tease him before he was a force to be reckoned with, Stand users from all across the globe, vampires, girls who wouldn’t leave him be at the school gates. Lin Kakyoin, his future mother-in-law, is very much so on the same list.

She does not visit, does not even acknowledge Jotaro’s presence, let alone her own son’s life. Jotaro has heard enough to hate her as much as he does. Kakyoin has shared everything about his upbringing. His parents gave up on him before he could even prove himself, sending him away to lock him in child mental institutions because of his ‘imaginary friend.’ By the time they had tried to enrol him in school it was no wonder he never thought to socialize nor act as he should, and they never cared to change it. Lin and her husband did all to play the ‘concerned parent’ role, masking as victims and blubbering away at parent’s evenings to teachers about how burdened they are with their troubled, poor son.

During the crusader’s long trip across the world, Kakyoin had given Jotaro snippets of how he felt towards her, which was nothing at all. Not anger, not sadness, just desolate nothingness. He had run away from home more times than he could count, and Dio’s fleshbud was the aftermath of one of these attempts. Kakyoin had no desire to return home, and Jotaro was about to take a mile. When he returned to Japan after the trip with Joseph and Kakyoin, Jotaro had dealt the final blow. At Kakyoin’s home, he had come face to face with her. Kakyoin had ran upstairs to pack his things, voices had been raised, and that was that. Lin had severed her relationship with her only child in a heartbeat, and Jotaro’s family had taken Kakyoin in to live with them for the remaining future.

They don’t talk about her very often. Kakyoin has ignored her existence for the past ten years, only reacting when she chooses to. Sometimes, she’ll find Holly’s address and send her strongly worded letters. Once, she managed to get Joseph’s telephone number and had hounded him over destroying her son’s life.

But nothing comes close to how much she despises Jotaro. Over the last decade she has sent call after call, voicemail and letter, once or twice a year. Telling Jotaro the exact same things, the same words standing out each time: delinquent, scum, degenerate, impure. “You ruined him.” As if he weren’t already broken.

So now, as Jotaro stands halfway perched on the stairs, listening in, he can’t help but feel frozen. Curiosity aside, it might be best for him to be there. Kakyoin won’t mind, he knows that, but he’s cautious of minding his privacy.

He goes down to the hallway and quietly stands in the living room doorway. Floorboards turn to carpet, and his steps grow quieter. Kakyoin is pacing around by the big open window that overlooks their garden, phone gripped in his hand. It’s just stared raining out, Jotaro notices.

When Kakyoin realises that Jotaro is in the room, he jumps a little with shock, but soon rolls his eyes and points to the phone, mouthing the word, “Nightmare.” Jotaro smirks and joins in, sitting himself down on the sofa and rolling his eyes in solidarity. Kakyoin smiles.

Her voice is heard even through the speaker, it’s so loud. She rambles on and on and Jotaro isn’t even sure if Kakyoin’s properly listening to any of it.

“Don’t you dare say that,” Kakyoin replies eventually to her, eyes narrowing into the distance. “I told you never to call this number again, are you serious? And leave Jotaro’s mother alone, for god’s sake. She’s done nothing-” he pauses and interrupts again.

Jotaro tries to put the pieces of the mystery conversation together, though it just sounds like the same old story.

“No, but that’s none of your business. That’s none of your business.” Another pause. Kakyoin looks suddenly upset, and turns away from Jotaro, for some reason. “Who cares? It’s not like I would invite you if we did, anyway, and it’s not like you would want to come!”

Oh.

Jotaro chooses to pretend he didn’t hear that. Blissful ignorance. He turns the TV on faintly and flicks through channels as a distraction, settling for the news broadcast. It shows the time on the screen. Jotaro wonders when he’ll be able to sneak his next drink in and starts counting down the right amount of hours that he has left in the day to get one down and hide it. It’s like a fun game of hide and seek, except nothing about it is fun at all.

“I don’t want to talk to you. I’m not doing this now. No, please just- just leave, leave me alone! Leave me the fuck alone!”

Kakyoin hangs up, seething for a second with his eyes closed. His phone dangles from his hand, his other palm pressed to his forehead. He’s already dressed in matching green plisse trousers and shirt. It’s so handsome on him. Jotaro gets distracted, until he realises how upset Kakyoin looks all of a sudden.

“Shit,” Jotaro sympathises, words calm and drawn out. He reaches an arm in Kakyoin’s direction, “C’mere, baby.”

Kakyoin accepts the gesture gratefully and crawls into his lap, curling up on the sofa.

“She’s the devil,” he jokes, pained.

“Yeah she’s a fucking bitch, what’s new?” Jotaro adds, trying to cheer him up by stroking his hair. “What did she have to say for herself this time?”

Kakyoin sighs. “Oh, she wants you dead. Every time we speak she tells me over and over that you’re unfaithful and that you’re going to leave me, or that you’re gonna start doing heroin, or that you’re gonna get arrested for murder. Always something. She’s actually going mad with age.” He looks up and manages a smile, “You better watch your back.”

“Do I really look like that much of a thug?” Jotaro smirks, stroking his face, “Thought I’d cleaned up a bit more these days.”

“It’s the tattoos.”

Jotaro peers down at his fully inked arms, all the cool black sharks and sea life done in traditional. He nods a little. Maybe she’d think differently if she knew Jotaro had a heart with an “H” for Holly tatted on his left ribs, or a starfish on his stomach, or an emerald on the back of his thigh, or matching moons with Polnareff on his right shin.

“Shit. Yeah, that’s fair.” Jotaro muses, lovingly touching the winding coloured plant that’s inked on Kakyoin’s arm, the bold outlines of vines and leaves and flowers. “She’d have a fit if she ever saw this. Shame. It’s so pretty.”

“Well, good thing she never will,” Kakyoin affirms, cosying up into Jotaro’s side, “Because she’s dead to me, and I never want to see her again.”

The world seems small, when Jotaro concentrates on the figure lying in his arms. Kakyoin has no family besides Jotaro’s family, no home besides Jotaro’s home, no life besides the one they’ve so perfectly built as a collective. He is so deeply intertwined in all areas of their being, and Jotaro wants to hide and cry when he fathoms the possibility of fucking up, letting him down.

But then again, he really is getting a craving right now. ‘Craving’ is too soft a word for it, really, it is a deep hunger, a need. Jotaro’s foot taps the floor. A cigarette won’t cut it. That isn’t going to satisfy the itch, not now.

“Hey,” Jotaro begins softly, nudging Kakyoin’s arm to lighten his spirits. “Let’s go do something. Take your mind off it.”

“Out, as in go out?” Kakyoin questions sleepily, eyes temporarily shutting. His face is already turning more towards a smile than a concerned pout, “Sure, I’m up for that.” He laughs to himself, hugging Jotaro’s middle. “Are we too old to call it a date?”

“Pfft,” Jotaro leans back, amused. “Nah, fuck that. It can be a date. It can be whatever you want it to be, your choice.”

‘Somewhere I can have a drink would be nice', Jotaro thinks to himself, fingers spiritually crossing that it’ll end up in his favour. His options are unfortunately limited. It’s broad daylight, and there aren’t that many bars in Morioh, and even if there were, chugging booze this early in the day is seriously embarrassing, and fucking risky.

Jotaro stops his train of thought like a screeching train. He cannot believe he’s basing the quality of this date on the availability of alcohol. It’s fucking shameful, and yet he can’t stop thinking about it, even at his most guilty. His brain has rewired itself, reverting back like it’s in an infinite loop.

“Shall we just make it easy?” Kakyoin suggests, sitting himself up straighter and sending the sweetest, prettiest smile in Jotaro’s direction. “Beach? I know that it’s raining but-“

Jackpot! Jackpot, jackpot, jackpot!!!

“Perfect. It will be empty. We can just wrap up and talk a walk, have the whole place to ourselves.”

A shot before won’t hurt. And when they’re all wet and tired afterwards, Jotaro can use it as an excuse to sit Infront of the TV, and while Kakyoin goes in the shower to inevitably warm up Jotaro will finish his scotch, and then he can pour another glass for the evening and it will make so much sense-

“Let’s go,” Jotaro rushes, hands shaking and riddled with excitement. The devil on his shoulder is loud, overbearing.

He can almost taste it. Kakyoin lazily stretches, faintly laughing at Jotaro’s sudden enthusiasm.

“Now?”

Jotaro can almost fucking taste it, heaven.

“Yeah, fuck it. Beats moping about.”

“Oh how romantic you are,” Kakyoin teases, getting up and rubbing his bleary eyed on the back of his sleeve. He glances at the TV and shakes his head at the news, despairing over some political speech going on in America that’s being broadcasted. He yawns and makes his way to the hallway, “I’ll go get a coat,” he says, seemingly happier.

Opportunity strikes, gleaming. Jotaro acts nonchalant, quickly hiding himself away in the kitchen and turning the radio way up. Sports commentary blares from the speaker to cover the noise he makes as he opens up a bottom drawer, rummaging around for a bottle.

“What the hell is that?” Kakyoin shouts from the corridor, “Turn it down, oh my god. Are you going deaf?”

Jotaro grabs what he can, before turning the volume down as little as he can afford. “Sorry,” he calls back, “Baseball scores.”

It’s scotch. Brown, aged scotch. Insert brand. There isn’t much left. He should have paid more attention and cracked open a bigger one, but it will have to do.

Jotaro downs as much of it as he can in a rush, and stashes the empty bottle under the recycling outside the backdoor. It all happens at lightning speed, and his stomach does not feel good, even though his head calms. Worth it, though. Much needed.

It’s just a little something. Like a morning coffee, or a cold shower.

That’s what Jotaro tells himself as he brushes his hands on his trousers and frantically looks around the sink. The baseball scores are shit, and his recent favourite team is down three places in the league.

There are a few ways you can get the taste of alcohol out, each with various degrees of success. From a gruelling process of trial and error, Jotaro has figured it out quite well, with the help of a few internet forums that he’s scoured on his work computer.

Right now, none of his go-to methods are around: Mouthwash, toothpaste, strong mint gum. Jotaro resorts to extremities, and squeezes out garlic paste into his mouth, wincing at the taste. He swallows reluctantly and then smothers his hands in sanitizer. Lastly, he strikes it lucky and rummages around for a pack of coffee flavoured chewable candy, stuffing three of them in at once. It is fucking horrible mixed with garlic, but this isn’t about enjoyment.

Done. Jotaro breathes onto his hand and smells it. Disgusting, but the scotch is gone. Good enough.

He finds Kakyoin waiting in the porch, standing wrapped up in a long oversized waterproof coat. He’s already got his hood up and is currently admiring the rain that’s pattering against their glass door, very much consumed by it.

“Cute,” Jotaro quips, pulling on a grey lightweight raincoat.

“Shut up,” Kakyoin smiles, hiding away in his hood.

Jotaro grabs the first one of his many hats that are hung up, anticipating it to get absolutely soaked, not really caring either way. “Umbrella?” he ponders to himself, finding one by the rest of their shoes and picking it up to take with him.

“That thing’s ancient,” Kakyoin says, gesturing to the umbrella that’s swinging under Jotaro’s arm, “It’s probably shit at doing its job now.”

“Hey, that’s my trusty one. It’s a fighter,” Jotaro smiles as they step out into the downpour, opening it up. There’s absolutely no wind, thank god. The umbrella in question is a dark navy blue, adorned with a very faded Speedwagon Foundation logo. They got it for free at one of their conferences years and years ago. It’s got a very small tear in the middle. “I’m attached to it.”

Morioh seafront is a dull shade of blue, today, fogged and blurred from the weather. Jotaro holds the umbrella over them both with one hand and holds Kakyoin with the other. They cross the desolate road outside of their house, and make their way down onto the beach.

Kakyoin counts the stony stairs on the way down, as always. He walks a pace ahead, fingers tightly intertwined with Jotaro’s own like a protective rope, counting down from twenty-two with each step he takes. Jotaro watches like he’s witnessing something extraordinary. Kakyoin, against all the odds, through it all...looks content.

“...fourteen, thirteen...”

The sea ahead is clear, only disturbed a little in the pattern of messy waves. The smell of crisp salt and earthy skies leaves Jotaro intoxicated, and though there’s no warmth in the air, he feels heated to the core.

“...nine, eight- wait, did I miss one? Shit, hold on-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Jotaro laughs, nudging his energetic boyfriend along. “Keep walking.”

Rain splatters the sand, making it all heavy and dark. It feels nicer to walk on, the foundations sturdier and less like dust. Rain splatters Jotaro’s face, gets all into the pores of his skin, soaks into his surroundings, slides off his coat.

Where their hands come to hold is slippery and warm, palms safely shielded away from the chill. Neither one of them mind that they are moving along slowly, prolonging their time exposed to the shore. They are in no rush.

“Are you feeling okay?” Jotaro eventually pipes up, luckily able to pronounce his words without any form of slurring at all. He fights against the urge to become a drunken puddle, but it isn’t really an issue. His tolerance is firstly improving, frighteningly adapting. It already takes so fucking much to get him gone, these days. Right now, he’s barely feeling it.

Kakyoin’s attention is drawn from the waves. “Hm?” he looks to Jotaro’s waiting gaze, his pretty face wet and front strands of his long hair sticking to his cheeks. “Oh, you mean after earlier? Yeah, I’m…fine.”

Not quite so convinced, Jotaro decides to accept the response for what it is. Respect and space seem justified right now. It's like a principle. Jotaro thought he was long gone caring about pride. Oh, how he was sadly mistaken.

As if to say a deeply meaningful ‘I understand’, Jotaro squeezes his boyfriend’s shoulder, cold fingers tucked in his raincoat sleeve as they walk.

There isn’t always a need for dramatics. There isn’t always a need for words. It’s a highly integral part of their relationship, their ability to tune into each other’s need of space. Neither one of them likes fuss: Jotaro has forever despised being hounded by feelings and Kakyoin was conditioned to believe his were never necessary. Together, they somehow find a place where they can read silence as though they are communicating something beautiful.

Jotaro thinks about how it's a strange thing, when rain hits the sea. They walk along the shore admiring the lapping waves, the grey muted tones of the water, the ripples caused by droplets causing mini storms all around them. Two things so similar, yet so vastly incomparable.

“Sometimes,” Kakyoin begins, three minutes or so into not speaking a word, “I feel guilty for hating her. For cutting her off.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Kakyoin looks away as he walks slower, looks way out to sea, as though his own eyes can see past the blurred horizon. His hood is dripping, his flowy patterned trousers blowing about in the wind. “But I do,” he says, fully concentrated.

Out of his depth, Jotaro resorts to pulling him closer. He swallows down hard, the aftertaste of garlic and coffee still fresh and horribly mixed up.

Thoughts of tomorrow hang over him, a welcome distraction. Jotaro is dreading going into work. Whatever is waiting for him is not going to be pleasant, and there can be nothing worse than the prospect of more unnecessary attention being drawn to him in the department. He knows damn well people will be talking, his colleagues passing anecdotes of suspicions and bad behaviours around, branding him.

Jotaro doesn’t care what people think of him. No, that’s not the problem. But gossip means prying, and hell would be for people to start sticking their noses and ears in where they don’t belong, following Jotaro’s moves and studying him with malicious intent.

He wants to shudder at the thought.

“I’m sick of it,” Kakyoin continues quietly, “I always feel like it’s my fault.”

Jotaro realises he’s not been as attentive as he should and starts to feel outrageously bad about drifting off. But what can he even say right now? The sea is so mesmerising, the rain is so lovely and cold.

“You did what you had to do,” Jotaro offers, brain on autopilot, “You left. For your own good.”

“But-” Kakyoin almost interrupts, stopping himself. He crosses his arms, whether to shield from the weather or to hide his troubled emotions, it is not clear. “You don’t understand,” he breathes, words gradually more confident as he carries on, “That’s all I ever do. Run away.”

This leaves Jotaro stumped.

“How can you say that about yourself?” he demands, perplexed. He doesn’t want to bring up all the horrible battles and enemies that Kakyoin has boldly stood face to face with, all the hardships he’s tackled with pride. “That isn’t true at all.”

“How do you think I ended up here, Jotaro?” Kakyoin snaps, anger most likely misdirected yet hurtful all the same. “If I stayed home, ignored Hierophant’s existence, played the rules? Made my parents love me? How do you think I ended up with this fucking hole through my body?”

Walking on shards of glass, Jotaro’s mouth remains shut until he can muster up the courage to pull something together.

“I… don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Of course you don’t,” Kakyoin reiterates. He is barely dynamic at all, just simmering like a stagnant volcano. This morning must have really finished him off. Jotaro tries not to take it to heart, aware that his boyfriend just needs to vent his sadness one way or another. “You’re not fucking pathetic like me. Your family loves you, adores you. It’s a good thing. You’ve never had to run to something just because you had nowhere else to go.”

There’s a pause. Jotaro knows this will all calm. He just needs to say something reassuring, but his head is fogged.

Kakyoin sighs.

“You would have never run to Dio like I did.”

Jotaro stops dead in the sand.

His fist clenches around his umbrella, his breathing shortened and winded for a moment. That name hardly ever comes out of Kakyoin’s mouth. That name hardly comes out of anyone’s mouth, and yet he had just spoken it so crisp and clear.

Kakyoin’s stalling, taken aback by Jotaro’s reaction. He must have meant nothing by it. Jotaro hates himself more than ever as he finds himself unable to produce saliva, dryness cracking at his tongue. He just wants to say something to help.

“JoJo?” Kakyoin says quietly, the mood sinking like an old rusty anchor. He is visibly concerned now, standing before Jotaro with his eyebrows tense and his hands fiddling with his wet hair.

Suddenly, regret. Jotaro wishes he had outdone himself, thrown back some drugs before waking up. He cannot face anything like this.

He waits. Jotaro waits for the landscape to change to a desert night, for the sounds of waves to turn to Cairo’s screeching cars and screams of battle. All is still. He knows it’s coming.

‘I don’t want to talk about him’, Jotaro wants to cry, ‘Please.’

“Don’t fucking say that” Jotaro mumbles, closing his eyes. “Don’t.”

He doesn’t want to see how hurt and confused Kakyoin is. He doesn’t want to see his clothes that hide the wound he couldn’t stop, the blood loss he could have prevented. He doesn’t want to see the beach anymore, because beaches were there on those days the crusaders travelled across the seas, and sand was the only thing separating him and that monster, long, long ago…

Nonsensical circles. Jotaro’s head turns, random images messing up his thought train.

“Why not? Why can’t I say that?” Kakyoin struggles to follow, understandably. “You know what? Never mind. You asked how I was. God forbid I try to talk about anything difficult.”

“I didn’t-” Jotaro blurts, holding back and tightening his fists until their ache. Oh fuck, it’s starting. His ears start to ring, his heart ticking like Star Platinum’s hand is around it to constrict his pulse. Time counts down from ten…Five seconds, Jotaro! Five seconds and The World will get you, time will start in four, three, two… “I didn’t mean that.”

Something is so clearly wrong and terrible that Kakyoin is forced into silence. Jotaro knows he’s passed the line of redeeming himself, and he accepts it with a sinking heart.

The look on Kakyoin’s face goes past disappointment. It is smooth as stone, cooled and controlled. His eyes burn slightly furiously, yet his trembling jaw dictates nothing but vulnerable sadness. He says nothing, just retreats back into himself and turns away to look at the horizon again, as if to ask it for help.

All he probably wanted to do was talk. Jotaro wants to light himself on fire.

---------

In through the door. Not much has shifted, besides a brief period of somewhat reconciling on the walk back home. It is still unclear.

Jotaro can’t stand himself, or any of this. He’s been holding back a scream for minutes now, the occasional feeling of Dio’s hands strangling him sending his nerves into overdrive. It’s as though the air is thick with his particles, suffocating him.

Unfortunately, tending to the damage he’s just made with his boyfriend comes second to getting rid of this horrible intrusive image. This is too urgent for him to care about judgement. Jotaro can’t go one more fucking second sober.

Kakyoin stands in the kitchen entrance, dry clothes on, hair damp. Arms crossed, watching.

Frantically, Jotaro grabs a bottle of wine and begins to pour a huge glass. He doesn’t like wine. If he could, he would fill it to the brim.

Jotaro looks over his shoulder and realises he’s not alone. When he’s met with a highly unapproving gaze, he shrugs his shoulders like a pissed off teenager.

“What?”

Kakyoin’s eyes look him up and down, focus to his lips and then to his hands, wandering to the countertop, to the glass, then back to his lips and eyes. Scattering.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jotaro almost forgets the glass is there, and panics. All he can see is Dio. He finds the glass again, leaning back against the marble counter and taking a sip. Acting as though he’s drinking some water, or apple juice, or his morning protein shake.

“Wanted a drink,” he mutters, shrugging stupidly again. His voice can’t hide the defence in it. He sounds like he’s hiding a cigarette from his mother, or talking back to a teacher.

Better. The alcohol doesn’t even hit, but he feels better.

“It’s the middle of the day,” Kakyoin says, slightly disgusted.

“What?” Jotaro reacts, putting on a brave face and gesturing towards the bottle, “It’s just a glass. So what? I’m not allowed to drink it now? You bought it.”

“You don’t like wine.”

Ignoring him, Jotaro screws the lid back on the bottle. He walks away, glass in hand, brushing Kakyoin’s shoulder on the way out.

Jotaro needs to sit down. His body is exhausted, shaking with fear as he finally rids of horrible memories. Every time he blinks, he has to watch Kakyoin almost die over and over again. Imaginary blood tastes thick in his mouth when he swallows the wine down.

He collapses on the sofa and reclines back, sipping at his drink eagerly. Packet of cigarettes at the ready, he braces a lighter and gets to work.

Of course, Kakyoin follows him in.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Kakyoin declares, standing right in front of Jotaro and leaning over him like a force. “Jotaro, what’s wrong?”

Lit cigarette between his lips, Jotaro looks up and exhales, puffing smoke.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m sorry.”

This seems to hit something. Kakyoin bites the inside of his mouth and looks everywhere. When he talks, his words shine with tears.

“I’m so confused,” Kakyoin chokes, so quiet. His face screws up like he’s about to start crying, and he’s brushing loose wet hair away from his face in desperation.

Survival mode kicks in. Jotaro’s demeanour shifts like clockwork. He softens. The sight ignites something inside of him to push through, the realisation that he’s really gone and messed it all up hitting harder than he could have ever expected.

“Nori,” he says gently, as though he’s just been completely reset. He extends his spare arm out, insinuating a hug. “Shit, I’m sorry, baby. Come here.”

Kakyoin is hesitant. But he crumbles, delicate as he curls into Jotaro’s side and lets him hold his body close. Cigarette smoke seeps into everything. Kakyoin always used to hate the smell. He never really complains about it anymore, though.

Half the glass is gone. Jotaro drinks carefully, indulging. It’s warm in his blood, beautiful and comforting, like a huge fluffy blanket. God, he feels so much better.

Arms still folded, Kakyoin isn’t budging. His lips are pursed, his entire being clouded by something unreadable. Though he’s letting Jotaro put his arm around him, he doesn’t look secure.

“Hey,” Jotaro says lovingly, nudging him and pulling him closer. He takes another drag and inspects his lover’s unhappy face with worry, “I’m fine, I said I’m sorry-”

Jotaro goes in to kiss his cheek, but Kakyoin turns his face away.

“Stop it,” Kakyoin mumbles, hurt. “You’re being a dick.”

It’s just one of those days, Jotaro tells himself. With not much more he believes he can do, he leans back and sighs, smoking in silence until he’s almost down to the filter. His leg taps against the living room coffee table, dark jeans on dark expensive wood.

Until it really, really hits him. Jotaro can’t stomach another second of this, knowing it’s all his fault, that all he had to do was fucking listen. But a conflicted knot in his chest pulls in both directions, because what does he have to be sorry for? It’s not as though he could help spacing out and freaking out, and lord knows he’s doing all he can do to keep sane-

“Nori,” he rushes, throat scratching. He tries hard to get Kakyoin to look him in the eye, immediately all at once panicking about what how much damage he’s made over the course of the last hour, “C’mon, I mean it. I’m sorry. I was just stressed out because I acted weird, and-”

Kakyoin brushes his arm off, sitting in a small closed-off ball.

“What is wrong with you today?” Kakyoin says, finally looking at him. Jotaro wishes he hadn’t. There’s a horribly burning pain in his eyes, and his lashes are wet. “One minute you’re silent and don’t want to acknowledge me, and the next you’re all over me. You’ve been so out of it, like you just blank out and pretend I’m not even there? What the fuck is that about?”

Jotaro’s inability to explain himself causes him to lose it.

“That’s harsh,” he grumbles, already getting out another cigarette.

Kakyoin gets up.

“Sort yourself out,” he asserts, glancing over his shoulder as he walks away. “Come to me when you’re ready to be a man about it, and then apologize.”

The door shuts behind him. Jotaro breathes out and clutches his hand with his hand, new cigarette lit and between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he whispers, screwing his eyes closed. His fingers wind into his hair. “Fuck.”

There again he feels it, The World breathing down his neck, time coming to halt. Jotaro flinches, wine almost spilling, choking on nothing.

Time. Jotaro wallows in it, lets it tick on, seconds slipping by and counting down beyond his control.

He’ll go and see to Kakyoin later when he’s calmed down. He’ll make it up to him, give him everything. Like he always does.

Ash falls. He flicks it off his lap before it can stain the ends of his shirt.

Chapter Text

“That’s all for today. We’re not far from final semester exams, so go over last week’s recap as much as you can. You’re free to go.”

Jotaro sits down at his desk, checking his watch out of the corner of his eye. He’s covered all of his lesson plan six minutes ahead of schedule, but he’s never one to keep his students behind for the sake of it.

The lecture theatre erupts into noise, rows of chattering students automatically turning to each other and packing their bags away.

Eraser in hand, he gets up gingerly to rub all the diagrams he’s just done off the huge whiteboard he’s stood next to. Green ink smudges as he wipes away a beautifully drawn cross-section of calcified gill filaments.

Now that his back is turned to everyone, he can only just gather the steady stream of people who are beginning to file out of the room. It’s always the same. Now, he can breathe a bit. That was a decent enough lesson.

As they pass, the occasional “Thanks, Professor” follows. The more eager ones go for “Thank you, Dr Kujo.” Jotaro treats everyone the exact same, to a high fault of precision. Unfortunately for someone who looks the way he does, Jotaro lives in fear of anyone getting the wrong idea. He gives them all a nod in response, firm expression masked slightly by the brim of his white and green hat.

But of course, for every respectful student comes a pain in the ass. He braces himself. Out of the corner of his eye he can see them. The minute he hears giggles and commotion threatening his moment of peace, his reflection turns to fight or flight.

“Dr Kujo!”

“Professor, I need to ask a question!”

“I loved today’s class, you’re amazing!”

Jotaro’s fist clenches around the eraser. His eyes fixate to the same spot on the whiteboard that he’s just cleaned twice by accident. Calm down, calm down. He has to keep calm. This is not the time to start something.

Putting literally every ounce of strength into a brave face, Jotaro glances their way. Four girls, just as he suspected, crowded on the other side of his desk, leaning all over it, handbags swinging from their folder-clad arms.

Jotaro doesn’t say a word. He just flashes them a waiting face, paused mid-action.

“I need extra help,” one of the bolder ones says suggestively, smiling ear to ear and flicking her long dark hair behind her shoulder. Her friends all start giggling, the lot of them becoming one insufferable cluster of shiny bracelets and hair pins.

Don’t make a fucking mockery of me, Jotaro wants to yell.

“I’m not a personal tutor,” he snaps, stepping away from the whiteboard and ignoring them deliberately.

He could have sworn one of them just whispered He’s so hot when he gets angry, oh my god.

“Awwh,” another one pouts, “But we wanted you to help us!”

Sometimes, Jotaro has to step back and think about it. What would be the worst that would happen, if he came into class today dead sober and frustrated, bought Star Platinum out and just shoved a fist hard, right into her fucking face?

“Class is over,” Jotaro says irritably, eyes narrowing.

The group of them start right back up again, giving up for today, though their spirits are not yet dampened. Inappropriate shrieks and comments follow them as they make their way out, that wretched sound eventually disappearing for good.

Star Platinum hangs about by his side, hovering out of protection. Jotaro didn’t mean to summon his Stand. He slouches back at his desk and pulls his sleeves over his hands, covering as much of himself as he can. How girls can speak such horrible, degrading words, he’ll never understand. It’s not like he isn’t used to it by now, Jotaro has spent a lifetime being inappropriately goggled and degraded by various admirers… but it still makes him feel so unclean.

Water. Water and coffee, the only two things high in his priorities right now. Jotaro is still riding the last tails of a high and can feel it dwindling, much to blame for this temper. Today isn’t the day to risk a double dose or try anything funny with an extra drink.

He’s completely lost his appetite, but he forces an apple down. Chewing feels slow, tedious, unpleasant. His teeth have to work extra hard, and he realises he’s been clenching his jaw for so long today that it’s already aching.

It doesn’t even taste good. Jotaro’s body really wants to reject it. As he swallows down, he inhales gently, refusing to allow anything to come back up from his throat. Not fucking now.

Apple finally finished and staying put, Jotaro eases himself up and slings his bag over his shoulder. His legs are still teeming with lactic acid from his early morning run, because he was an idiot and forgot to stretch.

He turns the main light off, and heads out into the main hall of the biology building. The dark blue carpet spans before him as he half-heartedly takes in the sights he’s become hugely adjusted to: the awards and stats posters, the framed photographs spanning decades back of classes on boats and in rainforests, snapshots of students cradling poison dart frogs and taking measurements of plants. Artefacts are hung up and displayed, replica skeletons of humans and sharks, old large fossils.

He gets quite a few stares. A group of staff that he isn’t that well aquatinted with give him a subtle greeting, holding back and huddling together. One of the women gives him a side-eye, and Jotaro can’t tell if she’s trying to flirt or if she’s disgusted by him. Jotaro hasn’t the faintest idea what people say about him around here on a professional level, but he knows it’s probably not nice.

Everyone seems to be scared of him, from what he can gather. Fine by him. Good. They should be.

Wanting to be left alone, he turns a corner and stops into one of the staff kitchens, delighted upon discovering that it’s empty. Jotaro makes himself coffee in a reusable tumbler and takes a moment to breathe as the machine gets to work.

His phone rings. Puzzled, and half exasperated, he finds it and flips it open. The name that flashes up brings him instant joy.

The phone is pressed to his ear, speaker on. It crackles and lags before connecting.

“What the hell do you want?” Jotaro grins, arms crossed.

“Bonjour mon ami! JoJo! You’re free! God knows I’ve been trying to get hold of your stupid ass for the last hour.”

Polnareff is so loud that Jotaro has to turn the volume on his phone down a few pegs.

“I’m at work, idiot. Teaching a class.”

“Oooh, look at you! Still working this time of year? My little ones have all started summer break already.”

Jotaro presses a button to push another shot of espresso into his cup. He imagines fondly the image of Polnareff and his classes of tiny children at the cute prep school he works for out in the French countryside. From all Jotaro’s ever heard, Polnareff is an amazing pre-school teacher. Patient, funny, bubbly. Avdol never stops gushing about it whenever they see him.

“Smug bastard,” Jotaro says, fiddling with a packet of chewable mints. He’s counting how many he’s got left. Five. “How’s Mo? Nori spoke to him the other day while I was out on a run. Didn’t get a chance to say hi.”

“Oh, yes. They were on the phone for fucking ages. I was screaming ‘Mohammed!’ down the stairs because there was a spider in my room and I needed him to get it out, and I only had to realise he couldn’t hear me because he was too busy chatting about types of rice flour with your boyfriend. For two hours.”

Jotaro snorts, retrieving his full cup and blowing on it. He hides the mints back, snug in his pocket.

“Sounds about fucking right,” he yawns, leaning on the counter. “Did you kill the spider?”

“No, no,” Polnareff tutts, putting on a voice, “Oh no, a certain someone in my house doesn’t believe in violence towards small insects. That little shit has been in our bedroom for days, and I can’t find it. When Mo’s not looking, I’ll whack it with a book.”

Jotaro laughs, having to pause from sipping his drink. Hearing about his best friend’s antics is much needed right now. It’s like therapy, being subject to Polnareff’s nonsense.

“Anything exciting going on your life?” Polnareff teases. Jotaro can hear the cheesy smirking look on his face through the phone, those stupid red freckled cheeks lighting up with old memories and trouble. Polnareff and Avdol are so, so dear to him. They make him feel so at ease. They’ve seen him at his realest, at the only times that mattered. Just like Kakyoin, and in some ways his grandpa, they are the only people who understand Jotaro on a level deep enough to make his soul rest.

“Pfft, as if,” Jotaro retaliates, almost burning his mouth on instant coffee. It’s not the best. It’s really bitter and gritty. Not smooth and golden tasting like the ones Kakyoin makes at home, with oak milk and cinnamon. “Nori’s a bit pissed at me, actually. My fault, not his. We’ve very much made up but I still feel like shit.”

“Oh, JoJo, you fucking fool. When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

He can hear mindful humming. And wind. Polnareff is clearly taking a moment to respond, probably thumbing through some idiotic, kind advice.

“Where are you?” Jotaro interjects, side tracked. “I can hear birds.”

“Garden,” Polnareff sings, “I’m on a hammock, as well. And I’m smoking a fat fucking cigar.”

“Christ,” Jotaro marvels, looking around at his own drab, sterile surroundings. “No need to rub it in, asshole.”

“Dickhead. Fils de pute.”

“Cocksucker.”

“A, Ah! Speak for yourself!”

They both explode into laughter. Jotaro almost forgets he was supposed to be feeling moody about anything at all.

“No, no, this is not important! What did you do to poor Noriaki?” Polnareff begins again, concerned. “I don’t like the thought of you two fighting. I want to remember you as tourtereaux, no- no, what is the word? Lovebirds. Lovebird teenagers. Pure.”

Jotaro freezes, rolling his eyes. Troubled waves of hesitation come over him as he blanks out. “Nothing serious,” he lies, trailing off, “I’m just a piece of shit sometimes, I don’t know.”

Silence. The sudden self-deprecation feels wholly unnatural when spoken aloud, and Jotaro cringes at himself. He should have just kept quiet.

“JoJo...that’s so unlike you. You don’t sound like yourself, no? Why would you say that?”

Polnareff’s voice goes all damp, like a soft sodden sponge. He sounds like he’s comforting a hurt child. Jotaro regrets digging this hole.

“I don’t know, Jean. I don’t fucking know.” Jotaro pauses, staring into the brown frothy mixture of coffee under his nose. An ache forms in his heart, similar to homesickness. He wants home, his kitchen, his bed...he wants Noriaki.

What has he done?

“Well if you want my humble opinion,” Polnareff adds, “I think you’re making it out to be worse than it is. You said you’ve made up, yes?”

“Yeah. He was fine this morning, and most of last night. But that’s the thing. I feel fucking terrible. He just...forgives me. He always does. He always looks past my mistakes. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

Another pause, another wave of guilt. Jotaro hates talking like this, but he’s overcome with loneliness, and he knows Polnareff isn’t going to judge him for droning on.

Then, something strangely profound comes out of his friend’s mouth.

“Maybe you do deserve it. Maybe, he forgives you because he knows you love him, yes? You were not a perfect person when he met you. Why would you be now?”

Jotaro, greatly touched, smiles. He doesn’t quite believe him, not take it to heart. Jotaro doesn’t agree that he deserves anything, or that Noriaki should put up with any of him. But it’s a nice sentiment, and he needed to hear it.

“Thanks.”

His smile fades, quickly. Polnareff knows nothing. Jotaro’s true reasoning, true cause is too far deep for him to even begin excusing. This isn’t a silly made-up game. If Polnareff knew what was really going on…would he say the same?

No. He wouldn’t.

Would Jotaro be misunderstood…or would he just be a deadbeat, selfish liar?

Whatever.

“So you’re going to move on from this how, exactly?” Polnareff continues, business-like. In the background, Jotaro swears he can hear a train going by somewhere in the near distance. “I’m not putting the phone down until I know you two are going to be okay.”

Jotaro audibly sighs by accident into his coffee, head in his hands. If anyone comes into the office kitchen now, he’s going to look like an absolute psycho. How the fuck can he even answer that? Things are anything but okay. Things, for the foreseeable future, are bleak.

“I’m thinking about it,” he despairs, getting nowhere. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Promise?”

A weight sinks in Jotaro’s stomach. How many fucking promises does he have to be bombarded with on a weekly basis? What good is a promise, anyway? A word, ephemeral. It means fucking nothing. It really pisses him off.

“Promise,” he grits through his teeth.

His leg bounces from stress, the heel of his left leather shoe rapidly pattering against the synthetic tile. A cigarette would be nice. A glass of neat Jack Daniels would be much, much nicer.

“Take it from an old fuck like me. It’s not worth your pride. Let him know you’re really there for him, yes?”

Jotaro snorts, “You’re only five years older than me, Jean.”

“Yes, yes. But you can learn a lot in five years.”

Some students are all coming out of another lecture hall outside, crowds of voices muffling on the other side of the corridor, blocked by the wall. In contrast, this vacant kitchen is eerily quiet. Only echoes. And the sound of a whirring fan. Jotaro exhales a little loud by accident, slumping into his arms.

“Now, now, hey?” Polnareff continues into the silence, his tone picking up with optimism and his accent getting stronger with enthusiasm, “Don’t be down about it. I cannot stand to hear you sad, you are like my petit frère, no, frè- oh what is the word? Brot? Br-”

“Little brother?” Jotaro offers, half-laughing. There’s a smile back on his face.

“Yes! You are like my little brother. I don’t want you to be-” a pause, and a faint voice calling in the background on the other side of the speaker. “One minute, love! I’m on the phone to Jotaro. Okay, okay, hang on there-” Polnareff returns to a normal volume, “Sorry, Mo’s having trouble with cutting a hedge, apparently. I should probably go before he chops his fingers off, can’t have two of us with only three fingers, no?” he laughs heartily, “Oh, dear. Okay, I gotta go. Good luck with everything! Remember what I said!”

There’s nothing that Jotaro wants more than to hide away in here forever, to stay on the phone for hours and pretend that the world immediately around him does not exist. Hanging up ignites a dropping pain in his chest, but he doesn’t protest.

“I will. Call again soon, yeah?”

“Certainly! Bye bye!”

Polnareff is gone, just like that, and the airy countryside disappears with him. Jotaro is left with the flickering built-in ceiling light and the empty staff kitchen. His half-drunk, half-cold coffee doesn’t seem so appealing, now.

He gets up out of his cold chair, reluctantly staggering over the sink and pouring the rest of his coffee down the plug. As water rinses that horrible beige residue from his reusable cup, he ponders. Today, he’s been on the edge of an idea, but doesn’t know how to follow through with it. Perhaps he should just go all out.

As he said, Noriaki seemed better this morning. Last night he’d remained quiet, even when Jotaro had held him close when the lights went out and whispered apologies into his ear for what seemed like hours. At least he’d let him kiss him goodbye before he left for work.

Inches of progress don’t seem like enough. Jotaro knows he fucked up majorly the other day. He can’t do anything other than move on from it, but he thinks about the pain in his boyfriend’s eyes when he’d looked into him with shame, and he falls right back into a pit of sorrow.

It isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

Jotaro dries off his rinsed cup and exits out of the building, avoiding eye contact with anyone at all. Out of the main entrance, he runs down stone steps and heads to the carpark with his hands in his pockets. The first signs of rain hint in the air, and Jotaro happily hides in his car to avoid it.

Cigarette smoke blows out the window as he reclines in his car seat, eyes closed. His fingers are twitching, uneasy, clamped around a can of diet coke. He glances at his phone, debates calling Noriaki, instantly rejects the idea.

He flicks the end of his cigarette out on to the floor and rolls the window up, starting the car and refocusing on the steering wheel.

Jotaro drives home in silence.

There’s a solid minute and a half that he spends pacing around outside of his own front door. Adrenaline pools sore in his stomach, like he’s about to ask Noriaki on a first date. It gets embarrassing, even though not a single soul is watching.

It sinks in how ridiculous he’s being. Jotaro puffs out his chest, keeps his guard down as low as it will go, and lets himself in.

Jotaro begins his entrance, but three paces down the hallway he freezes. There’s noise coming from the kitchen. Two noises…no, three…two voices and the radio…Noriaki and…oh, Tomoko.

It’s too late by the time he’s having a panic about the unexpected social situation before him. He’s already visible in the open doorway of the open-plan kitchen, where the two figures are sat next across from each other, laughing and deep in airy conversation.

Fucking damn it.

“Hiya!” Tomoko waves, craning around to get a proper glance at Jotaro’s hesitant presence. “Professor’s back. You okay?”

Jotaro has no choice now. He offers her a smile and a slightly small wave.

“Hey. I’m good, thanks. You?”

She shrugs, coral jumper wrapped around her tight.

“Can’t complain. Same old, same old. Didn’t get that fucking job, by the way. But thanks for getting me to the interview.”

Roped into discussion, Jotaro carefully takes his coat off. He comes into the kitchen and stands awkwardly, arms crossed.

“Really? That’s shit,” he responds, turning his attention to Noriaki as he walks past him. He stops to give him a mindfully cautious kiss on the cheek, “Hey,” he murmurs, testing the waters.

Kakyoin leans into his shoulder, hands clasped around a mug of herbal tea.

“Hi,” he smiles, a little sleepily. “Good day at work?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

Tension evaporates from the air. The bright, breezy interior of their home swallows anything from two days ago whole, though leaves Jotaro still a little shaken. He concentrates on the smell of fresh bread and plants himself by the sink, where he stands with his back against the counter.

Tomoko picks right back up from where she left off, always on a roll. She covers her mouth as she crunches on a pistachio biscuit and rolls her eyes. “God, am I really that unemployable? I was a smart old cookie before I went and got knocked up. Y’know. Eighteen years ago.”

“Oh stop it,” Kakyoin laughs, reaching over and patting her hand across the table, “What have I said? You have to be kinder to yourself. Being a full-time mother all on your own is miles harder than most jobs.”

Jotaro shuffles around, opening the fridge and staring at nothing in particular just to make his presence somewhat justified.

“You’re just too lovely,” Tomoko sighs, giggling and jokingly squeezing Kakyoin’s hand back. She turns to Jotaro and flashes him a cheeky smile, “Can’t I steal your boyfriend for myself, Jotaro? Please?”

It stings a little bit. She obviously doesn’t know she’s amongst a slight sore spot, or maybe she does. Maybe Kakyoin has told her everything. Either way, Jotaro is careful. He pretends to rummage around the fridge for some juice and joins in.

“Be my guest,” he smirks.

As Tomoko giggles, Jotaro peers over his shoulder to gauge Kakyoin’s reaction. Kakyoin, to his delight, is just sticking his tongue out happily. Having a guest over has proved vital in the speed of their recovery, today. He can see it deep in his boyfriend’s eyes: he’s forgiven. They can make it through anything.

“How dare you,” Kakyoin smiles, outwardly tired looking. Jotaro wonders what he’s been doing all day, if he’s rested enough and if he remembered to take all his medicine.

“Think about it,” Tomoko giggles, slinging her purse over her shoulder and standing up. “Alright, I’ve majorly overstayed my visit. I’ve got to get home before Josuke and cook him dinner, God knows that silly boy can’t do anything himself,” She goes over to give Kakyoin a big hug goodbye, “Take care, honey,” she says quietly to him. Though Jotaro feels a wave of guilt, he is endlessly grateful for her presence in his boyfriend’s life, these days.

“Right back at you,” Kakyoin tells her, and they both give each other a little peck on the cheek. Jotaro smiles into the fridge watching them.

Jotaro can’t ignore how much his head hurts. As he says his own goodbye to Tomoko and watches Kakyoin lead her out of the kitchen to the door, he finally uses the moment to clutch his skull. Pressure doesn’t help. He needs to drink something, take something, anything- but he can’t do that to Kakyoin today. Not today.

He settles on painkillers, harmless enough. He takes a few more than he needs to, mixing stronger ones with his usual headache-curers. He drinks an ungodly amount of water, with ice. He rubs the freezing glass on his forehead when it’s empty, stood over the sink straining his eyes. The painkillers slowly but surely begin to work. It isn’t a substitute for vodka, but the pain dulls nevertheless, and that’s as much as he can ask for right now.

The door closes. The house now stands with only the two of them in it, and Jotaro bites his breath back. His back is turned to the hall, to the door, yet he can hear Kakyoin’s footsteps until they are right behind him, stopping to a halt only when he’s pressed basically against him.

Jotaro doesn’t know what else to do but freeze. Kakyoin’s head leans on the back of his shoulders, his arms hugging him from behind.

“I’m,” Jotaro clears his throat, staring into sink water, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

No noise. There is the wind from outside gently stirring against the kitchen window, the occasional drip from a faulty tap.

Kakyoin reaches up, securing his grip on his shoulder, craning to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t. Upstairs, two minutes.”

Full bodied chills. Jotaro swallows, hands clawing the edge of the countertop.

They have to burn off all this built-up tension somehow, he supposes.

“Right. Got it,” Jotaro replies, fast and dry, smiling. Kakyoin kisses him on the ear and leaves the room.

He can’t move. Jotaro breathes out and closes his eyes. Everything from the moment he came home has thrown him completely, his original desire to let it all gently fall back into place between them gone out of the window.

Pacing around the kitchen helps. To hell with it, Jotaro thinks, head buzzing. If this is what they’re doing now, then so be it. He’ll just have to out-do himself. Easy.

Whether two minutes even go by, he doesn’t know. He climbs the stairs and starts to get erratic, too deep in his own imagination, too itching to get on with it. He enters his bedroom with a kind of urgency he hasn’t felt in a while, striding across white carpet like it’s a mission.

From their large, attached bathroom, there is the sound of running water. Kakyoin is leant over and looking in the bedroom mirror, twirling his hair into a braid, shirtless. Jotaro’s eyes scan over his patterned trousers, up to his bare muscular back, over his now exposed neck. Drawn in, he obstructs the space between his boyfriend and the mirror, pushing in and towering over him.

“Nori,” he breathes into his shoulder, testing a gentle bite into his delicious pale skin, “I-”

“Shut up,” Kakyoin orders, running his cold crafty hands under Jotaro’s shirt and absolutely ripping it over his head.

Note taken. Hint taken. Jotaro holds back an inhuman urge as he lets his boyfriend violate every inch of him with his fingers, a touch that sears over his stomach and chest.

Kakyoin doesn’t flinch as Jotaro picks him up and sits him in his lap, planting the tangled mess of them both on the edge of their bed. Steam flows in through the open bathroom door, sticky in the air, stickier than the kiss they’ve trapped themselves in.

A stifled, rushed “In the shower,” comes out of Kakyoin’s mouth as he reacts to Jotaro’s teeth marking and sucking into the crook of his neck.

The slick, wet sound of saliva pops as Jotaro stops to look him in the eyes, hands firmly bracing the back of his head.

“What happened to ‘don’t’-”

Something evil flashes on Kakyoin’s face, but he’s too clever to show it. He kisses Jotaro’s lips with a chaste sort of restraint and meanders his hands down his lover’s body until it’s hovered painfully close to under Jotaro’s belt.

“I thought,” Kakyoin teases slowly, “I told you to shut up?”

He squeezes. Jotaro huffs out into his shoulder, cursing.

Nothing can cloak how fast this is escalating, not even the thick material of corduroy trousers. Jotaro shuts his mouth and shoves their hips together instead, marvelling when he figures out how to knock Kakyoin down a peg or two. He is squirming now in his arms, long red hair spilling out behind him as his entire body cranes back into a gentle arch.

When they kiss, it is just as someone would expect a man like Jotaro to kiss someone: gasping air and teeth and stale remains of cigarette tasting on their tongues. Kakyoin can’t stop moving around in Jotaro’s lap, restlessly pushing and pulling, gripping him between the legs.

The next time that Kakyoin tries it, Jotaro pins his wrist behind his back. He cannot contain himself, can’t fucking bear it. He can smell the steamy soapy air, and he aches to be a part of it.

“Are you sure you want me to stay quiet?” he rasps into Kakyoin’s ear, still firmly holding him in place with his steely grip, “I can tell you what I’m going to do to you in that shower.”

He could’ve sworn Kakyoin laughs a little in response, inhaling and sighing dreamily. He doesn’t struggle, he slips into Jotaro’s chest and breathes him in, the smell of his morning cologne, the musk of day-long sweat.

“I’d rather have you show me.”

It ignites something, hurries him along. Jotaro grunts a low, smirking “fine,” into his lover’s neck and picks him up, slinging him over his shoulder. Kakyoin makes a noise in protest of being half-upside down, but Jotaro doesn’t budge until they’re in the bathroom and the door is slammed shut.

The room is thick with steam and boiling hot. Mirrors and windows fog, the bright modern stone tiles all along the walls gleaming. Jotaro lets Kakyoin undress the rest of him and vice versa, the two of them kissing so feverishly on the bathroom mat that it’s borderline violent.

All too eager, Jotaro is the first to slide open that glorious glass door of the shower and get under the hot water, pulling Kakyoin in with him. Once they’re enclosed and that door is shut right back where it belongs, the surroundings are masked with the loud beating of water against the walls and the floor. Over it, Jotaro can still hear his own heart drumming.

Kakyoin is fucking ethereal under the water, back pressed to the glass. Jotaro keeps sneaking glances down at him as they continue their lingering deep kiss, and each second that he spends admiring that slender muscular body he only grows more impatient, greedier, harder.

He indulges, lets his hands splay on Kakyoin’s chest, lets his tongue lick the warm droplets of water off his dampened pecs.

Jotaro trails his attention down, sinking to his knees as Kakyoin catches on, sighing out in excitement.

Flourishing, Jotaro grabs his boyfriend’s hips and pulls them level to his face, sucking a hickey right into the inside of Kakyoin’s thigh. Jotaro likes being down here, knees cemented on the ceramic floor of the shower, at his service. It just makes sense.

Water beats on Jotaro’s back, cascading warmth sliding down over the both of them, making his temperature rise in his blood. The noises coming from Kakyoin right now are mesmerizing. Jotaro feels so smug.

“I haven’t even fucking started with you yet,” he growls, biting lovingly into flesh.

Kakyoin’s hand reaches down to cup his face, all the chunky colourful rings on his fingers brushing Jotaro’s stubble. He smushes his cheek against his crotch.

“Fucking start then,” he whines.

Jotaro won’t be told twice. He is consumed and clouded with want as he starts dragging his tongue up the underside of his lover’s erection, loving the way it makes Kakyoin react and shiver.

Eyelids fluttering shut, Jotaro concentrates. He thinks about his lips and his breath and how to get this right, flawlessly accepting his boyfriend’s cock into his eager mouth and sucking it into hollowed cheeks.

“Ah,”

Kakyoin’s hand is solid and grasping now at the back of Jotaro’s soaked dark head of hair, fingers burning into his scalp as he guides him with an assertiveness that is insanely hot.

Each shove of hips into his mouth makes Jotaro’s entire body thirsty, and he shamelessly enjoys it. He deserves it, to be thrown about and destroyed.

“Use me,” Jotaro grunts between a gasp, twirling the head of Kakyoin’s cock over and around his tongue. He looks up, widened teary eyes happily awaiting praise.

Prettily smiling, blushed at the cheeks. That’s what Kakyoin looks like right now through the fountain of water.

“Okay, darling.”

His voice is smug, gentle, unwavering. Jotaro laps it up, braces himself. He wants his mouth to be fucked so bad, the ache in the bottom of his stomach pooling even though he hasn’t been touched at all.

Looking up, Jotaro’s eyes deliberately widen into a sultry sparkling mess as he takes more, sucking his lips in and sliding as much as Kakyoin as he can down into his mouth. The grasp of his lover’s hand in his hair tightens, those battle-worn yet delicate fingers trapping him in a desperate brace.

“Fuck-“

Kakyoin’s hand moves slow at first, guiding Jotaro’s head into a rhythm that allows room for a pause or a breath between. His thumb strokes Jotaro’s ear, contrasting tender pressure making his heart flip and roll around.

The gorgeous taste of sweat and skin coats Jotaro’s tongue like syrup. Kakyoin’s hand moves faster, grips tighter, encourages his cock right into the back of his lover’s throat.

Jotaro hums, whether to comfort himself through the feeling or from sheer enjoyment, he isn’t sure.

He pulls it back, then slides Kakyoin’s erection down as far as it’ll go.

“Mmm that’s it,” Kakyoin praises, words strangled and flustered, composure still somehow intact. “Good,”

It releases with a sloppy flick of Jotaro’s tongue. He drags a lick all the way down and works his way back, head pounding with lust. He needs this. He fucking needs this.

“Keep talking,” Jotaro outright mumbles, frantically, pulling Kakyoin right back in and sucking with his eyes closed in concentration.

There’s a swirling dark pit in his stomach that tells him he needs to be embarrassed right now. Jotaro needs the apology fucked into him. Jotaro needs to give Kakyoin back everything that he can’t with words and make up for secrets he just can’t tell with what’s left of his body.

Gentle, assertive strings of encouragement intermix with the splattering patters of the shower. It drives Jotaro on, keeps him more than grounded. He loves Kakyoin’s voice like this. He wants to tell him, but struggles against his stuffed throat and ends up flashing him eyes that speak two thousand more words than he ever could say.

He is rewarded with a gasp. Kakyoin’s hips shove forward and his hand is splayed against the tiled wall of the shower.

“Fuck,”

Jotaro sucks Kakyoin’s cock into his throat, pushing it deep down until it’s hitting the back and making his eyes water with strain. Kakyoin’s body shivers, his breaths begin shortening until his words are barely forming and rushed.

“Ah, I’m-, I-“

Jotaro slides his boyfriend’s cock out immediately, his fingers steadily retreating. Glistening eyes look up, and Jotaro’s swollen gasping lips curl into a smirk.

Kakyoin doesn’t respond beyond a stifled groan. His body is flushed and wet, thin droplets of water sliding continuously from the showerhead down the toned muscle of his chest, the narrow curves of his hips. Jotaro takes him into his hand, tongue sliding along the underside of his length simultaneously.

There’s a sharp inhalation, a gentle jolt.

“Jotaro,”

It rings in Jotaro’s ears, music to his troubled mind. Beautiful. His boyfriend finishes all over his face, pulling his head back to get a better look. Jotaro revels in it, sighing himself as his tired lips drip with cum and saliva. He stays put, dishevelled, kneeling in this shower like it’s a safe place.

Still, besides patterning water.

Kakyoin catches his breath, looks down softly, wipes Jotaro’s lip.

“Pretty,” he says. Quietly. Playfully.

And usually, Jotaro would scoff at such a comment, turn his face away and scowl. Instead, he places his languid head on Kakyoin’s thigh and exhales slowly, enjoying the water that runs down his neck and trickles over his back.

Is this what we’re doing now?

Jotaro stands, still feeling so small and pathetic though he towers at six foot five. His hair is soaked, Kakyoin’s is too: undone and half-freed from any attempt at braiding it in place. Pretty. Jotaro looks at Kakyoin now, flushed and expectingly gazing back at him, probably confused. Pretty doesn’t even do it justice.

Jotaro softens into a smile. His fingers graze over the muscle of Kakyoin’s chest, his shoulders, the soft part under his neck. Arms wrap his neck, pull him down into a kiss. Jotaro doesn’t resist.

Admittedly, he’s gone and ruined the mood a little bit. There’s nothing hot and desperate about the way they’re holding each other now, wet and breathless in this tender moment of time. Jotaro hopes Kakyoin doesn’t mind. Any implications of shoving him against the wall, wrapping his legs around his waist and having his way with him have fizzled away. Maybe they’ll get round to it later. Who knows. Jotaro doesn’t care.

“I can tell you’re tired,” Kakyoin whispers, nose pressed tenderly to Jotaro’s cheek. “It’s okay.”

Jotaro nods into his shoulder. How he reads his mind and his soul like clockwork, he’ll never know.

“I just wanted to feel you again,” Kakyoin continues.

Jotaro squeezes him tighter, picks him up, kisses his forehead. Water is turned off, the shower door slid open. They forget about soap, or shampoo, or anything important. They get half dressed without letting go of each other, finally out of the bathroom with Jotaro bringing a towel under his arm.

“Let me dry your hair,” Jotaro mumbles, pulling Kakyoin onto their bed and sitting snugly behind him.

Kakyoin happily confirms with a sleepy nod, relaxing back into his touch. Jotaro concentrates on his own fingers, undoing Kakyoin’s hair with delicacy he would only compare to an artist of sorts, piece by piece taking his braid out. With slow drags of a hairbrush and thorough strokes of a microfibre towel, Jotaro begins to dry it.

The most beautiful thing starts to happen. Kakyoin reclines and drifts away, safe under each and every one of Jotaro’s touches. He smiles a little every time Jotaro leans down to kiss his forehead, offering nervous laughs when Jotaro lets his lips brush against his ear.

“Better?”

“Better.”

Kakyoin rolls over onto his front, taking the tangled faux-fur blanket of their bed along with him. He lounges with a lazy smile, curling up against Jotaro’s lap.

“Just gonna get some water,” Jotaro offers, yawning and getting up off the bed. His legs are a little shaky, his hands strangely hot. His head hasn’t calmed, that dreaded headache back on his conscious. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight, yeah?”

“Okay,” Kakyoin says, eyes closed, reaching out to kiss Jotaro’s hands before he walks away. “Sounds good.”

Peace stills over the house as Jotaro walks downstairs, palms hidden in the pockets of soft trousers. He is silent as he opens a kitchen cupboard, fetching a glass, blinking away the tiredness in his eyes.

No tap runs. Jotaro looks at the bottle in his hand, the brown liquid he’s just grasped from the top cabinet without even thinking.

He sighs. The top pops open. This isn’t worth it. The bottle is turned upside down. He’s done so well today. He swallows with an ache that overpowers his chest. Pathetic. Liar. Fraud.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Fuck. That feels good.

Chapter Text

Saturday evening is filled with warmth, loud music and clinking glasses. The Higashikata’s kitchen is lit up with strings of pretty orange lights and the five figures sat around the table are in jovial spirit.

Tomoko is five glasses of red wine down, and lively. Jotaro has obsessed over everyone else’s alcohol consumption like it’s a raging compulsive storm in his head. Kakyoin has graciously, annoyingly, stuck to one, opting for juice from then onwards. Okuyasu and Josuke have stuck to lemonade.

Jotaro is down an entire bottle and a half. He shan’t dare reach for another yet. ‘Sharing’ with Tomoko has worked out okay, so far.

Deathly afraid of sweating through his silk shirt, he forces himself not to stress. Jotaro overly concentrates on the conversation that’s happening in live time around him, welcoming it as any form of distraction.

“Yo your food’s the fuckin’ best,” Okuyasu compliments in Tomoko’s direction. “I sound like a broken record but this is incredible.”

“Aww,” Tomoko pulls him in aggressively, kissing him on the forehead, “You extra deserve it, love. It’s been a long week of work for you, hasn’t it?”

Okuyasu blushes against his will, wiping away nothing at his cheek and slouching with a stoned smile on his face. He and Jotaro give each other a little knowing glance, but it doesn’t last long. Jotaro’s seen Okuyasu at the convenience store more than anyone this week, not that anyone would know.

“Yeah,” the teenager mumbles, happily going back to cutting strawberry cake with his fork, “Guess you could say that.”

“He’s more of an adult than most of us, now.” Kakyoin joins in, pouring Jotaro a much-appreciated glass of water.

“Oh tell me about it,” Tomoko sighs playfully, pretending to faint, “Both these boys are getting so big it’s scary,” she points her fork in Jotaro’s direction, “Mark my words, soon they’re gonna be Jotaro-sized.”

They all laugh collectively, a few gasps of amused horror intermixed. Even Jotaro saves a moment of easiness to smile.

“Isn’t that a terrifying concept?” Kakyoin teases, nudging him on the shoulder.

“I’m gettin' there,” Okuyasu pouts, flexing one of his biceps through his t-shirt, “Okay, maybe not quite.”

“One day, Yasu,” Josuke grins, forkful of cake in hand.

Jotaro is glad he wore a long sleeve shirt, because now he can only think about how hyper-aware he is that everyone’s looking at his body. He sneaks a glance at the wine. He sneaks a glance at the alcohol cupboard. Tomoko has so much good shit. Why won’t she get any of her premium quality spirits out? And why is he going to have to be the one to ask? They’re already on dessert, three courses down and nearing the end of acceptable drinking time. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to make a fool of himself.

He swings back and forth in his mind, practically silent. Like an auto-powered machine he laughs when he needs to, though no words filter through his memory. Nothing that anyone says sticks. He weighs up what to do.

Glass. Bottle. Reach for it, say how nice it is.

Option two, offer it round. No, that’s stupid.

What about being bold? A leading question? ‘Tomoko, you’ve got a lovely collection of whiskey.’

Absolutely not.

Jotaro’s eyes scan the table, scan the kitchen. Fuck. He’s sobering up. His leg starts to bounce and he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until Kakyoin’s hand settles on his thigh and discreetly calms him to a stop.

Things move on as normal. The next hour goes on as any dinner gathering between such an eclectic group would, their strange little make-shift family all light-hearted and chatty. Jotaro can’t concentrate on any subject of conversation until it's already passed by. Always the passive listener in social situations at the best of times, he prefers to lag behind. Now more than ever, his brain is slow, and talking won’t cut it.

His mouth refuses to produce saliva. He can’t do a second more of this.

There are a few times he zones back in. One of which, shatters him a little more than he’d have liked.

“Funny you mention that,” Kakyoin says, to someone, maybe Josuke, “I didn’t think I’d even live past seventeen.”

And Jotaro hasn’t got a clue what he replied that too, or why he said it, or what that even means. Two minutes go by and he still is fixated on it.

Fuck it. He reaches for the bottle.

And now everyone’s talking about something else. Jotaro is pouring a glass, absent.

What does that mean?

Nori, he wants to say, grab Kakyoin’s arm and shake it, Don’t fucking say that. Don’t joke about that shit.

Jotaro’s hand is strong and huge against the dainty stem of the wine glass he brings to his lip, quivering with anger.

He can’t look Kakyoin in the eye.

Don’t fucking joke about that. What’s funny about that?

The taste of wine is close to making him gag as he glugs it like water. Pausing only for breath, he catches Okuyasu’s eye, and shakes his head.

Okuyasu won’t stop giving him terrified glances.

Jotaro’s second stare screams a very clear, Cut it out, kid.

Jotaro is shaking. He’s so angry that he could smash this table in two. Why won’t this get him fucking drunk?

And why the fuck would Kakyoin make a joke like that?

Half an hour goes by. Jotaro’s silence goes unnoticed, annoyingly so. Simmering claustrophobia reaches a limit. This chair feels small, this room feels hot, this table feels like a death-trap.

Second glass goes down. Wine is disgusting.

I didn’t think I’d live past seventeen.

Jotaro watches Kakyoin smiling and talking away. He feels a pit in his stomach. This wine tastes like blood. More glasses follow, each one fuller and even more vile than the last.

Jotaro has genuinely no fucking idea what they’re even talking about, and he freezes, trying not to make his perplexed expression too palpable.

It doesn’t seem to involve him. He blanks out once more, eyes fixated on the wine label.

Fourth glass. Now, this label is interesting. Wine of Italy. Crafted in Abruzzo Region, Italy. Bold & full bodied. Why would Kakyoin joke about dying? Allergy information: Contains sulphites. If Kakyoin had died, would Jotaro be sat here now? This inky black Montepulciano is rich and complex, with flavours of juicy black fruit and savoury spices. Fourth glass.

He looks up, sees Okuyasu giving him a concerned, half-frazzled stare. Jotaro’s eyes return to the safety of the label. A clumsy hand goes to clutch for another glass.

13.5% vol. Maceration of the skins at a controlled temperature in special steel tanks, the must is a contact with the skins through daily pumping over which ensures the extraction of colour and aromatic strikers. The variation varies from 8-10 days.

And it’s gone. Liquid glugs as he tips the bottle upside down to pour the rest of it in his glass. Jotaro doesn’t have much of a choice.

Internally sighing at the thought of getting this down him, Jotaro’s hand takes the stem of the glass and carries it to his lips. Even the smell is making him slightly sick, all that rich swirling fermented mess teasing him.

He’s not even two sips down until the back of Kakyoin’s hand grazes over his fingers, taking his drinking to a halt.

“I think that’s enough,” Kakyoin says gently, quietly, nervously.

Jotaro’s eyes glance to his side with a burning guilt that isn’t even close to being hidden. When he dares to examine Kakyoin’s face, he finds him looking back with a waiting, tight anxiousness.

What?

Mid-sip, Jotaro carefully places the glass down on the table mat, minding not to stain the white lace cloth. He does the only thing he can. Smile.

“Nori,” he exhales, patting his boyfriend on the pat as if he’s just made a really funny joke, “Relax.”

For a second, Kakyoin scrunches up his face in disapproval, eyes flickering to the table. But he softens, sighs and sits up straight.

“I am.”

The other three people sat at the table are too gone, too in depth in their own laughing to pick up on this current little back and forth. Jotaro, as if to show his own resolve, takes another casual glug of wine and finally puts his glass back for good.

He runs his hand over Kakyoin’s sleeve, then under it, tips of his fingers caressing skin.

Jotaro confirms something he’s been dreading for a while: this isn’t even barely enough to get him drunk anymore.

His fingers claw into his thigh. This is shit. This isn’t okay.

He can’t hear anything, can’t separate words from sentences and certainly can’t involve himself.

This is shit. This is shit, this is shit.

His hand is clammy and trembling when it reaches out again for the stem of his glass, luring it to his lips and allowing him carry on getting it down. God, he really does fucking hate the taste of wine. It might as well be poison.

Jotaro watches Kakyoin talk, leans into him and masks a healthy appearance, makes sure he has good posture and no tensed brow. Under the table he brushes Kakyoin’s leg, touches the tops of Kakyoin’s fingers, strokes the base of his hand. ‘I’m here’. Jotaro wants to say. ‘Look, I’m paying attention. I swear.’

But he feels a corpse.

“I need a smoke.”

Silence. It’s the first word Jotaro’s spoken aloud, addressed to everyone in over an hour.

When he says it, he feels vastly un-inside of his own spirit. Just about enough Jotaro-esque arrogance does the trick, and no one bats an eyelid.

“No problem darling,” Tomoko yawns, paused from deep mid conversation, “Just go to the back of the garden.”

“Rude,” Kakyoin smirks. “Bad manners, Kujo.”

He ruffles Kakyoin’s hair playfully and grunts as he stands up.

“Quiet, you.”

Jotaro ambles out of the kitchen, sighing relief. It feels like a rainstorm has washed away blood and sweat from battle-torn skin. It’s faintly drizzly outside right now, not enough to soak him though and not enough to warrant a coat being put on, so he braves it straight through the sliding glass doors out onto the patio and walks down the garden.

Cool air is welcome on his face as he takes his hat off, the weather soothing and blowing through his hair. The sky is almost dark and everyone else’s windows on the street glow orange against it.

Jotaro lowers himself into the grass, stretches out his legs. He tries to breathe in and out, in and out, tries to pretend as though he’s satisfied. Out comes a half-full packet of Marlboros and a lighter to follow. Jotaro looks down at his hands.

Something genuinely horrifying starts to happen. They shake uncontrollably, his fingers barely able to grasp a hold of anything. Pushing through makes it worse. Jotaro breathes, breathes deep, tries to calm his co-ordination to normalcy.

I didn’t think I’d live past seventeen.

Jotaro tries again, trembling thumb pushing down on the ignition of his lighter. Time and time again, until a spark flames and his other hand clumsily cups it away from the drizzly wet air.

Cigarette between his teeth, he places the end into the fire and inhales, finally there. Finally.

“Yo,”

Jotaro turns around at the sound of Okuyasu’s voice appearing unexpectedly behind him. The kid is stood with his arms tucked into the sleeves of an old blue baseball jacket that has to be four sizes too big on him, peering down at the space next to Jotaro on the grass.

“Hey,” Jotaro says, blinking tiredness out of his eyes. He gestures to the bad habit stuck between his lips, “Cig?”

Okuyasu yawns as he sits beside him, slumping with his knees pulled to his chest.

“Please, man. I’m on the worst come-down.”

The irony of the concerned parental-like look that pulls itself over Jotaro’s face can’t be hidden. Slowly, guiltily, he passes Okuyasu a cigarette with an annoyingly shaky hand and chucks over his lighter too.

As Okuyasu lights up and takes his first drag, Jotaro contemplates if it’s worth asking him what he’s coming down from exactly. But that’s not what chooses to come out of his mouth, because his head begins to feel gloriously fuzzy. This is it, it’s sinking in.

“It just hit me.”

Okuyasu’s face turns in gentle confusion until he catches on.

“What? You mean the drink?”

Jotaro nods, eyes drooping. “Thought it wouldn’t,” he sighs, relief sparkling in his blood. He still feels sick to the core, suddenly wanting Kakyoin. “Thank fuck.”

Okuyasu exhales, his hands enviably still.

“Good for you, man.”

They sit in silence whilst Okuyasu smokes down to the filter. Jotaro flicks ash onto the grass, and watches it sizzle away.

“You wanna know what I told Josuke today?” Okuyasu says, eyes somewhere off in the distance.

Jotaro’s head turns, brows raised in anticipation.

“What?”

“I’m gonna try and quit. Drugs.”

Jotaro can’t believe what he’s hearing, or perhaps he just doesn’t want to come to terms with it. Taken aback and already riled up from earlier, he breathes in and forces himself not to misdirect his frustration on this poor kid.

“Did you mean it?”

Okuyasu nods, though somewhat slowly.

“Yeah.”

Jotaro reaches over to pat Okuyasu on the shoulder, pit inside of his gut deepening with each second. Shameful.

“That’s tough. Well done.”

He goes back to his cigarette, holds back a scowl.

Okuyasu smiles.

“Thanks, man.”

Whatever lag this alcohol has done is really setting him off. Jotaro is hit by a wave, and though it feels good, it throws all of his emotions off balance. Fuck. His vision isn’t doing great. Every time he turns his face, something falls behind, and anything beyond two meters away blurs.

Jotaro tries to inspect his own hand. It strains his eyes.

He leans back, practically gulping air into his lungs.

“Fuck.”

He stays completely still as a very sudden little burst of nausea crashes over him.

“You good?” Okuyasu asks, clearly knowing the answer already.

“Yeah,” Jotaro lies. He closes his eyes and fights off the urge to fall straight asleep, drunken arms anchored into the grass to keep his body somewhat stable. “Wake me up in ten minutes and we’ll go back inside.”

“Sure thing, my bro.”

-----------------------------------

When Jotaro is shaken on the shoulder ten minutes later, he begrudgingly gets to his feet and re-enters the house, Okuyasu following closely. Noise is coming from the living room, and when they go to inspect it they come across Josuke and Kakyoin in a heated video game battle, the both of them crouched right of the TV and sprawled on the carpet. Loud beeping music is blaring from the screen. Okuyasu makes fun of whatever Josuke’s doing with his character and goes to join in, while Jotaro just hovers in the doorway with his arms crossed.

“I’ll leave you kids to it,” he smirks, faintly closing the door only just and heading right back into the kitchen, goal clearly in mind and so close in his reach.

Tomoko is still in there, clearing things away and humming to herself.

“Heya, big guy,” she says, “Didn’t fancy Mario Kart?”

Jotaro snorts and shakes his head, looking around at all her shelves.

“Not really, no.”

He pauses, stops, thinks of his own mother all of a sudden.

“Need a hand?”

Tomoko turns around and smiles.

“Thanks for offering darling, but it’s okay. I’m almost done.”

Left with not much else to do but stand with his hands in his pockets, Jotaro starts ranking all of the drinks that he can see in his head. Pretty bottles of pink and green stand before him on one of Tomoko’s cabinets, girly rose flavoured gins and sparkling dark spirits. They all have silly names, the sorts of things passed around in small, cute batches and guzzled down by bubbly socialites in designer dresses.

Jotaro looks at percentages, picks the highest one up.

“Never heard of this.”

Tomoko halts from cleaning a glass with a cloth and giggles to look at what he’s holding, “It’s lethal. Me and the girls used to do shots of it all the time in college. Explains a lot, really.”

Pretending the read the label, Jotaro turns it around in his hands, mindful of how easily he could drop this in the state he’s in right now.

“Mind if I try some?”

Casual. He spits it out with so much pure confidence weighted in every word that even he’s proud of it right away.

Tomoko doesn’t even look back at him.

“Yeah, go ahead,” she says, scrubbing at a spoon, washing up liquid bubbling everywhere, “Better you than me, eh? I’d be careful mixing that with wine.”

And Jotaro laughs at her.

He pops the cap off and pours some of it, too much of it, into his empty wine glass.

He holds it up to the light. The rich dark brown swirls into gold. Yes.

Jotaro exhales, puts it to his lips, throws it back. It’s not that great but Tomoko is right, it’s fucking strong and it almost makes him choke.

She isn’t paying attention to him at all. Jotaro grins ear to ear as he loads up another glug worth at least a double shot and gulps it down, ignoring the sting at the back of his throat.

“It’s nice,” he lies.

“Yeah,” Tomoko agrees, oblivious, “Not bad stuff. Kinda tastes like cinnamon.”

He closes his eyes this time as he swallows, screwing the cap back on the bottle and putting it away immediately before he makes a grave fucking mistake.

Waiting for it to hit him feels excruciating, as though he is watching a fist fly at his face in slow motion. He paces around the kitchen a few times and makes small talk, not minding the steady gaps of pop music from the radio that fill the gaps of silence.

“Guess I’ll go see how Mario Kart’s going,” Jotaro eventually mumbles, reluctant.

Tomoko giggles at him as he leaves.

“Good luck with that.”

He renters the living room to absolute chaos. As soon as he swings the door open, he’s met with the loudest wave of game music he’s ever heard and three people shouting at the TV, all with controllers in hand.

Josuke and Okuyasu are still on the floor, lying on their fronts and very much intensely consumed with the final lap of this race. Kakyoin has moved to claim a spot on the sofa and Jotaro naturally slumps down beside him.

“One second,” Kakyoin says hurriedly before Jotaro can even make a sound around him. He’s pressing buttons and steering with a skill that is sadly quite impressive, “I’m about to beat these two kids’ asses.”

Jotaro lets out a laugh a little too easily and realises that he might just be, might just be very drunk right now. This is a welcomed revelation.

He puts his arm around Kakyoin and snuggles into his side, head leant on his boyfriend’s shoulder as he watches him flawlessly steer Donkey Kong around the track.

“You’ve got this in the bag,” Jotaro mumbles, cheek rubbing against the soft knit of Kakyoin’s jumper. Kakyoin starts laughing at how seriously he sounds and in return Jotaro speaks right into his ear, making him laugh even more, “Put them to shame.”

“You bet,” Kakyoin grins, silently cheering when he crosses the finish line in first. He puts his controller down and directs his full attention Jotaro’s way, leaving the teenagers to moan about it between themselves.

Josuke declares he’s restarting the course, and Kakyoin allows him and Okuyasu to play as a pair whilst he has Jotaro to himself on the sofa. Music of another race tracks starts right back up again as Kakyoin turns and smiles to Jotaro, their foreheads pressed together.

“Hey,” Jotaro says giddily, smiling and blinking away at his drunken eyes.

Kakyoin’s face lights up, staring right back with a very amused sparkle. When he speaks, it’s playfully quiet.

“Hey.”

Too far gone to care about being openly disgusting, they start to run their fingers over each other’s features: Jotaro runs his thumb over the warmest parts of Kakyoin’s cheeks and in return Kakyoin is rubbing his nose against his own. They stop and start sleepily, curled up on this sofa and for the most part are completely ignored by the two teenagers who’s backs are turned to their displays of affection.

“You look so good tonight,” Jotaro whispers as he gives him a soft kiss on his lips.

Another kiss follows as Kakyoin’s hand brace around Jotaro’s shoulders to pull them together steadily. He matches the wistful tone of this moment and talks under his breath, gorgeously drawing every word out.

“Thank you my love,” he says, kissing Jotaro’s eyebrows and then his nose, “You look so handsome in this shirt.”

“Ugh, get a fucking room,” Josuke blurts out as a joke, and they all can’t help but laugh at the immense contrast in atmosphere.

Jotaro knows he’s drunk right now, because he tries to stand and make a joke in return about going home but somehow really struggles to move. Lazy arms have to literally heave himself up from the sofa, one clasped hand pulling Kakyoin with him.

“Steady there you,” Kakyoin says as he places a cautious hand right behind Jotaro’s back, “Someone’s had one too many.”

And he’s completely joking and completely smiling and totally not meaning it in any other way, but Jotaro’s chest sinks.

“Nah, it’s not that bad,” Jotaro tries to say. He takes a step forward and his hand literally shoves against the wall to stop him toppling over.

Josuke bursts out into laughter. Kakyoin slaps a hand over his own mouth to save face.

“Yeah, sure thing love,” Kakyoin ushers him along out of the room, “C’mon old man, let’s get you home.”

“Don’t call me that, good grief.”

-------------

Jotaro stands in the entrance of his home, jacket slung over his shoulder.

He doesn’t remember the walk home.

The clock on the wall near their hallway mirror is pointing to a very clear 12:04AM. They left Tomoko’s at 11:48. It adds up so eerily well, ten minutes plus time to say goodbye.

Ten minutes ago doesn’t exist. Jotaro comes to life, stood clenching his fist, leant against the wall. Ten minutes ago. Where was he ten minutes ago?

He can taste salty air, can feel the cold dissipating from his slightly reddened knuckles. Unless teleportation has suddenly been invented without his knowledge, there is no other explanation. The closets thing he has to blame is his pounding head, and his unbalanced legs.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,”

Jotaro looks up. Kakyoin is poking his head out through the kitchen door, eyebrow raised. Jotaro catches the chills, so shocked and taken aback by the change in his surroundings that nothing in his own house feels real.

“We walked home?” Jotaro slurs.

Kakyoin comes over to take Jotaro’s jacket off him, hanging it up on the pegs by the door.

“What?”

Jotaro’s face naturally scowls in confusion, dead serious.

“We walked home? How long?”

His hat is unwillingly pulled from his head. Kakyoin hangs it up in the same place.

“Not sure. We walked kinda slow. Maybe thirteen minutes?” he shrugs.

Not the answer Jotaro wanted, but an indirect confirmation of his fear.

I don’t remember. He wants to whisper, Nori, did we really walk home? Please, help me. I’m so fucking drunk I can’t feel anything.

“Cool.” Jotaro rubs Kakyoin’s arm tenderly and walks past clumsily. He clutches the banister and yawns into his sleeve as he starts the harrowing climb up the stairs. “I’m getting the fuck to bed.”

“Sure.” Kakyoin smiles, not even so much glancing in his direction. “I’ll be up in a bit, honey.”

Praying with each step that he doesn’t fall flat on his face, Jotaro walks up to their room with his head in his hands. He concentrates harder than he’s ever done, disappearing round and round in circles. Nothing comes to mind.

He’s fucked.

Not even able to bear the faintest bit of bright light, he shuts the curtains and gets changed in complete darkness. By the time he’s under the cool relief of bedcovers, he realises he hasn’t brushed his teeth and debates going to do it for a solid few minutes, unmoving. Not even his best paranoid effort could pull him back up. Every time he even lifts his head he’s overcome with painful nausea and muscles in his neck that feel tight.

Cemented to his pillow, he holds back pity. Jotaro cannot regret what he’s gone and done tonight.

He hopes that he’ll fall asleep before Kakyoin comes up to join him, but to no such luck. Rummaging sounds and the creaking of a door signal another presence in his room instantly. He wants to sigh as he listens half-heartedly to the sounds of Kakyoin brushing his teeth and washing his face in the attached bathroom, his quiet footsteps as he re-enters the room and climbs into bed by his side.

“JoJo?” Kakyoin whispers, lying right up by his side and stroking his face. “You asleep?”

And like an idiot, Jotaro decides not to pretend he is. He twitches against his will at the feeling of Kakyoin’s damp hand caressing his cheek.

“No,” he mumbles.

Kakyoin sighs and puts his arm around Jotaro’s shoulders, pulling him in so that Jotaro’s face lies buried into his shoulder.

Pine. Pine and lavender, that’s what Kakyoin smells like.

Jotaro could cry. Could. He’d rather be caught dead, though.

“Don’t move,” he sleepily demands, screwing his eyes shut even more aggressively. “I’m comfy.”

It wasn’t supposed to be funny. Kakyoin laughs a little bit and kisses him on the forehead.

“I won’t,” he whispers, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s the fucking problem, Jotaro thinks. He bites on the inside of his bottom lip. Run while you can. Run from me.

He clutches Kakyoin’s hand with a force that is completely unnecessary.

Leave.

Please don’t leave.

Don’t fucking leave me.

Blood pumps in the veins he can feel in his wrist, fist absolutely tight.

“I never deserved you.”

Jotaro’s voice isn’t assertive, nor gruff. It is wavering, embarrassing, sloppy.

“That’s not true,” Kakyoin whispers. “You know that’s not true.”

When he gets no response, he sighs once more, heavier than the last.

“Go to sleep, my love.”

Jotaro says nothing at all, too scared to open his mouth and risk it all. One blow to his ego, one more way to unveil everything horrible that he carries around. The truth is a sad, sad state of affairs. How close can Kakyoin get before he works it out? How far, how hard can Jotaro push this?

But before he reaches an answer, Jotaro slips away into the horror of night. And as his mind collapses, a dream opens.

Chapter Text

Unless he’s expecting a guest, the blinds are pretty much always closed in Jotaro’s office. This morning is no different. He sits with his chair reclined all the way back, arms crossed and legs up on the desk. Tired eyes stare up to the ceiling fan, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clenched in his fist. The pile of empty McDonalds breakfast wrappers overflows the bin under his stash. He swigs at his vice and rocks back and forth, happily avoiding tasks. Perhaps he should’ve eaten before he started drinking, but he’s quite enjoying letting this all go straight to his head.

There’s no way he can close his eyes. There’s too much risk in slipping back to sleep, too many gruesome images he can’t let his mind torture him with. How many times, how many ways does he have to watch Kakyoin die?

Flush it out. Blind it. Jotaro downs his drink and imagines the alcohol numbing his nerves, stopping all the thoughts for good. Horrific timing doesn’t register. Nothing about the day of work ahead comes close to how desperate he is to rid of last night’s nightmare.

This cycle has been happening all of last week: bad dream, paranoia, drink at his desk, teach his classes whilst stumbling. Letting his students do independent research or copy diagrams has been his go-to way of hiding it, allowing him to simply sit at his desk, get away with muttering a few facts here and there, and drink discretely from his flask.

No, it isn’t good. No, it isn’t moral, or proper, or professional. But what would be even less professional is the risk of Jotaro being stood there sober, mumbling Dio’s name like a lunatic as he stares into his rows of students and pictures a vivid hallucination of his boyfriend being murdered.

Professionalism can take a fucking back seat, for the moment.

Everything seems quite relaxed in Jotaro’s office. He plays a jazz station from his tinny little radio and flicks through a fashion magazine, wishing there wasn’t a cigarette ban in this stupid building. His mind is occupied until someone walks down the corridor, and the sound of footsteps makes him jump out of his mind. The person passes by, yet Jotaro’s heart races, pounding right inro his ears. Dio. It could be Dio.

No, Dio is dead. I killed Dio. I’m at work.

Ragged breaths and trembling palms.

Go away. Go away.

He drinks until he has to pause for breath, whiskey soaked-lips gasping for air. The feeling of dwindling liquid notifies him that this is, in fact, the end of it.

His first class to teach is in twenty minutes. Jotaro’s eyes focus on the radio clock as though it’ll change on command. It doesn’t register until he’s been staring at it so long that the minute changes before his eyes.

His first class is in twenty fucking minutes.

“Shit,” he grumbles aloud, clutching his head. An empty bottle clangs as he clumsily slams it on the desk, forcing himself to stand. He wobbles as soon as he lets go of the chair for balance, barely holding himself together.

He forces himself to sip from his water bottle, but even the slightest drop makes his stomach churn. When he tries to walk to the door, he almost falls flat on his face.

Jotaro perseveres like a champion, very slowly strolling down his block of staff offices to the main area of the biology department. Folder snug under his arm and a flask of whiskey in his bag, he makes his way into the empty lecture theatre and sits with his head in his hands at the front desk.

Any tiny bit of strain is making his head spin, but he knows his students at the back won’t be able to see the whiteboard if he dares turn the lights down any darker. To avoid unnecessary complaints, he’ll have to just cope.

At this point, he needs all the strength he can get. Things aren’t going to be good. Jotaro takes a little sip out of his flask to ease his nerves and buries it back in his bag. His leg won’t stop jittering. He obsesses over the clock.

He pretends to be typing at his computer when his students start to file in and make their way up the stairs to their seats. There’s a lot of chatter, as usual. Everyone is seated, pens and paper and coffees at the ready. Jotaro prays to a God that he definitely doesn’t believe in… and tries to stand up.

Tries.

Tripping wasn’t part of the plan. Jotaro catches himself and keeps his hand planted to the desk, practically leaning his weight on the table. He clears his throat.

“Quiet.”

The chatter stops, gradually. Everyone’s attention shifts to him, hundreds of eager young eyes watching his every move. Jotaro stays still, almost falling backwards.

“Good morning everyone. Today I’m going to be going through a series of-” he chokes, coughing into his hand. A sharp pain throbs in his head. “The next in our series of phytoplankton physiological mechanisms. I’ll be going through the three diagrams from last week in depth, so get this down at your own pace.”

Jotaro looks around for his pen, swaying. When he finally finds it, he has a hard time getting the lid off, ending up with black marker stain on his hands.

“Ah, shit,” he grumbles audibly. The lid is off. He ambles over to the whiteboard, hands out to steady himself. “Right, so, shit-” he repeats, losing balance. “The cryptophyte is composed of...”

He loses his train of thought. Jotaro just starts drawing.

“First, the pyrenoid. Yes. Then, uh-”

A slight problem arises. All of Jotaro’s space awareness is gone. His hand almost crashes into the whiteboard, and he has to stand back to get a look at what he’s even doing. When he tries to get a straight line to label his markings, it’s all crooked.

It’s been silent for a while. Too long. He clears his throat.

“Periplast components. There are two types you need to know.”

Jotaro’s stomach burns. He clenches a fist to direct the pain elsewhere. When he takes a step back again to get a better view of his diagram, he slightly trips.

“Two types, and in your exam y’ll need-” he trails off in horror, realising how bad he’s slurring.

Pause for breath, start again. “Both...so...” he staggers to the side. His head hurts. Oh, his head hurts so bad.

Two of his students are talking. Jotaro faces the front and puts his hands on his hips, leaning forward and instantly regretting it when his chest begins to crush itself with nausea. He points the hand with his pen up at them.

“Quiet. Fucking quiet you two, alright?”

It isn’t until he’s turned back around that he realises what’s just come out of his mouth. Jotaro isn’t a stranger to being overly stern with his classes, but he can tell in the air that everyone is speechlessly shocked.

He carries on drawing in silence, internally exasperated, until there’s even more quiet whispers amongst everyone.

“Dr Kujo?” one girl pipes up, nervously speaking on behalf of everyone, it seems. “Are...you okay?”

It echoes around the entire theatre. Jotaro screws his eyes shut. The pain in his stomach is overwhelmingly painful now. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit. Not good. He needs to sit down, now.

He topples about until he finds his chair, leaning against it and breathing in.

“I’m fine. Be quiet and take notes.”

He returns to the whiteboard.

“Cryptomonads are aquatic unicellular eukaryotes that-”

Fuck.

Jotaro swallows down, hard. His palm is so sweaty and cold that his pen almost slips completely from his hand. He swallows again. His mouth is hot, and filling with saliva.

Shit. Shit, shit.

His pen slams on his desk.

“One second.”

Jotaro pushes past the double doors, strides and sways to the staff toilets down the corridor and slams a door behind him.

He slumps down, rests his arms on the toilet seat with not much choice. He knows it’s coming.

Just in time. As soon as he breathes in, he begins to throw up uncontrollably. It burns his throat, completely uncomforted by any water or nutritional food. All he has to work with is vile old spirits and burger grease.

Getting his breath back, he spits the rest of it out. He uses every bit of strength to flush it away and realises that he’s absolutely fucked. His hand won’t work, will barely move on his own command. With this in mind, he does everything he can to stand up, staying still for a minute in the cubicle and wishing he were dead.

At the sink, he tries to drink the tap water, but ends up throwing that up too. His stomach really, really hurts. Even breathing is painful, and when he coughs, it stings from the inside. He washes his mouth out, looks at his reflection, and punches the counter with his fist.

Jotaro makes his way back to his class excoriatingly slowly. When he comes back in through the doors, an absolutely cacophony of loud chatter comes to dead silence.

His puffy eyes blink as he slumps in his chair. Jotaro leans his face into his hand and picks right back up from where he left off, refusing to look a second more at that half-done shitty diagram he’s done.

“Where was I…” he mutters, “Cryptomonads are characterized by an asymmetric cell shape…”

He pauses, blanks out into the crowd.

Hot streets. Hot air, hot blood. The World stops time. There are knives that circle Jotaro’s entire body, and he’s in the air, frozen.

All his students are watching, waiting.

But Dio is aiming a punch in his direction. I’ve already killed Kakyoin, he says. I’ve already. Killed. Kakyoin.

Jotaro gets out of his chair, sways back and forth, stares at the mossy green carpet and his expensive leather work shoes.

“Dio…”

He slams a hand over his mouth, cursing. Here he stands, a laughingstock. A giant of a man, yet he feels so small. The dreamboat of the university distinguishingly reeking of alcohol and sweat and vomit, rambling like a senile veteran.

He flinches, violently jerking his arm back in reaction. He could’ve sworn he heard a loud crack, the breaking of a bone, or the slam of a body into the ground.

With a heavily nauseous sigh, Jotaro returns to his whiteboard in silence and does his best to finish his work. It’s sloppy, but readable. He stands there for five whole minutes drawing out labels and cross sections, his eyes threatening to close on him every step of the way. When he’s just about satisfied, he waves a hand at it.

“Copy it,” he orders to his class, staggering over to his chair and sitting down. He refuses to face them, opting to turn on his computer and stare at it instead. “Just fucking copy it.”

There’s a confused buzz that circles about the room. Everyone starts talking amongst themselves hurriedly whilst they scribble down Jotaro’s best drunk attempts of a diagram. Jotaro pretends to be looking at something, but he can’t even concentrate on a screen.

Jotaro is ashamed that he doesn’t care what they’re saying about him right now, or that this is actually a very serious workplace violation and that one complaint could cost him his job. He just wants another drink.

He leaves his students to gossip at his expense and sips from his metal flask carefully. It helps a little bit, settles his headache in the short-term. In an hour, he’ll have to replenish how chronically dehydrated he is. Right now, though? Whatever.

Another round of stomach bile threatens to come up his throat, and Jotaro sits there continuously swallowing it down. He’s had enough. There’s only so much of his reputation that he’ll let be tarnished from this stupid fucking day.

Jotaro swivels his chair around, leaning back in it, his legs crossed over each other.

“Good grief. Alright, listen you lot.”

Silence. If there’s one thing Jotaro lends his threatening appearance to, it’s getting people to shut up in a heartbeat.

“I’ve got the flu. It fucking sucks. Thought it’d go away but I feel like shit. Just feel free to go, I’m gonna head home.”

The lie sits in the air like heavy rain. He glares at the crowd until they all seem to take it in their stride, getting up and packing all their things away. Some of them probably aren’t convinced, but will they care? It’s 10AM on a Monday morning. Most of them are likely jumping at the opportunity to get back to their dorms and sleep. That’s what Jotaro tells himself, anyway.

Then again, he isn’t really bothered either way.

Everyone files out of the room. The atmosphere is strange. Most of the class, as he suspected, leave as quick as they can, all huddled around and already moving on with their day. He gets a few suspicious looks, and pretty much everyone tells him to get better soon. Kids these days. Not a bad bunch.

Jotaro accidentally naps at his desk for two hours, hat pulled over his eyes. Everyone is long gone by the time he wakes, and he trudges back to his own office to hide in it, refusing to turn the lights on. He curls up in his desk chair and opens his university email, typing to one of his colleagues and asking if she can cover for his other two classes this afternoon. She’s nice enough, Dr Iyles. Came from America, or something like that, has a weird accent. The main reason Jotaro chooses her is because they have quite literally never spoken before, not beyond starfish colonies or coral preservation, anyway.

He presses send, praying she’ll have time to respond. Jotaro knows he needs to eat something. There’s a drawer in his office with snacks in and he pulls it open lazily, almost forgetting what’s actually in there. Not much is suitable for how delicate his stomach is right now, it’s all fat and sugar and flavoured packaged cakes. Jotaro’s sweet tooth is screaming at him to rip open a bag of jellied candies, and he gives in.

One goes in his mouth. He chews, eyes closed in concentration. Watermelon flavour. It does a fine job of masking the horrible aftertaste of today that sits on his tongue.

His room is dark enough that his door appears only a shadow. Jotaro’s near distance is masked, unnerving. His surroundings are so familiar yet so disturbing. He finds himself gripped with a paranoia that won’t leave the back of his shoulders, a deep worry that feels as though it’s manifested itself as a devil sitting atop his body.

A pinging sound comes from his computer. He opens up his email and exhales in relief as he reads the news that Dr Iyles can take over the rest of his classes today. Gingerly, he types out a short response in gratitude, and sends it off to her.

Thoughts of this morning’s nightmare won’t leave, no matter how many sips he takes from his flask to flush it out. Jotaro grows angry, cramped in this office where all he can see everywhere he looks is reminders of a life he’s curated, a life that doesn’t feel like his own.

He thinks of Kakyoin. The sound of his lover’s gentle voice echoes. On his wrists, he can feel Kakyoin’s touch where it used to go after battle, delicate fingers soothing over his arm in circles. Dusty hotel beds and school uniforms that had been worn down by the relentless sun, the smell of sunscreen as he’d lean in to kiss him, thinking about how much he loves him, how he wants to be with him forever and that he doesn’t care that they’re seventeen and that he’s known him for mere weeks- he loves him

Ping.

There his inbox goes again. Jotaro refreshes his work email once more to see another response from Dr Iyles.

“Dear Dr Kujo,

No need to thank me, it’s no problem. I’ve got the materials ready for that classes’ Wednesday seminar anyway, so I will move it along and cover the material sooner. Let me know if that sounds alright with you.

I hope you feel better soon. I don’t mean to pry but I just finished a workshop with some students who were with you this morning. Everyone seemed quite concerned for your wellbeing. I understand that you have pinned this down to sickness, but I will be blunt and admit that the symptoms being described by your pupils were not quite pointing to those of classic flu.

If there’s a substance ‘problem’ going on here, don’t be afraid to reach out. You might want to let HR know about this, for your own safety. A handful of students have contacted the department recently over your behaviour. Might be best to clear things up before this is escalated.

All the best.”

Jotaro cannot believe what he’s reading.

The passive aggressive care in her tone of email sends him spiralling. What a nosy, condescending bitch. It’s none of her business. A ‘problem’. He wants to tell her to piss off. As if she knows anything about him.

He slumps at his desk and falls into another dreamless nap, no longer than twenty-minutes or so in length. It’s one of those naps where he wakes feeling a lot less refreshed than he did when he started, and he’s tempted to just call it a day and sleep in his car for the rest of the afternoon until there’s a faint knock at his door. His heartrate jumps. He kicks bottles under his desk and piles wrappers into the bin.

“Busy,” Jotaro grumbles, rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry, it’s me- Koichi-"

Jotaro takes a glug of water, sprays himself with cologne, and turns the light on. The last part he regrets instantly.

“Sorry. Come in.”

Koichi closes the door behind him as soon as he enters, a carefully placed smile on his face. “Hi,” he says, straight off the bat. He looks strangely out of breath.

“Everything alright?” Jotaro asks, blinking through fatigue. He dreads the thought that his breath still probably smells horrendously whiskey-like right now.

“Yeah,” Koichi replies, before quietening his voice. “Um, there’s not really an easy way for me to say this Mr Jotaro, but there’s uh...something you need to know.”

Jotaro lowers his gaze, hat pulled over his face.

“Like what?” he mumbles, transfixed.

Koichi stares at his shoes.

“People are saying things about you. In your classes, but it’s got around. You know what people are like about you here. Everyone talks about you because well, y’know.” he pauses, “But this isn’t...good stuff. It’s rumours, bad rumours. Really bad rumours. Apparently, these last couple weeks you’ve been um...” he trails off, clearing his throat, “Off? I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Suddenly, Jotaro feels Star Platinum there, hovering by his side. His fight or flight overrides his common sense, everything tumbling down into one heap of anticipation that makes him sick.

“Off?” he says, leaning forward and looking his friend right in the eye, “Koichi, what do you mean? Just tell me.”

Koichi puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rocking back and forth. He looks terrified.

“...Drunk. In your classes. That you’re a um...” he grows nervous, barely even able to get the word out at all. “A um...”

Poor kid. Poor, poor kid. This isn't his fault. Here it comes.

“...an alcoholic?”

-------------------------------

That evening, Kakyoin sits by the edge of the sofa, patting Jotaro’s hair like he’s a fully qualified nurse.

“It’s such a good thing you took the rest of this week off,” he dotes, pulling the comforter over Jotaro’s chest gently. “You really aren’t looking well, poor thing. I can’t believe you went into work that unwell.”

Jotaro keeps as still as he can as he mumbles a sleepy agreement in response. Spending the last few hours curled up here hasn’t been bad: Kakyoin has fed him enough soup to fuel him for a lifetime and TV has been showing alright stuff lately.

His ‘flu’ doesn’t seem to be wearing off. His stomach has barely recovered, and the nausea is constant. Every muscle in his arms and legs feels damp and sodden, his skin dry and dehydrated.

Somehow, he feels worse. Much, much worse. But it’s stuff he can deal with: shivers, headaches, pains. Medicine has been knocking most of his physical symptoms on the head for the most part, but physical symptoms aren’t the part Jotaro has to worry about.

Jotaro only woke up from a lengthy nap a couple of minutes ago and is thoroughly making the most of lying here with his head in Kakyoin’s lap, turned to the TV and half engaged in a singing talent show that’s on.

“She’s awful,” Jotaro grumbles, following along to one of the contestants. “Anyone could sing better than that.”

“Mhm, she definitely should’ve gone home last week,” Kakyoin says, one hand rubbing Jotaro’s cheek and the other eating frozen yoghurt from a tub that’s balanced on his thigh. “You think you could do better?” he teases, offering Jotaro a spoonful.

Jotaro accepts and lets Kakyoin feed it to him, too achy to even bother resisting. It’s doing wonders for his uncomfortable rising temperature right now, creamy strawberry and mango flavour all icy and numb on his tongue as he swallows.

“Absolutely.”

He smirks, closing his eyes in bliss as Kakyoin laughs at him and ruffles his hair. Jotaro’s been on a lot of medicine today. A lot. Most of them with drowsy side effects. If he can somehow score a few swigs of vodka and a cigarette before bed tonight, he reckons he’ll be alright to push on as he is.

They spend the evening rooted in place on that sofa. Kakyoin brings Jotaro another round of flu meds that is a horrible brown syrup and tastes like hand sanitizer. Even though Jotaro knows he does not have the flu, at all- it fucking damn well feels like it, and that’s enough of an excuse as he needs. Not one soul on earth needs to know that he threw up his stomach lining in the middle of a lecture and lost control of his senses from a hallucinatory nightmare. He has the flu. Plain and simple.

“Nori,” Jotaro mumbles, groggily rubbing his eyes and flipping over during an ad break, “Sleep with me. Here. I’m cold.”

“Alright, drama queen,” Kakyoin teases, kissing him and bundling him up. He lowers himself from sitting to lying down, protected and submerged in the warmth of large, embroidered cushions. Jotaro lifts the blanket up so he can get in, wrapping it tight over both of them. The only light in the living room is the screen of the TV, which flickers occasionally, the volume down low.

Kakyoin’s eyes are fluttered closed. It’s the last thing Jotaro sees before he joins him, shutting his vision off and absorbing the moment through every other sense in his body.

Slow. It’s slow, the moment is slow, the mood is graceful and patient.

They forgot to close a window. The very slight draft from outside is blowing the left printed curtain a little bit, and there’s a faint whooshing noise that sounds as it rushes through the trees in their back garden. Kakyoin strokes Jotaro's cheek, running over two-day old stubble and sweat.

He listens to the way Kakyoin breathes, tries to breathe the same. His hand brushes over the soft fibres of Kakyoin’s top as he plants his palm on the curve of his back, pulling him close, keeping him still. Jotaro replays everything Kakyoin has done for him today, all the small and lovely gestures while he’s been ill: tending to him and staying with him all day.

It’s the purest form of love he can get to in that confused, closed heart of his. Jotaro knows no bounds when it comes to appreciating Kakyoin’s selflessness, his ability to ease him without ever being asked. Eyes still closed, he presses a kiss on Kakyoin’s forehead, aiming for wherever it may land.

“Beautiful,” Jotaro says, quiet and raspy as his voice drips with sleep.

With as much delicacy as a man with a crippling fever can muster, Jotaro continues his route of kisses, trailing them all over Kakyoin’s face and making him breathily laugh into his pillow. With each one, there’s a tiny bashful flinch. Whether it’s cold lips or scratchy stubble, he doesn’t care. It’s cute, the smallest of reactions to something so silly. Everything seems small, here, now. Small. Slow. Maybe this is what they do best.

“Jotaro?” Kakyoin mumbles, breaking their joint silence.

“Mhmm.”

Kakyoin shuffles closer to him, buries his face into the crook of Jotaro's neck.

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin repeats. “I love you so much.”

Tired lashes blink as Jotaro erupts into a big, genuine smile. “I love you so much too,” he whispers, directing his touch to the back of Kakyoin’s shoulders, running his thumb over muscle.

His hands tell so many stories, more when they’re together like this. Skin, bone, scar tissue. Knuckles, fists, wrists. Weathered by the sun, warmed by central heating and each other’s touch.

Thanks to all this ’flu’ drama, he’s even had to cancel his resort holiday that he had all planned and ready for Kakyoin to celebrate their anniversary. It was meant to be at the end of this week, but they came to the collective agreement that Jotaro would not be well enough to go. Kakyoin didn’t really seem to mind. He had been quite the saint about it earlier.

Jotaro should be a lot more disheartened than he is. But then again, he’s lost the ability to care about anything that doesn’t come in a glass.

Living in the moment, in denial, is all he can stomach.

He tries not to remember the conversation with Koichi earlier, how he told the confused kid that it’s just gossip. He remembers, that even though Koichi stayed for a chat and left smiling, that he definitely did not believe Jotaro. At all.

Kakyoin falls asleep to the darkness of the room and the lull of the TV on low volume, still as a rock, face buried into Jotaro’s sore chest. There’s a lot to unpack. Jotaro doesn’t want to even go there.

Koichi’s voice sounds clear and young in Jotaro’s head. He had been so concerned, bless him.

“Alcoholic.”

What a horrible word. Harsh on the tongue, always spat out with caution.

Jotaro sighs, lying flat on his back. Somewhere between his shallow breaths and his rotten headache, he falls asleep quicker than he expected.

------------------------------

At 2AM, Jotaro wakes.

The living room looks the same. Kakyoin is there, as are all of his cabinets and belongings. He had a dream but doesn’t remember what it was, and the harder to tries to think about it the more it just slips away into non-existence. Jotaro can’t describe why he’s covered in sweat, or why his hand is cramping up.

His breathing is ragged, and hurts. Jotaro forces himself to sit up, shaky arms barely able to push his own weight.

Then, it starts.

An almighty crash, rubble and debris.

Jotaro flinches, covers his face with his hand as though he’s about to get an attack to the eyes. When he peers through his fingers, his surroundings are unchanged, and Kakyoin is still asleep.

JoJo.

Jotaro stumbles off the sofa, pacing around and looking behind the curtains. Dio. That was Dio’s voice.

JoJo. It’s too late, JoJo.

This isn’t right. Jotaro clutches his head, eyes wide and dry. It isn’t coming from outside, the room is silent.

Come on, Jotaro. Come closer!

Jotaro takes a sudden stap back, sickened. This voice. It’s coming from inside his own head.

He swats away a touch that isn’t there, a sudden feeling of ghost-like hands going for his throat. Black nails, gripping. Bloodied palms.

Show me your Stand before I kill you, Joestar.

Out the room. Jotaro runs fast, tripping over his achy legs as he almost collides with the wall.

He paces around the kitchen, fumbling in the dark and pulling out every single bottle he can find. Flush him out, flush him out.

Too slow, Jotaro. Useless, useless, useless!

His fist almost slams glass against the counter, the urge to physically fight this off overpowering his senses. His brain needs to be dumbed down, sheltered, drowned.

How pathetic. You’ve gone pale.

Jotaro’s lip bleeds as he crushes it in a restrained bite, uncontrollably shaking hands unscrewing the lid from a brand-new bottle of vodka. He glugs it like water, tipping the bottle up to his lips and trembling with anticipation. It’ll stop. It’ll stop when this hits him.

The voice of Dio laughs, the wretched evil rasp of it a spitting image of how it had been all those years ago. Half a bottle down, Jotaro covers his ears from the deafening torture of it, yet it does nothing.

“Go away,” he mumbles, angrily pained, desperate.

He swigs at the bottle, paces clumsily around the hallway.

My speed, my power! It far exceeds your Star Platinum!

Back against the wall, Jotaro waits for the alcohol to hit. As he becomes intoxicated, little is done to even take a dent out of the sound. He curses and tries to focus on his hands, but he’s broken out into such a horrendous cold sweat that he can barely register anything at all.

The second bottle in his hand is there, awaiting his dry gasping mouth. He pops the cap off and starts it, knowing that this will have to do the trick. If not this, then what the fuck else?

Useless!

As Dio laughs, Jotaro yanks the front door of his home open in a panic and stumbles out into the freezing night, bottle pressed to his lips. He drinks as he walks, coughing up fluid, his socks dirtied by the ground.

I’ve killed your grandfather, Jotaro. Now it’s your tu-

“No you haven’t,” Jotaro grumbles, swaying as he exits out of his driveway and across the road. His eyelids are tired, borderline shutting closed as he steps on to the other side of the pavement. Everything is empty. No cars, no people, just streetlights scattering the seafront walkway.

I’m going to kill you.

Tarmac and gravel is cold to walk on, and Jotaro’s steps are heavy. He grasps onto railings and eventually makes his way down the boulevard, taking the steps down onto the beach.

I’m going to kill you.

“Piss off, you bastard,” Jotaro slurs, downing vodka with one hand and aiding his balance with the other. These stairs are uneven. The sudden feeling of ground at the bottom shocks him, his left foot sinking into pebbles and slightly wet sand.

He’s rewarded with an overpowering gust of salty sea air and crashing waves that still can’t drown out the voice he’s shutting down. Walking across this beach is agonising. Crossing it in a straight line, is impossible right now.

THE WORLD!

Jotaro chokes, vodka spilling down his chin and burning his throat from inhaling too fast. His head turns, left, right, and he steps back, freezing in place.

“Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”

It’s like a chant, a protection spell to keep his nerves at bay. There’s an area of rockpools ahead, spanning out thanks to the low tide. Jotaro is drawn to it, walking with the icy wind bashing his sore chest.

Eight seconds, Jotaro! Seven seconds!

“You’re dead. I killed you,” he mumbles under his own breath, draining the rest of the vodka. This is straight poison, to the highest degree. His vison is blurred, his heart out of control, his body is heavy.

Six seconds, and time will begin again! These knives will drive right into your heart!

Jotaro slumps down onto the rocks, sat with his arms crossed, empty bottle dropped somewhere by his feet. His head hangs down, blood rushing to it and only exacerbating the pounding ache he can feel settling into his skull.

Five seconds, Jotaro.

“Get out of my head.”

Four seconds. Four seconds, and The World will take you to your grave.

Foggy stars blend together against the night sky; Jotaro can’t count them, so drunk that now he really can see knives. He remembers it, being up in the air, looking down at the bustling streets of Cairo, stuck in stopped time, knives feathered around his body, inches away, Dio cackling.

“Knives,” Jotaro slurs, laughing.

Three seconds…

“Is that all you’ve got, Dio?”

Spray from distant waves soothes his burning red face, send shivers down the cold sweat that sticks his pyjamas to his skin. The night is kind. Jotaro is alone, no more than a dot in the expansive hollow theatre that is this beach right now.

Two…one…

“Get out,” Jotaro pleads, his voice thick with fatigue, his tongue numb from alcohol.

His chest collapses into coughing, and Jotaro is stunned, taking in as much air as he can. Dio laughs, louder than before, a cacophony of bombs that are dropping inside of him and exploding with each breath.

A brief moment of carelessness, of blind drunkenness. It’s all that it takes, as Jotaro turns his head too fast to anxiously look for a bottle that isn’t full anymore.

Blue and grey. His fingers don’t work, numbed and chipped from clutching onto wet rock. The lefthand that he uses to anchor himself, to stable his weight, slips.

Jotaro catches himself, drunken uncoordinated arms shoving ahead of him, his forearms bruising and his palms grazed.

And yet, Dio is still laughing. Somewhere.

“Get out,”

Jotaro hauls himself up, unsuccessfully tightening the strength in his shoulders.

“Get out of my head,”

Elbow skin whacks the harsh corner of a jagged rock, tearing. Jotaro can’t catch himself this time, alcohol dumbing his responses to nothing, his headache overwhelming and his chest crushed.

His entire body collapses forward.

Nothing protects his forehead when it collides with stone.

A flimsy hand goes to touch the wound, though it’s after his mouth is already filled with trickling blood. Dio has gone. Dio. Has. Gone.

There’s only a second of pain. Then, there’s nothing at all.

Chapter Text

“Oh my God, he’s awake Yasu-“

“Seriously? Shit, we gotta find that doctor from earlier!”

“Okay, hang on, uh- okay, you go get my mom, alright?”

“Let’s hurry up, c’mon-”

Thundering footsteps grow quieter, the squeaking of sneakers on vinyl floor. Everything smells sterile, like cheap soap and medicine cabinets. Jotaro blinks away the heaviness in his eyes and looks around at his surroundings for the first time. His conscious registers with the haziness of a fever dream.

There are four walls around him, all painted a dusty blue. The window shows he must be up five stories, at least. Morioh harbour is more than visible in the distance, even through the thin white netted curtains. To his left, there’s a machine. To his right, a cabinet, a sofa, and a door that is half-propped open. The hospital corridor peeks through, laminate white glaring back at him.

When he goes to rub his eyes, his hand is gently stopped by the tugging of wires. Jotaro inspects it for a few seconds, wincing and putting it away again. The three tubes stabbed into the back of his hand aren’t the cause of his squeamishness. The intense nausea that clouds his head when he squints to concentrate his vision is what drives his eyes shut and guides his head back to the pillow.

He breathes, closing off the world around him. The contextual clues around him don’t quite give him enough of an idea as to what happened, or what day it is, or what is wrong with him. All he knows right now is that his head has never hurt this much, and that he could’ve sworn he heard Josuke and Okuyasu’s voices a minute ago.

By touch, and the brief glimpse he gave of himself a second prior, he knows that he’s in his own pyjamas. Grey, cashmere. Trousers and a long sleeve top. The white blanket that’s pulled up to his chest is not nearly enough to ease how much he’s shivering, even though it’s not even meant to be that cold this time of year.

He would look around for a thermostat, but Jotaro refuses to open his eyes. Sinking into his pillow and attempting to ignore the pounding in his head sounds like a good set of priorities.

There are a few pleasant-ish minutes that he gets to himself, before he hears a female voice gently repeating his name from the side of the bed.

“Mr Kujo? Are you awake, sir?”

One eye unwillingly opens, then the next. Jotaro scowls without really thinking about it, squinting as he tries to get a look at what’s going on. There’s a doctor perched over him, clipboard in hand, waiting cautiously.

He coughs a dry spot out of his throat and nods a tiny amount, immediately regretting moving his head.

“Yeah,” he grumbles.

“Ah, perfect. How are you feeling?”

Jotaro looks at her as though she’s just personally insulted every person he loves.

“Shit,” he says, blunt. His voice is thick and deep but not in its usual charming fashion. No, it’s croaking and painful.

The doctor turns a page over on her clipboard, clicking the end of her pen. It’s the only small sound that echoes around the silence of this horrid little room. When she speaks there’s compassion, and thankfully she glides over Jotaro’s grumpiness with the highest degree of professionalism.

“Right. Well I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that your condition could have been a whole lot worse. You have quite the miraculous pain tolerance, sir.”

The most grippingly sarcastic “Thanks,” mumbles from Jotaro’s lips, and she laughs kindly at it even though he was in no shape or form trying to be funny.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” she continues, pushing red-rimmed glasses up her nose. She is definitely older, maybe even older than his Holly. There’s a motherly friendliness about her face that makes it hard for Jotaro to continue being in such a childish strop with her.

He breathes out, staring up at the white ceiling.

“Sure.”

“Fantastic,” she smiles, sitting in the chair by his bed. “Can you please tell me your full name, age and occupation please sir?”

Jotaro internally crumbles over how humiliating this is. Deadpan, he keeps his vision in place and clenches the bedsheet to stop him feeling like he’s about to throw up from the nausea that still hasn’t left him alone from the moment he woke up.

“Jotaro Kujo. Twenty-eight. Professor in Marine Biology.”

She scribbles away with her pen, humming approvingly.

“What is the date today?”

Jotaro concentrates, coming to a blank wall.

“It’s the 2nd of August?”

Even he can’t hide the blind confusion in his own words. There’s a horribly long pause, confirming a slip-up.

“Almost. It’s the 4th, but not to worry.”

How patronising. Jotaro closes his eyes in a mood.

“So I’ve been here, out of it, for two days?” he demands groggily.

“Well, yes- I’m getting there, honey. May I ask you where you were the night of the 2nd?”

Frustrated, and now too ill to care, Jotaro gives up and mentally checks out. He shrugs his shoulders.

“No fucking clue,” he remarks.

“No memory of it at all?”

His patience is tested. Jotaro has to force himself not to completely snap, the only thing holding him back being the complete and utter state that his body is broken into.

“No. I just said. I. Don’t. Fucking. Know.”

There’s more scribbling.

“Right,” the doctor says, finally looking up from her writing after a minute or so, “Well I suppose you’d like to know why you’re here, then?”

Jotaro peers over to her, exhausted, making the same mistake of nodding and worsening his dizziness. She takes this as enough of a sign to carry on.

“Two nights ago, you were found lying unconscious on the beach, about half a mile down from your home. You have sustained head injury, most likely from falling and hitting it on a rock. When we had a look at your bloods, there was a startling percentage of alcohol in your bloodstream, four times the amount of recommended weekly consumption for a male of your size and age.”

Then, he remembers. Jotaro doesn’t let it show, but the entire image of the starry sky and Dio’s taunting floods back to him like a nightmare. The rocks, the stormy sea, swaying down the road.

“Who found me?” he croaks, his voice going small with worry. Please, no, it can’t have been. Anyone but him. Anyone but him-

“A man walking his dog the following morning. He called the ambulance at around 6:10am, I believe.”

A sigh in relief. Jotaro breathes once more.

“You have a few minor injuries, your elbow particularly. We did an X-ray and it isn’t broken, so that’s some good news. Your head injury should heal right up in the next couple of weeks; what really matters is that you’re awake right now, and coherent. But none of that is what we’re most worried about, sir. We’ve been taking your vitals and measuring your temperature, as you can see. Would you mind describing to me your symptoms right now?”

Jotaro stalls, simultaneously taking everything in while pulling words together to form a somewhat acceptable response.

“Uh, headache, nausea, heart’s beating too fast. Can’t stop fucking shivering. Hands don’t work, shaking too much. Chest hurts, sore throat. Muscles ache. Everywhere.”

The doctor furiously scribbles all of it down, nodding as though he’s just answered an exam question perfectly.

“What you are going through, Mr Kujo,” she eventually explains, peering over her glasses, “From a collection of our medical findings and your symptoms, is what we’d mark as stage-2 alcohol withdrawal.”

Jotaro furrows his eyebrows, glancing around like he’s just heard her completely wrong.

“Withdrawal?” he questions, as though being accused.

“Yes, withdrawal. It’s been more than 48 hours since your last drink. From everything we’ve gathered, I don’t think it would be unreasonable for us to conclude that you have been using heavily. In some cases, sudden withdrawal like this can kill you. Depending on the extremity of the addiction and the period of continuous consumption, sudden withdrawal from high volumes of alcohol can cause seizures and heart failure. We’ve had you on a drip since you were bought here to keep you stable, but your body is going through a lot right now. We’ve done a few scans on your liver. It’s not looking good, but we can manage it.”

It hits him, hard. But none of that really matters in its purest form: so what? Jotaro’s survived much, much worse. This is no Speedwagon doctor. This woman has no clue what his body has fought off in the past. He can live through aches and pains. That’s not what he’s worrying about.

There’s one thing he needs to get straight. The only thing making his stomach churn with gripping anxiety.

“Did you,” he chokes, “Did you tell my uh, family?”

Perhaps ‘family’ wasn’t quite the right word to use, because the doctor looks a tad confused, her eyebrows gently raised.

“You might have to be a little more specific, sir. Who do you mean by ‘family’, exactly?”

“My relatives, Josuke and Tomoko,” he swallows, throat closing in, “And my…partner,” he can’t get the name out. His lip trembles embarrassingly, his words rolling flat off his tongue, “…Noriaki.”

At the mention of ‘Noriaki,’ the doctor makes a small noise in understanding, as though something’s just finally clicked in her brain.

“Right,” she says softly, “Yes, my colleagues and I have spoken to them. They are all very much aware of your condition.”

Jotaro nods, heart sinking. Acceptance settles in, dread and sickness turning round and round as he fully understands how awful this is. This is his fault. This is all his fault.

When the doctor talks, he can barely hear. Her words are like a distant echo. They are so gentle, as if she’s speaking to a crying child.

“Was anyone aware of you addiction?”

It destroys him. Jotaro turns away from her, screwing his eyes shut. His head screams: Noriaki. Noriaki. Noriaki. Leaving him. Hating him.

“No,” his voice breaks.

She gets up ready to leave, it seems. She writes down a few more things on her clipboard before flipping the page back over itself.

“I’m not a police officer, sir,” she says, sighing with concern. “If you need support, you can let any one of us here know. Alcoholism isn’t as uncommon as you might think, especially not these days. For the meantime, we’ve got you on all the meds to see you through these next couple of nights. Withdrawal is notoriously challenging, but you’re in safe hands.”

All Jotaro can do is nod. He isn’t even sure if she notices.

“I’ll let your family know you’re awake, and stable. My colleagues will be up in the evening to take your bloods, please make them aware if any of your symptoms change. Rest up.”

She leaves the door ajar behind her, which would usually annoy Jotaro but right now he feels too full of dread to care. If he were smart about this, he would’ve protested against letting his visitors know he’s willing to see them.

Unfortunately, Jotaro doesn’t have much choice over anything, here. He sinks into his pillow, trying to sleep. It really, really hits him. Somewhere in this hospital, Noriaki knows. The game is over.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Jotaro passes out for an hour, just over. When he makes sense of the strange dream that he’s just re-emerged from, he half rubs his eyes with his non-wired hand and flinches when he comes to realise that Josuke and Okuyasu are sat on the sofa in his hospital room, cuddling and flicking through a magazine together.

When they all make eye contact, there’s a bit of stunned silence.

Jotaro can’t make this any worse, so he cranes his neck and manages a groggy, deadpan “Hi.”

At which they both leap up out of the chair and come straight to his bedside, magazine discarded at once. Josuke blinks at him nervously, offering a concerned but comforting smile.

“Heya, uh, how are…how are you feeling?”

“Fucking terrible,” Jotaro groans, throat still sore, “Aren’t you supposed to be at college?”

And Josuke lets out a breathy laugh, slightly teary eyes wiped with his sleeve, “That’s what you’re concerned about right now? This is a family emergency, isn’t it?”

Okuyasu takes his hands out from the pockets of his baseball jacket, patting Jotaro on the shoulder.

“Glad you’re alright, my dude,” he says, his voice scratchy as he talks. He’s avoiding eye contact, and soon enough, Jotaro realises why. Okuyasu’s eyes are red and damp, as are Josuke’s. Shit. God knows how tough these last couple of nights of waiting have been for them.

They both look massively on edge. Jotaro takes it into account, carries on in denial. He can barely keep his eyes open, let alone keep a conversation running right now.

“Gonna sleep for a bit longer,” he mumbles, already drifting off, “Head’s killing me.”

It feels a bit rude, but Jotaro can’t concentrate on much besides the pain. There’s pain everywhere. Cold sweat has settled into his skin, sending a chill down his nervous system that is making him non-stop shiver. Lying on his back is staring to make it ache but adjusting this even the slightest bit is making him feel as though he’s about to vomit.

As he shuts the world out, only peering through the faintest glance of one half-open eye, he can hear Josuke talking quietly to Okuyasu.

“He needs ice. For withdrawal headaches. We studied this.”

“Alright, nurse,” Okuyasu whispers in response, putting his arm around Josuke and leading him out the door, “Let’s go find someone who can bring it to him.”

Alone, again. Peace settles over the room, and Jotaro carefully breathes in and out. Funnily enough, he ends up doing this for so long that he unconsciously starts to feel a tiny bit of Hamon in his blood, and it warms him up temporarily. Unfortunately though, as soon as his thoughts drift and he stops, his temperature drops right back down and leaves him right back where he started.

Along the line, he falls asleep. This time it’s deeper and dreamless, a welcomed change that allows Jotaro to breeze past the rest of the day, only being briefly interrupted once at 5PM when the nurses come in again.

---------------

The next time that Jotaro fully wakes and stays that way, is later in the evening. There’s a strange numb achy feeling in his muscles; it clicks when he faintly recalls one of the nurses muttering something about painkillers earlier on. The drugs, whatever they are, don’t seem to be doing that much to help - but Jotaro only feels the urge to throw his guts up for the first minute of adjusting, which he supposes is an improvement.

When he struggles to opens his eyes, his room is darker. The bright white of the corridor still peeks through the propped open door, but he ignores it.

“Care to fucking explain yourself?”

The sound of Kakyoin’s slow, whispering anger makes Jotaro’s heart stop. He can’t move, stuck trembling with pain and exhaling as though his life depends on it.

It’s too late for hugs, kisses and apologies. What is there left to save, to salvage?

Jotaro doesn’t want to do this, but he has to. He turns to rest his other cheek on the pillow, facing the other side of the bed.

Looking at Kakyoin, like this- evokes a feeling that Jotaro would not wish upon his worst enemy.

Kakyoin. Unbrushed hair to his waist, glasses crooked on his nose. The oversized coat he’s wearing is slipping off his small frame, bundled where his arms are firmly crossed. His face is damp and his eyes are red, his eyebrows are tense, his fingers won’t stop trembling and digging into fabric. The coat, Jotaro recognises, is Okuyasu’s.

“Don’t just look at me,” Kakyoin pleads, infuriated, “Say something.”

Jotaro shakes his head in silence, biting on the inside of his mouth and looking away. It’s the most cowardly thing a man like him can do, and he’s executed it worse than he dreaded. He can’t talk.

“Oh, really?” Kakyoin shouts, pausing to breathe in, coughing into his sleeve. Tears are streaming down his face, choking him.

“There’s no way, I told them,” Kakyoin gasps, sobbing, “My boyfriend, an alcoholic? No, no not anymore. And you wanna know how, h-how the doctors and nurses looked at me?”

Kakyoin begins to pace around the room.

“They looked at me like I, like I-“ he struggles to breathe, words trembling, “-was so fucking stupid. Like I didn’t even know you.”

Kakyoin buries his face in his hands, giving himself a moment to cry.

“Maybe I don’t! Maybe I don’t fucking know you! It sure doesn’t FUCKING FEEL LIKE IT!”

Silence.

Jotaro is glued shut, all his muscles and all his nerves and all of his blood. Stuck.

All he can do is listen, take it like a sadistic champion.

“And getting an eighteen-year-old to supply you,” Kakyoin exasperates, shaking his head and biting back another wave of tears, “That’s low. That’s so messed up I don’t even,” he sobs, “I don’t even know what to fucking say.”

He’s right.

“But that…that doesn’t even close come to how…” Kakyoin sniffles, the most heart-shattering break to his voice making his pain audible, “…how much you, you… lied to me. You lied and you lied! Over,” he gasps, “and over…”

Kakyoin collapses into tears.

And Jotaro isn’t even man enough to watch, to face what he’s done. He stares at the ceiling, opting to busy himself inspecting the tiles and the built-in lights.

“You knew,” Jotaro grumbles, carefully quiet. “You know I’ve had problems,”

“TEN YEARS AGO!” Kakyoin interrupts, clenching his fists. “Oh, don’t you fucking dare try and put this on me. Though who knows what else you were hiding from me in all that time! Wanna own up to anything now, clean your fucking sins?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jotaro retaliates, grabbing his throbbing head and cursing at the tug he feels on his connected tubes, “Shut the fuck up.”

This time, the silence is worse.

Kakyoin stands, stunned. His arms fall to his sides, his mouth trembling.

“That’s all you’re going to say to me?” he croaks, whispering.

Jotaro turns around to face the other way, burying his head in his pillow and shutting him off. For some reason, the impulse to carry on and make this worse is uncontrollable, as if he’s wired to need being told how horrible and awful he is.

“I’m not doing this right now,” Jotaro mutters, groggy from sweat and fatigue and aches. “Let me fucking sleep.”

He gets his wish. Kakyoin doesn’t move, but he doesn’t speak, either. The only sound that joins them is the whirring of machines, the occasional beeping, the odd patter of footsteps or rolling of trolley wheels coming from outside. Like settling dust, everything comes to a halt. Jotaro struggles to relax knowing Kakyoin is just there, present, watching over him with a burning unfinished rage. The remains of their argument cover the room, for minutes on end. Silent minute after silent minute.

“You know,” Kakyoin whispers, dangerously calm. “I spent two hours on the phone to your mother last night, when I was in the waiting room. It was morning in New York, she had just woken up. She thought you were going to die. Two hours. Your grandmother was crying, pleading me to tell her that it wasn’t that bad. I had to tell them that I didn’t know you were battling an addiction, that there was nothing I could have done. You know what I felt like, Jotaro? I felt like a fraud. In the only family I’ve ever had.”

Kakyoin sighs, a muffled sniffle indicating that he’s wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“But when I spoke to your grandpa…he didn’t even react. There was a quiet, sad ‘oh, I see…’ and that was it. I asked him if perhaps he knew something that I didn’t, that maybe you’d told him. He said no, he didn’t know a thing. He apologised to me. Then he said, ‘The hardest thing, Noriaki, is realising that sometimes, love isn’t enough to save someone.’”

Kakyoin pauses to compose himself, drabs of trembling tears coming across in his voice. Somehow, he’s never sounded so angry.

“…And I don’t know who hurt your grandpa enough for him to say something so profound, but he’s right. He’s so, so…right.”

Jotaro screws his eyes shut tighter, clutching a fist into the bedsheets. He knows the ‘someone’ that his grandpa was talking about, and that man died.

It hits him, the biggest wave of guilt. Everyone really, really thought that for whatever reason…Jotaro was not going to live.

“I need to sleep,” Jotaro mumbles, the pain in his chest growing more and more unbearable by the second. Disgustingly, selfishly dismissive.

There’s a deafening silence this time, like it’s cracking through stone.

“I hate you.”

That’s the last thing Kakyoin says, before he walks out of the door. Crying.

Those words sting, bury deep into Jotaro’s chest for hours afterwards. It rots away at him, leaves him stunned and breathless even though he knows he deserved to hear it more than anything.

Alone, he lies and thinks of all the times he could have, should have said something. It’s so easy to look back and regret. Too easy. He knows deep down, that with his condition, whatever this is that is truly fucking up his head…just can’t be shared.

It doesn’t matter how many people he has to hurt in the process. Jotaro won’t crack.

One of his shaky hands reaches out for a cup of electrolytes that the nurses left him. He washes it down, pretends that all the sparkling bubbles are from glimmering champagne. When he’s out of here, what will he reach for? It tortures him more than any other problem as of now. Staying sober just isn’t an option. Even on his worst nights drunk, he felt miles better than being deprived like he is right now.

People will be disappointed no matter the outcome. Come all clean, and he’ll be pitied and watched over. Go back to drink, and everyone will shake their heads in shame.

What doesn’t help is that Jotaro knows drink isn’t the root of all this. If this voice, this never-ending dread never leaves his brain chemistry…he’ll run to some other crutch until it kills him. Over, and over…

Jotaro lies back, closes his eyes. Sleep. Escape. It’s all he can do; all he can stomach.

“Dio…” he mumbles, soft and wistful. “You should have killed me.”

Chapter Text

Noriaki

“I hate you.”

Kakyoin feels both his hands going numb as he says it. The left one is clutched over his heart, steadying his already erratic breathing from spiralling into a panic. The buzz of hospital machinery isn’t enough to disguise the pounding of blood in his ears; adrenaline, the wrong kind.

Jotaro won’t even show his face. Jotaro won’t show anything, and it’s broken him.

He can’t bear to spend a second longer in this room. With one last look to his boyfriend’s wired-up, slumped figure, Kakyoin sobs into the back of his sleeve and walks away, pushing past the doors and marching down the stairs.

Nothing could make this worse. He’s gone over a day with no sleep since the news was dropped, sat too long in that godforsaken waiting room downstairs, a mixture of agony and hatred boiling in his stomach. It has been a constant pendulum since the original phone call from the ambulance workers…Jotaro might die…Jotaro won’t die… but Kakyoin had been so blinded by betrayal that in a tiny way, he’d had moments of wishing that stupid man was dead, after all.

Kakyoin avoids the waiting room on his way out. If Tomoko, Josuke and Okuyasu see him like this, it’ll be no end of questions. Though they’ve been the sweetest throughout all of this chaos, Kakyoin decides that right now, what he needs is a long moment to himself.

It’s later than he remembered, but then again, the last 24 hours have been a blur. Time doesn’t really matter or feel real anymore, and as he steps out of the back entrance to the hospital and enters out into the cold night’s air, he can’t help but hope this all is a dream.

The car park is half-full, ish. Kakyoin circles around aimlessly, kicking gravel with his shoes and eventually sitting on a curb, knees pulled to his chest. The lamppost to his left shines a spotlight that just misses him.

He pulls Okuyasu’s kindly gifted puffer coat over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself and zipping it all the way up. The arms fall over his hands. Kakyoin hides himself in the fabric and leans his head on his shoulder. Tears fall and slide down the shiny material.

Traitor.

Kakyoin’s eyes squeeze shut, hot tears boiling in the corners of them.

Liar.

He disguises his crying, hiding his face away. Hair sticks to his wet cheeks and his lip-balm covered mouth, but he doesn’t bother fixing it.

No solution comes to the only thing he wants answered: Why? Why didn’t Jotaro tell him?

Kakyoin thought they had an agreement. Kakyoin thought, wrongfully so, that they were in equilibrium. He shares all, Jotaro shares all back to him. There are- were- no secrets.

The more he goes round and round in his head, the more he becomes lost. Kakyoin doesn’t know what to do, or where to go.

Because…

Well, where does he even start?

Kakyoin can’t separate himself from Jotaro. Jotaro, Jotaro…

…it all starts with Jotaro, doesn’t it?

The first time that Kakyoin shyly opened up to Jotaro about himself was when they were alone from the other crusaders on that that cruise ship, both of them sun-lounging in full school uniform.

Kakyoin pretended to be fixated on his book whilst he’d told Jotaro how his parents gave up, forced him into facility after facility, knew that his ‘imaginary friend’ was some mental hallucination that needed fixing. Kakyoin had recounted to Jotaro what his parents did if he bought up Hierophant. They’d scream. Hit him. Lock him in his room. The reason for talking about this? Jotaro had asked Kakyoin how it felt to know about your Stand from a young age. Kakyoin saw nothing wrong with being honest.

Jotaro had been listening intently to him, reclined like a sly basking cat, hat pulled half over his face.

Kakyoin remembers feeling embarrassed. Jotaro wasn’t very talkative; the impression was back then. When his story was finished, Kakyoin had simply looked away and gulped down with red cheeks, self-conscious of how much he’d just overshared.

It was a little bit mortifying, until Jotaro peeked out from his hat and gave Kakyoin a stern, gentle nod.

“I’m sorry, Noriaki.” Jotaro had said. It was the first time he’d used ‘Noriaki’, too. “…If you need a place to stay after this is all over to get away from them, my family can help you out.”

Running away was pretty much all Kakyoin had ever considered, up until that point. He’d run away plenty of times, so many times, in fact, that the local police had his name on a watch list. He had run away to Dio, too. And now, he was halfway across the world with a bunch of strangers.

“Thanks.” Kakyoin whispered back. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. Kakyoin wasn’t used to being spoken to so nicely, and Jotaro, for some reason, wanted to help him more than anyone he’d ever met in his life.

It was a surprisingly warm sentiment to come out of Jotaro’s mouth. But then again, Jotaro was the kind one who removed Kakyoin’s fleshbud, going to so much trouble in order to keep him safe and alive. Jotaro wouldn’t do this all for nothing. There had, had to be a meaning.

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin had blurted, now too much in his thoughts to go any longer with this question unanswered, “Why did you pull my fleshbud out?”

Jotaro had pouted in response, shrugging. There was a cigarette in his mouth, and all Kakyoin could do at the time was stare at his lips.

“Dunno,” Jotaro mumbled, averting his eye contact completely. His beautiful eyes drifted to stare at the sea, and Kakyoin realised that they really were the same colour as sparkling turquoise waves. “I just did it.”

Kakyoin wasn’t quite convinced. This journey officially had a second aim: working Jotaro out.

The thing is, Jotaro symbolised everything that Kakyoin thought he didn’t like. Jotaro had bad manners and a filthy attitude. He always chain-smoked cigarettes out the window when all the crusaders were packed in a car. He took up so much room. His ego was the size of the planet and he strutted about every place he entered like he already owned it.

But there was an almighty catch to all of this. Kakyoin begin to find glimpses of him in an unexpected light. Jotaro had taken a liking to him, addressing Kakyoin or including him on the rare occasional that he’d willingly open his stubborn mouth.

“Good grief. Shut the hell up Jiji, Kakyoin’s trying to sleep in the back.”

“Hey, Kakyoin. Let’s leave these old fucks to chat between themselves. I need a smoke outside.”

“Kakyoin. Got any of that gum left?”

It never ended. Kakyoin this, Kakyoin that. In a lot of ways, Kakyoin was the only crusader that Jotaro really spoke to outside of fight strategies and necessities. It felt like Jotaro had picked him, and though Kakyoin knew it was childish to like being liked so much…he really did treasure it.

What started as a crush developed into a bit of an obsession, really. Kakyoin can blame the heat exhaustion for making his head go funny but at the end of the day, who wouldn’t become captivated by such a boy? Jotaro was like some walking antihero, dark-haired and unfairly handsome, living every day as though he controlled the world in his calloused palms.

At first, it was hard to admit. Kakyoin hung on to his pride for as long as he could, before things really did feel out of his control. Jotaro was quite literally the only soul on earth who understood him, deep down to his core. Jotaro had saved him, saved him from that horrible fleshbud and vowed to save him from his old life too.

So, naturally, Kakyoin couldn’t really help himself from sneaking glances in Jotaro’s direction when he’d lift his shirt up to wipe his face with it. Or watching carefully when Jotaro placed a cigarette between his teeth. Or daydreaming about him constantly, wishing he could touch his hair and kiss his neck and share all his secrets with him.

None of that was Kakyoin’s fault. He had to stomach the truth, the root of these weird sensations in his chest and random nerves in his shaky hands. Yes, Kakyoin was in love.

Jotaro and Kakyoin spent every moment they could together on that journey. At mealtimes, they started to give each other little knowing glances across the table. On the move, they’d walk side by side. When driving, they’d sit together in back of the car, playing I-Spy out the window. They took it in turns to pick up little trinkets and souvenirs for each other, stupid things like shells and wrappers and pieces of rock. When they’d stay overnight at hotels, Jotaro would always mumble some excuse of a demand to share a room with him.

Two weeks of this. That’s all it took. Kakyoin supposes the mutual longing was wearing away at them a little too hard, or maybe it was the endless battles. Perhaps they were both fed up with fighting and needed something to indulge in. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t complaining.

No, Kakyoin wasn’t complaining at all. Because suddenly he was making out with Jotaro every night in their shared hotel bed, and nothing really felt real anymore. Jotaro had actually chosen him.

Jotaro. The guy who could have anyone the universe if he wanted… wanted Kakyoin. Jotaro, who was built like a Greek god, who always smelt of sweat and smoke, who literally had people falling at his feet wherever he went…

Kakyoin wanted to pretend that he didn’t understand, but in truth he’d carefully spent every waking moment figuring out how to get Jotaro to like him. This was his doing. This was success.

Kakyoin isn’t fucking stupid. Rather, the opposite. Kakyoin is a lifelong high-achiever, a perfectionist. Though his past has him beaten down and unloved for the most part, he always knew that if he could just get away and make a life for himself, that he would be unstoppable.

And now…with Jotaro…

Well. He really was unstoppable, right? Everything was slotting right into place.

Kakyoin wanted to work Jotaro out more than anything, but it seemed impossible. The boy was an enigma, pummelling enemies one minute and then talking about sea-life over a quiet cigarette the next.

When they were alone, Jotaro didn’t live up to his carefully crafted image. Admittedly, Kakyoin had expected a relationship with him to be a lot more…dynamic. Kakyoin had daydreamt up all sorts to prepare himself for what he thought was inevitable: Jotaro manhandling him, pinning him down, biting kisses into his skin and demanding him to keep it all strictly a secret. These weren’t bad thoughts. If that had been reality then, well…Kakyoin wouldn’t have complained.

But it wasn’t. Jotaro wasn’t like that at all. The two of them would sit up in bed for hours every night, discussing trivial matters under a cheap lampshade. Jotaro would always sit in this certain way so that Kakyoin could lean on his chest, he’d tell Kakyoin that his hair was “Such a gorgeous shade of red-” whilst stroking it, often adding a smirking, “You should grow it out, really long. That’d be hot.”

Then, they’d lie down for bed. The lights would turn out, and they’d roll over to hold each other, kissing whilst Jotaro stubs out the end of his cigarette on the bedside ashtray. Sometimes if they were unlucky enough to get a room next-door to Polnareff and Avdol, they’d stay up giggling and pretending to gag at the array of noises coming from the older couple’s direction…but Jotaro never laid a finger on Kakyoin in that way. Not for months.

Occasionally, Jotaro really would open up. The night before they encountered Dio, Jotaro had a nightmare. A bad one. He’d woken in a state, with a heartrate scarily high and cold sweat dripping down his face. Kakyoin had stayed up with him all night afterwards in that clammy hotel room, shushing him back to sleep while the other boy remained silent like a rock, mumbling the only fear he had, which was losing his friends, and losing his family.

There it was. Out in the open. Jotaro’s only weakness.

And twenty-four hours afterwards Kakyoin witnessed it first-hand, when he opened his eyes to sirens, and the lower half of his body completely numb. He was inside the ambulance, lying in a bed, speeding down the motorway. He remembers it all: facing Dio, his stomach, the message…

Jotaro had been sat on the edge of the bed, covered in blood. His face was dirtied and caked in dried scabs, his uniform was torn, his breathing was heavy. There was a fear in his eyes that made his entire expression unrecognisable.

But when Kakyoin had first looked at him and assured he was very much alive, Jotaro had kissed him. Jotaro kissed him over and over, ignoring every single Speedwagon medic rushing around the vehicle.

After the death of Dio and the return of the crusaders to home living, Joseph and Jotaro had been adamant: Kakyoin was to come and stay with them for the foreseeable future. It worked out wonderfully, Holly Kujo’s home was lovely and so was she. Holly treated Kakyoin as though she’d known him for a lifetime, as did Jotaro’s grandma Suzie. For the first time, Kakyoin felt a sense of family that he didn’t know was possible. The Joestars were a tight-knit bunch. To them, it seemed, family was everything.

Jotaro had given Kakyoin more than a fresh start. He’d given Kakyoin a whole new life.

You see, Jotaro was a conflicting romantic dream. Jotaro was the big bad boy who bought Kakyoin flowers every year on Valentine’s Day, the hugest cliché of a swooning delinquent hiding a heart of gold. Jotaro had bloodied fists from alleyway fights but held Kakyoin’s hand every day on the way to school. Jotaro smoked where he shouldn’t and drank excessively and got expelled countless times, but his grades were good, and he always managed to manipulate his way back to the top of the class.

By default, Kakyoin became roped into Jotaro’s infamous image. Not only was Jotaro choosing to hang around with someone, but he was dating someone… an honours student - a transfer student.

Jotaro was used to being talked about, clearly. But that was the thing about Jotaro. He could play humble all he wanted but Jotaro knew he was hot shit at school, he knew he could get away with anything. Kakyoin had no other choice but to adapt.

Shamefully, Kakyoin realised that he actually loved the attention.

Superiority. Kakyoin’s always had an air of it about him, a mask to keep him sane from a life of being so painfully alone. His uniform forever looked immaculate, his hair was flawless every day, he always had perfect grades. But being with Jotaro had manifested this into pure confidence. It didn’t even take long. Kakyoin was a natural. He basked in the light, shone.

This was only the beginning of things that came with the luxury of dating Jotaro. After school, Kakyoin was straight off-the-bat offered a job at the Speedwagon Foundation. He’d gone through various training entrance tests, personality interviews, and quite frankly he had aced all of it. Regardless of Mr Joestar’s letter of recommendation for him being the highest degree of nepotism, Kakyoin had securely cemented a career at 19.

Unstoppable. Just as he’d always dreamt.

He worked in research management at the Tokyo HQ, a job he loved and thrived in, at first. Jotaro had accepted a place at a nearby university to study marine biology and so naturally they moved in together, living out a fantasy of adult life in an inner-city flat.

Kakyoin had his health scares here and there, some worse than others. He was no stranger to a hospital visit, Speedwagon doctors rushing him about and prescribing him new various medicines. His spine, which had been fractured by Dio, caused him discomfort and a concoction of blood-issues, but he muddled through. Kakyoin wanted to work. He’d made a good name for himself; he was respected amongst his co-workers.

It had all become intertwined with Kakyoin’s image, now: crisp suits and money, real money- early morning commutes, fancy offices, meetings. Every bit of it only boosted his peaking ego. People did what he asked them to. Adults worked under him. Kakyoin was a piece of Speedwagon Foundation history, and for the first time he had felt as though Hierophant Green was a gift, not some freakish burden.

But it all came crashing down. Hospital visit after hospital visit, stress levels through the roof. Disrupted bloods. Heart-palpitations. Spinal complications.

Barely four years and a promotion later, the doctors had made it clear. Kakyoin needed to take a break- ‘retire’, as they put it…at the age of 23. It was quite literally a matter of life or death.

Kakyoin would not budge. But Jotaro insisted. Over, and over. He pleaded Kakyoin to quit his job until it was the only blaringly obvious solution.

“I’ll look after us,” Jotaro had whispered as they’d settled down to bed one night, rainy storm battering against the window. He had been holding an ice-pack to Kakyoin’s head, to help with his side effects from a recent fainting episode. The oversized ragged t-shirt he was wearing to bed complimented his tan skin so well, that worn orange bringing out all the light and hope in his complexion. “I’ll get work as soon as I start researching for my PhD, I can teach on the side too. They’ll pay me well if I apply for a grant.”

“I don’t know…” Kakyoin had hesitated, “I’ve just been promoted.”

Jotaro had clutched Kakyoin’s wrist, stared into him with eyes so worried they were almost unrecognisable from their usual smouldering gaze, “Nori,” Jotaro had whispered, rough and stern, “If you wear yourself and your health away working for a reason as shallow as pride, I’ll never be able to live with myself. Please.”

Kakyoin couldn’t argue against that. Especially not when he heard what Jotaro followed it up with.

“I almost lost you once. I’m not fucking risking it again.”

At first, Kakyoin wasn’t too happy with the way things worked: watching Jotaro adapt to working full-time while he stayed in their apartment doing god knows what. But being alone between 8am and 6pm allowed Kakyoin space to think, space to live with a newfound slowness.

Kakyoin began to appreciate little things: the hot steam coming from a freshly boiled tea, the thankful smile Jotaro would give him when he came home to food and a clean kitchen. Kakyoin liked tending to Jotaro, to a fault- he wanted to brush his hair and fold his clothes and give him words of affirmation after a long day.

Kakyoin’s designer suits turned into neutral patterned linens. He grew out his hair. He took up painting again. He spent hours pottering around expensive organic stores. He studied recipe books and started collecting house plants.

Eventually, this unravelled into normalcy. Life was perfectly in sync, the two of them both more than happy with the way they’d placed themselves.

Kakyoin fell too comfortably into it.

Turns out, Kakyoin quite liked not working, after all.

Before he could even realise it, he had become Jotaro’s sanctuary. And it felt like the best thing in the world. Because Jotaro deserved it. Jotaro had given him everything to live for, hadn’t he?

It’s all too much to think about.

Now, as Kakyoin sits slumped in the dark carpark of Morioh hospital, he reaches a stone-cold epiphany.

Without realising it, he’s trapped himself.

Kakyoin stares down into a puddle. This curb is uncomfortable to sit on, his legs are cramping up and his neck aches, but he doesn’t want to move. He knows he’s got a massive, brewing problem to unpack. There’s quite literally nowhere else for him to go. There’s no way he can give up on Jotaro, but how far is he going to stoop to excuse what he’s done?

It’s embarrassing. It’s embarrassing how easily Kakyoin can see himself wiping the slate clean, saying sorry, and taking Jotaro home.

He sniffles into his sleeve, hot fresh tears now dribbling from his eyes. Is this really how everyone sees him? A pathetic fixer, Jotaro’s accessory? Jotaro’s other half? The man who’s been sat around for the last five years, discarded from his own flourishing career, taking the easy route, waiting like a delicate little flower for Jotaro to propose…

Jotaro, Jotaro. It all comes back to fucking Jotaro.

“Oh my god,”

Kakyoin whispers aloud, horrified. His face is buried into his arms, his painfully tired eyes are screwed shut. It all floods into crystal clear realisation, all too fast. How, how could he let his happen?

At seventeen, he stood face to face with Dio atop the buildings of Cairo, Hierophant outstretched, not even fearing death. At twenty-one, he was an independent industry professional. At twenty-eight, he is cowering in a hospital carpark…and he doesn’t even know who he is. And the last few years of his life have been a fucking lie.

Kakyoin steadies his breathing, tries to rationalize everything.

Fact: Jotaro is an alcoholic. There’s quite literally nothing that Kakyoin can do about it, not now.

He just can’t work out how he never noticed it.

What Jotaro said to him earlier is somewhat true. Yes, Kakyoin is aware that Jotaro has suffered with drinking problems in the past. Ten years in the past, when he was eighteen and still in his final year of school. This was all boiled down to rebellion at the time. The consensus back then was quite clear: Jotaro drank for attention, and to piss his teachers off.

After the crusaders returned home from their trip, Jotaro was a step-up from his usual delinquent-y antics. Kakyoin knows this because Holly never stopped talking about it, stressing over and over that she was ‘so worried’ and that he was going to ‘throw his studies away’ if he carried on.

It happened an awful lot. Jotaro would leave class to get high or drunk in the bathroom or on the rooftop, staff would come looking for him, there would be some sort of fight, Jotaro would threaten them, Kakyoin would have to take him away, Jotaro would get temporarily expelled.

This was a rapid cycle. The only reason Jotaro managed to manipulate his way back into school every time was due to his amazing grades and angry visits from his grandpa threatening to sue the school if they kicked Jotaro out. Joestar money, Kakyoin quickly learned, was no fucking joke.

Kakyoin, like the rest of Jotaro’s family, couldn’t really understand why this was happening. Joseph’s best explanation was that all the battle had left Jotaro with ‘too much excess adrenaline.’ This was plausible enough: being on edge for fifty-days was bound to put anyone in a sort of fight-or-flight mode, and it seemed Jotaro was stuck in it.

But Jotaro never, ever wanted to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about the trip, or his behaviour, or what this was doing to harm his future. On the surface, Jotaro just didn’t care.

Kakyoin tries to remember if anyone, anyone at all raised deeper concerns about the drinking at the time. Not much comes back to him, and it’s frustrating.

At the time, Joseph had stated over and over that Jotaro would ‘grow out of it’. He had said that Jotaro was a bundle of hormones and brawn at the best of times, and that he was simply making a scene. Jotaro didn’t want to be at school, so he was kicking off to get out of it the best he could. Jotaro wanted tension, to use all his newfound strength. Eventually, he’d just get bored. Everyone agreed with Joseph. Afterall, Joseph had always been close to Jotaro. Everyone said Jotaro took after him, acted like he did when he was younger. Who was Kakyoin to comment?

And to be fair to Joseph, he was right.

Jotaro did grow out of it. School ended, and the drinking stopped. Every now and then the couple would go out to a bar, but that was about the most of it. Special occasions, sometimes a glass of wine or whiskey with a meal. The only time Jotaro got properly drunk was at Avdol and Polnareff’s wedding… but that was funny, not concerning.

Well, it was funny, at the time. Now, the thought makes Kakyoin sick.

Kakyoin stretches his legs out on the curb, looking around at this dark, empty carpark. He overthinks every time he’s seen Jotaro pick up a drink in the last nine years, analysing every single detail of each situation.

He bursts into tears.

It all feels so beyond his control. Kakyoin carries the weight of guilt as though there’s a target stuck to his back.

Everyone must be thinking it. Kakyoin couldn’t even figure out that there was something this wrong with his own boyfriend, and now it’s too late. He’s a pathetic excuse of a partner, a pathetic addition to the Joestar family.

It was the only thing Kakyoin had to do: take care of Jotaro. And he’s fucking failed.

Kakyoin gets to his feet, wobblily standing and tucking his hands into his coat pockets. He sniffles back tears and a runny nose, gaining back breath. When he tries to walk, he has to keep himself from peering behind him.

Failure, failure, failure.

Kakyoin hears his own parents’ voices. His mother, grinning in pleasure. Where will you run to now, Noriaki? We told you that boy was no good…

“Fuck!”

He cries, whispering a hoarse scream into nothingness. The trees are rustling in response, mocking him. There are two cars in this entire area of the carpark, all the rest is empty space. Empty, empty space.

Hierophant smashes the floor, cracking tarmac. Kakyoin is still, panting with his fists clenched.

Nothing that Crazy Diamond can’t fix later.

Kakyoin clutches his head and makes a straight aim for the hospital entrance, counting down from one hundred. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that he cannot do this all alone.

Chapter Text

Noriaki

As he walks through the hospital, Kakyoin warms his hands in his pockets. His knuckles and fingers are numb from being sat in that godforsaken carpark all night. Now is not the time for pity or self-consciousness, and though he knows he must look awful right now, he pushes on.

There are quite a few waiting rooms in Morioh hospital, depending on the ward. It’s a newly refurbished, huge establishment. Luckily for Kakyoin, his various medical dramas have allowed him to become a pretty decent navigator of the place.

He takes a flight of stairs up past the main reception, clumsily tucking his unbrushed hair behind his ear. It’s 3AM, or so the big clock on the wall says. Nurses roll by wheeling trolleys. Occasionally, a slightly lost visitor passes him, clutching coffee or shaking their heads. So many other people must be feeling let down today, he thinks.

Kakyoin finds the room he’s aiming for, and lightly pushes the door. Revealed is an empty room besides the two people he expected to see here, sat amongst rows of empty green chairs.

Josuke and Okuyasu are sat sharing a seat in the corner, crammed together and talking in hushed, worried voices. Kakyoin slumps down in a seat right opposite them, and they jump at the sight of him.

Two pairs of sleep deprived teenage eyes stare in Kakyoin’s direction, expecting him to say something. Josuke’s hand immediately goes to comfort Okuyasu’s arm, which is shakily holding a brightly coloured energy drink.

It dawns on Kakyoin that he must look much, much worse than the time the two boys saw him last, which was during the doctor’s initial interrogation of everyone’s knowledge about Jotaro’s addiction and past. That was, of course, when Okuyasu had unwillingly spoken out. He’d told the rest of the more personal details to Josuke and Kakyoin in private afterwards, when Tomoko had gone to get a drink. Selling and doing drugs, funnily enough, was not something he wanted to confess in front of his boyfriend’s mother.

It had shaken everything, all the new information. Kakyoin didn’t know what to feel, but he knew one thing: he didn’t blame Okuyasu one fucking bit.

“Hey.”

Kakyoin mumbles as he sinks into the chair, resting his head back and forcing his eyes not to close on him. Sleep teases him, washes over his senses. Everything seems like a blur, and the white lighting of this space is far too harsh for teary red eyes.

Josuke is the first to lean forward, anticipating the worst.

“Did you talk to Jotaro?” he whispers.

Kakyoin clasps his hands in his lap, nodding slowly, “Yeah,” he croaks, “I did.”

“…And?”

The entire argument earlier replays in Kakyoin’s head, every excruciating detail of it. The fresh anger re-boils, floods back to him. Traitor, liar, selfish…

“Terrible,” Kakyoin admits.

In his mind, there is only an image of Jotaro lying there alone in that hospital bed, sleeping away his emotions. Kakyoin can’t help but wonder if Jotaro is regretting what he did, what he said. Right now, is he counting all the ways he can make it up to him…or is he really just too gone to care about him, about them?

The thought almost brings another wave of hurried tears to Kakyoin’s eyes, but he blinks them out.

“I’m sorry,” Josuke replies eventually, settling back into his own seat and turning nervously to Okuyasu.

“Yeah,” Okuyasu joins in, shuffling about, “I’m sorry too.”

Kakyoin goes to reassure them both, but not before he’s interrupted.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” Okuyasu stutters, clutching his head. “This is all my fault, I can’t live with this shit, man…I knew Jotaro was all fucked up but I ain’t got a clue how to deal with shit like that, y’know? And when he told me to keep it a secret I just-”

“Okuyasu,” Kakyoin interjects gently, facing him dead on, “Hey, look at me. None of this is your fault. I promise. No one thinks that.”

As his words settle, Kakyoin glances worriedly at how fast Okuyasu’s fingers are tapping his drink can. Neither of the two teenagers look like they’ve recovered from staying up all night, waiting for some announcement that Jotaro wasn’t actually gone for good.

“But…” Okuyasu sighs, “I should’ve said somethin’.”

“No,” Kakyoin whispers, clearing his throat and tapping him on the shoulder, “Listen, what Jotaro did to you was absolutely unacceptable. Someone his age should know better. Dragging you into this mess was a horrible weight to put on your shoulders, especially when you’re struggling yourself. Shame on him. I’m sorry, Okuyasu. You don’t deserve this.”

It’s hard to watch Okuyasu taking this in. He bites down on his lip, staring a confused stare down to his beaten-up white sneakers. Kakyoin’s heart hurts as he waits for the silence to pass, unable to fathom just how many people Jotaro has hurt from doing all of this.

But there’s something Kakyoin has yet to get answered, so he composes himself once again and folds his arms over his chest.

“Did Jotaro ever tell you?” Kakyoin asks, aimed in Okuyasu’s direction, “Did he ever tell you…the reason. For the drinking? Why he needed it?”

Silence.

Kakyoin’s paranoia spirals, his breathing rapid. He has to calm himself.

“Okuyasu,” he repeats, leaning in, “Was it because of me? Did I do something wrong to him?”

When Okuyasu shakes his head, Kakyoin’s heart rate falls to a healthier level. He braces himself, throat dry as he tries to swallow.

“Nah, he never told me the reason,” Okuyasu responds quietly, attention darting about as though he’s trying to piece something together, “I asked. He just never said nothin’. Didn’t wanna talk about it-”

Okuyasu quickly buries his face in his hands. To both of the other people in the room, it takes only a second to pick up on the fact that he’s ashamedly sniffling back tears to himself.

“He was so fucked up,” Okuyasu mumbles, refusing to look up, “I felt for him, y’know? I didn’t know why he was doin’ it but I didn’t need to…I just understood…”

He trails off. Josuke crumbles, reacting all at once to put an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders and pull him into a concerned hug.

“Oh Yasu,” Josuke whispers, squeezing his eyes closed and running his fingers through Okuyasu’s loose shoulder-length hair. Kakyoin watches with a wistfully guilty weight sinking in his chest, even though this is all, all Jotaro’s doing.

The reason. The root. There has to be one.

Kakyoin lets the couple in front of him comfort each other as he ponders through every situation. He can’t match anything to a cause, not suspicious times or patterns of behaviour. Jotaro has hidden every detail of this so cleverly, and it’s really pissing him off. Even when Kakyoin can pinpoint a memory of Jotaro drinking or going out, there’s nothing more to it that he can gather. At all.

And he’s back at square one. This is all so, so fucking hopeless.

Kakyoin exhales, cooling down a streak of anger that he doesn’t need surfacing right now. To distract himself, he opens his phone and clicks to reveal the four missed calls that are stacking up on his lock screen: Holly, Holly again, Polnareff, Avdol. He sighs and shuts it closed, reminding himself to get back to them when he gets the chance.

Josuke and Okuyasu are such a sweet pair. Kakyoin can’t help but watch them from the corner of his eye. When Josuke presses a caring kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek, it restores a little bit of faith in Kakyoin’s soul, if not for a brief moment at least. Amongst all his own darkness, humanity can be so good.

More than anything, they remind him of what he and Jotaro used to be, he supposes.

He feels bad interrupting, but there is something that he really does need sorting as soon as possible.

“Um, Josuke?” Kakyoin begins, “Is it okay if I ask you for a favour? I just need Crazy diamond to fix something.”

Josuke turns his attention, his hand still running circles around Okuyasu’s back. “Sure,” he smiles comfortingly, in that very unmistakably Joestar-like fashion, “What’s broken?”

“There’s a uh…a spot in the carpark. Where the tarmac split. A large crack.” Kakyoin coughs, embarrassed. Even at a time like this, he stills holds his pride very carefully, and feels it sleeping from his control, “I got angry outside. Hierophant reacted.”

“Ohh, okay. Yeah no problem, man.” Josuke gets up from his chair, nudging his boyfriend, “Coming with me?”

Slowly, Okuyasu gets up too. “Yeah,” he coughs, rubbing his eyes with the back of his sleeve, “Yeah, I need a cigarette.”

“Oh, you can have this back,” Kakyoin suddenly rushes, taking off the puffer coat that Okuyasu lent him earlier and handing it over to him. The boy is hesitant to accept it at first out of kindness but comes around eventually and begins to put it on, wearily smiling a ‘thanks’ before he and Josuke walk off hand in hand.

Alone, again. Kakyoin breathes in the silence, basks in the time he has now to stew in his own horrible thoughts. Every time, his brain circles back to Jotaro, images of Jotaro alone too, images of Jotaro unhappy and drunk and hurting.

Loneliness drags him back to his phone. Any distraction is better than rotting like this. Kakyoin debates it twice, and then calls Avdol’s mobile.

It rings for no longer than five seconds. Kakyoin does the time conversation in his head: it must be around 7PM in Paris right now, meaning his friends should both be home.

Kakyoin spoke to Polnareff on the phone last night when all the chaos was first unfolding, when he was sobbing and pacing around like a lunatic. The conversation didn’t last long, as Kakyoin was quickly interrupted by news from nurses and paperwork for Jotaro’s visit. Now, he can at least hold himself together enough to talk decently. The missed calls he’s received from both Polnareff and Avdol since then signal that they must be highly worried.

“Noriaki?”

Avdol’s voice is calm and deep. It doesn’t disguise the concerned edge to it, though.

“Noriaki?” he repeats, “Is everything okay?”

Kakyoin feels tears coming on again, already.

“Yeah,” he lies, clenching his fist in the pocket of his linen trousers, “I mean- no, no not really.”

There’s a muffled exchange going on in the background. Polnareff can be heard faintly, asking rapid questions and prompting his husband with what to say.

“What’s the update on Jotaro?” Avdol eventually replies, carefully slowing his words as though to be gentle. “Jean’s been so worried since you spoke to him last, we tried to call Holly and Joseph but they had no idea if he’s woken up yet either.”

Lying to protect his own heart isn’t going to get Kakyoin anywhere, especially when he’s speaking with his two best friends. He readjusts himself to sit with his knees up to his chest, curled over in this uncomfortable chair with his head in his arms.

“He’s awake,” Kakyoin mutters, pausing to hear the relieved sighs coming from the other end of the phone.

He wonders what they really think about Jotaro. Had they been sat at the dinner table together, shaking their heads and disapproving? When Kakyoin spoke to them yesterday, Polnareff had insisted that there had been some sort of mistake, that Jotaro would never be able to hide such a rampant addiction without anyone noticing. Avdol hadn’t quite agreed, reminding Kakyoin that it’s entirely possible given how stubborn and ‘bottled up’ Jotaro can be. The three of them were all left stumped.

After a minute of taking this information in, Avdol sighs again and paces around, judging by the sound of creaking floorboards.

“We wish we were there to help you out, dear friend,” he says, “You sound exhausted. Did something happen?”

Leaning into the speaker, Polnareff impatiently adds, “Did you talk to Jotaro?”

The waiting room feels especially empty as Kakyoin thinks through a response, shivering in his chair. His eyes dart to all the pamphlets and posters stuck to the cream-white walls, brightly coloured warnings of diabetes symptoms and how to manage a seizure. The words just blur.

“Yeah,” Kakyoin begins quietly, before coughing down spit in his throat and clearing his speech, “But he wasn’t listening to me.”

“He didn’t even apologize? Or explain himself?” Polnareff gasps, seemingly appalled.

A dull, nervous ache settles in Kakyoin’s chest. The reality of how their argument unfolded is entirely depressing to think about.

“No,” Kakyoin chokes, “He said, it was my…my fault, for not noticing-”

All over again, he starts to cry, covering his sniffles by burying his face into his sleeve. Unless he’s being delusional, every detail of this is stacked against him. Kakyoin knows deep down that he’s done nothing wrong. So, why, why does he feel like such a failure?

“Jotaro said what?” Avdol snaps. It’s rare to hear him so uncomposed.

“The nerve!” Polnareff announces, his accent thick and angry on the last word, “Did you give him a piece of your mind?”

Kakyoin feels much better now that his friends are validating all of his feelings. Somewhere in the seconds that follow, he confirms to himself that he’s more than justified to speak his truth and open up about how Jotaro just treated him. For a moment, he was feeling a little guilty about airing it out. But not anymore.

“I did,” Kakyoin breathes, “He was just being so… difficult.”

His voice cracks halfway through, allowing an embarrassingly loud sob to follow through. A part of him, even though he hates it, just wants to run back to Jotaro’s room and hold him.

“Noriaki,” Avdol says, firm, “His behaviour is not a reflection on you. You know what Jotaro’s like, he probably wasn’t ready to talk. Please don’t beat yourself up.”

“But…” Kakyoin protests, frustrated tears streaming down his cheeks, “It’s not meant to be like that. That’s Jotaro, he never wants to talk to anyone, but…I…I thought I was different; we’re meant to share everything. It’s like he doesn’t trust me.”

Saying it out loud somehow hurts him more.

“Mon Coeur…That can’t be true,” Polnareff says, his voice stained with sympathy, “Oh your poor thing. Perhaps he’s just feeling very ill, no? He might really regret being like that when he gets better.”

“I don’t know,” Kakyoin sighs, resting his head back, “I’m just as lost as you guys. Honestly? I don’t know what to do at all. It’s killing me.”

There’s a bit of muffled speaking, and hurried footsteps. Just as Kakyoin tries to work out what just happened on the other end of the phone, Polnareff takes over.

“Mo’s getting his cards out,” he says, gently amused.

This brings a smile to Kakyoin’s face, temporarily breaking his awful mood. He’s so lucky to have friends like them.

“I’m getting a free reading?” Kakyoin jokes, wiping stray tears away.

“Seems so.”

He just knows Polnareff is rolling his eyes right now. The image is comforting. Normalcy, good memories.

While they wait for Avdol to speed through his tarot reading somewhere in the background, Polnareff makes it his mission to cheer Kakyoin up.

“Hey, do you remember that time during the crusade when we were in…oh where was it again? Singapore, I think? And we went to that restaurant before heading back to our hotel and Jotaro got us kicked out because he refused to put his damn cigarette down? And then he got in that stupid fight with the manager and we were all left starving. We were all so fucking mad at him.”

Kakyoin blocks out every other thought and brings himself back to that day, happily recounting the memory.

“How could I forget?” Kakyoin replies, smiling to himself, “And there was nowhere else good to eat in the area, remember? Joseph had such a strop. We ended up at an American themed diner.”

“Oh, that diner was awful!” Polnareff snorts, “All I remember was that you and Jotaro had no idea what waffles were, and Joseph was mortified- oh my god and I threw Jotaro’s drink away because I was convinced there was an enemy stand in it-”

Now, Kakyoin’s laughing. “Oh he was so mad at you for that. Hey wait wasn’t that the time when Avdol accidentally flirted with you in front of us all? I swear it was-”

“Yes, yes it was! I still tease him about that, my god. He asked to ‘feel my arms’, remember?”

“How on earth could I forget!”

They both giggle over the phone. Kakyoin’s blocked sore nose sniffles the last of his tears away. Though his eyes are still damp and his heart is still fragmented, he feels much less alone.

Kakyoin misses the crusaders, misses the adventure. He misses sunrises in the car and mornings in hotels, he misses the dust that caked all his clothes for weeks and the sticky sheen of suncream that always masked his face. More than anything, he misses yearning for Jotaro to give him a glance, he misses shyly flirting and shuffling up to him. He misses that Jotaro, more than he could ever imagine.

“Mo’s back,” Polnareff announces through the phone, before addressing his husband, “What are the cards saying then, eh?”

Avdol re-takes the phone into his hand, clearing his throat, “Right, Noriaki- I asked the cards for guidance and the response was very clear from my reading. Time, dear friend. The truth will come if you are willing to wait. I’d say it’s best to give Jotaro some space until he’s ready to be an adult and address his issues properly. Patience is on your side. Everything will be made clear.”

“Time?” Kakyoin repeats, calmly taking it in. He kicks his legs off the side of his seat, tapping his fingers on his thigh, “I suppose you’re right. Thanks, Mo.”

He can just tell that Avdol is beaming.

“My pleasure,” he assures. “My fortunes have quite the successful track record, so keep all of that in mind-”

“Oh pack it in,” Polnareff interrupts, slapping Avdol on the back by the sounds of things, “We get it, Monsieur Horoscope. Now listen here Noriaki, you have to stay strong, yes? We are both rooting for you to make this better.”

“Absolutely,” Avdol agrees, “If there’s one person who can hold Jotaro together, it’s you. But don’t put up with being spoken to like that, okay? Make sure he isn’t keeping anything else from you. If he hurts you again I’ll be having words with him myself.”

Kakyoin disguises the tears, this time. Listening to this is like being ripped open and sewn back together. It’s been such a long day. None of it feels real.

“Thanks guys,” he says, completely choked up and overwhelmed with how lovely it’s been to talk to them at a time like this, “I will. Don’t worry about me.”

“Take care of yourself,” Avdol says. “You’ll let us know if anything else happens?”

“Yeah,” Polnareff chips in, “Give us a call tomorrow won’t you? Keep us updated.”

Battling against fluctuating emotions that he just can’t control at all, Kakyoin nods to himself and presses the phone closer to his ear.

“I will,” he promises, dreading being alone again when this conversation is over.

Goodbyes are said, yet it’s all a daze. Before Kakyoin knows it, he’s automatically pressing the button to hang up… and now he’s faced with silence.

Kakyoin stands up, stretches his arms. He clicks his back into place, deep breathing as he relishes in feeling his sore muscles relax. He knows that there’s a bathroom next door in this corridor, so he hurries into it and stands by the sinks, squinting at his reflection in the large mirror.

There’s something about hospital toilets. Maybe it’s the harshest flickering lights, or the creaking doors, or the stained porcelain of the washbowls. Kakyoin’s been here one too many times, but at least it’s something familiar right now.

A deep sigh is let out as he picks at his skin, inspecting his undereye bags with massive disappointment. His complexion is pale at the best of times but he looks properly washed out; his eyes have that signature ‘I’ve been scrubbing tears away’ look, and his entire appearance is dishevelled. When he goes to comb his hair through with his fingers, it’s overrun with knots. To Kakyoin, hair is very much a safety blanket, a shield. It’s grown so much in the last couple of months, now just about reaching his hips. He can’t believe that it was once at his shoulders.

Jotaro loves his long hair. Kakyoin thinks about it as he fiddles with his clothes, readjusting his glasses and putting some chapstick on. Jotaro loves his sense of fashion.

Kakyoin reaches into his bag, pulls out a blossom scented body-spray. He spritzes it everywhere, disguising the lack of showering he’s had to endure for the last 48 hours. Jotaro loves the way he smells, he always says that it’s the smell of home.

Jotaro, Jotaro, Jotaro.

What isn’t attached to fucking Jotaro?

Instead of crying, Kakyoin could unleash Hierophant and shatter all the glass. He could run away. He could bottle it all up and pretend he doesn’t care, walk out into that sterile corridor with the bravest face he can.

But that’s easier said than done. It’s much, much easier for Kakyoin to slump over the sink and let his face fall into his hands. It’s easy to cry and right now there’s nothing stopping him, no one watching to pull him together or tear him apart.

He shakily exhales, studying his reflection. Intense purpose floods through him. He is the one person who can carry Jotaro to safety.

Though there’s so much anger, Kakyoin knows fear when he feels it. Fear can’t win.

Love can’t fix everything. Love alone can’t ‘fix’ Jotaro. But he’ll damn well try.

Chapter Text

Jotaro swirls grainy coffee around in a little styrofoam cup. The nurse that bought it to him two minutes ago told him it’ll be good for his energy levels.

Being bedridden is really beginning to hit him.

It’s 10:55am. Jotaro’s been watching the stupid wall clock like a hawk all morning, his heartrate increasing unpleasantly when more and more minutes tick by. A million questions and worries that he doesn’t need pile up, and he finds himself waiting and dreading something that he can’t even pinpoint.

Today, he’s being discharged. The doctor (her name has escaped him for the third time in the last 48 hours) broke the news first thing when he woke up, outlining all of the ways he’ll need to manage his symptoms and pains when he gets home. She assured him, apparently, that his ‘family’ have been briefed on how to take care of him and assist his medicine. She’d said this with a hesitant and sickly-sweet smile, which only confirmed to Jotaro that by ‘family’, she meant Kakyoin.

Kakyoin.

Jotaro breathes out, clenches his fist. He is still tied to an IV. His body still feels dreadful.

The staff have been over this time and time again with him: this period of withdrawal is the worst. Decreased glutamate levels. Insomnia. One of the nurses had mentioned that it’s likely for him to experience psychological symptoms. Jotaro had almost laughed.

They’ve given him a week’s supply of benzodiazepines and instructed him to drink electrolytes. Jotaro has been warned that he should not attempt to quit cold turkey- and it’s honestly rather bold, he thinks, that anyone is assuming he’s trying to quit at all.

It’s painful to even touch on the subject, but Jotaro has wrecked and embarrassed himself. Every strained harsh word he aimed in Kakyoin’s direction yesterday burns in his head, repeating like an echo. Where they stand, where they go from here…it’s all torturously unclear.

All Jotaro knows is that he needs Kakyoin more than anything right now, but his brain seems to be pushing him away. It’s like a protective instinct. Jotaro will hold everyone at arm’s length as long as he’s a danger. Hurting Kakyoin any more than he’s already done is not an option.

That doesn’t stop him peering at the door and hoping, somewhere in his heart, that Kakyoin will run in any moment now and throw his arms around him.

But he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Jotaro puts his coffee down and rolls over in his bed, adjusting his position to lie on his side once again. Too much on his right and his liver will start playing up again. Too upright, and he’ll want to be sick. Detox. Detox this, detox that. It’s all the medical professionals have been banging on about to him today. Jotaro genuinely thinks he’s too far gone to be caring about vitamins and toxins, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice.

He flinches when he hears the sound of his phone ringing on his bedside table. He panics when he flips it open to see the one thing he can’t handle right now.

Incoming call: Holly

No, Jotaro has not spoken to his mother since being admitted to hospital. He’s put the pieces together though. He knows that Kakyoin’s spoken to her, which is enough said. She knows. Oh, she knows about everything.

He could ignore the call, but he starts to imagine the image of her waiting on the other side of the world just to hear his voice. He crumbles, answering and waiting with a pounding head.

“Jotaro?”

There it is: Holly’s trembling, terrified voice in all its glory. Jotaro feels sick down to his stomach, his entire body shivering with dread as he lays his head down and shuts his eyes. He braces himself for an impact that isn’t coming.

“Hi,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know where she stands. It’s downright torture as he waits the next ten seconds before she replies.

“Oh Jotaro…” she breathes, “It’s just, it’s just so nice to hear your voice…I’ve been so worried-”

He can barely swallow.

“Yeah,” he whispers. He pauses, painfully blaming himself for making her this upset. He only manages to get out a very disappointed, pathetic, sudden, “…sorry.”

Holly sniffles back a sob into the speaker, seemingly composing herself. Jotaro can’t bear to listen. So much for always vowing to protect her. This is precisely why he never wanted her to know.

“My darling…it’s okay,” she chokes, “We’re all just glad you’re awake.”

When Jotaro sits and withers away in silence, she carries on talking.

“I spoke to the lovely doctor this morning; I assume she told you about our plan?”

Now, Jotaro is jolted upright, clutching the blanket and furrowing his brows in confusion.

“What?” his voice scratches, “No?”

“Oh,” she is taken aback, leaving a moment to gather words, it seems.

Jotaro racks his brain. No, the doctor didn’t mention anything beyond ‘speaking’ with Holly. He assumed that she was just directing everyone on the specifics of his condition, and how they can help him out. The word ‘plan’ has set him off completely, throwing his nervous temper sideways.

And more importantly, who else is in on this?

“Well,” Holly begins gently, “We agreed it isn’t best for you to be left alone right now, dear. And Noriaki…well…bless his poor heart…I don’t want to upset him any more by leaving him responsible for taking care of you. I’m flying over back home to Tokyo tonight. You’ll be staying with me where I can keep an eye on you for the week, until you… heal up.”

Holly is running circles around saying the ‘a’ word. Jotaro knows that the moment she addresses alcohol at all, he’ll never be able to live with himself. She must be so disappointed in him. Her only son, a complete and utter fuck up.

“Right,” Jotaro mutters, phone clenched in his sweaty IV-filled fist. “Okay. Sure.”

He doesn’t know how to feel, but perhaps this is the better of two evils. Holly seems to be a much more desirable candidate for company than Kakyoin, judging by how infuriated he was yesterday. Kakyoin must have approved this, after all. Jotaro can’t bring himself to ask though.

“Are the hospital staff feeding you properly?” Holly suddenly blurts, her voice becoming a little more Holly-like “I hope you’re getting your protein in. Oh, let me know what food you want and I’ll pop to the grocery store tomorrow morning-”

Jotaro exhales, so thankful for his mother’s endless fussing at a time like this.

“I’ll eat anything you make, you know that.”

“I know I know dear...but I want to make it extra special for my poor JoJo. Are you feeling any better? The doctor told me you managed to drink a coffee today.”

The half-finished white cup of bitter coffee stands to his side, and Jotaro winces as he peers over at it.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I did. Still feel like shit though.”

Holly makes a sympathetic “Aww,” sound. In the background, Jotaro can hear her walking around the apartment. “Well you’ll be feeling much better when I get over there to watch over you, darling. Mama will take care of everything, don’t you worry.”

Sickness. Guilt. Jotaro can’t help but remind himself how much he doesn’t deserve this: he doesn’t deserve this, or Holly. He doesn’t deserve to be loved.

“Sure,” he agrees, mumbling into his pillow. Tiredness seeps into his skin.

But before she can get another word in, Jotaro can’t stop himself from thinking about how much Holly has been through. And right now, she is in the midst of a divorce, caring for her elderly parents, the other side of the globe...

“Thank you,” Jotaro says all of a sudden, emotionally drained and overwhelmed, “Thank you for doing this. I know this hasn’t been easy. And you’ve got a lot on yourself. Just...thank you. So much.”

Silence. Then, there’s an influx of Holly's sniffling and sobbing.

“My Jotaro...” she says, “I would do anything for you. You’ll always be my little baby boy, no matter how big you grow. And you’ve always done so much for me, going through so much to save my life...I could never repay you. I love you so much. No matter what. I may not be able to understand what you’re going through, or why you’re doing this to yourself,” she pauses to cry, “...But I'll always be here.”

Jotaro can already feel the warmth of his childhood home, the smell of Holly’s food, the chatter of her voice in the kitchen. It brings him immense needed comfort.

“I love you too,” Jotaro breathes. And again, “Thank you.”

Though he can’t see it, he knows that Holly is smiling right now on the other end of the phone, wiping her gentle tears away. All he wants is to give her a massive hug. The urge to see her now crushes him whole.

“Come over as soon as you’re ready, yes dear? I’ll give you a call when everything is set up at home. Just take care until then, and promise mama that you’ll be gentle with Noriaki? I’m not a fool, my love. I know that you’ve hurt him, and you’re going to have to make it up to him. I know your heart means well. A little breathing room is just what you need.”

Whatever phone call that took place (or multiple) between Holly and Kakyoin must have been...a lot. Even thinking about what was said between them terrified Jotaro beyond compare. Holly loves Noriaki. Always has. She’s always thought the world of him, as she should.

Who wouldn’t think the world of Kakyoin?

Kakyoin.

The reminder that Jotaro has to see him today burns and shivers down his spine.

“Yeah,” he replies to Holly eventually, “Yeah, you’re right.”

“That’s my boy,” she encourages, her tone of speech much more upbeat. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it, then. Mama’s got to go and pack! Rest up, call of you need anything.”

“Okay. Will do. Bye.”

In the doorway to his room, Jotaro spots a nurse hovering. Whatever this means scares him, and the sooner he can find out, the better.

“Bye bye! See you tomorrow my angel. Mwah!”

Phone clicks shut, and Jotaro places it down as he nervously watches the nurse approach his bedside. He recognises her from last night’s blood check. She reminds him of his grandma, she has a very homely wrinkled smile and a talkative nature that he somehow doesn’t mind.

“Morning,” she chirps as she gets to work unplugging something from a machine and wiping it down. “You’re heading home soon, I assume? They asked me to take out your drip.”

Jotaro catches a glimpse of the clock. 11:09.

“Oh,” he says, “I mean, yeah, I am apparently.”

The nurse whistles as she comes over to his side and begins to fiddle around with his tubed-up hand.

“This’ll pinch a little,” she warns, methodically pulling everything out. She immediately places a couple of plasters where the needles went in, “I must say, you’re one hell of a muscle man, aren’t you? Are you a bodybuilder?”

And even now, Jotaro finds it in himself to laugh a little under his breath as he watches her checking all of his medical notes.

“Nope,” he replies, “Just genes and weights. Runs in the family.”

“Oh my, lucky you!” she playfully gasps, putting something away in a disposable bag, “Your children are going to be little heartthrobs.”

Jotaro doesn’t have the heart to tell her why that’s never going to happen. He just humours her and smirks along.

“Alright honey,” she smiles, “Everything’s looking good on your recent bloodwork. Do you need a reminder of your meds for the next couple of weeks or?”

Jotaro shakes his head, “Nah, I got it all, thanks.”

“Perfect,” she smiles. “Just wait on here until you’re well enough to get up, if someone is driving you home just feel free to wait. Make sure to check out at reception.”

Nodding, Jotaro sits himself back upright again to stretch his back and shoulders. Everything feels so off, so stiff. The sickness near his stomach is still somehow there, but he assumes that’s probably just liver pains.

The nurse gives him a little wave goodbye before she leaves him. Jotaro takes a deep breath, drains the rest of his coffee, and tries to shut himself off from the world. Getting out of bed might be a good start. The last and only time he’s managed to do was to use the bathroom, and that was a struggle. Walking all the way to the carpark is going to kill him if he doesn’t adjust.

To begin with, Jotaro slowly moves his legs so that he’s sat on the edge of the bed. His head still feels like hell. It’s a constant ringing nausea at this rate, so painful that he has to press a cold bottle of water to his forehead.

He stays put, heavily breathing. His vision spins at first, so he rests there until it slows and re-climatizes. Everything seems a little unclear: is he going to have to walk home? He’s still in pyjamas and left the house on that awful night with socks and no shoes. Judging by what the nurse said, someone is coming to meet him. That person has to be Kakyoin, and it would be an understatement to say that Jotaro is in no shape to be dealing with that.

It's worse that he knows it’s coming. Jotaro can’t prepare himself for more shouting and tears, but his mind is trying against his own will like he’s in a fight or flight battle.

At this point though, he figures that nothing Kakyoin says can hurt him anymore. He’s heard it all now, hasn’t he? He’s scraped rock bottom.

Jotaro waits for twenty minutes, drifting in and out of fixated daydreaming sessions. He doesn’t move an inch, still sat on the side of the bed with his legs dangled over. Any time he sees a nurse or patient passing by his door, the urge to flinch is astronomical.

It’s hell. Until the agonizing anticipation is burst, and a slightly more polished looking Kakyoin is stood with his arms crossed in the doorway to Jotaro’s hospital room. He’s clearly been home to change his clothes judging by his outfit and newly blow-dried hair. He’s got a pale tote bag slung over his shoulder, which appears to be filled to the brim with something.

Neither of them say anything. Jotaro looks away at first, diverting his tired gaze to the wall. Kakyoin lets out an exasperated sigh before stepping into the room and standing near the bed.

“Here,” Kakyoin says. He pulls his bag off and hands it over. Now, Jotaro can see that it’s filled with clothes and a pair of shoes. “Get dressed and meet me in the hallway. I bought the car.”

That’s it. That’s all Kakyoin has to say, and it’s all in this void tone of voice, one that is serious and tight…it’s scarily similar to the way he spoke when they first met.

Jotaro mumbles a “thanks”, but it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t because Kakyoin is already gone.

In a way, Jotaro can’t comprehend Kakyoin’s maturity. In slight shock, he gets up gingerly and pulls on his clothes, a standard Jotaro outfit of all black: long sleeve cashmere sweater, corduroy trousers and grey sneakers. Doing up his laces almost makes him throw up, and he has to let the blood rush down from his head afterwards before he can stand again.

He rakes his fingers through his hair to messily style it as he gathers his things and walks out of his hospital room for the final time, bag safely tucked under his arm. One step into the corridor and he sees Kakyoin with his back leant against the wall, standing impatiently with his hands on his hips.

It’s hard. Kakyoin doesn’t even want to look at him.

“Right, c’mon then. This way.”

Jotaro chooses silence over saying something wrong, not knowing what option is safer. He follows Kakyoin down through the hospital, out of the reception (where he lets Kakyoin take care of the paperwork with a very efficient sense of urgency) and into the carpark.

The sunlight feels unfamiliar. Jotaro feels lost without a hat on, so he uses his hand to shield the harsh light away from his eyes as they walk. When they get to their car, Jotaro doesn’t ask questions. He just lets Kakyoin climb into the driver’s seat and finds his own way to the passenger side, closing the door behind him and putting his seatbelt on with irrational caution.

Kakyoin starts the ignition and begins to drive them back home. The silence is beyond uncomfortable: it’s a ticking time bomb, a demon perched on both of their shoulders. Jotaro can’t remember the last time they’ve been this out of sync. There’s always something to say, no matter how mundane the day is. That’s always been the beauty of their relationship.

Now, there’s just…nothing. Kakyoin’s eyes are fixed on the road, and Jotaro may as well not be there.

They turn off the junction. Jotaro can see the sea, clear blue sky against clearer blue water. Today, people are spilling out of Morioh town centre and heading to the beach in brightly coloured outfits and wide relaxed smiles.

Jotaro slumps back, rests his head on the back of the seat. All of this is straining his eyes. He takes a glance at Kakyoin and is defeated by the hurt on his beautiful face. Damage control. He might as well say something, just to test the waters.

“Look,” Jotaro swallows, “About yesterday, I know that-”

“Don’t,” Kakyoin orders, snapping and cutting him off. “Just don’t.”

The hint is taken. Jotaro shuts up and leans on the window, looking out to the world that he no longer feels connected to. Morioh. It was meant to be a haven. It was meant to fix everything.

Palms trees and stone walls whirl by as they drive down the main road towards their seafront home. Jotaro comes dangerously close to falling asleep multiple times in the space of three minutes, and has to jerk himself awake by clenching his fist. As soon as he gets inside, he’ll just take a proper nap and get out of Kakyoin’s way.

When they arrive home, things happen like clockwork. Jotaro immediately drags himself into the living room, closes the curtains, and lies face-down on the sofa. The cooling dark room is bliss. He needs a painkiller for his head badly, but nothing could get him up and moving from this position.

He doesn’t know where Kakyoin is. Right now, he doesn’t really care. Jotaro closes his eyes and is instantly taken away into a deep, deep sleep.

------------

Four hours later, Jotaro wakes with a much worse headache than he began with. He can’t move a muscle, open his eyes or flinch. His entire body is weighed down and dehydrated, all symptoms pointing towards a severe lack of water. The nurse had told him that for withdrawal, you need electrolytes. Energy drinks, sports drinks, etc. Jotaro knows there are some in the fridge, but he just can’t bring himself to get up.

Especially when he properly registers the situation and realises what’s going on.

Jotaro is certain that he’s not supposed to be witnessing this. Luckily, he’s facing into the sofa cushions and is turned on his front, so he simply keeps his eyes screwed shut and fakes sleep for a bit longer.

Because Kakyoin is sat beside him, stroking through Jotaro’s hair and crying softly to himself.

How long has he been here? How many hours has Kakyoin been secretly watching over him?

It doesn’t matter. The sharp guilt shoots through Jotaro’s chest all the same.

There’s no way that Jotaro can interrupt this without causing chaos. Though a fragment of his heart yearns to turn around and hold his boyfriend tighter than he’s ever done before, he knows it’s best to leave it be. It hurts, but with a dry mouth and a pounding head, he closes his eyes and begs for his mind to pull him back into a dream.

------------

Another two hours later, Jotaro wakes again, this time alone.

He’s reached his limit of faking comfort. Jotaro needs to take his medicine, drink some electrolytes, and knock himself out with a sleeping pill.

It’s only now that it sinks in. His excruciating headaches. Forget the booze, he hasn’t had a fucking cigarette in days.

Despairing, he tries to sit himself up, ignoring the random pains in his back. Kakyoin must have heard him moving around from the next room over, because he suddenly appears in the entrance of the living room.

Jotaro doesn’t know if he needs to give an excuse for getting up, but he does anyway.

“Medicine,” he mumbles, now standing and gesturing to the kitchen, “I just need to get water.”

For a moment, he thinks that was pointless. Kakyoin doesn’t seem to protest at all, or stop him. Jotaro manages to stumble his way out into the hallway and past his boyfriend’s suspiciously still figure, rubbing his bleary eyes as he goes.

Until.

“If you even think about opening that cupboard,” Kakyoin says shakily, his eyes all glossed over, “I swear to god-”

It takes a moment. The alcohol cupboard? Shit.

The comment only pisses Jotaro off, and as he goes to fill a glass of water at the sink, he turns around to talk to Kakyoin with a disapproving stare.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he whispers. Somehow, it’s loud. “Why would I do that?”

The tap screws, water stops flowing. Kakyoin’s biting the inside of his mouth, Jotaro can just tell. He’s holding back.

“Go on,” Kakyoin chokes back tears, blinking. “Go on,” he repeats, angrier, “Just do it in front of me. As soon as I leave, I know you’re going to do it behind my back.”

Jotaro would be lying if he hadn’t thought about it. But the hospital had specifically told him not to go cold turkey, which is precisely why he’s being shipped off to his mother’s place for a week. Letting Jotaro limit himself to one small drink a night is, unsurprisingly, not going to work…and everyone knows it. Kakyoin isn’t going to believe anything he says, and who can blame him?

Jotaro washes down his medicine from the hospital with the water, and then shakes an electrolyte packet into it. He’s at a loss for words.

“No,” Jotaro grumbles, “I’m not.”

Kakyoin audibly sighs. Jotaro chooses to ignore it as he drains his electrolyte mixture.

“Fine,” Kakyoin says, tense, “So you won’t mind if I pour all the whiskey down the sink then, I suppose?”

Immediately, Jotaro turns around to face him. He’s slipping into a temper that he knows he can’t show, but it’s like a fire burning away at a fragile piece of paper. He feels awful, so sick, so tired, he just wants to sleep. He can’t, can’t, do these mind games right now.

“I need them,” Jotaro chokes, choosing his words carefully, “The doctors said, I can’t just quit.”

“Ah, right,” Kakyoin snaps, rolling his eyes, “Makes total sense. So are you going to drink it when I leave the room, or not?”

Jotaro clasps a hand over his forehead, exhaling slowly. “I can’t do this right now,” he warns.

But Kakyoin can. And he should, because he has every right to be angry, doesn’t he?

“Fine,” Kakyoin jabs, “Don’t mind me then, I’m just going to stay here and watch.”

This sends shivers down Jotaro’s spine.

Instead of reacting, Jotaro moves his attention to finding his beloved Marlboro reds, frantically opening drawers until he finds that glorious little box of comfort. With a grateful sigh, he opens it up, fetches a lighter, and puts his first cigarette between his teeth.

“Fine by me,” Jotaro mutters, lighting the end of his cigarette and taking a drag. Just like that, his world closes in. His nerves settle, his hands shake less, his mind feels safer.

Smoke fills the kitchen. Jotaro tries to ignore his boyfriend’s presence altogether. He walks around and begins to shovel the most random bits and pieces of food in his mouth because he’s fucking starving and it’s something to do instead of worrying.

With a handful of cashew nuts washed down, Jotaro refocuses on his cigarette and calms down his quickly beating heart from all the rush. He braves a look in Kakyoin’s direction. Bad idea.

Through the smoke, Kakyoin is stuck in place: upright, arms crossed, bottom lip trembling, eyes red and watery. Shaking his head in disapproval. He is void and desolate, his expression is brimming with anger, yet he doesn’t look particularly heated. Just distraught.

“What?” Jotaro stupidly snaps, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“What do you want me to say?” Kakyoin whispers, looking down at the floor. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, Jotaro? You want me to comfort you, carry on like everything’s just fine? Scream at you? Leave you alone? Tell you how much you’ve fucked everything up?”

Leaning against the counter, Jotaro exhales and puffs a huge cloud of smoke out of one open kitchen window. His hand is shaking again.

He shrugs.

Don’t do that, Jotaro thinks, I love you, Nori. This is all my fault.

“Honestly?” Jotaro mutters, rolling his eyes “Do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

The impact of those words is heavy. He wants to slam his head into the counter.

Kakyoin takes a few steps forward, getting closer to Jotaro and leaning forward over the other side of the kitchen table.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this to yourself,” Kakyoin scolds, looking Jotaro up and down, “But I’m not putting up with whatever this act is. You can drive yourself to Holly’s tomorrow. Don’t bother waking me up in the morning, just fucking leave.”

All caution aside, Jotaro loses it.

“Fucking hell, thanks so much,” Jotaro grumbles sarcastically, taking another drag, “Thanks so much for the support.”

“What is wrong with you?” Kakyoin snaps, “You’re making this so difficult-”

“Because this is difficult!”

Kakyoin says nothing back. In a move of annoying maturity, he removes himself from the room entirely and storms up the stairs.

Scarily numb to whatever the fuck just happened, Jotaro sighs and pops a couple of sleeping pills from the packet, swallowing them dry. He smokes the remains of his first cigarette quicker than he wanted, so as he exits the kitchen and buries himself back into the cool dark setting of the living room, he lights another.

He slumps into the sofa, praying to be dragged under. A week with Holly will make things better. Starting tomorrow, he can do this right. When he returns, he'll be a better man. A better man for Kakyoin.

Staring tomorrow...this will all be over.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Monday- 9:00am

Jotaro has barely slept.

He’s parked in the driveway of his childhood home. The last hour of travelling went relatively smoothly, besides the fact that he’s been swallowing down bile and sweating the entire time. There was one incident where he zoned out and almost missed a junction, but he could have sworn he was imagining things.

If his memory is correct, it would have been the first time that Jotaro’s had one of his ‘episodes’ since the night he was sent to hospital. Frankly, he’s amazed he even lasted this long, considering how frequent they were becoming.

With enough determination, Jotaro manages to keep it bottled. Right now, he’s sighing with relief and slumping over the wheel. He holds down vomit. It was not a good idea to drive like this, but he’s made it, and that’s all that matters. He made it to Tokyo in one damn piece.

A part of him suddenly regrets not saying goodbye to Kakyoin. But then he tells himself it’s only a week, and he decides not to think about it.

Unfortunately, he’s really feeling a craving. Jotaro could run from here, head right into the city, hide away in a bar and knock back so many glasses of gorgeous strong spirits. But now Holly has just come running from the doorway, and he knows he’s absolutely fucked.

Jotaro sits up straight, puts on a brave face, and gets out of the car. As soon as he’s within arm’s reach, Holly practically leaps to throws her arms around him.

“JoJo! Oh, my precious darling!” she gushes immediately, “I missed you.”

It feels really nice to have someone actually be happy to see him.

“Missed you too,” Jotaro eventually replies, bending down a little to return the hug. “Thanks for coming back.”

“Of course!” Holly says, letting go of her crushing embrace and walking back inside. “It was really no trouble at all. Mama and Papa will be okay for a bit on their own, you know what they’re like.”

Jotaro shakes his head with a smile as he follows her inside. The thought of leaving Joseph and Suzie alone in New York considering everything that’s gone down with Josuke’s existence seems like a fucking terrible idea, in his opinion.

“I dunno,” he replies, stepping into the house and taking his shoes off, “I think grandma Suzie might kill the bastard.”

“Trust me, she tries daily,” Holly jokes, looking back at him with possibly the most comforting grin in the whole world.

Being back in this house is strange. Since Holly has been living with her parents, there’s been little use for it. It has been completely untouched. Much of the decor dates back to when Jotaro was a teen, some of it to when he was a child.

Holly really doesn’t like change.

After being cramped in his car for so much of the morning already, the last thing Jotaro wants to do is sit. But he’s already followed Holly into the kitchen, and he feels too big to be standing so he bites the bullet and pulls a chair out at the dinner table. He feels really, really ill. The sick ache in his stomach is slowly creeping back, and his hands will not stop shaking.

“I picked up everything from the pharmacy today,” Holly says, pointing to a rather excessive pile of medicine boxes and bottles that are stacked on the countertop. “They sent over your prescription, and I’ve got all the instructions, so no need to worry. Mama’s got it aaaall under control! So, what do you want to drink honey? Tea?”

Jotaro is ashamed. Seeing everything out on the counter like that is only a reminder of how much of a liability he is. In no world should Holly ever have to be putting up with such a selfish, awful son. It just isn't fair.

“Yeah,” he nods along slowly, a pit of guilt in his stomach, “Tea, thanks.”

There’s a very self-centred part of Jotaro that eagerly waits for Holly to start the inevitable dreaded conversation. The questions. The concerned motherly fussing about the alcohol and the addiction and his job and his crumbling relationship.

But it doesn’t come. Now realising how much of a blessing this is, Jotaro couldn’t be more thankful. He assumes Holly knows that making her son talk will only push her away, will only cause a wall to stand between progress. She knows, crucially, that she just needs to give Jotaro some space to breathe.

Instead of confrontation, Jotaro is greeted by the quiet noises of the kitchen. Soft jazzy city-pop streams from the radio. Tea is poured into a stone mug, Holly hums. She comes to place the lovingly made drink down on the table and gives Jotaro a kiss on the cheek as she does it.

“Everything is going to be okay,” she comforts, as if she can read his hesitant wreck of a mind.

Jotaro’s hands tremble as he picks up the mug and brings it to his lips.

“Yeah,” he swallows, blowing the hot liquid and braving a sip. “It will.”

-----------------------

Tuesday

Jotaro looks out of the glass sliding doors that stand at the rear end of the kitchen, opening up a view of the massive garden and the fountain that ripples under the sunny weather. Everything feels more saturated, but it gives him a horrendous headache to look at.

He turns back around, sighs, and focuses on getting his daily drink down him.

The thing about withdrawal is that the doctors will not let him go cold turkey. Apparently, it can kill him. Holly has been supplied with pre-rationed cups of alcohol, tiny plastic shitty cups with even shitter un-identifiable spirits in them. Each day, the amount decreases. Jotaro supposes the taste is supposed to be so bad that it makes him dread taking the shot each evening.

“This reminds me of when you use to come home from school,” Holly suddenly recounts with a wistful bubbliness, “Little you would run to the table with Grampa, and you’d always ask me for-“

“Orange juice,” Jotaro finishes.

“Yes!” Holly lights up, turning around and sipping on her own cup of coffee, “Oh it was so cute. Your tiny legs couldn’t even touch the floor back then. I never imagined you’d be so...well...big.”

“Hey,” Jotaro playfully acts offended. Holly laughs, the sound of it is reminiscent of glitter and fireworks.

The more Jotaro sits here and watches her, the more saddened he becomes at how much she’s ageing. Just as he was once a tiny cheeky kid, she was once a youthful blonde bundle of energy. Holly has never lost her spark, but it has been dialled down. Her hair is greying, her face is adorned with soft wrinkles. Lately, she’s been having problems with her knee joints.

Right now, he can tell that Holly is on edge. She’s unusually quiet, and it’s because there’s not much she can bring up or ask about that doesn’t link back to this whole mess.

In a way, Jotaro just wants her to blurt something out. He finishes his drink and shifts around in his seat. The evening sky is pretty.

Jotaro’s leg bounces, his knee rattling the table from restlessness.

“I don’t want to lie to you,” he suddenly mumbles, his palms clenching his cup like it’s a security blanket, “I’m really feeling it. Withdrawal. I’ve felt like shit for days.”

“I know honey,” Holly says quietly, “I didn’t want to say anything, but you really don’t look well at all.”

Not knowing where to go from this, Jotaro sits in silence. Holly reaches to change the subject.

“It’s nice to have an excuse to spend some time with you,” she says, “The next time I was supposed to see you would have been the Speedwagon Foundation conference- oh gosh, that’s coming around fast isn’t it? It’s a few weeks away, right?”

And once again, Jotaro had completely forgotten about that. One of the most important networking opportunities of his life, a party in high society amongst so many scientists, businessmen and partners of the SPW empire. He feels his stomach get sick.

“Shit,” he whispers accidentally before coughing back his surprise, “Oh, yeah. Forgot. Not great timing.”

Holly stifles a laugh, wiping her hands on her apron.

“I suppose you’re right. Hopefully everything will work out,” she smiles, “Aren’t you doing a speech?”

“Yeah,” Jotaro grumbles, dreading it, “So is Jiji. Haven’t written it yet.”

“I wouldn’t worry, dear. You’ll figure it out.”

Jotaro isn’t quite convinced.

The conversation reaches a lull. Holly, slightly reflective and now definitely worried now that she’s got a taste of what she’s up against, begins to pace around aimlessly.

“You should probably get some rest, dear.”

“Sure,” he says as he gets up out of his chair. The room spins. He regains balance and rubs his pounding head. “Thanks.”

And as he leaves the kitchen, he hears a very subdued:

“You’re welcome, honey.”

----------------------

Wednesday

Jotaro’s old bedroom feels different. He sits on his bed and admires the clutter. Old posters still plaster the walls, shiny pictures of athletes and movies and bands. His favourite grey blanket is still draped over the foot of his bedframe. There’s still clothes hanging in his open wardrobe.

Stretching, he gets up and opens both windows on the other side of his room. Then, he shuts the door and stuffs the gap with an old t-shirt.

Jotaro wheels his leather desk-chair to the side of the room and sits up on it so that he leans out of the open window. There, he lights up a cigarette and smokes into the evening sky, his head leant on his folded arms.

Droopy eyes blink at the bright orange sunset. Jotaro stares at the garden. He spent so much time with Kakyoin out there, once. Kakyoin always knew a lot about plants, always loved to hide away in the flowers.

The past rewinds, manifesting itself in Jotaro’s vision like a hallucinogenic tape. Kakyoin fills all the spaces of this house, inside and out.

Smoke filters, then exhales through Jotaro’s lips.

Kakyoin exists everywhere in this house. He is sprawled on Jotaro’s bedroom carpet, humming and doing math homework. He is curled up in the bedsheets, half-asleep and lightly snoring. He is pacing around and dancing, or sitting on Jotaro’s lap, or brushing his hair in the vanity mirror above the dresser. He is helping Holly cook downstairs, laughing with Joseph, teasing Jotaro and not really meaning any of it. He is safe, young and excited.

And when Jotaro squeezes his eyes closed and imagines it hard enough, he can practically feel Kakyoin holding him from behind right now, leant on this chair, his head resting on the back of Jotaro’s shoulders. He’s taking the cigarette from Jotaro’s hand and breathing into his ear, speaking to him gently.

“Put that down. Come to bed.”

And Jotaro would do as he said. He’d stub out this cigarette in a heartbeat, turn all the lights down and rest up with Kakyoin until the night claimed them both. Together, they’d just…dissolve.

But Jotaro opens his eyes, and he’s alone.

Once his cigarette is down to the filter, Jotaro begrudgingly moves from his position and paces around his room as though something is about to appear from mid-air. He stops in front of the mirror for a second, leaning forward to catch a better look at himself in the glass. His t-shirt exposes his arms and the huge purply-red bruise on his elbow from the fall on the rock he was too drunk to remember. He’s scarily unshaven, and it’s not a good look, he decides.

Behind him, in his reflection, he can see his younger self pulling on his school uniform. That Jotaro flexes his arms three times and nods with pride, gels his hair, smudges eyeliner under his bottom lashes and loves it. Next to that Jotaro, Kakyoin is fighting to get a spot in the mirror, playfully shoving him so that he can moisturise.

It’s all so wrong.

But Jotaro is being pulled to his shelves, now. He’s scouring them for bits of his old life: trinkets and accessories and photographs. So many photographs, some in frames and some stuck to the wall with tape. So many polaroid Kakyoins smile back at him. There’s one where a very small Jotaro is sat with his family in a cafe, drinking a milkshake on Joseph’s lap. There’s one with a neatly uniformed Jotaro holding a certificate of academic excellence, in those few wholesome years before his puberty Joestar genetics really kicked in and everything went to shit.

There’s a copy of one photo that almost makes Jotaro choke. It’s framed. He reaches out a shaky hand to bring it closer. Five friends had been huddled together in the desert, balancing a shitty camera to capture the moment. Everyone looks so different. Polnareff and Joseph are crouched on a rock, Polnareff’s hand is squeezing his grandpa’s cheeks. Joseph didn’t need a cane to walk. Polnareff is wearing a hideous little strappy top that hilariously contrasts his current choice of fashion. Avdol is stood sensibly, and it’s strange now to see him without his hair down. Kakyoin is in the middle, offering the camera a very sweet smile. Moments before the photo was taken, he had been complaining about his sunburn. And then, there’s Jotaro on the end. He looks so happy.

It's difficult to look at. Because that was before it all really went downhill, wasn’t it? A matter of days before he faced Dio and altered the course of his life for the foreseeable future. His last days of innocence, his last days as a cocky child.

He has to put the photo back.

-------------------------

Thursday

It’s gone midnight. Jotaro can’t sleep.

Fed up, he ambles downstairs, yawning. Jotaro waltzes into the living room and plonks himself next to Holly on the sofa without saying a word, envying her mindless comfort. She’s sat with a blanket over her legs, eating trailmix from a bowl, glued to the television.

“What you watching?” Jotaro asks, reaching into Holly’s bowl and pulling out some nuts.

Startled yet elated, Holly rolls her eyes as she watches Jotaro basically swallow the food down in one go.

“Cooking show,” she explains, pointing to the screen, “Some American thing your grandma likes. She’s gotten me addicted to it.”

Jotaro reclines back into the soft pillows, propping his legs up on the coffee table even though he knows his mother will scold him for it eventually.

“Sick,” he smiles, lazily staying put and watching some chefs race against the clock to make a giant cake.

It’s been a while since he’s seen Holly this happy. Jotaro knows he’s not done the best of job keeping her close, but it’s never too late to start. He looks at her glowing face and decides more than ever that he’ll kill his father if he ever lays eyes on the bastard ever again. Who in their right mind could ever leave a woman like her?

Holly reaches over and pinches Jotaro’s cheek.

“Ow,” he grumbles sleepily.

She sits right back in place, giggling.

“So,” she begins, already away with the fairies, off in her own little world, “What should I make us for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

--------------------------

Friday

There are only so many cigarettes that Jotaro can chain-smoke in a day. He flicks ash out the car window, starting to feel his throat going dry as he admires the night sky and the lights of the city.

He’s just dropped Holly off to meet some friends at a restaurant. Why she agreed to let him drive her he has no idea, but the false trust kills him. Right now, he’s rolling up the window and wishing he were a better person.

Because he doesn’t drive home.

Across the intersection is an area of the city that he used to explore a lot when he was younger. As he pulls up his car and steps out into the dark alleyway he’s just parked beside, he is hit with a wave of nostalgia.

He remembers these streets well, but it feels strange to not be a delinquent teenager strolling about here and looking for a fight. Of course, the evening means packed bars, and that’s not a problem. Right now, in his black leather jacket and all black rest of his outfit, under his cap... he just needs to blend in.

Jotaro lights yet another cigarette as he walks, feeling slightly sick. There’s a bit of a queue outside the one particular building he’s aiming for, but he doesn’t mind the wait.

People cram down the street: all walks of life. Everyone here is lively. All the establishments here are brimming with vitality and light, red and blue and purple lights, smoke and loud voices. Back in the day, Jotaro would have been happy lingering outside, waiting for some punk to come and piss him off enough to pick a fight.

He wonders how many guys he’s taken down in this general area. A couple times, he’s been pulled over by police near here. Once, he’d been hit on by some pimp and he’d knocked the shit out of him. Not a smart idea, it turned out.

Jotaro chuckles to himself at the memories, exhaling smoke into the night. Finally, the queue goes down and he’s let into the bar.

This bar is a special one. It attracts a crowd he feels comfortable with, and though Jotaro hasn’t step foot in here for years and years, a part of him still considers it to be a sort of sanctuary.

Needless to say, it’s packed with people on the inside. Music is blaring. But Jotaro has a one-track mind, and one goal. He pushes his way through everyone, which proves to be easy when you’re a man who looks and dresses the way he does. Jotaro sits right at the bar in the corner, deciding to treat himself.

Seeing all the shiny drinks on display feels illegal, now.

Two glasses of whiskey, no ice. He gets an odd look from the bartender but he doesn’t fucking care. Nothing is being watered down, not on his watch.

Jotaro downs them and orders two more. As he waits, he leans against the wall and admires his surroundings. The decour is black and gold, lights are flashing everywhere. Young cool-looking people are huddled in groups dancing and talking loudly, older rich-looking idiots are chatting up girls and boys alike, gangs of guys are out-drinking and teasing each other. Jotaro takes it in, soaks it up like he’s looking through a time machine.

The next two glasses are bought over to him. Jotaro takes the third drink to his lips and tries to slow this moment down, he tries to taste the alcohol in all its richness and feel it coating his throat like silk.

It goes down too easily. Jotaro, against all the odds, decides to make it last.

He alternates sipping at his whiskey and taking drags from his cigarette, mixing the flavours in his mouth like a gross little spell. Heaven.

It’s all rather nice, until he hears a group of voices trying to get his attention.

“Hi handsome,” a girl calls out at some confident attempt of seduction, and all her friends rush over and crowd around in excitement. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

Jotaro groans, sighs, and replies without even looking her in the eye.

“No. Fuck off.”

The entire group fades away, moving on without much further disturbance. Thank God. That could have ended in disaster.

Concentrating on the whiskey and trying to get his breathing back in check, Jotaro leans over the counter of the bar and thinks about how he’s going to drive back in this state. One more drink, that’s it. One more, and he can go to bed. In the morning, he’ll be fine, and Holly will never know a damn thing-

Jotaro’s phone buzzes in the pocket of his trousers.

At first, he assumes he’s just confusing it for the various other loud noises of the room. But then it buzzes again, and again, and it’s too noticeable against his thigh for him to ignore.

With clumsy hands, Jotaro pulls it out from his pocket and flips it open. The screen lights up, showing three texts.

Nori: Jotaro
Nori: Jotaro I’m sorry
Nori: I want to talk to you

He almost loses his ability to read. Jotaro squints and goes over it so many times that his eyes hurt from staring so intensely at the pixels.

He smokes his cigarette down to the filter, taken aback. And just as he goes to pick up his whiskey for comfort, it buzzes again.

Nori: I don’t know what I’m saying. I just don’t like where we left off
Nori: I don’t want you to be scared to come home

Jotaro chokes, his hands sweating and trembling as he swigs down the rest of his drink and places the empty glass down. He waits. He waits for two whole minutes. It buzzes again, right in his hand.

Nori: You hurt me so much
Nori: But
Nori: Nevermind

Jotaro sits in silence, shutting his phone and stressing. Alarms ring, louder in his head than ever. He doesn’t even know how he’s going to reply to that in the slightest.

There’s no use in staying here any longer. Jotaro pays and stumbles back outside to his car, getting behind the wheel with a sinking stomach. Terrifyingly strong anxiety grips him as he begins his journey back to Holly’s. Every now and then, he glances at the bulge that his phone makes in the right trouser of his pocket.

He wonders what Kakyoin wants. An apology? A call? Surely not.

Nothing Jotaro types back will end well. The thought just makes him want to scream.

Realistically he couldn’t have spent a second longer in that bar without facing a drink-driving charge at the end of the night, but he still resents the fact that he’s been pulled away from it so soon. It’s for the best though, and he knows it. If he were to wake up with a noticeable blistering hangover tomorrow, he’d never forgive himself for making Holly so disappointed in him.

The entire drive back is torture. Jotaro recites a draft text message back, mentally backspacing it all and re-typing paragraph after paragraph in his head. No character limit can contain what he needs to say, if he’s brave enough to say anything at all.

There must be a reason Kakyoin didn’t just call. Is he too fearful of the state he’s in? Is he scared he wouldn’t answer?

The road home feels long and empty. Jotaro can’t think of anything other than the image of Kakyoin right now, sat staring at his phone screen, waiting.

By the time he’s safely parked in the driveway, he can’t bring himself to get out the car until he’s sent something back. Jotaro isn’t drunk per say but he definitely isn’t straight in the head, resulting in slippery fingers and a ragged pace of breathing as he takes his phone into his hands and forces himself to open Kakyoin’s contact.

He stares at the conversation, re-reads it until his head hurts. The cursor of the textbox blinks back at him, impatient.

Jotaro types, backspaces, types again, and sends it with a sudden reflex of his thumb.

J: We can talk.
J: When I’m home.
J: Hang in there. I love you.

He winces and flips his phone shut before he can even check what he’s written. Immediately, he gets out of the car with every word burning under his tongue and storms back into his house.

---------------------------

Once he’s showered, changed and locked himself away in his bedroom, Jotaro is itching to busy himself.

With anything. All he knows is that he can’t be left alone with his thoughts, and he most certainly can’t go to bed with this entire texting saga spinning into a massive worry.

Doing something until he quite literally can’t keep his eyes open is a good idea, but the question is: what is there to do? He’s already got music filtering through his record player and all the books on his shelves have been thumbed through a thousand times through. He doesn’t feel well enough to lift weights and besides he’s just washed his fucking hair and he’s pretty much mentally prepared himself for the end of the day.

So, somewhere in his almost-intoxicated brain…he decides to think out of the box.

Jotaro has never considered himself to be a creative person by any means. He hasn’t drawn a picture since he was six years old and he always hated the fact that his father tried teaching him the saxophone because he just couldn’t get his small fingers in the right places. No, Jotaro doesn’t write stories or poetry; he’ll go as far to think poetry is stupid and the only books he reads are ones about real things like botany and biology.

Yes, Jotaro is a man of science and practicality. So when he forces himself to sit at his bedroom desk, under the safe light of a lamp…he is stumped at what to do.

There’s a pile of paper and drawers full of old stationary. Jotaro used to do his homework here, hunched over in this wheely chair until the small hours of the morning crunching away at maths and chemistry and history. Everything is still just about in place as when he left it.

He takes an empty notebook, opens it to the first page, and twirls a pen between his fingers.

His phone buzzes next to him on the desk. Right away, his attention snaps, and he goes to read what’s just been sent.

Nori: Promise me one thing

Jotaro swallows down water from a glass, easing his dry throat. What was a moment of relative calm becomes a sudden rush of panic.

This time, he lets himself pause before typing back.

J: What?

There’s no immediate buzz back, so Jotaro decides to ignore it and focus on his distraction. The blank lines of the open notebook stare him in the face, painfully dull. Jotaro touches his pen to paper and scrawls a few words at the very top of the page.

Things I want to do

He underlines it shakily. Then, he pauses to think.

Underneath, he begins to draw bullet points. When his brain finally kicks into gear and he gets into the headspace of writing, his hand doesn’t stop.

After a pause, he checks the time. 9PM. Outside his bedroom window, the night sky is beautifully clear and there’s a plane flying somewhere in the distance. He’ll close his curtains later. Jotaro doesn’t mind losing himself in the view, pondering just how small he is in comparison to all the space in the universe

Until his phone buzzes.

Nori: When we next talk, don’t hide from me
Nori: I don’t understand what you’re going through. But I will try to.

Jotaro leans over the desk in a slump. His phone dangles from his grasp as he rubs his stubbled jaw in deep thought. Kakyoin must be regretting being so hard on him, but he shouldn’t be. At all.

J: I won’t
J: Thank you. So much.

And then, after a slowly passing minute:

J: I’m so sorry for everything.

The phone is placed face-up on the desk. Jotaro sits and taps his fingers against his arm restlessly, continuously side-eying it until eventually, Kakyoin replies once more.

Nori: Let’s just move on
Nori: Just please, please stop trying to hide from me. No more secrets.

Jotaro doesn’t even get a chance to finish his final point before there’s one more message popping up on his screen.

Nori: We have a LOT of talking to do

For a moment, Jotaro’s blood goes dead cold. There’s only two more days until he’s supposed to head home, but he feels nowhere near ready to confront Kakyoin again, let alone have a mature conversation with him.

But he knows that he cannot afford to fuck this up again.

J: I know

Nori: So we’re on the same page?

Jotaro sighs.

J: Yes. I’m ready to talk.

He isn’t. Jotaro wants to crash his face into the desk. He isn’t ready, not in any sense. He just sneakily relapsed, for fucks sake-

Once again, the lies just come spilling out. Unstoppable. It’s so shameless, so downright cruel that Jotaro starts genuinely hating himself even harder than before. Holly. Kakyoin. He’s let them both down. It was just four drinks, it was just a bar, but the principle of what he’s done is so much worse.

Nori: Good
Nori: Goodnight x

Jotaro bites down on his tongue in pure fear. The sight of a kiss at the end of the message comforts him so much that it almost makes him weak at the knees.

God, he misses Kakyoin so much.

J: Goodnight x

Jotaro shuts his phone for good, shoving it aside and opting to look at his newest project. He’s briefly distracted but finishes off what he started and finally puts his ballpoint pen down.

The first page of Jotaro’s notebook is just over halfway full. It says:

Things I want to do (if I was sober and well)
1 I want to go back into research
2 I want to take Nori on more proper dates
3 I want to spend more time with my family
4 I want to learn to cook
5 I want to get married
6 I want to sleep without having nightmares

Chapter Text

Two days later

Jotaro puts his sunglasses on.

Standing here on the porch with a bag slung over his shoulder and the sun blaring down on him is starting to make him yearn for the cooling air-conditioned peace of his car.

Holly won’t let go of him. She’s gripping him around the waist in an embrace, her head slumped into his chest.

“Please call me?” she repeats, squeezing harder, “I will worry otherwise, dear.”

“I will,” Jotaro promises loosely, patting her on the head.

She looks up at him with that distinct motherly concern shining in her eyes, already consumed with doubt. Jotaro knows he’s leaving here on a good note. As far as she’s aware, he’s behaved himself properly and gone the entire week slowly restraining his alcohol intake more and more. On the outside, he looks healthier than ever.

Holly smiles before finally letting him go. She tilts her head to one side.

“I’m so proud of you,” she comments, sighing in happiness. Something about it makes Jotaro’s chest sink with guilt.

“Thanks,” he responds, outwardly in light spirits. “Thanks for having me this week,” he looks towards the floor, “I know that this…isn’t easy for you.”

For a moment, she looks confused. As Jotaro steps down from the porch and makes his way to the car, she tags along.

“JoJo,” Holly says as Jotaro climbs into the front seat. “I will always be here. No matter what you go through.”

Leaving is tearing him in two. This week has been a rare period of relative calm. But Jotaro knows it’s time to face what he left behind. He can only run away from it and hide here under Holly’s protection for so long.

“I appreciate it. Say hi to grandpa and grandma when you get back to New York.”

Keys rattle. Jotaro sticks the right one in to start the car. He leans out of the rolled-down open window with his sunglasses perched on top of his messy hair and gives Holly a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be fine,” he adds. It comes out gentler than he expected.

Holly pinches his cheek.

“I know,” she whispers, tearing up. “I know you will, dear.”

The ignition starts rumbling, Jotaro’s hands fix on the wheel for a second. He takes a deep breath and pulls out of the driveway, waving in the rear-view mirror as he leaves down the road.

This is where it all starts again. Jotaro thinks of the notebook and all the old pictures of him. Back home in Morioh, there’s too many pieces of his old self that he knows he has to now put together.

There aren’t many times in Jotaro’s life that he’s felt this nervous. He is being shoved into the deep-end of a rocky ocean. Jotaro hasn’t recovered, hasn’t even gone a week sober, hasn’t managed to rid of all the visons and nightmares that caused this whole mess in the first place. It all feels hopeless. If he’s stuck like this forever, he’s going to be addicted to something for the rest of his miserable life.

But the present is now, and the first obstacle of many is sitting right in front of him. One hour away.

He has not taken this time for granted. If there was one thing allowing him hope for mending everything that happened with Kakyoin it was the last week that they spent apart: the space that cushioned them both to cool and soften without blowing up into arguments and rubbing salt into already gaping wounds.

Everything has been put a little bit more into perspective. Jotaro’s knuckles are white as he clutches the wheel, running over lines as if he’s auditioning for the starring role in a play. He will not mess this up, he will not mess this up.

It shakes Jotaro to his core. As he drives, he finds himself swallowing down hot saliva that keeps filling his mouth like some sort of defence mechanism.

Oh god…he really can’t fuck this up.

----------------------------------------

Jotaro is fixated on his reflection.

He’s been parked beside his beach home for at least three minutes now, soothed somewhat by the familiar palm trees and blue skies of Morioh, a little too scared to leave the car just yet.

Scared isn’t the right word. Jotaro is downright terrified, more so than when his life’s been on the verge of disaster before. This isn’t like a battle, this isn’t a street fight. He can’t patch up these scars with bandages and tissues if it all goes wrong.

He runs a shaky hand through his dark curls, squinting at the bags under his eyes. There’s more colour in his complexion than there was a week ago; the hospital and all the stress had admittedly left him looking a little gaunt for a moment. Now, he’s back to his usual tan self, his cheeks kissed by the sun from how long he’s spent this last week sat out in Holly’s garden.

Admirably (or so Jotaro believes) he’s even left at least a half an hour break between now and when he smoked his last cigarette. Kakyoin has always hated the smell, and though he’s never even made a big deal about it, Jotaro wants no part of him to be undesirable.

He just wants to feel clean. Trustworthy. Stable. Like a freshly wiped surface.

Jotaro forces himself to get out of the car, hating himself for being such a coward. By the time he gets to the porch and starts to reach for his housekeys, he looks up and realises that the door is already open.

Because standing in the hallway entrance, still clutching the doorknob… is Kakyoin. Waiting, ready.

Kakyoin doesn’t look angry. Kakyoin doesn’t look sad, disappointed, or pained. It’s quite clear that he’s just come out of the shower given his slightly damp hair and his full outfit that’s consisting of pyjamas and slippers. He’s blinking slowly behind his glasses, a calm yet serious air to his expression.

“You look good,” is the first thing Jotaro says, unwavering. He backs it with earnest confidence rather than flirtation, taking off his leather jacket and hanging it up on the back of the door.

Kakyoin humours him by exhaling in replacement of a laugh, gently closing the door behind them both and standing in the hallway with his arms folded.

“Thanks,” he replies, sarcastically if anything. It’s not quite bitter, but it still feels off.

It goes quiet for a moment after that first exchange, neither of them really knowing what to do with themselves. It all seems up in the air until Kakyoin eventually sighs and starts walking away.

“Living room,” Kakyoin demands calmly, “We’re talking. Now.”

“Right,” Jotaro mumbles, yawning into the crook of his elbow and following his boyfriend nervously. He never thought he’d ever feel so stiff in his own home. Kakyoin is right for just getting this over and done with; there’s little point in mulling about pretending everything is fine, awkwardly shuffling about and exchanging easy words.

No, this is it now. The show he’s been rehearsing for in his car for the last fucking hour and a half.

Jotaro eyes the living room. It’s spotless, the white-painted wooden furniture is all bright and airy against the huge open window and the mid-day sunlight. The cushions are all arranged as if they’ve been touched and placed a thousand times.

He sits down on the sofa, leant back against the armrest. For now, he’ll refrain from kicking his legs up on the coffee table like he usually does.

Kakyoin joins him, carefully placing himself by Jotaro’s side, a little too far away. One inch closer and it would be all too familiar, all too forgiving. One inch further away and it would be daggering into strangers-on-a-park-bench territory.

“I spoke to Holly on the phone last night,” Kakyoin says, starting off already. If Jotaro didn’t know any better, he’d think that someone else has perhaps been rehearsing this conservation too. “She said you’d gone a whole week sticking to the plan. That’s…” he pulls his hands together in his lap, “That’s really good, JoJo.”

“That’s not true,” Jotaro suddenly whispers, clenching his fist and releasing it again. He turns to look Kakyoin in the eye and raises his voice to an acceptable level. “One night I went out and drank. But all the others…yeah. I did stick to it.”

Surprisingly, Kakyoin does not react.

“Right. Thank you,” Kakyoin sighs in relief, “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

A step in the right direction. Jotaro’s racing heart takes a long-awaited breath.

They sit in silence. The radio faintly filters through all the way from the kitchen. Every now and then, Jotaro goes to itch at his grown-out stubble.

“How long has this been going on for?” Kakyoin asks eventually. His voice is restrained, smooth, quiet.

“It comes and goes,” Jotaro answers immediately, prepared. This now feels like a job interview. “It started getting worse about a year ago. I was sober in the middle of last year. The last few months have just been…” he swallows, “The worst of it.”

He hides his hands. They won’t stop shaking. It’s taking actual force to spit these words out, a physical strength much greater than any battle he’s ever been through. All is out on the table now. Slowly, bit by bit, Jotaro is coming inside out…and he hates it.

Jotaro flickers his eyes to the floor, then to Kakyoin’s patient face.

This was never meant to happen.

How did he end up here?

“Okay,” Kakyoin nods, taking it in. Then, he delivers the real blow. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because…”

Jotaro pauses to bury his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He slouches back and closes his eyes.

“…I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

Kakyoin leans forward, shifting in reaction.

“Drag me into what?” he asks. He looks concerned more than anything, on edge and trying to read Jotaro’s solemn face. “Jotaro,” he sighs, “If you just told me earlier, I wouldn’t have been dragged into anything. I could have helped you.”

As if this speaks for itself, Jotaro just gives Kakyoin a look until he catches on.

“Help?” Jotaro repeats, barely a whisper.

At first Kakyoin seems annoyed. Jotaro suddenly regrets talking back to him but gradually, something else takes over from his boyfriend’s defensive attitude.

“No, no, you’re right,” Kakyoin sighs again, shaking his head. He mutters to himself under his breath, “When have you ever asked for help?”

It stings. Jotaro bites his tongue and chooses to let it wash over him, staying put and stiff on this sofa like a giant boulder.

Curling up into his side of the sofa, Kakyoin holds a pillow in his lap and rests his head to the side. “Can you answer me something? Not knowing has been driving me insane...” he takes a deep breath, “Why did you go to the beach that night?”

The truth is, Jotaro hasn’t really thought about it. Not until now. Parts of it are faded, washy memories. He doesn’t remember falling, doesn’t even remember his walk to the rocks.

But he knows he was following a voice. Jotaro remembers the wind in chilling detail, the longing that compelled him out of his home and onto the road in his pyjamas and socks. It didn’t feel like a choice.

Jotaro remembers Dio calling out to him, teasing him over the night sky and the murky waves of Morioh beach. He could close his eyes right now and feel the bitter cold, feel the vodka coursing through his blood, feel Dio’s deathly words trickling down his spine.

Useless…Kakyoin is dead…Three seconds, Jotaro…

Stepping outside wasn’t a decision, and if it was, Jotaro doesn’t recall making it.

Two seconds, Jotaro…time will start again…

“Jotaro? Jotaro?”

Jotaro flinches as Kakyoin tenderly reaches out to shake him.

He doesn’t move a muscle, choosing to stare dead ahead at the wall of the living room. A painting, a clock, the television. Home. What just happened?

On instinct, he studies his hands and flexes his fingers. Grounded, he sighs out in relief.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, frantically looking back at Kakyoin’s shocked eyes, “Oh yeah, the beach. I…couldn’t sleep. I was so drunk I…” he hangs his head in shame, “I don’t really remember leaving the house.”

Panic. Has he gone and fucked this? How long did he just zone out for?

But luckily, Kakyoin carries on. Jotaro wonders if it’s out of sheer pity, though he doubts he’s going to let it slide entirely.

“Okay,” Kakyoin settles, his hand letting go of his boyfriend’s shoulder. He looks Jotaro up and down, violet eyes inspecting him in a flash, that ‘Noriaki Kakyoin’ speciality move where he somehow looks straight through you like a glass window. He’s already moving onto a new question. “Where were you keeping it all? I know there were a couple bottles in the cupboard but that can’t have been it.”

“Work,” Jotaro breathes, still a little out of it. He can’t concentrate, now. All he can think about is what would happen if Dio appeared in the doorway. “Under…my desk.”

“Fucking hell,” Kakyoin mumbles under his breath. When Jotaro gives a clear look of hurt, Kakyoin appears suddenly guilty. “Sorry- that’s just…that’s a lot. Do you think they’ve found them?”

“Nah,” Jotaro slumps, crossing his arms over his chest, “They don’t have a key to my office.”

Kakyoin doesn’t buy it, unsurprisingly.

“How can you be sure?” he says, squeezing his pillow tight, “Once they found out they probably got someone to unlock it so they could check. They could get in so much trouble if they knew a staff member was drinking around college students-”

“I know that,” Jotaro interrupts, clenching his fists in shame and burning away with embarrassment. He cools down immediately, regretting saying anything. “I’m sure they already knew. The students…” he gulps, “My students…they knew.”

Kakyoin tenses up.

“How do you know that?”

Jotaro is freaking out, and it’s nothing to do with the conversation. He can’t get the image of blood out of the carpet.

“Koichi told me,” he answers, deadpan and distracted. Why is the air getting warmer, stuffier?

Kakyoin is rightfully horrified by this confession. Jotaro is too gone to absorb it, though. His fight or flight is on full-blast, a grippling paranoia clawing at him more and more by the second. Dio could be alive, no Dio is dead- but what if he isn’t-

“I need a glass of water,” Jotaro splutters, forcing himself to get up and walk to the kitchen, “I’ll be back-”

As soon as he leaves the room. That’s when the sirens start.

Ambulance sirens, whirring in his head. Helicopters, the SPW coming to rescue them. Nearly-dead corpses, flesh and blood: Kakyoin, Avdol, Polnareff…Joseph…

Jotaro clutches the wall in the hallway, a hand smacked over his mouth from yelling out.

He can’t even take another step towards the kitchen. Everything is going blurry.

Sand. He can feel it between his fingers and in his hair. He steps dead in his tracks, swaying as his breathing becomes ragged. Dio appears in front of him, an image so vivid and terrifying it feels so real. Jotaro is overcome by rage, an instinct to bring out Star Platinum and punch this hallucination in his smug face.

One more step. He tries, and ends up having to hold on to a cabinet. He cannot breathe.

He cannot breathe.

Jotaro almost falls. He places pressure on his chest with his palm but it does nothing. There’s a weight that crushes it, a rapid spiral of air pumping through his throat. It aches. Each inhalation is shallow, lacking substance, lacking thought. And it won’t stop.

It won’t stop. Jotaro can’t fucking breathe.

The image of Dio just watches over him. Jotaro tries his hardest to calm himself down, but his body is working against him. His lungs are in overdrive, refusing to co-operate. It’s a pain so unmistakably unique, one Jotaro hasn’t felt before. He begs for it to stop, begs to hold strong.

Everything is spinning. Jotaro presses his back to the wall and counts down. He calls out Star Platinum and controls his Stand to reach inside of him, gently compressing his heart and stopping it from going so horrifying fast. Eventually, he manages to gasp in some proper oxygen, and he can stand upright by himself.

Dio, or at least the image of him, disappears. He fades along with the hallucinations of blood and sand and all things death. Jotaro is left with the hallway of his home, the lovely interior of his kitchen peeking through the white doorway ahead of him. Jotaro is left trembling, and his lungs are left sore.

He stays still, frozen in shock.

Then, Jotaro does something he hasn’t done in years.

He begins to cry.

It’s just a tear at first. One hot, stinging tear. Two becomes three, three becomes four, and before he knows it, he’s spilling.

Something drags him back. A need, a want. Jotaro turns right back around and storms right back into the living room.

When he appears in front of Kakyoin leaking endless and frustrated tears, everything stops. Kakyoin’s eyes widen in utter bewilderment; he probably hasn’t seen Jotaro cry in the last half a decade, maybe more.

“Nori-” Jotaro sobs, rushed and panicked, “There’s something fucking wrong with me, there’s something wrong with my head-”

Soft hands reach out, pulling Jotaro down to the sofa. Kakyoin takes him into his arms and holds him tight, shakily breathing into Jotaro’s neck.

“It’s okay,” Kakyoin whispers, his own voice cracking with tears. He repeats this, over and over, each time rocking Jotaro’s trembling figure gently, “You’re okay, my love.”

Now, the fights don’t matter. Jotaro has no shame. Kakyoin can’t hold back. Because something is horribly wrong, something is terrible, and though Kakyoin doesn’t understand it doesn’t fucking matter because something is terribly, horribly, horribly wrong and he knows it now.

It’s apparent that Kakyoin doesn’t know what to do. Jotaro doesn’t care. He lets Kakyoin protect him because why should he pretend he doesn’t want it? He’s been longing for Kakyoin’s arms and his smell and his voice since he was wired up in that sterile hospital bed.

This feeling is foreign. Jotaro thought he’d bottled the process of crying deep, deep down. He doesn’t recognise himself here, buried into Kakyoin’s shoulder. He forgot all about how it sticks your lashes together and makes your nose run. He forgot how tiring it is.

Sure, he could try to stop. He could scrub his wet eyes with his sleeve and force his face into stoicism. But Jotaro is exhausted of everything, and having Kakyoin stroke his hair and press him close doesn’t feel too bad right now.

“Take your time,” Kakyoin says, the warmth in his words bringing everything to a soothing lull. “Jotaro, tell me everything. Please. It’s okay.”

A languid, slumping mess. That’s what Jotaro is reduced to. Slowly, he finds strength. One last second of near-silence graces the air before he takes a deep breath, and finally releases.

“Before I say anything,” Jotaro whispers, scratchy and fragile, “I just want you to know that I’m not making this up, I know it sounds crazy...”

He exhales, and feels a stray tear roll down his neck.

“...Sometimes, I have these visions...”

Chapter Text

Week one of sobriety turns Jotaro into a void. After completing a lengthy hospital appointment Jotaro is loaded with disulfiram and sent home with far too much on his mind. He spared them the details of his mental anguish. That, was saved for the Speedwagon Foundation.

On Tuesday, Kakyoin had contacted the SPW and gotten through to some of his old colleagues. He tracked down the only psychiatrist who had been working during the crusaders’ journey and gave him all the information he possibly had on the situation, tactfully leaving Jotaro in the other room to nervously wait. Jotaro didn’t want to explain himself yet. Jotaro, from all the meds, felt like his brain had turned to mush.

“Good news,” Kakyoin had announced when he’d come off the phone after what seemed like a small eternity, “You’ve met this doctor before, ages ago. He’s really close with your grandpa, too.”

Jotaro was in no position to argue with that, even if he didn’t particularly regard his idiot grandpa’s opinion valuable in the slightest.

“And was he-?”

“Around during the trip?” Kakyoin interrupted, gently confident. He gave Jotaro a very cautious pat on the shoulder, “Yes, of course. He knows everything about it.”

It was as good as Jotaro could get. Although the thought of talking his ‘problems’ through intensively has been fucking him up since the minute Kakyoin suggested it, Jotaro knows this is the next logical step. The rest of the day he’d spent in denial.

Now, Wednesday morning brings about yet another day of nothing. Every hour seems the same. Jotaro is going through the motions, sat out on the balcony table staring blankly into a bowl of chopped up fruit that he’s supposed to be eating for vitamins.

“Hey,”

Kakyoin appears, hovering by his side. Jotaro places his fork down without even thinking about it and turns to look over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he replies, distant.

Kakyoin comes over to give him a hug from behind.

“You okay?”

What a question. Is he? Jotaro doesn’t know. If he counts the numbness of meds and endless cigarettes that are somehow dulling his ability to overthink then yes, he supposes “okay” is a suitable word. It’s better than rock bottom. It’s better than throwing up every two minutes and being swept away by nightmares.

Jotaro leans into Kakyoin’s touch, grateful for the support. His neck aches. Kakyoin smells like lavender soap and feels like soft cotton.

He manages a small, slightly unconvinced “Yeah. Just tired.”

The weight of Kakyoin on the back of Jotaro’s shoulders feels like a heavy blanket, shielding him from the faint summer breeze. Looking through eyes that have been refreshed with less than three hours of sleep makes the world seem slower. When Kakyoin kisses the top of his head, Jotaro swears he can feel it trailing through the rest of his body.

“I heard a noise coming from the computer,” Kakyoin adds, the turn of conversation naturally making his voice a little more careful. “I think you got an email.”

So that’s what this is all about. Jotaro sighs, prodding one last piece of mango with his fork and chewing on it slowly.

“Better go check,” he mumbles, getting up and rubbing his sore neck. Jotaro strokes Kakyoin’s arm in appreciation for his kindness and makes his way back into to the bedroom.

The home computer is kept by the side of the bed, stood proudly on the large wooden desk that sits by the wall. Jotaro lowers himself into the desk chair and yawns into the crook of his elbow, wiggling the mouse so that the screen wakes up and turns on.

Kakyoin was right. Jotaro opens his email inbox to a notification, and an unread message appears at the top of the page. The preview makes his eyes roll. It’s from work. They know he’s on medical leave, what more is there to possibly talk about?

Jotaro slouches forward and clicks on it reluctantly. The screen pops up with a long-worded paragraph from his boss staring him in the face.

“Dear Professor Kujo,

Following recent allegations against you of inappropriate behaviour, I am writing to inform you that your employment with S-City University has been suspended with immediate effect. You will remain an employee during your suspension period and will be required to stay at home until your disciplinary review.

If the disciplinary review finds that the allegations are true, your employment will be terminated with immediate effect. I have multiple colleagues who have been witness to your unethical behaviour around the office, as well as reports from students in your classes.

I am thoroughly disappointed to hear that you have breached Act 114 of our University policy. Consumption of alcohol on the premises, let alone being intoxicated around students, is a serious offence to our safeguarding practices.

If you have any questions about the suspension process, please contact HR directly. As you are on medical leave currently, I will be having your disciplinary review over the telephone. Please except a call one week from now, Thursday between 9AM and 5PM.

Kind regards,
Dr Tonegawa.”

Jotaro exhales, taping his fingers on the desk. They itch to hold a cigarette. He can’t say he’s surprised, but it’s still a shock. It’s too late. What is done is done, and Jotaro knew at the time that smuggling his bad habit into work was a disaster waiting to happen.

It should be upsetting him a lot more than it is. It’s extremely ignorant of him but Jotaro knows deep down that he doesn’t need this job. He still has his PhD, he still has his credentials. With his family’s inheritance and contacts, he’ll be just fine.

He closes the tab and looks around at his immediate surroundings. Kakyoin is still stood outside on the balcony, relaxing in the sun. Jotaro sighs.

Well. He supposes this won’t be the worst news Kakyoin’s heard in the last couple of weeks.

“Nori,” he calls out. “C’mere.”

Kakyoin comes in hesitantly and sits himself on the edge of their bed.

“What’s going on?”

Ripping the plaster from the wound immediately, Jotaro comes to sit by Kakyoin’s side and places his hands in his lap.

“I’m getting fired,” he announces, staring dead ahead at the wall, at one of Kakyoin’s oil paintings.

Kakyoin’s expression doesn’t really change at all; his eyes are calm, his posture is relaxed. Instead of saying anything straight away, he simply takes one of Jotaro’s clasped hands and strokes the back of it with his thumb, taking a deep breath in.

“You surprised?” Kakyoin asks, surprisingly in the tone of a friendly joke.

Jotaro lifts his head to look his boyfriend in the eyes. There’s no hate in them, no bitterness, no judgement. Kakyoin’s presence is angelic right now, and Jotaro doesn’t know what on earth he did to deserve it.

“No,” Jotaro answers, a little confused. He shakes his head.

Kakyoin, against at all the odds, smiles.

“Me neither,” he says.

And for the first time in the last two days, Jotaro breathes out a small laugh. What else can he do? What else can they do? Compared to everything else that’s going on, this is a mere blip in their life. The mutual understanding shows between them, the atmosphere is comfortable.

“You know what?” Kakyoin continues, soothing Jotaro’s bad situation by putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in. He puts his face close so that his nose is basically smushed into Jotaro’s stubbly cheek, “Let’s not think about it.”

Being treated so respectfully, so gently. Jotaro is tired. He’s never been so thankful for Kakyoin’s generous empathy.

Mumbling, Jotaro practically falls into a hug. Words can’t cut it. He crushes Kakyoin in the strongest embrace he can give, breathing out in relief. They sync, their heartrates pound against each other’s chests, and they take a moment of joint quiet reflection.

“You wanna help me make dinner?” Kakyoin whispers.

Jotaro nods, his face buried in the lavender-scented crook of Kakyoin’s soft neck.

“Yes. Please.”

-----------------------

Warm glowy evening sun makes the kitchen feel like a movie set. The maximalist cosy décor fills out the room more than Jotaro’s ever appreciated before, and whatever mystery pop song is playing on the radio is running a pleasant chill of nostalgia down his back.

He’s been tasked with mixing a sauce, sat comfortably by the already-set table. Kakyoin is dealing with the more technical stuff at the kitchen counter. They are close, three-metres-away type of close, slowly preparing food together in harmony and chatting about the much-anticipated SPW conference.

“You haven’t started that speech yet, have you?” Kakyoin lightly teases, carefully chopping up some tenderstem broccoli.

“Pfft, no,” Jotaro mumbles, taking a bottle of rice wine vinegar and measuring it out into a tablespoon. His hands have calmed down shaking. His head still hurts. “I need to start. Fast.”

He eyes up the ingredients that are piled in front of him on the table, trying to remember which ones he’s already put into the bowl. Brown miso paste, mirin, vinegar, sugar, ginger, chilli. This is Holly’s recipe that she taught to Kakyoin ages ago, and now Jotaro regrets not having learnt it himself.

“Have you spoken to your grandpa about it? He might have some pointers.”

“I doubt he’s done his yet,” Jotaro smirks, re-jogging his memory finally and tipping out the last of the sugar into the small mixing bowl. “But who knows. The bastard can get up and say any shit he wants, that old fuck’s basically playing at senility these days.”

This gets a laugh out of Kakyoin. The sound of frying oil sizzling in a pan faintly fills the room.

“You’re right. Unfortunately, you’ve got no out. The guys at the foundation think really highly of you.”

Jotaro groans and rubs his forehead with his palm. With the other hand, he’s languidly swirling all the ingredients together into a paste.

He cannot escape being ‘the guy who killed Dio’ even he tried. Amongst those who know (and people in the SPW know … to them, the Joestar-Brando conflict is a piece of foundation history) he is basically, unfortunately, a celebrity.

“What the fuck do I have to say? The whole event is about the 90th anniversary of the supernatural department. It should be you speaking since you actually worked with them.”

Turning briefly to look over his shoulder and flash a smile, Kakyoin busies himself with adding all of the vegetables he’s prepared into to the hot pan.

“Yeah, but I’m not Jotaro Kujo, grandson of Joseph Joestar, great-nephew of the Speedwagon, am I?”

The dramatic voice he put on makes Jotaro breathe out a laugh. Painfully enough, it is true.

“Fuck, I hate fancy events,” Jotaro complains, deviating from the topic of his un-written speech. The image of having to swan about with a massive group of people he barely knows sounds like hell right now, especially when he knows he’ll have to get up on stage in front of them all.

“Me too,” Kakyoin sighs, “But we’ll get to see Mohammed and Jean. We can just stick to our table and have a private reunion.”

Jotaro gets up, tucking his chair in. He doesn’t even think twice before he goes to hug Kakyoin from behind with one hand, leaning his chin on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The atmosphere allows for him to be this sappy, he assures himself.

Kakyoin briefly pauses his stir-frying out of shock, before resuming with a shy-ish smile on his face. The loud noise of sizzling vegetables covers the adorably awkward silence between them as they gain comfort in each other’s touch again, a slightly sore reminder of what their old normal once was.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Jotaro responds, a little delayed. Steam comes piling up from the pan as he takes his completed miso sauce and pours it over the vegetables.

“Think of all the food we’ll get to have when we get there,” Kakyoin says excitedly, turning the heat off the pan and leaving it sit. His eyes are all lit up as he sticks the wooden spoon he was using into the bubbly sink.

“Good point. I give it five minutes from when we sit down until Jean disgraces himself.”

Kakyoin chuckles under his breath, leaning over to turn off the rice cooker, “I can’t wait.”

Now that both his hands are free, Jotaro wraps his arms around Kakyoin’s waist and sinks into the warm feeling of clothes and hair, pressing their bodies together into an affectionate lump. In the corner of his eye, he can see the sun beginning to set through the kitchen window.

The cooking comes to a gradual halt. Kakyoin begins to spoon out the rice and vegetables onto plates, the bright colours of greens and the red flecks of chilli all coming together to make a masterpiece. Jotaro wants to make himself helpful.

“You want some of that juice you bought yesterday?” Jotaro asks, letting go of the hug and itching to be useful. He walks towards the fridge and opens it, “Or we’ve still got some of that coconut water left.”

“Hmmm,” Kakyoin ponders as he takes the beautifully done plates to the table. “Go on then, we’ll finish off the coconut water. Might as well.”

Jotaro takes the blue carton out of the fridge and pours two glasses at the table, filling them both until there’s none left. He thought his hands had stopped shaking, but for some reason they begin to play up again.

“You alright?” Kakyoin suddenly worries, picking up on it much to Jotaro’s horror.

“Yeah,” Jotaro gulps, discarding the bottle. “Fucking shakes. Doctors said it would be an ongoing symptom, it’s not a big deal.”

Kakyoin pauses from where he’s currently stood over the table, lighting a candle. His eyes fill with sympathy.

Not wanting to dwell on it any longer, Jotaro sighs and sits down, sipping his drink with a slightly-trembling grip. It’s frustrating. He concentrates hard as he picks up his fork, trying to ignore the fact that Kakyoin is definitely watching his every move with deep pity.

But Kakyoin acts on it. He comes over to Jotaro’s seat, hovers there for a second, and then bends down to give him a thoughtfully passionate kiss right on the mouth.

It’s been so long since they kissed like this. It brings a painful wave of butterflies ripping through Jotaro’s stomach.

Naturally, he fears it ending. Jotaro’s hand grasps to hold the back of Kakyoin’s hair, his fingers cemented in place. He sucks in a breath as he parts his lips and keeps both of them stuck like that for as long as he can without air.

A pause. Both of them stay with their foreheads placed together, drinking in the last few heated seconds.

Kakyoin’s eyes go watery.

“I missed you,” he whispers.

But Jotaro is too deep in shock to even answer. All he can do is stare back, swallowing down the lump in his throat that is threatening a sudden moment of weakness to flood him. The emotion showing on their blush-cheeked faces radiate the same happiness, the same relief.

Jotaro responds in a voice so small it barely counts as a voice at all.

“I missed you too.”

Sunken atmosphere aside, it feels nice to talk like this. Jotaro didn’t plan on getting all sappy, neither did Kakyoin by the looks of things: now they don’t know what do with it or where to go. They stay frozen face to face like two flustered teenagers, darting their eyes about until Kakyoin clears his throat and goes to sit down.

“I’m starving,” he diverges, going on as if nothing happened.

“Yeah,” Jotaro blindly agrees, stuck in shock, half-away in another land altogether. He can’t thank Kakyoin enough. Whatever that was, it means something. It means everything. “…Me too.”

------------------------

Later that evening, Jotaro wakes up from a lengthy nap on the sofa. It’s been his new favourite habit; sleeping off all the fatigue that’s been draining him from the prescription drugs to the ambient noises of the television. This way, Kakyoin can come and sit with him, check up on him, makes sure he’s staying hydrated. This had become particularly useful yesterday when he’d gotten chills in his sleep so bad that Kakyoin had to wrap him in two blankets.

Upon waking, he rubs his eyes and makes a mental check of the time. He’s been asleep for two hours, so not too bad. He feels better already, albeit a little groggy.

It comes to his attention very quickly that the culprit for waking him was the doorbell ringing. As Jotaro sits himself up and rakes through his messed-up hair, he concentrates on the voices that are coming from the hallway. Kakyoin is talking to someone…a woman…oh, Tomoko. The hyper other voices following her are instantly recognisable, and Jotaro doesn’t even get time to process this until he sees Josuke and Okuyasu shoving into the room.

“Oi, Jotaro!” Okuyasu blurts.

“How’s my favourite nephew doing?” Josuke interrupts, waving.

The light turns on immediately, a sudden unpleasant disruption from his peaceful dark time of rest. Jotaro rolls his eyes, sitting up straight and crossing his arms. He shoots a look over at the two teenagers and smiles sleepily.

“Was wondering how long it’d take before you two shits were here to annoy me,” he jabs, rubbing his eyes again.

They come and stand in front of him, both in good spirit. Josuke is impatiently waiting with his hands behind his back, and Okuyasu is biting his nails.

“How are you?” they ask almost simultaneously, talking over each other.

“Is it rough?” Okuyasu adds, eyes lighting up, “Y’know, the cleanse.”

Jotaro yawns into the crook of his elbow and positions a cushion behind his back.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back, “It’s not fun. But I’m getting there.”

Now, there’s a crowd. Tomoko flutters in, handbag swishing as she rushes over and gives Jotaro a hug. The smell of strong flowery perfume almost makes him cough.

“How are you, honey?” she interrupts, pulling away.

“I’m alright, I guess,” Jotaro repeats, slightly uncomfortable with all of the sudden attention that’s just pushed him into the spotlight. It would be a bad look to light up a cigarette, but fuck… he really needs one.

Jotaro gets the urge to yawn again. Kakyoin offers to make Tomoko a coffee and disappears into the kitchen, flashing Jotaro a ‘it’s okay’ smile as he goes out of the door.

“We got you a present!” Josuke grins, already off on a tangent, “Mom chose it, so don’t kill me if it’s shit.”

Tomoko shoots her son a scowl as he hands the nicely wrapped package over to Jotaro. Red-shimmery wrapping paper glistens under the ceiling lamp, all coarse and textured under Jotaro’s tired fingers. Jotaro looks up, then down at it again.

“You didn’t have to-”

“Oh, don’t start with all that honey,” Tomoko waves him off, “Just open it.”

Though hesitant at first, Jotaro begins unwrapping it. It’s a challenge with his shakes, but he gets there eventually, pulling a fancy-shaped pillow out. He’s seen these before. It’s like the sort of neck cushions for a plane journey, but far bigger and much more luxurious.

“Since you’ll be stuck at home for a bit,” Tomoko explains, seemingly proud of herself.

Jotaro smiles. He admires it and immediately sticks it behind his head, reclining back. It’s heaven.

“This is sick. Thanks guys,” he says, having to stop his eyes from closing on themselves from how comfortable he is.

“You’re welcome!” Tomoko beams, before she’s being cut-off by Kakyoin calling her in from the kitchen. “I better go see what Nori’s up to.”

She leaves. Now, Jotaro knows exactly what he has to do. It’s long overdue.

“I owe you a massive fucking apology,” he begins, looking at Okuyasu. “For everything.”

With a lazy smile, Okuyasu comes and plonks himself down next to Jotaro on the sofa.

“Nah,” he grins, folding his arms over and kicking his legs up on the coffee table. “It’s all good, man. I accept it. You were goin’ through it, we all do dumb shit.”

Josuke follows and sits squashed up against Okuyasu’s side, also making himself comfortable in front of the television. There’s a weird fashion show playing, and he half-heartedly pays attention to it. It’s a squeeze with all three of them on the sofa, but something about it is quite comedic.

“Thanks,” Jotaro replies, not done yet, “But I’m gonna re-pay you somehow,” he turns his head to look Okuyasu in the eye, “Anything. Seriously, I’ll buy you anything.”

Josuke pouts, “Lucky,” he gasps, nudging his boyfriend on the arm, “You better think of something good.”

Jotaro and Josuke wait, anticipated. Okuyasu sits and rubs his chin, deep in thought. The kid didn’t grow up with money, so Jotaro knows this will be a big decision for him to make. Jotaro is happy to be patient. For all the shit he’s put him through, he deserves something nice.

“Well,” Okuyasu finally puffs out his chest. He gives Jotaro a wide, cheeky grin, “I do need a new motorbike…”

“Good grief.”

Chapter Text

Speedwagon Medical Office, Tokyo HQ

The clock ticks and echoes around the silent, blue-painted walls. It has to be half an hour since this session started. Jotaro sits waiting in his chair, hoping that he’s covered all the symptoms he wanted to say. Doctor Takaya, a grey-haired gentle giant and close acquaintance of the Joestar family, leans forward and adjusts his glasses with a look of pure empathy.

“Mr Kujo,” he sighs, his voice slow and steady, “It is early to make a diagnosis, but in my fifty years of this occupation I don’t think I have been so certain of something as I am about your condition,” he takes a deep breath, “Did you ever watch war films as a child?”

Jotaro’s brows tense and scrunch.

“Yeah? Why?”

“I am trying to connect a depiction of what I aim to explain with what I assume you’d be most familiar with. What I am talking about is the neuro-medical phenomenon that was nicknamed ‘shellshock’ at the time of the first world war. That’s the version most members of the public know, the consequences of trauma experienced later on by veterans that causes them to experience flashbacks.” he clears his throat, “But advancements been made since then, of course. Nowadays, we refer to this illness as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or in short… PTSD.”

“I’m not following,” Jotaro states, blunt and stressed. He hadn’t noticed until now, but his hands are slippery with sweat.

“Let us examine your symptoms. Hallucinations, flashbacks, addiction, nightmares…” the doctor lists, “All perfectly aligned. That battle in 1989, almost losing your comrades, your family, your mother’s life being on the line…and you were seventeen.” He clasps his hands together over the desk, nodding to himself, “Mr Kujo. You have PTSD.”

----------------------

Half an hour later

Kakyoin is already sat waiting in the car. Jotaro is soaked by the rain, targeted by the downpour even in the short rush from the office exit and across the carpark.

He opens the door to the car. Kakyoin is reclined in the driver’s seat, glasses on, an artisan coffee in one hand and an open book in the other. When he notices Jotaro climbing into the passenger’s seat, dampened by the weather, he closes his novel and turns the car radio all the way down.

“Can I have a sip?” is the first thing Jotaro says, slightly out of breath, closing the door behind him and shutting out the torrential downpour.

Kakyoin passes his coffee over warily. Jotaro takes a huge few gulps of it, clearly inappropriate given the tasteful handcrafted nature of the thing.

“So…how’d it go?” Kakyoin asks eventually as he watches his boyfriend demolish the rest of his drink.

Jotaro hands him what’s left of the coffee back. He stares in front of him at the windshield, at all the droplets of rain hammering against the glass. Then, he looks at Kakyoin, and doesn’t speak until he’s fully aware that what he’s about to say will stay stuck to him forever.

Pushing it away won’t do any good.

Pushing it away won’t make it go away.

“Do you know what PTSD is?”

Silence.

Kakyoin adjusts his glasses, clearly confused and trying his very hardest to be considerate.

“Yes? I…think so?”

And now Jotaro doesn’t really know where to go from that. He waits and hopes that Kakyoin puts the pieces together himself but to no avail- telling by the look on his face, he’s still absolutely lost.

So, he takes a deep breath. Then, he sighs.

“That’s…what I have. Apparently.”

This is followed by another few seconds of slightly awkward quietness. It’s clear that Kakyoin wants to say something but genuinely has no idea what to respond. Jotaro doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t know what to do with this big new scary label that’s been dropped in his lap, huge and heavy and waiting for him to deal with.

“Oh, okay,” Kakyoin stumbles over his speech, reaching out and touching Jotaro’s arm to comfort him, “I suppose… that makes sense.” He pauses, stuck trying to change the subject to something he can better understand. “Did they give you any meds?”

“Yeah,” Jotaro nods, holding out the white paper bag that he’s had tucked under his arm for the last five minutes. “He was pretty certain about what I needed.”

Kakyoin takes a peek at the prescription label, pulls an approving face, and promptly puts it away. It’s fair to say he’s seen his fair share of medicine in his life, so Jotaro takes this as a good sign even though for some reason his heart is beating faster than ever and he’s struggling to swallow.

“Are you okay?” Kakyoin then asks, noticeably on edge.

Jotaro doesn’t know how he feels. He shrugs and takes Kakyoin’s hand, clasping it slowly in his own grip.

“Yeah.” he turns to Kakyoin and puts on an unbothered face, “I just can’t believe I never thought about it before. I feel stupid.”

“JoJo,” Kakyoin sighs, smiling and squeezing his hand back, “Don’t say that. Look on the bright side, you know what it is now. Now you can work on how to make this all better.”

He raises a good point. Jotaro lets himself smile back, looking around and clipping his seatbelt in.

“Right,” he agrees, leaning over with a very endearing cautiousness to kiss Kakyoin on the cheek. ‘Making this better’ is going to take a lot of hard work and isn’t even guaranteed success. But Kakyoin is only trying to lift his spirits, so he’ll leave it at that for now.

Kakyoin’s hands brace themselves at the wheel. Hesitant, he goes to switch the ignition on but stops himself.

“I, I suppose I just have a lot of questions,” he stalls, inquisitively scrunching his eyebrows before going to shake his head, “No never mind, I’ll just look into it later. Sorry, you probably don’t want to talk after being stuck talking for the last hour-”

“No,” Jotaro rushes, almost cutting him off. Working on talking is the first thing he’s trying to prioritize. “It’s fine, you can ask.”

Compromise. His suggestion hangs in the air until Kakyoin doubles down on his decision. The pattering of rain is now gently washed away by the squeaking window wipers.

“I’ll leave that for later,” Kakyoin says, adamant in letting Jotaro rest up and take it in. He finally starts the car up and smiles, “You’re just as confused as I am… we’ll work it out together, okay?”

With nothing else to say and verging on the edge of welling up with relief, Jotaro turns his head to face the view of the drizzly grey carpark.

“Sure,” he agrees, forcing back a croak in his voice.

Though the engine whirrs, the car doesn’t move. Jotaro feels a continuous tug on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Kakyoin is saying softly, pulling on his shirt, “Look at me.”

Jotaro swallows back the traces of outward emotion and gradually turns with the guidance of Kakyoin’s hand. All the tension in his muscles slowly relaxes as Kakyoin leans in to give him an unexpected kiss.

As Jotaro allows his eyes to flutter shut, he is overcome with a wave of exhaustion. There’s a warmth in the depth of the kiss that washes over him, sending him to sleep. When he forces his eyes to blink open, he finds himself almost bashful as he admires Kakyoin’s delicate face looking back at him.

There’s an understood need for quiet. With a mutual comfortable confusion and arguably reddened cheeks, they settle back into their seats… and Kakyoin finally begins to drive them home.

---------------

A week later

“And how are the sleeping pills treating you?” Doctor Takaya questions, looking up from his sheet of paper.

Jotaro makes himself more at home on this sofa, now. His distracted mind begins to wonder if the blue walls in this medical office are supposed to relax the patients here, because the cool shade is doing the opposite and driving him slightly insane.

“They’re okay,” Jotaro grunts, re-focusing. “I get to sleep quicker on them but every time I wake up, I feel like death.”

The doctor lets out a small chuckle, “Could you expand on that for me? How does one ‘feel like death’, Mr Kujo?”

The view outside is pulling Jotaro’s attention. Almost the entire wall of one side of the office is glass, meaning that just how high up they are truly unavoidable. The modern sleek interior of the Speedwagon Office stands above Tokyo, looking out to all of the other buildings and roads below.

But Jotaro forces himself to concentrate. He’s made it this far: into a room with a nice professional who understands and wants to help him.

“When I wake up,” Jotaro explains, “I feel more tired than when I went to bed. It knocks me out.”

Nodding, Doctor Takaya scribbles something down.

“That’s most likely because you’re not used to achieving such deep sleep. Now that your body is adjusting, that feeling should wear off soon enough. May I ask how your dreams have been?”

Jotaro goes to pull down a hat that isn’t there. His hand awkwardly brushes through his curls instead.

“I haven’t had any,” he shares, “Not that I remember, anyway. It’s the first time for years I’ve gone a week without nightmares.”

“So you haven’t recalled any of your dreams? Not even when you wake, not even for a split second?”

Jotaro shakes his head.

“Nothing at all.”

“Interesting. That’s…very good news, actually.”

There’s a lull, a small pocket of silence. The clock ticks on the wall, the doctor clicks his pen, and Jotaro folds his arms crossed.

“Now that we’ve caught up on your how your meds are going,” Doctor Takaya says, re-adjusting his glasses and facing Jotaro kindly, “I think it’s time we start on assessing your psychological condition…”

------------------------

Three days later

“Right,” Doctor Takaya sighs, clearing away some things on his desk and smiling, “Are you ready to begin?”

Jotaro doesn’t know. In fact, Jotaro feels a hot rush of anxiety crawl up his back. He’s been told twice now about this specific form of therapy, and knows it’s necessary for treating his condition, but something about it just won’t make sense in his head.

He nods, though. Doctor Takaya brings out one singular pencil and places it on the desk.

“If you start to dissociate, or hallucinate, or feel unwell, then we will take a break. Though I reckon you’ll be able to push through; this method has been clinically proven to distract and allow patients to open up,” he picks up the pencil and holds it between his thumb and forefinger.

Jotaro’s shoe begins to tap on the floor. He claws a hand into his thigh to get it to stop.

“Take a couple of deep breaths,” the doctor instructs, “And focus your eyes on the point of this pencil.”

Jotaro does as he says. He looks at the red pencil, completely transfixed on the freshly sharpened end of it.

“As I explained to you last week, this will only work if you focus your concentration right here. Now when I move this pencil, and it will only be a small amount, just side to side or up and down,” Doctor Takaya explains, “You must follow it with your eyes, and try to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.” He smiles, “Now, let us begin. Take three deep breaths for me.”

The first inhalation burns. Jotaro is more than nervous, and even by the time he’s managed to get his breathing steady he still doesn’t know if he can do this at all.

“Now,” the doctor says, “Tell me, Jotaro. In as much detail as you can, and ideally, I would like you to get out every single detail and emotion that you felt…what happened on January 16th, 1989?”

Time feels like it’s slowing down. Jotaro doesn’t break his gaze from the pencil as his heartrate immediately goes right back up and his hands feel slicked with sweat. He can’t do this. He can’t fucking do this.

“We had finally made it to the right place in Cairo,” he forces, his voice rasping and dry at first. He swallows and tries again. “Me, my grandpa, Mohammed, Jean, Noriaki. We’d been travelling for fifty days…we were exhausted. But spirits were strangely up. All of us knew we had one job to do, and that was to kill… Dio…”

The pencil moves to the right. Jotaro’s gaze follows it.

“My mother’s life was on the line. But we all had reasons to feel responsible for ridding the world of Dio’s evil. You could feel it in the air, the tension. My grandpa was about to lose his daughter. Noriaki was about to face someone who manipulated him. Jean was avenging his dead sister. None of us said anything, though. Once we had a plan, we just…split. It was all too fast. We knew Dio would attack if we didn’t.”

The pencil moves down, ever so slightly.

“I wasn’t feeling scared. I had an ego on me. I just knew there was a job I had to do; I didn’t have a choice. I remember thinking about my mother, though. I regretted everything. I didn’t treat her the best, I went through a phase of being so rude to her. I remember thinking that if she was going to die, I’d never forgive myself for taking her for granted. I think it was because I’d spoken to Noriaki’s about his parents, who are terrible. It sounds fucking stupid, but I don’t think I really realised at that age that some people aren’t as lucky as I am.”

The pencil moves to the left.

“So it was making me think. I didn’t want to let Holly down. Or my grandpa. Or Jean, or Mohammed…and especially not Noriaki. I’d only known him for fifty days, but I was counting on us making it out and starting over. He’d run away from home just to come on this journey because…well…because of me. Because I’d saved him. I just wanted to protect him, take him back with me. I don’t think I even considered losing him. Not at that point, at least.”

The pencil moves up.

“So we split up as a group. I didn’t get to hug Noriaki goodbye, let alone kiss him or tell him I loved him- we shook hands. I still don’t know why. All I know is that the second I left him, I regretted it. After that, it’s a bit of a blur. We tried getting Dio in a pincer attack. I went with Jean. Noriaki and my grandpa ended up getting to Dio first-”

Jotaro’s fist tenses in his seat. His gaze doesn’t break.

“I didn’t see what happened. But I know now. My grandpa is the only person who actually saw it happen in real time. Noriaki and Dio went head-to-head. Dio stopped time. He attacked Noriaki by,” he swallows, “-by punching a hole through his stomach. Noriaki figured out Dio’s Stand ability and sent a message to my grandpa using his last bit of strength. Then, he collapsed. That’s the basics of it, going by my grandpa’s report, anyway.”

The pencil moves down.

“But like I said, I didn’t see this happen. I had no idea, until I faced Dio myself and saw my grandpa dead on the ground. I didn’t know what to think. I’ve always been close to my grandpa; I couldn’t bear losing any more family…”

Jotaro resists the urge to close his eyes.

“And that’s when Dio said…You’re next Jotaro…I’ve killed your grandpa…I’ve killed Kakyoin…”

He bites on the inside of his mouth.

“And I couldn’t move. I told myself he was bluffing, but why would he need to? He was a killing machine. I fought like I never have before. I lost everything. If I lost Noriaki, I’d lost everything. My comrades- my friends, my family- were dropping like flies. And there was fucking nothing I could do except look this monster in the eye and swear that I would take his life.”

The pencil moves to the right, slowly.

“And I did. The actual fight is a bit of blur to me. Dio threw knives at me. He taunted me with the ‘deaths’ of those I loved and bought out the worst in me. I couldn’t stomach looking at his face. No one in the world has ever sickened me as much as he did in that moment. I fought until I couldn’t move, until I was bloodied all over and aching. I finally got him, right in the leg. And that was it. Anticlimactic. Dio was dead, but I felt nothing. My fucking boyfriend had died, the only person I ever wanted to be with-”

Jotaro takes a breath, digging his hands into his thighs. The pencil is still.

“But that wasn’t even it. I ran back, bleeding, to find Mo and Jean. They were alive. I can only imagine what I state I looked when they saw me. I was falling apart. They looked shocked to see me so emotional. I asked where Noriaki was over and over again. They said something about a rooftop, a water tower. So, I went.”

The pencil moves to the left.

“I searched up on the rooftops for as long as I could. But it was only when I got to the water tower when I saw it…”

Jotaro shuts down. His words melt as he begins to feel his head go. It’s happening. The room is closing in on him, the room stinks of blood and sand.

“Noriaki was…torn apart…he was covered in his own blood. It was soaking through his uniform so much that the green fabric had turned all crimson red. His eyes were vacant. His skin was…so pale… I collapsed by his side and touched his forehead and it was…cold…”

The pencil starts to go blurry. Jotaro suddenly realises that he’s crying.

Hurried, ashamed hands go to wipe and scrub away his tears. He sniffles them back, but it won’t stop.

“And it’s that image…that fucking image…his body, dead. I didn’t know what a dead person looked like…” Jotaro’s voice croaks with tears, “And I just wanted to know, why? Why him? He was just a boy, his life had only just started, he was so kind, so misunderstood,” he breaks down, “And he loved me.”

But his eyes don’t leave the pencil. It moves up.

“I did what I could. I tied his wound with my jacket, I shook him until I felt a heartbeat. Even when I realised that he hadn’t died, I still felt my own life slipping between my fingers. The ambulances came, eventually. I stayed with him. He woke up. I’ve never felt such relief…” he trails off.

He wipes his wet eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“But waiting in the ambulance…it was torture. That feeling didn’t go away. Sometimes, I’m gripped with the same fear. The same fear I felt when I was shaking him awake and stopping his blood-flow with my hands.”

That’s it. That’s all that will come out. Jotaro sits and waits for some kind of confirmation, some kind of ending. Anything to end this. He knows that he shouldn’t be humiliated, but he still feels it.

Doctor Takaya finally puts the pencil down. Carefully, he slides over a box of tissues.

“That was fantastic work, Mr Kujo. We’re on the road to recovery.”

Chapter Text

Is Kakyoin asleep right now?

Jotaro can’t tell. He could’ve sworn he felt him move, but it’s hard to judge when he’s embracing Kakyoin from behind like this. All the red hair he’s buried into is itching and brushing his face. He swears he can hear steady, sleepy breathing. But he tries it anyway.

“Nori. Do you ever get nightmares about him?”

“What?” Kakyoin mumbles innocently, rubbing his eyes.

Right, so he was half-asleep. Now Jotaro just feels bad for keeping him up. Nevertheless, he doubles down and repeats himself.

“Do you ever get nightmares about…Dio?”

There’s some shuffling around. Kakyoin turns around to lie on his other side, clumsily moving all of his hair out of the way behind him. Now, he’s facing Jotaro and sinking back into the pillow that they’re sharing.

“I used to, sometimes,” he whispers, lazily wrapping an arm around Jotaro’s middle and curling up close to him. His eyes are closing on themselves, and his voice is barely audible. “Not anymore though.”

He didn’t know what to expect, but the answer equally disappoints and relieves him. There’s a palpable cosiness under this duvet, and Jotaro shamelessly presses their bodies together, needing the warmth.

“What were they like?”

“I can only remember parts,” Kakyoin explains, stroking Jotaro’s arm with the back of his fingers, “I would be alone somewhere, and he’d come up behind me, and whisper in my ear…” he shudders, “And then before I knew it his hands would be on me and I’d be under the spell of a fleshbud. I’d usually wake up after that.”

He hadn’t prepared himself to be confronted with such an image, and now suddenly Jotaro’s anger is being heightened, because that wasn’t just a dream, that fucking happened- Dio put his fucking hands on his-

“Do you ever think about that day…even when you’re not dreaming?” Jotaro whispers, heart hammering uncomfortably.

Kakyoin shakes his head, and squeezes Jotaro’s hand as if he can immediately tell that he’s on edge.

“No. Not for a long time.”

How? Jotaro tries to work it out but can’t reach a plausible answer. He wants to bring up if Kakyoin ever thinks about Egypt so badly but ultimately decides against it and stays quiet. After a while, he lets Kakyoin slowly drift back to sleep, his many questions still left unsolved.

--------------------

Jotaro wakes the following morning, horrendously groggy from his sleeping meds.

As he rubs his eyes and steadies his pounding head, Jotaro counts three things in the room. The balcony doors, the shirt that’s hanging on the back of a desk chair, a candle on the dresser.

The brain fog wears off, slowly. Jotaro rolls over onto his other side, sprawled across almost half the mattress as he stretches his arms out.

Now he can see Kakyoin, who is currently sleeping on his front like an angel, one arm clutching the pillow. Cautiously, trying not to wake him, Jotaro shuffles closer to his boyfriend, looking for the inviting warmth of skin. It works. He misses this, once his morning work routine. There will be no more of that now, that’s been confirmed.

Kakyoin’s hair is always in Jotaro’s face some way or another in the morning, and today is no exception. Today though, instead of blowing it away or pushing off him, Jotaro leans into it and smells it. Coconut. Shea butter. Honey?

“What are you doing?”

Kakyoin, awake, is blinking at him. Making fun of him, already.

“What does it fucking look like?” Jotaro sleepily mumbles, rolling over and enveloping Kakyoin into a hug with one arm. “Smelling your hair. Smells good.”

Kakyoin yawns, rubs his eyes, then pokes Jotaro in the ribs.

“Weirdo.”

They revert back to a default tiredness, existing in peace. The bedroom is still, the sunlight is beaming through thin white curtains and it’s all a little too perfect regarding the state that life’s been in lately.

There’s something not quite right, though. Jotaro can feel it deep down in his stomach, a balled-up longing.

It’s a longing for something that he can’t put his finger on, a primal urge that’s setting his entire mood off track. He’s still emerging from sleep and the morning feels too young for any proper thoughts on the matter. But it’s still there.

Jotaro can’t explain it, but he feels far away from Kakyoin right now. Despite the fact he’s touching him and even feeling each and every one of his breaths on his neck, there’s a distance between them.

Until Kakyoin slowly, purposefully, runs the flat of his palm down Jotaro’s bare hairy chest.

Then, the answer to his strange mood hits him. Hard, sudden, blaringly fucking obvious.

Oh. Of course.

Jotaro cannot ignore the fact that his body is beginning to feel hot. Kakyoin has to be doing this intentionally.

But two can play at that game. Jotaro flickers his gaze down his boyfriend’s half-unbuttoned shirt. He tugs gently at the piece of hair he’s still got twirled around his finger a few times, edging Kakyoin’s waiting face even closer.

Motivated by his body’s own demand, Jotaro mindlessly makes the first move and presses their mouths together in a kiss. It’s met and reciprocated with a deep sense of urgency; Kakyoin leans into it, his slightly parted lips gradually allowing Jotaro’s tongue to swipe along his teeth.

The room just smells like the inviting excitement of early hours: sweat, the tender laundry softener from the duvet, saliva.

Kakyoin’s back is surprisingly warm as Jotaro lifts up the hem of his shirt and runs his hands up skin, knowing exactly what he wants but not knowing where to touch first. Kakyoin is shivering, sucking in a breath and exhaling right back into a deeper kiss. Where he’s sat straddling Jotaro’s lap feels tight.

It’s been so, so long. Jotaro can’t be patient like usual, can’t take his time and stretch this out. Judging by how eager they both are to jump the gun right now; he doesn’t mind that he’s achingly hard and sweating already.

He doesn’t even have a chance to second-guess it. As he parts to swallow down much-needed oxygen, Kakyoin is grinning against his mouth.

“Are we really doing this?”

“Damn fucking right we are,” Jotaro hisses, finally gathering all of Kakyoin’s shirt into his fists and ripping it off him, “Unless you’d rather get up and pretend we aren’t this embarrassingly desperate.”

Kakyoin laughs and bites down on Jotaro’s neck, making him flinch and shiver.

“It’s been weeks,” Kakyoin gasps, sucking down another kiss, “Weeks. I’m gonna last three seconds I swear to God-”

Jotaro laughs. Between the frantic kisses and back-and-forth jabbing, they’re both making very quick work of getting each other’s clothes off.

“No you’re not,” he teases, “Not on my watch.”

The duvet is kicked far out of the way, down the bed.

“Who says you’re in charge of that?”

Jotaro rolls his eyes, smirking and peppering kisses down Kakyoin’s shoulders. Each second that he spends soaking up the contact of their naked bodies is making his head go funny, and at this rate he can’t speak too soon about anything because if he’s not careful, he might be the one finishing way too early.

He doesn’t put up a fight. This is how things usually go down between them, after all, and Jotaro is never one to complain seeing Kakyoin all riled-up and arrogant.

“Go on, then,” Jotaro proceeds, lying back into his pillow and resting one arm behind his head, “I’ll be waiting.”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Kakyoin retaliates, sliding one of his hands down Jotaro’s stomach and using the other one to hold the side of his face. He leans down to press a lingering kiss to his mouth once more, tugging on his lower lip, “…I’d say that you’re asking to get fucked.”

Jotaro wants to scrub away the growing heat in his cheeks. He pouts and puffs out his chest.

“Shut up.”

“But I’m right?”

Every inch of Jotaro’s skin screams ‘yes’. It wouldn’t be a shocking turn of events. There’s just something so wrong about asking for it, even when he knows it’s only Kakyoin and he would love nothing more. Jotaro always aims to please. Generally speaking, in bed, whatever Kakyoin wants, Kakyoin gets.

And fucking hell…Jotaro wants this.

With a very longing sigh, Jotaro relaxes and lets himself go.

“For fuck’s sake,” he groans, “Yes, and I’m only gonna say it once- yes.”

Kakyoin’s eyes light up.

“What was that?” Kakyoin mocks him, stroking through Jotaro’s messy hair, “I think I misheard.”

Heat burns in Jotaro’s cheeks, even though he definitely should have seen this coming. But as usual, he can’t ignore how much he likes it. He’ll go to hell and back before he ever lets any damn person on this earth besides Kakyoin know he gets off like this.

Jotaro shakes his head. Kakyoin grabs his cheeks in his hand and squeezes gently.

“Awww, c’mon,” he whispers, “Spit it out, sweetheart.”

Jotaro’s jaw is clenched. He buries his pride and exhales, clenching the pillow in his fist.

“I want,” he swallows, “I want you to fuck me.”

He says it quickly, albeit a little inaudibly, but Kakyoin seems satisfied, nonetheless. Jotaro is cringing at himself, tensing right after the words leave his mouth. That’s about as much as he’s willing to go to humiliate himself.

“Happy?” Jotaro scowls.

Kakyoin strokes the side of his face.

“No need for that attitude,” he says, his voice all sweet. Jotaro watches with eager impatience as Kakyoin squeezes out lube onto his slender pretty fingers. The wait is actually excruciating.

Jotaro doesn’t think he’s been this sexually starved since he was a questioning teenager.

His neck hurts from craning up to watch. His head hits the pillow.

“Hurry up, will you?” he mumbles, smirking.

“Oh, be quiet.”

Jotaro’s hands grab Kakyoin’s waist, heaving him up so that they’re absolutely intertwined, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from each other’s bodies. He braces himself, still as a rock as one slippery finger works up into his ass and stretches him out.

Jotaro screws his eyes shut and focuses on his breathing, so much so that he’s accidentally igniting a tiny bit of Hamon. He has to calm down. It’s increasingly hard because quite frankly, Kakyoin is exceptional at what he’s doing right now, and they’re kissing so deeply that he’s repeatedly losing air.

And though he’s determined not to make a scene, he can’t help slipping up and groaning, much to his own horror, when Kakyoin tells him he’s “So tight,” and gets another finger in.

“That’s, enough,” Jotaro breathes, so embarrassingly pushed to his limit. He’s cursing every bad decision he’s ever made, everything that led him to have ended up away from Kakyoin for this damn long in the first place. He wants Kakyoin to destroy him from the inside out, and even the thought of those words coming out of his mouth are making him burn in shame. Isn’t he too old for this kind of shit?

Fuck it. The words seem to come out on their own, anyway.

“Now,” Jotaro pants, grasping at Kakyoin’s waist. He only now notices how tight he’s been holding on. “Fucking, damn it, fuck, I need you now.”

Controlled as always, Kakyoin proceeds to slide his fingers out of Jotaro and instead focuses his attention on pinning one of his arms down. He’s so glorious and powerful right now, looming over Jotaro’s body and scanning every inch of him.

“Okay,” Kakyoin smiles. He’s got the smuggest fucking look on his face, his freckled cheeks lighting up. He bites a hair tie that was around his wrist and ties his hair up in a ponytail as he straddles Jotaro’s lap. “You look good underneath me.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Kakyoin laughs, hair now out of the way. Jotaro pulls him down by the waist and hikes his own leg up over Kakyoin’s back, cementing himself in place. They kiss wildly, saliva running down Jotaro’s chin as he feels Kakyoin’s hand taking hold of his thigh so that he can push his cock inside of him. The dull pleasant pain makes Jotaro’s entire body flinch. He gasps out in shock as he feels the whole thing stretching him out, working itself all the way in.

God, it’s been so long.

Jotaro’s left hand instinctively grasps the pillow behind him; his right goes to grasp the hair at the back of Kakyoin’s neck.

Bracing himself doesn’t help. Kakyoin pulls out a little, slowly, and then slams himself back in.

A strangled, “That’s it,” escapes Jotaro’s lips as the bed crashes against the wall. Kakyoin is gripping Jotaro’s thigh so much that it’s leaving red marks.

“You feel so good,” Kakyoin gasps, and Jotaro shoves their faces together so they can connect their mouths in another messy kiss, their teeth almost clashing when Kakyoin pushes in again, harder this time.

Sparks fly through Jotaro’s head. They’ve barely even started but neither of them are willing to be patient right now.

They start trying to establish a rhythm, but Jotaro is already shaking with adrenaline and Kakyoin is so unco-ordinated that this plan doesn’t even stand a chance. Their usual slow lovemaking is not going to suffice today, and they both know it.

It takes one proper look into each other’s eyes. Jotaro melts in the presence of Kakyoin’s flushed face and seductive gaze, loose strands of hair falling down his face.

No words are exchanged. Jotaro shoves Kakyoin down by his middle, Kakyoin yanks Jotaro’s leg further over his back, and they lose rhythm completely. They begin to fuck mindlessly, each slam of their hips together pounding the bedframe against the wall and making the whole room echo with the sound of it.

“JoJo,” Kakyoin chokes, his exhausted words disguised by the noise of constant slapping skin and gasps of air. He licks all the way up Jotaro’s neck and sucks a hickey into it, his gorgeously toned body shuddering and rocking, “I, love, you-”

“I fucking love you,” Jotaro growls, his back aching and arching. His hands are so slippery with sweat that Kakyoin’s skin is becoming liquid magma under his palms.

Harder, frantic shoves of their hips make the foundations of the bed creak. Jotaro is running out of breath, lightheaded and reeling as he feels his body being worn out and used. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt, the most needed humbling of his own self that he’s ever yearned for.

A sudden jolt begins to manifest itself as a hot pool in his stomach. Now, every thrust is sending him over the edge, his back is arching, his eyes are screwing tightly shut-

“Fuck,fuck! Nori-”

And it crashes over him, an orgasm so intense that it leaves him unable to see for a split second. He’s completely out of it for a good solid five seconds, only re-emerging back into reality when he can feel Kakyoin collapsing and finishing inside of him.

He gulps in air. Jotaro slowly props himself up and braves a look down at himself. He’s made a mess, that’s for certain, but that’s a later problem.

Letting himself lie back down, Jotaro pulls Kakyoin into a sweaty embrace. Kakyoin accepts it needily, panting and pressing a loving kiss into Jotaro’s cheek. The sudden quiet of the room now feels off.

“So much for three minutes,” Kakyoin grins, looking up at Jotaro with his dishevelled hair all over the place and his lips all swollen, “I don’t think that even counts as two.”

“Pfft,” Jotaro grabs the duvet and yanks it back over them both. He relaxes as he fells Kakyoin’s head rest into his shoulder, “Give me ten more minutes and a cigarette,” he smiles, splaying out into the bed and getting his breath back, “And we can go again.”

What is this feeling?

Normalcy. Kakyoin is laughing into his shoulder, and Jotaro feels a warmth spreading all through his blood, bringing him peace. Even if just for a moment, this is a snapshot from a life that Jotaro never thought he’d ever get back.

“Sounds good to me,” Kakyoin mumbles, sleepily content. He wraps an arm around Jotaro’s chest and then winces and laughs at something. “Oh god, it’s all over you-”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting there,” Jotaro smirks, yawning into the crook of his elbow as he reaches over to his bedside table for a tissue. When he finally gets one, he jokingly hands it over to Kakyoin, “Wanna do the honours?”

Kakyoin rolls his eyes and pretends to gag, “It would be my pleasure.”

Jotaro moves on to gathering a cigarette and his trusty lighter from his bedside drawer while he can’t stop laughing at Kakyoin wiping him down.

“I can hear you laughing, asshole,” Kakyoin grins, chucking the tissue away and squeezing Jotaro’s cheeks hard.

The end of Jotaro’s cigarette burns as he touches it to the flame of his lighter. Ash is flicked on to the bed, but Kakyoin doesn’t care or moan about it like he usually would.

Jotaro exhales smoke off to the side, fans it away with his hand, and turns to kiss Kakyoin. As they both soak up the atmosphere, they exist in quiet harmony, resetting themselves under the duvet and breathing steadily.

Somewhere amongst the thoughts of Kakyoin’s flushed tired body, the flavour of tobacco, and how nice the last few minutes felt...Jotaro remembers that yesterday he was formally fired from his job, but he doesn’t care.

Chapter Text

Central Tokyo, four days later

This boutique hotel room is turquoise and gold themed, like the colours of the sea and sunset intertwined. Jotaro and Kakyoin checked in an hour ago but haven’t even unpacked properly, too eager to make use of the limited time that they have. Two velvet suits are neatly hanging on the back of the ensuite door, but the vanity table is cluttered with stuff. Their joint suitcase is left open on the black plush carpet, and their clothes from today are strewn all over the floor.

Jotaro’s chest heaves as he slicks back sweaty hair with his hand and looks down at Kakyoin, who is underneath him. Their clasped hands press into the mattress, wrists all at an angle as the lingering aftermath of endorphins settle in their blood.

“We really should be getting ready now,” Kakyoin whispers, exhausted eyes batting. He’s flushed red, all over, collapsed into the lush pillows like a renaissance painting. Happily tired, he runs a hand down Jotaro’s bare back.

“I’d rather not,” Jotaro mumbles, sighing. He starts playing with Kakyoin’s hair, drawing strands taught around his index finger.

In a gesture of solidarity, Kakyoin forces himself to sit up and stretches his arms out.

“JoJo,” he smiles, “You’ve got this. I’ll be with you all night.”

Even moving an inch seems like too much of a commitment right now. Jotaro wants to pull the covers over his head and not emerge for the next five or six hours. He actually doesn’t think he can survive this entire Speedwagon Foundation conference without some disaster, and it’s been making him sick with nerves for days. The timing could quite literally not be worse.

“My speech is shit,” Jotaro grumbles for the millionth time today, head in his hands.

“Don’t start with that again,” Kakyoin sighs, cupping Jotaro’s cheeks with his hand, “It’s funny, everyone will love it,” he pats Jotaro on the back, “C’mon, lying about here and screwing isn’t going to make it go away-”

“But-”

“Shower!” Kakyoin interrupts, calling out already halfway into the ensuite. The sound of water pattering against the floor begins, and a door slides shut. “Now!”

Dramatically sighing even louder, Jotaro rips the covers off him and does as he’s told. To be fair, Kakyoin has had the patience of an absolute saint with him: Jotaro’s pretty much been non-stop moaning in despair all day.

Jotaro stretches out his back, winces at his dishevelled reflection in the bathroom mirror, and goes to join Kakyoin in the shower. As soon as he steps inside the glass, the heat of steam starts to make him light-headed, and for a minute he just stands with his hand steadying him on the tiles. Kakyoin is busy washing his masses of hair.

“There’s no way that’s going to dry on time,” Jotaro teases, lathering soap in his own hands.

Pausing from rinsing out a glut of conditioner, Kakyoin playfully glares at him.

“Don’t panic me like that.”

“Just sayin’”

Suddenly, his smug dig is interrupted as he has to dodge an attack from Hierophant. They both start laughing, and Jotaro is glad that he’s temporarily relieved from all his other worries. Soap that was pooled in his palm splatters everywhere as he grabs Kakyoin from behind and secures him in a slippery embrace.

“Shut up,” Kakyoin jokes, trying to get free, “Focus on yourself, idiot. I’m perfectly capable of drying my hair.”

Jotaro yawns into the back of his arm and lazily starts to wash himself, letting his mind dangerously wander. Right now, this sanctuary of a shower is making him feel shut-off from reality, and he knows as soon as he actually starts getting ready that he’s going to start freaking out again.

He assumes that he must have zoned out for a few minutes, because the next time he becomes aware of his surroundings Kakyoin is reaching up to give him a kiss, the shower already turned off.

“You okay?” Kakyoin asks, looking up through wet hair with his long lashes all stuck together and dark. Pure natural beauty.

Jotaro softens into a smile as he peers down at him, dripping all over. Coming down from floating upon a daze, he starts to feel the cold as the steam settles down.

“Yeah. I am.”

The next thing he knows, a big white fluffy towel is being draped around his shoulders. If Jotaro had his own way about this, he’d stay sat in this damn shower and lock himself in forever. One by one, images and thoughts of everything that could possibly go wrong tonight filter through his head as he tries to dry himself.

Worst case scenario, he ruins his image at a multi-million dollar corporation. He’s been through worse, he supposes.

Once he’s back in their bedroom, he helps Kakyoin button up his shirt and then gingerly pulls on his own one. Jotaro can’t focus on his outfit or enjoy the process of getting ready, he just goes through the motions: trousers, socks, tie, suit jacket. Everything of his is black. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he knows he looks decent…but he doesn’t see anything but a fraud with a slightly tired face.

In stark contrast, Kakyoin has properly outdone himself. His suit is crushed green velvet, trimmed with gold embroidery, and it fits him so perfectly that’s it’s actually quite unfair. Jotaro sits on the edge of the bed and admires his boyfriend in silence, living vicariously through him.

“You look amazing,” Jotaro marvels, “It’s so unfair. I’m a state.”

“Oh stop it,” Kakyoin turns around from where he’s sat, scrambling to dry his hair with the expensive blow-dryer on the cold setting mode, “You’ve never looked bad a day in your life, ever.”

Is he just seeing things? Jotaro pulls down at his eyebags and inspects them in the mirror again. He can’t put his finger on it, but he just doesn’t feel himself.

Self-loathing beside, he buries it down and kisses Kakyoin on the cheek.

“Thanks,” he jokes, breathily speaking into Kakyoin’s ear. Perfume is being spritzed. Kakyoin’s face is moisturized and shiny. Bejewelled green blossoms hang from his ears.

Jotaro picks up a comb.

“Can I brush your hair?” he asks, hovering.

Kakyoin melts.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

Delighted, Jotaro gets to work losing himself in the repetitive act, gently working the comb through Kakyoin’s long hair. He separates it into sections, trying not to tug too hard. After a while, Kakyoin relaxes completely and closes his eyes, reclined into his chair.

It does Jotaro the world of good to do something for someone else. He focuses hard on the task at hand, finishing off with coconut hair oil that he works through the ends. It stains his hands with a really lovely smell. He lets Kakyoin style his front section of bangs the way he always does, twirling it around his finger and letting the natural curl settle.

“You did a good job,” Kakyoin praises, running his fingers through the rest of his hair and smiling at himself in the mirror. “It looks really shiny.”

“Nah, I just have a really pretty model,” Jotaro smirks, getting up and packing his things away. Kakyoin grabs him for a kiss.

They decide to take no bags with them. It’s a bit of a rush, they’ve left it until the last minute to leave and they need to drive there in the next half an hour. Kakyoin takes care of the important stuff whilst Jotaro carefully folds his written-out speech and stuffs it into his trouser pocket. He then douses himself in cologne, just out of habit.

On the verge of being late, they leave their hotel room and run down the stairs to the carpark. The sunset glares over the buildings of Tokyo city centre as they lock themselves into their car and begin the drive to the SPW Japan HQ, Jotaro festering in the passenger seat like a child on the first day of school.

He bites his nails the entire way there. He smokes a cigarette out the window. He tries to listen to the radio, tries to laugh along with Kakyoin’s jokes. But he feels like the whole world is laughing at him.

---------

Inside the event is even more extravagant than Jotaro could have imagined.

The main hall is full, crammed full of people. Every single person is dressed like they’ve stepped out of a designer boutique. The carpet is deep red, along with the walls. There are round tables in rows already adorned and pre-set with names, some people have already sat on them in groups and are drinking and eating and others are stood around near the entrance networking and re-uniting. People are selling themselves, businessmen and scientists and elites from the organisation’s long history.

Everything about the environment feels all too wrong, and Jotaro fears he’s getting a headache already. He curses himself for not taking a couple of precautionary painkillers in the car. The room stinks of professionalism and greed and money. He’s so ready to pray for an excuse to leave, until he hears his and Kakyoin’s names being called out in a thick French accent from somewhere within the crowd.

“Ah, ah! There they are- JoJo, Noriaki! Bonjour!”

Amongst all the glitz and glamour, Polnareff is grinning and waving. His short-cropped hair makes him harder to spot in groups of people these days without that great towering hairdo he once sported. He’s holding his pale blue jacket under his arm, currently walking around with his matching tie slung over his shoulder. He rushes over, with a very neatly dressed Avdol in warm tones by his side in contrast, his dark hair all down and braided.

Jotaro’s heart explodes. The four old friends collide into a heap and engulf each other in a group hug, holding on tightly as they laugh and take the moment in. They haven’t seen each other like this in over a year, and even though Jotaro knows that his friends are well aware of everything he’s messed up in the last month, he couldn’t be happier than to be with them again right now.

“Fancy seeing you fuckers here,” Jotaro smirks, putting an arm around Polnareff and elbowing him. He reaches out and shakes Avdol’s hand.

“And a good evening to you too!” Avdol chuckles, “What a place this is. I feel like a right bumpkin after being stuck with this one on a farm for the last eternity.”

Polnareff sticks out his tongue.

“Too fancy for me, mon couer,” he scoffs “Let’s go and scrounge all the free food we can, yes?”

“Sounds good to me,” Kakyoin smiles, and they all push through the crowds together to get to their seats.

As Avdol and Kakyoin walk a pace ahead and talk passionately about gardening, already linking arms and in the thrust of conversation, Polnareff pulls Jotaro towards him and talks hushed into his ear.

“So, how are you really feeling?” he whispers, eyes all animated and deeply concerned.

Jotaro sighs. “It’s not great,” he mumbles back, “But I’ve been sober for almost three weeks.”

Polnareff slaps him on the back.

“Congratulations! That’s not bad then, eh? I’m not gonna lie, Mo and I were unsure if we were gonna find you today looking like a right old state. You look uh… well. Considering.”

“Good grief,” Jotaro faintly smiles, rolling his eyes. “Thanks”

The four crusaders weave around all the tables to find theirs. It takes them a good few minutes of walking until they manage to find the right one at the front with all their names on it. It’s situated right near the huge stage, adorned like every other table in the room is with a satin looking sheet over it and fancy napkins all folded into origami.

It’s a round table of nine, and three of those seats are already taken. Unsurprisingly, Jotaro hears his grandpa’s voice before he even gets a chance to see him. Suzie and Holly are already here with him, sat drinking glasses of wine together.

“Hey gramps,” Jotaro pats Joseph on the back.

“Ah, Jotaro my boy!” Joseph grins, wobbling up with his cane, “Who let you in, eh?”

“Fuck off, you old shitbag,” he smiles back. He realises that Holly is already busy gushing over Kakyoin (she’s currently hugging Kakyoin like she’s squeezing him to death and Jotaro doesn’t particularly fancy being subject to that right now), so he goes to speak to Suzie instead.

“Hi grandma. You okay?”

“Oh, my littlest JoJo,” Suzie dotes, bringing Jotaro in for a sloppy kiss on the cheek, “I am so glad to see you well.”

That’s when the guilt suddenly really starts to hit him. Jotaro knows what every single one of his family and friends are secretly thinking. To them, he’s a walking ball of sympathy.

Now, he feels horrendously aware of it.

Polnareff and Avdol are messing about with Joseph, the three of them chortling loudly in a group. Kakyoin is deep in conversation with Holly, still. Jotaro doesn’t feel like joining them, too scared that the subject of talk is severely revolving (potentially) around him, so he just admires his surroundings in silence.

The stage in front of them is downright terrifying to him. Gold curtains hang from the ceiling either side of it, and technicians are busy setting up all the electrical equipment and microphones. In the rest of the hall, there are multiple minibars. Jotaro swallows, hot saliva filling his mouth. It’s like torture.

Everyone, everyone has a glass of something in their hand.

He distracts himself by admiring all the wall decorations. Next to the stage there is an absolutely gigantic old painted portrait of the Speedwagon, an old man that Jotaro has seen in his grandpa’s black and white photos before. But he’s not really an old man in this portrait, he’s got really long curly blonde hair and is wearing a funny top-hat that Jotaro swears he saw on an old photograph of his grandpa’s dead boytoy Caesar Zeppeli once, but maybe he’s just imagining things.

Jotaro’s eyes keep flickering back to the bar, hungry. He assumes Kakyoin is catching on to his panic because he suddenly feels his hand grabbing his own and leading him to sit down.

“You good?” Kakyoin whispers, rubbing the back of Jotaro’s arm.

Jotaro nods, hesitant. He hopes it’s enough of an answer.

“I’m fucking starving,” Polnareff moans, plonking himself down next to Jotaro and sitting with his hands behind his back.

“My god Jean, you’ve got a stomach like an endless pit. We ate half an hour ago,” Avdol sighs, smoothing down his shiny brown suit and sitting down too.

“Apparently there’s five courses,” Kakyoin notes, leaning in.

“No way, really?” Polnareff’s eyes light up, “Oh please tell me one of them is a steak-“ he suddenly bursts out laughing, “Oh that’s right, forgot I’m surrounded by a bunch of hippie vegetarians.”

“I’ll cheers to that, Jean!” Joseph shouts across the table, and Polnareff snorts out in laughter.

Jotaro rolls his eyes, listening all fond and amused as Kakyoin, Joseph and Polnareff go back and forth in a light-hearted silly debate, which is spurred on and heated when Joseph calls Kakyoin’s vegetarian diet ‘rabbit food’ and demands he’ll waste away without protein. Jotaro chuckles at the antics, relaxes into his seat and loses himself in the hundreds of other voices that fill the room. Slowly, he puts an arm around Kakyoin and pulls him close.

“I must say, Noriaki your suit is gorgeous!” Suzie exclaims across table, interrupting whatever the hell stupid argument is going on.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” Holly adds, gently touching the embroidery on one of his sleeves. “The colour is so pretty on you, darling.”

Kakyoin goes hilariously bashful.

“Oh, thank you-” he smiles, red in the face.

“Told you it looks amazing,” Jotaro says to him, leaning over to give his boyfriend a very respectful peck on the cheek. Now, Kakyoin is truly red. But he’s smiling, and Jotaro knows that he loves the attention, secretly.

Joseph begins to lead the conversation, and suddenly everyone is exchanging stories of their journeys here and various hotel arrangements. Even though the topic of conversation couldn’t be more mundane, Jotaro is more than happy listening in, so grateful for the people he has in his life.

A random man he sees in the distance smoking up a cigar inspires him to share a packet of Marlboros with Polnareff. As they help each other light up, the two remaining guests that are yet to arrive at the table show up fashionably late.

“Heya everyone!” Josuke pants, out of breath and waving. He has to be the most over-dressed person in the entire room right now, but no one would expect anything less. His entire purple and gold ensemble matches all his jewellery and makeup. Okuyasu, who is next to him, looks like an accessory in comparison with his untucked shirt and slicked back hair. Currently, he is gawking at all the décor, absolutely transfixed and distracted.

“Hi son,” Joseph beams, and in a very moving exchange of greetings, Josuke goes over to give him a hug.

“You remember Okuyasu, right Dad?” Josuke says excitedly, yanking Okuyasu over by the arm.

“Yo, wassup?” Okuyasu goes to shake Joseph’s hand, which is returned with a lot of enthusiasm.

“Of course I do! Glad you two youngsters could make it.”

The two teenagers say their hellos to everyone sat around the table. When it’s Jotaro’s turn, he sticks to a fist-bump, which Josuke loudly jokes is ‘so old man’ of him and everyone seems to find this hysterical (Jotaro didn’t realise fist-bumps weren’t cool anymore, and now he knows Polnareff is not going to live that down for another decade at least.)

“We should probably introduce you guys properly,” Kakyoin says, looking at Polnareff and Avdol and then to the two teenagers, “This is Joseph’s son Josuke and his boyfriend Okuyasu, the ones who were with us when we killed Kira.”

“You really do look alike to Joseph,” Avdol marvels kindly, shaking Josuke’s hand, “I promise your father was good-looking once, that is a compliment.”

“I heard that you fucker,” Joseph shouts, chuckling.

Josuke laughs it off. “It’s really nice to meet you both, Jean and Mo. Jotaro and Noriaki talk about you guys all the time.”

“Oh they do?” Polnareff wiggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jotaro smirks, exhaling smoke into his face.

Okuyasu suddenly makes sense of the situation. He’s absolutely out of it. Jotaro knows by the look in his eyes alone. He’s high.

“Ohhhh, you’re the Egypt guys! That live on the farm in France?” Okuyasu bursts, at least two minutes behind the conversation.

“Yes, that’s us,” Avdol chuckles, “What a legacy to leave, eh?”

“Neat,” Okuyasu takes a seat next to Josuke, smiling wide. “Oi, Jotaro,” he whispers across the table, “Can I have one bro?”

Jotaro points to his cigarette, and Okuyasu nods.

“Knock yourself out,” he says, passing over his half-empty box. “You got a light?

“Hell yeah, man. Thanks,” Okuyasu begins to light up and then nudges Josuke, “I’m fucking starving.”

Polnareff’s eyes light up. Avdol flinches as if he’s just experienced de ja vu. Jotaro and Kakyoin turn to each other, grinning.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Polnareff exclaims excitedly, leaning over and pointing to Okuyasu, “Apparently there’s five courses.”

“Really? Sweet,” Okuyasu grins, leaning back and taking some time to smoke. He slides the Marlboro box back to Jotaro.

Josuke brings out a mini mirror and starts checking his hair at the table, smoothing it down. Now that everyone is sat down and ready, conversation begins to flow. Jotaro prefers to listen than contribute. Everything feels like it’s going in slow motion, but all Jotaro can really concentrate on are the glimpses of the bars around the room, and the people staggering about who look like they’re already drunkenly content.

Okuyasu and Polnareff banter across the table like idiots, best friends already.

To be one of the masses with some liquor in his hand. It’s all Jotaro wants. By the time he’s done moping about his sobriety and zoned back into the conversation, he realises that everyone is hanging onto every word whilst Polnareff tells the story about how he was turned into a baby by an enemy stand user back in Luxor.

“So your Stand turned into a baby too?” Josuke is asking, shocked.

“Oh yes,” Polnareff rubs his chin, bringing out Silver Chariot, “He was half the size! Tiny, he had no strength. But I still managed to keep the bastard off me.”

“So how’d you defeat him?” Okuyasu joins in, gobsmacked.

“He didn’t,” Avdol smirks, arms crossed. “Jotaro did.”

Now, Okuyasu is stumped.

“As a child?”

“Yeah,” Jotaro gloats, “Punched his lights out with my little kid fists. No Stand.”

“Wait,” Kakyoin ponders, fiddling with his glasses, “I was in the hospital during this…if Jotaro and Jean were fighting Alessi…Mo where were you and Joseph during all this? Did you get lost?”

Avdol and Joseph look at each other, their eyes widen, and they then both shake their heads.

“Wait that’s right…Yeah, where were you?” Polnareff adds, just as confused.

“Uh,” Avdol coughs, blushing, “Joseph and I got caught up in a bit of a uh…embarrassing situation-”

“The ‘magnet story’,” Joseph stresses, adamant on keeping it a code and waving his hands in the air. “Remember?”

Kakyoin, Jotaro and Polnareff all let out a simultaneous “Ohhhh,” in realisation, sniggering between themselves.

“What’s the magnet story?” Josuke asks.

“Ask your dad to tell you later,” Kakyoin says.

The back-and-forth allows Jotaro to remember the memories fondly. Since he’s been working through the crusader’s journey more and more in therapy, suddenly talking about those days doesn’t hit him with the same downwards spiral of emotion that it once did. He notices it and feels immensely proud of himself.

A waiter comes over to the table soon after, addressing everyone with a very professional yet warm manner. The table is already set with all the cutlery, plates and napkins but he adds a very fancy bread basket to the middle and collects Joseph and Suzie’s used wine glasses.

“Evening everyone, I’m sure you’re all glad to hear I’m here to collect your table’s drinks orders. What can I get for you? More wine Mr and Mrs Joestar?”

“Yes another red please,” Suzie smiles, “What about you, Holly dear?”

“Oooh, I’ll take a gin and lemonade if that’s okay.”

“Of course ma’am,” the waiter scribbles in his notebook, “And for everyone else?”

Jotaro’s hand clenches under the table. Alarms go off in his head. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck-

“What beer have you got?” Avdol asks. “Any bitters?”

“Oh yes, plenty sir. I’ll fetch you our most recommended one if you’d like to try it first.”

“That’ll do, thank you.”

Jotaro tastes everything that everyone says: he can feel the beer on his tongue, he can smell the wine swirling around in the glass. He knows no one wants to be weird, or awkward, or refuse to drink for his sake. He doesn’t mind that people are acting as usual, the fucking last thing that Jotaro wants is to be treated differently. But the thought that it’s going to be his turn to speak makes him debate getting up and hiding somewhere.

“Can I get a uh… white wine?” Polnareff decides.

“I’ll do that too,” Kakyoin agrees, “But a spritzer, please.”

“Certainly, certainly…” the waiter nods, still writing.

Jotaro starts to weigh up his options. He could pretend to go to the bathroom. He could pretend he dropped something under the table. He could make a joke, no, he could laugh it off-

“I wanna rum and coke,” Okuyasu declares, excited. “…Please.”

“Uhhh, I’ll get the same thanks,” Josuke says, distracted from applying more lip balm, “But diet coke, please.”

“Perfect, got it,” the waiter smiles. It’s too late. He’s turned to Jotaro before he got a chance to escape, or run for his life. “And for you, sir?”

Silence. It’s like a spotlight has shone on Jotaro out of nowhere, singling him out into a life or death moment. Everyone is watching, waiting, clearly uncomfortable.

Jotaro knows that he’s shaking. His hands are, at least. He knows that he’s taking too long to answer.

Worst of all, he knows what everyone is thinking as his friends and family watch. They’re squirming in their seats at this sad little alcoholic having to worm his way out of this nightmarish predicament. It would help if someone would just blurt the truth out, at this rate.

“Not for me, thanks,” he says, eyes darting about nervously.

“Are you sure?” the waiter’s eyebrows raise. “We’ve got plenty of options. I can come back if you’re undecided right now.”

Jotaro needs to take a deep breath. He needs to take a deep breath, now. This is terrible. He underestimated just how much of a problem this would be.

“I’m sober,” he swallows, side-eying the waiter and praying that he just fucking catches on, “I’ll just have a water.”

“Alright, no worries,” the waiter responds comfortingly, giving him a wink, “I’ll be back with those in a minute, everyone else.”

After he’s gone, the slightly awkward silence makes Jotaro want the ground to swallow him whole. He doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact that no one is talking because they’re too scared to hurt his feelings or the fact that he handled that so badly.

“Yooo,” Okuyasu suddenly exclaims, pointing up at the wall to the huge portrait that Jotaro was looking at a while ago, “That’s Speedwagon? I didn’t know he was a person.”

“What did you think Speedwagon was?” Josuke snorts, teasing him, “A type of car?”

Everyone’s laughing again, now. To this new audience, Josuke’s clearly-stoned boyfriend is proving to be a very valuable source of entertainment. Jotaro relaxes once more, thanking his luck. Under the table, Kakyoin is squeezing his hand.

He needs an escape. Jotaro squeezes Kakyoin’s hand back, peering every now and then to the stage. Maybe if everyone is drunk besides him, no one will notice if he sneaks off to one of the bars and-

No.

Jotaro breathes out, pretending to be listening in to the conversation. Hot panic rises in his chest. It’s like his chair is digging spikes into his back: he can’t sit here for a second longer, he can’t do this.

But just one drink. He could so easily get it if he was careful-

No!

He wants to smack his head into the table. His head is switched on and now it won’t stop, each dangerous intrusive message is keeping him buzzed with anxiety.

Things escalate when the drinks come. One by one, the waiter is thanked as he places various beautiful colourful drinks down: wines and beers and spirits… And Jotaro doesn’t just stare at them, he can fucking smell them in all their different details, overwhelmingly powerful.

It’s Avdol’s beer that really does it for him. Jotaro can’t take his eyes off it: the foam, the golden bubbles, the large, huge glass that his friend is sipping from.

There are at least three separate conversations going on right now, and it’s making Jotaro dizzy. Trying to remember the breathing techniques that Doctor Takaya told him about for his heartrate problems, Jotaro focuses on a spot on the table and counts silently in his head whilst alternating between inhaling and exhaling.

“Jotaro?”

Kakyoin’s quiet voice shocks Jotaro back into the present. There’s food in front of everyone already. Did he just completely space out? He looks around. Did anyone notice?

“Yeah?” he replies, gripping Kakyoin’s hand.

Now, Kakyoin is rightfully concerned. The soft fallen look on his face suggests that he’s not going to let this slide until he knows what’s going on.

“Are you okay?” he asks under his breath. “You’ve been quiet.”

“It’s just a lot I guess,” Jotaro swallows, eyeing up the rest of the room, “Y’know, this. I’m alright though.”

He tries to give him a reassuring smile. Kakyoin discreetly kisses his cheek and whispers in his ear.

“I know this must be really difficult,” he soothes, their fingers still tightly intertwined “But I’m so proud of you. You’re doing really well.”

It should help. It really should. But Jotaro still feels ill, and now he’s trying to pick up his fork but it’s shaking violently in his hand.

Everyone else is laughing at something.

“Isn’t that right, Jotaro?” Joseph is calling out.

Jotaro looks up suddenly.

“Huh? What?”

“We’re all wondering what your speech is like,” Joseph explains, “I was saying that I bet it’s one line long.”

Rolling his eyes in response, Jotaro relaxes and reluctantly sips at his water. The uneaten piece of fancy bread that’s stuck on the end of his fork remains untouched, and he suddenly pretends to be eating because now literally all eyes are right on him again.

“You wish Jiji,” he sneers, chewing, “I think I’ve done well. Nori’s heard it, he’ll back me up.”

“Did Noriaki write it all?” Holly teases, and everyone laughs.

Jotaro rolls his eyes again, playfully offended. “Oi,” he points his empty fork in his mother’s direction, “I’ll have you know he only helped me spell check it.”

“It’s true,” Kakyoin interjects, putting down his glass of wine, “I think it’s good. Surprisingly funny.”

Polnareff whacks Jotaro on the back.

“Funny?” he snorts, “Jotaro wrote something funny?”

“Watch it,” Jotaro smirks, hitting him in the chest with his elbow.

If he can keep this act up for the rest of the evening, he’ll make it out with his pride intact. With a reputation to hold together and a plate of food he’s way too ill to get down him, Jotaro concentrates on his small successes and listens to his friends in silence.

It’s enough to give him hope. But ashamedly, he catches himself closely watching Okuyasu glug down a rum and coke with envy burning in his stomach.

Chapter Text

An hour and three courses of dinner later, the stage is lit up. The current lead SPW scientist is giving an introductory speech and everyone in the hall is seated and lively, aided on by the joy of socialising and the endless flow of alcoholic beverages being passed around.

Jotaro is drained. His table is no exception from the rest of the room: his closest circle are varying levels of tipsy, and he feels a weight of jealousy crush him with each passing minute. How is this fair?

Underneath the table, his leg shakes uncontrollably, and his left hand is clawing into his thigh.

“…But this evening is all about celebrating the foundation’s 100-year anniversary of the department of supernatural affairs!” the lead scientist announces at the end of his time, and everyone is cheering. “As members and affiliates of our work, we are all blessed in this room to be knowledgeable on classified scientific projects, Stands and everything alike. Our history is long and rich, dating back to the discovery of the Pillar Men and the ancient capabilities of Hamon energy. There is one man, of course, who knows more about this than even I do,” he pauses to gesture a welcoming hand out, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome to the stage our current CEO, Mr Joseph Joestar.”

There’s a lengthy round of applause. Joseph gets up from his seat and smooths down his suit, walking up to the stage without his cane. Jotaro rolls his eyes as he watches his grandpa suddenly come to life, accepting his place in the spotlight and shaking the lead scientist’ hand before he walks off.

“Thank you, thank you,” Joseph waves, tapping the microphone. “Well, what a brilliant evening this has been so far…”

Joseph thrusts himself into his speech, excitedly thanking the staff and reciting in detail all of his personal history with the supernatural department of the SPW. He’s such a natural shittalker, and right now, he’s thriving in his element.

Jotaro cannot concentrate. On the verge of passing out from both stress and a pounding headache that won’t go away, he tries to keep a straight face whilst chewing slowly on rice that right now doesn’t taste of anything.

Joseph tells the story of his time with the Pillar Men, and everyone hangs on his last word even though it’s pretty much vital SPW foundation knowledge and there’s no way anyone in this room doesn’t know it. His grandpa soars through it effortlessly, touching on his uncle and his mother and the ‘friend’ he lost along the way (he spares the details of that, but most people sat on Jotaro’s table know the truth, Suzie included.) Joseph even demonstrates a little bit of Hamon, which goes down incredibly well.

All in all, he nails it.

“…At the end of the day, we would never have been able to conquer the world’s evil had it not been for all the amazing hard work done by our supernatural department, even back then in the 1940s. We’ve come a long way, and I’m sure my wonderful uncle Robert would be so proud of the technology that we can use these days,” Joseph looks up from his paper and pushes up his glasses, “But with all things, we must adapt. Move on. At my old age, I have to think of passing down the torch, just as my uncle did with me all those years ago. The future of the SPW is bright, and I could not be happier to know that one day when I’m no longer here, that it’ll be in the hands of my grandson, Jotaro…” he steps aside, “Who I would now love to welcome up here. Thank you, everyone. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Another long round of applause. Jotaro takes one last stable breath and makes sure to appear presentable as he shakily gets up from his seat and strides up to the stage. He shakes his grandpa’s hand, and just like that, Joseph is gone and Jotaro is facing hundreds of people alone, basking under the stress of a spotlight.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

One sweaty hand goes to adjust the microphone, another pulls out his written speech. The applause gently dies down, and all those snobby eyes lay on him, expecting and waiting.

Jotaro clears his throat. Once, then again.

Oh God, why does he feel so faint?

“Evening everyone,” he begins, playing it safe in his usual low matter-of-fact tone of speech, “It’s a pleasure to be accepting the future of this foundation, though if I know one thing about my grandpa it’s that he’ll outlive me and every one of you in this damn hall.”

A wave of laughter erupts. Jotaro feels so much better. Keep pushing, he just needs to keep pushing-

“All jokes aside, it’s best I formally introduce myself. I’m Jotaro Kujo, though I’m sure all of you know me as that one bastard who finally killed off Dio.”

More laughter. That one hurt, but it had to be done. The false façade of the aloof ‘hero’ he’s playing right now on stage is making him feel like more of a fraud than ever.

“The supernatural department here have a close place to my heart. Thanks to their research on Stands, we’ve been able to grow an understanding on their true capabilities…and this has saved people in my life more times than I can count. It’s a privilege to be here on their 100th anniversary.”

Applause. Jotaro tries not to look into the crowd, but he accidentally catches a glimpse of Kakyoin and remembers what he’s doing this for.

“I haven’t lived through quite as much adventure as my grandpa has, but I’ve had my fair share. Ten years ago, me and four idiots set off on a journey with nothing but our Stands and one shared motive,”

The four other crusaders cheer out loud. Jotaro, who is practically gritting out these words through his teeth, relaxes and smiles genuinely for a second.

They all made it out alive.

“I’m sure most of you know the story. Fifty days across the world, fifty days of non-stop battle. At the start of things, I was just some punk who thought he’d been possessed by a floating purple demon. I soon came to understand that this would actually be my greatest strength,”

Jotaro brings out Star Platinum.

“Most of you can’t see him. But Star Platinum here has become like an extra limb to me, and thanks to the SPW’s help I now know where his true powers lie-”

He uses “The World” to stop time, then gets Star to grab his glass of water from the table. He resumes time, magically holding a glass out of thin air, and there are gasps and cheers from everyone in the room. It’s pretty lame in Jotaro’s opinion to be stooping to magic tricks, but if it’s what’s going to get the people in this room to like him, he can bear it.

He repeats the same thing, putting the glass back from where it came from. Still, it receives a very impressed reaction. Jotaro almost feels patronised.

Holding back a sigh, he pushes on.

“The first moment that I realised I could stop time, I felt like something had awakened in me. It was in the midst of battle, and unlike the tame trick I just showed you all…I was using it to kill.”

The word ‘kill’ is quieter than the rest. It comes out embarrassingly shakily, and crushes Jotaro’s chest in the process.

Now, he’s looking at a dusty street. Jotaro is wiping blood off his nose and preparing himself to fight Dio, carrying the weight of his dead friends and his dead grandpa, alone in Egypt…seventeen and alone in Cairo…

No. He blinks, flickering back to the image of reality, a crowd. Shit.

Why is this happening now?

Scrambling to get back on script, he clears his throat. What would Doctor Takaya tell him to do right now?

“…So…um…”

Restart. Deep breaths? Context? Remembering it’s all over…?

“…I was in the midst of battle. And I…”

There he is. It’s about time he showed up in Jotaro’s far vision, lingering in a hallucination right at the back of the hall…

…Dio…

The room feels like it’s caving in. Jotaro’s paper feels vacant in his hand, dirtied with sweat. Words blur, his eyes flicker to the written lines and then again to the floor.

“…I killed him.” Jotaro gulps, grabbing hold of the microphone and staring that vision of Dio right in the eye.

Completely lost, Jotaro just stands there, brewing. Heat prickles under his jacket, intense. He looks at his table and sees eight very concerned perplexed faces staring into him, especially Kakyoin, who is now mouthing are you okay? at him with widened eyes.

Jotaro glances back and forth. His lips are glued together, and each breath feels like a chore.

Everyone who is in the crowd might as well be a robotic clone, because right now Jotaro doesn’t even feel the slightest bit of embarrassment. All he can do is wait for ‘Dio’ to leave.

“He deserved to die,” Jotaro mumbles eventually, “He killed so many people, took advantage of the weak. He killed my great great grandfather, and almost killed my grandpa. That’s why we’re here, after all. This foundation was created because Speedwagon saw what Dio was capable of too, once, long ago.”

He’s off-script, now. Jotaro is talking into the void, rambling with unjustified confidence.

“Some of you are probably wondering what it was like to see him up close…a real vampire. A good friend of mine told me that Dio’s cold gaze that could burn through a heart, that his skin was translucent, and that his words were scarily sweet. I understood when I came face to face with him. There was a smug, true, chilling evil in his eyes… like he just knew he could make any man in the world his puppet.”

Why won’t Dio leave?

“I guess that’s the fucked irony of it all, though. I was a teenager when I walked up to the bastard with no trace of fear. I wasn’t scared. But now…could I do it again?”

Jotaro pauses to sigh.

“Could I do it again, now that I know how terrifying it to almost lose someone?”

Words flow from his throat like vomit, uncontrollable. It’s like someone’s cut him open on display and shone a light into his guts. He’s tired.

“I’m lucky. Everyone I loved made it out of Dio alive. Is that luck? Fate? Skill? I’ll never know. What I do know is that if I had let him win…I would not be standing here like this.”

Judging by people’s reactions, he’s managed to talk himself out of this alright. People are just hanging on his every word. Perhaps they think he’s trying to reach some profound, poetic message.

He isn’t.

“Sometimes I think that the day I fought Dio gave me a second chance,” he states, jaw clenched. “I’ve never taken a thing for granted since…”

Well, that’s a cold lie. Guilt rips through him, hard.

“…I had lived too arrogantly. But I’d never call it a blessing. I carry…”

He breathes in. Tears threaten to well in his eyes, angry and exhausted.

“I carry the weight of that fight to this day.”

What is he grasping at?

Jotaro’s stomach turns. He’s going faint, smelling sand, feeling phantom blood dribbling down his forehead. He needs to get off stage, now. Now.

“But that’s why this foundation is so incredible. It’s like a lifeline. Not just for me…but for saving everyone I came so close to losing. They make second chances come true.”

He gives a wobbly nod of his head to finish it off, and the crowd absolutely throws itself into a long, touched applause.

Are you lot fucking stupid? Jotaro thinks, close to losing it. He doesn’t even know what he just said, or if any of it made sense, but they liked it. His job is done.

He needs to get off this stage, now.

Weak legs take him down the stairs. The SPW foundation’s lead scientist come back on stage and congratulates Jotaro, but he isn’t listening.

The room is spinning. His head feels so light…sand crushes under his feet…

Oh fuck.

Fuck.

Jotaro practically drags himself back to his seat, fighting back a full-blown breakdown. The event carries on, everyone’s back looking at the stage. A band come on to perform, and the lights go down. Jotaro sits glued to his chair, staring a hole in the table.

He can’t look up. His friends and family sat around him are whispering and panicking over the loud music but he checks himself out and stays still as a rock, filtering their distant voices in one ear and out the other as blackness clouds his vision:

“Jotaro? Hey, Jotaro? Oh my god he’s out of it.”

“I don’t think he can hear you, dear.”

“Try shaking him Nori-”

“Wait! I dunno if that’s a good idea, man, he might be-”

“Is he drunk?”

“mon Dieu…is he fainting?”

“I’m taking him out the room for a bit. Jotaro? Jotaro love, c’mon. Take my arm, that’s it…okay try to stand up, we’re going for a walk…”

-----------------------

The next time Jotaro opens his eyes, he’s sat on the red-carpeted floor of an empty long corridor.

He knows where he is. He can hear the commotion of the hall next-door. He’s in one of the other entrances to the foundation building, surrounded by white pillars, framed photos, and gold decor.

Pain shoots through his back. Jotaro realises just how cramped over he’s sat, all slumped by the wall. When he tries to adjust himself, he realises that Kakyoin is knelt in front of him, keeping him upright and holding a cold bottle of water to his forehead.

“Hey,” Kakyoin breathes, stroking Jotaro’s hair, “You awake?”

Slowly, Jotaro nods. He’s so groggy that he struggles to speak.

“How long was I out for?” he mumbles, barely audible. He remembers everything that happened: his family and friends fussing, the table turning to sand, Kakyoin gently taking him away. After that, all he can recall is staggering into nothingness.

“Just ten minutes,” Kakyoin reassures, taking the cold bottle away and unscrewing the lid, “How you feeling?”

“I’m…okay.”

It’s clearly unconvincing. Kakyoin hands Jotaro the open water bottle and watches nervously as he drinks from it.

“No, you’re not,” Kakyoin sighs, placing his hand on Jotaro’s shoulder, “What happened? You were fine on stage and then you just…froze?”

But Jotaro cannot concentrate, because there’s a shadow growing from the end of the corridor. Dio’s shadow moves along the wall like the strokes of a paintbrush, gliding across and threatening him.

“I’m seeing him,” Jotaro mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “Behind you.”

Kakyoin instinctively looks over his own shoulder, then back at Jotaro, then at the floor. It’s written all over his face: panic.

“You want me to stay here with you?” he asks, following up his concern with a light squeeze to Jotaro’s outer arm. “Or…?”

Ah, so there’s options. Jotaro clicks his back and groggily stretches, knowing that whatever he chooses will decide his fate for the rest of the night. He appreciates Kakyoin’s willingness to give him the control of choice, but Jotaro’s nervous system is still shaken and only yearns for one thing.

Well, two things: a quart of whiskey, and a cigarette.

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles, on autopilot. What is he doing? He shouldn’t have said that.

Kakyoin smiles, pats Jotaro on the head, and begins to stand. Jotaro wants to grab him by the wrist and pull him down. He wants Kakyoin to stay, but not in the way he’s destined to handle this. It’s painful watching his figure slowly leave, Kakyoin’s beautifully decorated appearance now out of reach, too far to hold Jotaro back.

“Alright,” Kakyoin whispers, blowing Jotaro a kiss. “I better go in and tell the others you’re awake, then. Stay here, okay? I’ll come back to check on you.”

No, Jotaro pleads internally, his heart sinking, I didn’t mean it. Stop me. Please.

He nods in a weak response, playing at innocence. What he’s about to do is shameful, truly. But Jotaro doesn’t have any other option. Doctor Takaya’s breathing methods aren’t working, neither are grounding techniques nor spacing out. All there is, is Dio.

Jotaro has to flush him out.

Kakyoin begins to walk away, quiet footsteps on the deep red carpet, all too trusting.

“Nori.”

Turning to look back, Kakyoin stops dead in his tracks and leans his head to the side. His front bangs sway as he does so.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” Jotaro swallows.

“Oh, JoJo,” Kakyoin softens, his entire face riddled with something between pity and empathy, “Don’t apologise. No one noticed, besides our table. I won’t tell them what’s going on, promise. You get some breathing space out here, ‘kay?”

But…

that’s not it…

--------------------

Whiskey.

You can find it anywhere, that’s one of the many glorious things about it. Jotaro’s heart races as he takes the most extreme detour out of the Speedwagon conference and out into Tokyo city centre, adrenaline coursing through his body.

The night isn’t cold. Jotaro doesn’t mind this walk, through it feels much more like a heist operation than a stroll.

He knows this is absurdly wrong. He’s even getting looks, now, and who can blame the general public? Here he is in the city, striding down the shopping district in a designer suit and tie at almost midnight, weaving past party-goers and clubbers and people stumbling out of bars.

The very first off-licence he finds is like a mirage in the desert. Jotaro makes ultra-quick work of getting what he needs.

Whilst the unbothered cashier scans his bottle of Jack Daniels, Jotaro clenches his nails into his wallet like a junkie waiting for a hit, his fingers itching to just hold the damn thing. He knows this a low point. He doesn’t care.

I’m sorry, he repeats in his head as he speed-walks back to the conference centre, I’m so sorry, Nori.

Jotaro doesn’t go back into the building. He kicks about the carpark, eyeing up the SPW sign on the building with a groan and sigh, debating throwing this bottle in the trash and trying to salvage the night.

He isn’t that smart, though. The brown golden liquid sloshes about in his hand, calling out to him. On his back, he can still feel the lingering of Dio’s breathing.

Flush him out. Flush him out, flush him out…

Submitting to the tarmac and the dark, Jotaro slumps against the wall and curls up on the curb. His hands tremble as he twists the lid off his whiskey, impatient.

Off it comes. Jotaro says a prayer to no god in particular and exhales. Then he places the bottle to his lips, tips his head back, and gulps the drink down like its water.

He swallows it greedily, taking gulps so frantic that he has to stop twice for breath. Jotaro leaves no gaps, no time to let himself stabilise. He decides his weakened tolerance from the weeks of sobriety might do him a solid and allow him to get a decent buzz for once.

It really pulls through. With almost half the bottle gone and burning lungs, Jotaro stops and tries to imagine the alcohol seeping into his bloodstream, dumbing his senses, taking him away.

There’s no Dio, now. Jotaro almost forgets that was the reason for all this in the first place as he revels in his brief high.

He misses it. His body misses this so much, it cries out for more, more, more.

He treats himself to one more sip, sighing as his lips leave the rim of the bottle top. Whiskey dribbles down his chin and he wipes it with the back of his hand, noticing his shakes have somewhat subsided already.

Jotaro begins to devise a plan, staring out at the dark shiny carpark. Maybe he’ll go back in and hide the evidence. It wouldn’t be so hard.

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Jotaro flinches, winded like someone’s punched him in the lungs. With humiliated cautiousness, he forces himself to look behind him.

Kakyoin stands leant against the wall, arms at his sides, watching.

“Fuck,” Jotaro whispers out loud under his breath, closing his eyes. The world starts to spin. His palms are clammy, and cold.

He braces himself for a wave of anger that he knows he deserves, but there’s nothing. Kakyoin just walks over and sits by Jotaro’s side, observant purple eyes scanning to the whiskey, then to Jotaro’s slumped-over body.

“I know,” Jotaro grumbles, shaking his head. “I know.”

He doesn’t even want to know what he looks like right now, pathetic and stinking of booze, fogged in the head from his trauma on stage. He’s a wreck, and it’s all out on display.

Kakyoin puts his arm around him, then leans his head on Jotaro’s shoulder.

They sit in silence, accepting the reality. This problem isn’t going anywhere. Even Jotaro feels too shameful to drink in front of Kakyoin so he just clutches the bottle in his hand and stares at it for a bit, longingly.

For a while, they exist just like that: still, touching, one. Alone in the carpark, an entire conference going on in the building behind them. The bold, bright lights of billboards from the city surround them, grounding them. They are so small here, just two people with one glaring emotional wall between them.

“I’m ruining your life,” Jotaro whispers.

Though sincere, it comes from out of nowhere. He’s slurring already.

To his side, Kakyoin begins to laugh. When Jotaro looks over at his boyfriend, puzzled, he notices that he’s wiping away tears.

“Barely,” Kakyoin promises, giving Jotaro a comforting squeeze. One stray tear is running down the side of his nose. “Just a pain in the ass.”

Jotaro appreciates the effort to find humour in this, because it’s quite the fucking challenge. Finally, Kakyoin is realising that there’s nothing he can do. It’s cathartic.

Jotaro rubs away Kakyoin’s one lonely tear.

“Pfft,” he exasperates, pressing their foreheads together. “You can punch me in the face if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Oh, I’m tempted,” Kakyoin remarks dryly. He cups Jotaro’s chin, and sighs. “Please, share your burden with me. I’m not working against you.”

The Jack Daniels is slippery now, in Jotaro’s sweaty grasp. He’s shaking, but not because he’s drunk, or traumatised, or paranoid.

“You don’t want that,” Jotaro mumbles. “You don’t want my burdens.”

“I do.”

Silence, again. Jotaro doesn’t know how to respond to that, whether it’s selfish or not to even accept that offer in the first place. If he had his own way, he’d shove Kakyoin away in a box to save him.

Jotaro turns the bottle around in his hands. It feels surreal, downright illegal to unscrew the lid right in front of Kakyoin. Doing the unthinkable. He lifts the bottle to his lips, then hesitates.

“You’re just gonna watch?”

Kakyoin shrugs.

“What else am I supposed to do? Whack it out of your hand? Beg you? Scream? Drink it myself?”

He’s right. He’s so annoyingly, always right.

But this is too depressing to bear, now. Jotaro won’t bring himself to this level. He can’t.

“No,” he suddenly slurs, to himself. Jotaro screws the lid back on, “No. For fucks’ sake. I’m not doing this. Not to you.”

Jotaro clumsily stands up.

“Stay there,” he tells Kakyoin. He takes a few steps forward, right in the middle of an empty parking bay, white lines drawn into the tarmac by his feet. “This is the last time,” he rambles, swaying a little, “This is the last time. Ever.”

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin protests, sat in place with his arms wrapped around his knees, “You don’t have to promise that-”

But Jotaro doesn’t care. This is it.

He admires the brown golden liquid one last time, enjoys the taste of it on his tongue. Silently, he says a goodbye, poetic and solemn.

Jotaro kisses the bottle. He holds it up to the moonlight.

Then, he hurls it at the tarmac.

Glass shatters, whiskey soaks into a puddle. Jotaro is breathing heavy, but Dio is nowhere to be seen. Kakyoin’s eyes are wide in shock, but if Jotaro didn’t know any better, he’d say there’s a hint of pride in there too, somewhere.

“That’s it,” Jotaro pants, slicking his hair back, “Never, ever, again.”

Everything settles, the drama of this performance dialling down. Kakyoin gets to his feet and comes over to wrap his arms around Jotaro’s middle, pulling him in for a hug. There’s no exasperated backtracking, no pity. It’s quite nice.

“You better clean up that glass,” Kakyoin attempts as a sarcastic joke, but he’s emotionally blubbering through happy tears, his wet face squashed into Jotaro’s chest and dampening his shirt.

The quietest “Good grief” escapes Jotaro’s lips, barely there.

If this were any other situation…well, Jotaro supposes it could be considered romantic.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile

Dessert is being passed around. The hall is back to chattering, the talks and speeches now long over. Dimmed lights and evening warmth saturate the masses of people conversing around tables, enjoying each other’s company under the breeze of live jazz music.

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Holly worries, furrowing her brows and checking her father’s watch again, “Don’t you think someone should go and check on-”

“Holly dear,” Suzie sighs, placing her hand over her daughter’s own, “For the millionth time, I’m sure Jotaro is okay. If something was seriously wrong, Noriaki would have come back to tell us.”

Joseph pauses from chewing cheesecake.

“I don’t know about that,” he ponders, glancing over at the others on the table, “Neither of them are exactly the ‘ask for help’ type.”

No one wants to say the word. No one has even dared touch the subject, and it’s beginning to make the air feel hot and uncomfortable. They’ve all talked about in their own little bubbles, in the privacy of their own homes…so why can’t someone just spit it out?

Josuke and Okuyasu give each other a nervous side-eye. Polnareff coughs. Joseph sniffles into a tissue.

“I mean…it’s a difficult situation, isn’t it?” Avdol begins, taking things into his own hands as usual. His ring-clad fingers grip his third half-empty pint of beer, “We were all sat here drinking. Right in front of him…” he pauses, looking around, “I know it isn’t our fault, but that can’t be easy for him.”

“You think it was because of that?” Josuke asks innocently, horrendously and suddenly ashamed.

Avdol rubs his chin.

“I’m not sure. No, it can’t have been just that.”

“There’s no way. Jotaro is the toughest guy I’ve ever known,” Polnareff interjects, putting down his spoon, “I’ve never seen him show himself like that.” He turns to Avdol, “Ever. Right?”

“He’s not always been that way,” Holly whispers, looking down at the table, “But you are right. Since he turned 16 or so, he’s been a wall.”

In agreement, Joseph nods. Avdol suddenly remembers something, his large brown eyes widening slightly.

“There was one time,” he announces quietly, looking at his husband for backup and freshly regretting saying anything at all.

The image is burned deep into Avdol’s memory: a teenage Jotaro fresh out of a victory with Dio, stood in front of him and Polnareff soaked in blood and shaking in a shredded school uniform, asking where Kakyoin was over and over until his hoarse tear-soaked throat couldn’t talk.

“Oh,” Polnareff sighs, “Yeah. Right. That.”

“You mean when Noriaki almost died?” Joseph interrupts brashly, swallowing food. There’s a little wave of silence. “Oh, the boy was a bloody wreck after that. Understandably.” He pierces a ball of melon with his fork.

For most of this exchange, Okuyasu has been forcing himself to stay quiet and eat his ice-cream in peace. He doesn’t know if this is his place to talk, or if he even has a right to talk about Jotaro in front of his family and closest old friends. No one would care what he thinks, he’s just Josuke’s idiot punk boyfriend, Jotaro’s ex-supplier, after all.

But…

“I think this place ain’t good for him,” Okuyasu blurts out, instantly feeling embarrassed when all attention turns to him.

“What do you mean, honey?” Holly asks, leaning forward curiously.

Okuyasu struggles to look her in the eye. After everything he caused her son to go through (even though it isn’t his fault…Josuke keeps telling him it isn’t his fault…) he feels like he has no place to be advising anyone.

“Well…” Okuyasu freezes, stumbling. He should have just kept his fucking mouth closed, damn it. “He’s still recoverin’. It’s not just the alcohol, it’s uh…all the emotional shit, too. Bein’ here where he feels responsibility, y’know havin’ to speak and all that, probably stressed him out.”

“The kid’s right,” Avdol joins in, “It can’t be easy knowing you’re the resident liability addict of the table-” he backtracks, “Not that he is, of course, but I’m sure he feels that way. This isn’t a good time for him to be loaded with responsibilities.”

Under the table, Josuke squeezes Okuyasu’s hand reassuringly. Holly nods, understanding slowly. Polnareff can’t stop his fingers from drumming on his knee.

“That’s all true,” Polnareff says, “But it still doesn’t explain what the hell just happened. He was actually passing out.”

“Maybe he’s got stage fright,” Joseph chuckles, snorting. Suzie gives him a death glare, and he mumbles an apology.

“Withdrawal headache?” Holly adds, “Noriaki told me he gets those sometimes.”

Polnareff tugs on Avdol’s sleeve.

“Perhaps,” he says, unconvinced. “Give it ten more minutes. If we don’t hear anything, we’ll go look for them.”

It’s agreed. Soon enough, the adults begin a new topic of conversation, bored of conspiring Jotaro’s behaviour already. Glasses clink as they carry on drinking and eating.

Okuyasu can’t move. He stares blankly at the bite of pudding left on his plate, his spoon clenched still in his hand until Josuke notices and discreetly rubs his boyfriend’s thigh under the table.

“Yasu?” he whispers, “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, dude.”

Something isn’t right. Though Okuyasu can’t put one finger on what exactly that thing is, it’s there, a gut feeling so strong that concern is visibly showing now on his face.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, eyes shifting in concentration, then flickering to Josuke’s pretty leant-in face, “I’m worryin’.”

“About Jotaro?”

Okuyasu nods, glancing around paranoid in case anyone else is watching him. What if he really is being stupid right now? Surely, he can’t be thinking that…

--------------

“Dieu merci, they’re not dead, Mo! I found ‘em.”

“Are we interrupting something?” Avdol teases with his arms crossed, coughing. Polnareff clasps a hand over his mouth to hide a giggle.

Jotaro and Kakyoin haven’t moved, still glued in this congratulatory embrace in the centre of the carpark. At the sudden intrusion, they let go of each other like two bashful teenagers, shuffling about awkwardly on the spot. Some things never change. It’s like they’ve been transported back to 1989 and they’ve been caught cuddling in their hotel room again.

“No,” Jotaro grumbles, not helping.

Kakyoin is rubbing his cheeks, frustratedly stringing words together.

“No,” he mirrors, “Jotaro just needed air.”

“Yeah,” Jotaro croaks, “I needed air.”

Stifled laughter comes from the older couple. If this were anyone else, it’d be utterly mortifying. Jotaro digs his shoe into the tarmac, urging Star Platinum to rid of the broken bottle glass from earlier in a nearby trashcan immediately, before anyone’s beady eyes notice.

“Right,” Polnareff grins, “So are you two gonna tell us what’s going on? Or did Jotaro just have stage fright after all?”

Avdol elbows him.

“Ow,” Polnareff whines, “What?”

“For god’s sake Jean,” Avdol sighs, turning his attention to Jotaro and Kakyoin. His eyes study them both with eager, kind curiosity. “Is everything okay? That was quite the episode you had out there, Jotaro. We’re all worried, hence the two-man search party.”

Jotaro and Kakyoin share a look. Is the secret as good as out now? Jotaro weighs up what to do, exhausted at even the thought of having to conjure up some stupid hole of a lie.

“It’s…it’s a long story.” Jotaro admits, sticking his hands in his pockets. If he’s slurring right now, he hopes to God no one picks up on it. “Too much for here. If you really want to know the whole shitshow, come back to our hotel after this and we can have a proper catch up with some cigs on the balcony.”

Whether that was the ‘right’ thing to do now doesn’t matter, because when he looks to his boyfriend for approval, all he sees is Kakyoin is glowing with pride.

Polnareff slaps Jotaro on the back.

“Very well then,” he gleams, “That’s an offer I can’t refuse. I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve had to endure your insufferable company-” he pauses, “Not you, Noriaki.”

“Flattered,” Kakyoin smiles, hands on his hips.

Jotaro rolls his eyes in amusement, his jaw untensing. There isn’t anything to lose from sharing the last confusing month of his life with two other pairs of trusted ears. This is okay, now… talking. This is what he’s supposed to be doing. Doctor Takaya would be punching the air right now.

Besides, fainting from ‘stage fright’ is far more embarrassing than the fucked-up truth, somehow. Jotaro needs that rumour squashed for good.

“Sounds like a plan!” Avdol chuckles, “So…are you planning on showing your face back in there?” he jerks his head towards the hall, “Most people have left the tables now. Everyone’s just stood about.”

“Ironically, most people will be too drunk to notice you,” Polnareff laughs, emphatically slapping Jotaro’s back again and almost choking him in the process, “Including myself. Oh, and your grandpa. The old fart is off his rocker right now.”

“Fine,” Jotaro smirks, “Guess I can’t disgrace myself any more.”

He takes Kakyoin’s hand. Together, the four of them begin to walk back into the building, sticking together in a light-hearted little bubble. The night is shut out behind, and the hallway gleams in a dim hue around them. It feels like they’ve entered a time capsule: just four crusaders travelling down the stuffy corridor of a hotel room, or a tunnel under Egyptian cliffs.

“For the record,” Kakyoin teases, puffing out his chest, “Jotaro definitely had a little bit of stage fright.”

Polnareff and Avdol burst into laughter.

Jotaro pouts, his eyebrows scrunching up. Yeah…things are sure back to normal.

“Good grief. Fuck all of you.”

-----------

“JoJo!”

Holly runs through the crowd, practically leaping to throw her arms around her son. Jotaro’s initial reaction is to flinch and groan, but he remembers what he probably looked like the last time she saw him and then forces himself to be a little more empathetic.

“Good grief,” he mutters, patting Holly on the head like she’s an overly excited puppy. He minds the fact that her hair is all intricately done-up. “Hey. I’m fine.”

There’s sniggering behind him. Curse his damn friend group and their memories of him cussing his mother out.

“What in the world happened?” Holly gasps, letting go and adjusting her dress. She looks up at Jotaro with impatient worried eyes.

“Can we talk about it some other time?” Jotaro mutters under his breath, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah of course honey,” she smiles, comforting him, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s alright.”

Then, Kakyoin strategically interrupts, already taking Holly’s attention away from the situation. No matter when or where it is, it’s almost a given that Holly will choose Kakyoin’s company over anyone else. What a damn mind-reader. How can he know that Jotaro needs space just by the aura of one conversation alone?

“Where’s everyone else gone?” Kakyoin asks her, placing a hand on her arm and turning her around. “Did I miss much?”

Holly glows, enthusiastically engaging with Kakyoin immediately.

“Oh, not much honey! I actually just met someone you used to work with…I think his name began with a M…”

“Hmmm, really?” Kakyoin begins to walk off with her, winking at Jotaro as he does so, “That’s cool. What did you talk about?”

Jotaro takes some space to breathe, so thankful for his boyfriend’s clever tactics. He cannot be dealing with Holly right now. It’s all too sensitive, too fresh. She doesn’t even know he’s in therapy.

He plans on telling her. Just not now.

“Some things never change, do they?” Avdol says as he, Jotaro and Polnareff stay tucked together in a little close circle, “Your boyfriend’s still a crafty little shit.”

“Yeah,” Jotaro agrees, watching Kakyoin’s back get further away from him, madly in love and already missing him, “He is, isn’t he?”

Polnareff flicks some dust off his suit. He runs his hand over his short hair, flickering his gaze between Jotaro and Kakyoin’s far direction.

“Look at that face,” he teases, pointing at Jotaro’s awful soppy expression and then winking at Avdol, “Il est amoureux! (He’s in love!)”

“Laisse-le tranquille! (Leave him alone)” Avdol laughs, tutting and telling Polnareff off.

Jotaro rolls his eyes, leaving whatever cheeky French whispering is going on untranslated.

“Guys! Hey, guys, there you are!” Josuke calls out, coming up to the three of them and joining the group. “Ah, they found you,” he smiles at Jotaro and waves politely, “You feelin’ okay? You looked totally totally rough earlier, no offence.”

Grateful for the change of conversation and frankly unfazed by the slight insult, Jotaro removes his eyes from his shoes and stands with a much better posture. He notices that Josuke has come over alone.

“Yeah, I’m fine now,” Jotaro replies, looking around, “No Okuyasu?”

“You’ll never guess what happened,” Josuke lights up, addressing all three of them now, “Some big fancy manager at the supernatural department came and told Dad that they’re really interested in using ‘The Hand’ for research. Yasu’s stand ability is like, a big deal to them all, apparently. They’re all talking back there still-”

Josuke points lazily behind him. Low and behold, right by the wall on the far side of the hall two suited men are sat on a now-empty table with Okuyasu, deep in intense conversation. Joseph is there too, his hand on Okuyasu’s shoulder, no doubt bigging him up and vouching for him.

“Really? That’s co cool!” Polnareff exclaims.

“I wonder what they want to know,” Jotaro ponders, “It is a terrifying Stand, I’ll give them that.”

“What’s his ability?” Avdol rushes, now highly excited and curious. When it comes to new Stands, no one quite gets the same childish wonder that Avdol does, still after all these years. “What did you say it was called again, ‘The Hand?’”

Jotaro can’t help but smile. He never thought so many parts of his life would ever be overlapping like this.

“Yeah,” Jotaro explains, “Anything it’s right palm touches when it swipes is erased. Even Okuyasu states that he doesn’t know where the voided objects go. He can erase space too. It’s fucking lethal. Scared me the first time I saw it.”

“My God,” Avdol marvels, shivering, “I was almost killed by a Stand really similar to that, once,” he tells Josuke, “This guy called Vanilla Ice.”

“Ugh, what a weirdo he was,” Polnareff sticks out his tongue. “The bastard had Avdol six feet under until I saved the day,” he grins, gloating and rubbing his chin.

Avdol rolls his eyes. Jotaro zones out and ignores the flood of memories from that day (even though he wasn’t there, he’s certain at this point he was playing stupid video games with that younger piece of shit D’arby brother, also a weirdo) and instead begins to look around for Kakyoin, though he’s nowhere to be seen in the crowd. He’s most likely with Holly and Suzie somewhere.

Jotaro wants to throw a strop. He wishes he had his boyfriend to himself.

As Avdol and Polnareff exchange stories with Josuke, Jotaro spaces out. He doesn’t want to look rude but he can’t resist checking his watch. 10:58PM. Can’t be much longer until he can head back and actually unwind far away from this traumatizing hall.

Soon enough, he’ll be under no scrutiny, under no watchful eyes. But until then, he’ll stand here and stick the rest of this stupid night out.

-----------------

Two hours later

Up on the balcony of this hotel room, the night skyline of Tokyo glows in all its multi-coloured glory. It’s even nicer when it’s being accompanied by the sound of familiar laughter and faint music coming from the bar downstairs.

There’s a small table squeezed out here, with four chairs squashed around it. It’s gone far past midnight, but time doesn’t feel like it matters right now. What matters are the four best friends who have been enjoying the peace of each other’s company, truly alone, guards down.

Hands behind his head, Jotaro leans back in his chair. He’s abandoned his jacket and is here with his dress shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned, tie loose around his neck. Free. A cigarette hangs between his teeth.

Well, the secret’s out.

Avdol knew all about PTSD. He didn’t seem all too surprised, if Jotaro is being honest. He gave him some solid advice, congratulated him on taking action. Polnareff needed a second to understand what this had to do with his fainting but once it all clicked, he was very supportive and came over to give him a (drunk) hug in solidarity.

Kakyoin did a lot of the talking when Jotaro couldn’t, when there were parts of his condition that were still too sore to say aloud. There were quite a lot of questions but none they couldn’t answer. Jotaro told them about therapy, too. He happily admitted that it’s helping. Everyone else listened intently, nodding along to this ‘new’ Jotaro like they’ve just witnessed something bloom.

Right now, the other three are telling him about the calls they made whilst he was in hospital.

“I’m not gonna lie,” Polnareff raising his eyebrows, puffing out cigarette smoke and batting it away with his hand, “When I first found out how upset Noriaki was, I was ready to fly over to this country and punch you in the jaw.”

“Fair enough,” Jotaro says, wincing a little at the memories of cold arguments, snapping voices, tears and hospital rooms. “Yeah, that’s justified.”

“I wasn’t that bad over the phone…” Kakyoin mumbles, a little red in the face. He daintily sips at a glass of water.

When there’s no response, he furrows his eyebrows, mortified.

“…Oh God…was I?”

Avdol gives him a reassuring smile across the table.

“I think your reaction was completely understandable, Noriaki,” he says calmly, “Trust me, had I been in your shoes I would have lost it-” he puts his hands up and looks over at Jotaro, “No offence.”

“None taken,” Jotaro answers, too busy enjoying his cigarette right now to get wound up.

The sound of glass quietly taps the table as Kakyoin places his water down.

“It was a rough couple of weeks,” he sighs, stroking Jotaro’s arm, “What a misunderstanding. All could have been saved if you just opened your mouth,” he pinches Jotaro’s cheek.

“I’m not very good at that,” Jotaro mutters, somewhat shyly, cigarette stuck between his teeth as he talks.

There’s laughter from the other side of the table. Jotaro feels alive. Though he’s the centre of attention and his wounds are open for everyone to discuss, it’s weirdly comforting. The cool air is gracing his sweaty skin, this cigarette feels amazing, and he’s gently coming down from his (last) whiskey. It’s like he’s out of his own body.

“You’re getting much better at it, though,” Kakyoin grins, now lying with his arms folded on the table and his head leant rested down on them. His slightly messy hair flies about in the breeze. He’s tired, really tired, Jotaro can just tell. The thought of getting into bed with him soon is like a heavenly dream.

Jotaro takes his cigarette out of his mouth and leans over to give Kakyoin a kiss on the cheek. There are some teasing French whispers being passed around on the other side of the table, but Jotaro doesn’t mind at all.

He looks up and laughs with his friends. Kakyoin bashfully closes his eyes. Jotaro takes a mental picture of it.

All in all…not a bad night.

Chapter Text

The following week

Morioh feels like a tropical resort, today. The pleasant weather is bright and saturated, the heat is a perfect level between stifling and therapeutic, and the busy atmosphere is bringing Jotaro great perspective.

He realises how much he takes the warmth for granted. Though he loves his turtlenecks and hot drinks, it feels so lovely to be sat here basking in the sun in a light short sleeved button-up, glistening with sunscreen, drinking an ice-cold lemonade.

This outdoor area of this café is like a familiar friend. Situated right in the centre of Morioh, this is exactly where so many meetings and discussions happened last year during the entire Kira situation. It holds memories of old times and new faces, and they have the best coffee for miles.

Kakyoin is sat opposite him, lazily checking his phone. There’s a table of women across the way that keep staring at him wistfully, and even though Jotaro can’t blame them because Kakyoin does look beautiful today, he feels the overwhelming protective need to send them a death glare every few minutes.

In this moment of tranquillity, Jotaro sits and admires Kakyoin all to himself, pulling down his sunglasses just to see him clearer. He’s dressed in all white, his shirt is mostly unbuttoned, his hair is down but held at the back with a large clip, his freckles are even more prominent, he’s slightly tanned…

“Can I have that?” Kakyoin suddenly blurts out, ripping apart this dreamy illusion with his general weirdness. He’s putting his phone away and pointing at the cherry in Jotaro’s lemonade.

“No way,” Jotaro smirks, scooting the drink away from his boyfriend, “You’re not doing that gross shit in public.”

Dramatically sighing, Kakyoin laughs and rolls his eyes. His own iced tea came with a slice of lemon, thank God. Jotaro won’t subject the rest of Morioh to Kakyoin’s traumatizing party trick.

“Pleeeeease?” Kakyoin says, leaning over the table on his elbows and smiling. As usual in this type of weather, he’s a little sunburnt across his cheeks.

Jotaro places his hand over the top of his drink, dying on this hill.

“No,” he teases. “Keep your tongue in your mouth, freak.”

Defeated, Kakyoin pouts and scrunches up his face. It’s adorable.

Just to rub it in even more, Jotaro picks the cherry out with his fingers, takes it off the cocktail stick, and eats it right in front of Kakyoin. All smug, he chews it and swallows while his boyfriend stews in playful anger.

“Asshole,” Kakyoin smiles. He fiddles with his hair and tucks it behind his ear. “Don’t pretend you weren’t totally into it when I first showed you.”

“Trust me,” Jotaro says, washing his drink down, “I was not.”

“Not even a little impressed?”

The memory comes flooding back. That train to India. That fucking last cherry on Jotaro’s plate. Back in that short period of their lives where they were just friends.

“Maybe a little,” Jotaro mumbles, smirking. He pulls his sunglasses back down over his eyes. “If we were alone on that train, I would’ve put that tongue to good use.”

“Oh my God!” Kakyoin snorts, laughing and kicking Jotaro under the table, “Gross!”

This is bliss. This is where they’re meant to be. Jotaro hasn’t smiled this much in a long time and he forgot how it feels when it makes your face ache.

All of a sudden, Kakyoin is distracted by something. Jotaro turns his head a little and out of the corner of his eye he spots Tomoko walking past them on the street. When Kakyoin gives her a little wave she comes right over, heeled boots clacking on the stone floor. She’s chugging from a bottle of water and stuffing a wrapper in her handbag.

“Heya boys,” she smiles, sliding her huge glam sunglasses onto the top of her head. Kakyoin brings her in for a hug as they exchange excited hellos.

“You’re looking well,” she then says to Jotaro, nudging him on the arm.

The insinuation that there was once a time where he didn’t look well doesn’t feel great, but he lets it slide.

“Thanks. How’s things?”

She screws the lid on her water bottle, “Oh you know,” she tuts, “Same old same old. Exciting news about Okuyasu though isn’t it? Josuke’s been harping on about moving to Tokyo with him all week, I’m seriously worried he’s gonna drop out of college.”

Kakyoin stifles a laugh. He exchanges a very slight knowing look across the table with Jotaro. They’re both thinking the same thing: Oh, Josuke is one hundred percent going to drop out, but they’ll keep Tomoko thinking wishfully.

“It’s so unexpected,” Kakyoin replies, “But it’s no wonder the foundation are so interested in his Stand. It’ll be an amazing opportunity for him.”

Jotaro nods, not really having much to input. He’s really proud of the kid. Okuyasu deserves this big break more than anyone after everything he’s been through.

“Oh, I’m really proud of him. Feels like he’s my own child these days with the amount of time he spends over at our place,” Tomoko fans herself with her hand, “God it’s hot, isn’t it? You two have the right idea spending the day out here. I’ve gotta get home and start dinner.”

“Josuke’s back at college I assume?” Kakyoin asks, finishing the last of his iced tea.

“Not today, he’s out with Okuyasu,” she giggles, applying some lip balm, “Probably on some loved-up date, I think they wanted to go shopping in S-City.”

Freezing up at the same time, Jotaro and Kakyoin immediately look at each other with shocked expressions. Slowly, their heads turn to Tomoko.

“Wait,” Jotaro points out, unable to hide his surprise, “You know?”

Countless times Josuke has insisted that his mother has no idea about his relationship, to the point where’s he’s been worrying about telling her. It’s become such a constant topic of conversation that Jotaro and Kakyoin are left speechless at the possibility this isn’t true.

“As of two days ago,” Tomoko grins, “Oh don’t get me wrong I’ve always known he’s gay, I’m not stupid. I mean…have you seen his bedroom? I’ve lost count of how many shirtless Prince posters there are, you can’t even see the bloody walls. I just thought I’d hold back saying anything until he was ready to talk to me himself, y’know?”

“Awwww,” Kakyoin says, “So he came to tell you?”

“Yeah,” Tomoko nods, getting sentimental, “We had a long talk. I’m really glad I waited,” she turns to Jotaro, “I’m sure Holly was the same with you.”

Jotaro goes a little red, but it’s definitely just the sun and not the fact that he now has to remember the first time he had to have a very long awkward overdue conversation about his dating preferences with his mother.

“Not exactly,” Jotaro admits, wanting to slide down his chair, “I thought the first time she knew was the day I bought Nori home. Turns out she’d found a pile of playgirl mags under my bed two years before that.”

Though Kakyoin’s heard that story plenty of times before, he sniggers loudly into his hand. Tomoko gasps and gets the giggles all over again.

“Oh my God,” she teases, “You poor thing. That’s traumatizing.”

“Yeah,” Jotaro finds it in himself to let out a despairing laugh, “It was. Still is.”

As he tries to shake off the memory, Kakyoin and Tomoko delve into a conversation about their pilates class next week. Jotaro is content watching, listening, admiring. Life goes on. He can sit here with a normal drink in his hand and enjoy the day. Small victories, he supposes.

He’s temporarily distracted by his mobile buzzing in the pocket of his trousers. Jotaro pulls it out and flips it open to see three texts waiting there for him.

Okuyasu: Wassup
Okuyasu: Can I talk to u about summin? Not bad I promise
Okuyasu: I’m on late shift tonight. Come to the shop

Immediate questions circle in Jotaro’s head, but he doesn’t worry about it. If it’s not bad news, then it doesn’t seem like something too serious. He agrees, knowing it’ll be nice to have an excuse to catch up with him one-on-one before he starts his big fancy job.

J: Sure. I’ll come by after 9

----------------------

At 9:34PM, Jotaro swings the door open to the off-licence for the first time since he’s been sober.

Gone is the itchy feeling he used to get seeing the lit-up sign and the promise of booze. Now, he walks in calm, relaxing himself with a cigarette.

“Hey,” he says, heading up to where Okuyasu is slumped over the counter with his hood pulled up.

“Yo!” Okuyasu straightens up, energized at the sight of another human being. He turns down the loud rap music he’s got playing on an old CD player in the back. “All good man?”

Jotaro exhales and puffs out smoke.

“Yeah, actually. You?”

“Bored. But I’ve only got two weeks left here, so I ain’t complain’.”

The thought of Okuyasu being up in some fancy office amuses Jotaro no end. He makes himself comfortable and leans on the counter.

“How many days are you spending up in HQ?” Jotaro asks, helping himself to a packet of potato chips, “I will pay for these,” he adds, cracking it open.

“Wouldn’t give a shit if you didn’t,” Okuyasu grins, “But yeah I’m spendin’ two days a week up there, stayin’ over and all paid for. Crazy, right?”

Busy shoving chips into his mouth, Jotaro nods.

“I wonder if you’ll be working with anyone that Nori used to work with there,” he suggests, swallowing, “Granted he left years ago, but I’m sure some of the same people will still be there.”

“I dunno. I ain’t usin’ my brain like he probably was. I’m just using The Hand to experiment.”

Jotaro laughs under his breath. He pauses from eating and looks over his shoulder, then back at the counter.

“So what was it you wanted to talk about?” he asks, getting right to it. If he’s being brutally honest, the suspense has been bothering him all day.

Okuyasu reaches over and steals some chips from Jotaro’s open bag.

“I don’t wanna sound rude,” the teen begins, “But I heard you’re in therapy, yeah?”

This sudden shift in conversation throws Jotaro off, but he’s more used to talking about it now and he manages to calm himself down. He nods slowly.

“Yeah, that’s right. Been going for a couple months now.” He pauses, “Why?”

Okuyasu leans in. There’s something almost desperate and curious in his eyes.

“Dude, I know there’s something wrong with you, and I ain’t talkin’ about no alcoholic shit,” he blinks, “No offense. I’m bein’ serious.”

Jotaro almost chokes at the abrupt nature of the question.

“I have PTSD,” he mumbles, unable to take his eyes off the tip off the cigarette he’s holding, “Post traumatic stress. It’s a disorder.”

There’s a little moment of contemplative silence from Okuyasu, until he smiles and starts nodding to himself.

“Yeah…” he coughs, “See, I thought I recognised it. That shit is for sure what my big bro had. I never had a name to put on it but you and him did similar things sometimes. I seen him do that spaced out shit you do, and that one time you stood in here and shouted at nothin’. Reminded me of Keicho, it did,” he sighs, “Sorry if this is weird, I just-”

“No,” Jotaro rushes, looking up at him, “No, it’s not weird. That’s…actually nice. Makes me feel less like a freak.”

Okuyasu smiles, a big wide smile that almost hides the hurt on his face.

“Thanks,” he says, staring into space, “Sorry, I’m pretty high right now.”

Jotaro frowns like a disapproving father.

“I thought you were quitting?”

Okuyasu laughs and pats him on the shoulder.

“Hard stuff? Sure. But an odd joint never hurt no one, did it?”

Jotaro sighs, shaking his head. Protection mode off, he relaxes his shoulders and takes another drag of his cigarette.

“Good grief. Oh, by the way,” he adds, fanning away smoke, “I ordered the motorcycle.”

Okuyasu’s eyes go wide with excitement.

“The blue one?” he yells, almost staggering backwards, “Fuckin’ hell Jotaro, that one was one million yen! I- uh, I mean thanks so much, obviously, but I-”

“Don’t, seriously,” Jotaro shrugs, “I would’ve bought you ten million yen motorcycles if those models came in that blue you wanted. It’ll take you to Tokyo and back in no time,” he smiles, “You’ll be the flashiest most obnoxious-looking commuter on the highway.”

Okuyasu snorts with laughter, ripping open a chocolate bar under the counter.

“Obnoxious is kinda my thing,” he adds, taking a huge bite and talking between chews, “Man, I can’t wait to park that beauty in the SPW carpark,” his animated grin fades a little, “Nah, but I mean it, dude…thanks.”

“It’s the least I could do.” Jotaro swallows down what he plans on saying next, fearful of coming across too pitying.

He’s right about to leave, already stepping back and turning half-away. Suddenly, he then remembers what Doctor Takaya said to him once about sharing his real thoughts and ignoring fears of ruining his self-image. He changes his mind.

“Okuyasu. I hope I don’t sound patronising, but we all know you’re struggling, me more than anyone. I notice it. You need to open up about your parents, your brother. The drugs.” He pauses, mindful of making his voice softer, “Do you talk to Josuke about it?”

Gobsmacked, bashful, and clearly shaken, Okuyasu stops everything. He is simply staring ahead at him, he looks like a deer in the headlights.

“Uh, kinda,” he gets out eventually, rough and quiet. “Kinda. I just…” he averts his gaze, “I can’t ever get the words to work. I ain’t good with words, everythin’ I say sounds dumb, and by that point I just give up. I dunno, I don’t like makin’ Josuke upset, y’know? It’s heavy shit. I don’t wanna be talkin’ to him about me bein’ abused when we’re just tryna chill. I’d rather hide it from him.”

“Look where hiding got me,” Jotaro says, sighing. “I understand, I do. But take it from an old fuck like me: it isn’t worth it. Tell him.” He stops to smoke. “The sooner, the better.”

Through cigarette smoke, he sees Okuyasu smiling.

“Alright, dude. I will.”

-----------------------

These blue-painted walls are becoming too familiar, the bright pastel aura of this room is now deeply associated with the routine of Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Jotaro is certain that he could list every single thing in this office: the exact shade of the therapy couch, the oak drawer by the doctor’s desk, the cinnamon scented candle situated on top of it.

Right now, Doctor Takaya is reading an essential page from Jotaro’s private notebook, scanning it over a couple of times behind the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses. Jotaro watches, unable to look away as though he’s goggling at a car crash. Why won’t he hurry up and say something? It took a lot of courage for Jotaro to share the damn thing in the first place. Since filling it out at Holly’s for the first time, he’s been hiding it away.

“Most of these bullet points have been crossed off,” the doctor finally comments, easing them back into conversation. He places the book down on his desk and slides it back over to its owner. “I see that ‘Learn how to cook’ is still blank?”

Jotaro snorts.

“I’m working on it.”

Chuckling to himself, Doctor Takaya checks the clock on the wall and then settles on a reassuring smile. Four minutes left, Jotaro works out. His limited capacity for quick mental maths has gotten significantly better during these sessions from constantly stressing about fitting his worries into one single hour.

“Seeing this infamous ‘list’ in person is quite remarkable, really. You have outdone yourself this week, I see.”

Struggling to take the compliment, Jotaro hides his hands in his trouser pockets and nods.

“Thanks.”

“Was there anything you wanted to mention before our time runs out today?” the doctor asks, his lulling voice comforting and thoughtful in amongst all these new feelings of success and change.

Almost immediately, the answer finds itself stuck.

“I…” Jotaro deepens a scowl, sinking into deep thought, “I…no. I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” Doctor Takaya proceeds, looking at him with doubt, “You hesitated a little bit, there.”

Confirming his decision with a shake of his head, Jotaro doubles down.

“That’s all.”

“Well then,” Doctor Takaya smiles encouragingly, putting down his pen. “I suppose we’re alright to bring this to an end for the day. I do feel the need to point out that this is indeed our first session where alcohol hasn’t been bought up at all. What do you make of that?”

Jotaro hadn’t even noticed. His eyes widen a little in realisation, positively surprised.

“I guess it hasn’t been on my mind as much,” he shrugs, modest. “Been avoiding situations that make me think about drinking. Not going out in the evenings, setting boundaries with family when we’re at dinner. Boring shit like that.”

Laughing heartily once more, Doctor Takaya rocks back in his armchair and polishes his glasses with the sleeve of his cardigan.

“Sometimes,” he says, “I find with my patients that putting the ‘boring shit’ into place can be the hardest part of recovery.”

“Sure seems that way.”

The amicable silence that follows the closing remark signals that their time has run its course for today, even though there are two minutes to spare. Jotaro can’t wait another two days to get this one lingering concern out of his system, though.

“There was, one thing,” Jotaro interjects. Doctor Takaya is all ears, now. “Last week I saw my old friends…and my grandpa. The other three people who were on the Egypt trip besides Nori and myself. I kept thinking about one thing…” he scrunches up his eyebrows in concentration, “Why was I the only person who got this condition? I know I was the one who fought Dio but everyone else encountered him at some point. We all lost people, and almost lost people too.” He swallows. “So, why me? It made me feel… angry? Confused? And then I felt guilty for feeling angry.”

Doctor Takaya takes a long, long pause. Wise pondering occurs as he hums to himself, thoroughly thinking up a response.

“That is an interesting thought,” he begins. Once he’s had his time, he relaxes back into his chair and smiles. “Humans…we all process things in our own ways. I believe that your post-traumatic stress became apparent due to various factors, Jotaro. First, you were very young when this incident happened, during some of the most fundamental years of your adolescent mental growth. Secondly, you experienced Dio in a completely different way. Unlike most of your peers, you were thrown into a lengthy battle with all the responsibilities of multiple human lives on your shoulders: you thought your friends and grandpa were dead, your mother too. Thirdly, when we did all of your scans during your first medical the part of your brain that stores memory and emotion was noticeably damaged. It seems you are genetically prone.” He takes a second to pause, “Do you know anyone else in your family who may have had mental conditions in the past?”

Jotaro shakes his head.

“No,” he states, “I…no. I don’t really know my dad, so maybe it’s in his family. My Joestar side aren’t like that.”

“While it’s true that you Joestars are a tough bunch,” Doctor Takaya notes, “These things can often be invisible to most. Just think about the lengths you went to in order to hide what you were feeling.”

There’s truth in those words. Jotaro makes a mental note to ask Holly about it over the phone later.

“I’ll have to ask.”

“I’m interested…” the doctor continues, writing something down on his paper, “You mentioned that the thought of being the only person left with PTSD made you feel… angry?”

Jotaro pries his eyes from the safety of the floor. He isn’t sure if he’s meant to feel apologetic right now.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Jotaro swallows, his left hand clenching into a fist, “It’s embarrassing.”

There’s something warbling in his voice, uncertain. It reminds him, shamefully, of his teenagery rants; a remark in the tone he’d use to slam a door in Holly’s face, or snap at a teacher.

“Embarrassing because you aren’t okay,” Doctor Takaya proceeds, “Or embarrassing because it meant you had to ask for help?”

Flinching at that last part, Jotaro squints, puzzled. He’s thrown at being read so easily for once.

“Yes. The last part.”

The friendly, ‘gotcha’ type smile that the doctor sends his way after he admits this hammers it all home. It isn’t anger, not really. Jotaro wouldn’t wish what he went through on anyone, let alone his best group of friends that experienced the journey alongside him. It isn’t resentment. Just jealousy: cold, hard, plain jealousy.

Besides, he’s worked through it now, hasn’t he? Sure, nothing is perfect, he oftens still remembers aspects of the battle and freaks out when he gets an unexpected call from his mother. Sometimes, he stares a little too wistfully at someone else’s beer, or wishes he could be drunk enough to stumble down the street with a clear drifting mind.

But all it takes is one look at his life now, his progress, his happy Noriaki…and he knows he wouldn’t touch that side of himself ever again if it meant risking it all for a second time.

“Well, this has been a rather productive session,” the doctor notes, now busy typing something into his computer, “Well done, Jotaro. I’ll see you on Thursday, 3PM?”

Jotaro’s sofa squeaks as he gets up and stretches out his back.

“Yeah,” he waves as he exits out of the door, pleased with himself. “See you then. Thanks for today.”

“No problem at all. Have a good rest of your afternoon.”

The heavy door clicks shut behind him. Jotaro travels down the hall, hands in his pockets. He whistles under his breath as he passes all the certificates and pictures hung on this floor of the SPW office. His long legs take him down three flights of stairs, then down another hall.

He stops at his usual smoking spot, situated right outside of the entrance, just enough away from where all the fancy businessmen are filtering in and out of the revolving main door.

One day, he supposes, that will have to be him. One day, he secretly dreads, looking up at the huge swanky building that towers over Tokyo… this entire company will belong to him.

But that’s not today’s problem. Jotaro lights up a cigarette and reassures himself that he’ll be able to pass that whole ‘CEO’ responsibility bullshit onto Josuke’s eager shoulders the minute his uncle is old enough to handle it (and when he gets inevitably bored of nursing. Josuke seems to get bored of everything pretty quickly, besides Okuyasu and Prince, of course.)

Between these thoughts, and the repetitive act of smoking his cigarette down to the filter, Jotaro is confronted with a light tap on his shoulder.

He swivels around, jumping in shock and then breathing out in relief when he sees his boyfriend standing there with a coffee in one hand and a jacket slung over his shoulder.

“Good grief, you couldn’t have said something? Maybe ‘Hi’, or ‘Hello?’ Y’know, like a normal person?”

“Dunno,” Kakyoin teases, jangling car keys in his spare hand, “Keep your guard up. I’ve parked down the road,” he smiles, “How was the session-?”

He’s interrupted, swiftly silenced by Jotaro’s hand grabbing the side of his cold face and pulling him in for a tobacco-flavoured kiss. The absolute nature of the PDA throws Kakyoin for a loop, signalled by the confused muffling sound he makes as their mouths press together.

“Good,” Jotaro answers quietly when they finally pull away. He drinks up the bashful glimmer in his lover’s widened eyes. “The session was good.”

“Oh my god,” Kakyoin mumbles, looking away and smiling to himself as the two of them start to walk to the car together, “You can’t just do that to me.”

Jotaro stamps the end of the cigarette with the heel of his boot, crushing ashes into the gravel.

“Keep your guard up,” he mocks, getting revenge and stifling a stupid laugh.

Buildings pass them by, as do cars from the city traffic. Kakyoin rolls his eyes, then begins to giggle as he sips the dregs of his coffee.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

He reaches out his hand.

Jotaro accepts it as the two of them stop at a crossing, waiting for the red light to turn.

Their palms press together, their fingers intertwine. Jotaro forces himself to look up, his eyes squinting at the bright sun that glares over all the skyscrapers, peeking out behind clouds and adorning that glorious blue sky.

The traffic light changes to green.

Hand in hand, winding through people, the two of them navigate the bustling Tokyo afternoon with breezy hearts… and no plans for the rest of their evening.

Chapter Text

Noriaki

“Oh my God!” Tomoko squeals, slamming down on her kitchen table with excitement, “Show me, SHOW ME NOW!”

Kakyoin holds out his hand, bubbling with adrenaline. The two of them have barely been sat here for five minutes, but he couldn’t resist breaking the news for another second. Call him self-absorbed, but this is the first time he’s been able to gloat about anything in years.

It had all been thanks to his hard work, anyway. This new accessory is a product of sacrifice and patience, earned in a way that most people could never begin to understand.

The emerald encrusted ring on his finger gleams, brighter than the bashful pride-ridden smile that uncontrollably spreads across his cheeks.

“It’s gorgeous,” Tomoko gasps, clutching Kakyoin’s slim tattooed wrist as she inspects the gigantic item of jewellery up close. “How did it happen? How did he ask?”

Kakyoin leans forward across the table, minding the half empty cup of matcha by his side. The shock still hasn’t quite worn off. It wasn’t unexpected but it certainly wasn’t expected, either. All the late-night worried friend-therapy sessions with Tomoko about his doubts that Jotaro ever wanted this have all been shoved away.

“Last night,” Kakyoin begins, trying not to get giddy all over again, “We just went on a late night walk by the beach. We do that now sometimes, helps Jotaro sleep,” he grips Tomoko’s hand back, “He just- stopped! And asked me. I was lost for words, I couldn’t believe it.”

“Oh, Nori!” Tomoko gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth in excitement-solidarity and reaching over to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Remember all those conversations we had? Remember how many times you cried over this, you silly man! I told you this would happen if you were patient!”

Nervously laughing, Kakyoin tries to not dwell on those memories too much. It all seems so stupid now, but he’d been lying if he said this hadn’t been keeping him awake for years.

There were so many times he just wanted to bite the bullet himself: buy the damn ring on his own and get down and ask. Jotaro would have hated it…but that’s not what stopped the seed of curiosity from growing in Kakyoin’s mind from concept to reality.

What stopped him was something far darker. Something he never would admit to, not even to Tomoko.

Nothing was stopping Kakyoin from bringing the topic up, but he could just never quite judge what was appropriate. Would Jotaro ever be in the headspace, after all that’s happened, to want something so stifling as marriage? That was the core of the problem, a glaring question that Kakyoin could not answer alone.

Kakyoin even began to cope with the worse potential outcome: that what he and Jotaro have is enough, always has been…they don’t need titles or rings to prove that. Marriage is becoming outdated, anyway. What if Jotaro needed space?

Admitting it to himself was hard, but Kakyoin knew deep down that he yearned to be swept off his feet and unconditionally bound to his person by loyalty, a glue that would magically prevent him from ever feeling the dark loneliness he endured in his childhood ever again.

He couldn’t be the one to ask for that. It would be begging, humiliating, even if he were the only person to think of it that way. What was he supposed to do? Stick a ring in front of his recently sober boyfriend and ask him to make a life altering decision?

No, never. Jotaro had to make that on his own accord, be sure on his own terms, untainted by pressure or expectation. He had to give himself to Kakyoin in all his sincerity. That, that…was the only way Kakyoin knew he could ever be sure that he was safe from being let down.

He’s lived through too much now to feel selfish for simply protecting his peace.

“Josuke is going to freak,” Tomoko blinks, her glittery smile lighting up and her eyelashes fluttering. Then she shouts through the house, over the faint pounding of ‘When Doves Cry’ that’s currently reverberating through the floor upstairs. “JO-SU-KE! COME DOWN!”

Prince is paused mid-way through his penultimate chorus, and quick steps sound as strong legs run down the stairs and to the kitchen.

Josuke peers his head round the door, immediately scrambling to cover his un-done hair with his hands when he panics and realises that it’s not just his mother in the room. His hair is so long when it’s not in its usual pompadour, and surprisingly curly. Josuke is in pyjamas and there’s a green face mask slathered on his nose, cheeks and forehead. Granted, it is Saturday morning.

“Nice fluffy slippers,” Kakyoin teases.

“Oh my God, Mom!” Josuke whines, finding a sense of humour after the initial horror, “You could have given me a warning-!”

Tomoko almost chokes with laughter, batting her son’s dramatics away with a swish of her hand.

“Never mind that prima-donna, look at Noriaki’s finger!”

Feigning modesty, Kakyoin holds up the back of his hand for Josuke to see. Oh, he can get used to this feeling. It’s terrifyingly nice to indulge in something so vapid, for once.

As soon as he catches on, Josuke lets out the loudest gasp ever, instantly forgetting about his hair and appearance.

“Oh. My. God!” he marvels, “Is that Gucci?”

“Chanel,” Kakyoin smiles, adjusting it to catch the light.

Truth is, Kakyoin couldn’t care less what pompous sounding fashion house put this overpriced thing together, but saying the word out loud to Josuke garners a reaction that makes it a million times worth it, purely for entertainment value.

Besides, the mental image of what Jotaro must have looked like buying it: scowling over a flashy shop counter, clueless with his hands in his pockets… it’s so unintentionally comedic that Kakyoin can’t even think about it without accidentally bursting out into laughter. Oh, the things he’d do for that CCTV footage.

Josuke comes to life now, talking a mile a minute as all the contextual clues finally hit him. Seeing him getting all invested reminds Kakyoin about the family he’s marrying into, the web of amazing eccentric people he’s signing off to stick around with for the rest of his life. All shapes of life, all sorts of personalities…kind, loud, brave, loyal. The Joestar package deal is a blessing.

As Josuke drones on, the swell of family couldn’t feel more real.

“Can I be a bridesmaid? Please? Wait- groomsmaid- No, that sounds weird- Can I? I have this totally gorg Dior suit I bought last year for a special occasion and I haven’t worn it yet- it’s pink and white, is that going to go with your theme? What’s the colour scheme? Who’s doing the cake? Is it summer or winter or…”

And Kakyoin couldn’t possibly be happier.

-----------------

Colourful houses are lit up by the mid-afternoon sun as Kakyoin turns down the street about half an hour later, freeing the Higashikata household from endless wedding chat and general antics.

Under his suede shoes, hot tarmac turns to grass. He cuts through the park to get home, minding all the people who are sat out absorbing the sun with their shirt straps pulled down and sunscreen slathered over their faces: couples and families and friends, schoolchildren enjoying their last days before summer vacation, delinquents smoking in groups, parents holding ice-creams for their messy toddlers.

The glare from the heat puts a strain on his eyes, even through his corrective sunglasses. The faint scars over his eyelids have long healed, though he can never be too careful about damaging anything.

As he walks, one tote bag filled with a six-pack of diet coke and magazines swinging under his arm, he thinks back to that stuffy warm hospital in Pakistan where two SPW doctors tested his sight and told him he might be able to re-join the crusaders. He remembers when Jotaro came to visit, along with the rest of the group. He remembers, with a smile on his face, how Jotaro had lingered a little longer with his arms crossed and his hat low, shooing everyone else away so they could get some alone time.

The three-minute stroll back home refreshes Kakyoin’s body like an icy glass of water. He places his life on a mental timeline, getting emotional as he takes in how far away he is now from the boy he once was. That person, that Kakyoin…that snivelling lonely pushover… is almost dead to him now.

Almost.

Kakyoin walks quicker and quicker, spurred on to get in the shade, as lovely as this heat is. His pale complexion burns easily, always has. There was an ounce of truth behind why he always had to ‘borrow’ Jotaro’s gakuran to shelter in when they were trekking across the desert all those years ago. Jotaro tans like a Greek God. He didn’t need it.

Kakyoin can almost smell that gakuran right now. Sweat, cheap teenage cologne, the lingering stench of cigarettes that never washed out of the black fabric. That was the smell of Jotaro, distinctly edging on the line between revolting and yet so attractive at the same time.

Holly threw that gakuran out years ago. It was for the best. That thing was a biohazard.

Fluffy clouds line the sky, breaking up the bright crisp blue. Kakyoin tries not to stare at the sun too much but he just can’t help it.

He passes palm trees, breathes in the salty sea air. Sometimes, Kakyoin finds it hard to look over at the beach, too scared that he’ll be reminded of a Jotaro slumped over the rocks with a bloodied head and a bottle of vodka in his hand.

The thought flitters in his conscious for a short second, his heart forcing itself not to break too much. It had all felt so hopeless. Kakyoin had never felt like more of a joke that night, stumbling over explanations to the ambulance drivers, unable to look them in the eye and tell them why on earth his boyfriend of ten years had been out drunk in the middle of the night.

He pulls his eyes away from the beach. He pulls his tote bag close to his side.

It’s not his fault. It wasn’t his fault.

Hierophant comes out, lingers behind him protectively, then disappears. Kakyoin manages a small smile, a mental hug to himself as he reaches his driveway.

Rushing to the porch, Kakyoin jangles his keys and unlocks the front door to his home. He perches his sunglasses on his head, pushing his hair back from his slightly sweaty forehead. In the hallway, he kicks his shoes off, dumps his bag on the floor, stretches out his sore shoulder, and re-checks his hair in the mirror.

There’s commotion in the kitchen. Kakyoin is already amused as he wanders in and stands in the doorframe, but the sight he gets to spreads his smile even wider.

“Shit- hang on, I’ve got it-”

Jotaro is cursing, crouched down with the oven open, taking a tray out in a fashion so impractical that it’s like a written comedy sketch. He slams the oven door shut with his knee, plonks the tray down on the stove, and finally turns to Kakyoin as he wipes his brow with the back of his arm.

“-Burnt my fucking thumb again,” he mumbles, running a tap and sticking his reddened hand under it.

“What corner of hell have I just walked into here?” Kakyoin teases, jogging around the table and hugging Jotaro at the sink. He squeezes him, tight around the middle. Jotaro’s back is sweaty. It’s kinda hot.

When Jotaro looks down at his fiancé, his entire aura fades into a soft charming glow. He smiles with his teeth, rich and endearing. He doesn’t seem to care about his burn anymore.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Jotaro dismisses, gruff and proud, “I’m acing this recipe.”

Kakyoin peers over to sneak a glance at the tray. He instantly recognises it as Holly’s infamous baked Tonkatsu. So that’s why those two spent so long on the phone earlier.

“Oh yeah, it definitely looks like you’ve got it all under control.”

“Watch it,” Jotaro says, kissing Kakyoin’s forehead gently and then turning the tap off. “Keep up the smart-mouthing and I’ll eat your share, asshole.”

As Jotaro examines his thumb up close, his dark brow furrowed in slight concentration, Kakyoin almost falls to the floor with love. It isn’t the first time he’s blown away by his partner’s beauty and it sure as hell won’t be the last, but today it all feels different.

Leaning back against the marble counter, Kakyoin gets a nice view and absently swoons.

“You look good,” he says into the short silence, confidently enunciated.

Jotaro looks up from his thumb, scowls, then snorts.

“No I don’t.”

But he does.

Jotaro looks different under the influence of sobriety, remarkably so, though not in the way most would think to pick up on. He has neither gained nor lost beauty. It’s not as shallow as that. It’s not even the fact that he’s started remembering to shave again, or that he’s always now slicked with moisturizer.

No, it’s none of that. Kakyoin likes the flecks of grey hair in Jotaro’s dark stubble and the smell of expensive cream but what he finds himself loving deeply are the smile lines that now appear more vividly on the sides of Jotaro’s eyes and the blotches of uneven sun-tan on his face.

The undertone of Jotaro’s skin has bled life back into it, the muted cast of paleness that shadowed him for so long evaporating into a light golden brown again. It makes his scars stand out more, the small delicate pink lines on his cheeks and jaw making their mark on him like an old map.

These days, Jotaro smiles properly, rejecting the strained smirks of his youth and opting for a natural grin that makes him a near spitting image of his grandpa in all those old photos they have seen from him as a youngster. Traces of his heritage shine in his expression, the liveliness of Holly appearing in his cheeks when they redden, the beady all-knowing cheekiness of his grandma in his squint, too.

Jotaro looks up from his thumb again, curiously widening his gaze before he speaks. Only just now has Kakyoin noticed that he’s wearing his little dolphin-shaped earrings that haven’t been touched from the jewellery box in about three years.

“So,” he starts, unable to hold back for much longer, “Go on, what did everyone say?”

“Tomoko cried a little bit,” Kakyoin recounts, fiddling mindlessly with his ring, “Josuke wants to be a bridesmaid.”

Jotaro snorts.

“Good grief. Well, I’m sure that can be arranged, even if we’re missing a bride.”

He turns the oven off, clicking the dial back into place. They leave the food to cool down and head out of the backdoor to step out into the garden with their cans of coke, heading right back into the blazing sunshine.

“Have you spoken to your grandparents yet?” Kakyoin asks as they sit at the patio table, shaded by the huge umbrella in the middle of it. Holly knew about the proposal in advance, Jotaro had very adorably admitted to needing a pep-talk from her.

Jotaro’s hand goes to reach for his pack of cigarettes that are lying on the table, but his fingers only graze the box before retreating back to his pocket.

“Yeah,” he breathes, turning his attention to Kakyoin’s hair, which he is now running his hand through. “Everyone’s so excited. I called Jean too, didn’t realise he was at work- had a whole class of French kindergarten kids cheering at me in the background.”

“Oh my God,” Kakyoin almost chokes on his drink, spluttering with laughter, “Did you tell him that-”

“I’m choosing him to be my best man? Yeah, stupidly. Went to his ego so fast.”

The two of them share a smile, an exchange with no words needed to convey what they’re thinking. This is fun. They’re a hot topic in their inner circle, and as much as neither of them would ever want to admit to liking attention it does feel comforting to be gushed over after everything that had caused a huge great stain to be cast on their relationship.

Kakyoin finds himself examining Jotaro’s small habits more these days, perhaps to a fault. A part of him knows it’s because he worries and cares deeply about preventing his PTSD flare ups. There’s something else, though.

Kakyoin can’t quite put his finger on it. But what he’s gathered so far pleases him.

Jotaro slouches more. Gone are the rigid shoulders and tensed fists hiding away in his pockets. It gives a softer edge to his body, which might be even more so exaggerated by the fact that Jotaro has kinda, kinda stopped working out as of recently. There had been a point, admittedly, where the absolutely taut nature of skin and muscle to his physique had become hollow. Everything has smoothed out a little more now. His stomach kinda squidges when he’s sat. His cheeks aren’t gaunt anymore.

Jotaro never wears his hat, either. This took some adjusting too, but it’s a fucking welcome change. Kakyoin always thought he looked so much better without the damn thing shadowing half of his face, not that he ever really commented on it. Kakyoin had always wondered if it was an insecurity thing, or a security blanket.

He theorises that Doctor Takaya might have had something to do with the ridding of it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jotaro says, arms crossed over his chest, tan skin contrasting with the crisp blue of his half undone button-down. “For the Honeymoon-”

“Okinawa,” they say in unison, Kakyoin absolutely taken aback even though he was the one interrupting. The glorious island is still clearly in the forefront of their minds from their failed trip a couple months back. If Kakyoin recalls correctly, Jotaro had been pining to see some sort of rare jellyfish that’s native to the place. Kakyoin was more spurred on by the prospect of the local cuisine.

“Oh,” Jotaro chuckles, taking his can of coke to his lips, “That was… easy.”

His strong side-profile turns, angled just so perfectly that Kakyoin can admire the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips as he sips his drink. Jotaro still gets shakes when he clutches things; a long-term symptom of withdrawal he knows won’t be going away any time soon. There is still a scar on his forehead from where he hit that rock.

Kakyoin leans over to plant a kiss just below it, right on his temple. His newly embellished hand rests on Jotaro’s chin.

Once, Kakyoin had feared that they had fallen out of sync, unable to restore everything they’d built. Now, that thought seems distant. How could he have ever been so naïve as to consider giving up?

But Kakyoin silently forgives himself. He’s getting better at that, resisting the urge to pile up all blame on his shoulders. No love could fix Jotaro, no piling affection, no begging. Jotaro turned his life around on his own accord, took accountability into his hands, did this all himself.

And Kakyoin couldn’t be prouder.

----------------------------

“JoJo!”

Kakyoin calls out as he knocks on the home office door the following day, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve and balancing a mug in his other fist. The door is propped open with his slipper-clad foot. Taking a mid-afternoon nap was probably not the finest idea, but God, these new medications he’s been prescribed for his spine have started making him drowsy.

The sound of furious typing greets him immediately. Jotaro, as he always is these days, is craned over the keyboard with about twenty journals and books splayed open around him on the very cluttered desk.

When he hears Kakyoin come in, he spins around, wheels of his desk chair skidding on the beige carpet. Jotaro is in his pyjamas, stripey green ones that look like they came straight out of Kakyoin’s 1980’s wardrobe.

“Hey,” Jotaro mumbles, pen clenched between his teeth. It’s 4PM and he looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. He’s smiling, relaxed, noticeably energized by all the material on marine life that he’s been immersing him in for the last eight hours. “Good nap?”

“Decent,” Kakyoin yawns, placing the cup of coffee down on a free placemat. He minds all the post-it notes and papers that have been scrawled on around it, all of them filled with diagrams and notes in Jotaro’s terrible (adorable) handwriting. “Thought you’d need a boost. You should probably get some sunlight, you’re living like a troglodyte in here.”

Jotaro laughs at him, batting him away with his hand.

“Scientist at work here,” he declares sleepily. He outwardly hesitates, but the smell of coffee must be too irresistible because he ends up reaching for it anyway with a very Jotaro-esque, “Thanks.”

“More like psychopath at work,” Kakyoin teases, prodding the huge chart that is blue-tacked above Jotaro’s desk. There’s a map, a cross section of a jellyfish, and about a thousand arrows all pointing and labelling details. There are scribbles, erasings, post-its stuck over bits too. “This looks like you’re plotting a murder.”

Between sips of espresso, Jotaro coughs and corrects him.

“Actually,” he sips again, “I am singlehandedly conserving the population of Nemopilema nomurai. It’s alright,” he grins smugly, “I don’t expect everyone to care so deeply about jellyfish. It’s not like it will dent our ocean’s ecosystems if they die out, or anything.”

Kakyoin rolls his eyes.

“Oh, you are insufferable, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Kakyoin shakes his head, childishly mocking with a stuck-out tongue. He admires the stupid smile on Jotaro’s face right now, those stubbled cheeks of his puffing out, his nose all scrunched up too.

His hand goes to reach for the doorknob. Kakyoin casts one last gaze over his studious fiancé with narrowed eyes and a twinkling in his heart.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. Nerd.”

Jotaro scoffs, chewing on the end of his pen. He mumbles an amused and breathy “Mean” which makes both of them laugh a little, sleepy voices harmonising in the cramped echoing cupboard-sized office. Kakyoin turns the doorknob. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jotaro blowing him a kiss before he goes.

--------------------------

One morning, Kakyoin finds himself stumbling around his favourite whole food store in Morioh, his canvas basket stuffed full of paper-wrapped vegetables. He’s balancing his phone between his shoulder and his cheek, reading the back of a juice carton to scan for the percentage of sugar in it.

Holly is on the other end of the line, her fluttery voice being quite a welcome ambience to Kakyoin’s shopping experience. She’s worried, and checking up, so nothing out of the blue.

“How is he sleeping?” she asks, referring to Jotaro’s new pills. “God knows he’ll get all funny if I try and ask him about these things. He’s not still getting those terrible nightmares, is he?”

“Everything sleep related is going well,” Kakyoin confirms, slotting the juice back onto the shelf. It’s concentrated. Yuck. “Last time he had trouble was…last week, I think? He overslept a bit one morning and his pattern got messed up. No more nightmares, though.”

Holly sighs out a little in relief. Kakyoin turns the corner down the aisle to look for tofu, happily humming along to the faint pop music playing from the store’s speakers.

“That’s such good news,” she glows, “Oh Noriaki, you’ve been an angel throughout all this. I can just tell that your support has helped my baby boy so so much. I want to hug you through the phone.”

Kakyoin laughs out loud, opening a fridge and dumping a couple packs of tofu into his basket.

“Trust me,” he says, “The fact Jotaro willingly goes to therapy three times a week now is not something I can take credit for, I’m afraid. That’s all him.”

“I don’t know about that,” she encourages, her smile evident in the sound of her voice. “You’ve been the one to push him in the right direction, dear. The rest of us have no clue how to deal with him,” she giggles, “I certainly never have! I couldn’t have done it.”

The floor squeaks under Kakyoin’s sneakers. He passes cans, rows of tea boxes, bottles of yogurt.

“You have a lot to deal with as it is,” he reassures, grabbing a pack of yogurt drinks, “How’s it all going? Divorce finally gone through?”

Holly sighs.

“We’re getting there. One week to go! I must say I am absolutely thrilled to be an official Joestar again. Holly Joestar always had a better ring to it than Holly Kujo, in my opinion. Papa is bouncing off the walls at the thought of it!”

The image of that makes Kakyoin get the giggles.

“That reminds me,” he begins, walking to the checkout. There’s a very long queue. “I don’t know if Jotaro told you, but he’s changing his last name back too.”

“He is?” Holly gasps, “Oh my goodness, I have to tell Mama and Papa, Papa is going to explode when he finds out Jotaro will be a Joestar for-” she suddenly gasps again, louder this time almost screaming through the line, “Hang on…are you going to…?”

Kakyoin gets self-conscious about how hard he’s smiling right now in this queue, buzzing silently with his basket clutched tight to his side and his glasses half sliding down his nose.

“Taking his name after the wedding?” he says giddily, almost a whisper. He resists the urge to bite on his nails. “Oh Holly, I didn’t even need to think about it. Of course I am!”

She squeals.

“Well then, this has all worked out quite nicely, hasn’t it?”

Kakyoin casts his eyes down to the speckled floor and tries his hardest not to cry in public, every ounce of sentimental feeling building inside of him. She’s right.

“Yes,” he almost chokes, blinking away hot joyful tears. “It has.”

Kakyoin looks around, paranoid. No one is watching him, not really. For the most part, every other soul is busy in their own loves and conversations, introspective and distant. Holly is still chirping on the other end of the phone. It’s all quite beautiful.

He gives himself two seconds to cry before wiping away the evidence. Two seconds to indulge in his valid feelings: his hopes and fleeting worries, his healing inner-child, his unbelievable reality.

His fingers tighten around the flimsy strap of his linen shopping basket.

Things are going to be okay.