Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People might think Johnny was crying because he’d feared losing Gyro. Like frozen tension releasing after one more stressful and mortal encounter against President Valentine’s minions.

That was so wrong.

This would have made Johnny a good person.

Except Johnny wasn’t.

And what was tearing him was this desperate feeling that by losing every part of the corpse, once more, he had to give up his hope to walk again. To be normal. That he had to let go the only concrete proof his goal wasn’t only an unrealistic and egoistic, laughable dream.

The time Gyro spent right beside him, kneeling in the falling snow, drinking red wine, and raising a toast to the next chance, or victory, it had felt like a true comfort for Johnny.

A moment he’d still cherish days later.

It helped so much back then, fleeting minutes that hadn’t foretell the hardness of the following evening and discussion.

Because something happened later.

Something Johnny couldn’t expect from Gyro.

Gyro had not accustomed Johnny to tell him off, regarding his behavior.

If something annoyed him and he put up with it at the time, he wasn’t usually one to come back to it later.

Usually.

That’s why it hit as a surprise.

And maybe he should chalk it up to the alcohol that changed people to their worst. The tiredness. The absolute hectic of the day.

“D’you want to take the wheelchair with us tonight?”

Gyro’s sentence had no malice, but reminded Johnny every hope shattered about his condition and what happened in the last hour. Making him bite his lower lip, staying silent.

“Hm?”

Both were drunk. Stupidly drunk.

The subject of Johnny’s disability once here, Gyro stuck to it.

“Say, Johnny…”

“What?”

“Why do you want to have your legs back?”

The question made Johnny’s blood run cold, giving him the sensation of being frozen in a different way than the snow had made them feel since entire days, despite them having spent so much time indoors today.

Gyro always showed he was a straightforward guy, but such insensitivity was new. Johnny never noticed he was the type to put his foot in his mouth.

Johnny felt tired from crying, exhausted from both the frenetic day they had suffered, racing ahead to find solutions to get rid of everything they were gifted, forgetting the corpse parts were included among that lot, and outrunning the ten or so men chasing after them since dawn.

As he wasn’t answering, Gyro pushed with an uncommon sincerity, acting bizarrely.

“I mean, the real reason. What else are you gonna do if you could walk tomorrow?”

Gyro gestured with his arm, the way he’s used to, this time, for half a second Johnny thought he’s going to get handsy, even embracing him. For sure, Johnny wouldn’t refuse a hug, right now.

Gyro didn’t touch him, starting a long intoxicated, high-spirited speech.

“You’re talented. You’re in the fifth stage of the greatest race ever. You could be a professional jockey again. A breathtaking one. Being disabled, a signature. You’re good looking. Intelligent. People with similar health conditions find love. Some even have children. Sure, it’s a limitation. But nothing prevents you from accomplishing your life. You, you’re free.”

Seriously, was it a gauche and obscure way to try to comfort Johnny?

The only answer Johnny was willing to enunciate was, ‘Shut your mouth. Let me grieve.’

Instead he got to say shakily, self-depreciation easier than shooting at your friend and mentor to fuck off: “Ever’thing is harder. Un…reach…able! Isn’t it obvious? Can’t you see it?!”

Gyro’s face stayed the same, only a little darker, his character even more versatile because of the inebriety. Evidence he wasn’t happy Johnny was talking badly about himself after all the unusual praise Gyro expressed.

Still, he went on.

As if he was willing to achieve something by pushing on him, acting horrible.

“So what you’re saying is you want an easy life. Do you really think He provides that? To anybody?”

On a normal day, Johnny liked that in him: the absence of pity and condescension.

Not today, when he’s already feeling so hurt. 

Pathetic. 

A failure.

Johnny nurtured strong beliefs about the corpse. He knew he was right. He was meant to it. Chosen. Despite everything else. He wanted to believe God had a plan for him. One in which He’ll stop destroying his life and give him things back. If not Nicholas, at least his legs!

Maybe it had been more in the tone than the words, but that last one was the sentence too many.

Without realizing it, Johnny’s fist clenched. The punch flew against Gyro’s jaw. Gyro did nothing to dodge. 

He could have. Johnny’s gesture had been impulsive but predictable, the consequence of weariness and anger intertwined. Still Gyro hadn’t.

He didn’t complain, didn’t counter-punch.

And even if Gyro had pushed Johnny to his limits, hitting wasn’t him, not the person he wanted to be.

“I’m s—”

“Don’t. I asked for it.” Gyro snorted, leaving Johnny ashamed and speechless. “Well, you too deserve a whop as you listened to nothing I said either. But… What’s the point?”

Those last words were stinging, hurt more than getting a slap.

Yet it’s the truth.

Neither Gyro nor Johnny had listened to each other today. 

With dangerous or offending consequences.

Now Johnny was thinking about it, that’s true, since he had given up the corpse parts, Gyro’s attitude tonight was nothing comparable to the frenzy he got into when they had grasped their hands over all this money and wealth. Overexcited by a level of luxury he had never known. Flitting around from an idea to the over, grabbing all the light and attention to himself, whereas this had been about Johnny’s quest from the beginning.

Johnny understood without another word being said.

The purpose to push again and again had been less a way to comfort back than a way to get punished. Guilt gnawing Gyro from inside. 

He’s now rubbing softly two fingers against the place Johnny hit him. Skin was already reddish from the cold and drink. There probably would be no trace of the punch at all in a while.

Johnny knew the guy. Knew he was arrogant, sometimes a front, often for real. But less and less with time. Gyro had been without doubt humbler—as well as more sharp-tempered—after Johnny had beaten both him and Diego Brando at the third stage.

“Come on.” Gyro said after a short moment of dead silence, puffy cold snowflakes falling slowly from the dark sky, recovering their shoulders. “Let’s get somewhere warm.”

And Gyro’s hand patted Johnny’s leg, a split second. Without thinking.

Johnny got the impression of feeling it. As a slight comforting pressure. Certainly an illusion created by his brain.

It was sour.

A false feeling that reminded him what he’d lost. Again.

The urge to cry came back.

But, no. Not here, alone in the icy twilight of this city he wasn’t even caring to remember the name.

A startling whistle echoed in the street, catching Johnny’s attention, as he was still kneeling there. Valkyrie had moved forward, a hoof after the over, and soon enough Gyro had saddled. He said nothing more and Slow Dancer walked straight toward Johnny, bending its spine to nuzzle him, easing Johnny’s acrobatic climbing.

While he fastened the stirrups around his insensitive ankles, Johnny reflected.

For once Gyro had a caring gesture, Johnny dreamed he would have chosen a place he could actually feel it.

Chapter Text

It took only a few minutes for Gyro and Johnny to reach their hotel. Once they were certain the horses were comfortably settled in the stable, several ostlers taking care of the animals, ensuring there was enough hay and grooming the mounts, they went to the luxurious twin room they had reserved when they’d thought it would be easy to give away all the things and money they got.

The bad alcohol gave Gyro a fake sensation of heat. Probably he should grab a bite to eat, but they had already stuffed themselves too much for their own sake at lunch. Especially Gyro, who needed to throw up in a corner not even an hour after lunch. That’s one of the reasons why they had decided to stop here for the night. Despite them having to race early in the morning. Before dawn if they could.

Not for the first time that day, it was good to enter a heat-up wooden hall. Especially as snow had begun to fall harder and the sun set an hour before. A long hour Gyro and Johnny spent, sat on the hard cold ground.

Gyro brought up the rear, and was the one to close the heavy wooden door carved with geometrical patterns. It looked huge. And at the same time, they’d requested the best first-floor room available.

“D’you want to sleep now? I’ll take the first watch.” Gyro offered.

It was not especially nice a proposition from him. Only the habit they had taken since the frozen weather had taken place. More often than not, Johnny was exhausted from the cold, as he compensated by his posture on the horse the fact he couldn’t feel or use his legs. The parts of his body he could still feel, and his back specifically, were put on strain, and hurt a lot more. It helped him a lot to have the last hours before dawn to stretch his back and limbs and warm his muscles before riding.

In a few words, the best arrangement possible.

“I ain’t sure it’s worth monitoring.” Johnny thought aloud, the sentence, an agreement itself he craved to lay down and put behind them this rough day.

Gyro shrugged.

“R’you sore? Want me to use a steel ball?”

“…no, thanks.”

Gyro pursed his lips but stayed silent, letting out a brief ‘tsk’ noise before he went to look at the fireplace and the state of the wood on the andiron. “Go to bed.” He grumbled once crouched in front of the hearth.

Like Gyro thought, the room was large: twice the size of the rare hotels’ rooms they had used during the race until then. Two large beds occupied most of the space, with the accommodating dressing tables and the near valet stands to hang wet clothes on. Close to the window was a loveseat, a desk with a quill, ink and writing paper. A Swan lamp near the beds, and another on the desk.

As he was taking care of the fire and arranging the hearth’s part of the room so Johnny could easily go to the fireplace and rekindle the embers crawling or from his chair, Gyro heard the distinctive sound of wheels rolling over the waxed floor. Johnny chose naturally the one of the two beds accessible without having to go on the cozy ocher and crimson patterned carpets.

Having a bed that night, it would be a release for both of their painful backs. And a joy to find again fresh sheets and warm covers. The rust color of those in the dim vision of the firelight hurt Gyro’s eyes. He already knew he would lay the seemingly velvet-like, more neutral dark red bedspread to cover it.

For a few minutes, both remained silent. Everything echoed so much more audibly inside the room. The cracking sound of the fire. The tug noise of undoing boots. The crumpling of fabric produced by Johnny undressing from his jacket and damp clothes. The crease of sheets, as he pulled himself in the bed.

‘This was a hard day, for sure,’ Gyro thought, not for the first time that night, his gaze wandering over the fire strips’ golden ratio dance.

He too was beginning to feel the accumulated fatigue struck him, the rest of alcohol into his veins evaporating.

Gyro got up and went toward the free bed, sitting on it with a grinding noise and starting to prepare for bed, keeping on both his pants and undershirt for everything else to have a chance to dry tonight. A quick look in Johnny’s direction allowed him to see he was lying on his side, eyes closed. He’s not asleep yet, but would be soon enough.

Indoors, there was little to monitor, and Gyro wasn’t going to act like a creep looking at someone else sleeping. Instead, he kept his ears open, and looked for the standard Bible one could find in every bedside table of any hotel room. Here, in the United States, like in every Christian country in Europe.

As if the Gospel of John from the New Testament was something Gyro was craving to look or read at all. At least it would be written-English. Vocabulary and language skill to work on. Potential jokes to find in this foreign language. Verses’ numbers, an acceptable gimmick’s inspiration.

He was still skimming over the worn hardcover book the moment he heard some sniffling noise.

Gyro glanced in Johnny’s direction. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but closed his jaw without a sound.

More cries.

Of course.

He should have known.

Gyro shut his eyes and the book he was holding in a silent gesture. He sure noticed how compliments and encouragement were ignored in a way Johnny probably remembered none of it. The measured punch in the face Gyro got sure helped him manage a little his feeling of guilt, but it had resolved nothing. 

Strictly nothing.

Gyro had never been the type to cry. Even as a child. And the way he had seen people react to tears had always been by shushing noises. Both a way to comfort and a command to stop. Soon. Crying was perceived as disturbing and a weakness, especially for boys. 

Johnny wasn’t weak. 

In fact, he was one of the strongest people Gyro ever knew. Strong people were not immune to suffering. That’s what he had tried to tell, before. With indirect idiotic words.

And Gyro didn’t want to tell Johnny to stop crying or shush him. If anything, he would have wanted to say he was sorry and he was here. Things, Gyro wasn’t sure how to allow himself. 

He opened his eyes again. His gaze fell on Johnny’s figure. Silently crying, still awake despite the closed eyelids.

Gyro didn’t know how much time passed, but suddenly, it was enough. He decided he didn’t want to observe his partner crying himself asleep alone. Gyro got up with another light grinding noise. Then came to Johnny’s bed, whispered some, ‘Move over,’ and got himself in the same bed.

Johnny opened his eyes at the gesture, but Gyro didn’t meet his questioning gaze, looking at some point at the other side of the room while he secured Johnny upper body in his arms and wedged his chin against the knit cap and blonde hair.

In the half-darkness created by the fire, sheltered from scrutinizing eyes, it would be easy to act as if none of that ever happened, tomorrow morning.

Johnny closed eyelids again, and Gyro felt some tears against his skin and some more dampening his shirt from time to time. But it wasn’t the same as before. He was here. An arm safely against Johnny’s back. And Johnny looked like he was calming down. Snuggling against his chest and further down.

The moment Gyro thought Johnny might finally have gotten asleep, he felt a little kick against his legs. The sensation made him freeze, putting him on alert. Straight away, he told himself it was some nerve reflex. A leg twitching when one was falling into slumber, it happened to anybody. Even people in Johnny’s state.

Still it was unusual, something Johnny was unconscious. That would create hope, but could also bring despair.

Gyro kept a cool head. He would keep it to himself for now.

He cared too much for this guy to take the risk of hurting him again with that.

Wait a minute. Care?

Gyro wasn’t a fool. Of course he cared. He knew it for a while. It’s obvious to him since his fight against Ringo Roadagain.

That’s why Gyro had felt so torn to see Johnny in this state. Whereas he wasn’t giving a fuck of the way people were feeling otherwise.

Why he had switched to the other bed, sharing it for half an hour.

Why he was craving to kiss his head now.

…because of the guilt.

Yeah, because of the guilt.

Gyro had treated Johnny like some kid to console. Not as a potential lover.

And sharing a bed all night long was something one should only do with a lover.

Whatever Gyro’s true desires were; he wasn’t ready to explore them now. 

So he left the warmth of the bed and Johnny’s body, freeing himself from the grip of Johnny’s fingers on his clothes, his movements slow not to awaken him.

Once on his feet, he looked again to Johnny’s exposed arms and more relaxed face, Gyro catching the glimpse of crystal droplets still hanging to the lashes.

Gyro’s eyes glitter at the dancing firelight. 

Split behind two paradoxical emotions, he let out a silent sigh and yielded to the temptation, grabbing the soft red bedspread to tuck Johnny. Covering him, for him not to get cold.

Like one would do for a tiring endearing child.

Not as a lover he would have promised to protect.

Chapter Text

Nothing could have prevented Funny Valentine from escaping after he shot Axl Ro.

Not Johnny’s outstretched arm, nor his savage cry of rage and frustration.

All of a sudden, it was too much.

Johnny had gotten robbed of everything, a vertebra apart, for asking Hot Pants’ help after he’d defeated Sandman.

During Sugar Mountain events, he’d had to choose between Gyro’s life and what was, to him, both his only hope and reason for living.

And, here, again, he’d been played.

Except, this time, he couldn’t stand it, anger moving him instead of sorrow.

Hurting his own fist by hammering against the floor. Howling as if he’d been alone, letting go of frustration and emotions in a very different way he’d used his entourage, so focused on the corpse and his irrecoverable objective.

“I don’t care about living or dying!”

“Stop.”

“…or who’s right and who’s evil! I don’t even give a fuck about the corpse being a saint or whatever!! I’m still negative, I want to get up to zero! Damn it! Holy shiiit! I want to go back to normal and I can’t without it…”

“Johnny, stop! Fucking stop.”

Eyes darkened by contained determination, Johnny took his anger out on Gyro that had walked to him, without Johnny realizing it.

Unlike the last two times, seeing him alive wasn’t an effective relief. Tonight, Johnny hadn’t feared for Gyro to die. Perhaps that’s the reason he wasn’t in tears. Why he had the strength to bite back, without a second thought.

“I won’t!” He yelled. “This is everything and once more I—”

“STOP belittling yourself!” Gyro shouted louder than him.

This one staggered Johnny enough for him to keep his mouth shut.

It was not, ‘We should stop pursuing your goal.’

Gyro’s telling him to shut up.

“Do you hear yourself?!”

Johnny was expecting a not-so-unusual wallop now, but instead Gyro let himself down next to him.

“I do care about you being alive." He pointed to Johnny's nose. “And this language you use, it’s seriously getting on my nerves.” Gyro added, his voice calmer.

Johnny kept quiet, shaking with fury and too surprised to say anything.

“You see Johnny, any other one would say something like that about you, I’d kick the shit out of them.”

“…”

“Like hell. I won’t. You’d not let me have the time to. You’d trash them yourself. You’re capable of doing things. Always been all mouth and quick to respond with violence against enemies. Whatever you think about yourself, you learned a lot, those last months.”

Cautious, Johnny let Gyro slid closer to him and got the surprise to have him hugging him from behind.

This time, his anger finally mitigated with sadness.

The fight against Axl Ro had been dreadful. And now adrenaline was crashing down, it felt good to have a torso against his, arms holding him tight. 

Seeing school stuff had not been a big deal. And Johnny had been brave when he’d recognized Danny. But he also had to be faced with his strong guilt toward Nicholas’ death. And his broken relationship with his father. Making himself sick.

That’s when he remembered the stand effect had displayed in front of everyone’s eyes. 

So Gyro knew, now.

He knew about Johnny’s shitty family and how Johnny had a big part of responsibility in it. It looked Gyro couldn’t care less. He’s there, enduring the roller-coaster of Johnny’s mood and offering a hug.

No disgust. No morals.

‘You’re important,’ it meant.

Johnny tilted his head. He was feeling so despicable. But he also felt safe, cared for, in Gyro’s embrace. In a way that helped him relax a little, and brought tears to his eyes. They’re so close, he could smell Gyro’s mannish scent.

Johnny held back from crying.

He didn’t want to.

Not tonight.

He’d promised himself the theft wouldn’t, this time.

After a few moments being held like that, he noticed Gyro’s face was nestled against the hollow of his neck. Eyes hot. Hat barely balanced on the top of his head.

Suddenly, Johnny realized as Hot Pants and himself, Gyro too had been recalled some shit by this Civil War stand. He raised his hand to stroke some long hair locks that tickled his skin, but the pad of his fingers found a cheek instead.

He kept on the caress nevertheless, brushing against the warm skin near the typical rectangular patches of beard. Lingering a little, in the only way of comfort Johnny could imagine. Gyro was so private he would never speak about what he’d just faced. Johnny knew and accepted it.

Being all against someone helped to regain his composure.

Johnny’s fingers left Gyro’s jaw, before he straightened.

“Let’s go.” He said, his voice husky from all the yelling he’d provided the world a moment before.

He glanced at the dead body of Axl Ro. 

Still tepid. 

The last spark of life, gone for some minutes only. 

“Are you two chasing after the President?” Hot Pants’ strong voice echoed in the room.

That’s this instant both of them remembered they weren’t alone.

Gyro’s reddened face whipped away in her direction, as he regained his maximum level of animosity in no time.

“You, shut the fuck up. Nobody’s talking to you. …Running up there like crazy for no reason.”

Gyro sounded like he was thinking she’d been stupid to charge at this trap.

Maybe he’s right.

Or not.

Johnny didn’t care. And his own patience was hanging by a thread.

“Let’s go.” He repeated, stronger this time, to catch back Gyro’s attention, the man still busy swearing about the stupidity of the Vatican in choosing such a person.

And while he crawled toward the horses, Johnny felt things from his legs.

Not everything like he used to before this fated bullet; still so, so much more than anything since the last two years.

It was vague. It was pain. But it was hope.

Johnny instantly craved to tell Gyro.

But not here.

Not now.

Not in front of her.

Hot Pants stayed longer in the room everything had happened, back there at Gettysburg. Choking tears back after the awful experience, this Civil War stand submitted them, the moment she’s alone again.

She’s grateful to be alive. Internally upset to have lost every part she had possessed to Valentine, sure. But she still had a chance to complete her mission.

She was only ignoring how yet.

Without a map anymore, without having to race to the next stage, she had time to revise her plan. 

The impossibility to create an alliance with Joestar and Zeppeli, a bearing she’d to give up. Without a lot of regrets. She could do it alone. She would succeed all by herself if needed.

When she finally got up, removing the dust from the garbage dump’s ground that was staining her nun white chasuble, she was unable to say how much time she had spent there.

Minutes or hours, the night was still black and cloudy. Everybody, long gone.

She’d just finished adjusting her riding tunic over her breast when she felt a presence. Sound of footsteps in the gravel. The unwelcome visitor stopped, grabbing a handful of tiny rocks in their gloved hand, and bringing some to their mouth.

Crunching it in an odious grinding noise.

Hot Pants spun round, her spray already ready against her palm, a frown present on her face.

His stately demeanor made Diego Brando look taller than he must be. She’s tall for a woman—taller than him, maybe—but she sure didn’t have his massive musculature.

The man showed a sardonic smile, which lasted only a few seconds, the time to catch Hot Pants’ gaze.

“You’ve all been stripped off. Tsk.” He stated, the vocabulary choice implying he was perhaps already around when Hot Pants changed clothes.

“…”

“You, you’re not doing it for yourself. Who do you work for? Didn’t they mention the Catholic Pope, the Vatican?”

This was the proof the guy had listened to some of Zeppeli’s insults, carried by the wind, when the two men had left earlier.

“Tell me, what reward would your boss offer to whoever gets this corpse?”

Her apparent distrust and silence might have begun to annoy the man.

Hot Pants was still weary. Ready to pounce, protect her life and the purpose of her mission. She thought this man got an eye, too. The left one. And he had arrived too late to fight against President Valentine. Too late to get caught in the trap.

He was going to attack, wasn’t he?

“Hello? Are you listening?”

“…”

“Oh, or maybe you’ll hear better with those?” Diego mocked, grasping at his ear and forcing out another relic.

One, he shouldn’t have.

Because the President got everything.

Ears included.

Barely attached to the corpse, directly on the spine.

It had been frail, but not to the point for Funny Valentine to lose it by mischance. 

That’s impossible.

“It’s amazing what you can do by turning small animals or insects into dinosaurs.” Diego smirked, showing horrible pointed teeth.

Non-human.

“Well.” He said. “Now I have your full attention, tell me everything you know.”

She talked.

Hot Pants talked more than any time in her life. Diego Brando was a shitty man. She knew. She’d asked the Vatican about him. Requested ways to deal with him, if she had to negotiate or form a surprising alliance.

She said everything. Including the fact Johnny Joestar behaved as if he was a prophet. Hearing God, by His Son’s spirit talking to him. Giving advice for him to succeed. 

That the corpse might have chosen him despite what the president believed, God granting him miracles about his condition.

But maybe things have changed. She had seen how they behaved.

Maybe he was going to give up.

Diego looked like he was assessing the pieces of information positively.

Acknowledging by his behavior their alliance.

“You’re wrong about Joestar.” Diego squinted, clucking his tongue. “He’s not that kind of loser. He’s a competitor. He’d never give up. Not because of his Italian friend, nor anything else.”

Hot Pants would have to write to the Vatican. To ask them seriously what they were willing to give up to Diego Brando. An upstart that always wanted more. An arriviste that betrayed the President the moment he wanted to eliminate him or refused his last demands.

That man was all this, and not someone she’s willing to trust.

Still, his presence that night left in her heart the sensation of a new path opening before her feet, an invisible line allowing her to hope for a more probable success.

Chapter Text

Despite everything, it was not that late when Johnny and Gyro saddled up, going away from the battlefield to set another camp. They had called it a day at twilight, choosing to try to sleep when the night wasn’t too freezing. Awakening before dawn, their method not to suffer the worst of the weather.

As none of them wanted to spend one more second than needed in this small city, it was barely midnight when they left Gettysburg.

Once riding on a small path crossing fields, Johnny took time to explain his experience to a carefully listening Gyro.

“Wait a sec, you said your legs moved?”

“I felt them! I swear they convulsed.”

“I believe you.” Gyro stated, looking straight ahead in the obscurity.

“But?” Johnny started, waiting for the incredulous hurtful words that must follow.

“There’s no but! I believe you.” Gyro repeated, annoyed, this time looking Johnny in the eye.

He’s sincere.

This absolute faith in what he’s saying, it caught Johnny off guard. His unbelievable words, instantly trusted. Without doubt nor conditions.

For Gyro, it’s obvious he believed it. Johnny had never been a liar. And in a matter of facts, Gyro remembered all too well the kick he got in this bed at Milwaukee. What changed was Johnny’s aware, now. Gyro had had time to accept the thought. And to ponder what it would mean to him. 

As a friend. 

As a doctor.

After a moment of hesitation, Gyro added. 

“I saw you resurrect tonight.”

Johnny frowned at it.

He never considered that… Well, he had.

But at Gyro’s voice and features, Johnny could tell it wasn’t only a way to underline a miracle. It was saying in an unpronounced cultivated discourse, ‘I saw you quartered, dismembered in one of the most horrifying and painful death penalty criminals could suffer during the Middle Ages, and originated from the Roman Empire’ and ‘I saw you fucking shooting on your own head.’

Johnny hadn’t been scared for Gyro’s life, tonight.

But Gyro suffered from this exact fear.

The worst ever. 

“The corpse told me to do that. At least, that’s what He meant.”

“The corpse…” Gyro deadpanned.

“Not the body, His spirit. I felt Him, behind me. As a presence addressing me and calling me my full name. Did you know who He was? Do you realize He’s J—”

“Don’t say it.” Gyro cut him off.

Johnny breathed out, recognizing the meaning of Gyro’s shush.

“You knew.”

“…”

“Everyone knew but me.”

It took time for Gyro to talk again.

“Let’s say I was… in denial.”

“…”

“…I considered it before you fought against Sandman. When we talked about this letter I got from the Vatican. ‘Was heretic. It is heretic.”

He groaned, under his breath.

“Of course the Vatican didn’t answer anything helpful: they’ve sent that stupid bitch. …after us! …busting our balls with her dead cow. …should have known it. …was already a jinx back then.”

“You already thought about it when we fought for the eyes.” Johnny stated.

The way Gyro had rebuffed him had felt kinda similar, both times. Too much for Johnny not to correlate those events.

“I truly thought you were mistaken.” 

Gyro’s gaze got back to his, light and clear, sincerity evident in the iris.

“But you trust me, now.”

“I do. For a long time. You know it.” Gyro admitted, muttering.

And he kept eyeing Johnny’s face, lingering from the slight frown of the brows lined by the usual beanie, sliding to the cheekbone, and the clenched jaw.

Looking so much, it would have been awkward in another context.

When their gazes met again, Gyro didn’t avert his eyes.

“You’re worried.” He stated instead. “Why?”

“I have every chance to lose it. I don’t want to.”

“What about?”

“I’ve no part left. Not even the sacrum. …I’ll lose it. I only got tingling, now. It was better in Gettysburg.”

“The sensation you got back.”

Gyro took a minute to think about it. Willing to reassure without telling a lie.

“Could you bring up Tusk?”

Johnny didn’t answer, curling his lips but doing as he was told. Spinning some nails and letting the latest version of his stand revealed itself. Cautious as if he was expecting Gyro to have one extra strange idea in his mind.

“See, still there. And got legs, too. Have you noticed?”

And, no, Johnny hadn’t had the time to soak up the changes. Nor to think about what it meant to him. For him.

Another silence took place, only disturbed by the song of hooves on the heavy grass. More hesitation, perceptible in the air. Johnny forgot where he was. That Gyro was even there.

Was it? Was that the miracle he had wanted?

It didn’t feel like it.

All the stress, emotions and latent self-depreciation he’d screamed to the world an hour prior were still there, inside his chest, wrapped like a cornered, defensive snake, waiting to spring, bite, and inject its venom once more. Inexhaustible source of grief and bitterness.

At this point, nothing would have felt less of a success.

“Johnny, I’ll be blunt.”

The cutting of the sentence caught Johnny’s full attention.

Never, ever, ever Gyro had advanced some warning before acting like a jerk. Not even with Johnny.

“You got your miracle. Perhaps it doesn’t feel like it yet, but that’s it.”

“…”

“Have you ever tried to accept your condition? Really accept it? True bravery is giving up on the impossible. As long as you keep dreaming of what you can’t have, you won’t see what you can actually get. Are you OK with missing out on your whole life?”

‘That’s it.’ 

It’s what Johnny had thought Gyro was saying, back in Gettysburg. When Johnny felt so angry, almost hysteric, and Gyro enjoined him to stop.

“Knowing when to give up requires ‘courage’ too, don’t you think? Life is not about magic and craving the impossible. You can’t monopolize such a relic. Entire countries are chasing after Him. Go on, and you’d be the pathetic loser you don’t want to be, and you’d be alone.”

Johnny listened. Calm, too calm. He had spent so much energy before, he can’t put another fit of anger that evening.

This, it made him feel more alone than ever.

You can’t be thankful when your best friend asked you to stop. Every word he pronounced sounding like an ultimatum.

Even if he’s also saying he liked you. 

That you were worthy. That you have other things to live.

What things?

Medical theory learned in books wore no value compared to the dramatic reality people experienced in their flesh and blood. Then, with their entire social horizon.

As far as Johnny knew, Gyro knew nothing about what it meant to be in Johnny’s condition.

He felt so blank.

Was that the way for Gyro to tell him there was no partnership anymore between them if Johnny wasn’t giving up?

Abnegation, unilateral sacrifice, was the opposite of everything Johnny had ever been.

And Johnny didn’t feel as a valuable miracle to feel tickling in some place of his legs once in a blue moon.

Whatever was going to happen tomorrow or the days after, Johnny was going to lose. Lose his hope to be healthier, to get a better ability to move from the corpse. Lose this hope, Gyro had embodied at the very start. Despite the way he’d been clear he couldn’t and wouldn’t help Johnny regarding his disability. Gyro’s presence becoming a little more important to him every single day. In a way that let Johnny think he didn’t want to live without him anymore. Making it a doable choice to give up on the ears and right arm when he had to.

The hopeless thought he would have to make a choice between Gyro and the corpse, again… It made Johnny feel ill, and let him consider that dying tonight would have been a better option. For not to have to make another unbearable decision.

The silence between them was deafening. 

It hurt, in an emotional way.

Gyro had needed to say what he had. As always, he’d done what he thought was fair, the right thing to do. It didn’t mean it wasn’t hurting him.

As he was witnessing Johnny’s behavior, losing color, withdrawing into himself, guilt grew in his chest.

Why can’t Gyro succeed in expressing how he truly felt?

That stand they fought against tonight, it didn’t help. Gyro had had to face his own failures. As a son. As a doctor. Both intertwined. The mental picture of the butchered beheading flashed again in his mind. Then repeat. Spinning. It requested all his strength of character for Gyro succeeding for scarlet blood splashing everywhere, wheezes of agony, and his horrified daze to stop playing. But he can’t forget the context this failure happened.

He can’t forget.

The ghost of fear and ruined confidence still enveloped him like a mantle of guilt and depreciation. Forming a scattering of psychological wounds.

And Gyro with his big mouth was contented to use glorified words like ‘courage.’ As if he were some bravery expert or got true comprehension of it for the only reason he got military education and had never been a coward on the battlefield. He had no monopoly over the concept of valor and virtue.

“Fuck it. Just fuck it.”

Gyro’s voice was quavering. Something unusual, that perhaps proved he’s more sensible to Johnny’s obvious despair and blank face, than what his latest words had suggested.

“Johnny, I didn’t want to say it, but I will: if your legs move, if you feel them, it means you have the potential to succeed in rehabilitation. If you put your energy into this, maybe you’d get something you’d be proud of. Not a childish miracle, but something that would be the product of your work and efforts.”

What?

“Why… Why didn’t you say something before?” Johnny stuttered.

Tears were prickling his eyes, as alleviation and anger went back. Pumping some life again in his veins.

“You’re talking like some medic. Why now? Why like that?”

“…”

“Gyro. Shit, answer me.” He ordered, his voice stronger, surprisingly calm.

“I think… Maybe you fight the wrong battle.”

Gyro’s hands tightened around the reins. It’s a small gesture, but one Johnny noticed. Despite the darkness, Gyro turned his head so he could look Johnny in the eye.

“You’re goddamn great the way you are. I can’t get how you’re not realizing it. …if, if you could consider forgetting about the improbable magic of the corpse, I’d work with you, for you to get back everything you could realistically achieve.”

Tears pooled in Johnny’s eyes. “You always told me you didn’t want to have anything to do with my condition.”

“I told you not to expect anything weird from me. Not I’ll never help you.”

“And how would you do that?”

Gyro sighed. “We’d need a hotel room…”

“For…”

“We have a technique at the medical practice where we can see the condition of the nerves. If nerve connection still exists in your spinal cord, it’ll prove what you’re experiencing isn’t a miracle out of nowhere but some potential you’re granted. It can take… months, even years for the inflammation to subside and for you to get things back.”

“Gyro, why are you… why now?”

Johnny was finally crying, tears rolling over his cheeks, the view, more sustainable for Gyro now he had tempered his words. And maybe, maybe Johnny had needed to let go after all. Lose control and let emotions flow in this way of his, he always had. No matter how much society felt it out of the line for a man. Johnny didn’t care about society after all. Countercurrent, his element. 

And Gyro never rebuked him for it either.

“You were stuck on your idea. Back then, it was none of my business.”

That was not a true answer. Or at least, that’s an incomplete one. Since when was Johnny’s emotional state Gyro’s business? Enough for him to put this harsh education and imposed neutrality away?

The answer might be obvious: Johnny had gotten this important to Gyro’s eyes. 

And that’s something Diego Brando couldn’t have seen coming nor comprehend when he’d been talking about Johnny behind his back.

Chapter Text

“Steel balls allow high precision medical acts. Over muscles, of course, but sometimes over ligaments too. It’s even possible to fix nerve damage under special conditions.”

“Gyro… you could have offered to operate on me. From the beginning…”

“For a stranger? In the context of the race? Johnny, I thought I told you I’m not a nice person. Nor a do-gooder.”

They had been bickering all day since the following morning.

This day of December had been foggy, the cold humidity piercing. An irritating weather that drained a lot of energy and good mood.

“I won’t do it. It would be a fault. And this, I already did once.” Gyro said, the memory still fresh on his mind after the events of Lake Michigan. “I have no right to take God’s place. Overstep boundaries. That’s what I learned after operating on a young woman. I failed to restore her eyesight. I’ve never been so upset with myself in all my life, and she was nobody to me. Still I’m responsible for her to be permanently blind. How do you think it is to live with that?”

Sleeping for a few hours had helped Johnny to feel less upset. Had empowered the way he trusted Gyro.

It meant he had a lot of questions, …Gyro had been uncharacteristically inclined to answer. 

Maybe the man shared the feeling their relationship had been weakened by his thunderclap change of mind. This intuition, belief, Johnny wouldn’t get anything more from the corpse without losing something in return.

Talking about things was a good way to mend their friendship.

Because tonight, they were sleeping in an inn. A comfort outside the budget they must pay nevertheless. For Gyro to examine Johnny’s back.

“This girl, was she upset?”

“No. She thanked me for trying. For taking care of her.”

It sure helped Johnny to understand Gyro’s mindset.

“…she’s Wekapipo’s little sister.” He said.

Gyro nodded.

“I won’t and can’t do such a thing with you. You’re way too important to me.”

“…”

“And… even if… even if I do, you’d still need to put a lot of work in rehab. This won’t change.”

“You’re willing to help me?” Johnny asked, leaving the seat of the wheelchair for the hard mattress of one of the two beds of the room.

Gyro dropped off his belongings on the side of the other bed. “To what? Have you listened to me?”

“I did.” Johnny said, his voice calm. “Help me work on rehab. Would you?”

“Of course.”

“Right.” Johnny took a deep breath talking before any fiber of courage left him. “Please look. Should I… undress myself?”

“As you want. There’s no use for now. I have to go. I need some metal plates to see something.”

Johnny knew Gyro for three months now, but it was the first time he truly realized he had been traveling with a doctor, all this time.

The title of ‘doctor’ was something scaring Johnny. He’d never met a good one, back in this disgusting hospital. Johnny pushed back the spine-chilling memory. It was not the right time. He needed to focus on the fact he trusted Gyro. He wanted to have faith in something. Someone. In that respect, the corpse had been so appropriate. The perfect thing to desire. An easier process to yearn God’s help than to believe in humanity’s benevolence toward each other. Toward him, particularly.

It took time for Gyro to come back to their room. Johnny couldn’t say how much, as he might have been lost in his thoughts for long, contemplating the events that led him here, right now.

Gyro was wearing a neutral face, still it was obvious he had struggled to lay hands on the object he had under his arm, a sort of metallic tray, concave, ready to be filled with water. He put it over the bed Johnny had sat, face all serious.

The pressure over their shoulders, so obvious, given what’s at stake.

“Still want it?” Gyro checked, closing the window heavy curtains.

“Yeah.”

“Chuck your shirt away and lie on your stomach. I’d need to put this close to the place I have to examine.”

Johnny’s back. The bullet’s scar, precisely.

Except for seeing it, there’s no use to lay in that position.

“Would it be as you do to relax cramps?” Johnny stressed out, strain as much present as determination in his intonation.

“Different rotation. But it will feel the same for you.” Gyro answered with a quiet voice.

You could have cut the tension with a knife.

Johnny complied, staying silent, unmoving. The waiting, the most uncomfortable of his entire life.

Gyro was saying nothing. From the corner of his eye, Johnny saw the way he moved his tray away to look at it with a better light, getting closer to the electric bulb, then putting it on the other side of his back. As if he wanted to watch something more. Or to verify if he saw correctly.

It took a few moments for Johnny to get a hold on his courage and ask.

“How does it look?”

“The spinal cord is damaged.” Gyro stated.

Nothing new under the sun.

“But it’s not severed.”

“It’s OK I move?” Johnny requested, ill at ease in this exposed position.

“Sure.”

Johnny was breathing more easily, Gyro’s words confirming there was hope. That Johnny was right. His legs could move. He could feel things.

“You could recover mobility in your right leg. Fast enough. Maybe in the left one, too.”

“You’re not looking happy.” Johnny stated once he had put his shirt back on.

“I’m happy for you.”

That was bullshit. Johnny didn’t even get the slightest smile from Gyro. Nor any enthusiastic tone.

“What is it? You don’t know what to do?”

“I know perfectly how to help.”

“What’s wrong? You don’t want to anymore?”

There was fear in Johnny’s voice. A feeling Gyro didn’t like that got hard enough under his skin for him to decide to spit his gut out. Even if this was something, he wouldn’t have wanted to be facing and phrasing.

“Do you remember what Oyecomova said? About my father.”

Looking at his focused expression, it was obvious Johnny didn’t have a clear idea of it.

“I ain’t sure. That your old man retired shortly after he escaped?”

“Yeah…” Gyro nibbled his upper lip. “The two events aren’t related. Well, I guess the stress of this jailbreak didn’t help. Despite what my father and a lot of people could think, it’s not our duty to guarantee the prison’s security. We’re only meant to apply the criminal decrees. Everything ‘else’ is a bonus, not a royal expectation.”

He swallowed the gulp in his throat.

“My father had a seizure a few days after. Not something life-threatening, thank God. But it had consequences… Do you know what hemiplegia is?”

“…”

“I was twenty-two. Three years before I was supposed to officiate instead of my father. But he can’t anymore. I have been temporarily called in charge. And it will stay that way until my father dies. Or until I came back home or I turned 25. I don’t know. Whatever. What you need to know is, even if it’s not official, the royal executioner, it’s me and only me. My father needed a lot of help at first. From my mother for daily life matters. But it was me that had to take upon myself the work in the prison. In front of him once he could walk again. With all the criticism and stress, you could imagine.”

And Gyro screwed up so badly once… He got recalled of this occurrence with the Civil War stand crap. 

“He recovered.” Gyro went on. “A lot. But not enough to officiate, not enough to operate. I had to help with rehabilitation. I did it willingly. He’s my father. It’s a normal thing to do. Moreover, I was the only one that knew how to use steel balls. So, yeah, I know how to help as we had to invent exercises for him.”

“You bore the brunt and got it in the neck.”

Johnny valued the revelation he just heard.

It was rare Gyro confided something to him. Maybe it was unusual for Gyro to share something so personal with anyone. His charge and duty, a mystery to the world, solitary burden of a shadowy figure. But this, it meant a lot, for Johnny. Disability was hard as fuck. He knew it all too well. And he had suffered it alone. Sharing this with someone, especially family, hadn’t been an option for him.

And Gyro told him he knew.

He knew so much more than he pretended all this time.

Still he just came to offer to help Johnny, knowingly.

After having himself a difficult helper’s experience.

A frantic fear to fail, not to be good enough, appreciative enough, burst out in Johnny’s mind.

Maybe for the first time in his life since his paralyzed awakening, and he had gotten back hope because of steel balls and the corpse, Johnny thought perhaps it was not that bad if he wasn’t getting 'everything' back.

The feeling of not being alone was giving him strength he wasn’t suspecting the existence. 

I’ll do my best.

I’ll do everything.

I won’t be a dead weight.

Those thoughts born the day Gyro had allowed him to stick around, they’re more entrenched than ever.

“Ouch! What a shitty bed…” Gyro complained, sprawling on his mattress near the window.

“As if…” Johnny muttered, just loud enough for Gyro to hear him.

The latter smirked, uncovering the gold of his teeth.

“I’m seriously considering getting my saddle as a pillow.”

Johnny shook his head hearing this nonsense, and leant to fumble in his bag, grabbing something inside he gently threw at Gyro. The projectile hit his shoulder, making him sit and open wide eyes.

“I forgot to tell you, I got our order at the post office when you were asking that guy the address here.”

Gyro was staring at the new stuffed girly bear, something soft in his eyes.

“I’ve got your lube too if you want.” Johnny insisted, the absence of thanks or adequate reaction encouraging him to needle.

This time, Gyro sniggered some ‘Nyoho’ and turned on his side, back to Johnny, still fully clothed, hat on the head, hugging the toy against his chest.

“No thanks. I’m asleep. Good night.”

Gyro probably wasn’t that sleepy, but Johnny understood what it meant, as childish as the ‘thank you for caring about me too’ might be.

Chapter Text

Gyro and Johnny waited until they had set up the tent and run a cozy campfire, the next evening, to mention the topic again.

To talk about rehab.

The night in the inn helped them and their mount to recover from the cold and the tiredness. They left before dawn and had a long day to try to counterbalance the detour in Gettysburg and in the last town.

They were still hoping for victory after all.

If not this stage, in New York.

“So, how are we going to do that?”

Gyro raised his eyebrows. “You have no idea, Johnny?”

“I… do hope you’re not gonna ask me to strip and massage places I barely feel anything.”

“I’m not. You don’t need to be fiddled with, you need control.”

Johnny gave him a scrutiny gaze.

He hadn’t realized the tension his voice conveyed.

By the way, Gyro was acting as if he heard none of it either.

“Let’s make this simple.” Gyro smirked. “Get your boots off and focus for Tusk to spin your toenails.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. It happened in Arizona and the Rocky Mountain. Do it again. Shoot them if it’s easier. Besides, it could save our lives, who knows!” And Gyro shot him with this special stupid grin he was wearing every time he was getting smart.

What a blighter.

But Gyro wasn’t a smart-ass. Not only, at least. He was clever. Even scholar.

It wasn’t even so much of a surprise to realize that, one more time, he instructed Johnny to work all by himself. Doing it the way, he had taught him the spin first.

And it was… a fun idea to try.

Logical.

Johnny should use his stand to offset. To regain independence. 

“Don’t jump if you hear me shoot.” He boasted, taking up the challenge, pride cut to the quick.

It had been… so much easier said than done, Johnny reflected.

Especially for Gyro. Was he using steel balls with his feet?! Of course not. Well, sure he used his full body more often than not. Johnny remembered that time, when they fought against that Neapolitan terrorist, Gyro moved the explosion from his right hand to his right foot.

Probably that’s what he wanted Johnny to accomplish.

Maybe that was how he’d done it with his father. The man must have fulfilled that better and faster than Johnny, using steel balls for decades and not only for a few months.

So Johnny asked Gyro.

Gyro Zeppeli had never been a good teaching pedagogue. Nor a patient one. But he was dedicated to Johnny. And had always answered any sensible question. So Johnny knew he had gotten it, when Gyro tilted his head, snickering a ‘Nyohoho’ at him with a proud smirk the moment he shared his hypothesis.

Rehab consisted in using the spin to help reactivate nerves. Muscles. The purpose, less to spin his toenails than let his stand spread from the tip of his fingers in his arms, chest, and finally, pelvis, legs and feet.

That’s true Johnny’s back felt less tense, numbed, than before the events of Gettysburg. Doing as he was instructed, he sometimes felt numbness in places he hadn’t before. As if some parts of his legs felt asleep, in a painful way. Between this, and the nothingness he’s experiencing the rest of the time, Johnny couldn’t tell what he preferred.

In a way, he had been lucky, he never felt anything before. Gyro told him cramps and other physical painful feelings could happen to people in Johnny’s condition. That pain was also proof there’s hope for him.

Maybe Johnny was a quick learner—or maybe he had predispositions to the subject—but not a lot of time was necessary for him to succeed. He can’t shoot. Nor using his toenails in any helpful way, but he made them spin a little.

“Great.” Gyro saluted when Johnny showed him in the morning. “Now, hold it. We’ll work on it tonight.” He added, mounting on Valkyrie’s back, whispering to her ear and patting her neck.

That meant horseracing with the painful, unpalatable, sensations Johnny had in some place of the legs all day.

Johnny wanted to catch Gyro’s attention back. He wanted to groan about how much doing so would require focus. How much it would be difficult and hurt.

But did he have any choice? The only thing Gyro could tell him was he had to make do. 

Johnny had promised himself he’d do anything. Everything.

And Gyro already told him he noticed and appreciated Johnny’s strength and determination. Insisting he needed him to put to work every fiber of him for this to have results.

When they set up for the night, Johnny felt exhausted.

Enough for Gyro to know without him saying a thing.

“How does it work?”

“Can’t hold it all the time.”

“How long?”

“A few minutes… I tried doing more. But I cannot all day long…”

“I wasn’t asking you to hold it all day without a break.”

“…”

“Well, it’ll do.”

“…”

“Lay on the cover. You look tense. Can’t work with tight muscles.” 

Gyro already did this, at times. When the cold was furiously beating them and Johnny’s back hurt like hell. The first use of steel balls was to help people. And to keep their body relaxed, to be able to cut their head without pain.

“How does it feel? Any more tickling?”

“Was awful.”

“Hm. …You looked straighter on Slow Dancer today. Was your balance better?”

Johnny opened his mouth, but said nothing. Maybe… Maybe that’s true. Just, he hadn’t noticed because of the unusual things coming from his legs to his brain.

“I think… I had a better feeling of Slow.”

Johnny can’t say he had felt his horse’s warmth or movement when they galloped today. But he realized he sensed the presence of the horse in a way he hadn’t before.

After a few moments the steel ball worked on his back, Johnny felt better. No more stiffness.

“Get on your back. Sit down if you want.” 

Once Johnny did and they made eye contact, Gyro talked again.

“Here’s the plan: you use the spin in your legs; first I’ll check out how your sensitivity is. Next, we’ll try to make you move.”

Johnny couldn’t feel a thing to save his life.

They had spent whole minutes, him lying in different positions, eyes closed, and it felt infuriating. Johnny had been unable to tell if Gyro had been stimulating the feet, calves, knees or thighs. Left and right sides, all the same. Losing patience with himself after the already hard day focusing on the spin at every moment.

“Please, let’s stop, it’s useless.” Johnny repeated, his eyes closed firmly to fight tears. To fight the sensation, he was useless.

“Again. Focus.” Gyro chided. “If you think you want to stop, you’ll never be able to feel anything.”

“You’re not even touching me!” Johnny lost his temper.

“Open your eyes.”

Gyro’s voice was calmer than Johnny would have thought, still he preempted for the slap he might deserve for his impatience.

But once he met Gyro’s satisfied grin, he knew there was something.

“You’re right. This time, I wasn’t touching you. No hands, no steel balls.” He confirmed, shaking his fingers in the air and exposing his golden grills.

Johnny can’t help but stare at the broad palms. As if he just caught something but didn’t know what or how.

“Is that good?” He finally asked, uncertain.

Sure he hadn’t cheated, but it could have been luck, right?

“It’s a starting point. Maybe you don’t have physical sensations yet, but at least you could recognize better presences.”

Gyro wasn’t even questioning the result. 

They hadn’t spent that much time working on this. Maybe ten minutes only. Long, and short all at once. Still it was more time than Gyro ever dedicated to teach him the spin. Perhaps because, this, Johnny can’t do it alone. 

On the contrary, working on movement got surprisingly easier.

Inexplicably, for Johnny.

Of course, sitting in a wheelchair or lying down, it’s pretty shitty.

He got his eyes opened for that. And Gyro had to explain to him to the full extent what he wanted. The way to combine in the same short time the route down his leg of the spin from his nails, and the neural control.

Try not to do little or convoluted.

Gyro wasn’t giving a shit of getting a gutless kick if it had to happen.

Johnny got some result shortly in the right leg. The knee and ankle joints that already moved from time to time, when Johnny wasn’t aware.

Soon enough they had exercised while Johnny was on his horse. The spasticity was better. Muscle rigidity, an unforeseen help to hold a posture. 

Johnny was still riding the way he’d been since the beginning of the race. Doing otherwise would have been too straining and inefficient. But sometimes, some minutes before they left or for a moment at night when Slow Dancer wasn’t too tired and consented to their human nonsense, Johnny tried to ride with the stirrup down.

Making good use of muscle spasticity and footrest and pommel, it was easier than trying to stand—walking was still a distant dream. Using equitation was a roundabout to progress. 

And Johnny knew Gyro was happy to record his improvement, hearing how he went talkative, making interesting but useless speeches about stirrups’ history but not finishing his sentence as if there was something spin related to it.

Johnny wasn’t naive.

He experienced those too often not to recognize them. 

Maybe there was something he didn’t know about the spin.

A lesson 5 he was not ready to learn. Or he’s not needy to master.

It wasn’t important anymore.

The same way the corpse wasn’t essential to his life these last days.

Johnny got his miracle, and Gyro was helping him to make the most of it.

His life might be harder, he needed more courage than ever, but he liked what they’re accomplishing. What he was achieving by his work. 

Johnny was restoring his self-confidence besides his mobility.

And it’s perhaps the greatest time of his life.

Chapter Text

“I’m starting to… feel again.” Johnny pointed at his groin in a gesture.

They’re racing for perhaps twenty minutes now. Twenty minutes during which Johnny pondered if he should talk about it. It could be embarrassing, sure. But they already talked about sex sometimes. And it was good news for Johnny. It helped him feel even more like a man, to rediscover his body can experience desire.

…and that’s medical information. Something Gyro might need to know. Right?

“Oh. Get a hard-on already? Morning erection?” Gyro asked casually, scratching again a bug bite he got over the elbow he was toying since the morning.

Captivating Johnny.

No way he explained how or why he realized. 

No way. Really.

“You know what? You should pay yourself a prostitute. Nyoho!”

“What?! What for?”

“See how it works without pressure. Didn’t you do that before?”

“Of course not. Would have been humiliating.”

“Would have been curiosity. Trying.”

Johnny scowled. “Whatever. I don’t even know what she could do or try.”

He’d never needed to pay for a fuck in his life. Doing it after… would have meant recognizing nobody could want him. A humiliation, Johnny was still refractory to.

Gyro shrugged. “These girls know things about the human body. Well, I do too. For different reasons, obviously.”

“No way you’d be there to give advice. I’d rather have you do this yourself.”

Gyro choked, and coughed. Wide clear green gaze staring at Johnny as if he had just made a monumental blunder.

“What?”

Then Johnny understood.

And mumbled, “I wasn’t offering.”

Johnny didn’t realize, but this sentence dug Gyro’s grave. 

Offering. 

Of course Johnny wouldn’t offer for both of them to have sex together. So why did he use this word? As if making advances was suitable from one man to another. As if it was natural.

‘I wasn’t asking.’

That was the answer Gyro had been waiting.

Greedy Johnny craving any possible help.

Not Johnny denying it to be a sexual offer to interested people.

All this embarrassment and awkwardness, it was Gyro’s and Gyro’s only.

Because Gyro was neither as offended, nor as much repulsed at the idea, he should have been. 

Nor was it a scenario he thought he’d be willing to caress himself at night to release the pressure inside his pants any healthy man experienced.

Actually, the event screwed up Gyro’s brain.

It made him ponder over things he put a lot of effort to avoid since he realized how he felt after Milwaukee’s events. That time, he thought about Johnny as a lover. Someone, he’s emotionally invested. In a strange way, usually only appropriate between men and women.

Bromance, in a word.

It was more than deep feelings of trust, affection and dedication.

Gyro had now proof it might be worse.

It’s his fault. Gyro fucked up his own brain because Johnny was the only person he was seeing on a daily basis.

Gyro had always fed ambivalent relationships with women. A pursuit of mixed up attraction and repulsion. Because a true relationship would have been sentimentality. Because he had been tricked by this married bitch who cheated on her husband, a long time ago. A bad experience that left Gyro with a bitter taste toward every potential girlfriend.

Unusual circumstances of this unprecedented hellish race caused him to react in a strange abnormal way.

It could be expected; Gyro was not used to feelings.

And he must forget about it.

All this was the consequence of his mistaken mind.

Because it was impossible Gyro liked men.

Impossible or not, the topic had not stayed dead between them.

Gyro discovered how sensitive the subject of sexuality connected to disability was for Johnny.

It partly ruined Johnny’s new self-confidence. Gyro realized it every time this happened to come in on conversation.

And it was difficult to recommend patience with himself to a young man of not even twenty-years-old that obviously felt entirely frustrated and unsatisfied for ages. …one that apparently had experienced sexual activities as wild as fulfilling during his latest teenage years.

Gyro was not jealous. Not even about the threesome Johnny always put first as an example every time someone asked him about the rumors of debauchery that were running about racecourse circles. He’s not eager of women to the point he wished he had several of them on him at the same time. Despite this, as a man, Gyro preferred having his own history where he didn’t have to suffer a two-year-old chastity and celibacy caused by incapacity.

An obvious bruise to the ego.

Gyro never verbalized it that way. 

Long ago, he’d made a point of honor not to agree with Johnny when he was belittling himself. Keeping his mouth shut, in a non-judging silence. Until that night, in Gettysburg, Gyro opened the valve and commanded Johnny to stop throwing horrible words at his own face.

This reaction of ‘taking action’ went against everything Gyro learned.

It embodied the opposite of neutrality.

But Gyro was already so emotionally invested in Johnny… He’d done what felt the right thing to him. Even if he jumped into the void doing it.

His resolution to compete in this race implied he’s putting his life at risk. He knew before going here. What he didn’t know, back then, was the experience would change everything about him. Except for his conviction, killing Marco would be the end of him.

Feeling inner contradiction was labeled as a weakness by Gyro’s father.

Gyro was meant to protect his country and family.

The executioner was the hand of royal justice. A gear. A tool. Not someone sensitive supposed to think or feel. Put in a word, not a person.

Being the best at it, officiating with humanity, detachment, taking care not to engender more suffering to the convicted, victims, society; the sense of this function, people thought revolting when they put a face on it.

Because of the fear aura associated when you were an executioner.

Death penalty was authorized state murder.

If Gyro’s country had chosen to prevent doing it as a public thing, it was for people not to get accustomed to view beheaded humans, hear metallic sound of swords slicing flesh and bones, smell of blood that hit you right in the gut. Morbid fascination was exited from the equation.

But killing was never what had triggered Gyro whose education allowed him to perceive this life as acceptable, or even suitable. Superiority complex at work, because they were doing this with such ethics and great technique in Naples, it should excuse slaying.

That’s not something you could become aware of, cuddled in the family nest. You were blind, and proud, like any other adolescent that knew nothing else than the life that’s his own.

For it to change, it took you to face alone something crueler than ever. Outside your values. And then for you to recall the divergent voices of foreign intellectuals and philosophers you read in books you first looked down upon years ago.

Gyro was the eldest son.

His life was about meeting expectations. Making his parents proud.

Not listen to his inner desires and convictions.

Even his firm intuition Marco’s death would be an insufferable mistake. Miscarriage of Justice. Absence of Justice. What was Justice without innocence presumption? Death condemnation without definitive evidence? Even more upon mere children?

Gyro knew what the effect of this nonsense on him would be. 

It would kill him from inside.

Kill his soul.

And now, Gyro was experiencing more contradictions.

Because of Johnny.

Going to America made him aware of what he lacked. Dark determination, perhaps. But also a real friend. Connection with someone he could trust and who accepted him for himself. Gyro had discovered what it meant not to be alone.

And emotions, feelings, he never thought he’d know this intensity for someone one day.

Even less for a man.

Gyro feared what it meant.

As part of his executioner duty, he had studied law.

He knew love and foremost sex between men were both forbidden by law and scriptures. How abnormal that was, biologically. Humans were meant to procreate. Have children. Gyro didn’t believe you could truly enjoy sex despite his own sex drive normal for a man his age.

He prevented himself from thinking more about it. How that could destroy his career, his family, his whole life. Being sexually able-bodied as a male was about ego and procreation.

Occasional masturbation, the way to confirm everything worked well.

Nothing else.

Nothing else.

But Gyro can’t help but connect to Johnny nevertheless. 

Feel attracted.

Involved in his doubts, his suffering.

Gyro knew he’d give that guy everything he had. 

Including his life.

“Respect your own pace.” Gyro repeated, trying to reassure, not for the first time, as he felt the self-inflicted pressure and impatience of his partner, an afternoon they’re talking about it.

“You can’t understand.” Johnny spilled.

“Probably not. And?”

“It’s not only walking again. It is about… being a man.”

“Disabled can have sex. It’s different, but different doesn’t mean bad.”

The discussion wasn’t entirely new.

Gyro had had time to think about it. Undoubtedly more than needed. His words were less those of a medic than those of someone emotionally invested. Projecting.

Johnny clenched his jaw. “I don’t want to be touched where I can’t feel a thing. Whatever, sensible people don’t want to.”

“There are.”

“…”

“I would.”

“Whatever! You’d never get together with someone disabled.”

Gyro squinted, pouty lips and pouty chin, in this expression he’s usually wearing when Johnny refused to comply with one or the other whim, when once in a while Gyro decided he’s hating someone and he’s thinking Johnny should too.

“And why not?” He objected.

“Because limitations are more than annoying!” 

Johnny was about to lose his temper. It’s obvious he knew better than him, and had every right to be upset. 

But Gyro was serious. And sincere. He’s the oldest, a mentor figure, and had an ability to get the last word he took advantage of.

“You don’t know what I would be willing to do or not.”

And the boasting was even more awkward than that time Gyro felt like Johnny offered him to help him jerk off. To see if things might work for him.

Johnny’s disconcerted, incredulous gaze was enough for Gyro to know he doubted him. That he thought it was all talk. And, of course, about a possible disabled female lover, whose issues would be so different from his.

Gyro’s chance was Johnny wasn’t used to contradicting him. The power balance between them letting him go uncontested more often than not.

He was indulging Gyro.

Because he needed him.

If only Johnny knew Gyro needed him just as much… if not more.

Chapter Text

Gyro realized he had always eyed men up. Of course with this easy excuse of finding the golden ratio. Beauty of nature.

Who had he been kidding?

His purpose had been genuine. Observing had been something Gyro first had to do as a practical exercise, learning anatomy. Then he continued looking because he liked it. And not only at girls.

More at men than girls, to be honest. Giving sidelong looks to women’s bodies was unsuitable for a man. Yeah. Nothing related to the fact Gyro had a lot more difficulty finding golden ratio into feminine bodies. No matter how beautiful they could objectively look.

Of course it’s human and expectable for a boy to compare penis size or have a glance to another’s ass, thighs and abs. What’s not, was for one to congratulate themselves to not have too much of a boner by looking fellows’ nudity, in national service common showers.

Those were the very first time nakedness had been experienced outside the family or the doctor office. And it had stopped after the first year, once Gyro had his privacy back. Whatever if Gyro ever had looked strange to one, as a Zeppeli and executioner, people were keeping distant already.

Gyro had kept on looking at various people. The ones Gyro got to meet in the prison—or even outside—weren’t good suitable individuals. Not people he should connect with. Looking at and finding beauty in their body or demeanor was a way to believe in the ‘beauty of the universe.’ That there could be ‘good’ in anything, anyone. 

Being day and night with Johnny for weeks, of course, Gyro had ogled the only person he’d been with. And he liked his personality. Was already at the starting line. Johnny had proved since the beginning he was smart—the smartest in the crowd—and determined both. So much more than this one stupid pickpocket Gyro led to suicide.

Gyro had his fill being alone during the months he needed to cross the United States from New York to San Diego. And he had realized very soon it would be as much survival as equitation. Having someone that wouldn’t be a true rival had felt a nice perspective. A nice perspective gifted with a wise head, nice face, sculpted arms… everything had been better than nice, to sum up.

Johnny was so radiant since Gyro had begun to help him get rehab. He worked hard, so hard, still he’s beautiful, focusing on exercises, finding better ways to make the spin travel in his whole body. Achieving so much, in no time.

Gyro wasn’t a psyche specialist, he’s more an expert in kinesiology. But seeing that, he could tell how much Johnny’s previous doctors fucked up.

It was about self-confidence. Working on issues that should have been evident two years before. Encouraging Johnny to let Gyro touch him around his scar, with his steel ball. The place, the core of the trauma the young man suffered. To deconsecrate his back had been a necessary step that helped hips’ mobility. 

They discovered skin on the lower back was sensitive.

Easing contracture of years helped Johnny in everything else.

He’s trying to ride using the stirrups normally for ten or fifteen minutes every day.

In the end, the spin had been a perfect excuse to bring down the mental block Johnny had nourished since he left the hospital in a wheelchair.

Thinking he can’t and shouldn’t hope. His resilient character, allowing him to be perfectly independent, the power of his amazing biceps, the key to move around.

No way he’d been this strong before. 

There’s no need as a jockey.

He must have suffered to get here.

People failed him, and as always, Gyro only could admire Johnny for everything he’d accomplished.

Soon, he wouldn’t need Gyro anymore.

And Gyro was doing his best to forget the chaos of his life.

Forget the fact he didn’t want to go home.

Didn’t want to win the race nor lose it.

He dreamed for it to be endless.

He dreamed for it to be his end.

It hurt.

Everything about the crudity of his life hurt Gyro.

He’s feeling good only because he’s in love.

Whereas he refused to face it.

The first time it happened, Johnny didn’t believe his eyes. That wasn’t making sense. He had always used nature, or animals, to help create a perfect golden ratio.

So why on earth did he glimpse one in the gesture of Gyro’s hands pressing his legs by an interposed steel ball?

It didn’t make sense. 

Or maybe it did. 

Johnny felt dumbstruck about it. 

Too much to verbalize his surprise out loud. 

It went on, with time, Johnny catching it easier than before.

He realized it was perhaps logical. Gyro told him about the way he had trained for his hands to shape a golden rectangle. And with Johnny on his back, focusing on his own spin to help the rehabilitation gestures, it made sense.

The second thing striking him was the blurry memory of the fight against Magenta Magenta and Wekapipo, the urge in his own voice when he’d asked Gyro how the fuck he was doing in this frostbitten wasteland. Gyro, not answering anything but gazing at him. Focusing on his face and eyes. As if it was the solution.

‘He thinks I’m good looking.’

‘Despite everything, he thinks I’m good looking,’ he realized.

Johnny knew, before. Gyro had already complimented his upper musculature. 

But this, it felt different.

Gyro was staring at him more and more this way.

And Johnny didn’t appeal to anyone for ages. Nobody was looking at wheelchair users. The tool, the key of independence, but also a deterrent. A turn-off. 

People weren’t saying such a thing, of course. Most of them at least. But it had been Johnny’s reality long enough for him to know.

Here, it was so soft, so sweet for his ego to be gazed at, as if he was beautiful.

Feeling Gyro’s elegant bright green eyes on him, a wonder itself. Grazing his face, but also other places of his body. Shoulders. Arms. His hips and behind when he was on the saddle. And, of course, his face. Blue eyes and full lips.

You’re only glancing over the lips of people you wanna kiss.

Johnny had already been stared at, like that, by men. It was something he had allowed with mixed arrogance and benevolence. Because… Gender had never felt like a hot topic for him. Lips were lips, and whatever the person was, it was always possible for them to ride or suck his hard-on at the end of the day.

This disdainful way of thinking had been possible when so many people were willing to entertain him. To exist in someone’s rich, famous and good-looking eyes. All what Johnny had stopped being, after getting shot.

What didn’t change with the loss of his status was the fact Johnny was attracted by men as well as women.

Of course he eyed Gyro that way. Thought he was charming. Well built. And he wouldn’t say 'no' to someone like that. Johnny had pushed away the idea a few days after they’d met. Because having fantasies about a stranger or your best friend wasn’t the same thing at all.

But all this came back full force once he’d caught Gyro staring at him. 

Sure Johnny was surprised. Both astounded and captivated. 

He had no certitude over what had started it, but his answer was yes, yes, more than yes.

Johnny can’t get what he had done to deserve this attention, but the only natural answer was to stare back. Welcome it. By the way he looked back, by his body language.

He kept from doing anything more than that. It had almost backfired already, Gyro beginning to act more discreet. Unsure.

And what on earth? 

Johnny would never have matched the word ‘shy’ to Gyro’s behavior if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

Still, wasn’t it logical?

Johnny was open-minded, after all. One could expect rejection in a more or less violent way in this situation. The realization colored a lot of Gyro’s words and behaviors of the last weeks toward him. A secret meaning, Johnny discovered with loving indulgence.

A happy leniency building bit by bit, a kind of self-confidence, he thought, was out of range.

That’s not the solution to every issue Johnny had.

But it was the fair assurance Gyro, despite how clumsy he might sometimes be, was indeed honest.

Gyro would have liked to know his place.

To know how to give up on his feelings.

Maybe it could have been achievable if Johnny behaved differently.

Not as if he were agreeing with what Gyro would like to do.

It had been clear, at first, Johnny didn’t want to be touched. Even more on places he wasn’t feeling sensations. But he’s the one welcoming intimacy. Was already the one that had made them buy only one tent for them to share.

It’s easy to blame it on the winter cold and economic reasons.

In truth, his body language was proving Gyro his inadequate attention could be welcomed. Making it impossible for Gyro to forget even for an hour. For him to abjure.

Gyro feared Johnny could concede in a way to thank him for his help. He wasn’t a man to force himself on anybody. Consent, this central for him.

He got Lucy Steel in his mind.

The girl had told them her story.

Gyro, annoyed, but listening all the same.

Stephen Steel had saved her. And in a childish gratitude, she’d offered to become his wife for real someday.

Johnny wasn’t the same age, nor a romantic girl, but Gyro knew how grateful he felt toward him. More often than not, he felt surprised by the lack of complaints he got.

Gyro knew what he asked hurt.

And Johnny had to learn how to do things, something that strained his mind and body.

Gyro remembered too well how things were with his father. Gregorio Zeppeli was a spin master. The concept of using it to work on rehab felt like taking candy from a baby to him.

Still he’d been harsh with his son, anytime Gyro was not reacting exactly the way he had expected him. Or becoming uncharacteristically impatient when he couldn’t get something done right away because of his body still recovering from its paralysis, or since progress had been frustratingly slow.

Gyro helping him had been a due.

Not something that should grant his firstborn a 'thank you.'

And both Gyro’s parents and siblings ignored how hard and stressful it had been for him to shoulder the royal duty in these conditions. Gyro had to engage more and more time because things were difficult in the prison. And in parallel, going back home late at night, Gyro had heard his mother expressing her relief to her husband at least Gyro was ‘old enough.’

How would they have done if Gyro had still been 15 years old, like their youngest son? She would have had to fight for the family to keep the function. Argue Gyro would be capable no matter what. As perfect as his father.

That’s true, Gyro was ‘old enough.’ But no matter your age, solitude through an ordeal was always difficult to compose with. 

It’s nothing new. 

Gyro never experienced comprehension and encouragement at home. His father, at least, had been patient with his education when Gyro was still a child.

The rehab they worked on together harmed their father-son relationship.

Maybe that’s why Gyro pushed away the idea to do anything for Johnny. Both without knowing him and after knowing him well. 

After all, Johnny was the first person to have genuinely valued Gyro’s talent for what it was, to have learned who he was, how difficult he was, losing the only things he’s caring about to save Gyro’s life, and to be still there, appreciative, grateful and more smiling than ever before.

That’s right.

Gyro had fallen head over heels for Johnny Joestar.

Chapter Text

They were two days distant from Philadelphia’s finish line, camp done nice and quick. Chilly starless night inciting Gyro and Johnny to keep close and sleep soon not to suffer the worst of the morning cold that was harassing them the last hour before dawn.

For the occasion, Gyro was directly rubbing Johnny’s legs’ muscles, hand pressures over the trousers Johnny can’t feel, but whose sight felt good. And was objectively good. Steel balls had no effect over the winter frost whereas this helped.

Touching him like that, Johnny half-lying, Gyro had something on his mind.

Johnny could tell.

Once he finished, Gyro didn’t move, caught in his thoughts.

Johnny sat upright. He glanced at the wood fireplace, and shut the tent entrance, tying the laces, up to down, one by one. He’s so close to Gyro he could feel the warmth of his blow against his cheek, his bust distant from a few inches only.

Once done, the dim light darkened even more.

Johnny had seen how Gyro was looking at him during the massage. How he’d been looking all day. How he’s looking now. Their hands, so close, they nearly touched.

“So what? You’re getting shy?” Johnny whispered.

“May I kiss you?” Gyro blurted out.

Johnny stared back, his pupils dilated.

He licked his lips, and straightened a little.

“Only if you first take your hat off.” He flirted back, with a velvety voice Gyro never heard before. Then he removed his headwear, getting the horseshoe away.

Sure Johnny had looked back at him, leaving the door open to a desperate hope, only led by want. It’s not much compared to what Gyro had done with him, had imagined a man could be. His hands were getting closer, blue nails helping to put headwear on the cover, next to them. Gyro moving forward too.

And it was so good, so right, to crash lips with Johnny. Because of the connection that already existed.

It felt like a pure indulgence Gyro wasn’t deserving. 

It’s a taboo.

An error. 

Something Gyro shouldn’t…

They have stopped pressing lips for some seconds, Gyro’s eyes still closed, his emotions evident over his face.

A ‘tsk’ noise came from Johnny. His hand went to caress Gyro’s cheek and without losing any more time, he kissed him again. Slow. But harder. Until he opened the mouth to his tongue. Sliding his fingers in Gyro’s hair.

Gyro gave in to it. He answered every gesture. With sloppiness, abandon.

They shouldn’t.

But he’d been craving it.

Johnny too, given how he indulged first and now took control.

When they stopped this time, Gyro didn’t wait. He opened his eyes a little and tilted his head differently, kissing again, his hand, palm and fingers, finding their place against Johnny’s chest. 

It felt more passionate. Better. The taste of something forbidden left behind them.

Feeling attracted to someone from the same gender was a pretty wild experience.

The first time Gyro had started looking at boys and one looked back at him in the street, he’s still in Naples and felt terrified.

But, the issue couldn’t be with Gyro, right? He must have encountered some weird guy. That’s it. And he’d become especially careful to appear as light and fun as possible doing so. In a way his behavior can’t be misinterpreted.

Things had changed with Johnny.

They were sharing a deeper and deeper emotional bond.

Gyro hadn’t stopped looking.

He can’t help it.

Discovering that you were attracted to a person of the same sex meant experiencing being different. Even before you have had a first emotional or sexual romantic relationship.

A difference that Johnny didn’t care at all, seeing the way he took the lead. Caressing Gyro’s face as if it was natural. He slid a hand under the leather shirt, prying fingers trying to untie the straps, eager to touch Gyro’s skin.

They shared several kisses. Gyro’s hands scouted Johnny’s upper body, exploring. It was very spontaneous, but not awkward. Gyro enjoyed the idea it was the consequences of him being such a crack in anatomy. Reality, rather there was already that much intimacy between them.

“Don’t get on top of me. Yeah, on the side.” Johnny spoke in hushed tones; the moment they were lying down.

Kisses on the lips went over the jaw and throat.

“I don’t know… I don’t think I can go all out. You know. Climax.” He added.

“I want to make you feel good.” Gyro answered with a sigh.

Johnny got pleasure. 

He can’t remember a time someone stimulated his nipples that good. Toying with them a way he really liked, making him harden and deforming his trousers like never before the past two years. The warmth of the large soft palms and fingers over his chest, a pleasure even before Gyro began titillating and kissing his upper body.

It didn’t go further. Next attention tried focusing on the hump inside Johnny’s trousers. Palming at it. Probably hot. But Johnny barely felt Gyro’s stimulating his hard-on. He got annoyed with himself. With his dysfunctional body.

He didn’t want to cry, or stop. To spoil the moment whereas everything before had felt amazing. 

Johnny swallowed the knot in his throat, and caught Gyro’s hand.

“Your turn.” He shushed, the moment he made eye contact, full lips going to press on Gyro’s.

They kissed again, Johnny toppling Gyro for him to lay on his back. Johnny’s hands busied undoing the pants, and his palm closed around a very hard and hot erection. Johnny looked down to the firm member, memorizing the form, the shape, the softness of the skin, everything.

It felt so satisfying, touching someone for whom it worked that Johnny moaned at the same time Gyro did.

And that wasn’t what Gyro had expected when he’d said he wanted Johnny to feel good, still it felt marvelous. Having sex with someone. Making someone come in no time under his out of habit strokes.

Gyro’s obvious desire made Johnny feel attractive. 

Something he wasn’t believing possible some weeks prior.

To Gyro’s erratic breathing, it must have been good for him. Even if it was only a hand job, it must be his first done by someone else for months.

Johnny was neither naïve nor stupid. He can’t find pleasure in masturbation, but as any average guy, Gyro needed to get laid once in a while. And he had never been a creep about it. So Johnny ignored purposely the typical sound of clothes and caresses that one time he heard him doing it at night.

Anew their eyes met. 

Johnny couldn’t help but smile. Feeling so happy, blooming, he barely noticed Gyro’s abashed expression. Yeah, he came alone. But what happened between them was a lot more than a unilateral climax. Losing a hard-on had indeed been an annoyance, but predictable.

Johnny barely felt his behind when he was sitting. And needed to take extra precautions when he needed to do his business.

That’s his reality since after he’d gotten shot.

What changed tonight, the proof there might be ‘a path.’

Whatever it was a ‘success’ or not. Sex wasn’t a matter of success, of realization. It was an inherent part of life. A part of life, Johnny wasn’t excluded anymore.

For Gyro too, it represented the beginning of something.

Something he craved, without knowing.

That’s who I am. That’s what I like.

Gyro realized two things that night. First, with the right partner, he did enjoy sex. A lot. Even while it was messy kisses mixed to a hand job camping out in the cold. Second, his emotionless experience with his three past female partners was of no help doing this with the right partner. He got the impression he’d been a clumsy oaf.

At least, Johnny’s delighted babbling was soothing a little Gyro’s pride.

“I’ve seen how you were looking at me sometimes. It strokes my ego. Because… I don’t have the same body as before. You see…”

“…”

“You good?”

Gyro grunted. “Would have wanted it to be better for you.”

“Told you it wouldn’t, Doc.”

Johnny’s fingers buried in sandy hair, massaging his scalp, stroking long strands.

“It was my first time, you know.” Gyro spoke again.

“Hm?”

“Doing it with a guy, I mean.”

“No way.”

“…”

“…”

Johnny hugged him tighter, repressing a smile.

“You’ve already had some.” Gyro said.

It was not a question. More a statement that confirmed the bundle of signs Gyro already noticed.

“Yeah but I’ve always topped.”

Silence grew inside the tent.

That last sentence, the proof Johnny had experienced something else—more—and he had been unsatisfied by what they’ve done in one way or the other.

Gyro wondered if every intercourse had always felt for Johnny as good as this one to him. Or even better. Of course you’d be frustrated to lose this. The same way Gyro felt frustrated Johnny didn’t let him time to try more, or differently. Or even open the eyes to have a look. How could you feel excited feeling nothing and with your eyes closed?

Gyro believed in visual stimuli.

He knew about fantasies.

Things, they, of course, never talked about before they jumped on each other’s boner.

It had been their first time together. Both so exquisite and still disappointing.

“I liked it.” Johnny insisted. “Just… I don’t feel it enough. And think too much about how I would have wanted to.”

“…”

“I want you. All of you. Steel balls and those, too.” Johnny brought back his hand down for emphasis. “You’re so amazing. Beautiful in your own way.”

The confident seductive way Johnny was talking to him, it’s embarrassing.

He was reassuring Gyro, and he succeeded. But he was younger. And he appeared all too often the inexperienced one to Gyro. It’s surprisingly hot and comforting for him to discover he didn’t have to lead alone, here. Gyro was confident he knew things Johnny didn’t. That Johnny could climax, and not only grasp irregular strands of pleasure. It’d be a lot easier since he had experienced same-sex relationships. Something Gyro never did, and had difficulty to integrate as an unquestionable personality trait of him; now hormones weren’t blinding his senses anymore. 

Gyro forced himself to ignore the feeling. Focus on the present moment, a headlong rush to not lose himself in all his past beliefs and considerations. The law. His father’s view. His mother’s view. The world’s injunction to normality. Gyro was swimming in unknown water.

It’s his luck he’s an adventurous spirit.

Gyro seriously didn’t know what he would have done if Johnny had been innocent enough on this topic to ask him to teach how to do it. How to stroke or suck a man. And be given explanation about the anal part, condemned by the Bible as Evil.

Johnny knew and felt comfortable doing this. Gyro was daunted enough to feel relieved he’s an expert about anatomy. Making him feel hopeful for next time.

Yeah, next time. 

Chapter Text

The morning that followed felt nice.

Sleeping against each other’s warm body, without being afraid of what the other could think, or misinterpret, a true cocoon of comfort. 

Even if they both stayed fully clothed.

The day had begun even better once Johnny caught Gyro by the elbow the moment he was about to leave to make coffee, asking for a kiss before he got outside.

Doing so, he had broken a secret boundary.

No, Johnny wouldn’t let Gyro act as if what they did was a horrible secret that must be kept quiet.

Something they should try to forget.

Gyro froze a few seconds at the casual, ‘May I kiss you?’ he heard minutes after getting awake.

Unmoving for the same reasons he was last night.

And as last night, he ended up indulging himself, turning his head and letting Johnny press a chaste kiss, a hand coming to seize the base of his skull, letting go in a caress over the neck.

They had kissed good morning.

It only lasted a few seconds, but gave him such a sense of well-being, Gyro’s foggy brain wondered why they hadn’t gotten into this habit those last months.

It’s so stupidly lovesick Gyro instantly craved to slap himself in the face.

He didn’t.

Instead he drowned his embarrassment preparing strong sugary black coffee.

He’s still dreamy enough standing near his horse, Valkyrie drank more of the sweet treat than himself.

Dawn plenitude soon disappeared, and the day was anything but halcyon. 

They were late. 

Really late. 

They got proof Diego Brando had overtaken them.

This new awareness was enough to ruin the mood.

Perhaps they had slackened their efforts, after Gyro’s victory and Johnny’s second place.

The truth was, once again, seeking after the corpse had clashed with Gyro’s objective.

Gyro started behaving annoying after they realized Diego led the way, his bad-tempered character coming back full strength.

No matter what happened recently with Johnny and the considerate behavior he favored in the recent weeks for personal interactions, he’s still the same man deep inside.

For Johnny, thinking about Diego Brando was thinking back about the corpse after days putting its existence aside.

The thought his rival still had the eye he had palmed was infuriating.

As always, Diego got something Johnny lost. Did better.

They were approaching Philadelphia. The city was the probable place where the last part of the corpse—the skull—was hidden.

Maybe they could do something.

Maybe they could try.

The corpse had chosen Johnny after all.

Its spirit addressed him, gave advice, called him by name.

Him only.

He alone.

Perhaps it was Johnny’s fate to forbid Valentine to get his claws on it and rule the world.

“Oh. So, after all, you still want us to die.” Gyro snapped, face close.

“What?!”

That wasn’t what Johnny said when he expressed how he felt now he remembered the last clue on the map that might lead them to the corpse.

It was not only about him.

There’s Lucy Steel, the whole country…

“Whatever.” Gyro cussed. 

Gyro’s aggravation was showing as he frowned, his pinched expression disdainful. The reasoning uncovered by the argument was tainted with nearly ridiculous hypocrisy. Since when was Johnny giving a shit about what was going to happen inside the United States…? He only cared about himself. His life. His perspectives. To the point, it’s obvious, one who engaged himself as President cared more than him. Had the required knowledge, relational intelligence and strategic vision for what’s best for a country half the size of North America.

Of course a ‘country’ recovering His corpse was more deserving than an ‘individual.’ How could one justify their credibility? Even the most virtuous one wouldn’t!

The greater good wasn’t a matter of egoism. 

It’s stemming from abnegation.

Moreover, this was the violent evidence for Gyro, Johnny didn’t care as much for Gyro as Gyro cared for him. Johnny’s happy about what happened. That’s all. Not the same degree of fondness and devotion.

Gyro felt like the time he discovered the mark of an alliance on his almost girlfriend’s hand.

A romantic loser. That’s what he was. A dumb fuck who idealized what he was offered and whose hopes were crushed in the course of a rather simple, not surprising conversation. It was unnatural Gyro was granted a positive reception to his unilateral inclination. Nothing awkward happening that would feel punishment. No divine judgment in his dreamless sleep.

No need for God to interfere.

Circumstances sufficed to prove Gyro his life hadn’t reached a happy turning point.

Just a more complicated one.

That was the painful gap between being your best friend’s sex friend, and being in love.

Unable to swallow the bitterness on his tongue, Gyro turned the head on the side and spit on the ground, before lashing on Johnny. “You egoistic moron. Do as you want! Don’t listen to me, make choices for both of us. You know damn well I’ll follow you no matter what.”

Gyro didn’t say out loud the ‘jerk’ he wanted to add to his last retort, but the feeling of it was discernible.

He already called Johnny a moron.

…or maybe he’s considering himself the egoistic moron, stupid enough to hope for something else.

Johnny revolved around the corpse. 

And Gyro revolved around Johnny.

It’s obvious. 

A fated reality.

All these ambivalent inner hurt and troubles were self-evident to Gyro.

But it’s a lot less for Johnny that wasn’t a mind reader, and suddenly took an acid bucket of aggression in his face.

Gyro… was not saying ‘no,’ nor was trying to argue.

He’s saying ‘I don’t want to,’ accusing Johnny of being selfish. 

Blinkered.

Mesmerized by something he shouldn’t and Gyro put a lot of effort for Johnny to get his mind off.

Their agreement and promise was about Gyro’s victory in the race.

In practice, Gyro had complied anytime Johnny was attracted by the easy dream of walking again the corpse had embodied.

And now, he was unloading disappointment and… something else on Johnny. 

Pain. 

Yeah, pain.

But pain Johnny caused? He didn’t think so.

“What? Wait, what?” Johnny stammered.

Gyro was freaking out because Johnny talked about the corpse.

That’s final.

What Johnny got here was a detailed version of the ‘stop’ Gyro slammed to him after Gettysburg.

“Are you kidding me?” Johnny repeated. “You have enough strength of character to decide on your life. You followed, because you wanted to.”

Gyro didn’t want to anymore.

Johnny was right about the past, and present.

But it’s a new ordeal to take on board the fact Gyro was believing, looking for the corpse would be a dramatic error. Talking about death, and martyr, like an ill augur.

Frontal attack over someone as dangerous and powerful as President Valentine and his unknown bodyguards was suicide. It hurt to recognize it, but the argument was effective. Or rather, Johnny understood it. It didn’t mean he’s not craving to charge in all the same. 

Entitled asshole he was.

But that was not the subject of the talk anymore.

“I never forced you to stay with me. Nor to take part in any fight.” Johnny insisted.

“That’s true.” Gyro said, voice hard.

“…”

“It doesn’t change the fact I’ll do it again.”

And Gyro turned his face to him before he dropped the bomb.

“If you think you’ll be the first to die, you’re kidding yourself.”

Johnny would have preferred a physical punch.

Psychological pain hit him, and only the high discharge of adrenaline in his veins allowed him to retort to the emotional blackmail.

“It’s not even an argument, it’s coercion!”

“It’s not! That’s facts! What do you think I have to expect by getting back home? Nothing. Just being a tool and giving me grief as sole consequence for my choices.”

Johnny’s red face, shining eyes and clenched teeth were unmistakable clues of how furious he felt after Gyro told him that.

It was so unlike the man!

His friend.

His lover.

It reactivated a fear they both experienced since day one. Gyro had already a price on his head, over the night Johnny had been finding the left arm of the corpse buried in the Arizona desert.

The pain was beyond measure now. Gyro wasn’t just Johnny’s best friend anymore. He had shown uncontested trust in Johnny, confided painful private memories to him. He had taken time and effort to help him overcome his disability. Johnny even felt confident enough to start calling him his ‘boyfriend’ or ‘lover’ in the secrecy of his mind.

Johnny wasn’t asking a morning kiss to any one-night-stand he had.

It’s a commitment.

The proof, he’s likely to continue the romantic interaction.

‘If you think you’ll be the first to die, you’re kidding yourself.’

It’s mean. Unfair. They suffered enough life or death situations for Gyro to know what kind of traumatic emotional response he’s triggering.

Why did he say that?

Why?

Why? 

Johnny held back his tears.

He knew fucking well it was the truth. 

Gyro always protected him.

Johnny had known, but not realized the most probable way he could lose Gyro would be by taking too much risk himself. Over his life.

And Johnny can’t stand this awful feeling he’d experienced a few times already. Having Gyro bleeding out, having to shout for help. Nothing in his own power to fix what happened.

Weak.

Helpless.

Just like Johnny was when he’s nine.

Gyro wasn’t one that needed to be protected.

Still it happened again and again.

It would start over again if Johnny went on being his usual short-sighted selfish self.

Johnny’s life’s purpose wasn’t to keep being someone’s mentee, figurative love interest or childish little brother. It didn’t mean he could remain an egocentric bastard without any consequence either.

‘Whatever I do, I kill and inflict pain upon my loved ones.’

Those words were engraved in him like a truth.

All his teenage years, Johnny hurt so much, getting this strong hopeless certainty buried inside his heart, he was the one responsible for his older brother’s death. For Nicholas.

However, comparatively, he put Gyro’s life on a lot more strain than Nicholas’.

Was he meant to make the same mistakes over and over again?

That’s why Gyro’s words upset him so bad.

They hit the nail on the head.

Johnny grabbed Slow Dancer’s mane to grasp some comfort, the horse snorted but kept trotting regularly despite its racer’s distress. Johnny did what he did every time. Indulging in letting go, tears rushing from his eyes now he’s remembering his brother. Pain to have lost his favorite family member by his fault, still difficult to bear today, even though years allowed him to distance himself.

Nobody discussed it with him after the fight against Axel Ro. Gyro must have seen. As well as Hot Pants. But Gyro never asked anything. Johnny had gotten a hot comforting hand over his beanie, and a friendly pat over his shoulders the only time he tried to vocalize something about it some days ago.

Maybe it had been childish beliefs for Johnny to think he had a responsibility about it.

He had to handle all his life with always more trauma.

And what had hurt most had been to be left alone managing his grief and mourning. Except for the occasional word of the domestic staff and the rare time his mother crouched to offer him a hug right after the funeral. Behind his father’s back. Showing Johnny, he’s still important to someone.

But mourning was more than just the funeral day.

A lot more.

Now… Since late September, Johnny was not alone anymore.

Racing in frozen grassland, he got more time to think about so many things. To think about the meaning and the circumstances of Nicholas’ death too.

Once again, he was recalling Diego’s presence that day. The ten-year-old boy’s cry about some mouse that panicked Nicholas’ horse. Piercing as a needle, a stake right in the heart. And Johnny thought, ‘He’d seen it with his non-human kinetic vision.’

Only to feel strongly dumbstruck a second later.

Ten-year-old Diego didn’t have kinetic vision.

Thus how? Why?

Because Diego was fucking Diego. He’s a cheater. He’s someone capable of marrying an elderly woman and poisoning her for inheritance. He’s such a son of a bitch.

How could he have seen a mouse from where he was? Except if he’d released it himself?

This mental construction put a ten-year-old boy as Nicholas’ murderer. Maybe this was entirely false. Probably Johnny had tunnel vision. He hated Diego so much. In this scenario, Johnny didn’t have to hate himself anymore. He’s putting his enemy responsible for his sins. 

This was a way for Johnny to forgive himself. 

To accept this sensitivity, he had as a child. One that loved animals, admired his brother and trembled in front of a terrifying father. 

To better accept the evidence, the person he’s attached with all his heart today was Gyro Zeppeli. He was craving his presence and support more than anything. More than the corpse.

He always had.

But it had been easier to refuse to let the truth sink at first. People die, make you hurt and feel their absence so more painfully than an artifact, a divinity, the holy trinity ever would.

Immortal.

Gyro didn’t go to America to meet Johnny.

It often felt like it, for Johnny, but Gyro hadn’t.

And for weeks now Gyro wasn’t talking about his objectives. 

Damn it.

They didn’t even glimpse Diego Brando for weeks, still that pain in the ass managed to ruin their entire day.

Chapter Text

Relinquishing the corpse, it went against every cell of Johnny’s body.

The whole idea of giving up triggered a feeling he's going to contravene some unspoken law he’s barely aware of and that ruled his instincts.

Johnny felt torn.

In no way would he had wanted to upset Gyro that bad, nor made him believe Johnny didn’t care if he died. That Gyro was dispensable. Unimportant.

Johnny wanted him in his life.

But he also wanted the corpse.

And to win the race.

Johnny wanted everything.

As Gyro said, he’s a fucking egoist.

To tell the truth, Johnny didn’t know how to say he’s sorry. To admit, making such a choice require more maturity than he’s capable today. Whereas, at the same time, Johnny knew in his guts not making a choice was the chance to earn more.

Gyro made his choice.

He told Johnny he’d follow him no matter what. Never mind the race, never mind Marco, never mind if Gyro died along the way.

Hours later, Johnny still can’t bear it. Unbeatable tears, keeping rolling down his cheeks at times.

It had been a love declaration without the words, ‘I love you.’

Johnny didn’t like those words. He always felt doubtful regarding them. Of course, nobody mattering told him so.

And Johnny was also angry because of what this implied over Gyro’s mental condition. Gyro giving up on the race was the same as losing himself.

The man Johnny cared about was the one that went against his authority figures to save a child. Someone that showed humanness. That believed in social values. Gyro could tell otherwise; he was more than this entitled self-absorbed man he wanted to appear. He had a worldview. Convictions. Not only about the beauty of the world portrayed by the golden ratio. In another universe, without Marco, without false justice, perhaps Gyro would have tried to clear the honor of executioners. To fight against the hypocrisy common people wore as morals. For his duty not being kept a hideous, despicable secret anymore, concealed to the outside world.

The thing was, Johnny felt attacked earlier. He wanted to reply in kind. Craving revenge.

Johnny had realized he didn’t want Gyro in his shadow.

And it was not as if people were ignorant of Gyro’s situation anymore.

After the victory of the sixth stage of the race, coming back as an important competitor for victory, journalists did what they didn’t waste their time with, after Gyro’s downgrading.

They put on research in the international newspapers section of East Coast's biggest libraries. And eventually find hidden duplicates of the Neapolitan press articles Gyro kept on him—the one Johnny had read by chance, back in the Californian desert, during their first night together.

“Are you gonna give up on Marco?” Johnny blurted out.

Hearing the name, Gyro immediately straightened, his jaw tightening painfully.

Remembering his country, his family, his duty, the child he promised himself to do his best saving the life and honor, hurt like hell. That’s why he tried his hardest to keep being in denial, staying emotionally away. If he didn’t, he couldn’t see himself as something other than a failure.

Gyro had left Naples last May, and they were now in January. For Marco, it meant spending winter in prison. A nine-month period. An eternity when you’re nine years old. Gyro remembered how he was at this age: a little monster. He’s good at school because he had no choice—and good at riding because he loved it. Despite those two chances he had gotten, he had not been an easy child. No school, no leisure, for Marco, whose job was to take care of his master’s shoes and make them shine. 

Gyro didn’t feel as if he’s betraying Marco. The kid didn’t ask anything from him and Gyro hadn’t promised. Despite this, Gyro had taken responsibility by going to America. He still felt bad for not having aced the race. For barely being a favorite at all.

It’s easier, more comfortable to follow Johnny.

Johnny was driven. 

A model of what Gyro would have liked to accomplish.

Except Gyro threw a fit of anger before. Cursing for them to stop looking for the corpse. Unnecessary hurtful. That done, it was not a real surprise Johnny talked about his motivation in the race. About Marco. 

Formulating things in a way, Gyro thought, as always, Johnny’s determination was unscathed. He’d look after the corpse. Gyro would follow him, and too bad for Marco. Too bad for Gyro.

“Do you realize I will be blamed for not having done everything possible, for my mediocrity, and I will be ordered to cut his head as soon as I get home?” Gyro spilled.

Silence fell.

“…you don’t have to go back.” Johnny spoke again.

At this, Gyro made eye contact, meeting Johnny’s reddened eyes.

Gyro knew he cried. Heard him earlier. But neither Gyro apologized nor tried to comfort. It didn’t mean he’s pleased by what he’d done or it was easy for him to look Johnny in the eyes.

“Because you think I could stay?”

“Why not?”

“…”

“Let’s say you win. What will you do once another kid will be sentenced to death or once you are ordered to execute one more innocent for political reasons?”

“…”

“Doesn’t it bother your country? That newspapers wrote how you’re contesting your king’s justice’s decisions?”

“Shut up.”

“No, I won’t.” Johnny raised his voice. “It’s your own amnesty you’ve been looking for.”

Gyro’s stunned expression must be comical, but Johnny’s gaze didn’t waver.

As keen as ever.

“You think you can say whatever you like, to throw criticism at anybody you meet, without giving a shit if you’re hurtful. You stuck your nose about the way I feel toward my body and condition; now you’ll stand, I give you a piece of my mind.”

Johnny didn’t wait for him to pull himself together. Without a glance, he’s overtaking him.

He reacted as if he’d hurt Gyro back from their latest argument to avenge himself.

Gyro kept repeating Johnny’s words in his mind.

‘You don’t have to go back.’

That was not a promise nor a declaration.

It was an invitation for Gyro to stay with him. Maybe.

A possibility there’s something for Gyro after the end of the race.

Something different from his designed destiny.

Because Johnny was right all along.

Gyro had no idea how he’d shoulder to be the lifelong Reaper of Naples’ unfair justice.

At night, given the awful day, Johnny assumed there would be no rehab session.

They were both silent for a long time, so it surprised him when Gyro called him to order.

“Hey, come here.”

Then under Johnny’s dumbfounded gaze, Gyro clucked his tongue.

“You’re not thinking you’re exempt, aren’t you?”

Johnny glanced at him. “You’re still willing to help…”

Gyro let out a loud sigh.

“What a thick head!”  

As if Gyro wasn’t one himself.

But the outstretched hand made Johnny feel contrite.

All this had begun because of his instincts. His faults.

How could he, one day, repay Gyro’s graces?

Having physical contact helped after the difficult day. Calmed down the tension.

The proximity of the quiet rest by the fire allowed memories of last night to come in like the tide. Sensations. Gestures. How they fucked—or at least tried. This formulation struck Johnny. He should—could—offer better than one not that great hand job.

“D’you want to put it in? Fuck me?” Johnny offered, his intonation, the proof he’s trying to amend.

Gyro took a glance, clear eyes meeting his, to assess the proposition. He pinched his lips.

“Would it be good for you?”

Johnny shrugged.

“I guess I won’t feel it.”

“So I’m not interested.”

“...”

“I want you to feel good.”

It wasn’t doing Johnny a favor to let him focus on his own desires. His own pleasure. Wasn’t he self-centered enough already? 

Unless Gyro considered Johnny truly needed to understand, he could still experience sensual touch.

The thought Gyro was wrong was haunting him. This, was a specific hope Johnny didn’t want to believe. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to come in this state of his, in which he might feel none of it. 

As if he were a tool others pushed buttons over.

And if Johnny never could, wasn’t Gyro going to get tired and leave him?

He might realize good sex was indeed important.

Central.

That he can’t do without it.

That he wanted someone who could feel.

Saying Johnny was downcast was a euphemism.

“What d’you want me to say?” Gyro snapped him from his thoughts.

“I…”

“We’re not spouses. There’s no marital duty. If you offer things, do it because your body wants it. What the fuck? Seriously… we’re not animals.” Gyro grumbled.

This was more a comfort than Johnny would have expected. 

He felt his shoulders relax, pressure lowering.

“I want you.” Johnny whispered, looking up, withheld tears shining in determined blue eyes.

Gyro looked up at him, startled, staring at Johnny’s irises. If it had not been for the warm light of fire, Johnny could have believed he made him blush. He looked cute. Making Johnny want to seize his chin and kiss his lips. But Johnny’s eyes might betray him. That must be the red light of the campfire lighting up Gyro’s skin.

“Don’t say that you love me.” Johnny talked again. “Tell me that you want me.”

“I can tell you both.”

Gyro told neither out loud.

But once again, his answer was an admission.

Something Johnny felt undeserving.

How could he become worthy of that? All this?

He’d need to find a way.

Shortly.

Before he ruined everything and was stripped from the most beautiful thing that happened to him in years.

Johnny didn’t answer with words, his palm went to Gyro’s jaw, caressing his cheek in a cuddly movement. A liberty, Johnny had become accustomed in no time. 

Something private. Intimate. Unusual for male friends.

A gesture, he allowed himself for the first time by the Mississippi River, fearing so much for Gyro’s life nothing else had felt important. If Johnny had listened to his heart back then, he would have kissed him.

But you’re not acting like this with someone you respect, your friend and mentor. Johnny wasn’t this kind of bastard to anyone. Even less to the ones that mattered.

It was then, and they’re now.

His lips slightly touched Gyro’s, his eyelids closing under the contact, as Gyro kissed back and let a hand slide to Johnny’s shoulder, offering to embrace.

Both of them, falling down, lying.

Lips pressing.

Numerous times.

Between two rasping breaths.

Tongues meddling.

Kissing like there would be no other time.

Diego had finally stopped his advance for the night, grooming Silver Bullet his best and making sure the horse would get enough grass to eat and qualitative rest. 

Never mind his own sleeping conditions.

His priority pursuing victory wasn’t compatible with seeking material comfort.

He made the most of the meteorological conditions for a while now. Passing or eliminating adversaries one by one.

He had left the nun behind him some days ago.

They got an agreement. And she would have slowed him down.

Or maybe not.

She’s not that bad.

But Diego didn’t want to try his luck.

It looked like things started well between them. Looking only.

It’s luck, he’s smart to have seen it coming when, less than one day after their agreement, Hot Pants went for his throat. Or rather, eye and ears.

She had sprayed that human flesh that conglomerate over people to Diego’s mouth and nose, asphyxiating with telling effect. Outdoors, it was easy for Diego to rely on Scary Monsters. And the spray couldn’t escape his non-human motion-based vision.

Diego wasn’t human anymore. He’s better than that.

At least, that’s what he thought.

It had been easily achievable to overpower Hot Pants. And even easier to kiss her on the mouth, rubbing the fusing flesh on his face on hers for her to stop the attack.

She did.

But Hot Pants surprised him.

She seemed not to care about the almost sexual assault, whereas Dio had expected her to be flustered, humiliated by it. Weren’t nuns uptight?

Hot Pants got him there.

Diego had not expected someone on Earth could have known enough of his life to surmise he’s hating his father fervently. The man, a piece of shit that left his mother alone and wanted him to die as a baby.

This bitch even knew the man’s name. Dario Brando.

It’s all true.

Diego knew the name. He had occasionally heard it from his mother’s lips at night, during nightmares. Sentences’ fragments that sounded like ‘Dario, please Dario, I don’t want my baby to die.’ If the Vatican already knew so much about him, including family members he had no idea how to get a hold of… They could offer more.

Meanwhile, no way he stayed with Hot Pants.

She’d proved she’s a dangerous bitch and could cause problems.

Furthermore, he had a race stage to win, he had to arrive first in Philadelphia. Investigating after Valentine. After Lucy Steel. Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli’s pawn retrieved by Hot Pants. Steel’s wife was closer to the president than any of them could hope. On the specific mission to grab whatever part the President had. Getting her was one of the best and easiest perspectives ever to grasp everything. 

Diego would look for a way to extract her if the timing were adequate.

Then he’d meet Hot Pants again. 

Ally of convenience.

It would be opportune to seduce her. Manipulating to fetch more. He remembered the taste of her flesh, liquid skin infiltrating in his nose and mouth, dripping on his tongue and saturating his sense of smell.

Having her would be an amusing challenge. He’d never got a nun before. And ultimately, he loved her behavior. Resisting him was the only way to gain his respect.

Admitting Diego Brando had any toward anybody.

“I hope Wekapipo found her.” Johnny said, breaking the unsteady silence.

They had barely slept that night, getting less than four hours of rest in a desperate move to reduce the gap between them and Dio.

It’s too late to win this stage, but they still had to do their best to be ranked. Get points and prevent others from getting too many. New names uncovered lately. 

Sloop John B. 

Baba Yaga.

Nellyville.

Georgie Porgie.

Always more outsiders to whom nascent hope gave wings.

“She’s still alive a few days ago.” Gyro repeated like a mantra.

Gyro’s brilliance wasn’t surprising Johnny anymore. Reading newspapers and seeing a picture of the President’s wife, Scarlet Valentine, Gyro recognized the woman straight away as Lucy Steel. Putting it on ‘anatomy.’

“You got that much of an eyeful?” Had been Johnny’s circumspect reaction.

“Not really. Look at her hips. It’s not the features of a woman in her late thirties.”

If Gyro knew, more people could. 

Stephen Steel, whose distress must have been at full extent considering how much he liked his wife.

Funny Valentine, who could react unpredictably if he realized his wife had disappeared and he’d been betrayed.

Gyro felt self-cautious regarding the situation, taking it in his stride.

It’s not exactly his sin; she’s in danger. They had been left with no other solutions, the moment he had given her the right eye, sending her to spy the President.

But to him, she’s a kid.

Older than Marco, but still.

He owed her something.

But never Gyro would have believed it if one had told him what a distressful mess their stay in Philadelphia would be and what kind of service he’d offer Lucy Steel.

Chapter Text

Philadelphia was a mess.

Joining the city meant returning back to civilization. The eastern coast, the most populated urban areas of the country.

Gyro and Johnny arrived 6^th and 7^th. 

Their worst score since forever. 

Or ever. 

Or rather, since Gyro’s downgrade.

Moreover, they had been attacked on the finish line, the two opponents not good enough to require more than a few seconds of both their stand and steel ball. Yet that’s the proof they were still considered a priority target by the president. A fact, they weren’t worrying about enough today.

Their undivided attention was upon Diego Brando.

No big surprise, the man had arrived first. Less than an hour before them.

An hour only, sure.

But the truth was they wouldn’t have been fit to compete for first place against him, sleep deprived, emotionally undermined as they were.

They had argued. 

Again.

Both agreed they needed to find Dio, but Johnny radiated further dark determination than ever, willing to skin Diego alive. He scared the fuck out of Gyro, being so calm, considering the death of another human without legitimate defense.

For no reason, or an inexpressible one.

Well, for the corpse, in all likelihood. That bloody artifact. Gyro can’t stand thinking of it anymore. But it can’t be all of it. He felt it in his guts, his intuition shouting, Johnny never behaved this aggressive, deadly, toward Dio.

Gyro didn’t try to understand.

Cold-blooded murder was not something he could comprehend, not something he’d let himself be associated with, nor act as an accomplice.

Johnny didn’t react a lot when Gyro had grabbed him by the collar with one lively and powerful gesture. Not in shock. Not in emotion. 

All about power struggle.

And Johnny finally complied. Promising he won’t. 

That’s barely a relief to hear it. 

Gyro wasn’t afraid Johnny deluded him. But he felt he was losing the power of influence he got over the younger man. Like, he’s knocked off his pedestal. Less of a mentor than ever. And Gyro noticed how harder and harder it was to be listened to without a fight.

In a crime, there’s never a winner.

Gyro didn’t care a lot about Dio’s well-being.

But he did care about Johnny, about the fact he considered becoming a cold-blooded killer, right here, right now, with all the consequences attached to it.

Not only legal ones.

Consequences over his soul.

Right of self-defense was basic and elementary.

Shooting anyone you feel like being an obstacle or your enemy, a different approach crossing strongly Gyro’s values.

They wandered in the large streets of the city, chasing after Diego’s Silver Bullet. Coming closer to the Delaware River, both kept silent after the argument. Quietness wasn’t bad. In fact, Diego might be hunted by Valentine himself. They could encounter their greatest enemy or some other minions every minute.

Out of the blue, noise came from the warehouse next to the boat house they ran alongside. Characteristic noise of horses stressed over being locked in a small space, hoofs stomping, neighing in displeasure. Then they heard angered voices echoing.

Without a word, Gyro took a ball against his palm while Johnny pointed his forefinger toward the wooden door.

“Figure it out!”

Diego Brando’s voice rang with violence, his tune barely low enough for him not to be heard from all over town.

This sounded final. An order to an accomplice.

The door of the unused warehouse half-opened, letting Wekapipo get out, hearing horses coming and stopping their course approaching. Seeing Gyro and Johnny, his expression lighted up straight away, he gestured for them to go inside.

Diego was in a corner, dressed like a presidential guard, storming about the woman kneeling near a lying on the ground unconscious Stephen Steel, her eyes looking daggers at him.

“Magenta Magenta shot him twice. I ran into them by luck.” Wekapipo added in a low tone. “They already got Lucy Steel.”

These words, plus their arrival, were immediately recorded by Dio that stopped his pace.

“Great! Joestar and Zeppeli, that’s all we needed!”

At the opposite, Hot Pants was finishing healing Steel’s wounds, doing her best to ignore him.

“He’ll live.” She told a young and very pregnant Lucy Steel, who had sat near her husband, grabbing his hand. She’s not crying now, but obviously did. A lot. Her eyes, red, and face streaked with tears.

Her cheeks were raw, cherry pink, as if the skin had peeled on several layers, forming strange unsightly triangles. Without being asked, Hot Pants placed a few drops of her spray on Lucy’s face, healing the prickling ugly marks.

Lucy’s lips mouthed a silent thank you.

The two women turned their heads toward the door at Diego’s exclamation.

Lucy looked relieved, and rubbed her face to compose herself, preventing more tears from rolling on her freshly healed cheeks. Hot Pants seemed pensive, the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t matching the clenching of her jaw.

Johnny didn’t say a word. If his eyes could kill, Diego would be already on the floor, writhing in agony.

Despite him being the most extrovert of them, Gyro didn’t like to act as a mediator.

He dismounted, ignoring Dio on purpose as Johnny was watching his back, leaving Gyro to face the two women, as Steel was knocked out.

“I believed he never touched you.” Gyro accused, pointing at the unconscious man with his chin, disdainful. “How many months pregnant are you? Eight? Nine?”

It’s obvious Gyro was believing it’s a pregnancy denial. Strong enough, for it to develop only in a few weeks before term.

Lucy shook her head in the negative.

“It is… I am… it happened a few days ago.” She was on the verge of tears again. “President Valentine drugged me after. I can’t remember how long I’ve been unconscious.”

“He found you.” As she assented, Gyro added. “Good you were able to escape.”

That’s not what both women seemed to expect, especially from him.

“What about the corpse?” Johnny’s voice echoed.

Gyro didn’t dare looking back, fearing too much the expression he could see over his lover’s face.

“I… I gave the right eye to her.” Lucy said, pointing at Hot Pants, omitting the woman had imposed on her to trade the healing of her husband against it. “The… head? Skull? Is inside me…” 

The frail fingers pointing to the round belly were unequivocal.

And, no. No way.

The head of fucking Jesus Christ chose to lodge itself inside a virgin.

Seriously, what a world was this?

“Enough talk.” Dio’s voice commanded once again. “You got a healing stand. Put that thing out, Hot Pants.”

Oh.

So, that’s the conflict.

“Nothing makes us think we can!” Hot Pants got annoyed. “We need to wait for the natural delivery…”

“The President will look for us! Track her! There’s no time left.”

“…”

“Think carefully, Hot Pants. If I need to gut her, I will.”

“Say, you don’t want to clear off?” Gyro raised his voice. “You know this part is here, go look for what’s left.” 

And before Diego could react, he added:

“Aren’t you fed up attracting the entire city yelling?”

“I’ll take a ride.” Johnny announced, turning around, still perched on Slow Dancer’s back.

Words stabbed Gyro’s heart. He can’t control Johnny’s actions, and didn’t want to.

“I’ll join you as soon as possible.” He answered, voice calm, controlled.

There were rustling noises in the background, Diego changing clothes.

Gyro didn’t turn around. For a few minutes, he had his steel ball spinning against his palm. Johnny not being there to watch his back meant being vulnerable to danger, but Gyro withstood the pressure of danger.

Wekapipo’s gaze went from Dio, the door, switched again to the four people.

“I’ll go too.”

He’s not needed there.

Wekapipo didn’t say a thing, but he knew Zeppeli were doctors. Surgeons. If someone could help, it was him.

“Could you induce labor?”

As always, the second they were left alone, Hot Pants proved she had no tact. 

The corpse-focused men being away, they didn’t need to stay united to protect Lucy’s life.

In a way, it was the worst scenario possible.

A reunion with three people Gyro can’t stand. 

Well, he at least respected Lucy Steel.

And her husband was asleep.

“What do you think I am? A magus?”

“You’re a skilled surgeon. You must have delivered babies.”

Lucy Steel looked up to him, eyes shining with tears. She had frozen the instant Diego Brando threatened her. Not for the first time that afternoon.

Now, she understood better the way Hot Pants maneuvered. 

Gyro snorted. “You’re on Dio’s side.”

“What about a cesarean section? Don’t lie, I know who you are, how skilled you are…”

“And what about what SHE wants?!” Gyro snapped, earning the silence.

“I…” Lucy said.

“The President will chase after her as long as she gets that.” Hot Pants cut off.

“Shut up.” Gyro interrupted with a disgusted tone. “I’ve heard enough from you.”

He turned to Lucy, making eye contact.

“What do you want?” Gyro prompted Lucy Steel, pushing his chin up. “Your body, your choice.”

He said nothing more, giving her time. As she’s still trembling.

“What is a cesarean section?” Lucy finally asked.

“An opening on the belly whose purpose is to help women to give birth when the natural way is impossible. Breech case mostly.” Hot Pants answered that straight off.

Gyro squinted at the explanation. Not bad. Understandable for a teen who shouldn’t have been pregnant at first.

“If you want a doctor’s and not someone’s corpse’s focused opinion, you’d better wait for the Lord’s plans to fulfill. This is not a place to do surgery and slit someone’s stomach open. What’s inside you can’t die. But you could.”

Gyro Zeppeli’s arguments were good. Lucy pondered them. Seriously. But the advice felt impossible to consider. Everyone in the room seemed to consider the man as a capable doctor. He’s not going to wait near her until God knows what happened.

Hot Pants was right about Funny Valentine. The President coming for her was the strongest threat to Lucy’s life and sanity. A big bad wolf from the real world. Even worse than those frightening malevolent people from the mafia who had wanted to make a prostitute of her two years ago. Because he was seen as a good person. A model for the United States to be a successful country.

Lucy felt terrorized. The memory of the assault she almost suffered from the President flashing over her eyelids every time she closed her eyes.

Gyro and Hot Pants started to argue again. Not in English. In Italian. Lucy wasn’t hearing them, playing again and again what happened. She wondered, ‘What do I want?’

She wanted to be safe with Stephen near her.

She never wanted to be involved in this scheme.

She had gotten the backbone because President Valentine already wanted to kill Stephen.

She didn’t care about the corpse, and she didn’t want it.

Mountain Tim recommended her to trust Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli if he didn’t make it.

From there, making a choice felt easier.

“I want the surgery. Now.”

Gyro being shocked by the assertiveness of the declaration was an understatement.

“You’re telling me you want a without-anesthesia surgery, here, in a filthy warehouse? You’re out of your mind, kid!”

“You want to respect my will.” Lucy insisted. “Please put His head out of me. I just want to protect my husband. I want President Valentine to leave us alone! He won’t, as long as…”

She’s once more crying. Tears transforming in blades, sharper than a brand new scalpel.

The view of the stand stunned Gyro. His eyes weren’t looking away as Lucy was removing the sharp-edged strips, creating more of those pink sharp marks over her delicate face.

That stand was screaming at Gyro he’s meant to do it.

It produced handcraft scalpels at will.

He’s right here, right now, to deliver that thing. To free this girl from this fate she had not chosen but had to shoulder anyway.

“Not here.” He said. “Where’s this doctor’s office you proclaimed to be near here?”

Hot Pants glared at him but said nothing.

She helped Lucy to get up.

“Stephen is…”

“He’s healed and sound asleep.” Hot Pants spoke over.

“Get her on your horse, not mine.” Gyro shouted at her.

Gyro was feeling enraged against Hot Pants. He already hated her before. Here, her acts were indefensible. …and on the same line of Johnny’s. Corpse focused people, sparking only his disdain. Gyro had tried talking to her in his native language, verifying if she was speaking it, as she worked for the Vatican.

Ultimately, he obtained to get out of here.

So they had argued.

Gyro wasn’t going to operate, to split a mere girl open, in a warehouse storage full of shit. He needed enough to sterilize, an operating table allowing a bearable position for a pregnant woman, and for him to use his steel ball accurately. And most of all, he needed retractors. You’re not performing surgery with scalpels only. You’re not tearing apart muscles nor cutting them. Causing excruciating pain. Even if you had with you a stand user who had the power to take care of any wound, repairing anything, without scars or effectiveness restriction.

Doctors were supposed to do no harm.

Gyro put that girl in this situation by pushing her to act as a spy.

He owed her. He owed her to ensure he got things right.

So he won’t be accountable after helping today.

This was his absolution.

Chapter Text

The twenty minutes the surgery lasted were not the worst of the afternoon. Neither was the fact, the two bodies of the doctor and nurse working there were now locked in a wall closet once Gyro and Hot Pants had knocked them out.

Despite him having almost no preparation time, Gyro succeeded in doing what they’re all expecting. Focused on his way for it to be safe enough and bearable to Lucy. The fact she was willing to suffer it, perhaps the only reason for their salvation.

Gyro worked well, and Hot Pants’ spray was a benediction to ease the healing and scarring to nothing. Gyro had done his best. He also knew doing your best wasn’t always enough for things to go right.

For the sake of time, Gyro had to dismiss asking Lucy if she had already menstruated as well as every other health information. There’s an endometrium in her uterus. Visible enough, as it was distended by the corpse part. It could mean she’s at the end of a cycle. Or that the relic skull needed it for her to be comfortable. 

He had never been confronted with it, but Gyro knew feminine patients could have difficulty procreating and suffer chronic pain because of endometriosis. He’d read about it in a German medicine book. The ins and outs of how it worked were still unknown to this day, thirty years after the discovery.

Gyro feared similar symptoms could be artificially created by a bad surgery pushing growing endometrium on inappropriate parts, like the peritoneum.

An adult skull was big.

Not bigger than a baby, but large and spherical enough for Gyro having no choice but to perform a regular six inches aka fifteen centimeters long horizontal section.

Performing invasive surgery on a conscious patient was horrifying.

It was like being a combat medic on a battlefield.

Gyro could ease the suffering. He could freeze the muscles and everything from the waist down.

Lucy had been incredibly courageous.

Under pain, the first reflex was to struggle.

Like for a decapitation, you got patients were collapsing like larvae, or fighting like crazy in the impossible hope it could change anything. Recklessness of despair. Those were the most dangerous. The ones for whom, steel balls were as much mercy than a required spin-created straitjacket. And you got the last ones that kept dignified, strengthened in honor. 

Accepting fate.

Lucy had been looking away, motionless as a statue, trying her best to refrain pained moans and keeping her breath under control. The sole moments she looked at Hot Pants and him, the instants Gyro addressed her for a short explanation or instruction. For orders.

Cooperation was earned. Making it feasible, requested for Gyro to communicate.

Gyro had held the skull, or rather, mummified head in his hands. He removed it the gentlest and smoothest way possible. 

Out. It’s now out.

He restrained it as far as possible from his face, unwilling to get it. He glimpsed at Lucy’s valiant blue eyes. Those were reminding Gyro of someone else’s. 

Someone that wasn’t there, and that wasn’t deserving it.

Gyro didn’t dare think those words. He would never. It’s an unspeakable emotion, an intuition lying unconscious in his soul. In his mind. An explanation for what he’s doing, without him realizing.

He stood firm and focused on Lucy’s face. She was his patient, and there’s no room for any other thought than her well-being.

I know what I’m doing and you’ll be fine, a silent promise present in green eyes.

With his free hand, Gyro finished getting rid of every instrument, every compress. Hot Pants helped with the retractor and within a second, her stand was healing Lucy.

For the last time today.

Gyro had a quick look at the skull, but supervised Hot Pants’ work with a cautious stare.

Once done, he nodded in Hot Pants’ direction. The racer, indecisive, as if she had believed she would have to fight for the relic. She opened her bag, and let Gyro drop the artifact.

Immediately, both eyes and ears placed themselves at the right place.

Gyro did his best to abstract that he, the royal executioner who already beheaded too many people to remember their exact number, had helped reconstituted Jesus Christ’s head.

He felt cold, unwell.

As if there was something with them.

An entity, his senses were unable to perceive, but he feared to recognize the presence. Gyro remembered the way he’d been rooting to the ground, powerless, during the Civil War fight. And he knew what Johnny saw, felt, heard. Because Johnny was more sensitive to it, or he’s chosen by the Almighty.

“What about Joestar?” Hot Pants asked, defensive.

She’s the first to disturb the uneasy silence that had taken place, only broken by Lucy muffled cries. Organs, muscles and skin might have been repaired, despite Gyro using a steel ball, the strain over her body was the worst Lucy experienced, her whole skin covered with sweat.

Able to move again, Gyro snorted and went to soap his hands. He used a clean towel on them, then on his face, and threw another one to Hot Pants.

“I am going to find him. You keep her safe, help her wash and take her back to her husband.”

“It’s not what I mean! Are you going to fight against us?”

“I’ll fight whoever’s on my way.” Gyro pursed his lips in a disdainful pout. He left by the small corridor, opened the door and went to grab Valkyrie’s rein, calming her. The smell of blood, body fluids, mixing with anesthetics and pharmaceutical products was intense inside the house—on Gyro’s clothes—alarming for sensitive animals such as horses. “Lucy Steel, keep out of trouble. I won’t help you again!” He growled to bid farewell before slamming the door and mounting horse in a hurry.

Lucy had a ‘thank you’ stuck in her throat.

Tears dripped in her eyes, but this time stayed normal.

She had gotten back to normal.

Hot Pants spoke to her in hushed tunes. Lucy can’t grasp the words, as she was helping to towel sweat away and dressing up as well as a half-torn dress could.

Lucy craved to let her head rest against Stephen’s broad shoulder, to seize his arm and hug him. It would be possible only after Hot Pants got her back to where they were. Lucy hoped she did, feeling unable to walk. It would have been more reassuring to have Gyro Zeppeli staying a little longer, until she was with Stephen again.

Stephen…

She’d have things to tell him.

Maybe, maybe they were off the hook.

Valentine was always the same dangerous sovereigntist that preferred them to be dead.

But for now, they shouldn’t be his priority.

Right now, he might be fighting against Johnny Joestar and the others.

Of course Gyro Zeppeli felt the urge to leave; now she was safe.

Safe…

For the first time in almost three months, Lucy was beginning to feel safe.

Looking for Johnny—and possibly the other two—was more difficult than it should be.

Gyro had encountered some guy working for the President, a stand user calling himself Chocolate Disco, he had to fight, before he arrived at a battleground. A lot of blood, spreading on the dusty road in front of a park, then in a back alley.

Gyro had good instincts and steel balls’ skills. He deduced from what appeared nothing to anyone else that it was Johnny’s blood and the latter was alive. He navigated easily in the city street, using steel balls to find Johnny, seemingly hidden in the sewers.

Gyro had done what was needed for Lucy Steel. He had eased his conscience. 

The anxiety of knowing Johnny had left without him made his heart twist painfully. Probably he had gotten hurt because he wasn’t there. With him. Gyro was meant to protect him. It was a compulsion in his guts. Since the beginning, and despite the way he’d behaved toward this unsolicited apprentice.

Maybe Johnny was right. 

Johnny had never dared wording it that way, but he might be a prophet. Someone God chose to grasp the corpse. Someone meant to defeat Valentine. And Gyro’s role was to be a guide, a witness, or even an apostle and necessary sacrifice.

Gyro learned so much from being with Johnny. 

Invisible threads of their destiny woven, interlaced, self-evident.

Gyro was a follower.

He had refuted it, had gotten angry, had gotten hurt, being told by several individuals that had discerned him in no time. 

Considering himself that way, it damaged his self-image.

But if it was to slip away in Johnny’s shadow, it’s worth it.

It took about ten more minutes for Gyro to finally find Johnny and to help him to get out of the sewer, and for both of them to sit on the floor.

Straight away, Johnny tried to relate to him what happened. Gyro rather wanted to provide forthwith healthcare.

After what he’d done to Lucy Steel, stopping hemorrhage and putting wounds in stitches felt like a reflex. Gyro’s mind flew to the head he helped recover. The expression of the wide-open brown eyes in the sunken orbits shining inside Hot Pants’ bag.

A rush of guilt engulfed Gyro once the reminiscence helped him to remind in successive flashes he’d done nothing to try to get it for Johnny.

He was lost in his thoughts, stitching bullet wounds over Johnny’s both cheeks. He jumped, surprised, when Johnny grasped his wrist once finished, as he had to shut up during the operation.

“Wekapipo is dead.”

Gyro’s eyelids closed. His silent sigh expressed both grief and fatalism. 

“Dio took advantage of him to survive Valentine’s stand. Used me too. But I survived, obviously.”

Johnny’s voice pronounced the name with lesser bellicosity he’d done during their last argument. One Gyro had won, but felt as if he’d lost.

Gyro listened to him explain what exactly happened, and what they learned about the president’s stand. Funny Valentine had appeared frozen in cold anger to have lost Lucy Steel. And, even further, that Diego Brando had nothing on him whereas Valentine was suspecting him to have succeeded in robbing the ears by some outlandish mystery.

Gyro confirmed.

He’d noticed the ears inside Hot Pants’ bag.

“D’you help them get it out?” Johnny finally asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s better if she’s out of the game.” Johnny highlighted.

The sentence sounded like some of the words Gyro told the girl, but in Johnny’s mouth, they worked best.

“I didn’t fight to get it.” Gyro stated.

Johnny looked up at him, furrowing his brows as he was understanding the full meaning of the admission.

“That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you to.”

Once Gyro put an end to the medical care, kneeling and putting medical stuff back in a bag, Johnny whistled at Slow Dancer for the horse to approach him. He handled his legs, placing them cautiously, and in front Gyro’s amazed gaze, took a firm hold over the harness coming into an upright position the closest from standing he’d ever been.

There’s no weight on his legs, and obviously Johnny could only hold it the few seconds until he used the spin to make an acrobatic feat up to Slow Dancer’s back. Yet. He had reached a good enough focus over his right leg to meet a balance point never approached before.

It’s breathtaking.

It left Gyro speechless, rising slowly, on the very same rhythm. Like he was connected by an invisible red string. Admiring, offering an approving gaze, he maybe wasn’t aware, green eyes caressing the way Johnny’s leg muscles stretched awkwardly. Gyro’s stare, ending up meeting the curve of his ass. His look made it obvious he’s not staring at the movement as something weird or disgusting, only showing astonished pride and desire.

This was the consequence of a lot of effort and weeks of hard work.

And Johnny’s arch of back was a feast for the eyes.

Gyro wanted him. Dearly. And also in a carnal way.

Helping Lucy Steel was a golden parenthesis.

Back to reality where the corpse was the first and only priority.

“Are we going to look for Him?” Gyro asked, focused on his previous introspection.

“Do you believe I’d be able to tread water if I get it?” 

Johnny’s lighthearted jab caught Gyro off guard. 

Gyro squinted. “Eh?”

“Could be pretty cool. You can’t do that with your steel balls, right?”

Johnny’s small smile was a comfort.

But one Gyro wasn’t expecting nor understanding.

He had expected another argument. One more. The one too many. Johnny getting angry Gyro gave up corpse parts to Hot Pants and Johnny’s greatest enemy of the moment, Diego Brando. 

Gyro had planned to comply with anything Johnny wanted. To cover his back in whatever fight. Not to get a caressing hand against his cheek, standing in a daze right near Slow Dancer.

Johnny cheered up.

“Come on, cowboy. You got a race to win.”

Chapter Text

After such words dismissing the corpse as an immediate objective, Johnny and Gyro had no business anymore hanging around in Philadelphia’s filled with enemies’ streets.

They put themselves on tracks forthwith, heading to the place reserved for racers.

They had crossed the finish line had been around four in the afternoon and the few hours following, quite busy.

The Steel Ball Run organizers had planned a special starting event for the eighth stage: the launch of a thousand candles lighted paper lanterns was scheduled at around nine o’clock.

They wanted it to be all dark, and still have time for a great banquet. Racers could come, but there were less and less of them. Distrust reigned. So it’s rather about entertaining rich people following the race by train.

Stephen Steel’s absence to the festivities didn’t even bother anyone.

He was still mourning his too young child-wife, wasn’t he?

What else could have happened?

Leaving in the middle of the night was bullshit for the fifty-two survivor racers. No way for them to recover from the trepidation of the afternoon’s arrival.

Perhaps it’s also the way for Valentine to get rid of the corpse hunters, having them out of Philadelphia. Sending more minions and hitmen to shoot at them in the dark.

Taking a small nap for an hour sure helped Johnny and Gyro to rest. So little sleep last night, a stage’s finish line, several severe fights that had gotten Johnny half-killed… They raced for an hour and a half before calling it a night in a nearby burg. They slept in a barn with the horses, no fire, hay as sole insulation. People were nice enough to accept them for free, as famous racers. Even offering a hot beverage.

They were enthusiastic about the fluttering lanterns. Those were seen for miles and miles around.

They cheered for them to do their best winning the race.

For the first time in weeks, it’s easy to thank strangers wholeheartedly for the great success wishes and hospitality.

Staying there was a good call. Safe. Better catching up tomorrow morning at dawn than getting your horse and yourself hurt in the dingy, misty night.

…that night, four racers had dropped.

And one died.

Struck by lightning.

Whereas, there was no storm at all.

The body would be discovered at the end of winter.

For now, to all the staff, public and fellow racers, he’s just another withdrawal.

The next morning, getting back into routine was a good time to connect again. Talk.

Johnny knew that what appeared to Gyro as an unpredictable volte-face required some explanation.

There were things Johnny could easily speak aloud.

The fight against Valentine was one of them. Johnny hadn’t even started it, being the first victim of the President’s power. 

Johnny was seen as the country’s number-one threat. He had found most parts. Even had got some teleporting toward him—the one exhumed by Lucy—or following him around—that wolf cub he’d fed their leftovers.

Maybe it’s even his fault Lucy had to carry the head of the corpse inside her. Having her against him, against his corpse’s backbone-stuffed chest all night when they were riding back to Kansas City. That night, joking with Gyro in a low voice, Johnny had called her a ‘goddess.’ It could have promoted her as an ally and caused her to be the epicenter for the end of this.

Johnny explained to Gyro what he’d understood of Wekapipo’s death. How Diego had manipulated everybody for him to succeed, or at least to figure out the president’s power. Dio had an intuition for things, and hadn’t kept the corpse parts on him when he had gone after Valentine.

An unbeatable looking Valentine, in Johnny’s opinion.

“His stand is…” He hesitated. “Gyro, there’s no word for it. He switched between dimensions. I can’t see the opening. There must be one. Obviously.”

Johnny frowned. He didn’t have the guts to say the evidence.

Facing a strong enemy that wants to kill you, you have no choice but putting your life and your allies’ in jeopardy. It was a luxury they eventually chose not to.

Johnny didn’t want to put Gyro’s life or his own on a strain. 

Putting himself in danger meant endangering Gyro.

In no way Wekapipo’s tall blonde silhouette and knocked-with-satellites steel balls could be assimilated to Gyro’s uniqueness. But having him dead in a snap of fingers, body evaporated in small cubes by meeting his counterpart from another world, struck Johnny like a severe psychological slap.

If it had been Gyro standing next to Johnny… It would have been Gyro dying.

I can’t do that. 

Not after what he blamed me for. 

It’s bad enough to die young, but dying resigned… Dying for love, saddened as you contemplate the fact what you’re craving is impossible and you’re not important enough…

…Gyro, I can’t lose you. I don’t want to lose you.

So Johnny channeled his determination in a different arc-flash, and chose to put Gyro before the corpse. Once more, and without regrets. 

Announcing to Gyro, on the eighth stage starting line: ‘I wanna know how it’d change the world if an heir wins this race.’

Johnny was grieving for the corpse, but the fight against the president had left an impression on him. An unspeakable intuition, it was the worst possible choice to continue on.

Johnny wasn’t caring about Valentine ruling the world.

If God wanted a man like him to rule, Johnny was nobody to try otherwise.

He’s putting his hope in humans.

Humans gave up on him, that was Johnny’s feeling. Family, acquaintances, admirers. But Gyro had been there for him, was there for him. And Johnny couldn’t stand the idea he’d lose another loved one because he’s acting selfish, immature or stupid.

Gyro was his chance.

Godsend.

He helped him grow. Be a better man. Not something relative to his mobility but as human values. Even if, of course, Gyro had added the weight of an incredible and invaluable help for Johnny to get rehabilitation. For him to achieve his full potential.

Whereas Johnny still had to work on himself to accept things won’t ever be the same as before, his situation was getting better. He felt objectively better, redoubling his inner belief he’s meant to meet Gyro, and he’d made the right choice to sacrifice everything and do anything to follow up this intriguing stranger.

Another reason that made Johnny stop his headlong rush was their argument about killing Dio before and once arrived in Philadelphia. At the time, Johnny had kept angered, frustrated. 

Racing alone in the streets, feeling every bit of Gyro’s absence, Johnny had reviewed all their interactions, and frightened himself thinking of it.

He must be off his rocker. Simply, plainly, mad. He had grasped over this out of nowhere conviction Dio killed Nicholas by malice, blinkered in violence, self-destruction. In no time, it had become pervasive thoughts, playing on a loop. 

What was he doing? 

What kind of man did he want to be?

Damn, Gyro had not fucking honored him by teaching him the spin for Johnny to murder people afterwards.

Gyro was working for his country’s legal system. 

He believed so much in justice he’d exerted himself beyond imagining, trying to save a child victim of a judicial error.

And despite everything bad Johnny had done, and was perhaps still doing, Gyro had fallen in love with him. His presence and existence, the tangible evidence Johnny deserved love despite him being seen as dregs of society. Bad enough, despicable enough, that even his parents wished he’d be dead.

It wasn’t only concerning the time and efforts Gyro put in Johnny’s rehab.

Johnny needed to keep worthy of this man.

Even if by helping him refocus on the race and Marco, Johnny might take risks to lose him. To see him walking out of his life.

Johnny was a man. He’s also disabled and sometimes had a difficult temper, hardened by trials of life and his lost years of past notoriety—spoiled by an imposter syndrome, Johnny’s father was indeed accountable for.

Obviously, Gyro would want to go home, once the race was over.

He’s already missing food for months. Losing a pants size in a few weeks after the start of the race. He’s also missing his family. Things had sometimes been difficult, Johnny had understood. Gyro felt lonely, lacked acknowledgment, but he cared deeply for his parents, and was their eldest son.

Johnny knew all too well how much an heir and firstborn son meant to parents.

Gyro was told to protect and honor his family, and had at heart to comply.

He showed so much surprise the moment Johnny told him he didn’t have to go back to Naples.

It’s obvious he never thought about it before.

And still can’t see it as a true possibility offered to him.

Johnny considered following him in Europe.

But neither friendship nor love might be strong enough for Gyro to accept it.

Gyro was meant to marry a woman, to have children calling him ‘dad’ whatever the word was in Italian. He’ll have a son; he’ll teach the spin for the dynasty Zeppeli to continue serving the Neapolitan royalty.

The Steel Ball Run was a lifetime adventure he’d tell his grandchildren, and Johnny, an unrepeatable affair he couldn’t mention and even less bring back home without full disgrace—and without ending imprisoned himself if he ever persevered in his senselessness.

You’re not howling to the sky and imposing on a nation your ungodly freakiness.

Johnny was fine liking men. 

But he also had enough sense to keep it quiet except to the guys having a crush on him. Having homosexual intercourse, you were impious, abnormal and different, like a disgusting clown you threw stones to the face.

Traitors to mankind and Christian culture.

Criminals.

Johnny’s heart felt so heavy in his chest while he considered all of these emotions he can’t hope to express out loud. They had no future together. Saying things was bringing them to reality, and Johnny can’t stand the thought of an inevitable forthcoming break-up.

But Gyro already gave him so much.

He’d accomplished the miracle for Johnny to become a better man.

A better version of himself.

The least Johnny could do was to return the favor.

“Too bad they didn’t decide to give us a few days’ break in Philadelphia.” Gyro sighed.

This one snapped Johnny out of his thoughts.

“Why?”

Gyro shook his head in disbelief.

“Johnny, Johnny… D’you at least realize what you accomplished when you mounted, back then?”

As Johnny wasn’t reacting, he went on:

“You got an equilibrium point standing, with nothing but your horse! With crutches, I’m sure you’d be something else. Nyoho!~”

Johnny can’t help but cringe hearing Gyro talk about crutches. Another visible tool that sure might help a lot, but was different from 'not being disabled' or seen as such. In fact, the only moment Johnny felt normal was on horseback. Nobody can tell the difference. He’s too good and dangerous to be considered less something by other racers. Even Diego wasn’t underestimating him.

“I don’t know. I barely feel anything right, and nothing at all left.” Johnny grumbled.

Since they had left Gettysburg, his sensitivity was crap.

It was also true concerning what was inside his pants.

After the joy of realizing Gyro was thinking he’s desirable, Johnny was way more focusing on what was not working. Frustrated with himself, and afraid of frustrating Gyro as well.

“We’re on the sexual part again, right?”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Johnny hissed, blushing, embarrassed being read like a book.

“Be sure we will, eventually.” Gyro calmly retorted.

It sounded both like a threat and a promise.

A vow.

The moment Gyro chose was obviously the time they put the camp at night. They’re nearer to the sea, ocean spray discernible in the cold air. It’s also not as freezing as inside the lands, despite being January.

“Have you ever had sex using what’s in your head?” Gyro started.

Johnny squinted. “What do you mean?”

“Role play with a lover: pretend to be a waitress, a maid, a horse, whatever.”

“A horse?!”

“Didn’t you have some wild play during your days, mister jockey?”

This one succeeded in making Johnny crack up.

A sincere laugh, which lasted a good moment.

“No, I never used a girl—or a guy—as a horse. It’s so stupid. Did you find that in a book? Are there really people like this?”

Gyro was smirking, and snickered a nyohoho, proud his zinger worked.

“The idea is, use your fantasies and fetishes if you have some.”

At that, Johnny’s high spirit clouded.

“I like to be in control.” He said to deflect attention. “You know already.”

“You also like too much closing your eyes.”

“…”

“Your tactile sense dysfunctions downstairs. Doesn’t mean things can’t work at all.”

“You think I never tried by myself?!”

Gyro frowned.

“I think you didn’t try hard enough.”

Gyro was aware he’s pushing a lot. Perhaps too much. But he needed Johnny to get the message.

“I’m not ordering you around. Sight is humans’ most critical sense. We perceive up to 80% of all our impressions through our eyes. That’s why there’s erotic pictures. Erotic drawings. Men buy them because we’re thinking with our dick, and sight is already enough stimulation to feel excited and climax.”

“…you’ve not read your horse role play inanity in a book.” Johnny counterattacked.

Gyro smirked.

“New York’s salesman sold such nonsense, I never saw so many brazen things before arriving in this country. There were a lot of nudes from Paris. Well, we’re manifestly more under the influence of Church’s authority at home.”

Johnny let out a little smile at it, soon disappeared the moment Gyro mentioned his country.

Gyro let the gold of his teeth show. “So, if there’s fantasies you have, that could help you come; know I keep my ears open.”

It was nice. More than just nice. Less blame and more openness than Johnny was expecting.

But with this one, Gyro hit a nerve, Johnny withdrawing right away.

“You think it’s not humiliating enough?” He finally let out, ‘it’ referring to the touch deprived disability Johnny would keep as long he’s alive.

He didn’t have illusions. There was not enough progress to hope for anything revolutionary.

It was hard.

Johnny was young.

But he also believed for a long time what he craved was to regain his mobility. Be able to walk in the street. Be able to race as well as before. Maybe even better, brighter. The spin helped his gestures, it extended his efficiency on horseback to a level he’d never expected.

Truth was, if Johnny had a choice, maybe he’d have preferred to get back sense of touch if he’d known he could have a relationship in his condition.

However, disability wasn’t a matter of choice.

And Johnny regaining mobility over sensitivity was the only option making sense.

That’s what Movēre crūs meant.

Gyro’s hand came to his waist, a way to call for attention and to comfort in a single gesture.

“Fantasies felt humiliating only if you’re not assuming.” 

He pecked Johnny’s head, the skin of this neck, coming near his ear to whisper.

“Else, you could also show me. Anytime.”

Johnny was feeling flustered.

And he tried to conceal it by letting his hand caress Gyro’s thigh, looking away.

All of Gyro’s behavior proved to him, he, at least, felt better than the last two days.

Maybe Johnny had done a good job to keep him happier.

Chapter Text

Philadelphia’s adventure didn’t end as fast for Steel spouses.

Lucy had been left alone with Stephen by Hot Pants only minutes after Gyro Zeppeli’s departure, the woman explaining in a not-open-to-negotiation speech she had relics to safeguard. And she’s protecting both Steel by leaving them alone.

Lucy had not been convinced.

Now she had no parts left, she and her husband had no more value for President Valentine. He could let them go but also arrange their death without regret. People dying was nothing for his great project, Lucy had understood.

Every remembrance of him freaked her out.

As if, by thought power, she could summon him to come and destroy them.

There’s no guarantee the president wouldn’t rape her, just because he can. In front of Stephen. Because he can. Maybe he’d be torturing them before each other. Because he can.

Lucy took a deep breath not to fall into panic, grasping her husband’s shoulder, hugging.

Stephen was here, with her. His survival, not a matter of fear anymore. He has no reason to be still asleep, except from cumulative fatigue of both the race and looking for her. Stephen was quick to anguish, to fear the worst. Without her, he had been all alone. And still now, he’s not conscious she’s there.

They’re not safe in this place.

Lucy patted Stephen’s cheek, called his name.

At first, her voice sounded broken. She breathed out, deep and slow, and hawked a little, before she called Stephen again.

This time, he frowned in his sleep.

Lucy’s fingers pressed harder over the shoulder.

“My dear, please… Wake up…”

Lucy didn’t know what exactly she looked like, face tearful, clothes half ripped. Despite her body being unscathed, her legs can’t hold her, both from the large amount of stress, the remnant drugs and hormones in her circulatory system, and the surgery without anesthetics she had suffered.

Predictably, it was logical Stephen saw her as a fallen angel’s apparition.

“Lu…cy? Am I dead? Is this afterlife?”

Lucy wanted to show him a reassuring smile. Instead she broke down into tears, gripping at Stephen’s strong arm, physical contact, the evidence this was not some creepy next world but life.

“I’m fine.” She stuttered.

“You’re not.”

“I swear. I’m—”

“Not in the way I mean it.” Stephen insisted, his voice adamant.

Opening a strong arm, offering a comforting, reassuring embrace was the natural reflex for Stephen to try to help.

Without a word, Lucy accepted it, clutching like never before.

She deserved everything. She deserved better.

This moment, Stephen felt anguish pulsate inside him. Making him think he shouldn’t have pushed her in the organization of such a big national event. Within a second, he kept it quiet. Lucy was the one needing comfort.

The one needing protection.

“How did you make it? Why were you playing the part of Scarlet Valentine?”

“I… I couldn’t tell you. I had to protect you.”

“We need to let the police know you’re alive.”

“…”

“You wouldn’t tell them either about what happened, right?”

She nodded and promised, “I’ll explain everything to you later. …after the finish of the race.”

Joy, relief of reunion left on them a bitter aftertaste of alarm.

Safety wasn’t a given.

Safety was a privilege.

Suddenly surrounded by several race staff looking for him to attend the banquet, and make an empty but enthusiastic speech, Stephen sent them packing.

No race tonight.

Funny Valentine would be there.

Stephen had noticed the way Lucy froze when the president’s name was mentioned.

They had more important to do.

So they went to the police. Sick with fear. Police officers were meant to obey the head of state. They could have been arrested. They could have been shot on sight.

That’s not what happened.

Thanks to God.

Stephen had once been part of cavalry. He knew how military and law-enforcement men worked. He’s known by all generations. He’d led so many projects before, and was the promoter of the Steel Ball Run today.

The biggest event in history.

His wife being found dead on the way near Chicago made newspapers big titles. They had had their field day. Moreover, Stephen Steel didn’t play the game of the grieving widower, being in denial, keeping his major doubts for himself. 

They went to the police, and spent hours claiming Lucy was alive. 

It was a lot harder proving you are than for other people to affirm you’re dead.

Stephen had refused to sign the papers handed by the coroner.

Lucy’s family lived in Oklahoma, an incorporated territory under special status and weren’t consulted either.

Papers had been done nonetheless, formalized, over the name ‘Lucy Steel.’

There was no explanation for the cadaver found under the bridge in Chicago. Steel spouses would enunciate the name ‘Scarlet Valentine’ for nothing in the world.

Police was suspecting some mafia abduction, as Lucy arrived in a terrible shape, and refused to explain what happened. The Pendleton family had already encountered big issues with the mafia, Steven Steel testified, once alone with the highest-graded policeman present.

That was making sense, for the authorities.

The storytelling of the Eastern Coast’s powerful mafia having put some blackmail on Steel’s public persona, asking silence, services or money to free his young wife sounded credible. It’s easy for policemen to let their imagination run, considering perhaps the Pendleton hadn’t learned their lesson and the eldest married daughter’s death had been faked to hurt them, as a pressure.

All of those justified well why Steven Steel never believed in his wife’s disappearance.

It’s also explaining why the girl kept absolute silence over what happened to her during weeks.

The best consequence was the police didn’t want to cross with the mafia. They weren’t doubting Steel’s words, and wouldn’t verify anything. 

A doctor examined Lucy, and stated she’s as fine as one could hope after a traumatic event. She’d need to rest, eat well, be taken care of.

…and she’d better talk to someone. 

If not the police or a medic, someone she knew and trusted.

It was late in the evening, and Lucy felt as if today was at least three different days with everything that happened. But Stephen insisted she was wearing fresh new clothes—he had arranged a delivery during the doctor appointment—for them to go to journalists.

If Stephen had understood something, it’s both their lives had been jeopardized. Perhaps still were. Without him knowing about it.

It was urgent newspapers put an editorial stating Lucy Steel was alive and they made a mistake several weeks ago. For everybody to know, their enemy included. Plus journalists wouldn’t take the risk to mention the mafia.

Whoever their opponent was, it would be harder for them to attack if Lucy had been claimed alive instead of hidden somewhere. An inexplicable murder—often attributed to organized crime—wouldn’t make sense with Steel’s declaration to the police and journalists.

They needed to stay in the spotlight.

As a matter of survival.

Self-confidence is always a facade.

That’s what life taught Hot Pants.

Everyone had their weaknesses. Confident ones either ignored them—and it made them weak people—or they were aware of it and tried their best to compensate.

For her, Diego Brando’s greatest flaw was his inclination to always want more.

It was not only ambition.

That was so much more than that… It was hunger.

Diego was staring at her figure for long. So long it’s unnatural, as if the man contemplated what malicious sentence he’d say.

“You’d be desirable if you weren’t such a bag of bones.”

What?

Honestly, Hot Pants was expecting a commentary of her being a bitch. Or being a nun. Even being a bitchy cross-dressed nun.

“Women are better with some flesh to grasp. Made them more suitable mothers.”

“Is that why you had gotten married to a woman old enough to be your parents’ grandmother?”

“Actually, my wife was fleshy. And she was more than happy during our short wedding.”

Hot Pants squinted. 

“You murdered her.” She stated.

“She’s happy nonetheless. She didn’t realize she died, a wise gift to offer someone her age.”

Diego shrugged, proud, dangerous smile on his lips, flexing arm muscles as he leant.

“So, you seemingly know everything about me. You, why are you there?”

“To serve the Lord.”

Diego let out a mocking hiss.

“Oh, so, you have no purpose?”

Why on earth would he care?

“You still didn’t tell me how things work for you to get the full head.”

The head was now inside Diego’s. A very strange thing to consider…

“Zeppeli let me have it and left right away.”

“He wasn’t even a little interested?”

Diego shook his head, checked the surroundings, as if he was anticipating enemies to descend on him.

“It’s odd…”

“What about Joestar?” She asked.

“As determined and dangerous as ever. I can’t believe he’d do nothing. The way he stared at me, his will to kill me exuded. …and he moves way too fast for his handicap.”

They had stopped for the night.

None of them had a lot of equipment to camp. So it’s essentially about rolling up inside a cover somewhere the ground was not too damp.

Diego hadn’t complained about the road being away from the stage arrival. He’s number one at points and had a two hours’ bonus. This detour wasn’t a disadvantage; it was exactly what he needed for the final stage to be interesting.

His words.

All of a sudden, Diego swooped down on her, pinning and kissing her by force.

Hot Pants kept her mouth closed and in one powerful gesture punched him in the chin with a left hook, taking her spray in her now free right hand, ready to asphyxiate.

He stopped, his face away from an inch only.

She’s shocked by how he looked normal. Seductive. Different from the gigantic mouth full of fangs he used most of the time. Eyes weren’t black nor cracked in a thin line. Clear blue-green color, obvious even under the moonlight.

He looked abnormally human instead of reptilian.

“Don’t you want to?” He whispered.

He gave her no time to answer before kissing her again.

The sentence made her freeze. 

She never wanted this, but was she against it? Not that much.

The occasion was unique, she thought, remembering behind the lips ravishing her mouth was the full head of Him. Both eyes in Diego’s orbits, as if He was looking at her.

It’s obvious and suitable Lucy, who was a virgin, being fourteen and entering a fictitious marriage, was chosen by the corpse. But she’s married. She belonged to someone. A husband she’d done anything to protect.

Hot Pants’ choice to take the veil meant she’s as much a virgin as Lucy. At the difference she’s engaged to God.

She felt a hand over her tighs, opening them. The hand went up on her hips, waist, belly, struggling with clothes to get them down.

And why not… why not? 

She was recalling her parents’ disappointment when she had become a nun. 

Especially her father’s.

Hot Pants’ parents had two children: a little boy who died and ended up being eaten by a bear, and their eldest daughter wouldn’t have children either. That’s the end of the lineage. Her parents were nobodies. Them being heirless meant no harm or wrong done to the community. But as parents, they had craved grandchildren. A grandson to fill the void left in their heart after losing a child.

Being a grandparent was a privilege, not a right.

Even if religion enjoined you to multiply, portrayed it as a duty of lineage, it also allowed and enhanced women taking the veil.

Hot Pants’ father had told her she could change her mind. She’d always be welcome home; they’d help her get a good husband if she wanted to. Most likely some guy from their small community.

Instead, she had left for Europe with other nuns, doing a pilgrimage to Lourdes. She’d learned how to mount a horse best by pushing up to Santiago de Compostela. Then her taste for adventure and encounters with over pilgrims had led her to Rome, San Giovanni in Laterano. Italy had helped her to strengthen her faith. She’d met great inspiring people, with important duties in Catholic church’s Vatican. From there, it had been easy to settle for an Italian, lost in mountains, Catholic convent. She had learned the local language and studied Latin and Ancient Greek Bibles. Her talent, enough for her to stand out. 

And her being able to mount horses through the mountains to help resupply the convent, as well as crossing three countries, the last argument for her to be the one and only American-born candidate to enter the Steel Ball Run on behalf of the Catholic Church.

Cream Starter, an unspoken bonus.

Hot Pants had been happy in her convent.

She didn’t crave this married life her parents associated with happiness. 

Having a man deciding for her. 

Being a nun… That fate was her way to redemption, but it didn’t matter if she wasn’t God’s representative in the end. 

The important and true meaning of her life now was getting the corpse back to the Vatican.

Hot Pants had known entering the race as a woman was allowed. There’s no need for her to cross-dress. She had considered it as a necessity: she didn’t want to have journalists tracking her every move under the pretext she’s a woman. The other reason being, to avoid sexual assaults. 

This happening like this, now she’d dropped the race, it’s unexpected.

But was it an assault when she finally answered the kisses, spray disregarded, and let him do what he wanted?

It’s not important. Not something that would end her engagement in front of God.

God was looking at her, and was behind the sweet way Diego touched her, creating pleased shivers.

Maybe this was even the reason she had been chosen to be there.

More than her talent on horseback.

More than being American, speaking both Italian and Latin.

It’s about her being a woman.

Sure it hurt at first.

Sure it was grosser than wonderful, until Diego began to caress her near the point they were joined, getting more whimpers. And he must do this because he wanted the noise, not to please her.

Still, here and now, doing exactly that, she was where she’s meant to be.

For everything in the World—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the World. 

1. John 2:16

Chapter Text

Johnny and Gyro learned by newspaper the rules have changed.

An annoying piece of news, but a logical one.

It was decided the one-hour bonus will be used at the end of the current stage, and would determine the starting order of the last stage. An unfair measure to heighten suspense. But the one-hour bonus had been unfair from the beginning.

Everything will be played in New York.

Crossing the New Jersey without making any detour, both Gyro and Johnny knew those were their last times to set camp together, alone in the vastness.

It was easier to talk. Was time for the last confidences.

The end of the race didn’t have that much meaning for Johnny, contrasting to Gyro whose life could irremediably change based on his ranking. And Johnny remembered some of the things Gyro told him in anger in the recent weeks which hurt like hell.

Like the fact he’d die for him.

There wasn’t any single day without Johnny remembering it. The thought, more often than not, bringing back tears he had to repress.

Johnny loved him.

With all his heart.

And it took shape more and more, Johnny thinking all the time about how Gyro could feel. How they could make it for him to win. How to make it for him to stay the course and keep feeling good, strong enough to shoulder what would come next.

Johnny foresaw what it implied to win.

Fame. Money. Journalists.

The only thing he was still ignorant of, what Gyro’s choices and his country’s would be.

So Johnny was making Gyro get out of his chest as much shit as possible. And talked again about their argument before arriving in Philadelphia.

“I don’t have a death wish.” Gyro ended up saying. “But yes, I did consider dying as something positive and an adequate outcome for the journey.” 

Saying it out loud was a relief, Gyro realized. It moved the eventuality away. He’s not a man to verbalize his uneasiness. Perhaps he should have.

“Because you like guys?” Johnny pondered.

That’s true he’d realized Gyro’s malaise quickly over this matter.

“This…” Gyro admitted. “And because I came here… I can’t see how I could go home now. …Johnny, dying for you is one of the most beautiful options I have.”

“And being alive with me, Gyro? Wouldn’t it be even more beautiful?”

“I don’t know if I have the right to believe in that…” Gyro said, a soft smile on his lips, long lashes tilting down.

“I like guys too. I also like girls, but… I’ve never wanted to die because of it. I guess I had enough reasons which have nothing to do with it.”

“You mean, your disability?”

“Yeah…”

Johnny took a deep breath before he added:

“But I wasn’t happy either before that. It happened after I played the hard nut, giving in to the simpering of a girl who wasn’t even worth it. …I was famous, but I was alone. It appeared to the world when it happened. False friends and random hook-ups, all fled. …I didn’t miss them. I missed my brother and my parents. I wanted so much for my father to forget everything that happened… even if I should have apologized for things I ain’t guilty of… even if he had made me do things I wouldn’t have wanted.”

“…”

“I’ve started believing this ordeal was fate, that life might be worth it only after I met you. …so, giving away your life for me, the corpse or me… Please Gyro, don’t do that to me.”

Gyro nibbled his lips for a second.

“I’ve always thought you’re resilient. Enough to survive without me. Maybe I’m the reason you’re back on track, on a horse, it’s not that big. It’s your efforts, your achievement. Forcing my freakiness on you… You deserve to have a wife and kids. A nice girl that will support you. That would offer you a place to call home. Yours alone.”

“God, you’re such a romantic…” Johnny smiled, shining teary eyes lovingly staring at Gyro before he averted his gaze.

“It’s harder for those of my kind.”

“Italians?”

“Executioners, Johnny.”

“…”

“We have something gloomy. A dark aura of disgrace. We’re seen as Death. No matter the importance of this duty my family shoulders for society, the moment people learn about it, they fear us, reject us with all their might. There’s a reason we keep it a secret. And even if it remains a secret, ‘stigma’ persists.”

“You still find wives, or else you wouldn’t be there.”

“My mother is the granddaughter of the executioner of Bari.”

“Bari?”

“The biggest city of Apulia. The heel of the boot.”

“It’s an arranged marriage.”

“Yeah.”

Johnny didn’t dare say to Gyro how much he always thought about him as someone blazing. Bright. That he’d been attracted to him the minute they met, Gyro’s apparition feeling like a beauty crossing the darkness of his life.

That was Johnny’s first impression.

One, he considered a truth.

Stigma… Fuck stigma! Stigma exists only in poor, lame in spirit dunce’s empty brains. 

Since the day they met, Johnny had learned the major secret of steel balls.

Whatever the use Gyro made of it back home or here during the race, Johnny didn’t give a damn.

The same way the, ‘I want to learn steel balls,’ had evolved progressively in a strong, ‘I want you.’

Maybe it was a hereditary fatality. One, Gyro wasn’t liking, but who defined him.

Why don’t you ask him if he’s going to stay?

Why don’t you ask him if he’s going away?

Johnny restrained himself, refusing to wrest from him a pledge. Gyro already suffered too many constraints on his shoulders. Symbolic chains that prevented him from being himself.

He’s already freer than he should be.

Being here, abroad. Fighting for Marco, then ‘forgetting’ about him and giving everything he had for a stranger he fell in love with.

Taking responsibility for what he felt for Johnny in words, acts, gestures.

Live and stay with me, this was the perspective, the dream, Johnny offered.

He could have said, ‘I want you by my side.’ 

But it was easier to say ‘I want you’ as an invitation to warm up against each other’s bodies at night.

Because ‘I want you by my side’ had even more meaning for Johnny than the words ‘I love you.’

“I can’t promise you anything and it makes me sick.” Gyro sighed, green eyes meeting Johnny’s gaze, conveying his whole dilemma.

“I never asked you to promise me anything. All I want is for you to say that you want me. Even if it’s just tonight. Even if there are a finite number of tomorrows. Do you realize, how significant it was for me to meet you? To share so many things?”

“…”

“I know… Damn it, I know all too well what it is, not to have a family anymore. To be an endless disappointment. I don’t crave for you to throw your life away. I won’t beg for anything… but Gyro, please understand I—”

There’s no need for Johnny to finish.

‘I want you.’

‘I love you.’

‘I need you.’

Whatever he wanted to say, Gyro already felt the intensity with all his previous words.

“It’s not just because it’s you. I wonder what it would be like to do it again with a girl. Except when I imagine it, it’s still not as good as the idea of doing it with a guy.”

“…”

“With you.”

The fear, the restless feeling they were on the verge of something, the end of an era, Gyro had begun to suffer from it before Johnny did. He was already feeling that way after Gettysburg.

He related. 

Totally.

But Gyro still had no solution to it.

He was feeling… reassured since Johnny told him they needed to focus on the race’s victory. Relieved from something colossal projecting its invincible shadow on him. Sentencing him to follow an endless dead end. 

That’s strange, and unfair for Johnny, Gyro had the belief and sensation his life and survival had been in his hands.

It left Gyro with a lukewarm sour but comforting feeling in his guts, he finally needed to be reminded why he’s here. And his objective was the one to matter at the very end.

Gyro was used to giving in to his parents’ desires. No matter if they were making him unhappy. He was told enough times his role was to serve and protect his country and family. Going to America, it was the first thing Gyro decided to do against his father’s will.

Still, it was enabled by the King’s councilor, interlocutor between Zeppeli and the Royalty. And as Gyro was irreplaceable, his participation had to be allowed by the King himself.

Gyro was serving his country by being there. It’s a form of national service Gyro volunteered without second thought. He had been suggested something compatible with his aspirations, and had jumped at the chance.

That’s why it had been so easy for Gyro to revert to his Naples’ behavior when the corpse came out in their life. Johnny was someone Gyro had taken under his wing. As such, it had felt his charge and responsibility to protect him.

At first, there had been no need to refuse to seek the corpse’s parts. Gyro had allowed this as a side quest. It had been mysterious, and Gyro was a curious man. 

Then Gyro had become jealous over Johnny’s determination. Being challenged over the fact he’s an heir. And he was. He so fucking was…

After his fight with Ringo Roadagain, the corpse happened to be their first priority. Gyro thought he could learn something from it. Doing that, he had done Johnny’s will. He had been happy from it, but became even more of a follower than before.

It had made Gyro angry. Until recently, when anger mutated little by little in saturnine resignation while he’s getting a grasp he had fallen in love with Johnny. A man, and also his best friend.

And now, Johnny had made the choice they were going to follow Gyro’s objective. Maybe he had experienced himself, by fighting against Valentine, this dead-end feeling that fueled Gyro’s angst and melancholy.

This should have made Gyro satisfied and happy, but it was not his way to react.

Gyro’s character pushed him to rise to the occasion.

He remembered all too well this discussion Johnny had meant as an argument.

What will he do once another kid will be sentenced to death? Once he is ordered to execute one more innocent for political reasons?

The words had been formulated as certainties.

For Johnny, there will be more children, more innocents.

The more Gyro was thinking about it, the more he believed Johnny was right.

That’s not the opinion Gyro wanted to nourish toward his government. But Naples’ King, Naples’ system and people, didn’t care to make innocent children die. And truly as Johnny said, they didn’t seem to care about newspapers talking about Gyro as some conscientious objector.

Deep down, Gyro knew the truth.

Horrible truth was both the King and government wanted someone to race in the Steel Ball Run. They had nobody a great enough racer to play an adequate defender in the royal guard. So they pushed their executioner, who stood out for his horse rider qualities, offering this as the only way for him to save an innocent kid’s life.

Gyro was a pawn on a political chessboard.

That’s when Johnny’s words sounded so true.

He was looking for his own amnesty in the United States.

Gyro would like this amnesty to have a name.

He wanted it to have a star pattern and be embodied by determined blue eyes.

That moment, the instant he scratched his own neck without thinking, he got Johnny’s gaze focused on him. Sharp enough, he felt as if he’d thought out loud or Johnny had read right inside his head.

The second Johnny looked away in embarrassment, Gyro captured the image of him licking his lips, perhaps even blushing.

Gyro smirked. He didn’t know why, but he had the feeling they’ll have a good evening.

Chapter Text

They were two.

Two bug bites, near the ear, upper left side of the neck.

When it’s related to this fetish of his, Johnny felt like a bird of prey. It’d been a long time since he had a lover wearing some. Well, no, on second thought, it’d been too long.

Too long. 

Too long. 

Far too long.

And he needed to be discreet but can’t. 

The hell, the red bumps would not disappear from Gyro’s skin and long neck.

The more time flowed, the bigger the bump grew in Johnny’s brain. Like an addiction.

Johnny didn’t even wait for them to set up camp correctly. After the first tarp and cover were arranged on the ground, he tipped Gyro over, struggling to look at him in the eyes in lieu of fucking the bites with a fiery gaze.

Johnny put astride him, positioning his legs with his free hand.

“You want me to enjoy myself and show what I like… Please, let me do anything without questioning it. Just tell me if you want to stop.”

And right after, Johnny’s lips were specifically over this spot he had brushed with two fingers while speaking.

Gyro sucked in a breath. He unbuttoned a holster, getting out a steel ball, making it spin on the ground at arm’s length.

Just to know if anyone were coming over.

Considering Johnny’s noticeable desire and the way he focused on his neck, there must be something. That’s pretty sure. But it was not the moment to talk about it.

‘Let’s see,’ Gyro thought. And the way his hair was pulled back was sending delightful thrills toward his spine.

Panting, he said nothing. One hand slid under Johnny’s shirt, going to his right nipple, toying with it in a way Johnny got even harder in no time. Gyro removed his hand only to suck his own fingers, doing anything to increase the pleasure created over the already so sensitive place. Saliva worked great. Gyro’s other arm wrapped around Johnny’s hips, in contact with his backside.

At this one gesture, Johnny opened his eyes. The lack of sensation, a mood killer.

“Don’t… I’m…”

“You what?” Gyro whispered, his finger pads coming again to Johnny’s chest, circling the nipples with saliva.

“...”

“You don’t feel it down here? How about you imagined the way it would feel having my hand there?”

Their gazes were attached to the other’s. Faces close, so close, it’s impossible to hide.

“Tell me, what do you like?” Gyro whispered. “I could do whatever you want. And you could watch me doing it. You could hear, sound of fabric, noises we are making. How about I caress you, gently? I can rest my hand there, feeling you up. I can massage it. I can tickle. I can pinch. I can spank you. So, go on, tell me, imagine.”

Johnny took a trembling breath, then closed his eyelids. It was a clumsy way to comfort him back. But it helped. His ill feeling created by the remembrance of his loss evaporated.

Whatever.

Yeah, whatever.

Johnny opened his eyes. This was not about his pleasure only, and he already had two bites to take care of. Gyro might as well grope a buttock. He tsk, and scratched one of the spots with the nail of his thumb, letting his mouth down against Gyro’s neck to bite, too. Forming hickey at the limit of the nape.

Doing this, reminded Johnny of a short novel he’d read as a teenager. Carmilla. A lesbian love story. Forbidden passion in which the eponymous character was a vampire. The languor. The bed-sharing between the two girls. The sensual awakening of the eighteen-year-old narrator. The vampire’s teeth against her breast. Against the skin of her neck. Even after she’d learned the truth about the vampire… After understanding she would have died if this forbidden love had lasted one or two more days… the fascination for this alluring, amorous friend remained. 

There’s no turning back. 

This was what homosexuality was. Prohibited. Abnormal. Life-changing. It killed you. Slowly, like only the dreaminess of experiencing physical love could. Or suddenly, as if you were struck by an agent of the devil. Half the time, the friendship and sweetness were arousing you and lulling you into oblivion, and half the time, you’re on alert, a gleam in your head, screaming danger. And it scared the fuck out of you. Johnny had experienced the fascination and all those feelings as a teenager coming out as bisexual. Today… maybe Johnny was Gyro’s Carmilla. A damned soul tempter. And like the vampire, like those insects that fascinated Johnny so much, Johnny would mark Gyro as his.

'You’re mine.'

And, 'I was there.'

Engraved in an explosion of blood capillaries.

No blood dripping.

But for sure, there was a beautiful red and purple corn poppy drawn on bare skin.

Gyro inhaled a lot under the love bite.

Pleasant moans.

“Wanna touch my ass?” Johnny whispered once he’s done. “OK. Help yourself.”

It was Gyro. He wouldn’t do anything worse than what Johnny was doing indulging himself right now.

“Mm.”

And he might be imagining it, but at Gyro’s gesture, Johnny knew he had slid his hand under his pants. He wasn’t feeling it, but he knew it was there. And it already helped build up arousal. Contributed for the blood conglomerate where it mattered.

Gyro’s other hand helped Johnny’s dick to come free, out of his trousers. Johnny eyed down, and liked the view of Gyro’s large hands around him. He could almost believe he would come. 

That’s not the first time Gyro could see his dick. They were boys. Of course they’d compared sizes and looks, on the sly. Despite disability. 

It’s different when you’re hard.

In a matter of size, getting hard, Johnny had nothing to be ashamed of.

He had almost forgotten about it.

Unlike the muscles of his thighs and calves, this can’t lose volume. It’s all a matter of blood.

Johnny remembered the only time they had talked about it. Dick size. That day, there had been nothing to look at. Both dressed. Entirely. Johnny’s was good. Especially proportionally to his height, as he’s short for a man. Like any guy, Johnny boasted, bragging, ‘Nobody ever complained. And I was playing sold out.’ 

Always involved in a relationship. 

Always fucking a former hook-up or new conquest. 

Or both.

Gyro had answered with a smirk, using the same words as Johnny, ‘Nobody ever complained.’ He hadn’t created the impression he’d been embarrassed, or lying. But Johnny knew all too well there’s no good answer to his brag. By the way, it’s not a topic you want to be sincere about.

Gyro hadn’t lied.

What Johnny stroked last time was more than good enough.

Not because it’s big. 

Because it was Gyro’s.

He hoped Gyro would share the same benevolence.

He had always spared Johnny the regular mocking comments one quickly felt entitled to provide the world in all their narrow-mindedness and stupidity.

That’s also why Johnny trusted Gyro enough to have sex.

Johnny wasn’t feeling that much the good way Gyro was jerking him out. But he sure saw all of it. He saw himself reacting more and more, saw the reddish flowery picture he’d done and continued drawing over Gyro’s neck, bumps in the center of pinch marks, teeth marks, nails he was sinking again and again creating relief petals like the ones of a red peony all over the sensitive skin.

Desire was building up so much, Johnny only got time to raise his face and kiss Gyro on the lips, tongue going straight away deep inside, possessive, caressing, when he reached climax.

It had been so much time. And it had needed him to let go and ravish pretty golden skin recovered by bug bites. It felt so strong, after having nothing for two years, Johnny wanted to cry. He didn’t, but a sob escaped when they stopped kissing.

Gyro’s smug gaze and smirk were unbearable.

Felt like a ‘told you so,’ he didn’t dare say out loud.

Because Gyro’s hips were rising, asking for Johnny’s attention now he’d accomplished the thing he craved doing already the first time they had sex.

Johnny let himself slide on the side—the one he could still admire the bug bites—legs awkwardly intertwined. With the climax, and without feeling them, it was harder to disentangle, but whatever, his hands were already activating on Gyro’s pants, putting them down low enough for Gyro to complain about the gratuitous exposure. It was still daylight. Johnny could have a detailed look on his privates and the gold of his skin like never before. Also baring his ass all the way.

‘Yeah, groan. I’ll show you…’ Johnny thought.

Johnny felt a little vengeful, but he was also really, really thankful for what he got. Both the orgasm and Gyro’s benevolence. And he loved caressing the hard-on, caressing someone reacting so easily to him. Feeling he’s hot to someone’s eyes. So much, it needed no time for Gyro to be full hard, between the jerking off and all the other attentions Johnny gave, gazing at him, kissing his neck, lips and holding his hair firmly.

He whispered, “You’re beautiful” to Gyro’s ear. 

Because it’s true. 

Plus, he wanted to embarrass him. 

Johnny thought it was a nice thing to tell a lover. And way simpler to say out loud than the unspeakable ‘I love you’ curled up inside his heart.  

Johnny’s hand slid from Gyro’s waist to his exposed ass, caressing the flesh behind the narrow hips. He moved his hand to the lower buttocks.

“Can I touch you there?”

It’s implicit he meant ‘inside.’ 

Gyro made eye contact, pondering a split second.

“Stop if I say so…”

Johnny nodded against him, and in no time, he’d grab the lube, shot his right middle finger nail in a harmless direction, and went down on Gyro, making him moan from pleasure and surprise intertwined without discretion.

It had been unusual for Johnny to indulge oral sex to former partners. It happened nonetheless, especially with those he got the kinkiest sex. Hardcore activities he’d needed to distract his sexual partner from what’s happening. Getting a blowjob sure helped to relax, making it easy for him to insert a lubed finger, sinking in, in a slow movement, until he could try to find the most pleasurable point right inside and stimulate it.

Once he did, he let out Gyro’s cock, not wanting for him to climax right away.

“How is it?” Johnny breathed, panting, a thread of saliva dribbling down his chin—or was it seminal fluid?

The frustration, Johnny stopped sucking at him was real, still Gyro realized it allowed him to get a better grasp of what’s happening around his behind. He could feel the pressure of Johnny’s hand against the curve of his ass, a lonely finger inserted, stimulating some place inside him he barely noticed before, the waves of pleasure it created more evident now they’re not combining with the blowjob. Prostate.

“Feel good.” Gyro answered.

It was half a lie; the pulsating sensations felt great.

Johnny’s other hand came to stroke Gyro’s spit glistening cock, purposely making him come in a few moments, Gyro moving his hips to accompany the movements. His anal muscles, relaxed enough, Johnny could have easily considered inserting a second finger. He didn’t take the risk. They were racing tomorrow.

Gyro’s mind was too much absorbed for him to focus over it right now, but Johnny making him want to do it in the ass was to him the last proof he’s really into men.

They kept lying next to each other, panting silently, their legs tangled in a way Gyro liked, and Johnny didn’t realize.

Gyro turned his head to exchange a kiss, grasping Johnny’s hand, brushing the end of his fingers, and drawing him inside a hug.

“You shot a nail.” He said in a low voice.

“It’s more comfortable.”

Indeed. 

Gyro held back from blushing at the assumed kindness. Proof that, once more, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.

“That’s really good what you started with your tongue moments ago.” Gyro praised.

A fleeting smirk appeared on Johnny’s lips.

Gyro continued. “I wish you’d end it that way, sometime, if you don’t mind.”

“Maybe one day you’re not tasting like dick.” Johnny deadpanned.

To this, Gyro snorted, amused.

“And what is a dick meant to taste then?”

“Believe me, it tastes better after a bath. …we could both use one.”

Gyro smiled in answer. Not a smirk, a genuine one.

Evidence of how relaxed he’s feeling after this.

In spite of healing Johnny’s pride, that also warmed his heart.

Without thinking, Gyro’s hand went to his neck, the part Johnny focused so much. Maybe Johnny had scratched a little hard. There was a little scab over the upper bite.

Gyro looked at the trace of coagulated blood over his fingers, pondering.

“So, you got a vampire fetish, or what?”

“Huh? …Want me to bite for real?”

“Wait, no, I—” And Gyro laughed when he felt Johnny rolling over and starting sucking at the thin skin of his lower neck. Creating a second love bite, luckily at a place which would be covered by his collar, putting more teeth this time.

Today was not the day Gyro would learn how he’d made it—how they’d made it—but his joy he’d proved Johnny by facts they could have sex and like it both without having to deal with frustration had a taste of victory. 

A victory he’s aiming for since that time he’s not sure of what he’s truly felt.

Gyro’s arm wrapped around Johnny’s waist. He tilted his head to give Johnny more space to have his way, and pressed his lips against Johnny’s hair, and temple.

Whatever as long as they stayed together.

Chapter Text

If anything, Hot Pants would never have believed she’d be in that situation.

Kneeling in the dirt.

Sobbing uncontrollably.

Draining her body more and more, using her stand to put things together.

As if a body cut in the half could be fixed.

Getting the last part of the corpse hadn’t been the end.

The end was to reunite it.

Him.

Something would happen then.

Two eyes, two ears, a skull, two arms, a heart, a rib cage, a spine, two legs.

It made twelve.

All gotten at the eighth point.

Why have a ninth?

In the Bible, the number eight was a reference to the announcement of the judgment of the world. A new order. To a man, born again. Whereas, number nine was a symbol of divine generosity and perfection. Of finality.

Twelve parts, it was a significant number in the Bible.

The most significant one.

What Lucy had experienced wasn’t the end of the story, but the start of what’s meant to happen.

Jesus Christ had traveled east, but never completed the voyage around the world.

Religion was a topic Hot Pants was knowledgeable. Even more, she’s a scholar. But now, she’s in a shaky position. Lying on her side, she had trouble breathing. Her head assailed her with so much pain, she knew she got a concussion. Her riding cap, lost long ago.

This ultimate point on the map drawn by Joseph of Arimathea.

Whose place was in the actual New Jersey.

The ninth point.

That’s where they were!

It was out of the race’s shortest route to New York for racers, but recent railways were on it. Whose construction was anticipated by the government. By the President of the United States.

The corpse was full.

Whatever was meant to happen must happen there.

Both her and Diego survived their alternate version summoned by Valentine, but they’d lost their horses doing so. Her dear roan mustang, disappeared forever. After, they had fought in this fateful train riding across the countryside.

At a moment, the surrounding atmosphere had become extremely strange. As if there was a powerful, attracting force that magnetized things. Not only people or objects. But the land. The sea itself.

They had used Hot Pants’ power to change Diego’s face, making him a double, spitting image of Funny Valentine. The idea was brilliant. It was Diego’s.

They’re about to succeed.

And the moment after, they weren’t anymore.

That’s this precise second her concentration had broken.

Diego pushed her violently. A brutal nudge, strong enough, it made her jump out a window. It had hurt like hell.

…it’s the thing that had saved her life.

A half-second later, the train derailed.

Next thing she knew, she’s lying on the ground, out of the railcar. Her ally of convenience—was he only that?—cut in half, dead. She’s now sobbing, trying the impossible and failing.

It didn’t appear weird to her mind that the President wasn’t attacking anymore.

Diego’s upper body recumbent over her lap, Hot Pants got a glimpse of a radiant energy from the corner of her eyes. She turned and saw all the corpse parts reconstituted in one piece.

A few feet away.

Head and body, were now one.

Shining.

Rays of light falling from the sky.

Funny Valentine was there, standing, unscathed, looking at Him.

Ignoring her.

And alone… Alone, Hot Pants can’t see how to win against such a powerful man.

So she talked.

Without paying attention to the land rushing toward their epicenter, waves meeting trees, forming a circle.

It was like in Exodus. And Hot Pants would likely believe it was God or the corpse Himself that had stretched out His hand over the sea. Powerful east wind whirled all around them. What once had been sea was now dry land, what once wintery meadow, now in full colors and scintillation, saline water lapping at the branches of trees, early blooming lasting like a flash before fleshy summery leaves appeared.

Waters parted.

Abnormal sound of waves thwacking like during a stormy night, except the sky was pure diurnal blue.

It was more than a miracle.

It’s a singularity.

The event horizon on the planet’s surface.

Time meant nothing.

Landscapes came so fast, space meant nothing.

Wondrous.

Horrific.

This is why Hot Pants was there. Kneeling when the only other human present was disrespectfully standing.

She’s a cultist. God’s worshiper.

The situation was definitely more complicated than ever.

Beside her faith, Hot Pants got nothing.

God.

God didn’t help those who were taking the easy way out and loved to wallow in their misery.

Stress was intense. Pressure, merciless.

Only automatic mode allowed Hot Pants to function. To talk. To take a stand.

So she broke the anomalous silence.

“Why? Why do you want to keep Him to yourself?”

Without looking, Valentine snorted. “You know who He is.”

“What more do you want to achieve?”

Half a smirk showed on Valentine’s face. He controlled it. Refrained it. His contempt, evident while he still chose to answer. “What do I want? The good and salvation of my country.”

“You already have that! This country has incredible potential, and it is unified. God. It is God who decides men and nations’ fate. Do not dishonor His son and representative on earth. Let me take Him to the Vatican. I will say and it will be clear that His return was only possible because of you who allowed this race. Do not ruin the good you have done for humanity. The Pope will be obliged to you. It is in this that you can achieve greatness. Not by being self-seeking, but by doing what is right.”

“She says, whereas she associates with the first upstart…”

Tears came back to her eyes.

As well as feelings incompatible with her status.

Despite everything in the world… Perhaps she’d liked him.

God was Love.

Cruel fate awaited. Decreed against her. Hot Pants gritted her teeth.

There’s a meaning.

She didn’t know yet, but there must be a meaning.

“You refused to associate with him. To treat him as an equal. That’s why he turned against you. …Why does everyone refuse to join forces to achieve their goals in this country?”

She had grown up there, but felt that land was one that fertilized egocentrism and entitlement. That’s how Hot Pants had chosen to sacrifice her younger brother, how the head of state chose to sacrifice the sacrosanct for his own view and power.

Hot Pants was misled. None of her arguments could work with Funny Valentine. The United States was taking pride of being a godless nation. The preamble of the American constitution wasn’t mentioning God. Neither the Lord Jesus Christ, nor any other prophet or divinity.

It didn’t make the state, ‘atheist.’ Atheism, or unbelief, were suspect. Synonymous of dubious morals, debauchery, dregs of society. To people’s eyes, you can’t be a good person if you weren’t identifying as some sort of Christian.

The constitution started with the words, ‘We the People of the United States.’

…but the duty of President command to raise your right hand and place the left on a Bible to make your oath during presidential inauguration.

So this was the place of religion: a necessary tool to succeed, and a part of the landscape.

Hot Pants had left years before.

All her adult years, she had spent them in Europe, with European clergymen and fellow nuns.

Living from physical labor, handmade and begging, she wouldn’t have ever even come close to understanding the most important for the country weren’t morals but government finances.

First of all, the Steel Ball Run was a matter of big money.

Because, at the end of the day, only economic results mattered. This was a topic Valentine was astounding. The benefits for the country, even better than in the wildest forecasts.

Religion was important to give a good image of yourself and prove you were an ethical person, with good values and good morals.

As a politician, it didn’t matter how you behaved in private. Being a Christian in power meant showing your credentials for the nomination. Whatever, you were showing a top coat of hypocrisy after. Power gave you all the rights. And when Valentine wanted something, he got his hands on it.

For such a man, Hot Pants was amusing.

Off the mark, and ridiculous.

“You want to confederate?” Valentine reworded as only a politician that experienced the Civil War and wanted to take you down a peg could. “Humor me. What do you have to propose?”

“Let me take him to the Vatican. The religion that celebrates Him will be strengthened forever. And nobody knows what might happen there. Maybe he could come back. Be our savior against the apocalypse. Catholic Church does not forget its allies. It will strengthen your power, like for kings from divine right.”

“And you’ll achieve this perfect negotiation all alone? Others want this corpse. Zeppeli and Joestar…”

“Are not here. Johnny Joestar has got his mobility back. Thanks to Him. He accomplished his goal. You accomplished yours. You’ve got everything to accomplish anything. What more do you want, in your position? Humans will give you what you’ve longed for.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“If I grant your request. It is still unwise for you to go alone. And I have no guarantee that you won’t betray me, that you won’t betray our country.”

Hot Pants in her state of dread and despair can’t read Valentine’s negative disposition to her. She can’t hear how he already considered her guilty of high treason. He’s the one in charge, he had the upper hand, and this despicable idiot wasn’t even understanding all the wrong she’s doing to her land, to her blood, to the good people of the United States, Valentine was elected to protect, and to raise the country to the highest level.

She was thinking like a nun. The minimum rank of the religious machinery.

You needed a political view, political skills, to stand in front of Valentine.

Or at least, be a ‘protector of rights.’

Someone with a ‘world view.’

Diego was not benevolent. But he was a man without fear. Sexism was such a normal thing in society, him being a man was already the strongest advantage.

He could have handled this better. He’s thinking several moves ahead.

But Diego was dead.

And Diego would never have tried to talk Valentine out of his project.

A project for his greater good, and for the greater good of the United States.

Diego would have fought.

“I promised. My life no longer matters. I seek my salvation. It—”

Valentine cut her short with a snap of the fingers.

“And maybe you’d want to get your partner back?”

Valentine made a gesture, hitting the metallic truck. It looked strange. And in no time, he’d moved a few feet away. In one go.

Hot Pants’ hands grabbed onto Diego’s body. Knowing the president did something.

Something that sure would endanger her life.

“You know what, Miss Nun? I’ve changed my mind. You will go to the Vatican and tell them they are welcome in this country. Let them prepare to consecrate me as their chosen one by divine right.”

He smirked menacingly.

Scornful.

“You think you deserve to live with your big noisy mouth and traitor’s skin? Well, prove your worth or pray for a miracle.”

Then, another Diego Brando appeared.

Chapter Text

Funny Valentine had ended up bringing back another Dio Brando.

One, no one knew, and whose stand was 'The World.'

It’s a gamble and calculation from Valentine. One, he thought, was good.

Except that… Whatever the universe, Dio had never been someone you could manipulate and tell what to think and do.

The President had been naive to see in him a simple instrument, something Dio had always refused to be. Whatever the world. Nor to see in him nothing more than his deepest nature.

Perhaps the attitude of the Diego of this presupposed original world had been guided by lust, new Dio considered. Lust for a woman that it was abnormal to have. But that he, entitled, had the power to arouse.

Immediately brought back, he made time stop for five seconds. He observed the scene, saw a corpse identical to his own cut in two in the arms of a kneeling woman with a teary face. He knew her, but not in this way.

Oh. So, this one bird was alive here.

That’s the evidence he was in another place. She seemed manipulable.

The five seconds ended.

Dio turned to the man.

“Terminate her. Then I’d explain to you how we’ll associate.” Valentine ordered.

Hot Pants braced herself.

That’s cruel.

Even torture.

The suffering pierced her with a poisoned sting. Consequence of her sin.

She shouldn’t care to have Diego as an enemy.

Valentine had determined she’s useless. And chose a man with the features of Diego—another Diego—to attack her. In all likelihood, that one was unconscious of the danger her Diego’s half-cut corpse was for him. Maybe Valentine expected he’d believe she’s the one that had murdered his alter ego.

This was a test.

She had an advantage. A weapon.

This was an invitation to get rid of the half-body on her lap her fingers still were clinging on.

Hot Pants felt as if her way of thinking was broken.

Every few seconds.

Weariness, despair, tinted her soul.

Diego’s upper body, she could use it as a shield. But it wouldn’t be enough. Dinosaurs allowed remote attacks.

Without her understanding why, she saw alternate-Diego attack Valentine.

The President was surprised, but not as much as herself.

The scene didn’t make sense.

It felt as if Diego was teleporting.

‘He got a different stand,’ she realized. Not the dinosaurish. Something else.

Valentine had understood too, better and faster than her.

He too was disappearing, unpredictable, but his way to fight switching dimensions was more familiar to Hot Pants.

After a few minutes, the two men vanished.

In one of those parallel places Diego had explained to her the existence, she guessed.

She could have chosen to fly.

That’s the right time!

But the events of the day prevented her from doing so. She had pushed too far on her stand, and couldn’t find a way to get up. There wasn’t any horse around and she was missing Get Up, realizing painfully once again that her dear mount had also disappeared. The derailed train prevented any other locomotive or wagon from coming. It would take hours before they send people along railway lines. The train wasn’t supposed to arrive before long. And they were so far from any station… There weren’t even rails anymore.

Unbelievably, the world was now looking normal again.

As in, the surroundings were not mutating anymore.

The holy head in Diego’s possession had merged with the holy body Valentine got.

The flood waters receded.

So Hot Pants crawled to the corpse, and reverently began to cover it with a cloth, makeshift shroud.

Behind her, the two men reappeared. Valentine, a gun in his gloved hand, Diego’s grasping a dagger, two more stilettos, ready to be thrown, wedged between his fingers. They had gotten those in another dimension.

Again, time froze.

Yes, that’s it. That’s why she got the sensation of being interrupted in what she’s doing.

They came back. Valentine must have realized being somewhere else meant offering free weapons to his enemy.

She turned her head to the men, noticed Valentine shooting his six bullets out of the barrel, and jumping on the ground, an American flag like a cape, now covering the location he had been standing.

It should be child’s play for Diego to avoid bullets.

Dio slowly turned his face toward her, scoffing, cruel smirk on the lips.

He didn’t bother to look at her and meet her gaze, addressing the invisible Funny Valentine.

“You can kill her! For all I care. You’re the one that wanted to get rid of her.” He snorted.

That’s when Hot Pants realized she’s not ignored anymore. In no time had she put her left hand and spray away, to be able to shoot from distance.

She could turn herself to liquid and hide inside the wagon fragments.

But there’s the corpse.

She didn’t know why, but she felt as if something wasn’t right about Him. He looked fine. He looked whole. But something was missing. Was it they hadn’t let Him finish what was ongoing with Lucy Steel? Was it someone missing here?

Has nobody understood anything about this divine puzzle?

…How could someone like Johnny Joestar that had gotten so many parts not be there?

Diego—her Diego—had been wrong about him.

Or hadn’t he?

Her chance was for this new Dio to win against Valentine.

“He can summon other versions of himself!” She shouted at the man.

Dio knew and didn’t answer her.

“Do you wanna…?” She didn’t end her sentence tapping over her chin and pointing to Diego’s face.

The fight might be tighter than it looked.

Dio yielded to the temptation, approaching her just close enough.

She covered him with her spray, and only seconds later got a powerful punch behind the head by Funny Valentine.

One of them, at least.

Hot Pants still suffered from the first concussion and fell flat. Her wind, knocked out.

She’d gotten intuition.

There were ten Valentine around them. Or maybe she’s seeing double, her skull pounding, and she felt blood on the side of her head.

The time Valentine was away was obviously to work on this.

The last image in her memory, the one of Diego’s abandoned upper corpse seized high in the air by Valentine.

Then she sank into darkness.

She didn’t know how Dio made it.

Perhaps it’s because of her.

But the moment she’s in a state she can open her eyes again, he’s the only one standing.

Hot Pants froze in a reflex. She had understood that it was a mistake to bring this Dio here. It’s Valentine’s loss. She had not asked for anything herself, but would suffer consequences.

“You, there. Burn those remains.” Dio ordered.

Her eyes flickered open seeing the two parts of Diego’s cadaver, reduced to a pulp.

Further on the ground, Valentine was lying.

…or rather, were lying.

Impossible to tell which one was the original.

Were there even an original, or was a copy from another world taking place of the former one, from time to time? Was this really the end, or could one have run away?

Too many questions.

Hot Pants’ tongue already put her in this situation.

She’d just received an order and the only possible choice was absolute submission and cooperation.

The staking of heads, chests and members was gross. A smell of gastric juice and guts began to elevate. Disgusting. Worse. Revolting to her senses.

A mass grave.

Was it really God that wanted this to happen, or the Devil?

How could this have happened with the corpse present?

But Dio didn’t mention the ancient cadaver. On purpose, acting as if it wasn’t here.

Yet he must have seen. He must have understood that’s for Him they were fighting for.

…except if the President had purposely never explained to Dio His importance?

A hope, pulsing like a siren, emerged in Hot Pants’ mind.

Diego knew. But alternate Dio didn’t!

She made the expression of her face an icy mirror. Inexpressive.

It’s better for her not to talk.

Silence was Golden.

But if she were meant to talk, she’d answer a Platinum lie.

Dio took the reins of his horse back in hand. One Silver Bullet that wasn’t there before. He must have gotten it from another universe.

“Do it right. I want to see the smoke and smell burning flesh all my way till New York.”

“I will. Are you leaving?”

Dio smirked. “I’m going to win this race, obviously. Who cares about diamonds? Now that the duty of ‘President’ is vacant, it would make sense to give it to the winner, me, Dio!”

Getting your hands on the whole country was a much better prospect than a pathetic mayoralty or whatever this world Diego had hoped. Money and fame were easy prerequisites for such a project.

“Keep this scarecrow you fought for if it suits you, but don’t you dare showing your face in New York if you want to live.”

And before leaving, Dio threw a lighter in her face, the same way he would have delivered a slap.

Hot Pants didn’t feel like she had any other option but obey.

It would take hours, probably.

Now alone, the corpse hidden in her shroud and bag, Hot Pants took time to get up.

She approached Diego’s severed corpse, seized his hand, her spray secured in the other. Considering her state, she needed someone else’s flesh to heal herself.

He’s her best choice.

The only one making sense.

Before putting everything to burn into ashes.

Fire…

She would need wood. The derailed wagons could provide

She would need to gather some Valentine’s lying further. She’s now able to accomplish it.

Like a mantra, Hot Pants kept repeating herself, destroying all evidence was also in her best interests.

A pyre wouldn’t raise people’s awareness more than the previous events had.

The landscape… had changed.

Dramatically.

Nothing could have reminded one of the past ordinariness of this New Jersey scenery.

Waves of earth were surrounding her, going vertically. In the distance, a cottage’s roof was pointing horizontally, in the direction of the sea.

In the highest places… round formations could evoke eyes if you indulge in the illusion of pareidolia.

The mouth was… carved on the ground just below the place Hot Pants stood.

Hot Pants flipped suddenly, hearing the characteristic sound of the thunder. It felt… as if a lightning bolt resounded in a powerful row.

There was no cloud anywhere in the sky.

Electricity felt sensible in the air, but it should be the consequence of what happened, she persuaded herself.

Several miles away, someone struggled to keep their anger in control, fist close. The person let the special field glasses fall around their neck, then readjust their position on their mount.

Too late.

They were fucking too late.

Chapter Text

‘She’s stinking pheromones,’ Diego considered before they attacked the train, a few days after he’d fucked Hot Pants.

They had done it again together, the day after.

Her body, even more welcoming than the first time.

No way Diego did it again after. Without a fight, it’s not appealing the same.

And now smelling this, he’s both annoyed and not so annoyed.

He had brought it on himself.

Of course he hadn’t survived the train derailment and can’t ask himself, 'why?'

Why someone like him could have done that?

If one dream was common to humankind, it was to reach immortality.

Whilst immortality was a sick purpose nobody had enough power, wealth, or even luck to succeed.

There’s no life without death.

Maybe an unprecedented stand power could allow it to some extent, yet eternity remained as an improbable mirage.

That’s not Diego Brando’s way of thinking.

This was something that could appear uncharacteristic of him, but he had a perfect defined idea of how to reach immortality. It’s by having children.

So basic, so evident, but not the way mere people contemplated it.

Strong genetics involved someone ‘like you’ would appear after a few generations. In following centuries. Even thousands years. Diego wanted to accomplish something similar to emperors Genghis Khan and Ismaïl Ibn Sharif. Having a thousand children, you had an effect on the human species on a global scale. Like a god.

Diego tried hard to forget, doing this, he’s scattering his pathetic father’s gamete everywhere.

He’s rather enjoying the thought of making his mother, the mother of humanity.

Diego was his mother’s son.

Not his progenitor’s.

This one, Diego would have to find him and kill him someday.

One day…

But there’s so much to do in the world, no way he’s going to lose time over such a piece of shit!

Diego would fulfill himself by all possible means.

He wanted power, money, influence, celebrity.

He wanted every woman to look at him, to give him right over their body. In no way did Diego yearn to start a family. His father was unsuitable for the job. In his eyes, all men were unsuitable for the job. The job was to provide an annuity if needed.

Diego especially wanted women he couldn’t have. Married ones—those were ideals, living environment was already provided by another one. Oh boy, he couldn’t even remember the number of petticoats he’d hitched on racecourses, in parties, everywhere. Not all pretty young girls. Diego’s selection criterion was if the miss was in a good marriage already. If she’s the engaged daughter of some rich bourgeois.

And, now, he’d hungered one more forbidden: one that made chastity vow. 

Rape, an adequate way to proceed.

Rape was as much a matter of sex as power. That’s why it felt so good to him. The best gratification. No love. No relationship. Only the proof he’s that important.

Rape stressed women. They didn’t want to, but their body reacted even more. Getting them pregnant in no time.

But this one… Hot Pants.

This one could fight back. That’s what’s made her attractive. A worthy challenge.

‘No child of mine would know poverty and no woman raising them would ever endure what my mother had to.’

It’s impossible, unbearable, for Diego Brando to say something like that.

But long ago, he had done what he had to, in accordance with his projects and beliefs.

Irritated, he got back some gold pendant from his saddlebag. He would have liked the thing to be a keepsake from his mother to pass down. But he and his mother were poor. Diego got no more memories from this extraordinary woman than the ones engraved in his heart and mind.

“If needed.” He snapped while throwing in the air the jewelry, then he dictated the address of his solicitor in London.

He was always looking for golden trinkets like that, the special hallmark he asked to be put over it, a sign of recognition for the solicitor to open a pension file against an authentic birth certificate.

Hot Pants had first refused it, taking offense and ordering him to keep his ‘stipend for his usual whores.’

She couldn’t understand.

It’s not a ‘thank you for turning the trick.’

That’s the thing for those he had fucked that had a baby looking like him enough for him to feel obliged when there was no husband or daddy in the picture to help the new mom.

Diego had had no intention to explain, nor to stick long enough to face consequences.

Life made that he would never have to.

Johnny and Gyro were on their way to Union Beach, racing under the sun, clear blue sky and scattered white clouds coating the firmament.

It was almost noon, and since the morning, Gyro had been bugging Johnny.

Bug.

Not the best word to think about now.

Johnny felt lucky they did not have any mirror for Gyro to check over his neck. If most marks had disappeared within a few hours, the love bites showed themselves, distinct over Gyro’s tanned skin. And bug bites were still swollen for all the nails fiddling and other pinches.

He couldn’t refrain from looking at them every so often.

When they began racing, Gyro tried to ask Johnny what triggered yesterday’s special cuddle.

They had done things, and Gyro complied, volunteered, for Johnny to have his pleasure, whatever it was.

‘So he deserved to know,’ he said.

For this to be, ‘even better next time.’

“Why won’t you tell me?”

They were on a short break, horses drinking water from a small river, when Gyro asked again. That’s hard, refusing something to Gyro when he’s acting that sweet.

“It’s embarrassing. You’ll freak out.” Johnny repeated.

“Come on. Is this really that bad?”

“…”

“…”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me something embarrassing about you too. The kind of thing, you never told anybody.” Johnny conceded, scratching his left ear to help himself manage his embarrassment.

“You mean, in a sexual way? Listen, I don’t think I have more to say that—”

“It doesn’t have to be about sex. Could be in any way.”

Gyro clenched his teeth hearing this. 

Right. So, he got an idea after all.

The serious look over Gyro’s face, the evidence he was willing to play along.

“OK, you first.” He said.

“The truth is… How do I say this?” Johnny patted his own shoulder, blue eyes focused on Gyro, looking for reassurance. “…hm… you do know what a fetish is, right? I’ve got a little fetish. ……This is… well, uh… with girls…”

“Girls?”

“Uh. Maybe not only girls……”

Johnny rubbed his chin, adjusted his beanie nervously.

“Do you know what a ‘bug bites fetish’ is? When skin is marked, swells, and gets a little red? …That excites me!”

Gyro opened the mouth, frowning, and the tip of his fingers went to the side of his neck, finding the two hypnotizing bites, and covering them.

“That’s all! Don’t tell anybody! AH, I knew it, I take it back! I wish I hadn’t said it!”

“I think I remember I got several annoying bites on the arm the morning you first told me you were getting hard.” Gyro said, voice calm, as he reflected and recollected his memories, the tip of his fingers taping on the bites.

Johnny reddened even harder while Gyro suppressed an amused smile.

“We got eaten by mosquitoes all the time in the Great Plains. We were comparing the worst bites we got. I even showed you my ass a couple of times. So not only were you already liking men and got a free eyeful, but you were also loving bug bites themselves.”

“…”

“That’s a good cover you had. Nyoho!”

“Stop nitpicking! You know all too well you’re right. Don’t make me say it.”

‘You’ve been fantasizing about me for months.’

So were the words Johnny wanted Gyro to keep silent.

They were true.

Johnny had been obsessed, unable to come, but permeated by the images and narratives.

Gyro’s smile at this declaration was adorable.

Johnny felt embarrassed, but he’s happy to have admitted it. Gyro seemed to adopt his kink, recalling things, and pondering how he could make the most of it for both of them.

It made Johnny feel rather sexy than creepy.

And it’s an undeniable relief.

Time to cut Gyro’s enthusiasm off.

“Your turn.”

The atmosphere changed after that.

Lovely smile long gone, a grimace visible instead.

Johnny could have reminded Gyro he’d promised, but he knew the man enough to be sure he wouldn’t sneak off.

“What’s that big nonsexual secret you got?”

Gyro sighed.

“I’ll tell you—and only you—my real name. You see, Gyro is just a pet name…”

“…No way! That’s this year’s biggest hit. ‘Yulius Kaezar’!? Like Julius Caesar in English? The ancient Roman general? I can’t believe it! Is the spelling the same? Your old man is incredible.”

Johnny wished he could meet this man. He wished he could ask him why. He wished he could ask Gyro what the names of his siblings were. But, hey, if they didn’t know Gyro’s real name, Gyro could totally be ignorant of theirs.

“Shut up!” Gyro reddened. “Promise me you’ll never pronounce that name ever again! But first, tell me your name.”

“Uh? You already know my first name is Jonathan. That’s why I’ve been nicknamed ‘Jojo.’ And Joestar is my real family name.”

“Because of the star.”

He’s talking about the birthmark he glanced at long ago.

The first time Johnny changed shirts in front of him.

Johnny nodded.

“Yeah. Probably.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“You didn’t answer, your given name, how do you spell it again?”

“Stop it! I won’t tell.”

Johnny’s beautiful, loving smile was a pure distraction.

The proof he pushed only for him to see Gyro getting angry at him.

A lovers’ bickering.

After sharing secrets like only boys wanting to bond could.

Johnny didn’t know how to write it, how he’d spell it in his journal tonight.

But this instant, he thought in his head, 'I love you,' and added Gyro’s first name after the comma.

That’s when Johnny and Gyro finally made it through the eighth stage they learned what happened. What they had gotten away from.

Major train accident. Then flood. Quakes. Shock-waves. And tidal waves.

Something that had never happened before in this area. So unusual, it’d left an end of the world impression to the rare distant witness.

There’s no witness of the epicenter.

Sloop John B. was first arrived at Union Beach.

Gyro, second.

Johnny, third.

No additional victory

No bonus hour.

Now they had to wait for the starting order for the final stage to be announced.

When Diego Brando reached the finish line, alone on his horse, several hours later, Johnny didn’t recognize him.

It was as if he didn’t belong there.

Johnny had known Dio almost since childhood.

“It’s not him.” He told Gyro.

As always about intuitions, Gyro believed him instantly.

Whatever happened in the land the train derailed, this Dio was coming from here.

Chapter Text

You’re no less.

You don’t have to become something else.

Something that is not you.

I’ll get my hands dirty for you.

I’ll be what you lack.

I’ll give you everything I have.

Maybe I’m the one driven.

But you’re the one who got that significant way to feel and perceptive vision.

The one between the two of us who know inside what is fair and what justice should be.

Johnny kicked up a fuss in the morning. Affirming with so much confidence, it’s neither Diego Brando nor his horse, staff members began to grow a reasonable suspicion whereas, objectively, Johnny wasn’t making sense.

The dangerous stare Johnny got from the one leading him in points was enough to put a shiver of fear down anyone’s spine. 

Not Johnny.

He knew what he was doing.

He’s going to take righteous revenge and help his partner to win.

“I’ll race using stirrups.” Johnny stated.

They were still in the morning, steam showing while they were talking. Despite being almost ten o’clock, and the sun heating its best, it was still freezing cold out there. After the scene Johnny had caused, Dio was nowhere to be found.

As if he was trying his best for him and Silver Bullet not to submit to further inspection.

In the river, there were loads of boats anchored, rocking steadily. Those were meant for the riders to perform another spectacular arrival starting the last stage of the race. Johnny was sitting in his wheelchair, as a way to save his strength to race.

Racers were meant to wait in line, near their horse. Diego being late, naturally Johnny took a stand next to his lover.

“Sure thing.” Gyro answered without apparent surprise.

He looked away, the moment they heard a voice shouting Pocoloco’s name and race number under the crowd’s hollers. As top rank, he’s the first boarding over one of the forty-five skiffs with his trusty horse Hey! Ya!

Gyro would be the next one.

He started to fiddle with his left steel ball, opening and closing alternatively the snap fastener. Nervous. Nervous about the race, but also about the plan Johnny shared the previous night. Nervous, because there were so many things Gyro wanted to convey… And he only had a few seconds to do so.

“Johnny, lesson 5! ...yeah, I’m sure that’s what we’re on right now: I’ve always tried to take the fastest shortcut in this race, but remember... ‘The shortest route is a detour. It was a detour that was our shortest path.’ ...It was true the whole time we’ve been crossing this continent, and it’s because of you we were able to take that route...” 

It might sound sibylline, even for Johnny who was used to Gyro’s speeches. But they’d already talked last night. The hidden meaning was all in the ‘remember’ and the words, the most affectionate Gyro could speak in public.

I like you. I like what we did and have no regrets sharing the path we’ve created and shared.

“Trust me.” Johnny declared.

Gyro can’t answer.

He got called to go on board.

As he moved away, he unbuttoned one last time his holster, got the ball outside and threw it to spin in the air to Johnny. Parabolic pitch for him to catch.

Something strange happened during the pitch.

Neither Gyro nor Johnny—so used to seeing the way Gyro got balls to flight—can’t tell what exactly, but they knew.

They had not seen Diego for the last twenty minutes, but he’s there, here and now, so close it didn’t make sense. Anybody in the crowd could have sworn he wasn’t in view a split second before.

Gyro felt cold sweat on his back and left without looking back. Facing Dio, who appeared with the suddenness of a ghost, Johnny’s eyes darkened, and glowered to his nemesis.

This Diego must have a different stand. It’s likely the dinosaur stand might have been circumstantial.

Valentine had access to different universes he could pick whoever. Johnny got no useful overview about the topic. He can’t know what type of likeness and difference he had to expect. But this stand’s intuition was obvious.

Within one more minute, Dio got called. Then Johnny was.

He stroked the steel ball he got in his hand with his thumb.

Gyro’s gesture on top of the fuss Johnny made this morning had pointed him prime target.

Leaving the wheelchair to the staff, mounting Slow Dancer’s back and heading to the boat meant for Johnny it was time to concentrate.

Johnny and Gyro had discussed the night before. A serious talk, like never before.

Honest. Also painful, but fair.

“I won’t be riding to win tomorrow.” Johnny’s words echoed in the silence and privacy of the two-beds room. “Tomorrow, I’m gonna get disqualified.”

“What? What for? What do you mean?”

“To make you win.”

Gyro shook his head in disbelief.

Johnny kept his chin up, more determined than ever before in his life.

“I’m going after Dio Brando. Or rather, I’ll make him go after me.”

As Gyro clenched his jaw, Johnny added:

“Gyro, I need you to promise me you won’t look back, you won’t take action, won’t do anything stupid to protect me.”

“What you ask is stupid!”

“That’s my contribution. And it’s not open to negotiation.”

“For God’s sake—” Gyro’s voice snapped. “Forget Dio. Being a man is having the guts to give up, to know when to stop.”

“No. Being a man is knowing you can accept help. Being stronger together. Realize you don’t have to do everything alone. To prove what? To whom?”

“...”

“You admire your father so much… He had to accept your and your mother’s help after what happened to him.”

“…he didn’t.”  Gyro’s voice broke.

“What?”

“He felt it was a disgrace! And made us pay for it.” 

“Right. And won’t you want to be better than this?” 

Johnny put emotion in his voice, a quivering emotion that wasn’t anger, nor fear.

‘I feel for you,’ it meant.

Never before did Johnny see Gyro so close from crying.

Probably more because of the big one Gyro confessed than as a result of Johnny’s cutting but veridical observation.

Johnny stayed silent, hoping Gyro wasn’t interpreting this as distrust.

That’s the opposite.

Johnny didn’t believe this unknown Dio Brando to stick to the rules. He’ll attack. And neither Tusk nor Steel Balls could be used discretely for self-defense.

“Johnny, I can’t let you down.” Gyro groaned.

“I want you to win this race, Gyro. I want to believe in what you stand for. You’re not leaving me behind, you let me watch your back.”

Gyro’s gaze lower to Johnny’s hand. He focused on this pointy gesture Johnny so often adopted by reflex. He’s pointing out the object of his focus. Right now, this was Gyro.

I want to believe in what you stand for.

It was one of the most beautiful things Gyro had ever heard. A promise. An extended hand. Unconditional trust.

…whereas even Gyro was still not knowing what would happen if he ever won.

He once thought he knew, but not now.

Not anymore.

Looking up, Gyro met Johnny’s determined expression.

“Promise me.” He commanded.

Voice calm. So calm, it felt the strangest for Gyro, he’s the most emotional of them.

He looked away, grinding his teeth, upset.

His eyes lay on the results of the overall ranking of the newspaper they picked up before retiring for the night.

Dio could be caught in the crossfire of his and Johnny’s attacks.

But it would mean to be disqualified, apart if he were lucky enough to go unnoticed from those stupid balloons. And all the public that will assist tomorrow’s stage.

Pocoloco alone was a strong opponent. Talent or impossible luck had allowed him to perform greater than anyone on the continent.

A lot of contestants, lowest in the rankings, were also dangerous competitors Gyro couldn’t snub. 

His eyes slid lower.

Number six was surprising. An outsider winning the last stage before New York. The more time passed, the angrier he looked. As if, increased tenfold by jealousy and hostility, he’s finally becoming efficient.

Gyro had also been reading the name of the next ones for weeks, now. People he had always ignored because he’s not here to make friends. Nobody was here to make friends.

He sniffled, getting back control of his nerves.

“I told you about stirrups’ history, right?”

Gyro didn’t let Johnny speak before delivering the message. 

“The stirrups don’t simply give you a place to put your legs and help prevent your ass from slipping. You absorb the horse’s power from the lower half of your body if you fight while mounting. It was invented for the sake of technique.”

Johnny raised his head, paying attention.

“The horse’s power enters the rider’s hips… and it’s sent to the back and shoulder in a helix shape… then all the way to the arms to use techniques with weapons. The ones that needed the stirrups were the knights of the Middle Ages. At war, and for ‘jousting tournaments.’”

“…”

“Understand...? I’ll give you a little more of a concrete explanation. The steel balls are not something that is simply using the wrist. We’re taught the ‘infinite scale’ from nature. The energy follows along the lower body from the hips to the shoulders to the elbows, wrists and fingers, and once it’s gone around your entire body you obtain invisible rotational power.”

“That’s partly what you taught me to be able to move my legs.”

Gyro nodded.

“There are techniques which are handed down into Zeppeli family that can be further straightened by the horse’s power through the stirrups. If you plant both feet in the stirrups, Johnny, and produce that ‘rotational’ energy obtained from the horse… there might be a chance to stand against any unknown abilities.”

“Obtain power from the ‘horse’… What kind of rotation is this? What would happen?”

“All I said is we have a chance. I have no way to verify anything. As of now, I’ve never once used the horse’s power to throw a steel ball. Nor have I ever, ever, seen my father do it… So I don’t even know for sure if this rotation exists. This is nothing more than something passed down from distant ancestors in the Zeppeli family. I know nothing else about it. From the 13^th century, the Zeppeli family is a family of executioners. We’re not mounted soldiers.”

“Joestar’s family has a history of being horseback riders.”

“That’s why I’ve explained it! It’s likely the only ones who can use it are horseback riders!”

“Thank you.”

Johnny didn’t have the promise he’d asked, but it’s likely the same.

Gyro telling him everything he had left in his reserve—the most secrets of all secrets—was this meaningful.

Back to present time, riders were still being picked up one by one. Horses, boarded on the individual boats. Those, floating one behind the other, some sailing faster, created a graphic myriad for the hot air balloons operating at a low altitude.

Johnny barely had had the time to state his decision about stirrups, reassuring Gyro about the way he’d be at his full capability. 

And to be given that gift. 

Or rather loan, he pondered. Focused and silent, he was busy watching the urban scenery as he’s crossing Lower Bay. Sea Gate. Brooklyn. Trinity Church. None of those were important to him. His goal, different from any other contestant.

The weight of the steel ball in his pocket symbolized both Gyro’s trust and his will to be there. Not to leave Johnny alone managing shit.

This, and using the stirrups. 

That’s new, even if Johnny had trained for weeks.

The stage would be short. Thirteen kilometers. Eight miles.

No reason he can’t do that.

Stress should have been overwhelming, but Johnny was used to finals.

Used to stardom.

Used to hear hoorays and hissing coming from the crowd.

He imagined Gyro, at the same place in Sea Gate, moments earlier.

Usually he was loving walkabouts as long as he didn’t have to interact with people.

All of a sudden, an unmistakable voice echoed from the public.

Staggering Johnny.

Hard.

“Father?”

Johnny saw his brother’s old boots.

He saw the tears on his begetter’s face.

He didn’t understand.

But there’s no time.

Despite hearing fragments of excuses, fragments of repentance, he didn’t look back.

‘It’s too easy.’

Johnny didn’t owe his father his time and attention in such a place and moment.

He owed Gyro.

He owed him this plan he came up with.

He owed him so many things it’s impossible to remember them all.

Gyro was the most important person in his life.

Of this world.

‘And today is about making him win.’

Gyro’s boat arrived in second place at the Sea Gate of Coney Island. 

He didn’t catch his breath, looked away, rushing after Pocoloco’s Hey! Ya! in New York City’s streets, taking the direction of the Upper Bay, doing his best to forget who would arrive right behind him. And ever more the one after.

The crash of the battle between two men, rivals since their teenage years.

Not for victory.

For something more insidious. 

It escaped Gyro’s comprehension.

And Gyro must forget, put it away in a small partition of his mind and heart.

Johnny’s acts and words meant a lot.

He was as focused as ever. Perhaps even more. Gyro was used to taking upon himself. To endure pressure. Now he also learned how to make a strength of his emotions.

In a way his father and family would never understand, so much it’s unlike him.

That’s not the first time Gyro was in a duel against Pocoloco.

Nothing was granted in advance, but Gyro never failed against him.

Not in the first stage, not in the sixth. 

And today, he can’t end anything else but winner.

Because he got this cause mattering so much to him. He got Marco’s life in his hands. And he got Johnny, for whom the word abnegation meant nothing, but that enjoined Gyro to consider his goal, and his goal only. Sacrificing any good rank—he obviously deserved—to get rid of the most threatening racer, aka Dio Brando.

Gyro could have overpowered Dio, fair and square.

He did, once, before Kansas City.

And also in a duel during the first stage.

But Dio was neither fair nor square. 

He could attack without being noticed, and Gyro couldn’t. 

Maybe it had been the way since the very start.

Gyro didn’t shelter in his heart this kind of dark determination, but unlike other contestants, he had someone he could have faith in, on his side. He had someone on his side.

Complementary thereto.

That was the entire difference.

The way to address what he lacked.

He was one to attract the right people.

Gyro wasn’t a man to leave someone behind.

But he was neither one to show distrust to the people he loved.

No matter the obstacle’s height. If Johnny was saying he’s taking care of it, it meant he was. There’s nothing else to say.

Whatever, rumors spread in the crowd, there were racers fighting not far behind.

First, spectators felt excitement. Fascination for violence, a reality in such a popular event. Something was happening. 

They were here to see! 

In no time, fear began to increase up to panic among the crowd. The moment, one after another, they realized it’s not ‘sport’ and not fake at all. 

Rumor grew, without Gyro giving a damn, that favorite rider Diego Brando threw a knife coming from nowhere in the crowd. A woman had dropped on the pavement, lifeless, the handle of the dagger firmly planted between her shoulder blades.

Not Johnny, obviously.

That kind of reaction from the crowd when violence happened, vast array of people with a blurry vision, was what you expected from a nameless creature with a grieving bloodlust, craving for death to happen… 

That’s how people react to public executions.

Gyro focused on pushing away the pressure panicked, angered, excited, spectators created.

He refused to look back.

There’s nothing he could and was meant to do.

Whatever, he crossed Stephen Steel racing like crazy in the opposite direction.

Ghastly pale.

Rumbles about a half-severed hand.

And a whole calf.

Cheerful, carefree, Pocoloco was right here.

Overtaken.

You could be the luckiest in the world on paper.

You could have a stand grasping over your back whispering advice as a devil.

Gyro’s luck was someone.

Not some fickle girl.

Not one with talons grazing his back.

It’s freedom.

It’s wings.

He didn’t hear the Hey Ya! stand’s guidance to Pocoloco.

The black man was so surprised, he shouted back a powerful, “WHAT?!”

His hat flew away, and the horse stepped aside, neighing soundly.

Momentum broken.

Like in San Diego, Gyro’s now only ball was hidden in his back, designing a sail, air suction.

No way he’s considered accountable of what was happening to any competitor.

Pocoloco and his flying hat were not his concern anymore.

Johnny asked him to promise not to look back.

Gyro did. Strictly speaking.

No handful of seconds lost.

Being first, keeping the pole position was the hardest.

Would it have been impossible; Gyro would have made it nonetheless.

This race was a succession of chances and miracles. Whose progressive accumulation could appropriately be summarized in the word, ‘Fate.’

It elicited faith. 

Stronger and different than anything he had ever felt in his life.

Because, whatever the cost—

Yeah, whatever the cost.

Like Julius Caesar once said, ‘Alea jacta est.’

The die is cast.

And in this world, January 19, 1891, was the day of Gyro Zeppeli Steel Ball Run’s victory.

✩ END OF PART I: THE RACE

Chapter Text

Gyro… You can’t win unless you hunger for it… but ‘slowly’… you can ‘grow’ slowly…

If you give yourself the time to ‘grow’… then it will be someone like you, ‘an heir and successor,’ who will win this race…

That’s what I want to see… what I want to learn from you.

That’s why I wanted to follow you on this race.

Those were not words Gyro heard.

They were Johnny’s thoughts. 

Johnny’s wish for the future. Back in Cañon City, he has renewed in Philadelphia.

The result, he believed in and he prayed for.

If there’s an answer to be found, and for truth to unravel…

Love was the most powerful lever to the evolution and growth of one.

And today, the day the race ended with this specific winner, was the opening of the ‘New World’ Johnny hungered all his might.

That day, it was almost certain no one had any idea of the discourse the Steel Ball Run’s winner was about to make. Not the public’s large crowd, not the journalists from all over the world, not the absent promoter, nor the charismatic president of the country whose disappearance shifted the beginning of the ceremony for an hour and a half.

Maybe Johnny Joestar could have suspected the content.

But he too was nowhere to be found when the closing ceremony was about to start.

Winning might have been a relief.

But a glee?

Gyro can’t find the strength to pretend he’s genuinely happy, or hopeful for the future.

The thrill of victory felt like a glaze on Gyro’s skin.

Victory was frozen like this stupid cup.

Gyro had accepted the cold golden cup with a wary eye. The thing was wearing traces of frost. The ice cap might have been a good trend in San Diego, but in the middle of January, it’s not trendy, it’s stupid.

Since their arrival, Pocoloco has been muttering endless words about luck. How, as the luckiest man in the entire world, was it that he had arrived only second? Didn’t that fortune teller tell him he’d experience the best period of his life? Better than anybody? Or was it too late, the event limited in time?

Maybe the winner was meant to be shot on sight? 

To collapse on the ground and bleed to death?

Or worse, perhaps the winner will suffer from food poisoning, stomach flu, and be deprived of tonight's feast?

Gyro was truly craving to strangle Pocoloco for him to shut up.

It was so obvious this one did it for the money.

Gyro didn’t care about money. Never did.

And sure he knew a little local history. Slavery, not so distant from them in time. Life might be a bitch when you’re black. Perhaps Pocoloco would need the money more than him. He could have been a symbol of something huge. Still could, despite being second.

He would have been a cheerful, adequate, perfect winner. Able to warm up the crowd.

…admitting this sea of white people could better enjoy a black national winner than Gyro’s foreigner’s ass.

But, for now, Pocoloco was getting on Gyro’s nerves.

Just as much as these Sloop John B and Nellyville guys, arrived respectively fourth and sixth, that had contested Gyro’s victory the moment they were confirmed a huge brawl between Johnny Joestar and Diego Brando. The matter had frightened enough the sparse spectators on Brooklyn Bridge who had scoped the first blow that promoter Stephen Steel had had no choice but to hurry to manage things himself.

Joestar did it to get rid of his partner’s biggest rival by using the aforementioned partner’s weapon.

That’s cheating.

Only Gyro’s concern for Johnny’s health and the desire not to spoil the benefits of all their efforts had prevented him from giving those two a reason to complain with a spinning steel ball right in the face.

“Sir, do you want to make a speech?” A short Asian descendant man asked Gyro. 

He’s one of the most experienced staff. Coming from backstage with the cup a few minutes ago, under a sea of applause, as they finally decided to start the ceremony. Perhaps because Steel was on his way. Or it’s a choice to ease and satisfy the growing impatience of the crowd they all—the first nine—were facing. 

The cheerful clapping movement and howls started from the stage and separated away like an independent wave, created by an impact on a water surface. Except life wasn't alike the dead quiet of a lake. Everyone, and Gyro first, was lost in an ocean of people. The swell, huge, and unpredictable.

There were too many people over there. So much more than at the starting line or any prior stage of the Steel Ball Run. So many people and no familiar faces. 

As always.

Yeah.

Gyro had always been left all alone at every important moment of his life.

Perhaps Johnny was somewhere nearby nonetheless. If he hadn’t gotten hurt too badly. Gyro refused to believe he had died or got serious injuries. Johnny had commanded him to trust him. And Gyro was more than willing to have faith in him accomplishing anything.

Gyro smirked. Sharp. Ironic.

The staff wasn’t at ease, the absence of the head of state and head of the project was an insecurity. And, well, he was so right to fear what Gyro could do.

“Sure.” Gyro began, giving an eyeshot to the golden cup.

The crowd was a faceless monster. If a stampede started… Maybe Gyro wished for this to go out of control. To be taken, torn apart, like Johnny was in Gettysburg. Drowned in denial and violence. Shred into fragments like a useless page. On paper, everything in his life was a lie. The predestination of his birth, the hereditary condition, the duty he should honor, but he can't shoulder. Not now. Not anymore.

The crowd was a faceless monster. One you weren't meant to face when executions happened in the penumbra of a high-walled prison.

But whose ferocity was unavoidable when executions were public. 

Perhaps Gyro was proceeding to his own execution right now.

He was gonna commit social suicide.

In the general indifference of a crowd that wanted to see the most popular president ever and go partying. Celebrating the elevation and glory of the country organizer of the event of the century.

A crowd could save a man's life, as a movement triggering popular amnesty. It could also cause pugilism. Melees, the last of the problems when one was hated to the point only the blood thirst survived.

This crowd of Americans and fellow foreigners… would never understand Gyro.

It didn't matter.

Gyro was not here to be understood.

He's here to outrage.

“People enjoy stories. ‘Could be nice if I explain how I get to enter this race, isn’t it?”

His voice sounded like a threat, as he raised his voice.

“I’m not here for the money. Not really. I’m a born citizen of the Kingdom of Naples, a European city-state. And I’m here, because I got the promise of a royal pardon from my country’s head of state. Not for myself. I live in a country that sentenced a nine-year-old to death. For nothing. Just being at the wrong time and wrong place, and calling this ‘treason.’ Because my country is one to condemn innocent people without proof. For political reasons.”

Gyro snorted.

“This kid, he’s nobody to me. But we have a link. I’m the person that had been ordered to behead him, as next royal executioner. 'Had been planned for last December. As a nice Christmas gift in advance for me.”

The irony and sharpness of his own words gave Gyro a sour feeling inside his throat. As if acidity in his empty stomach was making its way for him to leave and go to throw up. He repressed it.

“A nine-year-old shoeshine boy whose fault was to do his best, working hard for some toff he knew nothing about the court’s plot. If he’s not already dead, he’s in a high-security adult prison for ten months now.”

He needed to strengthen. Gyro needed to strengthen. Alone in this, facing an unconquerable crowd. With no familiar face in it… Gyro invoked Johnny’s features in his mind. It wasn’t replacing Marco’s cute mug and sincere eyes.

It’s an addition.

Marco brought Gyro here.

So did Johnny.

“Maybe it was a way to put an example. An example of what? Stupidity? Cruelty? Injustice?”

Gyro stayed silent for a split second.

“None of it. It’s a perfect example of manipulation.” His smirk froze on his face, before he added. “When you are a small country with a limited population and want to be represented in the greatest race of history, you create a plot to strong-arm your judicial officer to go. And give him a chance to do better since you fear he won’t rise to the honor of being the executioner. Because, for him, justice means more than arbitrariness.”

Coming out. 

This was coming out.

My family’s duty is not a secret anymore.

The reality of this wailed in Gyro’s mind like a deafening siren.

It felt good. It’s a relief. It built Gyro’s legitimacy.

“Killing criminals, do you people consider it an honor? This duty is not a chance but a burden. Something nobody except unsuitable freaks wants to do as it’s awfully hard. Actually, people who agree with death ‘penalty’ probably won’t if they had to kill the culprit themselves with a sword. With their hands. Not in revenge.”

Was tackling thousands of people a smart thing to do?

Probably not. 

That’s rather a lost battle. 

So Gyro switched back talking about himself.

“I was sent by my country to have a chance to attract honor in a different way. They must know I had all chances to get killed, racing here. However, they supported me and I’m grateful for that. Still. They could have gotten rid of me. How convenient.”

Johnny’s face, toned by determination yesterday night, and this morning, returned to the surface of his eyelids, pushed by the swell of Gyro’s feelings.

“It’s not an issue with acting like a man, or the cycle of ‘life and death.’ With killing. Everyone—Every single participant in the race had to attack or defend themselves. From other contestants. And judges must have known. Yeah, you, the morons hidden in the fucking balloons full of shit!”

That’s gratuitous.

…or maybe deserved. 

Gyro, still angered by the loss of his victory in the first stage.

A victory, he’d been genuinely happy from.

“I did what I did to save a stupid kid who has to pay in a case that doesn’t concern him at all. He is a name, a face. But how many others are there already? How many more will there be in the following months? The following years? When all the officials care about is their own power and manipulating their way, instead of seeking justice and truth.” 

One last time, Gyro raised his voice for everyone to hear his words.

“This victory, I don’t care.”

Gyro turned to Pocoloco, who’d been a respectable adversary and never accused anyone of cheating despite his exasperating whimpers of the past hours.

“Hey you, you wanted money so much? Give him my cash prize. No way I’m helping to fill the coffers of a non-independent judiciary stink hole of a government.”

Being in favor of the assumption of innocence wasn’t sentimentality.

All the contrary.

Gyro had done what he considered right.

That’s the end of the unprepared speech that grew, days ago, from emotions pumping indignation in Gyro’s chest, firing a feeling of revolt a little more intense every day that passed. The audience of thousand people, speechless, except for some upbraiding another spectator with not half discreet tiresome ‘What did he say? What did he say?’ that echoed in the awkward silence.

Then Gyro heard some clapping noise behind his back.

A few steps away, Johnny was here, sit in a good quality wheelchair. Grinning to him once Gyro’s eyes met Johnny’s sparkling ones.

Johnny’s movement generated some indecisive applause that didn’t last.

Nothing, compared to the show of enthusiasm created by the golden cup, but still something.

Tangible.

Symbolic.

Stephen Steel was here, too.

Next to Johnny.

His hand was pressed against the bottom part of his face, his stare screaming, ‘Why did we give the floor to such a political dissident that fucked up my race’s climax?’

The way Johnny’s chair was half in front of the man, Gyro could guess Johnny had stepped in, for Gyro to finish his speech.

Here and now, he was so beautiful, only a few meters apart, knowing the most important person in his life had been present, for him, in a moment so crucial for Gyro… He would have liked to run to him and kiss him in front of everybody.

Celebrating Gyro’s victory.

Celebrating Johnny being still there, alive.

They have survived it.

It was an end, but also a new start.

One in which Gyro won’t be fighting alone.

Not giving a damn of anything anymore, Gyro royally ignored anything that wasn’t Johnny.

Whatever, Stephen Steel hastened to the front of the stage to give his own speech. As if any oration could erase Gyro's unthinkable words, deemed unbelievable.

Whatever, Pocoloco’s delight blooming in the most radiant flawless white teeth smile. Jumping on the spot, celebrating the good news.

Whatever, third arrived Higashikata’s intrigued expression.

Whatever, the hideous disdain distorting the dissenters’ face.

Whatever.

Fuck them.

As soon as they’re within reach, Johnny extended his arm, the lent steel ball lodged against his right palm, a bandage around the left wrist from which the usual cuff was horribly torn. Gyro stretched an open hand and the metallic weapon changed hands, their fingers brushing against each other. Lingering. 

“I want to kiss you.” Gyro said in hushed tones.

Johnny’s mouth twitched in an amused smile. 

“Not in public.” He shook his head.

“Still want to.” Gyro smirked, breaking eye contact to reject the temptation. “You’ve listened?”

“Everything. The trophy was right in your hands when we arrived.”

“This shit is frozen.” Gyro rubbed his cold hand over the fabric of his trousers for emphasis.

He didn’t ask what Johnny’s thoughts were.

It’s obvious considering his solitary applause. And the proud intonation he put in the word ‘everything’ proved he’s more than pleased.

Gyro remembered those hurting words in third stage, and Johnny telling him afterwards he looked forward to an heir like him winning the race.

Someone maybe not with the same hunger as him, but with an ideal.

Maybe for the first time in his life, Gyro was confident he hadn’t been a disappointment for someone that had placed his hopes into him.

Worthy.

“What about Dio?” Gyro questioned instead, lips still itching from the adjourned kiss. 

Gyro wondered if Johnny felt the same, as he caught with a keen eye the way his lover licked his own lips, and nibbled them hesitantly.

There’s an uncomfortable silence, hopefully, that didn’t last, Johnny likely putting his thoughts into order.

“I won’t be charged for murder.”

“Because he attacked you first? It could be considered a duel, right?”

“No. Because he disappeared.”

“…”

“I needed to fall back on that hypothesis you have. Regarding the horse. I made it work.” Johnny’s voice sounded proud, but it was not the time for congratulation. “Consequences are… I don’t know. Felt kinda like what happened in Philadelphia with you-know-who. Maybe I sent him to another dimension.”

“…”

“He’s not the same we knew. ‘Got a stand that freezes time.”

“Somewhat Ringo Roadagain’s Mandom?”

“Somewhat. But harder. Really, harder…” Johnny winced.

“…”

“He called it ‘The World.’”

“As modest as usual.”

“I’m glad he didn’t know what I was truly capable of. He didn’t underestimate me at all.”

There was more silence, before Gyro spoke again.

“The one we knew is already dead.”

Johnny didn’t answer.

He slipped in the hollow of Gyro’s hand a small item. 

Metallic, round corners but not a perfect circle.

It’s the commemorative medal formerly attached to Silver Bullet’s neck and engraved with the words: 

Steel Ball Race
San Francisco—New York

The absolute proof Johnny had been right.

Gyro muttered a curse. Both of them were thinking the same thing.

Dio was dead. Valentine was absent from the ceremony; he was as much the center as the Steel Ball Run’s winner, consecration of the extraordinary competition he allowed in his country.

They had lost track of the corpse.

And the only remaining person whose status they were unaware of, Hot Pants.

Chapter Text

Stairs.

A flight of steps that made Johnny’s relaxed expression close.

Stephen Steel’s fault, for reserving such a suite. But, well, Johnny was disqualified. Why think about accessibility? And even if Johnny wasn’t, it would have been the same!

Gyro looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “Do you want me to help?”

The proposition made Johnny frown.

“I don’t want you to carry me!” He hissed.

“Not like that. Grab the banister and lean your weight on me. I’d come back to get the chair.”

That was nicer for Johnny’s ego. Still not comfortable, not what Johnny wanted, but his only alternative was to crawl his way on the stairs by sitting on it. Not better.

It angered Johnny. He knew it wasn’t Gyro’s fault. They always requested a first-floor room when they slept in an inn.

It’s the issue with big cities. In the countryside, camping here and there, Johnny never felt in difficulty or unwelcome. Different from Gyro.

This expensive hotel had elevators, but as a luxury for lazy tourists. Not something to promote accessibility.

Because they had fucking added four steps in front of the door of their best room.

The suite was huge. Gyro didn’t look at it, guiding Johnny to the nearest seat before he went to fetch the chair and their possessions. Plus the golden trophy.

“I’ll look for crutches tomorrow.” Gyro said once he’s inside too, the door finally closed, sitting not far from Johnny. They were on a royal blue fainting couch. The piece of furniture was bizarre. Not something anyone would buy to embellish their home. Johnny sometimes saw this kind of sofa in his past life. The kind you lie down to get afternoon sex.

At least the parquet floor was even, no internal staircase. The room, large enough for Johnny to move with his chair.

Gyro was saying nothing, head down, taken in his thoughts.

People can’t realize how much he had lost today. How he ruined his own life.

So, nothing to celebrate.

In this, the cancellation of the open-to-the-public banquet caused by the disappearance of the President of the United States sounded like a blessing. Alone at their small table in the first-floor dining place, Gyro and Johnny had shared a regular roasted chicken, with vegetable broth and dried thyme flavored bread offered on the normal menu while other contestants were stuffing themselves sweet petits-fours and champagne.

Opulent food both reminded Gyro of that time in Milwaukee he’d eaten so much he had to throw up at the farrier’s shop, and Pocoloco’s stupid muttering considering food poisoning.

“No way I’m chowing down his munch.” Gyro had grumbled at Johnny, chin-pointing Stephen Steel at the other side of the place.

So without a word, Johnny had waved for a race staff to come and have them normal food from the kitchens. Those were really helpful. The true architects of the Steel Ball Run’s logistics for racers.

After several minutes of silence, he had remembered dinner time and the hectic of the day, Johnny snorted, and asked.

“There’s a private bathroom with a tub, right?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want to take a bath?”

Gyro shrugged.

“’Place is free.”

“You should take a bath.” Johnny insisted.

“What?” Gyro sniffed his own armpit. “You’re telling me to go wash?”

“You haven’t since last year.”

“Because we’re not even three weeks from the new year!”

At the other side of the room, there were large mirrors and an imposing four-poster bed garnished with white sheets and Victorian blue and gold patterned curtains.

The only bed.

It was the room for the winner. Not the winner and his disqualified friend.

Gyro’s expression wrinkled.

“You want to take a bath together?”

“No.” Johnny answered much too quickly, his mouth wording something as he was feeling the exact contrary. “Tubs are not for me.”

It’s both true and so lame at the same time.

Johnny expected Gyro to confront him, to underline it was nonsense. That he could help Johnny get in and out. Perhaps that’s why Gyro offered to share. He’s not less shy than Johnny.

Gyro didn’t say anything.

Johnny exhaled, slow and steady, emptying his lungs.

“I… am not comfortable.” He admitted.

Truth was they had already seen every part of each other’s body, but never been stark naked in front of each other. Pulling up or down what they needed without stripping.

Johnny was inhibited by the belly he didn’t have flat for years, but also his skinny legs, and what he had to wear inside his trousers.

That’s humiliating.

“I’m not better.” Gyro answered.

“You’re not—”

Disabled, Johnny wanted to say.

Gyro shook his head.

“I’m not better. I thinned down since the beginning of the race.”

“You’re not fond of local food.” Johnny said. “You’ll thrive better here.”

There were fellow Italians, boats taking food from Europe. American tomatoes weren’t bad. Like chocolate, coffee and potatoes, it’s a Native American plant. The issue was about pasta, and, of course, olive oil and strange named cheeses.

“I lost any curve my ass had.”

“It’s not worse than in San Diego.”

Gyro let out a dubious interjection, mix of an 'hmph' and a 'tsk.'

“I promise.” Johnny insisted.

“You looked at it. Then?”

“It was at my eye level.”

Gyro smirked.

“I looked too. Yours was golden ratio. You don’t realize you were striking the pose, had it in yourself. You were good-looking. It’s not different now. Won’t be different without clothes.”

“Don’t want to fall flat on my face doing acrobatics.”

Gyro rolled his eyes, surely thinking about the way Johnny was stunting on a daily basis getting up and down his horse, but he said nothing, leaving the lounge area for the bathroom. …taking his steel balls with him.

Mumbling, “I need this,” the moment he grabbed the holster.

Johnny craved to ask what the heck he’s going to do with them, but gave up.

He didn’t want to know.

Gyro took all his time in the bathroom, and he’s right. Johnny first took care of the wheelchair, positioning the seat for him to be able to go back to it in no time, but he kept sitting on the blue sofa, extending his legs, and using the spin to test their mobility during some minutes. That wasn’t bad, especially after the way he had used them to fight and race.

His left wrist that he had sewed with their last cubit of zombie horse thread after having it half-cut also felt as good as new.

Johnny grabbed his travel diary and a pen.

Today was the end of the race, he had thoughts he wanted to write down. The book still got pages available. This was the additional evidence today was not the end of their story.

Finally, Gyro went out of the bathroom, dressed only with his pants and undershirt. He stared all around, as if he was searching for something, and grabbed a solid chair he took in the bathroom, and rearranged things inside.

Maybe he hadn’t finished yet.

Johnny heard more water running. Gyro wasn’t taking a second bath, was he?

“Grab your things.” Gyro said, his voice saying he’s not open to negotiation. “The door is large enough for your chair, the bathtub is low, and I put a chair next to it for you to have something to grab and sit on. Go clean up.”

Johnny went and rolled inside carefully. He gazed at the open door of the bathroom. It would be a pain for him to shut it down and move inside the room. And he’s not confident he’d be able to open it once finished.

“You can leave the door open. I won’t watch.” Gyro said as if he had foreseen the issue.

Johnny glanced in Gyro’s direction. “What are you doing?”

“Write some letters. For the government. …and my parents.”

Johnny’s eyes kept looking at Gyro’s back. After a full minute, he let out a sigh, and began to undress and transfer.

The water was ready, and Johnny tested it with a hand. Agreeably warm. Not too hot. He won’t burn his legs. And, well, once immersed, it felt so good. Johnny’s muscles relaxed right away. He wedged his right foot on the enameled other side and seized both soap and a fresh washcloth.

Room fell in silence, broken by water and writing sounds.

Gyro was sitting at the desk with the hotel writing paper and a quill. He crossed out several times. Making drafts. Johnny was unable to say if he’s writing in Italian after long or if it’s the expression of the difficulty of what he needed to state.

At the end, Johnny was more fixing Gyro’s back than relaxing. Also, he didn’t feel as embarrassed as he assumed he’d be. Water was foamy and opaque with soap, effectively protecting his modesty.

Gyro wasn’t writing anymore for some minutes now, and after he heard an umpteenth sigh, Johnny gave in.

“Gyro?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you… scrub my back…?”

The offer was not self-evident. Johnny was never asking for help. Well, that kind of help wasn’t disability related, and they were lovers.

The grinding of the chair was the only answer Johnny got. Gyro came to sit behind him, reaching out for Johnny to give him the washcloth.

Johnny knew what his upper body looked like. Gyro was more caressing it than scrubbing anything. There was more brightness in the bathroom than anytime they had been sweet on each other in the wild. Soon enough, Gyro’s hands and forearms were all against him, massaging tensed trapezoids, washcloth soon forgotten. Johnny took a sharp breath under the unwinding pressures.

But quickly—perhaps once he saw Johnny’s left forearm’s more recent huge scar—Gyro stopped the fondling, an arm closing around Johnny’s collar bone, face pressing on his back, not far from the well-defined star.

“I’m sorry.” Gyro mumbled. “We should celebrate. I know. I want to, but I can’t. I just threw my life away. I…”

The hug he’s giving Johnny came from the heart.

‘You’re all I have left,’ it meant.

Johnny let his head fall backwards, a hand coming to stroke Gyro’s arms against him.

“What can I do?” He asked, grabbing Gyro’s left hand in his own, pressing and intertwining fingers.

Gyro pressed back.

“I… want you to make love to me.”

He meant in the ass. Something Johnny would love but can’t. He looked at his own fingers. Except if… He’d sometimes done wild things with his hands. Fingers were hard. Fingers were mobile. Precise. A perfect tool to fuck a horny bottom.

“I have some great ideas.” He whispered. “Not for tonight, but tomorrow night if you want… I’d brand and make you come like never before.”

Gyro’s face went hot against his back, and Johnny felt the hint of a smile on his skin.

“Bragger.”

“You like being dirty talked.”

“I don’t!” 

“You totally do.”

They spent some more moments while Gyro kept hugging him.

Johnny straightened, willing to come out of the cooling water.

“Gyro. Let me go.”

“I don’t know, Johnny. You’re sexy, stark naked, lying in there.”

Johnny gave him a little tap on the upper arm.

“Give me privacy.”

Gyro settled for kissing his back, right on the starry birthmark, before he left.

His breath over his wet skin made Johnny shiver.

Once he finished, alone, in the bathroom, cleaning as much as possible the mess he’d done climbing out from the tub to the chair, Johnny got dressed, to see Gyro lying down over the blue fainting couch. The ink of the letters he’d written was still drying in the silent room’s atmosphere.

“Do you want to go to the post office tomorrow?”

Gyro denied, tilting his head on one side then the other.

“There will be a government agent at the reception for me in the morning.”

“Your government?”

“Yeah.”

Gyro had been a favorite. It made sense for the Kingdom of Naples to send someone… Not a paid assassin, Johnny hoped. There had been too many of those already.

After some minutes, unmoving, he’d ignored the way Johnny took place on the double bed, Gyro heard:

“C’mon, why don’t you come?”

Gyro averted his eyes.

“Culturally, in my country, you’re only sleeping with the one you’re engaged to.”

“Don’t know about you, Gyro, but I feel engaged.”

It was an adorable maneuver.

One that could have made Gyro blush if he hadn’t felt so down.

“It’s not different than under the tent.” Johnny insisted.

It was, for Gyro. He already explained why. Johnny was right, but, to him, sharing a bed meant being in a special and unique relationship with the person. It’s a commitment.

Gyro could have slept in Johnny’s bed hugging him all against his torso in Milwaukee.

It would have felt good. But at the time, Gyro had been in substantial denial of his feelings. It’s also about appearances. You could justify sharing a tent between buddies. But not a bed. That had an oppressive aura of inhibited homosexuality.

“Please. You won’t sleep well over there…” Johnny added.

And declining first had been a way for Gyro to keep distances. Something a little ridiculous after asking sex minutes before. But also a way to show he didn’t want emotional comfort. Except Gyro clearly needed it.

Johnny told him he felt engaged.

Knowing him, it was honest, not a play on words.

It’s enough for Gyro to make up his mind.

Chapter Text

Gyro left early in the morning. He hadn’t slept well and was wide awake long before sunrise. He dressed carefully and went down to the reception, requesting the concierge service to find him a pair of crutches. A good one. Light and sturdy. Such metallic tools have to exist here. After all, Americans were building skyscrapers from the same alloy all around.

The newspaper’s evening edition must have spread everywhere in town, copies traded informally under the cloak. The bellboy warned him timidly about the crowd of passersby and journalists waiting for Gyro outside.

At fucking five o’clock.

And the hotel already got some Naples representative downstairs wanting to meet him as soon as possible, the fellow Neapolitan citizen man, nodding off in the hotel lounge near the restaurant and tea house.

Gyro had met that one back home. Discreet and loyal to the royal Justice’s councilor. Idiotic little shit, just the way Gyro had been when he’d been tricked in coming there.

Completely pissed since the morning, believing the entire world was against him—because who the fuck could share Gyro’s stupid sentimental leftist discourse?—he awaked the man by hitting the wall with a steel ball, it vibrated, dust falling on the ground. Gyro’s behavior, so intimidating, he saw the poor guy backed into his corner, defiant brown eyes, the only thing that inspired Gyro some respect.

They moved away to another side of the empty hall. Grinding teeth and gabbling in Neapolitan. The exchange didn’t last. Gyro gave the sealed letters to him, and the subaltern enjoined him to stay in this very hotel for some more weeks, or at least to take messages regularly at the reception if he stayed elsewhere.

As if.

Next second, the guy was leaving the hotel.

…by one of the back doors.

This moment, alone again, Gyro was seized with bitterness. Allowing himself to feel angry for the daily attempts of murder, they had to bear for months. Since day one until yesterday.

The biting sensation didn’t last in his guts. Taking time to watch the wintery sun slowly arise, light of dawn, flooding the space with reddish radiance, the other contestants coming downstairs, ordering some breakfast to the reinforced staff that helped organize the race, Gyro finally felt better.

The Neapolitan guy had announced to him he’d sent information by telegram last night and would again this morning after they met. Consequences were running. Ready to hit Gyro from the other side of the Atlantic. There’s nothing more to do.

Or rather, it meant Gyro had time to give Johnny.

Time to climb back up.

When Johnny awaked, he’s alone in bed.

They had poor sleep that night.

Uncertainty and worry hadn’t helped.

They hadn’t even cuddled a little, each of them on their respective side of the mattress.

They were more distant in bed than in the wild, but it was no big deal. Gyro needed time to adjust. And for that, he’d need to relax, to become less stuck into struggles.

Their sleep was so bad Johnny almost expected Gyro to say he should have gotten asleep in the stable with his horse in the morning.

But when Johnny opened the eye at six, Gyro had already left. Disappeared with letters, his full day's wear and steel balls. But not the rest of his stuff.

Johnny chose not to mind. He rolled inside the bed, and occupied what had been Gyro’s place that night. He buried his face in the goose feather pillow, breathing out any scent that was left on it, indulging himself until he dozed off.

Sleeping more was fine.

If he kept being in bed, he wouldn’t have to face his wheelchair and the unfair stairs guarding the suite.

When Gyro finally came back, Johnny had dressed better. Still positioned over the bed, but browsing into his travel diary. What he wasn’t expecting was Gyro bringing back a pair of crutches with him. One that Johnny could wedge in his underarms and manipulated with the handles.

“Is that for me?”

Gyro let out a golden smile. “Looks like it.”

Not talking about letters and what happened downstairs was a headlong rush Johnny was inclined to accept.

“Sorry. I was feeling a bit down yesterday, I forgot your rehab session. Wanna do it now?” Gyro continued.

Crutches were brilliant.

Johnny’s arms were muscular enough that using them felt like child’s play. But, well, it’s all about equilibrium. Something complicated when you don’t feel at all one of your legs—even if it was working in theory.

Johnny hadn’t dared hope it would be so easy. And it brought plain happiness, from just standing.

Next to Gyro.

Side by side.

He’s maybe a half-head higher than him. Not tall enough to prevent Johnny from stealing a kiss, the moment Gyro was within lips reach, leaning as he studied Johnny’s posture and weight distribution over his legs after advising him again considering hands, shoulders and back pain.

Moving, without hands to seize Gyro’s face, and with the usual hat as a natural obstacle, it felt a little awkward. Clumsy.

A strange kiss, landing on the nose, then half applied on the upper lip and the place a mustache would grow if Gyro weren’t steel-ball-shaving every day.

Johnny frowned the moment he heard the typical ‘Nyoho~’ Gyro's left hand, had caught his own hat to prevent its falling. Johnny kept a straight face on purpose the moment he met Gyro’s amused eyes.

“I’ll be fine. Kiss me better.” He mumbled, getting a smirk in return.

One second later, he felt a hand over his waist while Gyro was kissing him, eyelids automatically closed, lingual caresses becoming more intense. Pervasive in a way they didn’t last night.

Gyro stopped kissing to breathe, mouth only one inch away from Johnny’s, a finger caressing the small scar on the hollow of Johnny’s cheek.

Not like a flaw in needed to be fixed.

Like something precious, to protect.

“If you want some breakfast, we have to come down now.” Gyro smirked again, the familiar gold of his teeth showing.

Johnny licked his lips. He’s a little frustrated to stop. Then he remembered what Gyro asked him last night. He’d do him good later.

“Breakfast it is, then.”

Eating in the main room, they got several curious glances. And some unfriendly ones. Especially Sloop John B’s huge binoculars glued to their back, the disdainful pout on his lips expressed effectively how his final fourth place was stuck in his throat. Despite it, nobody came to disturb them. Gyro and Johnny were known to be friends, and hostile to others.

Well, that’s more the result of Gyro’s behavior than Johnny’s, but whatever.

They were left alone for half an hour, busy eating and monitoring people around, until several men came to them.

Police officers in full uniforms. Inquiring about Diego Brando’s disappearance.

They can’t prove Johnny murdered the guy.

His nemesis.

They had no proof, no body, no witness. But they had questions.

And Johnny had no real choice but to comply. Taken away by the officers from a public place. Whether it was the procedure, normal verification. They were primarily focused on the fact Funny Valentine was missing. Didn’t mean they’d be lenient if Johnny had shown an opening.

It took a few hours for Johnny to give a testimony. Stephen Steel had also made a statement before him. Johnny wasn’t fearing that. The man hadn’t seen anything, and if he had noticed something nevertheless, he couldn’t have grasped the actions of the fight, stand and spin, time freezing, beyond vision and understanding for ordinary people.

Diego’s Silver Bullet’s prints had been verified, and the horse confirmed different from the one of the preceding stages.

Johnny maintained that Dio fled, vanished into thin air, angered that his scheme had been discovered and willing to escape disgrace and scandals.

He’d also stabbed a young woman, throwing a dagger in the crowd, hadn’t he?

Saying this stopped the prodding. 

Johnny was observant. He noticed the middle-aged parents leaving before he entered the room. The woman, crying her heart out, and the man howling he would, ‘avenge the death of his daughter himself if police officers can’t put their hands on this fucking limey!’

Johnny was on the good side of the tracks.

…today at least.

At his return, hours past lunch time, Johnny ran into his father at the hotel back door—the front of the hotel welcoming the thirty-nine finalists of the race still assailed by fans and journalists.

It was unexpected, a proof his father’s resolution wasn’t only to show off in front of the crowd. “Could I have a word.” George Joestar demanded more than he asked.

Johnny was worn-out from his poor night of sleep, the police audience he already had no choice about, and his prolonged standing position allowed by the crutches. He loved it, but it still was exhausting and very new for his arms, especially since he needed to use the spin to be able to move at every step.

“Tomorrow in the late morning.” He postponed. “I have commitments.”

That was not entirely true. Sure Johnny wanted to spend time taking care of Slow Dancer, go out on horseback, make purchases. Embrace his man, have him close to him. Not acceptable arguments for his father. Even so, George Joestar surprisingly accepted his terms.

The end of the afternoon felt pretty nice. Gyro had wanted to go to an immigration office. Verifying his status since he hadn’t predicted he’d need to stay so long when arriving last May. It hurt, doing such a procedure. It embodies the fact Gyro wasn’t going back home anytime soon.

Administrative procedure was for Johnny the opportunity to make the purchases he wanted. He even had time to wander in a bookseller’s store. Grabbing books was shit with the crutches occupying both his hands, but he finally was able to see covers on the shelf. A little pleasure he got only since he’s standing. Ordering around the seller for him to grasp the book Johnny coveted would even sound adequate politeness and a way to avoid any damage or mess up.

Once they were back to the hotel room, Johnny glanced over the receipt of the visa extension Gyro was putting aside on the desk, searching for a nonexistent first name spelling.

It’s written ‘Gyro.’

Of course it was.

But Johnny caught some other gem.

A date of birth.

“February 4? Your birthday is coming fast.” He gushed over.

Gyro kept his chin up, looking away.

“That’s why I declined and resigned from the family burden promptly. It needed to be done before I turned twenty-five. What about yours?”

Johnny looked away, knowing Gyro wouldn’t be pleased.

“Was two weeks ago.”

“You turned twenty and you didn’t say anything?!”

Indeed, Gyro sounded bothered.

“I turned nineteen.” Johnny corrected him.

“Wait a minute, you told me you were nineteen in California.”

“I rounded it up. Nobody believes you when you say you’re eighteen. You look even younger.”

“What else did you lie about?” Gyro pouted, abrasive.

“Hey. That’s a bit strong from the guy that refused to tell where he was coming from and keeps his first name a secret to the world.”

“Don’t go there, Jonathan Joestar.” Gyro started scolding. “I know damn well why you were sticking your nose.”

Johnny felt abashed, but excuses refused to pass his lips. He didn’t want to apologize for being curious.

Gyro shook his head.

“Give me your notebook. I’ll write it down.”

It’s allowing Gyro to rummage, but it was only fair. He didn’t try to take advantage, choosing the first page with some free place. A recent one, written hours before the start of the last stage, tracing twelve legible letters with the same pen Johnny used despite Johnny knew Gyro preferred quills.

“Late birthday gift.” Gyro justified. “The only other place it’s written is on my birth certificate. Nowhere else.”

That made it doubly unique.

Johnny can’t suppress a smile while he engraved in his mind the precious spelling.

It’s a better gift he would have ever imagined.

Chapter Text

“You promised me something last night…” Gyro began to say.

“Did I?”

Something in Johnny’s voice felt voluptuous like a charm.

Gyro wanted to play annoyed, but the truth was he loved the role reversal, not being the big mouth deciding over everything. Johnny was blessed with some talent to make Gyro always feel like that.

They’ve turned in no time from Gyro calling Johnny a brat over futility, to Gyro doing his best to contain his restless anticipation toward the unknown.

Proud of his effect, Johnny gestured toward Gyro for him to come nearer. He stole a kiss. A tender hand stroked Gyro’s lower back in a half-hug before Johnny whispered to his ear. “Go get your saddle.” 

“What?! Listen, I don’t want to—”

“I won’t make you my horse. Already stated it’s a bit crazy.” 

Gyro frowned. “So, why?”

“Stop negotiating. Go get it.”

For a second, Johnny feared the consequences he’d get later as he ordered Gyro around, bossier than what he’s allowing himself otherwise.

The time Gyro needed to make it there and back, Johnny had dragged himself on a side of the bed, grabbing the phone and ordering a cold meal. Himself was already hungry, missing lunch because of the time he’d spent in the police precinct. Food arrived the same moment Gyro was back, so they ate.

Not all of it, there’s plenty of food they’d better keep for later that evening.

“How do I get ready?” Gyro asked, getting antsy.

“Just need to strip, relax, and show me your ass.”

Gyro looked away, embarrassed.

“I mean… how much should I clean?”

“You know how to do that?”

Johnny’s languorous gaze focused on the way Gyro shrugged. 

“I’m a doctor. 'Of course I know.” He mumbled.

“Don’t have to do it thoroughly. Just try to feel good. Right?” 

Johnny caught Gyro’s palm and fingers, pressing the outer portion of the hand. It was soft against his own. Unbelievably after months in the wild, racing and doing whatever.

He wanted to say, ‘Don’t be nervous,’ but how could you tell someone like Gyro Zeppeli without him denying his own apprehensiveness? Johnny felt like Gyro wouldn’t accept clear concern. It meant Johnny would need to be extra kind and benevolent.

While Gyro was in the bathroom, Johnny organized things on the bed, pulling covers back. First the saddle, second some fluffy pillow he covered with a towel.

Seeing his instant pout once he got out, Johnny knew Gyro was averse to the set-up.

“Don’t look at that. There, look at me.”

This last sentence sounded a little ridiculous, because as soon as towel-clad-narrow-hips-Gyro was on hand, Johnny began to kiss him. Once, twice, thrice, hands pressing over the broad shoulders, fondling the muscles of the arms, sliding to the abs and deepening the kiss, making out.

Gyro looked good. Really good. Johnny loved what he saw and what he’s fondling. He’s determined to do it long enough for Gyro to understand.

The latter’s hand came to the small of Johnny’s back, to the edge of where Johnny can’t feel anymore. The most obviously sexual embrace Gyro could offer with Johnny still feeling it.

As Johnny continued caressing, he realized it hadn’t felt that way before, touching Gyro’s back.

“D’you’ve shaved?” Johnny’s strangled voice came out.

“Yesterday night.”

“Have you done other places?”

Gyro’s hand accompanied Johnny’s to his lower back, butt and—spreading legs—testes.

“I think we’ve made the rounds.”

The gestures had untied the towel.

Johnny nibbled his lower lip. “You have to teach me how to do that!” He whispered. 

“Doesn’t look fair, you’re the only one to get an eyeful.” Gyro retorted.

Johnny straightened, breath caressing Gyro’s neck and trapeze. He found it difficult to take his hands back, but he indulged in stripping from his shirt and cuffs. Then running his fingers through his hair so it wasn’t feeling too disheveled.

“Better?”

Gyro nodded.

“And the trousers?”

“It’s… more complicated than that.”

Much to his relief, Gyro didn’t insist upon it.

Johnny toppled him over, hand stroking him until he began to harden.

“I’d need you on your stomach over there.”

Gyro had a quick look over the set-up.

“I’d rather be on my fours.”

Their gazes were so close to each other, it’s difficult for Johnny not to look at the green iris. Johnny let his hand rile up, abandoning the erection. He stole another kiss.

“You won’t be able to hold it. Trust me?”

Gyro didn’t dare to say ‘no’ when Johnny was using those two words.

The same words he told Gyro for him to leave Dio Brando to him and race to the finish line without looking back.

“Do you have a way to help relax muscles… there?”

Johnny pointed steel balls out, still hanging on the thrown-to-the-ground trousers.

“It might be.”

“Help yourself. Do it.”

“Don’t you want… to feel the pressure around your fingers? Could be sexy. For you. Maybe.”

“No. You need to relax.”

At this Gyro complied, perhaps internally relieved to ‘cheat.’

“How many are you putting in?” He asked.

“As much as it fits.”

“Have you at least ever done that before?” 

“Yeah, Gyro. Several times.” 

Two exactly, not including the ones it didn’t end as well as intended. Times, Johnny had been working too fast or partner wasn’t feeling good because of external motives. Experiences whereby he learned how to do it, and, moreover, when you should stop.

“I promise. I know what I’m doing. Go get me soap and hot water to clean. I bought more lube earlier. Better one.”

Johnny soaked his right hand in the scorching hot water, getting his fingers warm. He shot every nail in the bowl. Just in case. They’d still grow, but won’t be long enough to scratch anything. He blessed his stand for that. No need filing nails for hours. 

Leading Gyro to take a stand, he hesitated, then gave in and pressed his lips on an ass cheek, his left hand on a thigh.

“Hips higher.”

“…”

“Good boy.”

Maybe Gyro would die from embarrassment, butt-naked, thighs spread open, touched like that.

But it requested him to let go.

And Gyro aspired so much to let go. To lose control and never get it back.

This victory was the end of something Gyro hadn’t fully controlled. He had no idea what to do now. And being fucked like that… it responded to things. It embodied the way he entrusted Johnny. 

‘Do anything you want. You’re the one driven. Drive me wherever you feel like it.’

Gyro first had felt one, then two lubed fingers getting inside, pushing their way inch by inch. The movement, so slow, it was frustrating. Johnny had caressed him, massaging the prostate, stroking his insides. Gentle languid gestures that made him feel a lot.

And same for Johnny, especially when the part deprived of nails brushed a new place.

Johnny added a third one.

Just as slow.

Just as frustrating.

And Gyro now appreciated Johnny moved this slow. He’s so full, and stretched beyond normal. This was the embodiment of what he had wanted, asking to be on the receiving end.

That’s the first time he came.

After that, Gyro stopped counting and analyzing, overwhelmed by the feeling of Johnny’s hand back there. 

Still stimulating all of his more sensitive spots, inside and fondling his bottom in a way nobody had ever done before, learning so fast how to please him and extracting not so discreet pleased whimpers as he continued tapping on the prostate. It must be his prostate he’s feeling. On top of everything, Johnny kept telling him possessive and sexy nonsense Gyro wouldn’t have accepted in any other context.

How he’s beautiful. Hot. ‘Sexy.’ How Johnny felt him burning, tightening, over his fingers. That he was, ‘so good.’ A ‘good boy.’ How his ass looked ‘great as fuck’ when he was spread like that. ‘Spankable.’

That was once praise, alternating with vulgar or humiliating words that still were so arousing.

Gyro understood, now. Why, he shouldn’t move. Why, he couldn’t have stood in position on his fours to do that. Why, it was good to have a saddle under his hips to keep them high and a towel to collect the mess he’s doing, his half hard leaking unabated.

Johnny continued moving, pushing in caresses, making his way in, adding lube.

A moment later, he went further inside, passing the prostate. Gyro’s insides, there, were even more sensible if possible. Johnny was shaken with desire. Shivers still were traveling his full body, making even more of an impression on Gyro.

“Fuck, I think you made me come in my pants. I didn’t even touch myself. You’re sexy like that.”

Johnny stopped for a few moments, hand still, kissing the skin of Gyro’s back and ass.

Gyro felt like a wreck.

Lifeless but so alive.

Belonging to someone else.

“Want to go on?” Johnny finally asked, still breathless.

“As you want, do what you want…” 

Gyro got no more answers, and it needed a moment for him to realize things were soon to end. Johnny’s always so slow gestures, leaving his insides.

It’s better.

Probably for the best.

Gyro can’t feel anything anymore. 

Overwhelmed by everything.

It needed an infinite time for Johnny’s hand to leave him for good.

And Gyro felt open, still too stretched.

Johnny was busy helping to clean his ass from all the lube and other mess, kissing the salty sweat over Gyro’s back doing so.

“The fuck you’d done?” Gyro stuttered.

“Cramping already? Did I hurt you?”

Johnny’s answer was way too worried.

“It’s still open.” Gyro accused. “How many fingers have you put?”

Johnny let out a knowing teasing smile.

“Don’t worry.” He said. “It’ll go back to normal.”

Johnny moved forward for Gyro to see him as he caressed his right fingers, hand, until maybe one inch after the wrist, then said with his best poker face:

“Got inside… up to that, I’d say.”

Gyro looked even more red and dumbstruck, understanding how much got inside.

“You did so well for your first time. Didn’t think I could fix the whole fist right away.”

The experience felt as a relief and liberation. Johnny had forgotten how much he’d loved those kinds of power play.

The discharge of endorphins, the most important he got in for ages.

Maybe ever.

As he was cleaning his hands thoroughly with soap, he wondered if they were so sensible because of his condition or if it was only the fact he did this with someone he loved and that cared back for him.

Perhaps both.

There were some leftovers of the cold dinner they got themselves. Roast beef sandwiches, as much appreciated now than before they started bedroom sports.

Johnny handed one to a worn-out Gyro, still cursing about what tomorrow would be. He sprawled half over Johnny’s lap to nibble at the food, eating more meat than bread and lettuce. Johnny was sure Gyro did that to annoy him.

But Johnny loved the closeness, was more than happy to be able to hug him in his nudes, like this, in bed, after the distance between them the night before.

He made the most of having Gyro’s firm body all against him, to fall asleep. Chances were, it wouldn’t become a habit. That kind of sex drove people clingy. The effect of the feeling of loss after being so full. It was good, combing Gyro’s long hair with his fingers, cuddling.

The previous shitty night now felt like a promise for the best sleep.

Chapter Text

Daybreak was already there for a few hours when Johnny opened an eye.

Gyro looked as if he had no intention to rise. Something predictable. Johnny combed a little the long hair, the pad of his fingers petting the scalp. Gyro moaned, tilting his head in a way he must be enjoying the contact, but looked like he’s still half asleep. So after kissing him good morning, Johnny crawled up to the phone over the nightstand, ordering more food to be delivered by the serving hatch.

They had locked themselves since the day before’s late afternoon, avoiding human interactions.

The bubble was comfortable but wouldn’t last.

Johnny had promised to listen to his father today, and they were given a note about every Steel Ball Run contestant in the hotel required to attend some short reunion at two o’clock at the invitation of the authorities.

There’s a knock on their door, and the serving hatch was used. Food smelling delicious, warm eggs and grilled bacon. Plus a coffee pot.

This was an extensive luxurious service, and despite everything, it confronted Johnny to his disability. He can’t carry food using crutches. And the sleepy way Gyro was still lying under the covers made him even less want to ask for his help.

Better make the best of this.

The moment Gyro surfaced, Johnny had had time to transfer food. It made Gyro feel bad.

Rubbing his eyes, he muttered, “Thanks. Could have asked me.”

“It’s fine.” Johnny answered, placing himself on the bed to be able to pour coffee in two cups. “Have one.” He gestured.

Gyro complied and they started eating.

Johnny took a sip of coffee.

“Yours tastes better.” He regretted out loud.

“You’ve gotten used to mine.”

“Already drank coffee before meeting you. Yours tastes better.”

“I’ll make some soon.”

Once finished, Johnny cleared the bed, putting the tray with empty plates over the seat of the wheelchair, inappropriate trolley.

“How’s your ass?” He asked with the most innocent face.

“As if my horse trampled it. Thanks to you.” Gyro grunted.

He’s turned on his side, not far from lying on his stomach. The warmth of the sheets and from cuddling in bed, not enough to totally ease his physical discomfort.

“And for what you complained about yesterday?”

Gyro snorted. “Not sure it came back to normal.”

“What if I say I know some method to help?”

“Something you’d like?”

Johnny nodded.

“After last night, it’s obvious I trust you to do whatever you want.” Gyro reluctantly admitted.

Johnny kissed him, pressing lips, letting his tongue intrude, lustful. Gyro’s hand came to caress his hair, getting it even messier.

At this, Johnny grabbed Gyro’s wrist gently, breaking the kiss.

“How old are you again? Twenty-four?”

Without waiting for the answer, Johnny made him roll against the mattress, exposing his bare ass. Gyro had no time before a rain of powerful slaps put his behind on fire, twelve of them falling, alternating each cheek in no time.

Johnny wasn’t faking it at all.

Gyro gridded his teeth. Forced into submission. Face and nose pressed against the mattress. With one of his most erogenous places strongly stimulated. Lying in bed in the morning against his mate, an early erection was there. And now, he’s feeling himself reacting physically to the beating, making the humiliation grow in his guts.

No longer stunned by the surprise effect, Gyro could have chosen to fight back. Whether it’s a game—making fun of each other, wrestling, or getting sexy touchy-feely. But Johnny had nodded when Gyro asked if it’s going to be something he would like. So Gyro pushed away his ‘fight or flight’ instinct, leading to resignation and acceptance. He could handle this.

It’s that moment the rhythm changed, Johnny hitting double before changing cheeks. There must be at twenty when the final ones were applied on the lower part of Gyro’s behind, at the limit of the thighs.

…and was it him, or did Johnny make it twenty-five, a last one applied a few seconds later for good measure?

Gyro breathed out. Pain pulsating from his ass. The spanking had lasted less than a full minute. Making it considerably more a punishment than the playful joke, friends or lovers could indulge for fun—or, considering Gyro’s boner, than what he could have considered consensual foreplay to fevered anal sex.

Gyro’s back muscles tensed as he straightened up.

“Fuck… What was that for?”

“Make you tight.”

“No shit.”

With a gentle push, Johnny got Gyro to lay on his back and looked down to his manhood.

“You liked it.”

Gyro looked away under Johnny’s direct stare and the caressing hand over the inner thigh.

“You hurt.” He muttered.

“You’re already in pain with sore muscles.”

Johnny leaned, kissed the hard-on—oversensitive because of yesterday night—and licked it, sending a delectable shiver creeping up Gyro’s spine.

Lying on soft warm sheets, combined with the tingling of his buttocks, it felt amazing. But the way the spanking had been performed, plus the ‘one smack per year thing’ were enough vexing for Gyro to speak up for himself.

“Did it have to be humiliating?” He dissented.

Johnny stared at him in the eye, unwavering.

“I’ve wanted to do that, the moment you told me you’d be happy to die for me.”

Right. Gyro hit a nerve. But long ago.

And never expected to pay for it one day. That’s true he’d never expressed regrets. Neither did he try to fix anything.

Gyro hissed at the sensation of his stinging bottom against the mattress combined to the almost electric shock of Johnny’s tongue licking him again, from the base to the tip.

It felt like the promise of the blowjob Gyro asked not long ago and Johnny postponed until both had washed. Gyro never had a girl perform one on him. He hadn’t told him, but Johnny would be his first.

Obviously, the best course of action would have been to forget and savor the way Johnny was going down at him. Yet Gyro wasn’t that type of man. He stood back up on his elbow, gaze focusing on Johnny, making an effort to meet his eyes.

“Should I apologize?”

The question felt legit. Gyro wasn’t a man to say he was sorry or to make amends. Johnny should know. Still the reference to the several weeks ago argument, in addition to the spanking, had inclined Gyro to ask. To offer.

Of course Johnny had to stop his activity to answer.

“Don’t bother.” Johnny whispered, pondering, caressing Gyro’s firm member. “Truth is, I needed to hear it. ’Would have liked it to hurt less. Hearing that from you, it ravaged me.”

That had been the only time something Gyro said made Johnny cry.

They had discussed it, during the eighth stage.

Maybe not enough.

“You’re such a hypocrite. Calling me out for endangering my life and announcing the day after, you’re ready to die.”

Those were Johnny’s last words before his open mouth came to engulf Gyro’s member, a firm arm keeping Gyro’s on his back, in a way that only allowed him to go along buccal caresses by rubbing his prickling ass over the mattress.

The idea, the sensation around Johnny’s lips, the view in front of his eyes, the creasing of sheets to his ears, whose music accompanied, were all exciting. Probably Johnny was physically reacting to it. He wouldn’t know until he tried touching himself. But he already remembered too much the feeling of Gyro’s ass around his hand and fingers last night. The way that it riled him up as if it had been his dick inside. The tingle on his hand caused by the spanking had such a sharp and enjoyable aftereffect. What’s good was the feeling of the pressure over a responsive place. That’s what Johnny learned. And if it was true for his fingers, it’s true for his receiving mouth.

“Hey, Johnny, back off—”

Gyro had tried to warn, but too late.

Didn’t matter a lot, Johnny straightened and spit in his hand. He grabbed a napkin from the tray to sweep his palm.

Gyro kept silent and grasped the sheets, covering himself, looking away.

Seeing the distant behavior, Johnny felt guilt rise in his chest.

“Did I hurt that much?”

“I got off on it. So, not too much.” Gyro pouted, rubbing his backside for emphasis as he turned on his side and snorted.

Then he took upon himself, voice soft, as he said, “Thanks. That was really, really cool.”

This was a compliment to Johnny’s sucker talent obviously.

There were a few seconds of silence before Johnny asked, “Can I kiss you?”

“After what you got inside your mouth? No way!” Gyro grinned at him, teasing.

Johnny stretched out nevertheless, kissing Gyro’s shoulder instead. Then he sat up and took fresh clothes for him to wear after washing himself in their bathroom. Johnny ran a hand in his disheveled hair. He’d better try to comb it a little. Beanie or not. George Joestar cared a lot about looks. And he shouldn’t put too much blue lipstick, either. But only after rinsing profusely his mouth.

Johnny threw his clothes across his shoulder. Next, he needed to reach balance using crutches. Gyro had been wise enough for choosing them with a small tripod base, a reliable help for stability. The moment Johnny stood, a flash of blurred pain traveled through his right leg. And a huge tension from the busy previous day was still discernible in his shoulders and wrists.

This was the price of standing.

It was worth it.

Johnny was like the little mermaid: his legs had a price, every day, every minute, he can’t forget. But unlike her, Johnny could make his voice heard, and Prince Charming looked like he was willing to stay with him a little longer. At least for now.

Johnny wasn’t a mermaid, but he was born under the cardinal sign of Capricorn. An earth sign, with a fishtail. Of course he’s used to crawling. Of course standing was an impossible miracle to succeed.

And so, Gyro was an Aquarius, designed for change and modernity. A fixed air sign. One, symbolized by a water carrier. The water Johnny needed for his fishtail.

“Are you going to meet your father?” Gyro called him back.

“Yeah. ’Need to get ready.”

“Lunchtime?”

“Before lunch.”

As Johnny finished cleaning and changed pants for fresh ones, sitting on the chair still in the bathroom, he leaned through the open door. Gyro had rolled down in the bed, facing Johnny’s direction. The view angle didn’t allow Gyro to get an eyeful. He just wanted to keep connected. So, Johnny hadn’t ruined too much trust using his blanket permission to give him a red bottom.

They made eye contact. Gyro’s neutral face, pushed Johnny to specify, “I ain’t planning on eating with him.”

“Consider it if things are going well.”

Johnny frowned and chose to ignore it.

No interest in sending packing a good guy who felt bad concerning his own family. Perhaps he’s even a little jealous. Perhaps Gyro would have been radiant to have a family member to meet for lunch, here and now. But Gyro had never met George Joestar.

Nobody knowing Johnny’s father could feel genuinely happy to meet such a man.

“We have a late breakfast.” Gyro insisted while Johnny was coming back near the bed. “I’m full. I’ll meet you downstairs for their stupid reunion this afternoon.”

“You better skip it and stay in bed, you’re pretty saddle-sore.”

Gyro cast a mocking glance.

“I’ll be fine. Nyoho~”

“Oh. It reminds me…” Once sitting, Johnny rummaged inside his bag, finding a pouch and pulling a book from it. “I bought you some reading. You’re complaining you could get bored. The cover made me think of you.”

“That, Johnny, was an invite to have sex.” Gyro commented, yet he straightened a little and stretched an arm to grab the gift, and got a look at the cover.

It’s a recent release.

Last year.

Translated into English.

“Jules Verne? He’s French, if I remember well. Not Neapolitan.”

“Yeah, I thought so. But the title is fun.”

It was written, ‘César Cascabel.’

“Get your ass out of here.”

Johnny can’t suppress a smile. After yesterday’s afternoon and the unexpected first name he got written inside his notebook, he felt lucky not to get the novel thrown to his face.

Chapter Text

Like everyone else, Gyro and Johnny were required to attend an impromptu meeting in the early afternoon. Not an invitation. A request of the authorities. All participants reunited in the main room. Police stating what was already obvious to Johnny after meeting them the day before.

State of emergency.

The President of the United States, missing.

Nobody leaving until being cleared by the intelligence service. Both Americans and foreigners.

Protesters would be labeled as suspects. So, the only option was to shut up and enjoy the comfort of the hotel for the contestants to regain their health after ones of the toughest four months of their life.

Stephen Steel was invited on stage. Here, he explained the all-expenses paid quarantine will be covered with the race’s benefits. His benefits. If he’s annoyed by the situation, it didn’t show. Johnny wondered if Lucy was around too. But he can’t see her anywhere for now.

That’s the price of their win for the top 39. The ones that earned a price.

Johnny was the infamous, unexpected number 40.

The disqualified intruder.

Funny Valentine’s aides had made a quick appearance, looking ridiculous with their ringlets, showing false commiseration as if they weren’t rubbing their hands with glee every time they foresee next elections.

The worst of all, the Vice-President. A salt and pepper short-haired non-ringlet guy with a condescending look. Valentine wasn’t a man you could oust. His disappearance felt providential for all his old political associates.

For the ones, meant to inherit and claim ownership of his glory and economical wonders.

Gyro had gone downstairs in advance to be able to choose his place. Waiting for the reunion to begin, he’d put himself in a corner and fiddled ostensibly with a ball. A deterrent, for anyone willing to talk to him. Johnny went to him as soon as he finished his discussion with his father in the tea house. He considered Gyro walked and sat way too easily, without any obvious discomfort for people not knowing. ‘He’s surely cheating with some steel ball trick,’ Johnny thought, realizing, if Gyro had a ball inside his palm, the other one was not in sight. Nor in its holster.

Maybe rotating against his back, under the cloak.

Gyro playing a well-known ‘king of the world’ unapproachable part, Pocoloco with his extrovert persona was the one drawing attention.

“It was stupid to give all your reward to Pocoloco.” Johnny told as a premise once the government officials finished their speech and ended the meeting.

“I only gave up the final stage’s reward.”

“You gave away $50.000.000 because, I’m quoting you, ‘he’s breaking your balls.’”

“…”

“Are you serious, Mr. Ball Breaker?”

Gyro sulked.

“M’not cut to be a rentier.” He mumbled.

“I still can’t see how your country could have gotten their hands on the millions if you had not been gonna give them yourself.”

“…”

“What are you going to do now?”

Gyro had only time to shrug before a group of loud people from outside walked in their direction. The two of them switched on alert, staying silent and throwing a close look to those men with a hat on, their overcoat so alike the ones that journalists usually wore. There had been so many of them that chased after Gyro already, the afternoon before.

Wanting interviews.

Something Gyro wasn’t inclined to accept. At all.

The set of men laughed one more time and turned off, ignoring Johnny and Gyro.

False alarm.

Gyro relaxed a little, then asked, “So, you saw your father earlier, right?”

“I did.” Johnny fell silent after that.

In a way, that let Gyro think it didn’t go well.

“Come on, Johnny. Spit it out.”

Johnny made a face, and shrugged, grabbing again the good-looking pair of boots his father insisted so much for him to take, Johnny couldn’t refuse them anymore. They smelled leather polish and were more beautiful than ever.

Gyro was the one stacking everything to save the cobbler’s son, and Johnny’s the one to earn waxed boots.

What a world.

Johnny tightened them against his chest. He’d need to tell the story of these boots, and everything they represented to Gyro. One day. Not now.

“He wants me to move back home. Offered to pay the best doctors for me. I answered, he should have done that two years ago. I already have a skilled physio. And no way, I move back after everything that happened.”

“A skilled physio? You’ve been talking about me like some masseur you pay to get better?!” Gyro snickered. “Johnny, with your kind of luck he might have mistaken this description for a catamite!”

Johnny squinted, unable to tell if Gyro was joking or not.

Gyro shook his hand in the air.

“Show me the money you owe me then.” He smirked.

Johnny rolled eyes.

“I’m as broke as you, Gyro. You’re the one to pay for our room.”

“Well, rather the race’s organizers.”

Gyro sniggered, and they shared a knowing smile.

Sure, money was an issue. Maybe not now, but soon enough. Yet, escaping unreasonable too sudden riches allowed them to feel like themselves. The fury and excess of Sugar Mountain’s events, still in their mind. Distant, like a chilly fog enveloping in mist the wintry horizon. No harsh emotion, remembering it. But they had learned, then, wealth wasn’t for any of them. Be content with little had been the way they ran, and won, this historical race.

“You’ve been harsh.” Gyro sighed, messing again, the intonation of his voice, the one he used to complain. “He offered you an apology. Never ever did my father do that!”

“Did he have a reason to?”

Gyro took a moment to think about it.

“Probably not.” He answered, a faraway look in the eyes.

Johnny’s opinion was the man did.

You’re not saying what Gyro said without any reason.

George Joestar, coming to see and cheer for him during the last stage, it was so bittersweet. It had been Johnny’s dream when he was twelve. Once he had finally run at fourteen, he had realized that the few times his father was here, it was to watch the horse, not him. Even scolding him for being there. Saying to his workmen, ‘Was there no one more competent than him?’ in a regretful tune that would dampen anybody’s spirit with enough time.

Johnny had been good. More than good if actually half the praise written by newspapers was deserved. But not ‘good enough’ to his father’s eyes.

The oldest workman used to sweeten his father repeating how, ‘it’s good for the business, the son bearing the name was included and performed.’

Johnny can’t forget.

He can’t forget his father’s daily disdain.

He can’t forget the same workman buttering him up about his supposed virtuosity on horseback, and how his father would realize once Johnny would show more confidence, more arrogance, and behave truly like the star he’s meant to be—what, in a matter of fact meant, like a bully.

If George Joestar now looked at him, he still wanted an idealized son. One winning the Steel Ball Run. One whose legs were in perfect condition. Pondering with a cautious eye at the crutches Johnny was using, he asked, ‘Were they going to stay there long?’

Only the time for Johnny to find a cane he liked, he answered. It was half a lie. Johnny began using them the day before. There would be months until he didn’t need them anymore. And Gyro had been clear that after crutches there would be a cane. And that one would last forever. Except if crutches felt better to Johnny.

Johnny hadn’t wanted to hear about that, the first time Gyro had insisted upon it. He didn’t want his disability to be visible. But what mattered was to protect what he got. To take care of muscles and joints. To show gratitude for all the time and efforts Gyro gave him for him to be there and in this medical state. It had been two years. Maybe it was time for him to accept that nothing would ever be the same.

Because it was not synonymous with the end of his life.

It was time to transition to a new life.

To let a new project bloom.

Lost in his thoughts, taking advantage of Gyro’s silence, Johnny was playing in his mind the discussion he and his father had. All over again, bitterness lurched inside his stomach.

“At least, come to see your mother.” George Joestar insisted.

The thought of his mom didn’t soften Johnny’s feelings.

“Why isn’t she there? Did you hit her too hard?”

Johnny had had to fight to take with him some clothes and personal belongings he’d first forgotten because of how upset he had been, rushing to leave his home, in so little time, minutes before he had to leave for a competition with damaged boots.

It had taken a week before Johnny had gotten a mere bag with his papers, his money and things he bought himself. The few objects Anne knew Johnny had been unable to take with him and he cared enough that it would hurt if his father got his hands on and destroyed them.

…and for Johnny to learn from the domestic handing him his belongings, away from the mansion, he shouldn’t put his mistress, Johnny’s mother, in that kind of situation again. That Mister had beaten her worse than usual for taking things to her son.

Johnny knew. Heard and saw things as a child and a teen.

Himself had his share of sound thrashings growing up.

George Joestar was a successful businessman. Calm and unafraid of challenges. In private, he was another man. Moody even before Nicholas’ death, his temper worsened after. Insulting everyone. Saying the meanest things, noticing a crack, he’s heartless exploiting it. His aggression was often at its fullest at the end of the day. To the avalanche of criticism, there’s no ‘good’ answer. Whatever you’re doing or weren’t doing, he interpreted things very negatively. Unpredictable.

That’s Johnny’s analysis now.

Back then… things were different.

It was even worse for his mother. Johnny knew …and hung back. Like in business, George was applying a ‘divide and conquer’ approach to rule his family.

So, of course, Johnny was not close to his mother, overly concerned to please his father and seek his impossible approval. His mother hadn’t interfered. She’d not wanted to reduce his chances by making him some ‘mama’s boy,’ something George despised more than anything. Johnny, already too sensitive to his taste.

Johnny didn’t have Nicholas’ strength and talent to manage to calm down their father. He’d never been a joy, a pride, nor capable of being the family pillar.

It didn’t mean Johnny wasn’t caring for his mother. His intense guilt, the evidence he loved her.

Nor that he can forgive or understand.

“I haven’t since—”

George started to explain, but seeing Johnny’s eyes, he grasped, whatever he’d say, his word wouldn’t be trusted.

“She’s fine. She collects any newspaper’s article about you in this sort of book you had.” George said in a voice that made Johnny think he would have preferred his wife to embroider doilies.

So, this notebook hadn’t been put in pieces or thrown away. That’s a mild proof that his father had some regrets. And not only since Johnny had placed himself in all stages of the greatest horse race of the century.

“I need to stay here for a few weeks.” Johnny said reluctantly. “There’s an investigation about the President’s disappearance …and Dio Brando’s. All contestants have to remain available to the police. I’d figure it out and send a telegram if I come.”

“I still can’t see why you put yourself in such a drama. Coming to blows with Dio during the last stage, in front of everybody. Both of you were supposedly professional. Still you ruined everything, being disqualified. I can’t get it.”

Johnny could have explained that coming to blows and almost getting killed by enemies had been the reality of the race. It had been survival. Not an aristocratic Derby.

His father wouldn’t get it with his old nob’s dreams.

And Johnny didn’t care.

“I did the right thing.” He retorted.

“Ha. Yes. Offering the victory to the wop.”

Johnny looked daggers to his father’s wording choice.

It differed hard enough from the frightened and admiring looks Johnny only showed, not so long ago when they were a family, for George Joestar to keep his mouth shut.

He might nurture more thoughts about Gyro’s victory. Everybody wanted to give a piece of their mind nowadays. And particularly the ones that understood nothing. But Johnny’s father’s mixed feelings prevented him from commenting.

Of course his father didn’t understand either.

“He’s the one that helps you with your condition.” George stated.

Johnny didn’t dare deny. It would have been unfair, getting help from Gyro wasn’t something he was ashamed of. All the contrary. He had made himself worthy of it. Of him.

“He can go with you… I mean, Dr. Zeppeli would be welcome home if you come by and see your mother.”

That offer was the only part Johnny needed to share.

Gyro Zeppeli, invited as a guest in his parents’ house.

What kind of world was that?

Chapter Text

Going to see Gyro Zeppeli wasn’t something Stephen Steel felt easy with. It should have been easy, he’s just another racer of his great event, and Stephen hadn’t refrained from putting him in his place when the jury had chosen to demote him after the first stage.

But things now were… more complicated than that.

Experience taught the race staff that Zeppeli had a bad temper, and the situation he had put himself in by doing this dissident speech after getting the trophy gathered even more attention than anyone would have expected in this time of troubles the President was missing.

The only thing reassuring Stephen was that lovely sweet Lucy was doing well. She would keep everlasting mental scars of whatever happened to her, but she mostly behaved as if everything were fine. Sweeping his anxiety away, she maintained that both Joestar and Zeppeli were reliable. This was not only reassurance unlike times he asked her to repeat words as if once in her mouth they’d gained power. Trusting the strange duo was obvious to her, the same way you believe the sun would rise in the East tomorrow.

Without Valentine around, Stephen could manage the end of the Steel Ball Run more freely than he’d imagined, being the main interlocutor to officials and journalists.

Stephen knew those professionals well. They were the ones that had both lauded him and created scandals he’s still being asked about and tackled for sometimes.

As a promoter, it was his duty to help the winner manage this counterpart of celebrity.

Moreover… several of the co-organizers from Speedwagon foundation had contacted him. Requesting to talk to Lucy with an improper urgency toward a traumatized young woman, they never met beforehand.

He had to protect her.

But he can’t do it alone.

Choosing people Stephen knew she trusted seemed the best move.

A few moments after the meeting with both the police services and Funny Valentine’s aides was over, Stephen came right away to the two men sitting in a corner. He had the perfect excuse for that: Gyro Zeppeli’s renunciation of the first prize. 

He’s nervous, and did his best to conceal his emotions behind a neutral face.

He didn’t have a lot of time to talk before Lucy would come looking for him. 

And for Lucy, there were things he didn’t want her to hear.

“He’s going our way.” Johnny said, seeing Steel coming from afar.

“Please no. I can’t stand him.”

If you’d asked Gyro, he’d say he can’t stand anything or anyone since his victory. 

Except Johnny’s presence.

Johnny has become his anchor point. 

Gyro should have known being the winner would mean he’d also win some talks with the promoter. He didn’t want to listen to this man he didn’t respect and felt revengeful against. But was he given a choice? 

Probably not.

“Stay here.” He ordered Johnny, frowning with displeasure.

“Not going anywhere.”

The first words were tense, but hopefully not rude, Steel speaking about how things would be after Gyro would have given up the monetary award.

Gyro kept the golden cup. This one had taken center stage of the hotel room desk he and Johnny were sharing. They’d need to meet the financial staff to make arrangements for the money, paperwork pending. And Gyro didn’t refuse the $10,000 he earned from his sixth stage victory.

Problems arose after.

“My wife likes what you said.”

Stephen knew he was missing something. Lucy behaved as if she knew Gyro Zeppeli well, and trusted him with her life. The only words she told him about Zeppeli were that ‘he’s respectful and helped,’ and as if it wasn’t enough mystery, ‘he’s an excellent doctor.’

He’s not a doctor, he’s an executioner. Someone that in all likelihood studied law. And the man should be a medic too? Plus a talented horse rider?

Stephen had caught Johnny Joestar and him making eye contact when they met in the room, the way their gaze lingered in adoration. That’s discreet. Still discernible.

What a strange bird.

“Well, in fact, no. She respects you as a person.”

Gyro kept silent at this. He wasn’t going to say: ‘I bet she’s grateful, I removed a decaying holy skull from her womb.’

“All that mess…” Steel was talking about the police, government’s officials, Valentine’s disappearance. “Is there anything you can do to help?”

“We didn’t kill the president.” Johnny stated.

“Go see Hot Pants.” Gyro topped.

Stephen Steel swallowed.

“He’s also reported missing.”

Stephen felt stuck.

“I know you are…” He mumbled, “Our suite is right above yours. We hear… not everything, but too much already. And Mr. Joestar hasn’t taken his room.”

“I have one?” Johnny spurred.

Stephen rubbed his face hearing this not so genuine question.

“Single room. First floor. It’s small, but large enough for a wheelchair user to move around. The race staff checked to be sure… You’ve been disqualified, but you’re a popular contestant.”

Johnny’s expression softened a little at that. 

Gyro’s room’s poor situation wasn’t a meanness of the world after all.

If Johnny had reacted by being a smart mouth and fudging the issue, Gyro’s eyes were now glaring at Steel. If his stare had the capacity to kill, the promoter would have been a dead man for now. That was a try to loosen their tongue. As if Gyro and Johnny’s relationship had been the only thing they needed to hide, and they’re waiting for the promoter or anybody else to say how they’re cool about it—even if strongly embarrassed, because men having sex was illegal and awkward.

That was Gyro’s enmity talking. And it implied Gyro interpreted the sentence as an unbearable shitty clumsiness, or worse, a threat of some kind.

Stephen didn’t realize, overwhelmed by stress, rushing explanations. 

“I’ve been approached by our partner, Speedwagon foundation. They want to interrogate my wife…”

“…”

“…”

“Please, could you help? At least tell us what happened to Diego Brando?”

“I don’t know. The one I chased is another one.” Johnny answered.

“Another one of…” Stephen stammered.

“A double.”

“Like a doppelgänger?”

According to the legends, the appearance of a doppelgänger was a bad omen, announcing misfortunes or death of the individual crossing his double.

Johnny and Gyro never had to meet doubles from other worlds brought by Funny Valentine.

Maybe a chance.

Perhaps fate.

“Nobody cares about that.” Gyro’s cutting voice interrupted, black stare glued to Steel, putting his fingers in front of his mouth to prevent lips reading. “Their question is: where is the Saint Corpse? My guess is, ask the Vatican.”

By his silence and wide-eyed expression, that’s the first time Steel was being said the word, ‘Saint.’ 

But not the first time he heard about the corpse. 

He’s the organizer. A former associate of Funny Valentine, as the President helped develop the project of the Steel Ball Run, imposing the competition track from an ancient lost and forbidden-knowledge map.

Gyro continued, “Funny Valentine is dead. He brought back a different Diego Brando that Johnny handled, so the Dio from our universe is dead. The last one of the company is Hot Pants. And he runs for the Vatican.”

That was enough for Stephen Steel to shut his mouth, getting a moment to reflect.

“Three boats have already left for Europe since the eighth stage…”

“So your associates are too late.” Gyro cut to the quick.

There’s a moment of silence, before Gyro spoke again.

“Anything else? Besides you hearing me getting fucked?” 

Saying what he said, it finally became obvious for Steel he had rubbed Gyro the wrong way.

“I didn’t want to offend you. I worry about my wife. You’ve no idea what happened in Philadelphia…”

“No idea? After everything you are unaware of, you tell me I have no idea?”

Lucy Steel appeared in the large sitting room, looking for her husband obviously. Johnny saw her, met her gaze and motioned her to come.

He’s overlooking the tension emanating from Gyro. When he’s like that, Johnny learned long ago the best plan was to let him get angry and take it out.

“Good afternoon, sirs.” She told the two racers.

“Just Johnny is fine, Lucy.” Johnny said. 

He knew Gyro thought the same way. For some reason, he abhorred being called Mr. Zeppeli. Tension prevented Gyro from saying so, as he finished talking to Stephen Steels, ignoring her.

“…there’s no bloody reason for her to be suspected.”

Lucy Steel was nicely dressed. Some light pink striped leggings and a short empire dress. Gyro didn’t greet her in return, studying the way she’s standing.

“How’s your lower abdomen?”

“It’s fine.”

“Go see a doctor. This surgery was unhealthy.”

It’d been already done, but Gyro’s tone wasn’t one to be disobeyed. By the way, he had grabbed a piece of paper and nabbed Johnny a pen, writing down nobody knew what.

She nodded as she took the seat between Johnny and Stephen at their shared round table.

Hearing Gyro’s last words, Stephen lost every color on his face.

Lucy’s hand immediately came to caress his forearm.

“I’ll tell you.” She said, voice thick with emotion from seeing her husband that way. “I promised I would.”

“Soon.” Stephen’s voice left more the impression of a plea than an order.

“Soon.” Lucy repeated.

“I already mentioned Him. Say anything you want.”

It sounded like a permission Gyro granted.

And he pushed against the table a makeshift doctor’s order.

That’s strange. Lucy didn’t need any permission, but it was as if she’d been waiting for it. She’d felt lost, unable to cogitate correctly about anything, since the moment she’d been out of the corpse’s scheme.

She felt better, her shoulders less tense, and even in his shaken mind, Stephen realized it, and felt grateful.

“You ask them to verify this.” Gyro ordered.

There were foreign words, some in English, but mostly in… Latin.

Dysmenorrhea

Uterine fibroid

Adenomyosis

Peritoneum endometriosis

And the last words: ‘Anything fertility and ectopic pregnancy related.’

Trying to forget the last interaction, Stephen breathed out, and began to talk about the issues created by journalists. 

After two days hiding inside, only leaving by the backdoor, Steel felt like it was appropriate to give some advice and share his experience. Gyro must talk to journalists before they decided to make up something. But he could choose which newspaper, choose the people he wanted, limit the time, and say it would be the first and last interview. After that, the press will calm down.

That was Steel’s opinion.

“The situation we’re all in is highly uncomfortable. Especially yours. We’re not asking you to hold a press conference. Consider picking up one or two journalists that looked good to you and give an interview. Just one. Offer exclusivity. Refuse questions you don’t like. That discourse you got ready for the trophy ceremony was pretty good—”

Gyro squinted, exchanging a gaze with Johnny.

“The fuck he’s saying? I just improvised.”

“You were brilliant.” Johnny comforted, the sketch of a smile stretching his lips.

“…well.” Steel spoke again. “You might read carefully what was written in the different articles and select someone you like the writing style, or that best grasps your ideas.”

That’s the moment Gyro noticed the man was keeping Lucy’s smaller hand into his. Protective. It’s obvious, Gyro’s words had worried him more. There would be some more serious discussion between both spouses, he should assume.

In all cases, Stephen Steel’s insistence was proof Gyro didn’t have a choice in the matter. The man said nothing like that, but if Gyro kept being obstinate, what would prevent him to out Johnny and him?

Lucy’s finite gratitude?

Gyro refused to count on it.

Life was shit.

The concept of interview, newspapers and journalists once burnt into Gyro’s mind, both Steel left. Freeing Johnny as well, that had stayed by solidarity, but wasn’t as much pressured. Gyro barely heard Lucy thanking him softly for ‘his concern.’

All that, more problems and uncertainty for Gyro to shoulder.

Not something neutral these days.

Gyro gritted his teeth. “What you told me this morning… about being happy… I’m trying to work on it. But seriously, that’s not helping.” He said, pointing out the whole situation.

‘I’d rather be dead, but I’m not gonna hurt you by saying horrible things and letting you fear for me anymore,’ that’s what it meant.

And Johnny can’t let him go like that.

Nor did he want to kick Gyro’s ass for feeling down. He had all the reasons to.

Gyro stood, ready to climb back to their room. He’s about to seize the newspapers Steel asked to be delivered at their table, but Johnny gave him no time, calling his name to catch his attention. He grabbed Gyro’s hand, seizing and pressing fingers. Johnny pulled for him to lower until he’s able to whisper in Gyro’s ear. 

Just two or three words. 

In fact, Gyro wasn’t certain of the first one being an ‘I.’ 

But for sure the last two were ‘love you.’

Gyro didn’t feel gratitude striking him for the words. It’s more like a soothing balm on a sore spot. Calming.

Next thoughts flooding to Gyro’s mind right from his heart could be summarized in a few words too.

‘It’s worth it.’

Chapter Text

That evening, Lucy spent almost two hours talking, explaining everything to Stephen about what she’d understood of the major issues they encountered and President Valentine’s scheme.

Stephen went through the entire human emotional experience. Joy, she’s still the same beautiful person as before despite those new trials. Sad, she had to suffer alone. Ashamed, he didn’t see anything in Kansas City. Angry, because if Lucy had been involved in this scheme by herself, that’s Gyro Zeppeli that had drowned her into it.

“Stephen, let it go.” She stepped in.

He’s still angered, but seemed to listen, so she repeated herself.

“Please. Let it go.”

Gyro Zeppeli had scolded her.

That’s not even that bad. And he’d been kinda right. She couldn’t have run away back then. She was the one who had chosen to put her life in jeopardy because she feared for Stephen. She committed errors, and Mountain Tim died because of her. She killed a man, Blackmore, Valentine’s security chief. She shot at him, and he died. 

That’s big. Huge. Unbelievable coming from a 14-years-old.

Of course people she knew nothing about would not receive her with open arms. Her action had been entitled, even if desperate. So she had needed to face the situation and deserved the back to reality. Act as a woman, not a child. Even if she was neither really a child nor a woman.

Once you killed someone, a little part of the universe changed you indelibly. It’s darkness, a stain, a bruise on the soul. And it had been Lucy’s fault. Her responsibility.

The same with everything that had happened next.

Stephen hadn’t denied. Keeping silent. Unusually calm, listening as a friend was supposed too. He wasn’t judgmental. Neither would he have said he’s missing this security pain in the ass Blackmore. The arrogant man messed with race staff and Stephen himself too often for them to be on good terms.

Of course Lucy knew that.

Of course those were no good apologies against murder.

The worst part to explain was when Valentine tried to force himself on her. Both when he thought she’s his wife, and even after, once he’d understood.

That didn’t make any sense.

He’d learned his wife had been substituted, and he didn’t care where she was and what happened to her. Lucy knew she was dead. She too was dead because of Lucy. But the President cared about getting sex even more. No matter her age. No matter her marital situation. No matter why she’d been there. No matter that she didn’t want to.

She’s been an unexpected opportunity, a pawn, a hole, a napkin.

A napkin, like the ones all over the table which she’d been assaulted against.

Napkin on the right, napkin on the left.

His to choose.

His to use.

His to suffer.

And Lucy had done everything to protect herself.

It had been so hard. Deep inside, Blackmore and Scarlet Valentine’s death weighed over her conscience. Lucy knew what she’d done was bad. Whatever she’d been in legitimate defense, the guilt imposed itself on her heart and shoulders. 

She believed she had deserved the assault, pretending to be the president’s spouse.

In Lucy’s world, people acting entitled, and especially men, accepted, well-known individuals were ones who did have every right. Not the assholes. To Lucy, Valentine had had every right to harm her.

She had wanted to protect her own husband and, doing so, got Valentine’s wife to die.

She felt as bad as the president. 

Then there had been the skull. 

The corpse protected her from the worst by doing that, and at the same time, He’d protected Himself, unattainable from Valentine’s hunger of power.

The relic had gone to Lucy, running away from the President.

‘Maybe it wanted to go to Johnny Joestar.’

That’s what she had thought, but could do nothing in her state.

The drugs used upon her were so strong, Lucy didn’t even know how long she’d been asleep before that unknown guard, she recognized later as Diego Brando, got her and went to meet Hot Pants back.

Diego Brando had been bloodcurdling. Everything in his behavior terrorized her. 

Hot Pants’ presence, however, had felt reassuring. But only mere minutes until Lucy grasped the two of them were allies. She had been left with no option.

Even worse, an unknown man had arrived carrying on his back Stephen. Unconscious, losing blood.

The situation had lasted forever. Whole minutes, strangers have negotiated her life in front of her and talked freely of evisceration while Stephen was critically injured.

Then Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli had arrived.

Gyro had stepped in.

Between her and everyone else.

He’s the only one that had snapped, it was her body, her decision.

And since she had gotten assaulted and this happened, nobody had cared to ask how she’s feeling. How was this abnormal, unnatural pregnancy? Did it hurt? Is there something to do to help?

Gyro Zeppeli assured himself getting the skull out was what she wanted, that it wouldn’t unnecessarily hurt, that she’s agreeing to anything he’d done.

He didn’t even take the artifact after that!

Maybe that’s not entirely accurate, but Lucy’s truth was he had saved her life. Not only by being a medic, and a genius one. He allowed her to stand back, just because he had acted as a human being. 

Gyro Zeppeli wasn’t someone ‘nice.’ 

That’s why his reaction mattered so much.

There were psychological consequences for Lucy today.

Ones that would last.

But she got her full sanity back because this guy, this moment, metaphorically slammed his fist over the table and imposed the fact it was her body, and so she had the right to choose, and people around had to respect that.

This had been the first step for her to be safe and with Stephen again.

Steels chatted more after that.

Regarding the discussion Lucy arrived in.

“He’s fighting for a great cause.” Were her words, admiration lingering on her lips. “He’s the winner your race deserves.”

Stephen can only nod. Johnny Joestar must think the same way. Hence his resolution to give everything he got to allow this to happen.

Pocoloco had taken part in a press conference in the late afternoon. He’s an entertainer, and a big-headed one, but he had nothing to say. Nothing to defend. His choice to race was egoistic. He’s not here for others. It was neither good nor bad. Rather normal, in fact. That’s the way things were. He’s a lucky guy, and now a wealthy one.

A black multi-millionaire.

In a country that has chosen to establish apartheid ten years ago.

…sometimes, you’re not needed to have a cause to defend. Just ‘being’ was a powerful way to take a stand.

This had been something important Stephen had to defend more than once during the preparation of the Steel Ball Run. Both, it would be open to worldwide contestants, and to men and women from all skins colors.

Some staff also came to Stephen half an hour before dinner, telling him about the one that came third, the Japanese Higashikata Norisuke. There would be a page about him in a well-known daily, tomorrow morning. Three lines over a fruit business he wanted to start in his country, and the twenty following about his two navels.

Stephen was one to love those things. He remembered with amused benevolence his own trick with the goldfish he’d been doing in his youth. But after such a day, this nonsense ruined his appetite.

Lucy was right. His race deserved the best winner.

With his acts of consistency and intellectual courage, Gyro Zeppeli was running in another league.

Despite Johnny’s words, Gyro still looked on edge once in their room.

“You don’t have to.” Johnny said.

Gyro didn’t look at him, busy placing himself in a comfy lying posture over the bed—so he still had sore muscles—and beginning to browse pages furiously, crumpling paper.

“If I don’t comply, we’d have our relationship expanded in newspapers instead.” Gyro grunted in answer.

“No. You’re wrong. He won’t do that.”

Johnny let go of his crutches, pain flowing back from his wrists and arms as he sat down on the covers.

“Gyro.” Johnny called.

He did, a second time, waiting for Gyro to look up and meet his gaze.

“What?”

“He won’t do that.”

Gyro felt so tired, he had no certainty over it. This hour-long discussion exhausted him. Steel was thirty years older and a head taller than Gyro. To stand up to such a monstrous man and authority figure, both an acknowledged prospector and adventurer… It was draining energy like crazy.

“He’s full of insecurities too.” Johnny said as if he read Gyro’s thoughts right over his drawn features.

“How d’you know?”

“His hand holding Lucy was trembling. She’s the emotional support. The way she looked at you… I don’t know what you told her and what you did in Philadelphia, but she holds you in high regards. She might not have had a lot of people being nice to her in her life.”

“M’not nice…”

“You could act nice.”

“I try to be fair.”

It’s harder than being nice. And why people grew attached to Gyro. 

Johnny’s gaze went to the Jules Verne book on the nightstand. 

There’s some piece of paper in it. A bookmark.

“You started this. How is it?”

Gyro shrugged.

“It’s the story of Europeans who can’t take the boat allowing them to go back home after spending some time in the United States. …I can relate.”

Here again. Johnny put his feet in it.

Now he was thinking about it, he didn’t even read the summary or rummaged inside the book before buying it. It was meant as some good-natured teasing. Not an insensitive recall.

Despite it, the ‘my bad’ Johnny felt was harder to express out loud.

“I’d rather read documentaries over fiction.” Gyro said. “Doesn’t mean I won’t finish it. It’s a travel story. I like traveling with you. Maybe we could do that again once cleared by the intelligence service, nyoho!” He flashed Johnny a golden smirk.

Once again, Gyro’s the one to comfort him. 

This, more than anything else, helped Johnny to speak his heart.

“I kinda feel bad. I’m glad to have more time with you. Glad you’re stuck in America for a while.”

“Don’t sweat it, brat.”

“Hey!”

“You’re a brat. You lied about your age.”

Gyro pointed a finger to him, in a way Johnny had to look away.

Gyro seized back the last day’s newspapers. His gaze focused over articles about him he would have preferred to ignore the mere existence, and started skimming as if it had been some homework that had to be done.

“I didn’t answer earlier… downstairs.” Gyro spoke again.

“…”

“Thank you. For telling me.”

Gyro paused.

“It made me think… that’s worth it.”

Then the clear green eyes came to meet Johnny’s, half lying next to him.

Their faces, so close… Not enough to steal a kiss, but nearer that it’s normal for male friends.

Gyro whispered, “Johnny, may I say something you don’t want me to?”

That’s an eerie and nice way to ask. Something about it, so opposite to Gyro’s character it made Johnny squint strangely.

“Go on.”

“I want you by my side. I love you and I want you. I don’t know what the words you need most are, but whatever they are, I do.”

Johnny let out a discreet smile, and soon averted his gaze as hot tears pooled in his eyes.

That’s true.

He hadn’t wanted Gyro to say this.

Because he’d been thinking he would never have believed it.

Now he was.

Gyro was going to stay. 

He wanted Johnny. In his life, and just wanted him.

Love was the cause and consequences.

Suddenly, he felt Gyro’s arms pressing against his, bringing him against his chest, hugging. Some tears flowed over Johnny’s cheeks that he hastened to sweep away with the back of his hand.

As always, Gyro wasn’t telling him anything like ‘don’t cry,’ or ‘stop crying.’ That’s stupid, but it’s one of the things Johnny preferred in him. The first and last proof he’s welcome to be himself and to experience his emotions.

So precious, coming from a guy that was so hard with himself.

In a way, Johnny forbidding Gyro so ardently to say those words, putting them as unnecessary, it’s the evidence of how much they’d been important.

And fuck, with all of these mirrors in front of and on the side of the bed, Johnny saw all too well how red he was.

He met Gyro’s gaze in one of the glasses.

“Do you realize…” Gyro began, voice hoarse with feigned outrage. “We’ve got all those things around the bed for days and we didn’t even have sex making good use of them?”

Then he pressed his lips on the sensitive skin of Johnny’s neck.

Another smile emerged on Johnny’s lips. Involuntary, but equally happy at Gyro’s latest joke and solicitation. 

This man made him smile and feel cared about.

This was the whereabouts of happiness. 

The morning after, at breakfast, Gyro lorded over one of the articles to Stephen Steel’s face.

“Him.”

He’d chosen the one journalist that comprehended best what he said. The man writing two other articles in the international section of the same newspaper, he had enough culture. Probably.

Within a few hours, the race staff had handled things and a private meeting was scheduled for the afternoon.

The evening edition of the East & West Tribune ran as with the headline ‘Abolish death penalty,’ underlined by the quote, ‘Some people might deserve to die, it shouldn’t justify for innocents to pay the price. Death penalty makes us all murderers.’

Gyro’s first discourse had been improvised.

That wasn’t.

Too bad for Naples’s trembling foundations.

Chapter Text

New York City’s cold was significant.

As journalists and their intimidating, harassing behavior were becoming little by little a memory of the past, it felt appropriate for Johnny and Gyro to go sightseeing. Killing time, because like any other Steel Ball Run’s contestant, they were requested to check at the hotel every evening under some judicial supervision.

They were both almost cleared. But it was impossible to let go of Gyro without letting go of everybody else.

That’s how they had begun to behave as tourists.

Mixing in the still enthusiastic crowd who had attended the arrival of such an historic sport and game competition.

One of the first things they did was to get some new clothes—for the cold wind, and for not being recognized as easily.

Grayish lavender pea coat, lead colored trousers and blue Helvetic accessories later for Gyro and new hues of starry white and blue for Johnny, they had ridden inside the city, sightseeing modern high buildings and the holy trinity Roman Catholic church.

Visiting was the opportunity to discover there was an unofficial Little Italy quarter in the city. The area, still unalike Italy, but there were grocery shops. Not a huge diversity of cheeses, but there’s fresh pasta. The blend of aromatics, dried basil and oregano, mixing with the smoothness of olive oil. Focaccia wasn’t pizza, but it had a beloved taste of home to Gyro’s palate—and was kinda a culinary delight to Johnny’s taste.

After some time, they even indulged in some unreasonable cruise to have a closer look over the recent statue of Liberty, offered for the centenary of independence.

That one trip was a mistake. Johnny had to use his crutches. On a cruise boat. They caught unrequited attention, and had to neutralize a group of three men trying to single them out. It was a minor fight. Didn’t even deserve to be called a fight, but it had a taste of what they already endured so many times during the race.

Little crooks weren’t a true issue.

Whereas, all the evidence showing they must have been paid by another jealous Steel Ball Run finalist was.

Not that they needed to act on it.

Mixing the police, the last idea they would nurture.

Gyro mumbled some racers really needed, ‘to go take a good shit.’

A vulgarity, Johnny wasn’t prone to voice himself, but he nodded in approval.

Another day, another fight.

Nothing new under the winter blue sky and Atlantic Ocean icy breeze of late January.

After two days to let themselves live, they got a telegram to the attention of Gyro, back at the hotel.

One from Naples.

The sender, the Justice councilor—also King’s servant he knew since his childhood, as Gyro told Johnny.

It was an order—written as a request—for Gyro to meet him, in person, in five days.

For such an important man to cross the Atlantic Ocean… What Gyro had done must have had a great impact.

The meeting took place in the late morning of Little Italy.

Gyro had insisted on going alone, entirely unsupervised. That had made Johnny frown in disapproval. They had no certainty over the fact Gyro would put his feet in a set-up, but Gyro stayed inflexible. It was something he had to accomplish alone.

The place of the meeting was a sort of delicatessen with a back room, the Justice’s councilor already arrived, sitting next to a pedestal table. A few more men were also there, but far enough for the conversation to be kept private.

“Ho, Gyro. Please come, have a seat.” The man invited.

He’s exactly like Gyro remembered him: long gray coat, hair sticking out in his neck and shoulders, twisted mustache and beard light gray. A spark of amusement in the palest blue eyes. He looked more like a magus than an official and man of power of the Kingdom of Naples.

In front of him was a Murano glass cup that looked anything but Neapolitan. Filled with black coffee. Murano meant Venetia. But here, abroad and so far from home, should Gyro see a meaning in it? Probably not.

In the United States, you could cross 2800 miles aka 4500 kilometers and stay under the same central state. Venice and Naples were not even 700 kilometers away. From an American continent frame of reference, it meant nothing.

Gyro was offered a cup of coffee in a matching ridiculous cup. He accepted it but refused to get his lips over it. The smell of coffee felt enchanting, but he restrained from drinking, still waiting to see how inhospitable the reception could end once everything was said.

The Justice’s councilor knew. After formulaic congratulation that sounded anything but sincere, he let a complacent smile take place over his lips, holding back for a brief moment.

“King Umberto is sensitive to your arguments.”

The sentence broke the deafening silence.

“…what?”

Did Gyro hear it right? Was it Umberto and not Dell’Ovo?

“We need a unified Italy. And King Umberto was already considering abolishing death penalty. For him, it’s a form of despotism to resort to it. And he values your opinion over the ‘presumption of innocence’ concept.”

“You’re just as much a traitor as all those people that plotted against royalty and you got me to execute.”

The man let out a bad smile at the accusation.

Cunning, and no more compelled to save appearances, he looked… rejuvenated.

“So I am.”

Gyro’s distrust must have shown on his features, because the man became serious.

“Lad, I have seen three generations of Zeppeli work themselves to death, ruining their health and sanity. You’ve all at heart not to become evil people, accomplishing medical miracles almost for free, the other half of the time. It would have been a lot easier to ask someone cruel to comply and allow barbaric acts going unpunished. Death penalty would have become even more inexcusable.”

For this, Gyro had no ready answer.

So the councilor spoke again:

“People are not fond of the current royalty. Me neither. You neither. The military takeover would be easy.”

“There’s still the royal guard…”

“Between those that haven’t accepted what happened to Wekapipo—one of them being murdered after a duel against the odious son of my counterpart of the Treasury—and the fact their special fighting style had been explained in detail to the Kingdom of Italy… resistance will only be short-lived.”

“Wekapipo died some weeks ago in Philadelphia.” Gyro said.

The man’s face fell a little hearing this.

It meant Gyro both knew who the guy was, and that the councilor had lied to his face a moment prior. Not the first lie. The man was a politician.

“I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask what you’ve heard of him?”

Gyro felt sorry too. If Italy had been really going to take Naples over, Wekapipo could have come home and met his sister again. He explained with a succinct speech that, yes, his father told him about the fighting style and machination, that Wekapipo had been their enemy’s minion during the race’s sixth stage, but he finally turned right around, and was killed by his former boss at the end of the seventh stage.

Once Gyro finished, the man nodded in acceptance.

“I wouldn’t have thought Gregorio would tell you about the trick we got to save Wekapipo’s life. Your father trusts you a lot. And if you want my opinion, it was wise of him to tell you.”

“Are you going back?” Gyro asked, forcing himself not to talk about his family.

“My arrival here is definitive. …I think you understand why.” The councilor added with a smug smile. “Don’t worry for your parents. After the position you took, they were strongly recommended to go to Bari, in your mother’s family. They’ll be perfectly safe out of Naples. I gave them your letter by hand.”

“You read it.”

“Of course.”

Naples’ former Justice’s councilor sighed in relief, and motioned for another long black-haired man to approach with a two-volume package and sent him away again.

“You shouldn’t come back either. Not in Naples, nor in Italy. Not now, at least. Sometimes, letting time pass is the best solution.”

Gyro already assumed it would be like that.

It needed three years for Johnny’s father to try to mend the relationship with his son. That still felt unbelievable for Johnny today. The same way Gyro wasn’t sure years would help his parents to forgive him.

Forgive him to be selfish.

Forgive him from using familial ancestral art for a ridiculous sports competition.

Forgive him for being an unwitting traitor to the Kingdom of Naples. Assuring their survival, but having them abandon everything of their life and hopes, the family home Gyro grew up included, within hours.

Gyro had nothing to do with the soon-to-be loss of independence of the city-state, but that’s what he will look like.

But Gyro differed from sixteen-year-old Johnny.

He wasn’t missing his parents.

Not exactly.

He’s missing acknowledgment, support, filial affection. It’s nothing new. He had learned years ago to survive without. Thinking about it made him sad, and Gyro felt bad for what his parents and siblings were experiencing because of him. But he didn’t need to think about it.

Ignoring his family the best he could, was also a way for Gyro not to be in need to tell his parents he had someone in his life. That he’s in love with a man, he’d never marry a woman, and too bad for the offspring he didn’t want anyway.

“Talking about King Umberto.” The councilor said again. “You need to know he wants to reform the penal code for two years already. But he also waited to have a united country. To have the Neapolitan view over it. Northern Italy’s beliefs are kinda different from our southern view.”

“…”

“Have you ever read Cesare Beccaria’s work?”

“It’s a recommended reading in law studies. So I did.”

“Your father didn’t. Thought it could endanger his duty.”

“He’s a man of principles.”

“Just like you.”

“…”

“This is the work of Zanardelli’s ministry.” The man presented, offering Gyro the two stacks of paper. “Please consider having a look and making suggestions. Regarding how things are in Naples and based on your own sensitivity. Some might be kept. Remember this is a social text as well. Those are King Umberto’s words to you and his direct offer in answer to the declarations published in newspapers and your resignation letter I opted to hand him.”

“Wait, you’re more capable than me to do that. You were the Justice’s councilor.”

The man opened an arm. “I’m a traitor, you, you’re an icon. You now have an aura nobody except you get in the country. It makes sense you’re the one to do it. Be pertinent, work hard enough, and your last name could be added to the law next to the minister’s.”

“…”

“Do the right thing, and do it right. Consider you have a week or two. That’s also your opportunity not to end your life exiled if this is not what you covet.”

“You want to place me.”

“You could say that. The work would be submitted to the man that brought the documents. He’s an Italian, a co-worker of Justice Minister Zanardelli.”

That’s too late for Gyro’s parents to forgive him. But it was not too late to absolve the Zeppeli last name. Moreover, that proposition was the embodiment of everything Gyro ever wanted those last weeks.

Not to be an executioner anymore.

Helping improve the law for his country… in a way, that’s the most accurate way to end Zeppeli’s reign as royal executioners.

Gyro had siblings that would need to find work, marry someday. An even deeper ostracism, the last torment he wanted his blood to endure.

He nodded to the chance.

“Right. Now we’re done with the tedious part, will you accept to taste this fine coffee?”

Before Gyro could agree, the former Justice’s councilor gestured to a stout man that was the owner of the place to come over.

“I’d order some of your lasagna.” He told the man.

Obviously, that wasn’t a restaurant, the shop looked like the one of a caterer.

And before Gyro could answer anything, the former councilor spoke again.

“Please. Eat at my table.”

Gyro wasn’t eager to have lunch here and now, but the offer was symbolic.

Known executioners were rejected. They can’t live where they want. They can’t marry whoever they want. They can’t feel food on market stalls—thereby the ancient cutting right established centuries ago, before the advantage was transformed into pay. They can’t eat at people’s tables without bringing bad luck.

Even at school, even at the age of five, Gyro had been eating the meal his mother cooked in a corner of the schoolyard, away from classmates.

This offer was one Gyro had to accept.

Because it meant, ‘You’re not an executioner anymore.’

Chapter Text

Gyro came back to his assigned hotel, replete with the best meal he got for entire months, and with more thoughts to consider.

During the meal he had played well, mentioning Hot Pants’ name. Trying his luck. And finally got answers.

The Justice’s councilor didn’t care about the whole topic which was of no strategic importance to him.

“Oh, yes. The American nun. Città del Vaticano is… still under special status.” He had gotten uncharacteristically talkative. “You helped with that. It’s also valued by the Kingdom of Italy. Within a year or two, once people would have forgotten about you, you could come back. Even in Campania.”

“What happened to her?”

“She left Rome for Switzerland. I heard she was offered political asylum by us. You’ll see in the documents that the law about extradition is fully at the advantage of someone like her. She’ll likely come back once she realizes.”

It meant Gyro and Johnny’s decisions indirectly helped Gyro’s country to grasp the corpse.

Yeah. His country. Naples city-state would come to an end sometime soon and become a region of the Kingdom of Italy.

It will cost people.

It cost Gyro.

It cost his family.

The only way to continue on was to hope for it to be a better change.

“You smell like food.” Were Johnny’s first words at his return.

That’s true Gyro spent several hours in a shop that cooked Italian dishes all day and was selling odorous spices and herbs. American cooking sure smelled different.

Gyro flashed him a smirk.

“Don’t be jealous, Johnny! Nyoho~”

“I ain’t envious, just notice you need a bath.”

Right.

That again.

Gyro began to believe it’s a way for Johnny to ask for intimacy. Or that he’s more concerned by hygiene than him on a daily basis as soon as he lived in a city.

“Want to take it together?” Gyro offered again.

The way Johnny looked away, a blush growing stronger on his cheeks, it was as if this were the most embarrassing thing Gyro could ask him.

“Come on. Come with me, I have things to tell you.” Gyro insisted, his voice nicer than it usually was.

Himself felt much less shy after what he let Johnny do to him. He had seen everything, touched him everywhere. Full nudity was easier.

That’s true it was sometimes more difficult to be in a relationship with someone with a disability. Gyro didn’t care if he was needed to help or compensate. But Johnny cared. It’s about pride, self-esteem.

What difference did it make if Johnny wore urine pads or whatever it was? To Gyro’s eyes, he’s hot all the same. He met him months ago and knew all too well he’s doing his best about hygiene. Maybe more than Gyro. Being called to order for the second time, he understood he’d need to step up now the race had reached its end. Not complicated. And not a problem. Gyro was used to being a doctor. Irreproachable level of cleanliness and hygiene was familiar ground.

To Gyro, Johnny felt perfect on the subject. And if he weren’t, Gyro wouldn’t tell him either.

So, whatever he’s hiding in his pants was unimportant.

All of that was true, but inexpressible.

You can’t tell the one you love exactly that.

What he could do was to let him feel desirable. Gyro had tried to do that, making good use of the mirrors around the bed. He also succeeded in Johnny getting off his pants. In full obscurity, and only the time for them to end stuff.

Gyro appreciated the effort and was willing to give him more time. As much as he wanted. Gyro figured out that Johnny also doubted his legs’ appearance. And that was something time can improve now he could move his lower limbs.

Finally, immersed face to face in a hot bath, Gyro told Johnny about everything that he talked with the Justice’s councilor. Well, not everything. Gyro didn’t dare explain the repercussions for his family. He’d tell Johnny. But not now. After all, he got no real news.

Instead, he discussed his native country’s gastronomy and how good the meal he’d eaten was. That the place wasn’t offering pizza, but he got some address that could perform wood-fire cooking, and that he’d go with Johnny soon if he wanted to.

Enjoying pizza together, it was an easy dream they could soon realize.

It wouldn’t be Neapolitan pizza.

Still it would be something.

An excuse to go out and celebrate.

After some time, his eyes were focused ardently upon Gyro, Johnny finally told:

“You look good with this hairstyle.”

Gyro raised an eyebrow. He had done the same thing as last time, hair woven in some sort of ponytail for him not to soak it into the water. That’s true he might have gotten rid of it before leaving the bathroom last week.

“Would you keep it like that to have sex?”

Gyro choked out an amused ‘What?’ a smirk displaying the gold of the grills.

Unconsciously, he began stroking Johnny’s leg that was right against him to divert himself from the compliment and embarrassment.

“I know what you’re doing!” Johnny chided.

“Oh. So what side?”

“Left!”

“You cheat, you looked at my arms.” Gyro whispered. “Close your eyes.”

“Since when did this become a rehab session?”

“Isn’t it a good idea to test things now that hot water helps veins’ dilatation?”

Gyro got less amused once he understood that having his hair up was the perfect excuse for Johnny to put love bites on him, the way he had the first time he explored his bug bites fetish on the skin of his neck.

Exploring sexuality was fulfilling. Not only from a hormonal point of view after months of celibacy, it made their relationship grow. Build intimacy.

They were doing the sexual experimentation Gyro mentioned even before he’d realized he wanted to be the one doing it with Johnny.

Johnny and a whore.

Thank God, Johnny had turned the idea down flat.

Gyro now felt so jealous, he’d better have Johnny behaving to him like people were to sluts. Even being called that if Johnny wanted to.

No way he’s telling Johnny such a thing.

Johnny was already doing whatever he wanted and whispering to Gyro’s ears too much exciting nonsense.

They had realized that conversely to what Johnny thought, he hadn’t ‘come in his pants’ the other time. Gyro had used some medic intonation to reassure when Johnny mentioned it, later. Either it had been retrograde ejaculation—something minor that also occurred even to people that weren’t having any specific medical condition—either he experienced having an orgasm without ejaculating at all.

“You came like never before, right?” Gyro verified.

Once Johnny nodded, he added:

“What’s important is that you had a good time. We’re not trying to get one of us pregnant anyway.”

That’s so mundane…

Johnny kept looking at Gyro with round eyes.

“Come on, I’m hungry.” The bastard rushed Johnny to leave their room.

They were on their way to what Gyro said was a ‘pizzeria.’

Gyro’s excitement made Johnny smile as they mounted horses.

Gyro had refused to eat in the morning. On purpose. If Johnny had a favorite meal he’s deprived for months, he’d have done the same thing. But Johnny had simple tastes. Grilled beef, pork ribs or roasted chicken usually do the trick.

“Is this sophisticated? Is your mother cooking that at home?” Johnny asked.

“God no. It’s street food. Same principle as the grilled sausages and bread sellers we ate the other day. …Never would my mother cook something like that.”

Gyro fell silent.

Talking about his family wasn’t truly taboo, but Johnny knew it was touchy. Complicated.

They entered a little shop whose discreet storefront was written in Italian. If pizza were street food in Naples, here in New York, Gyro and Johnny had the chance to get a table and sit down, to Johnny’s relief.

Gyro began to place an order. The sentence, so long, Johnny imagined Gyro was listing ingredients to put over it. So he asked.

“I ordered three for a start.”

Johnny didn’t realize when Gyro told him.

He got it when the plates arrived.

“It’s twelve inches’ diameter.” He stated. “You… knew?”

Gyro nodded as he’s cutting parts the way you’d do for a pie, the moment later, he’s already engulfing food, half burning his taste buds.

He pointed to the melted cheese covering the pizza that made threads every time he grabbed a bite.

“This, Johnny, is mozzarella.” Gyro explained, with a rare infectious genuine smile.

It’s nice, for Johnny, seeing his lover so happy about something like food. He looked younger. And Johnny might look very in love, adoration in his eyes and a large smile coming.

Johnny seized a slice, tasting the dish.

He could say he liked it. But what felt brilliant was the fact Gyro shared something like that with him. Youth memory. Home memory. In the shape of a romantic meal for two. The last time they did something like that was in Milwaukee. They had been in a rush, time counted, every minute crucial. 

In no time, the first set had disappeared.

After eating the equivalent of half or each pizza, Johnny stopped, while Gyro ordered the last one.

Johnny could have said something like ‘don’t get yourself sick,’ but whatever. This was a one-time thing. Both of them craved so much to eat more, or to eat better during the race.

They could and would enjoy it all their might.

Forgetting how temporary everything around them was.

Chapter Text

Gyro hadn’t paid attention to dates. He’d been busy reading the soon-to-be penal code he’s given, worrying more about how many days he had left before he had to give it back than anything else.

So it hit as a surprise the moment Johnny handed him some leopard patterned scarf.

The fabric, obviously strong and precious with the way it looked and felt against his fingertips.

A perfect gift.

…for a woman.

“You’re unbearable.” Gyro grunted, seizing it and crossing his arms in annoyance.

A moment, he even believed Johnny had succeeded in making him blush, but Gyro contained the emotion, catching a breath, before the redness grew everywhere on his face.

“What is it with all your gifts? I thought you got no money.”

“I’m not showering you with gifts. It’s your birthday, I wanted something you could keep. Don’t you do that in Naples?” Johnny defended himself.

Yeah. Gyro had forgotten.

For him, he turned twenty-five the moment he wrote his resignation letter.

Not today.

“Not in my family.”

Small gifts were not associated with celebrations, Gyro’s parents weren’t materialists and hadn’t wanted their children to come sentimental to objects. Gyro had almost every book he wanted if he sold it back or gave it to one of his brothers once he read it. And equitation material was not bought for any special event.

Gyro knew he’d get sentimental over this scarf.

It pissed him off.

Johnny rummaged in his belongings getting some ticket’s duplicate out.

“I ain’t broke anymore. I’d forgotten I’ve won a horse-race bet recently.”

He handed him the precious ticket he had kept in his travel diary.

Gyro looked at it, and felt like an idiot reading his own name on a ticket bet as Steel Ball Run’s winner.

“The fuck…”

The date upon it was late October. Obviously in Kansas City.

“How many bucks did you put on that?” He said, voice blank.

The odds were incredibly high.

“Don’t know. Everything I had on me at that moment. Maybe $950. I got as much as the guy who arrived eighth. He was right after me in the bank row. He’s so fuming, I had to pacify him.”

That implied the guy gained a new hole in the calf. Johnny was not someone patient. Nor someone that agreed to let people piss him off.

 Gyro looked at him in disbelief.

“That’s why you were broke back then.”

“I didn’t care. After what happened in Cañon City, I wanted to be able to show you I trusted you. I’ve forgotten I even have it. I found it back the other day and got paid five days ago. They were as white as a sheet after I gave them the original copy of that.”

Discovering this, it was as nice a gift as the fabric against Gyro’s hand.

The worst was he kinda liked it… both the pattern and the ‘You could use it to cover love bites you don’t want other people to see,’ Johnny had said to annoy him just before Gyro had accepted what was the first birthday gift of his life.

Door full open, every afternoon, Johnny was getting rehab in the four steps in front of their suite, using the banister. He’s not trying to get up or down but worked on the way to raise the foot, use the leg.

Gyro had moved the strange blue sofa to be able to watch while sitting and reading Italy’s new penal code. He sometimes wanted to take notes, so Johnny lent his pen. It was impossible to use a quill, lying here, playing some Roman emperor role.

Only missed juicy grapes and spicy red wine to get the full trick.

The hotel workers gave them the weirdest looks when they noticed what they were doing, as well as their neighbors. There were perhaps four doors on their floor. All with nonsensical stairs in front of them.

This was the third day. Gyro had gotten bitten by some bug in the stables, a bump on the arm, and he let Johnny see it on purpose doing the rehab, toying with it more often than he felt the need to scratch it.

“Put some sleeves on!”

“What for?”

“You know why.” Johnny hissed.

“Make me.” Gyro flashed him a suggestive smile, raising an eyebrow to emphasize.

It took ridiculous time for Johnny to climb.

The door still wide open, they started to fight, playing up.

Johnny made Gyro fall from the ridiculous fainting couch.

And they burst into laughter.

Too bad for the loud thud over the parquet wooden floor.

Thank God they stayed decent. After a minute a maid stopped in the middle of the corridor, staring at them wide-eyed, wondering if she had to call someone, clean white sheets folded in her arms, a fallen pillow on the ground.

Stephen Steel learned about the ruckus, and decided he didn’t want to know what that was about or meet them. They were grown-up men, not teenagers fooling around in need of supervision. He’s busy enough.

Consequence was, as a lot of other little uneventful incidents occurred, the race promoter chose to insist with the police they needed to end their investigations. Using the argument, having those forty people that lived alone in the middle of nowhere with only their horse for months would end up making way too much harm to the good establishment they were sleeping in.

Soon enough, everybody was cleared and allowed to leave the city or even the country.

Gyro got to work on the law text to the Astor, then to the Lenox Library, while Johnny built back some strength in his leg muscles. Not too much. He can’t feel if he hurt himself. 

Patience. Progressiveness. It felt easier; now, he’d already accomplished so much.

A few days later, Gyro met the man the former Justice’s councilor introduced to him.

He had done his best concerning the reading he’s asked to do. The text was a lot of work, and Gyro could entirely imagine all the time and energy so many people put in it. How he’s nothing in front of it. Even if, because of who he was and what he accomplished, he’s asked to stick his oar in.

No more death penalty.

No more torture nor hard labor allowed.

No legal consequences for children less than fourteen, nor eighteen in most cases.

There were thoughts over methods of investigation. Extenuating circumstances considered. Release on bail if appropriate.

Accountability was still something complicated. Perhaps Gyro felt more inclined to presumption of innocence than the text was, but the way people will be judged would be more supervised. So Gyro wrote about it. Regarding the way testimonies and proofs should be evaluated.

He beat his brain out to remember cases he knew something about in Naples. That’s realizing there were other victims of the system that he had seen, met, or even killed. Victims that Gyro’s father had killed.

Gregorio Zeppeli hadn’t wanted to know about anything. In hindsight, it’s the evidence he’d recognized for a long time how unfair the Naples system was.

His own way to cope and accept his destiny.

As Gyro was told, the new penal code was almost a social text.

It allowed the right to strike.

Differentiated abortion from infanticide.

It also decriminalized homosexuality.

That last one mattered very much to Gyro. It’s another sign he might come back home one day. With Johnny. He never dared imagine it before. King Umberto could not have known about Gyro and Johnny. Nobody knew in Italy. But it’s proof people like Gyro were welcomed. It made Gyro realize he’d like for Johnny to discover his country, his city, since it’s going to be a better place to live.

The dark spot was there weren’t a lot of measures about disproportionate domestic violence toward children and women.

Gyro’s view over it was more the one of a medic than a jurist. He had seen all too often his mother welcoming fellow women of all ages, sometimes with children, sometimes alone. Marks of strangulation hidden under a shawl or clothes. Huge aching bruises and beating raw that Zeppeli medical practice offered ointment to ease the pain and scarring over. What happened to Wekapipo’s sister, it happened a lot. Just, not to the same extent. The bastard had been protected because his family had a privileged position. Gyro had also written down some ideas about it, unconvinced any would be retained.

Already as a teenager in the medical practice, Gyro had seen, had gone through bad stuff.

Pregnant women who had been kicked in the abdomen, and they encouraged to go home to their parents. Because Zeppeli couldn’t hide them. Only heal.

Three broken ribs, ruptured pancreas, internal hemorrhaging, internal hematomas and kidneys that also took quite a beating.

That’s one of the worst consequences of an unfair marital thrashing Gyro had to manage as a doctor. It’s not normal. It’s not his job to fix the mess caused by drunkards or proud entitled ones with anger management issues. It enraged him against such poor excuses of men. Whereas, it’s not his place to feel that way. He too could be temperamental. Had times it’d been hard to handle pressure. Gyro had no right to meddle. He had no right to use a Steel Ball against the husband in such a way he could never do that again.

Or there were those who were inflicted invisible pain. There’s nothing better to make someone obey than a good kick in the liver. Once frozen, immobilized, it’s even easier to inflict whatever punishment you see fit. Destruction of personal items. Other people of the family getting a beating. Sometimes acts of torture, like cigarette burns or cooking tool burns. Those, preferably hidden under clothes.

A slap or occasional spanking, seriously, that’s not the worst things. Gyro had once thought it wasn’t so bad, and probably even deserved. No husband was going to complain about a slap, a shove or an object thrown to his face.

That’s ignoring the fact that violence is an unhealthy dynamic. With consequences deeper than fleeting physical pain.

This was something Gyro had needed to learn. To experience.

He’d raised his hand to Johnny twice. Once, he’d lost control of his nerves, feeling insulted. The other had been a reflex action as they were both drowning in the Mississippi.

Gyro hadn’t thought anything of it.

He’d considered it appropriate. So much that, under the influence of alcohol, he’d provoked Johnny until Johnny thrust him a gutless punch. Gyro knew himself was stupid when drunk. Johnny’s reflex had been to feel horrible, to apologize.

But Gyro had begun to understand during rehab. The way Johnny sometimes tensed up when he was doing something wrong, or the rare times he’d been complaining, had given Gyro something to think about.

Wait, is he expecting a punch?

Gyro had seen it once. Then twice, then thrice. He’d always acted as if nothing had happened. Deep inside, something clicked.

Fuck, I hate this. I hate how it makes me look and feel. I don’t want someone I care so much to be afraid of me…

The final nail in the coffin of the validity of domestic violence had been that spanking Gyro had taken. It wasn’t conjugal violence. Definitely not. Johnny had almost made sure Gyro liked it. It had the affectionate side of one, ‘don’t you dare die’ and had been disguised as a game. Gyro was willing to play. He was absolutely not averse to something more… invigorating than a caress or a full-on grope. But for ‘real’ reasons?

I don’t mind being considered an idiotic moron sometimes and get my butt playfully slapped in retaliation. But not by surprise. Not by a unilateral decision.

It was hard for Gyro to swallow how much he enjoyed just one bit of benevolent humiliation. Still, the line between play and reality seemed frail.

The benefit of what had happened: Gyro now had the experience of ‘suffering’ it. And it sucked. He understood how much, apart from consensual sex, it sucked.

Gyro refused to discuss it with Johnny. Talking about it would mean admitting he was a moron. It would also be an uncomfortable conversation. Johnny probably didn’t want to elaborate on his experience of violence.

Like Gyro, Johnny was a man. Unwilling to complain when things went wrong.

Gyro hadn’t been taught to open up about things.

At home, forgiveness, acceptance and comfort took one single form: showing that everything was all right.

That’s what Gyro used to do. Smiling at the world even in times of doubt.

Gyro met the man in the little Italy delicatessen they had seen each other, with the two books, his own notes, and the golden cup.

He and Johnny were leaving in a matter of days, and Gyro hadn’t found what to do with the beautiful bulky cup. Then the solution became obvious.

“To offer to the King with my high regards in recognition of the honor he granted me.”

A pompous way to say, ‘thank you.’

The black-haired man in front of him only nodded.

“Is it a way to reach you if needed?”

“I’ll be in Louisville, Kentucky, within six weeks.”

“Expect a letter back there.”

The man got up and left, his boat would weigh anchor in a few hours, he said. Heading up right to Genoa.

The direction, Gyro once believed was his only possible path, but he’s relieved not to cross.

Today, they were heading west.

- ✩ END OF PART II: VICTORY

Chapter Text

At first, Hot Pants had not understood Diego Brando’s reaction toward her. Neither the one of their world that had chosen to get hit by a fatal blow for her, nor this other one, Valentine summoned in an ego trip that cost him his life.

Maybe she’d looked in love, kneeling over the cadaver of this man’s alter ego.

It had been nothing Christian, spending hours burning dead bodies. Ashes, thrown to the wind of the ocean. Salty tears, dried long ago, lips chapped by elements and dehydration.

She had come to understand once over the boat leaving for Europe. Because of the too many times she had thrown up over the railing. She had tried to remember her menses. Conditions of the race were so tough; since last October she had none.

What if…

Hot Pants tried to stop thinking about it. She’d been stressed out for weeks. Her body, deprived of essentials for months. 

She worked out her denial. This would put her in so much trouble… And at the same time, that could maybe make her happy.

Dio had been a bastard and an unbeatable upstart.

Probably he didn’t really care about her, as a person.

Probably he had done what he had done over the presumption she could save him and losing the one of them with the healing stand was the first step on the road to defeat.

Or perhaps dinosaur senses allowed him to get the scent of gestation hormones.

Perhaps he knew before her.

After that, like a remembrance from another life, came an unspeakable impression upon Hot Pants.

Johnny Joestar had predicted it.

She remembered the accusative, “Are you a nun?”

“When you’re at your hometown… Do you spend your days as a regular woman? …have you fallen in love with people?”

All those words were likely engraved in her memory.

They had been out of place.

They had been a sign. An augur of everything that happened to her after.

Her relationship with Diego Brando had been as fleeting as a mayfly’s life.

Still it changed everything.

Forever.

Was Johnny’s inquisitiveness, curiosity only?

Perhaps it had been inspired by something, someone else.

Him.

He heard voices in Gettysburg.

His.

Johnny Joestar created the impression he gave up the corpse. But there wasn’t any end to his story with the relic. Truth was: he hadn’t seen, hadn’t touched anything since he had lost everything to Valentine.

And now, she’s taking the corpse from him half the world away.

It wouldn’t be enough.

This needed an end.

But Johnny Joestar’s trajectory wasn’t her concern anymore.

The first step for Hot Pants was to go to the Vatican, offering them the corpse.

The second was to negotiate. Negotiate her leave from holy orders. Asking more specific information about Dario Brando, and the possibility for her to start a new life.

The only thing she knew about Dio was how much he hated his father, and craved to terminate him. The old man was a petty crook hidden in Switzerland St. Moritz. Not a long run from Rome.

A matter of days.

And she still had months to set up her life.

It meant getting rid of Diego’s scumbag of a father. Permanently. Diego would have liked it and if she ever had to be a mom, it wasn’t for that deadbeat to steal his grandchild’s inheritance.

That implied committing murder obviously.

Holy orders taught you that making people die was God’s decision. That murder led to Hell. That’s why they had sent a girl to get her hands dirty in the race. Girls were the ones tempted by the Devil. They were the sinners, impure by their bleeding.

Whatever.

Hot Pants had wanted God to forgive her for the little brother she had failed to protect. Her survival instinct having the horrifying consequence she had fed her own blood to a bear. She’d been a child. A deceptive one. One, religion had been the sole salvation to be something other than a horrible child becoming a horrible adult.

That’s why she hung on to her own guilt.

If Hot Pants were forgetting the guilt, what would happen to her in the afterlife?

Dio Brando wasn’t someone that believed you should be forgiven nor was Hot Pants.

Things were like they were.

And facts were Hot Pants had something she could protect again, after years.

Maybe it was God’s answer to her prayers.

It took a lot of time to go to England after that. European newspapers barely talked about the Steel Ball Run anymore. Gyro Zeppeli’s long-nosed face disappeared from the front pages.

She’d gotten a medal from Diego.

They were indeed arrangements made by the man. And even without marriage, they could work. She’s right to have come right away, inheritance would have been recovered by the United Kingdom otherwise. The collection was conditioned to the baby being delivered and a copy of the birth certificate acknowledging they were alive.

There’s money. Enough money to buy a home. Enough money for her not to work. Enough to pay tuition and even a racehorse or two.

The kid would get the life her little brother hadn’t because he’s dead.

They would get the life that their father hadn’t because he’s poor and lonely.

Once back in Italy, she was offered to establish in Naples. Gyro Zeppeli’s hometown. This one of all. The instability of the city, the perfect moment from the Vatican’s point of view.

That’s how Hot Pants, aka Jane Brown before she entered the race, became Giovanna Mareafiori.

Gyro Zeppeli had once written two letters the evening of his Steel Ball Run’s victory.

Two letters that left the American territory the day after, crossing the Atlantic Ocean on a private boat like the one that landed on New York May the 22^nd, 1890.

The man sent by the Naples’ Justice’s councilor had been whey-faced since the discourse.

His English was barely fluent, but a pocket dictionary helped him consider how serious things were once he’d read newspapers.

Within a six-day period, he had been dropping the anchor again in Naples.

His lack of composure had made the Justice’s councilor smile.

The man knew already through the transatlantic telegrams he had been sent.

Both letters were soon opened and read.

The first, he’s the addressee.

The issue is systemic. Young Marco Callegari’s situation is a mockery of justice. The King’s autocracy in matters of justice leaves me no choice but not to go back to Naples and refuse the four century duty that should have been mine a few weeks before my twenty-fifth birthday. Killing innocent people for political reasons is not acceptable. Sentencing children to death should also offend and enrage people. Reality is nobody cares but the executioner.
That’s not the society I want to contribute to.
Making sure the culprit is guilty should be our first concern. It is not. The King’s and your concern had been to find someone suitable to enter an American horse race, the Steel Ball Run. Not by asking, by plotting. I could accept the manipulation toward myself, but I can’t accept the consequences over other people’s lives. Namely, putting in jeopardy an innocent nine-year-old’s life by imprisoning him in what should feel like forever to him. I have no guarantee a similar plot would not happen again, in ten years, two years, or even next month. I don’t trust the ones I was supposed to serve anymore, and it can’t be fixed.
I only hope you wouldn’t hold my family responsible. It is a real incertitude. Holding the family of a perpetrator accountable is common in unequal systems. I pledge before God they knew nothing about it, and the only letter they got from me is sent the same date as the present letter and its purpose is to apologize. If anything happens to them, I bet journalists would have a tremendous time putting worldwide articles explaining how I am right. This is not about my disrepute anymore. This is about state’s disrepute.

Please accept, Sir, the expression of my high consideration.

That’s even greater than what the Justice’s councilor had expected.

Gyro Zeppeli was a man of potential.

No way to lose that piece to senile, cruel and self-centered Dell’Ovo.

Obviously, that letter was proof of lese-majesty.

That one, the councilor need to give it to the Kingdom of Italy that had been paying and flipped him three years before.

The second letter was private.

Some scribble from a son to his parents.

The Justice’s councilor knew Zeppeli well. Gyro was the third generation who he’s the main interlocutor. He could guess what he’s saying. Never could Gregorio have written down, or even thought by himself, the ideas exposed in the first one.

But if there’s a chance the letter had an unexpected element in it, the councilor had to read it first. Those Zeppeli were secretive people. As much as they were, they’re both over a lap ahead.

No surprise.

Which surprise was he expecting?

A marriage announcement with an American girl?

He shook his head and folded the letter back in its envelope.

The Justice’s councilor didn’t know why, but he believed there might be someone behind such a powerful evolution.

The best candidate, this friend or ally, everyone read the name in newspapers.

Johnny Joestar.

It’s also a name he’d read in some Vatican’s report about the supposed true objective of the American race.

Written by a woman whose alias was Hot Pants.

The thing—relic or memento—she brought back, a few days prior to the letters he was reading.

Some other racer had been central in most elements.

Johnny Joestar.

The young man had sacrificed his place and chances into the race.

He had also seemed to have given up the relic to the American nun working as foreign agent for the Vatican.

It looked like an incredible dedication coming from a pro-jockey that had every chance to win.

The Justice’s councilor had chosen to end his reasoning here.

He didn’t need to know.

He’s not interested either.

“Please go get horses ready.” He told the man that just got back.

“Yes Sir.”

From now, events would come faster and faster.

He must leave Naples.

As did every individual sharing with Gyro the name Zeppeli.

Chapter Text

Gyro and Johnny were camping as it suited them.

Free nights.

Free water.

Free food as they hunt rabbits, partridges, pheasants and other small game.

And Johnny preferred it to civilization.

It’s strange for Gyro to contemplate crossing the United States for the third time in less than a year. With any other country, it could have felt boredom and stupid. But Johnny’s parents live 800 miles away from the East Coast.

They had talked together about what they wanted to do. The way they wanted to live their lives.

Johnny asked Gyro if he wanted to work as a doctor. There were great hospitals. Or he could have opened a private practice. He implied he’s thinking Gyro had a talent for it. Yes, there were the steel balls, but he essentially spent years learning anatomy. He’s also precise, and creative for rehabilitation. Johnny could live on the East Coast, he’d shrugged. Mounting horses, having a small ranch or being a jockey again. All of this was fine, but neither was what Johnny really craved to do.

So Gyro had pushed away without hesitating everything related to medicine.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t miss being a doctor. Gyro was associating his talent and knowledge with his father. His family. The spin was a crucial part of Gyro’s identity. He didn’t feel worthy to use steel balls that way.

Without surprise, Gyro hadn’t received any answer to his letter. They'd had plenty of time. Gyro’s parents hadn’t wanted to write a reply. They were never writing, no matter what. The pain of disappointment and loneliness weighed on Gyro’s shoulder, but he had been expecting this outcome.

He wasn’t good enough or deserving enough for his family to create an exception.

Gyro had made his choice and now had to assume the consequences.

Rejection.

Next idea had been to travel back, Johnny reminding them of Mountain Tim’s cowboy life. They could do it, right?

They’d be alone, earning money watching sheep and cow grazing. Might be fun. An experience. The names and places mentioned by Mountain Tim were in Wyoming. The other end of the country.

Doing such a journey… they’ll likely go through Kentucky.

So they chose to go to Johnny’s family on the way.

Two days ago, Johnny had sent a telegram to his family. He planned to spend some hours of the early afternoon visiting his parents. Or rather, his mother, as George Joestar had insisted upon it.

There was a little guilt trip in the manner he did. 

Johnny wasn’t sure his mother wasn’t ill or something for his father to make her a central point of his arguments.

Gyro believed she’s fine. Reassuring Johnny with a few words. If Anne Joestar had not been in a good condition, his father would have told Johnny for him to rush to her bedside. 

The idea, a consolation, even if Johnny wouldn’t know for sure before he got there.

When they arrived, a little before three o’clock, some servant announced to Johnny that, ‘Sir was working outside.’

It’s prime news.

For a moment, Johnny even hoped he wouldn’t have to face his father at all.

The obvious decorum of the manor made Gyro a little ill at ease. Noble residences, not places usually welcoming executioners in Naples. Even former ones. Supposing that kind of redemption existed at all in collective imagination.

“Are you sure I should come? I could wait for you in the stables or something.”

Johnny tensed, unaware of Gyro’s edginess.

“You’re invited too. Father said so.”

The servant bowed his head.

“Dr. Zeppeli is indeed welcome.” He dismissed Gyro’s stunned grimace hearing the ‘doctor’ title, and added, “Sir asks if you’re staying for dinner.”

“No way. I have commitments tonight.” Johnny answered back.

That was absolutely false.

Gyro waited for the servant to have explained to them in which part of the manor they’d be hosted and have left, letting Johnny dismounted, seizing his new foldable crutches, and inside a carrying bag with a strap, the fine boots his father had given Johnny in New York.

“Aren’t we camping tonight?”

“I don’t want to eat here. It stresses me out.” 

“Oh.”

“I don’t have good enough table manners.”

“Johnny… You have as good table manners as me. Might even be better.” Gyro pointed out in disbelief.

“Not good enough for my father.”

The manor was as big as it looked from the outside. Well kept, it’s proof the Joestar business was still flourishing.

“What’s a drawing room?” Gyro asked as they both were walking up the stairs. 

There were like thirty steps. Hell for Johnny’s legs. And the evidence his parents didn’t think before choosing the place for their guests to stay.

“Some boudoir. You know, a woman’s sitting room?”

Sure, sitting would be appropriate after that.

Johnny’s mother was waiting for them in the room with a maid busy pouring the tea in delicate cups. Johnny knew that one. His mother’s personal servant, coming from England with his parents when they left for America.

Short and slender, Anne Joestar was wearing a plain Victorian dress, her blond hair in a bun held in place with a large comb. She looked soft, welcoming. Worrying straight away about how her son was doing. If he didn’t have too much trouble going up there. 

She looked as fine as her husband said she was. Johnny even noticed she had a less depressed, healthy glow. Perhaps she’s that happy he’s here.

Anne also threw a curious look at Gyro, observing cautiously how the two of them were interacting. She must have noticed the way Gyro pulled a chair away for Johnny to sit down without being asked.

For Johnny, being there, in a house he had gotten kicked out years before, knowing the only few things his mother had been able to do to help him have caused violence he esteemed he’s responsible fed a guilt feeling.

“Has your father told you we preserved your retrospective notebook? I have kept completing it for you. If you want it back…”

George Joestar had mentioned it. But it still surprised Johnny. Even upset him a little.

“It’s okay, Mom. Keep it.” He said.

That’s when Gyro chose to speak.

“Mrs. Joestar, may I have a look?”

Johnny cringed, but Gyro got his hands over his teenage notebook anyway.

Thank God, he wasn’t writing anecdotes in that one. The other one had been full of reviews about other racers, his mixed feelings toward his father’s indifference, and one-night stands. All the times he tried something new or experienced something great with boys and girls both… That diary, Johnny had taken it with him thanks to his mother after he left. And he’d burned it after he ended up in a wheelchair.

He had not wanted to remember everything he’d never experience again, every time he’s looking at the cover.

Gyro was absorbed in the book, taking time to read the press articles.

Johnny felt embarrassed, didn’t want to be there. The mansion, the familiar furniture, the usual stiffness of the servants gave him the feeling he’s suffocating. Painful memories of daily fear, anguish. The omnipresent tension, at any moment, Johnny’s father could come and the situation to spin out of control.

George wasn’t there.

Johnny’s relief died even sooner than he would have thought. Powerful remembrance of what it was to grow up as a child then teenager in this household oppressed his chest. He turned his head toward the mantel, meeting the gaze of a twelve-year-old Nicholas whose picture took center stage.

This wasn’t helping him to feel any better.

Johnny apologized, seized crutches, and limped out of the drawing room.

His brother’s boots stuck under his arm.

Anne Joestar’s bearing wasn’t any different, proof of strength, experience, and habit to suppress emotion.

“This is Johnny’s older brother.” Gyro stated, glimpsing from the picture to the woman’s lovely face.

She nodded.

“My son Nicholas. He left us several years ago. …Did Jonathan talk to you about his brother?”

There’s hope in her voice.

“Not really. There’s family resemblance.”

Gyro couldn’t tell her he recognized the boy from the effect of Civil War Stand. And it was true the two brothers were kinda alike. Looked like her.

“Do you have brothers and sisters, Mr. Zeppeli?”

“I have four younger siblings.” Gyro’s distant tune on the subject was not discernible enough to stop the discussion. And he was inclined to make the effort. 

Gyro had understood Johnny’s family had been destroyed by the death of their eldest son. All family members scarred in their own way. After that, Johnny had been kicked out, and suffered an attack that handicapped him for life. Gyro took some more minutes to browse the book, skimming most recent articles he already read in newspapers. And finally, he opened a pocket, going through pictures he got—the ones he and Johnny had done after Gyro’s sixth stage’s victory—and slid Johnny’s between two pages before he returned the book.

Anne Joestar frowned slightly. A soft smile appeared on her lips the moment she discovered the photograph. She caressed the corner with her fingertips.

The first and only picture she got of Johnny as an adult.

“Thank you very much.” She whispered. 

Gyro didn’t raise.

“You’re a good man.” She insisted, her words more powerful. As if she were not only thanking him for the picture, but for what he’d done for her son. Or for his final words after his victory. “Your parents must be proud of you.”

“I doubt that.”

Anne was tactful enough not to insist, but her face wore the same expression Johnny was when he was stubborn about something. Whatever consequences could be for him, because he’s convinced he’s right.

“If you read newspapers, you know they can’t.” Gyro continued on.

“Having children is more complicated than that. His father was… mad against Jonathan. He stood his ground for years, but he had never gotten rid of his belongings. And we always read articles about him. Even when they were getting my husband annoyed. He had plenty of occasions to destroy the book you read, but he never did. …Children are complicated.”

“…”

“You haven’t seen your family since last year. If you send your parents a picture like the one you gave me, they’d treasure it no matter what.”

“My father despises physical possessions and whatever implying emotional attachment.”

“Oh. …he’s very Christian.”

“You might say that.”

“You know; differences of opinions are predictable. Parents could disapprove and still love you.”

“…”

“Your life is… yours.”

To the way she spoke, Gyro understood it was her opinion, but not her husband’s. And perhaps the true motive for her not to have gone to New York. Unless Mr. Joestar believed large cities’ streets were not meant for women.

The lady of the house… whose place was inside the house.

“Maya.” Anne Joestar called her lady’s maid. “Bring us some more white jasmine tea, please.”

The old woman bowed her head and left, rushing not to leave her mistress alone with an unknown man too long.

Once Maya left, Anne’s gaze sharpened, blue eyes so similar to Johnny’s this instant Gyro could have mistaken them.

“Don’t take it upon yourself. I don’t mind if you two are a thing.” She started, unshed tears rushing to her eyes. “He’s my son. I love him. I see you adore him. Please continue taking good care of him.”

And she stood up, putting once again the notebook over the bookshelf, refraining from crying, containing emotions.

A second later, the servant was back there with a burning teapot.

Anne’s fingers traveled on some hardcovers, and she took out a large book, damaged by time and crashes on the floor or a wall, Johnny’s mother was most likely not responsible for.

“Do you want to see some childhood pictures?”

Her eyes lighted up, and she had a discreet, perhaps involuntary smile on her lips.

Johnny would hate it if he learned about it. But no way Gyro said no to such a suggestion, he was coming from a family with no photographs, no letters, no reminder from other generations, only oral culture. More things he didn’t have to regret now he had left everything.

Gyro nodded eagerly.

Chapter Text

After a few minutes, the door of the drawing room broke open, George Joestar coming in, his day of work obviously over early.

“Jonathan isn’t there?”

“He left several minutes ago.” His wife replied calmly.

The answer was neutral, but didn’t please George.

The man glared at the table, considering the book of photographs.

“For God’s sake Anne, stop boring your guests with your old wives’ fads.”

The cutting comment was totally uncalled for.

For a second, Gyro didn’t know how to react in a way that wouldn’t make it worse.

Then said, voice confident, “Sir, be sure your wife offers me a great welcome.”

George looked askance a moment, recognizing Gyro’s presence only now. He looked torn between two impressions but chose not to think more closely, leaving to explore other rooms. Thinking aloud, rambling about the fact nobody could inform him in his own house.

Gyro empathized right away with Johnny.

His gaze focused over a portrait with both parents, a kid around seven and a toddler that obviously was some two-year-old Johnny with his two shiny blond cowlicks upright like antennae. He’s super funny. And so, so adorable.

Gyro didn’t realize how much his face had expressed his displeasure once George Joestar left. He relaxed again looking over the picture. He understood better why Johnny was so circumspect about coming here.

Anne Joestar saw him wrinkle his nose, but said nothing. Didn’t try to know more or discuss what happened.

Withdrawn.

No way she misinterpreted his pout as against her, right?

Gyro glanced at her. 

He didn’t know how to express what he wanted. 

How were you comforting someone your mother’s age after her husband used degrading words in front of you, a stranger, and ruined the mood doing so?

“I’m not someone tactful, so I’ll be blunt: I had a very good time until your husband talked to you. Could we do as if he’d never been there?”

It was indeed straightforward, and perhaps clumsy.

Gyro might be expert at keeping his cool on a battleground or doing medical acts, but it’s different with human relationships.

And by his words, it’s not self-evident he’s upset because of the public humiliation his host suffered or because he had to stay calm and compose a diplomatic answer.

Gyro can’t say how, but he felt in his gut he’d be thanked with another exasperating, ‘Mr. Zeppeli.’

So he said, “By the way, I never understand what some of you all have, always using titles in this country. I’m Gyro.”

Johnny’s mother first looked astonished. Then she looked away, pressing her lips, the corner tilting up.

After a few seconds of confusion, Gyro finally grasped she’s containing a laugh. 

Johnny had been sitting in Nicholas’ room, silent, praying for his brother’s soul’s sake. Thinking back about everything that happened since the moment, he’d been in this very room for the last time. 

How things changed since he got so vividly reminded by Axl Ro’s stand. 

How he kept Gyro in his life.

How he perhaps had avenged his brother.

What Nicholas would think of him?

Johnny can’t know.

He didn’t dare imagine.

It would have been impossible for Nicholas to picture the man Johnny had become.

In every way.

His contemplation was suddenly broken by another presence to the door. Making Johnny jump on his crutches as fast as his unreceptive legs allowed him, his haste making it even more painful to keep unmoving, standing up.

Since his death, Nicholas’ room had always been a sanctuary. 

Impenetrable.

A place all of the family respected a lot but can’t stand the others to take place. There’s also Nicholas’ grave, in the family vault, but Johnny never went to reflect back there.

He’d rather be in this room reminding him how Nicholas was when he was alive.

Johnny knew, now; his presence here had been taken as a try to substitute at the irreplaceable.

Him, the unworthy useless untalented youngest.

The exact same way his father always despised the fact Nicholas allowed Johnny to borrow clothes. Looking ridiculous as they were way too broad for him. George tolerated it only because Nicholas enjoyed it, finding his younger brother’s attitude endearing when, as a father, he can’t see anything but utterly ludicrous behavior.

That’s the reason the boots created such an outraged brawl.

“The glass case had been fixed.” A husky voice said, George walking further into the room.

“I’m leaving.” Johnny hastened, recognizing straight away his father’s intonation.

His father sounded ‘normal.’ As normal as the different times, they met in New York. But Johnny’s distrust was too deeply rooted for him to react differently.

“You can stay. He’s your brother.”

“…”

“You are not keeping the boots.” George said, eyes fixed near Nicholas’ wardrobe.

“It’s better to give them back. I travel on horseback. They’re not my size anymore.”

After a moment, George spoke again.

“You can return anytime you want, Jonathan.”

“I won’t.” Johnny answered, shooting from the hip.

George suppressed a sigh, looking away.

“I know.” He unexpectedly admitted, his melancholic eyes, showing he might realize how much he’d fucked up his relation with his son, and his try of reconciliation. “Still. Know you can.”

“You don’t want me around.” 

Johnny’s words sounded like a threat or recommendation.

Not something to dispute.

‘You’d rather have me dead.’ Johnny’s heart was howling.

Those awful words George spoke to him, more than anything else, nothing could ever erase them.

After the horrible and inevitable emotional shock of hearing this and being kicked out; after craving a suspension, a clemency that never happened despite his sorrow and ultra-vulnerable medical condition… Years before, any benevolence toward him could have made Johnny accept thankfully the open hand.

He had hoped to hear something like that even on the Steel Ball Run’s starting line.

Today, it didn’t embody a dream or salvation anymore.

That’s too late.

And remembering his father’s most recent criticisms in New York, Johnny can’t help his feeling of bellicosity to swarm. Reminding him, he was not afraid anymore. Reminding him, since New York, at least his father seemed to listen. Even in disagreement, he understood words, concepts, and the limit of Johnny’s patience this time he used an offensive word to Gyro’s origins.

He’d been respectful since.

Maybe he deserved Johnny’s sincerity.

“Do you remember the day Nicholas had fallen?”

That was an understatement not to use any vocabulary linked to death.

George’s throat tightened as he nodded.

Of course he remembered. He had been there. Jonathan too, he realized, even if further. 

“Dio was there. With you. And Nick.”

“…”

“That’s him, Dio, that reacted first when it happened. He claimed that he had seen a mouse scaring the horse.”

“…”

“Tell me, Father, have you ever seen a mouse in the middle of a racecourse, fifty yards away?”

George turned pale and pressed his lips together.

“I never have.” Johnny continued, looking his father right in the eyes. 

“…”

“You told me you didn’t understand, asked me why I fought Dio the way I did.” He paused. “I did it to avenge my brother. No one would ever see him again and I have no regret.”

Johnny’s hands grasped the handles of his crutches better, and he hobbled out of the room.

He’d just admitted murder.

No way he assisted the consequences of his words. 

No way for him to see horror, incomprehension, or worse, approval.

Johnny didn’t need people to praise to the sky such antisocial behavior.

All he wanted was ignorance and silent acceptance.

He wanted Gyro’s company.

Once Johnny came again in the drawing room, he looked upset.

That’s all it needed for Gyro to break the silence, being so much his usual self, with a ‘Nyohoho’ to lighten the mood, that Johnny instantly forgot his mother and the servant were still there.

This, not at all the interaction you expected from a patient with his personal practitioner.

“What are you doing by the way?” Johnny frowned.

“Watching pictures of you.”

Johnny’s dismayed stare was something else.

Gyro added with a satisfied air:

“The cowlicks you had are adorable. You looked like Tusk Act 1.”

“You’re lucky you’re sitting.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Gyro raised an eyebrow and let out an obnoxious smirk.

That’s Johnny’s mistake.

What was he even implying?

That he would have smacked Gyro’s ass in retaliation? For some stupid joke?

Johnny hadn’t stood the confrontation with his father as well as he thought he had.

It’d have been easy to forget how much sparring with his progenitor had always upset him.

Still was.

“Sorry.” He said.

Gyro got up, closing the book, and placing it with care near Johnny’s mother.

“Thank you for sharing your keepsakes with me.”

He nodded at her, and his hand came nearer to Johnny, making him fear he’s going to hold hands. At Johnny’s parents’. As if they were lovebirds of both genders.

Instead Gyro gave his left forearm a friendly, masculine, pat.

“Let’s go. You have to show me your room or whatever the place all your trophies are, Mr. Jockey.”

The room was… surprisingly in a good condition.

'It was there.' Johnny had said, expecting to find anything but his teenage bedroom.

But there it was. Each piece of furniture to its proper place.

His father hadn’t thrown into the fire the trophies Johnny had won, nor did he’d thrown the books and any other trinket in the garbage.

The dusting had even been done. Curtains clean, and bed with fresh linen.

It felt alive.

It can’t be true. Not with his father kicking him out. Disowning him.

Since when was it looking like that? Yesterday? Last January? Longer?

Had his mother the right to go here and think about him the way Johnny had indulged himself in Nicholas’ room?

Johnny gave a sideways look to the bookcase. There’s childhood books added in there. Fairy tales and myths. He’s kinda sure those weren’t there before. Must be his mother’s addition.

Once there, they spend some minutes of peace, Johnny sitting over his former bed, Gyro watching the surroundings without saying anything, reading inscriptions over golden cups—the prettiest, obviously the Kentucky Derby with its finely crafted buckles and its horse over it.

“What happened?” Gyro finally broke the silence.

“I told my father what I did, about Dio.”

“So what?”

“I don’t want to face consequences.”

Gyro shook his head.

“There will be no consequences.”

Johnny’s silence wasn’t helping.

And it was not Gyro’s place to blame Johnny for telling his father what he had done.

Still, he wasn’t willing to indulge him about such a topic.

“You want to compare how much blood we have on our hands?”

The crudeness of Gyro’s voice awoke Johnny from his listlessness.

‘Be a man,’ that’s what Gyro was saying.

Spurring him.

“It’s not the same. You were asked to—”

“I’m glad you understand how important intentions and emotions are.”

“…”

“Breathe it out, Johnny. You protected your life. He knew with your allegations he’d be controlled in depth by the staff and sure be disqualified.”

“It still was… fulfilling.”

“…”

“Gyro, I’m done being judged. …neither do I want him to thank me for it.”

“…you’ve never told me Dio had hurt your family.”

For once, Johnny felt lucky Gyro didn’t react like a hothead, controlling his temper.

That’s true Gyro deserved some explanation.

Johnny breathed out.

“I want to leave. Now.”

Gyro nodded.

“I go first, to get the horses ready. Take time to say goodbye to your mother.”

It’s easy to find her back, still in the drawing room, the first book she had shown to Gyro open in front of her. At the last page of it.

As soon as Johnny entered, Anne closed the book.

“You’re leaving?” She asked.

Johnny nodded.

“Sorry I didn’t stay longer.”

“It’s alright, Jojo. I was happy to have you there today.”

The nickname he hadn’t heard in years tightened Johnny’s throat. Bringing tears to his eyes.

Then she added, “I like your friend. It’s a lovely relationship you have.”

His mother offered him a rare smile, surprising Johnny twice as much.

That’s something Johnny mentioned once they had left, the declining light, the evidence they had spent several hours at the manor. More than Johnny thought.

“My mother said she likes you.” He stated, amazement present in his voice.

“First in a while I make a good impression on a woman, nyoho~.”

“First in a while you don’t behave like shit to a woman.”

Gyro didn’t dare tell, but he recognized in his mom a lot of the things he loved Johnny for.

They were alike.

None of the three remnant family members would have considered this as positive, but that’s the way things were.

Precious details and memories for Gyro who had no hope to see his family anytime soon. 

Out of the blue, Johnny said:

“Don’t be mistaken. My father isn’t a good person.”

“I know.”

Johnny gazed at him as if he thought Gyro didn’t.

“I know.” Gyro insisted. “We got those kinds of men too back home. Entitled. Mistreating family members but well considered otherwise. I worked in a medical practice. I saw consequences more often than not.”

“...”

“Remember what I told you about Wekapipo’s sister? She’d been beaten so bad she lost sight. My father wouldn’t let me talk to this kind of person. He knew I took things too much at heart… New penal code will be… a little better for victims. We can’t save everybody and intrude in people’s privacy.”

“...”

“Do you want to do something for your mother?”

“There’s nothing I can do…”

“...”

“My father said he hasn’t touched her for years. Maybe that’s true. But I don’t want to forgive him.”

“You’ve seen things.”

“Yeah… Whatever…”

“...”

“You know, looking back, I think he kicked me out the moment he realized I’ve become strong enough to fight back.”

A sound of broken glass exploded in Johnny’s ears, like out of a nightmare. Consequence of the physical altercation Johnny had never firstly wanted. Gyro might know about that. He’d seen things at Gettysburg. Heard more than he would admit.

Today like yesterday, Gyro was keeping everything silent about this.

His next sentence was a word only.

An order for an explanation.

“Dio.”

Johnny breathed in and began to explain how, somewhere before they got to Philadelphia, he suddenly remembered Dio’s presence the day his brother passed away. About this out of nowhere conviction Dio was responsible for Nicholas’ death.

That’s why he’s so driven back then.

Why he couldn’t think about something other than rid Earth of him.

And Johnny knew well he wasn’t making sense.

He wouldn’t have before, and neither now.

Gyro stayed silent.

Maybe he was contemplating the hypothesis, it was God that inspired this to Johnny.

But God didn’t raise hatred and cause death.

Dio was dead.

Disappeared from the world.

However the ghost of his crimes was still haunting the Joestar family.

“You must think I’m loony.” Johnny whispered.

Gyro made a pout.

“Nah.”

He waved in thin air to express his disdain.

“Did I ever tell you when I was fighting against Ringo Roadagain I spent literal minutes as if I was talking to my father? All alone, in front of his dumb house. I was seeing my father with an aura of light, explaining to me all the reasons I shouldn’t do it.”

“…”

“Nyohoho! It’s not crazier than your intuition speaking or whatever.”

Johnny didn’t remember Gyro telling him so.

It helped.

It made him feel more normal.

A slight grin stretched Johnny’s lips.

Or rather, it made them strange together.

Chapter Text

After leaving Danville, Johnny and Gyro headed to Louisville.

It’s a necessary stop in their journey. They had to go shopping in this last urban area before spending weeks in the wildness of the Midwest once again.

Incidentally, Louisville was also the biggest city near Johnny’s parents’ home.

The place, he spent his teenage years.

A place he had left after his ‘accident,’ or rather aggression.

So young, so well known.

Kentucky’s Star in the making, Joe Kid, Jojo, and finally established Johnny Joestar.

And he’d left because all his ‘friends’ had turned back to him.

Gyro had insisted they had to stay, he’d been promised and ordered to wait for a letter from his country here. An official one, written for King Umberto’s behalf, or by Minister Zanardelli. The impact of this one could be substantial. Stating over an eventual exile duration, or more official shit.

Gyro had made the decision alone in New York.

Otherwise, Johnny would have advised another city for them to discover.

“I’m famous here.” Johnny complained again, the moment the sickly looking shape of Louisville appeared. Damaged. Ruined by a tornado one year ago. Would have it been God’s punishment hitting those people like an Egyptian plague, Johnny wouldn’t have cared less.

Every single memory flowing to his mind was contradictory of the concept of ‘nostalgia.’

“You’re famous everywhere.” Gyro retorted. “Me too. By the way.”

Gyro stared at him, inquiring, suspicious, his voice unusually sweet as he asked:

“Is it about the hospital?”

“Yeah, well… Not only…”

“Be sure I’m holding back from going there and ask whoever working there three years ago what the fuck they were doing being this useless.”

Gyro didn’t even know about the humiliating words and behaviors. Nor for the robbed blood. Maybe they had sold vials of it to make money. Nothing surprised Johnny anymore in terms of human filth. Gyro’s reaction was like a balm, bringing Johnny solace. Johnny valued this ability Gyro had to get angry for things. For him. 

It’s something he’s still so thankful for today.

He’d be his entire life.

On their second evening there, while they were on horseback finishing last purchases, they bumped into a small group that Johnny knew well over the street.

Including his latest ex-girlfriend.

Yeah.

Looking again at her capricious doll face, Johnny wondered how he could have been with this scatterbrain.

They saw them, too.

Of course they did. And Johnny’s disability was invisible over horseback, so his condition, such a thing to celebrate…. They hadn’t been there at all, but now Johnny looked better—and they might speculate on all the great extra money Gyro and him earned with the race. So of course, they tried their luck.

For once that Johnny would have liked to shorten, Gyro seemed unusually sociable and civilized. 

“You want to go?” He offered Johnny when they mentioned an old usual bar they were heading before bumping into them.

Not that much.

But seeing his parents wasn’t that bad. This encounter could be positive, right?

Johnny was on his guard but answered, “Why not.”

They ended up in the aforesaid bar, asking for drinks.

Straight away, Johnny and Gyro attracted all eyes on them.

It was odd how, considering sex, people’s view changed when you were standing.

Except that, Johnny’s legs weren’t working better than before. He had just learned to make them work using his lover’s ancestral knowledge and accomplished his full potential. Johnny compensated. The disability was less visible, but it existed all the same. 

“We’re not paying the rounds.” Johnny right away stepped in, leaning on his crutches, addressing the barman for things to be crystal clear.

Half the gathering looked disappointed, but the other half immediately nodded, exclaiming with joyful, ‘of course, of course,’ convincing Johnny to spend some time with them.

Right here in Louisville, everyone asked for bourbon. Whiskey, an entire tradition. Bothered, Johnny can’t feel like sharing the same drink as them. He went for Tom Collins lemon gin. Gyro noticed. For the second glass, he switched to Tom Collins as well.

Johnny barely sipped at his first drink.

The lemon’s acidity, so similar to the bitterness upsetting his stomach.

None of those hadn’t been there for him, but Johnny supposed, disability and sickness scared people away. All of them had been so young when it occurred. Johnny wasn’t sure he would have behaved better if this had happened to one of those. To keep in touch was also about being a part of the same circles. The Johnny of two years ago would have been unable to show his face to some racecourse.

Infamy by associating was a feeling that hurt, and cringed. Johnny hadn’t wanted to risk more pride than what he already lost.

Somewhere nearby, someone else, outside the group, stared at him. Not, newly famous Gyro. Johnny. 

Johnny looked in their direction, meeting the eyes of a man four years older than him. Blonde mane under a fashionable hat, distinctive large cleft, and two big dimples appearing when he smiled. 

A few seconds later, Johnny put a name on his face.

The man noticed. He let out a seductive smile and came nearer.

“Hey. Do you mind if I talk to you privately?”

Johnny nodded and left the table without a glance to Gyro.

Why should he have to? He didn’t need his permission, right?

Still, behind his back, Gyro shot him an irritated look.

“Robb, right?”

Johnny remembered the name. That one was one of those he wrote the most about in his diary. He’d been a sort of sexual mentor for the homosexual part of his sexuality. They met as the guy spent time putting bets in racecourses and having several horses himself. He’d bet on Johnny’s horse more than once, and offered to share a fancy meal, or to have a great time in bed after. 

He’s wealthy. A fat cat. Even if he didn’t look like the type.

Robb had other hook-ups, but Johnny had been his favorite, and the only one he’d picked up at racecourses.

He always acted as if he comprehended what Johnny’s true personality was, and liked him for it.

“Nice to see you.” Robb said.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not wearing bandanas anymore.”

That’s when Johnny realized Robb wanted for him to stand to be able to see the back of his trousers.

Bandanas. Yeah.

That’s a code for people interested in same-sex relationships. 

Hanky code.

Inspired by cowboys. 

Left pocket to top. Right to bottom.

Johnny always topped.

“I’m taken.”

Robb shot him another smile.

“You’re also taken when you were with Helen.”

Helen, the nasty brunet present at their table, Johnny had been the mate for a few months until the day he got shot. He wasn’t faithful then. As she wasn’t herself. She’d been the one that wanted to attend this stupid theater piece with fucking Dorothy Parker. The trigger for Johnny’s degradation and decline. One more reason not to feel any shame for his past behavior toward her.

“I’m taken.” Johnny repeated, with a small grin.

“Too bad for me.” Robb smiled. “Well, happy for you. I would have liked to show you, everybody wasn’t like her and most of those, after what happened… but… well, you’re not asking this kind of thing to someone coming out from the hospital.”

This kind, he meant hardcore anal sex.

Yeah, you’re definitely not.

Johnny was pleased to be told, now, but he assumed his reaction back then could have been violent. He had left the city as soon as he got out of hospital. Nobody came to see him. Nobody cared. He hadn’t wanted to be confronted with more disregard.

It was different for Robb. 

Besides Louisville, the man split his time between New York and Baltimore.

“I was a little disappointed, you know. I’d bet on your victory for the race.” Robb added.

It still sounded like a flirt.

“I didn’t run for victory.”

“Yeah…” Robb raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment. “I’ve noticed. It’s cool too.”

They talked for another minute or two, the discussion so much more natural than with Johnny’s old friends. Johnny knew for sure this old hook-up was sincere. It felt good. It gave him the sensation he could be interesting for someone other than Gyro and reinforced his self-image.

It didn’t mean he wanted any other one than Gyro.

This didn’t change with months going by.

When he sat back at Gyro’s side, he knew right away he had been talked behind his back.

It’s not exactly a secret Johnny appealed to men…

Gyro didn’t look at him, staring the other way, as he was talking to one or the other.

Johnny could figure out the question.

‘What’s your type of girl?’

Middle-sized, beautiful, slender, black-haired girls.

Gyro answered.

Instantly, Johnny felt furious.

What the fuck?

He’s trying to pick up Helen describing her, or what?

What came next was chaotic.

Of course, Helen curled her lips and switched to her most flirtatious persona. 

The moment she stood, arching hips in a ridiculous lascivious way, Johnny can’t resist but to trip her with one of the crutches.

He loved that way too much. 

She cried, banging her knee and an elbow.

“What the heck is your problem?!”

“Watch your step.” Johnny snapped, with the bite of a ‘Know your place or I’ll put you in it.’

She got it.

Or at least, half-got it, forgetting about Gyro.

“What’s wrong with you?” She bawled, as one of their friends helped her to stand.

“Peace, Helen.” They said.

The girl didn’t listen to the advice of the one that helped her, returning to attack.

“Is that because I broke up after you got shot?!”

She hadn’t. 

Johnny had never seen her again until today.

“Rather because you’re a dumb broad!”

“You brought this on yourself, Johnny! Everybody thinks so.”

“Shut up. You’re unnecessarily hurtful.” One of the guys stepped in, but he avoided looking at Gyro and Johnny, stressed taps of a foot showing she might be right.

“I deserved this? You, what do you think you deserve?” Johnny did his best to bear pain, letting anger boil in his veins. “Go on, repeat if you dare!” 

The way he raised his right hand, two nails spinning, dark determination in the eyes, got Gyro to react, all the words only said in mere seconds.

The girl was obviously foolish enough to trigger the two bullets ready to fly.

“Enough.” Gyro snapped, grabbing Johnny’s hand.

He looked Johnny in the eye for a fleeting second, the visual contact, enough to calm him from his wish to make her pay.

“You. All of you. Get the hell out of there.”

The ball spinning dangerously in his hand—more distinctive menace than Johnny’s pointed fingers—had the consequence Gyro was obeyed.

The small group ran off without a split second of hesitation.

“You’re too stupid.” One of them repeated to the girl.

Another one waved at Johnny as an apology. 

Johnny didn’t see it, refusing to stare in their direction.

A moment after, they’d all disappeared.

It could have felt good to have Gyro’s hand over his own in public.

The way he let go of it made Johnny braced for an upcoming wallop.

He didn’t get one.

Probably Gyro considered horrible words hurt already hard enough.

And so they left.  

Away from this place they stood out way too much.

For once he made an effort…

They returned to their room in silence, mounting back horses.

Gyro didn’t know how to show sympathy. He had grabbed Johnny’s hand to prevent him from doing something he could regret—because he’s not somebody mean—or that would have legal consequences.

If you had asked Gyro, the girl needed to be taught a lesson. But they were in a big city, still in the East. Or was it south? Gyro was clueless about the pseudo-regional division. South or not south… Whatever. You’re not doing yourself justice in such a place. Even less by killing a girl for words and being obnoxious.

Then Gyro had realized they were in public and he shouldn’t have shown physical support.

All of those had explicitly gossiped about Johnny’s supposed tendencies when this guy came to hit on him. Gyro had felt cornered, and did what he could to defuse unwanted attention. 

What a pathetic evening.

“Breathe out.” Gyro said, once outside.

Johnny looked still shaken, upset.

He had reasons for him to be.

It didn’t mean Gyro wasn’t angry with his own behavior and Johnny’s allowing someone to hit on him. Gyro had always been a jealous and possessive man. That interaction was not different. Perhaps he’d been more inclined to have a drink with this group precisely because Johnny looked colder than usual.

Perhaps it’s Gyro’s mistake and his misplaced ego, all this happened.

In the security of their room, still utterly upset, Johnny didn’t breathe, beginning round two against Gyro.

“Why the fuck did you make eyes at her?”

“I was not!”

“You bloody described her, to everyone!”

“I described my mother.” Gyro stated, detaching every word from the other.

That one lightened the load. At least a little.

“What did you want me to do?” Gyro snapped. “Say I was with you? With a man?”

This obviously was a difficulty to assume his homosexuality. And wasn’t it better, a way to get covered? People weren’t in need to know they were doing illegal sex between boys.

That’s reality. But one, Gyro didn’t enunciate and that Johnny wasn’t in a condition he could get it without being told.

To him, it sounded like rejection.

And Johnny already suffered harsh pathetic rejection from friends that weren’t. Not three years ago, and not now. Some might be OK to spend time with, and they stepped in when Helen began acting hysteric.

How could Johnny have been in a relationship with this girl?

She’s right, everything that had happened to him was his fault. He should have known better and be with someone else. Someone kind, that wasn’t making crazy requests. Someone that would have made Johnny a better person. Who might have understood he’s wearing a shell and craved comprehension and affection.

“Who’s that guy you left with?” Gyro accused.

Jealousy pierced.

It stung.

The only reassurance Johnny got since this scene in the bar had been Gyro stepping in. It mattered, he did. It mattered a lot. But Johnny in his emotional state can’t tell if it was to show him support and end an awful interaction, or to prevent him from shooting her in the head, or worse, in the spinal cord, to teach her how it felt.

After all, Johnny was a disappointment.

“So I shouldn’t have talked to the only person I know that had something nice to tell me in this fucking city?!”

Johnny can’t see how this was bad. He’d been cordial, not even friendly. And he had said he’s engaged. He’d repeated it. And Robb must have understood. The only unknown person around the table was Gyro. 

Johnny hadn’t said it for Gyro to thank him later.

But it’s hurting Johnny even more to receive blame for the single positive interaction he had in Louisville.

His answer was a bad one. Not explicative. Not reassuring. 

That’s true, Robb made him feel desirable. Perhaps Gyro perceived that.

Johnny kept silent, obstinate to his vision, unable to analyze.

Gyro shut himself more. 

“This conversation is over.”

He looked away.

“You can go to bed. Your bed.”

Both of them were angered.

Gyro, busy to have his nerves under control, Johnny, too distressed to help in anything.

Let’s spend the night and sleep over it, the idea wasn’t that bad.

They even kept being in the same room.

That’s true they pictured they could bring the single beds closer.

That won’t happen.

Gyro got his bear against his chest, and turned his back.

After a moment, Johnny realized they had forgotten to close the curtains, small lights of the city visible in the room. He didn’t have the courage to stand again over his crutches to try doing it himself.

He felt ill in the stomach.

First what happened in the bar, and now here.

He can’t fall asleep.

After some time, he heard Gyro’s soft snores. Consequence of the alcohol.

Johnny let go and cried.

He’s feeling horrible.

Nothing he was, nothing he did, had been right.

What were they even supposed to discuss tomorrow?

Their break-up?

Gyro realizing being with a man was much too complicated, too dangerous? That Johnny was an unstable jerk that was still inclined to kill people that annoyed him, even women? That Johnny was unable to make it obvious he loved him? What would Johnny do without him? Alone again. Abandoned again.

He should just top himself.

Johnny mentally tried to negotiate what he could offer. Right away, came to his mind, he would prefer the pain of a good thrashing and be forgiven.

As if violence was the answer to anything. 

He’s crazy.

After an hour tormenting himself, he finally gave in to sleepiness. 

Last thoughts invading Johnny’s asleep raw mind, carving different, more intense emotional pain, sounding like ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

Chapter Text

Johnny got awake first. Stuffy nose, red and puffy eyes. Not feeling better than before falling asleep. He’s awfully tired despite his three or four hours of sleep. Dawn wouldn’t be there for an additional hour, but he’s not wanting to stay there. 

Exhaustion should have prevented him from getting up, but he did all the same.

He needed to go to the loo.

Once done, no way for him to go back to bed. He walked with difficulty past the reception and headed to the stable where their horses had spent the night. Using the spin made him think about Gyro every step. How much a disappointment Johnny was. Making him crave to have a wheelchair as mobility aids to have only the movement of his arms to worry about.

Johnny hated the way people looked at him when he was using one. Disdain, conceitedness, even aversion. This morning Johnny felt he wasn’t deserving better.

The time for him to arrive at the stable, dawn was finally there. Sun invisible under the cloudy weather. 

Slow Dancer saw him coming, and greeted him with a ‘Brrr’ typical from horses experiencing social excitement. At least, his horse was still happy to see him.

Johnny was not feeling strong on his legs. As well as he could, he grabbed a stool to be able to sit. He had planned to groom Slow Dancer, but brushing would be too much strain. He took a hoof pick instead.

Doing so, after a while Johnny began to cry again. Sobbing hard enough for Slow Dancer to nuzzle him—the horse was well too accustomed to witness his every emotional distress. Even next stable Valkyrie turned her head, muzzle visible ahead in the space between boxes.

Valkyrie neighed slightly, teeth showing and shaking her head. 

Johnny lost focus of what Gyro’s horse was doing. His hand let go of the hoof pick, and he pressed his brow against his palm.

There was more restlessness in the stables. 

Footsteps.

A moment later, a known voice addressed him.

“Hey, Johnny.”

Johnny didn’t look up, but tensed, prickly tears still flowing from tired eyes.

Gyro came nearer. A strong arm went around Johnny’s shoulders, comforting. Johnny felt his beanie ride up, as Gyro stroked his hair and nape.

Unconsciously, those gestures helped.

They made Johnny realize how much he had craved a hug since last night. How much physical contact could be effective and meaningful.

“Go on. Let’s go back to the room.” Gyro offered.

“Don’t want to.”

“We’re not talking business in the stables.”

Johnny didn’t want to use the crutches. Using crutches meant using the spin. And he wasn’t worthy of that.

“I have nothing to say.” He muttered.

“Then you’ll let me talk first.”

The way Johnny antagonized any offer for privacy required that Gyro conceded they would explain in public. 

A matter that usually would have made him run out of patience.

Here, he can’t. He must have his nerves under control to fix things.

“Your mother asked me to take care of you. How do you think I’m feeling?”

“What?” Johnny hiccupped. “Damn, why did she do that…?”

“Because she noticed I care about you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That I care about you?”

It was stupid. It felt so stupid Johnny had nothing to answer him.

“Are you still thinking about what the other dimwit told you?” Gyro finally asked.

“I don’t care.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“…”

“Could have told me she’s an ex-girlfriend.”

“I told you I was famous here.”

Of course, Gyro hadn’t understood it like that.

“Want to know what I think?”

Johnny shuddered and nodded.

“Your ex-girlfriend is a bitch. Your ex-friends are not mean but not reliable either.” That was obvious even before bumping into them hearing what Johnny told him long ago. “And I’m completely jealous of your ex-boyfriend.”

“He’s a hook-up. Nothing more.” Johnny protested.

“Is or was?”

“Was!”

“…”

“That’s what you’re thinking…”

“You haven’t heard how they were speaking behind your back. If it hadn’t been obvious to me you liked guys, I couldn’t have been unaware anymore.”

Some guy looked at them from askance, hesitating to enter the alley. 

Gyro stared at him, dark gaze, lips drawn back, wavering for the guy to shoo.

While Gyro had been busy keeping them a semblance of privacy, Johnny started crying harder.

“Hey, hey… Hey, hey, hey…” Gyro reacted in disbelief, refocusing, trying to comfort.

“I thought maybe you’d leave without me.” Johnny faltered.

“You’re out of your mind?”

“I know, you’re waiting for your king’s letter…”

“That’s not the point. Johnny, could you consider you deserve better than me acting like a douche?”

“…”

“I don’t want to warrant another spanking for being a heartless idiot.”

That was meant as a flash of humor, but Johnny let out painful sobs, dislodging Gyro’s arm unwittingly.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated.

“May I touch you?” 

Johnny nodded, and Gyro’s consoling hands were rubbing his back again in a try of comfort.

“I’m sorry.” Johnny repeated. “I shouldn’t have mixed sex and real problems.”

“I told you I’ve gotten off on it.”

Gyro squeezed Johnny’s shoulder, pondering.

“What about we’re making an agreement? About not hitting each other.”

“I won’t do it again. You don’t need to—”

“You don’t get it.”

“…”

“Johnny, when was the last time I punched you?”

“…”

“You couldn’t say?”

“…”

“It was in the Mississippi River when we fought against Sandman. Never again. It was a desperate situation. And before that it happened only once. For which I apologized.”

“…”

“So, I hope you could stop bracing yourself for an upcoming blow from me. That’s not the person I want to be. Not the reflection I yearn for.”

“Yeah, but I too—”

“Stop it! I don’t mind, I liked it!” Gyro hissed. He bit his lips. “Don’t make me say it. Next time just ask first!”

“I can’t live without you.” Johnny whispered.

“Sure you can.”

“…”

“I already told you. It doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere, that it wouldn’t hurt, nor that we wouldn’t experience sorrow if something bad happened. But you’re an independent person that has a life and purpose outside of me.”

And Johnny deserved happiness, not everlasting solitude.

“Come on. Go back to bed. You’ve got the face of someone that stayed up all night.”

Gyro considered all of Johnny’s emotional responses were welcome. If it was expressed that way, there was a pretty good reason. Still, having Johnny crying his heart out mainly because of him rather than his former acquaintances’ behavior weighed on Gyro.

“You—” Johnny began.

“I need to get some fresh air and go for a walk.”

As often during the race, Gyro had tried his best giving Johnny a boost. But he also needed to calm down himself.

“I don’t deserve to walk.”

“Bullshit. Health is not about meritocracy.”

“…”

“Get up, else I’m carrying you.”

“You can’t do that.”

Johnny had been a little overconfident, imagining Gyro wouldn’t touch him after his rebuff over seconds-lasting-touching-hands in public. He can’t carry him through the whole hotel, and first in the crowded hall. Right?

He’s seriously mistaken.

Between Gyro’s annoyance and his inclination to take up a dare… he’s meant to act on it. 

Within seconds, Gyro wedged crutches in place under his own armpit. Then lifted him by the waist and his arms crossed behind his thighs, getting Johnny high in the air, his head higher than Gyro’s. Johnny’s arms grasped Gyro’s shoulders. He hid his reddening face near his neck. He feared the moment Gyro would choose a different—and more humiliating—position, but Gyro didn’t. He pressed a kiss against Johnny’s cheek, got a better hold over his thighs and began to walk.

And Johnny hated the idea to be carried.

He’s not a child or a piece of luggage for goodness’ sake.

But today it felt so good it’s pleasurable.

Never mind, they were once again making a show of themselves.

They did exactly that everywhere they’re passing by.

Sure Gyro had asked about Helen and the others. What happened left a persistent prickly feeling. But the reassurance Johnny needed was about Gyro still wanting him.

Gestures showed Johnny that nothing was over.

Whatever ego delivered.

Whatever if Johnny wasn’t physically feeling Gyro’s arms on him at all.

He got a peck in the stables.

And another one right before Gyro let him go once in their room.

Johnny felt like he’d be able to sleep right away.

Gyro needed a break.

It’s still early in the morning, but he craved time alone. So he went back to Valkyrie, got the horse ready and stepped outside to discover the city alone. There were public works in a lot of places, scars and consequences of the tornado outbreak of one year ago people were still talking about today. 

That gave Gyro something to think about. 

Nothing like that existed in Europe and, moreover, in Italy. 

For him, danger of nature and natural disasters were synonymous with Vesuvius volcano’s activity. He wondered why people were living there, in the middle of nowhere, when a climate phenomenon could destroy everything. But what about Naples? Wasn’t it the same?

Running alongside the Ohio River, he headed to the library to read some archived newspapers on the subject.

That’s also the perfect excuse to search what the city looked like when Johnny was having his debauchery and famous life here.

For the first time, yesterday night, Gyro realized he didn’t want to know everything about Johnny and his past. Being there, it meant bumping into former lovers.

Gyro felt especially uneasy because of this guy, asking to talk to Johnny, the way his gaze lingered on Johnny’s behind. The way they both smiled.

All that in public.

Gyro can’t understand. Homosexuality was criminalized in this country. 

Death penalty could even apply.

Gyro didn’t consider it fair. But that’s the society they were living in. 

How could these people accept the way they were? How could they be comfortable?

Johnny and Gyro were acting self-sufficient for months now. It suited them perfectly. Being in a city, confronting themselves to others was taking a risk. 

Unconsidered, in Gyro’s mind.

For them to stay in civilized land, it was similar to the fact to build a city in places like Louisville. You’re waiting for the inevitable tide, eruption, or tornado to come and devastated life.

Queers were a negligible amount not contributing to society. Acting strange. Unable to have children. 

Gyro can’t assume that as a part of his identity.

He’s an odd foreigner.

An idealist defending a cause, staying abroad in consequence, in a host country as bad as Naples’ previous government.

Nothing was over.

There’s no security, no certitudes. 

Gyro’s life wasn’t any easier than when he was doubting everything before the end of the race. When he considered his feelings and desire for Johnny, abnormalities to suppress.

That left him with one thought in mind: Johnny looked like he’s embracing this part of himself. 

How was he doing? 

Maybe Gyro should learn from him.

Chapter Text

Spending a few hours shut away in the library helped Gyro to put his thoughts in order.

Obviously, Johnny didn’t want to stay in the city. And now, Gyro neither.

He made a detour by the post office, verifying nothing was waiting for him, and came back to their shared room around noon.

Johnny was here, lying over Gyro’s bed. Given the condition of the sheets, he might have slept in it rather than on his own.

Not that Gyro cared.

If Johnny preferred it like that or felt reassured doing it, it’s more than fine. Perhaps Gyro would even have made fun of the fact that if Johnny seemed to imply Gyro needed a bath more often than not to steal his bed in the end, he’s not stinking that much.

But Gyro didn’t feel like trying to be funny after last night and this morning.

“You look better.” He said as greetings.

That’s true.

Johnny must have slept more and washed his face.

“Come on, Johnny. Get your stuff, we’re moving.” Gyro added.

“Where are we going?”

“We leave this shit town.”

“But Gyro, your letter—”

“I’ve asked for a redirection to Saint-Louis.”

After the events, there’s no need to ask Johnny twice.

They left the hotel within an hour.

Getting back on horseback.

They embraced the typical peace and quietness of Indiana and Illinois’ vastness, heading back to Missouri’s early spring landscape.

Things weren’t resolved nonetheless. Uncomfortable silence present between them. The sun was still invisible. Clouds, higher in the sky, forming leaden and off-white arabesques.

Now in better shape, Johnny got to think.

Without suffering from emotional strain and despair, he’s finally able to consider Gyro’s well-being too. As often, Gyro had taken upon himself.

That’s something Johnny had tried hard for him to stop since the eighth stage.

How did he make Gyro talkative back then?

“Thanks. For making us leave.” Johnny finally said.

Gyro shrugged. “Should have listened to you. You’re perceptive. Got good hunches.”

Johnny kept silent, pursing lips, then asked: “What did they say about me yesterday night?”

“…”

“Did they tell you I’m… a cheater?”

At this, Gyro stared at him, taken aback.

“What? Why would they have said something like that?”

“I was unfaithful to her. With the guy that talked to me. And others sometimes.”

Gyro got wide eyes.

“I know you despise things like that. I can’t undo the prick I was. …I can’t even remember why I was going out with her.”

“You weren’t married.” Gyro looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“…”

“…”

“Robb… The guy I was talking with… I told him I’m taken, you know. It felt good telling him.”

“…”

“I’d never do that to you.”

“…”

“Do you believe me?”

Gyro nodded slightly.

“…I’m jealous.” He said.

That’s nothing new. …Gyro was already possessive when they were only friends.

Johnny got the answer. He felt in his guts the tenderness and concern he wanted to convey, even if once put in words it sounded childish. Something a twelve-year-old suitor aspiring to behave like a gentleman would tell.

That would have been totally Nicholas.

“Would you like us to get married?”

“We can’t.”

That’s not what Johnny was asking. He could guess how important marriage was for Gyro. A sign, tradition, rite of passage restricted to heterosexual couples, he’s now deprived.

Johnny never considered it before, but it’s obvious it should have been something important in Gyro’s standard of living. When you’re an heir and required to carry the line. Getting wed became a patrimonial issue, and not only one related to love.

“You could still want it, or enjoy the idea.”

“There’s no point if it can’t happen.”

“All dreams aren’t meant to happen.”

There’s a fleeting minute between them.

Gyro pondering what Johnny said.

There’s some magic and foresight in it.

Still, Gyro can’t feed a fantasy knowing it would never get real. It’ll contribute to a feeling of bitterness he didn’t wish for himself. On the other hand, the idea that Johnny may consider this… that’s sweet.

“They said you were …a flirt with girls and fellow men. They tested the water, asked what I like. I had no choice but—”

“It’s fine.” Johnny told, with a knowing voice.

“It’s not.” Gyro refuted. “I don’t want to feel ‘threatened’ every time things happen.”

The moment he’d been asked; Gyro had understood one would always be supposed, ‘normal.’ To like the other sex. So he had improvised an answer. That resulted in this conflicted situation.

It had confronted Gyro to the fact he can’t and didn’t want to be associated with the fact he liked men.

That was not him.

He still didn’t want it to be him.

Giving up on Johnny was impossible.

That would mean to amputate himself from the best thing that ever happened to him.

That’s why this idea to go live into the wild with only livestock felt great. Gyro wouldn’t have to look at his own reflection in the mirror of society.

In Louisville, he had to realize that not to ‘assume his homosexuality’ or to live it in a ‘hidden way’ came down to repressing an essential aspect of his existence, with the risk of being ‘unmasked.’

That was a beautiful thing to fall in love.

And Gyro couldn’t even enjoy it freely.

As always, he had made his own life more complicated. Thinking that also hurt. Gyro had never chosen to love Johnny. He was. It made him happy, more often than not. It gave him a purpose different from what everyone else expected from him.

Everything in Gyro’s past was doomed. Johnny being by his side felt like the only tangible link to the future. But the other side of the coin was they were meant to be ‘secret.’

Gyro had craved to kiss Johnny right on the stage after his victory speech.

This unappeased want was still haunting him; now he’s considering it.

He’s pondering with anger, it would have destroyed everything he worked so hard.

Gyro hadn’t done everything and wasn’t believing in what he was because he’s liking men, or wasn’t liking girls.

He would have wanted to be able to tell those people last night.

‘My type is Johnny. Even if he’s talking to someone else right now, I trust him. And because he knows I trust him he goes for a talk, so shut the fuck up!’

But it would have requested for Gyro to come out. In an unsuitable place. Surrounded by ‘normal’ people whom he would have disgusted and that could ruin his life. And for him to show assurance, he didn’t feel inside.

Jealousy was about not feeling good enough and lacking in self-confidence.

Gyro remembered both of their reactions after Stephen Steel’s insinuations. Johnny had kept his cool, attacking differently, while Gyro had taken it personally. It had created so much uncertainty that it had triggered Johnny’s love declaration to him.

Why? Why can’t Gyro assume better this part of himself?

Why did he care?

Since when did he care about what people think of him in this country?

But Gyro knew fame. He’s recognized more than once in cities and towns. It could end in newspapers. It could reach his country. It could reach his family.

He didn’t want to hurt nor disappoint them more than he already had.

It could also end in legal procedures and persecutions.

More danger. More trials. More risk over his own life and on Johnny’s.

Gyro didn’t want to risk Johnny’s life.

Homosexuality was abnormal.

Religion and biology allowed entitled people to attack them.

The mere thought made Gyro miserable.

Gyro had imagined it was behind him. The feeling of embarrassment. The inhibitions of himself. They weren’t. Deep inside, he still sometimes felt like loving a person of the same sex was inconceivable and it’s a source of great inner suffering.

The feeling of shame which emanated from this, imposed on Gyro an image of himself that didn’t conform to the one he had stored in his thought patterns. The judgment of what he was, by the appraisal people got upon homosexuals, became acerbic as the outside world gave him the impression, he should have something to 'hide' or 'reveal.'

The rejection of the community, of fellow human beings, stifled him in a mechanism in which shame, disgust and guilt intertwined. Was Gyro adopting the very attitude of those who stigmatized homosexuality? His self-imposed non-acceptance of his sexuality and of those who shared it, it’s like a refuge to distance from what his psyche was unable to accept for himself.

Gyro had had nearly three months to work on himself. Three months that had been busy. Much too busy.

He’s like Johnny.

Johnny had true difficulty to accept his disability and its consequences, for himself, and from the gaze of others. Society.

For Gyro it was his homosexuality.

Johnny was bisexual, and looked like he had always been cool with it.

How did he make it?

They shared a long moment of silence, Johnny’s gaze was still on Gyro, peeping. Giving him space to think, to cope, to start anew discussion the moment and the way he’d want to.

And after a while, it happened.

“How come… you feel so free being hit on by fellow men?”

Johnny stiffened hearing the question.

“Yesterday?”

“I’m not blaming you.” Gyro hastily corrected himself. “I mean… in general.”

Tension left Johnny’s shoulders, and he kept thinking for a moment.

“The bar of yesterday is open to that kind of interaction.” He started. “I knew the ground. It was safe. Wouldn’t have picked a dangerous place for us.”

“…”

“For how it had started… I suppose I lacked so much recognition from my family… I just get a hold over anything people have been offering me.”

“You never considered you… shouldn’t?”

“I hungered too much for that.”

“…”

“How could I say that? …Right. Gyro, it’s like having more than one membership to more than one club. I have no criteria for race or gender. …Sex is addictive you know? Those people wanted to give things to me, and I could make them feel good. Why should I have refused it? I craved attention, recognition, even if I knew it wasn’t anything like parental love.”

“…”

“I mean; I was already a disappointment for my parents. But people were admiring me, and those disgusted shut their trap because I fucking was Johnny Joestar, the one that won Kentucky Derby, before I turned sixteen.”

“…”

“I was famous. Strange behaviors are more likely accepted in this business.”

“Johnny… D’you think people wouldn’t care for me?”

Johnny kept silent.

“It’s different.” He finally said. “We’re not in a microcosm.”

“…”

“We were, in New York, in the hotel. But we should have mixed up with other people to know for sure.”

“…”

“You know, Gyro, people are not blind. Two racers together instead of being rivals… people might have thought we were sweet to each other even before we had sex. So what? They had chosen to talk behind our back, not to associate, and nothing happened.”

“…”

“We’re covered. Friendship is socially accepted. My experience is, it’s not that hard to be as I am when it’s infrequent, when you top, when you also have girls. It’s a sin, but I don’t care about sins. Having sex without wanting to have a baby is a sin. So…”

“…if you could get both, why would you want to do it the hard way?”

Johnny frowned, shrugged, “Sometimes the line is straight and sometimes it deviates.”

With Gyro, the line rotated as a golden spiral.

That’s awfully romantic.

But also Johnny’s reality.

“I don’t care, Gyro. It’s you I want.”

The strength of Johnny’s voice telling Gyro that, it caught him aback.

And for once, Gyro agreed with Johnny here.

Hearing those words, in his state of mind, meant more than the words, ‘I love you.’

Chapter Text

In the end, Stephen Steel hadn’t been able to prevent ‘Speedwagon foundation’ from meeting Lucy.

What he hadn’t expected was their kindness toward his wife.

So, at least, they had understood.

And Stephen realized it’s not only about Lucy but also about him.

He had relayed Gyro Zeppeli’s words about the corpse.

That’s not the only thing that mattered for the foundation.

They were caring a lot about the possible disrepute of the race. The grand finale, explosion of joy, financial explosion, tinted in mystery and dissatisfaction. The casualty list was on firing line in newspapers because of the president’s disappearance. The foundation stated to Steel it would be welcome to give up a substantial part of his profit to humanitarian causes as they were going to. Large amounts of money buying new dreams, new hopes, ways to drum up business and clothe yourself with the best public profile.

Steel Ball Run had been an enticing project for Speedwagon foundation. It allowed their agents to explore unknown lands. As racers, and as referees. Hot air balloons, an incredible opportunity for maps and photographs.

Unusual events around once known Devil’s Palms should have stopped after people extracted corpse parts from them. More time would be needed for agents to gather evidence. Plus there were places that seemingly hadn’t sheltered a Devil’s Palm.

Those seemed specific to the West.

The very last of those, seen at dawn in the mountainous areas of Colorado.

They were wondering how it was that Lucy got to grasp the backbone without encountering anything. No guardian, no danger, no paranormal experience in the green tomb. Whereas the place was already known for being an ancestral place of power.

Lucy experienced teleportation after.

But her testimony had not left the feeling of a stand’s effect. It sounded like an improbable miracle. Caused by Jesus Christ. The president’s security head, Blackmore, had said to her.

Teleportation brought her to Johnny Joestar, she explained. Not President Valentine.

After that, she had found the skull, and developed a sort of stand that didn’t last, Gyro Zeppeli getting the thing out of her before it impacted permanently her body.

Maybe he’d saved her life.

Uncontrolled stands can absorb vitality from people getting them until they die.

Despite the gravity of the facts, Speedwagon foundation stated this with simple and comforting words, which Stephen felt grateful for. Lucy being able to keep her serenity and to recover was that central to him.

So a lot of Steel’s profits were spent buying lands, especially lands where tribes were still trying to survive the consequences of European colonialism.

…on the pretext of experts going to study geomorphology.

In reality, they were doing nothing about it.

The foundation was born from oil prospects. That’s neither original nor glorious. Like in most cases, it had been a fluke. Prospect also meant destruction of the land and clashes in oil regions. This was an acknowledged backstory, but Speedwagon foundation took to heart to protect places too. And entered a lot of businesses unrelated to petroleum.

To the point it became a major interlocutor nationwide, and it would be a matter of one year or so before it grew worldwide.

It was a memorable surprise to discover the man that was vice-president and Valentine’s aide was familiar with the staff. He’s not the head of it, but the concrete example of a great name in an address book.

Moreover, that one was the soon-to-be president of the United States.

A president disappearing, it’s something never seen before.

Killed or dying from illness, yes. But this was new.

As there was no legal minimal time for the police to establish if Valentine had to be considered dead, things were pressured for the vice-president to take the lead of the country.

They had already lost a whole month of commemorations, organized by fanatical citizens and spreading like fire once officials stopped preparing them.

All those projects, there were nothing like what Funny Valentine had planned. Because, perhaps he’d told nobody Lucy apart what he’s focusing on.

“Speedwagon is the founder and head of the foundation. As you must know, he’s a lucky oil prospector that made good investments, like your husband's great project.” The tall woman in a pantsuit they were talking to, told Lucy.

Her long black hair was swept to her left shoulder. At first, her features reminded Lucy of the ones of Scarlet Valentine. But this woman’s voice sounded different. Low-pitched, and without the hectic and sweet madness Scarlet used.

“During his first prospect, he witnessed paranormal events himself. Linked to what you knew under the name of stands, and other unexplainable things. He’s a man of great instinct, and agreed to finance the Steel Ball Run because of the way the former president offered the route.”

She smiled, and concluded.

“He was right.”

Lucy frowned, her fingers tightened around Stephen’s hand. He’s mostly silent, but kept being at her side. Lucy had been the one willing to hold hands, a small gesture not unexpected from spouses. Neither from friends.

“How are you different from—”

She was cut short by the woman.

“We first had no idea of President Valentine’s true purpose. Our goal was discovery. Research about the origins of stands. …and keeping an eye open to anything else.”

“But now, you want the corpse.”

If the Speedwagon foundation’s representative was annoyed, she showed none of it.

“The difference is, we’re not planning to kill people or hurt them in any way. The foundation is doing research and business.”

Lucy kept silent at this.

So the woman dared ask, “Are you sure Johnny Joestar had nothing else? Any more parts, even the tiniest you could think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Internal organ. Toe. Phalanx. His remission marveled greatly our scientific staff.”

The defiant spark in Lucy’s blue eyes demonstrated she didn’t approve of the woman’s nosiness over someone missing in the room.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Look, Mrs. Straizo, I’m grateful for our interview, but your insistence makes me uncomfortable. They inspire friendly feelings to me. I don’t want any of them to have problems because I say something that is not my concern.”

“Please, don’t worry.” Speedwagon Foundation’s representative, Mrs. Straizo, retorted. “We’ve sent one of our agents after them. To discuss and make a good proposition.”

“About money?” Stephen raised.

“About something interesting.”

The wise smile and confident way she arranged a strand of hair behind her ear spoke volumes.

“You’re not gonna pressure them?” Lucy squinted, not serene.

“They’re free to accept or refuse the exact way you were.”

The woman referred to the proposal for Lucy to take lessons over scientific topics that mattered for their organization. Like botany. Geology. Archeology. Natural philosophy. Maybe getting her in a university if she aspired to enter one. Lucy was an intelligent young woman. She had experienced things nobody else her age should have with the stands and the corpse. That had been indeed hard, but made her stronger. She could yearn for a great career in Speedwagon foundation, or as an ally somewhere else.

“Anyway, we have special instructions not to do any harm or bother Johnny Joestar and whoever is with him.”

“Instructions? From whom?” Stephen’s astonished answer came out.

“The boss.”

Obviously.

The woman’s smile was evidence she knew a lot more than she’s saying.

But that’s not to Steel’s spouses to learn.

Johnny woke up, trembling.

“Are you OK?” Gyro mumbled, voice sleepy, as he’d felt the start against his back.

“I… it’s fine. I had a strange dream…”

“Want to talk about it?”

“…”

“If you tell me, it’ll help you feel like it’s stupid after.”

“It felt… persistent…”

“Was I there?”

“You should have.”

“…”

“There’s that strange huge decorated tricolor marble hall. Like a capitol, but with red and golden carpets and crimson curtains.”

“US capitol?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“…”

“That felt so strange… I was there, there were so many people. A guy speaking a bizarre language was obstructing my vision. It made me angry, and I was wondering if I should crush his feet with a crutch. I had just one, and I didn’t feel the horseshoe on my forehead, but I had a hat on. I never do that!”

“…”

“That’s about some red and white ribbon. I don’t know anything like that, and I shouldn’t have understood people were talking about that.”

Gyro rolled back, and got a hand rubbing over Johnny’s back and shoulders, comforting.

First he thought it might have been something related to a stand.

It’s not rare for one of them to have a stupid dream he’s telling the other about to lighten the mood in the morning. And nightmares had always been taken care of easily. A change of shift and a hot drink made the trick.

But… It sounded like the tale of a stupid ceremonial. Not even a black mass.

Nothing that should matter.

First streaks of dawn appeared behind the east facing back of the tent.

Gyro strengthened his muscles. Getting early was fine, and he’s already hearing Valkyrie and Slow Dancer snorting, swatting away bothersome spring pests by swishing their tail.

“Coffee or herbal tea?” He offered, getting up.

“Coffee.” Johnny hastened to answer.

So predictable.

Johnny would need more time to stretch his muscles and start his day. Preparing breakfast for him was a considerate service Gyro was happy to assume the few times, like today, he's awakening before him or together. Taking care of someone else… doing things for them. That’s the meaning of love. Making one feel precious and valuable.

Since after he’d almost died in the Mississippi River last year and cold winter made camping harsher, Johnny had been the one spoiling Gyro rotten by taking care of the campfire, morning hunt, or cooking hot breakfast.

Only coffee kept being Gyro’s prerogative.

Johnny’s love to Gyro’s recipe was something that mattered to him.

That’s a taste of Italy—of Naples—Gyro brought with him. The same way he often used dried herbs to season meat or other dishes. Little something, he’d bought at New York’s delicatessen he discovered.

Johnny liked it. Gyro liked it.

It had a taste of home.

Chapter Text

For teenage Gyro, it had been comfortable to think he was bad or unlucky at picking up a girlfriend.

It had been easier to avoid looking for a betrothed. Wearing blinders. Telling himself that, being an executioner, nobody would ever genuinely like him. Would never want to get engaged with him. His parents both can’t find a special one. In no way was Gyro seeing himself as better than them. They were great people. They were his parents.

Gyro had been around girls. Fuck with some of them.

He had grown up with religious education. Having sex before marriage was publicly frowned upon. Especially for women.

Doing it nonetheless, Gyro considered he hadn’t respected those girls.

And it hadn’t even been that good.

As if his body had expressed he hadn’t wanted to be there, doing this.

Gyro hadn’t accepted nor understood that his physical desire wasn’t that.

Feeling nothing. Feeling empty.

He’d been proud to feel that way. Wasn’t it the evidence he had integrated what his father taught him about sentimentality and emotions? Rather it had been the obvious symptom he’d forced himself.

Gyro had been so biased about what homosexuality was.

Believing those men weren’t men. Bound to be strongly effeminate.

He hadn’t wanted to be like that.

He hadn’t wanted to like men.

It’s better to like nobody.

Then he had met someone.

The right guy.

Chance or fate.

And Gyro liked Johnny’s intelligence.

He liked his determination and assumed sensitivity.

He saw the golden ratio over him.

Maybe more than over anybody else.

At that time, Gyro was coming from almost four months all alone. Crossing the USA from east to west as they were now.

Deprived of the background presence of the family tribe, he had been more inclined to grow attached than ever.

They had experienced life or death situations.

Since the first day.

Since the first night.

And again tomorrow after.

During military service, veterans explained their most important and close relationships were with brothers in arms. Saving each other’s life would change any man.

So Gyro thought, ‘That’s it.’

With Johnny, they were sharing something both special and so normal.

That could never go wrong.

That could never go romantic.

But Gyro had reacted way too much, way too strong, when he thought Ringo Roadagain killed Johnny.

That had been a time he’s trying to prove himself something.

That he was more than the halfwit heir everybody was seeing in him.

One that never had to fight to get what he wanted or succeed in life.

One that wasn’t good enough.

Milwaukee had been something else.

Something had grown inside Gyro when he defeated Ringo, but everything changed when it had been Johnny’s time to save his life. Waiving corpse parts away.

Gyro had almost lost his self-imposed neutrality.

He had craved to say to Johnny, ‘thank you.’

Not with those words, with different words, expressing admiration, trying to make him realize how great he was. With or without the corpse. Gyro had wanted to slap his own face and under the influence of alcohol, decided with sidereal stupidity that he’d behave in order to deserve it.

Johnny respected Gyro a lot, but he’s also quick to violence.

Men’s median height of their time was 1m66, or 5’5. With parents wealthy enough to afford five sons’ education on top of leisure and basic needs, Gyro’s rich little life allowed him to reach an above-average honorable height. It sure helped to get respected. Or at least to keep him safe. Whereas, to avoid being stepped on when you’re a short guy means you have to know how to throw a punch.

Gyro had craved punishment.

If he had been less eager, hasty, maybe they would have found a solution to keep the corpse parts.

They had lacked tactics.

That’s also this moment having Johnny in tears started to hurt.

This moment, Gyro had been tired of his self-imposed neutrality and decided to offer a hug.

In the exact same bed.

He hadn’t thought.

They had been sharing warmth at night the moment snow had started falling at the beginning of December.

Johnny had slept everywhere and with anyone after he had lost his home. Saving the cost of hotel nights out of town had been a matter of long-term survival. Sleeping at others’ places, a way to avoid the inherent solitude of living alone that would have confronted him every day to his psychic wounds.

At such a young age.

Gyro ignored how the fuck he could have survived this at sixteen. Wealthy parents didn't always mean comfortable emotional privilege. Johnny was the living example, things like being ‘kicked out’ were real. Gyro had truly understood during the fight against Axl Ro how bad it had been. It’s obvious Johnny had feared it would change Gyro’s opinion and friendship. He’d been wrong. It had reinforced Gyro’s silent protectiveness and affection.

After Johnny’s last admission, Gyro put pieces of the puzzle together. Johnny had sex with so many people as a way to avoid being lonely. Gyro knew all too well how solitude felt growing up.

Gyro also knew well enough how you feel discovering your feminine sex partner was fucking around with other men. Gyro knew what it was to be the naïve ‘other man.’

The disappointment.

The feeling of humiliation.

Of course emotionally wounded Johnny had sex with other girls and other men than this brunet.

Johnny avoiding loneliness had been a way to prevent himself from thinking things like, ‘my parents hate me,’ ‘they will never want to see my face again’ or ‘I don’t deserve better.’

Gyro couldn’t know about Johnny’s reasoning back then, but he now had the experience of his own thinking about his parents.

It hurt. So Gyro related.

Sharing a bed, that’s a crucial symbol for Gyro.

The thing he thought he’d only do with his wife.

Conjugal bed.

Still today, he’s uneasy about doing that.

The only time it felt both comfy and the place Gyro was meant to be, was when Johnny fucked him so hard with his whole hand Gyro hadn’t been in a state he could reflect on his own limits anymore.

In the Great Lakes, sixth stage, Gyro had been admiring Johnny all the time.

He believed Johnny was beautiful.

There’s nothing in nature. Just horses, flitting snow, and Johnny’s face.

And Gyro had indulged himself to wonder at Johnny’s features more often than anything else.

Then, one day, so long and not so long after, came that great moment when they’d kissed for the first time.

Gyro had experienced so many emotions, it’s indescribable.

Thinking, ‘Ah, that’s how it is, actually.’

Feeling something doing it.

Finally.

This intensity, this desire to begin a new kiss, right here, right now.

To kiss for hours.

Because that had been good.

What his body wanted.

What his soul was yearning for.

Gyro had discovered that he could act shy.

That he could be daunted in a relationship.

That Johnny naturally compensated.

Making him feel and like strange unusual things.

This allowed them to become equal.

It hadn’t prevented Gyro from thinking such things as ‘Something is wrong with me’ or ‘I don’t fit in.’

Last events in Louisville allowed him to realize how much he lacked. The path to happiness wasn’t the result of being with the right person only. It was about Gyro feeling better because of it. He needed to think he deserved the good things in his life.

He had reached his objective; the reason he went to America.

It’s awesome.

It should have boosted his self-confidence. Not by making him an arrogant prick like the way he used to be. Like the kind of coolness, he gained after defeating Ringo Roadagain.

Gyro should ponder what it was that’s worrying him the most.

His first thought, about it, had been about his parents. Gyro’s parents had never cast aspersions on other people. So despite his temper, Gyro wasn’t used to badmouthing people. He didn’t like them. But this was not about a supposed reputation. Mocking people to connect with Johnny had been almost new at the beginning of the race.

Repurpose awkward interactions and random, silly criticizes, the way he’d done with fellow cadets during military service. A context, Gyro had been almost part of the group because of the need for common front and solidarity suffering assholes superior officers and the spite and occasional disloyalty of both temporary service privates and patronizing sergeants.

This had been so different from home.

Gyro’s parents were Catholic. Gyro attended religious classes at school. His mother used to read the full family extracts of the Bible after dinner. How could they be OK with such a thing? After all the strain Gyro already imposed on the family?

Experience taught Gyro everything wasn’t always as binary as he first considered.

After he stated he knew they were sharing their room and he heard them producing sex noise, Steel said nothing more than the ‘I suppose’ he meant. And Johnny’s mom had been really supportive.

It hadn’t been a day without Gyro thinking about her. Meeting her, he felt like he understood something important about Johnny. And the woman had been nice to him. Both tolerant, listening when he’d talked about family and also trying to comfort. Sharing life experience.

She had been talking with Johnny in mind, sure, and they had been the words of a mother grieving her eldest, but she had sincerely believed Gyro’s parents could be proud of what he did. She’d have been proud, if it had been Johnny.

She was proud and didn’t care that Johnny was in love with another guy and acted on it.

For the first time, because of her, Gyro had thought, ‘Maybe I didn’t ruin everything.’

He’s still believing he had. But his heart swelled less sorrow as he gained perspective.

The second point disturbing Gyro was that he didn’t want to be mistaken for something he’s not.

Gyro was a man, and more than happy to be one. He can’t envision himself as a woman. If he had to consider he had the wrong object, he remained conform to his biological sex. He’s not fancying transgressing gender norms. He didn’t want to be seen or treated as a woman.

There’s ambivalence.

Johnny was the one calling the shots in their sexual life. And Gyro enjoyed way too much a bit of humiliation to feel right in his boots.

“You ask yourself too many questions.”

Johnny’s answer brooked no argument.

“Did you wonder that much about the green lipstick?”

“I just like it!”

“Yeah. Same with sexual partners. You just prefer men and your sex life being spiced up. So?”

“…”

“Is this the legal aspect, the issue?”

“Of course not! Leave no trace can’t be traced.” Gyro hissed.

Gyro didn’t think twice before robbing meat to Hot Pants. And he didn’t think at all before getting the necessary metal to build a new needed steel ball.

“If it makes you feel better, balls on balls have always been wilder. ‘Not sure why. Perhaps because it’s already queer.”

“…”

“It’s an unmarried subculture. There’s no need to stay with someone for show.”

“…”

“Be yourself?”

Gyro cared a lot about the reassurance Johnny provided, but he’s not one to give big thanks.

Not his way to communicate.

“I was thinking about a new original joke, d’you want to hear it?”

That one, Johnny hadn’t seen it coming.

It’d been a long time.

And Johnny got the impression Gyro read his thoughts as he delivered, adding large gestures, his right arm high in the air, throwing a spinning steel ball making Johnny wonder the fuck he’s doing.

“…for a long time I thought numbers can’t be players but then I realized ten-is.”

Ten is.

Tennis.

…

Johnny’s mind went blank. He composed himself with his best poker face.

“Yeah Gyro, that’s really good.”

Gyro squinted.

“That’s all?” He complained.

“Well—”

“Hey, everything is funny when it comes to numbers humor!”

“I think I prefer the one you did after defeating Ringo Roadagain.”

Gyro’s head turned so fast, Johnny feared he made himself some whiplash.

“Right?! I told you it gets funnier with time. Nyohoho!”

Gyro let out a smirk, and gestured.

“Now, excuse me, let me pass.”

That was enough for Johnny to lose his composure and snort with laughter.

It’s the situation that amused him, but sure Gyro mistook it for him reacting to the four-two-zero joke.

It’s light.

An easier, happier, more hopeful interaction than what they’d experience at Johnny’s parents and in Louisville.

He’d missed this, Johnny realized.

With only freedom opening its arms to them, they’d soon know better times.

Chapter Text

“Missouri is a state of morons.” Gyro grumbled.

That’s a strong opinion.

But Johnny had no desire to contest it.

They had spent a few days in Saint-Louis. For Gyro to get the long-awaited letter from his country. One with a royal seal different from the previous ones. He looked bothered reading it, but he didn’t mention anything to Johnny. Yet.

They had no occasion to have a real talk. Upon their return from the post office, Saint-Louis’ officials had requested a meeting with Gyro. Which he refused. Then a delegation showed up at the hotel, with a brand-new job offer. As an experienced former executioner, the mayor expected Gyro to be hired as the state executioner, or at least for him to give advice concerning the wonderful electric chair system people had been working on.

It had spelled the end of their stay in the city.

Johnny had collected their belongings, packing and getting the horses ready while Gyro antagonized the puffed up mayor and his two main deputies. Both casting doubt over their intelligence and the citizens inhaling too much industrial air pollution. Or was it they’re furiously idiotic, offering such a thing to the guy that advocated against death penalty?

Mid-April was there, temperature sweet enough they weren’t in need to wear warm clothes anymore during the day.

For some reason, they got to talk about the supreme spin objective Johnny had fulfilled fighting against Dio’s stand, The World. Johnny explained with more details how it allowed him to have a spin that worked even when Dio made time stop.

A life saver, to sum up.

“I got it on instinct. The result is… Well, you’ve seen how Tusk looked?”

Gyro indeed had a look when they went sightseeing in New York and got attacked on the ferry boat.

It meant evolution.

But Gyro didn’t have a stand, right?

Whatever.

Gyro wanted to give it a try. And, thinking about it, it’s surprising he’d never had that desire before.

“OK, Johnny. First, you said you let your horse wander?”

“I was much too busy keeping Dio in sight. Slow Dancer got to do what it wanted.”

“Perhaps it followed a golden spiral of some huge golden rectangle. A horse’s stride is five feet trotting. Two and a half feet walking.”

“…”

“The golden rectangle. …Johnny, I think I got it. What kind of energy does the rotation gained from the horse have? No one knows. No one’s even seen it, you apart, that rotation. Can I do something like that myself? …The only way is with the golden rectangle. Make the horse run with that form. If we can obtain that rotational energy from the horse… Make the horse run in a way the horse itself thinks is good… like how the horse feels happy naturally running on the grass… As if you’re thanking the horse itself for being born and coming to be there in this world under the sky… That is the time it will make the golden rectangle.”

Johnny stayed silent, letting Gyro the space to express ideas. Listening to him. He’s a better theorist than Johnny had ever been. Plus, Steel Balls were his specialty.

They were losing some time, far from the distances they were covering during the race. That’s unimportant. None of them was long awaited in the middle west nor far west.

Johnny sat over a large stone, observing Gyro experimenting.

That’s rare, he got time looking at his training. Powerful muscles put in evidence.

Gyro didn’t achieve it.

Valkyrie seemed she’s doing great, the exact same Slow Dancer had done in New York. Maybe a little more mathematical as Gyro tried a few times to compensate for her habit to go too much on the left. Finally, he let her go where she wanted as he more than once did during the race. He was a lot more spin competent than Johnny, focusing energy from his feet up to shoulders and wrists. Maybe Johnny was more natural with horses, that’s the difference with having a pro career or not.

The fact Gyro didn’t get results meant nothing, to Johnny’s opinion.

Since long ago, or rather, since they met Mountain Tim, Johnny believed Gyro got a stand. Dormant. Born from craft and technique. Gyro approached naturally the power of a godsend talent others got in the snap of fingers. Just by going to the right place, the right moment. Put in one word, by chance.

Gyro was more deserving.

No matter if it didn’t appear to the naked eye.

The experience didn’t succeed, but both were in good spirits. They had shot a rabbit in the late morning, Johnny taking time to cut it up cleanly during Gyro’s training for it to be ready for lunch.

Gyro offered to cook it in a pseudo-Italian way. So they prepared it with a tomato can, onions, mushrooms, a lot of herbs—some which Gyro bought in New York. They missed the adequate white wine. The flavor won’t be the exact same, but did it matter? Sauce tasted delicious. Racing more in the afternoon, they reused it to season next meal’s pasta on dinner time. Cooking it in sauce gave it so much more savor that making them boil in water only.

It appeared Gyro was feeling better referring to his country.

Johnny liked that.

After dinner, both lying near the fire, looking for intimacy felt natural.

Gyro was almost spooning with Johnny, he got handsy.

Johnny turned his face backward, whispering.

“Gyro, tell me stuff in Italian.”

“What? Like what?”

“Love words, dirty stuff, anything you’d like.”

“You won’t get it—”

“Doesn’t matter.” Johnny cut, playing with Gyro’s hand that was near the hem of his shirt.

Johnny wouldn’t admit aloud his intention was to learn to say things in Gyro’s language.

Both dirty and romantic.

But he can’t learn pronunciation without Gyro wording things.

He wouldn’t ask Gyro to teach him.

It would uncover his intent.

“Ci siamo, caro, chiudi gli occhi e tieniti forte.”

Involuntarily, Johnny cracked out a smile.

It’s even sexier than what he expected.

He let go his head backward onto Gyro’s shoulder.

Letting go.

That’s nice.

He got light pressures over his back, relaxing muscles, warming his skin.

Then a hand on his lower abdomen.

Gyro’s lips whispered something else all against his ear, full lips eliciting sharp shivers.

Johnny didn’t know he got his ears so sensitive before.

He got a kiss right near the lobe.

“Fatti una sega.”

Gyro nibbled at his ear. Johnny let out a pleasured moan.

As he obviously did nothing, Gyro chose to translate.

“Jerk off, Johnny.” He repeated with the same seductive voice.

“I don’t want to, I won’t—”

“Imagine you’re touching me instead.”

And role-play… Why not? Johnny could try to touch himself dreaming of it being Gyro’s.

He let Gyro access his nape, hair tickling his nose. He tugged at his pants, pulling them down and letting his hand wrap around the aching, straining part of him that he’d want so badly to feel.

Consider it Gyro’s.

It didn’t work that much.

Consider it’s his but belonged to Gyro. That Johnny’s pleasure was his. Him alone.

That’s sexier.

‘Baby, I’m yours.’ He thought but didn’t tell.

It’s even easier to let go. To groan once he got his nipples stroked. Hard thumb wet of saliva was making them rise up to night cool air.

Johnny got more caresses over his belly. And it wasn’t an erogenous part, but it felt good. It felt as if he belonged. It’s a gesture of comfort. Of well-being. Of serenity.

And stimulation, more intensive, of his neck and ears.

He felt like he luxuriated, wanting to extend legs out with pleasure. He can’t know if he did. Johnny was probably not using the spin without noticing.

That’s a bath of love, tenderness, titillating him just right.

Gyro told him often he wanted to make him feel good. He’s proving he knew how to make it reality.

Even though Johnny’s eyes were closed.

Gyro caught Johnny’s hand that wasn’t busy taking care of his hard-on. Putting it to his lips.

Once more Johnny groaned. And sped up his strokes over the throbbing erection in his hand.

Whoever it belongs to.

One by one, Gyro began to suck at his fingers. Golden teeth nibbling softly. Then licking. Sucking hard his forefinger and middle finger.

These, in addition to his own strokes, they stacked up. Forming layers of pleasure. And was it coming from Johnny’s dick? Was it from his fingers?

It didn’t matter.

Gyro tightened his lips. Back and forth. Nibbled again, a little harder. Johnny emulated the same rhythm as Gyro’s mouth on the hard-on. An erogenous feeling built. It accumulated. Johnny insisted on the frenulum. Pressing fingertips, the way he liked being stroked before. And a few seconds later, he felt come on his hand. Contractions coming from his lower body.

It felt like he was truly feeling what happened downstairs.

Disheveled, under the influence of the orgasm, he opened his eyes and ordered, “Gyro, touch my ass.”

He wanted to know if he’s feeling things for real.

That’s the kind of invitation Gyro didn’t need to be told twice.

In no time, they rolled until they were face to face, Gyro pressing lips against his. Tongue venturing inside, his palm, pressing on Johnny’s scalp, at the limit to pull on his hair. The other one got its way in the back of Johnny’s trousers.

They’re rubbing against each other’s body. Johnny didn’t feel everything, but he loved the control in the gestures. The warmth against his back. It’s a renewed, ‘You belong to me.’

And fuck it. Johnny had come from his own hand job. He got help. But it worked.