Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jotaro has these dreams, sometimes.

Like all dreams, it’s never clear where it truly begins—Often, it will blur in between the lines of another in his restlessness, previous scenes morphing together until his subconscious pulls familiar territory out from the shadows. More frequently still, it emerges from the nothingness of deep rest, replacing whatever other dreams may or may not have existed in the night with its own lasting memory when he wakes.

The details always change, of course. At any moment there are several different variations on the theme that tend to stick and take root in his psyche, relative to the associated intensity. Yet, the most indelible version, and the one that seems to form a base for the rest, always feels the same.

In these dreams, Jotaro is crouched upon the smooth sand of an endless shoreline, enveloped in equal measure by the dark of the night and the light of countless unencumbered stars. He’s never alone at the ocean, not in the waking world and certainly not here. Whether it is hatchling sea turtles crawling to the tide by moonlight, bioluminescent jellyfish that dot the sparkling waves, or bright starfish along the edge of the waterfront, the sea always breathes with him.

Jotaro has dreamt about the ocean ever since he was little, and if he believed in the sort of thing, maybe he’d find it symbolic, the juxtaposition between diving beneath the surface of the waves as a dive into his own subconscious mind. As it stands, though, he doesn’t. It’s always been nothing more or less than the primal feeling of coming home, the static white noise of waves and cool wash of water against his skin the closest he’ll ever get to something that makes him feel truly human.

The water isn’t what’s notable about these dreams, no. It’s what comes from it. Each time, it feels as if he could spend forever staring out into the water, awash with the type of serenity that feels so elusive in his waking hours. In these fleeting moments, there is no beginning and no ending, no sense of boundary towards where he ends and the world around him begins, the galaxy above a mirror image of the world below. He feels so small, so perfectly irrelevant right there in between.

In all the moments before, he’s convinced it will never end. Yet night upon night the water breaks, and it steals his breath over and over again. One moment, the water is still, and the next, the surface begins to ripple, light shining down to illuminate slick-wet red hair emerging slowly from the depths. On some nights, despite the free-fall pit in his stomach, he knows what’s next like the pages of his favorite book. On others, it shocks him to his core, a lightning bolt of emotion as powerful as the tide itself that knocks him off his feet and sweeps him right under the blue.

In these dreams, the ocean returns Kakyoin to him.

He isn’t always the same when he arrives, but he is always beautiful, bathed in starlight and so blessedly alive. There’s a spark in his eyes and color in his cheeks, long hair cascading down strong, broad shoulders that he carries with pride. In all likelihood, Jotaro’s imagination supplies Kakyoin most often as he remembers him, young and only seventeen, fragile in a way that Jotaro wouldn’t understand until years later.

It doesn’t change how often he registers, down in the depths of his mind, that he is seeing a version of Kakyoin that has aged with him, the details morphing into something less recognizable, but striking in a way that he intrinsically believes. There, it becomes so easy to imagine, his mind instead supplying the concept of a Kakyoin that was allowed to grow into a man with defined features and a wise glint to his step, his sharp mind chiseled into an even stronger weapon with age.

No matter what version of him Jotaro gets, he always gets him. His body calls out to run into the waves, but the sight paralyzes him. He’s helpless to do anything but watch, his feet falling deeper into the sand as Kakyoin crosses the distance himself, wading through the shallows step by step. It’s an eternity, but one that Jotaro waits out patiently, because it’s one he’d wait forever for. In dreams, there’s nothing more in the world he wants than to feel him, both to prove to himself he’s really there and just to touch him for its own sake. He waits, meeting his eyes as the waves subside farther into the shore where Kakyoin’s feet touch the sand and they’re face to face once again.

Here, there are no words to say, no truths or confessions or apologies. Kakyoin moves to touch his hand, and Jotaro takes it in his with all the desperation of a drowning man, reunited and whole in the only way they’ve ever known how. In these dreams, it’s perfect. In these dreams, all he could ever want is the chance to see him and walk with him once more at his side.

It never lasts much beyond this, of course. He tries to tell himself it is all the better for it, come morning. Anything else would hurt much worse, and the daylight is harsh enough as it is. He hates these dreams most of all.

Jotaro’s never been one for nightmares, thankfully. There’s enough in his waking life to haunt him for all twenty-four hours of the day. It’s fitting then that something so beautiful could feel so empty, so horrifying the moment it fades. It’s not every night, far from it. At most, he can count on Kakyoin appearing once or twice a year, more if his days weigh on him particularly heavy. Yet each time he wakes up exhausted, boneless and shaking like the fading blackness of the ocean is every monster he’s ever faced rolled into one. All day long, his body thrums with restless energy, and he finds himself on-edge with nearly everyone, his usual curtness cut down to what can only be something equally monstrous to experience despite his best intentions to keep it down. It’s a nightmare in everything but name, and the longing warm ache in his chest is the worst symptom of all.

Still, he can’t help but feel that every time he finds himself deposited on those shores, he leaves another piece of himself down there with it. Each time his night visions return clearer than the last, while the reality he’s built seems, at times, terrifyingly dreamlike in its wake.

It’s a normal day when it happens, because of fucking course it is. There are no signs, no clues, no hints, and no magic to these drastic shifts in life. They just happen, and the world turns just the same.

All things considered, it’s on the quieter side of average for Jotaro’s world. Morioh brings steady work and steady headaches, but there are moments of reprieve when Jotaro allows them, and he makes it a point to.

As fate would have it, weekends are either ripe for this type of serenity or a spike in a different sort of supernatural chaos, and the cards were dealt favorably this particular Friday. His latest research revision was accepted without much fuss by the university, and while it’s a stretch to say he’s one for much jubilant celebration under any circumstances, the edits were a pain in his ass. It only seems right to take the long way home.

Morioh isn’t his favorite by a long shot, but there’s still a beauty to it he can’t deny, unnerving as it often is. The coast is still the coast, and the salty air still soothes the muscles of his shoulders and into his jaw when he pulls the top down on his car. He lights a cigarette, and then another, watching the sun go down with deep, slow breaths to the sound of the only tolerable radio station in the city. Jotaro’s always loved driving—it’s such an easy solitude, the road keeps his body occupied just enough for his mind to disappear into the branches of the trees as they fly by. It calms his thoughts when restlessness knocks, and he almost always feels some type of restless. It’s cheaper than cigarettes, and there’s always driving over the speed limit if he’s looking for the same sort of mortal thrill.

Sufficiently centered, he picks up a six-pack on the way back into town just as the sun’s setting on a lovely early autumn orange. It’s near twilight by the time he pulls back into the driveway of his rental, fourth cigarette burning to ash on his lips. It’s a testament to his will that he doesn’t sit out another one with the car in park, but his legs are starting to itch, and there’s only so much he can allow himself. He does his customary check of the perimeter once, then twice to shake the cobwebs out of his autopilot, and enters through the yard.

It’s quiet and dark because it always is. It’d be a lie to say he’s used to it, but he certainly expects it. It’s just no longer novel enough to say he welcomes it, not in the way he used to. Still, when he hits the lights, everything’s just as he likes it, and there’s nothing to complain about in that. The only irksome detail in the entire room the blinking green light of his answering machine, and he flips through it lazily just to quiet it down. Josuke, Joseph, Rohan for some reason, Josuke again. Nothing that can’t wait, thankfully.

Jotaro’s just about to crack open a bottle when unmistakable unease starts to crawl up his spine. There’s metallic taste at the back of his throat, gnawing on hard-wired nerves that ring to signal one thing and one thing only. His center of gravity shifts just slightly as Star Platinum stirs, Jotaro’s ears and eyes opening up to their full spectrum in the stillness.

It’s not unusual to feel the presence of another stand user in this city, even with the modest privacy his flat affords him. It twinges in his veins, but Jotaro’s gotten good at ignoring it, gotten good at compartmentalizing that sort of thing. It’s not hot in the way a stand he’s never encountered will burn at his fight or flight instincts, rather the banaler lukewarm of familiarity, and that alone is enough to finish off the cap with a flick of his wrist.

Familiar doesn’t mean it’s not burdensome, especially with Josuke gone with Okuyasu to the city since early this afternoon, per a clip of the voicemail he’d caught while clearing them through. The kids he can deal with, but he’d rather gouge his eyes out than deal with either of his other two callers on a Friday night. He takes a long sip, sighing into the ceiling in silent prayer.

It lingers, but it doesn’t shift in intensity or proximity. After several more cautious seconds, he keeps an ear open and turns to his study. His steadily growing novel stack isn’t going to read itself, for better or worse, and it’s easier to fake sleep if the house is already dark and quiet in the first place, God forbid anyone comes knocking.

His prayers are answered, and thankfully no one does. Yet, there’s an itch just out on the fringes of his senses all night, and although he’s able to sleep through the discomfort, it’s restless, the part of his internal radar he can’t turn off just loud enough to keep him tossing through the hours.

Come morning, suspicion has faded into a migraine, which is more or less par for the course. The routine of it all brings nominal relief, his body leading him through the motions with practiced ease despite the pressure building behind his eyes. He makes his way down creaking stairs to start the coffee maker, because there’s never been a migraine caffeine can’t solve, but skips turning on the morning news, because there’s never been a migraine the TV can’t make worse.

It’s almost enough to placate his instincts by the time he crosses to open the front door for the paper, annoyed by the stubborn paranoia clinging to his chest as he flicks open the deadbolt.

Whatever emotions had taken root in him from the previous evening, and possibly the past eleven years of his life until that moment, fall away into nothing with the daylight. At first glance, he doesn’t process what’s in front of him, can’t process what’s in front of him beyond a shadowed silhouette on his doorstep. His eyebrows furrow against the light and sudden drop in his chest, and when recognition does come, it hits slowly—gentle ribbons of red hair in the wind, slender hand poised around the knocker, impossibly wide eyes—then all at once, realization crashing down piece by piece at Jotaro’s feet with catastrophic velocity.

Jotaro curls his fingers into the doorframe hard enough to turn his knuckles white, reaching desperately for rationality even as the wind’s knocked out of him, chest caving with twisting, pin-tight emotion that sticks like a blade in between his ribcage. There’s nowhere for oxygen to go when he tries to steady his breath, air resting shallow in his lungs, sheer disbelief and overwhelming dread flooding his synapses and drowning the rest of his body’s strength in the undertow, unprepared and unanchored.

Whatever he’s seeing, it’s not the truth. His body may be reacting to what his senses process, but the disgust settling in alongside it all is a force of higher reasoning, and it’s the only force he’ll allow himself to honor.

“Whoever you are,” It’s pathetic how desperate the only right words to say sound, even with all the conviction in the world behind them. “Cut it out, you sick fuck.”

Noriaki Kakyoin is not in front of him, because Noriaki Kakyoin died eleven years ago.

Noriaki Kakyoin is not in front of him, because only someone with unparalleled cruelty would ever think to create the illusion of it. Noriaki Kakyoin is not in front of him, because no matter how hard he’s worked to bury his memory, someone must know how obvious it is. It’s still the best way in the entire world to hurt him.

He’s built his defenses of course, in the moments he’s distanced himself enough from the emotion to contemplate the possibility of an attack like this. The trouble with devotion is how effectively it can be sharpened and buried into the flesh, Jotaro understands that better than anyone. Even the simplest of foes could deduce the effectiveness of Kakyoin’s visage to wear as a mask, but it’s his own weakness that drives it deep into his organs. It hurts worse than any physical wound, and it’s his fault for not being prepared. The least he can do is try and keep it hidden and deny the satisfaction. Deny the danger.

Despite the rush of blood in his ears, Jotaro straightens his spine, forcing himself to meet the eyes of Noriaki Kakyoin. They follow him up inch by inch in silence, and Jotaro refuses to acknowledge the reflection of them, refuses to acknowledge anything they might represent as more than a well-crafted lie. Jotaro swallows, steeling away himself once again and welcoming the anger and indignation at the perversion of his image with open arms. “I’ll give you one chance to take that mask off.”

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin’s voice says, and it’s the most jarring sound in the world. It’s rusty in his mind with years, but it’s not something he’ll ever forget as long as he lives, a song he’d so long ago resigned to silence that he’s utterly defenseless against its return. The timbre isn’t quite the same, deepened and softened with age and just a tinge raw, but it’s unmistakable. “I know what you’re thinking. I know.”

“Oh, do you?” Jotaro clings to the rage as it starts to ebb away against his will, something in the sound stirring it back inch by inch while he’s left caught unawares. It’s harder than it should be to shift Star Platinum out, a palpable beat of hesitation separating his command and the stand manifesting. “That this is the most tasteless, cowardly tactic I’ve ever witnessed?”

“It would be,” Kakyoin’s body shifts, and Jotaro finally forces himself to look at it directly. For a replica, it’s an uncanny interpretation—he’d expect an enemy to imitate Kakyoin as Jotaro remembers him at seventeen, but this is something entirely different. The Kakyoin in front of him is, if not exactly what Jotaro would expect a twenty eight year old version to look like, it’s an inspired facsimile. He’s slighter than he was as a teenager, but there’s still an obvious strength to his frame. A cascading array of white scars poke out from beneath the collar of his shirt, and it hurts worse than anything Jotaro knows how to put into words. “Please, if you’ll give me a moment.”

There’s a striking urgency to his tone, one that belies how Jotaro still hasn’t made a real move to attack. He’s frozen, but luckily for him, there’s nothing threatening about the person in front of him. Deeply upsetting, but not threatening. Star Platinum twitches at his side all the same. Before he can think to respond, Kakyoin’s silhouette glows emerald green.

That alone isn’t enough to placate him, but it makes his heart jump all the same, Star Platinum’s eyes just as wide as his at the sight of Hierophant Green manifesting in the air. It’s not unthinkable that a stand capable of high-level mimicry could replicate a user’s own stand. With a flick of Jotaro’s wrist, Star Platinum rounds nose to nose with its swirling green face, the stand unflinching and still as a statue. Star Platinum raises a fist, and despite Jotaro’s clear commands for it to strike down, it hesitates, hovering just inches from Hierophant’s form. Jotaro frowns, desperation rising and falling and rising at his inability to bend the stand to his will for the first time in over a decade.

“Thank you,” Kakyoin’s voice deadpans, and Jotaro doesn’t have to be half as good at reading those tones as he is to know the internal struggle must be clear on Jotaro’s face. Hierophant pulls back in closer to his form, and Star Platinum doesn’t follow it, but at least it has the good sense to keep his hand raised. Green tendrils hug to him, Kakyoin’s body small in the glow of its protective aura. “I’m sorry. There’s no good way to do this. I thought I’d be knocked cold by now, but maybe I underestimated you.”

“Don’t mock me,” Jotaro snarls, but there’s nothing mocking in his voice at all, and it runs chills up his spine faster than he can shake them off. He clenches and unclenches his fists, willing the shock out of his system so he can act. That has to be what’s holding him back, just shock. Nothing more. “Not with that face.”

Star Platinum lurches forward, finally, and Kakyoin’s face turns away in anticipation for the impact, Hierophant curling farther into him. It’s an impact that doesn’t come, the frustration so excruciating Jotaro could scream. Star Platinum circles the two figures, locking eyes with the ever-vigilant Hierophant in a battle of wills Jotaro isn’t privy to despite every inch of his best efforts.

“It’s mine,” Kakyoin responds. Jotaro feels the crack in his voice like it’s fracturing across his own skin. “I still don’t know how to say this. I’m so sorry it’s been so long, Jotaro. I never meant for it to be.”

If stands are a representation of one’s soul, Jotaro’s soul acknowledges the one in front of him with nothing but a solemn nod, falling back to Jotaro’s side in something akin to reverence.

“Stop,” Jotaro commands, but it’s so weak, so unsure. He knows how it will sound, but he has to say something. The ground beneath him no longer feels real, numbness creeping up his legs until he feels like he’s floating, unanchored from reality and a connection to his physical self. The mid-morning sky fades into nothing but swirling color with only Kakyoin left sharp and clear in his line of vision, the line between what he knows has to be true and the sinking, desperate feeling of sheer instinct in his gut blurring right along with it. “Whatever this is. Stop.”

“You know,” Kakyoin whispers, voice laced with awe enough to make Jotaro see stars, and he hates it. He hates it so much, hates how seen it makes him feel with only two words. He’s defeated, and no one’s thrown a single punch. “I don’t know how you know, but you do. That’s why you can’t fight, isn’t it?”

Jotaro presses his lips together, because there’s nothing to say.

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin folds, words broken. Jotaro casts focus his back down to the ground, just to prove he’s still here. In his dreams he’d be floating by now, but it’s so unnerving how similar it feels in the light of day. “Jotaro. It’s me, please. Please, tell me you know that.”

“I don’t know,” Jotaro replies, because even if there is some sort of primal recognition down deep beneath the surface of his consciousness, that doesn’t undo a reality he’s been forced to accept for so long. It’s going to take so, so much more than that. More than he knows how to wrap his head around, especially when it’s like this—his senses short-circuiting like coffee spilled on a hard drive and higher processing thrashing against reality like fish in a net. “That’s not something I can know.”

Jotaro tries to shield himself against the hurt in Kakyoin’s face and fails. If he closed his eyes, maybe he’d see a fist colliding with his chest in the darkness, because Kakyoin was wrong in overestimating his fight or flight tendency. It’s not like there isn’t a battle here, but it’s a battle in words and emotions alone, and that… well, that sort of thing has never exactly been Jotaro’s forte.

He clambers for anything to say, struck now by the very real possibility there’s something here that might slip through the cracks if he’s not careful. If nothing else, the elusive possibility of some semblance of truth out of this mess is enough. “It’s been eleven years.”

It’s not as inspired a thought as Jotaro hoped, but there’s no disputing the bare facts. If he can’t have clarity or even sanity, he at least has that. He’s lost his mind out here, of that he’s certain.

“I know,” Kakyoin sighs, wrapping one arm across his chest as if to shield him. If Jotaro had more control of his facilities, he might find the cadence of the conversation humorous. “I can explain. You might not like it, but I can explain.”

Kakyoin meets Jotaro’s eyes with arresting certainty, and Jotaro glances him over once again, blinking in an attempt to shift the paradigm from dream to reality. For the first time, he takes note of Kakyoin’s formal dress, the subtle forest green button-down and dark brown slacks he’s chosen such a fitting style elevation for the Kakyoin he remembers Jotaro can’t help the tug of fondness in his chest. His hair’s been cropped and tamed to suit his age, but to Jotaro’s quiet pleasure he’s kept the signature asymmetrical lock framing the side of his face. Despite the guarded stance, Kakyoin stands tall through his shoulders, muscles laced with unmistakable resolve.

He’s just as beautiful as he remembers. In all his years, he’s never seen sunlight dance across anything the way it does the reds in his hair, never seen the beauty in the mundane like he can when Kakyoin’s around. The sun in Morioh doesn’t glisten out here as it does across the sands of Cairo, but it feels like he’s seeing it for the first time in the contoured shadows of his face. Kakyoin.

“It’s really you.” Jotaro feels the air leave him like the first gasp of a drowning man breaking the surface, punchy and labored. He means it to be a question, but it doesn’t come out as one. With his head hung, he pulls Star Platinum back, and Kakyoin responds in turn, the air settling into solitude around them. Kakyoin takes a cautious step forward, and Jotaro matches it, stepping to the side and opening the door wider behind him, just an inch. “Tell me how.”

The briefest sliver of a smile appears on Kakyoin’s face. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Jotaro has spent most of his adult life trying to erase Kakyoin, but some bonds run thicker than either blood or water.

Their friendship was about stands, but only superficially. It’s true they never would have given each other the time of day without it, but the bare facts of a common, shared experience can bring a lot of paths together that may never meet again or have the desire to. It was more accurate to say that their experiences shaped them into people who spoke a similar emotional language, one Jotaro thought he was the only one fluent in.

Their friendship was about the mission, but they both knew it didn’t have to be, so it wasn’t that either. Kakyoin didn’t have to be there, and Jotaro didn’t have to take him. It wouldn’t be so remarkable if Jotaro were the type to just let that sort of behavior slide, but in seventeen years, he’d gotten use to companionable silence. While the close proximity of the journey itself guaranteed solitude wouldn’t really be in his cards either way, the idea of having someone his own age shifted the dynamic from one where Jotaro could still be reasonably alone. That sort of independence wasn’t something he’d ever felt compelled to give up before, and it wasn’t something Kakyoin had ever been without.

There was just something in the way Kakyoin held his shadow so tightly into him; Jotaro had long learned the benefits of doing the same.

Once, over the flickering embers of a desert campfire hundreds of miles from home yet hundreds still to the end, Kakyoin had paused, licked his dry lips and said, “You’re my best friend.”

Jotaro met his steady gaze and nodded in reply, because he knew what Kakyoin meant. There was no one who’d ever taken up space in each other’s lives in the way they’d so easily allowed the other to.

Their rapport may have begun as one of debt and duty, but it morphed into something unrecognizable right before Jotaro’s eyes, shifting to fit the cracks in between them until there was no space left to speak of at all. It was simple, at first—they roomed together out of convenience, but soon the unspoken partition between Jotaro’s space and Kakyoin’s began to blur in the haze of every late night’s unsteady glow.

In the first few desperate nights, they’d return too exhausted and too unaccustomed to the pace of their life to speak. Personal possessions they’d once kept diligently separate in Japan were soon flung into a communal source for spare socks and books and comics until Jotaro wasn’t sure what belonged to him anymore and couldn’t bring himself to care. If at first either of them blanched at the idea of sharing a bed, it soon became not just an afterthought to larger troubles, but a natural and welcome extension of a hurried, stolen existence they’d come to share in their moments of reprieve.

Jotaro used to fall asleep with his arms curled up at his side on purpose, conscious of the space his too-long limbs took up on too-small motel beds. At the start, he had the time and thought to spare towards considerations like this, falling asleep in cool, companionable silence. It became trickier to keep the same commitment when falling asleep to his own thoughts all but disappeared, replaced instead with hanging on to every last murmured word from Kakyoin’s lips until his body failed him. Unguarded, he could only act upon instinct. Any shame he felt waking up to his arm flung across Kakyoin’s chest was always mitigated by Kakyoin’s leg tossed carelessly over his.

After the day’s terrors had been temporarily vanquished and their communal duties to the others attended to, Jotaro could barely get back to their room fast enough. No matter how dingy or makeshift their accommodations, the shreds of their haphazard presence together within it could transform it instantly into a pocket away from reality. Jotaro had always felt so much older than his years, chronically unable to identify with his peers long before he knew a single one of the countless reasons why. Out in the light of day, he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, a boy forced to become a man to protect a world and a family that felt as alien to him as the stars up above.

Yet, each night the sun would set, and he’d find himself shoulder to bony shoulder with Kakyoin over the sink washing the blood out of their hair. As cracked red swirled down into the drain, he’d run flush with a kinetic energy he’d only ever read of in children’s adventures, each pulse in his veins newer and brighter than the last.

Kakyoin made him feel impossibly, embarrassingly young, their twin casual intimacy like a mirror to his immediate reality Jotaro had never experienced until then. He’d never considered the awkwardness or the potential of his own body until faced with the surprising frailty of Kakyoin’s proportions when stripped bare in the shower, how the immaturity of his frame concealed the lithe muscles beneath Jotaro’s fingers when he’d wash him. Kakyoin was hardly a big talker by any stretch of the imagination, but with Jotaro, he had a habit of speaking from his heart in the silences. Kakyoin understood silence like he understood the aching isolation of a childhood marooned on an island of private thoughts and fears, and Jotaro lost count of how many times Kakyoin would speak like he dove straight into the darkest, smallest part of Jotaro’s memories, putting into words a feeling Jotaro only knew as a dull pain in his ribcage.

With the passing days, Jotaro began to see the world through his eyes. In them, he could see color and fire and intensity enough to strip him raw. They’d trade secrets in the dark of the night, Kakyoin slowly drawing a picture of a boy both achingly similar to Jotaro, but with strength at his core Jotaro knew he could only dream of. Kakyoin had every reason in the world to be small and sharp and afraid, yet there seemed to be nothing that could dim out the sparks in him. Kakyoin hummed with vitality, his barbed tongue and quick wit more than enough to make him the only person in the world Jotaro never got bored of.

Jotaro painted his own image the best he could, but he never felt like he had much that could hold a candle to that spirit. In truth, it didn’t bother him. He was content to listen, anchored by the rise and fall of Kakyoin’s chest against his side and the gentle thrum of his heartbeat.

After all this time, the actual moment it became something else entirely gets lost in the weeds. As it stands, he remembers it in flashes. In some variations, Jotaro is the one who let his eyes linger too long on Kakyoin’s lips, his fingers too tight on his hipbones. In others, it’s Kakyoin who crossed the line first, shifting up underneath the sheet until they were eye to eye and he could run his fingers across Jotaro’s jawline in unspoken want. Truthfully, they probably fumbled towards it with mutual uncertainty, and every touch against the other’s skin was always a budding question neither of them knew they were asking until it could no longer escalate without breaking. By then, the physical space between them was negligible, and the emotional space had all but disappeared completely. As soon as it was out in the open, it was answered immediately. Regardless of who had asked it, the other would have reciprocated in kind. That much is fact.

Everything outside their door could have been another world, and in the trials of their journey that alone would have been enough, but it was so much more. Together, they tangled into a web of memory and touch and uncertain emotion layered enough to be a galaxy within itself, one that Jotaro could have gladly gotten lost in forever. Kakyoin was his first everything. His first love, his first time, his first heartbreak, his first real friend in the world. Nothing else has felt like the touch of their skin in those rooms. Nothing has ever been close.

Jotaro is grateful every goddamn day he didn’t have to see the moment it happened. Without an imprint of his mangled body burned into his mind, it’s so much easier to lock away these thoughts and memories in a safe where the harsh light of reality can’t reach. Without that image, the Kakyoin he knew could stay in those rooms forever. It’s hard enough to erase him, but Jotaro shudders to think how much worse the guilt of trying to scrub him off his body for years would be with the sight of his organs strewn across a clock tower running through his mind.

Jotaro should feel lucky he knew him. He should feel lucky he was spared the worst.

He does not.

The chronology goes like this: Two years in a coma, two and a half years paralyzed, and another year inpatient at an American hospital. After that, Kakyoin was subjected to a scheduled year and a half of thrice-weekly physical therapy and continuous monitoring for signs of his body rejecting the organ treatment, which one did about nine months in. It took three months to stabilize, and out of caution, the observation stage stretched on for another full year. An additional six months on top of it freed him, finally, from mandatory weekly doctors appointments, on the stipulation he had an exit plan for continued care firmly in place.

Kakyoin recounts the details of his survival with clinical detachment, and Jotaro quietly follows along with the math in his head. They lock eyes, and no matter how deep the temptation runs, Jotaro refuses to rise to the obvious challenge within Kakyoin’s. Eleven years, six years. New song. Same dance. There’s nothing to say to that.

Kakyoin begs him to understand it’s not his fault.

Against his better judgment, Kakyoin is sitting at his kitchen table pouring coffee from the pot Jotaro made earlier, taking it black to his surprise. Jotaro has his own, but it’s going cold beneath his fingers, his lips occupied with his fourth cigarette in a row since he’d invited Kakyoin inside. It’s shaping up to be a cloudless, brisk day, and it’s both too warm and too windy to keep the window propped open like this, but nicotine is one of the few creature comforts he has.

Kakyoin taps his nails against the handle of his mug. “Apparently, the odds I’d wake up at all were around fifteen percent.”

“That’s higher than I’d expect.” Jotaro remarks. It comes out deadpan like a bad joke, but he’s not trying to crack wise. Even when accounting for Joseph’s tendency towards hyperbole, there’s no way to imbue ‘there’s a hole where the vital organs should be’ with a sense of hope.

To his surprise, Kakyoin cracks a smile at that, masking a breathy laugh with another drink. “I think that was the first thing I said when I came around, too.”

By the very nature of his circumstances, Kakyoin argues, there’s no way anyone could have known he was salvageable. For all intents and purposes, he wasn’t. An injury of that caliber isn’t something anyone just survives, and it required miracles no one involved had the spare bandwidth or ability to perform, let alone Jotaro. They were right to dismiss him as gone.

“No one’s thought about the details more than me, obviously,” Kakyoin assures him, draining the last of his cup. Jotaro takes a long drag, swinging down from his perch on the counter to pour him another. Kakyoin thanks him softly, and Jotaro lingers an awkward beat too long before returning back to the window to exhale. “No one was going to figure out The World without risking their life, and I don’t regret it. Besides, I’ve read the Foundation reports on how you saved your grandfather. You wouldn’t have been able to do that to me. You know that.”

Jotaro nods. It’s one of the first thoughts turned over and over in his head, and it disintegrated to dust just as fast. The ghosts of what could have been done don’t haunt him. That’d be an exercise in futility if he’s ever heard one, and Jotaro’s not an idiot. Kakyoin doesn’t need his assurance on that any more than he needs his assurance on what Jotaro could have done to keep him safe in the first place.

Jotaro doesn’t blame himself. There was no feasible way they all could have gotten out alive, and Kakyoin… Well, few things shone brighter about him than his boundless analytic curiosity, aside from maybe his most ruthless instincts. Jotaro couldn’t hold him back when he had no practice exercising that impulse. He’d spent two months learning just how well Kakyoin could handle himself, and in the face of Dio, there was no way either of them could have known anything with that much certainty. Kakyoin should have been more careful. That’s the story Jotaro’s followed, and it’s the one he believes. He’s not stupid or sentimental enough to believe he could have changed fate.

No one’s thought about the details more than Jotaro, after all. He snuffs the cigarette down to ash, and starts another.

“One more breath,” Kakyoin emphasizes, but the delivery is as cold and flat as anything. “I wouldn’t be here.”

Jotaro wonders, silently, how much time Kakyoin will spend repeating things he knows Jotaro is smart enough to infer. It’s irrelevant how much easier it is to stomach in Kakyoin’s voice rather than his own.

“However hard this is,” he continues, and Jotaro catalogues the first acknowledgment of that fact with brutal detachment. “Do me a favor, and try to imagine waking up.”

Stand users attract other stand users, and that night, Kakyoin met one in the serendipitous space between Dio leaving and his body collapsing. More accurately, that person met Kakyoin. They were long gone by the time he woke up, but the evidence of supernatural tampering in his body was clear, both in the immediate experience of his body and on his official file. At least as far as the American hospital was concerned, that is. Whoever saved him knew where to send him, too.

“I had no control over who knew what at first,” Kakyoin explains, and Jotaro rolls his eyes. Again, yes, of course. “The Stand user who saved me… argued for discretion, at least until I woke up. As soon as I could speak for myself, I begged the Foundation to keep quiet.”

That gets Jotaro’s attention. Even if the likelihood of the Foundation somehow not being involved with his recovery was low—it’s not like anyone else would know how to handle something that specific—it’s still jarring to hear. “They knew?”

“They don’t work for you personally.” Kakyoin nods, resting his face on his knuckles, elbow propped on the table. Its not like Jotaro cares, but he can’t help but balk at the casual display of ill manners from him of all people. “I transferred to a civilian hospital as soon as I could, but yes. It took a lot of convincing to keep it from you specifically.”

You were always good at that, is what Jotaro thinks, but he doesn’t dare say it. Instead, he just shrugs, returning his focus back to a family of birds nesting in a willow across the street.

Stands can work miracles in the strict definition of the word, but they cannot bend the laws of reality and matter beyond the hard lines of the universe, and there are many. They’re good enough illusionists to, say, reconstruct and redirect organic matter within a person in order to create makeshift vital passages from collagen, but not good enough to last when the structure was all but obliterated from the start.

It was so touch and go. Kakyoin could have died any given day over the course of those five years. There was nothing keeping him together, nothing guaranteeing that he’d ever walk again. That any of his donor organs would take. That he’d be able to regain mobility enough to lead anything resembling a functional, independent life. Who would want to see him that way?

“I would have,” Jotaro insists, but he’s not sure he says it out loud. Kakyoin doesn’t react, but Jotaro isn’t convinced he would have if he’d heard it, either.

“I didn’t want to make it real,” Kakyoin whispers, and Jotaro responds to the hint of pain in it automatically, turning from the window back to face him again. He stares into the mug, choosing his words with apparent care. “Just in case it really was too soon after all. I figured the only thing worse than losing someone once is false hope before losing them twice. My parents didn’t even know.”

Jotaro doesn’t want to ask it really, but he does anyway, just to get it on the record. “Do they know now?”

If Kakyoin’s expression didn’t make it clear enough, the hesitation in his voice is damning. “Yes. They’re aware.”

Jotaro lifts his shoulders up and lowers them again, flicking ash in the sink. He’s fully aware of Kakyoin’s eyes prying for more, but he lets the silence linger. It speaks for itself.

“I didn’t stabilize for years.” Kakyoin’s words are laced with an edge of defensiveness now, and a small, horrible part of Jotaro can’t help but be pleased with it. “I spent every day for years wondering if I’d wake up the next day, that’s not easy to just forget. I wanted to be sure.”

“Took you a while to be sure,” Jotaro remarks, evenly.

Kakyoin recoils, clutching his coffee with both hands and a pained expression on his face. “Five years is a long time, Jotaro.”

“So is a decade,” he counters, pointing his cigarette in the vague direction of his kitchen table as he talks. “Yet, you’re here.”

With a long, shaky sigh, Kakyoin shifts in his chair in apparent effort to steady himself. Jotaro waits, patient for him to speak, pressing his back up against the cabinets. When he does begin, it’s notably quieter, each word deliberate in a cadence Jotaro recognizes well from their youth. “You know how I felt about everything. When you saved me, it was my second chance at life. I didn’t think about getting a third, and I didn’t think I’d survive Egypt, either. The issue is, I did survive, but I didn’t. Not in a way that was meaningful to the life I had with you all there.”

Jotaro hums, pressing the stub of another cigarette into the sink. Another would break his self-imposed daily limit at only ten in the morning, but he reaches for it like it’s on autopilot, lighting the end with a flick of the wrist. Desperate times, desperate measures, or however the saying goes. “I didn’t see it that way.”

“I know you didn’t.” Kakyoin turns his face away from him for the first time, or at least the first time Jotaro’s managed to catch. “After I got back on my feet, literally, it had been so long. By then, it really felt like that version of me died to everyone involved beyond what I could repair. There were things here in the life I had I couldn’t get back anymore. I didn’t want that, for me or anyone else. I made the choice to act like nothing had changed.”

“You made that choice for everyone.” Jotaro means for it to be an extrapolation of Kakyoin’s words, but it comes out as a correction, and maybe that’s just as well.

It’s Kakyoin that’s moved to silence with that, turning his head back down and biting the inside of his cheek. Jotaro alternates, slow, between watching his smoke billow out the window and Kakyoin’s face, listening to the gentle hum of a car on the main road and the buzz of his too-old refrigerator. It’s minutes before Kakyoin speaks, something Jotaro measures less by the stove clock and more by how quickly the ash starts to accumulate.

“I didn’t want to hide anymore,” he explains, and it comes sounding suspiciously like surrender. Jotaro wishes he felt more of a victory, if that’s the case. “I know you’re wondering, I built a life in those six years. I’m here because it got too heavy, and I had to do something. I had to tell you the truth.”

The quiet ticks on, and Jotaro tries to absorb those words but finds they pass through him like clouds of smoke, dancing across his skin but not lingering long enough to become something tangible. He moves to speak, but Kakyoin beats him to it.

“I didn’t feel like I had another option.” He drinks down the last of his coffee, and Jotaro eyes it, but doesn’t move quite yet. “Please don’t get the wrong idea. Erasing the past wasn’t an easy decision to make, but it worked until it didn’t. Keeping that secret… I can’t do it anymore.”

“So you’re here,” Jotaro infers, snuffing out his cigarette despite only smoking it down halfway. He unwinds himself from the countertop with an aching sigh, each and every joint protesting the intrusion like cobwebs had settled in the sinews since the short time he’d last refilled Kakyoin’s glass. The pot is right in front of Kakyoin, but he still feels compelled to respond. Still feels compelled to host him properly.

“So I’m here.” Kakyoin puts a hand over half the cup in feigned protest, but his eyes are on Jotaro above him, fingers falling back to the handle as Jotaro fills it halfway. Jotaro hovers again, the prospect of returning back to his perch filling him with an inexplicable weariness he doesn’t want to acknowledge. Instead, he pulls out the chair opposite Kakyoin’s, falling into it with legs and arms crossed.

“I’m staying at the hotel,” Kakyoin stumbles over words like the prospect of further silence terrifies him. Jotaro doesn’t relate, but he can understand it. “At least for tonight and tomorrow. I… You’re the only one I’ve told. I want to tell the others, but I had to come here first.”

“Do you live far?” Jotaro asks, surprised by the casual tone he’s adopted in his own voice. It’s the only piece of concrete, present information Kakyoin’s offered, and he clings to it for a type of stability he didn’t know he was missing.

“America,” Kakyoin offers, a bit of hesitancy returning to his posture. “I…”

“The old man’s senile, but he’s in town for another week,” Jotaro cuts him off, something in his gut twisting at the idea of being offered an explanation. He doesn’t need it. “Polnareff is in Europe, but he’d drop everything. Tell him you’re here.”

Kakyoin’s eyes go wide at that, and Jotaro searches to fix his own gaze on something, anything else. He doesn’t get far, settling once again on Kakyoin’s slender, well-manicured hands. “I might need a few days.”

“That’s fine,” Jotaro says, realizing he’s decided that only at the exact moment it leaves his lips. Kakyoin’s here, somehow, drinking from his Enoshima Aquarium mug in his kitchen, and as terrifying and bewildering and maddening as it is to see, the mere thought of him leaving is more than he’s willing to bear. There’s not enough proof that it’s real yet, not nearly enough time for Jotaro to understand the bare facts of the situation, let alone begin to process it as reality. Kakyoin has to exist out of this moment to him, or else it’ll be too terrifyingly close to him not existing at all.

Noriaki Kakyoin has been dead for eleven years. If nothing else in the world is clear, he needs him alive for one more day. “That’s fine.”

Chapter Text

Come afternoon, Kakyoin’s long left his house on a mutual agreement for space—Or, rather, Kakyoin tactfully excused himself from the situation, and Jotaro could hardly agree fast enough.

It’s strange to have his house so normal, so empty after he’s gone. For some reason, he’s expecting the structure to feel different, but it doesn’t at all, really. It’s a while before he can pick himself back up after showing Kakyoin out, folded in the chair he was using and resting his head on his hands. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, except for maybe stability or a sense of relief, but he should know better than to expect either of those to come.

Mostly, all he can taste is just exhaustion, his mind racing too fast for any one thought to emerge from the tangled mess of the rest. They enter and exit before Jotaro can cling onto them, not that he particularly wants to in the first place. All that’s left is a jumbled pile of half-formed memories and the ever-present watermark of Kakyoin’s face at the exact moment Jotaro gave him permission to stay in Morioh.

Kakyoin gave him his cell number before he left, and Jotaro gave him his. It sits like a hot iron in his back pocket, but Jotaro’s almost certain he could draw it up from memory from how long he stared at it as he listened to the sound of his footsteps fade.

He’s still and quiet until he can’t take the stagnation, the hollow feeling in his chest from a breakfast of caffeine and nicotine pushing him up onto his feet. He shutters the blinds and shuts the window, like somehow shutting out the passage of time will stop the inevitable barrage of what now, what now, what now hovering at the edge of his thoughts.

There’s no energy left in him for work, but if he doesn’t distract himself, there’s a threat those thoughts might take on more complete forms, and he can’t have that. In a haze, he makes his way to his study, mind and body on an autopilot somewhere far back in the recesses of his brain. With a sigh, he rubs his temples and cracks open his laptop, figuring that if nothing else, trying to format spreadsheets will consume enough of his conscious processing to push this morning away from the forefront. At least for the time being.

By evening, he realizes he’s read the same measurements on a starfish specimen eight times in a row without absorbing a single number from it, and finally admits he’ll need something a bit more potent.

It’s a small consolation prize in the grand scheme of things, but at least he has to look up the number in the phone book before he, for some psychotic reason, calls Rohan Kishibe.

It takes so long for the other line to connect Jotaro considers being offended by it, but when Rohan answers, he immediately regrets the thought. “Oh, and to what do I owe this dubious honor?”

This is a mistake. “I need out of my head.”

“Get in line.” He can practically hear the Cheshire grin through the receiver. “You know where I live.”

This is a mistake, but Jotaro hangs up, grabs his jacket and keys off the counter, and makes the drive across town anyway. It’s not the first time, but the tacit agreement in their exchange is not something he wants to think too deeply about. If he’s already committed to something, it’s not worth the trouble of trying to talk himself out of it. That ship, for better or worse, has sailed.

Come nightfall, he’s riding out an orgasm while staring at the back of Rohan’s neck, hands fisted in his silk bed sheets. His ability to focus has blessedly improved, if only by a margin.

Finicky as ever, Rohan wastes no time gathering himself together in pursuit of a washcloth right after, but Jotaro’s nowhere near as hasty in reaching into his jeans for a cigarette. He’s not normally one to crave nicotine right after the act, but he knows it gets under Rohan’s skin, and that’s something he’s happy to do for the sheer sport of it all.

To his surprise, and vague disappointment, Rohan offers nothing more than a curled lip at the sight of Jotaro blowing smoke from his perch on the throw pillows. He tosses Jotaro a washcloth with a roll of his eyes, but otherwise remains uncharacteristically mute on the blatant desecration of his property, settling in on the other side of the bed with arms crossed.

“So, I’m not trying to complain,” he begins after a beat, and Jotaro can’t help but feel it’s karmic retribution that he’s caught Rohan in a chatty mood. There’s not a version of Rohan that’s quiet by any stretch of the imagination, to be fair, but he’s able to leave with minimal protest more or less every other go of it, provided he rides out Rohan’s patience. He’s gotten good at it, but even his best tactics are far from foolproof. “But you almost put me through a wall.”

“Did I?” Jotaro asks. He honestly wasn’t paying much attention, beyond his own agitation at how much longer it took than normal.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Rohan snips, like Jotaro’s ability to please someone so blatantly desperate for him from the moment they met is any sort of benchmark. After as many times around the block, there’s very little potential headspace left for him to take up. “Trust me, I’ll take it, but I can tell something’s up with you.”

“There’s always something up when I’m here,” Jotaro shrugs, exhaling in the exact direction of Rohan’s prize Monét hanging above his nightstand. “I thought that was implied.”

Rohan sighs like the very effort it takes is a personal affront to his time. “Please, like I can’t tell the difference between your dolphin-related stresses and literally anything else.”

“Wasn’t aware you paid that much attention.” Jotaro feels annoyance rising in his chest. The ability to weaponize his own irritation back on others is something he prides himself in, but Rohan has a renowned genetic defect that immunizes him against both shame and regret, and this was very much a mistake. “Maybe you need a new hobby.”

In an ominous turn of events, Rohan holds out his hand for the cigarette. “You seem to be forgetting, Jotaro, that you can fool a lot of people before you can fool me.”

“My thesis is on starfish.” Jotaro ignores him, taking another pointed drag. Rohan will indulge in smoke for a small array of inexplicable, constantly rotating reasons, but pleasure is never one of them, and Jotaro doesn’t trust it in the least. “By the way.”

Rohan presses his hand further into Jotaro’s personal space, undaunted. “Whatever, nerd.”

Jotaro bristles at the invasion, drawing his arms closer in and lying back onto the headboard. “I’m not here to talk about it.”

“Right, of course you aren’t.” Rohan mirrors Jotaro’s body language to aggravating detail, save for his ever-patient open palm. “But if you’re going to be a dreadful houseguest, will you at least share?”

Jotaro spares him one long sideways glance, surveying his face for any obvious tell of his intentions. Nothing he finds there quells his suspicions, but there’s a notable absence of his more obvious signs of mischief, and Jotaro has unfortunately gotten used to the way his nose will twitch when he’s trying to bite back a grin, or the way his eyes will go wide in his calculated attempts to feign neutrality. It helps that Rohan is not particularly talented at emotional manipulation, especially not with anyone who knows him half as well, but Jotaro used to fall for it in the beginning. Despite his better reasoning, he holds the cigarette between two fingers and instantly regrets the spark of victory in Rohan’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he turns his chin up, inhaling with a flourish that loses any and all effect with a subsequent coughing attack. It’s karma of his own, and Jotaro delights in it while he can before it subsides. “Not that it matters to you, but I’m glad you called. I’ve been suffering from a bit of writer’s block.”

Jotaro would feel bad for him, but it’s Rohan, and even if his personality alone wasn’t reason enough not to pity him, Jotaro’s fully aware he’s pried into the memories of every last citizen in Morioh in pursuit of inspiration. Likewise, Rohan should very well know that Jotaro’s opinion on his bouts of writer’s block is, and has always been, that he should be less of a magic-reliant hack. It does not bear repeating.

“Really.”

“You’d be so much prettier if you were a better conversationalist,” Rohan laments, and Jotaro is almost proud of him for not hacking up a lung this go around. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Instead of dignifying that with a reply, Jotaro holds out his own hand. Rohan obliges, but not before tapping off the ash directly on Jotaro’s chest.

“You’re vile,” Jotaro sighs, like Rohan doesn’t delight in getting this exact rise out of him.

“Yet, you’re here,” Rohan reminds him. Jotaro fills up his lungs to capacity, calculating how many minutes it will take he can finish it and leave. Going home should be a relief, but idea of having to figure out where to turn next raises bile in his throat. “Kindly giving me inspiration to draw previously uncharted emotional lows with that handsome little face of yours.”

“Fuck off,” Jotaro fires back, and curses himself for slipping. Rohan, for all his glaring interpersonal blind spots, is adept at these sorts of bantering mind-games, and Jotaro finds it unfair that someone could be so skilled at weaponizing the act of being annoying itself.

He’s so caught up in the audacity of it Rohan snatches the cigarette back before he can protest, raising his eyebrows in unspoken challenge. “Don’t make me use Heaven’s Door.”

“You’re not fast enough,” Jotaro counters, like they both don’t know that.

In fact, Jotaro considers it one of the most cutting blows to his pride he’s endured that it worked the first time at all. To his credit, he’d never witnessed Rohan’s stand in person at that point. For better or for much worse, their sexual relationship had manifested very shortly after they first met. All he’d heard was second-hand from Josuke, who undercut any concrete information on Heaven’s Door with his exhaustive grievances about Rohan as a person. It’s not that he was wrong, necessarily, but it wasn’t helpful in preparing Jotaro for Rohan going from sucking him off to summoning a stand in seconds flat apropos of nothing the third time they slept together.

True to fashion, Rohan managed to express some remorse at his flagrant invasion of privacy once he found what he was looking for, but maintained that no one as fascinating as Jotaro has any right to be as emotionally recalcitrant. It’s like he’s begging to be pulled apart, Rohan insisted, and no crack about Rohan’s lack of sexual expertise made his description of Jotaro’s palpable repression any easier for him to stomach.

Still, he could tell what Rohan saw disturbed him beyond the completely warranted white-hot rage and flurry of Star Platinum fists Jotaro threw his way, and he promised to never pry around again, regardless of what Jotaro would or would not tell him. Jotaro has a reputation for invoking terror for a reason, but Rohan’s stubborn on a level where that alone wouldn’t have placated his curiosity if he didn’t understand the nature of his reaction and respect him for it. Though it’s buried, Rohan regrets it in his own way. Jotaro can see that now, not that it makes the fact of the matter any better.

It’s not something Jotaro would have ever admitted to freely on punishment of death. He’d planned on taking the lurid facts of Egypt to his grave, but he was in the middle of sex, of course that would pop up on the first page. Even if he’d admitted to losing his virginity to Kakyoin, the rest—namely, his lack of sexual intimacy since in other, fairly vital areas of his life—was something he’d locked up long ago. He didn’t talk to Rohan for months. The divorce was too fresh, and his anger was a salve over anxieties he didn’t have answers for elsewhere.

Jotaro doesn’t know exactly what made it alright again, except for one day he looked at him and realized Rohan was, and still is, without a doubt the loneliest person Jotaro has ever known. He hasn’t brought it up in the time since, and has made no attempts to leverage those secrets or poke away at them, even when given all too perfect accidental punch lines from the others. None of his teasing has a real edge, and the malice he shields himself with was sanded down to nothing but a shadow once Jotaro started to see through it.

Rohan holds his pens hard enough and long enough his knuckles will bleed. Any and all spontaneous kindness thrown his way, no matter how meager of a scrap, earns his feverish devotion, but he still spends most of his days alone. Jotaro can see through his anxiety like a neon road sign, and after the anger faded, there was just pity, and something akin to empathy.

Talking about it is out of the question, but somehow, he can still fuck someone who knows too much. In some ways, it’s easier to not have to explain his aloof demeanor, or even his occasional overeager reactions. He tempers only one of those things, but Rohan never seems to mind his stoicism now that he’s privy to its roots. That he’s only now prying means Jotaro’s failed in keeping it under wraps, and that’s on him.

Jotaro closes his eyes, then opens them again, taking in the sight of Rohan curled up into himself, cigarette absurdly out of place in his bony hands. For one of the first times in his living memory, his mouth overrules his mind. “It’s Kakyoin.”

Rohan whips his head around to stare at him, lips parting in silent exclamation. It takes him a moment to gather himself, his usual quipped tone faltering. “I thought that was implied.”

“Yeah, well,” Jotaro shrugs, already feeling like his skin is getting picked raw by the very act of speaking. “It’s more than the usual.”

“You don’t have to say.” Rohan cranes his neck to the side, passing the cigarette back to Jotaro. He takes it with a nod, but doesn’t put it to his lips, resting it on the side of his index finger and letting the ash fall to his collarbone. It’s maybe the nicest thing Rohan’s ever said to him. “But I think you should.”

Pursing his lips, Jotaro takes a moment to consider the logistics. Even if he opts for discretion in how much he reveals, or if Kakyoin chooses to be scarce in this town, his expressed interest in opening up to the Old Man already guarantees it’s a secret that can’t be kept long, even in the most optimistic version. Unless Kakyoin has no intention of staying in Morioh, which chills him now realizing Jotaro can’t say for certain, there will be questions. Either way, Jotaro has limited control over how any of this will play out. Attempts to project onto the future result in a jolting, sick feeling in his chest, leaving him only with the question of whether he can speak about it now, or if he’s resigned to waiting for the inevitable fallout.

He doesn’t want either, but there is very little he can do about what he wants in general. The bar is low, but after the Crusaders, Rohan will understand the implications the most, and try as he might, he cannot turn back time on that. If he chose, Jotaro could feasibly keep his personal affairs a secret from the kids, but there’s only so far Rohan’s disbelief will continue to stretch if he’s called his bluff this early.

All delaying the inevitable will do is add another voice to the shrill chorus of others demanding access to Jotaro’s thoughts at a time he feels more unprepared to give life to them than ever. At this very moment, it’s only a single voice, albeit a particularly grating one. There is no outside pressure to feign emotional resolve he doesn’t have yet for anyone else’s benefit, and in a way, it eases some of the tightness that seizes his chest second he opens his mouth to speak.

“He knocked on my door yesterday,” he says after minutes of measured silence. He takes another inhale, chewing on his words before continuing. “Came all the way from America to tell me he survived after all.”

“Shut up.” Rohan’s eyes go wide as he springs up to his knees on the bed, and the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth makes all of Jotaro’s careful calculations feel like the foolish, desperate bartering of a child. The bottom line should have been never to tell Rohan a single goddamn thing. “Are you sure it was him?”

In reply, Jotaro stares at him blank-eyed and unflinching until Rohan puts a hand up in defeat, offering an exaggerated sigh to the ceiling.

“Okay, okay, bad question. My sincere apologies.” He settles in cross-legged, leaning his elbows on top of his knees. “So, what the fuck? Did he just now come to, or what?”

“Yeah, six years ago.” Jotaro hands the cigarette back over so he can put a hand to his temples, holding down the pressure points on the bridge of his nose with more force than necessary. He’s not ready to talk about this. He’s not ready, but it’s far too late with this audience. “He wouldn’t talk about what he’d been doing since, either.”

Rohan appraises him, chin resting in the palm of his hand, expression not at all serious, but contemplative. “I see. No running into your arms for true love’s kiss, then?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jotaro asks, fully aware it’s like asking him not to breathe oxygen. Maybe that’d do him good, too. “There’s not really much to it. He says he couldn’t take keeping it a secret anymore, so he’s back.”

“Yeah, whatever that means,” Rohan dismisses with a flippant twirl of his wrist, ash falling to the bedsheets. It’s an impressive display of restraint to Rohan’s credit that he doesn’t shriek and push Jotaro off to wash them on the spot, but his face contorts into five distinct varieties of disgust before he takes a shuddering breath and presses on. “Because, in all seriousness, what does that mean? He just had this whole other life and didn’t think to tell you?”

His words dig heavy into Jotaro’s chest, and it’s more painful to hear than he’d ever dare admit. He presses further up against the headboard, readjusting his side of the sheet to cover up his legs completely. “I don’t know. That’s just what he said, so sure, it seems like the case.”

“So he’s in Morioh?” Rohan passes it back, but it’s down to the filter now. Jotaro sets it to his lips anyway, but he barely gets a hint of smoke before Rohan snatches it back, his rolodex of repulsion returning anew full force in his expression. “Ew, no, don’t eat that. Here.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Jotaro mutters. In truth, he was going to put it out on Rohan’s expensive jewelry box, and he’s a bit miffed Rohan would think so little of his creativity. Rohan sticks it in his lube drawer, though, so he’s apparently perfectly capable of staining his own specialty wood. It takes him a minute to answer the rest, even the bare facts rest fuzzy and bitter on his tongue. He wants to swallow them back down, but it won’t change their truth. “He’s at the hotel. I told him to stay until he tells the others. He doesn’t know how long that will be.”

“Oh, the drama of it all!” Rohan stretches his arms out behind him, leaning back on his palms in a fit of unbridled, honest-to-god laughter. “No wonder you were so deep up your own ass you saw stars tonight. This is poetic! The romantics are weeping in their Victorian graves at their inability to rival the unparalleled tragedy of Dr. Jotaro Kujo.”

Jotaro yanks the sheet out from under him, and while the sight of Rohan sprawling down to the floor is undeniably satisfying, he’s dismayed at how little it lifts his spirits. Then again, there’s only so much improvement to be found when he’s as low and jumbled as he feels. Whatever effect it has is mitigated by how quickly Rohan crawls his way back up, his own spirits apparently undaunted.

“Do me a favor.” Jotaro sends him a look he knows from experience can bring grown men to their knees, hard enough to make it burn. Rohan puts a hand over his mouth, but if anything, his laughter only grows, and Jotaro’s annoyance spikes up right along with it. “Imagine it’s ten years from now. Instead of ascending to the afterlife, Reimi Sugimoto has returned as a living, breathing person on this Earth. Say she’s spent that decade avoiding Morioh at all costs, but she finally comes back to see you and you alone. What would you do?”

It’s a low blow, and Jotaro knows it’s hit the target square on when his laughter fades into nothing, face falling by degrees until it turns to stone. “That would never happen.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Rohan clicks his tongue, shuffling his gaze far away. “I don’t know. I don’t like the premise.”

“Tell me about it.” Jotaro sighs, low and deep into his chest.

“I don’t like thinking about this,” Rohan curls into himself, head on his knees as he appraises Jotaro, thoughtful. “But I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.”

“So to speak?” Jotaro curls an eyebrow up, not entirely sure of how much he enjoys the tone Rohan’s starting to adopt—a little morose, a little cajoling.

“I would just roll with it,” he shrugs, smoothing out the creases of the sheet billowing out around him and folding it at the top seam with precision to rest across his feet. “That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Lucky you.”

Jotaro has no clue what he means. Things just sort of happen to him, and the world turns on. His reactions, or lack thereof, are a product of an automatic calculation that has always come easier to him than average. When that processing fails, or if it doesn’t come at all, he feels about as steady as a sailboat out in a deep-sea storm. He’s good at hiding it, and he’s good at getting back up on his feet, but he doesn’t know how to explain to Rohan that’s it’s not the same thing. He’s never been able to explain it to anyone else before him, and he has fewer and fewer words by the second.

“Yeah,” he agrees, struck with exhaustion like a lightning bolt deep into the marrow of his bones. “Lucky me.”

His cell phone rings at seven AM the next morning from his own nightstand, and Jotaro doesn’t realize he’s been waiting for it until the sound wraps around his chest and constricts his ribcage, releasing in a heaving exhale only when he catches the number and knows. He stares at Kakyoin’s number on the tiny digital screen until it looks less like a real sequence and more like hieroglyphics, snapping out of it only just in time to catch the other end of the line.

“Hey,” Jotaro greets, voice even in a practiced, automatic way that belies anything else beneath the surface.

“Good morning,” Kakyoin replies, and Jotaro can’t be certain, but it’s so cleanly delivered he wonders if there’s a similar sort of control there, the kind Kakyoin was always so adept at in his own right. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, you didn’t,” he assures, and it’s not quite a lie. He’s been half-awake for a few hours now, his sleep fitful ever since he’d returned late last night. It’s approaching the hour where he normally resigns himself to the world of the living, that in-between morning haze where the world is just waking up and there’s dew still on the grass. It’s favorable to beat the sun most days, he’s grown fond of the fog that rests until mid-morning for running.

“I’m glad,” Kakyoin says, and there’s a striking amount of sincerity in it, even over the static of the receiver. It warps his voice in a strange way. Jotaro’s never thought to notice it before with others, but it’s disorienting to a point he can’t fully attribute to the hour. Kakyoin’s timbre has changed over the years to begin with, but hearing it played back over crackling airwaves is uncanny. It makes him want to hear the real thing just to find the equilibrium of it again. “I was wondering… Are you busy today?”

“No,” Jotaro offers before he thinks about it too deeply. He flips through his mental calendar to humor himself in the beat afterward, but it’s Sunday, and more often than not his daily agenda begins and ends in thesis work regardless. “Not anything pressing.”

“I was hoping you’d go to the city with me.” The words tumble out one after another at a rapid pace, and Jotaro remembers it well, the way he’d always rush through his sentences when nervous or unsure. Joseph used to get on his case for it left and right, but Jotaro always found it easy to follow. It had started to fade towards the end, but old habits die hard. “I won’t keep you too long. I just have something I want to show you, if you’re open to it.”

“Sure,” Jotaro replies, automatic, because this isn’t the hard part. Action has always come more naturally to him than certainty, and he’s lived most of his life under the philosophy that being sure of something isn’t a necessary prerequisite to decisiveness. Momentum is what he thrives on. If he can guide his body from one moment to the next, he can fill out strategy, or at the very least his next steps, in the spaces between. Sure, yes, he’ll go anywhere. It’s more of a relief than trying to figure out what else to do. “When?”

“I was thinking now.” Kakyoin manages to slow down this time, but it’s still just on the side of airy in tone. “Or as soon as possible. I have a rental, I can pick you up whenever you’re ready.”

Jotaro swallows, calculating the time it will take to shower and get dressed with a safe margin of error for staring in the mirror aimlessly. “Give me thirty.”

“Okay,” Kakyoin says, stilted, like the word feels strange on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll see you then, Jotaro.”

The name comes out rough his voice, and it hits at him in a way he doesn’t quite know how to wrap his own words around, either. “Okay.”

There’s time to spare when he arrives downstairs, hair damp and autumn jacket slung around his shoulders, which is a calculation error on his part. His fingers twitch for nicotine, and whatever mental gymnastics that take place beneath the surface of his thoughts between the stifling quiet of the house and the blistering humidity of his porch, outside wins out, leaving him perched on the steps of his flat when a nondescript black car rolls quietly into his driveway. Something shaky settles in the pit of his stomach, and he snuffs out the half-smoked cigarette underneath his heel as Kakyoin approaches, tastefully dressed in a grey raincoat with his hair pulled back.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” Kakyoin greets, crossing over to where Jotaro’s sitting. He holds out his hand, and Jotaro looks between it and the scars on his eyes three times before he takes it, hesitant, still mostly relying on his own strength to get to his feet. The tingling in his fingers after he drops the hold is the only thing that reminds him it’s the first time they’ve touched at all.

“Not a problem,” Jotaro shrugs, placing his hand in his pocket, protective. “What did you want to show me?”

Kakyoin sends a furtive glance back to the car, guiding the both of them back over to it. “Have you eaten?”

“No.” It’s an unhealthy habit among one of his many unhealthy habits, but he subsists on caffeine and nicotine until mid-morning at the very least. He reaches for the passenger side door, but Kakyoin ushers him to the side, opening it first so he can pull the seat back far enough for Jotaro’s legs to comfortably fit.

He crawls in with a nod of thanks, surrounding himself with the smell of new leather and dealership-grade cleaning products. It’s modest and nondescript, but Kakyoin is somehow effortlessly chic in it, pulling a pair of high-end sunglasses from the visor and sliding them on with a snap of his wrist.

“Me neither.” He clicks the engine on and pulls it out of the driveway, biting the inside of his cheek when he cranes his neck to look behind. “Let’s get breakfast first.”

It doesn’t seem like the kind of car Kakyoin would drive if he had the choice, which leaves Jotaro wondering what would be. He has a secret flashy streak, but it’s always been clandestine—it’s evident in the quality of his clothing, now that Jotaro’s thoughts have cleared just enough to take in the details—it’s easy to imagine him in something of similar taste.

They pull into the back roads of Morioh, and it doesn’t seem right that it’s only at this moment it starts to ache in him. If not the first time outright, then it’s the first moment where Jotaro’s really arrested by the chasm of time between them.

Such simple facts about Kakyoin’s life aren’t just truths he used to know, they’re truths that still exist and have always existed. In all likelihood, Kakyoin has a car of his own across the ocean, one that feels like his, with little paper trails and imperfections detailing evidence of his life within it throughout the years. It’s not just a hypothetical question he’s raised and suppressed to himself in equal measure over and over, like how he’d ruminate on what sorts of material attachments Kakyoin would possess when contemplating on his own choices. It’s a question that has an answer.

It’s just an answer Jotaro doesn’t know.

“Yeah, sure,” Jotaro replies after too deep a pause. “Do you need recommendations?”

“Ah, I have somewhere in mind.” Kakyoin’s focus flickers to him for a brief second before returning to the road. “If that’s okay?”

Jotaro doesn’t want to insult either of their intelligence by reminding him their city has changed significantly since they lived there as children, especially when it’s clear from the sheepishness in his voice he knows from more recent experience. He crosses his legs, pleased to find that it’s spacious enough he doesn’t have to kick the window in the process. “Take it away, then.”

Kakyoin’s knuckles curl and uncurl around the wheel, indents in the soft leather cover lingering in their wake. They fall into quiet with nothing but a whisper-soft underlay of the public radio’s classical station between them. Blessedly, Jotaro wouldn’t dare classify the tension in its wake as awkward, but it’s a far cry from comfortable. It’s palpable and too electric. It burns at Jotaro’s fingertips, but he shakes against it, sinking down to rest his head in between the window and the seat.

“It’s weird,” Kakyoin says after several minutes tick by, quiet. “Being back here. I haven’t been in a few years.”

Weirdness Jotaro can attest to, and that’s only one word for it. It’s disorienting to the point where if he looks at him too long, it still feels like he’s getting pulled out of his body, like he’s envisioning just as he has so many times before the incurable fantasy of a reality where Kakyoin was still at his side. Like meandering thoughts about Kakyoin’s possessions, it’s not a habit Jotaro wants to foster—it’s far more accurate to say he actively discourages it—but it’s inescapable, like a default channel of intrusive thoughts he can’t turn off.

It’s there when he’s driving these same long hours to Tokyo, when he gets to the part where he knows the highway too well and there’s nothing stopping his thoughts from escaping out beyond his control. In those moments, his mind crafts picture-perfect worlds, like spot the difference puzzles where the most glaring change is the man at his side, red hair curling in the wind and a smile on his lips. There are other changes too, though, like the light in Jotaro’s eyes or the lines that map his own face. Even if he can shake it off, he’ll often catch himself in the rear-view and spend precious seconds surprised by the man staring back.

Experiencing a reality that has been trapped inside ghost-like daydreams for so long is worse than disorienting, it’s like a sense of deja vu where his body melts into a familiar experience before being jolted again and again by every single millimeter of difference with a force only the clarity of waking life can bring. He’s in the passenger’s seat, but it’s everything else that’s wrong, too. When he catches his reflection in the side mirror, he knows exactly who he is, and the bags under his eyes are as pronounced as they’ve ever been.

Like his dreams, Kakyoin’s here, but he’s not, but it’s not the same feeling at all. Kakyoin still feels realities away, but if Jotaro reached out to touch him, he’d feel the fabric of his coat beneath his fingertips, and the sensation would be impossible to reconcile. He doesn’t know how to bridge it.

“Have you been out here before?” Jotaro asks, watching the trees go by in dizzying bursts of color.

“Out to the coast? When I was a kid, maybe,” Kakyoin replies, pushing the stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I’ve been to home and Tokyo proper once each since leaving, but that’s it. It’s been over three years.”

They turn onto the highway, and the sun recedes back behind the clouds like it’s been threatening to all morning, covering the stretch of road before them in its shadow. Kakyoin’s quiet, taking in the shoreline as he drives now that it’s no longer at his back. “It’s beautiful. I really…”

Kakyoin swallows his words, and Jotaro can infer a few different ways that sentence could have gone based on his swift reaction and the wistful look behind his sunglasses. He’ll let him retreat from that gracefully, for whatever it’s worth. Kakyoin rolls his shoulders back, and tries again. “It took me a while to find out where you were. The foundation wouldn’t give me any information on you, obviously. I was surprised you were here.”

Jotaro didn’t for a second think Kakyoin had just shown up at his door like magic, but somehow the idea of him sitting down and putting time and thought into tracking him down makes his head spin. “There were bloodline matters to attend to.”

Kakyoin frowns deep into the corners of his lips, eyebrows furrowing down past his frames. “I thought we took care of those.”

“There are always bloodline matters to attend to.” After all, it’s not just the family itself it’s… everything. The responsibility of stands themselves rests so firmly on his shoulders it hangs like a fifty-pound weight across his collarbone, always threatening to push against his chest. “I’m finishing up work on my thesis now.”

“Your thesis?” This seems to pique Kakyoin’s interest, or at the very least it appears to center him, his hands loosening their grip on the wheel.

“In marine biology,” he supplies, heat creeping up into his face. Kakyoin was the first person Jotaro ever shared his ambitions to study it with. He mentioned it the first night in Calcutta offhandedly, and at the time he wasn’t convinced of its seriousness, but the enthusiasm Kakyoin radiated back in his direction made it real to him, right then and there. “It’s for my PhD.”

“Congratulations.” An honest smile cracks Kakyoin’s face for the first time, wide and inviting. It lights up his features with signs of life anew, and Jotaro’s caught between looking anywhere else and never looking away again. “That’s incredible.”

Jotaro shrugs, arms falling from where they were crossed over his chest to rest on his knee. “It’s not done yet.”

“Still,” Kakyoin presses, meeting Jotaro’s eyes beneath his sunglasses before he can think to look away. He turns back to the road just as quick. “I finished my thesis work last year. It’s no small feat, and it’s a lot easier for art I’m sure.”

“Not necessarily,” Jotaro frowns. He used to watch Kakyoin draw during their leisure time, often deep into the night on whatever surface he had available, and while he made it look effortless to Jotaro’s untrained eye at first, he came to appreciate the amount of labor and thought it required to be as good as he was. “It’s just a lot of charts and numbers.”

“I’d like to see your work sometime.” Kakyoin pauses after he speaks, shuttering his jaw tight and tapping his fingers against the wheel like the sound of it surprised him. His voice is small when he speaks again, breathing deep into the sound. “If you’re willing.”

It’s been there from the moment Kakyoin pulled up, but the unsteady, volatile nature of their arrangement is as thick and tangible as the morning fog, covering up the air between them. Jotaro doesn’t have an answer for the unspoken question Kakyoin’s posing, but he knows there’s a small piece of his chest that’s clinging to it with claws bared. “It’s on starfish, so it might bore you.”

Kakyoin’s face falls at that, and Jotaro may not understand it completely, but he knows he’s said the wrong thing. He sighs, and tries again. “You can if you want. I’d like to see your art.”

“Of course.” Some of the color returns to Kakyoin’s cheeks, if only by degrees. “My real work is back in America, but I brought my sketchbook with me. I can show you when we stop.”

There’s something unspeakably fragile about the way Kakyoin’s holding himself, and Jotaro thinks he understands it, his back arched and left foot bolted straight against the floorboard like he’s holding his breath in anticipation for something to break. He feels himself like he’s hung together with string and wire, each small movement he makes in the space between them shifting his center of gravity more than should be natural. It’s delicate, and Jotaro’s shattered things far less breakable more times than he can count.

It only occurs to him now Kakyoin never confirmed in words they’re headed towards home, but somehow, Jotaro knew from the start.

“Pass this car,” he mutters into his knuckles, casting his eyes back onto the trees. “They’ve been under the speed limit for miles, and it’s starting to piss me off.”

Kakyoin turns on the blinker, and follows his lead.

They stop at a small café a half hour outside of their city, a nondescript hole-in-the-wall nestled into a building that looks more like a house than a working business. Inside, it’s even tinier, and surprisingly crowded, narrow shelves dotted with an impressive variety of plants and various knick-knacks that manage to fall on the right side of kitsch, just shy of tacky. The proximity to everything makes Jotaro itch, and he’s grateful when they’re lead to the far back of the space, in a corner that affords just enough privacy he’s no longer afraid he’ll lose his mind in the chatter of others. It’s cramped, but cozy, once he figures out how to maneuver his legs.

“I came here when I was in Japan last,” Kakyoin explains, after ordering black coffee for the both of them. He folds his rain jacket over the chair, adjusting the collar of his flannel shirt underneath. “I wanted something eclectic that reminded me more of home. I wasn’t handling being back that well, so I was really charmed by it.”

“Home?” Jotaro repeats, peering up over the top of the menu. He tries to accept whatever answer he’ll receive, wills it not to sting.

“New York.” Kakyoin rolls his sleeves up to the elbow, concentrating on the task like it requires his rapt attention. His eyes flicker up more than once as he speaks, but never long enough for Jotaro to read. “I went to graduate school there after the hospital and never left.”

Jotaro hums, leaning back against the wall and trying to imagine Kakyoin’s slight frame darting in amongst the vast throngs of people that permeate every frame of Jotaro’s memories with the city. It’s not his first guess of where he would have ended up, but Jotaro doesn’t know what else could have been more fitting, either. It’s another one of those things he doesn’t quite know how to imagine. He can wrap his brain around tiny scraps of information and tangible specifics of his hypothetical existence, but when it comes to the big picture—the city streets he walks, his day to day activities, his job, his connections—it all starts to blur and spiral out again into a riptide of uncertainty he doesn’t have the stomach to consider. Kakyoin will give him what he gives him, or Jotaro will find the words, but both are tantalizingly beyond his grasp.

In lieu of a better option, he takes a stab at the facts in front of him. “You must have done your undergraduate in the hospital, then.”

“Yeah,” Kakyoin nods, thanking the waiter as he comes back around with their coffee. Jotaro waits for Kakyoin to order, holding up a ‘two’ gesture at whatever he says when the waiter turns to him. If the method worked for him all through India, he’s sure it will be fine here. “I didn’t know if it would be worth anything, but I wanted some familiarity and structure. Besides, art helped take my mind off things.”

“Admirable,” Jotaro offers, because it is both commendable and wholly unsurprising. His eyes drift to the black messenger bag slung around Kakyoin’s chair, gesturing with his shoulders. “You said you have some?”

“Oh,” Kakyoin pauses midway in bringing the mug to his lips, like the very fact Jotaro thought to mention it is a pleasant surprise and not something that pushed him to drive five over the speed limit. He reaches into the bag, pulling out a well-worn tan sketchbook from its depths. “It’s not much, just some rough drafts of pieces I was working on over the summer and sketches from the plane.”

Jotaro taps his fingers on the rim of his mug, body thrumming with energy he has no outlet for. “Show me.”

Kakyoin scrunches up his nose, flipping through the pages with a click of his tongue as he holds it flushed close to his chest. If Jotaro craned his neck, he could see it more clearly, but he settles for the flashes he catches in passing, a splash of red here and a dusting of charcoal across an outline there. It takes a few turns before something satisfies him, and Kakyoin holds the page with his index finger as he skims through the next few, only sliding the sketchbook across the table once he’s apparently content with the quality.

“From there,” he flips back to his tabbed page, pinky curled under the last one he’d turned to. He peels up the final corner just enough for his eyes, peering into its depths before humming to himself once, decisive. “To there is the best I have to offer in here.”

Jotaro’s not picky, and more importantly, he’s admired Kakyoin’s skill from the first day they met. Still, Kakyoin’s always had a prideful bent to him, and a sensitivity regarding his art that made him a ferocious and unyielding critic. Undermining what he’d carefully curated for outside eyes earned his ire more than once as kids, and Jotaro wouldn’t dare touch it now. He replaces Kakyoin’s hands with his own in the pages, careful to keep his distance. “Alright.”

With his thumb holding onto the last page, Jotaro starts from the top, acknowledging Kakyoin’s watchful gaze with a small nod before turning his focus to their contents.

The chair beneath him, already rickety to begin with, feels even less sturdy. Jotaro takes a breath to steady his balance again, long and labored. Kakyoin has always possessed a clear natural gift, but the past decade has honed his talents into a force to be reckoned with. The works he’s selected have an impressive range, from elaborate landscape designs in delicately mixed watercolor and bold brushstrokes to haphazard pencil sketches depicting figures in various states of motion dusted with charcoal and pen.

He’s retained some of what Jotaro considers to be his distinctive style, to his pleasure, but it’s elevated here, the lines purposeful and lifelike as they dance across the pages. On one page, there’s a sprawling Japanese garden with a child holding a peony in the center, in another, a loose sketch of a young man asleep on the subway. One is simply a series of sketched motion studies, but even that has beauty, the male dancer’s poses cascading across the page holding kinetic energy in their own right.

Jotaro opens his mouth to say as much, but whatever is on the tip of his tongue is snatched away when he flips to the last page to find his own face staring back up at him.

It’s not his face, exactly, but it’s his face at seventeen, captured in detailed, striking charcoal and shaded to lifelike vibrancy against a Cairo sun behind him. While Kakyoin’s line work is still present, it’s notably more photorealistic than anything else in the selection, both in the quality and the moment he’s chosen to depict. It breathes like a candid photograph, capturing Jotaro mid-turn to face back towards the sun, a soft smile on his face and a light in his eyes that Jotaro never recognized in the mirror, even back then. His hair is messy and tousled by invisible wind underneath his hat, coat sweeping around his frame with a grace he’s certain he’s never possessed outside of Kakyoin’s depiction. Despite the measured fragility of other selections, this one feels the most delicate of them all, and it knocks the wind out of him like an unseen assailant, twisting deep into his gut.

It’s not a photograph, because it has an intangible quality that Jotaro can’t quite put his finger on, as if the image was crafted with genuine care. Like all the others, Kakyoin has signed and dated it at the bottom. It’s only a week old.

“You have a rare talent,” Jotaro says when his breath returns to him, carefully folding the cover over and handing the sketchbook back across. Kakyoin’s propped his elbows up on the table, resting his chin against folded hands in what could be silent prayer, if Jotaro didn’t know better. “I’m glad you continued on with it. These are striking.”

“Thank you,” Kakyoin turns from him, tucking the sketchbook away gingerly in his messenger bag. His shoulders are slouched and rounded in, and it makes Jotaro feel vulnerable too, seeing someone who has always carried himself so tall fold like that. “I still really love it.”

“I can tell,” Jotaro affirms, barely more than a whisper. They’ve both gotten so quiet, and while the room around them seems louder and louder still, it’s nothing but a dull roar in the back of his ears. Every detail between the two of them, in contrast, is sharp as a knife, from the bitten corners of Kakyoin’s fingernails to the hitch of his own breath when their eyes slide together and finally, for what feels like the first time, hold one another in place. “Kakyoin… Why are we out here?”

He shivers into the breath. “If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said I’d never come back here as long as I lived.”

“But you did.” It’s all Jotaro can do to keep pace with his train of thought without getting caught in the weeds of his own mind, but he wants to catch up with it. “And you’re back again.”

“A lot has changed,” Kakyoin leans back. Jotaro hadn’t noticed just how close he’d gotten until the distance returns between them, bigger than before. “I don’t know how to say it or where to start.”

“I need you to try.”

“I know.” Kakyoin recoils like he’s been hit, curling his lip up to bare his teeth before the pain recedes into a mask of neutrality. “I know.”

Jotaro moves to interject, but Kakyoin straightens back up to his full height in the silence, shoulders laced with a resolve that feels more natural than anything he’s done since sitting down in this café, so he waits.

He waits, and finally, Kakyoin finds the words. “I want to show you what started to change my mind.”

Chapter Text

It’s 1988, and Jotaro Kujo is looking up at the stars.

He doesn’t have to be, the tent is right there, but it’s both warm enough to be outside and clearer than he’s seen anywhere on their journey. It’s certainly clearer than the suburbs of Tokyo, where looking for stars is about as useful as looking for Atlantis. The December air is crisp and cool, Jotaro’s jacket around his shoulders and sleeping bag pulled up to his hips. He fastened his sleeping pad up to Kakyoin’s and another spare, propping him up high enough off the ground to keep most of the sand and dirt from his hair. He and Kakyoin waited hours in their own tent for the chatter to die out in the others, keeping their own voices down to nothing more than a whisper and huddling in close.

It must be past midnight now that they’ve finally drug all their supplies out here, but lying on his back Jotaro looks up into the swirling night sky and sees everything, the entire backbone of the milky way spreading out before him in dizzying arrays of light. He gladly would have waited all night.

Kakyoin’s body is warm up against his, not quite flush together but comfortable and close shoulder-to-shoulder at the center of the mat. Back in Karachi, Kakyoin had bought a tattered pocket guide to the stars from an English newsstand, and Jotaro turns to face Kakyoin with one of the map inserts unfurled across his chest, the other boy’s face scrunched up in concentration.

Jotaro shifts until he’s close to Kakyoin’s eye level, and he stirs at the motion, taking the hint as he has many nights before and pulling himself the rest of the way up to meet him, sparing Jotaro’s feet from having to dangle off the edge. Kakyoin blinks at him, eyes wide as he waits for Jotaro to speak.

“What are you finding?” Jotaro asks, peering at the dotted blue circle in front of them, helpfully labeled ‘December’ to separate it from the other sleek pages spread throughout. Kakyoin traces his finger over one of the constellation patterns, lazy and languid now that he’s shifted his focus to Jotaro.

Kakyoin hums, settling in close enough that his hair brushes down against Jotaro’s shoulder. “I’m trying to pick out what I want to look for.”

“You could always just look,” Jotaro offers, because he’s enjoying the view, Kakyoin’s profile in the foreground and the galaxies before them. He doesn’t need a map to feel like he gets that.

“Yeah, but there are things I want to see,” Kakyoin explains, insistent and matter-of-fact. His eyes are on Jotaro, but his focus is somewhere far off towards the horizon behind his head. Jotaro can feel the reverberation of his voice creep up his spine, and it makes him shiver, just a little. “Back when I was a kid, my dad used to take me stargazing out in the woods of the countryside. We’d walk and he’d point out the brightest ones, or tell me the Greek myth behind the names. I want to see if they’re out here, too.”

Jotaro could give him a rundown on latitudes, but he barely understands how stars work in the first place, and he’d rather ask the questions than provide the answers, anyway. “You’re an only child, right?”

“Yes,” Kakyoin nods. “It’s a bit lonely, isn’t it?”

Jotaro shrugs. He doesn’t figure it’s that much lonelier than anything else. Physical presence has always put less of a dent in that feeling to him than others tend to bill it as. “I’m glad I didn’t have them. Being around someone that much sounds like a pain.”

“I don’t know,” Kakyoin says, leaning his head back against the long pillow they’re sharing. His fingers continue to trace patterns across the paper, even as he turns up towards the sky. “I’ve always wanted one, but I also feel lucky. There’s no guarantee… If they weren’t able to see me, it would have been worse.”

Jotaro nods, because he can understand that in his own way. Kakyoin’s spoken before of his childhood in isolation, and while their experiences differ in the details, he can empathize with the feeling.

“It’s better not to know,” Jotaro decides, and Kakyoin hums in agreement.

When Jotaro thinks of his own childhood, it’s a blur of color and seasons and rotating Holiday-themed classroom decorations seen from desks that caged his legs tighter and tighter—an unchanging, constant wait for his father to come home, anger at the waiting that grew by the day—all giving way to shame, awkward limbs, and cloying attention from girls that made his skin crawl. He looks at pictures of himself and doesn’t remember ever feeling as carefree and easy as others describe him being. The portrait of Jotaro his mom keeps on her mantle, age five licking strawberries from his fingers, might as well be a stranger. There are gaps in his memory miles wide where he remembers nothing but clouds and his elementary school swing set, but the past few years are a razor-sharp kaleidoscope of annoyance and frustration at nearly everything in his life.

“I’m looking for Perseus,” Kakyoin decides, nudging at Jotaro’s shoulder for his attention as he traces the same outline over and over again, a transparent figure of a Greek hero superimposed over the constellation. “Help me try and pick it out.”

“Okay,” Jotaro agrees, even though there are so many stars picking out something that doesn’t even look like what it’s supposed to represent is a tall order. He’ll look for it, though, because Kakyoin’s eyes are wide and bright and space makes him feel so present in himself that he feels every millimeter of contact between their bodies. He needs an outlet.

“I used to read a lot of books on this, too,” Kakyoin explains, scanning back and forth across the sky, focused. “I liked the idea of something being so much bigger than me, I think.”

It’s beyond his imagination now, but it must have itched at Jotaro less when he was younger. There is scattered evidence of shallow, easy friendships Jotaro could never dream of making now—if not from plain disinterest, then because of how quickly he’d be found out as other. Either Jotaro has never been able to fake normalcy and something irreplaceable really did disappear within him, or he lost that skill in the weeds.

Somewhere along the line, the individual experiences and emotions that separate Jotaro from the rest of the world went from a curiosity to an impenetrable barrier, and a social language he used to be fluent in disappeared from his tongue completely. No longer can he pretend to understand boys his own age with their embarrassing adolescent fixations and stable nuclear families, and he’s always been terrible at feigning interest. He’s seventeen, and everything feels so wrong all of the time. If he’s going to be alone, he’d rather do it on his own terms than in a crowd.

“It’s comforting,” Jotaro mutters in agreement against him, a small smile drifting across Kakyoin’s face as he draws an invisible pattern in the air.

Kakyoin’s different, but only in that he doesn’t seem to remember a time before that wrongness. He talks about the past with striking clarity, weaving anecdote after anecdote into their discussions while Jotaro struggles to string more than a sentence or two together. Early on, Kakyoin brought up a memory of him, age six, playing with Hierophant Green out on the school grounds. It’s a delicate time for something like that, young enough for other kids to play along with an invisible friend, but old enough to eventually start to wonder how long the joke will go on.

Even a decade later, Kakyoin swears he remembers how it felt the moment he realized there is something about him no one else understands, something he can never change. It was later on he’d realize it’s something he is supposed to keep under lock and key, but not by much.

Kids are perceptive, he told Jotaro at the time. They know something’s wrong with you before you do.

That, Jotaro can’t relate to. He feels like an alien in an ill-fitting human suit, and it drives him crazy wondering how in the world no one else can tell. He doesn’t even know why, let alone have the words for it, but Kakyoin has so many he believes it’s true for him. Either way, he knows how only ever being seen halfway can be worse than not being seen at all. He doesn’t blame him for craving invisibility.

“I think I would have liked having someone like you around,” Kakyoin muses, far away like he’s speaking to the stars more than Jotaro. “You don’t make me feel lonely.”

Jotaro gets what he means. “You wouldn’t have liked me.”

“I know,” Kakyoin agrees. “But I would have learned to.”

Jotaro wants to tell him there’s no way he could know that. He would have driven him away somehow, in one of the dozen ways he’s petrified he will yet. He wants to argue that the past should be quarantined, there’s no point in revising or wondering what wasn’t or what could have been when the now feels so sacred and volatile.

It’s all on the tip of his tongue, but he’ll never know, because Kakyoin shoots up onto his knees with a start, the map falling down to the sand beside them. He grins, pulling Jotaro’s hand up from across his chest and gently folding his fingers down one by one, leaving only his index pointing up towards the sky. Jotaro lets him take the lead, allowing Kakyoin to pull him up to seated without a single gripe about manhandling, the sheer enthusiasm written across Kakyoin’s face enough to keep his attention rapt in anticipation.

“Found it,” he declares, guiding Jotaro’s arm across Kakyoin’s body towards a cluster of stars above. “See? There’s a bright star right there and two more out in a straight line from it.”

Jotaro squints out into the star pattern he’s indicating, but he has no idea at all what Kakyoin’s talking about. His face must give it away, because Kakyoin just shakes his head and coaxes Jotaro’s palm open.

“Here,” Kakyoin positions himself behind Jotaro’s back, kneeling with his chin resting on Jotaro’s shoulder to better match his line of sight. With one hand over Jotaro’s, he tosses the other around his shoulders, pointing back at the cluster. “Watch where I’m pointing.”

Jotaro leans back into the touch by an inch, just to get a better angle on it. His body is warm and delicate against him, and he can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. “Okay.”

“Look closely, can you see those five bright ones?” Kakyoin takes his index finger to Jotaro’s open palm, drawing out the five points of a ‘W’ across his skin while the other mirrors the same motion in the sky. It takes Kakyoin repeating it for him to see, but eventually he picks it out, his eyes finally adjusting to pull a zigzagging pattern out from the mess. “That’s Cassiopeia, the Queen.”

“Follow that right across,” Kakyoin continues, dragging his finger across the heel of his palm. Jotaro shivers, and Kakyoin pulls his arm tighter around him, almost as if on instinct. All he can do is steel against it, and try to match where Kakyoin leads him. “To the star right there, in the middle where three others go out around it.”

Kakyoin makes all four points across his hand, the sensation of each lingering a bit longer on his skin than the last. He can’t see it, but he can feel it, and that’s a start. Kakyoin lowers his voice, illustrating as he goes, “It goes over, then up, where he holds his sword. Down from the start, he holds the head of Medusa, there, there, and down to that star here. Right across from that is his left leg, lowered, and his right just up from there, lifted in mid-strike.”

“I can see the middle star,” Jotaro says, which means he can see there are other stars around it, sure, but not necessarily how they depict a Greek demigod beheading a Gorgon. Like many things Kakyoin says, though, Jotaro believes him implicitly because he believes that Kakyoin sees it. If it’s real to him, he supposes that’s as real as it needs to be. “I’ve seen the outline before, but never this clear.”

“Right?” Kakyoin whispers, breathless. “Thousands of years ago, astronomers looked at the same sky and drew their stories onto it. I feel lucky that I get to do the same out here.”

“Even under these circumstances?” Jotaro wonders what he’d draw up there to make sense of it all, but mostly he’s glad he doesn’t have to. He’s content to see the forest from the trees, the overwhelming vastness of the whole more compelling than whatever shapes he could bend the untamable into. As uninterested as he is in it personally, he finds himself struck by how passionately Kakyoin talks about it, and that alone rivals his own pleasure from the sky. He could stand to listen to it all night, and he can’t stand to listen to much of anything for all that long.

“I wouldn’t trade it,” Kakyoin says, words laced with a conviction that takes Jotaro by surprise. “Following you here was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

Jotaro demurs, letting his hand fall to his side. Kakyoin follows him down, hand resting on top of his against the sleeping bag while his other comes to rest on Jotaro’s waist. He’s grateful Kakyoin’s here, more than he knows how to put into words. It’s not as if he’s bitter, but sometimes the facts laid bear rest a little bit too heavy. For Kakyoin, it was a decision. For Jotaro, it’s a birthright. Alone would be worse, and no one has been more steadfast or loyal than Kakyoin.

For several minutes they say nothing, the only sound in the desert night the intermingling of their breath and a far-off wolf’s cry in the distance. Every place their bodies come into contact burns Jotaro’s skin with heat, and every part left untouched is freezing, but it evens out to dull warmth in the center of his chest, quiet and easy.

“After this,” Kakyoin says, and Jotaro feels his nerves shift at the way those words fall out from his tongue, like both a question and a suggestion. “Maybe… My dad still has his cabin up in the countryside, I think. We could compare how the sky looks back in Japan.”

Jotaro feels his jaw clench at that, coldness flowing through his veins rapid and uncontrollable. After this.

A thousand different thoughts race through his head at that, too fast and too spiked to pull apart and examine without cutting himself on their edges. The future has always been a barbed sort of thing for Jotaro, tumultuous at best, inconceivable beyond a bare-bones checklist of standard life accomplishments he barely knows how to visualize himself in at worse, and that was before all of this.

Kakyoin doesn’t understand, maybe because he can’t understand, but in following him here, he gave up his right to speak of ‘after’ like it’s a certainty, they all did. They could die. They’ve been close, and chances are, they’ll be closer yet. Moments like this are a stolen reprieve, traded in hushed shadows and counted in seconds with their guards always up. All that’s certain for them now is the present moment, and how to use it to claw out just another second of future. Beyond that, it’s all left to chance, and the odds are worse than any of them can admit for their own sanity.

For Jotaro, it’s a relief. He doesn’t want to think about it, and not being able to for fear of getting crushed under the weight of their demands removes the guilt of how little he always has in the first place. The less he knows, the better. One foot in front of the other, never getting ahead of his own feet and never looking too far over his shoulder. He has a goal and a mission, and it’s more real than any hope or dream he’s had for himself has ever felt.

For some reason, it’s easy to toss around ideas about what he wants to study or what he wants to do with his life because they’re just milestones of achievement, concrete things he can face and conquer like any of the battles they’ve taken on here. The rest, like what Kakyoin’s suggesting here, is like walking on broken glass with nothing underneath. What he’s suggesting is emotional permeance, the insinuation that there’s even a slight chance that the conditions they’ve created here in this moment, as much as Jotaro feels at peace within them, can at all be projected into a hypothetical future beyond this journey.

That future within itself is a tall order, let alone that something won’t fall apart along the way, that Jotaro won’t change, that Kakyoin won’t change, that the feeling they have here—as delicate and unspoken and unsure as it is—is at all capable of sustaining itself beyond the heat of the chase, or that—

Jotaro doesn’t want to think about it.

“We could die here,” is what he finally says, after what feels like hours.

“I know,” Kakyoin sighs, sounding small. Jotaro can feel his breath graze across his cheek, and he’s terrified of what he might find if he turns around. The way he imagines Kakyoin’s face crumpling like plastic wrap twists at him enough without having to see it first hand. “But we might not. There’s always that chance.”

“We could die,” Jotaro repeats, final. No matter how bad the pain in Kakyoin’s voice stings, it’s worse to try and pick at these threads. He can’t do it. He refuses. “I can’t think like that. We have to get through this first.”

Kakyoin takes in a shaking breath through his teeth. “I understand,” he whispers, pulling his hands off Jotaro and crawling back to his side, shoulders square in a show of pride that hits worse than the obvious hurt. “I apologize.”

The night air is colder than he remembers it being when they first got out here, back when no part of them was connected. Even with the throbbing in his skull, something else has to break. This can’t be the only thing.

“Tell me about another constellation,” Jotaro asks, and while his voice is as steady and monotone as ever, he feels like he’s begging. It has to be transparent.

Kakyoin looks at him like he can’t read a single thing about him, but he’s trying. Slowly but surely, confusion melts into resignation, and into acceptance, or at least that’s what Jotaro hopes it means to see his brows soften and eyes fall closed, a small sigh escaping his lips.

“Okay.” Kakyoin sounds like he’s testing how the word tastes on his tongue and he’s not quite sure of it yet. “Okay. Come here.”

Kakyoin holds out his hand, and Jotaro places his own on top, palm up. They’re farther away from each other now, but their position causes them to drift in closer, just enough for Jotaro to match him hip to shoulder. It’s nowhere near as intimate, but it’s familiar, comfortable. He’ll take it. Kakyoin runs his thumb across Jotaro’s palm, thoughtful.

“Let’s start from Polaris.”

It’s 1999, and Jotaro Kujo is looking at the ground.

It’s marshy and wet, the ample cracks between the concrete more dirt than grass and turning into mud beneath his boots. The drizzling rain from the countryside has turned into a steady stream down in the city, and although Kakyoin is generously sharing his umbrella, there is only so much it can cover with both their frames underneath. Jotaro is feeling more and more like a wet cat by the minute, damp and vaguely anxious.

“Do you mind?” Jotaro asks, reaching for a cigarette.

Kakyoin does him the generous favor of not commenting on how Jotaro has never been so polite as to ask, not when they were kids and certainty not during his certified chain-smoking binge since he’s gotten back, and nods. “Sure.”

Truthfully, Jotaro isn’t sure why he feels the need to get permission now, either. They pulled into the outskirts of Tokyo, and even though Jotaro’s own permanent residence is just across the city, something about the way Kakyoin started carrying himself the second they left the car kept Jotaro firmly in the passenger’s seat long after they walked away. It’s not just that he isn’t privy to their destination, it’s that Kakyoin seems so sure in his gait, the reservation from the café all but melted away to nothing.

Wherever Kakyoin goes, he’ll follow. Maybe he’s deferential because it’s so automatic—it’s not a question of why he is, what he wants, or where it will lead. He just knows he will. There is no other option, which leaves him at his mercy. It should make him nervous, and it does, but not in the way true powerlessness grips panic into him. He could turn around. At any moment, he could walk away.

There’s just no reason to.

It hollows out his chest, not quite anticipation, not quite dread. Only acceptance.

“It’s not that far of a walk,” Kakyoin explains. The area they’re in is quaint—far off the beaten path but bustling with an eclectic and artsy charm. Jotaro is, if nothing else, a creature of habit when it comes to the few routines he does manage to keep in his life, and while he got around the city fine as a teenager, his leisure time is mostly spent recovering in familiar areas. Work is the only thing that would draw him out, and while Tokyo has its fair share of stand activity, Jotaro’s reach is decidedly more global.

Walking with Kakyoin makes him miss it, though, exploring for the sake of just exploring. It reminds him of the precious few hours they’d get to spend bouncing around each city they’d visit, poking around at marketplaces and side streets until Joseph would call them back to camp or trouble came knocking. The shops here are as tightly packed as anything in Riyadh, but much smaller, mostly local artisans, hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and specialty shops. While the streets are still full of activity, it feels decidedly more local than most parts of the city, and for a moment, he gets lost in it.

“It’s fine,” Jotaro mutters, watching the smoke and his breath intertwine and curl up into the air. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Kakyoin looks up over his shoulder and cracks a smile at that. He’s the only person who seems to understand Jotaro’s sense of humor, even when he’s not really trying to be funny.

Looking at just the side of Kakyoin’s face and the blurred background of Tokyo around them, he can almost convince himself it’s normal. It’s easy, too easy, to superimpose a sense of normalcy around it, an imaginary little scene where Kakyoin has whisked them off to the northern wards to pick up art supplies on a rainy Sunday afternoon. And Jotaro is humoring him, because he knows better than to try and convince him anything else in the entire city could compare to whatever he’s set his mind on. While they’re here, Jotaro might as well pick up a new book from a tiny scientific second-hand print store, both because it makes it worth the trip and because Kakyoin practically insists he finds something for himself, and that—

That isn’t real.

A small, unfair part of him kicks against the walls of his mind, but that’s not a productive line of thought to follow down. Anger flares in him all the same, though. It’s not that he feels robbed of that reality as he stands right now. He doesn’t have the exact words as to why, but it never would have been that easy, even if he had known the truth. He doesn’t know how to play games of revisionist history like that—he made the choices in his own life for the reasons he made them at the time, and he isn’t delusional enough to think he could pull apart those threads and understand what Kakyoin would have changed, or what Jotaro always would have manifested regardless. As always, it’s a pointless endeavor.

It’s that it feels like the versions of them here could still fall into a routine like that if all context and history were removed. For all that’s come to pass, Kakyoin still feels deliriously like Kakyoin, prideful, poised, a little rough around the edges, and thoughtful in a way that stings. He still strikes Jotaro as the type to be conscientious enough to want to get it right, and Jotaro… Well, Jotaro would let him.

It’s not any better of a thread to follow, either.

“Right down here.” Kakyoin’s voice pulls him back out of his own head, ushering them around a corner onto a smaller side street, illuminated by neon shop signs and window panes.

He follows Kakyoin’s steps down to the end of the lane, where a single, nondescript building stands apart from the rest in its minimalist design, taller and wider than any of the storefronts around it. Kakyoin has the door open and umbrella closed before Jotaro can get a chance to read the small placard to the side, but it’s not a priority of his, anyway.

Inside, the room is just as barren, the walls made of smooth, undressed concrete with a large picture window against hardwood flooring. The only object in the space is a single white desk up against the right wall, and they’re alone aside from the twenty-something student reading behind it, barely looking up from her cat-eye glasses at the sound of the bell.

“Good afternoon,” Kakyoin greets, and Jotaro is starting to get annoyed at himself for how many lines his memory insists on drawing. While others admonished Jotaro for his hopeless everyday social skills, Kakyoin always took the point with shopkeepers and transportation officials for him without a hint of frustration. “We’re just here to take a look around the galleries.”

He deposits a 5,000-yen note into a clear glass jar on the desk, and the receptionist nods a thank you, pointing wordlessly to a hallway behind her. Kakyoin glances back to make sure Jotaro’s in his shadow, and while he still appears to be in control, a little bit of his earlier confidence has faded, replaced with the same hesitance from earlier in the morning. The whole setup churns curiosity fresh in Jotaro, but he wills it down, stepping up to match Kakyoin at his side.

Once in the hallway, Kakyoin shrinks by just a few degrees more, and Jotaro wonders if everyone else can read him this well, or if he’s just looking for every shift so intensely it’s the only thing he can focus on at all.

Their path opens up into a large, open-ceilinged art gallery, walls adorned with modernist, sleek paintings and photography series and floors filled with sparsely arranged 3D pieces. Surprisingly, despite the remote location and nondescript entry, they aren’t the only people milling about the room, and Jotaro can see even more visitors down through the next hallway, though the echoing feel of the chamber still lends itself to a sort of serene of isolation.

Jotaro wouldn’t consider himself artistically inclined necessarily, but he wouldn’t mind taking a look around, if only because the layout is so aesthetically pleasing. Still, it’s not his decision, and Kakyoin seems to have already made up his mind, leading them down through the next hallway, past the second gallery room entirely and into the last. Much of the natural light from the first two galleries fades here, not a single window to be found in the area beyond. Even the bright display lights hung low from the rafters are dimmed, reflecting on the hardwood in small glowing pools rather than illuminating the area as a whole. It’s quieter here, the only other occupants a young foreign couple whispering around a statue in the center.

Kakyoin has been silent since they entered, but even he feels more thoughtful, too. He scans the room, eyes falling on a piece in the corner, covered in shadow. “Over here.”

He ushers Jotaro through the room, towards a large, framed canvas taking up most of the wall in the far back corner. It’s a towering, imposing piece depicting a sparkling cityscape in the outline of New York, with the buildings done entirely in multimedia gold-leaf foil against a black splattering of stars. It has an ornate, old-world feel, like the pages from an ancient sacred text, or the gold sheen on the tombs of Egyptians. At the center, dwarfed between the buildings and the bustling, impressionist city streets, is a single red-haired silhouette, back turned.

It’s so clearly Kakyoin’s work. Even if the fairly obvious visual references didn’t give it away, his style is written all over it. However, the placard at its side reads Elio Hinode, Foil and Paint on Canvas, 1996, with no mention of Kakyoin’s name at all, though the bottom conspicuously notes the donor as, The Institute of Fine Arts, New York University. Jotaro looks to him for guidance, and finds him contemplative at his side, eyes glued to the painting and arms folded across his chest.

“Elio?” Jotaro asks, taking in the detailed greens and reds hidden within the gold, the light shifting with his moment.

“Your grandfather lives in New York, Jotaro,” Kakyoin replies, like it shouldn’t need to be said. There’s a hint of annoyance there, and it catches Jotaro off guard, though it really shouldn’t. “I never went by my real name there. I had it legally changed when I got my visa.”

Now that Kakyoin says it, it seems obvious, but for some reason this shifts something uncomfortable in the pit of Jotaro’s stomach, the name echoing in his head as he regards the man at his side. He struggles to match the two up, rubbing against one another in uncanny dissonance. “Right. Of course.”

“This was about the boldest I ever got,” Kakyoin continues, pressing a finger to the side of the frame. Jotaro would never admonish Kakyoin of all people for poor museum manners, but it’s still shocking to see, even if it is his own work. He looks up at the gold as he speaks, and Jotaro looks only at him, neither of them flinching. “I was really, really careful.”

“Careful how?” It’s Jotaro’s turn to experience that spike of annoyance now, because it’s almost ridiculous how much Kakyoin has said without saying it outright at all, and it feels wrong that he has to be the one to break it. “Careful because you didn’t want to be found out?”

“Yes,” Kakyoin snaps. His face remains soft, though a hint of pain appears in the pinch of his eyebrows. He takes a step back, but still won’t look Jotaro in the eyes, no matter how long he stares at this side of his face. “I dyed my hair the entire time I was living there, you know. I did this as part of my thesis, and there were a few other self-portraits in there, but I drew my hair black in those. I did drafts of this where I kept it that way, too, but considering the subject matter… It didn’t feel right. It was a risk, but I wanted to represent my original intention. Call it naïve.”

Suspicions Jotaro had been harboring since setting his eyes on the painting start to shift into one another, puzzle pieces clicking into place. He would never call it that, so he opts to not call it anything at all.

In the silence, Kakyoin stumbles a bit in his stance, leaning back onto his heels for balance. It’s small to the point of being imperceptible, and Jotaro notices only because Kakyoin’s gaze flickers back to him for just a split second like the lack of rebuttal throws his concentration. Why it would, Jotaro doesn’t have the first clue. It’s not like silence is a particularly inventive tactic in his repertoire.

Kakyoin steadies himself just as hastily, clearing his throat. “It made me nervous, but I felt ridiculous for it too. It was just a grad student art show, and all of three people on the planet would even know what it meant. The chances of any of you seeing it were basically zero, and why would you have any incentive to put the pieces together anyway? I was dead. But that’s the sort of thing I worried about. I lived like I was always two steps away from one of you finding me out.”

Studying it again, Jotaro tries to ask himself honestly what would have gone through his mind if he came to this art gallery two weeks ago. Seeing it now, the references seem so blatant, not only in the distinct visual style or the Egyptian motifs or the cherry reds, but in the lonesome position of the figure, the towering majesty of the surroundings, and the feeling of smallness and isolation it invokes. It practically screams Kakyoin’s name, and even louder things only Kakyoin could know and express.

He wants to say he could have seen through it, it’s just on the tip of his tongue, but in the end reality wins out. There’s no way to know that for certain, and the only certainty he did have was Kakyoin’s fate. Even in the darkest moments of his life, that one surety could never be erased. Jotaro has never been a religious man, but he imagines the unwavering, dogmatic belief was akin to that of a true fundamentalist.

“We weren’t,” is what he settles on, because it’s true. “None of us were looking.”

“I knew that,” Kakyoin replies, fatigue seeping through his words. “But that didn’t change how terrified I was when this went up on display. I don’t know what I thought would happen, but it turns out I could have kept it black and it wouldn’t have mattered. It’s funny, actually.”

“Tell me,” Jotaro presses, desperation turning into vulnerability, and vulnerability always threatening to turn to flight or fight anger. The rest of the room has ceased to exist, a sort of bend in perceptible reality that he’s experienced only during stand attacks reducing his world to nothing but this dark corner, the display spotlight, and the two of them in the center. Only the truth can return it, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he can’t get it out of him. “Stop dancing around it.”

“I’m getting there.” Kakyoin runs a hand through his hair, harshly digging into his scalp. He clenches and unclenches his knuckles, hand falling back to his chest with a measured sigh. “I’m getting there. It’s hardly even a story. It’s just a stupid coincidence. The exact type of stupid coincidence I spent years and years of my life fucking petrified of, and of course it all came crashing down the one time I decided to be brave. It wasn’t even anything in this specifically, and it wasn’t anything I could prepare for, either. I…”

Kakyoin trails off, hand going back to his hair and the other wrapping around his own waist, protective. He turns, fingers tapping along his hipbone in a frustrated, frantic rhythm. “This is stupid. I’m sorry. I could have told you this back in Morioh.”

It takes every ounce of patience in Jotaro’s body, but he bites back the formless emotion threatening to explode just behind his teeth, swallowing it down. “It doesn’t matter.”

“One of my parents’ friends have a son that was touring schools in New York that year,” Kakyoin sighs into the words with a start, shaking his head at himself. “They just happened to stop by the galleries and took pictures of some of the work, including mine. They were flipping through the pictures back home, and my Mom noticed the style in some of mine. I only found out because I got a letter two months later, saying that my work reminded her of her missing son, and she wanted to know if I could spare a few prints. She didn’t actually suspect me, or at least I really doubt that. She just wanted them as memorabilia. Which is almost worse.”

“Shit,” Jotaro replies, eloquently.

“Yeah, I know.” Kakyoin loosens with a deep breath in, but only by a few degrees, his body still laced with tension. “It’s ridiculous. But I suppose after eight years, something’s bound to collide like that.”

“What did you do?” Jotaro prompts, less insistently than before but with no less intense of a desire to have him see it through.

Kakyoin leans up against the wall in a blank space between the corner where his portrait lies and another adjacent, resting his head back. “Nothing, for months. I spent so much time anticipating something like that happening, but it didn’t prepare me. I didn’t want to do anything, except for maybe send a few prints back with no message attached. I couldn’t lie to them outright, though. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

That doesn’t surprise Jotaro. For all Kakyoin is, and how obstinate he can be, he’s always been an honorable man, and far more honest than Jotaro’s capable of being. It’s admirable to witness, and fearsome to be the target of. Of course he’d buckle under something like that. “They never knew why you left, though.”

“Right,” Kakyoin nods, jaw clenched. He turns his face to the side, and then falls still, almost like a gallery piece himself aside from the movement of his lips, fast and soft. “I wrote a letter back and attached some pictures of myself along with the prints. I couldn’t tell them the real truth, obviously, so I came out instead. I said I was worried they’d disown me if they knew, and I left before that could happen. It wasn’t a lie. I always figured it might happen eventually, had… other things not come up.”

Something catches in Jotaro’s throat, because he’s never said it explicitly, not even when they were kids and Kakyoin could barely keep his hands off him. There’s no reason for it to feel like such a shock to his system—Kakyoin never showed a hint of interest in women, even before they displayed mutual interest in one another—but it hits straight in his gut, knocking him off center with dizzying force. He struggles to find a reply, let alone a coherent one. “Did they?”

“No,” Kakyoin hums. “I think they were in too much shock. They wanted to see me in person, of course.”

“Which is why you came here three years ago,” Jotaro infers, more of those pieces beginning to slide together. “Did you bring this with you?”

He shakes his head and frowns in the direction of the portrait, but with a far-off distance in his gaze. “I had it sent here after I got back. Now that I think about it, that’s the actual boldest thing I’ve done.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jotaro whispers, because he just now realizes he forgot to say so earlier.

“Thank you,” Kakyoin’s lips fall together in a hard line, but they quirk up at the end, just enough for Jotaro to catch. “I did it to placate them. Our meeting… It went better than I thought it would, but the bar was low. I was grateful for the chance to see them again and get closure, when all was said and done. We love each other in our own way, but we’ll never be close, especially now that they know. I thought it would be a nice gesture though, to leave a part of my work here where they could see.”

“Why this one?” It’s the one thing he can’t wrap his head around, and now that the picture is falling into place, it’s maddening how little of it feels like a recognizable image of reality despite how close it comes. It’s not adding up, not quite. “You were worried about it, and with reason. It could have been any of them.”

A smile breaks out in full, but it’s wry and without a hint of pleasure. “I wondered if it would bait fate the same way. It was going straight into your territory, after all. It’s not your scene, but maybe something would pull you in.”

“Did you want it to?” Jotaro doesn’t want to know. Neither answer suits him.

“I don’t think so,” Kakyoin admits. His smile falters, but there’s a glint in his eyes to replace it, one Jotaro can’t read. “But it would have been convenient if it could have done the hard part for me. It felt inevitable, but I couldn’t bring myself to rip the bandage off myself.”

All this time, and the evidence was right under his nose.

“I see,” Jotaro replies, even though he doesn’t, not really. Kakyoin looks smaller in real life than he does in the painting, arms and legs crossed and looking up at Jotaro with a pained expression written across his face. Jotaro tries again, tries to muster up some sort of conviction. “But you managed to.”

Kakyoin closes his eyes and peels himself off from the wall with his palms, straightening his shoulders back as he pulls up to full height. “I did, didn’t I?”

All this time, and Jotaro still never would have known. He knows that now.

“The hiding… it’s not personal.” Whatever strength Kakyoin was searching for he seems to have found again, looking at Jotaro straight on with unblinking intentionality. It falters the further down Jotaro travels, his eyebrows still pinched together and bottom lip folded between his teeth, but his eyes are sharp as anything. “I built something there, and I had to give this up completely in order to keep it. In my mind, I was protecting my happiness. It had been too long.”

Again with the time. It’s selfish, but at least it’s more honest now. It’s easy to play the sanctimonious protector, and Jotaro respects him for dropping the pretense. Cowardice is more believable than any half-baked assumption he was doing Jotaro a favor. He should know better.

“I held out for longer than I expected, for what it’s worth.” Kakyoin crosses back over to him, brushing up against Jotaro’s side on his way over to the placard, running a fingertip across the indent of the words. It’s not worth much, but Jotaro doesn’t dare say it. “But it was always a matter of time before I cracked, after that. Deep down, I always knew that if I was discovered, you were the one person I wouldn’t be able to hide from anymore.”

“I wish you would have done it sooner.” It’s a rare instance of his filter failing, but Kakyoin’s words throw him, and the truth slips. It’s more than he even knew to admit to himself before it’s floating up into the air, and he can’t take it back.

“I’m sorry.” It sounds so delicate, and it hurts worse than anything Jotaro’s heard him say all day. “I was scared.”

Hearing him say it outright is strange—it’s simultaneously a relief, like a release of unspoken tension, but at the same time, Jotaro doesn’t understand why it’s so clearly true. He’s been here the whole time.

“Walk with me,” Jotaro sighs, exhausted down to the marrow of his bones. “You paid for admission, didn’t you? We should see the rest.”

Kakyoin spins around towards him on his heel, eyes owl-wide for several blinks before they narrow and he nods, once. “It’s on a donation basis, but yes. I suppose so.”

The air is still tense between them as Kakyoin falls back in at his side, but it’s light enough that Jotaro feels like he can breathe freely again, so he’ll take it. While Kakyoin doesn’t return to playing the leader as naturally as before, he starts to work the room piece by piece as they move out from the corner, offering tidbits of information on the way. Jotaro’s hopeless with art, but it’s a tastefully done exhibit. It’s a relatively new display, built around six years ago according to Kakyoin, featuring the art of both expats and immigrants who blend their nationalities into their work.

For his part, Jotaro remains silent, content to let the sound of Kakyoin’s voice fill up his mind and drown out his thoughts in a wash of white noise and art terminology he barely understands. He speaks softly in a sort of gallery-whisper he’s surely practiced at, and underneath the storm of emotion Jotaro has no hope of parsing through is a voice he never thought he’d hear again, ringing through his ears and wrapping around his body.

He doesn’t fully understand how, but the more he focuses on the sound and the sound alone, the more he starts to find a sense of equilibrium again.

“I like this one.” A sculpture in the middle of the second room they circle back around to catches his eye, a cascade of wire-thin butterflies made from sheet metal and stained glass reaching up towards the ceiling, the display light shining through their delicate wings. “It reminds me of Jolyne.”

He says it more to himself, but Kakyoin catches it. “Jolyne?”

“My daughter.” Jotaro’s ashamed to overlook how Kakyoin couldn’t possibly have known that, and his face burns at his own foolishness. “They’re her favorite.”

“Oh,” Kakyoin’s voice falls flat, but when he continues on, it rings of genuine interest. “Do you have a picture?”

Jotaro reaches into his pocket to dig out his wallet, producing a small Polaroid he took on Jolyne’s fifth birthday, her face covered in cake and grinning ear to ear up at the camera. His heart tugs as he hands it over, suddenly drowned in how bad he misses her. She’s lived in Florida since the divorce, and he’s not over the lack. He wonders if he ever will be.

“She’s seven,” he supplies, choking that feeling back.

“She looks just like you,” Kakyoin mutters. The corners of his lips tug up again, but in a way Jotaro can’t fully decipher the meaning behind enough to call a real smile. He hands it back, leading them off to the next part of the room wordlessly.

He’s quieter after that, but Jotaro gets it. The fatigue keeps hitting him in waves too, over and over again like the tide against crumbling rocks.

It’s not until they’ve made their way through the galleries and find themselves back out onto the street that Kakyoin speaks of anything other than art at all. When he does, it follows a long stretch of silence, one that Jotaro finds difficult to classify. It’s only when Kakyoin cuts into it that he realizes how long he must have been caught up in his own head at his side, Jotaro unaware.

“Are you married, then?” Kakyoin asks as they step back onto the main streets, even and neutral in a way that transparently exposes how much effort it takes, this time.

“Was,” Jotaro corrects, harsher than he intends. He pauses in his stride, rooted to the pavement as if possessed. Kakyoin doesn’t have to look back to join him.

“Oh,” Kakyoin breathes, and Jotaro doesn’t dare look his way. He doesn’t want to know. “I’m sorry.”

The ensuing stillness drags on too long for him to resist it, though, and the unavoidable knowing that comes with the combination of someone so indelible and a topic so raw is immediately too much. Even with all the space between them, Jotaro is slowly realizing that in these precarious moments, with just the right light, he can still read him like a book. His stomach churns when they meet one another’s eyes, a dozen unspoken questions dancing across Kakyoin’s own.

Kakyoin breaks contact before he does, and it somehow strikes him even more to realize he can still read Jotaro just as well in this space, if not better. Kakyoin’s silence is answer enough, but Jotaro can’t quite tell if he grasps how elusive any semblance of clarity on the topic even is.

“It’s fine,” Jotaro exhales, because it is. It’s too late for a reply to sound organic, but he feels the need to give it anyway, hiding behind a shrug. “It was my choice.”

“I see,” Kakyoin offers, picking his feet back up again. Jotaro follows after a beat, staggering a bit into the motion. “I’m still sorry.”

Jotaro wants to insist he really doesn’t need to be, but he figures a curt hum does the trick. Even though the rain has fallen to a drizzle now, Kakyoin pulls out his umbrella again, ushering Jotaro underneath it. Unsure, he takes a step closer, dully surprised when Kakyoin doesn’t make any move to pull away from the touch of their shoulders.

They’re almost back to the car by the time either move to speak again. The brush of their jackets up against one another is the only sound between them until Kakyoin reaches for the car door, hesitating with one foot in and one foot on the ground. “Jotaro?”

Jotaro releases the hand pulling open his own door to signal his attention.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.” He doesn’t really care what it is.

“I don’t think the other two would believe me if I cold-called,” he rests his arm on the hood of the car, staring off into the distance. “But I’m ready to tell them.”

“I’ll help you talk to them,” Jotaro opens the passenger side, tossing his words up at Kakyoin before sliding in. “Don’t worry about it.”

Kakyoin lowers down to send him a shaky smile, and it looks as hesitant on his face as Jotaro feels putting on one of his own. He tries his best, though, for whatever it’s worth.

“Thank you.” He puts the keys in the ignition but doesn’t turn it, pivoting instead to face Jotaro with stark, naked sincerity written across his entire body that he isn’t prepared for, not at all.

“Don’t mention it,” Jotaro mutters in reply, and while everything in him is screaming to look away, he forces himself to hold Kakyoin’s gaze until he’s apparently satisfied and clicks on the engine.

Kakyoin taps his fingers against the wheel for several seconds, and Jotaro waits while he chews on his words, confusion spreading when he sees an honest-to-God grin break across the man’s face. “Don’t let me wear anything nice. Polnareff is going to get snot all over me.”

It feels raw against his throat, but Jotaro can’t help letting out a laugh at that, short, but open and real despite himself. “Alright.”

It’s ghost-small, but Jotaro swears he hears a laugh of Kakyoin’s own.

Chapter Text

The sun is hanging lower and lower by the minute over the skies of Tokyo, and Jotaro doesn’t want to go back to the countryside tonight.

It’s a sentiment he can’t help but believe Kakyoin mirrors in his tactful question of, “Do you still have a place around here?”

The most straightforward way back to Morioh is up and around the core of the city, but Kakyoin missed—or ignored—the turn-off, and is instead heading back towards the cacophony of noise and sound and light that is Tokyo in slow-crawling traffic. Jotaro watched it happen, but said nothing. They would have to find dinner eventually either way, and even with the lines and lines of headlights on the dimming afternoon horizon, it’s still a better bet to go for the familiar beast than try and stake out something up north in a few hours.

It’s been almost an hour in the grind, and tacking on another hour at least before an actual meal, it’s six and one-half dozen. It’s better this way, and it’s a long drive. Even if he’s wrong and Kakyoin insists they eventually head back tonight, it’s a relief not to be taken out of the spell of the city immediately.

Or, at the very least clinging to that is better than dealing with the lingering uncertainty of the path before them on its own, in more ways than the obvious. Still, he feels as if he’s failing him when he replies, “Not since the divorce, no.”

It doesn’t kill the energy in the car, but it doesn’t do it any favors. Jotaro expects Kakyoin to shrink at that, or at least display some signs of visible discomfort, but he just hums, fiddling with the volume on the radio.

“How do you manage it, then?” Kakyoin asks, and although Jotaro can hear a trace of implacable emotion in his voice, it’s tactfully delivered. “You do go to school in Tokyo, right?”

Jotaro doesn’t remember telling him that, realizing with some shame this entire conversation has been running on an assumption he’s never confirmed out loud. “I do.”

“I figured,” Kakyoin says. At the very least, it’s not an outlandish guess. Jotaro lets it slide. “I hear there are a few good programs for marine biology down here, and you’re the city type anyway. I always imagined if you went to university at all, you’d take it seriously.”

Jotaro straightens up at that and turns his head to the side in order to get a better look at him, abandoning his view of the highway to study Kakyoin’s face. “You thought about that?”

“Well, yes.” For some reason, this is what gets Kakyoin to shrink into the seat. He leans back against the headrest, fingers covering his mouth in a thoughtful gesture, casual yet concealing. Shifting his eyes back squarely to the road, he continues. “It’s not like I had friends my own age besides you. You were my frame of reference for normal, especially when I was going through my undergrad alone.”

Jotaro mulls that thought over in his head and lets it rest, but doesn’t touch it. “I stay with another student in my program, mostly. Sometimes I get a hotel. I’m able to do a lot of the work right now remote, but I can only stay in Morioh for a few more weeks before I’ll need to be down here full time.”

Kakyoin’s lips quirk down, an irritated noise escaping his throat as he surveys the traffic. “You sound disappointed.”

“Really?” Jotaro doesn’t feel disappointed. Morioh is boring and retrograde in a way that fails to be charming enough to overcome its insularity. The kids are loud and frequently irritating, he can’t go ten minutes without Rohan or Joseph demanding his attention, and the one person he can tolerate is a fifteen year old who seems to be the only soul in town who understands how absurd his surroundings are.

Tokyo is his home, it always has been. He likes how easy it is to fold anonymously into the chaos and the noise, and it’s convenient to blend his own routine into the hurried pace of modern life without much effort at all. He’s lived in or around it since he was born, and it’s the only city he knows to call his own. It’s where he’s built a life, even if only pieces of it remain.

He hasn’t started looking at apartments yet. It’s only now he realizes how close he is to the deadline and considers that maybe he should.

“Just a little,” Kakyoin confirms, leaning his elbow against the window with a shrug. “I could be imagining it, though.”

Something pointed settles in Jotaro’s chest, and it’s one of his least favorite feelings, the subtle nagging sensation that he’s missing something crucial. It takes several moments of silence before he places what it is, crossing his legs and sitting up in his seat. “You said it took a while to find me. You never said how.”

“Ah,” Kakyoin exhales, hand tightening around his mouth before falling to prop up his chin with his palm, fingers tapping along the side of his cheek. “I did… a fair amount of research before flying here, actually. I wanted to be prepared before I pulled the trigger, so to speak.”

“What do you mean?” Jotaro crosses his arms, eyebrow raised. Kakyoin pointedly doesn’t look his way.

“I thought about you a lot,” Kakyoin elaborates, his normal elegant cadence fading into a mutter Jotaro has to strain to make out in its entirety. “But I couldn’t bring myself to keep any tabs on you until the last few years, and the only real lead I had was what you’d told me you wanted at seventeen. I started looking into publications in your field, programs in the country, anything that you might be attached to. It’s… I probably sound insane.”

Jotaro sees it more clearly than he’s prepared for, the vision of Kakyoin hunched over a desk pouring over whatever niche papers had managed to make their way into overseas university libraries, scanning phone registries and the fine print of scientific studies. For a moment, he’s so lost in it he doesn’t register Kakyoin’s no longer speaking. “Go on.”

Kakyoin slams on the horn as another car cuts in front of their lane and Jotaro nearly jumps out of his seat, eyes wide at the impressive array of curses falling from Kakyoin’s lips. He shakes his shoulders, sighing. “Sorry. I’m not used to driving again yet.”

He imagines Kakyoin would prefer subways. It fits in the matrix of his life Jotaro’s surprised to find he’s already created, though he can’t access anything beyond that the image of him reading on a cramped train just feels more correct than an image of him driving through the streets of Manhattan does.

“I could only spend a few hours a time on it before I’d start to feel like an idiot,” Kakyoin continues, and Jotaro takes note of the heat creeping up into his cheeks. “I wanted to know, but I wasn’t ready to accept that. It’s hard to explain. I kept turning up nothing for so long, and when I finally got the nerve to call the University of Tokyo, I didn’t know how to explain myself. Hi, hello, I’m looking for someone I’ve been ignoring for the last decade, does he research dolphins for you by any chance?”

Jotaro snorts at that, which only turns Kakyoin’s face another shade darker. It’s not funny, really. There’s a hollow pit in his chest that won’t go away and seems to be getting wider by the minute. He can’t stop the internal reel that’s recreating every single second of Kakyoin’s words in his mind, but it’s such a candid description he can’t help but be charmed by its delivery. “That was my master’s thesis.”

“I heard,” Kakyoin murmurs, the break in tension seeming to ease him just a bit. “This is probably really weird to listen to, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Jotaro assures him. It’s not exactly true, it’s one of the weirdest things he’s ever experienced on principle and the reality of how much effort went into it is even more so, but he’s fairly certain that’s not what Kakyoin means by it. “I don’t know what else you could have done, short of calling the old man.”

“I thought about it,” Kakyoin admits, and that encompasses the desperation of Kakyoin’s search more than anything else he’s said in Jotaro’s eyes. “Which exit should I take, by the way?”

The open-endedness of the question throws him, Jotaro’s lips parting without a solid idea of what might fall out. Kakyoin seems to pick up on this, adding a hasty, “You know this city better than I do, pick your favorite restaurant.”

Jotaro’s just relieved Kakyoin brought it up before he had to. He racks his brain for ideas, thoughts punctuated with the rhythm Kakyoin’s left foot tapping against the floorboard, anxious and a bit sporadic. He’d ask what Kakyoin is in the mood for, but judging by how little his order surprised him earlier today, Jotaro’s all but certain he still knows his preferences. “Not this one or the next, but the one after that.”

Kakyoin nods, flexing the fingers of his driving hand and wrapping them back against the wheel twice over. “I got one of your colleagues to tell me you’d been off researching on the coast. I didn’t have much of a plan when I got here, half because I was worried I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. My only plan was to head straight for the university and ask around, and if that failed… I’d find an address book or something? I really didn’t know. I booked my flight in a fugue state. I’d gone back and forth for months, and I had to just… do it, or it was never going to happen.”

This is the most he’s gotten out of Kakyoin without having to reach in and forcefully pry it from his grasp, and the longer he speaks, the more aware Jotaro is of this delicate balance. He’s felt perpetually one wrong word away from Kakyoin falling back into tense silence the entire ride, but now that he’s getting a taste of the real picture he’s starting to draw, he’s parched for every detail and stung by the implication in equal measure. He wants to know everything. He doesn’t want to know a single thing. He has no idea what will happen if he stops.

Jotaro says nothing, hoping it conveys his attention but not daring to look and confirm if it’s received.

Against his will, Jotaro counts the seconds before Kakyoin continues. It’s in the double digits. “I needed you to hear it from me. After everything… I was convinced it was only a matter of time before you wouldn’t.”

His first impulse is to remind him that in all likelihood he still wouldn’t have, regardless of the circumstances that forced him back out into the spotlight with others. It’s tempting, if only to dissolve the intensity of the moment, but his thoughts are spliced left and right with Kakyoin wrapped around himself, recounting the circumstances of his visit to Tokyo like there’s knives in his lungs. It’s too fresh. He doesn’t dare.

“You succeeded.”

“I did,” Kakyoin licks his lips, eyes going wide at the realization as if it’s not already self-apparent. He composes himself, but it takes another breath. “I landed in Narita Saturday morning, and I was in Morioh by that night. I barely remember the drive. I had no idea what I was doing.”

Kakyoin takes a shaking inhale, free hand moving to hit the turn signal before falling to the wheel, knuckles tight. It’s so quiet Jotaro barely hears it, Kakyoin’s words hidden in the slow exhale that follows. “I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

It’s not a question he wants to ask, but it’s another one of those nagging uncertainties he hasn’t considered the answer to that now feels pressing. “When is your return flight?”

“I didn’t book one,” Kakyoin admits, all in one breath before Jotaro’s fully finished asking it. There’s not a single space between words to be found. He blinks, a glint in his eyes somewhere between manic and a cornered prey animal. Jotaro’s never seen anything like it. “I didn’t book one. Left or right?”

“Left here.” Jotaro looks up at the road with a start, focus bleary. It’s only his autopilot kicking in that gets him to rattle off the rest. “Take the second right after that, and stay to the left.”

“Got it,” Kakyoin confirms, and the adrenaline appears to leave his body by degrees, melting back into a neutral expression. “I can book it whenever. I just didn’t know what to expect.”

“We’ll worry about it later,” Jotaro assures, almost as hastily as Kakyoin seconds before. This is the only way Jotaro knows how to operate—stealing time second by desperate second, looking out only so far as his hand can reach but without a single moment’s rest. Later, later, later. As long as there’s a later, there’s room for the now to breathe, and he has to protect it for fear of suffocation. “There’s a parking garage past this light.”

“Thank you for navigating,” Kakyoin says, with airiness to his voice that makes him wonder if he’s not the only one desperate for the space he’s trying to create.

“Of course,” Jotaro replies, and behind his eyes, he’s clutching a map of Calcutta, Kakyoin over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to wonder if it’s something Kakyoin sees too, because it’s the knowing glance he sends his way that sparks it. “It’s nothing.”

It’s something, but he doesn’t have the words for that yet.

It’s not until Jotaro’s finishing his cigarette outside the restaurant he realizes he may have made a minor calculation error.

It’s recoverable, but he hates thoughtlessness, especially his own. Normally, he considers himself conscientious enough of his fortunes in life as to not flaunt them irresponsibly. It’s a source of shame, but he occasionally he catches himself behaving in ways that only those accustomed to the comforts of old money can. Back in the car, the last thing on his mind was cost—he was only concerned with something both of them would like, and something Jotaro could stand by in terms of quality. Under those stipulations, he gravitated for better or worse to what he acknowledges is a shockingly high price point.

They split the bill for lunch earlier in the day, but for some reason, Jotaro already had it in his head he’d foot the cost of this, even before he realized the slight faux pas. Still, there’s a rush of anxiety that makes him mutter it under his breath the second they walk in the door, before Kakyoin can take stock of the sleek décor or look too closely at the menu in the window.

“This is on me,” he assures, holding up a ‘two’ at the host stand while Kakyoin stands wordlessly at his side, hands in his coat pockets and scanning the room. It’s a small establishment, and it’s only the luck of Sunday that gets them a seat within five minutes wait. They’re soon lead up to the second landing of the area, towards a private dining deck up that stretches around the perimeter, a view to the sushi bar visible beneath.

Jotaro would never say it, but there’s a good chance he’s recognized by some of the staff here. It would be a lie, even to himself, to say that it’s a coincidence he came here of all places. It’s the restaurant he most frequently takes foreign colleagues or outside professors the program particularly wants to impress. It’s certainly preferable with Kakyoin—the company is much more suited to his attention span—but he feels no less like he’s putting on a show, nervous to ensure everything goes smoothly.

Whether or not Kakyoin picks up on any of this tension, he doesn’t mention it. He takes his seat opposite Jotaro in a small table overlooking the floor with impeccable manners, thanking the host with a winning smile and folding his napkin in his lap with practiced creases.

While Kakyoin always had a monopoly on social graces, Jotaro distinctly remembers Kakyoin’s blind spots when it comes to the finer points of proper etiquette, something Jotaro was practically forced to learn at gunpoint as a child. While Kakyoin wasn’t destitute, his family was both middle class and uninvolved in his life. To see him demonstrate it now with such ease and precision is one of the first things Jotaro can say has really thrown him. He tries to play it off, mirroring his motions slow in turn.

“Thank you,” Kakyoin says belatedly after they’ve been left with the menus, looking up at Jotaro over his water glass. “You really don’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” Jotaro dismisses, because this is one fight he’s not having.

Blessedly, Kakyoin leaves it at that, taking a sip of water and following down the menu with his index finger. “How do you feel about wine? I could go for a glass.”

Jotaro’s not the biggest fan, but it’s fitting that Kakyoin would be, and he can’t agree fast enough. His nerves are frayed to the point where he’d take straight ethanol, if it were offered. “Sure, yes. Whatever you’re getting.”

“Noted,” Kakyoin replies, setting down the food menu in favor of the drink insert at the end of the table, thumbing through it and gently humming. There’s a slight bit of mischief in the tone, and it piques Jotaro’s curiosity, but he regards it with trepidation in equal measure. The ease he’s displaying very well may be an act, but it’s a far cry from the edged panic in the car, and Jotaro envies it either way. “White or red?”

“Whatever,” Jotaro shrugs, willing his eyes to focus and discern a single option out from the pile of words on the menu. There are rules to wine about what goes with what, but he’s never seen the point in caring about that when he finds the entire idea of enjoying them on the heels of one another nasty in the first place. “I’m getting the salmon, if that means anything. You know better than me.”

Kakyoin seems satisfied with that assessment, nodding at the list and setting it aside. He picks up the food menu, scans it for several seconds, and then sets that down too, crossing his legs beneath the table.

When their waiter swings around, Jotaro is struck once again by how Kakyoin takes the point like it’s second nature in their routine. Ignoring the years between them it is, but there’s none of the subtle hesitancy from when he did so earlier in the day. He speaks for the both of them with confidence and authority, rattling off a bottle of wine and both of their entrees without a hitch.

In the years since they met, Jotaro has gotten… Well, not exactly better at these sorts of casual interactions, but they’ve gotten less excruciating, if only by a margin. He’s able to fumble his way through daily niceties and small talk with minimal offense, but it leaves his skin itching for minutes if not hours no matter how seamless he manages to make it appear.

Unlike earlier this morning, the thought of speaking up to take care of his own order barely crossed his mind. He decides to move on from that particular note.

“So,” Kakyoin begins, dragging out the ‘s’ just enough to snag Jotaro’s attention. “You have a daughter.”

The very subject settles dread in his chest, hot and heavy like lead. It’s not Jolyne herself, in fact the thought of her brings a bit of warmth with it, but whatever sort of comfort that had begun to settle in the last few minutes disappears with a bang, leaving Jotaro scrambling to keep up. “I have a daughter.”

“What is she like?” Kakyoin leans his elbows on the table and props his chin on the bridge of intertwined knuckles, head cocked to the side. So much for impeccable table manners. “You said she lives in America.”

“She does,” Jotaro confirms, cautious. He shifts in his seat, hands folded in his lap to hide the way they’ve already started to clam up. Her face swirls in his mind’s eye, bringing with it a tide of fragmentary emotions and aches he’s struggling to grab onto and turn into words without getting burned in the process. “She’s bright, tenacious. Loves animals.”

“She gets that from you, then,” Kakyoin infers, a smile ghosting across his lips. Jotaro turns his head to look down at the rest of the restaurant, faster than necessary. “You were young when you had her.”

Too young. “I was. I was young when I married, too.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Kakyoin hedges, in a way that makes Jotaro distinctly suspicious he might. Annoyed, he pulls off his jacket and lays it across the back of his chair, the warmth from the lights bearing down on him more than he can tolerate in the small space. “When was the divorce?”

Before Jotaro can think to reply, the waiter swings back around with a bottle of light red wine, flashing the label for them to survey before placing two glasses down in front of him. It’s all in Italian, and it’s not like Jotaro cares anyway or knows what makes a Pinot Noir different from anything else with full confidence, but it’s well-designed and classy from the looks of things. The waiter pours their glasses and leaves the bottle at the end of the table, precariously close to Kakyoin’s elbows.

“This looks nice,” Jotaro remarks, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like he’s dodging the question. He gives it a swirl in the glass, light shining through its delicate color.

“These are the things they teach you in American art school.” There’s a lilting musicality to Kakyoin’s voice as he takes a sip, eyes squarely on Jotaro’s. He follows his lead, and to his surprise, he doesn’t hate it. It’s complex yet light on his tongue, and it goes down smooth as honey, palatable and pure. “It’s dear. I hope you don’t mind.”

Jotaro doesn’t have the heart to be annoyed with him, but he doesn’t have to be so cloying about flexing his tastes. “I let you choose.”

Kakyoin sets his wine glass down, twisting the stem between his fingers with an air of seriousness falling over him, eyes cast somewhere behind Jotaro’s shoulder. “Thank you for this. For today.”

Jotaro swallows down another sip, the reality of this moment much too sharp for him to handle. It has been for a while. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You could have left earlier,” Kakyoin whispers, catching Jotaro’s gaze again and holding it, eyes swimming with pointed emotion. “At the gallery. I would have let you. I would have gotten it. You could have decided not to come at all.”

Absolutely nothing within that clarifies the source of Jotaro’s confusion. “Why would I have done that?”

Truthfully, Jotaro could think of a few reasons why someone in general might have left, but none of them feel relevant to him. All he’s wanted this entire time was answers, it’s not his job to react based on whether or not he likes them, or fully understands them. They’re true to Kakyoin, he knows that much, and how he feels about it is not only secondary or irrelevant, it’s inaccessible.

“I guess if you don’t see why, it doesn’t matter,” Kakyoin shrugs, looking over his shoulder absently down at the floor below. He takes his time turning back around, reaching for his wine glass again. “You should answer my question.”

Jotaro frowns, the same unspoken, biting comment from yesterday on how skilled Kakyoin is at getting his way fighting to break loose. Somehow, he shoves it down. “Earlier this year.”

“Earlier this year,” Kakyoin repeats, surprise clear on his face. It doesn’t help. Even if Kakyoin had no way of knowing any of the details, it still mirrors the reactions of everyone else in Jotaro’s life far too well. It was novel at first, validating on some small level that he was able to keep up appearances despite his own deep sense of failure, but blindsiding person after person lost all sense of humor fast. “That’s… more recent than I was expecting.”

At least that’s the opposite reaction from normal. Jotaro refuses to believe everyone in his life is stupid enough to think his marriage was a shining example of romance, though his faith on that has been tested a time or two, but he supposes the one thing he did excel at was selling it as functional.

Yes, he was never around. Yes, he was so consumed with school and the Speedwagon Foundation he saw his daughter once a month if he was lucky. Yes, he took missions that technically could have been relegated to lower agents than the most powerful stand user in SPW on a consistent basis, but no one needed to know that part. No one needed to know the strain, the fights and tears behind closed doors, the way he reminds himself so much of his father. He could keep such inconvenient thoughts hidden. He’d been able to his entire life, and there was nothing within there challenging him to change that.

No one needed to know why he’d married someone who was cosmetically similar to him in only the ways that mattered—evenly matched in education and status as to avoid suspicion, and with the same perverse need for solitude and a pride that wouldn’t allow the cracks to show. They knew nothing about one another beyond what was appropriate for social conversation in front of others, and Jotaro used to think that was normal.

“Why do you say that?” Jotaro asks, curious despite his better judgment. There’s never been a conversation on this topic he hasn’t wanted to shove away under lock and key, but Kakyoin’s always had a way of seeing through the noise that keeps him hanging on his next thought.

“I never thought you’d be the marrying type,” Kakyoin muses, the red starting to taint his lips. Jotaro struggles not to stare at the tiny stain on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll admit, I’m curious.”

“Yeah, well.” That isn’t to say he still doesn’t want this conversation shut down. “It seemed like the right idea at the time.”

Jotaro found he could strike a balance with her the moment they met on the steps of the undergraduate biology building, a balance he’d practice to perfection in the eight years to come. If he opened up just a little, in just the right way at just the right moment, he could fool anyone, including himself, into believing any glossy abridged version of the truth as the whole picture.

In the moment it was a lightning strike of brilliance, a perfect solution to problems Jotaro hadn’t yet conceived of at the time, but would only grow.

She was pretty in a traditional, effortless way, with the kind of demure, studious personality he found least offensive in the women that courted him. She was enamored with him, despite the growing rumors there was something queer about a man of Jotaro’s caliber who refused to socialize with the opposite sex.

There was something queer about him, of course. He’d slept with one or two men in college. He lost his virginity to the one right across from him now. He hadn’t exactly acquired a taste for female attention, and while the idea of that being known terrified him, what scared him more was the idea that women would stop pursuing him entirely.

She didn’t immediately irritate him. In fact, she was charming to talk to, intelligent and spirited with interests and goals similar to Jotaro’s. With only this to go off of, Jotaro decided he could love her, because he hadn’t loved a woman before, and he figured it was about time he should.

Despite Kakyoin’s assessment, never once had Jotaro questioned he’d one day marry a woman. It was another one of those milestones, something he knew he had to check off at some point in order to be ‘grown up’. In college, adulthood was its own Schrödinger’s paradox, both a lived reality and a nonexistent fantasy world. He wanted to leave the past behind with the desperation of a drowning man. He never stopped to think about whether or not he was attracted to women, it just wasn’t something that felt relevant to this premise. So he figured he must be.

He can count the number of times they slept together on his hands. Jotaro convinced himself that was normal.

“Lots of things do,” Kakyoin remarks, which could mean anything, and the look on his face says he knows it, too. Jotaro matches his drink with another one of his own, fingers thrumming with nervous energy. “They don’t always stay that way.”

“It was a long time coming,” Jotaro confesses, because he knows now it’s the truth. “It’s better this way.”

There’s no single instance he can point to, other than there’s only so many years someone can live the way he did, literally and metaphorically running from the life and family he supposedly created under the pretense of happiness. He loves Jolyne, he always will. So much of what he did was for her, in many ways tying the knot included. His ex will always have a place in his heart, wherever that place may be.

He lied to himself so successfully for so many years that wanting to protect something is the same thing as loving what it is. One day, he looked in the mirror and realized that’s all it was—a lie. The guilt of what he was doing to the two of them was always going to catch up to him before he cared at all about his own thoughts and feelings on the matter, and unlike those, the guilt was always going to be enough.

They moved to Florida within the month. His visitation rights cumulate to three months a year, but they will be less, because he deserves less.

“If it’s better,” he begins, slow. There’s a spark in Kakyoin’s eye not unlike confusion, but it soothes over into acceptance, neutral and warm. “I’m glad for you. Is that inappropriate to say?”

“Maybe.” Of all reactions, he’s never gotten anything close to that. Jotaro doesn’t know anything about appropriate, but it’s the first thing he’s heard that seems to acknowledge something Jotaro’s struggled to himself. “But thanks anyway.”

Not as soon as Jotaro looks down to see his own glass empty, Kakyoin tops it off with more from the bottle before doing the same with his own. “Cheers, then.”

Jotaro raises his glass in tandem with Kakyoin, eyes matching up over the top of their rims. Jotaro doesn’t so much as clink them together as Kakyoin leans in to meet his, but it works either way, a small melodic chime sounding between them. Heat pools in Jotaro’s chest as they drink together and it lingers long after, settling steady in his throat.

“Cheers.”

The rest of the evening is a warm blur of alcohol and food and conversation that is, if not normal by any stretch of the imagination, almost pleasant. Easy.

Kakyoin does Jotaro the favor of not prying any further into his personal life, and instead they stick to picking each other’s brains on their respective programs and degrees over an unhurried dinner. He learns that Kakyoin’s master’s thesis was on the influence of globalization regarding artistic depictions of Japanese folklore, and that he’s still on the fence about getting his PhD. While Jotaro is reluctant to delve too far into his—on the account that it bores most everyone in his life to tears—Kakyoin nods along in genuine interest, and it ends up being the most he’s enjoyed telling someone about it in ages.

There’s still something heavy between them. Talking to Kakyoin about anything is like running through water, it’s familiar and smooth, but the density of it drags and resists against every step. He’s not far enough out from the shore yet to just dive in, but too deep to turn back against the tide. There’s only one way forward, and the calm between them is less like treading water and more like trying to find his footing before the sand drops off.

Jotaro pays without absorbing the number, and Kakyoin thanks him again, but doesn’t protest. It’s colder and darker than Jotaro’s expecting when they get back onto the street, and he pulls his jacket tight around himself, teeth chattering.

“I know a hotel not too far from here,” Jotaro explains, because while they’re both a far cry from drunk, his limbs feel loose and there’s a flush across Kakyoin’s face neither of them should be driving behind. “We can grab the car in a few hours.”

“Lead the way.” Kakyoin digs into his messenger bag and pulls out a grey and green scarf, draping it around his neck and huddling into it for warmth. It doesn’t seem to faze Kakyoin, but in the seconds after his reply, Jotaro wonders if he made an assumption he shouldn’t have offering it. There’s a chance Kakyoin still could have wanted to drive home tonight, but now watching Kakyoin look up at the city with a half-hidden smile, he’s probably over-cautious in thinking that at all. They’re on the same page.

“I have another,” Kakyoin gestures to his scarf, and Jotaro rolls his eyes, because of course he keeps two different scarves on his person at all times. “If you want to borrow it?”

“I’m fine,” Jotaro says, through a shiver. He takes the one Kakyoin hands him anyway, solid black and impossibly soft around his neck. He leads them down another bustling street, pulling Kakyoin’s attention away from a neon concert hall marquee with a hand on his shoulder in order to get him to follow.

“Sorry,” Kakyoin apologizes, sheepish. Jotaro pulls his hand back faster than necessary, heat pooling up in his fingertips. Kakyoin burrows further into his scarf, but continues to look up at the buildings, sparing only a glance at Jotaro as he talks. “I didn’t think I missed this place. Maybe I do.”

“Is it similar to New York?” Jotaro asks, because he’s only been a few times. He doesn’t dislike it, in a lot of ways he’s charmed by it and looks forward to the chance to stop by when it comes along. All it really does though is make him miss Tokyo, or even places like London or Algiers, cities that are less obsessed with being cities and are instead content to stand for themselves. It’s too green for his liking.

“Yes and no,” Kakyoin replies, thoughtful. The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, and there’s tiny droplets clinging to his hair and face, glowing red and blue and white in the light of every ‘open’ sign they pass. “The pace is similar, but the feeling is different. New York is home to me, but this feels more like coming back home now than it felt like a home when I left. It’s a part of me, and I don’t always remember that.”

Jotaro doesn’t understand the feeling, but he understands the emotion it seems to inspire in Kakyoin, a little lost and a little nostalgic in how he regards the throng of buildings and people around them. Kakyoin slows to peer into the window of a menswear boutique, and Jotaro lets him, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the window. “Tell me about Manhattan.”

Kakyoin does, and it’s like watching someone come alive, the familiarity sparking a part of Kakyoin that relishes in explaining subjects he’s confident in. He tells him about his closet-sized studio apartment on the upper west side and the coffee shop he visits every morning, about the modern art gallery he works designing exhibits for and the subway route to the university, about how many tiny spaces there are to get lost in. Kakyoin tells him, and it takes them the remaining blocks all the way to the front of the hotel.

Jotaro wonders if he could learn to see the appeal if Kakyoin is such an ardent believer, but he’s forced out from the moment when he approaches the concierge desk inside and slides his card over the counter, asking for the nicest room they have with two queens under his breath. He hands one keycard to Kakyoin and keeps the other for himself, falling into a companionable silence as they head up the elevator.

“I have some of my luggage in the trunk still,” Kakyoin explains as Jotaro opens up the door to their room, shaking the water out of his hair. “And some extras in my bag. You probably don’t have anything with you, though.”

Jotaro shakes his head, shrugging the jacket from his shoulders and placing it over the desk chair. The scarf he’s a bit more reluctant to let go of, setting it gently on top. He reminds himself to make sure it returns to Kakyoin’s possession sooner rather than later, with the excuse that Kakyoin’s hands are busy removing his own layers. The room is elegant as promised, nothing outrageous but with accommodations solidly on the higher end of the spectrum. It’s not the place he usually directs out of town colleagues this time, but rather one of the places he’ll direct his few foreign contacts—reasonably priced, but with a quality that exceeds the tag.

“I’ll worry about it later,” Jotaro dismisses. He’ll grab whatever he needs at a convenience store when they move the car. It’s not the end of his world. He’s used to being in transit at this point in his life.

“I’m going to take a shower.” Kakyoin tosses his own scarf and jacket on the bed nearest to the wall, hesitating in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. “When I get out… Can we try and get in touch with the others? If you’d rather wait until tomorrow that’s fine, I know it’s been a long day.”

“No,” Jotaro cuts him off, taking a seat on the edge of the bed near the window. He rakes a hand back through his hair and tosses his hat to the side, feeling exposed the second air runs across his forehead again. “Tonight is fine. It’s better to do it now and get it out of the way.”

“I agree.” Kakyoin smiles, but he bites it down at the edges. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a few more seconds, something turning behind his eyes Jotaro isn’t privy to. “I won’t be long.”

Jotaro nods aimlessly at Kakyoin’s back as he turns to head into the bathroom before collapsing down on the bed, rubbing at closed eyes with the heel of his hand and hissing out a long sigh. The silence takes on a static, anxious quality in contrast to the noise of the city and Kakyoin’s voice, and he’s waiting on the sound of the shower with bated breath, exhaling only when he hears the faucets turn.

One by one, his muscles clench and unclench into the mattress, tension rolling up and down his spine loud enough to move the blood in his veins with it, sickly and unnerving. Seconds alone, and he already feels washed out from the day down to the bone, body processing more emotion than he knows while his mind fails him, thoughts completely blank in contrast. He sees stars in the darkness, heart racing in time with the rhythm of water through the walls.

Minutes go by before he has the heart to move again, and he pulls himself up by the elbows, slow to fight the dizziness. He sits there on the edge for a few more, hands pressed together in front of his face as if in prayer. It’s not, though. He still can’t summon a single thought beyond a strange, swirling montage of the day, flashes of Kakyoin’s face and snippets of his words drowning out anything else. Besides that, Jotaro’s never been a religious man, nor has he been moved to reconsider it. Even this isn’t something he’d call a miracle, it’s just a flex of improbable odds and unfortunate decisions that have lead them both here, to another hotel room, back at the start.

By the time the water stops, all Jotaro’s managed to do is grab the miniature address book out from his wallet and return to his seat on the bed, but at least it’s better than nothing. The exhaustion is so heavy he barely looks up when Kakyoin enters the room, and when he does, he wishes he hadn’t.

The bits of scar tissue he saw up above his collar are absolutely nothing compared to what’s underneath. He walks out wrapped in a towel that leaves nothing above the waist to the imagination, and what feels like every inch of his torso is covered in deep, cascading scars, snaking around the wound from Cairo and up over his chest and shoulders on both sides. While it’s old and healed over, the wounds are pink and white and embedded deep into his skin, overlapping to where Jotaro can’t tell the difference between surgical scars, old fights, and where he got his organs ripped out.

Jotaro thought he was prepared for it. He’s known what must be there, at least on an intellectual level. Seeing it up close in the flesh is something entirely different, and it swirls nausea in him, fresh and insistent. He remembers seeing that skin with only a few nicks in it, remembers patching up scars that still perhaps remain with string on hotel beds, and now it’s all covered up with wounds Jotaro thought could never heal. The evidence of it hurts more than he knew to expect. It’s one thing to be told what Kakyoin’s been through, it’s another to stare at unflinching proof of the years of hurt and pain and healing, pain he never should have had to endure. Pain he never thought anyone could endure.

He’s still so fucking thin. He’s still so beautiful.

It makes him get it, just a little. He’s never seen scars that deep on anyone else walking around like it’s nothing. It’s no wonder why he was afraid he wouldn’t, and it makes his stomach churn. He can hardly bear to look at it.

“Forgot my shirt out here,” Kakyoin explains, nonchalant until he looks up and catches the expression on Jotaro’s face. His own face falls, but not into sadness. He acknowledges Jotaro with a solemn nod, thumb brushing along one of the lines absently. “Can you believe it used to look worse?”

The humor throws him. “I’m sorry,” Jotaro says, because he doesn’t really know what else he can say.

“It’s not your fault,” Kakyoin dismisses like it’s a practiced line, bending down to sort through his bag and pull out a shirt and a spare pair of boxers.

“I know,” Jotaro replies, lightheaded. “I’m still sorry.”

Kakyoin shrugs, but still manages to meet his eyes before turning back and disappearing into the bathroom again. The silence is broken only by the sound of the hotel blow dryer, and Jotaro’s content to let it drown out his thoughts. When Kakyoin returns, he’s covered enough that Jotaro now only has to reckon with some rogue lines on his legs, the few on his neck, and the ones across his eyes he’s already well-acquainted with. It doesn’t change the knowledge of what’s underneath, but he can at least look at him like this until he learns to handle it without flinching.

“We should start with Polnareff,” Kakyoin begins, taking a seat on the bed opposite Jotaro and crossing his legs, purposeful. “It’ll take longer to get him here.”

“Right.” Jotaro blinks, a bit dazed. He pulls out the address book from his pocket, thumbing through until he finds the entry for ‘Jean-Pierre Polnareff’, which Jolyne has marked helpfully with a small turtle sticker. “How do you want to do this?”

Kakyoin hums, shifting back to stretch his palms out behind him and staring at the ceiling in thought. “I think you should do the talking. If he needs more proof, I don’t know how much good my voice will do, but I’m here. I trust your judgment.”

Jotaro’s afraid that might be a mistake, but he’s touched all the same. “Polnareff’s matured a lot, for whatever that’s worth. If he can tell I’m serious, he won’t question it.”

“I always figured he would,” Kakyoin muses, and the way he gently closes his eyes makes Jotaro’s heart tug. “It’s early afternoon there, right? Go ahead and call.”

Kakyoin’s voice is tight, but Jotaro would never insult him by questioning whether or not he’s really ready. He’s statuesque still on the bed, fingers gripping into the sheets in a resolve that Jotaro can’t understand, but can at least empathize with. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be, and Jotaro…

Well, he’s about as ready as he’ll ever be, too. The longer he waits, the less true that will be.

He crawls up to the hotel phone, because he has his cell but he needs something a bit more tangible to hold onto for this one. There’s a tremor in his hand he tries his hardest to hide as he dials the foreign extension, but Kakyoin’s staring off somewhere into the distance. It takes him forever to get the numbers in, pressing each one with more force than necessary and leaving a space in between each, just to make sure he gets it right.

Each ring feels like a year, every single note of the back tone reverberating in Jotaro’s skull and rattling around his thoughts. There’s a script he half-constructed while Kakyoin was gone, and he’s paranoid he’ll lose it and fail at the very moment it matters. Any time he has to worry is cut short by the click of the receiver and a hurried, “Oui, allô?”

“Polnareff,” Jotaro greets, more of a rushed exhale than a real word. “It’s Jotaro.”

“Jotaro!” The force of Polnareff’s enthusiasm nearly knocks Jotaro over. He wrenches the receiver several inches away from his face, wincing. “How wonderful to hear your voice!”

“Yes, yes, you as well,” Jotaro replies, struggling to compose himself again. There are people in his life that would be within their rights to act like it’s been years between phone calls, but Polnareff is not one of them. In fact, Polnareff is maybe the only one who has no right at all, and yet he still does it, every single time. They call about once a month, which is frankly the best anyone in Jotaro’s life can hope for, and it’s only because he truly loves him. “Sorry for calling unannounced. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You? Never.” Despite his words, Jotaro hears the soft rumble of background noise on their call fade with a click, a faint sound of a door shutting drowning it out into silence behind Polnareff’s voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jotaro slides his gaze over to Kakyoin, who has crawled up to the top of the bed to be even with Jotaro once more, staring at the light on the phone with wide, unblinking eyes. After a split-second of hesitation, he hits the speaker button. Kakyoin straightens up to full attention, one hand braced on the nightstand between them as he hangs on every word. “I need you to hear me out. It’s going to sound crazy.”

“Lots of things you tell me do, Jotaro,” Polnareff says, and Jotaro can imagine his ear-splitting grin so well he aches with missing him. They get the chance to meet in person so rarely, and that’s on Jotaro. Polnareff splits his time between working at the children’s public library and teaching self-defense, leaving him with a flexible schedule that Jotaro still struggles to work around. “I’m always a good listener, aren’t I?”

“Mmm. Sometimes,” Jotaro replies, noncommittal. If this were about anything else, he’d relish in their back-and-forth banter as always, but the anxiety’s itching at him something insistent, and he can’t fight it off for much longer. He takes a shaking breath, and dives in. “I need you to come to Japan. It’s about Kakyoin.”

“Kakyoin?” It’s a targeted attack in the most innocent way, to have one word delivered with such raw hurt and confusion in equal measure. Kakyoin’s hand twitches against the nightstand, but he’s immovable apart from that, face blank and brows furrowed in concentration. “What do you mean?”

“It’s going to be hard to explain like this,” Jotaro sighs, pressing his fingertips to his temples and rubbing, hard. “You’re just going to have to trust me when I say he’s here. As in, he’s right across from me.”

“No way,” Polnareff snaps, breathless. Jotaro gets that. He can’t say he believes it yet either, at least not enough that he’s no longer terrified he won’t vanish every time Jotaro blinks. “You’re… you’re not joking. What’s going on?”

Jotaro looks to Kakyoin for help, but he gets nothing, finding him still frozen in place. Kakyoin trusted him with this, and he’s on his own to figure it out. Just as well. “It’s not my story to tell, but I’ve heard it, and it’s real. I wouldn’t lie about something like this, and I wouldn’t call you unless I could stand by it. By him.”

The silence that follows stretches on so long Jotaro’s gasping for air by the time it ends, releasing a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Can I talk to him?”

They look up to one another the same time, locking eyes and searching one another for an answer neither of them seem to have alone. Kakyoin nods, once, and holds out his hand. Jotaro takes his sleeve to wipe off the sweat before placing the receiver in his open palm, unarmored.

“Hello?” Kakyoin tries, breath hitching. He cradles the phone in his hands like it’s a bomb, delicate. “It’s me.”

“Kakyoin,” Polnareff repeats, and it’s worse this time. The bottled up nerves send Jotaro to his feet before his mind has time to keep up, pacing the space between the two beds and pinching the bridge of his nose. Polnareff’s words sound like they’re coming from a tunnel underwater, blurry and far-off. “It’s really you?”

“It’s me,” Kakyoin confirms, choked like he really might cry. One look at his face all but confirms it in the shine in his eyes and the way he’s fighting against his words, and Jotaro can’t take this, he can’t take this at all. “Polnareff, I…”

“I’m going to get in contact with the old man,” Jotaro interrupts, words spilling from his lips before he knows they’re coming, let alone before he can stop them. He feels out of body, like if he doesn’t get some grounding soon he’ll drift away completely and the floor isn’t close to cutting it. “I’ll be back.”

He expects to look back at Kakyoin and see fear, or worse, betrayal, but to his surprise all he can read is gratitude. It only serves to send Jotaro away faster, stumbling into the bathroom and locking it behind him. With pacing steps, he rides out the last few seconds of panic before it fades into resolve and he pulls himself up onto the counter, back to the mirror.

Lucky for him, he looks down to find he’s still gripping his address book tight in one hand. He fumbles around in his pocket for his Nokia, flipping through numbers. Their voices are drifting through the walls, and while he can make out less than half the words, he’s still desperate to drown them out.

It wasn’t his plan, but he doesn’t feel steady enough to call Joseph directly. Unlike Polnareff, the odds are very likely he’ll think Jotaro’s joking no matter what he says or how he says it. Whatever nerve he had to face that is long gone, so he calls the only person he can trust.

“Hirose residence,” the line greets, clear and crisp. “Koichi speaking.”

Jotaro breathes a sigh of relief, grateful he doesn’t have to explain to his parents why the local traveling marine biologist is calling for their son. “It’s Jotaro. I need you to do me a favor.”

“One second,” Koichi replies, deadpan words followed by some shuffling in the background. Jotaro counts his own breaths, willing them to slow. “Alright. I’ll do you the favor of not asking, but you sound off.”

There are many reasons Koichi is the only person in town Jotaro respects, but he’s displaying about five of them right now, and Jotaro makes a note to get him the best damn birthday gift money can buy next year. It’s not as if he tries to make a habit of calling Koichi every time he needs something questionable or urgent with little to no explanation, but no one fields his nonsense with as much grace, nor is there anyone who takes their word as seriously. “I need you to get Josuke’s deadbeat dad on a ferry to Tokyo, preferably tomorrow.”

“Is that where you ran off to?” Koichi asks, without a hint of judgment. They’ve played out this routine a time or two before, and while Jotaro can’t remember ever being this desperate, he’s absolutely asked for stranger things. “Josuke’s complaining he can’t find you, but it’s nothing important. If you really need it, I can make it happen. As always.”

“Yeah,” Jotaro confirms, though it’s less that he ran off and more that he had no option but to fall down here. He’s not about to correct Koichi’s word choice of all things, though. Not when he’s being this patient when he owes Jotaro almost nothing. “I didn’t plan it. Send him with a suitcase for me, enough for about a week. The spare key is under a fake rock on my patio, it should be obvious once you look for it. Grab whatever, I trust you.”

“I know you know how you sound,” Koichi mutters, and Jotaro does. He so completely does. Again, though, there’s no apprehension. Maybe a hint of annoyance, but Jotaro’s come to expect it, and he respects that about him, too. “As long as you explain to me at some point, it’s whatever, I guess. What should I say?”

“Just say I need him down here.” Jotaro briefly weighs the pros and cons of mentioning Kakyoin by name, but again, the needle tips too dangerously close to Joseph refusing out of disbelief, and that’s not a risk he’s willing to take. “He’ll complain, but he’ll do it. I keep a small amount of money under my mattress. Take the fare and some extra for your trouble. I’m sorry to spring this on you.”

“It’s fine, you’ll just owe me,” Koichi replies, and Jotaro thinks he can hear the scribble of a pen near the receiver. Jotaro feels himself smile, or something like it. “You do, though. Sound off.”

Jotaro laughs once, short and bitter, and wonders if this is what going insane feels like. “I can only imagine.”

“Hang in there,” Koichi insists, warm and serious with concern. “I’ll call you when it’s done, or if I run into any trouble.”

“Thank you for this, Koichi,” Jotaro mutters, as sincere as he knows to be before he clicks the line dead, leaning his head back against the mirror.

He listens for several seconds in the quiet, letting himself melt into the counter with his heart pounding in his ears. When it’s clear there’s nothing coming from beyond the wall, he lowers himself to the ground with a hand on the wall to keep him steady, takes a long breath in, and walks back out into the room.

He finds Kakyoin sitting in the same spot, legs crossed and pulled into his chest. The phone is hung up back on the stand, and while his eyes are rimmed red, he’s no longer crying, and has instead taken to absently scanning the TV guide printout, glancing at Jotaro as he enters with an unreadable expression.

“He booked the earliest flight out tomorrow morning,” Kakyoin explains, setting down the insert next to him on the mattress. “He believes me. I wasn’t worried about that. I just wasn’t prepared to hear his voice, apparently.”

“The old man will be down here by tomorrow, too.” Jotaro takes a seat next to him before he remembers his own bed even exists, and Kakyoin looks up in surprise, but doesn’t move. He stares down at his hands, not sure what more there is to say on the subject.

Kakyoin seems to be at a similar loss for words, picking at a loose thread on his boxers. After a few seconds, he shakes his head. “That was harder than I thought it would be. Thank you for the privacy.”

Jotaro will spare him the knowledge it was really for his own sake. Kakyoin continues before he can gloss over it, thankfully. “It’s out of the way. No going back now.”

Kakyoin pulls his head up and catches Jotaro’s gaze, and somehow, he finds the strength to hold it. He looks stripped raw in more ways than one, deep circles starting to form under his eyes, entire body boneless and exhausted in how he’s folded into himself. Jotaro’s never related to anything more in his life. Still, there’s a strength in his eyes that Jotaro can’t ignore, piercing in a way that strikes vulnerability in his chest, but also seems to cut into him and place some of that resolve in there as well, alien and uncomfortable, but something he can’t help but lean on as if it’s his own.

Like the glow of Kakyoin in hotel room fluorescents or the build of his chest, it’s something Jotaro recognizes from a past life, so distinct and striking he’s sure he’s never seen anything like it since. Recognizing the lack itself isn’t the strangest part, though it throws him all the same. What gets him is how raw it feels now, the meeting of memory in reality in a snapshot flash he’ll never be able to put into words. It’s like this—Kakyoin’s eyelashes fall on his cheekbones when he blinks, and when he opens his eyes, Jotaro can’t look at anything else.

He thought he used to see it in dreams, but he was wrong. He hasn’t seen it in years. Nothing he’s imagined has ever compared, he’s never been able to conjure every single detail the way it looks to him now. The way it will look to him again and again, every time he cares to catch it.

They fall asleep in separate beds, in another hotel room, back at the start.

Chapter Text

Jotaro has never been the biggest fan of airports.

It’s not travel he hates—though airplane seats have never done him or his legs any favors even the times he’s flown first class, and the first few flights after experiencing Joseph behind the wheel made him a bit nervous. It’s more the air of anxiety that fills airports themselves, all the impatient children and fussing parents, the rushing and the waiting, the sterile recycled air and engine fumes. They feel like worlds within themselves, a microcosm of loud emotion and bureaucratic absurdity.

They make his skin itch, and the longer he stands here the more he feels a headache coming on. He’s staked out a pillar in one of the least trafficked areas of arrivals, but he still has far too little personal space for his liking. It feels like Kakyoin’s been gone for hours, even though it can’t be more than ten minutes, and Jotaro needs the coffee he’s bringing just to keep from losing his cool on the next person who bumps into him.

Kakyoin reappears just in time to spare everyone involved the trouble, thankfully, looking a bit flushed and overwhelmed from the crowds in his own right. He snakes in next to Jotaro’s side on the pillar, handing him one of the cups in his hands. Jotaro takes it with muttered thanks, not bothering to blow it cool before taking a sip.

It’s one in the afternoon, and it’s still too early for this. At some point in the late hours of the night, Jotaro got up and moved the car, but he opted to let Kakyoin sleep the whole way through, not that he could tell just by looking at him. Not even Polnareff’s call that he was able to squeeze in an overnight red eye woke him up, leaving Jotaro to field and remember the itinerary. Yet, deep circles rest under Kakyoin’s eyes, shoulders falling in like the act of holding them upright takes too much energy.

Jotaro gets it. Yesterday was the longest day of his life, and it isn’t even close. All he did before driving here today was order room service for the two of them, shower, change into a different shirt and pair of boxers he bought at the corner store, and take a call from Koichi, but it’s shaping up to be no shorter of one already.

They took their time getting ready, not talking much, but not for lack of anything to say. All they had to do was recognize one another’s mutual exhaustion come morning to reach a sort of unspoken understanding. They have a task in front of them, and the wheels are already in motion for it. It’s not an impasse, but rather a sort of temporary truce. There’s more to unravel, but there are bigger things to worry about than just the two of them now. Jotaro knows enough to take his side, at least with this.

There will be time for everything else later. Even as the inevitable need to return to his normal life looms ever closer, there will be time. There has to be.

There has to be, so he nudges at Kakyoin’s shoulder and asks, “When did you start taking yours black?”

“It’s not today, actually.” Kakyoin gestures vaguely to the cup in his hand, gripping it close in and taking a small sip. “I drink it black if it’s just coffee, but if I’m not making it at home, I’ll get a latte.”

Jotaro’s always drank it black simply because it’s easier, but he remembers Kakyoin would fuss over packets of cane sugar at street side cafes until it developed a syrupy consistency if he had to drink it at all. Jotaro hums, and Kakyoin appears to take it as a prompt, adding on, “During grad school I drank three or four cups a day. I learned how much time putting in the right amount of sugar takes, and it wasn’t time I really had to spare.”

Jotaro can empathize with that. His own starfish diagrams call out to him, the amount of work he’ll have to catch up on beginning to snowball. He shakes the thought away, checking between his watch and the arrivals board up above.

“He’s going to make a scene,” Jotaro warns him, watching the numbers tick ever closer together. “It won’t be pretty.”

“I know,” Kakyoin says, a thin smile on his face hollowed-out face. “That’s why I’m trying to drink this as fast as possible, I don’t want it knocked out of my hands.”

Jotaro would offer to hold it for him, but he knows better than to think he won’t be mauled at some point in the process, either. He swallows down half of his remaining coffee at once, fighting the urge to choke.

As strung out and nervous as Kakyoin looks, it’s somehow still less than Jotaro was expecting. Kakyoin’s not fragile, he knows that much, but the level of stress he was under yesterday is either cataclysmic in retrospect, or just well-hidden now that Jotaro’s not the target of it. If anything, with Kakyoin’s steady gaze and easy slouch, Jotaro’s the jittery one between them. His fingers keep reaching for a cigarette he’s too far away from the smoking section for and his pulse keeps skipping around, erratic like it’s waiting and searching for something to break.

“I don’t want to tell the whole story all at once, not like I did with you.” Kakyoin speaks up after what Jotaro realizes has been several moments of quiet, the time to scheduled arrival closing in on the five-minute mark. “Can you do me a favor and just roll with what I say?”

“Yeah,” Jotaro nods. He wouldn’t know how to paraphrase of any of Kakyoin’s story if he wanted to. If Kakyoin needed it, he’d only falter, so it’s a relief this way. “I don’t blame you.”

Kakyoin looks up at him with bold-faced relief before turning away to survey the crowds around them, finishing off the rest of his coffee with impressive haste. “It’ll only be weird at first, I just have to keep telling myself that. Plus, the hardest part is already over.”

He raises an eyebrow at Jotaro and leads him out from the pillar much to his displeasure, flagging down a trash bin. Jotaro finishes the last of his in turn, pushing through how it scalds his throat and tongue on the way down with a wince. Jotaro won’t play the fool and pretend he doesn’t know why Kakyoin is nervous, he’s explained enough for weeks worth of that understanding, but he still thinks it’s a judgment error on his part when Jotaro’s the least reactive of all of them.

“Did you remember?” Jotaro asks, pointing to Kakyoin’s jacket before letting his hand fall to the back of his neck, brushing fingertips through the ends of his hair. God, he needs to get it cut. “Not to wear something nice.”

Maybe it’s poor form he has to ask, but Kakyoin looks just as put-together as he did the day before, at least in that department. He’s swapped the grey overcoat for a tan one with a simple black turtleneck underneath and black jeans, and Jotaro would ask how he isn’t burning alive if he didn’t know Kakyoin’s blood runs colder than a snake’s.

In reply, Kakyoin shrugs, but seems a bit thrown by the question, leading their way through the crowded airport hallway down towards the gate. A hint of humor lights up his eyes, and it calms Jotaro’s nerves, just a little. “I did my best. Some loss is inevitable.”

They settle up at the designated gate right as the plane docks, and Jotaro finds another pillar the very second he slides into the waiting area. Kakyoin follows, but hovers off it this time, pacing slow around Jotaro like a metronome, steps counting down the seconds. One by one, passengers start to emerge through the tunnel, Jotaro’s chest rising and falling as he scans each and every face for the familiar spike of white hair.

It’s been three years since he last saw him in person, and the only glimpses of him he’s caught since have come from photographs in holiday greetings and postcards from his travels. Guilt twists in him, but it’s not the time for this. He averts his eyes for all of a heartbeat to glance at Kakyoin, hands shoved in his pockets and his cheek between his teeth, and it’s at that moment a voice cuts through the murmur of the crowd, startling the both of them out from the bubble they’ve been in since Saturday.

“Holy shit.” It’s loud enough to catch the attention of multiple other passengers, turning with Jotaro and Kakyoin to see the source of the disruption. In the split second it takes Polnareff to make it through the line, he breaks out into a sprint, tossing his luggage unceremoniously en-route to slide across the floor.

Jotaro puts his arm out behind Kakyoin in preparation to brace his fall, but to his surprise, it’s him Polnareff catches first, hitting Jotaro full-speed and spinning him around in his arms, head barely missing the concrete pillar in the process. He clings and digs into his shoulders hard, and as stunned as he is, Jotaro can’t help but surrender and hang on tight in return, letting his forehead fall into the crook of his neck. Polnareff’s rambling something incoherent into his shoulder blade, but Jotaro hardly cares what it is, his sturdy arms and full-bodied warmth around him saying all he needs to know.

“I’ve missed you,” is the gist of what Jotaro gets, once his heart rate has slowed enough to hear over it. He mumbles it back, but he’s not sure if Polnareff catches it. The words matter less than the intent, and the fact he’s putting up with being held at all conveys that loud and clear. Polnareff knows that by now.

He only lets himself indulge in it for the time it takes to regain his balance, dropping his heels back to the floor and slowly unwinding from Polnareff’s grasp, readjusting the brim of his hat. He looks just the same as he always has, and while age has tamed some of the rougher edges of his personality and added a bit of professionalism, he’s still very much the exact person Jotaro remembers. His posture is tense for his normal demeanor, but even past the guards he’s put up for the occasion, he’s smiling bright and his very presence seems to add some levity to the air around them. Jotaro would be a liar not to admit it’s infectious.

They meet each other’s eyes, and Polnareff catches his hand in his, squeezing once before turning to the man at their side, who has monopolized Jotaro’s space on the pillar in his absence.

“And you…” Polnareff takes a step towards him, and Kakyoin looks up from studying the ground. Jotaro isn’t prepared for the expression there, his parted lips and shining eyes steeled off in a show of what Jotaro now recognizes as transparent want. He wonders if Polnareff knows how desperate he is to be seen with just that for reference, or if it’s something Jotaro’s forced to carry alone, only now recognizing how many times he’s seen it play out in his direction over the past twenty-four hours. “How dare you?”

His words come out viper-harsh, and Kakyoin flashes into a naked fear Jotaro must mirror. It’s only allowed to last a fraction of a second before Polnareff lifts him up a full foot off the ground, Kakyoin’s pupils blown wide in shock. Polnareff’s hands grip into his biceps as he studies him with all the seriousness and intensity of a scientist, cocking his head to the side before crushing him into his chest in one smooth, powerful motion.

“How dare you?” He repeats, but it’s choked now, and Jotaro watches with a sinking chest as Kakyoin winds his arms around his broad shoulders, digging his nails into the muscle beneath Polnareff’s thin shirt like he’s drowning. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

Jotaro eyes the smoking enclave across the room and wonders if it’s too far away not to look like he’s hiding on purpose. He had a cigarette before coming in, but he’s never learned to look at such raw displays of emotion without feeling like he needs a literal smokescreen to hide behind, and he’s itching for it so bad he feels his insides start to burn.

Unlike Jotaro, Kakyoin doesn’t pull away when it’s high past time for it, instead leaning back just enough to get his words out and bury the crown of his head into Polnareff’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

Polnareff’s knees shake with the change in position, but Jotaro has a hard time believing it’s from physical effort. It doesn’t take much calculation for Jotaro to rule out getting to step away, so he settles for hovering near the sidelines by an adjacent pillar that separates their gate from another, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Do you know how much we missed you?” Polnareff demands, taking hold of Kakyoin’s chin between his fingers. It’s bold—even as vulnerable as Kakyoin looks right now, Jotaro’s half-afraid he’ll rip himself away in anger.

It’s not that drastic, but he shrugs him off with a jerk, letting his head fall against his shoulder this time. “I know.”

Polnareff shushes him with a hand in his hair, tugging like he can’t believe it’s real. Kakyoin blinks up over Polnareff’s shoulder and scans the room until he finds Jotaro again, meeting Jotaro’s eyes before letting his own close.

Jotaro’s never been one for physical affection—Polnareff is the exception, not the rule, and he doesn’t have much of a choice. But looking at this makes him wonder if he missed something vital, is still missing something vital by losing out on a chance to embrace Kakyoin like this, when shock might have propelled him to cross that line before he regained his senses. He looks so small wrapped up, the gentle curve of his spine leaning in to press closer with only his toes on the ground, so tangible and real in the context of another.

Something about the scene is shocking his system all over again, but Jotaro refuses to examine it. Unlike Polnareff, Jotaro didn’t get the luxury of having a calm, trusted voice explain the situation over the phone before hearing Kakyoin speak for the first time. He didn’t get a twelve-hour plane ride to process the information in silence. All he got was tossed into the fire, and Jotaro isn’t convinced anyone’s put it out yet. That wasn’t an opportunity he had, emotions like relief and awe and joy aren’t ones he was given permission to feel. He’s been left with the ugly ones alone, and confusion and desperation aren’t states of mind that have ever prompted him to bridge the firm space he keeps between himself and everyone else.

Besides, Jotaro wouldn’t even know how to do that right, after all this time. Right now, Kakyoin looks like he feels held, and Jotaro has never been good at giving anyone that. He’ll leave it to the professional.

“Are you here? Are you really here?” Jotaro’s momentarily stunned by how clearly he recognizes the intent behind Polnareff’s words. They’re not so much a question of what is or is not in front of him, but rather a question a lot more delicate and a lot harder to answer. It’s a projection into the future, and Jotaro’s never been able to put words to it or know how badly he wants it answered until it’s lingering in the air between them.

“Yes,” Kakyoin exhales, and Jotaro can’t read that near as well. It unsettles him, but Polnareff seems satisfied with it, slowly loosening his grip and snaking his hands up Kakyoin’s arms to coax them free. He grabs a hold of both Kakyoin’s wrists, clasping them in the space between their bodies. “It’s really me.”

“You bastard,” Polnareff accuses, but there’s no venom in it anymore. Kakyoin tries a shaking smile, and it’s returned in full, Polnareff not bothering to drop Kakyoin’s hands in order to wipe tears out from under his own eyes. To Jotaro’s surprise, Kakyoin’s own are dry, but he’s always been one to hide that face from the world, Jotaro apparently warranting an exception. “I’m so tired of getting tricked by you people.”

His words settle something heavy in the air, and Kakyoin sighs against it, but Polnareff follows it up before he can speak. “Hey, Jotaro, how long did you keep this one a secret from me?”

Jotaro stirs at the sound of his name, snapped out from the safe vantage point he’d created in his own head to give them space. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting his shoulders rise and fall in one curt motion. “A little over a full day. I wasn’t in on it, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

What he doesn’t say is that if Kakyoin had asked him to for longer, he would have. Maybe not for years, but for months, easily. It’s his secret, not Jotaro’s, and he would have hidden it. Judging by the look on Polnareff’s face, he’s glad he didn’t have to.

“I’m still mad,” Polnareff sighs, and Jotaro feels the need to shrink from it, circling around them casually as possible to retrieve Polnareff’s suitcase from off the floor and prop it up against the pillar. “You couldn’t even send a card? All this time?”

“I don’t blame you.” Kakyoin gently pries his hands free, leaving Polnareff to point an accusatory finger at his chest. Kakyoin squares his shoulders, unflinching, and Jotaro finds himself a little proud at the show of strength. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Jotaro. I have answers. You’re not obligated to like them.”

“Well, you haven’t replaced him with a double.” Polnareff looks back over his shoulder, gesturing at Kakyoin with his thumb like he and Jotaro are in on their own private joke. “He’s still pretentious.”

The corners of Jotaro’s lips curl up without his permission, though he hides it by turning his face away and shrugging. Free from his constraints, Kakyoin drifts back over to Jotaro’s side, frowning at Polnareff’s all too accurate assessment. “You’re not obligated to listen to them, either.”

“No.” The humor drops from Polnareff’s face, gentle and somber in its wake. Time and its effects are something Jotaro would consider himself a good judge of, but there are moments like this where it throws him. The Polnareff he last saw, even just a few years ago, wasn’t capable of making such a swift change. He’s heard tone shifts like it over the phone, but seeing his maturity on full display is different. “I want to hear it.”

“Okay.” Kakyoin seems humbled by the sincerity too, running his tongue over his lips and adjusting the fold of his turtleneck. “Thank you.”

It’s been on Jotaro’s mind for a few minutes, but the pause springs him to say it. “We should get going. The old man can’t be left unsupervised for too long.”

Polnareff grabs his suitcase and crosses the distance between them, energy bouncing back up just as fast as he’d allowed it to fall. “You got him to come?”

“We’ll see,” Jotaro replies, already thumbing the next cigarette in his pocket. Kakyoin hangs in tight to his side as they walk, Polnareff rushing to catch up with their pace after a beat of somewhat stunned silence. “He’s apparently scheduled to arrive within the hour.”

Once they’ve cleared the byzantine maze that is Narita International, Kakyoin leans in and whispers, “I can drive there. Is it okay if Polnareff sits up front?”

Jotaro nods, inhaling smoke and feeling his nerves blessedly, finally cool. “Of course.”

“I want you there on the way back though,” he continues, rushed, each word falling into one another all in one breath. Just like before, Jotaro doesn’t struggle much to understand it, his accent still so crisp despite the years in America. “Wherever we go. I might have you drive, depending.”

Jotaro opens his mouth to speak, but an indignant cough from over their shoulder interrupts him. They glance back over their shoulders to find Polnareff hovering practically nose-to-nose, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Already back to the secrets, I see how it is.”

Kakyoin lets out a small laugh, and Jotaro wonders if they’re thinking the same thing right then, about how endearing it was when Polnareff would try to act tough with his emotions still naked on his sleeve, and how achingly familiar it is even in the face of something so monumental. Kakyoin pushes at his shoulder, light, “We don’t keep secrets.”

Polnareff turns up his nose, falling in line with the two of them as if in protest. Jotaro recognizes it for what it is, though, because he feels it too. He gets the need to be close to Kakyoin, to familiarize the presence of him and keep him within eyesight just to prove that he’s real. It took him longer to get to that point maybe, but he’s not sure he’s done needing it himself. Polnareff still has that look on his face, stunned like he’s walking with a ghost, but so happy about it he could melt on the spot.

Jotaro doesn’t have the energy to scrape him off the concrete, and he tries to tell himself it’s this and not jealousy that rises annoyance in his chest. He hands the keys to Kakyoin, their fingers brushing together for just a fraction of a second where he catches Kakyoin’s attention and nods, answering his earlier question.

“You two always kept secrets,” Polnareff insists. Kakyoin flags down their car by unlocking it with the remote keys, turning to follow down the aisle where the headlights triggered. Jotaro steps out in front of them to put a hand on the backseat door first, fighting the urge to duck in immediately. “Again, I’m glad dying doesn’t change everything.”

Kakyoin bites down on his lip at that, making his way to the driver’s side with his focus off somewhere across the parking lot, inscrutable. For Jotaro’s part, he gives in and sinks down into his seat, knees up to his chest from the lack of adequate space.

“You did, right?” Polnareff asks, opening his own door and following Jotaro down. Kakyoin is slower to settle in, adjusting his mirrors and pulling the seat up with distracted precision. “Die?”

“In a way,” Kakyoin hedges. He pulls the car out from the lot, and Jotaro mutters directions to the ferry docks under his breath without being prompted, both because he’ll need them and to ease over the furrow of Kakyoin’s brows. It appears to buy him several seconds of thought he needs. “I really should have.”

From there, both of them lower their voices. While Jotaro can catch snippets of the conversation—abridged bits of what Kakyoin told him yesterday, various shocked and sympathetic reactions from Polnareff—he quickly decides in favor of tuning it out and staring at the city as they drive by. It’s not a conversation for him, and it’s one he’s fairly sure he can guess the pattern of. He checks back in on Kakyoin once or twice, and while his jaw is tight in his profile, he appears as calm and even as Jotaro could expect. He never once looks back at him, only pulling his focus from the road to glance at Polnareff. It’s their moment, and Jotaro is more than happy to let them have it uninterrupted.

The quiet leaves him time to focus on the real task at hand, anyway—how best to broach the subject to Joseph.

While age has slowed him considerably, Jotaro knows better than anyone he’s a lot more with it and capable than he appears. Much of his senility is an act of convenience, and Jotaro won’t hesitate to turn it into a fight if he dares try and pull that out for this. That in mind, there’s no guarantee he’ll believe Jotaro just because it’s coming from him, and while Polnareff’s presence in Japan bolsters his argument, there’s no way to completely predict his reaction beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Dealing with Joseph is a job and a half, but Jotaro has to admit he developed an understanding of him in Morioh. It’s allowed them to have a rapport again, a rapport he’d let fall to the wayside in recent years with the oceans between them. It’s not as if he wanted to lose contact, and they hadn’t really—like anyone that intent on being that much of a pain as an ingrained personality trait, let alone family, he’s impossible to escape fully. They spoke, and frequently. He went back and forth to Japan multiple times a year if nothing else.

Until Morioh though, Jotaro never registered just how little consecutive time they’d spent together in recent years. It wasn’t straight up avoidance on Jotaro’s part, at least no more than he was avoiding anyone else with his manic trips around the world and bone-crushing academic work. It’s true he’s never quite nailed the respecting, or interacting with the elderly thing either, but it’s Joseph. He’s the closest thing he’s ever had to real father. Jotaro never thought about having to keep tabs on him until he took him fishing on the coast one day and realized he couldn’t remember the last time they’d spent an afternoon together before it.

Maybe he’d be more prepared for this if he could.

The surest course of action is to meet Joseph alone, first. He’ll explain the situation the best he can and gauge his response from there. There’s no other safeguard he can count on, so when they reach the parking lot of the docks, Jotaro opens his door and stretches his legs out the side.

“I’ll head down to meet him,” he tosses over his shoulder, stirring the other two out of their ongoing conversation. Kakyoin peers back at him, nodding once, slow and a bit cautious. “I shouldn’t be long.”

If nothing else, they both seem relieved for the chance at a bit more privacy. Jotaro straightens the collar of his jacket as he makes his way down to the piers, a glance at his watch confirming they’ve arrived with almost perfect timing. He locates the indicated pier and makes his way down to the docks with hands in his pockets, the fall breeze down by the sea making him envy Kakyoin’s foresight a little.

He beats the ferry down, but only just barely. Scanning the line of passengers is less nerve wracking alone, if only because there’s no one else’s emotional state to monitor but his own, and he feels about the same he’s felt all weekend. Things just happen to him, the world keeps on turning, and this is where it’s lead him—Waiting to reintroduce his grandfather to a man he watched die.

To his surprise, Joseph is one of the first passengers off, hunched over his cane and thankfully carrying Jotaro’s own black suitcase in tow. His face brightens at the sight of Jotaro, a familiar, mischievous glint in his eye that signals expectation and curiosity in equal measure. Jotaro’s feet move without his explicit permission, and he meets Joseph halfway down the ramp to offer his elbow, leading him off and up towards the top of the pier before dropping it.

“You’re very rude, you know,” Joseph chides him as soon as they can comfortably talk over the sea and the crowd of the ferries, pushing Jotaro’s suitcase in his direction with a huff. “Adding another trip for these old bones without explanation is one thing, but having children do your bidding? You’re getting too old for this, Jotaro.”

Jotaro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t have to if you’d listen to me better than you listen to the children.”

“That Hirose boy is a polite young man,” Joseph sniffs, waving his cane at Jotaro in a way that still, somehow, makes him feel like he’s ten and about to get sent to time out. “Unlike you. I’m all ears now, aren’t I?”

As if to prove his point, Joseph cups his ear and leans in with an exaggerated motion, blinking up at Jotaro with feigned innocence. Jotaro dismisses him with a flick of his wrist, turning his face out towards the ocean. He wills the waves to calm him, taking a long, measured inhale. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you over the phone. It’s easier in person.”

“You look like hell,” Joseph remarks, organic and blunt as he searches Jotaro up and down like he’s taking him in for the first time. Jotaro shrugs, painfully aware of that. “Go on.”

“I don’t want an argument with this,” Jotaro warns, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chest, putting as much strength and emphasis into his words as he can. It’s for show—nothing he can do or say will intimidate him, because Joseph is the one person who has never once been phased by Jotaro’s posturing. At the very least it signals his intent, which is the most he can count on. “I look like hell because this weekend has been hell, and I wouldn’t waste my time dragging you out here unless I was certain of this. Got it?”

“Loud and clear,” Joseph rolls his eyes up to the sky, following a group of seagulls flying overhead. “I know I’m old, but I’m right here. You can bring it down.”

Jotaro digs his palm into his forehead, grinding his teeth together and exhaling out in a hiss. There’s a part of him that feels he should be used to it by now after a lifetime of trying and failing to have a single conversation with Joseph that’s taken as seriously as it deserves right off the bat, but now that he needs it more than ever, it feels especially insulting how much he needs to dig his heels in to pry it out. “It’s about Kakyoin.”

“Oh,” Joseph drawls, long and knowing with a hint of slyness that makes Jotaro’s pulse spike. “So it’s your quarter life crisis. You know, I thought the timing of the divorce was in line with that. You could have just called.”

“No. It’s not…” Jotaro doesn’t dare ask what he means by that. “Listen. I flew Polnareff down, and you’re here because Kakyoin wanted you here. I said I’d make it happen, so I did, and I’m telling you this now because I don’t want you to walk back up there and act like it’s some elaborate joke when you see him.”

The expression doesn’t fall from Joseph’s face in the slightest, and Jotaro stares down at his feet, because he doesn’t know how to say it straight. For some reason, it was so easy with Polnareff, but here with him, Jotaro feels tongue-tied, face hot and limbs itching with the feeling of being stripped raw. Each half-confession is getting punched out from somewhere within himself he’s afraid to reach into. The simple phrase he’s still here tingles against his lips, but with every exhale it remains stubbornly locked behind his teeth. He wills Joseph to understand, prays he’ll read between the lines.

“It’s not unusual to go through this, you know,” Joseph assures, and Jotaro could scream, he really could. “I’m not surprised, there’s no need for an intervention.”

“He was still alive when you walked away, did you know that?” Anger flashes in Jotaro, white-hot and overwhelming, coursing through his veins and down to his fingertips in the way that makes him itch for a fight. For a moment, it freezes him completely, blinding like a flashback from his youth before he learned it was something he could shove down like anything else. “He’s lived in your city for a decade, and I just found out two fucking days ago.”

He catches a glimpse of Joseph’s face in between the reds, and with a sinking chest, it starts to fade by degrees, because it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. Jotaro never really thought it was, he hasn’t this whole time. It’s not something anyone can know or be expected to. Apologizing is too much to choke out, but he has the grace to turn away, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just found out two days ago.”

Jotaro isn’t sure what he expects, but it’s not for Joseph to stare back up at him without a trace of judgment, eyes soft. “Well, then.”

“Well what?” Jotaro snaps, more frustrated with himself than anyone else. Tension coils around his heart, pounding at the base of his skull.

“Make with the miracles, boy.” Joseph sweeps his cane at Jotaro’s ankles, sending him stumbling back a few paces so Joseph can make his way up the ramp uninhibited. Jotaro blinks up after him before regaining his senses, grabbing his suitcase and catching up with two long strides. “It’s either true or it’s not, and I’d like to see for myself.”

Somehow, it leaves Jotaro no more convinced this interaction will go as planned, but once Joseph has set his mind to something, neither Heaven nor Hell can convince him against it. No amount of disparity in their physical strength can make up for how thoroughly Joseph beats him on willpower alone, every time. The most Jotaro can do is lead him tight in his shadow back up to the parking lot, tracing his way to the car in curious, tense silence.

By the time they’re back, Kakyoin and Polnareff are out and leaning on the car side by side, a cigarette in between Polnareff’s lips and chatting in a way that seems, if nothing else, more than amicable from the looks of things. Kakyoin is the first to turn at the sound of their approach, and Jotaro can’t help but notice how he pales as his eyes dart back and forth between Jotaro and his grandfather. Jotaro isn’t sure what silent emotion to convey back at him, or if there’s one that’s appropriate at all. It may not even be reassuring to try.

Instead, Jotaro watches Joseph as he takes in the sight of Kakyoin, expression melting from curiosity, to apprehension, to recognition, and back to curiosity once more. Silent, he crosses the rest of the way over to where Kakyoin is standing, placing a hand on Polnareff’s shoulder in recognition before pressing past. He reaches a gloved hand up to Kakyoin’s face, fingertips brushing along the top of his cheekbone.

It’s an intimate sight, and Jotaro almost feels voyeuristic for stepping in closer to the side of the car to get a better look, Polnareff shrinking back next to him to give them space. Slowly, Joseph traces down Kakyoin’s jawline as if inspecting the contours of it for some sort of clue, impartial as Kakyoin stills beneath him, breathless and stiff as a board. Jotaro can’t help but take on some of Kakyoin’s tension as his own, hardly blinking in wait for a verdict that takes ages to come, whatever calculations Joseph is making completely inscrutable to anyone else on the scene. Even Polnareff seems affected by it, his jaw clenching and unclenching out of the corner of Jotaro’s eye and fingers gripping tight into the back of the vehicle.

After a moment, Joseph nods once, takes a step back, and brings his cane straight down on Kakyoin’s right foot.

Kakyoin spirals back into the car and bites back the curse forming on his lips, hiding it with a hiss as he cradles his knee into his chest, wincing. Joseph does not look in the least bit sorry, and for good measure, he whips the shaft of the cane against his left shin. While it doesn’t sound as hard as the first hit, it doesn’t look pleasant either judging by how Kakyoin’s face contorts.

“Okay,” Kakyoin breathes, rubbing at the bruise that’s surely forming underneath his jeans. “I deserved that.”

“I watched you die, and I’m the last one to know?” There’s real, genuine anger there, and while it’s not anything threatening or lasting, all three of them recoil back from it. Kakyoin seems the least fazed, but even he leans into his hands to hold him up against the hood, a grimace on his face despite what Jotaro’s sure are his best efforts to keep it still. “Years and years, and I’m behind these two in line?”

Kakyoin parts his lips as if to argue his case, maybe similar threads to one’s Jotaro’s tempted to pull on—about the timing, about the delicate nature of the process, about the three-foot thick sheet of ice the two of them had to break together—but in the end, he says nothing. Inch by inch, his shoulders lower from their defensive position up by his ears, and to the surprise of what seems to be everyone involved, leans in to wrap his arms around Joseph’s shoulders, tight and sudden.

“I’m still sorry you had to see that,” Kakyoin whispers, quiet enough that Jotaro wouldn’t be able to catch it at all if he weren’t reading his lips. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I know it wasn’t easy.”

Joseph’s eyes widen before fluttering shut, and he reaches behind Kakyoin to lean his cane up on the side of the car before returning the gesture, one comforting hand between his shoulder blades and one around his waist, paternal and achingly kind. Every part of it makes Jotaro’s head spin, the pace of the encounter, the ease with which Joseph seemed to just accept it, the natural way they lean into each other, the complete lack of blowout fight Jotaro had tensed every muscle in his body in preparation for. Instead of being similarly stunned, Polnareff appraises them with a mirrored fondness and easy understanding that burns jealousy fresh in Jotaro, leaving him with the distinct feeling he’s the only person here missing something obvious.

It’s too fast of a leap for him to follow, but he doesn’t have a choice. After a moment, they part, and Joseph keeps a hand on his shoulder, the expression on his face so familiar it’s dizzying. It’s the same way he looks at Holly, the same way he looks at Jolyne, the same way, loathe he is to admit it, that he looks at Jotaro. It’s only then that it hits him, and it does so all at once.

Joseph believes them because he wants to, and the bare fact of his life is more important than anything else they could say right now. It’s so simple it hurts, and Jotaro feels shamed and humbled by it in equal measure, how much he needed and still needs when all Polnareff or Joseph want is physical proof of his existence.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what I saw now, does it?” Joseph returns his hand back down to retrieve his cane, adjusting the scarf around his neck. “I trust you have a damn good story. I’ll be delighted to hear it somewhere more comfortable.”

Joseph reaches for the back door without a single prompt from either of them, and Polnareff takes the break in the tension as an opportunity to follow him down in, catching his attention and greeting him properly now that they have the time. Jotaro slides around and crosses up to where Kakyoin’s still standing, stiff and slightly dazed in the waning afternoon sunlight.

“Do you still want me to drive?” Jotaro leans in close to lower his voice, hand hovering near Kakyoin’s on the hood, keys clutched between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Kakyoin breathes, grabbing at the front of his jacket in a lost, aimless motion. He looks up at Jotaro, face cast in his shadow, and the resolve he’d held all morning folds in on him, leaving exhaustion once again in its wake. “Yes. Please.”

Kakyoin places the keys carefully in Jotaro’s palm, pressing his hand between both of his own to fold his fingers over them. It’s unnecessary, but it seems to stabilize him somehow, Kakyoin lingering seconds before staring down and pulling his hands slowly back to his side, almost as if the gesture surprised him. “Thank you.”

If it centers Kakyoin, it does something opposite for Jotaro. He struggles to find his words, a characteristic but unwelcomed silence preceding his reply. “Of course.”

Jotaro opens the driver’s side door to adjust the seat back, setting off a mad scramble of musical chairs from their two passengers, with Polnareff insisting Joseph switch him now that he’s shrunk and needs less legroom. It’s a hindrance to Jotaro, who’s weariness is turning to irritation by the second, but a small laugh escapes from Kakyoin’s lips at the momentary chaos, and it eases Jotaro to hear it. He can’t help that.

With everything finally in order, Jotaro puts the key into the ignition and realizes he has no earthly idea what to do next. For a moment, something close to fear seizes in him, but to his relief Joseph takes the point, settling into his new spot behind Jotaro with a disgruntled sigh and tapping him on the shoulder.

“Can you take directions and drive at the same time?” Joseph demands, poking him his arm much harder than anyone his age has a right to.

“I’d hope so,” Jotaro says, pulling the car out of the lot with some reluctance. “Depends where to.”

“I have a property further in the city,” Joseph explains, as if this should be obvious. “Remember? I bought it when I moved back to New York after Egypt.”

This is probably something Jotaro was told at some point, maybe, but he’s hit with a small bolt of resentment all the same. “That’s news to me. I’ve been going back and forth from here to Morioh all semester. I could have used it.”

“You never asked,” Joseph replies, succinct and neutral. Jotaro feels his jaw close at that, the retort he’d already braced on his lips disappearing just as fast. There’s no arguing with that. He hadn’t mentioned the need at all, to Joseph or to anyone else. It only now it occurs to him he’s not positive he told anyone other than Kakyoin he broke his lease. He wasn’t trying to hide it from anyone, at least not consciously. It just wasn’t a detail he thought important to mention.

It’s ridiculous, now that he thinks about it. Joseph spent his career in real estate, he probably has a property in every country that he fancies, let alone a city he regularly splits his time between. Getting permission to use it would never be the hard part, but Jotaro can’t imagine himself ever feeling desperate enough to ask for it outright. Maybe that’s Joseph’s point.

Not wanting to spend any extra time on the topic, for his sake or for anyone else’s, he shakes it off. Before he can get his own reply in, Kakyoin speaks up first to get to the point. He leans around in his seat to face Joseph, snapping his sunglasses back on his face. “Guide the way.”

Jotaro watches him close as Kakyoin turns back out to face the road, and when Kakyoin catches him looking, a faint smile twitches at the corners of his lips. Jotaro doesn’t have the faintest idea why, but he doesn’t dare complain.

Upon reaching the assuredly very beautiful, but equally lifeless refurbished antique house in Hiroo, Jotaro has two distinct thoughts—They shouldn’t let an octogenarian call the shots, and he dropped the ball on coming up with a better plan. In the light, it’s a bit more inviting, spacious with surprisingly tasteful modern decor, and Joseph assures him he has all of his properties cleaned and checked on a regular basis when he notices Jotaro’s nose curl up.

Whatever reservations he has don’t seem to effect the other two though, and Jotaro is hit with the distinct spine-chilling creep of déjà vu as he listens to Kakyoin comment politely on the exact type of overhead lights while Polnareff pulls out a seat at the mini-bar around the kitchen like he lives there. The afternoon has moved too fast for him to keep up in the moment, but standing there in the threshold of the den, it feels like a dream, a sort of surreal mismatch of banal domesticity and fantastical wish-fulfillment he’d never allowed himself to envision consciously all trapped within the walls of a model-perfect home.

The four of them all in one space again is like a meeting of dimensions, a collision between a past that’s as familiar to him as the smell of incense and campfire smoke and street side food markets, and a future that he still feels like a voyeur in, a visitor peering into a reality that was never supposed to exist, let alone be his. He’s almost afraid to move, instinctively convinced that if he touches anything the illusion will break. Reality will fissure once more, and if he’s lucky, it’ll kill him on impact.

He misses Avdol so much. He even misses the mutt. The feeling of missing Kakyoin is still a phantom limb he can’t shake. Nothing feels right, and the world keeps turning.

It’s delicate in a way he’s only just now gotten the chance to breathe and recognize. The atmosphere in the room is pulled taut like a tightrope Jotaro’s been walking on for days, but everyone else is just now learning to balance on. Jotaro’s not confident he won't fall off himself, let alone assured in anyone else’s skills.

Polnareff and Joseph are idly chatting at the counter, close to one another and guarded as they discuss something they’re not privy to, but there’s nothing barbed about their demeanor. Kakyoin is still finding it in him to be distracted by cataloguing the lighting fixtures, but he falls back to Jotaro’s side soon enough when he notices their conversation. In a way, it’s like stepping back to the airport all over again, Jotaro unable to shake the same tension that has melted off Kakyoin enough he no longer seems ready to snap at a moment’s notice.

It’s there, of course it is, but perhaps he’s found solace in the lack of outright rejection Jotaro’s still struggling to appreciate, jacket slung over his arm casually as he examines a black and white photograph of Mt. Fuji framed on the wall.

“I didn’t know your grandfather had taste,” he says, and while most might take offense to that, Jotaro gets what he means. It’s not an insult, just an observation. “He’s being surprising gracious.”

“He’ll trap you later,” Jotaro warns, because he can see it coming a mile away. He leans back up against the wall, nudging around the corner of the partition separating the kitchen and the den to put space in between the two parties before lowering his voice. “How did it go with Polnareff?”

“Good,” Kakyoin replies, automatic, folding his arms over his chest loosely. A primal part of Jotaro’s better manners kick in, and he reaches out to pry his jacket out from between his arms, coaxing the fabric through. Kakyoin lets him, eyes on Jotaro’s back as he crosses the room with long strides to place it on the coat rack before returning to the space on the wall next to him. “Good. I gave him the basic rundown, and he’s hurt, obviously, but… He’s happy I’m here more than anything. I believe it, too. He kept saying he doesn’t care how long it’s been, as long as I stick around this time.”

There’s a question on the tip of his tongue that Jotaro doesn’t dare ask, but he doesn’t need to. Kakyoin searches his face and finds it there just fine, lips falling into a hard line. The quiet would unnerve Jotaro if he weren’t so transparently chewing on his words, fingers clutching onto opposite elbows as he stares down at the late afternoon light reflecting across the hardwood floor. When he speaks, it’s measured, each word deliberate and unflinching. “I don’t want to assume anything. I get that this has been overwhelming, and you don’t have to know how you feel yet. I don’t expect you to. If you don’t want…”

He falters, and Jotaro feels a phantom lurch in his chest not unlike falling himself, hanging on to Kakyoin’s words so tight the pause jolts him. Kakyoin takes a breath, and tries again. “If you don’t want to be involved in each other’s lives after this is sorted out, I don’t want to impose. But if it’s up to me, I’d rather not be a stranger.”

The future tense sends Jotaro reeling, losing his footing on a surreal moment underneath the current of an even more surreal hypothetical. This weekend has lasted a lifetime, the sting of their time apart seeming at once both a past life with no connection to the present and a visceral constant that hangs over everything. There’s no way to know what lies beyond this, not when Jotaro has no idea at what point ‘this’ ends. There are too many unknowns for a real answer, so he’s left only with questions of his own. “What do you mean?”

Kakyoin furrows his brows, closing his eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper, still purposeful, but softer and softer by the word. “I don’t expect anything from you. I had to be okay with that in order to come here. But I also didn’t come here just to tell you this and go back to never seeing you again.”

Jotaro turns to him on the wall, unconsciously having pulled closer in as Kakyoin spoke in order to hear every word, their shoulders touching in the space between them. Kakyoin’s jaw is set and locked, hair falling messy over the side of his face, bracing himself in a way that Jotaro recognizes from a past life, too. It’s the same steel he’d take up when he knew he was about to get struck and had no choice but to ride it out. It twists something deep in Jotaro’s chest, and whatever emotion it is, it speaks his piece for him, words tumbling out in a haze. “I don’t want that, either.”

“Okay.” He opens his eyes, lowering his shoulders and parting his lips. Relief is etched into the fold of his brows, and while he doesn’t relax his defenses entirely, they slip down with a slow exhale. Jotaro is motionless above him, and as he awaits the verdict, he wonders who expected that confession the least. Jotaro has a sinking suspicion it’s not Kakyoin. “Okay. Jotaro.”

That same emotion stirs anew at the sound of his name, and he rushes to swallow down the uneasiness. “Yeah?”

“I know you have your thesis to work on,” he begins, and somewhere in the exchange, Kakyoin drifted further into his space as well, Jotaro noticing it only when Kakyoin turns his chin back up at him. They’re pressed flush hip-to-hip and shoulder-to-shoulder, and while every inch of it burns at his skin, he doesn’t think he could pull away if he tried, frozen in wait. Kakyoin’s eyes are bright and wild, and unlike Jotaro, there’s kinetic energy in every inch of his body, fidgety and sharp without losing a centimeter of distance between them. “But I don’t have anything pressing waiting for me back home.”

Jotaro blinks down at him, confusion eating at the sickly weight in his chest. “Of course you do. You have a life there.”

Whatever he was about to say is cut off by the sound of their names, Polnareff calling them to attention from around the corner loud enough to make the both of them jump. Jotaro leans his head back around the partition, glaring at the intrusion. Polnareff is unfazed as ever, beckoning him over with a conspicuous middle finger in Jotaro’s direction. He drops it the second Kakyoin emerges from behind him, all smiles. “Get over here, we have plans.”

“It’s the timing,” Kakyoin insists as he pulls the both of them back behind with a hand on Jotaro’s sleeve, hushed. There’s nothing measured about his tone anymore, but it somehow commands even more of Jotaro’s undivided attention. “Listen, I…”

“It involves champagne, cowards,” Polnareff goads, and Jotaro is fully aware he can see them with how far he’s leaning off the side of his stool. Kakyoin seems to notice it too, and he drops his sleeve one finger at a time, running his tongue over his teeth. “Just because you have explaining to do doesn’t mean it’s not worth celebrating.”

Jotaro and Kakyoin catch each other’s eyes, and he swears that he mirrors Kakyoin’s exact expression—a slight jolt at being pulled back into reality followed by something like relief, and then finally into an uneasy sort of solemnity between just the two of them. Jotaro can almost hear the same refrain he’s repeated in his head like a prayer on loop for days, rising up from the ground between their feet.

Kakyoin drops a hand to Jotaro’s shoulder as he pushes by, leaning up to whisper in his ear. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Later, later, later. As long as there’s a later, he can make it through the suffocating uncertainty of the now.

Chapter Text

In almost seven years of marriage, The Subject only came up once.

It doesn’t matter which ‘Subject’ that refers to—both of the two principal issues worthy of earning that taboo came up together, and in retrospect, Jotaro would consider it an omen if he believed in that sort of thing.

To be fair, if Jotaro cares to count the courtship in addition to marriage, it came up more than that, but it’s different to discuss these sorts of things once something has been signed, sealed, and delivered. It floated to the top a time or two while they were dating because it had to. The choice on one was between storing the photograph in his desk drawer and begging for Joseph and Polnareff’s silence for the rest of his married life, or suffering through one conversation where he explained it away as an archeological excavation with his grandfather that went awry, and the inconvenience of the former narrowly outweighed the awkwardness of the latter.

His family has been unlucky, he’d often say.

She sensed it was painful, and insisted she wouldn’t press. It was one of his favorite things about her. He could have sworn he fell in love with her that day, watching her gingerly pass the photograph back to him with only the tips of her fingernails on the white border around the image.

The second choice was a far easier one to make because he didn’t consider it a choice at all. Either he could dig into parts of himself he didn’t want to reach for answers he didn’t consciously believe existed, or he could do what he did best—Denial.

It wasn’t the kind of denial he sometimes parlays into a version of the truth, where he’s fully aware that his feelings are inconvenient and must be caged into submission, though he employed that in other areas. Rather, it was the type of denial where he did the calculations and deemed his feelings irrelevant.

It didn’t feel much like denial at all. All through the time they were dating, the question was phrased with a vocabulary Jotaro could relate to. The subject was whether or not he liked women, and it was very easy to say yes when he couldn’t be sure the answer was no.

It didn’t feel like denial at all until he was asked outright, five years in, if he preferred men.

It was an egregious error on his part. Missing their anniversary was one mistake enough, but missing Jolyne’s kindergarten graduation on top of it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He hadn’t meant to be gone for either, but he’d taken a mission in Algiers that went on longer than expected, and unlike some of his excursions, it wasn’t exactly something he could skip out on halfway through. He’d come back to Tokyo two weeks late, haggard and nursing a fresh gash on his side, already dreading the amount of cover-up and early nights he’d need to hide the worst of it this time.

Jolyne was devastated and did too good a job at pretending not to be. He remembered how good he used to be at that too, and it ran him into the ground trying to temper the guilt of it all. She bounced back, or at least as well as she could, with a weekend’s worth of his undivided attention. She was still young enough for that, but she wouldn’t be for long, and Jotaro was old enough to know it.

If something happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. Maybe that’s the calculation his dad made, too—It was better to miss a child’s milestones than risk their wellbeing, lest those milestones not come. It hurt, though, and every time he watched that hurt mirror in her, he etched deeper and deeper into a cycle he swore he’d never repeat, but now feels helpless to stop.

He was dreading the fight between adults worst of all, because like the expectations of a child, they were predictable and simple as anything, and would only build the more they broke. By this time, they were always breaking. Later, he’d look back and wonder how it lasted this long.

In the moment, he crumpled at the kitchen table and prepared for the onslaught. At this point, he knew the script. She’d beg him to find a balance, swearing up and down with full sincerity she understands the work he does is important, but that the amount of time it takes isn’t sustainable. He’d apologize, promise to take on less, promise to consolidate it, and it’s not like it was a lie. He’d shift his calendar around enough to show her evidence of the effort and the dust would settle, only for it to inevitably crop up again in a few months’ time. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It was about to be a different play entirely when she walked in with the picture from his desk and set it on the table in front of him.

“I keep trying to figure out what’s wrong with you,” she’d said, folding her hands and taking a seat adjacent to him. She was still beautiful, but the time and distribution of responsibility had worn on her, and Jotaro felt a familiar twinge of guilt, like he’d robbed her of youth and vitally she’d never get back. Some days, he wasn’t even sure he had a good enough reason why. “Every time this happens, Jotaro, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something I’m missing.”

His hands shook under the table, but he insisted he had no idea what she was getting at. The faces of those he’d loved and lost stared back at him, and the voices of those he’d lost to love rang through the halls of their small house, Jolyne singing faintly from her room and his wife thinking out loud at his side.

“I know you’re not cheating,” she insisted, miles away. “It’d be obvious if you were.”

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and it was a long time coming, but he still stared at the picture with genuine confusion, trying to catch up to the connection she seemed so confident in.

“You’ve never looked at another woman like that,” she continued, wistful but with edged caution, like she’d tamed a wilder feeling behind a cage in her mind. Jotaro wondered if that was true, if only because he’d never thought about it himself. “But it makes me question why else you’d run out like this, over and over again.”

There was a lot she didn’t know. That too was by design.

“You don’t want to talk about it, that much is clear.” She ran her finger along the edge of the frame, and it wobbled a little, uneven on their imperfect wood dining table. Jotaro felt his breath catch like he had a real fear of seeing it fall. “Call me crazy, but you’ve admitted not everyone in this picture is alive. You were so young. It must have been hard.”

“I would never do that,” Jotaro had replied, overlapping with her in order to drown out the last of her words and their implications. “I would never call you crazy.”

Jotaro will never forget how she looked then, long hair brushing across the table as she hung her head heavy and folded her hands into her lap, leaning back into the chair like she wished it was miles away from him. “I feel crazy.”

There was no sufficient apology he could have given for the clear depth of that hurt, and he didn’t even know where to start. Their unnervingly loud second-hand clock hung above the sliding glass door counted up the space between them, deeper by the minute.

“I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she sighed, the sound so light it caught on the sound of a passing train in the distance, floating up and out the window. “I’ve been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Something happened there, I know it did. You don’t have to tell me, I promised you that, and I won’t force you to now. But I’m starting to think you’re not over it.”

Looking at the photograph straight on was starting to be too much, the sight mixed with her words cutting something deep out of his chest and twisting it in between his ribcage, each bone pressed against something hot and unkempt no matter how hard he swallowed against it. It was like all sensation from the rest of his body flowed straight into his heart, pounding red-hot against his chest, and forsaken the rest of him, limbs falling into a floating, sensationless numbness as he tried to process her words enough to reply.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled, low and muted. Even though he didn’t consider it a lie, it felt like one in his body, another twist aching at his side. “It was years ago. It was an accident. I wasn’t there to see it.”

What he wanted to say was right on the tip of his tongue, a flippant I hardly knew them to kill the conversation dead on arrival, but that would be a lie, full stop. Jotaro did a lot of fucked up things to her, but he never wanted to lie. Not outright. Instead, he sighed, and tried and failed to settle the nausea. “It’s not the reason why I’m distant.”

Another lie, somehow more blatant than the last and this time said aloud. His pulse spiked, thrumming in his ears like high tide. “I’ve come to terms with it.”

Good, finally, some semblance of truth. He’d never been one to dispute the facts or thrash against an obvious reality. It quelled the edge of sickness that was beginning to press against his throat, but not the way his heart was lodging itself up against his spine, sinking deep into itself underneath a pressure he couldn’t name. “It’s nothing to worry about. I’m sorry you’ve had to.”

There was no part of him that wanted to look at her, not after that, but he had to, because there were still pieces of it he couldn’t understand. He wanted to ask how in the world she knew to bring this up, and how long she’d been waiting. Had she watched in silence on nights where he’d pause from his work and stare at the photograph lost in thought? Was it something about his demeanor, in the way he checked all the locks before leaving or entering, the way he so often struggled to sleep through the night?

Maybe it was something much more benign, not a list of observations but rather an intuitive understanding of the sorts of things someone can never forget, and the monstrous apathy that can eat at those left behind.

Jotaro had seen it in others, but never himself, so he looked up. What he found was someone he’d seen once in a dream, a vision of a love he could have kept in a bottle as fresh as the day they first met on the steps—her face, paled and delicate with only the faintest lines around her forehead, had softened by degrees, brown eyes wide and young and hopeful. During his replies, she’d turned to him, positioning her chest and shoulders in an openness she was all but daring him out loud to reflect, the plea almost tangible behind her full, parted lips.

He was struck with the urge to kiss her, but it was an urge soaked in the same unease that was brewing in his insides. The heat came not from desire, but from desperation to end his time in the spotlight. Her focus only made that fear grow as he looked at someone he’d once sworn a lifetime to, but now felt like a stranger he visited only to build the hopes of before crushing them, again and again, like a broken switch that couldn’t be turned off.

“There’s nothing more to it.” It took just about every ounce of energy left in him, but he met her eyes, daring her to find something in there to object to. There was a surprising amount of steel there, but the longer they held each other’s gaze, the more it melted into resignation. Jotaro wished they’d look at each other more outside of these occasional battles of will, and while they were battles Jotaro almost always won he took no delight in victory.

“Alright,” she sighed, closing herself off again with a roll of her shoulders, sinking back into her seat. “I’ll respect that. I’m sorry to press. It just doesn’t answer my question.”

Jotaro propped his elbow up on the counter, letting his head fall into his balled fist. “It’s work, it’s the same as it always is.”

He’d had this conversation so many times he was starting to dream about it, and in his dreams he was in a plane over India, telling her all the places he’d been from the safety and clarity of the skies. In dreams, he had the words to say what he meant. It dissipated the space between them like clouds clearing, and she understood, but he always woke up the same. Sooner or later, he’d choke on a word he just couldn’t get out, and he’d be jolted out by frustration scratching at his throat.

Being awake was that exact same feeling, over and over again. It wasn’t limited to this, but with her it felt the most chronic.

She picked the frame up from the table and folded the stand under, sliding it back to Jotaro. He took it in his free hand, pinching his eyes closed. If he’d kept them open, maybe he would have seen something in her that prepared him for what she said next, but he’ll never know. “I have to ask. I don’t want to, but if there’s really nothing else there, I have to.”

Jotaro pinched and blinked his eyes, but everything was blurry with the force of holding them down, so he closed them again, inhaling once. “Go on.”

“Are you gay?”

All at once, every single piece of his body returned his facilities to him. The parts of him burning and the parts of him numb crashed together as one again with all the force of a head-on collision, rattling his jaw shut and locking his muscles in taut together from his knees to his shoulders. He sat up rod-straight in his chair, heart locking behind his ribs once more and his pulse slowing down to a steady, monotonous drone he felt even in the tips of his fingertips.

Are you gay?

“Why would I marry you if I were?” He asked, because it seemed like a rational thing to want to know. He wouldn’t have. He would have known. He really believed that, on every level he could reach and he hoped with everything in him on those he couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” she snapped, and Jotaro always hated this part the most, when he’d say something that would finally crack the surface of her composure. Like Jotaro, she was even-keeled and not prone to emotional outbursts, which in retrospect Jotaro figures is the only temperament that could have survived him as long as she did. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

There was a lot that got to her. There was a lot about their situation that would have gotten to anyone sane, but she very rarely broke the façade. Seeing it fall gutted Jotaro in ways few things ever could, the reminder that he’d driven someone to a ledge they never would have found on their own wedging a knife into his ribcage. He caved in to it, threading his fingers together to brace himself back up. “If I were, I wouldn’t be here. Trust me.”

All he knew about sexuality lead him to believe that was how things worked, after all. A proclivity towards men is one thing, but the inability to love women is another, and he loved her. He was trying. He was dedicating his time, his energy, the very flesh of his body towards protecting her. Why would he do that for someone he didn’t love?

Why would he be with someone he couldn’t love?

Looking back, it was the beginning of the end, and Jotaro has always struggled to understand what, exactly, tipped it over the edge from a guilt he could ignore to a guilt he couldn’t. But he wonders if maybe it was right then and there, looking at the dimming light in her bleary eyes fade behind her eyelashes as she turned from him, her chair scraping against the tile floor with a groan in the quiet.

He felt hollow, like someone had turned him upside down and shaken out everything of substance, and he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around the emotion she was displaying behind those stiff shoulders.

“Okay,” she whispered, fingers underneath his chin as he leaned his head up to kiss the bridge of his nose, tender and soft with closed eyes. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

It made him dizzy to try.

The second Polnareff and Kakyoin close the door behind them, Joseph rounds on him and asks what must be Jotaro’s least favorite question in the whole of human language. “So, are we going to talk about this?”

Polnareff and Joseph’s plans, as it turns out, involve an entire meal from scratch that Polnareff has been dying to find an occasion worthy of the recipe for, and at least one very expensive bottle of champagne, all courtesy of Joseph’s dime and his suspiciously immaculate kitchenware.

Poking around the kitchen now, Jotaro is a bit concerned at the sheer quality of the supplies in such a sparsely occupied house, considering he’s never known Joseph to be culinary-inclined. Still, he does know him as someone who refuses half-measures on even the most arbitrary of things. It makes an unfortunate amount of sense he’d invest in the details of satellite properties, as insane as it makes Jotaro feel to imagine Joseph ordering a full set of French culinary knives just to avoid the scandal of not having them.

“Yeah, I’m sure Kakyoin will tell you everything as soon as he’s back.” Balancing one of those knives in his hand, Jotaro wonders if pretending to throw it at him would earn his silence. “Be patient. You’re not going to drop dead in the next thirty minutes.”

He’d volunteered to accompany Polnareff to the store in the interest of giving Joseph and Kakyoin privacy, but to his surprise, both of them objected to that plan. Instead, Joseph suggested Jotaro stay behind, and Kakyoin jumped at the opportunity to spend more time with Polnareff, or perhaps just to honor Joseph’s obvious desire to corner him. It’s a betrayal in Jotaro’s book either way, and only soured a mood that never fully settled from getting interrupted earlier.

Despite Jotaro’s unflinching stance, tossing the knife in his open palm over and over doesn’t seem to faze Joseph at all, appraising Jotaro from across the mini-bar with a faint smile. “Oh, I trust that we’ll have time.”

“Good,” Jotaro snaps, pointing the knife in his vague direction, which only seems to amuse him further. “There’s nothing I could tell you he won’t, and it’s his story, not mine.”

“I meant, Jotaro,” Joseph continues, voice impossibly calm and neutral as if he’s daring Jotaro to raise his own in the face of it. Jotaro bites on the inside of his cheek, deepening the crease of his eyebrows. “Are we going to talk about this?”

Right. Of course. Jotaro was naïve for thinking he’d take the bait on anything else. He sighs, putting the knife back in its rack and immediately missing the feeling of it in his hands. Star Platinum twitches at the edges of his consciousness, the patient, but knowing look on Joseph’s face cornering him against the black marble countertops. “There’s not a lot to say. It’s been about how you’d expect, I guess.”

“I’d say ‘expect’ is a strong word, wouldn’t you?” Joseph replies, folding his wrinkled hands on the bar and blinking up with expertly feigned innocence. Jotaro sneers on reflex, his polished act of ignorance somehow more aggravating when both of them know Jotaro can see straight through it than it is to just witness. “These sorts of things are hardly expected, son.”

It’s a pet name Joseph only whips out on select occasion, both because the overt affection is quick to run down Jotaro’s patience, and because Joseph seems to prefer to use it for emphasis now that he’s grown. Either way, it catches Jotaro’s attention, and he hauls himself up on the countertop with a click of his tongue, feet in the stainless steel sink just to make a point. It’s one that goes right over Joseph’s head, his grandfather appraising his actions with a single disinterested glance.

“It explains itself,” Jotaro counters, cursing that he left his cigarettes in his coat pocket all the way across the house. He needs something to do with his hands, energy building up in his palms. “I thought it was a trick at first, but it wasn’t. He wanted to talk to me first, so we talked. He wanted you two to know, so now you do. Is there something confusing about that? I promise it’s just you.”

He can hear himself being obstinate for the sake of it, but Joseph knows him too well to expect this sort of approach to work and he’s more annoyed by the second at his insistence on trying it. Joseph knows him too well in general, and while Jotaro has spent a lifetime shrugging off his familiar barbs and cache of embarrassing fond memories, it’s difficult to escape the unflinching gaze of someone who raised him.

Briefly, he wonders what Holly would say about this before remembering she’d only ever met Kakyoin in passing. The knowledge sits unevenly in his chest, and Jotaro takes to peeling off a manufacturer’s sticker from one of the cabinets in lieu of smoke.

“I know how you got here.” Joseph tilts his head to the side, peering at Jotaro through narrowed eyes like he’s a particularly compelling museum display, evaluating his folded up body and refractory expression with a hum. “But you’ll have to forgive me. It must be my age, you see. I just don’t understand why you’d stubbornly deny my question while looking so unbothered and well-adjusted. The contrast is too confusing for my poor rotting brain, I’m afraid.”

Jotaro wants the knife back in his hands, and he wants to throw it for real. If reaching back across the counter wouldn’t give away his intentions so far in advance even Joseph would see it coming a mile away, he might just. “You don’t look bothered enough.”

“Why would I be?” Joseph asks, and Jotaro, even with all the effort in his body, cannot discern whether it’s meant to be a joke or not. His expression is as implacable as ever, words airy. “You did all the hard work for us, it’s surprisingly considerate of you.”

It was ignorable when Kakyoin was in the room, if only because Jotaro was too busy monitoring him to care, but alone, it’s gnawing at the edge of his thoughts and slowly driving down to the center of his sanity. Joseph’s complete and utter lack of emotional reactivity was a relief at first, but now, it’s upending his center of balance, every second Joseph spends putting Jotaro on the witness stand instead of demanding an explanation ticking up like a pipe bomb.

“It’s not work.” Jotaro grits his teeth, ripping the sticker into tiny pieces and letting it fall to the drain. He can feel his control slipping by the minute, and he tries to bring it back into himself, taking a long, deep breath. “There was a lot to cover, that’s all. You’ll get it after you talk to him, I keep telling you.”

Joseph closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he reaches for his cane propped up against the opposite stool and hobbles around the counter, closer to where Jotaro’s seated. “I went through something similar, you know.”

“I know,” Jotaro replies, automatic, straightening his back up against the cabinets in a fruitless attempt to make up some of the lost space. “Not this, though.”

While Joseph has always kept mum on the details of who exactly Caesar Zeppeli was and what exactly they were to one another, Jotaro always figured he was implied in the conversations they’ve had about this in the past. ‘Conversations’ might also be a strong word, to borrow Joseph’s parlance, considering how he made it a point to dodge them whenever he could. In the years following Egypt, Joseph tried to breach the subject a handful of times to varying degrees of success, but even with how many times Jotaro left the room halfway through, he deduced they were something to one another.

“Of course not.” Jotaro hates the tone of voice Joseph uses on him when he thinks he’s said something idiotic, impatient like it offends him. “Who in the hell would this happen to but you?”

“Comforting.” Whether or not that something is at all analogous to what he went through with Kakyoin has yet to be seen, but with a twinge of guilt, he realizes he’s never exactly heard him out it enough to know. “So you haven’t actually, is what you’re saying.”

He’s not sure he wants to even now, but he at least lets Joseph speak. “I thought about what it would be like to be in your shoes, sometimes.”

Jotaro chews on the inside of his cheek, swiping his tongue over the permanent line he’s scarred in it from a lifetime of grinding his teeth. Jotaro would love to deny he’d done the same, but lying to Joseph is more likely than not to backfire in the best of times, let alone now. “It can’t be accurate.”

“That’s not the point,” Joseph dismisses, leaning up against the counter just out of striking distance for Jotaro’s own physical range. “Love and loss are great hardships when you’re young.”

“It was over a decade ago,” Jotaro grits out, and it feels like it’s on autopilot, something he’s said so many times to so many different people that it’s almost like an answering machine for his own thoughts on a line he never picks up.

“You’re still young,” Joseph reminds him, in the condescending way only those who feel they’ve earned the right to say it can. “At the time, losing him was the worst thing that’d ever happened to me. It’s easy to feel like there’s nothing beyond that, and bonds that form in times of trial are difficult to sever. I thought about him often, watching you two.”

Now, Jotaro’s sure he doesn’t want to listen to this. He scrapes the remaining sticker residue off the cabinet with his nails in one swift, jerking motion. “It’s not like that.”

“Like what?” Joseph implores, and Jotaro kicks his heel against the basin of the sink, digging in preparation to answer before Joseph can continue. His throat squeezes in on itself, something in his chest rising to catch the words from escaping as he processes Joseph’s question in full. He’s not sure which part of it to target first—The permanence of it, or the thick implication lying underneath his careful, neutral language.

What he really wants to target is the way it’s delivered, with a rare seriousness and thoughtfulness that Jotaro is more familiar with than anyone as family, but still catches him off-guard every time he hears it as an adult. In the space Joseph gives him, not a single objection is able to make it past the dam in his vocal cords, even the formless anger that threatens to break it most.

Joseph looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and if Jotaro didn’t know better, he’d swear he’s almost bored by the lack of a true fight. “I don’t love talking about it either, but don’t think you can fool me, boy. It was hard on me, Jotaro, but I’m very suspicious it’s been harder on you. I’ve always thought that.”

“I’m not trying to fool anyone,” Jotaro snaps as the frustration finally wins out, because he wouldn’t even know where to start if he were. There’s no reason for him to lie when he doesn’t have a real handle on what he’d even lie about, and the implication that his silence counts as one hits a nerve, tension pooling in his jaw. “I’m not taking unsolicited comments from someone with dementia.”

“You don’t have to,” Joseph shrugs, pulling off his glasses and fogging up the lenses with his breath to wipe them down. It’s such a casual gesture it makes Jotaro conscious of his own position, knees all but pressing into his chest and his hands clutch around opposite arms, digging hard into muscle. He drops them down to the counter, flexing to regain circulation in his fingers.

Once they’re sufficiently clean again, Joseph turns to blink up at Jotaro, nonchalant as if he’s commenting on the weather. “I’d suggest being a bit more grateful, that’s all.”

Jotaro is saved from facing his own lack of a reply by the sound of the front door swinging open, followed by two loud, boisterous voices and the shuffling of bags. Jotaro straightens up at the sound of Kakyoin’s laughter, fluttering high above the rest of the noise and filling the entryway with its unique sort of musicality. It flows all the way into the kitchen, where Kakyoin and Polnareff soon follow around the corner carrying about three grocery bags each and talking animatedly about what sounds like a shared television program.

“We’re back,” Kakyoin calls over his shoulder, back turned towards Polnareff behind him. The laughter stumbles, but his humor doesn’t fade when Kakyoin sets his bags down on the mini-bar and finally looks up towards the two of them, amusement and confusion lighting his eyes in equal amounts. He steps back, hands on his hips as Polnareff sets his bags on the counter with stifled laughter of his own. “Why are you in the sink?”

Jotaro swings his legs down from the counter with a start, crossing over to Kakyoin’s side. He adjusts the brim of his hat and runs a hand through his hair, uncomfortably damp with sweat and humidity. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Sure thing,” Kakyoin assures, even as a closed-lipped smile creeps further up his face. Jotaro chooses not to contest it, despite the bit of heat rising to his cheeks. He joins Polnareff in pulling out items from the bags, trying not to blanch at the sheer amount of ingredients apparently necessary for just one meal.

“How is this?” Kakyoin reaches in his messenger bag and pulls out two different wine bottles, setting them on the counter and beckoning Joseph with a wave. There’s not a single trace of their conversation left on his face as he makes his way over, aside from the bold fondness in his eyes as he appraises him. He holds the bottles up one at a time mere inches away from his face, glasses pulled down to squint at the labels.

“It seems the two of you put together have taste.” Joseph scratches at his beard, a satisfied glint in his eye. Kakyoin smiles back at him, pointedly ignoring a sound of offense from Polnareff across the counter. “See, this is why we needed you around. I’ve never met a Frenchmen so hopeless with wine.”

“I like what I like,” Polnareff insists, tossing a bundle of carrots into the crisper drawer of the fridge. “Only snobs care about labels.”

Jotaro privately agrees, but he’d never say it out loud with how proud of himself Kakyoin looks at the approval, sliding them to the safety of the far back counter space with a delicate touch. Jotaro reaches into a new bag, and Kakyoin’s eyes light up once more, pulling it closer in towards them and rising on his toes to lean over his shoulder. He dismisses Jotaro’s hands with a flick of his wrist, rifling through until he finds a box of pappardelle pasta and spinning back down to place it in Jotaro’s arms.

“You weren’t there to advocate for it, so I did it for you,” he explains, and while Jotaro wonders what happened while they were gone to put him in this high of spirits, he can’t find it in him to demand those answers or complain in the least. It rubs off on him a little as he reads the label, turning it over in his palms. “I remember you saying this was your favorite type when Holly made it, and I managed to convince Polnareff it works just as well as spaghetti with the sauce.”

“You’re only technically correct,” Polnareff frowns, lightly hitting Kakyoin’s shoulder with a bag of bell peppers as he passes them by. “So if the entire dish loses its delicate character, we all know who to blame.”

“Only snobs care about labels, huh?” Jotaro asks, because it’s easier than voicing anything else he’s thinking. It was a one-off, small talk conversation they’d had right around when they first met and Jotaro had completely forgotten it until now, even though it’s true. He’s never been a huge fan of tomato-based dishes, but Holly had a Tuscan paper pasta recipe passed down from a book Joseph picked up that always made him reconsider that stance. It just had a better texture, he argued when Kakyoin pressed him on this, but it was nothing he’d ever expect someone to remember.

Holding the box for too long begins to stir something strange, so he sets it down, hoping he’s adequately conveyed his thanks.

If nothing else, the dig seems to amuse him as much as it offends Polnareff, Kakyoin laughing through his miniature lecture on pasta shapes. He sends a private smile to Jotaro that he can’t help but return, both of them waiting patiently for Polnareff to get his apparent passion for the merits of traditional spaghetti out of his system.

“You’ll be helping with dinner, Jotaro,” Joseph cuts in once Polnareff stops to breathe, prodding the back of Jotaro’s leg with his cane. He takes a step closer to Kakyoin to avoid getting hit with the backswing, whipping his head around to glare back at him. “Kakyoin and I have other matters to attend to, don’t we?”

“Of course,” Kakyoin nods, smile falling not to anxiety as Jotaro fears, but rather something more like determination. Jotaro’s own soured expression falters beneath it, but it wouldn’t have held up in the face of Joseph’s alone, either, a softness over him that’s reserved for Kakyoin and Kakyoin alone as he looks right past Jotaro entirely.

Kakyoin offers Joseph his elbow, and he takes it with grace, guiding them both out of the kitchen and out towards a sliding door that leads to the porch, tucked away behind in the den. “It’s a beautiful day outside, isn’t it? Come with me.”

Just like that, Jotaro blinks, and he’s left alone in a room once more with a person he’s deeply suspicious will want yet another conversation Jotaro has no interest in having. Wearily, he turns to Polnareff in preparation for the onslaught, but to his surprise, he’s too busy rifling through cabinets for supplies to pay attention, sparing him only a glance over his shoulder.

“This isn’t going to make itself,” he chides, ushering him towards the other side of the prep counter and depositing a cutting board in Jotaro’s arms, several knives balanced precariously on top. “Are you any better with cooking than you used to be?”

Jotaro is fully aware of the number of meals he burned over the fire and thinks it’s quite rude of Polnareff to keep bringing it up all these years later. “A bit.”

Polnareff squints at him, pausing in the middle of opening a link of Italian sausage to search Jotaro up and down, tapping his foot against the tile. “Make Star Platinum cut the vegetables. I want the carrots coined and the peppers and onions diced.”

“Yes, sir.” Jotaro still can’t decide if the persona he takes on in the kitchen is endearing or irritating, but if it means he’s going to prioritize making sure he doesn’t mess up dinner over monitoring his mental state, Jotaro’s grateful for it just the same. He summons Star Platinum without a fuss, admittedly relieved he doesn’t have to rely on his own less than refined skills.

Polnareff, to his credit, is a surprisingly talented cook, which takes the pressure of Jotaro if nothing else. Sometime since coming back, he produced a recipe book that’s now sitting on the counter, and he flutters around Jotaro deep in concentration, muttering measurements to himself. Star Platinum makes quick work of the vegetables and the herbs he’s assigned after, all without Polnareff paying him or the elephants in the room any mind.

It’s not until Jotaro’s glazing carrots for the oven that Polnareff spares him anything but curt instructions at all, pausing before turning the stove down on low where he’s sautéing the meat and vegetables with a thoughtful hum.

“He’s still so similar, isn’t he?” Polnareff remarks, leaning over towards the window where the barest sliver of the patio is visible. Jotaro noticed it, but Polnareff has kept him so busy he’s barely had time to look, wanting to give them privacy where he can. From the angle only Kakyoin’s back is visible, but his stance doesn’t seem too guarded. “It’s wonderful, but strange.”

“Yeah,” Jotaro agrees, brushing each individual carrot with more focus than necessary. He put Star Platinum sway at Polnareff’s request once the knife work was done, after he insisted the rest would require too delicate of hands. “That’s one way to put it.”

“How would you put it?” Polnareff asks, conversational and without a trace of judgment. He turns the stove back up after another glance, adding in a dash from a separate bottle of wine they’d bought for cooking. “If you don’t mind.”

Jotaro minds quite a bit, but Joseph drained whatever will he had to fight tooth and nail completely, leaving defeated resignation in his wake. “I don’t know. Like that, I guess.”

“I always wondered what sort of man he’d grow up to be,” Polnareff muses, and Jotaro crouches down to the floor to set the oven, pulling in tight to the buttons to hide the twist in his expression. “It looks like he’s done well. I wish I could have seen it.”

There’s a heaviness to it that Jotaro understands all too well, to the point where he doesn’t even see the point in replying. He crawls back up to his feet, taking the baguette and bowl of garlic butter Polnareff passes over as his next project with a nod.

“I’m pretty mad at him,” Polnareff continues with one short, hollow laugh, like it’s funny but also not at all, really. “We fought over that pasta box for five whole minutes. People were staring, it was so embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry,” Jotaro replies, because it feels like the right thing to do.

“I’ll get over it,” Polnareff sighs, pretending to sweep a stray bit of hair from his forehead despite the fact it’s gelled straight up as always. He sends a smile back over his shoulder, letting his shoulders rise and fall. “I hate being ignored. He knows that too, the brat.”

“He missed you,” Jotaro assures him, even though he gets it. On some level, hearing him admit the struggle comforts him a little, or at least makes him feel less insane than Joseph’s blasé attitude.

“Honestly, I was kinda questioning that,” Polnareff continues over the hiss of the skillet, turning to throw a pinch of salt in the freshly boiling water on another burner. “I didn’t really get what crawled up his ass for it to take this long, even after he told me. He dug his heels in about the pasta though, he’s still so damn annoying when he wants to be. I only gave in because it was obvious how much he missed you.”

Jotaro pauses mid-brush, wrist falling down to the cutting board and right into a patch of garlic butter. He runs it under the kitchen sink, burying his reply in the rush of the water. “What do you mean?”

“He was fighting me on it! In public!” Polnareff waves his stirring spoon in the air, a splash hot oil narrowly missing Jotaro’s cheek. “Ten years, Jotaro! He should be begging for my forgiveness.”

“You forgive him, though,” Jotaro reminds him, echoes of their shared laughter filling his head.

“Of course I do,” Polnareff sniffs, reaching for the offending pasta and giving it a good hard roll of his eyes before tossing it in the water. “It’s the principle of it. But he thought it mattered to you, so he didn’t care. I guess I get it now. If he thinks that much of you still, he probably wasn’t avoiding this because he doesn’t love us, you know? I felt bad for doubting him. So that’s why we’re using your stupid bastard pasta.”

“Spaghetti tastes like worms,” Jotaro mumbles, nearly knocking the butter dish on the floor when his hand slips, again, mid-brush. They’re shaking so bad he’s half-tempted to summon Star Platinum again, but it would be such an obvious tell of how his words are affecting him that it’s not worth the risk of being called out. He takes a steadying breath, focusing on each slice of bread like it’s a bomb circuit. “He likes to see you get worked up, you know that.”

“I do know,” Polnareff mutters, sending a half-lidded glance to Jotaro he can’t fully read, but makes him feel pinned like an insect all the same. He’s back to laboring over the pasta before he continues, casually tossing it over his shoulder. “I could say the same for you, but I don’t think he likes working you up like this, exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Jotaro curls his lip, boring holes in Polnareff’s back with eyes so intensely he’s sure he’ll cave and turn, but no such luck. It’s still several more minutes before he can toss the bread in the oven for the sake of timing, so he’s left to tap his fingers against the cutting board restlessly, craving nicotine so bad he’s starting to see stars underneath his eyelids.

“Nothing, love,” Polnareff sings. He turns the sauce down to a simmer and covers it with the lid before joining Jotaro at his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I can only fight with him so much. I just wish he could have seen we’d always be here.”

The smell of herbs and spices fill the kitchen with warmth, and it gives his words an almost hypnotic quality, light spilling in from the window and the softest echo of Kakyoin and Joseph’s voices like a whisper underneath the sounds of the stove. It’s so peaceful, and each detail so clear, that Jotaro’s caught in the magic in it. He imagines hundreds of nights like this, not just with Kakyoin, but with all of them—Every single person they’ve loved and lost gathered around like a family that can’t be broken, laughing and sharing and existing in this shared moment they come together to create for whoever needs it most, whenever they need it most.

He thinks about flying Kakyoin home from the hospital, back into the arms of those that survived. He thinks about this night six years ago, but he can only get the vague outline of those details before he shuts it down completely, because this is the present, and this is what they have. It wouldn’t have been like this even if it did. The only reason it matters that it’s always been here is because it’s still here now.

He buckles under the touch just an inch, craning to look out the window again. It shows him nothing new or exciting, but it’s starting to turn into a lovely twilight outside if nothing else. Contrary to what Joseph thinks, he counts his blessings where he can.

“Go pour them each a glass.” Polnareff gestures to the wine bottle on the counter, voice soft. Jotaro nods, Polnareff’s hand remaining on his shoulder while he grabs two glasses from one of the cabinets. “Tell them we’re about ten out. I’ll set the table.”

Kakyoin’s eyes are bleary, but they light up when he sees Jotaro come through the patio door, and Jotaro can’t help but think it might not matter that he missed it for so long, because at least he gets to see it now.

Dinner is a raucous affair of laughter and pent-up emotions in the form of petty squabbles that never lose their levity, and Jotaro almost relaxes enough to enjoy it.

Whatever transpired between Kakyoin and Joseph appears to have settled into something they both seem comfortable with, trading barbs and jokes over the table like it’s second nature. It’s maybe a bit less well-timed or cutting than they used to be, but it’s layered in a comfortable familiarity that eases Jotaro more than wine ever could. To Kakyoin’s credit though it’s as good as last night if not better, and while it doesn’t make him want to become a connoisseur, he now knows who to ask first if he ever needs a recommendation.

As if by natural order, Kakyoin and Jotaro end up on one side of the large table facing Polnareff and Joseph on the other, shoulder-to-shoulder and trading asides among themselves under their breath. Having him in his ear is like a private running commentary, and when Joseph and Polnareff break into an animated argument over whether cheese constitutes as an appetizer or a desert, Kakyoin leans in to narrate it like the nature documentaries Jotaro knows and loves, truly atrocious English accent and all.

“Here, we see the ancient American cling to his bastardized traditions,” Kakyoin slurs, and it’s so absurd Jotaro has to hide behind a hand to mask his reaction from the other side of the table, stifling a laugh. “Bold move in front of such a prideful specimen from the Old World.”

“Stop it, you two,” Polnareff barks, and Kakyoin hides behind his napkin with a jump, laughing into the fabric while Jotaro feigns fascination with a painting on the wall past his head, neither route particularly convincing to their audience. “Unless you’re saying I’m right, then carry on.”

“Oh, he’s really riled up now,” Kakyoin mock-growls under his breath, face still pressed into the napkin to conceal it from everyone but Jotaro. He fumbles with his fork, but otherwise keeps a straight face, and he’ll count that as a victory.

“You’re the only godless heathen at this table,” Joseph insists, and they’re back at it again like that, but that argument and each subsequent one after all blends into one another in a long, uneven chorus of sound and laughter.

Depending on the subject, they don’t always fall on the same side of the argument, but Jotaro can’t help but notice how they never pick fights with one another, not directly. Whatever they could have gained therapeutically by doing so is long gone, and for the most part, they remain allies, even in the times Jotaro doesn’t feel Kakyoin needs one.

There’s still an edge to him, times where he’ll wince or pull away or turn to Jotaro to keep the conversation moving when something makes him stumble, but for the most part he stands on his own. Jotaro doesn’t need to be privy to those conversations to admire the work he’s done in dragging them both up to speed enough to accept it, even if it takes some wrestling to get under wraps completely.

There comes a point where finally, they’ve endured each other’s presence enough to come back down, the peaks and valleys of displaced emotion and their increasingly absurd expressions—fork sizes, pasta again, the merits and pitfalls of modern-day New York, Jotaro’s apparently dubious hat collection—all settling after a few too many rounds of squabbling and reconciliation into an easy calm. Jotaro can’t pinpoint exactly when, but after several innocuous comments haven’t immediately devolved into pointless bickering, the atmosphere starts to relax into something not quite somber, but a bit more serious, a bit freer.

“I guess your stupid pasta is alright,” Polnareff concedes with furrowed eyebrows after already finishing half a plate, chewing with exaggerated thought. “Still not worth changing the recipe for.”

“You can make the real one on your own time,” Kakyoin chimes in, winding a noodle around his fork with a satisfied flourish. To be fair, Jotaro would have suffered through spaghetti, but it is selfishly better this way. Still, he flushes, taking another sip of wine instead of offering his own two cents on the matter.

“Speaking of your own time,” Polnareff hedges, leaning on his elbow and pointing his fork at Kakyoin to trace a lazy circle around his face. “What, besides ignoring us, have you been doing with yours?”

If it hurts Kakyoin to hear, he doesn’t show it, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs with wine glass in hand. Jotaro follows him down, leaning into his own and folding his arms over his chest, silent and imposing at his side in a way he hopes reads to the others as the protection he feels he still has to provide.

“Sorry, but come on, I have a right to give you some shit,” Polnareff continues with a wince, preceded by the distinct sound of Joseph’s foot coming down on his. “You know what I mean, though. I hope you’ve at least been happy.”

The corners of Kakyoin’s lips curl up, and Jotaro can’t help but think he looks elegant like this, poised and composed in a way that he’s just now appreciating for the genuine maturity it evidences. It’s a classic sight, black turtleneck and red hair and red wine, slender arms crossed and a glint in his eye. Jotaro wishes he could read it, but he can’t quite yet. He wants to, though.

“I haven’t been unhappy.” Kakyoin twirls the stem of his wine glass, taking another sip. He tucks the stray lock of hair behind his ear, glancing away as he thinks. “I loved my program. I really do like the city. I made art, made friends, even. It’s the sort of thing I always wanted, but never thought I’d get.”

There’s an undercurrent of sadness there Jotaro can’t miss, and for a brief, delirious second, he wants to reach out to him, slide a hand on his knee underneath the table like he did so many times at dinner before. He thought he was so subtle, but the look Joseph’s sending him across the table says even the desire itself is clear is day, and he was a child, then.

Besides, that boundary has changed. It’d be foolish to assume otherwise. Casual intimacy from the other two is one thing, but Jotaro has always kept his personal space sacred. It’s no longer expected. Instead, he takes another bite of carrot, which turned out quite well despite his involvement.

“I wasn’t trying to replace anyone,” Kakyoin explains when there’s no immediate reply from the others, fingers wrapping around his own leg. “I couldn’t have if I tried. You all… This isn’t replaceable. Nothing even came close. I felt like someone else entirely, and lead a life that reflected that, but this never stopped mattering to me. Not for a second.”

The content doesn’t surprise Jotaro, but the strength in which he delivers it sends a jolt of warmth up his spine, Kakyoin’s cheeks flushed and eyes sharp with meaning. He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he’s caught in the act, Kakyoin’s focus flickering to him and pinning him there until the conversation rolls forward.

“Do you still feel that way?” Polnareff cocks an eyebrow, pulling a face as he drinks the glass of wine he’s barely touched. Not sweet enough for him, Jotaro guesses. “Like someone else?”

“I haven’t for a while,” Kakyoin confesses, squaring his shoulders to face back across the table. It’s so quiet Jotaro is sure he could hear a pin drop, even with the echo of city traffic humming outside. “I don’t think I even know just how long. I feel like myself here. I missed it.”

“We missed you,” Joseph replies. It’s so heavy, filled with years and years and more hurt than just the situation itself, and Jotaro feels the weight of it like it’s pressed into his own shoulders. Kakyoin meets Joseph’s eyes and lowers his head.

“Thank you, all of you.” When Kakyoin lifts back up, his words are directed at everyone, but he’s looking at Jotaro, and he doesn’t expect it at all. Still, he can’t turn away, entrapped by the faint red across his cheekbones. “For making me feel like I had somewhere to come back to.”

“You’re not with anyone out there, are you?” Joseph asks, and Jotaro is half in his mind to reach his leg under the table and stomp on his own foot for the way it comes out. It’s that feigned innocence again, not turned up to its full potential, because at least he recognizes that would give it away, but it’s calculated to be conversational. There’s no reason he’d pry like that otherwise, and Jotaro doesn’t trust it one bit.

It breaks the mood right in half, and there are ulterior motives, there has to be. The entire atmosphere shifts, subtly, but just enough to draw everyone out of the reverie. The question hangs in the air like loose rock barely clinging to the cliffside, innocuous on the surface but dangerous when touched. It doesn’t matter if that danger is real to anyone else—the way Kakyoin jolts at the intrusion says enough.

Jotaro stares Joseph down just to see if he’ll look his way and give up the rouse beyond a shadow of a doubt, but he stubbornly holds out, looking at Kakyoin alone over the top of his wine glass.

“No,” Kakyoin replies hastily, waving his hand in dismissal to emphasize the point. It’s the first Jotaro’s heard of it either way, but he’s never asked. Everything Kakyoin’s given him, he’s given him willingly and on his own terms—this isn’t one of them. His presence burns a hole at his side, but Jotaro can’t bring himself to look over to see his expression. “Not since a little less than a year ago, I think.”

While Kakyoin isn’t visibly crawling out of his skin, he doesn’t look all that comfortable with the topic either, and that’s more than enough for Jotaro to want the conversation shut down. “Didn’t know a senior citizen’s discount gets you out of having tact, too.”

“So you were?” Joseph presses, like Jotaro hasn’t said anything at all. Polnareff pretends to be very absorbed in his garlic bread, which means he’s listening with rapt attention.

“For a few years, yeah.” Kakyoin returns to his pasta, taking his time while chewing and finishing the remainder of his glass of wine, slow and pointed while Jotaro holds his breath in wait for him to continue. “I ended things on my own terms.”

“Interesting,” Joseph drawls, and he can hear the mental note being written all over it. It isn’t lost on Jotaro how neither of them will look his way. “Good for you, then.”

From there, the conversation moves on just as quickly as it arrived to much less serious topics, but Jotaro can’t keep up with the plot for the life of him, the conversation swirling around him as a passing itch for nicotine he’s been nursing all throughout dinner swells into an overriding need he can’t ignore.

After a scant few minutes of trying to shove it down, he stands up, interrupting a spirited discussion between Polnareff and Kakyoin to excuse himself for a smoke.

“I’ll come with?” Kakyoin asks, swiveling in his chair to look up at him. It’s a question, and Jotaro wishes it were less of one.

“Yeah, if you want,” he shrugs, quickly retrieving both their jackets before leading him out the patio door.

The temperature has dropped significantly since this afternoon, and Kakyoin shivers lightly at his side, wrapping his jacket tighter around him. By some miracle, Jotaro’s gone without a cigarette since they left the airport, and his hands are shaking as he tries to light it. He hides it with his other palm, but it’s apparently enough for Kakyoin to notice, holding out his open hand for the lighter. With a sigh, Jotaro hands it over, watching Kakyoin through the flame without really seeing him at all.

There are too many thoughts buzzing in his head to pick any one of them out, crowding each other and pushing the limits of his concentration to where it’s nothing but white noise. It’s nothing and everything at the same time, a collection of festering anxiousness that evens out into nothing but the whir of wind through the trees and the soft sound of their breath intertwining in the air. Inside, he felt crushed under the weight of everyone else’s thoughts, but outside, he finds he has so few of his own, swept away in the crisp fall air. He feels nothing. He feels everything.

Later has turned into now, and he’s never felt less centered. The moment is so present, each brush of the wind caressing his skin centimeter by centimeter and each breath of smoke filling his lungs to capacity.

A few inhales steady him, but not as much as he’d hoped. Kakyoin seems to be waiting for the first waves of nicotine to hit, hovering quietly at his side but with words clear on the tip of his tongue, his elbows leaning back against the railing as he watches Jotaro, thoughtful.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Kakyoin says, Jotaro’s eyes out towards the city. The property’s nestled up on a hill, and he can see rows of Tokyo’s lights and lines over the sparse trees around the house, lit up in the haze of night. “There’s nothing I have that can’t wait.”

“For what?” Jotaro asks, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t. There’s more room to breathe than he knows what to do with now that it’s just them, but the air is weighed down by something he’s not ready to face yet. Not straight on.

“You have your thesis work to wrap up, right?” Kakyoin turns around to look out across the city streets with him, and it doesn’t feel much of a question, this time. He dangles his arms out over the sides, intertwining his fingers. “I’ve taken time out of that. I don’t know what I could do, but I’d love to help you catch up if I can.”

Jotaro peers down at him just to see if he means it, and he doesn’t know what to do with any part what he finds there—not the warmth in his eyes, not his naked sincerity, not the hitch of his breath at their proximity, not the way his own chest seems to catch in his throat. He swallows it down, softening in the glow of the spotlight Kakyoin always makes him feel like he’s under. “It’s nothing exciting. I have a few more days of data collection, and then I have to pack up and move back down here. It’s easy enough to do on my own.”

For a second, Jotaro’s afraid he’ll run at that, which is not the reaction he expected. But that’s what he gets, a deer in the headlights flash where he can physically see Kakyoin pull back into himself, pieces of that openness folding into the shell he’s always been so adept at wrapping around himself.

It’s alarming to a degree he’s not prepared for, but the second fear starts to grip into him, something in Kakyoin shifts back again, eyebrows creasing as he studies Jotaro’s expression above him, both trying to read one another in the silence. Slowly, Kakyoin’s lips part, and he’s there again, light back in his features as his eyes flutter closed.

“You don’t have to,” Kakyoin offers when he opens them again, and that’s all it is. An offer, but one given with all the strength and fire that drew Jotaro into his orbit all those years ago, and the same fire that’s kept him there ever since. “Let me help you.”

Jotaro takes a long inhale of smoke, and the exhale turns into a breathless, “Alright.”

He doesn’t know what it means, but he says it again. “Alright.”

Chapter Text

To Jotaro, there’s nothing more beautiful than the ocean at night.

What terrifies others about the ocean is the same thing he’s always found to be most beautiful about it. The bottomless unknown has never scared him—while glistening crystal clear waters bathed in sunlight are enchanting, for him, true fascination starts where his eyesight ends. Whether it’s the deep dark waters beyond where the sand drops off past the shoreline, or just past his toes in the grey waters of the Atlantic, he’s always been enamored with the parts of it that lie beyond the borders of human reach, the parts that require surrendering to the impersonal enormity of the sea in order to devise its secrets.

When the sun goes down, even the most familiar parts of the shoreline become shrouded in tantalizing mystery, and in the right mood on just the right night, it makes him feel like a kid again. When the moon waxes full and hangs bright in the sky, it lights up the waves just enough to see their texture, offering a slight glimpse of its true character while daring him to wade into its depths, into a world full of possibility and discovery. The ocean is the one thing that never bores him, and even as he’s dedicated years of his life to demystifying its various inhabitants, there’s something about nighttime that takes him back to the very start, turning up the passion he’s held all his life to burn in his chest anew.

When Kakyoin’s mentioned it to Jotaro, his memories of the ocean come across far less rose-colored. By his own admission, most of his experiences with it come from their travels together, and the mysteries those seas held were less quaint. The channels through New York are filled with grime and industrial byproduct, apparently, more an incidental feature of the city than a breathing facet of the Earth. He’s admitted he enjoyed the rivers when camping upstate, but they were swift and required careful navigation, more for looking than for touching.

He has more reason than most to fear the potential of water, but to Jotaro’s surprise, he’s weathering it well. There’s no all-fired rush to wade into the tide, but he lingers a safe distance from the waves without complaint, and even seemed excited at the prospect of coming down here with him. Jotaro was a little reluctant to mention it, especially with all he’d learned about Kakyoin’s experiences in the past few days, but like many things in his life as of late, the anxiety was unfounded.

“Is this something you do often?” Kakyoin had asked when Jotaro brought up heading down to the shore earlier that evening, solidly after the sun had started to fall. “Go down at night?”

“Yeah,” he’d admitted, a bit sheepish as he shrugged on his jacket. They’d already spent most of their day and many of the days before at the shore, finishing up the last day of Jotaro’s observations. Today finally marked the last of his necessary data collection in Morioh to what Jotaro is sure must be their mutual relief, and even though Kakyoin got less time with the ocean over the past week than he did between sleeping in and making sure Jotaro remembered to eat, it hasn’t exactly been a quick visit to the beach. Jotaro’s fully aware wanting more makes him insane, but it’s the best way to reset his mind. “You don’t have to come.”

Jotaro still can’t read him perfectly, but he’s getting better. Kakyoin sent a look over his shoulder, one where the inside corners of his eyebrows furrow in and his lips press together as his head tilts just slightly to the side, and it’s one Jotaro’s started to recognize from the rest. He scrambled to say it before Kakyoin could ask, beating him by the skin of his teeth. “You can if you want, though.”

“Let me grab my jacket,” he’d smiled, and now, here they are.

Jotaro’s at least picked a spot closer to his rental than where they did most of their collection, in a more well-trafficked part of the shoreline. Nearing ten, it’s empty from the late hour, a world to themselves as the sea stretches far out in front of them, a pier to their right so they don’t travel out too far from civilization. It’s mostly for Kakyoin’s sake—he’s learned over the past week that as brave as he is, he does better when there’s some sort of man-made structure around. He’s never said it, but Jotaro’s noticed. The difference is subtle, but Kakyoin’s been more willing to venture out from the dry sand near piers or guard stands or docks than he is just on the open shore. Since there’s no obligation for Kakyoin to be here at all, Jotaro tries to make it a bit more comfortable where he can.

“It’s been fascinating seeing you in your element.” It’s several minutes before Kakyoin breaks the quiet. They walked down to the pier mostly in silence, and since reaching the waterfront, Jotaro’s stared out into the ocean in wordless reverence, the sense of accomplishment and the rhythmic roll of the waves soothing the taut muscles of his body, clenched from long days of endless work.

Jotaro hums in reply, glancing up briefly as Kakyoin makes his way down to Jotaro’s side, closer to where the waves hit but still a few paces away from where the water starts to lick the sand. Kakyoin’s scarf blows softly in the seaside breeze, tickling Jotaro’s arm.

“You’re a different person around the sea,” Kakyoin observes, retrieving a thin pair of gloves from his jacket pocket and pulling them over his slender hands, shivering. “It’s so clear how much you love it. I’m happy you chose this.”

“I’ll be happier once this dissertation is done,” Jotaro mutters, but there’s no venom behind it. Yes, he’s hardly slept from the stress of it and the crunch makes him feel like he’s going insane, but it’s a temporary speed bump on a permanent career path. It’s nothing he can’t accomplish, and accomplish with accolades. That doesn’t solve that he’s been working non-stop since long before Kakyoin showed up, and will be working long after. “But yeah. I don’t know what else I’d do.”

Kakyoin nudges into the sand with his boot, digging out a shell that’s caught the light of the moon. His red hair falls in wisps and tendrils around his face, softening the white-blue glow of the night against his skin. Out of the many things Jotaro envied about him when they were kids, his elegance was always at the top of the list. If Jotaro, with his rough hands and insatiable restlessness was meant to study the sea, then Kakyoin was meant to create, with a lifetime of his own body and features laying out the blueprint for classical beauty. There’s not an artistic bone in Jotaro’s body, but he wishes he could learn just so he could recreate the colors he sees reflected on him now.

Kakyoin leans down and picks up the shell, a delicate pink color with patches of translucent silver, and slides it in his pocket. “I can think of a lot you could do, but not much you’d want to, no.”

Jotaro laughs at that, short and hollow, but it’s maybe the first real one he’s allowed in days. They’ve been a blur of coffee and numbers and writing interspersed with Kakyoin’s genuine curiosity and surprisingly helpful assistance, and it feels different now that there’s tangible progress, freer. He met milestones in Morioh before him, even with the chaos, but there’s a sense of finality to it now, staring out into the horizon.

“I’d work with the Foundation,” Jotaro sighs, because he was lying earlier, and he knows it. At the very least, it’s not the full truth. He shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to warm his fingertips. “If I wasn’t doing this. I thought about it, but the old man pushed me to go to university like I was planning. I still had a life outside of this world, and he didn’t want me to let go of it, I guess.”

“He’s smarter than he gets credit for,” Kakyoin smiles, thin-lipped. The old man in question had left Morioh a few days earlier, en route back to Tokyo to spend a few days with Holly, and then off to New York. Polnareff, who had decidedly more pressing matters left Tokyo shortly after Kakyoin and Jotaro, after all but begging Kakyoin on hands and knees to keep in touch. They both pushed the responsibility of keeping Kakyoin in contact with them on Jotaro, which undercuts Kakyoin’s claim entirely. “I heard through the grapevine you were pretty involved as is.”

“Still am,” Jotaro shrugs, crouching down to the sand and running his fingers through the damp grains. There’s something so primal and soothing about the feeling of it, searching mindlessly for another shell. He’s not an avid collector, but he likes seeing what’s around, likes keeping his hands busier than his thoughts out here. “That’s why I came out here in the first place. The research is lucky, but incidental.”

Kakyoin follows him down, carefully collecting the back of his coat and clutching it tight to his hips so it doesn’t brush against the ground. Watching the waves lick up the shore, he shuffles back, steadying himself with a hand on Jotaro’s shoulder. A shiver runs up Jotaro’s spine, but he doesn’t shy away from it. “It has to take a toll.”

“Most things do,” Jotaro replies, nonchalant as he’s capable. He brushes over an indent in the sand, and he pulls out a curious red and white spiraled cowrie shell, smooth and reflective. Kakyoin holds out a hand at his side, patient, and he doesn’t hesitate before placing it in his open palm, the gesture so automatic he doesn’t register it until the feeling of it is gone from his own hand. “That’s why I come down here.”

Kakyoin’s hand tightens just a hair around his shoulders to get Jotaro’s attention, and he turns to meet his eyes, soft and attentive in the blue haze. The tops of his cheeks and the tip of his nose are flushed red from the cold, but his face is bright and warm as ever. It’s not something he’s used to seeing up close and in the flesh, even over a week later, but he’s starting to expect it when he turns around. The knowledge hits much like the ocean breeze itself—cold and sharp, but just another inevitable part of the proximity.

“Because it’s calming?” Kakyoin asks, quiet to rest just on top of the roll of the waves. “Or something more?”

He doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s been too busy to consider it, any of it, taking Kakyoin’s offer for help at face value and running without looking back. To his credit, Kakyoin has been true to his word, and aside from the constant pounding in his head, it’s been dangerously uncomplicated.

“It doesn’t take anything out of me,” Jotaro says, after a beat of thought. It’s something that’s difficult to put words to. Kakyoin’s far from the first person that’s asked, and it’s something that’s tripped him up time and time again, his tongue and throat refusing to put the right syllables together and form something that reflects the feeling in his chest, like there’s a knot stitched deep in his ribcage and each roll of the tide loosens the rope a millimeter at a time. “It does… something else. I don’t know. The opposite.”

It’s gone like this. After a long mid-morning drive back to Morioh, Kakyoin took the guest room before it could be a discussion, because it’s been a long few days and space was in everyone’s best interest. If it caused any internal conflict to suggest, Jotaro saw none of it, and couldn’t find it in himself to protest against it, either. The weekend had worn both of them down to the bone, and Jotaro slept nearly twelve hours that night, dreamless and deep.

“I get it,” Kakyoin says. Jotaro searches his face as he speaks, from the blacks of his wide pupils and the whites of his teeth, trying to find a trace of what’s usually so clearly written on others whenever this subject comes up in Jotaro’s life. Not just the ocean or his love for it, but rather what the search for it implies, a need for solitude that can be all-consuming in a fervor to quiet his thoughts. He scans for the normal signs—a pitying crease of the eyebrows or a curl of his nose, but there’s nothing. “I think I feel that way when I paint.”

The third night, he woke up in the earliest hours of the morning and was certain he was in a hotel room, and couldn’t figure out where the other bed and the other boy were. His chest sank like a cannonball, and it took him perilous moments to grip back into reality and shake the cobwebs from his brain. He woke up with dark circles under his eyes to the sound of cabinets closing and opening in the kitchen and stumbled down the hall to find the papers and books he’d left out on the table from the night before straightened in neat piles, Kakyoin already making coffee.

“Yeah,” Jotaro mumbles, rubbing at his face with the hand that hasn’t been digging around in the sand. What he does find in Kakyoin is the same thing he always finds, a level of concentration and attention that makes him feel stripped down to the bone, the relief at being understood without having to elaborate mixing with the rawness of being seen at all. “I spent all summer here. Almost every night.”

Mornings would start like that. Occasionally Jotaro would wake up first and do that work, but most of the time, they woke up on the heels of each other and rituals would meld together until the sun was up and Jotaro would head to the shore. Sometimes, Kakyoin would follow right along with, others he’d stay back, run to the store or work on his own sketchbook until noon where he’d spend the rest of the day recording Jotaro’s observations without fail.

To his surprise, he feels Kakyoin lean further into him as he takes off one of his gloves, reaching forward as far as he can without losing his balance to trace his fingertips across the surface of the water. He jerks it back from the cold on impact, but it’s brave of him to try, Jotaro thinks. He does the same, feeling the waves lap at his fingertips and relishing in the harsh chill before pulling away.

Kakyoin tries to shake the water from his hand as far away from his body as possible, and Jotaro nudges his shoulder, bringing his attention back in to offer him the edge of his own jacket. Kakyoin takes it with a somewhat embarrassed quirk of his lips, twisting the fabric in his hand before pulling his glove back on.

“It’s maybe not my thing,” Kakyoin laughs, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck. “But I understand why it’s yours. It has an appeal.”

The recording was done from a safe distance, of course. Kakyoin’s legs would dangle off the pier while Jotaro dug around in the sand, or he’d prop a towel up at the top of the beach if he trusted the tide an adequate amount. Most of the time, it was about knowing he was somewhere close by, and that while Jotaro’s concentrated silence was expected, if he wanted to talk, there was always an answer waiting.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Jotaro mutters, and not for the first time. It feels like it’s been stuck in his brain like a scratched record, looping over and over again under heavy static and distortion. It’s this delicate, fledgling thing, and it hasn’t nestled between them so much as it’s made a home on his own head, weighing down the nights and buzzing through his skull. “Any of this.”

“I know,” Kakyoin replies, ever-patient, but with a succinctness that betrays how many times he’s had to say it. He gazes out into the ocean, eyes softening. “I want to, though.”

All throughout the week, that’s where the conversations began and ended. Come night, Kakyoin would make dinner and Jotaro would hover and help where he could, small talk about Jotaro’s program and professors and Kakyoin’s museum coworkers filling the space between them. The rest of the evening was spent on work and art, with the occasional respite of a walk along the block to look at the sky, thoughts of art and history and science passing between them in casual discourse. Jotaro was nervous to venture out too far, lest any wandering eyes ask questions he doesn’t have the answers for, but if Kakyoin minded the small radius, he never said so.

Out of the hundreds upon hundreds of thoughts swirling through him, that was the only one he vocalized. If Kakyoin minded that, he never said so, either. Jotaro pretended not to notice he was the one who always mentioned it first.

Now, though, Jotaro can tell something is different. By this time, Kakyoin should turn his eyes back towards Jotaro, or even anxiously back towards the pier, only in the habit of examining the waves for a scant few seconds before seeming to tire of their endless potential. But here, seconds tick on as Kakyoin remains perfectly still, an implacable mask over his features.

“I thought this would be quick,” Kakyoin muses after what feels like several moments of quiet, marked only by the roll of the waves and the blood pumping in Jotaro’s ears in perfect syncopated rhythm. With a sigh and an unsubtle curl of his nose, Kakyoin pulls away and lowers down to the sand, backing far enough up the shore to pull his knees into his chest without the threat of the tide. Jotaro moves to prop up on his elbows at Kakyoin’s side and stretches his legs out in front of him, stiff from crouching down for so long. “I took a month off work, but I didn’t expect to be here that long. I didn’t know where you’d be in life. I couldn’t…”

The sigh that escapes Kakyoin’s lips comes out frustrated and harsher than Jotaro’s prepared for, recoiling from the sharpness just an inch. He waits as Kakyoin steadies himself, a gloved hand to his forehead to hold the hair back from his face. “I wouldn’t allow myself to imagine there’d be a place in your life for me to stay more than a few days. That was part of the deal.”

Jotaro’s spent days knowing exactly where the conversations start and stop, but he’s lost the script on this one. He’s on the verge of adrift, can practically feel the ebb and flow of the cold sand tugging back and forth beneath him towards the sea. While his chest jolts at Kakyoin’s words, the setting still gives it an edge of serenity, his heart never beating faster than the roll of the water. “What deal?”

“The one I made to myself,” Kakyoin elaborates. He rests his chin in the crease between his knees, holding tight to his shins. “In order to come back here, I had to be okay with that. I had to be okay with you not wanting anything to do with me.”

“I would never do that,” Jotaro says before he can catch himself long enough to think beyond pure instinct, the words tumbling out in an attempt to loosen the tightness in Kakyoin’s shoulders as he folds in.

“I knew that,” Kakyoin replies. The roll of his eyes is implied in everything but visuals only, and even then Jotaro isn’t sure he didn’t blink and miss it. He’s still looking at the ocean. He hasn’t even spared a glance. “On a logical level, anyway. But I had to be okay with the worst-case scenario. If I came back here and tried to shoulder you with expectations, it wouldn’t be good for either of us.”

The only thing Kakyoin’s expected out of him is hard work on his thesis, minimal kitchen assistance, and occasional comments on artist endeavors. The only thing Kakyoin’s expected out of him this whole time is an ear to listen, and even that he’s seemed grateful for. The pieces slide together in Jotaro’s consciousness and rest like lead at the base of his skull, his head hanging heavy towards his chest.

Kakyoin’s so young whenever he’s lost in thought, solemnity taking years from his frame until Jotaro can blink and he’s seventeen again, all limbs and bones and thinly veiled heat. It’s like peering into the looking glass, a waking dream from a time that has never been nor ever will be but could have existed so easily, barring a slightly altered set of circumstances, a separate world where they are perhaps different people entirely.

There are edges to this version of him, and in every version of him, but it’s the fire that sets him apart from everyone else. It’s a magnetic part of his dynamism, and for all his flaws, Jotaro’s never once felt he’s wanted anything from him that he doesn’t have.

He doesn’t know how to thank him for that, and in this reality, with all the implications that calculation carries, it wouldn’t be appropriate. “So you were okay with that?”

“Of course not,” Kakyoin laughs, humorless. It’s less sharp than before, but there’s still something like anger buried deep in the tone, though at whom, Jotaro can’t say. “I just convinced myself I had to be and that I’d survive it. I was more afraid of it not being the same. Like, I’d see you and we wouldn’t click anymore, or we’d catch up for a few days and then have nothing to talk about. I think if I let myself expect anything, that was about it.”

The thought never crossed Jotaro’s mind. Maybe it’s because he’s gotten the chance to mythologize it like a relic, but sometimes, the intangibles just line up. The fact it’s caused him such clear anxiety takes him off guard, and he racks his brain for some sort of counter to that, digging his fingertips into the sand like the earth itself will provide the answers he can’t. “You were being too paranoid.”

“How was I supposed to know?” Kakyoin snaps, and while Jotaro expects a release of anticipation in knowing the anger was directed at him all along, it doesn’t feel that way. It’s toothless, like the snarl of a feral animal too spent to attack its caregiver, directionless and meant only for self-protection. He sees right through it with arresting clarity. “Life happens, people change. I wanted to meet you where you were at, not where I wanted you to be. If where you were didn’t want me around, I promised myself I’d leave.”

It’s so small and scared that the only thing Jotaro can drum up in response to the sharp dig into his gut is anger, righteous and indignant at the things that would dare cause him this pain. It’s easier than staying grounded to the moment, than examining how quickly the one and only conversation they’ve dared to have about this is falling from his grasp. “Why would I not want you around?”

“Why do you want me around now?” Kakyoin asks, and while Jotaro expects the hostility to only ramp up in the face of his own, to his surprise, it falls. For the first time, Kakyoin peels his eyes away from the waves and turns back to Jotaro, lifting his chest off his knees just enough to lean on the arm draped across them, hair cascading across his face. It’s a genuine question, raw and open like it’s driven only by pure curiosity. Jotaro knows better, but it’s a beautiful show. “You could have said no.”

Searching his face, Jotaro tries to reach an answer that’s satisfactory and only finds a cacophony of static and heat, an incoherent chorus overlapping one another to the point of white noise, clashing with the tide and canceling one another out. Because it’s him. Because he’s still so terrified that the second he turns around, he’ll be gone, and all of this will have just been another dream about water. Because he’s never expected him to be something he’s not. Because for this past week and change every inch of his body has thrummed with energy in a way he hasn’t felt in years, and he’s afraid he’ll crash if he slows back down. Because it’s him.

“I missed you,” is what he finally settles on, and he hears it in his own thoughts for the first time as it echoes out loud, though he immediately knows it’s true. “You’re my best friend.”

Jotaro doesn’t have words for Kakyoin’s reaction. His face flashes through about five different emotions too quickly for him to stop and place as his shoulders shudder and eyebrows furrow into one another in scrutiny. Finally, his lips part, and he sighs into a smile, eyes closing as he nestles into his arm and turns back towards the sea. “Yeah. You’re mine.”

They sit in silence after that, the shivering tension in Jotaro’s arms finally giving out as he lays back against the sand, relinquishing control and accepting the shower he’ll need after. Every muscle in his body sinks deep into the dirt beneath him, each breath pulling him down farther and farther into its embrace, eyes up towards the star-dotted sky. It’s nowhere near as clean as the desert, but there are still a good few lining up across the cloudy night to peak through the veil. Inside, all he can hear is the formless buzzing and the smell of the sea, punctuated by Kakyoin’s rhythmic breathing at his side.

“What do you want from me?” Kakyoin asks after what could be hours, Jotaro’s bones so chilled he wonders if he could move them if he tried.

Jotaro feels caught in between a lie and a promise, a past and a future, and he doesn’t know where to start anymore. “What do you want from me?”

“I asked you first,” Kakyoin retorts, and it doesn’t lose any of the seriousness, but Jotaro can practically taste the levity on his tongue, the sort of off-handed not quite joke that defines so much of his sense of humor. It doesn’t make him smile, not fully, but he feels the corner of his lip tug up before falling, just once.

Jotaro closes his eyes, and tries to steady himself enough to think. “Time.”

For a brief, delirious second, he imagines the waves pulling him under, back to where he’s sure Kakyoin still must be—somewhere deep down in the recesses of his consciousness, in a place he only goes when he’s scared of what the land will bring. Slowly, he forces himself to look over at Kakyoin’s feet in the sand, dry like the rest of him and waiting, always waiting.

“Just time.”

“Okay,” Kakyoin replies, resting a hand out by Jotaro’s shoulder and spreading his fingers into the sand. “I can give you that.”

“You don’t have to answer me.” It’s a lost cause, but he wants it said anyway. Just in case. Just in case he can put it off another day, another hour, another minute.

“I want you,” Kakyoin whispers, and it sounds like the sea, soothing and unfathomable all at once. “Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

It has to be now. “I’m trying.”

Kakyoin traces his fingertips across the edge of Jotaro’s jawline, and he shivers into the touch, closing his eyes and pinching his brows together even as he turns into it. It sends a tremor down from the base of his spine all the way through his limbs, and it’s too much, but he can’t bring himself to pull away, even as Kakyoin’s thumb brushes across his cheek.

“I know,” Kakyoin whispers, and he believes him.

He believes him.

Jotaro doesn’t remember the walk back.

One minute, he’s brushing sand off his jacket in the wind, and the next, he’s in a scalding hot shower, back against the tile and shampoo in his hair. He runs his hands through it and examines the suds, blinking as he tries to piece together the time. It comes back faster than he’s afraid it will, but it arrives in bits and pieces. He remembers the glowing green of the stove clock at half-past midnight and Kakyoin’s gloved hand lifting him up from the ground, swirling recollections of the trees that line the path from the shore to his house and shedding his clothes on the ground just beyond the shower curtain.

He doesn’t know if Kakyoin’s already been in here, but judging by the burn of his skin, there’s too much hot water still left for that. Guiltily, he turns down the tap just a hair, immediately missing the painful edge the heat left even though it’s still plenty warm. With a sigh, he leans his head back and closes his eyes, scrubbing out the shampoo with his nails hard into his scalp. The room is suffocating and humid, and he finds himself struggling to breathe as he reaches for the conditioner, compelled by routine more than conscious thought.

There’s no need to remember the act of doing it because it’s clear why the heat was on full blast the second it tempers out. Without extreme physical sensation to drown it out, his thoughts whir back to life, the hazy buzz of his auto-pilot replaced with a single audio loop, pounding against his thoughts in time with the water against the tile.

I want you. I want you. I want you.

Bracing for it would betray the point, so he grits his teeth and yanks the faucet all the way back to cold, coating his hair and rinsing it as fast as his hands will allow. He relishes in the feeling of goosebumps rising over his skin, clenching his jaw against the chill that grips into him for a long, pained count of ten, waiting for the echo to fade before turning the water off entirely. Shivering doesn’t keep his mind occupied perfectly, but it dampens the volume enough to keep him present as he dries off, and he only contemplates the pros and cons of screaming into a towel instead of doing it outright.

Lucky for him, his bathrobe still made it inside even in his haze, and he shrugs on its warmth, system still shocked from the extremes in temperature he just forced himself to endure. He gathers his clothes but hesitates over the doorknob, the sudden uncertainty of what lies beyond this room gripping its claws deep into his shoulders. Putting it off won’t make it go away.

What lies beyond is the same hallway that’s always there, open to face the guest room. The door is ajar, and he finds Kakyoin cross-legged on the bed already in his own robe, one of Jotaro’s books on coral reefs in hand. He glances up at the sound of Jotaro’s approach, carefully placing a folded up piece of printer paper to mark his page before setting it down.

“That was fast,” he remarks, swinging his legs down onto the floor.

“Was it?” Jotaro asks, because he honestly doesn’t know. Kakyoin could have said he was in there for hours and he would have believed it.

Kakyoin nods, humming as he brushes past him into the bathroom. He turns to Jotaro as he works at pulling out his earrings, tilting his head to the side in an attempt to read him. Jotaro’s learned to recognize the signs, but it’s never made him feel more exposed than it does now, even as Kakyoin’s gaze remains as neutral and open as ever.

“I’ll try to be as well,” he promises, and Jotaro readily takes that as his cue, backing up and closing the door behind him.

He hesitates right outside until he hears the sound of the water, something about it stirring him out of his reverie to send him down to own room. He haphazardly dresses in the first pair of sweats he sees before collapsing on the mattress, gripped by a sudden déjà vu in the form of swirling dizziness behind his closed eyelids.

An entire week with Kakyoin by his side, and he can already feel years of time collapsing in on themselves. He’s half-convinced that if he opens his eyes, he’ll wake up in Singapore, or India, or somewhere he’s never been. It’s how the first few nights here felt and even back in Tokyo, but in the quiet of the early morning now, it’s different. When they first got back, it was the same fear that’s driven Jotaro since he arrived on this doorstep, the nagging paranoia that he’ll wake up and be returned to the past because that’s the only place Kakyoin’s ever existed.

It’s not as if the fear is gone, but rather it’s morphing into something else right in front of him. It’s no longer the fear of living in an illusion, but rather that time—the decade-plus he’s been clinging to every time he lingers on Kakyoin’s face too long because he still can’t believe it’s real—has shaken out to matter so much less than he’s prepared for.

It’s the easy cohabitation, the way he instinctively knows how to be around him when he’s clung to his solitude like a blanket for so long. It’s the sound of his laughter from the pier, the way he lights up when Jotaro’s around after years of watching others wear to pieces from his presence. He’s stuck in a time loop, this town now a curious chamber where everything he’s done and everything he’s ever been until this point in his life is slowly becoming eclipsed by his past creeping back up on him.

Ever since they’ve arrived, it’s been transforming, the shadow of what’s unanswered crawling over him like a sundial in twilight. It hasn’t felt real, not in a way he could see through the trees until the brush of his hands on his lips. It hasn’t felt real, and now it feels too visceral to look at without blinding himself, Jotaro squinting down on already-shut eyes in the darkness.

He barely registers the sound of the water turning off or the hum of a hairdryer replacing it. The click of the door opening gets him to stir, enough to blink his eyes open but not enough to sit up. Slowly, he pulls himself up to the faint noise of Kakyoin shuffling through his suitcase from the room over, and by the time he’s greeted by a knock on his own open door he’s managed to plant his feet on the ground, the feeling of something solid beneath him more necessary by the second.

“I’m heading to bed,” Kakyoin explains, and there’s a cautious tone to his voice that tugs in Jotaro and makes him wonder what the expression on his own face must look like to cause it. “If that’s alright?”

“Yeah,” Jotaro dismisses with a shrug, not entirely sure, or perhaps comfortable with why he’s asking. Sleep may or may not be in his cards, but it’s better than the alternative. “It’s late.”

“Alright.” Kakyoin curls his hands around the doorframe, clenching once, twice, like he’s not entirely sure how to make himself turn around. Neither of them has flinched, their eyes on one another because Jotaro has no idea where else to put them.

It should be so easy to just turn away, to stare at the closet or the window or his own hands to cut the tension and end the conversation clean, but every time he tries, his body won’t pull the trigger and respond. There’s no way to know for sure, but he wonders if Kakyoin’s going through a similar calculation, restless even as he stands statue still.

Either way, Kakyoin breaks before he does, if only because he’s the one leaving. And in that leaving, as Jotaro’s eyes travel to the small of his back and to the sliver of his silhouette obscuring an expression he can’t see, something in him snaps.

“Wait.”

Kakyoin stops dead in his tracks, hand still around the doorframe as he looks over his shoulder. A vocal part of Jotaro immediately wishes he could take it back. Now that he’s privy to his expression in full, it’s fearful and pained in a way that draws his eyes closed again, sharp down into the darkness of what he’s always been so suspicious of. This is what he does to people.

This is all he can do.

He feels rather than sees Kakyoin’s patience, his presence still and anticipatory in the doorway. Jotaro knows what it must look like, his own face turned away and his eyes slammed shut with the force of a ten-ton boulder when he’s the one that spoke up, sitting on the edge of the bed like a child afraid of the dark. He knows, but he can’t bring himself to speak, whatever he thought was on the tip of his tongue long swallowed back into his chest where he can no longer reach.

With a soft exhale, he hears the sound of Kakyoin’s feet across the floor before the mattress sinks down at his side. It’s jarring, but it doesn’t catch him off guard enough to open his eyes. What does, however, is a hand on his thigh, so soft and unassuming that he can’t help but jolt from shock at the touch, jumping as he blinks in Kakyoin’s frame next to him.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, drawing his hand back. Jotaro wants to tear it from his lips. As it stands, he just shakes his head and tries to settle back down, placing both feet back on the floor one by one with a sigh.

“It’s fine,” he grits between his teeth, because it is. That’s not the problem.

Slowly, Kakyoin inches his hand back to the spot where he left it, still electric from the touch. Jotaro shudders, his face in his hands as he collapses onto his legs, warmth spreading up from Kakyoin’s fingers and melting the stranglehold he’s kept on his muscles until they can no longer hold him upright.

“I’m not ready for this.” It comes out like he’s gasping for air because he is, each word fought out between shaking breaths that rip into his lungs and steal the oxygen right out from them like a vacuum, leaving him empty and rung dry.

“I know.” His thumb traces circles across his thigh, small and impossibly tender. It heaves at Jotaro’s chest, his legs starting to shake from the effort of keeping him off the floor entirely. “You didn’t have to say it. I know.”

“I’m sorry.” He has no idea just how true it is until it leaves his lips.

“I said I’d give you time,” Kakyoin whispers, so close to Jotaro’s ear. There’s still the edge of caution there, but there’s something else, too, a hint of something dangerously close to worry. Confusion, maybe. The longer Jotaro focuses on it, the harder it is to keep the room steady, stars forming where he’s digging the heel of his hands into his eyes. He doesn’t want to hear it, but he couldn’t move if he tried. “I mean that, okay? I mean that.”

“I’m sorry.” Now that it’s said, it’s the only thing in the world that feels true anymore.

“No, I am.” Kakyoin’s hair rustles against Jotaro’s neck as he shakes his head, his hand moving to rest instead on the small of his back. The cold hits harsh against his leg, but he can’t help but lean into the new touch, folding farther down onto his knees at the release of tension the delicacy of it brings against his will. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you. It isn’t fair.”

Jotaro has nothing to say that, because it’s not true, he knows it’s not, but he has no defense when it feels like he’s tethered to the moment by the thin string of Kakyoin’s fingers and frighteningly little else. If he opens his mouth, even that might slip, and he’s dizzied and frayed and all he can see is white lights and blackness. He doesn’t know what will come out if he tries. He doesn’t trust it.

“It’s late.” It’s hardly any time at all before the body above him sighs, hand tracing across every inch of his waist before falling away entirely. “We shouldn’t talk about this anymore tonight. I’ll go.”

“Don’t,” Jotaro gasps, because he’s so fucking cold. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how he’ll handle it if he walks away.

Silence is the only reply to that, a silence that drags on for so long in such complete and utter stillness that Jotaro’s restless, jittering body comes down to match it breath by shuddering breath, his nervous energy an anomaly in a space that’s on pause around him. He feels stuck in time, like the world itself is waiting on him to gather himself before it can start turning again. Finally, somehow, he lifts his head up, blinking in and adjusting his eyes to the darkness without a single stir at his side.

Inch by inch, Kakyoin moves to take a hold of his shoulder, and with a gentle push, pulls him the rest of the way up and turns him so he can see his face. He doesn’t know what he finds there, but against all odds, it seems to be enough.

He closes his own eyes and his shoulders slump down, but if Jotaro didn’t know better, he’d swear there’s a ghost of a smile across his face.

“Then I’ll stay.”

They don’t talk about it, but they do.

They don’t talk about it, but they stay next to one another, and Kakyoin’s hand finds his. It’s not automatic, but he manages to coax it away from his face and down to the space between them, and when Kakyoin’s fingers move to pry in between Jotaro’s, he lets him.

They stay like that until Jotaro’s pulse returns to normal, until the beat of his heart can only be felt in his chest rather than his throat, until he can look at the shadows across the wall without them spinning around him. They stay like that, hands intertwined, neither of them speaking or looking at one another much but their fingers laced with forceful strength, hot to the touch.

They stay like that until Jotaro’s eyelids start to droop and a yawn escapes his lips, the weight of the past week hitting him like a bullet train and draining the last of the strength from his muscles.

They don’t talk about it, but Kakyoin stands up, brings his free hand up to lift Jotaro’s chin and whispers, “Come on.”

Jotaro doesn’t trust his legs, but somehow they get him up to the top of the bed, and he follows Kakyoin down beneath the covers he pulls back. He sinks into the mattress at the first touch, collapsing into the space Kakyoin’s carved out beside him, so close but not in contact, faces and arms and legs careful inches apart.

Their chests rise and fall in tandem, and for the first time since he’s entered the room, Jotaro allows himself to look at him, really look at him. Kakyoin’s clutching the pillow beneath his head and his pupils are blown wide, but there’s gentleness across his features, his skin still flushed from the shower and lips soft and red.

He blinks Jotaro in at the same time, curious like he’s trying to read him and can’t quite get the pieces to fit. It’s a look Jotaro’s familiar with, even from him, but for once it doesn’t make him feel exposed. The ease with which Kakyoin observes him refuses to indulge in Jotaro’s most anxious impulses, yet he still feels frozen in place, pinned underneath the weight of his attention.

It’d be so easy to run, to tell him never mind, that he wants to sleep alone after all. It would be so easy to spring up, throw on his jacket, and walk around the block until morning, to take a drive somewhere far away from this moment, from this man, from these thoughts that won’t leave him be. It’d be so easy, but he remains in place, the light of the moon cutting through the blinds and illuminating every contour of Kakyoin’s body in strips of glowing blue and white.

They don’t talk about it, but Kakyoin inches his hand forward, eyes wide in a silent question, and in this light, all Jotaro can do is nod.

He gasps at the first brush of fingers through his still-damp hair, involuntary and shuddering as he leans into the touch. They work through every centimeter of the strands, tracing down to rest at the back of his neck before spreading his fingers open and holding on, gentle but firm.

They don’t talk about it, but Kakyoin looks him in the eye and whispers, “You’re still everything I remember.”

Jotaro feels like his chest might cave in on itself, hands gripping into the sheets for purchase, but nothing anchors him as well as the pulsating warmth at the top of his spine, radiating sensation loud enough to drown the rest of him out entirely.

His words wash over him, and he knows what he means. He knows what he means down to his bones. His throat is cracked and dry, but he makes it work because there’s no other option. It has to be said. “You, too.”

The second it’s left his lips, it’s like the floodgates break within him. He watches his own hand reach forward in the dim glow of the room, searching until they meet the soft, angular curve of Kakyoin’s jaw and open up to touch the side of his face. He only feels it then, his cheek warm and tangible and real, flush with blood and life. The skin shifts beneath him as Kakyoin breaks into a smile, nervous but brighter than the light of the moon lying across it.

More gently than Jotaro knows to handle, Kakyoin tugs at the back of his neck, just once, beckoning him closer. It’s a question, not a demand, but Jotaro can’t help but respond to it, arching in until their chests just barely brush, the contact jolting him with electricity anew.

They don’t talk about it, but they lean into each breath between them until Kakyoin’s pressed them nose-to-nose, a hand on his waist and the other traveling around to cup Jotaro’s jaw in the palm of his own hand. He’s no longer smiling, fallen serious and reverent at the moment. He must know. It’s so breakable. It’s hanging on by less than a thread.

They don’t talk about it, but Kakyoin breathes in and presses their lips together.

It aches, catching straight to the core of him and searing at his ribcage. It’s the softest thing he’s ever felt, Kakyoin holding tight with his lips butterfly light against his own, questioning and subtle. It drains whatever fight is left in him straight out between his teeth, and he melts into it with a sigh, shoulders heaving down, down until his forehead is against his and his own lips part between Kakyoin’s, spent.

Kakyoin holds his head up by the tips of his fingers, turning him just so until he can hold him in place and kiss him properly, chaste but with each press of his lips filled with palpable intention. It’s too much. It’s too much, and every single whirring piece of Jotaro’s brain falls to silence, the wires cut down and frayed more and more with every movement they make. It’s too much, and he surrenders to it completely, gasping into Kakyoin’s breath and inhaling the subtle floral of his shampoo, the fresh scent of his skin. Kissing back.

Jotaro’s lost completely by the time they come up for air, and when he sees him again, really sees him, it feels like standing at the edge of the tide, swelling like the furious rise and fall of Kakyoin’s chest.

He leans back in, and pulls him under the waves.

Chapter Text

Everything is the same, but it isn’t.

Jotaro isn’t sure what he expected upon waking up, except for maybe the lingering, inexplicable doubt he would at all. Falling asleep felt like a curtain closing, not so much a choice as his eyelids simply giving out on him after hanging on by a thread. Every inch of him was gripped into the moment with all his might like it was a fragmentary piece of time he’d lose the second it ended, or worse, find was nothing more than a fever dream all along.

He lasted as long as he possibly could, lazily intertwined with Kakyoin’s limbs and warmth until sleep finally won out and took hold. The last thing he remembers is Kakyoin’s lips across his eyelids and an ache in his chest, his sleep dreamless and timeless.

It’s just dawn when his eyes flutter open, early morning fog frosting the windowpane and covering the room in a greyish, blurry haze. He registers his surroundings in bits and pieces, the weight of an arm across his chest, the cry of seagulls beyond the trees, a faint heartbeat against his back not quite in time with his own soft pulse.

For a fraction of a second, his own room is unfamiliar, the dissonance between this morning and years of waking up untouched and chilled triggering a latent piece of his fight or flight tendencies. The reality of the situation must have never traveled far from his subconscious, because it doesn’t last long enough to rev up into something more than a vague disoriented feeling before it settles, and he remembers.

There’s a soft lock of red hair falling across his shoulder, and a quiet, steady breath in his ear. Kakyoin.

As if possessed, he reaches for the hand lying across his ribcage and intertwines Kakyoin’s thin fingers in his, squeezing just to remind himself he’s there. It steadies him just a little, but he still feels the need to draw him in closer, tighter to his chest, half-awake and vulnerable like a child.

The body at his side stirs, and there’s a whispered groan in his ear, followed by a slurred, “Jotaro?”

“Sorry.” The sound of his voice snaps Jotaro back to reality and he loosens the hold on his arm, but doesn’t drop it entirely. He shifts them back to their original positions, still touching, but no longer flushed together. It feels wrong now that he’s awake, like he moved before he had permission. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mmm, no,” Kakyoin mumbles, the tip of his nose nuzzling into Jotaro’s neck as he stirs. With a huff, he tugs Jotaro back in closer, like he’s offended at the sudden distance. “It’s fine. I’m awake.”

It’s a lie, and Jotaro knows it. Once Jotaro is up there’s no going back, but Kakyoin has always been content to drift in and out of consciousness for ages, fighting the waking world tooth and nail at his worst. It used to drive the others crazy, but even at its most inconvenient, Jotaro always found it enviable. Endearing.

“It’s still early,” Jotaro offers, his throat scratched and sandy. He twists his neck to check the alarm clock on his nightstand and confirm it, neon red letters blinking close to half-past six. “Don’t worry about it.”

The quiet is good. The quiet is better. The longer they lay here in silence, the more time he has to work out a way to bottle this feeling and keep it forever. It’s too soon. He still might lose it.

“Your heart is racing,” Kakyoin observes, sleep-addled. He guides their hands further up Jotaro’s chest until they’re right above the muscle, as if Jotaro hasn’t been aware of the pace for a while. The contact only speeds it further, and Kakyoin hums in his ear. “You’re always so tense.”

If Kakyoin were more awake and aware, Jotaro might snap at him for pointing out the obvious, or worse, remind him of how fractured his frame of reference has been. It’s easy to fantasize about when he knows he won’t do it, though. The momentary frustration fizzles out as soon as it arrives, because there’s no use fighting the truth, even in his own mind. Instead, he just mutters, “Yeah.”

“Shh,” Kakyoin hushes, even though he’s the one who started it. Jotaro doesn’t have the heart to be annoyed though, not even in passing. It rushes a calm over him, shuddering a breath into the kiss Kakyoin places in the crook of his neck, sighing. “Just lay here.”

Now that consciousness is fully taking hold, staying in the moment is increasingly perilous. The breath against his neck is becoming less of an anchor and more of a sharp unanswered ache in the pit of his stomach, churning through bile and uncertainty. Still, he’s encased in Kakyoin’s arms and unwilling to move away, afraid of the cold that came over him last night at that distance.

“This was always my favorite part of the day,” Kakyoin says after several moments of quiet, intertwined hands still over Jotaro’s chest and tracing lazy circles across it. “Waking up with you.”

Jotaro swallows past the lump in his throat, because there’s a part of him, a real, bright part of him that agrees, but he doesn’t know how to say it. He wouldn’t know where to start. “Why tell me this now?”

With a hum, Kakyoin props himself up on his elbow but keeps the arm over Jotaro steady, careful and heavy across him. “I couldn’t avoid it anymore,” he says, measured like he’s chewing over each word. Jotaro sinks further into the mattress, turning his face into the pillow and breathing in the scent of his shampoo from the night before. “I tried to tell myself differently, but deep down, I knew. I knew that if I ever saw you again, I’d want this with you. But it’s like I said. I had to be okay with being alone in that.”

For maybe the first time, it sinks in just how lonely his voice sounds. There’s a hollow, perfunctory echo to his words, each landing flatter than the last. With shame, Jotaro registers in the beat after just how many times he’s heard the very same tone in every conversation they’ve had dancing around this, protecting something just underneath the surface. He hums to signal his attention, letting out a small sigh at Kakyoin’s fingers twisting absently in the ends of his hair, gentle.

“I was okay,” he continues, with surprising resolve ringing despite the unchanging solemnity in his words. “I spent so long convincing myself it didn’t matter, but it does. I was okay.”

“You keep saying that.” Jotaro doesn’t want to have this conversation. His head is spinning trying to look back on the start, and his annoyance at the inevitability of it is seeping into his words, even muffled by the pillow. It’s slipping away right in front of him, and he was never asked his consent. “I don’t get why it matters.”

Kakyoin’s fingers tighten in his hair, but not enough to truly hurt. They relax after a second, but he keeps raking them through over and over as he talks. “It matters because I thought about this for a long ass time. Are you going to tell me you didn’t?”

Anger flares at the demand in his tone, but there’s something mesmerizing about the touch that dampens it before it can escape his throat with the venom he intends. “Only in dreams.”

His fingers slow at that, stilling at the nape of his neck. “Tell me about them.”

Jotaro doesn’t think he’ll ever know the words for that. Not just now, but ever. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Fair,” Kakyoin hums, even, burying his hand in the scruff at the back of his neck. He’s reminded once again that he needs a haircut, but it feels much less pressing now, somehow. He keens into the touch despite his conscious efforts to keep still and sink farther into the mattress. A soft, breathy laugh escapes Kakyoin’s lips, but when he continues, there’s no trace of it left. "I just want to be clear with this, Jotaro. I was really prepared to say nothing. I could have felt this alone. I lived in silence for years, didn’t I?”

There’s nothing for Jotaro to say that beyond tacit agreement, and it’s still too fresh. He wonders if, even years from now, they’ll eventually be a time where it won’t feel so lonely. There’s only so far down that line of thought he’s willing to travel, so he clings to silence like a blanket, tugging the real one up farther over his torso.

If the quiet throws Kakyoin at all, he doesn’t show it, letting it rest for a natural breath before continuing. Each word is sharp and clear, a perfectly placed knife carving hole after hole into the dense air between them. “I would have said nothing if I felt like I was alone in this.”

Jotaro’s chest lurches, a chill settling over the room and raising the hairs of his arms up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Kakyoin sighs, but there’s nothing defeated about it. Arms still intertwined, he coaxes Jotaro as far onto his back as he can with his face still stubbornly planted in the pillow, refusing to take in the sight of Kakyoin now hovering above him. “Jotaro.”

His name comes out heavy and layered, but lands feather-soft in the air, almost like a prayer. There’s no part of him that’s prepared for what he sees, not the soft curve of Kakyoin’s eyebrows or the way the early morning sun falls across his skin. He wants to turn away, but he can’t. It’s too late for that, so he just hums, resigned.

Kakyoin crawls up to seated and turns Jotaro’s cheek further towards him, his chest following until he’s facing up towards the ceiling. He hovers in his view as he brushes his thumb over Jotaro’s cheekbone, thoughtful. “Look at me.”

“Nowhere else to look,” Jotaro mumbles, and Kakyoin’s eyes flash with light like it’s funny, but Jotaro’s not really trying to be.

“I have some inclinations here,” Kakyoin says, lilting and bright like something in Jotaro’s agreement made him bold. He doesn’t have the first clue why that would be, but it’s too far gone for it to matter and it’s a good look on him, for whatever it’s worth. “I need you to tell me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I am.”

“Spit it out,” Jotaro sighs. It’s torture, slow and precise, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go before suffocating.

“I’m not alone in this.” Kakyoin splays his fingers across his face, lifting Jotaro’s chin up and holding his gaze until Jotaro is forced to click into it. “Right? There’s something here. I’m not crazy. You feel this too.”

It takes about every ounce of energy left in him, but he forces himself to look. He’s never been able to deny Kakyoin much of anything, let alone when he’s pleading so nakedly like this. He blinks the last of the sand out of his eyes and pulls the hair back from his face, squinting against the rays of light until the edges no longer blur.

Above him, Kakyoin is flushed and patient, gaze gentle and just-parted lips bright red against the pallor of his skin. His nightshirt hangs down over his bony shoulder, collarbone and scar tissue dipping down into the shadow of the fabric. His hand is soft and licked with sweat from holding on for so long, but still, neither of them has let go.

Aimless, Jotaro reaches forward and grabs onto the edge of the neckline of his shirt, well-worn and frayed, shuddering when his knuckles brush an indented scar.

“I’ve always felt for you.”

It shocks him to hear out of his own mouth, but it’s nothing compared to what’s mirrored back down at him, the mask of grace Kakyoin was holding only evident in the way it cracks. Jotaro wouldn’t dare try and qualify what he expected, but his face breaks into what can only be called relief, a sigh escaping his lips as his shoulders heave downward, head hanging low. His hair brushes across Jotaro’s chest, obscuring the subtleties of his expression beyond a shaking half-laugh.

“You’re something else,” Kakyoin exhales. He drags his free hand down across Jotaro’s shoulder to brace himself up on his elbow, straddling him with his chest, inches apart. “I was so sure, but you still make me so nervous.”

“I’m sorry,” Jotaro says, even though he’s sick of hearing himself say it.

“No,” Kakyoin says, hasty, bringing their intertwined hands up together to press his palm flat to Jotaro’s jawline. “No, it’s okay. I…”

He trails off, searching Jotaro’s face for something that scrunches up the space between his eyebrows. Jotaro remains statuesque beneath him, awaiting his judgment. “I want to say it’s because I know you, but it’s been too long for that, hasn’t it? Is that ridiculous?”

“It’s not ridiculous.” Maybe if it were anything else, Jotaro would take it for the hypothetical question his distant airiness implies, but he doesn’t feel like he’s earned that luxury this time. “I still feel like I know you, too.”

It’s not to placate him or take the tension out of the moment, they both know Jotaro’s above such platitudes. He says it because it’s the truth. Even the things that have surprised him about Kakyoin or taken him off guard have never truly added up to someone he doesn’t recognize. There’s nothing about him as he stands now that isn’t just another version of the boy he remembers, and he knows this man just the same. A week or several months or a decade, it’s all come out in the wash. It’s not something he knows what to make of yet, and he can’t look at it too long without shirking away, but he’s never been one to deny reality.

“Then it’s because I know you,” Kakyoin decides, smiling once to punctuate his words before letting it fall back to a line, thoughtful. “I know this is you giving me what you can right now.”

No one’s ever touched him like this, gentle, casual, close. Not since him.

There’s nowhere else to hide. It’s always been like this. He strips him raw.

His words tangle in his throat, releasing in a mangled exhale. “It is.”

Kakyoin meets his eyes and lowers himself back down to the mattress inch by inch, as if waiting to be denied permission. Jotaro just blinks back in response, and slowly, Kakyoin seems to take it as the acquiescence it is and rests his head across Jotaro’s chest.

He finally pries his fingers free only to sprawl them out next to his own head, tracing the muscles beneath Jotaro’s shirt. “I don’t want anything more than that.”

“I know,” Jotaro replies, because that’s true, too. He’s had less of an opportunity for it, but that doesn’t change the fact Kakyoin’s one of the only people in his life who’s never once made him feel like he’s not enough.

His stray strand of red hair falls in wisps across Jotaro’s blue nightshirt, and he can’t help himself. He runs a hand through it, experimental, silky and curiously untouched by the mess of the night. Kakyoin hums beneath him at the touch, small and contented.

“I have to move back to Tokyo,” Jotaro says, so quiet even his own ears struggle to pick it up. He doesn’t want it heard, maybe. He wants to say it even less, but it feels more relevant now than all the other times he’s mentioned it. It feels more relevant now more than ever. “Soon. My lease is up at the end of the week.”

“You’ve been saying it’s coming up,” Kakyoin replies, sounding nowhere near as affected hearing the information as Jotaro is delivering it. “I figured I’d help with that too. I thought it was implied.”

It falls out from his mouth so automatically there’s no way to stop it. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Kakyoin counters, gentle but just as rehearsed as Jotaro’s own statement. “Do you know where?”

Jotaro hums, anchored by the warmth of Kakyoin’s breath across his chest. “Joseph said he’d let me use his place. I wasn’t going to ask, but he offered.”

He feels rather than sees Kakyoin’s lips curl up, a single, silent laugh shaking his chest. “That’s kind of him.”

There’s a lump in Jotaro’s throat a mile wide and numbness in his limbs like he’s floating far above the mattress, a pit in his chest anticipating the inevitable crash. Looking at Kakyoin is like staring down a precipice, far away at the bottom of a fall he won’t survive.

He doesn’t want to say it, but as if by design, there’s nowhere else to hide. Kakyoin’s made sure of that.

“What happens then?”

For a long, echoing moment, Kakyoin says nothing, but Jotaro can feel the gears turning as he idly maps his way across Jotaro’s chest, drawing patterns and constellations he can’t see against his skin.

He takes his time, speaking only when he seems certain he knows the words. “I meant what I said about wanting to stay in your life.”

“You don’t mean that.” Jotaro closes his eyes, pinching down until he sees stars. “You can’t mean what that implies.”

“I think I do,” Kakyoin whispers, and Jotaro’s taken back by how ill-formed it sounds in comparison, almost like he’s surprised to hear it himself. There’s something deeper beneath the surface of it, so suspiciously close to wonder that it feels too private for Jotaro to hear at all. “Maybe it’s crazy, maybe it’s too soon, but if you let me… I think I could.”

“I don’t know.” He feels breathless, winded like Kakyoin’s weight on his chest is ten times his size. He needs space, he needs air, he needs him here, he needs a later. “I don’t know yet.”

“You don’t need to.” Kakyoin curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and squeezes, knuckles just barely flashing white before they release and spread out again, light to the touch. “Just let me help you with this for now. I can wait.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

It’s always like this, an endless wait. A daughter waiting for her father, a wife waiting for her husband, friends waiting for reminders he’s still alive, still cares. Everyone he’s ever known is locked in a separate room in his mind, lined up cell block by cell block in rows and encased in windowless concrete where time and life can’t reach until it’s gone so long Jotaro can no longer bear to look to find the keys. The thought of Kakyoin there dizzies him with nausea, the fading pallor of his skin or the dimming light in his eyes enough to cave Jotaro in entirely, let alone if he was responsible. He’d never forgive himself.

“I want to.” Each word is a punch, forceful and laced with something sharp Jotaro can’t quite read. He lifts his head and leans forward until their faces are inches apart, and there’s nowhere else for Jotaro to look, there never has been. “How many times do I have to say it? I made you wait for years, Jotaro. Even if the answer isn’t what I want, I want to hear it. After all this time, you deserve that from me.”

His legs itch with the urge to run, but he hasn’t come back down yet. He’d fall. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t yet, no longer perched on the edge as much as now dangling off it, held only by the steel in Kakyoin’s eyes that’s refusing to let him go.

“What if I never know?” Jotaro whispers.

Kakyoin processes his words with a flicker of his eyes and a tongue across his lips. The silence is unbearable, but Jotaro needs him to hear it more than he fears the echo of his own words.

“We’ll figure it out.” He needs it understood, and when it is, Kakyoin looks straight into him without flinching. “I’m not afraid of that.”

Jotaro doesn’t know why or how, but he means it, every word wrapping around his limbs and holding him down. Kakyoin’s pupils are coin-wide and connected by a thread to his own so level he can almost see it in the air, and he exhales in one slow release. “Okay.”

Kakyoin presses his lips to up his, and Jotaro opens for him, breathing him in. He shivers at the brush of Kakyoin’s teeth against his tongue, but heat fills his lungs with every movement between them, and he’s there. He’s so close.

It’s not allowed to last long before Kakyoin pulls away, brushing his lips with his thumb just once before lowering back down to his chest, holding Jotaro’s gaze until the very moment his head meets the fabric of his shirt and his eyes flutter closed.

They stay like that, Jotaro’s hand wrapped in his hair and his heartbeat in Kakyoin’s ear. It could be hours or seconds, but somehow Jotaro brings himself to let his own eyes shut, nowhere near the threat of falling back asleep but no longer flushed with tension, the stillness of the moment seeping it out from his muscles.

It’s on the tip of his tongue long minutes before he lets it slip, but it eventually lands, echoing in the air instead of the inside of his own skull. “Did you mean that? Earlier?”

“Mean what?” Kakyoin asks, even though Jotaro has a hard time believing he doesn’t know.

“About waking up,” Jotaro says, because he can’t say the full thing. Not in his own words.

Kakyoin raises an eyebrow at him, incredulous like he can’t believe he has to ask. “You were my favorite part of every day,” he mutters, lips pressed against the skin just above his neckline. “You were my favorite part of all of it.”

Jotaro buries his knuckles deep in the red of his hair and, sliver by sliver, he starts to understand it.

They waste another hour of the morning like this, interrupted only by Kakyoin running back to his room to grab the book of Jotaro’s he’s been working on before sprawling back out across his chest.

He reads Jotaro facts about corals he already knows, but it fills the silence and keeps the anxiety at bay. Besides, it’s different in his voice, his wonder and curiosity numbing the gnawing feeling at the edges of his temples.

Like all things, though, his little bubble must come to an end, and it does with a ring of the doorbell and a hissed, reflexive, “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Kakyoin asks, lifting his head and holding the page with a finger. He shifts to accommodate Jotaro’s mad scatter to get to his feet, kicking the blankets off in a haze while repeating the same muttered curses under his breath.

“Get dressed,” Jotaro commands over his shoulder, hoping that the blatant frustration in his voice won’t be taken as a personal slight. It isn’t meant to be, but he doesn’t have time for that level of nuance.

He stumbles over to his dresser, and for a split second the eyes fixed on his back make him hesitate and curl a shiver down his spine, but for better or worse, Kakyoin won’t be seeing anything he hasn’t already seen before. Still, he makes it quick as possible, stripping down to his boxers and pulling on the first pair of pants and somewhat presentable shirt he sees in one hurried motion, discarding his sleepwear in a pile by the door.

“I’m coming!” The doorbell rings yet again, and Jotaro grits down on his teeth, sticking his head out to yell down the hall. “Jesus Christ.”

Over his shoulder, Kakyoin has barely bothered to crawl up to sitting, reluctantly setting his book down on the end table with a yawn. “Who is it?”

“I forgot I told Josuke he could help me move for 5,000 yen,” Jotaro sighs, running a hand through his hair before tossing on his hat, left perched on his nightstand as always. He opens his mouth to continue before three more doorbells in quick succession interrupt him, each raising his blood pressure more by tangible degrees.

“Josuke?” Kakyoin asks, undaunted by the noise.

“Long story,” Jotaro dismisses. It’s not like he won’t find out soon enough. The thought causes him not insignificant amounts of stress, annoyed at himself for failing to call it off but even more annoyed at the looming unmitigated disaster that may or may not unfold completely outside his realm of control. Teenagers have never been Jotaro’s strong suit. “If you have any self-preservation, I’m serious. Throw on a pair of jeans.”

“Yes, sir,” Kakyoin deadpans, but Jotaro barely hears it over the sound of yet another doorbell and his own footsteps down the hall. It’s not just his funeral if he doesn’t listen.

Jotaro clicks the three locks on his front door in quick succession before throwing it open into the morning air, and the worst-case scenario he was praying against every step down from his room is thrown right back in his face.

He isn’t foolish enough to dare believe Josuke would come alone—he and Okuyasu are all but a packaged deal lately, and Koichi is a guarantee on most of their adventures barring destruction of property—but God nor Heaven could possibly prepare Jotaro for the face of none other than Kishibe Rohan at eight in the morning. It could be ten at night and he wouldn’t be prepared, but there he is, stacked behind the other three with his trademark sneer plastered on, arms crossed and leaning against Jotaro’s porch.

“Took you long enough,” Josuke huffs, pressing his way in with a hand against the doorframe. “You weren’t asleep, were you? Rise and shine, you picked the time.”

“No,” Jotaro retorts, not so much stepping aside as begrudgingly opting out of getting elbowed in the face on their way in. “You’re just impatient.”

The other two trail behind in similar fashion, Okuyasu at his side with a quick, cheery wave and polite ‘Mr. Kujo’, followed by Koichi with a muted version of much of the same, but after a quick risk calculation of turning his back on the children, Jotaro stops Rohan with a hand on either side of the doorway.

“You,” Jotaro towers, taking advantage of their sizeable height difference to stare down with the full force of his displeasure at the situation, ignoring Rohan’s shrill protest. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I didn’t invite him,” Josuke leans backward into Jotaro’s shoulder, mock-whispering in his ear while glaring daggers at the man in front of them. “For the record. I tried.”

Rohan rolls his shoulders, standard array of strange, gaudy accessories jingling with the motion. “I wasn’t aware I needed an invitation to help a dear friend move. I simply overheard the news and wanted to lend my humble hand to the cause.”

Jotaro narrows his eyes, unflinching in the face of Rohan’s equal, stubborn resolve, locked in a battle of silent wills that Jotaro refuses to concede just yet. “I don’t really need any help, actually. I meant to call and cancel.”

It was a spur of the moment decision in the first place, made half out of desperation for Josuke to stop hounding him about his move and genuine want for assistance. It’s not like he can’t do it himself—between him and Star Platinum, he’s more than capable—but Josuke and the others were so insistent in involving themselves he caved out of convenience. The path of least resistance, when it comes to Josuke Higashikata, is almost always to give in.

Still, it was something he agreed to well over a month ago half-expecting it to be lost among the dozens of other miscellaneous teenage tussles in Josuke’s life, and he could kick himself for letting it slip his own mind in his negligence. Now, he’s faced with Josuke, Koichi, and Okuyasu poking around in his kitchen cabinets, Rohan conspicuously eyeing for ways to duck underneath Jotaro’s chokehold on the doorframe, and a rather large elephant set to enter the room at any moment he is in no way equipped or prepared to explain.

There’s no one to blame but himself, but Rohan is always a convenient scapegoat.

“Surely you don’t want to carry all this furniture alone,” Rohan drawls, nails tapping against his arm in unhurried rhythm. “Not even you hate yourself that much.”

“He has a point,” Okuyasu calls from somewhere behind him, followed by a worrying slam and jangle of a kitchen drawer. Jotaro itches to turn around, but giving Rohan even a sliver of an opportunity to weasel his way in would be suicide, and they both know it. “We’re here because we want to be!”

“And because you’re paying us,” Josuke adds, as if Jotaro would dare make the mistake of thinking he’d forget that end of the bargain.

There’s a creak on the hardwood floor from down the hallway, and Jotaro’s chest drops into his stomach before he hears an even, “He wouldn’t be alone, really.”

For a flash second, Rohan meets Jotaro’s eyes, but he doesn’t register it was a dare to turn around until Jotaro’s already done it on sheer reflex. Lucky for him, he only looks away just long enough to catch sight of Kakyoin, blissfully fully dressed in a tasteful long-sleeve and slacks. He catches Rohan by the strap of his ridiculous suspenders before he can make a real run for it, stopping himself just shy of full-on slamming him into the wall.

“Well, now.” He expects another fight, but instead, Rohan’s lips quirk up, biting down a laugh that reverberates in his chest. “It really was about Kakyoin.”

“What about me?” Jotaro jolts at the closeness of Kakyoin’s voice and the silence that’s fallen over the rest of the room, all the clanging and chatter of the other three falling into a murmur at the new face.

“It’s nothing,” Jotaro insists before Rohan can spit out whatever is so clearly on the tip of his tongue, easing his hand from Rohan’s chest with no small amount of reluctance. He shakes Jotaro off with a roll of his eyes, readjusting his clothing and sliding in past the doorway, victorious. Jotaro hisses in a breath, sighs, locks the door behind him, and bites the bullet. “Kakyoin, this is Rohan. He’s…”

“The best-selling creator of Pink Dark Boy,” Rohan interrupts, straightening his shoulders and holding out a hand, immediately switching into the nauseating professional performance he’s nailed down for the press just to complete the picture. Jotaro feels his nose curl up in automatic response, but Kakyoin takes the offer, indulging in a crushingly firm handshake without flinching. “And a dear friend to the future Dr. Kujo.”

“I’m an old friend as well,” Kakyoin explains, with a seamless grace that Jotaro is so grateful for it makes his knees weak, watching Rohan like a hawk for any sign of dissent. “I’ve heard of that series, I think.”

“Charmed.” To his surprise, Rohan’s face betrays shockingly little, any and all reaction to the wording hidden aside from a near-imperceptible rise and fall of his eyebrow. He spins on his heel with a flourish, making his way over to take a seat in the kitchen, near where all three of the others are staring Jotaro’s way with open-faced curiosity.

Okuyasu and Koichi promptly go back to fiddling with the cabinets in a futile attempt to look as if they weren’t eavesdropping, but Josuke gives no such pretense, a hand on his hip and elbow on the kitchen counter, tapping his cheek as he stares the two of them up and down, silent calculation from the one Jotaro feared most already taking place behind his eyes.

“You’re one of the guys in his photograph,” Josuke observes, crushing any and all feeble hope that he wouldn’t immediately go for the jugular in one fell swoop. “The one with my dad.”

Jotaro feels the full force of Kakyoin’s questioning eyes on the side of his head, forcing the words out before either of them can dare to move the conversation any further without his consent. “Kakyoin, this…”

“Your dad?” Kakyoin stomps over his words with commanding force, and Jotaro is already sick of getting interrupted, Kakyoin’s arms crossed at his side with a look in his eye that says he knows full well what Jotaro was trying to cut off. He meets his gaze for a flicker of a second in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t even have the heart to look apologetic.

“Joseph Joestar.” Josuke’s gotten better at saying it without clenching down on his jaw, but the name still fights to escape his lips, muttered and tense. If the effort is obvious to Kakyoin, there’s nothing that shows it. “Jotaro takes that thing everywhere, so I’ve seen it enough to know.”

Teenagers are really not Jotaro’s strong suit.

“I was saying,” Jotaro mutters, clearing his throat. Kakyoin’s focus is back on him to gauge his own reaction, but Jotaro turns before he can indulge in that pull, cocking his head to the side and directing his attention squarely on Josuke’s inquisitive stare. “That this is Josuke, my uncle.”

“Your uncle,” Kakyoin repeats, flat and incredulous in a way that all but demands Jotaro’s attention back on him out loud. This time, he’s not strong enough to resist it, and he lets their eyes match up in confirmation, lingering a bit in uncertainty before he pries himself away.

“That’s me,” Josuke grins, splittingly wide and all teeth. “I didn’t know you invited anyone else, Jotaro.”

“I only remember inviting you,” Jotaro reminds him, grateful for even a small foothold in the conversation that feels a bit more solid beneath him. “I don’t have to tell you my plans, either.”

“Why wouldn’t we all come?” Josuke counters, and Okuyasu and Koichi stir from their own whispered conversation between one another, adding yet another unnecessary confirmation they’ve been hanging on every single word from the start.

“Yeah, you’ve helped us out before,” Okuyasu adds, holding up a package of seaweed snacks he’s procured from one of Jotaro’s cabinets in a silent question. Jotaro nods with a shrug, and he digs into it, words mumbled between bites. “Name’s Okuyasu, by the way.”

“Koichi. It’s nice to meet you.” Okuyasu passes Koichi a strip of seaweed and he takes it with some skepticism, but unlike his companion, he at least has the manners to finish chewing before he continues. “We probably won’t get many chances to see you before you leave again, right?”

“Right on both accounts,” Josuke gestures, crossing his arms with a satisfied nod. “Plus, three pairs of hands are better than one.”

“Four,” interjects Rohan, insistent from his perch on the table.

“No one asked,” Josuke fires back, and Jotaro can already feel the migraine coming on. “You followed us here, stalker.”

“Five,” Kakyoin holds up a hand, turning to Jotaro with raised eyebrows. “We’ll make quicker work of it this way than we would with just us, right? There’s no harm in that.”

That’s a wild underestimation of the potential danger as far as Jotaro’s concerned, and even though he knows beyond a shadow of doubt Kakyoin can read that on his face, he’s implacable and expectant, staring him down with a resolve that Jotaro folds under in record time.

“Most of the furniture came with the rental,” Jotaro sighs. It feels distinctly like digging his own grave to say, but he does, all resistance draining out like adrenaline after coming down from a fight. “I really just need to pack up everything else. Books, clothes, appliances. Nothing big.”

“Your wish is our command,” Rohan drawls, throwing his feet up on the table with a taunting glint in his eye, the sharp heels of his boots in the air. Jotaro grits his teeth, but it’s hardly worth the wasted breath.

There are a few different ways Jotaro could tackle this, and he runs through all the possibilities in his head, sifting through and ruling out process after process until only the obvious order of business remains. He adjusts the brim of his hat, and decides to balance efficiency with the thin grip he can hope to maintain on his sanity to the best of his ability. If there’s no way out, there’s no choice but to do it right.

“Josuke and Okuyasu,” Jotaro begins, putting on the best version of a commanding voice he has and pointing in their direction, sharp. “Start in the kitchen. I have a pile of boxes behind the fridge and duct tape in the top drawer to the right. If you somehow break anything beyond repair, it’s out of your cut.”

Okuyasu gives an enthusiastic salute while Josuke spares one last, sidelong glance at Kakyoin before making his way to the drawer indicated, rummaging around with surprising determination. Despite Jotaro’s irritation, something in him softens at the sight of how quickly they take to his instructions, even if his fear for the safety of his pots and pans remains.

“Koichi,” he continues, softening for the sake of by far the least worrisome and offensive member of the party. “You’ll join Kakyoin in the study, because you’re the only two I trust with the books.”

There’s some truth to that, but more than anything, Koichi is the only one he trusts with Kakyoin, and there’s a delicate balance at play. While keeping Kakyoin at his side is selfishly his preferred option, especially in light of the still-humming unresolved haze of the morning, it runs the dual risk of either opening them up to the scrutiny of anyone else around, or leaving the children unsupervised, and neither is a game he’s willing to play.

Both of them look relatively pleased with this regardless of the reasoning, Koichi running to grab a stack of boxes Okuyasu’s procured from behind the fridge. Kakyoin catches Jotaro’s eyes once more with a wry smile, fingertips brushing along his arm as he turns to lead Koichi back down the hallway and into the office, leaving a shudder down Jotaro’s spine in his wake.

Which leaves only one, and he knows exactly what to do there. He waits for their footsteps to disappear down the hallway before he turns back to Rohan, letting the silence linger a good, long minute in wait.

“And you,” Jotaro addresses with a force that startles both Josuke and Okuyasu briefly up from tearing through his kitchen drawers. For his part, Rohan just crosses his arms with pointed nonchalance, head tilted to the side and mild amusement etched across his features. “You’re coming with me.”

“Punish me, daddy,” Rohan mock-shivers, and Jotaro feels bile stick in the back of his throat, wishing sincerely it was enough to throw up right on his designer boots. “You know I like it rough.”

In lieu of that option, he puts as much venom into his expression as he’s physically capable, taking hold of one of his suspender straps and throwing him from the table to dangle him high off the ground. Josuke snickers behind their backs, but Jotaro’s not doing it for an audience, keeping his focus squarely on the squirming body underneath his fist lest he try and make another break for it.

He holds him at eye level with all the fire and steel the visceral disgust inspires in him and more, jabbing a finger straight between his eyes. Anger rises by degrees at Rohan’s inexplicable lack of a reaction, an undaunted smug smile plastered on his face belied only by a flash-second of fear that disappears before Jotaro even has the opportunity to gloat.

He grits his teeth and pushes him back to the ground, because there’s no use stoking a battle he’s too exhausted by far to win the upper hand in. Instead, he gives a long, drawn-out sigh and points down the hallway, pinching the bridge of his nose to drive away the rising pressure in his skull. “I’m making you clean the bathroom.”

“Bleach hurts my delicate hands,” he complains, flashing his French manicured nails in near-histrionic offense. “Why can’t we pack up your closet?”

“With a toothbrush,” Jotaro amends, grabbing the strap of his suspenders once again to drag him down the hallway before he can dare think to complain further.

It’s a lost cause, and his noises of protest echo down through the house all the way to the room in question, where Jotaro throws him in and locks it behind them, pressing his own back against the door and crossing his arms.

Rohan’s smugness doesn’t completely dissipate, but it’s faded now that they’re in private, something close to thoughtfulness falling across his features as they stare each other down from opposite sides of the small room, Rohan tapping his fingers against his elbows like he’s waiting for Jotaro to begin.

He hates giving him the satisfaction, but some things are unavoidable. “If you’re weird about this, I’ll turn your bones inside out. That’s a promise.”

“Easy, tiger.” Rohan rolls his eyes straight to the ceiling so hard Jotaro genuinely wonders if it hurts, before remembering he doesn’t care. “I’m not going to be weird about it. It’s weird enough without my help.”

Jotaro resents that comment, and resents even more how little he can find it in himself to argue with it. The worst part about Rohan, he’s decided, isn’t that he’s terminally insufferable—it’s that he’s frequently right on top of it.

“I’m serious,” Jotaro insists, because being technically correct isn’t enough for him to fully trust his intentions, not quite. The soft sounds of Koichi and Kakyoin’s conversation drift in from the hallway, and he lowers his voice before continuing. “If you say anything or put him on the spot, we’ll have a problem.”

“It’s delicate, I take it?” Rohan ventures, sweeping the shower curtain to the side and taking a seat on the side of the tub, legs crossed and hands folded over his knee in rapt attention. “Tell me all the juicy details.”

“You’ll get what I give you,” Jotaro reminds him, fingers clutching into the flesh of his elbows. “There’s a lot I’m still trying to figure out with this. The last thing I need for you to make it any harder.”

“You wound me.” Rohan throws a hand to his forehead and leans back with a dramatic sigh, kicking his legs up in the air. Jotaro silently prays he’ll fall backwards into the tub, but no such luck. “You’re forgetting I actually respect you, Jotaro.”

“You make it hard to remember.” Laughing is the last thing Jotaro feels like doing, but he lets a single hollow hum slip out before he catches it, turning away. He makes the mistake of facing the mirror, and one look at the bags under his own eyes sends a shock through him, like he hasn’t seen himself in weeks. It’s not the worst he’s ever looked, not by a long shot, but the week of unmitigated stress on top of heavy thesis work has sunk his face in to a noticeable extent, and Jotaro can’t stand to look at it too long before he’s forced to face Rohan again.

“I don’t have any interest in sabotaging your little blast from the past,” Rohan sighs, like it’s a waste of his breath to even force out between his teeth. “All it takes is one look at you two to know you’re already good and wrapped up in each other’s bullshit. How long’s it even been? A week?”

“And change,” Jotaro corrects under his breath. “That’s not the point.”

Rohan shrugs, a strange look falling over his face. Jotaro knows better than to call it warm, but it’s certainly meditative, Rohan scanning him up and down with slow, thoughtful eyes. It’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on him, aside from perhaps the few times Jotaro’s caught him at work, where such beats of deliberate consideration are more appropriate for someone so otherwise manic by nature. It throws Jotaro off his rhythm, suddenly exposed in a way he’s not prepared for.

“This changes everything for you, doesn’t it?” Rohan asks, but it’s distant, nothing more than clinical observation. There’s not a trace of emotion there to read, aside from maybe neutral understanding. “It should, either way. It changed everything the first time.”

Jotaro squirms against the doorframe, heat rising up his neck at the candid turn the conversation’s taking, once again without his consent or permission. “There’s a lot to consider.”

“Look.” Rohan rocks forward, leaning over his knees and putting a hand to his chest with a subtler, but still present, roll of the eyes yet again. “If there’s anything I know, it’s drama. This is a fireworks show waiting to happen, I’d be doing myself a disservice to not sit back and let it unfold. I’m just glad you haven’t run from it and spoiled the fun.”

Jotaro lets his shoulders slump down on himself, the weight of holding them taut against the doorframe too much to keep up any longer. “I don’t think I know how to.”

Rohan smiles like he’s in on a secret no one else has caught onto yet, and it’s one of the least flattering looks in his long index of unflattering looks. “Of course you don’t.”

There’s a crash from down the hall followed by a string of curses in what sounds like Josuke’s voice, and Jotaro hangs his head into his hand, exhaling. He’s damn lucky it’s nothing he can’t fix, but it unfortunately distracts Jotaro long enough to miss his chance at a retort before Rohan continues.

“You’re not allowed to get on my case if I point out you’re fucking, though.” Rohan points a finger in his direction, circling it through the air with an accusatory flourish. “Because you are. You’re not subtle. Those idiots might be too dense to see it, but I’m onto you.”

Despite his best attempts to keep a straight face, Jotaro feels his heart skip a beat, landing off-rhythm in his chest with a thud. “We’re not.”

“But you will be,” Rohan argues, drawling like he’s trying to explain the alphabet to an obstinate child. “And we all know that’s basically the same thing.”

Every last primal instinct is demanding he put a fist straight through his self-righteous face, but Jotaro has long learned the benefits of controlling his more violent impulses, at least when they could draw unnecessary attention or worse, start yet another battle today he’s doomed to lose. Instead, he reaches into the cabinet underneath the sink and tosses a bottle of bleach in his general direction, clinging to the small joy of watching Rohan scramble to catch it without falling into the tub.

“I wasn’t kidding about cleaning this,” Jotaro reminds him. He follows it up with a roll of paper towels and a pair of vinyl gloves to go along with, which is evidence of saint-like generosity in his opinion. “It better be spotless.”

“I cannot wait for you to skip town,” Rohan huffs, snapping on his gloves with naked disgust. “I won’t miss you at all, you dick.”

“Likewise,” Jotaro tosses over his shoulder, offering up a single middle finger on his way out just to drive the point home.

It’s easier than saying what he really means, which is something dangerously close to gratitude.

True to form, Jotaro can only trust Rohan as far as he can throw him. Considering his stature, it’s pretty far, but nowhere near far enough.

To his credit, Jotaro made the mistake of letting down his guard. After Jotaro left to pack up the rest of his clothes he won’t need for the rest of the week, the day went smoothly, suspiciously so, even. The only real bump in the road came when Kakyoin demanded they break for lunch, which in turn meant getting thrown back in the minefield of sharing the same room, but even that went without incident.

The conversation was alarmingly pleasant, with Kakyoin managing to spend time chatting with each and everyone one of them with a grace that the teenage version of him could have surely only dreamt of. Koichi, unsurprisingly, took to him swimmingly, validating Jotaro’s calculation that they would be the most compatible to work together, but even Josuke and Okuyasu seemed charmed by him, in their own boisterous way.

Despite their confrontation, Jotaro couldn’t stop himself from watching every move Rohan made out of the corner of his eye, but aside from his inevitable bickering with Josuke, he behaved himself without a single double entendre or layered quip. To his horror, Kakyoin seemed to get on with him the best of all, sparking anxiety that robbed any sense of accomplishment right out from under him until he was finally able to release everyone to wrap up the last of the work.

Begrudgingly, Jotaro has to admit it cut down what might have been days worth of work to only several hours, and come evening, he’s almost ready to concede it’s been worth the stress. It’s all well and good, right up until the moment he’s ushering everyone out the door, towering piles of boxes now lined up in his living room as evidence.

It’s not the last time he’ll see any of them in all likelihood with several days still left to go in town, but there’s a faint air of finality to the goodbyes regardless. Even Josuke takes him in an awkward one-armed facsimile of a hug after Jotaro slides over everyone’s allotted payment, and it’s strange, in a way. Jotaro didn’t expect to feel missed, but that’s the sentiment that’s echoed back at him to varying degrees, and it’s even more surreal to realize how much he returns it.

Maybe there are things he’ll miss about this place, after all.

It feels like the process takes forever on top of an already arduously long day, but when he finally gets the front door open, Koichi taps Jotaro on the shoulder and whispers, “Are you going to explain why you needed my help, now?”

Jotaro honestly considers it for a split second, before reaching into his wallet to produce another 5,000-yen note and slide it his way. “Ask me later.”

He raises an eyebrow, but pockets it without dissent. “Alright.”

If that exchange piques Kakyoin’s attention, Rohan seemingly takes it as a personal challenge to grab hold of it completely, filing out behind the others last and bracing himself on the doorframe to pivot back towards them at the last second.

“So nice to meet you, by the way,” he waves at Kakyoin, a glint in his eye that immediately fires off alarm bells in Jotaro’s head. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

With that, he marches out and slams the door behind him, leaving Jotaro nothing but their fading chatter in the distance and Kakyoin’s eyes boring straight into the side of his skull.

“Cute kids,” Kakyoin remarks once the dust has settled, hitting the locks before Jotaro can bring himself to move. There’s a smile on his face Jotaro isn’t prepared for, bright and broad even through a clear edge of exasperation. “A bit of a handful.”

“Imagine trying to catch a serial killer with them,” Jotaro deadpans, walking over to the table and all but collapsing into one of the chairs. He feels the adrenaline seep out of his body through his feet, leaning his head back. Kakyoin makes his way to stand over him, hands on either side of the armrests.

“Koichi was telling me,” Kakyoin replies, face dangling over Jotaro’s, open and bright. “You’re a good role model for them, you know.”

Jotaro’s been called a lot of things in his life, but a good role model is not exactly at the top of his list, so he just shrugs in reply.

Kakyoin trails his hands up Jotaro’s arms before resting them on his shoulders, digging gently but firmly into the taut muscle. He clenches underneath it for a second in surprise, but a few rolls of his wrists sends him sinking further down into the chair, the warmth of it unwinding his tension, even if just a little.

“What’s the deal with that author, by the way?” Kakyoin asks after several moments of silence, kneading his hands into Jotaro’s back. “You have a strange dynamic.”

An involuntary groan escapes his lips, and he has to work to match it up with a particularly harsh push on his muscle to mask it. “It’s not worth talking about.”

“You can’t look at me like that,” Kakyoin accuses, pressing deep into the crease of his shoulder blade with a bony thumb and holding down, almost enough to sting. “Now I have to know.”

He fights it with everything he has, but Jotaro can’t stop the heat creeping up the sides of his neck and into his face, and with Kakyoin staring down at him with all the intensity of a scientist peering into a microscope, he knows all too well he must see it too.

“No,” Kakyoin drones, incredulous. It feels targeted, planned like Kakyoin’s been standing here taking down his defenses muscle by muscle just to ensure there’s no energy left in his body to fight it or run away outright. He studies him, expression flashing from confusion to disbelief and back again before he exhales, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me…”

Out of all the things about Kakyoin, he’s always struggled the hardest to understand how in a world full of people who feel miles away from any truth about to Jotaro at all, Kakyoin can see straight through him with nothing more than a glance. He’s never seen anyone make something look so easy, and maybe it’s the day, or maybe it’s the way his shoulders feel like they’re melting, but he buckles immediately. “It’s been a weird goddamn year.”

Kakyoin blinks down at him for long, silent seconds, and then bursts into laughter that racks his whole body, shaking him hard enough that Jotaro trembles with the force of it too. It goes on so long Jotaro’s bone-deep embarrassment somehow manages to fade into annoyance, until there’s the hint of tears welling up in Kakyoin’s eyes, until he finds it in him to shrug off his hands and pivot around in his chair, eyes narrowed.

“Is it really that funny?” He demands as Kakyoin’s laughter finally fades into a silent tremor, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm.

“No, no,” Kakyoin dismisses, inhaling deep to regain his bearings. “It’s just… God, the choices I made before I came back around to you.”

Jotaro sighs, and passes him a napkin from off the table, tapping his foot impatiently against the tile while he waits for Kakyoin to wipe the last of the humor from his eyes.

“Remind me to tell you about them sometime,” Kakyoin says, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket, meeting Jotaro’s eyes with a smile that sparks the corners of his own up in the glow of dim kitchen lights.

The last word of it rings in the air, and Kakyoin might not feel it, but Jotaro does, every tone of the hypothetical future it implies reverberating through his bones and thrumming with energy, tangible and bright.

“Yeah. Sometime.”

Chapter Text

For somewhere Jotaro’s lived his entire life, so much of Tokyo remains a mystery to him.

As a kid, Jotaro was always more excited by the idea of cities than actually exploring them, and as an adult, he’s always been more compelled by far-off places and exotic towns off the beaten path than the familiar. He makes his way around the city, but only to routine areas, from the university, to his old home, to a few scattered shops and restaurants, and back again.

The area he grew up in was modest—quiet and quaint in a neighborhood below their actual means, far from the city center and lined with trees. When Jotaro started his own family, it only made sense to center them in an adjacent district. Where Joseph chose his property now, on the other hand, is bustling and ostentatious in the heart of Shibuya, with an average price point that nearly made Kakyoin faint when they passed a realtor's office on their first day back.

It’s not that Jotaro minds the noise or the crowds, he’s more than used to it by now, but it’s a little jarring after months in sleepy Morioh to be thrown back into the thick of things. The house is as private as it can be and nondescript from the outside, complete with some vegetation separating the property from those next to it. Still, it’s a far cry from the back road rental he’s left behind, where the nights were so quiet he could hear every rustle in the bushes. Despite his best intentions, the first few days are spent on edge, jumping at distant sirens and arguments from the street.

Kakyoin seems to struggle with none of it, however, walking the neon-tinged streets with straight shoulders and a fast gait. As fond as Kakyoin is of the house, lathering dubiously-deserved praise onto Joseph’s taste during their initial walking tour of the rooms, he jumps at the opportunity to wander out into the world, joining Jotaro on even the most mundane of housewarming errands.

“It reminds me of home,” Kakyoin explains when Jotaro points out his preoccupation with the scenery one night as they’re out walking through a nearby park. It was Kakyoin’s suggestion, but they’ve been arranging the house for two days straight at this point, and Jotaro welcomed the opportunity for a break. “Except where I live is even louder, and nowhere near as nice.”

“I’d be somewhere less showy, if it were up to me,” Jotaro shrugs through the small flip in his chest at home, pulling out another cigarette. He’s been smoking less than normal recently, something he noticed only when packs started to develop crinkles in the cardboard from being in his pocket for days at a time. There was a time in his life not that long ago where he was burning through multiple packs a day, but lately, one will last him three or four until they’re frayed at the corners from rubbing against his jeans. “It’s not really my style.”

“Not mine either,” Kakyoin shrugs, watching Jotaro search around in his pockets for a flame before pulling one out of his own out of his jacket and lighting it for him. It’s only then Jotaro remembers he put his in his own coat, but he’d never complain. “It’s kind of fun, though. Like a costume.”

Jotaro gets what he means, but he still thinks Kakyoin looks the part, whether it’s in the house or out here, elegant and thoughtful in the night. It’s not unique to this place, though. They’ve been around the world together, after all. There’s not a single place Kakyoin didn’t look natural in, even in his tacky green school uniform. Besides, they’re thrifted, but Jotaro’s seen the labels on his clothes, and even in his rudimentary understanding of American fashion, he knows what they mean. If nothing else, the taste level fits, and the evidence is neat in a pile on the bedroom floor.

They’ve slept in the same bed every night. Neither of them has talked about it.

“I guess,” Jotaro replies, watching his exhale of smoke waft up in the cold air. He glances at Kakyoin out of the corner of his eye, his companion examining one of the few lone leaves left on a nearby tree. It’s not a question he particularly wants to ask, but something tells him he has to. He should. It’s the right thing to do. “Do you miss it?”

“Hmm?” Kakyoin asks, readjusting his plaid scarf tighter around his neck. It’s colder than Jotaro would like, which means Kakyoin must be freezing, but he’s doing an unusually good job at playing it off tonight.

“New York,” Jotaro elaborates, catching hold of Kakyoin’s sleeve to pull them out of the path of an approaching jogger. “It’s been almost two weeks now.”

“Oh. Right.” Kakyoin buries his mouth behind his scarf right up to the tip of his bright red nose, flushed from the chill. The sky is tinged pinkish grey and halos every streetlight in a hazy glow, an ominous warning of snow in the forecast. “Yes and no, I think?”

The house is done, cosmetically, anyway. Not having to move furniture saved them both a migraine or two between them, but even with everything he parted with in the divorce, Jotaro had no idea how much stuff he really had until he had to sit under the living room track lights and unbox all of it. There are a few more odds and ends to parse through, but for the most part, Jotaro is as moved in as he’ll ever be.

They could have gotten it done in a day, if they really put their minds to it. But they drew it out, and now it’s done, and neither of them has talked about it.

“Yes and no?” Jotaro presses, because that’s not quite the answer he was expecting. Like most questions he worries if he’ll regret asking though, it never really is.

“Yes because I love it,” he explains, a single snowflake landing on the top of his cheekbone. He pulls a face as the moisture sinks into his skin, running his finger over the drop of water and looking up to the sky, blinking as more start to fall. A few land on Jotaro’s own nose, cold and uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome. “No because…”

He trails off, hands deep into the pockets of his pea coat. He steals a glance at Jotaro, wide-eyed and painstakingly innocent in a silent question to have it be enough of an answer, but Jotaro just takes another drag of his cigarette, slowing his steps. Kakyoin falls in line, snow sticking to his eyelashes and sparkling wet in the park lights when he blinks.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it the past few days,” he continues after some contemplation, teeth gnawing on the very corner of his bottom lip. Just beyond the boundary of a park, a young couple stops to admire the snow, standing underneath the streetlight with their hands open to the sky. “I guess moving down here jogged my memory on certain things, now that I’ve gotten some distance.”

There’s an obvious lead to where this line of questioning goes. While Jotaro is relieved in a way that it’s not turning into a conversation about their immediate future, even though he was in a way prepared for it for once, he’s not entirely sure of the script on this. Kakyoin’s looking somewhere far off into the distance, shivering, and with a sigh Jotaro strips off his coat, bracing himself for the cold in only a sweater and undershirt but confident in his ability to weather it.

“Here,” Jotaro offers, wrapping it around his shoulders and guiding his arms through the sleeves. Kakyoin frowns, but follows his lead without verbal protest, sinking into the warmth. It’s comically large on him, covering his hands completely and dwarfing his waifish frame, and try as he might to ignore it, Jotaro’s first and only reaction is that it’s cute, plain and simple. “What sort of things?”

“You’re in an inquisitive mood,” Kakyoin remarks, without any real venom. He tugs the fabric tighter around his chest, pinning it beneath crossed arms. Snow is beginning to accumulate in his hair, specks of white like a halo around his face. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

There’s nothing accusatory there, Kakyoin’s words neutral as ever and wrapped up in the distance of wherever his mind has been wandering off to, somewhere too far for Jotaro to reach. Still, he can’t help but feel called out, burrowing into his sweater for protection from more than just the snow. “Something’s on your mind.”

“Well, duh.” Kakyoin rolls his eyes before sending them down on the ground, where a thin dusting of white has already started to settle across the grass. “And yours is empty?”

Jotaro’s thoughts have never been empty in his life. They both know that. His anxiety over the situation is not so much a five-alarm fire as it is a constant companion, waking up in the thin space between them every morning and drinking from his coffee, whispering sweet nothings about borrowed time and loss in the back of his head every time there’s a pause in conversation.

Still, when it threatens to overwhelm him, Kakyoin’s voice cuts through and tethers him to the moment just long enough to keep him from floating away, and this is how he’s been living, up and down up and down for days. Another box unpacked here. Another dinner to make there. Another night with his arm across his chest.

It’s so omnipresent actually pulling out individual thoughts and worries isn’t always something he’s capable of, too busy suppressing them to examine them, and here feels much of the same. He wonders if Kakyoin can tell what he means when he replies, “Of course not.”

Kakyoin hums, satisfied with a hint of something Jotaro would call smug if he didn’t know better. “I think we should go out.”

Jotaro blinks at him, tripping just a hair on a crack in the sidewalk. He studies Kakyoin’s face, trying to find the plot on where he’s leading them now. “We are out.”

“I mean out, out.” Kakyoin spins on his heel to face Jotaro head on, rocking back and letting his scarf fall to his neck, a thin smile on his lips. “You and me. There must be somewhere decent around here for drinks, yeah?”

Jotaro narrows his eyes, taking another long drag and savoring in the heat pooling in his lungs in a desperate attempt to make up for the lack of it over the rest of his body. He taps the ash out, watching as it falls to the dirt before twisting it beneath his boot, not quite sure where to look. He doesn’t trust himself with making it Kakyoin. “Yeah, I’ve heard of a few places.”

“There’s something I think I should tell you.” The bright, teasing edge to his voice vanishes down to nothing, a quiet, thoughtful murmur taking its place. He falls in line at Jotaro’s side, gently kicking at a rock with his shoe. He tugs Jotaro’s jacket even tighter around him, inhaling into the collar. “I want to be somewhere warm.”

There are goosebumps rising on his arm beneath his sweater, and although his throat is tight and thick when he swallows, there’s no solution other than to agree. Maybe it’s the snow, or maybe it’s the days on days of easy existence waiting for something to break, but for once in his life, he wants to hear it. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be. “Follow me.”

Kakyoin’s gaze is still off somewhere beyond the trees, and while that doesn’t make it necessary to get his attention by any means, Jotaro takes hold of his jacket sleeve and pulls, gentle. He stirs like the movement doesn’t surprise him, and just like that, Jotaro has his focus completely, asking with his eyes a question Jotaro doesn’t quite understand until he feels Kakyoin’s fingers slide between his.

It’s a force of habit, but the oldest ones are the hardest to break. Jotaro whips his head around to take a look around the park, searching for wandering eyes or a stray passerby. If he’s being honest, it’s not like he even particularly cares. The opinions of strangers have never concerned him, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction to look anyway, an impulse that spawns from the same part of his brain that will always scan a room before he enters and check the lock three times when he leaves.

Either way, it’s quiet night, and he lets it rest. Kakyoin’s fingers are cool to the touch and bony beneath Jotaro’s, squeezing once he seems to trust the contact will be kept.

The walk isn’t long, but Jotaro feels every single brush of their shoulders every step of the way, watches every single exhale between them drift off into the night air. Jotaro isn’t overly familiar with the immediate area yet, but it’s somewhere he’s wandered off a time or two before with some of the more senior researchers in his program. Besides, he’s been through Shibuya enough times to map his way around in his head, and more than enough to find the destination he has in mind.

All the while, Kakyoin is curiously quiet at his side, occupied once more by the lights and buildings and people that surround them. His grip on Jotaro’s hand is strong and unyielding, but the rest of him is almost adrift, lost in the sounds of the city. It’s not enough for Jotaro to worry, he’s seen this look on him in city after city before it, but he feels compelled to keep an eye on it, and tailor his choice to the facts at hand. Something a bit more inconspicuous and clandestine.

To his relief, Kakyoin seems to approve of his choice, a modest but decently upscale small bar tucked away in the corner of a side street, dark and bathed in a soft orange and red glow. With more reluctance than Jotaro expects of himself, he drops Kakyoin’s hand before opening the door, sparing a glance back to find him staring at his own shoes, hands already back in his pockets.

They snag a table in the far back away from the door, but Kakyoin is still hesitant to part with Jotaro’s jacket, taking it off his shoulders inch by inch before shedding his own underneath in one swift motion, setting both on the back of his chair.

“I like this,” Kakyoin remarks as he takes a seat, brushing the snow from his hair, glowing an even brighter red in the light of the tinted lamp above them. “It’s moody.”

Jotaro raises an eyebrow at the word choice but lets it slide. “It would be one of my favorites if I went out often.”

Kakyoin’s lips pull up, but it’s so quick Jotaro wonders if it’s a trick of the light. “You’re predictable like that.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jotaro snags a drink menu from behind the candle at the back center of their table, squinting against the dim light to make out the words. He glances back before absorbing any of it, Kakyoin’s chin resting on his open palm and elbow propped on the table, unmistakable fondness lighting up his eyes.

“Nothing,” Kakyoin chimes, melodic as he picks up a drink menu of his own. The flame of the candle against the backdrop of bar lights contours every angle and dip of his face in deep contrasting shadows, illuminating the natural beauty of his bone structure and the depths of his irises. Jotaro flexes his fingers on the hand that wasn’t in Kakyoin’s, still stung from the outside air. “I used to go out a lot, believe it or not.”

“Really?” Jotaro asks, squinting back down at the menu. As a rule, he keeps his cocktail orders simple and strong, but he has a sinking suspicion he might want something a bit more palatable tonight. “I guess I can see it now, but I never thought you’d be the type.”

“Me neither,” Kakyoin replies, eyes flickering over the lines of text on his own menu before tucking it back behind the candle with a decisive nod. He gives his order from memory with confidence when the waiter swings around not a second later, another in the sweet but strong category just a few options under Jotaro’s own choice. When they’re alone again, he crosses his legs underneath the table, continuing. “It was something I just sort of fell into. I had a tight-knit program in graduate school, and my ex had an involved social circle of his own I got roped into.”

“Right,” Jotaro hedges, noting the furrow of Kakyoin’s eyebrows he could swear wasn’t there a second ago. There’s a constant murmur of chatter from other patrons around them, but the layout of the bar makes it so every word between the two of them is crisp and clear over it, a world of their own with nowhere to hide. “You’ve mentioned him a time or two.”

“About that.” Kakyoin glances from the flame to Jotaro’s face and back again, tucking his hair behind his ear. “It’s part of what I wanted to talk about.”

It’s ridiculous, and Jotaro knows it full well, but he can’t stop his thoughts from spinning out at that, a mismatched and ill-formed disarray of vignettes of Kakyoin standing next to a faceless man on streets Jotaro’s never been, laughing and drinking and kissing. He clutches a hand beneath the table and digs into his jeans in an attempt to anchor himself to the moment, blinking against the sudden pull in his chest. “I’m all ears.”

“I haven’t been entirely honest about something.” Kakyoin adjusts one of his earrings, a dangling jeweled pair of roses on the stem that glistens in the red backlight. Jotaro hadn’t even known he brought jewelry until he was packing his things in the guest room in Morioh, but he’s worn a different pair every day since, each as eclectic as the next. “With you or really to myself.”

Jotaro’s stomach flips at that, the setup of the conversation leaving too many open ends for him to feel at all comfortable, swallowing down anxiety over the possibilities with a feverish drink of water. It’s down to half by the time he’s back up for air. “About what?”

Kakyoin sinks back into his chair with a sigh, chest rising and falling in an uneven motion. “There’s a lot I haven’t said about the past few years.”

“I know,” Jotaro says, because he does. Still, hearing it doesn’t settle as easy as he expects it to—the gap has been sutured, but Jotaro can still feel its sting in the moments he seems out of reach, and the way Kakyoin’s restrained himself now is like salt in the cracks. It’s his fault for letting his guard down.

The waiter swings by with their drinks and Jotaro can hardly get his hands on it fast enough. It’s sweeter than he’d like, but it goes down like nothing, and the last thing he wants is anything bitter on his tongue. Kakyoin takes his and gives it a slow, exploratory stir, but doesn’t move to take a sip. “I didn’t have friends before you all, you know that. You taught me how.”

“We weren’t great teachers,” Jotaro replies, the slightest tinge of alcoholic aftertaste souring his expression. He masks it with a hand over his face, leaning on his elbow.

“I couldn’t have learned from anyone else.” Kakyoin cracks a smile at that, and it’s brief, but Jotaro will count it as a victory. For whatever that’s worth. “It was hard to start over again. For the first few years, I didn’t really want to. But once you get a taste, isolation isn’t really sustainable.”

“I know what you mean,” Jotaro agrees, and for what might be the first time since they’ve sat down, they find each other’s eyes as Kakyoin finally turns to his drink, taking down an impressive amount in one go. Jotaro agrees with that sentiment, too. “It was hard without you.”

It’s not the sort of thing Jotaro is in the habit of admitting out loud, but it slips out between his teeth and he watches it fall in slow motion, Kakyoin’s eyes widening beneath the rim of his glass.

“Yeah. It was… yeah.” Kakyoin sets his drink down and clears his throat, dabbing at the corners of his lips with his sleeve. He looks down at the table, tracing a fingernail through the cracks in the wood. “Anyway, I had a hard time with it. Getting back out into the world. I think it was my way of punishing myself for being alive.”

They aren’t words Jotaro could ever produce of his own volition, but once they’re said, Jotaro understands them down to his bones. He won’t say it though. He wouldn’t dare, so he just takes another drink and nods his attention.

“Even in undergrad, my schedule was so specialized and erratic it made it hard to really know anyone,” Kakyoin continues, glancing up just long enough to catch Jotaro’s attention before ducking back down into his own world again, sifting through memories Jotaro can only dream of. “I had a professor who took an interest in me. They all knew I had a unique situation, but he went out of his way to make sure I was okay. He’d drag me out to things, program events and art shows when the hospital allowed it.”

“I’m glad someone was looking after you,” Jotaro says, dropping his voice down unconsciously with the strength of his sincerity. He wishes he’d done it more than he knows how to even begin to explain, but at least it was someone. At least he got here.

Instead of addressing Jotaro’s words, Kakyoin just takes another sip, smaller this time but slow, steady. When he sets it down, he’s looking off towards the rest of the bar, twisting the stem over and over again between his fingers. “We got to know each other well. I think I started as a project of his, and I was just so desperate for any human interaction I would have taken anything probably, but we became friends of sorts.”

Something in the soft downturn of Kakyoin’s eyes catches Jotaro’s attention, tugging on it like a rug getting coaxed out from under his feet. “Where are you going with this?”

“You’re always so impatient,” Kakyoin counters, but his voice is still low and edgeless, words rolling from his tongue and falling with all the weight of the snow outside. He slides his gaze back to Jotaro’s and while it flickers away back and forth, he finally seems to manage to settle it, digging his nails into the side of his cheek. “The point is I was starting to recover for real during that time. He was my guide back into the world and that was… something. I don’t know. Powerful. I still don’t know what it was, but at the time I thought it could be love.”

Jotaro’s hand jolts en route to bring his drink to his lips, his reflexes kicking in just in time to keep any from spilling over the edge. “I see.”

“I wanted it to be,” Kakyoin continues, speeding up now, words separated by less than a fraction of a beat. His drink is under halfway full, and while there’s nothing slurred in his words, they’re looser by the minute, and Jotaro can feel the barest slivers of a haze forming around the edges of his own vision. “I knew it was wrong to want on a professional level. I knew he might say no, but I asked him if he wanted to be together after I was released, and we were for five years.”

There’s a jolt in Jotaro’s chest, but it’s fuzzy, like free-falling in a dream. It churns his stomach all the same. “Why tell me this now?”

“I don’t like to lie by omission.” Kakyoin crosses his legs underneath the table, foot brushing against Jotaro’s shin in their small quarters. Jotaro watches as he shivers with the contact, a small bolt of electricity traveling up his own spine. “It’s part of my history in this area. He’s the only person I’ve been with besides you.”

Jotaro licks the alcohol from off his own lips, floundering for something to say to that. His reputation as a poor conversationalist is earned, but not out of lack of interest. Rather, so often he finds himself in this position, tongue-tied in a conversation he has no idea how to progress. It’s just not something he’s used to facing with Kakyoin.

The experience, which was once so common feels alien here, and he searches the hollowed out pit in his throat for something, anything. “Really?”

“Is that surprising?” Kakyoin asks as he throws back another drink, appraising Jotaro with a subtly raised eyebrow. “It would have happened eventually, but I wasn’t consciously seeking it out. I don’t want to harp on it too much, so I’ll spare you the details. I was happy, or as happy as I could have been, and it got pretty serious. By the time I went back to Japan, we’d already been living together for months. And when I got back…”

Kakyoin trails off, but this time, to Jotaro’s relief, he doesn’t get the impression that it’s a pause that’s meant for him to fill. Instead, he takes more of his own drink, wincing at the alcohol that’s settled down to the bottom and giving it another stir. He waits while Kakyoin taps his fingers against the edge of his jaw, eyes closed.

“Like I said before, I knew something had shifted in me,” he mutters when he seems to find the words, finishing the last of his drink in two slow sips. He places it on the edge of the table, folding his hands. “It took a while to really set in, but that relationship was something I worked really hard to hold onto. It was the only thing I’d really managed to capture for myself in an area I genuinely wondered if I’d ever succeed in again, and it was good. It was.”

“But you didn’t,” Jotaro concludes, as gently as he can between gritted teeth. It’s not a challenge, but a small, childish part of him takes it as one and throws back the rest of his own cocktail, placing it next to Kakyoin’s.

“Right,” Kakyoin replies, dry but toothless. “I went through a really hard time in the years after that visit. The constant paranoia about being found out was one thing, and he handled that the best he could.”

“Was he a stand user?” Jotaro asks, because the answer suddenly matters. He misses holding onto his drink, if only to keep his hands occupied and not left to dig into the flesh of his leg. “Did he know?”

Kakyoin presses his lips together and shakes his head, tensing through the shoulders. “Maybe that was my first mistake.”

A flash of memory passes behind his eyes, Kakyoin small and tender at seventeen practically begging to be seen, and a spark of anger rises up through his veins. “Go on.”

The waiter swings back around, and while Jotaro is itching for something even stronger this time around, Kakyoin repeats his previous order, and Jotaro can’t bear breaking from the mold he’s set and do anything but the same. The urge to crawl out of his own skin is bordering on overwhelming, but more than that, he wants them on the same page. There are no positives in risking getting lost on another book entirely.

“I started slipping away,” Kakyoin continues, watching to make sure the waiter has left earshot before speaking. That, too, is something Jotaro understands all too well. “At the time, I thought it was just the fear and the resurgence of all the memories I’d worked to bury, but I guess I’ve been thinking about it all from a different perspective lately. I was able to stay present with my friends and my art in a way I couldn’t with him.”

Jotaro crosses his arms over his chest, heart beating harsh against the muscle of his forearm. They’re at a precipice, the same one they’ve been on for weeks, and what used to seize panic is now just a wired-up anticipation, every inch of him pulled taut in wait for the force that will finally snap it to pieces. Whether he wants it to is something else entirely, but he knows it’s coming.

“Don’t get me wrong.” Kakyoin runs his fingers over the back of his own hand, absent like an act of self-soothing. He glances up at Jotaro over the top of his eyelashes, and Jotaro is caught immediately. How couldn’t he be? “Every last one of you weighed on my mind, but you were always the heaviest. It’s ridiculous, and I think I held on so long because I knew it was insane. I was seventeen. We only knew each other for a few months. But after the floodgates opened on all this, I missed us so badly.”

He’s not ready.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to be, or at least not ready enough to have a response prepared. Kakyoin takes one look at his face and delves back in, which is perhaps the kindest act of mercy Jotaro’s ever received.

“I know how this sounds,” Kakyoin sighs, catching himself halfway into putting his head in his hands to paste on a smile for the waiter delivering their second round. He stays up once he’s gone, but his expression falls on a dime. “I always know how I sound. That’s why I didn’t want to admit it. I worked so hard to bury it, to have something worthwhile, but it just… I don’t know. At a certain point I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t string someone else along in my bullshit. Even if what I wanted wasn’t possible, I didn’t want what I had. I hadn’t for a while.”

Jotaro stirs his drink, but doesn’t move for it yet. He’s afraid of how it will settle, uneasiness already gripping into his throat and threatening acid at the back of his tongue. Instead, he reaches for the water, crisp but no easier to swallow.

“You’re right,” Jotaro says, averting his eyes off somewhere into the haze of the bar as he drinks. “You do sound crazy.”

“And I’ve made peace with that,” Kakyoin replies, and for all the world, Jotaro can’t resist stealing a glance back to see if he means it. “But what about you? Don’t think it’s escaped me that we both know you’re gay, despite your ex-wife and child.”

Looking at Kakyoin now is like looking into a mirror into the past, into the present, into the future all at once. His words echo through Jotaro’s skull like they’ve been spoken a thousand times before, through the fog of dreams and in his own thoughts when he can’t sleep. It’s the secret kept in between the boards of his house, trapped whispers from everyone who’s ever seen right through him and cut to the core, into all the places he’s never been able to devise a way into but speak in every silence he’s wasted away.

He can’t move a muscle, terrified of the blood rushing through his ears in a way no life or death struggle has ever made him.

It’s the closest thing to clarity he’s ever felt.

“You were gone.” Jotaro doesn’t know how much time passes before he finds the will to speak, mouth dry. Kakyoin is waiting, always waiting, his bottom lip between his teeth and fingers tangled in his hair, but otherwise still. Silent. He reaches for his drink, and he tries to mask it with a turn, but Jotaro can see his glass shake. His own lips are growing numb, but he does the same, willing it to force the words out. “You were gone. I couldn’t replace you, so I didn’t try.”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out in a crushing exhale, like a flame snuffed out with fingertips. Kakyoin ducks his head down, hair falling across his eyes. “I fucked up. I never should have done this to you.”

Even now, the concept of what those years might have looked like is nothing but a blur of light and sound wrapped up in electric wires of uncertainty, burning to the touch. For the first time, though, it’s not fear that keeps those images from sharpening, but rather an insurmountable sense of separation from the figures dancing within. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Kakyoin protests. He takes another sip and flashes his wild eyes up at him faster than a blink, but the emotion there lingers in Jotaro’s vision long after it’s obscured again. “It’s insane, Jotaro. I couldn’t handle the thought of you not wanting me, so I couldn’t go back. I shoved it down so far I wasn’t okay at all until now, and calling the state I left in ‘okay’ is generous. It was cowardly and selfish from the start. I felt like a liar not telling you. That’s all.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just the entrenched part of him that responds to this in those he knows he’d die to protect. He can’t help it. The sight of panic, of deer-in-the-headlights fear, has always drawn out something from the primal depths of his soul, an urge to defend that can’t be suppressed by any other driving force. His vision narrows down to nothing but erasing the expression from his face, and as soon as it washes over him, his thoughts fall to silence.

“I’ve always wanted you.” It’s so easy to say that he knows, even in the moment, he’ll remain in awe forever at the calm of it all. “But I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

Kakyoin rises at that, lips parted and face pale even in the red glow of the lights. Jotaro’s never seen anyone so tired, aside from maybe his own reflection in the mirror. “Do you now?”

“I don’t know.” He wishes he could rescue him from this, too, but he’s still drowning. He’s never stopped. “I don’t know how to be what you want.”

“You are,” Kakyoin whispers, reaching for his hand across the table. It’s ice cold, and Jotaro wraps his fingers around it with crushing strength, willing it warm again. “You already are.”

All he wants to do is find land, but it’s still so far away.

“I can’t take anything back.” Before those words can dare begin to sink in, let alone enough for Jotaro to formulate a reply, Kakyoin pries his hand loose to rest it atop Jotaro’s, ghosting across his skin like fresh snow. “But we can try now. Something real.”

“I can’t lose this again.” It’s the alcohol this time, and Jotaro knows it, but he still could stop it. He could, because the walls aren’t spinning and every inch of him still feels vivid and lived in, but he doesn't. It just tumbles out, falling in a tangled mess on the table between them. “I can’t do this twice.”

“I know.” Kakyoin is so close, his breath warm against Jotaro’s cheek as he talks. “You won’t.”

Gravity takes hold, and Jotaro hangs his head low, slumping until his forehead comes to rest on Kakyoin’s shoulder. “Tell me how,” he mumbles into the crook of his neck, dizzy and slurred. “Tell me how not to ruin this.”

Kakyoin’s thumb rubs circles into the back of his hand, a low hum reverberating in the space between their chests. “Finish your drink,” he mutters into Jotaro’s ear, sending the hairs on his neck straight up as a shiver rolls down his spine. “Finish your drink, then take me home.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

It’s a tense cab ride home.

The walk back isn’t that far, but it’s minutes too long to spend in uncertain anticipation, and Jotaro isn’t sure he could make it if it were up to his own two legs. He’s not drunk, really. The edges of his mind have blurred and there’s a hot, weightless feeling in his chest, but he’s not too gone to process the situation, let alone walk, and he can read Kakyoin well enough to know he’s around the same level, flushed but with focused eyes.

If pressed, he could make it easily. But there’s a different sort of pressure running currents between them, one that requires his full attention and the quickest route possible to fulfill Kakyoin’s request. In the back of the car, they sit on opposite sides with a full seat in between, but it feels like miles, each inch of space like a canyon he’d just as soon jump into than wait to find a bridge to cross.

Jotaro counts the streets on his leg, tapping out the remaining ones in a rhythm against his thigh. For his part, Kakyoin just stares out the window, statue still apart from the rise and fall of his breath.

When they make it inside, Jotaro’s chest is twisted up inside itself, but Kakyoin looks more at ease than he’s been in days, slowly stripping free of his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. Jotaro watches because there’s nothing else he’d rather look at in the room, Kakyoin peeling his scarf off his shoulders, not bothering to unlace his boots before sliding them off, unwinding his sweater over his head. Neither of them has bothered to turn on a light, so they shed their outer layers in darkness, quiet and wordless.

Jotaro can feel eyes between his shoulder blades as he discards his own jacket and shoes, but he doesn’t turn, the simple act of undressing now a delicate performance he’s under-rehearsed. The moment it’s hung, a single step echoes behind him on the hardwood, and two thin arms reach up to wrap around over his shoulders, Kakyoin’s hands casually interlacing across his chest.

“Come here,” Kakyoin coaxes. With a gentle tug, he pulls Jotaro’s back flush against him, his heartbeat steady but quick. “I’m glad to be back.”

Jotaro hums in agreement, inhaling deep before taking a shuddering breath out. He feels a shift at his ankles, peering down at the darkness of the floor. “Are you up on your toes?”

“Maybe.” He rocks on his heels and Jotaro has to bend back to follow him down before Kakyoin lifts them up again, smiling against his neck. “You’re so damn tall. I love it.”

“Do you?” Jotaro’s never considered it could be a perk, more just another inconvenient truth about himself he can’t change.

“Yes,” Kakyoin affirms, a breathy laugh tickling Jotaro’s ear. “I love standing next to you like this. I love that difference between us.”

It’s not evaded him, either, how small Kakyoin is, how neatly he fits into the creases of his body in the most casual ways. How he has to crane to rest his chin on his shoulder like he is now, delicate and enveloped in his frame. “You’re strange, you know.”

“I do know.” Kakyoin presses a kiss to the space between his jawline and the bottom of his ear, lingering. “You love it, though.”

Even if he had it in him to lie, Kakyoin’s hands are still right over his chest. He can feel it, he can feel the way his pulse changes. There’s no way he won’t get caught red handed. “I do.”

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin begins, dropping his voice down to a whisper, reverberating out from deep in his lungs and ringing against Jotaro’s spine. “I miss Japan. I think I want to come back.”

The room spins, just once, and Jotaro closes his eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

Instead of an immediate reply, Kakyoin lifts one of his hands and winds it around to angle Jotaro’s head towards him, far enough to line their lips up together, warm but not touching. Not quite.

“I’m not,” he breathes, before the sound of it gets caught in a kiss. Jotaro clings to his forearm for balance as Kakyoin leans up and opens for him, lips parting for Jotaro to sink into. It glows deep in the core of him, and he feels weak with the sensation, sighing into Kakyoin’s lips over and over until Kakyoin closes them once more, pressing them against his cheek. “Let me live with you.”

“You can’t be sure,” Jotaro mutters, bleeding warmth from the kiss slurring his words to softness. “It’s too soon to know you want that.”

“It’s funny you say that,” Kakyoin muses, and even behind his eyelids, Jotaro can sense how he’s studying him, analytic and just inches away. “I can’t help but feel you’re only so worried I don’t because of how badly you do.”

It’s a fight to keep from looking, and it’s a fight he loses, Jotaro’s eyes flying open to blink up at him even before Kakyoin snatches the hat from off his head in one sly motion. He flashes a smile at the victory, and Jotaro can only stare as he places it on the rack behind them.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Kakyoin sighs, all fondness. He buries his head back in the crook of Jotaro’s neck, his own eyes fluttering closed. “I don’t want to convince you tonight. Don’t worry.”

Whatever resistance he had to asking it has been melted away, lost in the sea of Kakyoin’s body against his and the haze of the night, a hint of alcohol and the pink-tinged sky. “What do you want tonight?”

“Take me to bed,” Kakyoin whispers, lips hesitating over his neck. “But only if you want to.”

Jotaro digs into Kakyoin’s arm, hard enough he's worried it might hurt. He doesn’t flinch. “I want to.”

They unwind themselves from one another in tandem, slow and with care until the only part of them touching is their hands, weaving together to hold on. Now that his eyes have adjusted, Kakyoin is glowing underneath the snow sky coming in through the windows, and for a moment, Jotaro wonders if this, too, is a dream, if he’s leading a ghost up the staircase. Even with the solid flesh beneath his hand, he guides them up to the second story in a daze, all but floating over the steps himself.

Even if it disappears, he’ll take it. Even if he wakes up alone tomorrow, it’s real enough right now to convince himself of anything. Even if he’ll never have it again, he wants it now. That much is certain.

He shuts the door to the bedroom behind them and takes Kakyoin’s head in his hands, lifting his chin up to see him clearly, to run his fingers over the contours of his cheekbones. In silence, Kakyoin lets him, taking a loose hold of his wrist and blinking up at him with an intensity Jotaro can’t place, but burns in him all the same.

It’s Jotaro that leans down first this time, and he feels Kakyoin smile into it, chaste at the start, but deepening as he moves to trail his hands over Jotaro’s chest. With a sigh, Jotaro parts his lips, their tongues meeting with a jolt that Kakyoin smoothes over with another step forward, hip to hip.

They linger like that for a minute, and Kakyoin’s patience is just as palpable as his calculation in how he reaches for the first button of Jotaro’s shirt, slowly and experimentally teasing it loose while waiting to gauge his reaction. He cranes forward into it without a second thought, and Kakyoin pries it open, then the next, and the one after until he can slide it off his shoulders completely, Jotaro reluctantly letting go of his face only long enough to let it fall to the floor.

Kakyoin traces over the muscles on his newly exposed sides, his hips, fingers mapping the indents and snaking river lines of scars that cascade across them. A particularly fresh one sends a shiver down his spine, and Jotaro’s own hand falls to Kakyoin’s neck, a sharp reminder of the scar tissue just below his collar.

“Some of these are new,” Kakyoin pulls just far enough away to say, mapping a long gash from an encounter in St. Petersburg two years prior that rests just above his navel. “Too many of them.”

“You remember?” Jotaro asks, like he doesn’t know where he patched every single cut that came to mar Kakyoin’s flawless artist’s skin by the time they parted. Like he won’t know the difference underneath.

“I’ve dreamt of you, too,” Kakyoin replies, as if that answers everything. “Are you ready for mine?”

In lieu of a reply, Jotaro tugs at the collar of his shirt, but Kakyoin still searches his face for confirmation before nodding and pulling it off in one smooth motion. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, countless times by this point in their daily lives, but Jotaro still holds his breath when his hands make contact with the skin underneath.

He tries to keep his expression under control, but Kakyoin pulls them in closer either way, pressing their hips flush together and lazily tracing circles across the bone there while Jotaro maps him with the same reverence he was shown. Some of the marks he remembers, faded and tempered with time into faint tributary lines next to pools of deep scar tissue he doesn’t, textured gashes and thin smooth patches of barely repaired skin.

He tries to hide it, but his thumb brushes a deep welt centimeters from his spine and he clings, wrapping his arms around Kakyoin and crushing him to his chest, ignoring his soft noise of protest. Jotaro presses his palm flat to the small of his back, enveloping the scar tissue beneath it, and breathes.

“It’s not your fault.” It’s not the first time Kakyoin’s said it, but it feels different this time, whispered in his ear with his arms around Jotaro’s waist and just for him, spoken in a way no one else has ever heard it.

The next kiss is bruising, surprising Jotao with a force that takes him back into the moment by a snap and a hitch of his breath. He melts into it instantly, too entangled to know who’s steps are leading who across the room, imperfect and hasty until his legs are pressed up against the bed. It’s a long way down, but Kakyoin bends them down inch by inch, folding Jotaro back until he collapses onto him all at once, sprawling with a breathy laugh.

“Not as graceful as I hoped,” Kakyoin apologizes, without sounding all that sorry. Nor is it particularly modest, considering the grace with which he aligns himself directly over Jotaro in the next breath, straddling his hips and leaning his elbows on either side of his head, chest to chest.

Jotaro can feel the heat of his arousal through their jeans, and he knows his can’t be a secret either. As if on command, Kakyoin shifts until he’s pressed up against his thigh just so before joining their lips again, Jotaro burying his fingers in his hair in a desperate attempt to erase the remaining distance, closer yet.

“How do you want this?” Jotaro asks into his mouth, running his thumb along the waistband of his jeans. His own heartbeat is lodged in his throat, each word struggling to push through its demanding pulse.

Kakyoin hums into him, lifting up on his elbows just far enough to study Jotaro’s face beneath him. It’s too far, both in the distance it places between their chests and the view he receives, Kakyoin’s face flushed down to the neck and immaculate hair beginning to fall astray, eyes knife sharp in the darkness. “Let me think…”

Thinking apparently includes needling the skin of his collarbone between his teeth, but Jotaro can’t find it in himself to complain, hissing in a breath that travels down his body in waves. “I want to be inside you,” he mutters against him, heat pooling in Jotaro’s stomach with a dangerous churn. “Like I used to be.”

It’s not a strict preference of his either way, but despite the arousal that curls his toes at the thought, he hasn’t let anyone else have him like that but Kakyoin. Not since Cairo.

“But, no.” It’s in no way grounds to oppose it, but before Jotaro can even begin to form that thought, Kakyoin cuts him off with another swipe of his teeth across his neck. “There’s time for that later. I keep saying, I want you.”

By contrast, however, Kakyoin was always fairly firm on his preferences in that matter. They got to this part precious few times, but Kakyoin always wanted to take him, and Jotaro… Well, Jotaro has never been good at refusing him much of anything, let alone that.

“Are you sure?” He asks, because it’s so delicate. It’s always been.

“Yes.” The look in his eyes is daring Jotaro to disbelieve him, but there’s enough resolve in his voice to drown out all doubt without it. “I need to feel what that will mean to me. I’m sorry if it’s strange.”

“No,” Jotaro replies, automatic. He tucks Kakyoin’s stray lock of hair behind his ear, tracing down his jawline. “I understand.”

To that, Kakyoin kisses him like he trusts him, like that means something, and Jotaro’s swept up underneath the spell of it before he can catch his breath. It’s messier than before, less about precision and more about the contact, and Jotaro’s hands travel down to palm the front of his pants, exploratory and questioning. He’d be surprised at how hard he is if he weren’t already there himself, jeans straining against his own arousal that’s only growing with every shift of Kakyoin’s hips above him.

In answer, Kakyoin grinds down into the touch, and Jotaro undoes the button with a flick of his thumb, pushing past the elastic of his boxers for the bulge underneath. He runs his hands loosely up and down the shaft, and Kakyoin groans softly into another kiss, the sound reverberating in Jotaro’s ears and down into the building head in his chest. He does it again just to hear it a second time, and it’s not quite the same, but he didn’t want it to be. It’s even better, Kakyoin grinding down into his hand as his voice lifts upward from the back of Jotaro’s throat.

He could get him off, just like this, but that’s not what he asked for, and it’s not what Jotaro wants either. As if on cue, Kakyoin pulls away from the kiss and crawls to the side to work his jeans down where Jotaro joins him, hands on top of one another to aide in the process. Once it’s done, they’re discarded somewhere in the room followed by his boxers, and he’s back over Jotaro once more.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jotaro whispers, because he can’t help himself. He follows the lines of his body with his fingertips, down his spine, his ass, his narrow hips that all perfectly flow together.

“Stop that,” Kakyoin replies, and Jotaro blinks with a start, not entirely convinced he’s said it out loud until it’s acknowledged. “Look at yourself.”

“You are.” It’s always been so evident. It aches at him that even now it’s so clearly been taken for granted by others in his absence.

He tries to pull Kakyoin back into him by the waist, but he resists, holding firm into the mattress and shrugging off his hand to instead reach for the front of Jotaro’s own pants. He works the button with a surgeon’s precision, each touch exacting as he moves to pull the waistband down. Jotaro lifts his hips, but otherwise Kakyoin requires little assistance, making quick work of both layers and banishing them to the pile he created with his own clothing.

“God,” Kakyoin breathes once Jotaro’s fully exposed, eyes locked on his newly freed dick, hard to the point of slight pain and resting on his abs. “It’s still…”

Kakyoin works it up and down from base to tip inch by excruciating inch, marveling at the distance. He tries to bite it back, but Jotaro can’t help but groan with the touch, keening up into his palm. Somehow, he maintains his focus enough to reach behind him into the nightstand drawer, blindly groping until he reaches the bottle he stashed in there in the haste of moving, indiscrete.

“You read my mind,” Kakyoin smiles, even though they’re both well aware he’s not the first to express awe at Jotaro’s endowment. To this day, he’s never heard anything louder than the expletive that escaped Kakyoin the first time they undressed in front of one another, and he feels a smile curl on his own lips at the memory. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jotaro replies, unscrewing the cap off the bottle of lube and setting it to the side. For good measure, he pours a more than generous amount onto his fingers before and after coating his shaft and Kakyoin watches with rapt attention, a pinch in his eyebrows like he’s still trying to discern Jotaro’s expression.

He doesn’t want to talk about the past. Not now, so he won’t. Instead, he replaces the bottle on the nightstand and leads Kakyoin back down over him with his clean hand on the back of his neck, trailing lips down his sharp collarbone once he’s close enough to reach. Blindly, he reaches slicked fingers down to grab hold of Kakyoin’s dick, squeezing once before traveling back, ghosting over his entrance.

“Wait,” Kakyoin hitches a breath above him, and Jotaro freezes completely, dropping his hand down to the mattress with the force of a ten-story free fall. “Get on top.”

That, Jotaro can oblige.

Gently as possible, he guides him on his side with a turn of his knee, rolling until Kakyoin can slide underneath, Jotaro braced over him on all fours. Once they’re settled, he leans back down, one hand on the side of his head and the other back towards his ass, exploring until he finds the ring of muscle.

“Ready?” Jotaro asks, searching his face for any sign of discomfort or uncertainty. Instead, he’s faced with flushed cheeks and naked lust, swollen lips parted and an unflinching gaze with enough intensity to knock his teeth in, and it’s more than enough.

“Yes,” Kakyoin sighs, breathless and wound tight. “Please.”

Even with just the first one, he’s impossibly tight, but Kakyoin takes it with nothing but a faint hiss between his teeth. Jotaro barely gets it down to the knuckle before he grinds into it, impatient, and it’s so endearing he can’t help but add another, reaching back deep and spreading him open with slow, careful movements.

“I can take it,” Kakyoin mutters, leaning on his elbow to brush his hair back, stray strands already starting to cling to his forehead. “I’ve done this before, you know.”

Nothing about that surprises him, but hearing it out loud still sends a spark of jealousy through his veins, white-hot and insistent, and he drives a third finger through with more haste than he’d allow without it. Kakyoin lowers down with a stifled moan caught between his teeth as teasing half-sigh at the intrusion, but whatever Jotaro’s doing is working, the muscle slowly starting to relax around him. Impatient in his own right, he curves down in, searching Kakyoin’s face to find the right angle.

When he catches it, he’s rewarded with a sound not even Kakyoin’s quick enough to mask, and it’s beautiful, languid and melodic. He scissors his fingers apart and dives back into it, because they never got to this part, either. Everything they did, even in open secrecy, had to be done in the quiet, always just a wall away from prying ears. He never got to hear him, not with the shamelessness and abandon either of them craved, and each sound he draws out is new and fresh, wild.

“Enough,” Kakyoin snaps, managing to sound commanding even through labored breath. He rakes a hand across his own stomach, digging into the flesh with sharp nails. “I’m not capable of lasting with you tonight. Hurry.”

Jotaro snaps out of his reverie, so caught in the way Kakyoin’s biting down on his lip he’s almost forgotten his own pressing erection, jolting with even a small shift of his hips. Despite Kakyoin’s increasingly impatient gaze, Jotaro reaches to dispense a tiny bit more lube into his free hand, working it quick over the length of himself.

He opens up the nightstand drawer again and pulls out a condom, but before he can even work to unwrap it, Kakyoin stops him with a hand on his wrist.

“Are you clean?” He asks, eyes dark and knife sharp.

“Yes,” Jotaro supplies, because his general apathy towards his own well-being stops at the very second it could affect someone else. “As of a few months ago. I seriously doubt anything’s changed.”

“So am I,” Kakyoin says, squeezing down on his arm before releasing it. “I don’t want it.”

Jotaro hesitates for less than a second before replacing it and shutting the drawer behind him.

He lowers even closer to Kakyoin’s chest and stills, waiting until Kakyoin meets his eyes. When he’s there, it’s like a vacuum in space, the world narrowing down to nothing but the desire he finds within them, the heat around his fingers, and the arousal running sharp in his stomach. He’s here, completely. He’s never been anywhere else.

Guiding himself down, he removes his fingers, careful to press against his entrance without a space in between. He lifts Kakyoin’s hips just enough to get the angle, waits for his nod, and then sinks in.

“Fuck,” Kakyoin hisses, gasping into a breath. A hand flies to his head, clutching into his scalp as he tries to steady himself. Jotaro’s not even halfway in, giving him time to adjust for this very reason. “Okay. It’s okay. Keep going.”

He works himself down by degrees, crushingly tight despite the preparation. Kakyoin’s hips strain up to meet him as he thrusts slowly through his length, and Jotaro takes note of every gasp and moan and muttered swear as he does, Kakyoin falling quieter and quieter until Jotaro buries himself completely with one last push and he howls, a mangled yes falling from his lips in a strangled pull.

Once he’s in, he crawls over the length of Kakyoin’s body, face to face and chest to chest, searching the mattress beside him until he finds his hand. Every inch of Kakyoin around him is intense and pressing and perfect, and in the brief moment of stillness, Kakyoin leans up for a kiss, and Jotaro snaps.

Like everything else, finding a rhythm is a push and pull dance, but only for the first few rolls of his hips before they adjust into one another like nothing. What starts out as a kiss devolves into nothing but a mess of tongue and teeth and breath as Jotaro rocks into him, Kakyoin meeting his hips in time and sliding up and down at just the right angle, driving him in deeper and deeper.

He’s so hot the room itself feels on fire, every inch of him burning in waves that pulse through him in perfect beat with their bodies, with every moan and sigh they pass into each other’s mouth. Jotaro’s hand is a mess across his chest, his hair, his dick, desperate for even more of him when he can’t drive in any deeper, wanting even more to feel, to map, to memorize.

It’s frenzied even in their synchronicity, and even if Kakyoin hadn’t said a word, it’s clear enough on its own it won’t last. So instead of drawing it out, Jotaro instead tries to soak in every part, cataloging every sensation as fast as he can between the rising tides of blinding pleasure—Kakyoin’s haphazard moans, the red across his neck and cheeks, the way he mutters his name, syllables broken and high in his throat.

“Kakyoin,” he warns against his cheek, head falling into the crook of his neck. He arches his back to pull out, too far gone to control it much longer, but Kakyoin wraps his hands up and tugs him back down, nails digging in hard to the muscle of his shoulders.

“Stay,” he begs in his ear, and how could he refuse? “I’m so close, please.”

There’s nothing to do but comply, so he rocks down again and again, harder and faster than before, clambering for every single inch of heat he can find. Kakyoin comes first, but just barely, arching his back up off the mattress with a moan he doesn’t even try to conceal, ringing through Jotaro’s own orgasm seconds later. He collapses onto his chest, riding through the shockwaves deep inside with nothing but Kakyoin’s name on his lips, whispered and spent.

It takes minutes before he’s back down to earth again, chest heaving and beating in a furious rhythm indistinguishable from the one beneath him. He searches for Kakyoin’s eyes as an anchor, leaning in the emotion he finds there for the strength to pull out and roll onto his side, splaying his arm across Kakyoin’s chest.

Soft lips press against the top of his head, fingers in his hair. It’s tempting to melt into, but he can’t. Not yet. “I’ll get a rag,” Jotaro mutters, pressing a single kiss to Kakyoin’s chest and lifting up before he can be met with protest.

Kakyoin’s waiting just as he left him when Jotaro returns, flat against his back and breath still heavy in the rise of his chest. He looks up with a smile, bright even in the edge of exhaustion, and Jotaro can’t help but return it, crawling in next to him and cleaning off his skin with the utmost care before moving onto himself.

“I was right,” Kakyoin muses once Jotaro’s finished, leaning up on his hands to lead him back down to the bed and into his arms. Jotaro follows without complaint, too spent to argue even if he wanted.

“About what?” Jotaro asks, muffled against Kakyoin’s neck.

“No one else has ever compared,” Kakyoin replies, airy in the afterglow. “Not even close.”

Jotaro understands exactly what he means.

Chapter Text

Jotaro is used to being alone.

Perhaps it’s an only child thing, the sort of relationship with solitude where it’s less of a state of being and more of a constant companion. It’s comforting when respite is needed, but it gnaws and mewls to be fed as it clings to his shoulder wherever he goes. The rest of the world has always felt like a foreign entity, an intangible other that can be visited and walked amongst, but never truly synthesized with his sense of self. The solitude barks like a guard dog to keep it from encroaching on his shores, quiet only when he’s safe behind his own front door.

More likely than not, though, it’s just him. It’s how he’s been as long as he can remember. Even before he succumbed to the feeling completely, it served as a second skin, wrapping around him and glowing with a light only he could see, separating him imperceptibly yet irrevocably from those around him.

He wonders sometimes if this is what Hierophant was to Kakyoin, or if it simply gave a face to a feeling. There’s a part of him, though he’d never say it out loud, that’s almost jealous. At least there was a reason he could point to. It’s not productive for Jotaro to try and isolate a cause. Be it his upbringing, his towering frame, or his lack of advanced social graces, none have ever felt so pertinent as to boil down to anything but him, just him.

Either way, solitude has always suited him, on account that its omnipresence made it uncomplicated. It’s never felt like a curse so much as a fact of life, so inescapable it’s unworthy of much regard.

Never in his life has it gnawed at him like this though, and it’s only day three.

Alone time normally comes in the form of full-bodied relief, sighing a shoulder against the door before hitting the deadlock or sliding soundlessly into bed beside a body already softly sleeping. He never wanted it like this, head folded onto his elbows on the kitchen table and peering through the space between his forearms at the blinking light of the phone across the counter in a silent house.

He never wanted it, but it’s a necessary evil, which is close enough to desire that he’d hoped it would be a bit more bearable than this. Even the most vicious of voices in his head are no stranger to him, so familiar they’ve become a full drone like all the other running thoughts that pass through. Here, they pound at the edges of his temple like a migraine, rhythmic objections of disbelief bouncing across his thoughts and lacing tension into the muscles of his shoulders, sighing ever closer to the floor.

Kakyoin left on Wednesday morning, and Saturday night finds Jotaro curled up in the chair he’d claimed as his over a week worth of dinners and breakfasts, chin to the table, waiting for a call he’s not even sure will come.

It’s not permanent, and Jotaro’s unconvinced that’s not the trouble of it all within itself. Ever since Kakyoin whispered it in his ear that night it’s been whirling around hot and wired in the back of his skull, but if Jotaro is honest with himself, he’s seen flashes before that. They’ve been bubbling just beneath the surface, phantom images of a toothbrush next to his in the sink and clothes that aren’t his mixed in with his laundry, ghostlike imprints from a past world that have taken on a dangerously tangible new life.

Of course it’s crossed his mind. He’d never have given it words, wouldn’t have known where to start. If he had, he’s certain they’d have just been objections, any and all hope smothered under all the rationality he’s long cloaked those little moments under to keep them safe from the illuminating light of possibility.

He ran the conversation in his head countless times, the looming return of the topic spurring his sleepless anxieties, tracing the outline of Kakyoin’s profile in the dark with only his eyes and reciting his fears like a mantra. Too soon, always too soon.

Nothing prepared him for the reality of it all, where two days after that night in the snow Kakyoin met his eyes in the lamplight, bare legs intertwined together, and he knew. He might have only had a breath to realize it, but it was so obvious.

“I have things to settle,” Kakyoin began, solid like his feet were firmly on the ground and not folded softly in between Jotaro’s calves. “Back in New York. I can take care of it in a week, maybe two at most.”

“Hmm,” Jotaro had hummed, gently twisting a strand of Kakyoin’s hair in his fingers in the vain hope it’d distract him from the point.

Kakyoin keened into it, but his eyes didn’t soften, let alone close as they normally did at the touch. “I’m coming back. I can afford to break my lease, and once I do…”

“Kakyoin,” Jotaro warned, breathless like he’d forgotten how to exhale properly, recycled air caught in his lungs. He averted his eyes, surrounded by ghosts on all sides—Kakyoin’s reading glasses on his nightstand, his scarf hanging on the doorknob, the scent of his leave-in conditioner on the sheets—until the back of his own hand was the only thing left still safe. Kakyoin ran his fingers over even that, too, drawing him out, out, and up.

“Please,” he whispered, nipping at the skin of Jotaro’s neck and breathing into the space underneath his jaw. Jotaro shuddered despite himself, tightening the hand still wound in his hair. “Please. I want this so badly.”

“Kakyoin, I…” Jotaro began, a twist in his gut marred with an uncertainty that robbed him of any foresight on what he’d planned to say next. An objection or an argument, he’ll never know, because Kakyoin grabbed the sides of his face and pulled them nose to nose, close enough that their lips brushed when he spoke.

“Please,” he repeated, nails digging through the hair just behind his ears and into his scalp. “I can’t go back. It’s too late for that. You know it is.”

There was nowhere else to look but right into Kakyoin’s eyes. Whatever he found there, it melted his composure into nothing and washed it away with the rain outside. He heard himself say it before he felt it pass his lips. “Okay.”

He’s never been so easy to fold, but Kakyoin has always been different. No one else has ever forced him to be so intimately familiar with his weaknesses, and it’s beginning to drive him crazy just how many pieces of him he’s poisoned, intoxicated to the point he can’t even lift his head up.

Saturday, he’d said. By Saturday he’ll know how long he has to stay. By then work will have an answer on whether or not they can place him in a sister gallery, and his landlord will have set a final move out date. The sun is rising through the sky in Manhattan, but it’s closing in on midnight in Tokyo, and Jotaro is holding on to the vain hope he’ll get the call before sleep takes hold.

In truth, he’s exhausted. Try as he might, three days isn’t enough to shake the kinetic energy from his bones and sink back into something approaching normal. Unfortunately, his own personal cataclysm has not stopped preparations for his looming thesis defense, nor the need to eat and sleep, functions he has been ritualistically neglecting even more than his usual apathy permits.

Nothing feels real. He’s afraid of the moment when it does, but without it, he’s left with only anticipation, like he’s thousands of feet above the sea just waiting to fall.

He’s all but holding his eyes open with his fingertips when the phone rings. All the cobwebs shake from his bones in an instant, and he’s up in one swift motion, the receiver in hand before he can even check the caller I.D.

“Hey,” Jotaro says, foregoing his usual formal phone greeting. “You just caught me.”

There’s a curious shuffle in the background, and a too-long pause before a chime of, “Dad?”

The small, treacherous part of him that’s disappointed is quickly crushed under a wave of fondness, because God, he never realizes how much he missed this sound until he hears it again.

“Hi, honey,” he smiles into the words, gears shifting in his brain as he tries to adjust to the change of plans. “It’s me.”

“Hi,” Jolyne greets, previous confusion melting into bright, high-pitched excitement. Faintly, Jotaro can hear her mother’s voice in the background, chiding and sharp, but Jolyne is louder by a mile. “Mom told me not to call ‘cause it’s too late, but I really wanted to.”

“I’m still up,” Jotaro replies, putting as much animation into his voice as he can while fighting back a yawn. “I might not always be at this time, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jolyne agrees, and he can all but hear the pout in her voice. It’s so easy to imagine, her furrowed brow that twitches at the corners of her eyes and scrunched up nose. He wishes he could see her face, but if he closes his eyes, it’s almost the same. “I just woke up and I miss you today.”

“Miss you too,” he just fails to bite back a sigh, the sickly jolt of his heart distracting him just long enough for it to slip through his teeth. “It’s been a while. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s okay,” she says, and it’s so heavy, it just is. It sounds like she means it, she’s too young not to, but there’s pain there she’s not old enough to hide yet, either. “Busy?”

“Busy,” Jotaro repeats, resting the back of his head against the wall behind him and relishing in how it’s cold to the touch. He lets his eyes fall closed, focuses on trying to remember the exact shape of her face. He hates how quickly the details fade and change from an ocean away. “Good busy. How have you been, baby girl?”

There’s more shuffling in the background, and her mother’s voice clearer now like she’s leaning in to listen, incredulous and inquiring if he’s really awake. “Duh,” Jolyne affirms, presumably in her direction, but it comes out the same volume as her actual reply to Jotaro’s question. “I’ve been okay. I keep waiting for snow, but there’s not really winter here.”

“I thought you were excited for the sun?” He crosses his arms over his chest, heart thrumming against his forearms from a mixture of exhaustion and nameless ache. “You can wear sandals all year round now without getting frostbite.”

It’s as clear as if it happened yesterday. Even in the snow, she refused to wear real shoes for over a year when she was six, traipsing around Tokyo in nothing but summer sandals until her feet turned blue. A night out during a blustering snowfall turned into the tantrum of the century trying to get sneakers on her, and in the end he spent the evening warming her toes with heating pads on the couch as she cried. It had frayed his last nerve at the time, but he misses it so much now.

“I don’t do that anymore,” she protests, all indignance and pride. Jotaro tries to shake off the sting of how swift and decisive it sounds, but the discomfort clings to his shoulders like it has claws. “Mom got me a pair of boots that are way better. Sandals look stupid.”

“Is that so?” Jotaro imagines she’ll wear those through the blistering Florida summer too, and it’s the only thing that eases the knowledge he isn’t there to see it. The knowledge that he’s missed so much, and will miss even more still. “You’ll still need something for when it’s hot out.”

“I’ll be with you in the summer.” He wishes he remembers being that age—unshakably confident with a wild-eyed belief that the world will bend to desire. Maybe that’s why he feels so lost now, too grown and too cold to know how to handle childlike wonder without shattering it to bits. “It’s not as warm there. Right?”

Her voice lilts up on the last word, and he knows what question she’s really asking, all pretense and innocence aside. But it’s not worded that way, and he knows better than to ask for her forgiveness in taking advantage of that. “Not by much. It’s still hot.”

“I’ll be fine,” she asserts. Jotaro wishes he believed it as much as she does, but he has to try. The alternative raises bile in his throat. When she speaks again, her voice is small, quiet and vulnerable in a way that makes her sound once again as young and tender as she is. “I can’t wait to see you, Dad.”

“Me neither,” he mutters, hoping it’s warm enough on the other end to mask his uncertainty. He puts a hand to his mouth, and breathes in.

“I think Mom wants to talk to you,” Jolyne says after a beat of silence, followed by more shuffling and static. “I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Soon,” he agrees, too hasty and forced by a mile, but not in a way she’ll pick up on. He means it, but he always does. He always wants to mean it. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” she retorts, eerily reminiscent of a game they used to play when she was even younger, but one that has driven more and more fear into his heart with time. It never comes out soured in her voice, but it’s always heavy, just like everything else is. “Bye-bye.”

After some rearranging from the other end, his ex-wife’s voice greets his ear, haggard but bright with morning. She always handled them better. “I’m sorry about her.”

“Don’t be,” he replies, rusty gears shifting all over again to yet another mode now. She requires muscles in his brain he’s not sure if he can flex, not this late and not with this much fog rolling thick through his head, but he has to try. He can still hear Jolyne’s voice as she flips through television programs in the faint static of the background. “I really was up.”

“Still,” she sighs, and he can see this, too, the way she’s almost assuredly rubbing her forehead as she talks, index fingers pressing underneath the brow bone. “She knows the rules, but she just kept pressing. I figured it had been long enough.”

The problem with adults is that asides like that are never just untamed emotions leaking out, they’re intentional. Jotaro gets the message loud and clear. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I had…”

He hesitates around the next words, knowing how much of an excuse it sounds before it’s even formed, just like everything else he’s ever said without a second thought. Something about it is sour on his tongue, but it feels wrong not to say it, somehow. “I had an old friend visit unexpectedly.”

“Really?” She replies, dry as she ever is towards his myriad of reasons for silence nowadays. It’s not exactly pleasant, but a perk of divorce is that there’s less expectation caught up in it all. He’d be remiss to call it healthy, but it’s lighter in her voice than it ever used to be. “That’s new.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, licking his lips, chapped and dry with the season. He makes a note to scour the restroom for one of Kakyoin’s multiple lip balms before bed, in case he left one behind for charity. “It is new.”

“Good for you, then,” she replies, even but with an unspoken curiosity laying underneath. There’s a freedom in knowing he’s no longer meant to answer it, but he’s never been able to kick the shame that still bubbles up at knowing he won’t. It’s too ingrained.

A long silence follows that, long enough to be awkward if it weren’t for the subtle change of her breath in the receiver and the faint echo of shoes against tile floor. When she speaks again, it’s low and crackling, spoken straight into the phone and enunciated with precision to cut above the distortion. “She’s been getting in trouble at school lately.”

“Oh,” Jotaro says, in lieu of anything more intelligent. He wouldn’t know where to start.

“It’s small right now,” she mutters, and Jotaro crawls his own hand up to his forehead, fingers pinched over the bridge of his nose, over his sore eyelids. They’re twin images of frustration, just like they always were. “But I’m afraid it’s going to get worse. She’s too young for this.”

Images flood behind his star-speckled eyes, of himself at Jolyne’s age waiting by the door listening to his father’s records, of packing up the last of Jolyne’s things from their old house, of how hard and how long she cried when they finally broke the news. He imagines her sitting at school, alone in a way he used to be certain her outgoing nature would never let her be. In a passing flash, he sees Kakyoin, small and scared at her age, and he breaks with a sigh, deep into his bones.

“What are you—“ Jotaro clamps down on the words, and he grits his teeth, tries again. “What should we do?”

“You need to take her over the summer,” she replies, decisive like this conversation’s been rehearsed. For all he knows, it has. He has no right to complain about being in the dark when he’s the one running from it, he lost that privilege long ago. “She’s sick with missing you, Jotaro.”

He runs a hand through his hair, gripping in tight enough to hurt. “I still don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I thought that’s what you’d say.” There's that weariness again, the deep disappointment that plagued every conversation they ever had when they were together, hollow enough to be carried off by the wind. He used to think it hurt because he loved her, but he knows now it hurts because she’s right. She’s always been right. “You need to figure it out. For her sake.”

“I’ll try,” he replies, because he means that, too. He always does, but he knows how it sounds. There’s no stopping that. “I will.”

Her silence is response enough, and as if to make that clear, she lets it linger before she speaks again. “Take care of yourself,” she whispers, behind another sigh. “Good luck with your work.”

“You too,” he offers, for whatever it’s worth.

With another goodbye and a well wish to Jolyne for her to carry, he hangs up and slumps down, down against the wall until he reaches the floor. Curling his knees to his chest, he rests his forehead in between his legs and takes a breath. He counts to five before he lifts and looks up, the green blinking light of a voicemail on his phone shining down into his eyes.

Without warning, something churns deep within his chest, and the hand already reaching up to take hold of the receiver stills, halted by the sudden wave of nausea crashing over him. He cradles it back down to his chest, staring all the while at the steadily blinking light, taunting his heartbeat with its unhurried pace.

The same images from before return to him now, flipping over and over like channels on a TV whether his eyes stay open or blink closed. The voices within them are louder by the second, gathering in volume until he swears he can hear Jolyne’s cries like a ghost echoing through the halls.

They don’t fade until the moment he gets to his feet, takes one last look at the answering machine, and walks away back up the stairs to bed.

He’s not avoiding it.

He wants to hear it badly, in fact. When dawn breaks and sleep is set to elude him for the rest of the day, his first thoughts are of the green light and running downstairs to listen to every word like a prayer.

It’s such an easy image, but his legs won’t move with it, anchored by an unseen presence that resists every command like he’s trying to walk through water. Even getting up to brush his teeth feels like a herculean task, and by the time he gets downstairs, sets the coffee maker, and smokes his morning cigarette out on the porch, he’s lost the image of answering it completely underneath exhaustion not even caffeine and nicotine can shake. He hasn’t even touched his cell, still on the table from where he’d been keeping it last night.

The counter is closer, so he takes a seat there, pouring coffee right up to the brim of his mug. If memory serves, he left the remote to watch the morning news on the other side of the table, so he instead opts for an illustrated guide to Japan’s trains Polnareff had gotten him for Christmas one year, thick and tucked behind the fruit bowl from where Kakyoin had been flipping through it the other night. Nothing about it is new, but he browses through it as slow as his drinking pace will allow, savoring the bitter heat down to every last drop as the minutes tick.

He’s not avoiding it, but when he finally stands, he clenches his coffee mug so tight his knuckles turn white. His back angled just so, he shuns the answering machine light out from the corners of his vision before dialing a different number entirely.

It hardly rings twice before the answer. Jotaro fumbles to beat out the greeting he knows is just a split second away, clipping off the very start of a high, loud voice with his own muttered, “Hey, Mom.”

“Jotaro?” Holly asks, as bewildered and delighted as ever to hear it, like they haven’t patched up their relationship beyond reserving the right to be surprised he contacts her at all.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, if only because it wouldn’t be worth the effort without an audience. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“My dear!” If there was any doubt she’s the daughter of Joseph Joestar, her voice leaves little to no question, as booming and warm as his was in his younger years and then some. Jotaro flinches away from the receiver, holding it out a few inches from his ear. Really, he should know better. “I was hoping you’d call when I heard you’d moved back!”

“Sorry you had to wait a bit,” Jotaro replies, not too surprised to find out he means it, really. There was a time he would have been loathe to hear such platitudes coming from his own lips, but that was then, and he’s begrudgingly learned the value of unconditional relationships. “I had some things come up. I…”

“Don’t worry,” she cuts him off, a natural consequence of Jotaro daring to take a second to breathe. “You’re a busy man, it warms my heart you make time for me at all.”

All the time in the world can’t ease the rash of embarrassment that spreads up his face at the unbridled fondness in her words, and he’s left choking through the burn of his reply. “About that. Do you have anything going on today?”

Even with all his efforts to mask it, there must be something in his tone that leaves him exposed. The warm sigh that follows fills his ears with static, cutting through the defenses he swore he built hitting these numbers, and he’s seen. “Nothing more important than you, darling.”

Just like that, he finds himself driving down through the city, winter sun glaring through the windows. He knows this route in his sleep, and he takes it in a fugue state, buildings and lights flashing by in waves of color until he’s parked on the street just outside a house that’s familiar and alien as anything he knows, bare trees shaking the last of their leaves out on the wide walkway towards the door.

It’s not locked when he reaches it, not that he even thinks to try the bell first. Inside, there’s a strong aroma of spices and oil and the crooning of an old American blues record drifting in from down the hall, everything covered in the overwhelming smell of home. Quietly, he sets his jacket on the coat rack where his childhood parka still hangs, silently accepting it will carry the scent of her preferred brand of air freshener when he leaves.

Instincts serve him right, and he finds Holly Kujo in the kitchen, stirring something colorful next to a pot of steaming white rice and humming to herself. She looks up only when he enters the threshold, and when she does, her eyes go wide, gentle laugh lines creasing into a smile so bright it pulls up the corners of his own lips.

With a blink, he’s wrapped up in her deceptively strong arms, spatula dripping onto the floor behind him as she squeezes the breath out of his ribcage. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, simmering garlic and onions and slide guitar, or maybe it’s just his head, but he lets it linger for longer than he’d normally permit before shaking her off, ducking out and readjusting his hat as he looks at the ground.

“I’ve missed you, JoJo,” she says, and Jotaro twitches on instinct, too tired of hearing the words to fully absorb the way they’re delivered—histrionic to an extent he now rationally knows to be both an admission and forgiveness all at once. It helps to brush off the sting quicker, though. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” he admits, opting to take in the decor of the kitchen rather than face the unspoken understanding of just how well she knows him. She’s always been the restless sort, their house growing up a host to no less than four rotating sets of decorations, each with constant additions and mixed variations depending on her mood and the weather. As he’s aged and no longer responsible for helping with set-up, he can admit they’re surprisingly tasteful, and this season features a theme of aquamarine and seafoam green, followed from the bowls on the counter to the array of curious glass sculptures littered around the den beyond.

“You need to take care of yourself,” she chides, because as Jotaro finally understands with his own parenthood, it is her job. He’d be a hypocrite not to allow her that, so he simply shrugs and sinks down into a seat at the mini-bar next to the stove. She looks him up and down, a finger to her lips in exaggerated thought as she stirs the contents of the skillet—some sort of Western egg creation, from what he can tell. “You do look good, though.”

“Do I?” His curiosity at the assessment overrides his better instincts to remain silent in the face of it.

“You do,” she sings, picking up a small cutting board of diced scallions set off to the side and adding them to the pan. “Aside from the bags under your eyes.”

“Not a lot of sleep last night,” he explains, brushing past it as fast as the words will allow without arousing suspicion. In return, he’s unable to stop himself from giving her the same once-over taking in the strong set of her shoulders and smooth face still curiously untouched by age, only a handful of grey strands beginning to highlight her ashy hair. “You too, though.”

It’s been five years since her divorce, and Jotaro isn’t convinced he’s processed it. It’s only in light of his own he's considered that there might be anything to process at all, but even then he’s hesitant to touch it, especially when his mother’s been downright glowing ever since. He wonders, though he’d never say it out loud, if it made much of a difference to her at all, or if she had to fight for the happiness she now seems to carry from it, house full of her own music and a near-constant rotation of social gatherings.

“You’re back in your head again,” she reminds him, surprisingly gentle at a volume more appropriate for indoors, for once. He looks back up from the floor with a start, setting his eyes on the contents of the stove. “You sounded that way on the phone, too.”

“You always say that.” Jotaro shifts in his seat, switching the cross of his legs and propping his elbow up on the counter, a cardinal sin in front of company growing up but now begrudgingly accepted. She slides her eyes over, but otherwise says nothing. “Have you considered I’m just not the most talkative person?”

“I would if I weren’t right,” she chimes, giving the contents of the skillet a flourished stir. “Always so introspective, ever since you were little. We couldn’t send you to your room as punishment, your father and I. You liked being alone.”

Jotaro’s heard this one before, not like they both don’t know it, but he feels compelled to humor her today. There’s a part of this that feels like home, too. “I liked the quiet.”

It wasn’t always something he needed, but sometimes, just sometimes, he remembers acting out to get sent there on purpose before she figured out how useless it was. From a very young age, after all, Jotaro had a refined appreciation for the value of silence.

“You’re still so much the same,” she laughs, wistful as she reaches into the cabinet above Jotaro’s head to procure two plates. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. We can just have breakfast.”

“Thanks,” he demures, chastened by the generosity of that statement. Navigating their adult relationship, even after all these years, still manages to take him off guard—The idea that perhaps their tension was a result of him just being a teenager and not some inherent flaw with either of them as human beings. “It looks good.”

She smiles her thanks, dividing the eggs and rice evenly between two plates and gingerly balancing a pair of chopsticks on each, setting one in front of Jotaro and one in the seat across. “You know I’m always here to listen, though.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, barely audible even to himself and slurred behind the palm of his hand. Itchy with the need to move, he beats her to another cabinet to grab two glasses, filling each with water before returning to his seat. “I know.”

They eat in silence, Jotaro taking the moment to once again internally express overdue gratitude for the quality of her cooking in an attempt to make up for the years he was too stubborn to do it. The soft sound of saxophone still flows in from down the hallway, and aside from the birds outside and the ticking of his family’s antique grandfather clock in the corner, it’s the only background to their thoughts for several minutes. Outside, one of those birds comes to rest on the windowsill, watching through the glass at their side.

Jotaro brings his chopsticks down too harsh against the plate, his wrist slipping en route to pick up an expertly sautéed shiitake mushroom. It draws him out of his reverie with a snap, and the immediate flare of inexplicable anger at the break forces out a sentence he wasn’t even aware had been resting inside at all, immediate as the flip of a switch. “It’s not that I love it. It’s that I’m better at it.”

“What do you mean?” It’s so even, curious in a mild, nonjudgmental way that he envies. He so badly wishes he knew how to be that gentle.

Instead, it’s like this, where tension rises in him so fast and insistent he’s digging into the flesh of his free arm so hard it’ll leave marks when he’s done just to anchor him down to the moment. To keep him still. “Being alone.”

“Oh, Jotaro,” she sighs, and the only thing Jotaro wants more than gentleness of his own is the ability to handle it when it’s shown without feeling like it shears off layers of his skin raw. He shrinks back into the stool, picking at his rice grain by grain. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he insists, more forceful than he means. He grits his teeth, hoping the set of his jaw tempers what he can’t control alone. “I’m not good at this. I’m just not.”

Holly sets her chopsticks down and folds her hands, softly and with a subtle strength he could have never imagined her capable of ten years ago. Maybe he just never gave her the benefit of the doubt. “If this is about your divorce, you know how I feel.”

Jotaro lets out a laugh, short and harsh, because of course he does. She thought it was a mistake of fundamental incompatibility from day one, and was so laughably bad at concealing it he thought it must have been a joke at his expense. Her relief at the separation was so palpable, however, that he now chalks it up to something he should have learned much, much sooner in life—All appearances aside, not much gets past Holly Kujo.

“It’s not,” he argues, setting his gaze out the window and into the garden, the fountain in the courtyard ever so steadily pouring up and down in the morning sun. He breathes, forcing out the exhale with a start. “It is and it isn’t. It’s everyone. It never goes right. I never get it right.”

“You’re so loved,” she soothes, reaching for his hand. He pulls back, stopping himself just short of jerking away, and while she’s slow to take it back to her own side of the counter, nothing shows on her face when he flickers his eyes temporarily back to check. “It breaks my heart how you struggle to see that.”

“That’s the problem.” Jotaro squeezes his eyes shut, digging the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose hard enough to hurt. It takes the edge of the twist in his chest, but not enough. He didn’t want to do this, but part of him knows deep down what would happen when he called, and now he can’t stop, words tumbling out from somewhere too far down to catch before they’re gone. “I wish I weren’t. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I think you do, honey.” Holly tilts her head to the side out of the corner of Jotaro’s eye, and the quiet settles something sickly in him as she takes a slow sip of her water, appraising him with a far-away look in her eye. “You just overthink it.”

“I have to.” The knotted part of his chest jerks down like a punch to the gut, and he feels frantic, now, like he’s pushed up against a wall and not slowly picking at his food over a picturesque morning. “I have to. I have to protect them.”

She inhales, and Jotaro can feel her eyes on him even as she slides down from off the stool and makes her way back behind the stovetop. Wordlessly, she pulls out the tea kettle and sets some water to boil, Jotaro counting his own breaths as he waits for her to speak again.

“I’ll never forget your face that day, you know,” she says, leaning her hands on the counter and staring off somewhere into the den beyond. “You were so harsh towards the world back then, but when I looked at your eyes in that jail cell I knew I was right about who you are deep down, no matter how hard you tried to convince everyone otherwise.”

Jotaro stills, chopsticks down and his hands in his lap, because he doesn’t know this one. They’ve never talked about it besides one or two passing acknowledgments it happened at all, and never lingered on for more than a beat before getting brushed up in another conversation. Her feelings seem so obvious now that they’re spoken, but heat still rises to his face, too uncomfortable to dare look up or part his lips.

“You would have just as soon locked yourself away forever than hurt someone,” she continues after it’s clear he has no intention of replying, but it comes so soon he’s not certain she was waiting for it at all. “It never would have occurred to you to use that power to save people on your own, you were too afraid of the alternative. It was so obvious in your eyes you never would have forgiven yourself.”

“I didn’t know,” he retorts, but it sounds flimsy enough to get carried right away with the breeze. “How was I supposed to know?”

“You weren’t,” she assures, pulling out a measurement of loose leaf green tea and setting it in the kettle for it to seep, an act Jotaro smells rather than sees out from behind his own hand. “It’s just so like you.”

“It was necessary.” He eyes the mug Holly sets in front of him, an old Monterey Bay aquarium souvenir they’d picked on one of the few business trips his father had ever taken him on, the label faded from years of fervent use.

“It would have broken my heart to leave you in that place,” she says, hardly more than a whisper as she sets the kettle between them and returns to her seat. “I would have rather been attacked by your stand every day than lose you. I would have done anything.”

Jotaro sets his hands down to the table, tired and stiff from clenching. He runs his fingers over the back of his knuckles, and this time he’s been pushed too far off his guard to pull back at the touch of her hand over them, gently coaxing his own away so she can rest her palm over his.

“I love you, Jotaro,” she says, and Jotaro looks at the connection between their hands with tired eyes, weary in their sockets. “You don’t have to protect anyone from that.”

Something in him breaks at that, not so much a snap as a rumbling crack, pieces falling in a scatter of ash at his feet. “I’m going to hurt her, Mom. I just know it.”

“Jolyne?” She asks, not so much a question as it is a confirmation. “Everyone hurts everyone at least a little. Especially parents.”

“What if I’m someone who hurts people a lot?” Jotaro feels so much like a kid again, needing his hand held and tea poured for him as he asks the most childish questions imaginable, all impulse control gone out the window like he’s falling backward in time. “What then?”

“Some people are,” she agrees, letting go of his hand with one last squeeze in order to pour her own tea. “But some people are just hard on themselves.”

She doesn’t know. She can’t know. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, all he sees is red. “I have to be.”

“Maybe for you that’s true,” she hedges, and Jotaro hates when she gets like this, that little glint at the edge of her tone like she somehow still knows better. It makes him feel smaller than anything yet. “But there’s more than one way to protect something.”

Jotaro doesn’t know what to say to that, so he falls into silence watching the steam waft up from his tea with unfocused eyes until the room starts to blur and his shoulders collapse, his body finally buckling under the weight of the past few weeks, months, years of his life all at once.

“I think I might have something,” he sighs, wrapping his hands around the mug and focusing on the warmth rolling up from his fingertips. “Something I really don’t want to fuck up.”

Holly searches his face for long, arduous seconds, sipping her tea thoughtfully with one eyebrow raised. “Is that so?”

He hadn’t planned on saying it, hadn’t planned on saying anything at all really when he decided to come, but sitting here now already so stripped down despite his best intentions, he can fool himself into thinking there’s nothing left to lose.

“If I say who they are,” he starts, clenching the mug ever-tighter up to his lips. It takes several rounds of sliding his gaze away to convince himself to stay still, but he manages to hold her eyes before continuing. “Will I be telling you anything you don’t know?”

It takes her several seconds to process, so long that Jotaro starts to worry she’ll have to ask him what he means, and he’s not capable of that. Slowly, clarity washes over her by degrees until a closed-lip smile falls across her face, the corners pulled up high. “No, dear. You won’t be.”

Maybe he should be more prepared for that answer, but he’s not, fumbling to set the mug down before it drops and shatters across the floor. He wraps his lips around nothing but air, formlessly grasping for something to say. “How long have you known?”

“In truth?” She begins, taking another sip of tea to mask a smile Jotaro suspects is even wider than before, though her eyes are still serious. “It feels like always. I’ve had my suspicions since you were young. You were never much like the other boys.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” The kinetic energy he’s built up from anxious anticipation redirects into pure indignation, his mouth shamefully ajar and eyes wide.

“Would you have listened?” She retorts, though it comes across as more sincere of a question in her voice than he’s prepared for. He shirks back into himself, taking hold of the mug again like it’s his only remaining defense.

“Maybe,” he replies, so quiet it’s unclear if she even hears him. Either way, nothing in her expression reacts to it, and he can’t help but think perhaps that’s just as well. He doesn’t so much contemplate his next words as simply breathe into the silence, nothing but static in his own head as his mouth drags him forward, further and further into a place he’s no longer able to fully predict or control. “Do you remember the boy the old man and I rescued before we went to Cairo? The one that was my age?”

“Of course I do.” She gestures for Jotaro to hold out his mug in order to top off the tea, and he obliges reluctantly, nearly burning himself in his haste to pull it back once full. “I’m still so sorry.”

“He’s back in my life,” he mutters, turning back to the window again. The bird from before is long gone, but two others have appeared by the fountain, resting upon the dry stone and pecking at their feathers. “It’s a strange, long story, but I think… I think it’s for good this time. I want it to be.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud in so many words, but it doesn’t feel as heavy falling from his lips as he expects it to. If anything, it feels like a relief, almost like remembering a word that’s been just on the tip of his tongue for hours, less monumental than it is overdue.

“Oh, Jotaro.” He doesn’t have the first idea what to make of it, but lucky for him, he doesn’t have to, Holly’s unmistakable laugh lifting through the air and drawing him back into the room. “Your entire life is a strange, long story.”

There’s no argument for Jotaro to make in the face of that, so he just sips his tea, and says nothing at all.

There are two messages on the answering machine when he returns home just before noon, warm with green tea and the near-crushing hug they parted with.

Instead of listening to either right away, he smokes a cigarette out on the back porch, slow to make it last. It’s a miracle of his self-control that he doesn’t reach for another, but as he stomps the butt of it out on his ashtray, part of him feels like he’s ready.

At the very least, it has to be now.

The first one is short and to the point, almost curiously so, a simple explanation that his affairs should be settled by the end of the week and that he’s available to fly back either next Saturday or Sunday, depending on Jotaro’s schedule.

It’s innocuous and predictable enough, but listening to it over again before moving onto the next, he itches for another cigarette. He doesn’t have the illusion of being strong enough to refuse it this time, but he inhales every breath deep and fast into his lungs, hands shaking with nicotine by the time he snuffs it out mere short, restless minutes later.

His instincts serve him right, because it’s only the tremble in his legs that keeps him rooted in place long enough to listen to the second message all the way to the end instead of bolting back outside halfway through.

He’s exhausted by the time it’s finished, tired in that weightless way that shakes him like a leaf yet pulls gravity heavy in his gut at the same time. He doesn’t even take the time to put the phone back on its hook before he’s stumbling out the door again, cigarette already between his teeth and hands fumbling for purchase on his lighter, breath heaving out in gasps.

There’s no way. There’s no way he can do this. He’s not capable. He’s not ready. He’s not—

The first cigarette is downed in a blind panic, eyes blurry and head pounding from the smoke and the ceaseless chanting in his own head, interspersed with fragments of Kakyoin’s voice echoing in between. He nearly chokes on it, but by the second enough of the drug is coursing through his veins for nausea to melt into dizziness, and the dizziness, inhale by laborious inhale, into something not unlike calm, frayed at the edges as it is.

By the third, he’s coming back down for good, and as impossible as it seems to himself, it’s impatience that drives him to snuff it out less than halfway down the stick and slide it back into the pack. He makes his way back inside like a man possessed, hitting playback on the message with mechanical fingers and sliding down with his back pressed flushed to the wall.

Exhaling, he closes his eyes, and listens again.

“It’s still early there,” the Kakyoin on the recording greets with a breath of air, short with a shaky hint of humor in the back of his throat. “I’m kind of glad I got the answering machine again, actually, because I don’t know if I could say this to your face. Well, voice, but you know what I mean.”

Jotaro forces a laugh despite himself, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Kakyoin continues after a beat, almost as if he somehow knew. “I really don’t know how much sense this is going to make, so I apologize in advance. I guess it’s just sort of hitting me how crazy this is. I mean, I knew it was crazy, but now that I’m back here it’s… it’s insane, right? Like, objectively. I’m dropping everything for someone I met once when I was a teenager, and you’re just letting me. God… it sounds even worse out loud.”

There’s a cracking sort of pause on the other end that Jotaro was too horrified to process the first time through, but now recognizes as a sigh too close to the receiver. “It just feels so real right now. Part of me is terrified, and I’m sure you are too. I got in my head last night about it all, I’m sorry if you can tell in my last message. I’ve been trying to process everything. I wondered for a minute when I first got back that you’re only letting me do this because I kept bugging you, and that’s why I told you Saturday. I didn’t need to wait that long, I just wanted to see if you’d… I don’t know, call it off. Tell me to stay put. But you didn’t, and now I know I never really expected it, deep down.”

It never occurred to him, not even once. He doesn’t have to wonder what that means, though, because Kakyoin does it for him.

“That forced me to consider the alternative,” he continues, along with the crackling of a smaller sigh, sharp and succinct. “Which I’ve basically already told you before, but I think it took being here to feel true in a way I can’t argue with, even to myself. I’m not as sure of this as I’ve maybe seemed, but Jotaro, I just want it. I’ve spent a decade trying to be something, anything else, but when I was seventeen all I wanted in the world was to be yours. Doesn’t that sound so stupid? It was true, though. I think I loved you.”

Jotaro curls his knees up into his chest and folds over them, tucking the cord underneath his chin and bowing his head down, eyes closed. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in.

“I think I love you again.”

Breathe out.

“I know it hasn’t been long enough. I know it’s been an emotional few weeks. I know it’s not logical. Believe me. I know. I just don’t know what else to call it. You make me feel like myself, like maybe that isn’t a bad thing and I just… I’ve never had that before you, or since. I don’t know how to explain how that feels. But I think you know, don’t you?”

Jotaro hums, the faint sound of agreement spilling out from his lips unconsciously even knowing full well it won’t be heard. He feels ridiculous, not just about that, but all of this. About everything.

“I don’t know if you love me,” Kakyoin’s voice whispers, so small he has to strain to hear it. He missed parts of this the first time, barely audible over the rushing in his own ears. “Only you can know that. I just know you want this, whatever this is, but I know you’re scared. Jotaro, I’m terrified. I know what I’m risking, what we’re risking. But this… this feeling between us, whatever this is… You have to know how special it is, how rare. All I know is that anyone would be lucky to feel what I’m feeling right now for you. Anyone would be lucky to have you, in whatever way I do. This is so real for me.”

Jotaro’s hands are itching again, legs shaking even with his feet flat on the floor, and he’s so close to the end. He wants to stop, but he can’t. He won’t let himself.

“I don’t know why I called,” Kakyoin admits through the recording, quiet in a way that puts the intensity of his voice before into sharp perspective. “Or why I’m telling you any of this now. I guess I just need you to know that I’ve thought about this, and that I need to know you want me there with the same seriousness and intent. Again, I think you do. I’ve really, really thought about that, too, please trust me. Maybe I selfishly couldn’t keep it in any longer and don’t need to hear anything from you at all. I just miss you. I don’t know how I went eleven years without you when I can barely stand three days now.”

If nothing else, Jotaro gets that last part. More than maybe anything else in the whole message.

“You don’t have to reply to this,” he continues after a pause, soft. “I’m being ridiculous. I’ll talk to you soon. I hope you’re well.”

The recording ends with a click, and Jotaro’s alone again, silence echoing through the empty house. It’s more out of necessity for his own space and peace of mind that he manages to crawl to his feet and finish the last half of his cigarette, relishing in the moment to breathe before he has to face the music back inside.

Inside his head, there’s nothing more left but the breeze across his cheek and the smoke between his fingers, a curious emptiness like the space left behind by a bomb, the last few hours so chaotic there’s not a seed of thought left to sprout back up in its wake.

It’s a blessing, because it’s only in this serenity that he manages to make his way back inside and hit the call back number. Maybe this is why so many people who have lost their minds appear so happy, he thinks. It’s peaceful, in a way.

It rings six times before the other line picks up, counted by Jotaro’s breath in time. “Hello?”

“Kakyoin,” Jotaro greets, stilted and strange even in his own ears. He has no hope of fixing it. “I got your message.”

“Oh, God,” he sounds dazed, not in his sleep-ridden way but something even farther away, like the call pulled him out from somewhere only he knows. “I’m so sorry. I was in the weirdest space earlier, I…”

“I get what you mean,” Jotaro cuts him off, because he can’t stand another word. “On all of it. Wherever you are, I’m right there too.”

“Oh,” Kakyoin breathes, less a word and more of a sound, hitting like a rush of air in the receiver. “Jotaro.”

Jotaro clutches the phone with both hands, passing it over to his other ear. “I can’t talk about it like this. Come back on Saturday.”

“Okay.” Kakyoin inhales like he’s poised to say something more, but whatever it is, it catches in his throat.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Jotaro has had what he now knows to be a clinical panic attack three times in his life.

Only two of those came in his adult life after the concept had been properly explained to him. Even then, it took him days to recognize that’s maybe what occurred at the foot of his bed the night he and Kakyoin kissed for the second first time.

The first came when he was just on the cusp of adulthood, back when he was even less informed and entirely unequipped to process its meaning. The prodrome was slow to take hold, and it would be years before he’d be able to pick apart the timeline—to trace the plot on how he went from sitting on the flight from Cairo back to Tokyo one moment to curled up on the closed seat of an airplane toilet the next, head in his hands and gasping for air.

Though others followed, he’s never felt anything before or like it since. In the cabin, he remembers sitting in enveloped silence, photograph burning a hole in his jacket, too hot to wear comfortably but carrying something too precious to remove. Aside from a few attempts at stilted conversation, the old man was silent on the overnight journey, and Jotaro was somewhere deep inside his mind, tired and frayed beyond coherent thought but swimming in blurry, spinning pictures and knife-sharp formless emotion.

They were covered behind a veil, however, until he got up sometime in the early hours of the morning to use the restroom. Trying to pinpoint the exact tipping point is a lost cause, but between the echoing volume of the small chamber, the low, grey light illuminating his weary body, and the way the walls seemed to cave in from all sides, something in him just snapped.

One second, he was looking at his face in the mirror, hollowed and scar-dotted with unseeing eyes, and the next he was collapsed with his knees up to his chest, dry-heaving on stale, recycled air. It’s not enough to say the reality of what he was leaving behind—of what he’d endured over the last few months of his life—hit him then. There was nothing conscious about it, no one thing he could grasp long enough to process passing through him at all, but rather it was like a hand gripping into his chest and holding on to his lungs, squeezing and squeezing until each bone in his body shook like a leaf in the wind.

It took a total of three knocks for him to pull himself together and hold his shoulders up straight. When he did, his energy was focused only on keeping his head down and making his way through the cabin as fast as his still-wobbling legs would allow to fake sleep until morning. At the time, it was an inexplicable, frightening moment of weakness that bordered on the supernatural in terms of how it fit his paradigm of reality. He never told anyone, not the old man when he saw his red-rimmed eyes, not his wife, and when he could avoid it, not even himself.

Still, the sterile smell of travel and the glow of dim fluorescents always finds a way to bring him right back to the memory, until he can look down at his own hands and see the thin-wristed fragility of his body at seventeen all over again, tan and raw from the desert sun.

He’s never been the biggest fan of airports.

That was then, and this is now, and he shakes off the memory with the water from his hands after washing them in the Narita International bathrooms, back again far too soon for his liking. Not even a reason such as this is fully enough to keep the phantom twinges of past anxiety at bay, though even he’s self-aware enough to recognize it’s in no small part due to how perilously close he feels to yet another one.

Kakyoin’s always made him feel more, for better or for worse. He knows that now, even if he knows nothing else.

Making his way to the gate, it’s a flipbook of déja-vu, the path familiar and fresh in his memory yet murky all at once. He glances at every arrivals board he passes, checking over and over for the flight number saved on a sticky note in his jacket pocket. He’s made his choice, he has since the moment he said it on the phone and knew it couldn’t be any other way, but he navigates like he’s floating, weightless among a blur of people and lights and PA announcements that sound like nothing but white noise to his ears.

He’s early, but not too early, his timing part of a calculated attempt to stave off the barely-concealed floodgate of nervous energy, among other things. He smoked in the lounge before heading to the gates, and though his hands are still shaking, it’s less than it would be otherwise. To say he went for two to stall would be a lie, but the thought of sitting in those stiff-backed, gaudy chairs for too long with nothing to do but wait sent a crawl down his spine.

To walk up and see the plane taxiing in is almost worse, but there’s no way of knowing if the concrete drop in his stomach, sticky and cold as it is, would have been mitigated any by searching for it in the sky. His legs twitch to sit, but he refuses, picking a pillar suspiciously similar to the one he leaned against just weeks ago waiting for another flight to land.

It’s different alone. It’s minutes after the plane docks into the bridge before the doors swing open for the first wave of exiting passengers, and Jotaro counts every second with a tap of his foot and the heartbeat in his throat. He scans each of them one by one, searching with unblinking eyes for a face he knows like the back of his hand, but feels so slippery here in the limbo of tarmacs and descending early evening darkness. With his palms pressed together over his mouth, he’s never in his life prayed and isn’t about to start now, but he focuses on recollecting his image with what he can only imagine is a similar intensity.

A terrible thought occurs to him then, and as ridiculous as it might be, the second it crosses his mind he’s bound to it. The longer the procession carries on, a small, paranoid piece of him fears he won’t be there at all. Even with his flight information in hand, given to him by Kakyoin himself over the phone the night before, the possibilities flood him. Maybe he missed the flight entirely, maybe even on purpose, what if something happened to him before he could reach La Guardia and he’ll never know, what if—

“Jotaro.”

There’s a flash of red just beyond the corners of his vision, and he lifts his head to see Kakyoin crossing the gate with suitcase in hand and a jacket haphazardly thrown across his shoulders, hair astray and eyes wide. With a snap, Jotaro peels away from the pole as Kakyoin struggles through the deplaning crowds, and they meet in the middle, breathless.

He looks him up and down, but there’s not a detail his brain can register beyond a shadowy, heady realization he’s just here at all, and for that…

There’s no time to think about it, only a split-second, gutting tinge of regret for a moment he missed once, and can’t bear the thought of leaving undone again. He reaches forward and wraps his arms around Kakyoin’s slight frame, clinging to his shoulders and erasing the distance between them into nothing. His suitcase falls to the wayside at their feet, and Kakyoin shudders as he sighs into Jotaro’s neck, warm.

He’s held him before, but never like this, never so boldly and never with the crushing desperation he feels now, like even pressed flush chest to chest is nowhere near close enough. Kakyoin’s small, so much smaller than him, and his suspicions from the last time were correct, because he could get lost in this feeling, wants to more than anything. The way Kakyoin folds into his arms is so delicate, his head resting against his collarbone and hands pressed to the broad space between his shoulder blades.

The rush of the airport that had been grinding needles in his brain only moments before is less than a whisper in the background. His ears fill with the sound of Kakyoin’s uneven breath, hitching when he whispers, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m sorry,” he replies, only now aware the slight tremor in his legs hasn’t managed to vanish. “I don’t know why.”

Kakyoin hums into his neck, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. “I think I do.”

There’s a brief urge to pull back and turn to his face for answers like he always does, but he can’t bring himself to unclench his knuckles long enough to pull away. Instead, he nods to signal his attention, closing his eyes.

“I thought about this on the plane.” Kakyoin shifts just enough to be able to look up, and as reluctant as Jotaro is to allow any distance, he loosens his hold to let him. “The last time you let me leave, I didn’t come back.”

Jotaro sighs, shivering as Kakyoin snakes his hands up between them, tugging lightly at the hem of his shirt. “Maybe,” he mutters, willing his legs steady. “Maybe. I don’t know. I…”

Blinking his eyes open reveals Kakyoin’s expectant face, cheeks flushed and scarred eyes dark with uneven sleep, but as bright as the smile fighting at his lips. Jotaro wants to reach for it, but he’s not too far gone to know where they are, or that he’s the one that’s left a half-finished sentence dangling in the air. He doesn’t know what he means to say, but what tumbles out is nothing more than a small, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Kakyoin whispers, the smile breaking wide across his face. This time, Jotaro can’t hold back from brushing his thumb across his cheekbone, just once. “Is that why you’re being so affectionate?”

Chastened, Jotaro slides his hands down from his shoulders but doesn’t let go, not yet. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Kakyoin follows up, hasty. As if for good measure, he presses his head into Jotaro’s chest, leaning heavy against him. Unconsciously, Jotaro blinks to find his own hand nestled in the back of Kakyoin’s hair, holding him gently down. “I’d love to stay here for hours, believe me, but I’m exhausted. And a little sick of airports.”

That Jotaro can empathize with. With one last brush of his hair, Jotaro pries his arms away but lets Kakyoin keep one hand around his waist as he bends down to retrieve his suitcase. A single glance is all it takes to deter Kakyoin from trying to take it back from him, but it takes significantly more glaring to keep Kakyoin from fighting to carry anything more than one of his remaining three suitcases once they reach baggage claim. He lets him take the victory, if only to avoid a scene. It’s too early for something so senseless.

The ride back home is quiet, Kakyoin too jet-lagged and spent from his long hours traveling for much conversation. Jotaro’s left a blues disc in to fill the silence on the way in, and he keeps it playing softly in the background when he sees Kakyoin tapping his foot out of the corner of his eye. Still, they keep their hands intertwined over the gear shift after Kakyoin leaves his palm conspicuously open at his side, stretched out towards Jotaro even as he leans his opposite elbow against the window.

Once home, Jotaro braces himself on the steps up for a wave that builds and builds, but doesn’t crash. It stays high up above his head even when Kakyoin’s suitcases all find their way into the foyer and the man himself sheds his jacket on the coat rack like he lives there, because he does. Not even that realization is enough to bring him under, nor the mounting pressure in his chest at the sight of him back under these entryway lights, so familiar as if it were yesterday yet somehow lightyears away.

“I don’t think I have the energy to unpack tonight,” Kakyoin sighs, once they’ve managed to haul all his bags up the stairs and into Jotaro’s room—their room. He pulls his hair back behind his ear, eyeing the bed with weary eyes. “I need to shower. I finally have my own shampoo back.”

Fastidious as ever, Kakyoin declared Jotaro’s taste in hair products abominable almost immediately way back in Morioh and insisted on tracking down his preferred brand the second they made it to Tokyo, his own travel size long gone. The versions of the line peeking out from his toiletry bag are nearly twice the size with even more specific labels, and Jotaro’s taken aback by the hit of fondness it brings.

“Help yourself,” he replies, after several seconds too long of processing. He glances at the suitcases stacked in a pile by his closet and briefly entertains starting to unpack for him while he’s in before realizing Kakyoin likely has a system he’s not privy to. “Take your time.”

Kakyoin crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his eyes from the door out to the hallway and back to Jotaro, the nuances of his expression too muted by sleeplessness to be readable. “I don’t mean anything by this,” he hedges, drawing his shoulders tight up to his ears before letting them fall. “But you could join me, if you want.”

Jotaro presses his lips together and nods.

They shed their clothes slowly in the bathroom, Jotaro helping with the buttons of Kakyoin’s flannel when his own hands start to slip over them. Sensing his muted energy, Jotaro tries not to linger too long once they’re both stripped bare, but he can’t help it when he feels Kakyoin’s focus turn on him, sharp eyes searching the contours of his body with a lazy flicker of his gaze.

“I mean it,” Kakyoin says, voice thick. He clears his throat, drawing an arm across his own waist. “I really am too tired for anything.”

“That’s okay,” Jotaro assures, because of course it is. Satisfied once their eyes meet, Kakyoin draws the glass doors of the shower back to adjust the faucet, glancing over his shoulder in unspoken invitation as he steps in.

Jotaro tries and fails to bite back a sigh the second then water touches his skin, pleased to find they both like it the same, just on the edge of scalding. He runs his hands down his face, blinking to see Kakyoin all but melting against the tile wall with half-lidded eyes and parted lips, a flush of red creeping higher and higher across his chest from the heat.

“Stay there,” Jotaro commands, voice even. Kakyoin tilts his head to the side but doesn’t protest, watching in silence as Jotaro reaches for the soap and plush red washcloth Kakyoin placed on the shelf of the shower rack he long ago claimed as his.

“You really don’t have to,” Kakyoin protests, but even as he says it, he sinks further into the wall, boneless.

“I want to,” Jotaro counters, pouring soap into the center of the cloth and working it up into a lather. To that, Kakyoin only nods, watching as Jotaro sinks to his knees. He found the chamber ostentatious bordering on gaudy at first, but he’s grateful for how spacious it is now, guiding Kakyoin with a hand on his calf until they’re both just free of the water stream. “You look like you need it.”

Kakyoin hums, noncommittal, but it quickly warps into a sigh as Jotaro holds him in place with one hand and guides the cloth up and down the length of his leg with the other. He feels the slight twinge of creeping arousal the further he moves, but he stamps it down, focusing with the precision of a surgeon on the scarred expanse of his skin and carefully avoiding the most sensitive parts between his thighs, opting to leave that to his own hands. Jotaro’s well aware he uses a different type of soap anyway.

He crawls to his feet when he reaches the middle of his chest, glancing up to see Kakyoin’s eyes gently closed, his head pressed against the tile. He barely shifts at all, still aside from the uneven pull of his breath and the occasional shudder when Jotaro brushes against him. With care, Jotaro turns him around to reach his back, gliding his hand over his shoulder blades and the deep lines of scar tissue. Before he can think better of it, he presses his lips to the crease between his neck and shoulder, light and quick.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Kakyoin says, muffled slightly by the wall and the echo of the shower.

“Like what?” Jotaro brushes the hair at the back of his neck to the side, and even in the short time they’ve been apart, he can tell it’s grown.

“Gentle,” Kakyoin elaborates, turning his head just enough to look back at him. “It’s not that you aren’t, but it’s rare you’re so open about it.”

Jotaro tries to push aside the emotion that wells up in him at the use of that word, but it shows in the way his hand pauses before moving down the length of his arm. He doesn’t have any real idea why he’s doing this at all, hasn’t given himself time to think about it with how focused he’s been on just the task itself. It’s something he used to do for Jolyne when she was young and exhausted from her worst days at school, and perhaps something in his eyes provoked the same impulse in him to erase the tension he found there.

There are no words for that though, none he knows how to say at least, so he just shrugs. “You’re tired.”

“I am.” The tension in his eyes hasn’t faded completely, but they’re softer closing again than they were when they opened, and that’s all Jotaro needs to continue down his other arm.

In silence, Jotaro takes a hold of his chin and pulls him back from the wall, one hand to his waist to hold him up and the other gliding the soap across his face. When he’s finished, he leads them both under the water, leaving him to enjoy the warmth while Jotaro fetches his own soap along with the plain bar Kakyoin brought in his own bag.

Quickly, Jotaro tends to his own body while Kakyoin finishes the more intimate areas of himself with clinical motions, impressive considering he’s half-hard himself when Jotaro dares glance down. Despite a single hitch of his breath when he glides over his length, he doesn’t react, nor does he return to it once the soap is back in Jotaro’s hands and placed on the shelf.

They don’t speak at all until Jotaro’s hands are deep in his hair, lathering expensive floral shampoo over his scalp. Kakyoin tenses almost imperceptibly beneath him, but Jotaro knows the signs, how his mouth will fall into a line when he’s lost in thought. He slows his movement and waits.

“I could have had this all along,” Kakyoin sighs, craning his neck up when Jotaro draws his fingers closer to his hairline. “I wonder if I’ll ever forgive myself.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” Jotaro says, automatic. He’s not sure if it’s because he believes it, or if he wants to erase the crease that’s fallen between his eyebrows, but he feels the pull of both.

“You keep saying that,” Kakyoin replies, the crease even deeper now, visible from the side of his face even when he leans his head back down. “I know you didn’t feel ready back then, but I’m not sure that’s true. You’re so good at this. To me.”

“It’s okay,” Jotaro says, because it is. It is.

“It was hard being back.” Kakyoin lowers his voice and guides himself under the water this time, Jotaro switching to running his fingers down the strands to rinse. He continues only when he’s free from the stream, lip between his teeth. “For a lot of reasons I don’t want to go into right now. But knowing what I left behind for so long hurt more than I thought it would.”

He has that far-off tinge to his voice that makes Jotaro wonder if he’s meant to reply at all, and his muted expression at the hum Jotaro gives is all but confirmation. He moves to the conditioner before starting his own hair, and this time Kakyoin turns to face him chest-to-chest, leaning into the touch.

“Do you feel ready now?” Kakyoin asks, voice barely above a whisper. He rests his hands on Jotaro’s hips, leaning into his ministrations.

“You’re here,” Jotaro replies, because it’s not as simple as a yes or no. It’s never been, and he’s starting to suspect at this point it never will be. “I want you here.”

Exhaling, Kakyoin lays his head on Jotaro’s shoulder, angling just enough for Jotaro to finish coating his hair unobstructed. For once, he’s grateful for his long limbs, Jotaro turning to blindly replace the conditioner on the shelf and grab his own products. He guides Kakyoin under the edge of the water but otherwise stays careful not to disturb their position.

“Thank you,” Kakyoin says against his skin, breath ghosting over his neck and sending a shiver down his spine. He doesn’t stir when Jotaro’s hands go to his own hair, scrubbing at his scalp with much less thoroughness. “I was so scared you wouldn’t let me back in.”

Jotaro’s chest lurches at that, nauseous and cold. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop that, you’re so neurotic.” Kakyoin shakes his head, hair tickling down Jotaro’s shoulder blade. If there’s any real bite to it, it’s masked by warmth, radiating out from everywhere they touch. “It’s not actually anything you did. I know you. It’s me. I wanted it too badly to not be afraid.”

Jotaro inhales before leaning under the stream himself, turning so the soap won’t fall onto Kakyoin. “I know what you mean.”

“I know you do.” Jotaro feels the words more than he hears them, following the pattern his lips trace. “I know.”

He attends to his own conditioner just as hastily, barely checking to see he’s covered it all before diving back under. Once it’s rinsed, he lingers underneath the stream, relishing in the burn of his skin and the feeling of Kakyoin’s weight against him, relaxed and so much heavier than his frame.

There’s no way of knowing how long they stay there, only that at some point Jotaro gives in to an unspoken urge caught in his throat and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him in to press flush against the side of his body and tracing slow circles across his lower back. From there, they stay silent and still with only the pounding water and gathering steam in motion around them, long enough that the water goes from burning to warm. Long enough that Jotaro’s thoughts are muted down to almost nothing, empty with exhaustion of his own.

At the first shiver he gives, Kakyoin pulls up, cheek red from where it had been pressed and eyes heavy. Carefully, he reaches up to guide Jotaro towards him and leans in for a kiss head-on, holding onto the sides of his face with soft hands.

Jotaro tests it with several more before daring to open up for him, but when he does, Kakyoin greets it with a fluttering exhale and a swipe of his tongue against his lower lip. They move together in a slow, unhurried rhythm, kissing for the sake of kissing, touching for the sake of pure contact, languid and unassuming.

He’s never wanted this part with anyone else, kissing that goes nowhere other than to indulge in the act itself. With them, though, it’s a language they’ve always spoken, learned from exploratory moments in hotel rooms and tents on stolen time where anything was good enough, where everything mattered because it was him and they were falling.

If Kakyoin had never returned, Jotaro would have died before ever using those words to describe those moments. He’s certain of it. It shocks him with a volt of electricity that it crosses his mind now at all, like it hasn’t been echoing through his head for days. But he sighs into the brush of their tongues together behind his teeth, and it gathers something dark and heavy in the center of him, intense in a way that brings those memories bubbling to the surface, flashes of his life at seventeen and all-consuming need he’d never dare call by its name.

He feels the wave of realization coming ever closer, but not tonight. It’s not the time.

Tonight, they’ll sleep.

In the end, it’s not so much a wave as it is the pull of the undertow ebbing and receding into high tide. But it’s not strong enough to rip the sand out from under him. Not quite.

The gravity of it comes in several peaks, spread out over time that seems to stretch in every direction until something that used to exist in such identifiable flashes becomes a constant flicker. On the seventh day Jotaro wakes up beside him, he does so with a start, ripped from a formless dream with the gut-wrenching fear that he’s forgotten to account for some sort of end to all this, too sleep-addled to put the timeline together before succumbing to the primal suspicion there’s somewhere else Kakyoin’s meant to be.

It’s only when Kakyoin presses a hand to his cheek and returns with coffee that he’s able to shake the sensation, and even then it clings to him off and on through the day, gnawing at the back of his head as he turns to his thesis work. It’s unfair, he can’t help but think selfishly, how time marches on around him even when his entire life has come to a standstill, caught for weeks now in a world of his own that still feels like a schism from reality itself. Still, deadlines are deadlines, and with the end of term looming ever closer, he cannot afford to continue to put his life on hold, even when the idea it’s his life at all remains alien.

Within two weeks, Kakyoin has settled into his new job himself working on exhibits for yet another small art gallery in Tokyo, an eclectic array of historical and contemporary rarities that he delves into with an enthusiasm that tugs at Jotaro with impossible fondness. He returns to his own art even sooner, one of the suitcases he’d brought apparently entirely devoted to his supplies. They spend a free evening setting up one of the spare rooms as his impromptu studio, and as the days after pass, Jotaro returns from labs to find a new stool here, a new acrylic color there, and always new lines on sketches and paintings in various degrees of polished. He’d never admit how much he’s peeked in, but he’s sure Kakyoin knows.

It’s cruel timing either way that he’s busy to a degree he can no longer avoid at the time he needs to think most. Even though his mind whirs like constant background noise, it always will, his time with Kakyoin is stolen in between writing papers and shuffling to and from his program, reading him figures about his starfish over dinner and sharing hurried kisses out the door. As the days grow colder around them, their nights stay the same, tangled up under the covers skin to skin.

By the second to last week of term, the nights they’ve spent together since Kakyoin’s return to Morioh now eclipse the nights they spent together, truly together, back as teenagers, something Kakyoin reminds him of one night on the edge of sleep.

“Really?” Jotaro asks, ignoring the strange flip in his chest. He closes his eyes against the memories, pulling Kakyoin’s hand further across his body. “How do you know?”

“Do you remember the notebook I kept inside my jacket?” Kakyoin asks, the pillow shifting underneath him as he leans up onto his elbow. He waits for Jotaro's nod before continuing. “I had that on me when they found my body. I kept record of everything. Especially you.”

Nothing about that surprises him. Jotaro saw him pour over that tiny thing night after night with his own two eyes, scribbling in handwriting too small for human consumption before crawling beneath the covers. He didn’t know what was in there, he never asked, but Jotaro’s familiar with that analytical mind of his turning back around on him. Still, he’s sure Kakyoin can feel his heartbeat through his skin. “Do you still have it?”

“Of course,” he replies, tucking his hair behind his ear with a toss. Jotaro meets his eyes, and hums.

“I’d like to see it sometime,” Jotaro hedges, remembering how the pages crinkled after the water damage they endured, even though the high-end ink from his pens barely bled. “If you’re alright with that. Not now.”

Kakyoin presses a kiss to his temple and whispers again, “Of course.”

The Sunday before the last week of term, he gets a call from the Speedwagon Foundation.

They’ve been taking it easy on him since the chaos in Morioh, though Jotaro harbors private suspicions they’ve been keeping tabs on the both of them in their own ways, as they always do. Either way, the agent on the other line apologizes breezily for the timing before requesting his presence in Madrid, post-haste.

He doesn’t so much agree as rattle off the script he always provides at these calls, too stunned and rusty from even a brief time away to process it in the moment. It’s only after he hangs up and meets Kakyoin’s eyes he realizes that script includes what is very much a tacit agreement.

“Who was that?” Kakyoin asks once he’s back in the room, looking up from a sketch he’s been chipping away at from his perch on the couch all morning. It’s a landscape of the shoreline, from the looks of it.

The blood in his veins turns to ice, and he stands in the middle of the living room paralyzed, phone clenched beneath white knuckles. He expects nothing to come out when he tries to explain it, just like it has so many times before, but Kakyoin arches his eyebrows, and it tumbles out faster than his tongue can keep up. “The Foundation.”

“Oh.” Kakyoin snaps his jaw shut, but the incredulous look on his face remains. He rests his pencil on the side of his jaw, crossing his legs. “What did they want?”

Jotaro’s been forgoing his hat lately, if only in the confines of this house and only on days he’s sure they don’t have plans outside of it. It’s a choice regrets now, reaching up out of habit to pull the brim over to shadow his face and finding nothing but air. He digs into his scalp instead, but drops it just as fast. It’s not the same. “Same thing they always do.”

For a brief moment, Kakyoin searches his face for answers, and he wishes so badly he could somehow contort his expression in a way that would obscure the truth. He’s nowhere fast enough, though, and the speed with which he seems to find it is enough evidence attempting to would be an insult to his intelligence.

“Well, you said no, didn’t you?” Kakyoin offers, not so much a question as it is a demand.

There’s nothing to say to that, so he doesn’t even try. He’s always maintained that stance.

Kakyoin’s judgment comes even swifter this time, the silence lingering for scant seconds before his eyes go wide and he tucks his pencil into the spirals of the sketchbook, setting it to the side with his mouth ajar. “You’re kidding me. What are you smoking?”

It comes out harsher than Jotaro’s at all prepared for, and he recoils like he’s been hit, shrinking into the wall as Kakyoin stands and crosses the room in long, fluid steps. He only stops when they’re all but nose to nose, and the sharpness in his eyes burns Jotaro’s skin everywhere they trace, searing his face clean.

“Call them back,” Kakyoin hisses, and Jotaro’s seen this side of him before. It might slip his mind, but he’s never once forgotten it. Out of all of them, Kakyoin was always the most ruthless, and there was little Jotaro delighted in more than watching enemy after enemy realize that the most unassuming among them would be the one to rip them to shreds with glee. “Tell them no.”

He’s seen Kakyoin’s disappointment, his anxiety, his hurt all up close and personal, but this anger has never been his to witness first hand. It’s only now Jotaro truly understands the fear he can inspire, and it’s turning his arms numb. “They need me.”

“The hell they do,” he counters, pressing a finger to Jotaro’s chest. It’s gentler than he expects based on the ice in his voice, but he gets the point all the same. “Unless the world’s on fire, they can find someone else. You don’t need a machine gun to shoot a bird. Jesus.”

“But…” Jotaro begins, wrapping his lips around a laundry list of excuses he’s memorized like the back of his hand. Every time, it’s been so automatic. All it takes is spinning the roulette wheel in the back of his head, and he’ll deliver whatever explanation it lands on with enough conviction to end the argument, simple as that.

No matter how many beginnings he stumbles over, though, none pass his lips. In Kakyoin’s eyes, there’s fire and steel, but there’s something else there too, something deeper that’s pulling the corners of them down and pressing his mouth into a tight line. It draws him in like a siren, and there’s a pain in there that fills him with silence, locking his tongue behind his teeth.

Unblinking, Kakyoin reaches out for Jotaro’s hand and unwraps his fingers from the phone he’s still clutching one by one, prying them off until it can fall into Kakyoin’s own waiting palm.

“Call them back,” Kakyoin repeats, quieter but no softer. “You have a research summary to write. Don’t be stupid.”

Even with anger still shaking his frame, Kakyoin holds his shoulders down from a tremor of their own as Jotaro dials the line, clinging tighter with every word he grits through his teeth. When he hangs up, hollow and spent, Kakyoin’s eyes are water-soft, and his lips are even softer trailing up the side of his neck.

Somehow, they find someone else to go to Madrid. As loathe as he is to admit it, it would have been impossible to finish his summary otherwise.

When Christmas approaches, Holly sends a cordial invitation via post, as if she’s not perfectly aware of the number Jotaro can be reached at. Nor is it like anyone else is invited to their family holidays. For the past few years ever since Joseph’s gotten too old to travel so often, it’s just been him and his family, and as of the most recent calendar year, just him. There’s a tactful plus one at the bottom, and when Kakyoin reads it over his shoulder, he laughs, snatching the envelope out of his hand and holding it up under the kitchen light.

“Does she know?” he asks, flashing a smile like he’s already guessed the answer.

“Yes.” For his part, Jotaro is much less enthused at the prospect of this whole affair, but he still can’t find it in him to lie straight out. “I talked to her while you were gone.”

He wouldn’t bet his life on it, but Jotaro blinks, and he swears a flush crawls up Kakyoin’s cheeks.

Jotaro fusses with his outfit on Christmas day so much even Kakyoin begins to lose patience, long ago done choosing his own modest button-down and now taken to fluttering around Jotaro like a little red hummingbird.

“This jacket looks the same as the last,” he frowns, adjusting the collar on what must be the fifth overcoat Jotaro’s picked from his closet. “You’re handsome either way, and you’re not the one meeting someone’s parent.”

Jotaro’s well aware of that, but he doesn’t know how to explain he’d take Kakyoin’s position any day of the week over the role of conscientious observer. “You’ve met her.”

“Not really,” Kakyoin shrugs, sifting through Jotaro’s closet with a sigh when Jotaro shrugs off this jacket too. “Not for real. Try this one.”

He holds up a black overcoat from the back of the closet, raising his eyebrows. It’s not the one he always wore back then, but it’s a similar model, albeit one of a markedly higher quality and far less ragged with wear.

Begrudgingly, and only because of the look in his eyes, he agrees.

The day itself goes about how he expects, which is to say he spends most of it rattled with anxiety, and Holly and Kakyoin get along swimmingly.

He brings a gift for her, the show-off, a custom tea set that she adoringly declares perfect for her spring theme, and from there it’s an absolute charm offensive. Jotaro watches from the sidelines as one might watch two cats circling one another in the jungle, equal parts horrified and mildly impressed with the display of one-upmanship taking place over dinner preparation. Every compliment Holly pays him is returned in full, cooking utensils in her hand before she even blinks as faux-flirtatious barbs volley back and forth like tennis balls over a net.

When the topic moves to trading embarrassing stories about Jotaro, he briefly contemplates the pros and cons of taking his leave right then and there. Sniffing out his intentions like blood in the water, Holly chooses then to pull out the wine, and Kakyoin takes his task of pouring each glass with the utmost precision.

“I adore her,” Kakyoin whispers while bringing him his glass, eyes sparkling.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Jotaro mutters, and Kakyoin just claps him on the shoulder and laughs like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard.

The wine loosens him up almost enough to enjoy it, or at least enough to where he can start to appreciate the finer details of the evening. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalls the first holiday he ever spent with his ex-wife here, and instead of chasing it away, his insides are warm enough to let it simmer, drawing back into himself while the two animatedly discuss the exhibit Kakyoin’s drawing up for the late winter season.

She got along with Holly, everyone gets along with Holly, but it was never like this. The energy was never so kinetic, the smile on his mother’s face was never so bright. It settles something uneven in his chest, churning deeper and heavier until he has to excuse himself halfway through dinner for a cigarette.

Out in the yard, he can see his reflection in the lights of the fountain, and staring at the lines of his own watery face he feels miles away.

He used to believe his mother’s eyes could only turn up so much around the strangers Jotaro brought home. He used to believe he was happy, once. He used to believe he could make it last forever.

Back inside, Holly turns to him once Kakyoin leaves for the bathroom, and says, “I can’t wait to see him again next year.”

Jotaro’s tongue falls thick and dry in his mouth, and he can’t find the words to say to that. He can’t even find the words to describe the feeling that robs him of speech in the first place—dangerous and sharp, barbed hope like a knife diving in between his ribs. Desperate. Terrified.

Holly calls them a taxi at the end of the night, which is kind of her. They took their own on the way there in anticipation of the affairs, and in the backseat, wine-drunk and full enough for days, Jotaro feels like he’s floating, anchored only by Kakyoin’s wandering hand as it traces up and down the length of his thigh.

“Do you remember when you first met her?” Jotaro asks, light-headed and bordering on delirious. The day took everything from him, every ounce of energy in his body ripped away in the whirlwind of the holiday. He feels on the edge—of himself or something else, he can’t tell. “Do you remember what you said?”

“I think,” Kakyoin hums, digging the heel of his hand down into his leg. Jotaro masks a hiss with an inhale. “Remind me.”

“You said,” Jotaro hitches on a breath, swallows, and tries again. Lowers his voice. “You said she was the type of woman you wanted to marry. It made me worry you were straight for weeks.”

Kakyoin barks out a laugh, loud and unbridled enough to shake his frame from where they’re pressed side to side. It takes several seconds for him to come back down, and when he does, his hand is soothing circles on him, chest still rising with silent amusement.

“I realized how that probably sounded,” he says, grinning in the way Jotaro loves most, when the corners of his mouth twitch from the force of holding it and his eyes crinkle up. “That’s why I tried to come on strong. I meant if I had to marry a woman, obviously.”

Jotaro hides his own smile behind a hand, the expression independent of his commands. “I see now.”

“She’s lovely, but between you and me?” Kakyoin drops his head down low between them, and brushes his hair back to whisper in Jotaro’s ear. “I’ll take her son any day of the week.”

Jotaro will take that too. He really will.

The sex is good, amazing even.

He tries not to think about it too much, how he’s just shy of his thirtieth birthday and has never before known what it’s like to be with someone he actually wants to sleep with on a regular basis. At the very least, he’s never known it with anyone else.

On some level he expected it to be harder, fraught late-night conversations about mismatched desire are second-nature to him, but their negotiation is so seamless he hardly recognizes it for what it is at all. Jotaro’s never met a more attentive lover, and his own overwhelming compulsions to do right by him in turn keep the communication constant. Perhaps it’s too much for most, but it’s perfect for him, every whispered question and affirmation just as intimate and vital as anything else.

The first time he lets Kakyoin back inside him, he sees stars behind his eyes. Cognizant of the years passed, they take it slow, and when he finally slides in, Jotaro is desperate and pliant around him. It’s incomparable, like the first sip of water after years in a desert, to be full and burned and taken, splayed out on his stomach in a full-body offering with even his hands fitted to Kakyoin’s laced in between.

Jotaro’s world goes white when he buries himself in at just the right angle, and he thinks he could spend forever trying to replicate the whine that escapes from somewhere deep in Kakyoin’s throat.

“You’re mine,” Kakyoin pants against his neck, words hissed between gritted teeth. Possessive. Wild. So, so close. “You’re mine.”

He’s tense from head to toe, every muscle and sinew clenched in a frantic, hopeless attempt to bottle this moment and save it forever because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how long it can last, how long he’ll be able to capture a feeling like this. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this up, how long something this good can remain before time and fate and his own tongue rip it away. He can’t know. He can never know.

All he knows for sure is that Kakyoin’s right.

He’s never been anyone else’s.

Just after the new year, he returns from an early morning run to find Kakyoin pouring over the Yellow Pages at the kitchen counter, a stack of insurance paperwork and notepad of names and numbers at his side.

“I’m trying to find a new psychologist,” he explains nonchalantly even before Jotaro can ask, his inquisitive glance while pouring himself a glass of water apparently enough of a prompt. “As much as I’d love to take my one from New York with me.”

In the first few weeks Kakyoin was here, he used to refer to Manhattan as ‘back home’ as if by instinct, a force of habit that brought a shameful flush to his cheeks when he started catching himself. Those days are long gone, and as always, Jotaro tries not to think about it too hard. It doesn’t do him any favors.

Jotaro swallows down an entire glass in one go, throat cracked and parched from the crisp morning air. He feels Kakyoin’s eyes on him still, so he shrugs and offers, “Were they Foundation affiliated or civilian?”

“Civilian.” Kakyoin rolls his eyes, flipping over another page with a flick of the wrist. “The whole trying to be normal thing.”

Right. They each did their own hiding, after all. “I see.”

“I only started going in the last three years,” he explains, tracing his finger across a line of text and jotting down the information within. “But it’s helped a lot. She was a big part in getting me here, honestly.”

Jotaro pours another glass of water in the process of refilling his own, if only because he knows Kakyoin, and he’s well aware he’ll forget to eat or drink if the process takes too long. Jotaro has a similar bad habit, not that he ever realized the extent of things before he had someone to remind him. The very least he can do to show his appreciation is reciprocate that.

“I hope you find one just as good, then,” Jotaro offers, setting the glass down beside his hand.

Kakyoin thanks him with a nod, raising it to his lips as he appraises Jotaro from behind thick lashes, head tilted just so to the side. “You should look into it, too.”

“Excuse me?” Jotaro blinks, embarrassed by his automatic bewilderment. Kakyoin’s not the first person who’s told him to go to therapy, most people who are subjected to his presence for any extended period of time come to that conclusion, but he’s never heard it suggested so casually. As history indicates, he’s only come to expect it at the end of an argument, but the look on Kakyoin’s face is as mild as anything.

“I just think you could benefit from it is all,” he replies, hardly looking up from writing down yet another name and number, this time complete with an address and even a little star hastily added in the margins. “Most people can.”

Cautiously, Jotaro slides his own glass onto the counter and lowers down into the stool across from him, tapping his fingers on the granite. “Is that a demand, or a suggestion?”

Kakyoin gives an exaggerated hum, twirling the pen in between his fingers. “Let’s say a strong suggestion,” he bounces the pen off the tip of Jotaro’s nose, laughing when he swats it away and crinkles up his face. “How about that?”

Jotaro frowns and ends the conversation there, but when Kakyoin’s done, he steals the Yellow Pages back and puts it in his bedside table, bookmarked at the section he finds creased into the spine from use.

Just in case.

His birthday comes and goes, and with it, the days inch on longer and longer into the evening, Jotaro no longer forced to wake before the light.

Day by day, there is a new normal. The sun rises, and with it there is life and duty to attend to, but when the colors begin to melt long into the eastern mountains, there is something delicate and brilliant to uncover. Like an archeologist, he brushes off the dirt careful stroke by careful stroke, but even as the turn of the calendar inevitably bleeds out tension from his muscles, he cannot fully shake the shadow clinging to his back, bringing an ominous sense of borrowed time that’s made nest beneath his shoulder blades.

Jotaro does not tell Kakyoin it’s there, because he cannot reach to tear it off himself and it’s too much to put on someone, even him. So he lives. Each morning, he’ll wake beside him and each night, he’ll sleep in his arms, over and over again for as long as he can. He cannot imagine asking for more.

When he sleeps, he feels the tide pull in his body, and spring comes to Tokyo by degrees.

Chapter Text

Spring rolls forward with impossible tenderness, and Jotaro feels more and more by the day like a gust of warm wind might break him.

He’s fragile, brittle when he wakes and lighter than the leaves dotting the trees when he rests, folding and bending at the slightest touch. Everything in his life feels like his skin when it’s freshly scarred, raw and swollen. He sees the world around him in a contrast he never used to, and now even going outside is a sharp neon kaleidoscope of color, like if he blinks he might see the sky in a way no one else has.

It’s brilliant and beautiful and searing, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go on like this. But it just keeps going, and going, and going, until suddenly it’s warm enough that he can smoke outside languidly on the patio furniture rather than all in a rush before his hands turn red. It lasts until the sunset spills color over his lover’s lithe body on the nights they share a wine glass after dinner, red and orange and pink lighting up a face he’s traced his lips on every inch of yet is certain he’ll never get right.

In the afternoons when he comes home from class, Jotaro’s begun to find him leaning across the porch over the city, working on a canvas or simply indulging in the lights and sounds, close enough to touch but miles away from their nestled little enclave apart from the world. His red hair grows longer and more vibrant by the day, seeping the color from the harsh lines across his body, more visible than ever under increasingly thin sleeves.

Everything is new and precious all the time, and Jotaro has never been the gentle sort. Fresh blossoms don’t sit right in his palm—there’s always a little voice in the back of his head just begging for him to crush it, even if the thought alone breaks his heart in two.

Still, there are little rituals emerging, small assurances he can count on when the ground beneath him feels slippery from morning dew. In the evenings, he slips into the house and hangs his coat up, listening with bated breath for the sounds of another body moving through its chambers. If he hears nothing—or if what he does hear is too soft to place—he keeps his shoes on and makes his way carefully to the back door, shedding his keys and carton of cigarettes out from his pockets on the counter as he does.

The house is quiet when he arrives late on a day warmer than most, and the path he’s created is so automatic he crosses the house in a scant few long strides. The light is buzzing out on the porch, casting long shadows through the sliding glass door, and the echo of Kakyoin’s frame dances across the wood before he sees him outright, a wine glass in his thin fingers and eyes towards the sky.

He turns at the sound of the door, and Jotaro keeps waiting for the smile at his lips to stop twisting in his own gut, but it hasn’t yet, and he’s starting to think it never will.

“Welcome home,” he says, like it’s so easy, like every day it doesn’t turn Jotaro inside out.

He tastes like red wine and artificial cherry from his American brand chapstick, and when Kakyoin cups his jaw, it fits just right. He has the thought, and not for the first time, that if he could, he would surrender to him completely. If he could give up all conscious thought, all corporeal form, all words forever to live underneath his skin, he would in a heartbeat.

Nothing feels better inside his own head than kissing him. No other place feels so quiet. It always, always ends too soon.

After they part, Kakyoin breathes into the crease of his neck and drags his teeth along the edge of Jotaro’s ear, just at the spot that always makes him inhale sharp on command. It burns in him, but he can feel Kakyoin’s fingers trace loose, listless patterns across his chest, can feel the uneven pull of air into his lungs, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair how quickly he falls to it.

“Starting your weekend early?” Jotaro asks, eyeing the wine glass perched delicately on the table behind them, less than halfway full. Now that he says it, it’s been Kakyoin’s weekend for hours now.

Kakyoin hums, low in his throat, and Jotaro has the dizzying thought to lick it off his teeth. “I tried to wait for you,” he sighs, resting his head upon Jotaro’s chest just at the right angle to still peer up at him behind thick lashes. “But I’m feeling sentimental, it seems.”

Kakyoin’s fingers curl into the sharps of Jotaro’s hip bones, needy, and if he didn’t know better, a hint possessive. “Sentimental?”

“Thinking of you,” Kakyoin elaborates, snaking his hands around the small of his back. If Jotaro didn’t know him, wasn’t fully aware of the wildness running bold and unbridled through his veins, he’d be surprised at how delicate he makes Jotaro feel in a life where he’s always been too big and unwieldy for even the sky itself.

“I’m always around,” Jotaro shrugs, even as he feels heat creep up into his face.

“Thinking of how I used to think about you, then.” Without letting go of Jotaro’s waist, he leans back and swings around to grab hold of his wine, Jotaro watching helplessly at the coil of Kakyoin’s throat as he swallows. “That’s more accurate. Shall I pour you a glass?”

Jotaro’s still wearing his undershirt from labs, skin sticky with twelve hours of work and nighttime humidity. He normally waits until after he’s showered and changed to settle in like that, and Kakyoin knows this, but there’s a mischievous warmth in his eyes just daring him to bring it up. “Please.”

Kakyoin grins like he’s won, and though Jotaro bristles as he disappears back into the kitchen, he can’t begrudge him for a victory earned. Not that Jotaro’s a particularly difficult target. Not for him, anyway.

Jotaro’s never considered himself a competitive person, if only because he’s always been reluctant to participate in something he could lose in the first place, but he’s learned Kakyoin’s life is full of these little moments, challenges he designs between the lightning-fast gears in his head. He’d never call him needy, or even particularly selfish, but Jotaro’s never met someone so brimming with desire—whether it’s exacting just the right shadows in a piece of art or loosening Jotaro’s ever-tight screws, there’s frighteningly few lengths he won’t go to in order to see it done.

Perhaps it would be easier to deny him the satisfaction if he didn’t wear it so well, his eyes proud and shoulders strong as he makes his way back to the patio brandishing a glass that Jotaro takes in his open palm.

In the easy quiet that follows, Jotaro means to remind him of the topic at hand, but something in the way Kakyoin leans over the railing stops him, the fight draining out from his shoulders. He’s wise for it, because when Kakyoin opens his mouth to speak, the quirk of his lips alone says he would have risked ruining it.

“I used to sit out on my balcony late at night,” he begins, finding his own glass again and twirling the stem in his fingers across the narrow railing. It makes Jotaro a bit nervous, but he wouldn’t dare insult him by saying it. “Back when I shared an apartment. I used to look out and wonder what you were doing, what time it was and what your life looked like at that moment.”

Jotaro brings the glass to his lips, leaning his elbows just inches from Kakyoin’s. It’s a new bottle, deep and dark and tannic the way he likes it. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he replies, a sheen over his eyes as he looks out into the city lights. “It made it feel less lonely to remember we were breathing the same air. Even at my worst, I still wanted so badly to feel close to you. I’d imagine what you were having for lunch, what books you were reading, what the city looked like from your window… Anything, really.”

“I thought about that too.” The alcohol coats the inside of his mouth, churning uneasily in his empty stomach. It’s good, though. It always is with him. “What you would have been doing if you were still here.”

Kakyoin meets his eyes, sheepish with the back of his hand across his mouth as if in apology. Jotaro takes it without a fight, patient as he waits for Kakyoin to swallow. “I think I sometimes did it to hurt myself. The happier you were in my head, the more I felt justified in being so unhappy hiding away from you.”

“I wasn’t.” There are flashes of brilliance, like holding Jolyne in his arms by the seaside and taking his family up the mountains, but it’s interspersed with patches of grey that seem to stretch on for miles across his recollection. “Not really.”

“I know the feeling.” Kakyoin’s mouth pulls up into a taut line, curled at the corners in dry acknowledgment. His lips are stained red, and Jotaro licks his own in reflex. “But are you happy now?”

He says it so casually, like it’s nothing more than an afterthought tossed over his shoulder, but Jotaro knows better. His glass moves unevenly en route back down to the railing, and there’s a tight edge in his gaze when Jotaro finds it, unblinking eyes sharp even when the rest of his face falls into feigned neutrality.

Jotaro’s tongue catches in his throat behind another sip, his words washing over him in slow strokes. He breathes like there are fingers wrapped around his lungs, hair-trigger every time he goes to open the front door at night like every second he sees him might be the last. It’s heavy, but Jotaro looks at him, just him, and knows there’s only one answer. “I am. You know I am.”

“Yeah?” To that, Kakyoin closes his eyes, the muscles of his face easing into a mask of serenity. Jotaro doesn’t miss the exhale that lowers his chest, though, a slight movement in the shadow of the night but noticeable all the same. “Me too.”

For a minute, they drink in silence, Jotaro’s system buzzing with the light breeze and the budding warmth in his chest, kinetic and spreading out from his fingertips. Kakyoin finishes his glass shortly after, setting it on the table behind them before returning to Jotaro’s side, placing himself shoulder to shoulder. After a second of hesitation, Kakyoin lowers his head down onto him, and Jotaro feels his sigh in his own lungs, in and out.

“I didn’t let myself think of us together often,” Kakyoin says after what must be moments of nothing but their breath between them. “I wanted it too badly to give it life. But sometimes I’d imagine the most ridiculous things… I figured it would be safe if I knew you’d never allow it.”

There’s a newfound lilt to his words, but looking down, Jotaro can’t read his expression for the life of him, too obscured by hair drifting across his eyes and the angle. “Like what?”

Kakyoin looks up at him and pushes at his shoulder, peeling him gently away from the railing until they’re face to face. His arched eyebrows can’t help but make Jotaro incredulous, if not outright nervous, but when Kakyoin’s focus shifts ever so subtly to his wine glass, he tosses back the small portion remaining on instinct alone. They lock eyes, Jotaro still struggling to place exactly what he’s finding as he sets his empty glass down next to Kakyoin’s, each step creaking against the wood.

Up close once more, there’s a bloom of red covering Kakyoin’s cheeks, in stark contrast to the determined line of his brow. “You’re going to hate this.”

Jotaro might regret it, but something in him’s just begging to rise to whatever gauntlet he's throwing down, if only from sheer curiosity alone. “Try me.”

He smiles like a cheshire cat, spread knowing and sly across the shadows of his face. With a step forward, he guides them into the slim beam of light flowing in from the kitchen, catching the side of his shoulder and waist in its dim yellow glow. Slowly, Kakyoin works Jotaro’s fingers in between his on one hand, guiding them up into the light before bringing them to rest upon his own shoulder, deliberate.

“I tried to think of things you’d never do for me,” Kakyoin repeats, unblinking as he reaches blindly for Jotaro’s other hand and guides it to the far side of his waist. “But, God, look at you… Is there anything?”

He squashes the treacherous voice at the back of his head that wants to agree with him just before it spills out his tongue, catching it instead with a muttered, “That’s yet to be seen.”

With ease, Kakyoin guides himself into the crook of his elbow, strong arm supporting the small of his back and following him in step by tiny step until Kakyoin’s pressed them up chest to chest. “I want the craziest things from you.”

Before Jotaro can ask what he means, he’s leading them back into the light, finally illuminating his eyes. They’re impossibly wide, open with a vulnerability Jotaro’s not prepared for despite the distance lurking within them, and it steals all his attention with a snap. Just as he’s beginning to process what it means, Kakyoin shifts them with another step to the right, casting Jotaro’s own face in the glow.

Whatever Kakyoin finds in there makes him laugh out loud, tossing his head back and leaning into Jotaro with his whole chest, warm. He pivots on his heel and turns them around again, and only in the flourish of his ankles coming back down on the wood does he understand what it is he’s doing.

“What are you…” Jotaro starts, half in search for an answer other than the obvious and half to cut into the quiet, grown thick and heavy around him.

“Hush,” Kakyoin cuts him off, squeezing gently on his intertwined hand. Inch by inch, he raises it until their hands are lifted evenly in the air between them before spinning around again, faster this time. “This was my favorite fantasy.”

Kakyoin’s stronger than he looks, Jotaro’s gone to the gym with him enough times even with their past aside, but he knows full well all he’d have to do is dig his heels in to bring everything to a screeching halt. Embarrassment coils around him like hot wire just begging him to pull the trigger, but every time he blinks down and catches a glimpse of the man in his arms, he can’t bring himself to do anything but follow his lead.

It’s clear from the small, bewildered laugh under his breath that Kakyoin expects him to put the breaks on as well, but the way his face lights up at yet another victory makes it almost worth the price.

“That’s right, just like this.” He takes a step back, leaning deep into Jotaro’s arm to pull him forward to follow. His steps are much less graceful, Kakyoin high on the balls of his feet to make up for the height difference while Jotaro comes down awkward and uneven every time. If he minds, he doesn’t say it. “I’d imagine you in my apartment. It didn’t matter how you got there.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now, and Jotaro leans into it completely, feeling his body go light and pliant in order to keep up with his movements without drawing his focus away from the sound of his voice. “Go on.”

“I’d have the radio on,” he continues, and Jotaro tries to imagine it the way he is behind his eyes, in a room he doesn’t know with the lights down low and the quiet strum of guitars in the background. “Something would come on that I just love, and you’d take my hand and lead me to the center of the room.”

Even as he says it, it’s Kakyoin that pulls him fully into the light before Jotaro has a chance to react. It’s strategic on his part either way, because he’s turned them so Jotaro’s face is illuminated and his own falls into the shadow. His face burns from the sudden spotlight, lowering his head closer down.

“You’d lift my hand,” he slides out of the hold Jotaro’s kept strong around his waist, lifting their arms high above his head. He’s frozen, holding his breath deep in his lungs as he watches Kakyoin pull up and spin around just once before leaning back into Jotaro’s still-waiting arm. “And turn me around at just the right time.”

There’s barely a second’s pause before he has their feet moving again, and Jotaro can’t help but feel cheated, the way he spun too fast for the light to catch and moving back away from it now. He can feel Kakyoin’s chest beneath his own, but he’s not sure whose between them is beating at such a rapid pace.

“I’d make it so perfect,” he sighs, arching his back low into Jotaro’s arm and letting his head dip towards the floor, his full weight all but supported against him. “Too perfect. You’d be so graceful, so gentlemanly… Nothing like you at all.”

“Watch it,” Jotaro says, frowning despite his inability to find anything worth arguing in his words at all. Kakyoin grins up at him, tip of his tongue between his teeth, and Jotaro can’t fight the spark that kicks in him at the sight.

He meets his eyes, and in one smooth motion yanks his arm straight out from underneath him, relishing selfishly for just a split second in the shock that falls across his face. Just before he hits the ground, Jotaro tightens his grip on their hands to drag him upright, swinging his feet back underneath him and dangling him up on his toes before letting his feet level back to the ground.

Jotaro’s never considered himself a competitive person, but he’d be a fool not to take a victory when he sees it.

Kakyoin’s expression is one of such pure, unfiltered indignation Jotaro can’t help but laugh at the sight, his pinched brows and wide-open mouth sending him over the edge. Ignoring his sputtering protests, Jotaro draws him in close and wraps him up in the same way they left off, using their intertwined hands to fix Kakyoin’s hair back in place.

“See?” Kakyoin insists, wriggling at his hold without much real fight. “I rest my case. The real you is such a jerk.”

Jotaro would consider being offended if he didn’t sound so childish, like a little kid trying desperately to project anger at a parent they still adore. He tips Kakyoin’s chin up and presses a kiss to his forehead in apology, for what it’s worth. “What would happen next?”

“Not that,” Kakyoin replies, falling quiet once more. His face burns beneath Jotaro’s fingers. “Never that. I wouldn’t let myself think about anything after. The song would end, and you’d be gone. I knew I’d want too much if I let myself go on.”

“I can relate to that in my own way,” Jotaro hums, reluctantly letting Kakyoin work his hand free so he can wrap both around Jotaro’s back, head to his chest. He lets his own hand fall to Kakyoin’s hair, burying his fingers against the back of his neck. “I really can.”

It’s a delicate balance, desire. When he thought of him, he imagined him only in enough shades to fill the stubborn ache in his chest on his weakest nights, always so careful not to color in the lines lest it become a want that chased him in the waking hours. He was never like this, either, pliant and vulnerable. Alive.

“You should shower,” Kakyoin mutters into his chest after a long pause, even as he makes no attempt to let go. “I know it drives you crazy when you can’t right away.”

Right as he is, Jotaro is slow to unwind their bodies, their hands tracing down each other’s arms inch by inch until their fingertips part and Jotaro’s hands fall useless at his side, unsure of what to do in their absence. “I won’t be long.”

Kakyoin nods, taking up his perch once more on the railing and gripping into it like he feels the lack, too.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Twenty minutes later, Jotaro returns back downstairs with damp hair and his best loungewear to find the carton of cigarettes missing from the table.

It’s not a detail he’d normally notice, but despite the marked downturn in the frequency of his habit, he still craves it after labs even on the shortest of days. He can’t rule out that it flew over the counter on his way towards the patio door, but before he can swing around to the kitchen to check, a faint hint of tobacco rolls in from the mesh screen behind the just-parted sliding glass door and he stops dead his tracks.

“Kakyoin?” He calls, feeling ridiculous when he sees the faint corners of his shadow cast in the porch light but too dumbfounded to cross the threshold outside just yet.

“Out here,” he calls back, and while the two simple words flow without hesitation, something within them sinks his chest down, their robotic lilt echoing long after they’re given.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s imbued an ultimately innocent tone with false paranoid meaning, but as he watches a puff of smoke rise and disappear into the air, he unconsciously places a hand to the burgeoning tightness in his throat. Each step towards the door is heavier than the last, his ears straining for Kakyoin to speak again, to chide him for taking so long or provide meaning behind the inexplicable mix of sensory input Jotaro’s receiving, but there’s except but his own house shoes on the hardwood floor and the dull roar of the city beyond.

What lies past the door should have been expected, but the sight still jolts malaise through his veins. He finds the carton of cigarettes within seconds, folded open and laying across the patio table, but what catches his attention is Kakyoin, always Kakyoin. He’s leaning across the railing not far from where he left him, bony elbows propping him up to stare out into the cityscape of Tokyo. One of Jotaro’s cigarettes dangles from his long fingers, half-smoked with the rest piled up on their outdoor ashtray he apparently drug out from underneath the table to leave at his side.

At the sound of the doors, Kakyoin slides his eyes over to Jotaro just slightly, and what he finds within them makes him want to turn back around with an almost supernatural force. Even with the distance between them, they’re edged and hard in a way Jotaro hasn’t seen in years, but they flicker back forward before he can even begin to absorb their contents.

His tongue feels like lead in his mouth, and it’s only with the still-buzzing warmth from just moments before that he’s able to stay planted on the wood of the patio floor when all his instincts are screaming for the cover of indoors. Perhaps it’s curiosity and confusion in equal measure, or maybe it’s the treacherous pull of heat at the sight of Kakyoin with a cigarette between his lips, enticed despite his best efforts by the curl of his mouth around it.

Either way, his silence at Jotaro’s entrance and the tightness in his shoulders speaks volumes, and Jotaro finds his own voice small beneath the breeze. “I’ve never seen you smoke.”

“I don’t often.” Kakyoin shrugs, a curt, stilted motion that looks unnatural on his frame. “Only when I really need it.”

Letting go of the screen door handle is like losing a lifeline, rope slipping between his fingers just before he pummels into an abyss. He feels the rise and fall of his feet with the same intensity of a freefall, and by the time he makes it to the center of the patio, he’s sick with the motion. The thick, uncomfortable air between them is one thing, but the whiplash is another, his brain scrambling to put the pieces of his current reality together when the memory of their arms around each other still lingers.

Kakyoin offers nothing more, taking another drag of the cigarette and closing his eyes. Jotaro takes a step closer, then another, until he’s up against the railing too, several feet between them.

Jotaro opens his mouth to speak, but when nothing comes out automatically, he thinks the better of it. He returns to the table to grab a cigarette of his own, and only when it’s lit and the first inhale has reached his lungs does he find it in him to say it out loud. “What do you mean?”

“What do I…” Kakyoin cuts himself off with a sharp sigh, the hand not holding a cigarette rubbing harsh against his eyelids. He takes another drag, flicking off ash with a snap of his wrist. “Your ex-wife called.”

All the air in his lungs deflates out in a long, stuttering exhale. “I see.”

“I let it go to voicemail, obviously.” Kakyoin’s still not looking at him. Every time he thinks he catches a flicker of his eyes glancing over, they’re set somewhere else before he can even blink. He shifts, holding onto the bicep of his cigarette arm, and his knuckles turn white at the first contact of flesh. “I was in the kitchen getting water, so I listened. Sue me.”

Jotaro wants to tell him he would never dare fault him for that, but he doesn’t know where to begin, and he buries it under another puff of smoke anyway. He doesn’t want to ask it, but even with his focus averted he can feel the pressure of Kakyoin’s expectation thick enough to cut through in the air, and he folds under it within seconds. “What did she say?”

This isn’t how it’s meant to go.

In lieu of a response, Kakyoin huddles in further to himself, shoulders rounding down and obscuring his face from view. He takes two, three more long, harsh drags before he snuffs it out on the ashtray without a single glance behind him, twisting his wrist over and over again until the rest of it is all but obliterated into a pile of paper and tobacco and ash.

“Let me ask you something.” When he’s done, he flexes his fingers before gripping them into the railing and pivoting sharp on his heel, rounding on Jotaro all at once. Now that they’re face to face, there’s no hiding the emotion splashed across his, everything from the hard press of his lips to the fire outlining his darkened eyes on full display.

Jotaro reels back on instinct, and for the first time in months, the ever-familiar fight or flight trigger that pulls Star Platinum to the edge of his consciousness kicks into gear. It takes every inch of his remaining strength to push it back down and face him straight without crumbling. “Go on.”

“Are you stupid?” Kakyoin demands, humorless laughter shaking the end of the sentence. “Or are you just a coward? Because I can’t think of any other reasons she’d be literally begging you to complete court-ordered visitation with your fucking child.”

It hits him with the force of a rug pulled from beneath his feet, and he digs in even tighter to the railing, an exhale punching out from his lungs in the shape of nothing but a vague, “Oh.”

It’s only April. He thought he’d have more time. He needs more time. It wasn’t supposed to come up again this soon, not before they could talk. He meant to, he’s been telling himself over and over again he means to, it’s too soon, he—

“Oh is right,” Kakyoin sneers, but it falls from his face just as fast into icy neutrality, barely concealing what Jotaro knows is underneath. “It was pretty clear it’s not the first time you’ve had this conversation, either. I don’t have to know her to recognize desperation when I hear it.”

Clicking his tongue, Kakyoin reaches for another cigarette, holding it between his teeth and pulling the spare lighter Jotaro keeps in the kitchen out from his pocket. His shaking fingers struggle with the trigger, but when Jotaro reaches out to help him, the glare he receives in return snaps his hands back to his sides. After several tries, he gets it to light, and masks a cough at the first drag with his sleeve.

“So which is it?” He demands, jabbing the cigarette in Jotaro’s direction as ash flies from the tip. “Otherwise, I hope you have a damn good explanation, because last I checked when you grew up without a father it ruined your life, and I’ve been having a really hard time out here trying to wrap my head around how in the hell you could justify inflicting that on someone else.”

Whether it’s a defense mechanism against his fury and the implication of those words, or simply a buried memory resurfacing too powerful to ignore, Jotaro’s flooded with a series of images behind his eyes. He blinks, and he’s seventeen again curled up on the edge of a hotel bed, a half-finished bottle of cheap alcohol they’d smuggled in past the others at his side. Kakyoin’s hands are around his, squeezing tight as he spills secrets he thought he’d take to the grave, memories of crying to his dad’s records alone, of holidays spent in disappointment and resentment despite his mother’s best attempts at cheer, of pent-up questions and emotions and needs that had no outlet. His skin, cold and untouched as it is now, tingles at the memory of Kakyoin’s hands soothing circles into his back, and it’s too much, it’s always too much.

“Stop that,” Jotaro hisses, recoiling back like he’s been wounded, pain radiating from everywhere he imagined the ghost of his touch. He inhales another puff of smoke in a vain attempt to find some grounding. “You’re still the only person I’ve ever told.”

“Your emotional repression isn't my problem,” Kakyoin fires back, squaring off his shoulders. It hits like a backhanded slap, and Jotaro turns his face away with a wince, hiding the expression with a bite of his lip. “But whether I like it or not, this is. So please, do me a favor and clue me in.”

“I’ve told her,” Jotaro begins, reaching back far into the recesses of his brain and rifling through until he can grasp the autopilot he needs most. He takes a shaking breath, dizzy with nicotine and the dimming sensation in his limbs. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. She's better at this. Three months is too long for Jolyne to be gone from her.”

Kakyoin appraises him up and down with a mechanical slide of his eyes, letting go of the railing to cross his arms. “Better at what, exactly?”

Jotaro sighs, harsh and high in his constricted throat, the urge to claw at his own skin rising with insistent desperation. He curls into himself, his nails finding purchase on the underside of his forearm and clutching in deep. It’s not much, but it pulls him back into himself enough to still feel his feet beneath him, at least for another moment.

“At parenting,” he hisses, hearing how vague it sounds even to his own ears and gritting his teeth against it. “At… I don’t know, dealing with her problems? Saying the right thing at the right time? Discipline and reward? All the things you’re not supposed to fuck up, she’s better at, so it seems like a stretch to go that long without her. I told the courts that, too.”

“So you’re a coward,” Kakyoin snaps over the end of Jotaro’s words, not even waiting for a pause to jump back in. “You could have just said so and saved yourself the breath.”

The embarrassment is strong enough to lift his sense of body off the ground entirely, and embarrassment always threatens to turn to anger. It’s how he's always been. “And you’re such an expert on the topic, of course.”

“On parenting? No.” Kakyoin rolls his eyes, staring up at the clouded sky before snapping them back down to Jotaro. “On you? Yeah, I’d say so. I watched you run from me for months, so I’m pretty sure I know what it looks like.”

Anger, at the very least, is the familiar beast. He’s well-acquainted with its heat, the intoxicating way it pins him to his body and his strength and his righteousness in a way nothing else does. With an inhale, he lets it take him. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to her.”

“I’m not trying to,” he counters, taking the first step closer to Jotaro since he arrived back on the patio. It does little to erase the space between them. “I’m well aware of the differences. I’m an adult, and I can reason with you like one. If I fail, I’ll run back to New York, cry about it for a few years, and then move on with my life. Same as last time.”

Jotaro narrows his eyes, his focus on the world growing blurry. Somehow, it isn’t easier to look at him like this, either, but his words demand a response from him more than any other yet. “What do you mean last time?”

“You told me once,” Kakyoin begins, and this time, his voice is low and soft, the contrast shaking Jotaro’s bones and drawing him in despite his every urge to fall back at such an obvious trap. Kakyoin runs a hand through his hair, fingers in his scalp. “Just once, that you didn’t want to think about a future with me.”

There’s not a star to be found here in the heart of Tokyo, but Jotaro doesn’t dare look up. It would give it away, and there’s not a part of him that wants to see it all again now, not even in his mind's eye. Instead, he keeps them firmly over Kakyoin’s shoulder. “I was just…”

“I’m not stupid, I knew you were scared of the exact thing that happened.” Kakyoin’s lashes fall down across his cheekbone as he casts his eyes to the floor, taking another inhale of smoke. “But… I mean, I took it to heart for ten whole years. You don’t need me to tell you that you’re gifted at pushing people away.”

Jotaro wants to remind him of the years he spent in a coma just to see the anger rise back into his face, but he’s too hollowed out to say the words aloud, or anything more than a whispered, “I never meant to do that.”

He never knew. All those years alone looking out of city windows and dreaming, and he never could have known. It was an impossible world, but even then he looks at the way Kakyoin holds his arms over himself with the cigarette dangling from loose fingers, and maybe he should have.

“I know you didn’t,” Kakyoin sighs, collapsing back against the railing and wrapping up tighter around himself. “At least I do now. But that’s me, and I was seventeen. She’s seven, Jotaro.”

“Both children,” Jotaro offers, aware he's contradicting his own argument but too afraid of what might leave his lips next to let it go uncontested. Though he’s not even sure which point he’s trying to prove, anymore.

“She’s your child.” When Kakyoin meets his eyes once more, the fire within them hasn’t burned out in the least, but the blackness that was holding tight to the center has faded, even as the harshness at their corners remains. “If you push her away, she’s going to believe you, and it’s going to hurt. I refuse to accept you’re dumb enough not to know that, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“It’s not that simple,” Jotaro says, because he’s running out of explanations and at least this one is true. “Of course I want her in my life.”

“Then why?” Kakyoin takes another step closer, shuffling along the railing and turning his way just slightly, Jotaro rooting down further into the ground in response. “Tell me the truth. I want to understand, Jotaro. Believe me.”

Kakyoin is close enough to touch, so few inches between them on the rail that if he wanted to, Jotaro could reach his hand out and find Kakyoin’s in his, but he can’t. Some of the poison has dripped away from his frame, but he still stands guarded, like a predator just waiting for someone to rattle the cage. The space, the tacit denial of permission, the buzzing in his own head that’s threatening to erupt, and the tight squeeze of his heart all coalesce into an amorphous cocktail somewhere deep inside his center, and he just snaps. He breaks right in two.

“Because I’ll hurt her,” he sputters, kicking his foot in between the floor and the bottom of the railing to keep from thrashing out. “Because everyone who gets too close for too long gets hurt. Isn’t that obvious?”

To that, Kakyoin’s lips fall together, his brow lowering as he takes in Jotaro’s words. They both reach for another inhale at the same time, Kakyoin’s almost twice as long as Jotaro loses patience halfway through, ripping the cigarette from his teeth.

“It doesn’t even matter how.” Jotaro wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pushes away with a violent jerk, pacing the open space of patio as he talks. “If I let her into my life unprotected for that long, something will happen. It always does. I can tell the Foundation no as many times as I want, but it’s never going to be enough. Something will get to her. Something always does. That’s how this family works.”

“So get better protection,” Kakyoin offers, cigarette poised by his face. “Tell them you need a full-time guard.”

“Even then,” Jotaro continues, dismissing Kakyoin with a flick of his wrist but otherwise continuing as if he’d heard nothing, his mind moving too fast for his lips or legs to catch him. He makes his way back and forth across the length of the patio, each step faster and more erratic than the last. “Even then, if everything goes right by some miracle, you know me. I’ll say the wrong thing. I’ll find a way to disappoint her, I always do, and give me enough chances it’ll be in a way she won’t recover from. Isn’t it better to have her think I’ve let her down than open my mouth and remove all doubt?”

“It’s at least better than not trying at all,” Kakyoin argues, and while his voice holds strong, Jotaro can’t help but notice he doesn’t seem as tall when he passes the corner of his eye. “You can’t seriously be trying to convince yourself it’s not.”

Jotaro stops his pacing only by dragging his heels enough to slow it, running a hand down his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Maybe I don’t.” Kakyoin peels himself off from the railing and crosses over to Jotaro in several long strides, but still leaves a wide space between them. Jotaro doesn’t know if he’s grateful for it, or resentful. “What I do know is that you’re only afraid you’ll hurt her if you let her in, but you’re guaranteed to if you don’t at all.”

“It’s a guarantee either way,” Jotaro insists, waving his cigarette in the air in an aimless attempt to direct his energy somewhere, anywhere out from himself. “You didn’t raise her, I did. Besides, you know what being close to me does better than anyone.”

Kakyoin finishes the last of his cigarette with a huff, snuffing it out beneath his boot before picking up the remnants and setting it on the table. “And how many times do I have to tell you it’s not your fault? That I wouldn’t take it back?”

“It’s not that,” he snaps, and once it’s left his throat, there’s no taking it back, even if the way he reels backwards from the truth of it makes him want to. It’s like the phrase itself triggered the floodgates, and he’s awash with a tangled knot of emotion that only constricts the more he tries to take it apart, his mouth saying what his brain trips over effortlessly, piling up in the air word after word. “It’s everything. You were so scarred by me you couldn’t even tell me you were alive for years, and if three months fucked you up that badly, what is this going to do?”

“Please don’t put words in my mouth.” He expects Kakyoin to sound angry, and it’s less that he doesn’t and more that it’s buried under something else, something softer and sadder. It burns more than rage ever could, and Jotaro misses his hat more than ever. There’s nothing to shield him from it, there hasn’t been in a long time. “You know there’s more to it than that.”

“Is there?” Jotaro asks, so ashamed by how badly he suddenly needs an answer he's tripping over himself to fill the silence. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve hurt you before and I’ll do it again, you have to know that. I’m not stupid either, Kakyoin. I know one day you’ll get sick of it.”

Kakyoin takes another step closer, and Jotaro matches it with one of his own backwards until he’s up once more against the railing, pressing his body flush to the wood. “You don’t know anything.”

“I do,” Jotaro protests, finishing off the last of his cigarette in the ashtray. He masks a cough of his own, turning his head down to avoid the intensity of Kakyoin’s gaze, all but burning holes through the side of his face. “You might not see it now, but you will. I’m running on borrowed time, and it’s selfish of me.”

“Jotaro…” Kakyoin warns, reaching for his face. There’s nowhere left to run, but he ducks from it all the same, catching hold of Kakyoin’s wrist and lowering it back down between them.

“Nothing about me lasts.” He carries Kakyoin’s hand loose in his, too spent to wrench his own away when Kakyoin doesn’t retract his. “Don’t you get it? It might take me years to wear you down, but we both know it’s only a matter of time. I can see it in your eyes. She’s so small, Kakyoin. One wrong move and she could break. I’m trying to protect her.”

“Jotaro, look at me,” Kakyoin begs, leaning in even closer. Jotaro doesn’t even care to know what he looks like now, leaning his face and body away as far as physics will allow like a child, but he can’t bear to face him.

“I never should have let you come back.” Jotaro breathes, in and out, eyes squeezed shut tight enough to make his head throb as the manic whirl of his thoughts begins to drift slowly back to equilibrium, leaving only one, damning final argument in its wake. “I’ll destroy you, too.”

For long, draining seconds, there’s nothing but the echo of his words and their ragged breath hanging through the air, cold in the night aside from the one small part of them still touching. Even that leaves him after a pause, and beneath his eyelids he can almost see Kakyoin’s frame in the shuffle around him retreating back into the house, and that’s just as well. If he’s believed, even if it leaves him untouched and alone, it’s better this way.

It’s the only alternative he’s ever trusted, and even as the shadow above him moves, he convinces himself it’s how it’s meant to be. This is how this conversation was always supposed to go, with the only command he’s ever needed Kakyoin to understand clicking in order to finally abandon this whole charade and save himself. He’s been waiting for something to break, after all, and it’s fitting this would be it—Ripped out from underneath him after the highest highs right down to the lowest of lows, and he just prays it’s a fast enough crash to have it stick.

The only thing he wishes is that he could have seen Kakyoin’s face in that kitchen light just one last time. All he asks is something to remember him by, but even that is better left alone too. One day, he’ll be grateful for it.

The two hands that reach to cup his face aren’t the harsh grip he expects, or the nothingness he's begging for. Instead, they frame his cheeks in a gentle caress, tugging him to face back to center. “Jotaro, I’m literally begging you to shut the fuck up.”

It’s out of stubbornness if nothing else, but even as he lets his head be guided without much resistance, he still refuses to open his eyes. A part of him wants to defy his wishes, but his own heart is racing in his chest and even when he opens his mouth to try, he’s too exhausted for anything intelligent. Shutting the fuck up it is.

“Thank you,” Kakyoin says once he’s sure Jotaro won’t interrupt further, taking another step to close the distance. They’re not chest to chest, but when Kakyoin shifts, he can feel the edge of his light spring jacket brush against his sides just slightly, tickling up his leg. “God, you’re such a drama queen. Can you please just look at me?”

No piece of him wants to, but Kakyoin brushes his thumbs over the top of his cheekbones and his eyelids flutter open on command, blinking to erase the blur from his vision. What he finds is Kakyoin’s face just inches from his, serious even with a slight, inexplicable tinge of wetness in his wide eyes and still as a statue.

Jotaro expects to flinch away on impact, is already bracing for it by twisting his torso away, but the second their eyes meet, something within them nails him to the spot. He collapses the rest of his weight into the support behind him, tethered by Kakyoin’s hands on his face and waiting for his word with bated breath.

“Good.” Only then does Kakyoin allow himself to blink, exhaling. “I need you to listen to me, okay? Please.”

It would take a stronger man than Jotaro to refuse that expression on his face, bold concern and steel in equal measure. He folds in record time. “Okay.”

Kakyoin cups his hands around his jawline, thumbs smoothing circles past the sides of his mouth as he begins. “I know you’re going to hurt me. I’m going to hurt you, too.”

“You won’t.” Jotaro shakes his head the second it leaves his lips, but no amount of thrashing unglues Kakyoin’s hands.

“I will.” Kakyoin squeezes down harder on his face, just enough to get his attention back. Even then, Jotaro can’t help but sway his head back and forth as he continues, the inertia alone moving him along. “I will, because everyone hurts everyone. That’s how this sort of thing works. It’s unavoidable.”

Jotaro knows the answer before he asks it, but he needs to hear it. He needs to hear it from him. “What sort of thing?”

“Relationships,” he replies. Jotaro can hear the rise and fall of his breath now, but they’re still not touching. Not quite. “Intimacy. This, us. Whatever we are. When you’re this close to someone, it’s inevitable. I promise you it’s not the end of the world.”

“I’m not talking about normal hurt.” Jotaro knows how weak it sounds the second he says it, each word struggling against his erratic pulse for air. Still, he swallows it down and tries again. “These aren’t things you recover from.”

Kakyoin shakes his head, hair brushing against Jotaro’s chest as he lowers it for just a second before lifting back up to face him again. He bites back the tail end of a smile, falling serious once more before he speaks. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re not that special.”

Jotaro parts his lips to retaliate, but Kakyoin shifts one of his hands to cover his mouth completely. It’s light enough that Jotaro could talk around it if need be, but the gesture alone does the trick.

“What you’re doing with Jolyne,” he continues, lowering his voice to nothing more than a muttered half-whisper, loud enough for the ever-smaller space between them and nothing more. “Knowing you’re capable of that hurts like hell. It’s gutting, and hearing your rationale is somehow worse. Having this conversation sucks, but you know what?”

As the silence drags on, Jotaro realizes he’s meant to respond, but even then it takes him several seconds to compose himself. “What?”

With a sigh, Kakyoin shifts his legs to straddle him and finally, finally leans in to press them together. It’s not his full weight, it’s not even much contact at all, but Jotaro can map the outline of his body tangible and solid against him, and that alone pulls an exhale of tension out from his chest.

Carefully, Kakyoin slides his hand out from over his lips and rests it back on his cheek, pulling up so their eyes are lined up perfectly across from one another, Jotaro sinking down further to accommodate the motion. Only when they’re still once more does Kakyoin move to speak.

“I don’t need you not to hurt me.” Each word comes out enunciated to pitch-perfect clearness, and Jotaro can’t look away anymore. Not even if his life depended on it. “Jolyne doesn’t need you not to hurt her, either. No one in their right mind is demanding perfection from you, now or ever.”

“What if…” Jotaro begins, stuttering in expectation of Kakyoin smothering his words again. When it doesn’t come, he takes a breath, studies the unchanging lines of Kakyoin’s face, and continues. “What if it’s still too much? What if it’s not worth it?”

“Then that’s a conversation for another day,” Kakyoin shrugs, hardly more than a slight tug and fall of his shoulders. “But between you and me, I have a really hard time imagining that ever happening.”

Kakyoin lets one of his hands fall to find one of Jotaro’s own still glued to the railing. It takes some coaxing, but eventually Jotaro lets him take it away and bring it back up to the spot where he left it, placing his own palm against his cheek with Kakyoin’s on top. Degree by degree, a small smile cracks over his face, and Jotaro missed it, the way it curls on one side when there’s too many thoughts stirring at once to keep it straight.

“I ran from you, too,” Kakyoin whispers, and Jotaro can feel his heartbeat against him, dangerously quick. “And I’m sorry. I wish so badly I could take it back.”

“It’s okay,” Jotaro replies, because it is. It is.

“But I’m done,” he continues unhindered, words spilling out over one another like a waterfall. “I came back. I chose this. I chose you, and I’ll do it over and over again every day for the rest of my life if that’s what it takes to get you to believe me.”

Jotaro’s insides stir at his words, lighting up a pressure in his chest like a ten-ton weight, but any attempts to process it are lost in the press of Kakyoin’s lips against his. It’s desperate from the first touch, frantic even, but the motion itself is light and quick, lingering only for a few short seconds before he pulls back. After, he hovers over him, just far enough away to see clearly, flush together once more.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Kakyoin shakes his head, nose brushing ever so slightly against Jotaro’s cheek. “We just want you to show up, Jotaro, that’s it. All we ask is that you love us enough to try.”

“I do,” Jotaro chokes out, because if he doesn’t say it now, he thinks he might explode. Even as his throat is cracking inside him, he needs to get it out. “I do love you.”

There’s nowhere else to look, so he watches, holding his breath as Kakyoin’s brows furrow then arch wide, his lips parting before they break into a smile Jotaro catches for all but a microsecond before it’s buried along with his head into the crook of Jotaro’s neck. Kakyoin’s hands drag loosely down his face before falling across his shoulders and clinging, his full weight collapsing down with only the tips of his toes still anchoring him to the floor.

Jotaro can’t shake the caution yet in wrapping his arms around his waist, but he can’t fight the urge either, relaxing only when he’s sure Kakyoin won’t fight it. If anything, he melts into it, arching further into his chest and swaying light on the balls of his feet.

“I love you,” he mutters into his neck, reverent. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

“I know,” Jotaro says, words ghosting across Kakyoin’s ear. He wraps his arms around him tighter, closer, breathing him in. “Me too.”

Nothing else has ever felt like this—Kakyoin intertwined in him, his heartbeat against his skin, his lips on his neck. His.

Nothing else has ever come close.

Nothing else ever will.

“It’s getting cold.” Jotaro doesn’t even realize how much time they’ve spent in the quiet until Kakyoin speaks again, unquantifiable distance stretching between words. For good measure, he shivers once beneath Jotaro’s arms. “We can talk about all of this more later.”

Jotaro makes no move to intertwine them, giving only a small, “Alright.”

He follows Kakyoin’s lead across the rays of light dancing over the porch, through the kitchen and up the stairs, Jotaro’s hand clasped in his and Kakyoin’s sharp eyes lighting their way through the darkened second floor. In the dim city glow filtering through their room, Jotaro watches in silence as Kakyoin strips down to his boxers, doing the same only once Kakyoin has lowered himself onto the mattress in wait.

Even after all the nights they’ve spent together like this, all the mundane evenings of sleep after long days, all the suggestive glances and candid invitations, every night spent drifting off in his arms, something about this feels new. In the shadows of the room, he can almost imagine it as somewhere else entirely, an exotic country on the other side of the world, or maybe even just Jotaro’s childhood bed, visions of another life where he’s young and fresh and unscarred, untouched and shivering in anticipation of something he wants too badly to ever be ready for.

Kakyoin lifts a hand in invitation, and Jotaro takes it, led in step by step until he’s standing right in front of where he sits, Kakyoin looking up at him with a mix of emotions he can’t dare begin to describe, lest he realize how deeply they’re reflected in his own face. With a hand to the small of his back, Kakyoin presses a kiss to the hard lines of his stomach, resting his forehead against him.

“Did you mean what you said?” There was a time, even earlier this very evening, where Jotaro wouldn’t dare ask this of him. Maybe it’s the darkness, or maybe it’s the way he feels stripped down to the bone after weeks and years of coming apart at the sinews, but now, he wants to know. Not a need, no. Just a want. “Every day?”

Instead of a reply, Kakyoin tugs at his hand and whispers, “Get into bed.”

Only when Jotaro is folded beneath the covers with Kakyoin nestled in his arms does he acknowledge Jotaro’s words at all, turning to face him and crawling up so they’re eye to eye once more.

“I think this is it for me,” he says, small. Jotaro reaches out and brushes a strand of Kakyoin’s hair off from his face, tucking it gently behind his ear. It’s the first time his eyes have looked like they did when he took his hand for the first time tonight, and Jotaro wants so badly to bottle it and keep it forever, on days and nights where the shadows grow long. “I don’t think I’ll ever want something more than I want this.”

Jotaro doesn’t need to turn around to look out into their room, all the details so second-nature they exist in a perfect replica behind his eyes. If he focuses, he can see it now—Kakyoin’s sketchbook on his desk, his earrings in his nightstand drawer, his favorite scarf on the coat rack hanging off his door. His clothes are neatly tucked away in his very own side of the dresser, and his reading glasses never stray too far from under the lamp on his side, all scattered about like evidence at a crime scene, indelible imprints of the life they’ve stumbled into sharing, somehow, somewhere, after a lifetime at sea.

He’d die before he’d let them take it from him.

“If you keep me,” Jotaro breathes deep into his words, sinking down further into his pillow. “I’ll never be the one to walk away. You have to know that.”

All his life, he’s been waiting for this. All his life, and he never even knew it would someday come to him.

Twenty-nine years, and he’s made it home.

When Kakyoin matches their lips up, the pattern they trace before the kiss echoes long after they’re gone, long after the sun sleeps through to morning and long after summer sings its earliest sway, long enough that it turns into a mantra in his head, ringing in perfect clarity day after day.

“Then I’ll keep you.”

Jotaro has these dreams, sometimes.

In them, there’s an endless shoreline, miles and miles of sparkling sand and and shells that glimmer like dust beams in the light of the early morning moon, melting ever slowly into dawn. In them, the waves turn the edges smooth in rhythmic rolls, dragging seafoam in the undertow as the water creeps ever so slowly up.

In them, Jotaro digs his bare feet into the wet sand, water up to his ankles, and watches the tide rise. Each time, it’s the most peaceful he's ever felt, waiting in glorious anticipation for the moment it will finally swallow him under.

They’re so clear, so vibrant in his mind, that as he stares out at the vast expanse of Hayama’s sparsely-populated beachfront in the early hours of a mid-June morning, he has to rub his eyes just to ground him back to the waking world, blinking in the anomalies between his vision and reality until he’s grounded back in the moment.

“Earth to Jotaro.” None of his own readjustments hold a candle to the thin hand flashing in front of his face, ripping him from his subconscious with a flash and sending him right back to the front seat of his vehicle, hand on the keys but the car still idling in park. “We’re here, look alive.”

Shaking off the vision with a shrug of his shoulders, he turns the car off and looks sheepishly towards the man at his side, smiling wide with amusement and fondness equal measure. “Sorry.”

“You good?” Kakyoin asks, and whatever genuine concern was in his words is masked with a laugh when Jotaro nods. He swivels around from his perch in the passenger's seat to look towards the back, adjusting his sunglasses down. “What about you?”

Jotaro joins him, pivoting to see the bundle of colorful blankets and wild black hair huddled up in the middle seat that somehow contains his daughter, two green eyes blinking open, heavy with sleep. “Huh?”

“We’re here,” Jotaro supplies, reaching back to gently put a hand on the vague area of her knee. She stirs at the touch, tiny fists rubbing at her face to wake just as he had not moments before. It tugs a smile at his lips, but he bites down on it to keep it straight, lest she catch him. “Are you going to wake up, or should we leave you?”

“I’m awake!” Jolyne scrambles to free herself from her fuzzy constraints, blankets flying to the floor in a fury as she struggles against the seatbelt. “I promise.”

Kakyoin masks a laugh with the back of his hand, catching a matching expression on Jotaro’s own face before reaching for his door. “I’ll start unpacking the trunk.”

Before Jotaro himself can even follow, Jolyne is up and out of the backseat, falling right up to Kakyoin’s side at the back of the car as he waits for Jotaro to prop the hatch. Jolyne is bouncing on her heels by the time Jotaro makes his way around, the only evidence she was out like a light minutes ago in the uneven lay of her hair, and even that seems to work for her.

No sooner after he thinks it, she climbs into the opened trunk and catches her reflection in the rear-view mirror, pulling a face that Jotaro can imagine perfectly even without seeing it as he does. It’s always the same, her nose curling up so far it starts to twitch and her thick eyebrows furrowed comically deep.

“Daddy,” she whines, crawling over to tug on Jotaro’s sleeve as he works to pull their stack of beach chairs out from behind her. “I want to fix my hair.”

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Jotaro replies, setting them on the concrete behind him. He smooths the most obvious parts of her hair down for good measure, shaking off her half-attempts to wriggle free. “We’re just going to the beach.”

“I want the fish to think I’m pretty,” she sighs, exaggerated with a pout that takes up half of her tiny face. Right on cue, she sends her puppy eyes over in Kakyoin’s direction, where he’s already looking for them expectantly as he rifles through one of their bags. “Right?”

“That’s pretty iron-clad logic,” Kakyoin laughs, digging until he produces a small pink and blue bag patterned with sea turtles across it, Jolyne’s favorite animal. He makes his way to the edge of the trunk and dangles his knees over the ledge, motioning for Jolyne to join him. “Here, darling, we’ll make sure you’re the envy of the ocean.”

It’s happened time and time again over the past few weeks, but every time Jolyne runs to him, Jotaro can’t help but feel like it’s a minor miracle. Or perhaps considering how obviously their personalities mesh now, it’s only a minor miracle in terms of the apocalyptic worst-case scenarios Jotaro cooked up in his head in the weeks leading up to this.

He knows well enough that bringing home anyone new is a risk to a child that young, the divorce still fresh in her mind and emotions reeling to catch up with a new reality more jarring than Jotaro can ever fully grasp. Very few things have ever scared him more than that car ride to the airport, Kakyoin behind the wheel and Jotaro’s head between his legs trying not to throw up.

It would be hard enough if he were bringing home a woman, and the extra layer of nuance did absolutely nothing to assuage his fears, even at Kakyoin’s gentle suggestion that it might actually help the worry that her mother had been replaced. Even Kakyoin’s iron patience was tested by how many times Jotaro made him practice “The Talk” as he dubbed it, and all the moderate to unsalvageable consequences that might follow.

It felt a bit silly, then, for hours and hours of preparation to boil down to what might have been the easiest conversation he's ever had with his daughter in his life.

“So you’re together like you and mom were,” Jolyne had mused on that first night over dinner, where they’d taken her to her favorite seafood restaurant in the city. At her request, she sat on one side of the booth and lined the two of them up on the other, leaving Jotaro feeling distinctly like a witness cross-examined in the courtroom of an eight year old lawyer. “But you’re two boys instead of a boy and a girl?”

“That’s correct,” Kakyoin replied, once it was clear Jotaro was going to have to speak via grunts through gritted teeth or not at all.

For a long, arduous ten seconds, Jolyne said nothing at all, a finger to her cheek in exaggerated though before she nodded, serious. “Okay. Can two girls do that too?”

Jotaro tried to hide it, but it wasn’t so much words as it was an exhale of pure, unmitigated relief when he replied, “Of course.”

“Okay,” she repeated, giving another nod before adjusting herself purposefully in the seat and returning to her coloring page. “Cool.”

The entire conversation took less than five minutes, but warming up to Kakyoin himself took considerably longer. Even as she seemed, in her ever-empathetic childlike way, to pick up on her father’s happiness, the first few days still brought an overabundance of caution where she slipped into stilted formality when they spoke, too nervous and unsure to be alone with him without Jotaro close around.

Paranoid as usual, Jotaro began to genuinely fear the possibility it would never get better, until at the end of the first week Kakyoin reverse-engineered her favorite hairstyle on the very first try, something Jotaro hadn’t been able to do when given hours on the punishment of unending childhood fury. He took one look at the braids from a picture, and twenty minutes and a pile of bobby pins later she was school picture ready, not a hair falling out of place as she ran around the house in excitement.

After that, she took to him immediately, but Jotaro still watches in awe at her patience as she perches in his lap now, still as a statue and just as poised. Even in the short month she’s been living with them, they’ve developed their own little language, where with one touch Jolyne knows exactly how to turn her head for the next pin to slide in.

Though Jolyne’s reaction has been the most surprising, Kakyoin’s has been a beast of its own as well. Jotaro never doubted him, not really, but the voice in the back of his head that chided him for burdening Kakyoin with summer parenthood quieted in the face of the love and care he’s attended to her with since day one. It took him a few days to be comfortable with her in turn, Jotaro knows him well enough to read the signs, but he went into it full-throttle, determined and warm.

Their mutual effort has paid off in spades, and it’s Jotaro that gets to be audience to it now, pausing in unloading their picnic bag to watch Kakyoin, bobby pins stacked in his mouth, finish up the last touches of her intricate buns like it’s second nature. When he’s done, she leaps back onto the concrete with a flourish, grabbing for her beach towel and swinging it over her shoulder.

Jotaro and Kakyoin divide the chairs and the bags between them equally, and Jotaro’s grateful they packed light. Between their shoulders and backs they have one hand each still free, and Jolyne slips between them with ease, palms outstretched in anticipation of the only way she seems to enjoy walking anywhere anymore.

Her patience is rewarded with one hand of theirs in each of hers, and she swings them back and forth in wide arcs as they make their way down to the waterfront, humming under her breath. The sun has risen fully in the sky now, only the last lingering rays of orange and pink still clinging to the sky. Just like a dream.

Down by the water, the breeze is cool and sticky with humidity, but true to her bloodline, Jolyne doesn’t seem to mind in the least, dropping their hands to run up to the edge of the water with a delighted scream and burying her toes under the tail end of the waves.

“Careful, girl,” Jotaro warns casually, because she knows better. She doesn’t have the heart to look apologetic, but she does reel back to their sides, flopping her towel on the sand unceremoniously next to where Jotaro sets their cooler down. “Wait for one of us.”

She frowns, but doesn’t protest, helpfully taking one of the chairs out of its sleeve and staring at it blankly once she realizes she doesn’t know how to open it. Catching her predicament, Kakyoin kneels at her side and guides her hands to the armrests, gently helping her coax it out to unfold.

“I want to be up,” she tells him once it’s done, crisp and matter-of-fact. “So I can go deeper in the water without dad getting mad at me.”

Kakyoin smiles at her with a fondness that flips Jotaro’s heart in his chest every single time, even though he’s seen it too many to count now. “I think I can get you on his shoulders, let’s go see if he’s ready.”

Before Jotaro can even brace himself for carrying a whole human child, Jolyne defiantly shakes her head, tugging at Kakyoin’s shirt. “I want to be on your shoulders.”

“Mine?” Kakyoin’s eyes flicker up to Jotaro’s in silent permission, but he doesn’t even wait for his nod in reply to turn back to her. “Well, alright, I’d be happy to.”

He kneels down farther into the sand and taps at his back, gesturing for Jolyne to climb on and all but ignoring Jotaro’s calls of, “Are you sure?”

It’s all Jotaro can do not to run up to their side and steady them both, cognizant of the way Kakyoin’s knees still don’t always follow his brain’s commands like they should under enough stress, but he pulls too his feet with minor adjustment, Jolyne’s legs dangling over his shoulders and her arms holding loose around is neck.

“Of course,” Kakyoin finally answers, tossing his hair back behind his ear. As her own reply, Jolyne sticks out her tongue, resting her chin on the top of Kakyoin’s head. “She hardly weighs a thing.”

Whatever part of him feels jilted for not being chosen is drowned out by the picture in front of him, the sun at their backs sparkling brilliant rays off the ocean waves and haloing their bodies in brilliant color. The gentle breeze rolls through Kakyoin’s hair and the fabric of Jolyne’s shirt, their eyes a twin set of wide adoration for the ocean stretching wide in front of them.

Kicking his shoes off, Kakyoin takes them slowly out past the water’s edge, walking step by step through the tide until he’s up past his knees with the waves licking at his shorts. From there, Jolyne cranes her neck up high into the sky, Kakyoin’s hands tight on her knees as she takes it all in, childlike and pure and so, so happy.

How lucky it is, Jotaro thinks, to love the world so much.

He has these dreams, sometimes, and in them, the ocean carries him away.

“Are you coming?” Kakyoin calls after what might be minutes, hours for all he knows, Jotaro watching them in silence as the sun rises inch by inch, the man he loves carrying his world on his shoulders like it’s nothing at all.

“Give me a second,” Jotaro replies, because he’s not done taking it in yet, wonders if he ever will be. From the look on Kakyoin’s face as he turns back towards the sea, he knows it too. He’ll wait for him, as long as it takes to be ready.

Jotaro closes his eyes, and when he opens them, all he sees is light.