Your grandson is a marine biologist, not a historian. But when he asks you to accompany him on this journey, you can only imagine it's because of 'The Ship'. You'd told him of it years ago, when he was a small child, precocious and eager to hear the tales of his grandfather's childhood. In spite of this, however, he'd never shown much interest in 'The Ship' in his adulthood, and you suppose it's more or less because of his friend's interest that compels him to ask you for assistance.

"Normally, I wouldn't be coming to you like this," he makes sure to tell you as he carefully helps you down from the helicopter. Always like Jotaro, to make sure he seems completely detached before meticulously attending to your safety. "But seeing as how you were there, Kakyoin would greatly appreciate it if you could tell us everything about her."

"Her," you mumble. As if 'The Ship' were a living thing. If it was, it was certainly a failure at living, having capsized on her damned maiden voyage. "Well, I suppose I have little to do in my spare time nowadays, yes? Why not spend some talking to youngsters about one of the most traumatic times of my life?"

Jotaro snorts, a hand on your shoulder as he leads you into what you can assume is the control room, decked with an assortment of panels and buttons accompanied with red, green, and blue lights and bulbs. It's a bunch of technological mumbo jumbo you're not meant to understand, so you ignore it. You're here to tell a story.

There are five men in the room, including yourself and Jotaro, a small dog roused from its slumber in a man's arms to peer at you curiously before going back to sleep. You can only recognize one of Jotaro's companions - a man Jotaro has brought around quite frequently to family gatherings, to the point of you questioning (and failing to get an answer) about the true extent of their friendship. Noriaki Kakyoin smiles brightly at you as he moves to shake your hand firmly. "It's good to see you again, Mister Zeppeli."

"You too, Noriaki," you respond. He flicks one of his crewmen off a chair and offers it to you, insisting that you take a seat as the trip must have been uncomfortable and you must be tired. Though annoyed, the man relinquishes his seat and take it gratefully, albeit slowly. Arthritis has not been kind to you in these long years. "Thank you for allowing me to come."

"Oh, please, it's my greatest pleasure," answers Kakyoin, and he turns to ask one of his friends, the dark-haired man carting the dog, to fetch you some tea. "I know this might be difficult… Having to relive moments of the ship. It was horrific, I'm sure, and I thank you for coming forward about all this."

With the way he's phrasing this, you'd imagine he was speaking of coming forward about something else - outlawed in your day, and while still somewhat uncommon, mostly accepted in modern society, which you are more than grateful for. If only this time had come sooner, you wonder if you'd have ever gotten on the ship on the first place.

"They found the drawing," says Jotaro from behind you. He places a hand on the back of your chair, pressing some of his weight on it as he leans forward. "A drawing. I'm sure you remember it well, though I'd really rather I didn't see it."

"You can wonder now why I didn't tell you about it when you were a child, then, hmm?" He notes the smugness in your tone with a slight scowl, and you chuckle to yourself. "I was a good-looking man, Jotaro. Be glad that you have been so heavily influenced by my genes."

He huffs, but doesn't seem any more annoyed than he is humored. "You wish, old man."

A smile plays on Kakyoin's lips and he leans on a console, careful not to flip any switches with his bum. The dog that had been placed down shifts so that it rests precariously in his lap, trusting the human to hold it and make sure it doesn't fall. It raises its head to look at you once more, sniffs, and then relaxes, looking thoroughly nonplussed. You figure he's only here to be a team mascot. "We did find the drawing. And on it, you, and the Red Stone of Aja around your neck. You owned it, didn't you?"

"I did," you whisper. A cup of steaming tea - Earl Grey, from the smell - is offered to you by the man who introduces himself as Avdol, nodding to the silver-haired male whose seat you occupied and identifying him as Polnareff. You mumble thanks and take a sip. "It was many years ago. How I came into contact with it? Well, I suppose that's something from which one should start from the very beginning."

You close your eyes, and the memories come crashing over you. It's all so vivid - the colors, the noise, the smells - and you almost wish that you were back there, if only to see him again. Almost. You're not so foolish as to relive the moments in which you knew him only to feel the pain of losing him all over again.

It's the year 1912, as famous years go. In hindsight, it's probably only famous because of the tragedy, but you've yet to know of it. It's your seventeenth year, stressed by its importance in inheritance, and, according to Grandmother Erina, a radical mood swing accompanying it. You'd argue that you've never had a single temperament maintained conclusively throughout the years, but you never want to argue with your grandmother, who raised you practically from birth.

You knew little of your father Jorge, remembering sparing moments of him in your toddler years, though the main fatherly presence in your life had easily been identified as Grandpa Jonathan and Speedwagon. But you know that he had left the family crippled by debt after his death at the end of a robbery gone wrong, and Grandpa Jonathan had spent most of what remained of his lordly wealth to keep debt collectors and loan sharks off the Joestars' backs.

Unfortunately for the family, Grandpa Jonathan would soon pass away from an aneurysm no one knew existed, and while Speedwagon could only do so much to aid the Joestars before he went under, there was an alternative that arose - a single reason that would compel you to board the Titanic to go across the Atlantic.

Marriage.

You had been pledged to the hand of Suzie Q, an heiress to an oil tycoon, whose father's fortune would surely aid yours when combined with Speedwagon's in not only paying back Jorge Joestar's debts, but also maintaining the Joestars' high-society status.

You had no qualms with the girl herself, pleasant enough, and a childhood friend of yours. You had known her since you were small, though this had done nothing but make her seem more like a sister than anything else in your eyes. It's a twang of guilt that you feel for being unable to give her the matrimonial happiness she wants. You just can't give it to her. Or the entirety of the fairer sex, as it were.

You're as queer as a fucking three dollar bill.

One would imagine that, giving just how you were, you'd be wholly unapologetic about it - had the very concept of sodomy performed between two men be outlawed, of course - and truth be told, you would have been. As luck would have it, though, your family's livelihood depended on the very fact of you not being so. Well, actually, that was dubious. It was clear given the immediacy of your engagement that your emotions toward it had little to do with the confirmation of the action.

But stifling your emotions had never done you well, had it? All you had been doing for the past six months was hate yourself for being something other than what you were needed to be. For being something lesser, something odd, something horrid and an abomination that had never been meant to exist. You remember clearly what an oddity you were, even at a young age.

So sure of yourself, decided entirely in what you were. And when he you had told Grandpa Jonathan, one of the most accepting people you had ever met, he'd laid a puzzled gaze upon you, before smiling and stating that 'Oh, dear boy, 'tis only just a phase', before realizing in the years to would come that perhaps it wasn't, and only then grudgingly growing affectionate of the notion. Before long, it would be as if you never said anything, and for that you were grateful, that Jonathan had grown to accept you.

But the look in his eyes, you never forgot. You would dread to see the same on Suzie's.

It's why you feel caged when you step onto the pier, extending your aid to Suzie Q and her aunt Lisa Lisa, while Speedwagon attended to Grandmother Erina. Your movement is stiff, rigid, every bit the gentleman that you had been raised to be. Courteous and gracious, magnanimous to nearly a fault. "Watch your step."

"Thank you," Suzie smiles. The smell of fresh paint seems to wash over the both of you, and she rests her eyes on the liner before you. "Wow," she breathes. "It's even bigger than I imagined…"

"It's hardly anything to look at, I should think," you sniff, thinking of the Mauretania. But even then, you had read the specifications of the ship, noting how much better it was than the Mauretania in both size and capability. It was named Titanic for a reason - for its grandeur and glory. "But I suppose it'll be suitable." You speak merely in jest of course, and Suzie laughs swatting your arm.

"My, this grandson of yours is certainly difficult to please, isn't he?" she giggles, and you smile down at her. "Only the best for a Joestar, I'm assuming."

You wonder if she sees your smile as a cry for help, just as easily as she sees your nonchalance for an attempt to mask just how awestruck you truly are. By the way she grins back, it seems quite notable that she doesn't, and your heart sinks.

Lisa Lisa gives you a look, and you attempt to ignore her eyes drilling into the back of your head. She has been a relatively new presence in Suzie's life, apparently an estranged sister her father, whom you had never heard of, now returned to see her niece married and to move to New York. You find the situation just a bit odd, but you make no mention of it, fearing you'd offend the elegant woman. She's always looking at you, though, and for a moment you might think she wants to snatch you away for her own. It makes you shudder, and you believe that without a doubt no one would stand a chance against her if she truly wanted something.

Speedwagon urges you on the ramp, and you know that there is no going back now. You'll arrive in New York in a few days time, and then within the week, you'll be confined to a life of misery. One would expect you to have a bit on the side, perhaps, if you were truly so unhappy, but if that 'bit' were to be discovered, you'd both be thrown in jail before you could even open your mouth to protest.

Trapped, suffocated, closed, stifled. Why, poor rich boy, living in the heights of society with all the wealth imaginable, with naught to call sadness. The gilded cage you see is clear glass, invisible, and therefore nonexistent to them.

Oh, if only they could see how you wanted nothing more than to fall into the void.

Your feet slap against the wooden deck, shoving past men and women, old and young, on your way to the stern. You've no doubt you look like some ghastly beast, pale, hair thrashed about your head as your tie is loosened and nearly undone, dress shirt untucked and partially unbuttoned. Some make a few offended gasps as you deign to apologize, but you've only a single objective, and that was not to be polite.

Your height allows you to cross the guard railing easily, and your feet rest steadily on the edge of the boat. One little move and you could slip straight off, into the dark waters crashing below. One single movement, just one miniscule shift, and it will all be over. Suzie will be able to maintain the wealth her father has, and if she doesn't marry, she might well soon have the rights to it, and Speedwagon, you've known always that he's had feelings for Grandmother Erina - he'll be there to take care of her. They'd move on without you, all happy, all placated, all simply overjoyed to have their worries, all irrevocably entwined with you, gone.

You're about to do it, about the to make the leap of faith, but a voice startles you and makes your head whip around in surprise.

"Don't do it," someone says, and your eyes dart around. There's no one nearby - you'd made sure that no one be here to see the deed and no stupid hero to save you - but it seems that you had missed someone on the upper deck. A boy, perhaps a few years older than you, with striking blond hair and sea blue eyes watches you. Pink marks sit just below the corners of his eyes, a bandana tied tightly around his head. "You don't want to."

"Don't presume to tell me what I want and don't want to do," you snap, though your hands still grip the railing tightly. Sea foam splatters you, and it feels as if you're stuck and unable to let go. You think for a moment, maybe he's right, but you don't want to prove this upstart right. "G-Go away."

He does the complete opposite, approaching you, hands outstretched. "I'm afraid I can't do that, mister. Now I'm involved." You open your mouth to yell at him more, but then he begins to remove his clothing, shrugging off a plain jacket and stripping off his boots. You might've taken a moment to appreciate the fine, sculpted body hidden beneath his attire, but you're not exactly in the best state of mind. "What that means," the man continues, seeming unfazed by your searing glare, "is that if you pitch over, then I'm going to have to come get you."

"Don't be absurd," you hiss. "The fall alone would kill you." As you had planned for it to kill you.

"No, actually. I don't believe so. It's the water that I'm afraid of - it's cold. Chilly." He shudders, as if apparently experienced in the matters of leaping into cold water and apparently surviving. The way he acts, it does not bode well for your attempt. not that you'd be dissuaded by the mere inkling of pain. Or would you?

You look back down at the water. What specks do rise up, striking your skin, they hit like hail upon your flesh, and even just mere droplets are enough to indicate what you might expect. "How cold..?"

"Freezing," supplies the man, he moves to sand next to you, resting on the railing as his lips twist into something of a smirk as he gazes languidly at you. "It'll hurt. Like knives stabbing into your skin. Won't be pleasant. Won't be fast." He shrugs, leaning against the bars. "But that's just my hypothesis."

"Your 'hypothesis'," you mock bitterly, and the man nods and laughs.

"C'mon," the man coaxes, offering his hand. His blue eyes sparkle invitingly, and even in the dark, you can see yourself reflected in them. You look disturbing, drenched in sweat and seawater. Tear marks run all the way down your face, and your eyes are swollen and red. "You'll be okay. Let me get you over the railing."

If you had truly wanted to jump, you would have already, interrupted or no. But you're a coward. You're frightened by the prospect of losing your life, by the bare notion of the freezing water rendering you immobile and in pain, left to die slowly and painfully in the void. And you're cowed still by your pride, preventing you from pulling yourself over and admitting defeat, even though you're scared.

You turn to take his hand, though, forcing yourself, managing to pry your hand from the railing to take his, and a bandana thwaps you in the face. "Gah!" you splutter, swatting it away.

The man chuckles again, brushing the fabric back. "Sorry 'bout that. I'm Caesar. Caesar Zeppeli."

"Joseph Joestar," you respond. You hope he doesn't recognize the name. Your grandfather had built up quite the real estate empire after his riches had been burned long before your father was born, and you had wanted, hoped, that his rescue would be genuine - not born of some need to impress a wealthy family.

"Well, Joseph, let's get you back over here." After tucking his bandana safely under the collar of his shirt, he reaches out with this other hand to help you pu. It turns out to be a mistake, as you relinquish your hold on the rail to put a hand on his shoulders.

Your foot slips on the second rung, and you yell as you fall. You let go of Caesar's sleeve, your only hold being on his hand, and thus not quite dragging him down with you.

Panic strikes you, and you flail as you dangle. Caesar grimaces, bracing himself against the bars as he tugs you upward. He's unable to fully drag you up, and his grip loosens with his attempt. You scream and wail for help, digging your fingers into crags along the ship's stern. Had you been coherent, you might have noticed the plating was somewhat weak and wouldn't hold up against a large-scale collision. But your priority was staying alive - ironic, considering just what had put you in this situation.

"Joseph!" yells Caesar. "You've gotta pull yourself up! I can't do this by myself, Joseph! You're a big guy, c'mon!"

It takes you a moment to gather yourself, and you manage to focus. You swing a hand over, grabbing the lowest rung of the railing. With some effort, you drag yourself up, bracing your feet against the stern and inch your way up far enough for Caesar to haul you back to safety.

Slamming against the deck, you get the wind knocked out of you. Caesar lies on top of you, panting. His bandana has gotten loose from its binding and hangs limply in your face, causing you to brush it back and end up cradling Caesar's head in your soft palm.

Catching yourself, you withdraw your hand, the purple and yellow fabric falling to tickle your forehead once more. Caesar smiles down at you, eyes half-lidded, and you wish the words "You too?" would fall out of his mouth, but they don't, even as his head lowers towards yours ever so slightly.

A whistle causes you to separate, and Caesar pulls you up by the lapels of your shirt.

"How dare you?" you hear Grandmother Erina cry before even seeing her approach, the telltale clicking of her heels announcing her presence. Before you so much as think about protesting, she slaps Caesar across the face. You both freeze, and for the barest of moments, you believe you'll also be on the same end of her slap, you queer, for performing acts of buggery in broad moonlight.

But then, Erina speaks again, and you mask your sigh of relief as a shiver.

"What makes you think you can steal from my grandson?" she shrieks. "Do you have any idea who he is?"

"Joseph Joestar," Caesar mumbles, dazed, and you rush to his defense, squeezing between the two of them.

"Grandmother Erina," you say, hands outstretched placatingly. Your horror worsens when the master-at-arms and several guards join you on the deck, grabbing Caesar swiftly and cuffing him in a single, smooth motion. How wonderful, you've created a spectacle. "This is a huge misunderstanding… I was leaning over the railing, and I fell in… But Caesar saved me. He grabbed me before I could hit the water and pulled me back up."

Lisa Lisa approaches with her niece and Speedwagon at her heels, and you could just scream. Maybe you should have just jumped. Caesar wouldn't be in cuffs, uninvolved, and it'd save you from the extreme embarrassment you struggle to hide. One might mistake it for you being embarrassed by the fall, and for that, you are grateful.

"Why, pray tell," asks Lisa Lisa, "were you leaning over the railing, of all things?"

"You are rather large, my boy," agrees Speedwagon, not unkindly. "Too far, and you'd tip right over."

"Well, I was looking at the… the… the, um…" Your hands cycles in a small windmill motion as you work through the lie, but your brain isn't working from the cold, and you simply end up repeating the same word over and over.

Your fiancee is a godsend. "The propellers?" she suggests at your elbow. As thanks, you squeeze her gently to your side.

"Yes, the propellers. They're pretty far out, so I just… Um." Eloquent, Joseph. The vernacular of a gentleman, just like Grandpa Jonathan. "Fell."

"Well?" questions the master-of-arms, shaking Caesar slightly. His cuffs make an accusatory clank, and you feel your cheeks redden. "Is this the truth?"

Caesar pauses, levelling you with an appreciative gaze. "Yes. Yes, that's correct."

Erina looks horrified, bless her soul, and apologizes profusely as Caesar is uncuffed. It's understandable what she did, you suppose, if a bit excessive. You're her only living relative left, after both Grandpa Jonathan and your father had died. She's always been protective of you, and you had never known your mother. It was really only her to hold you when you cried, who made sure you were happy and nurtured. You imagine she'd want you to keep some of the wealth that Grandpa Jonathan had left you, kept as family heirlooms never to be sold off to settle your father's debts.

Caesar waves off her apologies good-naturedly with equal amounts of "It's fine"s, rubbing his wrists tenderly. They're not red from chafing, but you can't imagine the steel is any warmer than the water below you. He seems to stare after the master-at-arms suspiciously as he walks off, but you think little of it.

"Perhaps," you murmur, and all eyes fall upon you, "perhaps, as thanks, for saving my stupid hide... You could join us for dinner tomorrow, in First Class, Caesar? Perhaps then you could regale my company with your tale of heroism."

Caesar smiles wryly. "Perhaps."

Before he can say more, Suzie wraps her arms around you, squeezing you harder than you thought she was capable. "Joseph, you're so cold!" she gasps, then wraps part of her shawl around you. It doesn't make its way back to her, your shoulders too broad to allow it. "It's not going to get any better up here. Come, let's get back to your room and warm you up."

Lifting his fingers in a slight wave, Caesar bids you farewell. He mutters something about having to finish his pack of cigarettes before heading down, and you watch him, resting against the railing again, as you descend into your naval prison.