Ok so I know I promised my second jojo fic would be happier but... sorry.
Warnings: Canonical character death, vague allusions to PTSD and survivors guilt, angst with a happy ending
On a brighter note - some implied CaeJos, Jotakak and Avpol because I'm soft and gay
1.
Three weeks after Egypt, Jotaro officially becomes an adult.
It's the kind of thing that Joseph had always thought should be celebrated as exuberant and outrageously as you can manage, being one of the great turning points in a man's life. But they are only three weeks out of Egypt, covered in bandages and scars and weariness. And Jotaro barely left his room in all that time, except to come down and get tea or food.
Holly hovers – as any parent would – and it pains Joseph to see Jotaro brush off her concern so callously, but he also knows better than to scold his grandson about being so cold towards his own mother. There is an understanding between those two now that maybe wasn't there before or maybe it was and Joseph just didn't know. All he knows is that when they first arrived back to the house, dark circles of jet lag under their eyes, Holly had been standing there with an apron tied around her waist and her usual bright smile as if nothing had even happened.
Jotaro had dropped his suitcase in the doorway and hugged her.
Holly had laughed, the kind of slightly breathless laughter that reminded Joseph fondly of Suzie, and wrapped her arms around him. Jotaro said something to her Joseph didn't quite catch and she hummed in response, pulling back to look at his face. "I'm just glad you both made it back safely," she said.
Jotaro didn't answer her.
He went upstairs after that. Joseph took his turn holding his daughter instead, reassuring himself he hadn't lost her like so many others. Later would come the terrifying ordeal of explaining the details of what happened on that journey, what they had been through, but for just a moment that could be ignored in favor of the relief at having lived through it.
But now it is two weeks later and Jotaro is turning eighteen and won't come downstairs.
"You're not worried about him?" Joseph asks Holly, who is busy fussing over a cutting board while he sits at the kitchen table with an American newspaper in front of him that stays woefully unread.
Holly looks over her shoulder and puts the knife down. "I'm always worried about him."
"But?"
"But it won't do to crowd him, Papa. Jotaro just needs some time, some space." She turns around again.
Joseph picks up his newspaper to hide his face behind it. "Some time and space. He told you that, did he?"
Holly laughs, soft and amiable. "No, but his father is like that too. Japanese men are more reserved than Americans."
Flicking to the page with the celebrity gossip without actually reading any of it, Joseph grumbles under his breath. As if it isn't already bad enough for him to know his beautiful daughter was stolen from him by that man, now this... He hadn't realized he had summoned Hermit Purple in his agitation, the vines creeping along the base of his arm and elbow, until Holly interrupts his thoughts.
"No Stands in the house," she tells him firmly, flicking the stove on. Joseph dismisses his stand testily, putting down the newspaper again in favor of watching her crack eggs into a bowl one-handed.
"Maybe that's the problem," he says. "Maybe he should just come to New York with me for a while. Get out of the house. It's not like he's going back to school anytime soon-"
"Shut up," Jotaro says from the doorway.
Joseph curses loudly in English, earning another glare from Holly. Instead of chiding him, she directs her attention to Jotaro, waving towards one of the empty chairs. "Sit down, I'm making your favorite."
Jotaro grunts but doesn't refuse her offer, shuffling over to the nearest chair and falling down into it with a sigh. He looks just as tired as two weeks ago, paler too, and Joseph wonders if he got any sleep at all. He often hears the tv drone on quietly or sees the sliver of light beneath Jotaro's bedroom door when he wakes up to take a piss in the middle of the night. "It's not like I'm wrong," he continues after a few seconds of silence. "Graduation isn't going anywhere."
Jotaro has completely deconstructed the newspaper in search of the sports items in the meantime, leaving the rest spread out across the table. "Shut up," he repeats.
"We can talk about this later." Holly puts down one plate in front of each of them, the rice omelet sending up a waft of steam that immediately fogs up Joseph's glasses. He takes them off to rub them against his sleeve. "After we're done eating, yes?"
"Sure," Joseph says. He hates to admit it, but it smells pretty damn good, though it probably won't hold a candle to American cuisine. Across the table, Jotaro has already started, eyes fixed on the pages.
Holly puts her own plate on the table last, sitting in between the two of them, and clapping her hands together briefly, pleased. "Happy birthday, Jotaro."
Jotaro doesn't answer.
2.
Jotaro never asked Avdol how old he was.
It is a strange thought to be having, not the kind of thing Jotaro would usually find himself caught on. Avdol was mature, the type of person who took pride in being both reasonable and dependable in equal measures, and that made it easy to forget. Or maybe that was just an excuse to make himself feel better. The truth might just be that Jotaro never bothered to find out.
Polnareff makes a noncommittal noise when Jotaro asks him, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Fuck if I know," he says.
It is April and they are sitting in the garden of the Joestar family vacation home in California on the type of crappy foldable chairs you take with you to garage sales or some shit. Jotaro arrived here three days ago, after resisting his grandfather's attempts at coercing him to fly out to America with him for almost a month. He still hasn't gone back to school. But it was only after being told a certain somebody else was going to be there too that Jotaro had reconsidered in the end.
Their reunion had been easy. It felt almost natural - as if they hadn't really left. They had called a few times in the months in between, Polnareff telling Jotaro about France and his family home and the things he did there. Empty air, stories build on false comfort about restarting a life that would never really be normal again.
So now they were here instead.
"Should we have asked?" Polnareff wonders out loud, rubbing one hand against his forehead in agitation. There are two shiny metal fingers there now that Jotaro can't get used to or won't.
"No," he answers.
"Right? As if he would even have told us, always keeping that mysterious air around him. Remember when he pretended to be his own father?" Polnareff laughs, but it is devoid of any amusement and he downs the rest of his beer in one go, already reaching for a new one. He cranes his neck to look away. "That was screwed up."
"It was," Jotaro agrees.
The stars are mostly obscured by the vague shapes of clouds, only peeking out occasionally with their slow movements in a way that might have you dismiss them as planes or satellites. Jotaro thinks of the night sky in the Egyptian desert, devoid of light pollution and so very clear. Every one of his exhales sending smoke up in a trickle.
"Oh, that reminds me. I have something for you," Polnareff says suddenly, digging around in the pocket of his jeans.
Jotaro recognizes the tarot card handed to him as the exact same one Avdol showed him upon their first meeting, though it looks a little worse for wear. The evidence of it belonging in a well-loved tarot deck in the past is easily found in the slight fading of color and creases along the edges of the card. Despite all this, the text makes it unmistakable as the major arcana from which Jotaro's stand borrows its name.
He turns it over. "That's where that deck went."
"Found them in the hotel room after-" Polnareff cuts himself off and shakes his head. "Y-yeah, I just automatically took them home, I guess. Comfort, you know. Remind me to give the old man his later."
Jotaro nods, putting the card in his wallet for safekeeping. "The hermit?"
"Of course."
They don't say much more for a while, content in the silence and their drinks. If he concentrates, Jotaro can hear the off-tune rush of the ocean, distant waves crashing into rocks, a facsimile of peacefulness beyond the estate's walls. The air tastes salty. Jotaro takes a sip of the whiskey he's drinking. He offered some to Polnareff earlier, but the Frenchman had declined, saying he didn't partake in the fancy stuff himself.
Jotaro usually didn't either.
"What would he even think of us if he was here..." Polnareff shifts, stretching out one of his legs. The one he always complained about getting stiff when they had been in the car all day. His speech is kind of slurred, eyes closed.
"I don't know."
"Well, I'd have a couple of choice words for him. Doesn't do to speak ill of the dead, though."
"You should go to bed," Jotaro says, looking at the five empty beer bottles strewn around their feet and the half-filled one still in Polnareff's hand.
"Sometimes it's like he's not even gone," Polnareff continues unperturbed, either not hearing him or deliberately ignoring him, Jotaro isn't sure. "Like he'll just walk through the door all dignified-"
Jotaro stands up wordlessly, throwing the end of his cigarette onto the ground and dragging Polnareff up too by one elbow. The other staggers a bit, dropping the bottle and leaning almost his entire body weight into Jotaro, who mutters his displeasure but hoists Polnareff's arm around his shoulder instead. The sliding door into the house is still open, though he needs to stop in the middle of the garden to let Polnareff retch into his grandmother's flowers.
"You drank too much," he mumbles.
"Oh, you're so helpful, Jojo," Polnareff scathingly jokes, the bitter sarcasm in his voice foreign. It doesn't belong there, but given what day it is, Jotaro decides not to comment. With some effort, he manages to walk-drag them both inside and somehow up the stairs. Halfway there Polnareff starts dissolving into giggles, hand curled into the collar of Jotaro's jacket, metal fingers cold against his skin. Jotaro opens the door to one of the guest rooms with his free hand, where he dumps Polnareff's dead weight onto the bed after pulling back the covers.
Polnareff groans in pain when he hits the headboard with the back of his skull, lying prone with his legs dangling off the side of the bed. Jotaro nudges them with his foot, compelling him to lift them. "Take off your shoes," he says.
After fumbling with the laces on his boots for a bit, Polnareff pries them off and throws them to the other side of the room. One of them nearly knocks a lamp from the bedside table, though Jotaro uses Star Platinum to intercept it. Polnareff laughs again, rolling over onto his side. "Well done, Jotaro, well done."
Jotaro bends down with a long-suffering sigh, throwing the blanket back into place. He goes to leave but a hand on his wrist stops him.
"Hey, Jotaro," Polnareff's voice is barely above a whisper, but more than clear in the stillness of the room. "You're not hiding him again, are you? I promise I won't tell, I promise-" And even in the darkness of the room, Jotaro can clearly see the tears stuck to Polnareff's pale lashes, running wet tracks down his face.
"Go to sleep," he says softly. He closes the door behind him as he leaves.
3.
"So what are we watching?"
Silence is the only answer he gets. After waiting a few minutes, Polnareff picks up the nearest of Mrs. Holly's decorative pillows and chucks it at Jotaro's impassive face. Jotaro bats it away easily, so fast Polnareff suspects he might have been using his weird time powers. He throws another pillow, to the same effect.
Jotaro glares at him. "What?"
"That's what I was asking," he retorts, gesturing at the tv. "What is this?"
Turning back to the screen, Jotaro frowns. "It's sumo wrestling."
"Yeah, no kidding. I mean, how does it work?"
"I'm not explaining the entire rules of sumo to you."
Polnareff snorts and diverts his attention instead. On the table is an array of Japanese snacks and drinks with widely different flavors than anything he is used to from France, and he is intent on trying them all. No alcohol though, since he managed to puke straight into the Joestar's priced petunias a few months ago, last time he saw Jotaro. He doesn't remember much of that night, but Mr. Joestar would not stop repeating the story afterward to anybody who would listen, roaring with laughter each time. He picks out a red bag with bright lettering and pops it open, sniffing the contents for any offending smells. On the tv, two men face off in a round arena, scantly dressed and with feet set wide apart, the obvious stance of professional wrestling.
"Kakyoin was really into this?" Polnareff asks, watching one of the men throw the other onto the ground over his shoulder. "Doesn't seem like him. He struck me as the kind of person who would be into art or poetry or-"
Jotaro glances at him. He is sitting with his arms crossed, legs bend at that unnatural forty-five-degree angle usually indicative of tension. The crowd on tv yells, the camera zooming in on the awed faces in the stands. The blur of it is reflected in Jotaro's green irises. "Video games," he says.
"Or video games," Polnareff finishes with a grin. If Kakyoin was still alive, he would also be an adult today. It's a thought that crosses his mind unbidden and he shakes it quickly. "Still waters run deep, I guess."
"Not so still," Jotaro says, the vague echo of a smile pulling at his lips. There is a memory there, the ruined remains of something Polnareff didn't witness but he's fine with it as long as it eases that rigid expression of Jotaro's face. He has his own things to look back on.
"Oh, I guess that's you, still waters." He points with one finger, then digs into the neglected snack-bag to pull out something vaguely resembling a corn chip. "Kakyoin had more than enough to say." The chip tastes awful, like seaweed and salt, which is probably exactly what it's meant to taste like. He spits the semi-chewed remains into a napkin, prompting a disgusted frown from Jotaro. "You know, I don't think he liked me very much."
Jotaro's expression softens, just a fraction but that's enough for Polnareff to pick up on it. "He liked you."
"You think?" He laughs a little, throwing the bag back into the table and picking up a random soda can to wash the aftertaste down with. "Pretty sure I mostly annoyed the crap out of him."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
He sits back and lays his feet on the table. "Probably." He thinks of Sherry and, yes, it's definitely the same thing. Kakyoin was just as old as Sherry was when she died. Just as stubborn too.
The match ends and they play video games instead. Jotaro only owns one controller, so they take turns watching each other race through neon-lit streets and deserted race tracks. Neither of them is much good at it, but maybe that doesn't matter.
"Should we go visit him?" Polnareff asks eventually, when the sun is already rising, the muted light of dawn barely visible through the blinded windows, and it isn't Kakyoin's birthday anymore. Just another summer day in the middle of August. "He has a grave."
Unlike Avdol, his mind supplies, though he doesn't say it out loud.
Jotaro hesitates, the rigidness is back and he clenches his fists into the open air in his lap, grasping something that isn't there. "No."
Polnareff nods and sinks back into the cushions. "Maybe next year."
3.5
None of them know when or where Iggy was born.
When Holly sends them to the store for vegetables, Jotaro buys a pack of coffee-flavored chewing gum that remains unopened shoved deep into his pocket. Polnareff gets two convenience store hotdogs and feeds them to some strays on the way back home.
They agree that dogs probably didn't care much about celebrating their birthdays, but if any did, it would definitely have been Iggy.
4.
Much like coming off age, Joseph considers becoming seventy years old an achievement.
In regards to the Joestar legacy at least, living for half that long was probably a noteworthy feat, and that meant cause for celebration. Suzie helps him with his tie, a challenge in dexterity made difficult with the artificial hand. Joseph isn't much in favor of dressing up, remembering the stuffy formal events he was forced to attend as a kid with Granny Erina and Uncle Robert with disdain, but could make an exception for the occasion.
"Tell me, Suzie," he says, spinning around in a short circle on his heels. "Do I look just as handsome as the day you met me?"
His wife pretends to need to think it over, blue eyes alight with amusement. "Not really."
"You wound me."
He goes downstairs while she fixes up her hair, joining the others in the living room. Jotaro is sitting on the couch. He isn't dressed in his school uniform anymore, despite finally being a student again. The simple black turtleneck and slacks fit him just as well though, and Joseph notices he's still wearing the cap. He strolls over to Polnareff, who is admiring the many pictures on the wall. Some of the older ones are creased and in black and white while more recent additions are in color.
"Is that your wedding picture?" Polnareff asks, pointing at the one with Suzie in a long white gown that flows around her slender form, arm in arm with a younger version of himself. Joseph chuckles warmly, clapping him on the back.
"Not quite. Our wedding wasn't exactly well planned, nearly gave the old family a heart attack. I don't think Granny Erina ever truly forgave me for that one." He remembers the day he attended his own funeral fondly, as strange as that is. "We took this one later, but she was just as beautiful on that day too. And just my type."
Polnareff gives him a knowing smirk. "Blonde?"
Joseph grins back. "Blonde and Italian."
There's only one picture of Caesar on the wall, a little to the side from the others. Joseph can't quite remember who took it or where, though the background would make one suspect it was probably taken in Switzerland. Probably only a few hours before-
"There's still room," Jotaro says from behind him, gaze traveling along the wall and the different pictures, like he's searching for something important.
Joseph clutches at his chest dramatically. "If you don't stop sneaking up on me you're gonna give me a heart attack."
Jotaro rolls his eyes, ever the impudent grandchild. "Here." He hands Joseph the picture they took in Egypt.
Not the original. Joseph can tell immediately from the feel of the paper that it is a copy. The difference is hardly noticeable by the quality of the image though and he stares at it for a moment, surprised and misty-eyed.
"Hard to believe it's almost been a year," Polnareff says to his right.
Blinking rapidly, Joseph assesses the wall again. "We should probably find a spot for this later then. A nice frame too." He lays the picture down carefully on the dresser. "For now, let's not keep Mayor Brown waiting any longer than he already has. A man only turns seventy once, after all."
They leave together, with Joseph insisting on driving them, saying he's not too old for that yet.
5.
Paris isn't in any way similar to Tokyo or New York.
The air here feels calmer, like the pictures you find in a storybook full of watercolor people caught still in time. Small blurbs of human life stuck in momentum on the pages. The streets are crowded and there is a continual stream of cars traveling along the roads at all hours of the day or night, but it still appears like hurriedness doesn't count here as it does elsewhere. Jotaro frowns at his own thoughts. Maybe Kakyoin really rubbed off on him after all. Maybe it's all those university classes he's been attending.
They stop on a bridge that has countless padlocks intertwined with the chainlink, engraved with names of doting couples wishing for everlasting love. Jotaro wonders how many of those couples are still together.
Jotaro wonders how many of them are dead.
"Paris is wonderful, non?" Polnareff throws the remaining half of his cigarette into the Seine, watching it disappear into the murky waters. He is trying to kick the habit.
"I guess." Jotaro takes a drag of his own smoke. He's not trying to kick anything, least of all bad habits. "What about your hometown?"
Polnareff shrugs, elbows planted on the railing. "Well, it was quiet. Very quiet. Not very interesting, you wouldn't like it."
Jotaro thinks there are other reasons but keeps them to himself.
They visit a big aquarium with a big name. Polnareff tries teaching him how to pronounce the French words but bursts out laughing after Jotaro tries once so he doesn't try again, merely glaring instead. There aren't a lot of people, because it's the middle of the day on a Monday in December and most sensible people are at work or school.
Neither Jotaro nor Polnareff would consider themselves sensible, of course.
Most of the fish are European species. Jotaro recognizes some from his textbooks, which by now he has skimmed from front to cover numerous times on sleepless nights. A few tanks are dedicated to exotic fish, brightly colored or with iridescent scales, and all rooms are dimly lit. He finds himself smiling faintly at the prettier displays.
"Next time we come here, I expect you to play tour guide," Polnareff says jokingly.
"Just read the signs."
"I get tired of reading. It's more fun to have you explain it to me."
As soon as they leave, Polnareff insists they get ice cream on the way back to the dingy apartment he has been renting, and where Jotaro is currently crashing on the couch. Despite it being the middle of autumn. "Come on, it's my birthday man," Polnareff whines, pulling on Jotaro's sleeve until he pulls his arm out of reach, resigning to the inevitable.
"You don't even celebrate your birthday."
Polnareff puffs out his cheeks in indignation. "I might start this year."
Jotaro remembers Calcutta. He remembers Polnareff mentioning offhandedly it was his birthday while they were sitting in a hotel bar, exhausted and dirty from a long day of travel. He remembers Polnareff saying he hadn't celebrated his birthday since his sister died three – now four – years ago.
They get the ice cream. Jotaro pays and doesn't order anything for himself.
+1
And just like that, it's the 16th of January again.
Mr. Joestar bought a bottle of what he himself describes as premium brand scotch but what Polnareff has gone his whole life simply calling hard liquor. In the end, it doesn't really matter, so long as it burns on the way down your throat.
While they wait they reminisce. The table shakes every time Mr. Joestar's metal hand slams down on it. Jotaro saves their shot glasses from rolling off and shattering on the floor multiple times, looking annoyed at his old man's uproarious laughter. Wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control to no avail, the elder Joestar coughs into his fist a few times to compose himself. "It really was funnier if you were there."
"We were," Jotaro supplies bluntly, putting the glasses upright again, one in front of each of them. He glances at the clock, but it's not quite time yet.
"That story never rings the same otherwise," Polnareff agrees, watching the smallest hand count the seconds. He chuckles to himself. "The sun." The mere mention of that word sets Mr. Joestar off again. The laughter is a little infectious and Polnareff finds himself laughing harder too. Even Jotaro cracks a smile.
Once they've calmed down a bit, he looks at the clock again and nods. They fill their glasses up one by one, Jotaro passing the bottle along to the other side of the table. It's around ten in the evening.
"I didn't exactly have time to check," he says, frowning at the awful memory that pushes its way to the front of his mind. "But taking timezones into account, this looks about right."
"I'm sure he won't blame us if we're off by a couple of minutes," Mr. Joestar says, already curling his fingers around the glass.
They drink their first toast to Muhammad Avdol.
And so they speak of the desert sun. Of the kind of heat only contained in striking determination or the friendship found in stiller moments. Of great crowds and watching the stars to tell your future.
"I loved him," Polnareff admits, quietly, more to himself than the others. But he knows they already knew either way.
Twenty minutes pass before the glasses are filled again, courtesy of Jotaro, and they drink their second toast to Iggy.
And so they speak about brash attitudes. Of bravery unmatched in any human companion. Of carefree lazing in the shadow and stealing what isn't yours, but you want anyway.
While they wait for the hours to pass and the dark of late evening to transform itself into flawless night, they talk about less painful things. Mr. Joestar tells another tale, but of some other adventure of his back in his younger days that Polnareff isn't sure he believes. After some prodding, Jotaro lets some things slip about his classes.
Exactly as the clock shows it to be fifteen minutes past midnight, they drink their third toast to Noriaki Kakyoin.
And so they speak of a childhood unfulfilled. Of the loneliness and isolation and changing things for the better. Of dusty old book pages and dried up paint that stains the inside of a ceramic cup.
Jotaro mostly lets his silence speak for itself.
Mr. Joestar hastily fills their glasses again when another five minutes have passed, pouring sloppily and spilling onto the table. Jotaro raises an eyebrow. "This one is for me," the old man clarifies.
"You didn't die."
Mr. Joestar huffs, stroking his beard with one finger. "Not my fault it didn't stick. Came damn near close enough to justify a drink either way."
Polnareff nods solemnly. "I'd say it counts."
"I'd say so too! Let's do it!" Mr. Joestar loudly declares and Jotaro shags his shoulders like he's been defeated in some big fight when instead it's more likely he just realizes this is not the hill he wants to die on.
"Good grief," he says, but raises the glass anyway.
And so they drink their final toast to those three that survived.
Feel free to leave a comment to let me know what you think! The next one will be happier for sure
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