**I shouldn't be writing this, but the creative juices won't stop either. I'm a HUGE fan of the artist umikochan and her GOREGOUS doodles of JoJo AUs. I've been inspired by some of her work that revolves around avoiding canon, where everyone is happy and alive 😊 (someone tell her I said hi). I named this after that Lynyrd Skynyrd song (which I'm surprised isn't a JoJo reference, at least to my knowledge) but one of my favorite bands ever, Shinedown, did a cover of this song and it gives me CHILLS.

Can't promise regular updates because I'm old and I got shit to do, so this is just something I'm gonna write in my spare time. Nevertheless, thank you for just skimming through these jumbled paragraphs and leaving your warm and helpful reviews. It means more to me than you know. Please enjoy!**

Jonathan was stirred awake by the sudden rocking of the bed and a muffled cough. Peeling his eyelids open and forcing his body to sit up, he felt like Frankenstein's monster arising as he peeked over his shoulder. Within the murky darkness, he spotted a flash of white and blonde quickly exit the room.

He stumbled out of the creaky bed, rubbing his eyes furiously to be rid of the sands of sleep. The thin, puffy sleeves of his nightshirt felt cool against his skin as he jogged across the chamber and into the hallway.

"Erina?" His sleepy croak was barely above a whisper. He looked to the left and caught her long white nightgown and wavy blonde hair disappear into the water-closet. Not a second later did he hear dry heaving emit from the room.

He winced, pity bubbling in his chest. Poor thing. It's only been a few weeks.

He went back to the dresser in their bedroom where matches, candles, a pitcher of water, and two empty glasses sat. He lit a half-melted candle, filled one of the glasses, and then walked out once more, supplies in hand. On his way to the water-closet, he noticed another candlelight coming from the other end of the spacious hall. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was Helena, their elderly housekeeper.

"Mr. Joestar," she whispered once they met up, "is Mrs. Joestar alright? I thought I saw her as I came up the stairs."

"I believe so," he whispered back. "Just a case of morning sickness." He smiled softly. "I'll take care of her. Please go back to sleep."

She asked if he was certain and offered her assistance, but Jonathan reassured her that he could handle it and convinced her to retire for the night. As Helena hobbled away, he faced the door to the water-closet, which was left ajar, silence and darkness peering through the crack.

With his knuckles, he gently pushed it open. "Erina?"

Hunched over the toilet bowl, Erina held her head in her hands, breathing heavily. At the sound of his voice, she unfurled her spine and reached for the lever attached to the elevated water tank. As it flushed away whatever didn't agree with Erina, she wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and said to Jonathan, "Don't come in."

But he did just that: he widened the door as he stepped in, settling down beside her on the floor. With the glow of the candle's flame, he could make out the redness in her face, the sweat upon her brow. She appeared hot, yet the goosebumps sprinkled up and down her arms made him think that she was cold.

Poor thing.

"Or completely ignore my words," she muttered into the bowl as he placed the candle atop the sink next to him.

"You never ask for help, love, especially when you need it," he replied matter-of-factly. He handed the glass to her which he told her to drink. She then took a small sip while he pulled back her golden locks behind her shoulders, thick and heavy like a stage curtain. He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead—she did feel warm, but that also could've been from snuggling under the covers for a few hours.

His knuckles ran down the side of Erina's face tenderly. "How do you feel?"

She took another sip. "Better now. Just an unexpected case of morning sickness."

A tired grin tugged at her lips, and he returned one of his own. He kissed her temple, lingering, the way she liked it. His hand moved from her shoulder to her back, where he lightly dragged his fingernails up and down her spine, underneath her curtained hair.

"It'll be alright," he promised her. "The sickness will come to fade."

"I know. I just want the baby to be healthy."

They both glanced at her belly. One couldn't tell that Erina was pregnant this early; her skin still laid flat against her pelvis. But she once guided Jonathan's hand along her lower stomach where she said she felt a tightening, a creation in the works.

"I'm also glad that this is happening now," Erina added. "I would've positively ruined our honeymoon if I'd gotten sick earlier."

Jonathan chuckled. "All that planning for naught."

"All that time wasted just to sit in a hotel room with a bucket in my lap."

"What sweet, fond memories we could've shared."

They giggled like when they were children—they still were, a little bit. Somedays it felt like they were barely five feet tall and still swimming in the river or playing with stray cats or sledding during snowy days.

A comfortable silence passed before Jonathan spoke up, he rubbing her back and she sipping on her water: "Should I call for a doctor later? Just to be certain?"

Erina shook her head firmly. "There's no need. I don't feel particularly worse." She gave him a look. "Don't tell Robert about this. He'll spiral into a frenzy and cancel his life to ensure my health."

"Spiral into a frenzy?" He smirked. "Robert would never."

She leaned on his shoulder. "Oh, how I wish he wouldn't worry so."

He nodded and they fell into another easy silence. Jonathan wasn't sure how long they sat there, waiting to see if Erina would get sick again, but it was long enough for his wife to become sleepy once more. She unknowingly pressed more of her weight onto his shoulder and her half-filled glass began to tip. He caught it, his fingers clasping over hers which brought her back to full consciousness.

"Ready to go back to bed, love?"

It was her turn to nod. Shifting onto his knees, he scooped up Erina in his arms and then got on his feet. On their way out, Erina picked up the candle that Jonathan honestly forgot about.

"The Lord knew I needed someone in my life to be observant," Jonathan sighed as he lumbered down the hallway, his bare feet smacking against the hardwood flooring, Erina's giggles echoing in the recesses of his heart.

Jonathan moved into the Pendleton home after the Joestar Manor had burned to the ground. Bruised and bloodied and broken, he was lucky to have escaped with his life intact. Very little was salvageable; numerous precious items had been swallowed by flame and smoke. All the servants managed to flee unscathed, however, and Jonathan, along with Speedwagon's help, carried his dying father out the front door.

But George Joestar passed within moments of them collapsing upon the ground a safe distance away. Jonathan didn't know what got to him first: the stab wound that'd he took for Jonathan's sake or the smoke clogging what little air he had in his lungs. Either way Jonathan held his father close as the light faded from his eyes.

Speedwagon never let Jonathan go, keeping his head above the murky waters of grief. He got him to the nearest hospital and George's body to its morgue. He checked up on Jonathan daily (sometimes several times a day) while setting the arrangements for George's funeral. He was bursting with loyalty, he was one of the most giving persons Jonathan ever encountered, thus he felt at ease in his presence.

Shortly after reuniting with Erina in that very hospital, she heard of his troubles and, as soon as his body would allow it, moved him into her home. Her father, who remembered and respected Jonathan, welcomed him like a long-lost son. He even assisted with all the paperwork and transformations that came with a death in the family. Their bond made it easier for Jonathan to ask for his blessing to propose to his only daughter.

These people, these glorious people, saved his soul. Speedwagon stayed by his side the entirety of the funeral and the slow transition to legally becoming the sole living Joestar. Despite not knowing him for very long, he seemed to feel the things Jonathan felt, and always offered plenty of pats on the back, a lending ear, and all the devotion people dreamed of receiving. Erina stayed on top of his physical recovery (more than he did) and always made sure that he knew he wasn't alone. She'd often creep into the guestroom at the end of the day by candlelight and, if she found him crying, she would rush over and hug him tightly as if embraces alone were enough to cure a person's sadness.

After everything, Jonathan and Erina purchased an apartment in downtown London where Speedwagon lived two blocks away, also residing in an apartment that Jonathan bought for him.

The only one who didn't make it out of that fire was Dio Brando, the one who lit the spark in the first place.

"Mr. Joestar, Mr. Speedwagon is here."

He threw his head back and smiled. "Thank you, Helena. I'll be right over. Can you inform Erina as well? I believe she's in our bedroom."

"Yes, sir."

Helena exited the study as Jonathan rearranged his papers, shoveling them into a drawer of his bureau. The study was much smaller than the one within Joestar Manor (everything was), but it was more than satisfactory. Bookcases lined the walls, which were filled with stories of adventure, romance, the supernatural, and detectives. Deeper shades of red and green colored the room. Cherrywood made up most of the furniture: the desk, the shelves, the chairs, even the floorboards and the trim. Little trinkets were littered around like a hand-painted vase from Sioux Indians, a dragon-themed fan from China, and a miniature bust of Michelangelo's David from Greece. In short, the room (and all the others in the apartment) closely resembled the one Jonathan grew up in.

Jonathan tugged on the collar of his jacket as he walked toward the front parlor. Glancing into the wide, open threshold, he spotted Speedwagon gazing at a portrait upon the wall, his back facing him. When he called his name, Speedwagon turned around with a giant grin on his face.

"JoJo!"

Speedwagon stretched out his hand, but Jonathan went in for a hug. He stumbled a bit, laughed, and returned the gesture. "You're just like how I remember you," Speedwagon commented, "intimidating yet soft."

Jonathan withdrew. "You think I'm intimidating?"

"Look at you, mate. I thought living on Ogre Street was terrifying." He put his fists on his hips and looked about the room. "It appears that you've got everything unboxed and set up. Reminds me of the manor."

"That's because I've modelled it after that, to the best of my memory."

His chin jerked toward the portrait he'd been observing. "Don't remember seeing that in your living room."

It was as wide as the wheel of a carriage, tucked within a golden frame. George Joestar sat in an armchair with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. On either side of him stood twelve-year-old Jonathan and Dio. Jonathan, his face and body stuck in that awkward child-to-teenager phase, had a hand placed upon the headrest and looked at the camera with a tiny smile. Dio had his hands by his sides, and, unlike his adoptive family, his eyes drifted somewhere past the camera's lens, no particular expression crossing his features. It was a little odd; Dio's looks and demeanor were undeniably different from the Joestars. He was like a ghost or a phantom, something out of place.

Jonathan tucked his hands in his pockets, gazing upon a life he used to know. "Father kept this in his bedroom. He was very fond of this picture. I am very blessed to have it in one piece and not having to replicate another object of my home."

"But don't those eyes keep you up at night?" Speedwagon asked. "Knowing that he's still in your house—even in picture form—peering into your soul…" He shuddered. "Even I can't get that piercing stare out of my mind."

Jonathan stared at the golden-eyed boy some more, wondering what exactly was churning in that head of his. Was the darkness that he wore so well already investing his future? Was the sibling rivalry between them merely a rough transition on Dio's part, from having nothing to everything? Or was it too late? Was that golden-eyed boy looking for blood from the start? Had he always been incapable of redemption?

Before he could say anything, Erina and Helena strolled into the parlor, Erina spreading her arms and smile wide. "Robert!"

Speedwagon smiled back, giving in to one of her famous warm hugs, but then drew away, face pitched with its usual concern. "Mrs. Joestar! How is—"

"Please, call me Erina. There's no need to be so formal."

"Ah yes, my apologies. How is your pregnancy coming along? I've heard that the first trimester is when you feel sick the most. Are you alright? Is there anything I can assist with?"

Realizing that he probably said too much, he then added hesitantly, "…E-Erina?"

She brushed a loose strand of hair into the bun on the back of her head. "I'm quite alright, thank you. I appreciate your concern, but I'm afraid there's nothing that can be done, as of right now. Only time will tell."

"Well, just know that you and JoJo can count on me should you need anything. I know I don't possess much, but I'll do all that I can."

Erina smiled in unison with Jonathan. "We know," Erina said, "and we deeply respect you for it."

"And surely you must know it goes the other way around," Jonathan commented.

"You give me too much already, more than I know what to do with. Speaking of!" He clapped his hands together, grinning widely. "It is now my turn to give back. You countryfolk haven't been to certain parts of the city yet, thus it's my duty to show you what's worth seeing and what you should avoid. I have London on the back of my hand; its streets are my veins, and the people are my blood."

"Well, we can't get any better than that," Jonathan grinned, patting Speedwagon's shoulder.

Insisting that he had lots to show them (and asking Erina a million times if she was okay walking around the city), Speedwagon let his ever-rambling thoughts guide them out the front door and into the chilly spring air. Golden orbs followed them like a bad memory.

Even though Jonathan missed the solitude and tranquility of the countryside, he enjoyed the busy valves of London's heart. People and carriages went this way and that, never stopping, always bustling. Their feet and wheels clacked under the cobblestone roads while shouts and bells and engines rang in the air. The smell of gasoline and leftover garbage was strong in some areas, but others smelled of baked goods and blooming buds. Tall Gothic buildings, made of wood, stone, and brick, pierced the ash grey sky with a daunting yet magnificent aura. The noisy activity, the numerous sights, the everlasting newness in an ancient place—Jonathan could get used to this.

With Erina holding onto the crook of Jonathan's elbow, they trailed after Speedwagon the Tour Guide. Granted, it wasn't like the two hadn't stepped in Leicester Square before, but Speedwagon made it seem like the first time. He pointed out details in the city's landscape, explained directions clearly, and even added some history. He knew things that only the locals would know: "Folks nowadays are obsessed with the supernatural, so naturally, ghost tours are littered throughout the place," he'd advise. "Their trail starts here and ends there, if you wish to avoid the clockwork crowds."

"Have you seen any wandering spirits here, Robert?" Erina asked with a playful smile.

Speedwagon rolled his eyes. "No. I've lived through too many strange experiences to believe in bedtime stories." He waved his hand through the air as if shooing away some pesky flea. "You know what they say: 'truth is often stranger than fiction.'"

Jonathan knew exactly what he meant.

Onward they travelled until Jonathan noticed Erina walking slower than usual, her grip on his elbow a bit heavier. He caught a glimpse of her profile from the corner of his eye. If he hadn't known her since childhood, he would've thought of her as a pretty face in the crowd, no particular expression worn as she went about her business. But he knew better, and he knew she was growing tired.

And hungry.

"Robert?"

Speedwagon glanced behind him, totally unaware. "Hm?"

"Do you know any good teahouses or restaurants nearby? I think we would all benefit from a nice meal now."

His blocky eyebrows shot up in understanding as his gaze swept by Erina. "Oh, y-yes! That would be most beneficial indeed!" He looked around and then pointed to the right. "There's a coffeehouse one street over. Will that do?"

"Sounds perfect."

As Speedwagon turned to lead the way, Jonathan peered down at Erina, patting her hand. "You alright, love?"

She merely nodded, staying quiet until Speedwagon ushered them into a quaint, tiny coffeehouse that made Jonathan's insides warm—the sweet aroma of coffee and bread, the soft shades of red and brown adorning the place, and the pleasant company by his side was more than enough to bring a smile to his face.

Luckily, they were seated and served quickly, much to everyone's relief. Everything was splendid: the food, the service, the atmosphere. When Jonathan complimented Speedwagon on his great choice, Speedwagon chuckled, saying that he'd never actually been here, that he only knew of its existence ("pubs are more my style," he confessed). The gentle cheerfulness returned to Erina's expression as she ate all of her food and some of Jonathan's. He kept ordering muffins and various fruits until she only picked at it or offered it to him. With each cuisine that came, he'd hand it to her without breaking conversation with Speedwagon because he knew she would feel embarrassed for eating more than her male counterparts if addressed. Pregnant or not, she felt uneasy about slipping out of the "proper lady" role she was raised to be.

"So, how's the graveyard shift working for you?" Jonathan asked Speedwagon, resting his knitted fingers upon the table. "I don't know how you're keeping your eyes open now."

"Eh, the hours don't bother me. I've always had trouble sleeping, anyhow." He rubbed his eye and shrugged. "It's the work that's bothersome."

Jonathan frowned. "Which one?"

"All of them. There are more effective ways to build a bridge than strictly by hand and stone, but does anyone listen to the man with the face scar? No. My coworkers are a bunch of idiots too—I've met murderers with better teamwork skills than that lot. Ugh, it's exhausting."

"I thought you liked industrial work."

"I do, I really do. I like seeing progress being made and this age of machinery truly fascinates me. It's just frustrating to see people not embracing the new technology constantly regenerating. There's always something new to explore, new possibilities to discover. How can we let all that go to waste just because some old guy doesn't like change?"

Jonathan's frown crept into a grin. "Sounds like you'd work better in a director's position."

Speedwagon waved at the air again. "Like that would ever happen."

"No, honestly, I think you'd be wonderful as a director. You have excellent leadership skills and it's clear you're passionate about the work. You know what you're doing." He put his chin atop his fist in thought. "Have you ever considered running your own business?"

"I never considered that I'd be working three jobs. This may be dark, mate, but I always thought I'd be dead in some gutter before the age of twenty-five."

Jonathan's heart stung; he sensed papercuts oozing from the organ, small yet painful. His thoughtful gaze melted into sympathy, but then it lifted into pride on behalf of his friend. "And here you are, living a life of opportunities and glory. I'm very happy you're here, Robert."

He then took Erina's offering of apple slices, missing the look of utter admiration on Speedwagon's face. Placing the small plate in the middle of the table for all to share, Jonathan nibbled on a slice while thinking out loud: "Maybe you should start your own trading business like how my father did. Or you could—"

Erina poked his cheek and mumbled, "Chew first then talk."

His lips formed a thin, flat line and behind them he hummed, "Yes, ma'am."

Speedwagon chuckled. "Ah, don't worry about it, mate," he told Jonathan. "I'm just ranting; you don't have to fix all my problems."

Jonathan swallowed his apple slice first. "But I want to help, and you genuinely don't like your job. So, what's stopping us?"

"You're not going to let this die, are you—?"

And on he went, encouraging his friend to aim for the stars and promising to aid him every step of the way. When the bill was paid (which Jonathan plucked out of Speedwagon's hands before he could do anything) and everyone's energy had been recharged, Speedwagon smiled and said, "Who wants to see the Thames?"

As Speedwagon was conducting funeral arrangements and as Erina was nursing him back to health, Jonathan met the mysterious Baron Zeppeli.

He stopped Jonathan and Erina on their way back to the hospital. He took one look at Jonathan's unstable condition and said rather ominously, "Let me put you out of your misery."

After what happened a week before, Jonathan took this as a threat and went to shield Erina with his battered body. But this older gentleman was quick—much too quick—and he rammed his fist into Jonathan's abdomen. He doubled over in splintering pain but, as fast as the pain came, it vanished and he straightened up, feeling like a brand-new man.

Not shying away from the magnificent powers of Hamon, Zeppeli offered to teach a trick or two. Jonathan was uncertain at first (a colorful stranger did just punch him in the stomach as a form of shaking hands). But he was still shaken from the burning of his childhood home, the untimely death of his father, the betrayal of Dio. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should've done something more, that he could've saved someone if he hadn't let the shock take control. Of course, he knew he couldn't change the past, but he could alter the future.

He agreed to several training sessions with the strange Baron Zeppeli.

Hamon was a curious thing, he discovered—the ability to train one's breathing in order to manipulate the energy your cells created. Through the weeks, he learned how to fight, how to heal, how to trick, how to light up the night sky with lightning from his fingertips. It was wonderfully peculiar, but the side-effect of slow aging was unattractive to Jonathan.

"That's only if you practice Hamon religiously," Zeppeli clarified. "If not, then you'll age just like everybody else."

Out of curiosity, he questioned, "If you don't mind me asking, how old are you?"

Zeppeli smirked. "Older than you think."

The baron was ambiguous like that—never answering questions fully, sharing very little about himself, performing stunts without warning. He was unlike anything Jonathan had ever seen before; he intrigued him greatly. As time marched on, as Jonathan slowly perfected the use of Hamon, Zeppeli became more impressed, more convinced of Jonathan's potential.

"You have more in you than I was led to believe, JoJo. Perhaps there's always been a piece of sunshine within you."

He couldn't help but smile at that.

He received a helping hand, good advice, and plenty of pats on the head. Jonathan had to earn such affections; nothing came easy. Zeppeli was hard on him from day one, never holding back and leaving little room for error. It was these qualities that reminded Jonathan of his own father, so he naturally held a high respect for Zeppeli and didn't want to disappoint him.

And then, one day, Zeppeli announced, "I'm departing this country tomorrow. This will be our last lesson together."

Jonathan blinked. "Where are you going?"

"I cannot say."

He studied the seriousness in his eyes and then nervously asked, "I pray that you don't find these lessons bothersome—"

Zeppeli interrupted Jonathan's moment of doubt by lightly smacking his leg with the umbrella he carried. "Do not have such thoughts; doubting yourself is the most self-destructive act one can do. You know better, Jonathan." He paused before adding, "I'm leaving because my work here is done. I've taught you everything I know, and now it's time for me to find another cause."

Jonathan blinked again. "Are you…a missionary, Mr. Zeppeli?"

His teacher weighed the word in his mind before answering in that thick Italian accent of his, "Of the faith in oneself, certainly."

The next day, though aware of Zeppeli's warning, Jonathan went to their usual spot by the river. It was there he learned that Zeppeli had kept his word. He hasn't heard from him since.

Through the glow of the candlelight on the dresser and of the oil lamp on the nightstand beside him, Jonathan gazed at Erina across the room as though spellbound. Propped up in bed with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palm, he watched her undo the tight bun on the back of her head.

There she sat, spine straight and arms poised like a ballerina. She stared into the oval mirror with concentration as her delicate fingers plucked out the pins that held her hair in place. Down it tumbled like a folded sheet unfurling itself, shining like spun gold in the candlelight. Her slender, pale ankles crossed beneath her seat, the frilly edging of her nightgown circling her shapely calves. She then took a hairbrush from a side drawer and started sliding it through those lovely locks, those golden waves of beauty, something Aphrodite herself would be jealous of.

"God, you're beautiful."

The words dripped from his tongue like syrup, so naturally they fell. Erina's gaze flicked toward Jonathan's in the mirror before looking back with a faint blush upon her cheek.

"I hope the baby has your hair," he added, "and your eyes and your lips and your nose. I hope it looks just like you."

"Now you're just sweet-talking to me," Erina said and then giggled when Jonathan's jaw dropped in mock offense.

"I speak only my honest thoughts," he declared. "I think it'd be wonderful having a little Erina running around."

"I'm not so sure. That glaring eye would be difficult to manage."

He winked. "As long as she has your eyes."

Erina rolled those ocean eyes playfully, but then combed the waves shielding her flushing face. Either posed to be a distraction or because she was frankly curious, she asked him, "Do you wish for a girl?"

"I wish for good health, first and foremost. I'm not concerned about the gender; I just care about if mother and child are alright."

"That's a very polite way of saying you'd prefer a girl."

"Little boys are fickle and impulsive," he admitted and Erina laughed at Jonathan's rare case of bluntness. "Sometimes they can be mean and short-tempered, too. You know this as well; you knew me as a child. Looking back now, it's no wonder why my father was so hard on me growing up."

"Jonathan, darling, you were never mean nor short-tempered in your life." She hesitated before teasing, "And you grew out of your fickleness and impulsiveness, so I'd say anything is possible."

She fell into another fit of laughter at her own joke and Jonathan couldn't help but join in. He then reached out toward her as if preparing to catch a tennis ball.

"Come to bed, love," he coaxed with a warm smile. "I can see the goosebumps on your legs."

She finished her final stroke, tucked the hairbrush back inside its drawer, stood up, and then blew out the candle in front of her. Standing on her tiptoes and hugging her arms tightly, she jogged across the room and hopped into Jonathan's waiting embrace.

She wasted no time in crushing her lips against his own, although she missed and ended up kissing his chin instead. He chuckled and lifted her smile, so he could properly taste her sweet charm and affection. As he adjusted her fully onto the bed, enveloping her like how one holds a precious memory, her body totally relaxed under his touch. When their fitted lips eventually broke apart, she snuggled deeper into his chest as though she wanted to dig between his ribcage, find a space among the valves of his heart, and build a nest, a home inside his most vulnerable attribute.

"So warm," she murmured into his shirt, smile wide. Comfortable did she make herself, interlocking their limbs together and tracing tiny circles along Jonathan's collarbone. It was like she was making the best of her home, here in his heart, keeping it beating, keeping it safe.

He also grinned as he ran his hand through Erina's wavy locks, heavy and silky. He wove himself around her as well and pecked the top of her head.

"I love you," he whispered into her scalp.

She looked up and smiled sweetly. "I love you too." Her eyelids slowly shut like a contented cat. "I think I'd miss you even if we never met."

A rush pumped through Jonathan's veins, and he knew Erina must've felt the drum in his chest pick up speed. "But I would find you. In other lives, other dimensions, other timelines, I would find you."

Her hold on him tightened. "I know you would."

Unable to stop himself, he showered her with kisses, leaving no spot upon her delicate face untouched. Bubbles of giggles escaped her as she struggled to get away from his ticklish breath upon her neck. He went after her, puckering his lips or rubbing his messy head her way, something he had done as a child to get the reaction out of Erina that she was giving him now. Her laughter grew as she wiggled in his grasp, and the happiness within him laughed along with Erina, his wife, his best friend, his everything.

His lips captured hers once more and, without peeling himself away, he reached behind him and fumbled with the knob on the oil lamp, turning it down until the shadows cloaked them completely.

Dio had been hostile and malicious toward Jonathan since the day they first met. The amount of fistfights, broken household items, and rounds of name-calling they caused shocked everyone greatly, including Jonathan himself. He was aware that he hadn't learned to "choose his battles" yet, always attacking with fists and kicks instead of words and patience. But as Dio's violent schemes grew in volume, Jonathan couldn't stand idly by and let injustices unfold.

The crime that made Jonathan realize Dio wasn't capable of redemption was the murder of George Joestar. It was slow, planned out, devastating to all but Dio. If Jonathan hadn't found that letter Dio's father wrote to his own, then Dio would've gotten away with it, marking both Dario and George's deaths as unfortunate cases of sickness.

He saw the unrelenting fury in Dio's eyes when he confronted him that fateful night. The look was familiar; perhaps there was always a tiny fire of hatred in those honey eyes. Jonathan had listed his brother's sins without remorse, but he still considered him his little brother in that moment, who needed protection and support and reassurance.

He still believed in second chances, but the earth-shattering drop of lost hope broke these beliefs once Dio pulled out a knife and stabbed his father.

"I reject my humanity, JoJo!"

Those words pounded against his skull, even now. The whole scene had buried itself deep in his brain like a tumor: his shaking hands covering the gaping wound in his father's back, Speedwagon's revolver aimed straight at Dio, the handful of policemen shouting at Dio to surrender, George staring calmly at Jonathan's terrified face. And Dio, basking in all his wickedness, smiled as he held out the knife meant for Jonathan, now stained with the blood of the man who raised them both.

Frozen in shock, Jonathan could only stare as Dio threw a candelabra at nearby curtains which erupted into a powerful flare, rapidly spreading around like a disease. Speedwagon missed his shot in the immediate chaos that ensued. The officers attempted to capture Dio, but the smoke and flames soon overtook them all, forcing each man to fend for himself. Speedwagon then shook Jonathan out of his trance with a horrified look on his face.

"We have to go!"

He blinked and, noticing George wheezing in his arms, scrambled to pick themselves up. As the three of them struggled to find an exit, Jonathan cast one last glance at Dio, an image that still haunted him to this day.

Among the roaring flames, Dio stood like an ancient tree, rooted firmly to the ground despite the raining madness around him. His golden eyes never left him; they were shaped like daggers, dipped in poison. The rage radiated off of him in waves, that much Jonathan knew, but there also seemed to be a hint of delight, a flash of satisfaction. That devious grin of his could be seen through the wall of fire between them.

Why did he stare at him so? Why was he doing all this? Why did Dio hate him so much? Jonathan never received those answers. What stayed in his nightmares, however, was the sinister snarl from Dio's lips that somehow became the loudest thing in Jonathan's ears.

"Keep on running, poor little JoJo, because no matter how far you run, I will find you. You cannot escape me!"

Even though that was the last time he saw him in flesh and blood, Jonathan continued seeing Dio in his dreams. Sometimes they'd be caught in a storm of blood, fighting to the death like gladiators in a colosseum while trying to stay above the red waves that swallowed their legs. Sometimes Jonathan was a child and Dio was a fairytale monster, complete with a mouthful of fangs and claws as sharp as knives, chasing him through corridors and tunnels and holes in the ground. Yet no matter how the nightmare played out, Jonathan always awoke in a cold sweat, the last laugh of a dead man ringing in his head.

I reject my humanity! You cannot escape me!