**Almost finished reading Phantom Blood and I've discovered a number of things I either forgot (because it's been so long since I've watched the anime) or weren't in the show: 1. Dio is absolutely infuriating and has Mommy issues (which makes sense because nearly all serial killers have parent issues of some sort) 2. Jonathan is absolutely head over heels about Erina; he thought about her all the time as a kid and all the time as an adult, despite the large gape when they were apart 3. Speedwagon is absolutely relatable in every way possible, and I connect with him on a spiritual level—for I too am always screaming and just say what I see aloud in panic. He's probably the most relatable next to Josuke.
Also, Phantom Blood is not TERRIBLE, you guys. It's not great, for sure, but I've read/watched worse. I may be a little biased though because Jonathan is my favorite JoJo and I would die for him. *sigh*I know that's not the majority opinion though. Just me and Speedwagon I guess.
ANYWAY hope you enjoy the new chap!**
Four blissful months had passed since Jonathan and Erina came back from their honeymoon in New York and settled down in their London home. Jonathan, while studying archaeology at King's College, had landed an apprenticeship with Professor Blueford, an archaeological researcher who specialized in Latin American history and culture. Erina began showing physical signs of pregnancy, and the doctor started making biweekly visits. She looked forward to these visits, not just to monitor her own progress, but to discuss medicine because Jonathan knew she missed going to work.
Four hardworking months had passed since Speedwagon welcomed the newlyweds home. He continued working the three jobs he'd been juggling shortly after meeting Jonathan, though he didn't like it any better. He and Jonathan were talking more seriously about Speedwagon being his own boss, and a rough outline was put together. Feeling low on creativity, he decided to name it the Speedwagon Foundation for now.
Four months had passed, but it still felt like everything happened yesterday. Luckily there were plenty of distractions to keep him from drowning in grief once more.
"What have you got now?" Speedwagon prompted.
"My thesis," Jonathan replied as he held out the stone mask.
It was cool and weighty in his hands like a piece of tile. Several fractures caked the artifact that Jonathan was surprised it could hold itself together. Its face resembled that of a vampire with its pointy teeth and menacing gaze. Jonathan remembered reading about said creatures in a mythology book that his father owned.
Speedwagon was instantly intrigued. "Whoa! That's one creepy-looking fella!" He tapped one of its fangs. "Where'd you get him?"
"Professor Blueford gave it to me so that I may properly research it for a thesis paper. He's curious about my opinion, he says—others already have their ideas, and he wants to see if I agree or not."
"Oh, I see. Playing with the big boys, huh? What do you suppose it is then?"
Jonathan set the mask on the dining room table as he pointed out various clues that made up his opinion thus far. "Based on the design of the mask and how it was made, there's reason to believe that it has Aztecan origin, built sometime in the 1100s. There are mechanisms along the rim"—his fingernail scratched the edge to reveal a tiny, thick spike hidden within—"though I'm not sure how to activate them. Just from a glance, however, it appears to be some sort of torture device or piece of a sacrificial ritual."
"Well, shit, mate, I could've told you that. Just look at that thing!"
Jonathan laughed. "It is frightful looking, yes. I want to say it resembles a vampire, but I don't know if they exist in Aztecan folklore. I wonder if it's supposed to be a god or something."
As he said this, Erina and Helena entered the dining room through the swinging kitchen door, Erina carrying two teacups and Helena trailing after her with another teacup and a damp rag in her hands.
"You've been moving around too much," Helena was saying. "Do be careful, Mrs. Joestar. You mustn't push yourself."
"I'm only doing some housework," Erina replied as she set the teacups down in front of Jonathan and Speedwagon before taking the one from Helena. "Is that such a crime?"
Helena gave her a look that Jonathan only saw old people give to young people. "With all due respect, Mrs. Joestar, you are a nurse and should know better than anyone here that pregnancy has its restrictions."
Jonathan bit back a smirk. Helena had been working for the Joestar family since he was a boy. She was the closest thing to a mother to him, for his real mother had died tragically in a carriage accident shortly after he was born. Out of professionalism, she always called him "Mr. Joestar" (his father "Lord Joestar") but loved and scolded him as though he were her own. And Erina, having played a big role in his childhood, was treated likewise.
Erina looked down at her with a frown. "I only washed a few dishes, Helena—"
"Which required you to bend and reach for the cupboards," she interrupted, her infamous glare hardening. "Doing the dishes is my job, anyhow."
"I was only trying to help—"
"You can help me by sitting down and taking it easy." She pulled out the seat next to Speedwagon and stared at her until Erina reluctantly settled down. Helena hobbled back toward the kitchen but not before shooting a glare at Jonathan.
"And do keep watch of your pregnant wife, Mr. Joestar," she muttered. "Fatherhood starts now, not at birth."
Feeling like a twelve-year-old in trouble again, he flinched and weakly tried defending himself. "B-But it's like you said, Helena: Erina's a nurse, so she knows better, and I trust her when she tells me what's normal and what's not—"
"No excuses. You're the man of the house now; it's time to take care of your family." She then made her dramatic exit into the kitchen once more.
Jonathan glanced at Erina, half curious, half sarcastic. Quietly, he asked, "Do you want me to follow you from room to room?"
She smirked. "No."
"Okay, that's what I thought. Just wanted to double-check."
Speedwagon snorted. "I can't believe you let a tiny, old lady boss you around."
"I can't just tell her no; she's like my other mother." He carefully tucked the stone mask back into the box his professor gave him. A glimpse at those daggered eye-slits reminded Jonathan of someone just as threatening, as though he were holding their death mask.
He huffed. "I was in trouble with Helena often as a boy. Almost always did it involve Dio."
He recalled the metallic taste in his mouth whenever Dio smashed his bony knuckles against Jonathan's teeth. He remembered protesting loudly whenever Dio would mutter something foul under his breath. The battles were endless, and both Helena and George tried to stay on top of their reckless behavior. Jonathan held no doubts that he deserved a good smack across the head once in a while, but Dio always dragged him into whatever chaotic disaster he created.
Speedwagon and Erina did their part in keeping Jonathan's head above the waves, by acknowledging the past and anticipating the future.
"The punishments you endured seemed longer or crueler than Dio's too," Erina admitted, sipping gingerly on her tea. "But I believe those hard times made you stronger, my love."
"And besides, what's the worst kind of trouble you can get into now?" Speedwagon grinned. "Dropping a teacup?"
"Oh, you better not! These are new!" Erina glared, making them laugh at the comment that wasn't meant to be a joke.
The days flew like so—they were kept busy with laughter and progress and love. Jonathan had much to look forward to, from the birth of his child to his internship at university to seeing Speedwagon's business come to life. Plans were filling up his calendar; boredom and misery seldom came. After being broken down, stuck in a deep pit of mourning, he was able to climb back up and rebuild the life he once dreamt about.
And it almost came crashing down once again.
It was the middle of July, the stars blackened by factory smoke. Jonathan had bid goodnight to Helena and, while guiding the way via candlelight, began shutting windows, locking doors, and switching off lamps, closing up shop for the night. He wandered about the first floor and noticed Erina sitting in the parlor with a book in her lap. She nestled a bookmark between its pages and turned off the standing lamp beside her as he approached.
"You want to turn in for the night?" he asked her.
"Yes, I'm heading up now."
He held out his hand and she grabbed it. Her belly now the size of a small melon, she struggled a little just to get around. With each passing month, her grip on his hand became tighter.
They headed for the staircase when Erina glanced over her shoulder at him. "Did you get the mail when you came home from university?"
He blinked. "Of course I did." He then handed her the candle, pecked her forehead, and whirled around, mumbling "I'll be back" as he walked to the front door. He caught her soft giggles before stepping outside.
A light fog hung over the evening streets, quiet as January snow. A carriage strolled pass the row of residences where the Joestars lived, and two chimneysweepers chuckled to themselves as they crossed the street, disappearing into the mist. Somewhere beyond, a murmur of clopping hooves and turning wheels kept the sleepy city awake.
Jonathan lumbered down the walkway, smiling at his neighbor coming home for the night. He stopped by the lamppost at the edge of the property where a small, metal box hugged the pole. He flipped it open and pulled out nothing but bills. Shuffling through the envelopes, he started for the front door again when a mumble pierced the night.
"God, you're oblivious as ever."
As though he walked straight into a brick wall, Jonathan stopped dead in his tracks. His heart dropped to his stomach and his blood turned to ice. He knew that voice from anywhere, that low murmur that resembled a mythical siren—enchanting enough to disguise the maliciousness underneath.
He peeked over his shoulder in the direction the voice came from. Off to the right, in the street nearer to the neighbor's home, lingered a shadow, barely distinguishable in the mist. They sauntered slowly like a lion stalking its prey.
Praying that he was horribly mistaken, Jonathan called out "I-I beg your pardon?"
Slowly still, the shadow crept forward. "I think you heard me perfectly, JoJo," it said, and it was then that Jonathan's world fell apart once again, at the hands of the same man.
Jonathan saw Dio's features clearly once he stepped out of the fog. His blond locks were longer, swept pass his shoulders in raggedy knots. He wore an oversized shirt, half tucked into his trousers, and a black overcoat with a ripped seam in the shoulder. Mud caked his shoes and the cuffs of his pants. He appeared skinnier, more malnourished. Vain attempts to look more "put together" had been made: a loose tie around the neck, filed-down fingernails, poor sewing jobs here and there, but the stains were still there, no matter how many times he tried to wash it away.
Dragging his feet around to fully face him, Jonathan was stiff with fright. He felt like he was in another lucid nightmare, that he was burdened with the sights and sensations of what he feared most, but, unlike a dream, he wouldn't wake up, and be released from terror's grasp. This was real; Dio was alive and he was here.
"What's the matter?" Dio smirked, now planted by the curb. "Cat got your tongue?"
With a shuddering breath, Jonathan whispered through his teeth, "How?"
He raised his eyebrows and tapped a finger behind his ear in fake interest. "You'll have to speak up, JoJo. Believe it or not, I can't read your—"
"I saw you die, Dio," he interrupted, a little louder than he expected. Against his better judgement, he took a step toward him.
Dio huffed and rolled his eyes like Jonathan was a hopeless idiot, something he'd done since they were kids. "No, you didn't. You saw the flames grow, thus blocking your view of my person and my breaking of one of your many windows." He crossed his arms, annoyed. "You're still empty-headed, aren't you?"
Jonathan couldn't believe his senses; his head shook slowly, utterly dumbfounded. "What…how—?"
"How long have I been here, watching you?" Dio guessed. "Tonight, not long, but I've been tracking your whereabouts since you started another life here. You're nearly two hundred centimeters tall and built like a barbarian—you stick out in a crowd, JoJo. I've seen you wander through the streets for errands, I've seen you meet up with that Speedwagon twat one too many times, and I see you knocked up that country whore faster than the blink of an eye—"
Only a meter away at this point, Jonathan, sparked by fury, grabbed Dio's collar and yanked him forward. Dio, lighter than he was months ago, had the wind ripped out of him as he collided with Jonathan's rock-hard grip. He caught a strong whiff of alcohol in the process.
"I have not forgotten the trauma you've brought upon my family," Jonathan growled. "If you so much as think about approaching them, I will—"
"You'll what?" Dio grinned. "You'll slap my wrist, thinking you've changed me? You won't do a damn thing—"
"You murdered my father, Dio! You burned down my home, you tried to kill me. And all for what? Fame and fortune?"
He roughly shoved him back. Dio caught his footing at the last second, saving himself from sprawling across the road. He was weaker than Jonathan thought.
"Easy for a spoiled rich boy to say," he sneered. "You've had everything handed to you on a silver platter since the day you were born. You never knew suffering until I laid it at your feet."
"Well, then? Are you satisfied? Have you brought enough misery into my life?"
Dio simply glared. "No. You're still too happy."
Jonathan shook his head again, an anxious yet furious grip tugging at his veins like a marionette. "You're not capable of redemption. You're…not worth saving."
"The hesitation in your voice leads me to think that you don't believe that." Dio raised an eyebrow. "If you truly believed the words coming out of your mouth, then you'd turn me in to the authorities. I'd surely hang for the crimes I've committed. That's what your brain is telling you, isn't it? 'An eye for an eye.' But you don't want to believe that, do you? You think everyone has goodness inside them and is deserving of second chances. So, why should I be an exception?"
"I also believe you're a danger to society and enjoy your soiled reputation," Jonathan retorted. "You don't want any second chances."
He shrugged one shoulder. "The forbidden fruits of wickedness are just too sweet to pass over."
"And look where it got you—back to living the poor, starving lifestyle that you were born into, along with no friends, no support system, and no home to go back to. Making deals with the devil doesn't bring you gold and immorality, only loneliness and agony."
As Jonathan spoke, Dio's sly grin slowly dissipated, replaced by an irritated frown. He couldn't tell what Dio was getting upset over: the truth in Jonathan's words, or the fact that both men were too stubborn to submit to the other's way of thinking.
"If you want to live miserably," Jonathan added, "then go ahead. I don't care what you do anymore, as long as you're not harming others. I don't want you near me nor my family, and if I see you prowling around my property or approach my wife or my friend, I will personally escort you to Scotland Yard."
"You just said I don't want second chances," Dio interrupted, aiming a scraggily finger his way. "Are you doing this to be petty? Just drag me there now, why don't you?"
"So, you want to never see the light of day again? Do you want your body to hang from the gallows?"
"I want you to be consistent with your words, Joestar. You're not arguing your case very well."
"And what are you trying to prove, Dio?"
"After everything, it still isn't bloody obvious to you? I simply wish to see you—"
"Oi!"
Yanked out of their quarrel, Jonathan and Dio glanced at two businessmen standing in the road. The men stared back as though they were witnessing a screaming match, which might've been the case. Jonathan was so wrapped up in the argument that he failed to take notice of his surroundings.
One of them called out in a thick Scottish accent, "You fellas doin' alright?"
Jonathan dragged his gaze back to Dio, who did the same. "Everything's fine," Jonathan answered for them. "My brother was just leaving."
A tense silence boiled between them, eyes as hard as stone. Another sly grin crept up Dio's face and a satisfied sniff escaped him. He then crossed an arm over his stomach and bowed his head—the gesture reminded Jonathan of the first time they met, the way Dio bowed to his father after kneeing Danny in the jaw.
"Adieu, dear brother," he whispered, his voice slippery and devious like a snake. And he went back from whence he came; he became evanescent in that ominous fog until, like the moon on a cloudy night, he vanished completely.
The businessman who spoke up had muttered "Alright then" and walked on with his partner. Jonathan stared after Dio for some time, for he was half-expecting him to come running back with his teeth bared and his claws out, just like in one of his nightmares. He waited, heart pounding, eyes widening, but when nothing happened, he cautiously took a few steps backwards and turned to his home.
Once he shut the front door, he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He also noticed he had a death grip on the mail which was now a crumpled mess. Locking the door and tossing the mail onto the loveseat in the parlor, he then power-walked around the place to double-check that all entryways were indeed locked.
He closed his eyes and tried to tame the wild beating of his heart. Calm down. Remember what Zeppeli told you: courage is taking control of your fear. Just breathe. Come on, breathe.
And he did—in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like how Baron Zeppeli taught him. Tranquility settled upon his shoulders and eventually filtered through his bloodstream. Another deep breath and, from behind closed eyelids, a faint glow emerged like the flame of a candle.
He opened his eyes and found his hands radiating a soft yellow light. Tiny sparks drifted from his skin like dust floating in sunlight streaming in through a window. He lifted his hands, staring at the visible effects of Hamon dancing across his palms. Soothing pictures played behind his eyes: a sunset over a still lake, peeling open a dusty old book, marble statues in an art gallery, strolling with Zeppeli along a babbling brook, Erina sleeping on his arm in front of the fireplace.
He now felt at peace, Hamon pumping waves of serenity through his veins. His head was clear, his breathing was even.
Jonathan quietly climbed up the stairs and crept down the hallway. Although his hands were no longer aglow, his mind and composure were still at ease. That is until he opened the bedroom door and found his wife missing—he was greeted by the darkness, excluding the lone candle sitting atop the dresser.
His heart plummeted to the ground and his chest contracted in preparation to scream her name out loud, but she appeared just in time—emerging from the closet that he hadn't noticed immediately, Erina finished tying the knot on the back of her nightgown.
"There you are," she grinned. "Did you get lost on your way to the mailbox?"
Her smile shattered when she glanced his way—her eyes widened in concern as she approached him. "What's wrong?"
"What?" he breathed, closing the door behind him.
"You look like you've seen a ghost. What happened?"
His first instinct was to keep quiet, for knowing that the man she hated the most was not only alive but stalking them would send her into a whirlwind of worries. But, one way or another, she'd find out, and he believed the fright would be greater then versus now.
She took his hands in hers, thumbs stroking his wide knuckles. "Tell me what's wrong, JoJo."
He stared into her sky-blue eyes before speaking quietly, "I saw Dio."
At first, she said nothing; she just stared back, waiting for him to say that he saw him in a dream or a memory. He sighed and explained, "I saw him outside just now."
The panic started slowly like the melting of ice. Erina's caring, gentle nature was soon overshadowed by the intense anxiety she was trying to hold back. It was now her turn to whisper "What?"
"Now I don't want—"
"Did he hurt you? Is he still out there?"
Her hands let go of his as she scurried toward the window. Her fingers barely brushed the curtains before he tugged back on her wrist.
"Wait, I'm not—"
"How is he alive? How did he find us?" She gripped his arm tightly. "Did he hurt you?"
"No, I'm fine. Everything's alright. I'm here, everything's okay."
Jonathan pulled Erina into an embrace, fully and protectively. She clutched his overcoat fearfully and gaped at the dark corners that the candlelight didn't touch. He felt Erina's baby bump against his stomach and it heightened the overwhelming urge to put his family inside an indestructible bubble where the dead couldn't haunt them, evil couldn't harm them, and where all the other awful things in life couldn't reach them.
"What happened?" Erina withdrew and peered at him. "Tell me everything."
He hesitated but sat on the bed with her and replayed his strange conversation with Dio. Erina hung on every word, her hands clasping his in reassurance.
"I don't know the answers to your questions, I'm afraid," he said. "I only know how he escaped and that he's been…watching for some time."
A shudder ran through both their spines. Such a morbid, disgusting thought; who knows how long he'd been standing out there, observing the movement of their silhouettes through their windows?
Erina remained quiet. Jonathan could feel her eyes on him as he absentmindedly played with the lace on her sleeve. "What are you thinking?" she asked quietly.
He sighed again. His chest was sore as if he'd been running all day, unable to catch his breath. Or maybe a wound had reopened somewhere in there—perhaps seeing Dio rekindled the pain Jonathan tried tucking away, reminding himself that Dio was right: he couldn't escape him.
"I don't know," he answered.
A pause. "I think I do."
Jonathan met Erina's gaze. It was conflicted, torn, a little disappointed, and her voice expressed it as well: "You still consider him your brother, Jonathan. You still care about what happens to him."
Erina stood up and waddled around the space in front of Jonathan. Both let that hefty piece of information sink in; with his elbows on his knees, Jonathan put his head in his hands, crushed by this unbearable weight. Erina was right—if he truly didn't care about Dio (like he so foolishly claimed), then he wouldn't have let him go. Jonathan was the one who didn't want to see Dio behind bars, to have him never see the light of day again.
And the worse part? Dio already knew this, at least half an hour before Jonathan himself knew.
The silence was heavy and, without looking up, Jonathan could tell that Erina was having a difficult time trying to find the right words to say. Her bare feet came to a halt in front of him; he saw her snow-white toes between the gaps of his fingers.
"I cannot forgive him, Jonathan."
"I'm not asking you to."
"But I can't understand why you can."
"I…don't know that answer either."
"I don't want him so near our home."
He lifted his head and looked at her determinedly, resolutely. "I will not let that happen again. It won't happen again."
The dim candlelight casted deep shadows over Erina's bothered face. By the way her eyebrows crinkled and her jaw clenched, Jonathan knew she couldn't hold back.
"Why did you let him go so soundly? You have every reason to hand him over to the police. And-And what about all that Hamon training you went through for the sole purpose of protecting yourself and others from Dio? How can you prepare to fight and then let the enemy go free?"
She squeezed her eyes shut and smothered her face in her palms. "I'm sorry," she whimpered, her voice muffled and small. "I didn't mean it like that. What I meant to say was…"
Her hands slid down her cheeks and then curled beneath her chin—she did this whenever she was uneasy or uncomfortable, something she'd done since she was a child. "I just don't want your heart of gold to weigh you down or be something for others to take advantage of," she clarified.
Jonathan reached out and stroked her forearm as a way of saying no offense had been taken. But what else could he say? The odds weren't in his favor. Nevertheless, he tried his best.
"Your words speak the truth," he said slowly. "I do not blame you in the slightest for your opinion on Dio. Believe me when I say I know Dio's morally corrupt, thus making him vile, untrustworthy, and completely dangerous. I know these things, I really do, it's just…" He shook his head. "I can't abandon him."
"That man has been the cause of too much pain and suffering," Erina insisted, her voice and frustration rising. "He doesn't deserve your sympathy nor any second chances from you."
"Then what am I supposed to do, Erina?" He stood up, his tone also becoming high in desperation. "Do I just let him wander the streets, battered and drunk?"
Staring up at him with a fiery spark in her eye, she barked back, "Yes! Knowing him, he'll wreak havoc sooner or later, and the police will take him away. Or, better yet, we can go to them before Dio does anything else."
"I can't do that to him."
"And why not?"
"Because my father wouldn't want that! He treated Dio like another son, and I'd be disrespecting my father if I regarded Dio with such repulsion."
Erina frowned. "Your father died because of Dio. Dio never cared for your father's kindness or hospitality. What makes you think that if you treat him in the same manner as your father once had that the same ending result won't happen to you?"
"I'll approach from a different angle. Maybe he needs encouragement or reassurance or maybe even forgiveness. I'm sorry, Erina. I can't give up yet."
"Well, maybe you can forgive him for what he's done, but I could never forgive him for all the torment he's caused you. I can't forget the times watching you cry—both as a child and as an adult—because you couldn't hold it in any longer. How you pleaded for peace, how you sank to the ground. I hated seeing you so miserable and it is because of that that I cannot forgive Dio!"
It was then that Erina finally let herself weep, pressing her palms to her chest as she looked upon him with such compassion. Did it hurt so to look at him? Just like she, Jonathan could sense her worry radiating off her in waves and it made his stomach churn in response. He understood how she felt.
"I can never forgive that man, Jonathan," she muttered through bitter tears. "I cannot bear letting him get away with all the heartbreak he's poured over you. I don't want to see that depressing look in your eye ever again. I don't want to see you fall into an unkind fate."
"Shh, come now. Don't say such things."
He enveloped her into another embrace. She buried herself deeply into him as though he were already dead, and she was trying to fit inside the coffin with him. He cradled the back of her head and let her cry, let her feel and express.
"I'm not going anywhere," he'd murmur. "I'm here, everything will be alright. I'll keep us both happy and safe." He pressed a kiss to her scalp. "I promised you this in our wedding vows, and I shall keep it forevermore."
Together they stood in the thick shadows until both had dwindled from icy terror to stiffening alarm. Jonathan suggested that they'd talk more about it in the morning, and Erina reluctantly agreed. She sat tentatively on the edge of the bed as she watched him move around, getting ready for the rest of the night. Her stare was hard, unwavering, as if she was afraid that she'd blink, and he'd be snatched away by the claws he had nightmares about. Even when he returned to her side and twisted themselves together, she remained rigid and paranoid, holding him tightly while eyeing the room for monsters. He couldn't relax either.
It was a long night for the both of them.