**Damn, writing Dio is HARD. Especially when you're supposed to be writing a happy AU, so I'm sorry but he is gonna be a little out of character because the real Dio is just like every other psychopathic murderer I've read about: merciless, self-centered, and fails to look beyond the surface.
Hopefully this version of Dio will pass. Hope you enjoy!**
The next night, Jonathan and Speedwagon met at Southwark Park, the place where Poco found Jonathan sitting alone. He then led Speedwagon down the same path and showed him the same house as Poco had. When Speedwagon's gaze fell upon the structure, his face scrunched together in confusion.
"He's staying here?"
"So I've been told. Do you know this place?"
He scratched his jaw. "Not particularly. I don't think anyone lives here."
Jonathan grinned. "The spirit of a woman reportedly haunts these walls…"
Speedwagon huffed and rolled his eyes. "Reportedly, apparently, allegedly—it all spells out 'bullshit' to me."
Jonathan chuckled as they climbed the rickety porch steps, Jonathan in front.
Out of habit, he knocked on the door. When nothing but the sounds of the quiet yet bustling city behind him answered, he grasped the doorknob. The door squealed loudly as it crept open. Speedwagon peeked behind them before following Jonathan inside and closing the door.
It was eerily dark and creepily silent; no candle had been lit in this quiet blackness. Nevertheless, he could make out the shadows of a table and chairs and cupboards in the room before them. A staircase curving upwards was tucked in the corner straight ahead. Another smaller room was connected toward the back of the house, but a thick layer of darkness kept its purpose concealed.
As if he could read minds, Speedwagon flicked a match, and the details completed the scene.
There wasn't much, but with what little remained, Jonathan could tell this place had been abandoned. A single chair was placed askew at the head of the table, which was littered with empty whiskey bottles. Some of the cupboards were open, but only a dish or two sat inside. Leaves and dirt were scattered about the floorboards, especially near the front door and open windows. Spiderwebs decorated every available corner; a rotten apple core was left on the floor, between the table and the chair.
The dark replaced the light once Speedwagon shook his match out.
"Well," Jonathan said quietly as he stepped further into the house, "we've been here for ten seconds and not a single ghost has appeared."
"Well, of course not. Have you not attended one of those pointless ghost tours yet? The ghost always conveniently shows up when you're the only one home." He then muttered "bullocks" and Jonathan bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Speedwagon lit another match as they wandered into the room. A musty odor wafted up their nostrils, and the floorboards squeaked under their weight. They walked into the next room—a kitchen. A sink and cast-iron stove were pushed against the left wall, and more cupboards hung from the right. Straight across was a narrow door and, before Speedwagon's light even touched the threshold, Jonathan knew it to be a fruit cellar once he opened it and a chilly gust overcame him.
He went to venture down the ladder right below him, but quickly retracted his foot when the wooden step made the loudest creaking sound he ever heard.
"Sounds like that's had better days," Speedwagon commented.
Jonathan mentally agreed and closed the door. The light went out again.
Jonathan suggested that they head up the stairs. Speedwagon agreed but didn't strike a match until they reached the foot of said stairs ("a fellow can only carry so many matches"). This time Speedwagon led the way, taking careful steps while holding out the flame. A closed door was at the top of the squeaky stairs, which Speedwagon opened gingerly.
It was a bedroom, just as desolate as the first floor. A wooden bedframe with a dirty mattress and a thin blanket was rooted in the middle of the room. A small nightstand stood to the right of the bed and another one was planted beside an armchair across the room, which looked out a grimy windowpane. Something long and heavy was draped over the back of the armchair like a coat, and Jonathan stepped forward to investigate.
The light vanished and then reappeared.
Laid over the armchair was a dress. It was an ivory color with apple green sleeves and bustle. Embroidered roses and vines travelled down the corset. A large tear was at the hip of the skirt, just beneath the bustle—he could see the withered petticoat underneath. Age and isolation had weakened the fabric, flat as a board and matted with dust. Despite its imperfections, it was a lovely dress, but it seemed out of place, here in this empty tomb of a house.
Speedwagon's footsteps squeaked as he walked over to one of the windows. "This must've been where that boy saw Dio, through this window," he mumbled.
Jonathan glanced down at the table beside the armchair. There sat a chipped teacup with its accompanying saucer and a thick book. He picked up the book. He could make out the name Machiavelli printed on the spine and noticed a corner page folded to mark the reader's spot. He found this arrangement awfully suspicious.
"Someone's here," he whispered at the same time another voice said "Don't touch that."
Speedwagon yelped "Bloody—!" as both he and Jonathan spun towards the owner of the voice. Dio was standing by the doorway with a dimly lit torch in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. He appeared the same now as when Jonathan last saw him weeks ago: slightly disheveled, deathly pale, a smirk on his face, a bottle in his grasp.
As always, his golden eyes were locked on him. He nodded his head once. "Don't lose my spot, JoJo. That's why you were never permitted to touch my things—you always find a way to ruin all that you touch."
Jonathan glanced at the book in his hand that he'd forgotten about. He dropped it into the seat cushion. "D-Dio—"
"What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost. One with no jaw and a noose around her neck." He grinned. "Are you friends with Elliot Baker too?"
A violent shudder ripped through Jonathan's spine once he realized Dio had overheard his conversation with Poco yesterday. Had he been right under their noses the entire time?
He pursed his lips and then opened his mouth but, once again, Dio got there first.
"I see you brought the vermin with you," he muttered as he lumbered toward Jonathan. He took two steps back, watching Dio set the lamp upon the table and then grab the teacup.
It took Jonathan a second to realize that Dio was referring to Speedwagon. As if on cue, the light from his match went out.
Jonathan frowned. "You will not speak of him in that way. Your disdain is with me."
"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten your annoyingly persistent habits." Dio poured the whiskey into the teacup and drank gingerly from it as though its contents was hot tea.
"Come now, you swine," Speedwagon snapped. "You know why we're here, so stop beating around the bush!"
Dio aimed a subtle glare his way. "If I was straight to the point, you would both be dead right now. Awfully rude to barge into someone's home and rummage through their belongings. I would expect better from so-called gentlemen."
He put the whiskey bottle on the table and strolled over to the window beside the bed as he spoke.
Jonathan's eyes never left Dio's person. He wasn't drunk (the smell of alcohol came from the bottle, not his breath), but was just as dirty and malnourished as before. His shirt was stained in several places, and the cuffs of his pants were torn and muddied.
Jonathan pursed his lips. "How long have you been here, Dio?"
He took another sip of his poison. "I know you're a bit of a wooden spoon, JoJo, but even you would know the answer to that question."
"Oi!" Speedwagon barked. "What did I—?"
"Robert." Jonathan held up a hand toward his friend, whose wolf-like snarl flashed at Dio viciously. From preying wolf to anxious puppy, Speedwagon glanced his way.
"I don't want any trouble," Jonathan told his brother.
Dio snorted. "Famous last words."
"It's the truth, Dio. I don't want to fight."
"I recall you warning to fetch Scotland Yard on me during our last conversation."
"I said I don't want to fight—doesn't mean I won't."
"Oh, make up your mind, will you?" Dio turned to face him again, gaze hard and steady like the gun of a sniper. "One minute you're threatening me, the next you want to be friends. I once believed you to be a stubborn man, JoJo."
With a huff, Jonathan tried breaking from Dio's aimless talk. He gestured toward the old dress without severing eye contact. "Whose is that? Who else is here?"
"Calm down. I'm not Jack the Ripper or—"
"Give us one good reason why we shouldn't assume so!" Speedwagon bared his teeth with a hate Jonathan forgot he had.
Jonathan went to step between the two but the glint of a small blade that suddenly appeared in Dio's hand made him stop.
Dio waved the knife in the air as though he was wagging a finger at them. "Ah, ah, ah. Don't do anything you'll regret, JoJo."
He called him that a lot, JoJo. He hasn't been regularly referred to that nickname in quite a while. Nevertheless, Zeppeli's voice glided through his mind like skates on ice: Breathe deeply, breathe evenly. In all circumstances, you must be calm.
Jonathan did just that, and he could feel his heartbeat become slow. Once again, he cast a sure glance Speedwagon's way before locking daggers with Dio.
"Who else is here, Dio?" he asked again, tone as level and tranquil as his heartbeat.
Knife still poised in the air, he supped his whiskey. "Just the ghosts of those long gone."
"Who died here? Did they own this dress?"
"My, my. So many questions. Where's all this curiosity coming from?"
Jonathan straightened up. "It has always been here. In all the years I've known you, I've never heard you say anything about the life you led before you came into mine. I've pressed you in the past, provided aide for all that you'd need, but you pushed me away and chose to remain silent. You wanted chaos, I just wanted a brother." He frowned. "I need an answer right now, Dio. No more ambiguity."
For a moment, Dio seemed stuck, at his wit's end. Jonathan had seen him like this only once before—when it was him against the world back in Joestar Manor. Dio set his teacup upon the nightstand behind him while shooting a sour look at the corner of the room. He must've known that his options were limited; here he was, barely surviving on beer and apples in this old, lonely house with only his tortured memories to keep himself company.
Jonathan felt remorse for his brother, but he hadn't forgotten what happened the last time he let his guard down.
"Please, Dio. Let me help you." His tone was stern, he made sure, not a trace of sympathy for the devil. "Who else is here?"
The floorboard wheezed behind him as Speedwagon anxiously shifted his weight onto one foot.
Dio glanced at Jonathan again with an irritated grin on his face. "I've told you, you fucking idiot. Their ghosts are here." He gestured to the bed next to him. "This is where I murdered my father"—he then dragged a finger through the air, aiming somewhere behind Speedwagon—"and that is where my mother murdered herself."
Speedwagon carefully peeked behind him as if the woman was right there. Jonathan kept his focus on Dio, especially when all those memories dripped from his lips like poison.
"I found Mother hanging there when I was eight years of age," he droned out as though he was telling him what he had for breakfast that morning. "Of course, it didn't register at the time that she took her own life to escape my brute of a father—that moment wouldn't come until he told me to sell my mother's wedding dress so he could buy more whiskey." He jerked his chin toward the aged dress. "I managed to stuff it underneath the floorboards by the cellar, so that drunk bastard couldn't pawn it like with everything else my mother owned. Thus, after that conversation, I started slipping dabs of arsenic into his morning tea—he was dead by the end of the week."
Dio cocked his head to the side. "I'd figured the only tragedies you'd want to hear were Shakespearean, JoJo."
Just then, Jonathan saw the ghosts, but they weren't like the jawless woman Poco swore Elliot Baker saw. Instead, they appeared in the forms of an old wedding dress and empty bottles of whiskey. They seemed to haunt only one soul, but the possession was so great that even those who didn't know could sense their cold, dreadful presence.
His voice was strong and true when he spoke; he felt Hamon empowering his bones yet calming his mind at the same time. "I want to hear everything you have to say. If it means gaining your trust and ending the hatred you have for the world, then write me a memoir, Dio. Whether you believe it or not, I wish nothing more than to make amends, but if you refuse to even cooperate, then you leave me no choice but to abandon you." He sighed sadly. "I'm very sorry for what happened to your family—"
"Don't you dare speak of him that way!" Dio trained the knife at him once more, swift and sharp as a whip. "That miserable little good-for-nothing doesn't deserve an ounce of pity from anyone, not after all he's done to me, to my mother. Not he nor his memory is worth more than the horse shit in the streets; his rightful place is in the deepest, fieriest pit of hell!"
He spoke with such fury that the fist that held the blade trembled vigorously, and spittle flew from his lips when he emphasized "deepest pit". Jonathan flinched at his outburst; he didn't realize how much Dio loathed his father. It was as profound as Jonathan's love for his own father.
"Bloody hell," Speedwagon mumbled under his breath.
Suddenly Dio sprung forward, knife ready, teeth bared, roaring like a lion before the kill. Heart pounding, Jonathan pushed Speedwagon back by hitting him with his elbow as he grabbed Dio's wrist. Before he could squeeze the dagger out of his grasp, Dio rammed his knee into Jonathan's gut, allowing him to free his hand and tear the skin across Jonathan's knuckles.
He yelped but kept his composure. Dio went to slash his face, but Jonathan dodged the blade just in time. Curling his fingers into a fist, he channeled that Hamon energy he'd been saving since that night he saw Dio standing outside his home. What looked like golden flames enveloped his good hand as his shoulder dislocated itself to create what Zeppeli called "a zoom punch".
His fist collided with Dio's cheek, and he felt his shoulder pop back into place with ease. Dio flew back and collapsed, the knife knocked out of his clutches. It skidded across the floor as Jonathan squatted and kicked the dagger away. Something metallic sounded behind him and his gaze snapped back.
"Drop it, Robert!"
Speedwagon cocked his revolver, painfully clutching at his chest, at the spot where Jonathan shoved him out of the way. He shot not a bullet, but a wildly fierce scowl. "He's trying to kill you!"
"And you'll kill us both if you don't put that away! You can't hit him without hitting me first!"
He turned to Dio again. Groaning while holding his cheek, Dio struggled into a sitting position. Blood coated his nostrils and mouth. His jaw moved around until a bloodied tooth slipped out between his lips and clattered onto the floorboards. Yet those golden eyes still pierced his soul.
Nothing has changed so far.
Now that Dio was weaponless, Jonathan could breathe (though he remained where he was, so Speedwagon wouldn't get a clear shot of Dio). He lightly placed his hand over his ruined knuckles and channeled Hamon to patch his skin together. His palm glowed like a concealed flame; he could already feel its healing properties take hold.
He noticed Dio's eyes had shifted—they now were locked on the faint light emitting from Jonathan's hands, wide with confusion, wonder. Once the light died and Jonathan wiped the fresh blood off his knuckles, Dio's eyebrows scrunched together in deeper uncertainty, for he just witnessed an injury vanish before his eyes like a rising mist.
Jonathan looked at his brother and reached out. "Move your hand."
Out of pride, Dio stayed put, glaring silently. But curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly removed his hand from his cheek.
Once more, Jonathan conjured another round of Hamon, another soft Ripple. His shimmering fingers lightly pushed on the skin that'd already begun to swell. Dio jerked away, hissing through his teeth. Jonathan ordered him to stay still, and he touched Dio's cheek again.
Dio's face pinched in discomfort as the Hamon worked its magic, mending what had been done. No more than three seconds had passed when Jonathan withdrew his hand. The skin was flat and pale again, the blood the only evidence that they'd attacked each other.
Thunderstruck, Dio felt the side of his face. His gaze met Jonathan's.
"Let's try this again," the stubbornly persistent Joestar declared.