Chapter Text
Naples, Italy—Haruno clutches at his mama’s hand as she drags them through the long halls of Naples International Airport. Her heels clack unforgivingly against the tiles. Haruno stumbles to keep up.
“Mama, mama, wait for me,” he cries. His frog-patterned backpack feels so big on his tiny shoulders. It bounces heavily with each step.
“Stop crying, Haruno.” She grips his bone-thin wrist and jerks him forward. “God, you’re so slow. Your new daddy’s waiting for us outside. I just can’t wait! Hurry up!”
***
San Diego, California, U.S.A.—Ungalo stomps down the dingy stairs. His mother lies passed out on the living room couch. The remnants of her night’s festivities are still visible on the coffee table, white streaks of fine powder, innocent like snow. Ungalo scrunches his face in disgust. He doesn’t try to wake her up anymore.
In the kitchen, he stands on a milk carton like a step-stool to reach the counter. He fixes himself a sandwich with peanut butter and jelly, and devours it in three bites. It’ll be the only meal he won’t have to fight for today. At lunch time, he’ll bully one of the littler kids for their lunch money, and in the evening, he’ll try to swipe something from the grocery store down the way. More often than not, he doesn’t succeed, and the hunger that sits heavy in his tummy is a constant reminder that he’s a failure.
He picks up his backpack and slams the front door on his way out. It shakes on its hinges. His mother doesn’t stir.
***
Marrakesh, Morocco—Pain drags Rikiel from a fitful sleep. His feverish skin is coated in sweat. He twists and turns on his cot in the corner of the room, unable to relieve the ache that stabs through his small, fragile body. He cries, and his mother’s bed creaks angrily.
“Shut up! Shut that kid up!” A man’s voice from under his mother’s blankets, booming. Urgent footsteps across the room. His mother’s face floats into view, and he knows better than to reach for her, he does, but sometimes the pain makes him forget. She slaps him. He recoils in terror.
“You little freak. Why are you always doing this to me? Why?” She’s crying now, big, noisy tears that drown out his hitched little sniffles. She turns away from him—can’t bear to look at him—and dives back into her bed, soothing the man’s agitated complaints.
Rikiel stifles his whimpers in his blankets and doesn’t dare fall asleep again for the rest of the night.
***
Sendai, Japan—Versace holds his painting up to his mother as she’s cleaning dishes in the kitchen. “Look mommy, we made a-cry-lick paintings in class today. Look, I drew me and my sisters, look.”
“Mommy’s busy, Versace.” She scrubs each plate vigorously, then slams them down on the counter when she’s done. “Go play somewhere else.”
In the dining room, Versace’s stepfather cups his hands around his mug as he flips through the newspaper, ignoring the slamming noises from the kitchen. Versace holds up his painting again. “Look at my painting, daddy.”
His stepfather considers him quietly over the tops of his reading glasses. “I’m not your ‘daddy’. I thought I told you to stop calling me that.” He turns back to his newspaper.
Versace kicks the table leg with as much strength as his little leg can muster. The mug spills its hot contents all over the newspaper, and rolls and shatters on the ground. Versace flees. He can already hear his mother and stepfather screaming at each other. Any little spark will trigger an explosion, and he feels a twist of satisfaction at fanning the flames.
***
London, England—Kakyoin scuffs his shoe against the pavement and stares grimly at the house across the street. He can see Jonathan through the kitchen window, rinsing the last of the dishes from supper. He has a small contented smile on his face, and Kakyoin imagines that he’s humming himself a little tune from the radio.
Kakyoin lights a cigarette to calm his nerves—a bad habit he picked up from Jotaro—and pretends his hands aren’t shaking. He remembers vividly the last time he’d gone behind Jotaro’s back. He remembers Jotaro’s hand on his wrist, surprisingly gentle; the worry in his voice. Don’t keep things from me. Kakyoin feels sick with guilt, but his mind is made. Jonathan needs to know the truth. He approaches the house, and knocks.
Dio is the one who opens the door, much to Kakyoin’s consternation. The sound of old-timey music from a stereo wafts through the open doorway. Dio raises an eyebrow in nonchalant surprise, and doesn’t bother addressing him before turning around to shout for Jonathan.
“Jojo! Your great-grandson is gracing us with his presence.” He saunters back inside the house without another glance.
“Jotaro?” Jonathan strides to the open door. His smile doesn’t waver when he sees Kakyoin alone. “Noriaki! Welcome! Come on in. I haven’t seen you since Christmas. You must be cold. Are Jotaro and Jolyne with you? I’ll put on some tea.”
“No, it’s just me, Jonathan. Please, listen—” Kakyoin hesitates at the threshold. Jonathan waits for him expectantly, trusting as always. “Jotaro doesn’t know I’m here. His heart's in the right place, but I don’t think it’s right. And I can’t just sit by and watch anymore. You deserve to know the truth. No matter how messy it is.”
“What do you mean?” Jonathan’s brow scrunches with worry. The music comes to a stop. Dio returns to the entryway, his arms crossed, curious despite himself.
Kakyoin wonders if it’s his place to insert himself into the Joestars’ affairs like this, if it’s his place to shatter the peace that has been so hard won. But this is his family too now, and it’s too late to back down. “You have children, Jonathan. Well, you…you and Dio.” Kakyoin’s eyes flit nervously towards Dio, whose face betrays nothing. “You’re fathers.”