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The memories come flooding back to him. They engulf him, the same way the metallic scent of blood hangs in the dark air around him.
***
“Do you think there’s an afterlife?”
The question comes swiftly and without warning. Jotaro looks over, watching as Kakyoin leans back from where he sat upon the balcony’s railing, idly kicking out his legs in a steady rhythm. Their backs are turned to the hotelroom, so the light can’t reach his face. But even in the dim moonlight, Jotaro can make out his lax expression, his gaze turned towards the heavens, as if he were searching the nightsky for something other than stars.
After a moment of watching Kakyoin, intently watching the way the golden light from the hotelroom washes over his back and bathes his face in the dimness of the night, Jotaro answers. “No.” It’s a simple answer, one he isn’t really sure if he’s capable of elaborating.
“What do you think happens when you die, then?” Kakyoin asks.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Finally, Kakyoin turns his gaze to Jotaro. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, there’s silence as Jotaro carefully notes the creases in Kakyoin’s face, little divots cradling the dark bags beneath his heather eyes and resting beneath his lower lip. He looks older than he really is, and Jotaro wonders silently if it was the aging of stress. But right now, Kakyoin’s expression is graced with nothing but ease.
“Yeah. Nothing.” Jotaro reaffirms after a few more heartbeats of silence. He averts his eyes, focusing on the cigarette between his fingers. He mindlessly rats the cigarette against the railing, watching the ash flutter off the end and down into the city so far below. “You just stop existing.”
“That’s a bit of a paradox, wouldn’t you say?” Kakyoin muses. “If you stop existing, then it’d be impossible to know that you stopped existing. So you would never really know that you existed in the first place.”
Jotaro’s confused, but it doesn’t take much to confuse him when it comes to weird philosophical shit like this. He just nods and pretends to understand what Kakyoin means by that. He tries to simplify his answer. “Maybe you just become nothing.”
“I don’t think I’d mind that.” Kakyoin sighs and closes his eyes. A warm breeze kisses their faces. “Just existing in nothingness. With nothing to do except think.” Silence falls upon the two once more, but Kakyoin is quick to break it. “But I’d probably go insane, bouncing around all these ideas in my head with no one to share them with.” He opens his eyes, and once again, he looks to Jotaro. Somehow his expression has become even heavier with congeniality. “I don’t think I’d mind existing in nothingness with someone like you.”
When Jotaro looks up and meets Kakyoin’s gaze, he’s greeted with a smile.
***
His muscles are moving on their own accord, no longer commanded by logic but by the raging combustion of rage that bellows angrily within his gut. Over and over and over again, like the drum of some sort of sick timpani made of mangled flesh, he beats the head in his hands against the wall, watching the velvet blood stain the fair braids.
***
Jotaro’s aware of his great stature. Sometimes, it makes itself aware, especially when he’s crammed into spaces that seem miniscule to his mighty soma. The backseats of an all-too small car is no exception. He’s uncomfortably compressed into the carseat, his broad shoulder pushed up against the window of the car. And beside him is Kakyoin, his attention given to the passing scenery of Pakistan on the other side of the window.
They’ve been driving for quite a while now, and as if Jotaro wasn’t already uncomfortable enough, the heat is really starting to get to him. Normally, he can stand the suffocating black fabric of his uniform, but normally he hasn’t been squashed into the backseat of a car that is way too small for him.
Kakyoin notices, he notices everything. “Do you need a little more room?”
“I’m fine.” Jotaro grunts. But Kakyoin, ever-the-altruist, shifts in his seat and presses himself up against the door of the car. Without meaning to, Jotaro relaxes at the offering of a few more centimeters of breathing space, and his thighs go lax.
One brushes against Kakyoin’s knuckles, and Kakyoin is quick to retract his hand at the contact, returning it in its rightful place fisted in his lap rather than to his side where it had previously been laid.
He could chalk it up to the heat, Jotaro thinks. Kakyoin’s probably just as uncomfortable in the searing warmth of Pakistan’s sun as Jotaro himself is. But another theory worms its way into Jotaro’s train of thought.
Jotaro scoots back to his side of the backseat, wedging himself back up against the door of the car. Kakyoin watches him in confusion, there’s visible anxiety washing all over his face, as though he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.
“I’m fine.” Jotaro reiterates. “You can take up some space. I don’t care.”
The fear on Kakyoin’s face was swiftly replaced by the slightest notion of shock, then benignity. His hand fell to his side once more, and he returned his gaze to the window. Jotaro’s aware that Kakyoin’s knuckles are resting against his thigh again, and when he looks over, the window graciously offers him a reflection of Kakyoin’s face.
Kakyoin’s eyes are no longer on the scenery that gallops past the road. They’re averted downward, as if he’s deep in thought. The faintest of smiles graces his lips, and although Jotaro could just chalk it up to the heat, there’s a gentle cardinal that rests comfortably upon his cheeks.
***
“Please stop.” The thick Italian accent slurs through his own blood. Tears cascade down his vermillion splendor, dripping down into the pools of shimmering red that shadow him.
Jotaro doesn’t stop. A sad excuse of a plea- more of a gurgling whimper- escapes the throat he tightens his fingers around. His nails dig into the soft skin of the gullet.
Golden light flickers around them, and a single oleander slowly emerges from the cracks between the pavement. Another tsunami of blood erupts from the trashing body in Jotaro’s grasp, and as the crimson broth of agony splatters onto the soft petals, the oleander wilts. A Stand fails to manifest, and Jotaro doesn’t stop.
***
“You need to stop being so reckless.” Kakyoin says. Jotaro’s heard it a thousand times, but when the words fall from Kakyoin’s lips, a part of him finally takes that scolding to heart.
They’re both silent as Kakyoin bandages Jotaro’s palm, moving with a gentle caution, wrapping the linen around Jotaro’s hand as if he were packaging a fragile fine china. Blood begins to stain the white fabric, and Kakyoin slowly swaddles another layer across Jotaro’s knuckles.
And then, Kakyoin speaks. “You’ll snap your poor hand in half if you keep using it like a sledgehammer.” Jotaro silently snorts. Kakyoin tears the linen from the roll, and Jotaro begins to retract his hand, seemingly finished with the transaction between the two.
But then, Kakyoin stops him. Without warning, he takes Jotaro’s hand into his own (gently, of course, it was only just bandaged) and flips it over, exposing Jotaro’s palm in its tomb of bandage. No words are spoken as Kakyoin lies his hand upon Jotaro’s, his fingertips brushing the calloused pads of Jotaro’s own fingers.
Jotaro freezes. He’s hesitant to move, he feels as though if he does, he’ll spook Kakyoin away like a frightened deer.
“Your hands are so much bigger than mine.” Kakyoin notes softly.
“Yeah.” Jotaro says eloquently. Somehow, with that one word, he’s wrung a smile from Kakyoin’s grace. Kakyoin’s hand draws away from Jotaro’s, and he speaks.
“Take care of yourself.” Jotaro mumbles something in acknowledgement, and Kakyoin sighs. “I’m serious, JoJo.”
“Good grief. You’re so persistent sometimes.” Jotaro says. Kakyoin gives a coltish smirk, and he reaches up, gently swatting at the chain adorning Jotaro’s collar. It makes a clinking noise as it settles from the assail, glinting in the warm light of the campfire.
“Be considerate. There’s someone out there who wants to hold hands with you someday, and they won’t be able to do that if your hand is smashed to bits from punching cars too hard.” Kakyoin says. “Now go and get some sleep. We still have a long ways to travel tomorrow.”
As Kakyoin steps away to his own bedroll, Jotaro looks down at his bandaged hand. He watches his fingers curl against the calluses of his palm and wonders what it would feel like to have Kakyoin’s fingers intertwined with his own.
***
Eventually, he stops moving. The noises persist, the sobs continue through a gashed gullet, but the only movement his body sheds is the shuddering of his shoulders as he pules.
But still, that angry, seething serpent of fury coils in Jotaro’s abdomen. He squats down, cocking his head, as if he were examining the bloody pulp that the man shriveling at his feet had become.
After a moment, Jotaro lunges forward. It’s hard to make a grasp on his face, his skin is so slick with blood, but Jotaro finds purchase on his jaw, and forces his sobbing gull to look up at him. Jotaro stares into those aquamarine irises, glistening with tears.
Star Platinum is at his side in an instant. There’s barely any time to react before her fingertips dig into the canals of those viridian eyes. Movement flows through the broken body once more, adrenaline forcing a flail from him as Star Platinum withdraws her hand.
Jotaro watches as the optic nerve strains against Star Platinum’s hold, stubborn, refusing to give up the eye that it belongs to. But Star Platinum jerks back her shoulder and the nerve snaps, surrendering through the bouts of blood that flow freely from the empty eye socket.
The eye itself is discarded, tossed to the side as if it’s nothing more than a fly being swat away, and Star Platinum reaches for the other, determined to wring the second from its cavern of flesh.
***
The first thing Jotaro sees is the scars. The gashes over his face, the face Jotaro has grown so familiar with. Those pale heather eyes look so empty, staring at Jotaro with none of the warmth they had before.
“I know you’re staring at them, JoJo.” Kakyoin says, unfurling the sunglasses in his hands and sliding them into their rightful place upon the bridge of his nose. His cold, dead eyes vanish behind the ebony tint.
“Sorry.” Jotaro fumbles over the apology despite the fact that it’s only one word. Kakyoin tentatively reaches out, and without really thinking about the action at all, Jotaro offers him his hand.
Kakyoin finds his hand and their fingers weave together. Jotaro doesn’t move so Kakyoin takes a step closer. “Are they really that bad?” He asks softly, his voice barely a whisper. He’s trying to hide it, but Jotaro can hear the quiver of anxiety in his tone.
Jotaro pauses. Slowly, with the hand that isn’t occupied by Kakyoin’s, Jotaro slips the sunglasses off of Kakyoin’s face. He stares into Kakyoin’s eyes, blind of all emotion, succumbing to the scars that dance upon his countenance. His irises were beginning to glaze over. They were numb, devoid and decaying.
But Kakyoin’s lips were untouched by the scourge that had taken his eyes. All the times he’d smiled, all the times he laughed and looked upon Jotaro with an almost painful familiarity.
“No.” Jotaro finally delivers his verdict. “They look fine.”
It’s hardly a compliment, but Kakyoin smiles all the same. Something deep inside Jotaro flickers with warmth. Kakyoin shifts closer, hesitantly, as if he were afraid Jotaro would strike at him like a mad snake. But Jotaro doesn’t, and Kakyoin relaxes as he takes Jotaro in a hug.
Jotaro is swallowed by Kakyoin’s sweet scent. It’s funny, Jotaro could put his life on the line without breaking a sweat, but when Kakyoin rests his head against his chest, his temples begin to thunder with heat. He realizes he hasn’t moved, and quickly wraps an arm around Kakyoin’s waist in an attempt to ensure the other knew his embrace was being reciprocated.
His other hand wanders, finding its place upon Kakyoin’s cheek. His thumb brushes over the tips of his scars, before bumping against the cherry earrings Kakyoin seems to hold so dear.
But then, Kakyoin pulls away, and it's already over all too soon. Jotaro averts his gaze, shoving his hands back into his pockets nonchalantly.
“The others are waiting, aren’t they?” Kakyoin asks, and Jotaro nods. “Come on. Your evil vampiric great-great uncle won’t slay himself.” Jotaro almost chuckles, almost, but even so he doesn’t halt the faint smile he feels creeping up onto his face. But Kakyoin seems dubious, and after a moment, he speaks again. “And after this is all over, and we all go home, and everything goes back to normal-”
Jotaro interrupts him. “Yeah.” Kakyoin looks up, and he no longer has to speak. Instead, Jotaro is gifted another smile, one that makes his fingers twitch, yearning for another’s.
“Yeah. Okay, cool!” Kakyoin affirms. “Um, can I have my sunglasses back?” Oh. Right. Jotaro forgot he was holding them, and quickly shoves them into Kakyoin’s hands. Kakyoin thanks him, slips them on and quickly steps away, turning back to join the rest of their menagerie.
Jotaro follows close behind. And despite the threat of death looming over his shoulder, the gentle warmth of joy blossoms in his chest.
***
There’s nothing left. He’s barely recognizable, no, he isn’t recognizable. Jotaro heaves, unconscious of the blood that drips off of his face. None of it was his own.
What was once a human has been reduced to nothing more than maggot food. Jotaro stares at his handiwork, at the flesh he’s mashed into gore, at the bones he’s shattered into smithereens. Blood coats the alleyway. Organs were torn from their proper places and strewn across the pavement. Feces seeped from the intestines that were brutally hacked apart. His jaw has been torn from his skull, each tooth individually pulled from his gums, one by one they were crushed between the fingers of Star Platinum.
There was no weapon, no tool. Just Jotaro’s own hands, caked with blood.
***
The sound of the zipper is deafening. It screeches an elegy of the words that never left Jotaro’s tongue. This can’t be how it ends. This isn’t how he wants to remember him.
Jotaro wants to remember his smile. His eyes. His voice. Anything. Anything but the gaping void in his chest. Anything but his tomb of watertowers and black bodybags.
Joseph says something, but Jotaro doesn’t hear. He can only hear the zipper, the zipper as it seals away the corpse that Kakyoin has become. Jotaro almost wishes he didn’t have a corpse, that Dio had destroyed him then and there. Maybe then Jotaro wouldn’t remember Kakyoin as this mangled, maimed mess. Maybe then Jotaro would remember Kakyoin the way he deserved to be remembered.
It’s all in vain. Jotaro can only remember the blood, the bones, and the husk of nothingness in his chest.
***
Jotaro watches the river.
Somewhere in the distance of Naples, the sun embraces the earth, and the sky flushes with orange hue. The sunset ripples off the surface of the water, dancing upon the waves with an elegance unmatched by any waltz.
Jotaro thumbs his cigarette, flicking his wrist to deter the smoke wafting up into the air. His hand is sore, but a high pain tolerance runs in the Joestar family. Something about his great-great grandfather, he remembers Joseph telling him.
He exhales, smothering his cigarette against the railing of the dock and tossing it to the earth, grinding the cigarette into the pavement with his heel. Jotaro reaches into his pocket, and his fingers find the photograph.
And he stares at it.
It’s all so sickeningly familiar. The flaxen hair, the eyes full of an unspoken fury. Even the way his lips curl downward, almost as if his face is stuck in a half-snarl, even the way his brows are furrowed with a cunning countenance.
It’s impossible for him to see the child of unfortunate circumstance, the bastard of cruelty. He only sees the face of the beast that marred Kakyoin’s heart.
Instinctively, Jotaro’s grip on the photograph tightens with an unquelled rage. But Jotaro closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s already done all that he can.
He opens his eyes and rips the photograph in two. Then he rips it again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again, until it’s lost all meaning.
Carelessly, he throws the shards of the photograph into the water, before he pivots and begins to briskly stride away.
He walks past a pigeon that startles as he passes. The bird cooes with alarm, a flutter of gray feathers left in its wake as it took to flight. It soars over the dock, landing upon the shore of the river where it settles in the sand.
And here, the pigeon resumed its mindless pecking, searching the earth for any meek morsel. The water washes up against the riverbank, and as it does, it leaves behind a single shred of flesh. Greedily, the pigeon hops to its prize, and its silvery feathers are quickly stained red from the crimson waters.
Blood drips from the pigeon’s beak as it devours the fair flesh, leaving none for the flies.