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Jotaro notices it when he and Kakyoin shake hands, a flutter of dry Cairo air sending something strange drifting to his nose.
His brows furrow, but Kakyoin turns away from him too quickly, to talk to the others. Jotaro realizes he should be listening, absorbing what’s surely crucial information about Dio, but all at once his mind is occupied with what he caught wafting on the breeze.
It’s Kakyoin’s scent. Jotaro’s missed it terribly in the omega’s absence, and smelling it again should shoot off sparks of happy instinct in his brain, but something—something’s not right with it.
He would know. He’s become well-acquainted to Kakyoin’s scent over the course of the trip, the way it clings on his clothes and the papery hotel sheets, how it weaves with the heady scent of campfire smoke and sizzling meat, or shimmers with the sweat and sand-scabbed musk of a long day’s travel, danced between the tang of drying blood and bitter antiseptic as they tended to each other's wounds, huddled together in the quiet of the truck-bed beneath the starry skies.
How it deepened, growing rich, almost syrupy-sweet with desire whenever they had fleeting, undisturbed moments alone—in hotel rooms or tents or darkened alleys hazy with ancient sand, or once, a reckless, desperate tryst beneath an overhang of rock not twenty meters from camp, low laughter of their companions lingering in their ears. He had come to know the intimacies of Kakyoin’s scent as much as he did his body, the aroma nearly a tangible, embraceable entity all its own.
It’s only been fifty days, but it already feels like Kakyoin has been at his side forever. Even during these past, unbearably long couple of days, with himself and Kakyoin miles apart from one another, Jotaro had found his scent already sunken into his jacket, permeating it as deeply as the stink of a hundred nervous cigarettes. It’s already become a part of him, clinging to him as naturally as his own musk. He knows it inside out.
And it has never smelled like this before.
They set off towards Dio’s mansion with Jotaro still trying to clear his thoughts, the ghost of the scent still haunting him. He watches the back of Kakyoin’s head, trying to figure out how to get him alone. He won’t be able to fight like this, his head clouded with confusion and possibility, and maybe Kakyoin senses that because he starts to deliberately slow his steps, falling back through the group and letting Iggy and the others take the lead towards their destination.
“Kakyoin,” Jotaro grumbles, once he’s close enough that their companions can’t overhear. “What are you hiding?”
“Hiding?” Kakyoin replies out of the corner of his mouth. “What makes you think I’m hiding something?”
Jotaro lowers his head, until his nose hovered just above Kakyoin’s ear. He huffs, loud enough for Kakyoin to hear, if the slight jolt that goes through his body is any indication.
“You smell differently. Did you not notice?”
“…I’m surprised you did.”
“You know I’ve got a good nose.”
“I think you’re just being paranoid.”
Jotaro growls. “Is that wrong of me?” He glances up, ensuring none of their companions are looking back at them, before whispering, “are you in heat?”
Kakyoin snorts. “Are you joking? No. That’d be terrible timing.” The flippancy in his voice sounds forced, not helping to ease Jotaro’s suspicion.
“Unless I’m going crazy, it’s gotta be that. Unless—“ he trails off, one possibility suddenly rising above the others, blazingly bright in his mind.
“Kakyoin,” Jotaro resumes, more urgently, “I only know two reasons an omega’s scent changes, and if you say you’re not in heat, then—“
Kakyoin stops short, taking Jotaro off guard. He stumbles into the omega’s back, hands flying out of his pockets to catch himself. He doesn’t mean to, but they end up landing on the curve of Kakyoin’s waist, palms settling there for only a moment, with the tips of his fingers nearly touching across his narrow abdomen, before Kakyoin lightly elbows him in the side and slides out of his grasp. Not that it matters, that reaction already raises the hackles on Jotaro’s suspicions.
“You…”
Kakyoin turns to look up at him. His expression is serious and warning, but there’s a glint of fear buried deep in his eyes that goes straight through to Jotaro’s heart. Shit.
“It’s…” Kakyoin closes his mouth, pausing to breathe before speaking again. “It’s nothing. The hospital discharged me and everything. I’m fine.“
Jotaro usually wouldn’t press, would let Kakyoin be stubborn and cling to his pride, but he won’t accept that sort of answer when it’s obviously not nothing. So he continues tailing after Kakyoin, keeping close, though he doesn’t yet try to touch him again. “Maybe you’re fine. That’s not what I want to know. You shouldn’t be here at all if you think you might—“
“Listen,” Kakyoin hisses under his breath. “No one’s going to stop me from fighting. Not you, not for anything. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t…face him.” Jotaro can hear the undeniable determination in his voice, but beneath it, he detects a single, quavery note of uncertainty. “And what if something bad happened to you or the others because I wasn’t there to help? I…want there to be a future. For all of us.”
Jotaro wants to know, wants to lay out in the open just what a future for them means at this point, because it seems like it’s more than just off-the-cuff, adolescent promises to hang out after school or watch fireworks in the summer. The definite terms of their relationship aren’t something they’ve really spoken aloud yet, so unsure of where the journey would lead them, whether what was growing between them was real or merely forced by circumstance.
Even if it was, though, it’s not really an excuse to act so recklessly. In a casual relationship, the average omega wouldn’t be so willing to throw themselves into such dangerous situations, especially if there was a chance they were—vulnerable. Even if the relationship was more serious, Jotaro figures omegas would still have some sort of self-preservation instinct that made them think twice before running headlong into trouble.
Then again, he’s known from the beginning that Kakyoin’s not like a run-of-the-mill omega, neither in the looks department, nor in the fact that he wields a staunch warrior’s pride old-fashioned types might consider more befitting of an alpha. It’s what had drawn Jotaro to him in the first place, the balance of beauty and uncompromising personal dignity, and now it’s biting him in the ass and starting to piss him off.
Clearly not wanting to continue the conversation Kakyoin has already turned back away from him, adjusting his uniform with his eyes fixed straight ahead, pace quickening to try to catch up to their comrades. But no, Jotaro’s not about to just let him off the hook. Not if what he’s suspecting, what answer Kakyoin’s obviously dodging, is what’s really going on.
And he’s pretty sure he is—which is worrying.
“Kakyoin. Come on and stop fucking around.” Jotaro never begs, but he can’t stop the pleading tone in his voice even with the cuss as a cover. “Hey. Talk to me.“ He tries to put his hand on Kakyoin’s shoulder, but he knocks it away, and takes a deliberate long stride out of reach.
“Kakyoin—“
“I’ve told you everything I can right now!” Kakyoin cuts him off. “Anything else can wait until after we’re done with this.”
Silence ensues, and Jotaro grits his teeth, tucking his chin into his jacket collar, head still a flurry of thoughts and worries. But the feeling of something cool curling around his finger brings him out of it—looking down, he finds an emerald tentacle caressing his hand.
When Kakyoin speaks up again, his voice is noticeably gentler. “Please. Jotaro…When it’s all over, I promise. I’ll tell you everything then.” The tentacle strokes his palm, smoothing over the calluses left by weeks of battle and parched desert air. “I can’t…I can’t even think about anything else until he’s gone.”
It doesn’t quite quell the anxiety building in his chest nor clarify the buzz of confused hope in his mind, but Jotaro nods, rubs his thumb over Hierophant in truce.
“Okay.” He brings his hand to his lips, giving the tendril a small, teasing kiss, the way he knows Kakyoin likes most. “Then we better finish this quickly. For our future. That’s what you said, right?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees blush dust Kakyoin’s cheeks. He doesn’t give Jotaro further answer but funny, it’s enough. Despite the dire circumstances, the question still hanging vague in the air between them, just being at his omega’s side helps Jotaro relax and feel like, maybe, things might actually turn out fine.
He gives the tentacle in his palm one last gentle squeeze.
God damn. It’s so easy to feel invincible when he’s with Kakyoin.
Jotaro doesn’t know if Joseph has also picked up on what might be going on with Kakyoin, when he suggests they pair off to take on Dio. The old man was always more perceptive than he let on, and though he might be old there was no way his nose didn’t work. Then again with the sunset bearing down on them, night creeping upon the corners of the city, ready to suck them dry and swallow them whole, who knows whether he was paying attention to the exact scent markers of his companions.
But Jotaro trusts him. He has no option but to trust him.
He looks to Kakyoin, wanting to reach out to him, to do anything, hold his hand, pet his hair, maybe even hug or kiss him, the secrets they’ve kept be damned—but Kakyoin is already turning away from him, following Joseph. For a split second, Jotaro catches a glimpse of Kakyoin’s eyes above the rim of his sunglasses, their gazes locking. It may be nothing, but he swears in that moment, those eyes bear a flicker of regret.
But it’s gone in an instant, with Kakyoin and his grandfather disappearing into the rapidly darkening Cairo skyline. Jotaro watches after them for a moment longer than needed, the look Kakyoin had given him an afterimage flickering at the forefront of his mind, haunting him as if he’s caught sight of something he shouldn’t have, or made some kind of mistake. Kakyoin’s scent lingers in his nose, and he inhales, drawing it deeper into his lungs, as if to preserve it, to keep it safe until he and Kakyoin were back together again and he could indulge in it all he pleased. Fresh worry bleeds through his chest and for a moment, Jotaro thinks of going after them, plan be damned—but then Polnareff is shouting his name, and he snaps out of it.
Shaking his head, Jotaro turns away from the spot where Kakyoin had disappeared, following Polnareff down to the streets. He can only hope that he’s made the right choice.
He needs to hear what Kakyoin promised to tell him after all this is finally done.
Dio is gone. Joseph is in bad shape, clinging to life—but he is alive, assured to make a full recovery by the Speedwagon medics. Polnareff, too, has come through the ordeal relatively unscathed.
Jotaro has not heard about Kakyoin.
He’s not planning to wait around for someone to tell him.
Star Platinum boosts him through the city, effortlessly powerful, and Jotaro should feel like an invincible god considering what he’s just done, but nothing close to hubris swells in his chest as he frantically files through the barrage of scents that simmer through Cairo’s streets. Maybe it’s a fool’s errand to even try to pinpoint one scent in a city of nine million people, but if he can’t track Kakyoin down then what kind of fucking alpha is he?
Eventually he finds another patch of carnage shattered into the city, the rooftops of several buildings sporting obvious, fresh damage. It’s only up this high that he finally catches a whiff of Kakyoin’s scent, dry night air sending it rustling along his nose. His head snaps around, searching, trying to catch a glimpse of Kakyoin, maybe a flash of emerald green against the city’s sepia skyline when suddenly a wave of a thicker, more disturbing aroma washes over him. He seizes up, something hard and cold dropping straight through his stomach.
Blood. Lots of blood.
Star Platinum helps him sail from rooftop to rooftop, movements spurred faster by his own mounting unease, ghostly hands carrying him closer and closer to the scent of blood—and the scent of Kakyoin, thin but still there, threaded through it all—until he lands with a splash atop one of them. And it’s like jumping into hell, because the scent of blood is terrifyingly strong here, the air near humid with it. Jotaro pants, the need to draw in a breath suddenly feeling heavy, tiresome. The inexplicable layer of water reflects the smoggy orange glow of the Egyptian night, unsettling his already tenuous grasp on where he is, what is still reality.
Here he couldn’t smell Kakyoin at all—the scent of blood overwhelms everything else. Jotaro stumbles, needing Star Platinum to keep himself steady as the ugly odor washes over him, tries swallowing him up. He covers his nose and attempts to breathe normally, but the scent has seeped into his sense, clouding them more than they already are. For a moment, he stays still, struggling to compose himself and getting maybe halfway there before deciding to press onwards. Yet, every step brings nothing more than the intensifying scent of blood—and the more alarming sense of dread growing deep in his chest. Again Jotaro wobbles on his feet, exhausted to the bone from the fight, his body numb in places and throbbing with pain in others. Where is Kakyoin? He wants this to end, their journey to pull to a close so he can finally hear what it was that Kakyoin wanted to tell him.
It doesn’t matter if Jotaro thinks he already knows the answer. He needs to hear it from Kakyoin’s lips. Then they could finally move past this, right? Finally explore what comes next, now that Dio can’t hurt anyone anymore. If anyone deserves a happy future, it’s Kakyoin, and there isn’t a single thing Jotaro won’t do to make it come true.
But where is he?
It’s only when he finally catches another weak whiff of Kakyoin’s scent that he breaks out into a run. His feet crash through the still layer of water coating the rooftop, soaking the cuffs of his pants, but he pays it no mind. He chases that scent, fluttering in front of him like the last, fleeing firefly of the summer, lifting a light of hope in his heart—that falls and drowns in the dark pool below when he finally rounds the water tower, the source of the scent, the puddle at his ankles, everything, and finds what lies on the other side.
It seems too surreal, at first glance, so unbelievable that Jotaro almost laughs. There’s no way—no way that could be Kakyoin, mangled and bloody and so, so small like that, half embedded into the crumpled side of the water tower. He looks almost like that stupid wooden puppet he’d dragged along on their first encounter, contorted and locked in a weird, unnatural position, bent that way by whatever cruel bastard controlled the strings.
No way.
There had been so many ridiculous, improbable moments throughout the course of the trip, and it’s so, so tempting to let himself believe this is only some stand attack, or if not that then some sick, delirious trick his tattered, half-conscious mind is trying to play on him. He wants it to be anything else. If suddenly Dio sprang back to life and revealed Jotaro had been living in some kind of illusion all along, only deluding him into thinking he’d claimed victory, he would welcome it, if only so that he could stop looking at this and struggling to stave off the inescapable weight of what it all means.
“Hey.” Jotaro hears his voice croak, from far off, current rushing in his ears even though the water tower is spent, empty, silenced. “You…quit messing around, Kakyoin.”
A droplet of water beads at the end of a strand of red hair, swelling in the glow of the moon before it plinks down into the ruined depths of Kakyoin’s body. Jotaro can’t follow its path all the way, heart seizing up. He forces himself to look at Kakyoin’s face instead, away from—that—searching the ghostlike features he can see half-obscured under crimson bangs and blood blurring together.
Desert haze shrouded the moon above, making everything seem dimmer, dreamlike, a midnight mirage. Jotaro didn’t feel his legs move, didn’t feel Star Platinum helping him along, but suddenly he's up on the water tower, palms ripping and bleeding all over his fingers as they grasp for purchase against the ruined metal, bringing him face to face, almost accusingly, with Kakyoin.
“Don’t screw with me,” Jotaro nearly spits, lip twitching. Fuck him, fuck Kakyoin, honestly, for not waking the hell up when he’s talking to him. He knew that polite attitude had always been fake shit. “Wake the hell up you—you idiot. Listen to me. He’s dead. He’s gone, so you promised…” Jotaro’s voice falters as he's forced to swallow something thick in his throat. “You said you would tell me…”
His composure frays. Jotaro slams his fist against the water tower, puckering the metal, shaking the whole thing down to its supports.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
He wants to hear Kakyoin say something. To chastise him for being too rude, too loud, too crass. To wrinkle his nose and tell him he stinks of cigarette smoke and alpha musk and sweat, and pretend that he doesn’t like it, like he’s never been caught nosing into Jotaro’s jacket when he thought no one was paying him attention. To breathe, in that low, chuckling fashion, the way he had when they had laid beside one another in comfortable silence, leaving Jotaro to guess at his thoughts, while marveling how improbable but perfect it all ways that they had found each other, fit together.
He would’ve even accepted Kakyoin telling him it was all a mistake and he never wanted to see him again, if it meant that Jotaro could at least hear him say something.
But all is quiet but the expiring plink of water against the bloodied pool below.
Jotaro trembles. His mind frozen, heart on the edge of exploding, body hot and cold and fighting with itself, with reality. His eyes slip from wild, desperate fury to half-lidded, hazy horror as they fall to Kakyoin’s middle, the mess of tattered twill and foul, glistening red. They stay there, failing to comprehend, entrenched in denial, until the moon sneaks back out from behind the clouds, and Jotaro spots its sallow glint on something metallic and jagged, jutting like wicked teeth in the maw of Kakyoin’s wound.
Sick swells in his throat.
Whatever had done this to Kakyoin had gone right through. Without thinking Jotaro places a hand on what remained of his omega's waist, mind suddenly wracked with the memory of earlier in the day, what seems like decades ago in the grip of the long, agonizing night, when he had touched Kakyoin there, stunned and suddenly hopeful of what might come to be—
Jotaro recoils, ripping his hands away. He tries to breathe but chokes, shaking his head. No. Hell no. It had gone right through. Dio, he had—
Jonathan Joestar was an alpha. An alpha’s body, an alpha’s expert senses. Dio, he—
He knew.
He would’ve smelled it on him too.
Jotaro falters, feeling numb on his feet, and nearly falls backward off the water tower. For a split second, he welcomes it, praying that maybe the fall would snap his neck, or that the rooftop would yawn open, swallow him up and send him plunging through dark, cold depths, where he wouldn’t have to confront any part of this nightmare.
Maybe the water would take him too, like it had taken Kakyoin.
But then his traitor instincts kick in, forcing his body to pitch forward instead, palms slamming against the crumpled hull of the tower, sending vibrations rippling through the metal. Kakyoin’s body shudders with the impact, lifeless as before, as it would always be. His head rolls on the slack neck, tilting one side of his face up towards the glow of the moon, and beneath still white eyelids Jotaro can see slivers of purple. Last he saw of them they’d held that flicker of regret he thought he might’ve imagined, but there’s no way to ever know ‘cause there’s nothing left now, any second thoughts Kakyoin had now dead with the rest of him. There’s absolutely nothing in Kakyoin’s body but the remnants of steep, cavernous loss. The shell of something that had blazed for a scarce flicker, all hollowed out and torn apart.
This time Jotaro can’t stop his body from convulsing and retching down the front of his shirt. He doesn’t bother to hold it back—he’s already wrecked, and disgusting, the sensation of his own bile wetting through his skin feels like an appropriate, but ultimately too minor, punishment.
He knew, and he killed him.
You knew, and did nothing.
You didn’t do a fucking thing to protect him.
Them?
Hah.
You couldn’t protect him long enough to figure out if there even was a them.
The last tendinous thread of composure snaps and Jotaro throws back his head, a choked roar shredding its way out of him, his throat left painful and raw in its wake and good, he’s disgusting, it’s disgusting, the sheer weight of life wasted on some fucking blood-feud he didn’t know a thing about not two months ago, and it’s all over but what does it fucking matter when Kakyoin is dead all crushed up and butchered with his shredded guts staining and spilling out over his school uniform. When all he can smell is the stench of gore taking over the scent that had once stupidly stirred the sight of a fragile, promising future in his mind.
A future stained on the fingers of Dio’s dead god-damned fist, caked under his nails. A future destroyed just to twist the knife, for no reason more than that a Joestar would’ve shared in it. A future fading with the lingering bit of warmth in Kakyoin’s body as he pitches forward and embraces it, buries his nose in his damp hair, sobbing and grasping for the last, spent sigh of his scent, of the evidence there was ever an omega like Kakyoin Noriaki that lived in this world.
It’s disgusting.
He desperately claims cold lips, sobbing as he sucks the blood from Kakyoin’s dead tongue.
It’s all fucking disgusting.
Jotaro doesn’t talk to any of the Speedwagon personnel when they finally arrive. Eyes raw, throat spent coated in salt, he only sits, one hand glued supporting his head. Reddened water soaks him down to the bone, cigarette box tossed to the ground all sodden and useless, everything collapsing in on itself.
Noiselessly they part around him, water flecked by the slosh of their boots the only contact they dare to share. It’s fine. It’s what he wants. Jotaro doesn’t need to hear a thing they have to say, not as they carefully extricate what’s left of Kakyoin from the tower and take him away.
He doesn’t want to find out if they knew.
He doesn’t know if that would make things worse, if it’s even possible when they’re already so completely shattered.
It takes a long time for Joseph to even look at him after he wakes up.
Even when he does, there’s not a thing Jotaro can think of to say to him.
“He was magnificent,” Joseph says anyway, sounding decades older than he already was in the empty air. “He did it. He saved all of us.”
It’s cold comfort that makes Jotaro’s blood writhe, but he still says nothing, not even as Joseph continues on.
“He really was…invincible…until the very end.”
The hand not stubbing out a loaned cigarette lies hidden in his pocket, clutching the last recoverable bit of Noriaki Kakyoin, left behind at the hospital—a handkerchief, neatly folded, its sweet, fecund scent protected deep inside.
They were never invincible. They were seventeen.
They were seventeen, and full of hope, and now one of them was dead.
Three months after returning home, and after half a day of frantic searching, Jotaro finds the handkerchief, freshly laundered, on the dresser in his room.
His mother didn’t know. He shouldn’t have expected her to know, he never told her. He never told anyone about he and Kakyoin, about—that. And yet for a moment, as he clutches it in trembling hands and presses it over his nose only to find the scent of artificial soap has erased that last trace of Kakyoin, he can’t help himself from cursing her. And Joseph, and Dio, and the Speedwagon doctor, and the whole cursed fucking lineage he came from.
Any last, beautiful image of Kakyoin he’d had in his mind had been permanently tarnished by the sight of his broken body, now a vision that never stopped haunting his dreams. The ghost of the scent that had clung to this scrap of cloth, had been the last, luckily unspoiled bit of Kakyoin left in the world.
And now it was gone, snuffed out and ablated just as easily, leaving behind only the bloodied, hollow memory.
He crumples the cloth in his fist and punched the floor, rough fibers of the tatami scraping his knuckles. He breathes heavily, sweating, agony raging through his body as he stares at the clean, useless bit of fabric clutched in his hand. His vision burns with tears as he drops his head, shrinking in on himself.
It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know. It’s not her fault. It’s none of their faults. You’re the one who can’t keep track of a fucking handkerchief. It’s all because you were careless.
You’re the one who let him go.
Who didn’t protect him.
Them.
Them.
Jotaro presses tightly shut against his forearm, trying to stem the inevitable yet the tears slip out like they always do, staining down through the stubble on his cheeks. There had barely even been a them and yet he’d never stopped thinking about what could’ve been.
He wondered if they would’ve had Kakyoin’s red hair.
The hospital room is oddly quiet, or maybe it's just that his pulse throbbing in his ears has finally deafened him. Whatever it is, it makes Jotaro feel claustrophobic, even when he’s permitted to hold his daughter.
He had hoped that, when he finally cradled her in his arms, all his worries and fears would magically lift off his shoulders, that the loss and pain that had haunted him for years would dissipate the moment he looked into her soft green eyes.
In retrospect, it was far too much weight to ever put on the shoulders of someone only minutes old.
Voices around him are talking as he holds Jolyne against his chest, but they’re far away and unintelligible, as if he’s sunk down to the bottom of the ocean or lost, out searching the endless loneliness of the desert sands.
The small newborn, her hair damp and dark, body cocooned in soft green fleece, unknowing of what kind of world she’s been born into, what kind of man holds her. How weak he feels.
He breathes tight against gritted teeth. Fuck, she terrifies him.
She gives him something to lose.
Again.
Jotaro tries to remember how to breathe as he holds her, but everything feels too tight. It’s something else altogether, to touch her like this, feel her weight, her undeniable existence. This is his future, her future, and yet still—
—Still, it could be taken away at any moment. Despite all that he’d done, the world is no less dangerous than it was. There is so much that could hurt her. So many people who could take her away. There are more remnants of Dio than the Foundation had first thought, his brutal legacy scattered across the globe, taking root, infecting everything around it. She’s not safe. She’ll never be safe.
For a moment, as Jotaro looks down at her, he wonders what the hell is wrong with him, why he thought to do this again.
It’s better he doesn’t hold her. For a split second, Jotaro glances up, hoping to hand her away to somebody else, when something soft and warm circles around his thumb.
The breath stalls in his lungs.
He looks down to find her holding onto him, her little fingers already sporting a firm grip. He locks eyes with her again and looks—really, looks—deep into them. And something shifts, tilting the world, fragments sliding into place and starting to make sense again.
The world is dangerous. Of course it is. But he is stronger than he was. He has to be stronger than he was.
There is no other way. The other way always leads to death.
Sitting there Jotaro thinks of sorrowful purple eyes, a hollow of leaking red and ruin, of possibilities cut cruelly short, of a sterile handkerchief, clutched in shaking fingers. He thinks of the scent, long gone from the living world, but still etched, like an epitaph, into his memory.
He finally exhales normally, a long, self-soothing breath. He lets his scent wash over Jolyne, before drawing hers into his lungs. It’s very different than his, sweet and mild and gentle on the senses. For the first time in what seems like years, calm settles into his body.
This too, is something he couldn’t ever forget.
But this time, things will be different.
Jotaro closes his eyes, pressing a kiss to her forehead, a quiet fondness on the lips. In that moment he promises to himself, to those who had come before her, those who hadn’t made it, who lived only as ghosts and dreams in his mind. To those that he hopes, at the end of his life, might be there to meet him, so he can finally say that he’s sorry. And they’ll see him, see her, and realize he’d actually done it this time. He’d saved those that he loved.
This time, he won’t make the same mistake.
This time, he’ll protect her.
This time, he’ll be invincible.