Work Text:
That his hands were cold, and his nose was pink-tipped. That his lashes drooped with the weight of a melting crystal, crying like eyes of their own. That his joints stilled, only to creak and groan in the chilly night air.
What better to blame for his troubles than the relentless winter?
Joseph hated the winter. He hated the snow, so white and pristine. He hated the harsh wind biting at his cheeks with cold teeth. He hated the trees that stood alarmingly jagged, so perfectly yet imperfectly bare. He hated the bare and brazen landscape, chipped and dripping with melted ice.
Joseph hated the winter. He hated the blood in the snow, so crimson and bold. He hated chasing his scarf in the harsh wind, cowering at the bites it left on his skin. He hated the jagged trees that jabbed into his sides, scritch and scratch as he ran down the path. He hated not being able to hide, bare and exposed in the melting woods, for all to see his shoulders shake with barely contained grief.
And the winter. He hated the winter.
Caesar had died in the winter.
Joseph was never one to mask his emotions. If he thought something was funny, he’d laugh. If he didn’t like someone, he’d tell them right to their face. If he needed to cry, he’d do it.
But when he heard Caesar shout, something in him snapped. He knew it had happened, yet he couldn’t accept it. He still searched, searched for those green eyes smiling at him through all the rubble. Even when the blood had seeped out of the bottom of the stone, he froze up. It wasn’t true, it wasn’t true, it wasn’t--
Then there it was. Caesar’s last Hamon bubble, floating above the tablet. Everything he’d ever built up, every wall he’d ever crafted, trying to shield his heart from going too far in the middle of an endless war, how much he tried to convince himself that Caesar was alive and that he was okay, tumbled down and brought him to his knees.
Too scared to call out his name, afraid there would be no answer. And finally, let it out. One singular scream echoing off the walls, so full of anguish, longing for someone he could never have. Then Caesar, Caesar, Caesar, a hundred times, but his pleads only met with the soft weeps of his mother.
Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli, torrents and torrents of words could describe him. Extremely passionate, downright sexy, really annoyingly Italian but in a totally hot way, a lean kind of muscular, definitely… super hot-blooded. Also a bit of an asshole, but that really turned him on.
And how he missed his Caesarino.
Yet he got up again, despite everything. He fought to the ends of hell and somehow, someway, he made it out alive. He could never ask for anything more than his own life to be spared. But deep down in his heart, he would give anything in the world to take Caesar’s place under that stone slate.
And now he lies in his bed, wishing it was Caesar’s heart beating instead of his.
***
Stupid, stupid Joseph. Always finding a way to mess things up. Always forgetting the most important things. Always being a fucking asshole.
Decades passed, and somehow he felt like an even bigger dick than he used to be. He could know everything else in the world and still forget his eyes.
What color were they?
Were they blue, light and bright like the sky?
Or were they brown, rich and warm like the soil beneath his feet?
Perhaps they were green, lush, and vibrant like his garden in the spring.
He couldn’t place it, and it was killing him.
***
At long last, everything had become a blur. Who was this man he longed for? What did he look like? How did they meet? Why couldn’t he remember?
By now the only thing he wanted to know had become the only thing he knew.
Green, the color of his eyes.
He spent days sitting in the garden, staring at the lush foliage as if it were staring back at him.
What color was his hair? Was it long or short?
What kind of clothes did he wear? Were they flashy and vibrant? Or was he a minimalist?
What did he sound like? Did his voice break the walls of serene silence, unafraid? Or did it gently ripple the waters, soft and careful?
Did he have an accent? Was he German? Maybe Greek? Italian, maybe? Somewhere in Europe, for sure.
What was his name?
It started with a hiss and ended with a growl.
His name was the kind of name you could just scream out. Belt it like a ballad. Two syllables, six letters. He’d spent restless nights whispering his name, waking up in a cold sweat and five teardrops littering his cheeks.
One man was all it took to break him. A man he couldn’t remember. A man he’d never remember. The one person he wanted more than anything in the world. The one person he could never have.
So he settled with green and clutched onto the purple and orange triangle headband in his frail fingers. Counting one, counting two, counting three, and closing his eyes with that same forgetful smile. Relaxing into the cold, wet snow, the harsh breeze stilling as did his heart.
To love and forget, to forget and be loved, or to love and be forgotten by all.
Joseph “Jojo” Joestar
September 27th, 1920
Winter of 2012
In Memory of Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli,
He Who Been Loved and Forgotten,
Now to Remember And be Remembered