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They’d been training for hours.
Joseph’s shirt had long since been discarded in favour of a ridiculous, tight-fitted cropped tank that somehow defied both practicality and human decency.
And Caesar was pretending to focus.
Or trying to.
But every dodge, every flex of Joseph’s waist, every ridiculous spin to get out of the firing range, became hell to Caesar’s self-control.
Did Joseph normally bend like that in training? He must have done. He just hadn’t noticed before. But—fuck. That guy was way too damn flexible for his height.
Of course it was hard not to look. He looked like a damn jokester.
That was it.
And worse?
Now and then, Joseph deliberately turned and gave Caesar a wink, which he tried to convince himself didn’t almost cause system failure.
He blamed his burning face on the effort of training.
Joseph landed a flip. Ended in a crouch just an arm’s reach from Caesar. Turned just so, so Joseph’s back curled towards him, and Caesar’s eyes couldn’t help but betray him.
Traced down Joseph’s back. Lingered too long on the stupid way Joseph’s pants rode low.
The waistband.
He blinked. Caught himself. Snapped his head away.
But it was too late. From the corner of his eye, he saw Joseph turn. He knew.
Of course he did.
It was so obvious in the way he tilted his head with a smile under the mask that crinkled his eyes in that know-it-all way. The glitter in the deep brown irises drove him nuts. The sign that Joseph was clearly smirking.
'You’re staring again, Caesarino,' Joseph purred. 'If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted to kiss me. Shame about the mask, eh.'
Caesar froze. His brain fumbled over a response. Failed. Felt his whole face burn. Again.
‘What’re you even saying?’ he growled, then shoved Joseph away and dashed to the other side of the arena, firing an overpowered hamon bubble attack at their training instructor.
Hated that Joseph cackled behind him.
And it only escalated from there.
'What’s wrong, Caesar-chan?
Joseph’s bullish, teasing voice echoed around the arena. Scratched down Caesar’s spine.
'You dodged like an old man that time!'
Caesar bit his retort back. He couldn’t say that it was all his fault anyway.
Because how could he explain that? And what had started this all?
Something so small. So ridiculous.
Crop tops should be illegal. Especially when worn by Joseph Joestar.
Caesar blinked. Realised he was staring at those annoyingly perfect abs again. Tried not to think about licking them. Tracing his hands up and under the fabric of that barely-there top …
Fuck!
He rolled out of the way. Barely.
Smelt the familiar smell of hair singed by hamon.
He gritted his teeth. Tried to block the sound of Joseph’s guffaws.
Grimaced at LisaLisa’s sharp words as she tossed her cigarette to the side into the dusty dirt. Stomped on it.
May as well have tossed him into the dirt and stomped on him too.
Fuck. He couldn’t let Joseph win. Whatever the brown haired guy decided he was playing at this time.
It was mere moments later that he found out.
LisaLisa had decided enough was enough. They were performing poorly. She stepped into the ring on their instructor’s side. Tossed her scarf over her neck.
Cocked her hip—the signal that some OP shit was coming your way.
She fired a singular wave of hamon across the arena, a wall of energy that just smashed into them both, sending them skidding in the dirt, with some retort about learning how to get along.
Joseph somehow twisted and half-blocked it. Landed in a crouch again right in front of where Caesar had crashed inelegantly onto his face in the dirt.
Well. He had tempted fate, hadn’t he? He’d asked for this. To be tossed into the dirt.
And now he was, with Joseph fucking Joestar’s ass inches from his face.
In his too-low jeans. Right there. A trail of sweat dripped down the line of his bare lower back, disappearing below the waistband.
It had practically invited him to look.
Caesar stared. Too long. Joseph wiped sweat from his face with his forearm and turned. Probably to check he was okay. Old battle habit.
But instead of a fallen comrade, he caught Caesar ogling like an old, pervy geezer. Again.
Caesar pushed himself up. Tried to pretend he hadn’t. But what use was it?
He slid his eyes across—dared himself—to see what kind of expression Joseph had.
Fuck.
Eyes crinkled in the way Caesar just knew would be a wide, sharp, cocky grin. Knowing. The kind of smile you see on a predator when it saw a rabbit freeze.
And—damn it. Caesar was the rabbit, wasn’t he?
Then, with his voice low, Joseph said something that could’ve made Caesar’s dick shiver. 'Keep staring like that, and I might start thinking you’re finally ready to do something about it.'
Mio Dio, that line could haunt his dreams for months.
And the low gravel in Joseph’s voice as he’d said it?
But he couldn’t let Joseph see how much that had impacted him. Instead, Caesar met his gaze with a challenging glare. Scoffed. Tried to hide his thumping pulse with a shove to the shoulder and a shitty comment about Joseph smartening up his form and not angering LisaLisa again.
Even though he knew this time, it was shamefully on him.
And it burned at him.
The shame. The embarrassment.
Of falling this much. Unable to do anything about it.
* * *
After training, Caesar stormed off and grabbed a towel. Left before anything else could come free. He was begging for a cold shower. Begging to cool his body and terrible thoughts.
Why was he reacting this much more today? He didn’t get it. Normally, he could suppress it better. That was, until he could find a lovely woman at the bar and distract himself. But this thing with JoJo—how he felt for his friend—was only getting stronger. Harder to distract. Harder to hide.
In fact, it had only spiralled worse since that night …
The night he got drunk.
He remembered flickers but not more. Jo must know something. Must remember. But he wasn’t giving anything away.
It drove Caesar nuts. What did he do? What did he say?
Vague memories of Joseph lying in the bed next to him. Caesar staring. Thinking he was beautiful. Turning over before he was caught staring.
That would have been too obvious. Couldn’t hide anything then.
But he hadn't said anything, had he?
Jo hadn't mentioned anything. And surely he’d tease him explicitly and mercilessly? Laughed at him? Dragged it in his face.
That was the kind of man Joseph Joestar was.
And for all Caesar knew, JoJo wasn't interested. He’d laugh. Rub it in. If Caesar had done or said anything.
Wouldn’t he?
Fuuuck. He needed a cold shower to block these thoughts. Then a girl. But the next thing he knew, his back was forced into a wall, and Joseph was fisting his shirt and all up in his space.
'Having a little trouble, are we, Caesar-chan?'
Caesar stared mutely, brain still catching up with his body’s sudden displacement.
'Caught you staring at my ass a few times. Looked a little flushed. Spaced out and lost a few easy hits then. Wanna talk about what happened?'
Was Joseph pissed off or…?
A flash spiked through Caesar. This wasn't what he needed right now. If his friend found out what was really going on, he’d hate him.
He growled and swiped Joseph’s hand off him. Tried to shove him away to barge past.
Trouble was, Joseph was huge. And when he didn’t want to move. It was impossible.
'Get outta my way, JoJo!'
Joseph’s eyebrow cocked.
'Oh, is that really what you want?'
Caesar’s back crashed into the wall behind him again. Two strong hands slammed either side of his head.
'You think I didn’t notice?' Joseph snarled. 'Think you can grope me with your eyes all day and then run off to jerk off in peace?'
Joseph leant closer, face just inches from Caesar’s.
'Bet it’s torture not being able to grab me right now, huh?' he murmured. 'You’re all het up. Bet you’re hard right now. Just from looking at me. You little liar.'
Caesar continued to stare. Blank. Pretty sure his mouth nearly dropped open, if he didn't work so hard to control it. Forced himself to swallow just to be sure he had control of his own body.
How had Joseph clocked it?
He could smell the sweat on JoJo. Wished it didn't just rile him up more.
The younger man’s hair was unruly as ever, and was so close now. Nearly enough he swore he felt the ghost of it brushing his forehead. He wanted to reach out with his fingers and …
Nope.
'You’re talking crap,' Caesar growled. Tried to stand taller. Make himself look bigger. Make Joseph edge away.
But he didn’t. The larger boy just leant in more. He could almost feel the body heat radiating off him now.
'Oh, am I?' Joseph purred. 'Want to try me? Undo this thing. Kiss me. Like you know you want to. Scared to admit it? You may as well just lick the mask. Go on.'
Lick the mask.
Caesar’s brain froze. He stared at Joseph. Brown eyes boring into his. Daring. Pushing. Knowing.
Caesar’s mouth went dry, and his heart all but oozed into his stomach.
Shit. He did say something that night. Didn’t he?
No. Worse. He did something.
Joseph’s face was so close that the mask was nearly touching his mouth. Memories he’d forgotten or buried flashed back, unbidden.
The taste of the cool metal beneath his tongue …
'Still want a taste?' Joseph whispered. Tantalising. Like honey.
Gods.
'Or was it just drunk Caesar talking then?'
Caesar hated that part of him was aroused while the other part was still trying to process and just fucking remember. His breath caught, and everything around him blacked out to just JoJo in front of him. Those brown eyes …
'Go on,' Joseph’s whisper egged him on into something Caesar really didn’t need to think about.
So Caesar flinched. Didn’t move. Tried to calm himself. His breath came ragged, and his crotch was dangerously close to Joseph and only getting worse.
Perhaps the giant was doing it on purpose, leaning in that close.
Joseph paused. 'That’s what I thought,' he growled.
Seemed … pleased? Proud?
Fuck this. Fuck him and his games.
Caesar shut his eyes. Breathed out hard.
This wasn’t a game he was going to play.
'Sei un idiota.' You’re an idiot.
Caesar pushed Joseph away. Too harsh. Too fast. But it was that or combust. Lose everything here.
'Go put a damn shirt on,' he snapped. 'Before someone dies.'
Then he stormed off, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense. He could feel how flushed his face was. It might as well be a fucking lighthouse flare. He bit his lip to bring any other sensation to the fore. Pain. Burning. Whatever. Anything to override the dangerous tent in his pants he was trying desperately to hide.
Fuck Joseph Joestar, he growled to himself.
Either way.
Either way would fix the problem for him.