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It wasn’t until the new decade came that Jotaro said anything about it. To Joseph, his silence was all too familiar. They certainly had, have, and will have the same thoughts forever—their time together was too rushed, too joyous, too unforgettable. Who am I to be the one remaining?
When Jotaro returned to Japan, he threw himself into his studies. Joseph, still unusually fit for his age, continued to lead his real estate business and only phoned his daughter occasionally. Polnareff, well, who knows—he’s probably somewhere in Europe with (or trying to get) his arm around a pretty lady. Despite the oceanic separation and the complete lack of communication between them for a full year, Joseph was not surprised to hear from his wife that Jotaro was on the phone.
“It’s already been a year,” was the first thing Jotaro said. His voice sounded the same as ever: intense and straightforward, like a bullet train. But today, his voice trailed off. “If you have time, can you come…?”
Joseph flew to Japan immediately. Jotaro, now a licensed driver, picked him up from the airport. They expected two outcomes of this first meeting: reforming their close bond or standing sheepishly beside each other, engulfed in their own thoughts. Joseph was, by habit, chipper, but held himself back when he saw Jotaro pull his hat further down to cover his eyes.
“The school is having a memorial for him,” Jotaro explained at dinner that night. “Tomorrow.”
Joseph looked at his second, now empty, cup of coffee, and agreed to come.
-
Though Kakyoin spent less than a day at Jotaro’s high school, and though he had very few friends, a small crowd filled the school’s courtyard. Incense and flowers stood on a small altar, and Kakyoin’s parents knelt by them. His picture, a typical school boy headshot, completed the modest set up.
Jotaro was quiet. Joseph could tell that he was tense. His jaw was stubbornly set and it seemed that he had packed soil in his pockets to plant his hands as firmly in them as possible. They spoke briefly to Kakyoin’s parents—they had somehow, with some massaging of information, explained Kakyoin’s passing to them when they returned to Japan. Upon meeting them, Jotaro bowed so low that Joseph, at first, was taken aback. But then, just a fleeting moment later, as they pressed their hands together in front of the altar, Joseph understood.
He must feel guilty.
-
Afterwards, they stood outside the school. Just stood, quietly.
“You don’t smoke anymore?” Joseph asked in a tentatively joking manner.
“No,” came the response. “He never liked it when I did.”
“Oh.”
Joseph found himself opening and closing his artificial hand, a habit of his that occurred when he was grasping for words, as if his other hand could not bear any of the emotional brunt. He looked at his grandson, at what would be his blue eyes but was instead a shadow, at how he distributed his weight evenly on the ground because, perhaps, he was afraid to fall, and saw himself from sixty years past.
“Did I ever tell you about Caesar?”
It had been years since Joseph had said his name, but despite that it still felt smooth in his mouth, as if it belonged there.
Jotaro’s head turned slightly. “No, why are you bringing this up now?”
When Joseph opened his mouth to begin his story, he found himself shaking. He attempted to contain himself. “When I was nineteen, he fought alongside me. You remember that my grandfather, your great-great grandfather, fought Dio, right? Caesar’s grandfather sacrificed his life for the Joestars.”
“--And Caesar did the same,” Jotaro abruptly finished his story, with a force that plainly said that he did not want to hear any more.
The interruption caused Joseph’s resolve to falter. It was not his intention to minimize Jotaro’s loss, to increase his guilt, or to philosophize. In fact, he wasn't sure what he wanted from the conversation. As Joseph struggled to respond, Jotaro continued—
“Kakyoin wasn’t tied to the Joestars. He was just Kakyoin.”
“And he didn't have to die, not for my sake, not for my family’s sake—is that what you’re going to say?”
Jotaro’s jaw clenched.
Not even for the world’s sake.
Joseph sat down on the curb and rested his hands on his knees, trying with all his strength not to clench them into fists, into what seemed like their natural state. “I know the feeling,” he finally said, blinking quickly. “I know what it's like to curse your own blood.”
Silence. He continued.
“In some parallel universe, if I were not a Joestar, Caesar and I probably wouldn't have met. Even so, I think I would have loved him all the same.”
Jotaro’s stance wavered, ever so slightly. “You…” He started, but decided to leave the question unasked.
Joseph gave out bark of a laugh, a laugh that perhaps started as a sob. He put his face into his hands and felt his gloves get wet. Jotaro sat next to him. Maybe he was crying? Or was his face still stony? Either way, Joseph decided to let his grandson feel in private.
A few minutes later, Jotaro chuckled weakly. “Look at us, hunched over on the sidewalk like this.”
“Yeah. I bet they’d be rolling in our graves if they saw us like this now.”
Still, they stayed there for a little longer, giants of men looking down at what (they had?) was destroyed.