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Joseph arrives late to the rendezvous point and finds Caesar waiting for him in a red Ferrari 288 that shines like a slick spot of blood against the lush green of the Neapolitan countryside. It’s a beautiful car, and Joseph takes a moment to admire the scene: the cherry-red paint, the purr of the engine, the beautiful lines of the car, the flashy bastard behind the wheel.
Caesar rolls down the window and gives him an exasperated look. His hair is tousled and perfect, his clothing just as Joseph remembers it, well-made and resplendent with color. Caesar always wanted to be looked at, and he always looked good.
“What took you so long, Jojo?” he demands, and Joseph laughs and slides across the hood of the car before getting in. It’s a perfect day. The sky is smooth and endless, a perfect shade of blue, and the wind moves in soft, gentle gusts that barely stir the grass, as if the whole world is congratulating Joseph on his victory over the Pillar Men.
“Were you missing me, Caesarino?” he coos. Caesar's response is to lean over and condescendingly tousle Joseph’s hair, but he’s smiling.
“Less with every moment,” he tells him. “Next time, I’ll just leave without you.” Joseph sticks his tongue out and bats his hand away.
“I was busy!” he lies, although he can’t remember what, exactly, he was doing. Caesar's gives him a look that says he can see through Joseph’s bullshit and he isn’t impressed, and guns the engine. The Ferrari shudders into motion with a low purring rumble that Joseph feels like a caress all over his body. Cool air spills in through the window as Caesar accelerates and takes them away into the infinite green of the Neapolitan countryside.
Joseph whoops and yells and sticks his head out the window to feel the wind on his face.
“Quit sticking your head out the window like an oversized puppy,” Caesar tells him, and Joseph laughs and flips him off. He pulls his goggles down over his face and the two of them ride in silence, enveloped in the purring of the engine and the wild rush of the wind. The car hugs the ground, expertly moving over the hills and valleys, guided by Caesar with expert precision. Joseph loves driving fast cars, but it's good to be a passenger too, and sit back and enjoy all the gifts that the world brings him. He sneaks a look at Caesar, who has opened a window despite his mockery of Joseph for doing the same thing, causing his headband to flutter in the breeze. Framed by the car window, his silhouette looks like a painting, someone's dream of the best that beauty can offer. Joseph looks away.
Caesar's ego doesn’t need any encouragement, and he doesn’t need to hear that’s he’s beautiful from Jojo, of all people. He already knows, the smug bastard. Joseph reclines in his chair and covertly admires him--his square jaw, his strong hands, the way the daylight brings out all his strong, bright colors. His gold and blue are the perfect match to Joseph’s black and green; they look good separately, and great together. Joseph’s never been the type to wish he was someone else, but if he didn’t have the option of being his wonderful self, he’d want to be Caesar.
“Hey, Caesarino,” he says, and reaches out to ruffle Caesar's hair, see how he likes it. Caesar scowls and knocks Joseph’s hand away. His hair is smooth and thick and a little spark of electricity passes between the two of them when they touch, like Joseph’s brushed against something more precious than just Caesar's hair. He grins. “Where are we going?”
“Do you ever remember anything you’re told?” Caesar asks, but there isn’t much bite in it. “We’re going north, to visit Lisa Lisa, and then we’re going to the Zeppeli family tomb to pay our respects.”
“Awwwwww,” Joseph whines. “Why are we going somewhere so serious?” Caesar glances sideways at him and swerves the car to one side, causing Joseph to hit the car door with a loud smack.
“Hey!” Joseph protests.
“You should really wear your seatbelt, Joseph,” Caesar says, unrepentant. He’s hiding a smile under his serious look; it pulls at the edge of his mouth.
“You’re such an asshole,” Joseph says, and shoves him. Caesar jerks the steering wheel again, and Joseph goes sprawling across his lap. It’s a tight fit. They’re both big men. The joke is on Caesar, though, because now Joseph has his body in Caesar's space and he intends to make himself comfortable there. He stretches, laces his fingers behind his head, sticks his legs out across the passenger seat, and tries to look relaxed.
“Your lap is so soft, Caesarino--hey!--no--stop!” Caesar is tickling him, and Joseph’s banged his head on the steering wheel trying to get away, and the car is swerving wildly from side to side. Joseph’s never been so happy in his life.
They stop for gas at a little station outside Rome, and Joseph gets out to stretch and yawn and sit on the roof of the car while Caesar fills up the tank. Light fills the roman countryside, shining down from a sunless sky onto rolling green hills studded with roving bands of white sheep. In the distance, Rome is a bustling hive of activity.
“You grew up in Rome, didn’t you, Caesarino?”
“Yes, I did, Josephine ,” Caesar replies. Joseph flutters his eyelashes in response, but Caesar isn't looking at him. He’s staring into the distance as if he might be able to see clear through the past if he looks hard enough. Joseph swings his legs impatiently over the side of the car, and for a moment there’s nothing but the sound of the gas pump and the big, empty silence of the countryside.
“What was it like?” Joseph asks, hopping off the car roof.
“Full of tourists,” Caesar says after a pause. He smiles, and cracks the knuckles on one big hand. Joseph feels a little funny watching the movements of Caesar’s strong forearms. He glances away, towards the city. “I used to get in fights all the time- pickpocketing, robbery, beating people up with a wrench.” Caesar says, sounding faintly nostalgic.
“So you were always a bad-tempered jerk!” Joseph says, delighted. He feels like he’s heard this information before, somewhere, but it’s different to hear it from Caesar’s mouth.
“... maybe,” Caesar concedes. “What was it like, New York?”
The question stumps Joseph. He sits back and thinks about it. New York. It’s not really like any other city; it’s so crowded, so loud, so modern, filled with trains and noise and people, an infinite playground of delights.
“It was fun,” he says at last, smiling. “I was always in trouble. After my mother left and my dad died, I was always out on my own. Granny tried to keep an eye on me, you know, but she’s old and I had a lot of energy.”
“And you didn’t listen,” Caesar adds. Joseph sticks his tongue out at him, but he doesn’t deny it. The wind sweeps down over the fields, rustling the blades of grass into an infinite chorus of whispers, and bringing the smell of flowers and cut grass. Caesar finishes putting gas in the car, and Joseph hops back into the car.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I fought a vampire with a tommy gun?” he asks, and Caesar laughs.
“That sounds like exactly the sort of bullshit thing you would do. Tell me more.”
Joseph’s recounting of the fight against Straizo takes them up into the heart of Italy, far from Rome. Caesar listens attentively, occasionally pausing to hassle Joseph for his technique or his skills or his choices; after Joseph finishes, he demands that Caesar tell a story, if he’s so critical.
It turns out that Caesar was kind of a maniac when he was younger.
“So, of course, I hit him with the wrench.”
“The mob boss?”
“What was I going to do, let him go? He would have come after me.” Joseph whistles, low and long.
“Jeez. Glad you’ve never been mad at me.” Caesar glances at him sideways and raises his eyebrows.
“You’re just so loveable,” he deadpans.
“I am!” Joseph says. “So, what did you do after that?”
“Well, I went and got the concrete mix and the meat hooks from earlier…”
They stop for lunch on a hillside overlooking the Italian coast and eat sandwiches from a little deli they passed on the way. Everything tastes better in Italy. Joseph enthuses over the tomatoes and mozzarella and Caesar just looks at him and smiles. The smell of the ocean blows in from the coast, and above the seagulls wheel and cry out. In the distance, the boats move to and from Venice, hurrying to their business all around the Mediterranean. Joseph rests his palms against the grass hillside and admires the golden shine of Caesar’s hair under the sunlight.
He thinks about putting his fingers in Caesar’s hair and undoing his headband and finally seeing what Caesar looks like with his hair hanging in his face. He thinks about the broad expanse of Caesar’s lower lip and his smile, and the way his waist tapers down into his abs and hips…
Caesar takes a drink of his soda and blows a bubble in Joseph’s direction. Joseph flinches when it splatters on his clothing.
“Oh no! My jacket!”
“Serves you right for getting distracted,” Caesar says, grinning. In retaliation, Joseph grabs him in a headlock and ruffles his hair mercilessly.
I’ll tell him when we get there, Joseph thinks. I'll say something smooth, and kiss him, and he'll kiss me back. He likes me. He must.
They go north, to Venice. They go past Venice, and past Florence, and past Milan, and up along the coast through the warm endless sunshine and the acres of flowers and grass and sheep and ruins. Caesar tells him about Rome, about history, about the ancient bones of former monuments strewn over the land. Italy is an old country, with stubborn, ancient memories buried in it like bones in the ground, testimony to the enduring strength of an ancient people.
Joseph drowses in the heavy summer sun and listens to the cadence of Caesar's voice, the rise and fall of it, the way it isn’t quite an english voice, even when the words come out correctly. Sometimes he offers a remark, and sometimes he falls asleep and wakes to the sound of Caesar humming a song he doesn’t recognize. The day stretches on, perfect and golden and endless, like all of Joseph’s dreams of Italy.
“Carino, we’re almost there,” Caesar tells him. “Wake up.”
“Carino?” Joseph says. “Hey, I know that one! That’s like, sweetheart. Suzie calls me that!” Caesar snorts. “Hey, it’s cool when she says it. But what about you? You like me, huh?” Joseph leans in and wiggles his eyebrows. Caesar pushes him away with one hand on his face.
“Obviously, dumbass.”
“Obviously?” Joseph crows. Caesar shakes his head, smiling, but there’s something terribly sad in his expression.
“We’re almost here,” he repeats. “Look out the window.”
The landscape has changed from the endless Elysian roll of soft fields to the harsh jut of snow-capped mountain peaks. In the distance, Joseph can see the dark silhouette of an abandoned mansion. The doors and windows have all been boarded up, and the formerly grand facade is crumbling under the assault of time.
“Where are we?” he asks.
“Don’t play dumb,” Caesar says, but there isn’t much bite in his voice.
“Switzerland,” Joseph says, feeling something cold settle into his stomach. “Caesar, didn’t you say we were going to your father’s tomb?”
Caesar looks at him and just smiles. The car is already pulling to a stop. Caesar parks the car and gets out, then begins to walk into the mansion. Something terrible rises into Joseph’s throat at the sight of him walking into that old lonely place alone, and he scrambles out of the car and sprints after him.
“Caesarino,” he yells, terror rising in his throat. “Wait!” Part of him expects Caesar to vanish, but he stops, impatiently tapping his foot. Joseph catches up to him and throws his arm around Caesar's shoulders. Caesar is so solid, so warm, so alive.
“Don’t go without me, you hothead!” Joseph says.
“Then hurry up,” Caesar says. He laces his fingers through Joseph’s, and they walk into the old mansion. Joseph's heart is filled with an awful fear, but he can't let Caesar go alone. Not this time. The mansion is different than Joseph remembers it. Instead of the destruction from Wham’s attack, the mansion is clean and bright, outfitted with the trappings of a Victorian household. The walls of the house rise into eight panels of high, arched stained glass.
There's a man waiting by the stairs. From the resemblance in his face, Joseph thinks it must be Caesar's dad.
“Oh, it was all a setup for you to make me meet your dad,” Joseph jokes. “Honestly. Are you going to have him threaten me with a shotgun?”
“I don’t know, Jojo. Aren’t we already married?” Caesar says. “I gave you a ring, after all.” He lets go of Joseph’s hand and walks towards his father. There’s something lying on the floor behind Mario Zeppeli.
It’s a rock. A boulder, really. Not fine rock, not anything fancy. Not worthy of the thing lying under it. Even after all these years, Joseph remembers every color, every shape, every detail. The way the rock crumbled under his fingers, the smell of blood. He cried over this gravestone until his face was tender with tears. He glances upwards, terrified that Caesar will have vanished, but he’s still there, waiting with his father, and Joseph remembers.
Remembers Wham, and Kars, and DIO, and all the intervening years, all the times he couldn’t practice his ripple training because his throat was clogged with grief, the things he said at the funeral. Fifty years apart. A long life, a good life. Joseph had fun. But there was never anything or anyone as electric and immediate as Caesar, perfect from the first moment they met.
“Caesar!” Joseph cries out, and staggers forward, desperate to feel Caesar’s skin under his hands. They crash into each other, and Caesar puts his hands on either side of Joseph’s head and holds onto him tightly. They stand forehead against forehead, the way they used to do when they were alive. Tears are splashing down Joseph’s cheeks and dropping on the floor between them.
“Crybaby,” Caesar says fiercely.
“You’re crying too,” Joseph accuses. He doesn’t want to cry. He wants to fix his eyes on Caesar and take in every detail of him with eyes undimmed by memory or grief.
“I’m not,” Caesar says, lying through his teeth. Joseph laughs wetly and grips Caesar's shirt in one hand.
“Asshole,” Joseph accuses, his voice trembling. “You arrogant bastard! I-I missed you. I missed you so much!” His voice cracks. It is suddenly unbearable not to have his arms fastened tight around Caesar; he pulls him into a hug and holds on for dear life.
They stand there in silence until Joseph’s arms are aching from holding on and Caesar's shoulder is wet with tears.
“You’re still such a baby,” Caesar says, in a voice aching with grief and affection. He pulls away from Joseph and they stand face to face, close enough to kiss. Caesar's hand is on Joseph’s cheek, like he’s one of those signoras who Caesar used to charm so easily. Maybe he is. Caesar is studying Joseph’s face like he’s looking for something. “You got old, but you didn’t change, did you, Jojo?”
“Why would I want to change?” Joseph asks. He can barely force the words out. His voice is stuck; he wants to say something that will convince Caesar, something that will let him understand how Joseph feels. Something like I don’t remember who I was before you. Something like you were the first precious thing I ever broke, and I carry your heart with me always. I carry it in my heart.
“I can’t believe I missed you,” Caesar says. It would be more believable if he weren’t holding on to Joseph with all his strength.
“Well, you don’t have to miss me anymore,” Joseph tells him. Caesar looks at him. His face is terribly serious, and Joseph knows in a sudden miserable rush what his next words will be.
“You have to go back,” Caesar says.
“I don’t want to!” Joseph exclaims.
“I know. But you have to.” An awful laugh escapes from Joseph’s mouth.
“You’re always telling me what to do,” he says plaintively. Caesar won’t meet his eyes. Over Caesar's shoulder and up the stairs, Joseph can just see the slim figure of a red-haired boy. Kakyoin. Even in the afterlife, Caesar is forever carrying burdens which should have been Joseph’s to bear.
Kakyoin makes eye contact with Joseph and smiles. It’s very faint. You figured it out, he mouths.
Yes, Joseph mouths back. I’m sorry.
Kakyoin’s smile is faint and weary. His figure is transparent, as if a shift of the light might erase him entirely. He turns his head to the side, studying one of the stained glass windows in the old mansion. The window depicts a man dressed in black, his face turned away from the viewer, his figure pierced by eight swords. It’s Jotaro. Joseph supposes that somewhere in this place there’s a window with his figure on it, depicting the deeds of Joseph Joestar, show-off, ripple master, vanquisher of Aztec gods, loving father and moderately faithful husband.
“Did we win against DIO?” he asks Caesar.
“Go back and find out,” Caesar tells him. Their eyes meet. They don’t need to speak. Joseph’s felt Caesar's soul. He carries it with him always, like the memory of his right hand, something missing and found all at once. Even if Joseph’s body withers and grows old and all his hair turns gray, he’s always had that spark inside of him, that piece of Caesar's heart that he inherited in this very building.
“At least give me a kiss before I go,” he chokes out. The chapel is becoming faintly blurry at the edges. Caesar's breathing is in perfect sync with his. They step together and Joseph finally, finally, finds out what it feels like to have Caesar's mouth against his.