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There really wasn’t another feeling in the world quite like winning a race.
It was one thing to be praised and it was another entirely to be cheered, for hundreds of people to scream their admiration from the bleachers, to let it all crash like the peak of a wave and blend into a meaningless roar.
“First place!” the announcer bellowed. “Diego Brando!”
Of course he had gotten first. The race had barely presented a challenge. The only real competitor was Johnny and he had…
The third turn approached and Diego wasn’t even an inch ahead of Johnny. And then the gap widened. Diego pulled forward, snatching decisive seconds for his lead and barely even bothering to look back and see the reason.
But barely wasn’t not at all. Diego twisted around in the saddle and shot a glance back at Johnny. This wasn’t like him. He was a consistent racer, if not much else.
Johnny wasn’t in second. He wasn’t in third either. No, he was sinking back into the front lines of the pack, with the reins in one hand and his head resting in the other. Something was wrong.
In that second, Diego thought about stopping. He thought about throwing the race, all because he was worried about Johnny Joestar. It was absurd. Johnny was probably just hung over again and suffering for his own stupidity. None of Diego’s business.
He had a race to win.
The victory wasn’t that significant. It was just a minor race, not a qualifier for anything but an interview with the press and maybe a nice glass of champagne if the owners of the track were feeling generous. But it was important to keep his record in the positive and even more than that, it was important to keep Johnny in his place. This wasn’t a major victory for him, but it would be something for Johnny. Something to let him get cocky.
Diego finished his victory lap and dismounted, graciously accepting his medal and pausing for one of the avid reporters to snap a photo. Cameras were getting faster and faster these days. He flashed them a winning smile and waved, but there was something tight in his chest, something that felt like a vise clamped around his heart.
The medal was waiting for him near the stands and Diego dismounted, walking the rest of the way. The other jockeys were milling about, waiting to hear the details of just who had come in fourteenth place like anything but first really mattered. Diego strode past them and they knew better than to get in his way. It was an honor just to share the track with him.
There was one noticeable absence in the throng. Johnny was nowhere to be seen. He had probably gone looking for somewhere dark and quiet to sleep off his hangover. That wasn’t anything new. Johnny was a bit of a drinker and being a jockey meant being a lightweight, so it didn’t take much to get him drunk.
The loss would hurt, Diego knew it would. He knew how Johnny could get, blaming himself for every little mistake. This would be a weapon he turned against himself.
There was nothing Diego could do. It was just how Johnny was. And he had to win. No matter what, he had to win. Fame and power and his entire future counted on winning and he couldn’t throw that away just to make Johnny feel better.
“Dio!” It was the race organizer, some rich fuck called Steel. Diego didn’t really hate him, not any more than he hated most people. In other words, he did. “Congratulations! That has to be the fastest I’ve ever seen.”
Diego wasn’t sure how good his time was. He’d been sort of keeping track and if anything, it had seemed a little too slow. But he took the compliment with grace. “Who knows. Perhaps it was a new record.”
“I hope so.” Steel glanced around and leaned in close, giving Diego a conspiratorial look. “I actually have something to tell you. I’m planning a race.”
It was evidently a secret, so Diego lowered his voice as well. “In this season? There’s not much time left.”
“No,” Steel answered, and his eyes shown with excitement. “Not for a few years. It’s going to be something big. The race of the century.”
That sounded promising. “How big are we talking?” The bigger the race, the bigger the prize. And Diego certainly had a few things in mind for a sufficiently large enough prize.
“I can’t make any promises yet, but how does cross-country sound?”
Diego frowned. “Not my strong suit.” He was a jockey, not some kind of endurance racer. “It would really have to be something special.”
“This will be.” Steel looked far away, like he could see something Diego couldn’t. “Trust me, it will be. Are you interested?”
So that was what he was doing, trying to drum up interest for whatever harebrained idea he’d come up with. Odds were, there would be money for him eventually, even if the project went south. Rich people threw money at their problems and Diego was very good at figuring out how to pick it up afterwards.
“Sure,” Diego said. “How could I miss the race of the century?”
—
As soon as he set foot in the changing room, he saw Johnny. The boy was curled up on one end of the long bench, no doubt crying about his loss. Johnny did that. He was emotional and weak and everything Diego had long ago strangled in himself.
It was almost cute, the way he let himself be so vulnerable where other people could see. Or maybe he just couldn’t hide it very well.
Diego let the door slam behind him, intentionally trying to give Johnny a bit of a warning, but he didn’t move. Overdramatic little shit. It was just a minor race. Didn’t even matter that he’d lost so badly.
But still, something tugged at his chest and whispered that this wasn’t right. First Johnny’s performance in the race and now this. It just wasn’t like him.
“Joestar?” Diego took a few steps closer, peering at Johnny from a safe distance. “Are you okay?”
“Fuck off!”
Well, at least it was an answer. Johnny sat up and as he did, Diego caught a glimpse of his exposed back before his shirt fell into place. Each vertebra in his spine stood out, so clear under his skin.
Diego smiled. This was the Johnny he recognized, petty and rude and such a little shit. “Make me.”
“Fucking cheater!” Johnny stood up and sure enough, his eyes were red. He turned on Diego and started towards him, like someone barely over five foot was supposed to be intimidating.
“That’s a serious accusation, Joestar.” Diego stood his ground and considered his options. He could probably beat Johnny in a fist fight, assuming the boy didn’t pull any dirty tricks. “Got any proof?”
“How else would a low class bastard like you beat me? I was raised for this shit!” Entitled, that’s what he was. An entitled rich brat.
Diego’s hands curled into fists. Johnny wasn’t quite close enough to reach. Wait. Wait for his chance. “It wasn’t just me. Didn’t you see the results? You weren’t even close.”
Before he could react, Johnny took a swing at him. Luckily, he was way off his mark and his fist slammed into the locker a little ways in front of Diego instead. “No! You did something! You- you made me sick!”
So there was something wrong with him. “I did nothing of the sort. I’m just better than you.”
Johnny lunged forward clumsily and Diego took a step to the side, sending him sprawling onto the floor. “Bullshit! It’s- it’s not fair!” He got to his feet, unsteady, so very unsteady. “You just show up out of nowhere and… and…”
“Are you drunk?” He had a pretty good chance of being right and for some reason, that knowledge felt like free-fall, like a dose of pure panic injected directly into his bloodstream. Racing was a dangerous enough sport sober.
Johnny put a hand up to his forehead. “You wish.” He took a few stumbling steps forward and Diego braced himself for a punch. “I bet I could beat you drunk.”
Diego laughed. He couldn’t help himself. “You can’t beat me sober. Alcohol won’t make you a decent jockey.”
“Asshole,” Johnny muttered, and Diego noticed that his legs were shaking. “Fucking country trash. It’s not fair. I should…”
“You should win?” Whatever was going on with Johnny, it was clearly imparting his ability to fight. “You’re right. Logically, you should win. The best education, the best training, you have every advantage. And yet you still manage to lose.”
“Shut your fucking mouth!” Johnny glared up at Diego and raised his fist again. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you!”
Diego put up his own fists. “Just try it.” If this rich failure needed to be taught his place yet again, he was ready.
But the punch never came. Johnny’s legs collapsed under him and he fell to his knees and Diego tried to catch him because what else could he do. They both ended up on the floor, Johnny slumped against Diego, so light in his arms.
“Joestar?” He was just limp, not even moving. Breathing, but not much else. “This isn’t funny.”
Johnny didn’t answer and Diego felt like he was stuck in the middle of the track, watching the horses gallop toward him faster and faster.
“Wake up. Please, wake up.”
He was so light. Way too thin. Jockeys were required to keep their weight down, but Johnny was naturally pretty short and Diego could feel his ribs through his shirt. Too thin.
“Johnny, please.” He was begging. Pathetic. But Johnny didn’t stir and that only made him beg harder. “I- I don’t want-“
Some people were just born lucky. It wasn’t fair, but it was the way the world was. Sometimes, the stars aligned and shit just worked out. Whatever that was, Diego had the opposite of it.
He should be used to being left alone by now. People didn’t stick around for long, not the ones who mattered. He should have learned his lesson. There was no one in this world he could care about. It would just end in pain.
“I don’t want to lose you too.”
Just a little longer. Johnny would die young, no doubt about that. He would die young and then Diego would be left alone again. But not yet. Not yet. Please, not yet.
It wasn’t fair.
—
Johnny woke to the sound of pans clattering and boiling water. He didn’t recognize the ceiling above him or the bed or the rest of the room for that matter, but it didn’t look like a changing room. No, it looked like a hotel room and there was a pleasant smell drifting out of an open kitchen door and from the sound of it, someone inside as well.
He thought about standing up and that was enough to set his head spinning. Not an option right now. But that was fine. It would pass if he waited long enough. It always did.
The memories played back as he tried to piece together how he’d ended up here. The race. The changing room afterwards. Diego…
Shit. Diego. Johnny groaned. He’d fainted in front of Diego. This was something he would never live down, not until he managed to embarrass himself even worse. It was such a stupid mistake. He should have known his own limits. He shouldn’t be so weak.
It had only been a few days. Starving himself shouldn’t be this difficult. Everybody did it now and then; as a jockey it was the only way to meet weight limits sometimes. Only a few days and he’d passed out in front of Diego fucking Brando. Weak.
Johnny sat up and rubbed his head. It hurt, but that was no surprise. At this point, his whole body was screaming for food and he needed to push through that. It hurt, but he could handle pain.
The clattering stopped and was replaced by footsteps. Johnny wasn’t sure who to expect. Honestly, he was surprised he hadn’t woken up on the changing room floor. It wasn’t like he had anyone willing to drag his unconscious ass home and tuck him in. No, much more likely he’d made it to the hotel himself and then passed out again and forgotten about it. This was a maid, here to do a bit of cleaning or whatever maids did with their time.
And then Johnny saw who it was and… Well, nothing in the world would have prepared him for this shock. “Dio?!”
“Had a nice rest, Joestar?” Diego was holding a tray complete with two mugs and a large bowl, all steaming hot. It was like something out of a dream.
Johnny couldn’t stop staring. “What the fuck are you doing in my hotel room?”
“Your room?” Diego put the tray down on an endtable and pulled up a chair next to the bed. “You mean the one I paid for and have graciously allowed you to stay in?” There was something wrong with his tone, like it was a little too crisp.
“Yeah. That one.” Johnny didn’t believe any of that bullshit, but he was willing to play along if it got him some answers. “What’s going on here?”
“You passed out,” Diego said, reaching for the tray. He set it down on Johnny’s lap. “Here. I made you soup.”
Johnny eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Since when can you cook?”
“Not all of us grew up with servants.” There was a vulnerability in his eyes that Johnny didn’t recognize. “My mother taught me. And before you ask, no, it isn’t poisoned.”
“Like I’d trust you…” Johnny meant it, but also it really didn’t matter who had made the soup. He couldn’t afford any extra weight.
Diego took one of the mugs and held it in shaking hands. “Eat. There’s more if you want it.” He sipped at the tea and none of his usual sophistication was there, just a barely-hidden mess of anxiety.
“Are you worried about me?” It was the only thing that made sense, but it also seemed about as likely as hell freezing over.
“Of course I’m worried,” Diego snapped. “You fucking fainted, Johnny. I-“
“You what?” Johnny picked up the spoon and watched how Diego’s eyes followed.
“Just eat the goddam soup. I haven’t got all day.”
There was something Diego wouldn’t say, something important. Johnny was sure of it. “I don’t think I’m hungry. Maybe if you told me what you were about to say…”
“Shitty brat,” Diego muttered, and took a swig of his tea like he wished it was something much stronger. “It was nothing.”
Johnny put down the spoon. “Like I said. Not hungry.”
“Fine. I was scared. Happy now?”
“Uh huh.” Johnny swallowed a spoonful of soup and it felt like his whole body relaxed at once. It tasted good, but even more than that, he had been hungry. “What were you scared of?” The spoon rested on the tray again and his hand hovered over it. The game was set.
Diego rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, I’ll pour that down your throat if I have to.”
“Like I don’t know how to make myself vomit.” He was planning on doing it afterwards anyway. And pissing Diego off was fun.
“You’re a fucking child,” Diego said. “You know that, right?”
“I’m only a year younger. What’s that make you?” Johnny stuck out his tongue, but he picked up the spoon as well. “What were you scared of?”
“Losing you.”
The soup was just as delicious the second time, but Johnny barely noticed. Diego couldn’t mean that. He just couldn’t. No way.
He put the spoon down again and looked directly at Diego. “Why are you lying to me?”
Diego shook his head. “I’m not lying. Believe me, I wish I were.”
Johnny’s hand didn’t move. “I’m not stupid, Diego. You’re lying.”
“Is it really so hard to believe that I care about you?”
Yes. It was impossible to believe because it couldn’t be true. People didn’t care about Johnny. He’d learned to accept it by now. Even if it made him feel warm inside to hear Diego talk about it. That was just the soup.
“Johnny, I don’t want to lose you.” He certainly looked sincere, but that was Diego all over, so good at lying it was impossible to tell when it was the truth. Johnny shut his eyes. He was done with this, done with whatever game Diego wanted to play.
And then there was the press of lips against his and Johnny opened his eyes to see Diego, a sad smile on his face. He held up the spoon. “Please. Don’t scare me anymore.”
The warmth creeping through his body made the next mouthful of soup taste even better.