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He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
Jotaro was tending to Josuke, and the rest of the Morioh gang were congratulating themselves on a job well done. Kira was dead, and she was gone.
This hadn’t been entirely unexpected, when the apparition of a girl had started holding his hand smiling sweetly, it had been unspoken knowledge between the two of them that this is what it would come to.
It was then he’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
Rohan had excused himself from the fire sirens and swarms of people, skulking between the confused crowds, intent on heading for the sanctity of his home.
He felt fine, physically, for a man who had just died half a dozen times, he hadn’t a scratch on him. The mangaka recalled a clumsy moment from his youth when he’d stumbled and fell, grazing his knees profusely, crimson liquid ruining a pair of trousers. She’d been there to tend the wound and fuss over him, he hadn’t cried at the time.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
In his half daze he’d made it to his front door. His key was slipping into the brass lock, turning, Rohan watched the mundane activity his body functioning on some kind of auto pilot, his mind absent.
After he stepped inside and the heavy door clicked behind him, the artist dropped to his knees.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
He had half a mind to call Heavens Door and scrawl ROHAN KISHIBE WILL NOT CRY in big ugly characters across his forehead. He even thought of settling for scratching it into his arm with an ink pen, but his desk was too far away and his mind not collected enough to call his stand. He stayed where he was knelt, trying to put a name to the feeling clawing through his body.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
He thought about her. Her insistence to watch him draw commenting on what she liked, her irritating habit of floating just a little bit higher than him so he’d have to crane his neck to talk to her, her completely un-endearing grin, the stupid way she cocked her head, the small blush that spread across her face when he’d said she could stay with him, the way she’d nervously look at him after they’d shared their first kiss, ethereal to the touch…
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
Rohan pulled at his hair in frustration gripping tight to large handfuls trying to think of anything else, he knocked his headband loose the green accessory falling around his neck. He breathed in deep then bit his tongue to stifle a sob.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
The shy looks she’d given him when Rohan had pinned her underneath him, the cool spiritual feel to her form. The feeling of kissing someone who was there, but also wasn’t, it had been not unlike that of a stand he had recalled, remembering the way her body arched under his touch. The way her brown hair looked splayed on the pillow, the brightness to her eyes.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
The playful expression on her face as she’d pounced on him.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
The remorseful look as she’d shown him the scars left by her murder.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
The bashful look as he’d kissed each one slowly, holding her close.
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry.
The tears were warm as they washed down his face, he let out a haggard breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and let out an ugly sob. Unhindered the tears flowed freely and Rohan wrapped his arms around his body feeling sick with himself. He could taste the saltwater as they rolled over his lips and heard the small thunk as they hit the wooden floor beneath him.
“Reimi…” he cried out her name beneath his breath, another strangled sob accompanying it. He hadn’t cried at all the first time she’d left him, and he wondered bitterly now if he was making up for it.