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In the times when he's lucid enough to be self-aware, he finds it equal parts hilarious and sad how easy it is to slip back into mindless little routines that he once possessed, back when he was younger, back when he was alive.
He can remember, at times, his life before all of this. He can remember how he displayed these bad habits to the world, remember how his father would always scold him for fidgeting, for tapping his fingers against the table, his desk, any flat surface he could get his hands on, told him that patience was important and that such habits were unmannerly.
He finds himself sitting in an old abandoned study in the mansion. Not his study of course, he isn't allowed things to himself anymore, but the room is a nice place nevertheless. A dusty old hideout shuffled away in some far corner of the building, where no one really thinks to stray. Well, no one but him. It's not as if he's able to do anything else, really.
Today is one of those days in which he isn't really... alright, mentally. He remembers basic things, like who he is, why he's here, he can even remember what the hell is going on with his body, although he wishes he couldn't. But he can't quite recall how he got to this room, exactly, nor how he came to be sitting at the desk, fidgeting as if he were waiting for something, for someone to speak up. But in the end it doesn't really matter, he thinks, as his fingers go tap-tap-tap against the hard wood surface.
(He's safe here. Only here and nowhere else.)
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When he was a child, he hummed under his breath, constantly. Half the time he didn't even realise he was doing it. Mostly nonsensical tunes, but he always looped back to some wordless melody that he could never recall hearing. Another mindless little habit he had picked up throughout his life.
One day, when he was so young that he wouldn't remember it now even if he wasn't the way he currently was, his father found him squirreled away in his room, scared and humming to himself.
It was after a thunderstorm, his room constantly lit up by the flashes and rumbling cracks rolling in the heavens, his father came in to check on him and found him curled up in the corner furthest from the window, duvet wrapped around him like it was some sort of protective shield from the crashing and booming of the outside world.
When his father heard him hum his wordless little melody, he seemed perturbed. As if he was conflicted about whether to stop him or not. His father told him that the song that he always had on the tip of his tongue, the song that always calmed him down, was something his mother used to sing to him before she died.
He can't remember that time, practically impossible for him to do so now, but sometimes, when he can't remember who he is or how he got there, or what is wrong with his body, he always starts humming, to ground himself before he can hurt himself clawing at his stitches. Hurt himself too badly, at least.
(Not his body, none of it is but it's not like he has one left anymore, now is it? It was t̶a̶k̶e̶n̶ ̶b̶y̶ given up to Lord Dio-)
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On the rare day that he's completely lucid, he holes himself up somewhere hidden and mourns. Tears streaming down his face, if he can manage them, he finds it pathetic, what he's been reduced to. He looks at the stitches lining his patchwork body, looks at his arms and his legs and feels the worst ones around his neck and he wonders, how many people died so that he could be this way? (How many slices of bread have you eaten in your life?)
He's read Frankenstein, did a project on the book when he was younger, for school purposes, and he found it terribly fascinating. He recalls his childhood fascination, and doesn't find it nearly as entertaining now that he no longer has the viewpoint of an impartial observer, now that he knows first-hand what it feels like to be such a creature.
He knows that it would be easy for Dio to just kill him. Not end his life, as he had already done far too long ago. Nor to end his life in a more permanent sense, as he constantly longs to do to himself in these lucid moments, finding himself unable to move when he tries to go through with it, no. It would be easy for Dio to kill him. End his personality. He knows these lucid moments, moments that he can remember everything that was done to him, and everything he did to Dio in turn, are something that Dio allows. He knows that he couldn't delude himself into thinking that this was some act of rebellion, some form of defiance, because it wasn't. This was Dio wanting him to remember, this was Dio wanting him to suffer. He wants to hate Dio, forget 'feeling warm' about him as he did on that boat all those years ago, he wants so badly to loathe him.
(But he can't.)
(Instead, he loathes himself for all he has done to act against his Lord.)
(He hates himself for hating himself, but he cannot do anything about it)
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It goes like this.
Two brothers, (not really related, and never really brothers in any sense of the word, far to much animosity for that) are bound together by fate. So, they play a little game. The first descends and becomes a monster and the second strives to defeat him and help all he can along the way.
The first feels many things towards the second, the purest hatred, sheer amusement, a slight touch of fondness, although he would stomp it out of himself should he ever become aware of it. The second feels many things towards the first, anger, sorrow, a slight touch of fondness, a fondness that he is aware of, one he tries to keep to remind himself of better days.
In this little game, the first wants to win.
In this little game, the second has to win.
In this little game, the first wants a trophy.
In this little game, he gets it.
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"My Lord," speaks a voice from the shadows, bowed low towards two figures, one sitting on a garish-yet-tasteful-somehow throne, one standing imposingly at the side, just a step or two behind the throne, "the two targets are currently enroute to this location. Stand users, hired and controlled alike have been dispatched to face them."
"Good," purrs a regal voice, "you may leave to attend to your other duties."
The original voice dips slightly lower in their bow before turning and moving away from the throne, the solid wooden doors close behind them with a clunk of finality.
A second passes.
Two.
The man lounging on the throne holds out one of his hands to the side; not even deigning to open his eyes from the half-lidded gaze they've taken on. The man standing behind the throne is stock still, rigid, seemingly unmoving to the world.
Dio sighs, and then smiles slightly, as he did not miss the minute flinch that came from the man behind him when he did so. "You know," he says, careless grin on his face, aura akin to a wild cat stalking its prey, playing with it, "things would be so much easier if you simply did what you were told, pet. Now," he moved his outstretched hand in a beckoning, mocking manner, "kneel."
The man standing behind his throne collapses as if he were a puppet with its strings cut, he falls to his knees and his chin lands gently in Dio's hand, a great contrast to how the rest of him practically tumbled to the floor. He doesn't cry, but he wishes dearly that he could.
"There, now," Dio speaks lifting his hand and turning his head oh-so slightly so that he can clearly see into the eyes of his sworn enemy, his greatest accomplishment, his most loyal pet. He runs his fingers through the other's hair and they gasp slightly as they lean into the touch. "Isn't that better, Jonathan?"
The broken man that is Jonathan Joestar looks into the eyes of (a̶ ̶m̶o̶n̶s̶t̶e̶r̶,̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶e̶n̶e̶m̶y̶ his world his Lord his everything) and feels nothing but (s̶h̶a̶m̶e̶ ̶r̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶h̶o̶p̶e̶l̶e̶s̶s̶n̶e̶s̶s̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶p̶a̶i̶r̶ love).