Chapter Text
A whole week after New Year’s, and the airport crowds remain unchanged. Jotaro stands in the middle of the arrivals floor of Los Angeles International, hands shoved in his pockets and his trademark hat pulled low over his eyes, and glares at the people that shove past him on their way to the exit. The back of his neck prickles every time one passes behind him, something deep within him desperately pinging threat, but he grits his teeth and ignores it as best he can. There’s nothing there, he tells himself sternly; Star would know if there were.
He checks his watch - not for the first time. The glowing numbers read 8:00. What time had the voicemail said? 7:30? Dammit.
Star stirs, sensing his irritation. His stand is anxious as well, simmering restlessly below the surface of his consciousness; he gets antsy in crowds, nowadays. They both do.
His fingers twitch, itching for a cigarette, and he distracts himself from the craving by busying himself by studying the screen of flights. He’d quit for good years ago, some time after Morioh, but the urge still creeps up on him at times.
He’s distracted from the screen by a commotion coming from the arrivals ramp, but a cursory glance from Star reveals no threats in the vicinity. He sighs, wishing once again that he was anywhere else but here, when he’s distracted once again - this time by a sharp pain in his lower legs and a call of “Jojoooooo - !” as a heavy weight barrels into his chest.
He freezes, arms coming up instinctively to throw the attacker off, but Star hasn’t registered the other person as a threat. In fact, he almost feels...excited?
A cursory glance down reveals a familiar block of silver hair, and Jotaro finally allows himself to relax into the embrace. After four years of radio silence, he almost hadn’t allowed himself to believe the voicemail - from an unknown number with an area code somewhere in rural Italy - was real; it’s not until now, his old friend back in his arms and Star buzzing happily at the familiar soul, that he closes his eyes and allows himself to hope.
It’s clear to him though, even without looking at him, that Italy has not been kind to Polnareff. Polnareff before Egypt had been larger than life, from his laugh to his build to his stupid hair. Polnareff after Egypt had begun to slim over the years, for reasons Jotaro doesn’t particularly want to think about himself, but on their missions across Europe he’d still been his old, loud, overly-bulky self. He’s kept the hair, but Jotaro can tell from the feeling in his arms that Polnareff has lost a great deal of weight in Italy, so he clutches him closer - in apology or denial, he can’t say - and steels himself in preparation for what he’s allowed to happen to his friend in his absence.
It’s Polnareff that pulls away first, and even with all his preparation, Jotaro can’t help the flinch that passes through his body at the sight of him. A sheer lace eyepatch does nothing to hide the cloudy white pallor of the other man’s eye, or the jagged scar that bisects his right cheek. He leans heavier in his arms than he used to, and a glance downwards confirms his suspicions - two gleaming prosthetics stand where Polnareff’s legs used to.
Polnareff notices - of course he does, how could he not - but says nothing, choosing instead to needle Jotaro over his academic achievements. Jotaro figures he ought to join in, make it clear to him that his opinion of him hasn’t been affected in any way, but all he can do is stare. He keeps staring as Polnareff’s chattering trails off, leaving the two of them standing there in awkward silence.
The tension is finally broken when one of Polnareff’s prosthetics wobbles precariously. Jotaro rushes forward in a panic, prepared to catch him if he loses his balance, but Polnareff simply waves him off with a laugh as he goes to collect his chair from where it ricocheted to after colliding with Jotaro’s shins. He doesn’t meet Jotaro’s eyes as he wheels his way back over, and Jotaro can’t take it anymore.
“What happened to you?” Jotaro blurts, and immediately wishes he hadn’t when Polnareff’s smile slips from his face. “Ah, you don’t - I shouldn’t have - “
“No, you’re right,” Polnareff sighs, still not meeting his eyes. “You deserve to know. I shouldn’t have just - dropped in on you, like this.” He gives a little laugh that’s obviously forced, and Jotaro feels like just about the worst person ever. “But, Jojo, maybe here’s not the best place?”
It’s true; the crowded airport has not grown any less crowded over the course of their reunion, and the two of them draw more than a few eyes from the crowd as they stand there like a pair of idiots. Jotaro gives them one of his patented glares and they quickly hurry away, but Polnareff is right. It’s not a story to be told in public.
“Let’s go then,” he says, straightening up, then hesitates. “Um. Should I - “
He doesn’t expect Polnareff to laugh out loud at that. “Still so damned awkward, Jojo,” the other man snickers, reaching up the jam his hat down on his head. “But yeah, actually, you mind pushing me? Tired out my arms getting to you, and Chariot - “ Jotaro doesn’t miss the beat of hesitation after he mentions his stand. “ - Chariot might be too conspicuous, anyways.”
Jotaro readjusts his hat with a scowl, but doesn’t say anything as he takes the handlebars and starts towards his car. Polnareff chatters as they walk, a steady stream of anecdotes about Italy - the pastries he had from that one bakery in Naples, the sunset over Rome as seen from the Colosseum - and Jotaro allows himself to relax as the words wash over him, basking in the familiarity of it all. Fuck, but he’s missed Polnareff.
The weather outside isn’t news to Jotaro - you see one LA winter and you’ve seen then all - but Polnareff gasps a little at the cold once they leave the warmth of the airport interior. “Jeez!” He laughs, rubbing at his exposed arms, “I thought this was supposed to be a desert!”
Jotaro fights the smile that threatens to overtake his face, settling for rolling his eyes instead. “Good grief,” he grumbles, “that’s what you said in Egypt too.”
“Shut up!” Polnareff swats half-heartedly at him before sinking down in his seat. Jotaro can’t see his face from this angle, but he can tell from his body language that the other man is pouting. It’s endearing, really, he thinks as he shrugs out of his coat and drops it on the other man, allowing himself a smirk at the indignant squawk and offended flailing he receives in response.
---
The rest of the walk across the street to the parking structure passes without incident. Polnareff settles back into his chattering with much enthusiasm, and Jotaro feigns attention to the best of his ability, humming along at what he thinks are the appropriate times. The elevator proves to be somewhat of an issue - Jotaro had parked on the third floor, not thinking much of it at the time, but between his bulk and Polnareff’s chair he imagines the tiny metal box is hitting its limit. Still, the two manage somehow, and before long they find themselves in front of Jotaro’s car.
“What. Is. That.”
There is nothing wrong with Jotaro’s car. Jotaro’s car - a squat four-door hybrid painted an inoffensive white - is fuel-efficient, good for the environment, and allowed to drive in the carpool lane even when he is alone, as he usually is nowadays. He tells all this to Polnareff (except for that last part, he doesn’t want his best friend knowing that), who simply bursts out laughing.
“You!” He manages to get out between peals of laughter, “You drive! A Prius! Oh my god Jojo, I always knew you were a nerd, but come on - “
“Shut up,” Jotaro growls, pulling his hat down on his face to hide his flush. “I’m leaving you here, you asshole. You can wheel yourself home, see if I care.”
Polnareff just keeps laughing, booming gasps of laughter that echo off the walls, and under his outward annoyance something unwinds in Jotaro. It’s a familiar laugh, that laugh - the kind shared over campfires in Arabia, in tea shops in Cairo, in a tiny rowboat on the west Pacific.
They’ve changed, the both of them, but that laugh remains the same.