Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hi there!

Thank you for taking the time to read my fic (or should I say the author’s note first?) – this is my first time posting my writing online so please go easy on me.

This fic revolves around the game The 7th Stand User, it’s a free fangame set during the Stardust Crusaders story where you the player join on their journey to defeat Dio and also has an original story tied to it alongside with 18 different endings. A huge amount of care was put into developing into this game and I highly recommend you play the game if you’re interested. Really, it’s great.

That said this fic will obviously contain spoilers for the game and cannon part 3 (characters from other parts of JoJo are also present in the game). It will contain some spoilers for part 4 and most likely part 5 and 6 as well. Some aspects of the game Persona/Shin Megami Tensei will probably referenced as well. I will probably provide context/spoilers in the end notes as well.

I haven’t finished playing the entire game yet and this game is massive. Players are given a Stand from the 18 available based on a personality test and there are multiple paths to take in the story. I will probably update the writings if I end up discovering things that are contradicting. The story will basically be based on my current playthrough of the game, the TvTropes page for this game and my interpretations/headcannons for some of the events in the game.

There is no plot to the story (sort of). To be honest this is simply some self-indulgent writing and I was sad there wasn’t a lot of fanfiction related to this game. This story will be mostly heavy on angst and more on friendship than romance. It involves time repeating itself over and over and the consequences it has on you, the player.

(The game takes place during the summer holiday rather than November like in the anime/manga)

So yeah, that was last year. I stopped writing in August.

And then last month I decided to pick up writing for this series again.

I'm currently rewriting what I currently have so far - I think the chapters before 'The Hermit and The Player' chapter will be placed in their appropriate future chapters which I have not fully written out yet.

As of the May 2021, I have rewritten Joseph's and Avdol's chapter which were initially posted in 2020. The chapters before those two will be eventually deleted and will most likely reworked into their respective future chapters. Polnareff's chapter has been drafted and will be the next chapter to be released in 2021.

Originally the chapters were structured by the different stands. I'm not doing that anymore. You might have guessed what they'll be structured as instead.

I intended for what number time loop the MC is to be ambiguous throughout the story but if I'm being honest, the chapters can be read in any order. 

I haven't been able try much of chaos mode out but I will definitely be writing about that. This is a time loop story after all :D  

Chapter Text

IX 

An old man who stands alone on the peaks of the mountains. He travels with only the clothes on his back, his staff and his lantern containing a six-pointed star to reveal the narrow paths he must trek along under the night sky.

AN EXCERPT FROM [REDACTED] NEWSPAPER ARTICLE [REDACTED] :

On ██ ████ ████, firefighters were called to ███████ ███████████ where a fire had broken out inside a family home. Neighbours of the vicinity had reported hearing the sound of an explosion occurring before witnessing the outbreak of the fire which had led to the call being made. 

 

The incident resulted in the tragic deaths of the house owner and a student bystander. The student at that time had been attending █████████ ███████ high school situated within the local area and had happened to be caught in the impact of the occurrence.

 

Police have yet to determine the cause of the explosion but have speculated that the incident is most likely an unfortunate accident and not a sign of concern. 

 

If there is anyone with further information concerning the incident please contact ████████████.

Joseph learns his grandson was not the only one to have gained a Stand.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Joestar, I’m Jotaro’s classmate.”

The first thing Joseph thinks is that you are a scrawny kid, clothes disheveled, hair tousled into a mess and it’s hard to believe you came out fresh from a won fight. Your face is smudged with a streak of a nosebleed and when you peer up at him with eyes as nervous as the laugh you let out, an apology of your appearance on hand, it’s equally hard to believe in the possibility that you could be one of DIO’s followers.

And as it turns out, you end up being rather reliable. If Joseph didn’t have eyes, he would’ve thought you were the older one rather than someone like Polnareff. Plus, you laugh at his silly little puns when no one else does, eventually joining in with ones even more awful than his, all the while giggling hysterically at the looks of disgust from the others.

Naturally, much to his chagrin, he gets the full brunt of the blame that led up to all of this.

It’s when they arrive at the harbor to wait for the charter ship that’ll take them to Singapore does Joseph ask your reasons to fight alongside them and you go quiet, the food in your hand gone forgotten while you stare off to the far distance.

After a moment of silence you decide you owe too much to the older man to lie to him. At the very least you can answer him truthfully. 

“So I can live.”

The answer given was short. Simple. Yet honest. And what comes out next is said in a small voice, as if it were a shameful thing to admit. 

“I don’t want to die - that’s honestly why I’m here.” You say in your confession, “If stopping DIO means I get to live, then I’ll do it.”

You think of others, alongside with their reasons.

Redemption. Revenge. Righteousness.

Love.

Was it wrong wanting to live?

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When you tear your eyes away from the sea, looking back at him to ask him, aren’t you scared of dying too, Mr. Joestar? he thinks back to the constant running, the constant thinking and the constant surviving .

“Of course I’m scared of dying.”

He wonders whether all of today’s youths are fixated on the possibility of dying at such a young age.

“It’s good to be scared – I’d be worried if you said you weren’t,” he says with a shake of his head, “Fear makes you realize the things that are important to you.”

(Was he like that at that age? It’s getting a bit harder to remember back then.)

“Besides, if you ever do feel like you’re in danger, I want you to run – I don’t want you throwing your life away.”

And then there’s the flash of something unreadable in your eyes, disappearing as quickly as the sudden breeze passing by, but traces of it still linger in your words and Joseph hears the strange tiredness in your voice, unable to discern why you suddenly sound so aged . 

“That’s the thing, Mr. Joestar, I’m scared of dying and I’m scared of others dying.”

The familiar light crackles in your hands, lighting up the dark alleyway with a harsh yellow and Joseph watches as it bristles, spitting violent sparks around its user’s trembling arms.

He puts a hold on the current questions running on his mind and instead he chooses to place a hand on your shoulder. Joseph gives what he hopes is both a comforting and anchoring squeeze.

But the haunted look you give him as you turned to look at him when he called your name is all too familiar.

“He was already gone – you couldn’t save him.”

Too young, Joseph thinks, for both of them.

“There’ll be time to mourn later – I have a feeling whoever did this is still around here. We need to be careful.” 

“You don’t belong in this world - you should’ve never existed.”

The woman hisses as she staggers back from your onslaught. She points an accusatory finger at you with a hate-filled glare, giving you one final warning before fleeing.

“If you don’t stop, I will kill you to make things right again.”

Joseph recognizes that distinct scar from anywhere.

But it’s the man the scar belongs to he isn’t so sure about.

Impossible is the first word that comes to his mind when he’s processing what he’s seeing. And then he remembers, he’s fought what was considered to be the Ultimate Lifeform as well as several other Gods - and won. He won and survived the ordeal when he was so sure he was a kiss away from death which lead him to be painfully reminded he’s now sixty eight, on a trip with a bunch of youngsters, to kill a 120 year-old vampire that decided Egypt, one of the sunniest places to be, was the best hiding location of all places.

He’s sure that this must be the work of an enemy Stand user – they must’ve gotten a hold of one of Grandma Erina’s photos - somehow – that’s the only explanation he can come up with, and it’s a good enough excuse to beat someone right now.

Instead of his usual grey hair, it was blonde, wild and a mess, the complete opposite to his orderly maintained appearance Joseph had grown up being accustomed to. He was a younger version. Standing tall and stronger without a cane. Without a hunched back.

He talks with youthful vigor besides you, making grand erratic hand movements to go along with his loud words.

Irony is what replaces his first word.

But, “Uncle Speedwagon,” are the first words that come out of his mouth without him realizing it.

In the end, Joseph comes down to two possibilities:

Time travelling.

Resurrection of the dead.

It’s painful to be given a glimmer of hope after being given half a century to accept and move on and he knows neither possibility will ever be able to reverse his stupid, stupid mistake he made on that sunny day.

And still, Joseph wishes, wishes so terribly, to see him once more again.

At this point, anything’s possible, right?

Speedwagon handles the explanation of being possibly long dead surprisingly well despite it all – possibly due to the fact he’s still in awe from the fact his older self is a rich businessman, a complete 180 to his current self.

Or maybe it’s the fact he sees this as another chance given to him to redeem himself for leaving Jonathon alone on that innocent sunny day.

“Sorry about thinking you were a zombie – the entire place was crawling with them!” he says while shaking your hand one last time before his departure and you laugh from the recollection of his panicked state.

“Don’t worry about it – I would’ve freaked out too if I was in your place.”

It’s at that point that the thought crosses Joseph’s mind and he voices it out loud.

“Hang on, there weren’t any stairs leading down to the under bridge – how did you even find him there in the first place?”

Your response is too casual, “Oh, I fell off the bridge by accident - you know how it is.”

No,  Joseph does not know how it is and he begins reprimanding you on your lack of concern on your own wellbeing.

(Though something tells him it’s something he would’ve naturally done when he was younger – though of course, he’s not going to tell you that.)

He is reminded again by the sight of blood and debris that no matter how reliable you may be, you are still too young, and that you still have a whole life ahead of you, and that you too have a family waiting at home. And though Joseph was not given a choice at that time, the least he can do is give you one, because in the end, you were just an innocent bystander roped into something unrelated to you. 

“You can choose to go home if you want - no one will blame you,” he tells you once the doctors have left, “The Speedwagon Foundation will pay for your flight home as well as the rest of your treatment if you decide to do so.”

(And when you were lying in your own blood, your eyes cracked open, he was too relieved to fully catch the flicker of weariness splattered across your face.)

Your head could only turn marginally, giving up with the attempt to turn to him once the pain started crawling towards your spine again and instead your eyes settled with boring holes into the sterile white ceiling. 

(You do not remember when you started despising the colour white - only remembering the feeling of hating .) 

“I want to go home.”

And true to Joseph’s words, he does not blame you, only accepting your decision without animosity.

Except you never make it home. None of you do. 

Because the Universe drowned in white once again.

The yellow sparkles dance along your fingertips and you grin, catching the bubbles without popping them, much to the little boy’s obvious awe.

“Mr. Joestar, look!” Excitement and glee bounces off you in waves and suddenly you are years younger, “I think I’m getting the hang of Hamon!”

But when you turn to show him your neat trick, for a moment, he sees him instead of you. A face blurred by the sun, leaving only a grin to be distinguishable. Joseph watches the light reflecting off the familiar messy locks, seemingly radiating a golden like glow and the surrounding bubbles gleaming just as brightly.

“Mr. Joestar?”

He shakes out his stupor and guffaws loudly, “You should try holding a cup with water upside down next.”

There’s a gasp and Joseph grins, “No way, is that even possible?”

“Of course! It was easy when I did it!”

It wasn’t but he enjoys your looks of amazement you give when his poor grandson won’t even bat an eye at his grand stories.

And from the corner of his eye, there’s the sight of you rubbing your hands, the mischievous mutter of I can’t wait to freak Polnareff out with this and Joseph takes the moment to make his decision.

Wait a little longer, Caesar. He can’t leave them alone just yet.

It happened the first time you decided to hide the scar running across your forehead - a branding to remind you of your decision whenever you look into a mirror by accident. 

The bandanna lying forgotten in your bag ended up weighing heavier than you had meant it to be the moment you decided to tie it around your head because when Joseph turns around, he will look as if he has been struck and it’s then do you realize.

You had not meant to return as a living ghost.

A laugh bubbles from your throat and you watch out of amusement as Joseph storms off in a loud huff, grumbling something about being scammed out of his honest money from a sham of a fortune teller.

You turn back around, only to face the very same fortune teller.

The man in front of you eyes the bill of money you slide towards him.

“I don’t want my fortune told,” you say, “I just want to know something. My friend is looking for somebody - do you think he’ll find them?” 

He keeps the thought that you are a strange foreigner to himself.

“Sorry to disappoint you but fortune telling doesn’t work that way,” the man tells you while peering into the glass ball and you follow along his stare just the same, patiently waiting for the temporary silence to be broken.

And when it does, your eye twitches almost minisculely and it remains unnoticed.

“You keep taking and taking to the point you’re slowly forgetting what came first - do you still remember who you used to be?”

But your face will go blank for longer, to the point the man in front of you starts to shift slightly in his seat so you recover quickly to hum, making a show out of your contemplation.

“I’m really sorry,” a sheepish laugh rings out and you rub your neck, “I don’t really understand what you mean…”

The fortune teller begins to relax once again, but Joseph reappears in time to suddenly drag you away, all the while urging you there are better places to explore than wasting your time listening to a con artist spouting nonsense and he glares daggers at the poor man.

“Mr. Joestar, I think I’ve just been scammed too!”

“The person you’ve been looking for…what are they like?”

A question tentatively asked, but it’s one that makes him stop walking regardless and Joseph turns around to meet your probing stare.

The delay in a response shifts your vision to the ground and you resist the urge to kick up dust, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

After several more seconds Joseph finally releases a frustrated sigh and scratches his beard. He had thought he had been discreet enough in his search but he gives up, opting to resign to your observations instead.

“He’s – was a hero. A pain in the ass. But he was a decent guy -” the older man began begrudgingly, “- there was no gain to it - but he was always helping me out - right to the very end...”

And when he has finished reminiscing, so will you have finished in making your decision because you look up again with a gentle smile.

“I hope you'll be able to find him,” you tell him as sincerely as you possibly can, “And also, I may be young, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m always here for you, Mr. Joestar.”

(It is the least you can do, after all.)

But Joseph thinks you are too kind and he is a bit flustered by the words of a youngster. So he snorts obnoxiously, swinging a heavy arm around your shoulder. There is a loud yelp from you as you’re placed into a headlock and he ignores your protest when he ruffles your hair, all the while laughing as he shakes his head.

“Aw geez, didn’t take you as the sappy type!”

It’s at night when you’re lounging across the window sill, staring absentmindedly down at the streets of Cairo does Joseph start to notice the strange look residing your eyes growing more apparent and there’s the thought it is the same one as the time the two of you decided to explore the ruins in Aswan.

(He had not meant to snap as harshly at you to pull you out of your stupor but he also did not want you or him to be crushed and buried by falling rubble. 

And after you have finally escaped your intended coffin do you stare at the debris for too long that it becomes concerning, leaving him to ask you if that woman was someone you knew.

“No,” you say simply, still keeping your eyes on the rocks, almost as if you believed she would start climbing out, “I don’t know who she is.”)

“Hey, kid,” Joseph calls out to you as he walks into the lobby, “You doing alright there? You don’t look so good.”

He watches as whatever was unreadable vanishes from your eyes when you turn to look at him. There’s a delay before a wide yawn leaves your mouth and Joseph shakes his head, a snort leaving his nose and he dismisses the thoughts.

“I guess I am a bit tired,” you confess all of a sudden, sliding off the makeshift seat you had been occupying moments before to stretch your limbs, “I think I’ll go to bed early this time.”

Every now and again, when Joseph is too alone in his thoughts, does he like to think if he had been calmer, was as smart as he was now, would he have been able to stop him . 

But you prove him wrong and he realizes this too late.

“Goodnight Mr. Joestar,” you say quietly while not looking directly at him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Vins is not the only one to curse your name. Oh, the longing wish of you, a pest , an uninvited guest, to be once more erased from existence, is a mutual wish shared by another.

You don’t belong here.

As it turned out, you were never an Apostle of Fate and Fate has never appreciated your insolence. A filthy , ungrateful traitor you are. Far too arrogant for your own good. Just who do you think you are, rejecting the role you were meant to play? How dare you play God and rewrite destiny to suit your whims! 

Keep touching what was never yours to begin with and it won’t be just your greedy little fingers that’ll be ripped off next because the audacity of your defiance has warranted you your own death - even if you must be chased to the ends of The World.

It’s very fortunate that a certain someone has your back though.

However it will do you well to avoid the footsteps of Icarus . You may have wings now, but it doesn’t mean you're untouchable and there’s not only the sun to be mindful of. There are other things out there - things Icarus did not have to face but you will who are much too eager to let you plummet to the earths.

You should be careful as well to not have too many encores - else you might just start even believing in your own fabricated delusions. Because if you keep using yourself to fuel your resolve, that tenacity of yours will only eat you alive, leaving only your husk behind, and you’ll wish you had just chosen to escape the first time round.

(Do you ever regret biting the bullet - or would you do it all again?)

They will kill you.

But first, they must catch you.

Streetlights loom over the car, shining sickly yellow light down onto its passengers as they make their way to their final destination.

The blonde-man sitting beside you fills the heavy silence with his grumbles and there is the sound of weak laughter filling the air when you make out the words he mutters out of irritation.

“…didn’t think he’d end up growing up to be such a miserable old fart. He slacks off training the second I turn my back and now he can’t even defeat one vampire? For shame!”

Outside the windows, you can see the shopkeepers from a distance packing up their stores and calling it a night after a long day.

It’s when you glance at the rear mirror does the driver finally avert his gaze and you sigh, resuming to look out at the window once again.

“He doesn’t know I’m doing this,” you tell him while keeping your eyes glued to the scenery. The grumbling stopped immediately.

You pay no mind to his reflection stiffening.

(There was only so much time left until they all woke up and discovered the substitute in your bed.)

Instead you continued on, “He misses you - a lot – kept looking for you ever since we left India.”

At first, the man said nothing and he resorted to staring out from his window as well.

“How old are you, kid?”

“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen tomorrow.”

He drew a sharp breath in.

“Happy birthday for tomorrow then.”

A stillness from you.

A pause from him.

And then, almost hesitantly, a request.

“…Tomorrow…could you – for me – tell him I’m sorry?”

It’s then do you finally turn away from the window to face him that he almost draws back from those unwavering eyes and confident grin.

“You can do that yourself once we’re done with this. Consider it my birthday present!”

(For a moment, he sees him instead of you.)

He snorts, rolls his eyes.

“Sure. Whatever.”

The car stopped moving, having reached their destination.

Before he left for Egypt, he had only one grandchild.

During the journey, he gained several more.

But he’d always come home with at least one missing.

In his dream, time has finally caught up to him and you are older. Taller as well, he notes with mirth while holding steadily on to his cane.

Joseph peers up to meet your stare.

You don’t smile as much as you did when you were younger anymore.

“Oh my, you’ve grown – almost as tall as Jotaro now!” 

You smile at his remark.

The smiles you give him are always sad now.

“Let’s have some tea and catch up, shall we?”

A wordless nod from you and suddenly he finds himself in a hotel room with you sitting on the other side of the table. Two freshly brewed cups of tea placed neatly on the table.

One in front of him.

One in front of you.

There was the sound of rain against the windows and he watched the words spill.

“How did you do it, Mr. Joestar? How did you and Jotaro move on?”

The clock ticks against the rainfall.

“Knowing I’m alive, from the help of friends – that’s enough of a reason for me to move forwards,” he tells you as he picks up the cup, “Those memories will hurt but it’ll fade and it won’t be so painful anymore, so just wait patiently, okay?”

“Wait for me, Caesar. I’ll tell you all of my stories once I see you again!”

“Idiot. Course I’ll be waiting.”

“The others would be sad to see you like this.”

The rainfall stopped.

You release a shaky breath, “I’m sorry,” so sorry , and you bow your head as low as you can, digging your fingers into your lap, “I don’t think I can accept this way just yet.”

He nods, watching the white seep into the room, “That’s okay as well. I don’t mind waiting a little longer…I got to say goodbye thanks to you.”

The last thing he sees before the room shatters into fragments is you lifting your head to reveal the once younger you.

“Thank you.”

JOSEPH END

Chapter Text

I

The Magus is a bridge, acting as the connection between heaven and earth. Should you pay a visit to his garden of roses, you’ll find the resourceful man and his abundant tools, forging his own path to walk on.

The first guest was always never an amusing man. 

He was too calm, too accepting, too boring .

As such, the only words they would ever exchange to the man was a cheery “welcome back!” except each time he would only nod as his response. He did not, much to their disappointment, bother with the thought to entertain. In fact, he showed not even the slightest interest in the door behind them nor did he have any interest in any of the doors. Again, it was disappointing. 

He was aware and instead, he chose to wait.

Still, there was no harm in giving it another go.

“It must be such a terrible shame that you weren’t picked this time.”

They drawl out a musing, stitched alongside with a smile purposely left to fester in the air and again, the man continued to remain mute. But that was all fine because the faint flicker of emotion running across his face was caught and the smile grew bigger.

They had their fun and he was free to wander wherever he wished so he navigated past the wailings, paying no mind to the others and found himself a quiet corner to settle on. 

As he began his waiting, he also began to think of his last moments.

He thought with much guilt of being the cause of your terrified expression.

He thought of your desperate grip on his hand when you had reached to him in those last moments, right before the void had swallowed him whole.

(And he will never know of those seconds afterwards where you had continued to cling onto his limp severed limb, where your sense of reality had yet to catch up to time)

So Avdol waited, hoping there would not be others to wait with him.

The Sanctuary is cold and the memories are clear now.

When you try the door you know won’t open anymore, you hear a chortle, high-pitched and raspy, from behind you, too loud and too clear for your comfort slithering along your spine. You know that if you turn around now you’ll find no one there and you’ll find them still standing in the same spot where you last saw them.

So you decide to let your feet do the wandering while you tune out the wails, going blind to a gouging stare, suddenly deaf to the empty, mocking words “good work out there”.

When you find yourself standing at the edge of a river the air in your lungs will be beaten out of you and the ground will heave under.

From the other side of the river Avdol looked just as surprised though he quickly replaced it with a much kinder smile. 

The man gave a friendly wave that was left unreturned. 

He spoke as if years had passed and as if the two of you had by chance ran into one another in some random street on one random day. 

He always had the strangest sense of humor. You almost laughed.

“Oh! Funny seeing you here! Did we defeat DIO?”

You could only nod.

He hummed. Then patted the spot beside him.

Slowly, painfully, you made your way to where he currently sat. Your legs shook as you dragged one foot after the other over the bridge while you gripped onto the railings.

“Are Mr. Joestar and the others alright?”

There was another nod.

What followed was a heavy sigh of relief.

When you sat down, neither of you spoke for a while with only the sound of the running river providing solace. Avdol glanced down at your blurred reflection distorted by its fleeting movements, and then to you, who only looked ahead.

“Think nothing of my death,” you heard him say, “I don’t regret the decision at all.”

You decide then to finally open your mouth.

“Polnareff was really mad you know – said you were a massive hypocrite.”

A sheepish laugh, “Ah, was he now?”

It was quiet again, but only for several moments this time, and then he spoke again, softer and much more wistful.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our promise.”

And then you finally looked at him.

“You idiot…” Bitter grief bled into your whisper, “Is that really an issue right now?”

He looked away and so did you.

“No, I suppose not.”

Sometimes you dream of a life long forgotten and forever erased. 

It begins with two people who you will one day learn of their identities (but only if you are able to remember long enough when you aren’t sleeping). For now however, they are both much younger than you would normally recognise as. 

The dream always begins in a foreign land. A foreign shop. And a foreign child. 

“Where are your parents?” The boy who was barely an adult would ask as the cicadas chirped in the background and much to his dismay the child does not respond so he resorts to playing house with a pack of old cards, crumpled from the weight of time and a set of teacups until there is news of a missing child being sought. 

And the boy would always eye the same card that would always be held in the child’s hand.

(And in the child’s small hands, each card would surely become bigger.)

“Did you know,” he would always say before he was interrupted, “That card is a sign that success will surely come to you?”

But the dream would always end with the shrill scream of cicadas. 

And you would always forget the scent of freshly brewed tea, a sea of cards and a fortune teller whenever you woke up to summer. 

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Your intentions all along have been to live a life devoid of strife.

But the option of peace disappeared the day you made your decision.

You release the breath you had been so desperately holding on to and clench your fists tightly to stop the shaking of your limbs. There was no time to waste. Advol had entrusted you with a vital mission and you would not disappoint him. Yes, it was a dangerous task, a perilous one that was uncertain if you would come out unscathed or not, but he had high hopes for you. He was absolutely certain you would make it out there alive and Advol was not the kind of man to break promises when he promised to treat you with a meal upon your awaited return.

Time was running out and there was no more room for failure.

You shook his shoulders.

“Jotaro, wake up - everyone’s waiting for breakfast.”

“Did you have another dream about me?”

A question asked with the barest hint of teasing. 

It was still one that would make your face shrivel with mortification however, much to his amusement.

Though you should’ve known better to blurt such a strange confession upon first meeting. 

It became a strange replacement to the usual ‘good morning’ greeting. One that was normally uttered when you were the second to wake up at dawn.  It was one you would always rebut with a huff and the muttering ‘of course not!’ under your breath while you helped with the daily morning tasks as others continued to sleep.

You should’ve also known not to be surprised when Joseph and Polnareff would eventually also jump onto the bandwagon of this little morning routine, though unlike Avdol’s more quiet approach, they were more…obnoxious. A heavy arm slung around your shoulder. The wiggle of a brow or two. And the incessant cooing of the much-dreaded question.

And then your fears were answered.  For Kakyoin on one fine morning, asked you in his typical coy manner the very question everyone was dying to know the answer to.

Jotaro only rolls his eyes when he catches you staring at him with ghastly apprehension.

“One time. It was one time, guys – knock it off!”

There’s a lone spring attempting to rebel against its confinement called a mattress. It does this by digging into your back yet you make no move to adjust your current sprawled position. 

Instead your eyes were pulled up towards the ceiling fan and the dizziness gradually settles in the longer you stare at the spinning propellers.

It was all starting to become more... tiring .

The constant neverending ambushes of enemy Stand users. It was starting to take its toll on you as for what they lacked in strength they made up with numbers instead. 

(Somewhere in the back of your head is a hypocritical voice dryly congratulating them on their tenacity.)

Just as you close your eyes, ready to call it a day, Polnareff barges hurriedly into the room in a loud entrance.

Your eyes snap back open but you make no effort to sit up.

“Hey, Mr. Joestar -- are you already going to bed?” he glanced down at your direction, only to whip himself back to face the older man a second later, suddenly remembering his goal, “Anyways, I just passed by this hot babe in the lobby but she left before I could get her name – do you think you could use Hermit Purple to find where she went?”

A collected silence falls on the room, one Polnareff was oblivious to while he patiently (and shamelessly) waited for Joseph’s answer.

You are the first to break the silence however.

“Avdol,” you interject with another idea of your own with a yawn and the rubbing of your eyes, “Why don’t you predict the chances of Polnareff being rejected by the girl as well?”

But the said man continued to read from where he sat. He did not bother looking up either when he responded back in nonchalance.

“Now why would I do that when you and I already know the outcome?”

“True, true, you got me there. I guess there’s no point in using Hermit Purple either then.”

A squawk of indignation, “Awful! The both of you are!”

And simultaneously, the both of you deadpanned, “We never said you were going to fail.” 

Even so, the damage had already been done. The Frenchman’s wounded pride and whines fell deaf on his two slanderers because you buried yourself under the covers while Avdol resumed back to his reading. 

Joseph sighed, rubbing his head at the scene.

“Polnareff, just go to bed already…”

The smell of singed rotten flesh and a dead man’s warning are forever seared into your mind.

Here on the ocean floor no one can hear your screams. 

Struggle with all your might but know escape will always be futile.

You lean back on your seat.

“Let’s see…right after you left, Mr. Joestar went to the doctor’s and then became a wanted man in Varanasi.” For each event Avdol had the joy of missing out on, you kept track of with the count of your fingers, “We then fought a car and then – oh! That’s right! Polnareff licked a toilet --”

“Hey! You promised not to tell -!!”

There was a cough from behind you. And then a not so quiet whisper.

“He licked it real good.”

You nod vehemently in agreement.

At this point Polnareff was in near tears.

He knows he shouldn’t spur you on. Polnareff had already cried once and it had taken him almost half an hour for him to recover from being an inconsolable mess. And really, you should stop tormenting the poor man. He should, for Polnareff’s sake, and as a responsible individual, put an end to this.

 Avdol stifled a laugh when you decided to lean towards him with a growing grin, cupping a hand to your mouth to hide your terribly loud whisper. 

“And then when we were in Karachi, Polnareff was crying about a toilet --”

“Enough already you demon spawn!”

Avdol has a feeling that you are the type to avoid hospitals like the plague. Except the discomfort is different to what Joseph expresses. It is not the loud sort of qualms thrown about, but rather it was more...subdued - the uneasiness you felt whenever you entered anything clinical was palpable because you would always be reduced down an uncharacteristic somber level. 

The frown you wear feels so out of place, so out of character, he has trouble discerning if you are the same person as the one that gave words of reassurement to Kakyoin when he was called in for his examination just minutes before. 

(It’s at this point does he decide to recall the warnings of a strange woman he encountered during his weeks labelled as one of the deceased.)

“Maybe this is a sign you should go home, Avdol.”

But the said man snorts and shakes his head. 

And you lower your eyes to the ground, knowing what he is about to say next.

“If you are asking me to run away then I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse.”

“Is it worth throwing your life away for something like this?” You ask him and the volume of your voice gradually rises, “You said it yourself - we’re not heroes! You’ll really die if you continue at this rate!”

(“You shouldn’t trust that one in your little group so much,” she warned him from the corners of the alleyway, “They’re not as innocent as you seem to think they are.”) 

“You don’t know that,” he refutes immediately.

The haunted look grows within your eyes. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, your skin pales to an almost ghostly white.

“What if the fortune teller was right?” you ask and there is something quiet in your voice that makes him think that this is not really a question you’re asking him, “You said it yourself, didn’t you? You came up with the same prediction as him!”

Avdol corrects you, “Similar.” 

(“But you already know that, don’t you? You could tell there was something off about that one,” she gave a tired sigh, a flash of irritation running across her face as she rubs her head and she gives him one last glare before slinking off, “Well, if you want to ignore what I’m saying, then don’t say I never warned you.”)

“I understand you’re worried about me, and I appreciate it,” he says while taking the peeled apple in your hands with a thank you, “But I really won’t die as easily as you think I will - I want you to trust my capabilities just as I trust in yours.”

He makes the mistake of attempting a poor joke to lighten you up. It backfires with a raised brow and the innocent question unless you want me to die? and suddenly nothing but nauseous horror riddles your face because he has to frantically diffuse the reaction. 

(A traitor could never react like that, Avdol thinks to himself.)

Under the sea of stars and the night’s watchful gaze, the last train ride to Cairo proved to be uneventful. There were no encounters of the enemy, only the unbearable tag team of loud snoring from Polnareff and Joseph.

And so while Jotaro had irately resigned himself to suffering in the compartment alongside with his blissfully sleeping companions, Avdol found himself out in the corridor, star gazing through a grubby half opened window with you.

Neither of you bring up the hospital conversation. Instead you point to a cluster of stars.

Cygnus, you blurt out, probably . It’s a random guess but somewhere in your mind you remember a story with enough details to pass the time and stop you from thinking too far ahead.

Cygnus was a close friend of Phaeton and they were racing each other across the sky when they came too close to the sun, Avdol heard you say, their chariots burned and they fell to the earth.

When Cygnus came to, he discovered Phaeton’s body trapped at the bottom of the Eridanus River and could not reach his friend no matter how hard he dived.

Therefore Cygnus made a pact with Zeus; he would give up his immortality in exchange for the body of a swan so he could dive back into the river and retrieve Phaeton’s body. He was able to give his friend the proper burial he deserved and as such Phaeton’s soul was able to travel to the afterlife.

When Cygnus’ life came to an end, having been moved by his sacrifice, Zeus placed him among the stars.

“That’s an interesting story,” Avdol noted and smiled to himself. He then pointed to the same area as you had, “But that’s Orion.”

He laughs when you confess abashedly that it was the only story you knew from the top of your head and takes over the storytelling for the rest of the night.

You find yourself on your back sprawled across the bed once again with your legs hanging off the edge and your arms outstretched.

Avdol’s voice reaches out from above your head.

“If something happens to me…” he begins with first, “Can I trust you to watch over Joseph and the others for me?”

But you refuse so adamantly after several pauses that the words on the pages immediately draw to a violent halt.

“No way.”

With a grunt you flip yourself onto your stomach, propping your arms up onto sheets and a sigh leaves your mouth as you regard him cryptically. 

“You said you won’t die - so I’ll believe you,” you simply declared and the flash of red is ignored, “There’s no need for that if I trust in your capabilities, right?”  

The smile you give him is a little bit off. At this moment he cannot discern the cause and difference yet so he brushes it off for now not knowing he will immediately pick it back up once morning arrives.

“Right, of course.” Avdol says, “That was foolish of me to say.”

The bed gives a creak of protest when you get up to stretch your limbs.

“Don’t worry about it. We all make mistakes sometimes.”

(There is a flicker of blue, the cut off sound of a screech before it is all replaced by the familiar sight of the hotel ceiling and the quiet buzz of the television in the background.)

A yawn leaves your mouth, “I’m feeling a bit tired - I’ll see you in the morning, Avdol.”

And in the end does he heed the warnings of a nameless woman, albeit a little too late for when morning arrives like it always has, he will be the first to discover several truths.

Avdol learns of your cruelty behind your actions (how awful it was for a mere corpse to even give a glimmer of hope ) and whether they were unintentional or not - he will never know and he does not care either because another thing he learns too late is that you can still be deceitful even if you never lie.

 So long as you withhold the truth as well. 

He speaks as if you will answer back.

“I’m disappointed in you to be honest,” he tells you quietly.

(The seemingly mutual wish is sealed in an agreement by you and you choose to admire the books laid across in front of you instead with a wistful smile of your own. 

“Daryaganj, right? The one in Old Delhi?” You reiterate with a hum and a laugh bubbles out, “Sure, I’ll go with you once this is all over.”)

“I didn’t peg you the type to break promises this easily.”

Icarus flew too close. 

Too late.

So the ocean swallowed Icarus whole.

Avdol doesn’t register the pain of crashing onto cold hard ground after being shoved aside. Instead he remained where he sat, staring at a pair of disembodied arms strewn innocently across the floor.

Amidst Iggy’s frantic barks, Polnareff’s forever unanswered screams of your name, not a single one of them took heed to thin cracks creeping up the walls and all along the ground. Each fracture bled white to bury your erasure and the fragments grew and grew, spilling more and more white until there was nothing but only white.

The last thing he sees are your arms being devoured to join with the rest of you.

 It’s a curse to be forced to make decisions like this but this is your punishment you must serve for your selfish actions and you could not bear the thought of condemning another by the weight of the truth just so you could alleviate shouldering it all. 

Avdol is saved at the cost of others.

And in the end there will always be blood on your hands.

You stare hard at the heavy downpour currently terrorizing the cities of Italy, as if the duration and intensity of your vision could suddenly make it all stop. 

Despite not saying a word however, the occasional shifting glance to the left of you gives you away and your unspoken accusation does not go unnoticed.

Polnareff throws his hands up in exasperation.

“Oh come on! You know I can’t control the weather!”

The loud outburst draws attention from several of the other customers of the quaint café but you remain unfazed. Instead you stare harder at the miserable sight and the peeved look on your face grows more apparent.

“Maybe so, but you can pick another day to meet, Polnareff.”

The said man huffed. He then rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath along the lines of still the same as ever and opened his mouth.

Avdol steps in before another round of bickering begins.

“How is Jotaro these days?”

Your attention is immediately diverted away with your face lighting up from the mention of the name, “He’s still the same as ever – I think he might be a Professor soon.”

“Is that so?” Avdol hummed and took a sip from his tea,” Are you sure it’ll be fine to leave him on his own though? You know you really didn’t have to come along – how much begging did Polnareff do over the phone?”

“A ton .”

“I did not beg .”

You wave off his concern, “Besides, it’s Jotaro we’re talking about here – he’ll be fine. More importantly…”

You trail off with a frown, pulling the phone out of your bag.

“If we really are going to take down the mafia, wouldn't it be better to call for more backup?”

The Gods are cruel and you are a fool to even believe you had finished serving your sentence.

So you admit Polnareff had been right along that the rain would eventually clear and the sun would make its reappearance.  The dreary clouds would be erased from existence as if they had never existed in the first place while the only signs of evidence were gradually evaporating away.

Soon there would be no trace of it all.

Even on your hands and knees, you can see the puddles splattered haphazardly across the ground, but you pay no heed to the sight, numb to the cold and the stinging pain of being suddenly shoved aside.

Instead your eyes remain fixated on torn limbs dropped carelessly in front of you, as if to make it all any more obvious. A voice inside you screams out of defiance, you made a decision, didn’t you? So why? WHY?! except you ignore in lieu of hearing the faint cry from below to run away and a pair of black shoes steps onto bloody puddles and into your vision. 

Your eyes cannot help but follow the path leading to the face of its owner.

Before you can see red, you see white.

And before you are the next to be ripped apart, you tear the world apart instead.

AVDOL END

Chapter Text

VII

A canopy of six-pointed stars hangs above his head. An armour embodied with crescent moons. He who holds the strength to move forwards, the Chariot stands tall, proud and alone, overcoming any obstacles that lie on his path.

First impressions are important in determining character. 

Which is why the best way to leave a long lasting impression from first meeting is to commit attempted murder.

Polnareff does not object to you stepping up to take over the remaining fight. 

Unfazed at your sudden offer of challenge, he instead was greatly entertained at the sight of a baby-faced brat ’s confidence in winning. Not that any of it really mattered in the first place. He knows for sure that he’ll be able to take his time, because as soon as he’s done with you, he’ll finish off the fortune teller like he said he would, and then it’ll be the traitor next, and finally, the Joestars last.

The Frenchman scoffed loudly, raising an unamused brow when you made no attempt to move from your spot, “Can you even reach me? You’ll never win if you just stand there.”

He continued to throw verbal jabs in your direction, while a flurry of silver rushes around to form an almost impenetrable wall between you and him. As the motions speed up further, leaving only a blurred dizzying sight, Polnareff fails to catch the quiet act of you pulling something out of your bag until it is much too late.

Polnareff’s boastings come to a slow falter when he sees the heavy object you now have casually slung over your shoulder and he could feel the blood draining from his face at the sight of your all-teeth grin. 

From behind you hear Joseph mutter in disbelief, voicing out the question now on everyones’ minds.

“Is that...what I think it is?”

But you pay no heed and do not bother to give a definitive answer. Instead, with a loud hum, your finger curls around the trigger and the cheery words leaving your mouth are wrapped in a much too nonchalant manner for a situation like this.

“If I hit everything, then I’m bound to hit you as well at some point...don’t you think?”

And the last thing Polnareff sees is a missile flying straight towards him before he blacks out.

As it turns out, you had an eerie ability to track him down no matter where he went and you’d abused it to the worst possible degree.

Unfortunately however, the women found it all to be the opposite. To elaborate, they thought it was amusing - endearing even (and that’s only because none of them have every tried experiencing at least one hour with you!) - to watch you boldly insert yourself in between, batting your lashes with an innocent smile all the while elbowing him in the ribs to give yourself more space.

And then it begins, because once you open your mouth,  you start to list all of his acts of embarrassment Polnareff has the fortune of committing with you as the witness - like, did you know, Polnareff will sometimes ask for directions to get to some place, but then he’ll go the opposite directions given and - oh, did you know? Polnareff likes to read magazines about --

Polnareff slaps a hand over your mouth.

“Sibling?”

They would always ask with a not so stifled giggle as you continued to loudly mumble muffled noises about his magazine preferences against his hand.

“Absolutely not!” Was what he would always immediately retort with.

Polnareff gives a high-pitched shriek when you decide to lick his palm as your response.

Favouritism. 

He accuses you of this once.

And you had only rolled your eyes, much to his irritation. 

Polnareff may not be the most observant or the brainiest bunch out of all of them, but it’s clear to anyone and everyone that you treat him differently to the others - you’re nicer to the damn mutt than you are to him!

He remembers a time with an encounter with the enemy that left them more bruised and battered than usual and you patching everyone up. While you took obvious care to be gentle with the others, carefully dressing wounds with a handlement more suited for porcelain, when it came to him however...you would slap the bandages on him with a force that would make him yelp and a not so apologetic apology on hand. 

You were respectful to Avdol and Joseph. 

Friendly to Jotaro and Kakyoin.

And a right pain to him. 

(It’s like you’re doing it on purpose.)

There were times when were unusually nice to him (sometimes, during those times, he looks around, tries to spot anything off before responding) - like those times when he had left his wallet back in the hotel room and you had actually offered to buy the hair gel for him. 

He learnt his lesson after the first time where he asked if you were actually ill. You had immediately retracted your offer so he had to beg for forgiveness while physically blocking the door.

And there was this other time where you had even brought a lucky charm for him. It was small and brightly coloured. Something about water, was what you had vaguely explained to him at that time to appease his interrogative suspicion, and for a moment Polnareff is fooled into believing your intentions were nothing but genuine. 

But then your mouth splits into a not-so-innocent grin and you could no longer hold back the chortle spilling out.

For when you go to the toilet , are the few words you manage to get out before you break into a run as he hurls the gift in your direction.

Static smothers your vision.

Before you know it, the sight of Polnareff’s back slowly shrinking in size as he continued to walk forwards is replaced by the sight of the very same man lying face down in his own pool of blood. 

(The static clears and you are left pale and shaking with the indescribable sense of fear coiling, knotting and tightening around your neck.)

You barely look back over your shoulder.

“I’ll go after him - don’t worry about me.”

(And with one step forward, you drop off the ledge.)

“I thought I told you not to interfere!”

You wave him off, undeterred by his angry outburst.

“No you didn’t. You said not to interfere with the man who has two right hands.” Is what you flipantly retort back with a jab of a finger in his chest, “You never said anything about not interfering with any other Stand users that might also be with him - which there probably will be.”

Polnareff’s displeasure increases ten-fold and you can’t help but scoff, rolling your eyes.

“I won’t interfere - I promise.”

After a moment of silence, your vow and unwavering stance is enough for him to finally open his mouth because Polnareff then asks almost hesitantly, “...Are you sure?”

Painted on your mouth is a confident smirk, something you decide to focus your efforts in maintaining rather than acknowledging another flash of red.

“I beat you, didn’t I? If I can beat you - then I’m sure I can beat anyone else.”

And as expected, Polnareff splutters, forcing a small huff of laughter out of you.

“I’m telling you it was pure luck -- !”

You pat his shoulders, nodding all too exaggeratedly to his protests, all the while gradually walking past him to take the lead. 

“Yeah, yeah - you just keep telling yourself that.”

Amongst Jotaro’s abrasive attitude, Kakyoin’s cautious placidity, Polnareff has always thought you were one hell of a cocky brat, drunk on the overconfidence of one lucky victory. 

In fact, you never listen - you were always the type to think you knew everything - always - constantly - arguing with him, harassing him, getting in his way. Even. Now. You . LIAR .

Which is why Polnareff gets handed the privilege on one shiny platter to experience being 19 again.

At the cost of a meddling bystander .

It’s like watching the strings on a puppet being cut loose because amidst the crossfire, you suddenly go rigid, mouth aslack, the sudden jolt being so violent he flinches.

And then the light snuffs out inside your eyes.

The sound of a heavy thud resounds his ears as you drop to  the ground in a heap before blood begins to spill out of your unmoving body, and merde ... is it a lot of blood - so much that a part of him wonders how all of that was contained inside you in the first place.

Polnareff is forced to leave your body behind, for spectators to gawk at the sight of you lying unconscious in your own blood and Polnareff watches from the rear mirror as your body starts to diminish in size the further he drives away while he whispers his words of regret.

“You said you wouldn’t interfere…”

Bleary eyes cracked open once more. 

And those eyes could not help from looking upwards as always. 

(Even now - even from down here - the sky would still always look so blue.)

There is the sound of muffled yelling, urgent footsteps, blurred faces moving in and out of your vision that you try your hardest to follow.

But all you can focus on is the red continuing to soak your back.

Ah, you think ever so wearily, while black spots start to crawl into your vision again, so this wasn’t it after all...

A white ceiling greets you the next time you regain consciousness. 

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“You could go home, you know, no one would blame you.”

The lines of exhaustion settle under your eyes. It is much too bright in here and the smell of bleach invades your senses. 

“...Can I really?”

“Of course. As I said before, travel and treatment expenses will be covered by the Speedwagon Foundation whatever decision you make.”

You do not have enough strength to tear the bed sheet covering you so instead you settle for a squeeze.

“No...I’m not going home. Not yet.” 

And as it turned out, there was never a cat in the box. 

And instead, it had always been a rat in the trap .

Your eyes scan over the words and you barely had the time to process the words as you looked up.

B̷̢̨͔̪̥͍̳̖̰̮̞̹̣̳̂͛̀̊̉͘͠Ŷ̸̢̢̘̮̖͖̫̮̹͎͉ ̸̡̧͇̞̗̺̟̮̟̃̕T̷̞̭͇͎̥̬̣̫͚͇̙̫͓͈̬̥̬͊̈́̍̓͂̏̂̿̾͂̈́̔̚̕͜͠ͅH̷̭̻̃͂͒̿͑̓͂̆͋̓̈͠Ę̶͍̪̭̻̲͕̗̗̩͆̇͋̉̐̾̉̋͌̕͠ ̵͓̫̳̱̲̈́̈Ť̵̲͚̪̺̱̒̌͋͜I̵̢̱̭͎̘̫͎̬̺̍̉̀͑͠M̶̖̳̾̔̄̏̍̄Ę̸̥̘̩̞̼͖̰̼̃͐͆͒̃͑̈́̑̍͐͛̑͋̀͘͘͠ͅ ̷̨̗̖͈̪̞̠̲̜̻̜̥̊͊̇̅͊͑̀̎̂͐̃̿̏͆̄̅̕͜͝͝Y̴̛̠͓̣̹̯̳̼̰̼̘̑̅̃͂͒͘͝ͅǪ̵̱̼͎̬̩̤̗̞͇͉̫͙͓̩̤̱̖͌̒̄͗͜U̵̗̰̠̥̗̺̫͔̹͍̱̥͖̒̂̏̂͋̂̃̆̐̋̚͜͝ ̷͕̯̗͍̦͌̀͛̐̇̊̕͘͠T̷̯͉͖͉͚̦̎̒̑̃̌̉̋Ư̵̥͎̠͙̞̼͒̊̂̔͊̓͐͑̓͛̿̋̋̃̓R̷̜̫̼̈́̄Ņ̶͓̲͈̆̏̈́̅͋̅̕ ̴̪̱̤͌͆̓̈́ͅĄ̷̫̗͍͚̠̼̠̫̟͎͙̣̯̝̼͍̄̏̍̓̔̈̓̿̈́̃͜ͅR̷̢͎̘̯̠͔̟̽͒̈́͆̾̈́͋̕͠O̶͚̝̳̣̥͒͝Ư̷̩̥̹͉͇͔̭̅̋͂̾͌͋̊͘̚Ň̵̨̡̠͖̙̫̗̭͎̯͕̖͓̝ͅD̶͈̰̈͆̋̊͒̊̈̏̌́͐̓͘͝ͅ,̷̨̳̠͔̗̲͔̘̠̭̠̜͈̹̩̊̔͌̀̓̐͐̐̉́͗̒̈́̕͝ ̵͍̲̳̠̦̗̲̩̺͈͙̿̀̔̆̊̏́̕͘͝Ŷ̴̢̬̤͕̘̤̩̠͓̳̥̅Ȯ̵͈͚͓̠͓̺̔̌̅̊̌́͗̊͒͑̇̈̑̕̚̕͠͝Ų̸̱͇̘̮̞̼̠͓̻̰̪͙͎̞́̑̈́͒̂̑͊̾͋̄̇͘͘̚'̷̞̱̙̫̪̐͗̀̑́̉̈́̓͜L̴̡̡͓̤̻͖̥͓̭̮̭̗̔̈́͌̐̍̾̂̽̃̑̀͂ͅḺ̶̢̡̱̻̳͎͈̺̼̻̰͎̱̽͜ ̵̡̧̛̫̗͈̯̩̗̦͉̩͖̮̮̈́͊͊̈̂͆͋͊̾̋̍̌́̾͝͝B̵̛͋̆̍͋̽̚͘̚͜͝Ẹ̴̢̧̧̩̱̺̪̳͖͈͈̿̆̓̐̽͂́́͐̈́̅̚ ̷̧̢̡̡̦̩̺̮̝͔͚̤̩͎̱͊̋̒̓̌̽̑̌̐̕͜Ḑ̸̢̙̺̞̙͇̲͙͕̺͚̺̍̈́̆̊̌͑̐̋̑̃͑́̆͗͐̕̚̚E̷̻͈̥̣̣̭͔̥̜͓͍̗͛͆̓͛̿͊̽͂̅̓͜Ả̷̡͍͓͕̰̦̪̰̻̜̙̘̞̫̭̙̰̃͐̽̑͘̕͝Ḑ̴̧̧̥̹͖̖̯͙̗͖̞̫̯̭̘͓͈̈̃̍̒͗̉̋̎͘͜͝

You hate it here.

“Fuc--”

(They’ll catch you if you don’t run - remember that next time… won’t you?)

You stand awkwardly beside the hunched over man, patting his back as you struggle to be reassuring, trying to speak over his sobs.

“Come on now Polnareff…that’s enough crying...”

Polnareff only cries harder.

“You guys… are the worst!” He throws out, “All this time…! I genuinely thought you had died!” ( but I didn't, is what you immediately quipped back with and he buried his head in his hand out of sheer perplexity of the situation).

“ Oh merde , thank God, you’re okay...”

There’s a part of you that ends up making you look down at the sand - at your shoes - to hide the small of your smile fleeting past from the words he murmurs to himself and for a moment, a part of you forgets as well, so you decide to shift the moment away.

“It was sweet of you to give up on Polnareffland for me though.” 

At this time, he halts and the ears of the others perk up in curiosity. 

“Polnareffland? What’s that?” Avdol is the first to ask and Polnareff only wails harder than ever.

“You promised not to tell!”

Do you ever think about how much agony Ouroboros went through by eating its own tail? Do you ever think how scared Ouroboros was as its eyes were the last to go? Do you ever think it was possible that Orouboros could remember?

Or do you think Orouboras chose to forget instead?

Someone shakes you awake. 

Your eyes snap open and they dart erratically around the room. There is the sound of ragged breaths mixed in with harsh crackles and something else that is muffled that gradually rises  in volume. The walls are painted in a faint glow of yellow at first, but the colour starts to grow bolder the longer you seem to thrash around, the throat constricting even tighter while desperately searching within each lurking shadow for any indications until something silver enters your line of vision.

“Hey!” Polnareff calls out your name once more urgently, shaking your shoulder to reign you into reality once more,  “It’s just me! Polnareff!”

And when you do finally register his voice, the light cuts out, dropping the room back into darkness while the sound of spitting electricity is no longer heard. Soon after your eyes follow suit by settling down. Yet traces are still left behind from the way you continue to remain ghostly pale shivering from the cold sweat.

Despite swallowing down whatever was lodged in your throat, the words fumbled out are hoarsely voiced, weak and clumsy.

With one movement, you nudge his hands off your shoulders.

“Oh, it’s you…You need something? It’s like 2am Polnareff - why’d you wake me up?”

Polnareff looks at you like you’ve grown two heads - or rather more specifically, Polnareff looks at you as if to ask whether you have yet to realize you were almost ready to blow up everything in this room including him upon waking up.

“ Dude .” He says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “You looked like you were having a real bad nightmare - are you doing okay?”

Your mouth opens and closes and a faltering denial dissolves on the tip of your tongue as you try to make sense of what is happening. There is something you do not like about the way your words shake no matter how hard you force them out and you do not like the expression Polnareff wears when you say there is nothing wrong with a forced laugh and that a dream is nothing but a dream .

So you say, “If anything, you acting like this is really weird - you sure I shouldn’t be the one to ask if you’re okay or anything?”

And in an attempt to regain your sense of control you waggle a brow.

“You’re not like an enemy stand user pretending to be Polanareff, are you?” 

A huff of a laugh shoots out. Any minute now, he’ll throw the looks of concern away in lieu for ones that are more annoyed.

“You know I do know about the little incident between you and that enemy stand user in disguise and I just want to point out I would never fall for something like that because, you know, I’m not you .”

“Something happened while you were on your own, right?”

Someone decides to ask you the details on how exactly you managed to buy a submarine while you're all exactly 100ft underwater. You can’t remember who it was for sure but you know it's then do you decide to think about hands and oh god, were there so many hands reaching out for you. There were hands covered in nothing but grime to the point you were unsure of what their skin colour originally was (but did that matter? The skin will rot to purple, slough off the bones so either way, who cares?) and their sharpened nails had been stuffed full of black, brown and red, filled to the brim that you were sure you would die immediately from infection within a single scratch while they watched on with their dead fish eyes and their raspy groans thick with phlegm.

It was nothing but a rat in a trap - left to die inside - left to rot inside .

You think of lingering gun smoke. A deafening gunshot. A body that wasn’t undead - now dead and not undead – maybe – possibly - you never went back up there again after that. You couldn’t. It wasn’t worth it after the first time. 

Don’t be stupid! A harsh bark over the angry yelling, He would’ve just paid his way out and done the same thing again – we couldn’t leave him alive! (and if ten summers are to pass, it will only be then when you truly understand what he meant inside that house.)

A part of you seethes while another mourns in a lovers’ devotion to tragedy. Had you been quicker then perhaps you could’ve met them elsewhere that was not that cursed room, but had you even been more foolish, then one final part of you would’ve questioned your willingness in taking another’s life in order to escape from another contract.

Of course you would’ve. It’s either you - or them. You’ve learnt by now that if you try to protect everything...you’ll only lose everything.

(At least that’s what you tell yourself when you see them again in the Sanctuary.)

“And what if it did?” You say as calmly as you can, but the edges of your words remain sharper than what you would like them to be.

“Do you want to talk about it then? Look, you’ve been acting weird ever since we got to Aswan, and the way you woke up just now…was not normal.”

(He thinks back to the woman in the tomb and her howls of frustrations, her mad ravings, the livid expression branded on to her face when he said he would never wish for this kind of grief on someone else, even if he had lost Sherry, and she points an accusatory finger at you who merely stared at the floor.

“Why can’t any of you see it?! There’s something wrong with that one - they’re the one who’s ruining everything!”)

In the dimness of the room, an unreadable expression takes a hold of your face with a tinge of reluctance mixed in as you shift your sitting position on the edge of the bed several times.

“Do you think everything happens for a reason?”

“What?”

“I’m so tired, Polnareff.”

He takes a minute to form his response, unsure on how to reply, “...Is it because you haven’t been sleeping properly lately?”

Closing your eyes briefly, you gave a hum of affirmation, “You could say that, I guess I do need rest after all."

But before Polnareff could probe any further, the radio on top of the bedside drawer crackles to life and there is the sudden sound of purposely loud static filling the air and Polanreff is distracted by the occurrence.

“I thought you said that the radio was broken?” He asks and the confusion is evident on his face. It’s the same reaction as when he also asked why you were carrying around a radio that could no longer play in the first place to which you could only shrug half heartedly, avoiding his stare while claiming it was an object of sentimentality. 

“It is broken.”

You simply say and he misses by a margin from turning his back to catch the dark glare in your eyes when you glance past him.

 “Maybe the thing’s haunted...Maybe there’s a ghost inside there that won’t just disappear.”

The radio suddenly goes quiet. 

Polnareff looks over his shoulder, putting a pause to his examination of the radio with a frown, “Hey, don’t say things like that.”

“Why? You scared?”

“What? Me? No way.”

“Then you won’t mind me just throwing the fact out that the previous owner died in a freak accident...right?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, the radio now left forgotten as he stands to his full height. 

Polnareff turns around to face you with his hands on his hips.

“Now you’re just obviously lying - you know you can’t fool me this time!”

“Nope, it’s really true - I was there.”

“...Really...?”

“Uhuh, someone else also even died at the same time and place as well.”

“W-who else?”

You look at him dead in the eye with the most somber expression before answering his question.

“Me.”

Then several seconds pass without a word.

“Juuuust kiddingggggg. Thought you said you wouldn’t be fooled again, Polnareff - too bad.” 

And with that you fall back under to the duvet covers, ignoring the irritated clamours from the French man with a satisfied grin. 

(A loud thump from one side of the wall is heard and Jotaro’s muffled words to shut the fuck up and go to sleep already is ignored.)

It was when the nights were cooler.

You would draw a “portrait” of him in the sand with a stick cast aside.

He views it more as an insult to his appearance than a portrait.

Polnareff frowned.

He snatched the can out of your hands.

“You’re too young to drink!”

And as soon as he says that though, your eyes decide to immediately glance at Jotaro who only rolled his eyes back in response. He then decided to snort, continuing to take another loud gulp of the contents inside the metal can.

“Fuck off.”

But no matter how hard you argued against him, Polnareff remained adamant in refusing to give the drink back, so it was your turn to roll your eyes.

“Whatever dude, I don’t know why you’re acting this way but I guess I’ll go to bed early.”

Polnareff stares down numbly at the white blanket and the outline of a body.

The lucky charm inside his pockets was crumpled, damaged from the prolonged exposure when he hastily shoved it in. 

He should’ve just let you drink.

When you do finally come out of the library, you come out lost and there is something bitter that refuses to leave your eyes. It could also be just his eyes being tired but he’s also sure that you weren’t littered with as much injuries and blood when you first entered the room but no matter how hard he prods you for answers and it fades to something quieter even long after the wounds on your body have healed.

He decides to leave it as grief.

 “Stay.”

It’s an unusually quiet request coming from you. He’s more used to your obnoxious demands but this one is softer and more hesitant with your eyes remaining glued on to the floor.

“Stay with us.” You say once more, ignoring the sound of routinely voiced announcements on the next departing plane in lieu of shifting the weight from one foot to another.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to - you’re not actually that annoying.”

“Unfortunately, I, on the other hand, think you’re really annoying.”

Your head whips up as he starts to roughly ruffle the top of your hair and you give a loud yelp of protest.

“But I’ll come running if you ever call for me anyways.”

He smiles in reassurance and there is a sad sort of acceptance in your eyes.

“Visit me some time soon, why don’t you? That goes for you as well, Mr. Joestar, Jotaro!”

Ten years pass by in a blink of an eye and you are now taller. But height means nothing when there is still some baby fat leftover that remains stubborn in sticking around and he still has the habit of tousling your hair into a bird nest.

(He doesn’t get his hand swatted anymore, there’s only quiet acceptance and a faint smile now.)

By the time the two of you make it to the café it begins to rain, forcing you to take shelter inside the establishment rather than outside as intended. He could only laugh sheepishly, scratching one corner of a cheek when he catches you absentmindedly staring outside at the heavy downpour that was currently plaguing the lands of Italy. 

“Yeah…” He trailed off while you had yet to make an indication that you had heard him, “...Maybe I should’ve picked a better day to meet - sorry about that.”

But then you glance back at him, the look in your eyes indecipherable before it vanishes from the shake of your head.

“No, it’s fine,” you say, resuming back to watching the rain, “Don’t worry about it.” 

Icarus' wings had not been burned off his back, but rather they had been ripped off instead before he fell. 

And he watched as the feathers were pulled off.

One by one. 

All the while being held by the throat as the sea did nothing but watch and wait, looking up to Icarus dangling off the cliff.

Icarus has never flown and only knows what it’s like to fall. The apathetic green eyes are the third last thing you see before you are thrown off the cliff. The second last thing you see before the sea swallows you under is another hand weakly reaching out to grab you but they miss by a margin, only managing to brush past and your hand is the last thing to disappear below the surface. 

The sudden coldness shocks you briefly and only briefly, because the last thing you see before you decide to close your eyes in resignation is the colour white bleeding into the blue water. 

(Somewhere, elsewhere, Icarus crawls out of the waters once again.)

POLNAREFF END