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“I said I’m fine, jiji.”
Jotaro turned and glared at the hotel carpet so he didn’t have to keep looking at Joseph, so he wouldn’t have to face the disappointment and weariness he would inevitably find there. He knew it all too well; how many lines had he inadvertently etched into his mother’s face from worry? That tight knit between her eyebrows that he was sure to inherit, the permanent creases worn between her graying temples, the frown lines that she hid between her dimples and her smile. Her smile could hide a lot. She had always been so good at hiding her pain.
When he was young, she used to come out on the veranda as he came home from school, drying her hands on her apron, and putting on her best smile for him. He barely remembers the days before she had to fake it. ’Hey honey, how was school?’, she’d ask. In the beginning, he had lied, spouting vague pleasantries about his schoolwork and classmates, but as the weeks and years went on, it got harder to pretend. When she asked him to invite his friends over, he began to run out of excuses. What was he supposed to tell her, that the other kids insulted his appearance and made fun of his accent when they knew the teacher couldn’t hear? That they stole his shit from his locker and threw it away? So instead of telling her the truth, without fail he would take his anger out on her, trying and failing to convince both her and himself that she wouldn’t understand.
But in retrospect he was probably just trying to protect her from the pain he experienced. His classmates weren’t insulting his appearance, but the evidence of her features in his face. They weren’t just undermining his accent, but her commitment to adapting to her new culture. They weren’t throwing away his stuff, they were throwing away the countless hours she spent learning to make his bento as authentically as possible.
It would only hurt her more if she knew, so it was better to push her away. Less painful. And even though they had both come to expect his daily outburst, she was never fully able to mask the way she flinched and the glimmer of sadness in her eyes before she plastered on that million dollar smile. The fact that she tried to hide it was the worst part. That she tried to keep him from seeing how afraid of him she was. Like he didn’t already know.
“Jotaro.”
Jotaro snapped back to the sound of Joseph's voice and remembered where he was. He tensed up, frozen in anticipation of having to confront the expectations he had once again failed to meet. Like his mom had so many times before, Joseph wanted him to talk to him, wanted him to open up. Jotaro knew it wasn’t good to keep his emotions bottled up and he knew he pushed people away and he knew that he hurt the people he loved. He knew it deep in his soul, as central to his identity as his own name. Hurt people hurt people, or some bullshit like that, right? But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t open up like that, and why couldn’t anyone understand that? Even if he wanted to, he can’t, because there’s a pit in his stomach and a weight on his chest and a tightness in his throat–
“Jotaro.”
A sharp inhale. He knew he had to acknowledge his grandfather’s question (that he would undoubtedly want to unpack and discuss at length), so he prepared himself: his mind and body winding tightly like a pocket watch, bracing for a fight, itching to lash out. When he finally managed to lift his gaze to meet that of his grandfather, he was overcome not by the defensive anger he was expecting, but by righteous indignation. How dare Joseph look at him with those eyes–her eyes, his own eyes–how dare he look at him with that much tenderness and compassion? Jotaro felt a hand on his shoulder, warm and human, and it felt so violently wrong. Gentle. Caring. Intimate. Every nerve ending in his body screamed danger: fight, run, run, fight, run. He felt like he was going to be sick if it didn’t stop right this second, please stop, please, don’t touch me please, please won’t you just get it already go away please please leave me alone–
“–taro. you’re shaking” felt out of focus as the ringing in his ears intensified (when did it start ringing?) And Jotaro feels like he’s been here for hours already I SAID I’M FINE can I please go now? he didn’t need his grandfather’s sympathy, his pity, or his help, and even if he did need it he didn’t deserve it he deserved pain because he was weak, so fucking weak and useless and all he did was fuck up why was anyone still around at all he’d just end up hurting them or putting them in harm’s way–
Strong arms pulled him in close and wrapped around him tightly. Jotaro froze, suddenly hyper aware of the sensations enveloping him. The overwhelming smell of pipe tobacco, sweat, cologne, and something that smelled vaguely of home. The slightly rough texture of the light tan, cotton shirt brushing against his cheek. The warm hand woven tightly through the hair at the back of his neck and the cold, metallic one that refused to let go of his shoulder. He felt a steady heartbeat accompanied by the regular rise and fall of strong and tired lungs.
In that moment something broke within him. He gave in to gravity, and melted into the security and stability afforded by his grandfather’s embrace, as years of salty, built-up sadness began to stream down his face. His fingers clambered for purchase in Joseph’s shirt as his body was wracked by stunted, breathless sobs. Jotaro leaned into Joseph and slumped down, giving up control and entrusting his full weight to Joseph.
Joseph slowly slid to the floor, still holding Jotaro’s shaking body as he continued to gasp for air between choked cries. He cradled Jotaro’s head, slowly rocking them both back and forth, gently smoothing Jotaro’s hair back from his face, knocking his cap to the floor. Jotaro had never felt more exposed, and wanted desperately to hide from Joseph and from his own vulnerability, but all he could do was cry, pressing his face into his grandfather’s now tear-stained shirt.
Joseph closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding in his own tears for Jotaro’s sake. He wanted to cry for his daughter’s suffering, the likely incumbent deaths of his dear friends, and out of fear for his own life, but mostly in that moment, Joseph wanted to cry for his grandson. He mourned the innocence that was so violently stolen from him, for the trauma from which he would likely never heal, and for the loss of the life Jotaro had been destined to live and the man he would have become. As Joseph held his only grandchild, a seventeen-year-old shouldering the weight of a world he barely knew, he swayed back and forth, hoping his silence and his embrace would convey to Jotaro his deep sorrow and profound love in a way that words never could.