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Jotaro had never been one for sadness.
And after such a great loss, there was only one thing left for him to do—shift the blame around.
Of course, at first, he blamed Kakyoin; for being too cocky, for facing Dio practically alone, for always being too determined to make himself useful. He’d said it once, in the dark, almost to himself—that there was nothing he was more scared of than being the weak link.
Jotaro understood, to a certain extent. Kakyoin needed to make himself feel like a wanted, needed part of their team after a life of feeling alienated. But how could he not see that independence wasn’t the same thing as strength? That if he’d only faced Dio at Jotaro’s side, he might be alive today?
Jotaro hated a lot of things. He hated women, he hated this trip, he hated Dio, but at this point, what he hated most was Kakyoin. This was, as most things are, easier than admitting that he hated himself, for allowing that boy to believe he had anything to prove to anyone. Because he didn’t—Jotaro trusted him, admired him, saw him. That was all Kakyoin had ever wanted, right? To be seen after years of feeling like a ghost among his peers. And Jotaro didn’t tell him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Kakyoin, of course. He was the stupid one.
Jotaro was pissed off enough to bury the guilt of blaming his dead best friend for leaving him deep underneath the hot boiling of anger in his throat.
He tried to recall the five stages of grief, but he was fairly certain this was not grieving. Mourning involved crying and loss was supposed to be a direct result of love, but he never loved that boy, because if he loved him then he’d have to deal with losing his first love on top of all of this and it was easier to pretend that the fluttering of his heart when Kakyoin was around was just the anxiety of inching closer to their battle with Dio.
There was a gentle tapping sound that Jotaro hadn’t noticed before. He looked down to his side to numbly acknowledge the blood dripping into the soil beneath him. He must’ve clenched his fists too hard until he’d dug his nails into his palms, and now he’d spilled both blood and a fourth of a bottle of vodka on the grave of his best friend.
Now it smelled like alcohol, but he wasn’t quite sure what else he should’ve expected after chucking a glass bottle with a 95% alcohol content at the carefully carved stone with the name Noriaki Kakyoin etched into it. Jotaro hadn’t even known his birthday prior to sitting here in front of his tombstone. He wondered if he’d do anything when that day rolled around or if he’d just pretend it wasn’t the anniversary of the birth of the man he let die.
No, not man. He wasn’t even a man yet. He was a boy who deserved to live far more than Jotaro did. A stupid, arrogant kid who died for him. Because of him. Because of love, among other emotions, like loneliness and a general desperation for approval.
Could he somehow have known Jotaro loved him before Jotaro did? Because Jotaro most certainly did not realize this until he was looking at his lifeless body in a casket, hair combed back too neatly to suit him. It was then that he came to the startling revelation that, yes, he loved this boy, and no, he would not be able to cope with the fact that he was gone just as fast as he’d come along.
Jotaro hurled the box of cherries he’d brought at a tree, almost ripping his hair out in his effort to keep from screaming. This was his fault. Because maybe, just maybe if he’d had a kinder soul, his Stand would not be one of destruction. Maybe if he were gentler, if he were more like his mother, he’d have manifested a Stand that could heal people. He was never good at putting things back together, though—all he ever seemed to do was break everything he touched.
How cruel of the universe to give Jotaro the ability to stop time when all he wished for was to rewind it—to see him again, to relive those days and save him like he should’ve from the beginning. To see that smile, feel the warmth of his body and listen to his beating heart.
Star Platinum shimmered into existence beside him, wrapping its arms around him at some attempt of comforting him, but it only served to remind him of Kakyoin’s absence—because Star didn’t have body heat, or a heartbeat, or the rise and fall of breath. No, it was just blank, nothingness attempting to hold Jotaro close. Maybe if he were someone else he’d appreciate the sentiment. Maybe if he were someone else Kakyoin wouldn’t have died.
“I hate you,” Jotaro spat. “Get the fuck off of me.” His Stand didn’t move. The stars glimmering in its hair, fluid as if it were underwater, almost looked like the desert sky for a moment—flecks of light in a sea of darkness, and a memory flashed through his head of Kakyoin looking up at them with him when they couldn’t sleep. Kakyoin would point out constellations, half of them entirely made up, and Jotaro had no way to tell which ones were real, but he never felt the need to ask. He’d take Kakyoin’s word for it, whether it made him look stupid later or not.
“I hate you!” Jotaro started to twist around in Star Platinum’s grasp, kicking out at him like a child throwing a tantrum. Every jab was really just to himself, but he couldn’t pretend he felt it more than the hollow feeling in his chest. No, that emptiness in his ribcage was all-consuming.
He threw a punch at the Stand’s jaw, immediately reeling back from the pain at his mouth and knuckles. His eyes burned from the ache in his face but no tears fell.
Kakyoin deserved to be grieved.
Jotaro deserved to feel all the pain Kakyoin must’ve felt in his last moments, too.
He tried to punch Star again, aiming for the center of his face—certainly he’d cry then, because you couldn’t just walk away from a punch in the nose tearlessly. He melted away from existence again, though, looking sadder than Jotaro had ever seen him. He groaned in frustration.
“You’re fucking— useless!” he snapped, burying his face in his hands and slowly realizing that yes, he was crying, for once. Hot tears trickled through his fingers, salt burning at the crescents in his palms from some distant place. “This is...all your fault.” His voice cracked. So selfish of him, to mourn the life he didn’t get with Kakyoin when it was he who lost everything. He’d never get the opportunity to do anything with his life, and here Jotaro was falling apart because he lost one person at fucking seventeen.
Stupid.
Jotaro had gotten to keep Kakyoin’s earrings, but he couldn’t bring himself to wear them. Instead, he kept them in the sheer organza bag his mother had handed them to him in, in the pocket of his jacket closest to his heart. The light weight against his chest was supposed to make him feel like Kakyoin was still with him or some shit, but all it did was remind him that he wasn’t.
Kakyoin’s parents blamed him.
That was valid, considering how it was at least partially their fault. For contributing to the isolation of their son, making him grow up feeling like a freak for seeing something no one else could, for not loving him the way he deserved until he was so desperate for a relationship that he offered himself up to the first people he met who could see Hierophant Green. For not caring if he wandered off and only giving him praise when he made himself useful to them. Because maybe if he’d grown up with a family that praised him when he accomplished something for himself, too, then he wouldn’t have been the die-hard people-pleaser he is— was, actually—and he wouldn’t have felt the need to try and single-handedly kill Dio.
So yes, it was natural for his parents to blame someone else. Jotaro was doing it, too, afterall.
Jotaro wasn’t really sure if he’d really been that overconfident, or if he just wanted to make the other crusaders proud or die trying.
In the end, Kakyoin saved them. But there had to have been another way for them to figure out the secret of Dio’s stand, one that didn’t involve the undeserved gory cessation Kakyoin had received.
Maybe what Jotaro hated was the way Kakyoin made him fall in love with him only to be so careless with his life, as if no one would miss him—because, fuck, Jotaro missed him enough to make up for every person who didn’t, and the weight of it was crushing him.