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On his fifty-first birthday, at 4 a.m., Kujo Jotaro wakes up alone in the bed he usually shares with his lovers.
And it's okay, but it's not. And he's okay, but he's not.
Miami has changed (well, and hasn't the world changed so much in his lifetime, in his lifetimes) since he first moved here, and it's hot even in January just like always but it feels like home, too, and that's something he treasures, something he can hold to his chest and comfort himself with when it's difficult to keep moving. He steps into the shower, feeling the emptiness of the house, and reminds himself that they're all due back tonight. Noriaki will be flying in last; Jolyne is driving down from New York with her friends and picking up Selena on the way. They'll be here. Jean-Pierre and Mohammed are going to visit tomorrow.
He's not really alone, he tells himself, but the shower still feels like an isolation cell, and he loses some time in there, like another birthday in another life.
"Jotaro," breathes a familiar voice, soft in his ear, as he turns off the water and emerges again, whole as he can be, these days.
It's nothing; not a real thing, not a real voice, but he knows it so well it hurts him, aches in his throat to answer. The priest is there, in the mirror only, with a hand on Jotaro's waist, pulling him close, pressing closer, nose in Jotaro's hair as if to breathe him in.
"Can we talk?"
He has never, in all the years since he woke up, been able to say no to the Priest. Not once, in all this time, and now is no different. He feels his jaw click shut, feels his vision blurring with the weariness of remembering, remembering all these things. (Sometimes, he thinks he understands why Grandfather is so tired, now.) So he does not agree, exactly; but he doesn't argue, either.
The priest's touch is a memory, more than it is a touch, but it's warm along his cheek, like knuckles to brush away his unshed tears. And in the silence of this house where he is loved and kept safe, this is no different.
Here, he always thought no one could love what he'd become; certainly, he hadn't loved himself, when he had no self left to remember to love, but-
But the priest did, didn't he? That's why this is happening now.
"Please," he gasps, because in a way, he knows what will come next. Wasn't it always like this? The priest, taking things away from him. "Please, don't."
As is so often the case, and has always been the case when it comes to the two of them, the priest does not listen. He only does as he pleases, a line beginning to open across Jotaro's throat. It's hard to breathe, hard to stay standing. He grips the sink with white-knuckled hands.
He begs, prays.
The priest only answers, "When I looked at you that day, I knew I loved you."
Something silver flashes in Jotaro's throat. For the first time in years, he can breathe without difficulty, like something lodged in his lungs has finally been jarred loose.
"And I knew it was cruel to love you, but I-"
The priest kisses Jotaro's temple.
"-I wanted to give you something. Just once, I wanted to give you something."
"Stay," Jotaro whispers, willing him to listen, this time, and the sorrow that meets him tells him all he needs to know.
"But you'll be all right, won't you?"
Will he?
"The 'you' then didn't have this."
(meaning the disc in his throat, the silver flash; no, he didn't but what if he still doesn't)
"I'm sorry," the priest kisses him again, not that it matters, not that they're real kisses. He scrubs at his eyes, breath raspy but still clear. He doesn't touch the disc, but he doesn't have to. It's disintegrating into dust. "I'm sorry. My time is up."
It takes him time he can't measure to compose himself. Again and again, his hands come up to his throat, thoughtful, testing, searching. He dresses himself, he goes downstairs, he pulls out the dough he'd made the night before and the recipe book to plan his own celebratory dinner. Baking is comforting, simple; a mindless sort of work that soothes him with every repetitive task, every little motion. Jolyne had requested a vegetarian dish for one of her friends, and Noriaki likes sukiyaki, and Mohammed taught him how to roast a chicken, the last time they were visiting, and Jotaro fills his day with the anticipation of what's to come, of the people who will arrive in the house and make it alive again.
When the sun sets and Jolyne throws open the front door, he startles (he can't help it) at the bang.
"Pfft! Jumpy, old man," she teases, rushing him for a hug. He's moved on to desserts by now, and was in the middle of cutting up strawberries for the three layered cake that Selena requested. Jolyne's stronger than him, these days, she's warm, her embrace nearly squeezes the breath from his body before he recovers himself and reciprocates. He doesn't rise to the bait, but when she brushes his stray, gray lock of hair behind his ear, he manages a smile.
"Where's your mother?"
"On the phone with papa, don't worry. He forgot to get a cab and she's roasting him."
"Mm," Jotaro can all too easily imagine the pair of them bickering and teasing for the next hour, and decides to leave well enough alone. "What about your friends?"
Jolyne brightens, letting him go so she can get a good look at him, like she can't quite believe he's asking her of his own volition, like she has to check it's really him. "You wanna meet 'em? I- I was gonna just introduce them at dinner, but you're usually kinda spacey on your birthday, so I wasn't sure if-"
"Yes," he agrees, a little embarrassed in spite of himself. He knows, he knows he has plenty of good reason to be like he is, but it shames him all the same to think his daughter has had to be so careful of him for so long in her life. "I'd like that."
And for the rest of the night, he doesn't think of the freshly healed wound on his throat, hidden under the collar of his shirt; he doesn't think of the priest's parting words; and somehow, somehow, he's happy.
He's loved, and he's happy.