Chapter Text
He's never had this much trouble breathing before.
Sure, there were times when it felt like his lungs were being crushed, something pressing against his chest till he struggles to breathe, or when he was literally stuck in a whirlpool and about to drown... but never like this.
Instead of desperately trying to reach for air in some instinctual animal drive, it's as if his body is willingly trying to deflate itself - like his body is pushing him to die. He can't possibly grasp at why this must be, not with the haze that's clouding his mind, or if it's that very haze that's fucking up the way he's perceiving everything in the moment. His gut, though, tells him there's something far worse going on than the fact he's rapidly losing blood.
Blood... That's what he needs.
The needle in his arm is strangely cold, as expected when getting a transfusion from a dead body, but he's sure it shouldn't feel like it's freezing his blood to ice.
It's loud. SPW doctors, nurses, whoever-the-fucks crowd around him like he's some circus attraction, except it's more like a petting zoo because oh God he might actually be dying, oh shit.
Despite the noise and lights and uncomfortable touches, he doesn't bristle - he's transfixed. It takes him far too long to tear his gaze away from where the metal embeds into his skin. Whatever.
But no, his mind will not take a 'whatever' today, it seems. It's too loud, it's too bright, he's fucking dying and his thoughts won't let him rest; there's something wrong, he knows it, his stomach churns and he feels the urge to vomit from dread. 'There's something wrong, there's something wrong, there's something wrong!' He knows.
Apart from the fact he's goddamn dying, he means - because yeah, that sucks too. But people die all the time, so he's not that special.
He's being pulled under, darkness threatening to engulf him, whether by exhaustion or anaesthetics but he can't fall unconscious. Not now, not yet; not when his throat clenches like a warning, bile trying to rise, to force him into heaving just to keep him awake. Distantly, he wonders just how miserable he must look and hopes someone catches his distress from not having the words to yell - rather than from the cool, numbing sensation creeping up his fingers and toes.
He's never hated his inability to form words more than now.
Still, there's not much he can do in this state - not with how nauseous he feels and the pit forming in his gut. He finally let's sleep take him, reluctantly placing his trust on his grandfather - of all people - and the panicking doctors, and can only hope it all fades in the morning.
(He can almost hear the undead bastard laughing at him from beyond the grave. Not that he'll get one anyway; bitches get stiches or something like that, or in this case death, not the decency to be buried. Ass wipe.)
Considering all that's happened so far, Jotaro should have known that it was too good to be true.