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Speedwagon looks everywhere apart from directly in front of him. He’s trying to distract himself by staring down at his shoes and he’s glad it’s working, because he instantly regrets catching even a glimpse of his immediate view.
He can’t deny it. Erina is so perfect for Jonathan, and it hurts. The woman’s got a heart as kind as her fiancé’s, and a manner about her so light and pretty that it would be near impossible not to like her.
Speedwagon could only wish to be half as pretty himself. Then maybe Jonathan would look at him the same way he’s looking at her right now, wide glossy eyes and a smile so taken by her laugh that any stranger passing by could tell just how madly in love with her he is.
It wouldn’t be unreasonable for one to assume that Speedwagon has every reason to dislike Erina, though he doesn’t actually dislike her one bit. Rather, he feels very fond of her, for she has been nothing but lovely since they were properly introduced. She’d even apologized for acting so initially coldly to him that one time in the hospital, which Speedwagon didn’t even feel was necessary. It was nothing but a misunderstanding, after all, and all humans misunderstand things, sometimes.
Maybe, if she really were a horrible person, Speedwagon wouldn’t feel quite so guilty about the fact that he fantasises about her husband-to-be nearly every minute of the day.
It’s hard to look either of them in the eye. Fantasies aside, it doesn’t help that the current topic of conversation is one that he’d quite frankly rather die than be a part of.
“The thing is,” Erina says as she gently swings the hand that’s currently holding her fiancé’s, “I am concerned the white flowers for the wedding may drown out the room if the table and decorations are white too, don’t you think pink would be better suited? Or perhaps yellow?”
When Jonathan shrugs politely and tells her he really doesn’t have an opinion on such a matter, she playfully rolls her eyes and turns around.
“What do you think, Robert?”
Speedwagon has no choice but to look up now. Though he’s soon moved on from staring at his shoes to fixating on the display of romantic hand-affection before his eyes, it’s still just as hard to pull himself together.
“Uh, yeah, I’m ‘fraid I ain’t got a clue about flowers m’lady, but I’m sure your judgement is best.”
“Nonsense!” she smiles, touching him on the arm. “We’d like your opinion, wouldn’t we, JoJo?”
Jonathan laughs. And God, it’s a beautiful laugh. He lights up like an angel, or a church painting, each pretty feature of his face sun-kissed and glowing in the light of the early afternoon.
“Of course we do, darling,” he responds, “But we shouldn’t be pressuring poor Robert with every complication of our decorations.”
As if that were the problem.
“You’re right,” Erina apologises, “So sorry Robert, I tend to get carried away with these things.”
She has Jonathan mesmerised. He’s so tenderly running his thumb over her engagement ring as she speaks, admiring her softly structured face as she stands there effortlessly shining brighter than the sky above them.
Speedwagon wishes he could hate her. It would make this easier.
“There’s no need for that, s’alright. Can’t fault ya’ for bein’ so excited,” he says.
How he truly feels he’d never tell, he’d never dare say a word. They’ll never know a thing.
-----------
Later that week, he finds himself with Jonathan by a very quiet area of the harbourside. It’s a meeting spot that the two of them have made of a habit of visiting together since life eased from the horrors of the Stone Mask, and one that they have both grown particularly fond of.
Speedwagon sits and watches as beside him, Jonathan lies on his back throwing stones into the sea, each time causing soft ripples and small splashes in the otherwise still water. Jonathan’s effortless charm is consistently annoying; even doing something so simple as tossing things about has Speedwagon overwhelmed with the desire to just reach out and cover him in every type of affection under the sun, to confess all his love and have the gentleman all to himself. Even dreaming of such things is enough to make his heart flutter around all over the place, and it feels beyond heavenly to spend time together alone like this.
“I can’t believe the wedding is only a week from now,” Jonathan says with notable excitement, “I must sort out the tailoring arrangements. Was the suit we had done for you okay?”
Was heavenly. Speedwagon holds in the urge to sigh.
“Yeah. Fine, perfect, cheers mate.”
It’s inescapable, and just as quickly as lovely thoughts had clouded Speedwagon’s mind, they soon dissipate and leave him with the agony of his current reality. As he speaks, he grows increasingly embarrassed that his voice is cracking and trailing off, and it’s not fair at all, because he can now feel the beginnings of tears stinging.
Nothing that he desperately tries succeeds in stopping them, not swallowing or blinking or straining his face. He simply pulls his knees to his chest and prays that he can at least settle them for the duration of the rest of their time together.
“That’s good to hear,” Jonathan replies as normal, “It was ever so nice.”
A stretch of silence passes. Speedwagon proceeds to sniffle back more tears, and feels his throat closing in. Though there’s truly nothing in the world that’s hurting him more than this conversation, the last thing he wants is to be a bad friend.
It takes a monumental feat of courage, but he tries initiating the topic once more through slightly clenched teeth, digging his fingers into his crossed arms.
“Im… so happy for you, JoJo. So, so…happy.”
Whatever was left of his restraint breaks, and he now can’t control the quiet sob that traps itself at the back of his throat and releases all the pent-up tears that he was so hopelessly holding back from spilling down his face. It was a stupid thing to say, and he’s angry at himself for being so foolish as to believe that he could pull that off convincingly.
The feeling of a hand on his leg shocks him beyond compare. When he looks to what is causing the touch, his already fragile state is confronted by the image of Jonathan gazing up at him with a smile so pretty that it disgraces every other sight in the world.
“Oh, Robert…” he says with great concern, “There’s no need for tears, though I know they must be happy ones. I can’t bear to see you like that, dear friend.”
Speedwagon knows it’s wrong, but he enjoys the touch. He doesn’t care that Jonathan is being completely oblivious and stupid; he just sits and takes it in, the comfort of his thumb rubbing soothing circles against his trousers. It’s so wonderful that he swears he can feel it on his skin, even through the fabric.
“Though,” Jonathan continues, “I can’t deny, I would be the same. We’ll find you a lovely woman to marry, Robert, and then I can cry before your wedding.”
Woman. Jonathan’s statement is so horrendously flawed that it’s almost laughable. Speedwagon carries himself so obviously that he might as well walk the streets of London with “invert” written on his forehead. The sheltered ways of some really do remain a cause of bewilderment to him.
This aside, Speedwagon decides to say nothing and instead smiles politely, because that’s what a good friend would do.
“Oi, watch it, you,” he attempts to joke, messing up the gentleman’s hair, “That ain’t happenin’.”
Jonathan gives him a look. It scares the ever-loving hell out of Speedwagon, because it’s a smug and silly look, grinning and beautiful, the sort so terrifyingly all-knowing that it’s making Speedwagon want to grab him by the shirt-collar and kiss him hard on the mouth.
“I knew it!” Jonathan exclaims, “You have a secret girl, don’t you? Oh, please tell me I’m right!”
Speedwagon rolls his eyes. He wants to be irritated, but he can’t. How could he possibly be anything but utterly enamoured at the fact that Jonathan Joestar is looking at him with such passion?
“No,” he responds firmly, “I bloody well don’t. Stop bein’ cheeky with me.”
It’s Jonathan’s turn to sigh now. He returns to lying on his back, his arms outstretched and resting under his head as he closes his eyes, a massive smile still plastered on his face.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” he reaches out an arm and hits Speedwagon clumsily, “You will soon though. I’ll make sure of it.”
How fucking clueless can one man be?
----------
Light spring air and lush grass spread all around the open fields of the countryside, and lying in the comfort of Jonathan’s arms, Speedwagon finds himself taking his lover’s strong hand into his own and running his thumb along the back of it. The mid-day sun is straining his eyes but it’s no match for the sight to his immediate right; Jonathan’s face, cushioned by the grass, which is gazing at him as though he’s the most precious sight to behold.
“Beautiful…” Jonathan observes quietly as he brushes a finger along the ridge of Speedwagon’s nose, “Look at all these pretty freckles you’ve caught from the sun!”
They’re laughing together and Speedwagon squeezes his eyes closed from bashfulness, telling him to stop fussing because he’s making him blush, to which Jonathan takes an excuse to further smother him in adoration- he’s repeating kissing along Speedwagon’s cheeks and across his nose, and when Speedwagon asks what on earth he’s doing between breathless giggles, Jonathan briefly pauses.
“I’m trying to kiss all of them,” he replies, quickly pressing his lips to his cheek one more time.
In response, Speedwagon leans up to return the gesture and kisses Jonathan’s warm lips gently, savouring each and every second of it. “You’re an idiot, Jojo,” he kisses him again, “A big massive adorable idiot, you know that?----”
Speedwagon almost chokes on the frantic, panicked breaths that stick to his throat as he suddenly wakes.
Groaning in frustration and sitting up in his bed, he puts his head in his hands and attempts to control his erratic breathing, his entire body practically boiling hot. His long hair sticks to his back and it’s making him itch, making him want to rip it straight from his scalp and scrub his skin raw with soap.
Ashamed, disgusted, horrified. Ashamed, but not surprised.
The dreams aren’t new. They’ve been a slow and steady contributor to his night routine for months now, yet recently they seem to be becoming all the more frequent, and all the more lovely too. The shock of waking from one is a horror he’s still not adjusted to though, and every time he finds himself shaking all over and crying in blind anger at how much of a monster he is, thinking that way about a taken man, unable to control himself, and Erina, oh God if she ever knew-
Out of habit, he reaches over to the chest next to his bed and fumbles around in the dark until he feels the comfort of a bottle, taking it between his hands and pulling the cork out the top.
It’s shameful, but he’s tried everything. Not much else works to dull the pain, even if for a brief moment at best. The vile mixture of cheap spirits burns as it goes down his throat, but he drains what’s left of it. If he’s lucky, he’ll eventually just fall into a much deeper dreamless sleep, and if he’s luckier, he may not even remember this in the morning.
As he wipes his mouth with his hand and stares into nothing, he wonders if he’ll take this to the grave: the dreams, the longing, the love he doubts he’ll ever recover from. His feelings may remain secrets, yet they still feel so dirty and sinful, and it just isn’t fair because he never asked to be this way, never once wished to cause the lovely couple any form of harm, never laid his hands on Jonathan where they didn’t belong.
The room begins to practically spin around him. He’s breathing so fast it feels as though air is being lodged into his heart, inflating every painful sob that spills from his throat. His hands clutch the mattress beneath him, the pressure of his grip tearing through the top layer of the material, and he can’t judge his own strength, fuelled and blinded by anger.
With full force, he reaches for the now empty bottle by his side and hurls it at the wall, glass shattering all over his floor and accidently cutting his hand in the process.
He stares into darkness and clutches at the blood now trickling down his arm, eyes wide and shocked at himself. In his mind he’s nothing more than a monster, the worst kind of scum that lies upon the surface of the planet.
Slowly, he attempts to lie back down and practically holds himself under thin sheets. As Speedwagon cries into his pillow, he tries to think of nice things: sunny days, pubs, freshly washed clothes, candle-light, oceans, countryside, and the warm open arms of a man who will never love him.
---------
A week later
“Look at ya’ both!” Speedwagon shouts, his voice drowning in the loud chatter of people around him, “Like a pair out of a fairy-tale!”
Overall, wedding-day hasn’t been a complete disaster. For the most part Speedwagon has managed to hold himself together, though the aching pain in his chest is still very much there. He doesn’t really have a choice, because he can’t disgrace himself or his two closest friends on what’s meant to be the happiest day of their lives- but he’d be lying if he said his hand didn’t twitch slightly when the priest asked if anyone had objections.
He gestures to Erina with as friendly a smile as he can put on.
“Go on darlin’, give us a twirl!”
Erina giggles and takes Speedwagon’s hand, lifting up his arm and using it to spin around, the ridiculously puffy skirt of her intricate bridal dress flowing out around her. Jonathan has to steady her slightly from toppling over at one point, laughing at the two of them.
“Goodness, love, careful!” he says, the elated look on his face at the sight of his beautiful wife enough to make Speedwagon seethe with jealousy.
He’s thankful that the next part of the ceremony is for family only, because he has an excuse to now leave without causing a fuss, and there’s nothing more that he wants than to get out of this church.
One last push, that’s what he needs.
“Well, I ‘ope the two of ya’ ‘ave a lovely rest of the day,” Speedwagon says, pulling the couple into an overly-enthusiastic hug, “I’ll see ya’ soon.”
Erina squeezes him close, “Thank you so much for coming, dear Robert! We’ll see you before the honeymoon, I’m sure.”
The feeling of Jonathan pressing into him from the other side is enough to jumble every sense in his body. Perhaps hugging was a bad choice, because he’s scared that he’s red in the face, and all he can focus on is the pressure of the gentleman’s muscular arms wrapping around his torso.
“Oh certainly, we’ll have to meet lots before we set off!” Jonathan smiles, patting him on the head, “I’m going to miss you awfully… though, we won’t be gone long! We’ll buy you plenty of souvenirs from America.”
“Much appreciated,” Speedwagon responds, removing himself from the group-squishing and waving, “Bye!”
The couple wave back at him, and as soon as he’s left their side, a group of people come swarming to the newly-weds. Speedwagon watches from the corner of his eye as the couple converse politely with the group of people that had now surrounded them to shower them in congratulations. They’re picture perfect.
It’s not fair.
Speedwagon could have never been that, and he knows it.
Dread stays settled in the pit of his stomach, and it follows him his entire way back home, until he’s almost at breaking point once again.
When he comes through the door, he simply slams it behind him and he slumps on the floor, bringing his knees to his chest in a pathetic attempt at hiding away. The curtains are still closed from the result of a rush to leave this morning, and though it’s now a bright and sunny afternoon, his room is dark, leaving him a concealed shadow shivering in the corner of it.
The floor is cold for sitting on, but he doesn’t have it in him to move. He wraps his arms around himself and starts to almost rock back and forth, waiting for a moment of peace to ease his suffering.
But even when he closes his eyes, he imagines Jonathan there by his side once again: holding him in a secure grasp, kissing his worries away, his aura all things comfort, gentle lips grazing his skin.
“Please stop,”
He begs out loud to his own mind in a small whimper, trapped as a victim to his own thoughts. But the cycle is cruel, because the more he stresses, the more he simply yearns for the man he can’t have.
---------
“Will you be going back to visit London?” Jonathan asks with a pipe in one hand, exhaling smoke into the cold night’s air. It’s their last meeting at the harbourside before he leaves for the honeymoon and they’ve been sat for three or four hours; though the February wind is slightly biting and the moon is fully glowing neither of them have been in a rush to leave one another’s company, not yet.
“While you’re away? Prob’ly not, I ain’t really got no business goin’ back.”
Speedwagon stares at the boats floating on the water and thinks of how far he really is from London, his old life and his friends- not only friends but his men, the gang he’s raised and prided himself on for as long as he can remember. Though he doesn’t miss the slums and the infections and the rats, he does miss the ease of life, the spirit of the bustling crowded streets, the exhilaration of an alleyway fight. He can’t go back now though, not since he threw it all away so quickly. He doubts his gang will ever want to see their boss again after watching him carelessly chase some posh bloke across the country.
Turning to face him with a worried expression, Jonathan takes his pipe from his mouth and frowns.
“Do you not get homesick?”
Homesick. It’s a word with no meaning to Speedwagon, because he’s never had a real home. He doesn’t have it in his heart to tell this to Jonathan though. He doubts his sheltered perfect little mind will be able to grasp such a concept.
“Not really.”
He’s aware he sounds tense, but it’s got a great deal to do with the fact that he’s in crumbling denial. He can’t bear the thought of Jonathan leaving, even if only for a few weeks, because he knows that by the time he’s home everything will be different. If Speedwagon knows anything about rich people it’s that they start having children quicker than anything after marriage, and he doubts Jonathan and Erina will prioritise seeing some low-life criminal over raising a family.
He’ll end up getting in the way, as he always seems to do. He’s certain of it, because what does he have to offer to them? Best let them get on with their lives. Looking Erina in the eye is hard enough already.
“Oh, well I suppose that’s not so bad then,” Jonathan extends his still-lit pipe out to Speedwagon and smiles, “Want some?”
It’s an offer that Speedwagon can’t ever imagine declining. He nods and takes it between his own fingers, going in to inhale straight away. It’s beyond exhilarating to know that the same clay has touched Jonathan’s so very beautiful lips only moments ago, and as he blows out he savours it, because he swears he can taste the sweetness of the gentleman’s mouth on his own. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to knowing what it feels like to kiss him, and the countless hours he’s spent dreaming of such a privilege is enough to allow him the pleasure of enjoying it.
It’s all too much to handle at once, and before he gets carried away he passes it back, desperately controlling his shaking hand.
“Well,” Jonathan begins, and Speedwagon knows exactly where this is going by the polite tone of it, “I best be on my way home now, Erina will get ever so worried otherwise.”
It’s just as he predicted, and yet it still pains him to hear it. He makes sure to smile but every inch of him secretly begs Jonathan to stay for eternity.
“By all means! I bet you’ve got an early start tomorrow, ‘aven’t you?”
Jonathan starts to button up his coat, “It isn’t too bad I suppose, we leave at mid-day on the dot,” he looks up suddenly, “If you’re around, I’m sure you’ll be able to watch the cruise leave from the harbourside.”
“I’ll be there, don’t ya’ worry.”
The pain in Speedwagon’s chest is heavy. Now he’s almost hoping Jonathan does leave, because he’s convinced that he can’t keep up this act for much longer; one more intrusive thought and he’s certain he’ll burst into tears.
“That’s my Robert! Loyal as ever!” Jonathan laughs, and it’s one hundred percent a joke but Speedwagon is almost angry at how he can say something so carefreely whilst it’s hitting his heart like a ton of bricks.
He continues to be stunned into silence when Jonathan then pulls him into a brief but strong embrace. The feeling stirring in Speedwagon’s heart as he stays settled in the arms of someone he adores so much is one he can’t even begin to place: it’s safe, perfect, everything he’s ever wanted, and every second of it lasts twice as long as it should. He can feel his own heartbeat pounding through his skin and buzzing in his blood, fast and breathless, overpowering. He tries to feel Jonathan’s, but nothing seems to be there apart from the steady beating of a normal body, unfazed and warm, yet slow and painful compared to his own. The difference serves to remind him that he’s chasing the impossible. Jonathan lets go, and Speedwagon knows his fate is sealed. He’ll be taking this love to the grave.
“Farewell, for a few weeks at least,” Jonathan stands up and smiles, “Do take care while I’m gone.”
Still sat glued to the floor, Speedwagon looks up and waves in return.
“See ya’, ‘ave a wonderful time.”
He doesn’t want to watch Jonathan leave. Instead, he stares out to sea, desperately clasping his trembling hands.
Boats float in the near distance, everything within eyeshot gently swaying in the tide, small waves lapping over the edge of the harbour walls.
His heart still hurts. He wonders what would happen if one day, the tide spiralled out of control, and water spilled over on to the roads. He wonders if that’s what his heart is doing right now. Spilling.
“I love you.”
Speedwagon quietly confesses, but it’s too late.
It’s nothing more than a slightly cracked whisper, and Jonathan is already halfway down the road.
---------
The following day, Speedwagon reluctantly pushes his way past crowds of people lining the streets and turns the corner to the harbour once more.
He’s thankful for the hat he has to somewhat conceal his face, and as he strides down the pavement he clutches the brim of it tightly, pulling it down.
The sun hurts his sore eyes as he looks out to the water, finally stood near the edge of the docks. He’s made it in time to see the cruise but it’s already sailing out to sea, just too far away for him to make out the silhouetted figures of people onboard. It’s most likely for the best.
He sits on the edge of the wall, dangling his legs over the side of the harbour, and watches as the ship slowly fades into the distance.
A drop of rain hits the skin on his face. He looks down at the sea beneath his shoes, how the gentle pattering of raindrops ripples the stagnant water, and he begins to cry.
There isn’t a person in sight to see him. Most have taken shelter in the nearby bars, or fled home. Speedwagon sobs into his already soaked sleeve, because the ripples in the water only serve to remind him of the only ripple that he’s become accustomed to knowing: the secret energy of sunlight, as electrifying and wonderful as the two beautiful men who used it, one dead and one sailing away from him.
As always, he’s left behind and in the way. Useless.
He briefly debates going back to London. Maybe it would be better if he were to never see Jonathan again, because he doubts that he can live like this much longer. He can only dread the many more hours of tears and sleepless nights he’s bound to endure for a long time, perhaps even for the rest of his life.
His vacant tired gaze fixates on the ship disappearing into the horizon, now no more than a blurred shape in the distance.
It’s an easy decision though. Speedwagon will stay.
He’ll wait for Jonathan’s return, even if he has to sit on this wall for days in the pouring rain, shivering in the winter’s wind. He’ll wait tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow too, until his strained bleary eyes catch the glimpse of the man he adores once again.