Chapter Text
Koichi sits at Deux Magots across from Rohan and doesn’t look anxious to leave. After all, Rohan is his best friend, and he’s glad they’re there together, sharing breakfast. But when Jotaro walks by, too noticeable on the sidewalk, Koichi kind of looks relieved, like he’s found a saviour.
"Mister Jotaro!"
Jotaro stops, doesn’t come closer, like a train stopping on its tracks, not budging.
"Hello, Koichi. Rohan."
"Eh, w-would you like to sit with us?"
And Rohan would feel offended if he didn’t know Koichi isn’t uncomfortable.
"I’m on my way to the beach," he says and after a beat, "Want to come?"
Koichi politely declines. He has school, after all, he’s only there for his friend, have breakfast with him for a change, because his company is preferable to anyone else’s, for Koichi, Rohan knows. And Rohan gives it a second of thought. Watching the sea with a marine biologist, learning of the components of its floor firsthand, its waters, its temperature, its life. Like using Heaven’s Door on every last inch of it, like drinking the sea, and eating the floor, and its waters, its temperature, its life, raw, no cooking. So he nods, and Jotaro nods as well before walking away; Rohan trails after him leaving Koichi at his seat, to pay for the bill himself. (Fortunately he has the money Rohan paid him to hang out that morning, even if he’s late to school.)
They walk in silence until the beach is in sight. Then Jotaro says: "There," pointing to a secluded spot, towards the end of the stretch of sand, where rock formations covered in shrubs fade into the sea, dotted along the shore in all sizes, separating the sand from the pebbled stretches to the right, and Rohan nods again, and Jotaro nods as well.
Without words they decide their positions. Jotaro rolls up his pants, takes off his long coat to put on a rock, and steps into the water, whirlpools at his feet, between the rocks, tiny seaweed caressing his skin, particles of sand stick to it, shining in the sun when his legs aren’t covered by water. Rohan watches from atop a slightly taller rock, a shrub at his back, sketchbook on his folded legs, overseeing.
"What are you doing?"
"Sampling," it seems like he won’t say more, but then he adds, "see how the reduction of fishing around the area has affected the organisms," and doesn’t turn to Rohan once, but he stops whatever he’s doing and Rohan sits up, in attention. All he does is roll up his sleeves, and then resumes collecting sand, and seaweed, and pieces of rocks.
There is no more talk. Rohan sketches Jotaro’s hands, going into the water, into the sand; seaweed and foam lingering around long fingers, a scar on the back of his left hand, barely there, drawn out by the water and the sun. He sketches the waves splashing against the smaller rocks, against the barnacles hanging tightly, covered in deep green moss, the whiteness completely off, almost invisible, Jotaro’s toes, his heels, digging into sand whenever he changes spot, like the rocks dig into it, firmly grounded like they’re supposed to be there. A scar on his ankle, snaking up the tanned skin like a curve, only shows when his muscles tense as he bends his knee.
Rohan sits up in attention again when Jotaro straightens suddenly, maybe he’s done and they’ll leave and this’ll all be over, but all he does is take off his shirt and throw it on his coat. Rohan goes back to his sketches, Jotaro goes back to leaning over the sea, digging hands and fingers into it. Now he sketches long fingers carefully holding instruments he doesn’t know the name of (he’ll ask) and he looks at slightly lighter lines curving up and down the back, forming circles and patterns, like whirlpools of seafoam between the rocks, like bundles of seaweed swaying here and there, and the curves of the back, the shoulders, the arms. His sketches draw out a line, connecting the whirlpools, the seaweed, the patterns made by scars on the back, the shoulders and the arms, wisps of smoke insinuated like ripples on the surface.
He doesn’t want to draw out the connection, literally, figuratively, hold whatever meaning this holds, but he does (he’s an artist, there are patterns), and maybe there is some kind of meaning, because his sketchbook is there on his legs, full of curves and whirlpools and scars, and his sight is there on the back, and he imagines what it would be like to use Heaven’s Door on Jotaro, read every last inch of the book under his skin, every last part of his life with all its shounen manga qualities, draw his tall stature and the patterns of his scars on tanned skin and the curved lines of his arms and his legs and his neck into horror filled vignettes, black and white panels.
"Are you alright?" Jotaro asks, finally looking his way. Probably because Rohan has been staring for too long. He doesn’t take long to say he is, look back at the sketches of Jotaro, and then back up at him. But Jotaro looks at him for another moment or two, frowning more noticeably, and Rohan worries, but his sketchbook can’t be seen from the distance and the angle. Jotaro turns away suddenly and Rohan goes back to his sketchbook. Whatever meaning was there is lost.
Something blocks the sun from the white page, Jotaro’s standing in front of him, saying "There", when he notices the long coat on top of his head, covering it from the sun beating down on them (because Jotaro must’ve thought he stared because he was sunstruck, and sick) and there’s some sort of meaning there again.