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Jonathan is very, very, ashamed of himself.
How he ended up here is a slight mystery. Up until now, things had been going as smoothly as one in his position could wish for: he’d located the poison seller with the help of his new friend, obtained the antidote his father needed, said goodbye to said new friend, and attempted to make his way out of Ogre Street as quickly as possible.
It was the last task that had caused problems. His unfamiliar surroundings had him going in circles, worn brick buildings and sludgy snow-covered streets merging into one dirty, cold labyrinth. He’d been trudging around in it for what felt like an hour trying to make his way back to his carriage, to no avail. The darker the hours of the night, the stronger the biting wind seemed to blow, and the more his patience wore dangerously thin.
That was, until now. Because Jonathan is completely giving in. Not to the cold, or to the late hours of the evening, or to his aching legs, as one may expect. Even in the midst of a night that holds the most urgent and serious weight of responsibilities, his family life on the line…he finds himself giving in to the most shameful of desires.
Standing on the pavement, no more than a few metres away from him, his back leant against the crumbling wall of a crowded bar, is Speedwagon. Jonathan had bid farewell to him not only an hour or so ago, certainly not anticipating to run into the strange man so soon again.
An impressive gust of wind flies between the two of them. Speedwagon’s already staggering figure sways slightly with the motion of it as he watches Jonathan with what seems to be great amusement.
“Now, now, what’s a lovely thing like y’self still doin’ out in these parts then?” Speedwagon questions, gentle enough for it to be labelled as concern, yet patronising enough for Jonathan to feel embarrassed.
Speedwagon looks different. Not much time has passed between now and their last meeting, yet it’s clear as anything that he’s wasted no time… celebrating their night’s success. He’s since abandoned any form of respectable attire and is standing out in the freezing cold with his shirt completely unbuttoned, tie dangling loose around his neck, glossy eyes and dilated pupils half-focused on Jonathan’s shocked expression and half-focused on lighting the cigar in his hand.
“Well, I-” Jonathan starts, simply too transfixed on the sight before him to pull together an answer. He’s laid his eyes on quite a few drunken men in his lifetime, but this state of human is so fascinating that he finds himself staring as though he were inspecting some sort of science experiment.
“Speak up, love,” Speedwagon chuckles, busily fumbling around with his pocket-lighter, “Can’t half hear ya’ over this damn gale.”
Jonathan begs his eyes to look at something else, anything else, but they’re utterly glued to the artful display of Speedwagon’s reddened hands, bruised knuckles clasping the lighter ignition until it sparks and lights the cigar that’s being held between his teeth.
Between whatever he’s seeing, and the syrupy coercion of Speedwagon’s words, Jonathan almost chokes.
“I’m terribly lost,” he eventually admits, “I don’t know what to do, If I can’t get home then it might be too late before I can save my father, and then I-”
Speedwagon looks up from his cigar and takes it out from his mouth, droopy eyes sympathetic and seeing right through him. He shoves his lighter in his trouser-pocket and uses his free hand to beckon towards him, leaning back against the wall as he does so.
“Shhhh, now. I can’t ‘ave a fine bloke like y’self all riled up and sad in my ends of the city, can I?” He nods his head in direction of the door to the building they’re stood outside of. Even from behind the boarded-up windows, Jonathan can tell it’s packed with men by the rowdy noises coming from inside, “This is our gang’s place, belongs to yours truly,” he smiles with pride, “Come on in for a bit. Better than standin’ out ‘ere.”
Jonathan knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t have the time. So much horror and pain is riding on his shoulders, and he needs to get home desperately. But his only other option is to wander around the city aimlessly, and what good would that do?
Only needing a moment more to know that he’s completely taken by Speedwagon’s toothy smile, Jonathan gives in.
“Alright,” he agrees politely, “Thank you.”
Speedwagon’s already doughy eyes light up, far brighter than the tip of his burning cigar, and far brighter than the streetlamp he’s standing under. The thrilled delight on his face practically shines.
“That’s the spirit,” he responds, making his way to the door and pulling it open, “In through this way, sweetheart.”
Jonathan hesitates as he follows him, a combination of fear from both what he’s about to enter into, and the sudden term of endearment. Speedwagon is strange, and every second that Jonathan spends with him leaves an even stranger feeling brewing in his stomach.
Somehow, the building’s inside is even busier than he expected. It’s surprisingly big too, a run-down hallway that leads off into different rooms, with a staircase that he can only assume goes up at least two more flights. As soon as they’re in and the door is firmly shut, Speedwagon leads him into a crowded bar, greeting the many passing people that address him as ‘boss’ and wish him a good evening.
Speedwagon walks with purpose, loose shirt flowing out behind him. He occasionally turns to look closely behind his shoulder to check if Jonathan is okay, and guides him into the corner of the room. He returns to what Jonathan can only assume is the seat he had occupied earlier on, the main clues being a discarded jacket, jumper and hat strewn across it. Speedwagon flops down into the comfy beaten-up chair and gestures for Jonathan to sit next to him, which he does so without question. It’s safely large enough to occupy both of them but they still end up slightly squished, especially when Speedwagon swivels around to lean his back against the armrest to face him better.
Jonathan studies his surroundings. To his surprise, no one has come to interrogate him, or even so much give him a second look, something he was entirely anticipating given his upper-class appearance. In fact, everyone in sight is getting on with their own business, obliviously enjoying themselves, huddled around in big groups and stood over tables, drinking and smoking and laughing.
“Don’t worry y’self over what the boys’ll think with y’ bein’ here and all,” Speedwagon comforts, as though reading his thoughts, “No one’ll dare bother us as long as y’ stick with me.”
Reassured that he’s not about to be mobbed any second, and thankful for it, Jonathan nods in response. He doesn’t know why he feels so suddenly shy, but he forces himself to initiate some sort of conversation regardless.
“You manage all these people?” he enquires, genuinely impressed, “It must have taken a lot of work to assemble such a loyal following. You must be an amazing leader.”
Speedwagon relaxes further into the chair and laughs, exhaling smoke directly into the air above him.
“Don’t go makin’ me blush, love,” he says, flattered, “It was a troublesome piece of work though. Our old guy, terrific leader he was, got stabbed right in the stomach and kicked the bucket right there on the spot. Bastard who did it got a great big ol’ taste of medicine from yours truly, and next thing I know I’m bein’ voted as the next boss.”
Jonathan braves eye contact as he listens to the story, feeling much more at home.
“’Taste of medicine?’” he responds, raising his eyebrows.
“Damn right. Killed the bastard I did.”
Jonathan doesn’t know why he’s shocked to hear it come out of his mouth so nonchalantly. He’s a gang leader, of course he’s going to have killed people. Hell, he even tried to kill him earlier on.
Though, polite as ever and raised never to cause a fuss, Jonathan smiles as though he’s just heard about a new puppy, not the fact that he’s sat next to a casual murderer.
“Let’s get a drink in y’ system, yeah?" Speedwagon continues, picking up on Jonathan’s stiffness, "Bet that’ll pick y’ right up. You’ve had a right old rough night, haven’t you sweetheart?”
Jonathan deciphers his friend’s slurred words slowly, before finally agreeing. He doesn’t know why he’s agreeing, he really should absolutely not be drinking right now, but for some reason he can’t find it in him to turn any of Speedwagon’s requests down.
He’s never felt so truly powerless. Jonathan has sheltered into his own little invisible bubble, any traits of pride and strength completely gone. As he watches Speedwagon shout across at a barman to bring them over a couple of beers, he studies his friend’s appearance, and feels his breaths getting shallow.
By the time a pint glass is being placed in his cold hands, Jonathan realises he’s been lost in a twisted state of panic for the last whole minute. To calm his nerves, he lets go and takes a huge few gulps of drink, hoping that anything will save him from this strange, strange day.
“What’s all this you said about goin’ home and all, then?” Speedwagon asks him, the phrasing of the question snapping Jonathan back to his current reality, “I remember y’ tellin’ me on the way to the shop about your shitty brother and all that, but what are you goin’ to do about him exactly?”
Jonathan sighs, “In all honesty, I have no idea,” he admits, “It all feels rather hopeless, Speedwagon. I have never felt so alone in my life. Even if I am able to regain my father’s health, I can’t even begin to predict what Dio will do next. I think I’m cursed.”
The chair creaks slightly as Speedwagon shuffles closer to him, the sweetest look of pity in his large brown eyes. He takes a sip of beer himself and begins to drag his shoe slowly up and down Jonathan’s trouser-leg, pushing the fabric up with each rhythmic stroke.
“Bloody awful situation, that,” he comforts, shaking his head, “Poor thing.”
Jonathan is as good as frozen. With each second of touch, burning hot trails of friction that’s barely even there on the skin of his half-exposed leg, he knows that something about this is making him feel a way that he really, really shouldn’t.
He doesn’t mind in the slightest when Speedwagon only continues to close the minimal space between them, the heat of his sweat and smoke clouding every one of Jonathan’s senses to a point where his head feels as though it were an oversaturated cloud.
It’s all gone too far. Jonathan is in too deep to care about what he wants, or what do to do with these feelings. He drains the rest of his beer, once again flushing away all dignity left in his sorry state of being.
“What do I do?” Jonathan says quietly, turning to face Speedwagon’s studious gaze. Worries of home drain back into his system as the alcohol seeps into his blood, “I’m so lost.”
It’s an invitation for more, and Speedwagon knows it. As he leans forward, his shirt only falls further and Jonathan shamelessly stares down it, bare scarred skin stretched over muscle confronting his immediate view.
“Shhh,” Speedwagon consoles, the backs of his fingers rubbing circles into Jonathan’s upper arm, “It’s goin’ t’ be alright, yeah?” he smiles, every hint of sugary sweetness practically dripping from his voice and touch.
Jonathan doesn’t know what to do except melt into it. Speedwagon’s warm, effortless charm washes over him like a quilted blanket, and he quickly comes to realise that he’s faint with wanting as much of it as possible.
But nothing, nothing on earth prepares him for when Speedwagon leans right over him, placing one of his strong hands on Jonathan’s thigh to steady his tipsy drunken weight, precariously getting right up and close to Jonathan’s right ear and whispering:
“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
Jonathan wishes he could see himself, because he’s looking up at Speedwagon’s handsome freckled face in a way he can only imagine is physically soppy, focused eyes half-lidded and bursting with admiration. Cautiously, he reaches one of his hands up to touch Speedwagon’s jaw, his trembling fingers brushing against light shaven stubble, tracing touch over tiny cuts and marks.
“Okay,” Jonathan whispers back, barely even forming a word.
A part of Jonathan enjoys being pathetic right now. Speedwagon pulls back and flashes him an adorably crooked smile.
“Splendid,” he says in hushed tones, taking one last drag of his cigar before stubbing it out on the chair and throwing it behind him. With both of his hands free, he redirects his touch to Jonathan’s shoulders and grips slightly, distributing pressure around the back of his neck and towards the outer tops of his arms, relieving all of the gentleman’s pent-up tension considerably. It’s such a simple gesture of affection but it works like a charm, and though there’s nothing even remotely suggestive about it, Jonathan blushes all over and has to rest his head on Speedwagon’s shoulder while it happens.
Though all that covers him is a thin white shirt, Speedwagon is considerably hot, and Jonathan grabs onto him without even so much as a second thought, drawn to the relief of human touch. He’s never realised how utterly starved he is of it, and it almost bring tears to his eyes.
“There, there,” Speedwagon soothes, his tone as gentle as water rushing over rocks, “It’s okay, love, just relax.”
Jonathan can’t do anything but simply nod into his shoulder, burying his face into his shirt. As he closes his eyes and shuts out the rest of the loud noise around him completely, he feels the ever so faintest pressure of steady breath just below his jaw, and he realises that Speedwagon’s lips are dangerously close to his skin, not quite touching, but more hovering, as such.
Jonathan’s throat goes dry.
“Speedwagon-”
Speedwagon stops right where he is and loosens his grip on Jonathan’s back, withdrawing ever so slightly.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, breaking into a tender smile, “Where are my manners, eh?”
He begins to stand up, and Jonathan panics at first, already missing being held with a desperation so fierce he’s afraid he’s about to collapse. But all is made up for when Speedwagon offers him a hand, which Jonathan takes into his own immediately.
“Too many people in here, yeah?” Speedwagon winks at him, “Let’s go somewhere else then, handsome.”
Jonathan’s face burns.
Needless to say, he accepts the offer, and Speedwagon guides him by the hand back out of the crowded room and up one flight of stairs, pushing the door open to one of the empty rooms. It’s very dark, not illuminated by the same variety of lamps and candles as downstairs, but aided only by the glowing of the moon shining in through the singular window. Jonathan can’t quite work out what the room is meant for, there are things scattered everywhere, but he’s beyond caring. There are the same sorts of large cushioned chairs shoved to one side and that’s exactly what Speedwagon makes a bee-line for, after slamming the door shut with a kick. He drags Jonathan to one of them by the hand and they sit down once again, though this time Speedwagon waits until Jonathan is fully reclined back into the seat before crawling right into his lap.
Jonathan lets it happen with delight. His heart throbs uncontrollably, and he yearns for the man in front of him more than he’s ever done for any pretty woman in his life.
He envisions a lot of things in a very short number of seconds. Speedwagon is so gorgeously close, waiting in the silence of the completely still room with all the rugged good looks in the world, and all the irresistible sweetness of custard pie and honeysuckle.
“Better, love?” Speedwagon asks, the softest sort of mischievous smile pulling at his cheeks. He places his hand under Jonathan’s chin and lifts it slightly, before taking his thumb and running it across his bottom lip. “You’ll ‘ave to excuse me. Chivalry ain’t really my thing.”
“That’s quite alright,” Jonathan responds distantly, wrapping his arms around Speedwagon’s waist to pull him in closer. Though, he misjudges his hand placement slightly and ends up touching under his undone shirt, the feeling of skin against his palms almost making him flinch. It’s too late to back out, however, so he goes along with it and makes the most of his flustered clumsiness, firmly grabbing Speedwagon’s bare waist in his hands and pulling towards him until they’re completely squashed. “Right now, it’s not really my thing either.”
Speedwagon laughs at him, brushing messy strands of Jonathan’s dark hair behind his ear and then pressing his lips gently there, once again only letting them simply graze the surface of Jonathan’s skin.
“I like you a lot, Jonathan Joestar,” he whispers, short warm waves of breath tingling Jonathan’s face an unfair amount. He then proceeds to slowly trail the faint pressure all the way down to Jonathan’s mouth, and finally, finally, presses their lips into a deep kiss. Jonathan’s never been kissed in his life, but he doubts this is an ordinary experience of what such a thing is to feel like; the inside of Speedwagon’s mouth is hot against his tongue and he’s taken aback by the sloppiness of it, the heavy thick taste of cheap tobacco and beer mixing in between his lips and coating his throat as he attempts to swallow. The longer they stay cemented in each other’s firm grasp, the deeper and deeper it gets, rough chapped lips of the man he’s so terribly intoxicated by pressing harder into his own until he’s running dangerously low on breath.
They make a habit every now and then to stop and let frantic breaths in, though not for very long. As soon as they’re apart for a split second and Jonathan only just begins to feel the gentle buzzing of once-pressure of the surface of his wet lips, he’s being pleasantly violated by Speedwagon’s mouth again, and so the pattern repeats.
“Tell me,” Jonathan breathes in, pausing and re-starting his sentence between kisses, “Had you- planned this all- all along?”
Speedwagon slows and plants one very chaste little kiss on Jonathan’s closed mouth.
“Perhaps,” he mumbles. “Is that a problem, love?”
Jonathan shakes his head, drowning in whatever butterflies he’s becoming overwhelmed by.
“Not at all.”
He receives a beautifully charming grin in response to that, and before he knows it, the string of affection is once again initiated. One more long, drawn out kiss turns into two, two to three, and three to many, many more. They fumble around in each other’s strong grip for hours into the night, veiled by the dark and dust of their small empty room, and protected by the firm lock of the wooden door.