Chapter Text
Jotaro pushes his face into Kakyoin’s shoulder. It’s too early for breakfast, and the other Crusaders won’t be up yet. His hat is missing for the moment, tossed off in an attempt to tend to a head wound the night before.
Kakyoin rouses with a sharp inhale, only opening his eyes when Jotaro’s cold nose sticks sharply into his neck.
“Good morning to you too, fucker,” he murmurs, shoving a hand into Jotaro’s curls. He pulls a bit, just enough to readjust the freezing nose off of his skin and into the pillow behind him. Jotaro snorts and puffs his lip out against Kakyoin’s shoulder to blow a raspberry.
“‘Mornin’.”
“Move your head, I wanna turn over.”
Jotaro obliges, finding his nose once against being shoved crudely into the rough hotel sheets while Kakyoin awkwardly pulls his arm out from under him. He winces at the pressure, having been rather rudely punched in the face by an enemy stand user two days ago. The repeated abuse his poor -still ridiculously hulking- body has experienced is starting to get on his nerves. Being unable to move or sit or stand or god forbid sleep without some bruise or stitch twinging is getting old, quick.
Kakyoin turns himself over on his side, facing Jotaro with an arm propped under his head.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How’s your head?”
“Feeling like Polnareff opened it up and used Chariot like a vegetable grater on it. Hot, right?”
“Very. Want some pain killer? I think I’ve still got a tablet or two somewhere,” Kakyoin offers, beginning to turn back over to sweep an arm for his bag.
“Nah, don’t need it. Not when I’ve got you here, brain surgeon,” Jotaro quips, sticking his nose into the back of Kakyoin’s unsuspecting neck again. He lets out an ugly squeak and whips back around, catching Jotaro’s chin between his elbow and armpit. Jotaro presses a hard kiss to the meat of his bicep and lowers his eyebrows in faux intimidation.
“Ew, take that back,” Kakyoin huffs, recoiling his arm and tucking it back close to his side.
“Not unless you go all Lovers-mode and crawl into my brain and fix whatever this killer headache has going on. Don’t you want to poke around in my grey matter, Kakyoin?”
“As interesting as an impromptu Kujo-brain dissection sounds, I doubt I’d find anything in that thick skull of yours,” Kakyoin smiles, tilting his head innocently. Jotaro cuffs him in the side of the head with a pillow.
Kakyoin is joking, but sometimes he does wonder if whatever Jotaro’s hat has does to meld into his hair has affected his brain at all. How does it even do that? Kakyoin eyes it suspiciously from its place on the nightstand over Jotaro’s shoulder.
“Got beef with my hat, Kakyoin? I promise I haven’t told it about your ticklish spots,” he teases.
“I hate you.” He doesn’t.