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Everything, even the air inside the room in this Cairo hospital was far too quiet, grey, and slow.
Jotaro couldn’t stand it.
During the battle with Dio, his surroundings had moved at a blistering pace, despite how they dueled back and forth, stopping time. Now, without the pound of blood in Jotaro’s head and the adrenaline jolting him a couple steps ahead of death, it all dragged on. Time felt so slow, so stationary, even as Star Platinum shimmered, un-summoned, somewhere deep in his soul.
Distractions were, woefully, few and far between. Only on occasion would a Foundation nurse venture into the room, footsteps so soft with caution Jotaro hardly ever heard them until he caught a hand monitoring a machine or scratching something out on the bedside chart. He distantly remembers being offered food several times, which he’d declined, and water, which he’d accepted but hadn’t yet drank, still sitting on a tray out of the corner of his eye, condensation catching the foggy nighttime orange glowing from the window. He must’ve stumbled to the bathroom a couple of times, must’ve dozed off, but otherwise he stayed hunched forward in his chair, eyes hollowed, hand never leaving its perch atop Kakyoin’s still fingers.
Like some kind of guardian angel, his teasing whisper played back in Jotaro’s head. That managed to crack a slight smile on his lips, and Jotaro shook his head to the quiet room.
The guys he beat the shit out of back home would’ve thought of him maybe like some sort of avenging angel, maybe. But Kakyoin had always been the type to say weird stuff like that, stuff that took always Jotaro aback. But never did he feel the need to correct Kakyoin in his observations, even those that made him feel unexpectedly pinned open and exposed.
“What do you mean by that?” This had been sometime after the whole deal in Singapore, en route to India, when they’d finally found some proper alone time in the train’s smoking car.
Kakyoin froze, like he hadn’t expected Jotaro to want an explanation.
“Well, I mean…you’re strong, and imposing, and you…” Kakyoin looked away, the scenery outside the window reflecting in his eyes. “You’re really good at making people feel safe, I think. Once they know what’s going on beneath that whole tough delinquent look.”
Jotaro cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing at Kakyoin. Usually, he’d let it go, but—
“So, do I make you feel safe?”
Jotaro thought he saw Kakyoin flinch, but it could’ve just been the train car rattling. But the way Kakyoin suddenly kneaded the hem of his uniform didn’t escape his notice.
“I—well.” A fleeting grin flew across Kakyoin’s face, and he glanced away from the window back at Jotaro. “Yeah. I guess so.”
Jotaro held their gaze for a moment, a buoyant happiness suddenly rising out of his stomach. Then he smirked, pulling his hat down over his eyes.
“Good grief. You’re the only guy I know who would call someone a guardian angel even after he beat the shit out of them.”
He heard Kakyoin chuckle.
“Hey! To be fair, I kind of deserved that one. But ever since then…”
In the hospital room, Jotaro gave Kakyoin’s hand a firm squeeze, hoping.
“I’ve never felt safer than when I’ve been around you.”
The slight smile dropped from Jotaro’s face as Kakyoin’s hand stayed limp, the warmth of the memory quickly draining out of him. God. What did he think was going to happen? Cold, lifeless reality was all he had now. There was still nothing else there.
He let out a tired, angry breath between his teeth.
What a fucking joke.
If Jotaro was really a guardian angel, then by all rights he’d turned out to be the crappiest out of all of them. No guardian angel worth his salt would’ve allowed Kakyoin to fall to such a brutal fate at the end of Dio’s fist. No guardian angel would’ve gaped at a crumpled, bloodied body, too swallowed in shock to do a single thing as other people Kakyoin didn’t even know raced to save the life of the one he was supposed to protect. No guardian angel would simply sit here, haplessly, unable to do a single thing more to help other than lose sleep and hold his hand.
But it was all Jotaro had to offer.
He hung his head, heaviness collecting between his eyes like a drop of water. He was so tired, but he refused to let himself sleep. So instead, he let his mind wander. It still felt almost irresponsible, to dwell in daydreams while Kakyoin was fighting for his life, but Jotaro was too worn down to resist it. His eyes slowly lost focus, the grey darkness of the hospital room swimming away from him.
Instead he could see the walls of his home, the shoji doors slightly parted to reveal the chilly January sky and the placid little garden. His mom was in the kitchen, looking hale and hearty, cooking something. He could almost smell it—chankonabe. Huh. Mom always made that for his—
Oh. That’s it.
His birthday was coming up. That made sense. Jotaro couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten.
But his mom never did. Not only would she make him dinner would always buy him a massive cake to celebrate, even bake one if she had time enough to decorate it. Jotaro had always scoffed but eaten it anyway.
Deep down, he always knew that his mom could see through the tough guy facade. Back before the trip he had resented it, the fact that she still treated him like a little kid, but now?
Now he wanted nothing more than to be back home. Looking at that big, homemade cake—stacks of moist chocolate with frosting and raspberry jam slathered in between each layer. “Happy Birthday, Jotaro!” piped in thick blue frosting on top, alongside some shining golden stars made of white chocolate, all nestled amidst eighteen flickering candles. It looked so good. He felt he could almost taste it on his tongue, feel the warmth on his face, smell the smoke and sugar mingling together.
“So, what’s it gonna be?”
Jotaro looked up from the cake. Next to his mom, there sat Kakyoin, face slightly glowing from the candles, smiling softly at him.
“What are you going to wish for, Jotaro?”
The hypnic thump of his foot flopping onto the floor jerks Jotaro from his fantasy, replaced the warm image of Kakyoin with the still, greying one in bed. He knows. He squeezed Kakyoin’s hand, harder than he had before.
How could he want anything else?
In Cairo, the usual herald of the midnight hour lay silent, shattered, unable to speak for itself. Without looking at the dim orange numbers of their digital clocks nor the tick of the hands on their watches, no citizen will realize when one day officially ticked over onto the other, least of all Jotaro Kujo, who has no way of knowing nor particular cared when it came. But after fifty days of strife, of love and loss and triumph and terror, fate finally granted him a break.
As the clock struck midnight, the hand in his grasp squeezed back.
