Chapter Text
As Hayato walked down the familiar path to the mangaka Kishibe Rohan’s large home, his eyes were immediately greeted by a moving truck parked on the curb.
The young boy felt a flutter of worry in his heart for a second, pace quickening to close the distance between himself and the estate. Was Rohan moving away suddenly…? He hadn’t heard a word about this from anyone. He clambered up the stairs loudly, dashing as fast as he could, and nearly ran head-first into Jotaro Kujo’s knees as he exited Rohan’s front door.
“Kujo-san!” Hayato exclaimed, quickly backing out of the lumbering man’s path. His eyebrows knitted in worry. “What are you doing here?”
“Hayato,” The Joestar said by way of greeting, looking down his nose at the younger. “Rohan said you’d be coming.”
“Is Kishibe-sensei moving away? Where is he?” Hayato asked in a huff, out of breath from his brief jog. He angled his head, trying to peer just-so past Jotaro’s large frame.
The corners of Jotaro’s lips quirked upwards for a mere second at Hayato’s evident worry for his friend. “Rohan’s not moving away,” he explained. “I’m moving in.”
“You’re moving in with Sensei?”
“Try not to act too surprised,” Hayato heard Rohan say as the mangaka came down his inside stairs, smiling familiarly at the boy. He came to the front door to stand beside Jotaro, smugly continuing, “Extra income for me, saving on taxi fare and hotel room fees for Jotaro. It’s a win-win situation for both of us... and the Speedwagon Foundation’s annual budget.”
“Only loss is having Rohan as a housemate,” Jotaro told Hayato, seeming to ignore Rohan’s presence entirely. Somehow, despite Jotaro’s deadpan expression, Hayato could tell he was only kidding. “— It really is a beautiful house.”
“Asshole. We’re friends .” Rohan reminded him, scowling. “You have me to thank for giving you an extra room for all your fish .”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“This is great,” Hayato breathed, smiling with relief. “Now you’ll both be closer. I bet everybody will be really happy. I know I am!”
Rohan and Jotaro exchanged glances, pleasant expressions on their faces at Hayato’s remark. Though, yes, there were many reasons for their move-in together, they had considered how Hayato’s safety would improve with another strong stand user even closer by. Within walking distance to Hayato and Shinobu’s home, that is. Mission accomplished.
“Yes, yes, it’s all very nice. Now, boys, enough dawdling.” Rohan clapped his hands with finality. “Jotaro’s belongings won’t move themselves.”
“You called me here to help Kujo-san move in…?” Hayato asked, happy expression becoming suddenly written with dread.
“Of course not, Hayato, you’re not a workhorse.” Rohan rested a hand on his young companion’s head, lingering it there for a short moment before gesturing for him to come inside. “I called you here to drink tea with me while Jotaro moves his own things. Come along.”
“Good grief,” Jotaro grumbled, tucking his hands into the pockets of his white trench coat he passed by Hayato to walk towards the truck.
The boy couldn’t help but chuckle at the two’s prickly dynamic. He knew he’d probably be able to help Jotaro move a thing or two, but seeing as the man looked as though he benched three times his weight and Hayato was only eleven, he figured he might just get in the way.
Besides. If Rohan wanted to have tea with him, it was an impossible task to dissuade him. Hayato followed the mangaka indoors.
The normally-empty and ghostly home had already changed quite a bit with Jotaro’s presence. Cardboard boxes bordering the halls made the home look undeniably fuller and lived in. Rohan had multiple upstairs rooms that were covered in a layer of dust that seemed to grow an inch thicker every time Hayato peeked inside; he was sure that Jotaro would make himself at home very fast.
Since the first time Rohan had invited the boy into this abode, Hayato had visited dozens of times. Mostly just to eat snacks on Rohan’s floor and read his large backlog of Shonen Jump volumes after school, that is. The Kishibe home had become something of a safe haven to the child, a place that wasn’t school or his own terse, sad home where he could relax.
Ever since his mother had taken to putting up missing posters most of each day, he’d come here to avoid that silent house – the house where a killer had once stood, and had upended Hayato’s life irreversibly.
He felt safe near Rohan; the hard-edged mangaka appeared to have a soft spot for him, and there was never a need for small talk or any words at all. In fact, sometimes laying on the rug of Rohan’s studio and reading, Hayato nearly felt lulled to sleep by the sound of Rohan’s furious etching in fountain pen as he poured his soul into pages of his manuscript.
Hayato loved not having to pretend things were normal when he was around the stand users of Morioh, but particularly Rohan. He never expected the boy to have a smile on his face, nor to talk about any of the troubles afflicting him. He didn’t ask about school or his home life; he simply welcomed him in without pretense. Of course, Rohan listened when Hayato did volunteer information – he could laugh now thinking about the award-winning mangaka munching on cookies and listening intently to the drama happening in an eleven year old’s classroom – but it was never an expectation.
Most nights, Rohan would walk, or drive, Hayato back home to his mother. That silent protection meant the world to him – as well as the pleasantness with which he greeted Shinobu upon dropping him off. Sometimes, Hayato marveled at Rohan’s seemingly-effortless social graces he could pull off when he tried. He was grateful that Rohan was as pleasant and kind as he could be to his still-grieving, sensitive mother.
Shinobu had once offered him money for “babysitting” so often. Rohan had denied it, citing that Hayato was his “good luck charm” in the studio, and that was payment enough. A lie, sure, but it was still a sentiment that made him smile – especially because of the way his mother’s eyes seemed to shine with pride and gratitude as she nodded in understanding.
“Come, sit down,” Rohan said with a sigh as he reclined back on his living room sofa, effectively snapping Hayato out of his thoughts. The tea was already served, with little jam cookies on a plate beside the sage green tea set. “You’re a very welcome presence, Hayato. I’ve been dealing with setting up Jotaro’s IKEA bookshelves all day long, I’m giving myself a migraine. I can’t deal with any more annoyances today.”
Eagerly, Hayato sat down across from the other, instinctively reaching for one of the treats. He shot his friend a humored look. “So, you have been helping him…!”
“Only because he was on my ass about it,” Rohan insisted stubbornly, reaching for his own cup with a calligraphed purple ‘R’ on it. “ Completely ruined my plans to do absolutely nothing all day, now that my May chapters have been submitted.”
Hayato could only marvel at him, shaking his head. It was only October.
He was pretty sure Rohan was insane.
“I would have thrown a fit if he asked me to move boxes. First of all, he has about three thousand books,” Rohan complained – not that he was one to talk, his upstairs library and book nook overflowing. “and second of all, he has Star Platinum, so he really doesn’t need me at all. That stand could probably carry all of his boxes balanced on the tip of its pinky finger—he just pesters me because he knows it pisses me off.”
As if on cue, Hayato heard the sound of the stairs creaking beneath Jotaro’s weight as he carried more boxes upstairs, to the room across from Rohan’s study.
Hayato had never seen a stand. But he had become all-too-acquainted with hearing about them lately. He’d long since accepted their existence; he’d even taken to researching other such supernatural and occult subjects, wondering just how many of them were true. He felt trusted with the stand users of Morioh’s precious secret of their amazing powers, even if he could only understand so much.
Eyebrows creased thoughtfully, Hayato brought his tea to his lips, taking a long sip before asking: “…sensei? What does Star Platinum look like?”
“Hmmm.” Rohan thought a moment, before reaching for a stray sketchbook he kept on the coffee table. Using a Sharpie from his shirt pocket, in a flurry of hand movement, he sketched. Then, only sixty seconds later, held up a precisely-inked illustration to the other. “Obnoxiously big,” was all Rohan said by way of description.
Hayato marveled at the being depicted there. Despite the artist’s bite, a clear admiration for the hulking stand was apparent in each line. Rippling muscles, space-black hair… he looked like a Roman gladiator with the same sharp, piercing gaze as Jotaro. All he did was nod once, twice. Nibbling on a cookie, he asked, “How about Heaven’s Door?”
“Ah, curious about Heaven’s Door, are you?” Rohan tittered with a self-righteous pride that would put Narcissus to shame, flipping to a new page. This sketch was much faster. Upon turning it around, Hayato snickered back at him, a teasing look on his face.
“Liar. That’s just Pink Dark Boy.”
“I didn’t make him look like that, that’s just how he likes to present .” Rohan insisted with a playful pout. “My manga is a manifestation of my very soul, and all my hard work. It makes sense that my stand, a reflection of me, would be the same – honest, through and through.”
The two sat a while longer, talking about stands. Hayato leaned over the coffee table, enjoying watching Rohan sketch the stands of those who lived here in Morioh from his eidetic memory. He liked to see Rohan draw always, of course, but it was even more fun to see him unencumbered by deadlines and panels – just ink, page, and memories of good friends and companions. The Hand, Crazy Diamond, Echoes Acts 1, 2, and 3, Love Deluxe, Pearl Jam, and so many more… Hayato nodded along to stories of each one, committing names and powers to memory.
“You told me already about the bow and arrow,” Hayato commented, eyebrows knitted together with solemnity unbefitting of a child his age, “But is there any way to develop a stand, besides that way?”
“Yes,” Jotaro said from the doorway, startling the two in the living room. He came to sit down in the seat beside Hayato, reaching to pour himself a cup of tea from the pot. “I was never pierced by the arrow.”
“Acquiring a stand is seemingly never a pleasant affair.” Rohan griped, crossing his legs. “One moment you’re sorting through files, the next, you’ve got an arrow through the throat. Unless, you happen to be a Joestar…” The mangaka taunted, the final word stretched with sarcasm.
“Don’t scare the kid,” Jotaro muttered around the ceramic rim of the cup, shooting Rohan an annoyed glance. “Besides, some people are born with them.”
“Is being born not a terrifying, unpleasant happenstance?” Rohan shot back.
Intrigued, Hayato scooted to the edge of his seat, looking intently at the Joestar. “How did you get Star Platinum, Kujo-san?”
The oldest took a long sip of tea, soothing his tired throat and aching muscles. He closed his eyes a moment, as if recalling a distant memory, the other two wondering if he’d divulge the tale– but to their chagrin, all Jotaro said after a long moment of silence was, “Long story. Just appeared one day.”
Itching to spill, Rohan interjected, “This dummy thought it was a ghost and locked himself in a jail cell to protect his mommy .”
“—shut it before you piss me off,” Jotaro replied before Rohan had even finished his sentence.
Unable to help himself, Hayato laughed. Once again, their dynamic was a sight to behold. He’d never met anyone able to shut Rohan up with such finality; just as well, he’d never seen Jotaro look so casual and relaxed around anybody, even if his buttons were getting pressed. He got the feeling this living situation was going to work out (if they didn’t kill each other by the end of the week).
“Interesting,” was what Hayato said after a minute, flipping Rohan’s sketchbook back to the page with Star Platinum. His fingers traced the large shoulder guards the stand wore, pure, childlike interest in his eyes. “So, Kujo-san developed a stand naturally.”
Jotaro looked over the drawing with a spark of interest in his eye, but he kept it under wraps, having another gulp of tea. “The Speedwagon Foundation is still researching how it all works,” he remarked. “This is all new information. For all we know, a person could wake up with a stand tomorrow for no reason, and do anything they want with it. It’s dangerous.”
At this, Hayato quieted slightly. He hated how easily his thoughts could stray down the path to Yoshikage Kira, consciously or no – a man who had used his stand for such evil, irreversible destruction.
Since that day – that day that had left such a mark on him that at times he still jolted awake in the middle of the night, swearing to hear the screech of ambulance tires in his ears – he found that it was becoming more common. To bathe with the door locked, eyes transfixed, as if waiting for the knob to turn. To hide behind corners and listen, listen intently, before passing into the next room. To stare at his mom’s back as she stood in the kitchen and swear that if anyone ever tried to hurt her again, hurt her like he’d hurt her, that he’d do whatever he had to, this time. To look at the people passing him on the street and wonder what secrets they were hiding. Wonder if they were even real . Who knows? Yoshikage did it once. Stole someone’s face, their body, their life. Maybe he could do it again somehow. Maybe, somewhere out there – maybe –
“Hayato-kun. Hayato-kun .”
He felt Rohan’s hands on his arms, squeezing light pressure. He was hyperventilating slightly, chest rising and falling at a repetitive pace – his eyes searched the room, as if he’d forgotten where he was. However, finally, the young boy’s eyes focused on Rohan, who had crossed the distance between them to kneel in front of his chair. Jotaro, too, was looking at him in muted concern.
“You okay? I’m afraid we lost you, for a moment.” Rohan said with a gentle sort of humor.
Swallowing, parched suddenly, Hayato nodded in confirmation. He looked to Jotaro, as if to confirm he was still there.
“I’m sorry.” The Joestar said, meeting his gaze evenly with a nod. “I spoke carelessly. Everything is still fresh.”
Rohan backed off, giving the younger space. It wasn’t the first anxiety attack Hayato had had within these walls; this was somewhat commonplace. Not to mention, he had read Hayato cover-to-cover. He knew both what pitfalls to avoid.
He returned to his seat, pouring Hayato more tea, which he accepted gratefully, gulping it down without tasting. The boy shook his head at Jotaro a moment later, sighing – suddenly feeling exhausted.
“Don’t worry, Kujo-san… I just… feel frustrated sometimes,” Hayato said quietly. “I feel like he’s still here all the time… and all I want to do is protect everyone. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just… weak.”
“You’ve protected all of us enough,” Rohan interjected as Jotaro opened his mouth to reply. Oddly, there was a hint of anger in his tone. “and you suffered in silence enough, as well. We’re adults, Hayato-kun. It’s our responsibility to protect you .”
Hayato looked down and nodded. In his heart, he did not agree.
He looked up suddenly when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Jotaro’s gaze seemed to pierce right through him with understanding.
“Rohan is right,” he said, solemnly. “Don’t torture yourself.”
Meeting Jotaro’s gaze, Hayato felt the need to believe him – even without knowing the history of family tragedy and fallen comrades staring back at him. If anyone understood feeling responsible for protecting others, it was Jotaro.
“I’ll try,” Hayato said, barely louder than a whisper.
“I’m going to take him home,” Rohan said suddenly, authoritatively, looking to Jotaro and standing. “Nothing helps like rest, hm? That's enough lively conversation for the day. Let’s go, Hayato-kun.”
Once again feeling unable to argue with Rohan (not that he would have the energy to, anyways), Hayato stood.
Jotaro walked the two of them to the front door, with Rohan making a beeline to his motorbike. As Rohan rustled around in the garage for the helmets, Hayato stood for a moment on the porch.
“I’m sorry, Kujo-san,” he felt compelled to say, craning his neck up to look in the other’s eye. “I hope I didn’t trouble you and Kishibe-sensei too much, especially when you’re already so busy… I still have so many questions.”
Jotaro held a hand up, as if to block the apology midair. “Don’t be sorry.” He said, genuinely. “We’re some of the only people who know what happened. Lean on us. We want you to.” The smallest of smiles touched the corners of Jotaro’s lips, and he commented, “Especially Rohan… he’s become a mother hen. You'll have time to talk more.”
Hayato smiled widely. He couldn’t explain the touched feeling in his chest; all he could do was nod his thanks.
Turning to go, Hayato accidentally scuffed the front of his shoe on the top stair of the porch – suddenly, he found himself stumbling forward, his foot meeting only air instead of ground. Before he could even grunt in surprise at the tumble, or close his eyes in preparation to meet the concrete sidewalk, he felt the oddest sensation – like a heavy yet gentle pressure beneath his arms, holding him up.
One eye cracked open, and he felt himself being lifted a little before being set down with both feet on the asphalt, very carefully.
Hayato heard Rohan’s voice. “Jotaro, why did you summon Star Platinum? Quit goofing around. Hayato, come along.”
Star Platinum? Jotaro had summoned Star Platinum just to keep him from skinning his knees? Abruptly, Hayato turned around to look to Jotaro to thank him.
His eyes widened. For a moment, just a moment, Hayato could have sworn he saw the Joestar through a screen of purple-blue, like smoke rising from incense. A flash of familiar space-black hair that dissipated as quickly as it came, the presence of something great and large. All within a very split-second.
Did I just see…? Hayato thought, too dumbfounded to speak.
Jotaro, none the wiser, tucked his hands in his pockets. “I’ll see you next time, kid,” he commented, before ducking back into the house, likely to finish his cooling tea.
Hayato knew he was going to have to talk to someone about this sooner or later if what he just saw was right.
He’d just caught a glimpse of a stand.
He’d just felt ghostly hands holding him.
Only stand users could see stands.
Only stand users.
Shock written in his eyes, he scampered to the garage. “Coming, Kishibe-sensei.”