Chapter Text
The scorching sun beat down, casting its unrelenting heat upon any poor souls unlucky enough to be caught beneath it. A solitary breeze whispered through the tumbleweeds, carrying with it the metallic scent of gunpowder and the distant promise of danger. Nestled within the desolate expanse of barren plains stood a modest town. Its meagre existence was only marked by a solitary church on one end and a small saloon at the other.
Jotaro Kujo leaned against the saloon’s weathered railing. His black hat was pulled low to shield his face from the harsh sunlight and prying eyes alike. The weighted brim cast a shadow over his icy blue eyes, leaving only his set jaw and pursed lips visible. His similarly dark leather duster flapped in the sticky breeze, the attire of a man who wandered the West with no company but his horse.
The town was eerily quiet. Its streets were devoid of life as if it was holding its breath in anticipation. The occasional clink of glasses and muffled conversations drifted from the saloon behind Jotaro in stark contrast to the oppressive silence that enveloped the rest of the town.
Despite the stillness, Jotaro’s senses remained on high alert. The midday sun made his stifling duster near unbearable but its weight on his stiff shoulders was a comfort he rathered to not go without.
Stretching in the heat, Jotaro’s muscles ached from the long days spent working at the cattle farm on the outskirts of the town. He had sought refuge in this backwater town, hoping his notorious reputation wouldn’t have reached its quiet streets. So far, the townsfolk had treated him like any other passing traveller, their hostile indifference a welcome relief. Different to the outright hostility he had grown used to. As he hunched over the railing, the muffled bubble of silence around the town popped.
Craning his neck, he squinted at the sight of a speck steadily getting bigger on the horizon–a rider sat on a horse, kicking up a cloud of dust. Even from this distance, the green of their duster stood out against the barren landscape. It was an eyesore. An obnoxious interruption to the quiet landscape. It threatened to interrupt the careful peace Jotaro had found here. Clenching his jaw, he brushed his knuckles against the wooden railing.
The anonymity brought by living in a town that didn’t make any maps was not easily come by. Especially as existing towns grew and people spread further across the continent like an infectious disease. More and more settlements were popping up daily, and getting away from it all was becoming increasingly difficult. The days of outlaws like the elusive Baron, or the infamous gunslinger Lisa Lisa were coming to a close.
And now? This hard-fought anonymity was under threat. Under threat from rapidly approaching thunder of hooves. Leaning back against the railing, Jotaro scuffed his black boots against the wooden decking, maintaining an air of calm within the growing unease. He hoped the stranger would keep riding, turned away by the little the town had to offer. The unrelenting sun killed any hopes of that—only a fool would keep riding in it.
Even so, it wouldn’t be his first brush with the outside world here. His stomach churned at the thought of the bounty hunter he’d disposed of in the pig pen. Pitiful bastard, and yet no bastard deserved a fate like that. Too much had been risked to give Jotaro this freedom, and he wasn’t about to jeopardise it by letting the bounty hunter leave with the knowledge of where Jotaro was. Even if he had to break his self imposed no killing rule.
Reaching into his duster’s inner pocket, he retrieved a small, worn tobacco pouch. With practised ease, he rolled a cigarette. It was a habit he’d picked up from watching the sheriff in his hometown, done more out of familiarity than an actual craving for nicotine. He struck a match, lighting the cigarette. Taking a long drag, the warmth and bitterness embraced his senses.
Exhaling slowly, he watched the wisps of smoke curl and dissipate into the air. With every beat of the horse’s hooves, Jotaro hunched further in on himself. Closing his eyes, Jotaro listened. The nicotine did little to calm his frayed nerves as he waited. Until finally, the hooves came to a stop.
Eyes opening, Jotaro’s gaze flickered over. He found the rider dismounting his horse at the hitching post beside the saloon. Their eyes met. Jotaro swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat, blaming the smoke. The rider was clad in the glaringly green duster he’d spotted earlier, red hair peeking out from beneath his matching green hat. The colour was weird, the opposite of the subtle browns that were typical of a rider.
Looking away from Jotaro, the other man secured his chestnut steed to the post. The horse nickered quietly. At the noise, Jotaro’s head raised to eye his own steed, Star. She was quietly watching him from where she was grazing across the street.
He tilted his head at her and then turned his attention back to the man. The rider walked up the worn wooden steps to the decking outside the saloon. Offputtingly, he matched Jotaro’s unwavering gaze. An unspoken challenge passed between them, air crackling. Jotaro’s eyes ran up and down his form, naturally drawn to the silver glimmer from within his holster. Jotaro frowned at the weapon. Only an idiot would ride alone and not carry protection.
Regardless, Jotaro's hand instinctively hovered near the hilt of his own revolver. He clenched his cigarette between his teeth. Something about this wasn’t right.
“Easy there, partner,” the rider raised his hands placatingly, breaking Jotaro out of his thoughts. His refined accent was out of place for the gunslinger he seemed to be. Jotaro narrowed his eyes. Smiling sharply, the man continued, undeterred, “I’m not looking for trouble, I promise. You can relax.”
Jotaro didn’t respond. Instead, he sized up the man. Up close, the green wasn’t as glaring. As their eyes met again, the predatory look in the man’s dark eyes had Jotaro grinding his jaw. What was this guy's deal? Most other people would’ve been scared off with one sideways look from Jotaro.
This was no ordinary traveller. That much was clear to Jotaro. However, he didn’t seem much like a bounty hunter either. At least, not like any of the ones Jotaro had met.
As the silence stretched between them, the man lowered one hand while the other delicately traced the rim of his hat. Jotaro frowned at the unusual gesture. Still, his hand stayed tense above his gun, ready to draw.
“Not much of a talker, huh?” the rider remarked, after a beat. His gaze shifted towards the saloon doors and the oblivious patrons inside. Only with its absence did Jotaro realise the intensity of their eye contact. As the man's attention shifted away, Jotaro's rigid stance relaxed, his shoulders easing slightly. Even so, he couldn’t let his guard down yet.
“I heard wind that I’d be able to find a certain so-called dead gunslinger here,” the rider continued, his attention returning to Jotaro, a near rigid smile pulling at his cheeks. Jotaro scowled. At his reaction, the man’s smile widened. “Death seems to be treating you well, Kujo.”
Jotaro raised his gun. The stranger’s eyes widened slightly, raising his hands again but his irritating smile was still annoyingly unshaken. For a moment, neither of them dared to move. At last, Jotaro found his voice, a dry rumble escaping his throat.
“What the hell do you want?” Jotaro grumbled, cigarette still clenched between his teeth. The brush of his finger against the trigger had his stomach rolling, and he fought the nausea. He didn’t plan to shoot anyone today. It struck Jotaro as strange that the man hadn’t even made a single attempt to reach for his weapon. Almost as if he knew Jotaro wouldn’t shoot.
“The name’s Noriaki Kakyoin,” he said simply, stepping closer to Jotaro. His hands were still raised, but the longer they stayed raised, the more Jotaro felt like he was being treated like a horse. “Don’t wear it out. Let me buy you a drink, yeah? We can talk.”
Jotaro stared, unmoving. Seemingly sensing Jotaro’s apprehension, Kakyoin cocked his head and continued speaking. “I’m not your enemy,” he said, folding his arms. Raising an eyebrow, Kakyoin slowly reached for his gun. Jotaro growled, baring his teeth.
Kakyoin raised one hand. “Easy,” he muttered, lips twitching into an amused smirk. Beneath it, Jotaro watched as a bead of sweat rolled down the redhead’s face. Keeping his gaze fixed on Kakyoin, he allowed the man to pull his gun. He held it by the barrel, offering the trigger side to Jotaro.
Jotaro exhaled, eyebrow twitching. What kind of idiot was this guy? The initial shock of the man knowing him was wearing off, and with that unfortunately came rationality. It wouldn’t be good to cause a commotion here, not when he was already on the ropes with the locals. Besides, what kind of fool offered up their gun?
Reaching out, Jotaro took Kakyoin’s gun. Making sure the safety was on, he tucked it into his belt. Tentatively, he lowered his own gun. If the man proved to be trouble, he could always dispose of him later–whether that be discreetly, like in the pig pen, or where there would at least be witnesses to prove Jotaro’s innocence.
—
That was how they found themselves inside the saloon, tucked away in a secluded corner. Jotaro wrinkled his nose at the stench of alcohol permeating the air. Two tall glasses of whiskey stood between them on the worn wooden table. The dim lighting softened Kakyoin’s sharper features. His rumpled red hair and green hat rested beside his glass. It made him look disarmingly casual.
“So, Mr. Kujo. Or, can I call you Jotaro?” Kakyoin said, cutting straight to the point, his curiosity evident. Jotaro felt exposed under his stare as Kakyoin leaned forward, arms on the table. “Piercing blue eyes, dark hair…” he looked Jotaro up and down, “...I can’t say those wanted posters did you justice. You certainly are not an easy man to find.”
“Kujo’s dead,” he replied plainly, narrowing his eyes. The unwanted reminder of the wanted poster had his eyebrows drawn low, jaw tightly set. It had been months since he last saw one of the damned things. He could still remember the image plastered on them–Holly carried one with her. She always insisted they’d perfectly captured his essence, for better or for worse. Something about the slope of his nose and his thick eyebrows.
“Is that right?” the redhead asked, raising an amused eyebrow before taking a long drink. His sharp gaze remained fixed on Jotaro. It conveyed more than his supposedly relaxed demeanour. It was like he was detached completely from his body, an overbearing show of ease that didn’t reach his eyes.
Jotaro grunted a silent affirmation in response. Surveying the room, he found the few patrons littered around the room absorbed in their conversations. Discomfort crawled beneath his skin, the truth of his identity was not an easy pill to swallow. He’d gotten too complacent here–he should’ve moved on weeks ago. Should’ve moved on after the pig pen.
They could go back and forth all day, but it was clear Kakyoin knew who he was talking to. Jotaro wasn’t sure what to make of his surety. The gun tucked into his belt was a reminder of the man’s insistence they weren’t enemies. That being said, even if they weren’t enemies, that didn’t make them friends.
Kakyoin leaned back in his chair, causing the wood to creak under his weight. The sound drew Jotaro’s attention back to him. It seemed like he was waiting for Jotaro to elaborate on his so-called death, but when nothing came out, Kakyoin cocked his head at Jotaro instead. Jotaro didn’t have anything to say.
“Well…” the redhead’s eyes locked on Jotaro, his gaze almost too intense. Despite himself, Jotaro found himself momentarily looking away, throat thick when he hadn’t even touched his glass yet. “You aren’t one for chatting, huh? I guess I better explain why I’m here… I heard about your little run in with the Ghost of the West.”
Jotaro’s eyes snapped back to Kakyoin. It’s not like the encounter itself was uncommon knowledge, even if the details around it were nothing more than rumour. But, the reminder was unpleasant all the same. It was true he’d had a run in with a man known only by his moniker of the Ghost. A gunslinger who’d been reigning over the West for close to a century, rumoured to be immortal.
The run in was brief. Hell, he hadn’t even seen the man’s face. Only heard his voice. All the same, he wasn’t keen on reliving it. The Ghost’s words rang in his head, the reminder of what the man had offered him causing his stomach to turn.
Kakyoin huffed, looking displeased. “That’s what finally grabs your full attention, huh?” he muttered, but just as quickly as it had appeared, the displeasure was gone. Replaced again by that faux nonchalance. That irritating neutrality.
He waited for Kakyoin to elaborate, but the elaboration never came. Instead, the redhead looked at him. Clenching his fists beneath the table, he fought the urge to fidget. The seconds ticked by. Kakyoin was still staring at him.
Jotaro frowned. He doesn’t bother with any response aside from the glower permanently carved into his face.
Kakyoin lifted his glass up. Jotaro watched the curve of Kakyoin’s smile get swallowed by the glass’ rim, the amber liquid tilting into his mouth. A droplet slid down the curve of the glass, clinging to Kakyoin’s chin before he wiped it away with his sleeve. “If looks could kill, huh?” Kakyoin mused, chuckling.
He met Jotaro’s scowl with an unflinching look of amusement. Jotaro huffed. Besides his mother, and Joseph on occasion, nobody had ever been able to brush him off so easily. Jotaro knew how he looked—bigger than most, and with a permanent frown. He knew he was intimidating. Yet, it was as if Kakyoin didn’t even care, didn’t even notice.
In frustration, Jotaro grabbed his glass. He quickly drained its contents in one swift motion. The fiery liquid burned his throat, leaving a lingering warmth in its wake. The intense flavours assaulted his senses, causing Jotaro's face to contort with slight displeasure as his tongue recoiled within his mouth. He was reminded of why he didn’t drink.
“Woah, slow down there,” Kakyoin exclaimed, letting out a startled laugh as he fixed Jotaro with a look of disbelief. Jotaro thought it was probably the first genuine expression he’d gotten out of the other man. Wiping the smile from his face, Kakyoin tilted his head, “You know whiskey's meant to be savoured, right?”
“Savoured in good company, sure,” Jotaro bit, ever so blunt. His lips twitched at the barely perceptible widening of Kakyoin’s eyes, air crackling between them. He hadn’t meant to joke. He hadn’t even noticed the rapid lowering of his own guard, even if it was only miniscule. Jotaro narrowed his eyes. Had this been what the redhead was playing at? Trying to lull him into a false sense of security?
Kakyoin leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he studied Jotaro intently, not rising to the obvious insult, however playful. He seemed wholly oblivious to Jotaro’s internal dilemma. “You’re interesting for a dead man, you know that?” Kakyoin huffed, shaking his head.
Jotaro’s eyebrow twitched. Kakyoin was loud and he was all too aware of the attention their presence had brought. The townsfolk had grown used to Jotaro’s imposing figure, but Kakyoin might as well have been an apple among oranges. He was an outsider.
“Quiet,” Jotaro grunted, trying to make his point by looking around the room. He glared at an older woman who had been unsubtly drifting closer to their table, her floral perfume suffocating even at a distance. At his glare, she straightened up, eyes wide. As she walked back towards the bar with a huff, the click of her heels was grating on Jotaro’s ears.
As he turned his attention back to the table, Kakyoin was already looking at him, an amused eyebrow raised. “Not your type?” he asked, gaze more intrusive with their proximity. Jotaro’s eyebrows furrowed. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
People talked, especially in a small town. That woman especially, she was the annoying gossiping type. Despite her attempts to get to know him, Jotaro had always dismissed her. While his wanted posters clearly hadn’t reached here—all this talk of being dead and the Ghost wasn’t going to end well. He didn’t need any unnecessary attention. The nosier townsfolk could be annoying enough as it was.
“No. Walls talk,” Jotaro muttered, frown etched into his face. Kakyoin’s resting smile widened, and Jotaro watched as his gaze trailed deliberately around the room. Breath unconsciously held, he waited for a reply but nothing came. Instead, Kakyoin took a languid sip of his drink.
Exhaling, Jotaro wondered if he should leave. Wondered if he made a mistake by following Kakyoin into the bar. Before he can think on it further, Kakyoin finally speaks, sensing his dilemma.
“Let me cut to the chase. You’re the only man I know who has crossed the Ghost and escaped unscathed. It’s not hard to figure out why a man like you is chasing the edge of the world under the cover of death,” Kakyoin stated, voice low and words nearly swallowed by the low chatter in the background. Pausing deliberately, Kakyoin examined Jotaro.
Tracing the rim of his glass, Jotaro avoided eye contact, his focus instead on the lack of murky brown liquid within. It wasn’t a leap to connect those dots, nobody faked their death without cause, but hearing it voiced aloud by a stranger put him off all the same. Dying hadn’t been a decision as much as it was a necessity. Joseph’s reminder that it was only temporary rang in his ears. Jotaro clenched his fists.
Maybe it was the glass of whiskey he’d drained–or else it was the fact his tolerance had been shot to hell from not drinking alcohol for months, but involuntarily, Jotaro found words spilling out of his mouth. The wrong words. They led the conversation in the complete wrong direction instead of asking any of the questions he had intended to ask.
“A man like me?” Jotaro questioned, voice harsh but his tone bordering on curiosity. It was the wrong part of the man’s comment to focus on. He shifted his attention back to Kakyoin, not quite meeting his eyes. With his gaze, he traced the delicate curls of hair around Kakyoin’s ears, pausing at the pair of glittering red stones decorating his lobes. Distracted, Jotaro's eyes widened. Kakyoin had brushed his foot against Jotaro’s ankle beneath the rickety table.
Stiffening at the contact, he met Kakyoin’s eyes. They were already fixed on him. “A man like you,” Kakyoin agreed simply, an entertained smile on his face, “See, Kujo. It’s plain to see that we have a common enemy. And I have a plan.”
Jotaro narrowed his eyes. He pulled his leg away from Kakyoin, not sure what to make of the look on the redhead’s face afterwards. Even separated, the point of contact burned.
“A plan,” Jotaro repeated neutrally. He wasn’t impressed. Plan or no plan, this was the Ghost. Jotaro had made the mistake of crossing him before, and this is where he’d ended up. The Ghost had scorned men for less. Jotaro doesn’t know why the man hadn’t killed him.
Kakyoin nodded his head, unphased by Jotaro’s lack of reaction. “Sure. A plan,” he repeated, offering an amicable smile instead of any actual details.
Then, without warning, he stood. The chair scraped harshly against the floor, the sound cutting through the low murmur of the saloon like a blade. A few patrons glanced their way, curiosity flickering in their eyes. Jotaro exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.
He leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper, though the weight of his words pressed down heavily. “I think you’ll want to hear it, Kujo.”
A beat passed between them. Then, Kakyoin turned, scooping up his hat and placing it back atop his head with an easy, practiced motion. He took a step away, pausing only to glance over his shoulder, meeting Jotaro’s gaze one last time.
“I’ll be outside with my horse,” he said, tone light—too light for a man who’d just invited Jotaro back into the fire that was the West. “If you’re interested.”
Then, just as suddenly as he arrived, he was gone, weaving through the saloon doors and out into the stocking heat.
Jotaro stayed seated, fingers tightening slightly around his empty glass. His ankle still burned where Kakyoin had brushed against it. His gut told him to let the bastard walk away.
And yet, with an irritated growl, he found himself standing.