Chapter Text
He couldn’t see more than five feet in front of him due to the rain, but even with the blinding torrent of water coming from the sky, Joseph knew what to expect out of the town. Rows of clapboard houses, each one more derelict than the next, their siding whitewashed in a halfhearted attempt to cover the weather-worn wood that groaned under the weight of one too many bad Gulf storms. Sometimes he’d see someone standing under the awning of one of the great, wrap-around porches they seemed to favor on their houses in the South, but they’d take one look at him and retreat into their homes, pulling curtains and shooing away the chubby faces and tiny hands that pressed against the windows from inside, dark eyes following his every step with open wonder.
Somewhere off in the distance, the shores of Lake Pontchartrain struggled to keep the rising waters at bay. The locals said the place hadn’t been the same since the hurricane hit the previous year; said that it had brought something dark to roost in the lake that seemed to drain all the luck from the area around it. Standing there in the rain, with five dollars sitting damp in his pocket and the sign of a pentagram burned into his left shoulder, he wondered if this wasn’t the best place to make his last fight.
It wasn’t like he had much else in terms of options. Haunting the back alleys of New Orleans had seemed a bright idea at the time, but the minute the queens had seen that mark peaking out from under his shirt collar, they’d throw his money back in his face and shove him out the door of their parlors.Don’t wanna mess with no marked man. Over and over: marked man, marked man. Don’t wanna mess with no marked man.
And there he stood, the marked man standing at the intersection of a mud-caked road, listening to the roar of the lake and the hiss of the rain as they did battle on the edge of New Orleans. His clothes felt as heavy as his mood as he wondered if he’d have to make the trip to Haiti and try to hunt down a bokor to help him. Maybe the trip itself would be enough; maybe the dark shadows couldn’t chase him over the water. Joseph laughed to himself as he tried to readjust his sodden hat in a vain attempt to keep the rain out of his eyes. Did hellbeasts have territories?
He was still weighing his options when he heard something unusual: a voice rang out from his left. A voice, surprisingly, directed at him.
“Ey, couillon. You gonna stand out in the rain all day?”
Joseph turned sharply, struggling a little to keep his footing in the slurry of mud and water that the road had become. Squinting, he could barely make out the form of a man reclining under the eaves of yet another spacious porch. He was tall, though a little smaller than Joseph, with a mop of shaggy blond hair and a posture that seemed to simultaneously invite and mock. Joseph pursed his lips and took a step toward the man.
“Do you think I could get outta the rain for a bit? I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a bit of a drizzle going on.”
The man huffed out a laugh and pushed himself off the column he’d been leaning against. “Why’d you think I called out to you? Come in, I got an extra plate to spare.”
Escaping to somewhere warm and dry was already a good enough incentive; the minute food entered the equation, Joseph started scrambling for the porch, kicking up mud in the process. He’d made it up the first step when he stopped and turned back, staring in the direction of the lake he couldn’t see. Joseph had always been told he’d been born under a lucky star. Maybe it was time to test the myth.
He turned back to the porch and his unexpected savior. The man had moved to the door and was holding it open, his body silhouetted against the light seeping out from the interior of the house. Joseph peeled his sodden boots and socks off just outside the door and padded inside, remembering to remove his hat at the last second. “What’s a ‘coo-yawn’, by the way?”
“What you see when you look in the mirror every day.”
“So a pretty handsome guy, then?”
The man was silent, letting his eyes drag up Joseph’s body from toe to head in an obvious manner. Then, with a smirk, he drawled, “I seen handsomer.”
Joseph allowed himself an indignant “hey” but the other man just brushed past him to close the front door and then wandered off into the interior of the house, telling Joseph to make himself at home. Joseph wasn’t entirely sure how at home he could be while standing awkwardly in the living room of a stranger’s house, drenched to the bone and barefoot with a puddle of water forming under him, but he figured he’d wing it. At the very least, he ought to get rid of some of his clothing.
The jacket came off first, followed by his vest and tie. He’d slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and undone the first few buttons of his shirt before his fingers stilled, suddenly remembering the mark on his shoulder. Even if his host didn’t know the full extent of what it was, the pentagram burned into his skin still looked suspicious. Better not to chance it. The shirt would stay on.
He looked up just in time to see the blond man walk back into the room, a towel in one hand and a pair of gray pants in the other. “Here. Better than standing around looking like a drowned rat.”
“Thanks, pal,” Joseph said, accepting the dry–wonderfully dry!–cloth into his hands. He hesitated for a second, and then shuffled both pants and towel into the crook of his left arm before extending his right hand out to the other man. “By the way, I’m Joseph. Joseph Joestar. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The man had been kneeling down to grab Joseph’s discarded clothing from off the floor, but stood up with one smooth motion, clasping Joseph’s hand as if he’d expected it. “Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli. Pleasure’s all mine.”
His grip was as strong and steady as his gaze. Up close, Joseph noticed a pair of odd pink marks on either one of Caesar’s cheeks, one under the outer corner of each eye. They reminded Joseph of the petals he used to pick off of Granny Erina’s camellia flowers when he was younger. She’d chase him away with her cane and he’d laugh, petals flying from his pockets as he ran through her garden to go hide among the bushes that lined the yard. Now that he thought about it, Caesar’s eyes were about as green as those, as well.
He was still chasing those memories in his mind when he felt Caesar withdraw his hand, turning to exit the room again. “Go ahead and change wherever. I’ll go fix you up a plate.”
And with that, he walked off into a different, slightly better lit part of the house. Joseph shook his head, trying to drive off the thoughts of flowers and boyhood summers. Reminiscing could be saved for a time when he wasn’t still coated in a fine sheen of water.
With Caesar busy, he allowed himself to slip out of the rest of his clothing, drying himself off hurriedly before stepping into the loaned pants. They were much plainer and considerably more threadbare than Joseph was used to; a little tighter in the thighs, too. There was also something a little bit odd about walking around in a stranger’s pants when your underwear was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, but at least he was dry. Social conventions came secondary to that as far as he was concerned. He did have the sense to put his undershirt back on, being careful to drape the towel around his neck in such a way as to hide the star on his shoulder. At least that solved that problem for now.
Picking up his soggy clothes, he started walking in the direction Caesar had left, hoping he’d find his way to wherever the blond man had gone off to. Thankfully, the scent of spice lingering in the air formed an easy trail for him to follow.
“Better?”
Joseph nodded and stepped into the kitchen. It was small but bright and, most importantly, much warmer than the rest of the house. Caesar stood over the stove, stirring something dark in a large stoneware pot. It smelled absolutely divine.
Shifting from foot to foot, Joseph raised the wad of still dripping clothes in his hands. “Thanks a ton. Where should I put these?”
Caesar waved his hand absently towards the small dining table just to the right of him and turned back to his stirring. “Just on the chair is fine–it’ll heat up from the stove. Go ahead and take a seat. Food’s almost done.”
“Over and out!” Joseph chirped readily. He piled the clothing into one of the empty chairs before taking the seat adjacent to it and settling in. On the other side of the kitchen, Caesar hummed a few bars of a melody Joseph couldn’t quite catch, and before he could think to ask for the tune, the blond man spoke again.
“You from New York, ah?” Though with his accent, it sounded more like “New Yoh.” Joseph grinned. It was strangely disarming.
“The accent give it away?”
Caesar shrugged. “A little. But it was more the clothes. Even with all that mud, you’re dressed too nice for ‘round here.” He paused in his stirring and reached for a bowl that was already half-filled with what looked to be rice, ladling a heaping helping of some sort of dark meat stew over the grains. Satisfied with the portion, the pot was abandoned and Caesar approached the table, picking up a spoon and fork on the way. Both utensils and the plate of food were placed before Joseph, served along with a knowing grin from Caesar. “People know a yankee when they see them.”
Joseph scoffed, his eyes glued to Caesar’s back as the other man rounded the table and sat down across from his guest.“Yankee this, yankee that. All I hear is yankee, yankee!” Though, he thought a little bitterly, it was better than marked man. He picked up his utensils and frowned. “The war’s been over for fifty years, y’know!”
“For you, maybe,” Caesar said with a smile, those little pink petals shoring up under his eyes. Joseph could feel his fingers twitch and wrapped them tighter around his utensils in response.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, pal. What’s this?” He gestured down at his soon-to-be dinner. It looked to be a seafood stew of some sort, though the stock looked dark as sin, nearly black and flecked with pepper.
“You never seen gumbo before?”
Joseph gave him a sour look. “If I had, I wouldn’t be asking!” He started poking at the bowl of gumbo with his spoon, mixing the rice in with the stew. “It looks burnt.”
“Mais, you don’t gotta eat it then,” Caesar said airily.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t!” Joseph scooted the bowl closer to his chest. He thought he heard Caesar laugh softly under his breath, but was too hungry to think much of it. Let the Cajun laugh at him; it seemed a small price to pay.
Once the elements of his dinner seemed properly mixed, he scooped up a heaping spoonful and brought it to his lips. The pepper was the first thing to hit him, going straight to his sinuses with a sharpness that demanded his attention. Then came the saltiness, the savory nature of the stew following quickly after, a mixture of vegetables and meat and a little bit of bay leaf. He’d identified one of the meats as crawfish immediately, but there was also something that tasted a bit like sausage though the texture and flavor were a little off. Not bad–just different. Joseph shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, followed by another and then one more. Maybe Caesar was one hell of a cook, or maybe it was just that it was the first hot meal he’d had after being so thoroughly drenched. Either way, it was damn delicious.
He was nearly done with the bowl when he finally noticed that Caesar hadn’t joined him in the eye-opening experience of his first bowl of real Cajun gumbo. Joseph gulped down the mouthful of rice and stew he’d been working on and swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re not gonna eat?”
That damnable smile was still on Caesar’s face as he rested his chin in one of his hands. There was an emotion Joseph couldn’t quite place that was dancing in those deep green eyes of his; something that made his heart beat a little faster and had him reaching to rub his shoulder absently. Caesar’s smile widened, camellia petals dancing on his cheeks and fire in his eyes.
“Don’t you worry none, I’ll get mine.”