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Joseph can only think of two times he has really, truly cried since entering his teenage years. Whether this is healthy or not is anyone's guess.
The earliest instance he can remember is the first time he was arrested. He was thirteen years old (and three months) and, in his defense, that kid he beat up had every single punch coming to him— in fact, he was practically begging for it. He remembers that he was walking home from school, hands in his pockets and the distinct crunch of snow under his boots, when he spotted a high schooler treating a girl, well, in a way that he was raised to never even consider treating a woman. Maybe his morals got the best of him, maybe he was blinded by anger. But after one glimpse of that boy attempting to shove his hand up her skirt, Joseph's mind had hardly caught up to the present moment before he was delivering a Hamon-infused punch square into his jaw (though, of course, he wasn't aware of exactly what this power was at the time).
The thing is, he didn't stop. He couldn't just hit him once and call it a day. He had to teach this creep a lesson. The rest of the interaction was truly a blur to him, a whirlwind of sparks and punches and kicks. Looking back, Joseph is pretty sure he would have knocked the kid unconscious if he hadn't been soon pried off of him by bystanders.
Of course, Joseph wasn't given an opportunity to explain himself. He threw the first punch, after all. To any onlooker, he was just a crazy, spoiled rich kid who threw himself at a random high schooler completely unprovoked. So, without much deliberation, he was cuffed and shoved in a cop car pretty quickly.
He was lucky that Granny Erina believed his point of view. He was lucky to have a family with the fortune to bail him out without much of a hassle. But in the short time he spent in police custody, Joseph's mind was wracked with nothing but worry. What would Granny Erina say? What would she do? Will she hate me? How can I even explain?
When he was released, he ran into her arms and cried like a baby. He didn't care if she wanted to disown him now. He didn't care that this wasn't the strong, confident way to handle what he was feeling. He was so afraid. And she consoled him, telling him that he had nothing to worry about anymore, then took his hand as they headed home.
The second instance was at age sixteen, after Speedwagon endured his first heart attack. This was only the beginning of a long journey of heart problems for him, but none of them knew that at the time. All Joseph knew was that his only ever semblance of a father figure, though he acted more as an uncle, had collapsed at home one April morning and was being taken into urgent medical care.
“It was a heart attack, that's for sure,” Joseph had overheard a doctor say as he and Granny Erina arrived at the hospital. “He's still unconscious. We're trying the best we can, but nothing's guaranteed.”
He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know if Speedwagon, one of the only people he could call family, was going to live through this.
Joseph cried silent tears as he and Granny Erina waited for an update on Speedwagon's condition, or for permission to head back and visit him. She didn't cry with him, but as she held him close, that worried expression and pronounced crease between her eyebrows told him everything he needed to know. Granny Erina was struggling, too. They were in this together. And if she was holding back tears to stay strong in front of Joseph, then he could be strong, too.
Now, he's eighteen. In the past month, he's fought and defeated multiple godly beings, flown a plane into a volcano, spent two and a half days trying to climb up an oil-slicked pillar with no food or sleep, undergone rigorous and painful training with the threat of certain death looming over his head, and dug his nearly-dead best friend out of a pile of rubble until his nearly-shredded fingers begged for mercy. All without shedding a single tear. He hadn't had any time to do such a thing, after all. Even as he laid awake at night, wondering if this was all in vain, and if these poison rings inside him would be the end of him (or possibly one of the Pillar Men). His mind simply hadn't thought of crying, not with everything else piled on top of him.
He'd spent two weeks recovering with Suzi Q, isolated from the rest of the group and subsequently being unable to receive a single word as to whether Caesar was okay. The Zeppeli was in critical condition when they recovered him and left him with the Speedwagon Foundation— probably as critical as one could get without being dead. The fact that he was breathing, ever so shallowly, only noticeable if you placed your head against his chest, had to be nothing short of a miracle. Joseph, now all patched up and with one less hand, had no idea if Caesar had been able to fight through his injuries, or if any attempt at resuscitation was futile.
He better have, is all Joseph could think. Caesar is the most resilient guy I know. Not even a two-tonne rock could knock him down.
Now, standing outside of Caesar's hospital room, he feels something vaguely familiar, something he felt when he was sixteen. His palms sweat and his chest feels heavy. Caesar's alive, he was overjoyed to find out, and as of the other day, conscious after so long. He had been undergoing nonstop tests, treatments, and questioning since waking up, and Joseph has only now been given permission to visit him. But that was all the information he'd received. Beyond that, it was a gamble. Was Caesar struck with amnesia, no longer able to remember the times they shared together? Was he horribly disfigured, or merely a shell of who he used to be? How much had he healed? Joseph was so afraid as he rescued him from the hotel that he could hardly recall the specifics of the man's physical state— either he was too focused on getting him to safety to pay attention or his mind had simply blocked it out. He truly didn't know what awaited him on the other side of this door, aside from a conscious and living Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli.
He knocks on the door, not knowing what to expect.
“Come in,” says that melodic, Italian-accented voice that he's been dying to hear for weeks, and his knees instantly feel weak for reasons he can't even place.
Joseph places a hand on the doorknob. He takes a deep breath. He readjusts his grip. Why is this so difficult?
Another breath. He pushes open the door while Caesar is in the middle of calling out “Come in, are you deaf?”
The sentence is cut short when they lay eyes upon each other.
Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli is alive.
Finally, it clicks in Joseph's mind, like he had to see it to believe it. He's laying right there in the hospital bed, bandaged all over and hooked up to all sorts of tubes that Joseph couldn't name the purposes for. He expected the blonde to be holed up in a bunch of casts, but it looks like the doctors went a whole step further. His left forearm is now a fancy robotic prosthetic, much like Joseph's own, and he can only assume they fitted him for it and got it attached all while the man was still unconscious. He can’t see Caesar's legs as they're covered by a blanket, but he can only assume based on the pure brutality of the incident that at least one of them was given a similar treatment.
He's there, the same chartreuse eyes decorated with pink triangular birthmarks, the same messy blonde hair and sharp jawline. He looks at him with astonishment, a twinkle in his irises that Joseph's never quite seen from him before, and he can only assume that he himself is donning the same type of stupid expression.
Caesar is the first to speak, and it's almost nothing but an exhale that exits his mouth, hardly a whisper.
“JoJo.”
Joseph’s mouth is dry.
“Caesar.”
And he makes nearly a running start towards him from the door, fully prepared to throw himself at the other into a hug, and it's Caesar’s reflex to quickly yell out “JoJo, I have broken ribs—!” that gives Joseph the split-second chance to adjust the amount of force he's going in with. Luckily, they're able to enter an embrace with no excruciating pain or damage to Caesar's healing body.
Joseph’s 195-centimeter frame is awkwardly hunched over a hospital bed. Caesar is trying his damndest not to overextend his capabilities as he wraps his arms around the other’s back. And yet it's the most secure, comforting hug either has ever received.
“Did you get my message?” Caesar asks, knowing the answer already.
“Yes, I got your message, you stubborn bastard. I got all of it.” His voice begins to waver and, God, is this about to happen again? Crying in a damn hospital? “You're such an idiot. What the hell were you thinking? Look at the state of yourself.”
Caesar is silent for a few moments. “That's an odd way to say ‘thank you’,” he jokes dryly, and both of them are aware of the lack of malice, that he's too humble to truly fish for gratitude, that Caesar would sacrifice himself for Joseph a billion times over even if he never recieved so much as a passing glance in return. Although that last bit may be known only to Caesar.
Joseph has so much to say. So much to update him on, so much to ask, so much to apologize for. God, how he has to apologize. He spent his two weeks in recovery feeling nothing but absolute dread that Caesar didn't make it, that their last conversation was doomed to be a stupid argument over bloodlines and family. Joseph was so prepared to live the rest of his life in utter regret that he never got to apologize for it. They were under so much stress and adrenaline that they were bound to say and do things they would regret later. The insults, the punches thrown— he just wanted to take it all back.
But now he can. Caesar's here, and he's okay, and he doesn't seem to be mad about their petty squabble in the slightest, at least not outwardly.
He doesn't know where to start. So many words jumble through his head, so many fragmented sentences and ideas. Things he meticulously thought through and so eloquently worded in his head while he sat alone in a bed for two weeks straight, all disappearing at an instant now that he has the chance to say them.
So he apologizes for the first, most simple thing that comes to his mind as the tears finally spill over.
“I lost your headband, Caesar. It's gone. I'm sorry.”
The fabric of Joseph's T-shirt on his right shoulder, where Caesar's head sits, suddenly begins to grow wet.
“JoJo,” the other begins, and his choked-up voice is enough to confirm the theory initially spurred by the dampness on his shoulder. “Did you really think that I would ever give a single damn about that headband?”
And Joseph’s shoulders begin to shake, a mixture of laughter and soft sobs echoing through his core. Caesar holds him tighter, succumbing to the exact same rush of emotions. It's infectious, and yet it isn't at the same time— neither would need to be infected in order to feel this way. They simply would, because they nearly lost each other, because they're here and safe, because nothing in the world can stop them now.
The third time Joseph cries in his teenage years, it's tears of joy, relief, and a tinge of regret, and they're shared with his best friend in a tiny hospital room. Broken bones, amputated limbs, fresh bandages. And it's, without a doubt, the best cry he's had in his life.