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Loving Jonathan Joestar felt like a free fall.
He hit the ground twice.
Robert O. E. Speedwagon fell in love with Jonathan Joestar with his nose broken and the other man’s hands bleeding, standing in barely solid snow, with all his men surrounding them, his heart in his throat, and his stomach dropping.
It never stopped.
He kept falling in love when Jonathan allowed him to follow him home, when he saw him fight his adopted brother, as he watched him mourn his father — as that building burned, as Jonathan made it burn.
Speedwagon held the bruised, bloodied and somehow alive body in his hands and laughed, cried, thanked all the gods he didn’t believe in for letting this man live. Laughed at the luck, at the serendipity of their meeting, the impossibility of it all, unable to believe he’d gotten to keep Jonathan.
Except he didn’t get to. Except Jonathan had never been his.
He’d realized that, seeing him and Erina together. He’d realized that and also that he’d already known for a long time, walking away with a bittersweet tightness in his chest, because —
Every time Jonathan smiled. Every time Jonathan looked at him. Then — every time Jonathan looked at Erina, thought of Erina, and his eyes took on that look of fondness…
Speedwagon didn’t need Jonathan for himself. Whenever Jonathan’s face lit up, for whatever reason, he was reminded of the burning building, of holding him to his chest, alive.
He didn’t need Jonathan for himself. He needed Jonathan happy.
That must be enough.
Those were his thoughts attending the wedding. The mantra he kept repeating to himself, watching how right Erina looked between Jonathan’s arms, how Jonathan could not shake off that look of disbelief, as if he could not quite process the amount of joy he was feeling.
Speedwagon’s chest felt full, and empty, and hot and burning, and god, did that look suit Jonathan.
Happiness suited Jonathan. Life suited Jonathan.
He made sure to tell them that. Hugged Erina - hugged them both.
“Are you crying?” a friend asked him, later.
Speedwagon was.
He walked in on Jonathan and Erina, for the second time in his life, in the closet room of the celebration venue; Jonathan’s hair was a mess, his face flushed, his tie undone, shirt barely buttoned — Erina noticed the visitor first and let out a surprised shout, hid her face in Jonathan’s bare chest.
“...Oh,” Speedwagon said.
Jonathan looked flustered. “Speedwagon!”
“I saw nothing,” he smiled then, soul descending. “I’ll make sure no one else wanders here.”
He closed the doors. Heard the happy couple awkwardly laughing at his intermission.
Felt the image of Jonathan, like that, burning into his brain, hot with guilt and want.
A man, he mentally berated himself. A married man. Your best friend.
Speedwagon made his way to the rest of his gang, and ordered them another round.
He found Jonathan again later, talking to some man Speedwagon didn’t know. Pushed his way into the conversation.
Once they were alone, Jonathan glanced at the floor, blushing again.
“So,” Speedwagon couldn’t help but grin. “Having a fine celebration?”
Jonathan flushed further. “I-I wanted to thank you for your —”
“Discretion? Please", please, "do not even mention it,” Speedwagon laughed, then reached out, fixed some unruly strands of Jonathan’s hair. “I can imagine you’ve been waiting for some time now.”
Jonathan was positively red. He said nothing.
Speedwagon just laughed again. “I will go fetch myself another drink — need anything?”
Jonathan shook his head no. Smiled.
“You are a good friend.”
Speedwagon ducked his head. “Again. Do not mention it.”
It was the last private conversation they would ever have.
It felt like he’d lost Jonathan twice.
Because, as Speedwagon often reminded himself, the fact was that Jonathan wasn’t something men like him got to keep. Got to have.
Speedwagon had already been telling himself that when Zeppelli spoke about Hamon and Jonathan hung onto the words like they were physical strings, when they huddled around fires too tired to keep polite distance, when they crossed paths on early morning. When his eyes strayed too low, too long, down the slope of Jonathan’s neck or the curve of his jaw. The shape of his arms. The sound of his laugh.
You can’t lose something you never had.
Jonathan was joy. Jonathan was a shooting star, a burning fragment of the universe Speedwagon was lucky to even be able to witness.
The memory of his body in Speedwagon’s arms felt more solid than all the money he amassed years down the road.
“I forgot his voice,” Erina told him once, ten years down the line. “Robert. I can’t remember his voice.”
A terrible, ugly thought lashed out in the back of his head — he could.
He heard Jorge speak, twenty years later, and realized he could no longer recall the feeling of Jonathan’s hand on his shoulder.
“You loved him,” Erina said, two months after her wedding.
It wasn’t a question. Speedwagon still nodded.
“I — “ she licked her lips. “He was so easy to love, wasn’t he?”
Speedwagon’s eyes burned.
“How did you deal —” her voice cut off. Her face was wet. “How did you cope with losing him?”
He was never mine to begin with, Speedwagon nearly said, but knew it to be false. His love was his most prized possession.
“He was there,” he said instead. “How could I ever feel unhappy when he was there?”
He knew that was not what Erina meant. Like unrequited love could ever prepare you for sharp mourning — like anything could.
Eventually, Speedwagon grew old, and forgot Jonathan’s voice, his hands, how badly his breath smelled in the mornings. He helped raise his son, and his grandson, and got to meet his great-granddaughter too.
He never forgot how it felt, to hold Jonathan’s body while the Joestar estate burned. Never forgot how it felt to fall in love with him.
Loving Jonathan Joestar felt like a free fall.
Neverending, exhilarating. Two pivotal moments: the leap and the crash.
He was just a wingless human, after all. Like Icarus, he can only want what he can never have.
Not once, though, did he regret feeling the warmth of the sun.
Not once.