Chapter Text
Noriaki Kakyoin had always loved colour.
The reds and oranges of the fallen leaves, the yellows and pinks that cling to the sky at dawn, and the purples at dusk.
The greens and blue bruises that form on the surface of water when oil is spilt.
He had wanted to capture those moments, to make them last forever. That was why he started painting.
For years after graduating, Kakyoin lived with turpentine in his lungs and charcoal dust on his fingers. He rented a small studio in a drafty old building and filled it with half-finished canvases.
He sold a few pieces here and there, enough to keep the lights on. But no matter how many brushstrokes he laid down, the world never seemed interested. Galleries looked past him. Buyers dismissed him politely. Eventually, the rejection stopped stinging; it just became routine.
And when his landlord raised the rent one winter, Kakyoin packed away his canvases, closed the studio door, and didn’t look back.
Teaching wasn’t something he’d dreamed of. It was something he stumbled into, almost by accident, when a friend recommended him to a local school in need of an art teacher.
At first, he thought it would be temporary—something to cover the bills while he figured out his next step. But the months turned into years, and the classroom became more familiar than the studio ever had.
Still, late at night, when the classroom was empty and the silence pressed in, Kakyoin would take out his old brushes. He told himself it was just to prepare lesson plans, to keep his hand steady for demonstrations. But when the paint bled across the paper, he felt that familiar ache—the reminder that once, he had wanted more than this.
>>•<<
Jotaro Kujo had faced ancient vampires, murderous Stand users, and horrors that bent reality (and time) itself. None of it compared to getting his twelve-year-old daughter out the door on time.
"Jolyne, you better be ready! It's ten to!" He called, knocking several times on his daughter's door.
No answer. Just the thump of music leaking from behind the door and the occasional creak of floorboards as she moved around.
He tried again. "Jolyne, if you're not ready in five minutes, you are not going out with Ermes on Sunday!"
This time the response was immediate: “I'm literally getting ready!”
Jotaro frowned. From experience, that meant she was absolutely not ready. Probably still in pyjamas, hair unbrushed and scrolling on her phone.
When the door finally swung open, Jolyne stood there with her school shirt half-buttoned, backpack gaping open, and hair sticking out in every direction like she’d lost a fight with a static charge.
Jotaro pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Fix your shirt.”
She huffed, fumbling with the buttons. “Why do you care? Everyone else at school just wears hoodies anyway.”
"Hoodies aren't in the dress code that your teacher sent me at the beginning of the year." He stepped past her into the room, grabbing the lopsided backpack. Inside was a chaotic mix of notebooks, pencils, a handful of loose candy wrappers, and laptop. “Homework?”
Jolyne froze. “…It’s in there.”
He gave her a look. She folded her arms and muttered something that Jotaro was not even going to try and understand.
By the time they made it to the kitchen, Jolyne had her shirt corrected—sort of—and her backpack zipped shut. She flopped into a chair and poured herself cereal, half the flakes scattering onto the table. Jotaro sat across from her, sipping coffee and watching her shovel food like she hadn’t eaten in days.
He never said it aloud, but mornings like this reminded him how much she took after him. Stubborn, sharp-tongued, always testing his patience. And it was times like this he wished he could go back in time and apoligise to his mother.
The drive to school was quiet, except for the occasional sigh from the passenger seat.
Jolyne sat with her backpack in her lap, earbuds tucked into her ears, bobbing her head faintly to whatever was blasting from her phone. Jotaro kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t bother asking what she was listening to—she wouldn’t tell him, and he wouldn’t recognize it anyway.
When he pulled up in front of the school, Jolyne yanked her right earbud out and gave a dramatic groan. “Ugh, why do we have to be here so early? School doesn’t even start for ages.”
“Because I have work,” Jotaro replied simply. He shifted into park. “Go on.”
She shoved the car door open and hopped out, muttering as she adjusted her backpack. She took a few steps toward the building, then paused and turned back. “Hey… Dad?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“…Never mind.” She rolled her eyes at herself, then jogged toward the entrance before he could ask.
Jotaro watched until she disappeared through the glass doors. He was about to pull away when he noticed a figure standing just inside the lobby—tall, composed, speaking to another teacher. For a split second, the hair, the profile, the set of the shoulders—all of it pulled him back to a different time.
It couldn’t be.
But when the man turned slightly, Jotaro felt his chest tighten.
Noriaki Kakyoin.