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The room was a mess. Jotaro's jacket had been flung across his desk chair, abandoned until tomorrow morning. His hat had taken up residence in another corner. Pants? Same as the hat; somewhere off in the mess of a teenager's room.
The mess was the least of Jotaro's worries, though. Lately he had become a gaunt ghost of the guy he used to be. Dark circles lay underneath his eyes and his already pale skin was growing even more paper-esque. He rarely moved from his room, not even to eat most of the time. Holly had gotten so worried that she called Joseph back to Japan to help her in keeping an eye on Jotaro.
What could be on his mind that left him in such a state? Noriaki Kakyoin, and his death. Jotaro Kujo was not the kind to make friends quickly, but when he did, he was devoted. Yes, he had been friends with Abdul. Yes, his death had impacted him too, but not nearly as bad as it had impacted Polnareff. There was something more between Jotaro and Kakyoin.
Cut to Jotaro, on the bed. His legs dangled over the edge, feet unwillingly planted on the floor. His head rested on the heels of his hands. There were thin lines of scabs on his arms, illuminated by moonlight. Neither his mother nor grandfather had seen him without a jacket, they just assumed he used it as a security object rather than its actual purpose of hiding. They never saw a lot. They didn't see him cry. They didn't hear his sobs, muffled by his pillow. They just assumed everything was fine, well, as fine as a depressed teenager can be.
Jotaro glanced over at the clock sitting beside his bed. Four o'clock in bright red lights, blurred by tears in his blue eyes.
He just wanted the memories to stop. He didn't want to feel Kakyoin's lips against his own, no more feeling of their first hug. There were nights where his own sadness was suffocating enough, but when he could feel Kakyoin laying on him, it was unbearable. He always thought that ghosts couldn't exist, but since Kakyoin's passing, he was more sure than ever that it was Kakyoin's ghost with him.
Kakyoin.
Noriaki Kakyoin.
The name was sweet on his tongue as he whispered it to the moon. Oh please, give him back. Jotaro tried pleading with every force imaginable to get him back, but to no avail. Once someone was dead, they were dead. No amount of necromancy could change it.
There was a sob. Then more. At first they were quiet and controlled, then hysterical. To hear someone sob that's never been emotional, it's never methodical, but melodically discordant. It was beautifully sad. The entirety of Jotaro's existence in this moment was a paradox. He was stoic with his walls up, impenetrable to those who tried, and he was openly emotional.
There was a knock at his door. "Jotaro?"
Shit.