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There are two hundred and thirty-seven specks on the ceiling tile above Noriaki’s head.
The one to its right has two hundred and eleven. The one to its left has only one hundred and seventy nine.
Tonight, he tries to count the specks on the tiles above and below the first. He’s failing. Miserably. This late, the sky outside is pitch black, and aside from the glow emanating from the apparatus that are currently keeping him alive, there’s no light in his room. He keeps the lights off as often as possible.
The fluorescent bulbs of the Speedwagon facility hurt his eyes terribly, worse than the natural light, and he’s got a red spot on his nose from constantly pushing his sunglasses up his nose when they inevitably slip. Even with the glasses on, when the doctors request he cut the lights on so they can perform their daily checks, his eyes hurt. Three times a day, nurses and doctors pile into his room and fret over him. Noriaki appreciates it, he guesses. He thanks them profusely every time they leave, and when the door falls shut and he’s left alone once more, it’s even harder to see than it was before. Wiping the tears from his eyes takes a great deal of his energy.
He has very little of that to spare these days.
Late nights like these are partially to blame. He can’t sleep. He has nothing to do other than squint up at the ceiling and count the blurry, moving specks.
It’s not like he has anyone to talk to. His mom and dad have gone home for the evening. Well, not home exactly.
Since Noriaki was admitted to the hospital, they flew out from Morioh and have been spending as many days by his side as possible. The weeks he spent in a coma, the time he spent in and out of consciousness between surgeries, the nights where doctors had to shove them aside to keep his heart beating.
This week is the most lucid he’s been in a long, long time.
Naturally, his parents have spent nearly every moment by his side. After six nights of sleeping in plastic hospital chairs, Noriaki begged them to return to their hotel room a few minutes away. To take a break. To rest. They eventually relented, though their goodbye lasted close to an hour. By the time they left, Noriaki slumped back against his pillows, spent.
Being strong for them is hard. He doesn’t want them to worry any more— he goes missing for fifty days, and they presume he’s run away because he was angry at them, then suddenly they get the call that he’s in critical condition at a hospital in Egypt and isn’t expected to make it.
He doesn’t remember that hospital. Almost all of the time he spent there, he was unconscious until he was stable enough to be moved closer to home to a Speedwagon facility. Still, he wonders how many specks were on the tiles over his hospital bed there.
He’s lost count, now, and needs to start over.
Instead, he closes his eyes. He doesn’t expect to sleep anytime soon. He just wants to rest his eyes for a few minutes.
Quietly, his door creaks open, and Noriaki lulls his head to the side.
Jotaro freezes.
Noriaki’s breath catches.
Jotaro’s wearing loose pajama pants, slippers, and a simple black tanktop. He’s got a bag tucked under his arm and his tennis shoes dangle from his hand, their backs hooked on his fingers. The scars running across his shoulders, down his arms, beneath his shirt have all healed well. Better than Noriaki’s, at least, but the flesh is still rough and jagged. It will be that way for a long, long time.
Jotaro closes the door behind him. He observes, “You’re up.”
Noriaki nods, eyes tracking Jotaro as he places his shoes by the door. It’s a small show. He just tosses them to the floor and shuffles over in his slippers, taking the seat beside Noriaki’s bed. After a few moments of silence, he speaks again.
“Jiji told me your parents left for the night. They weren’t here when he came to check in.”
Noriaki doesn’t remember seeing Joseph today. He must have come by when Noriaki fell asleep— not that he remembers that, either.
Jotaro’s eyes cut to him, just for a moment, and Noriaki knows he’s trying to gauge whether he'll get a response.
Neither of them were huge talkers on their fifty day expedition. They had very little downtime outside of meals and sleeping. That’s not to say they didn’t get along; Noriai thinks that, because they’re both so close in age, they got along better than the rest of the crusaders. They didn’t have to fill silences, they chose to. Typically, it was to talk about a common interest or share fun facts. Typically, Noriaki initiated it.
Now he struggles to respond.
“I told them to leave.”
He’s turned his head away from Jotaro. He doesn’t want him to see the tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. He hates this. Hates being bed-ridden as the doctors monitor the reaction of his body to his new metal spine. Watching, waiting to see if it’s rejected or if it even works. All it does is drain his energy and make him feel cold. It makes him feel sick.
Jotaro takes a few moments to process those words. Then, “Do you want me to leave?”
Does he?
“No.”
Jotaro relaxes back into his chair. “Okay.”
They’re quiet.
Noriaki assumes Jotaro’s fallen asleep. When he checks, he’s sorely mistaken; JoJo is looking right at him. Jotaro raises his eyebrows a fraction. Noriaki mirrors the action more dramatically.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to wake up alone,” is the explanation Jotaro offers as to why he came. “And I haven’t been by much this week.”
Noriaki gives him an unimpressed look. Jotaro’s been here three days this week, skipping half of his classes to do it. Jotaro just shrugs, bringing a hand up to twirl his cowlick of a curl that bounces against his forehead. Noriaki realizes he’s not wearing his hat.
“Good grief. Stop giving me that look. I’m only even going to class at all so I can pick up your lessons,” he grumbles.
Noriaki snorts, rolling his eyes and looking back at the ceiling. “Glad to know I'm encouraging your education.”
“‘Encouraging’s a stretch. More like facilitating.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really.”
Noriaki lazily swats his hand at him. Jotaro catches it, fingers loosely wrapping around Noriki’s wrist, hovering over his IV tube. Neither of them jerk away. Noriaki because he doesn’t have the energy to, and Jotaro because— Noriaki doesn’t know. But the way his thumb brushes over Noriaki’s palm is tender.
“Can I stay?” He asks. His voice isn’t soft. It isn’t dripping with affection or laced with honey. But it is searching. Vulnerable. Noriaki doesn’t doubt the reasoning Jotaro gave to explain his visit. Not in the slightest. Still, Noriaki can only assume JoJo is tired of waking up alone, too.
“Yeah.”
Noriaki wriggles his hand from Jotaro’s hold and then, agonizingly, starts to move over in his bed.
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
Noriaki doesn’t listen. He simply scoots, slowly, refusing Joaro’s help when he offers it until there’s enough room for Jotaro to squeeze in, too.
It’s a tight fit. They’re both tall. Both broad. They’re pressed flush against one another from shoulder to foot, and the bed railing is digging into Jotaro’s side, but he doesn’t mention that.
“I brought comics. We can start them now or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Noriaki mumbles. He’s more tired than he was earlier, but not close to sleep, yet. Jotaro, on the other hand, has exhaustion leaking into his voice.
His eyelashes are fluttering closed as he repeats, “Tomorrow.”
He tilts his head back, but before he dozes off completely, his hand finds Noriaki’s again. This time, he simply wraps their pinkies together.
Noriaki eventually turns his head to the side, cheek partially pressed to Jotaro’s shoulder, and examines him.
He’s still sporting his tan from their days in the sun, and this close, Noriaki can see the specks.
Freckles are littered across Jotaro’s jaw, his cheeks. They pepper his nose and there are even a few on his ear. Noriaki suppresses a yawn. He wonders how many there are.
One.
Two.
Three.