Chapter Text
He could recognize now the mistake he'd made with his first wife. He'd married for the promise of inheriting her fortune; she for the promise of a young, handsome man to care for her in her twilight years. There had been rumors after her death - to be expected - but at that time Diego had foolishly believed the money would be enough to bribe his way behind the golden gate, that hiding place of the elite insulated from the poor and undesirable.
Only after several months passed and no socialite deigned to visit did the possibility cross his mind that there may be, perhaps, something he had missed. Slumped at the fine mahogany desk of the study in the old home, he had pondered the afternoon away, mind circling round and round the problem for the component he had overlooked.
The curtain of night eventually fell, and with it, his patience ran out. He'd played the game smartly, risen far above the mass of pretenders he so despised; he'd more than proven his athletic talent and at the same time charmed his way into the hearts of elites and the populace alike. A spotless reputation and now exhorbitant fortune accompanied his name; bar truly catastrophic circumstances the inheritence would last him the rest of his lifetime and beyond.
It was more than enough to earn him an invitation into those reserved rooms, those gatherings where deals are made and money changes hands without being spent. It should have been enough.
And yet here he sat, shunned from the petty social games he'd learned so well. Why? Why, why, why?
It dawned on him with the rising moon.
Yes, he had done well for himself. The marriage to his now-dead wife had been the final step in the introductory process, marking as complete the foundational requirements of his intiation. But she had been a private woman. He hadn't minded at the time - had even considered himself lucky - but now he wondered whether she had withdrawn on purpose, just to deny him the opportunity to move on after her. For it was his lack of connections after her death that appeared to be the biggest hindrance to his ambition. The invisible wall of decorum among the privilged elite remained steadfast before him, his lack of a necessary introduction as the enigmatic friend-of-a-friend impeding access to that forbidden garden.
Certainly, he was eligible to join in their careless play. But with the death of his wife, he'd lost his invitation.
And so, Diego Brando, three months widowed, realized he had reached an impasse.
**
Perhaps his path ended there. He could stop now; he had more than enough money to rest on his laurels, and provided he make careful investments stood to grow the fortune indefinitely. The future would be what it was. He could find a tolerable partner and marry again for appearance's sake, or simply continue accepting the pursuits of hysteric fans who'd kiss his muddied boots if he glanced their way.
Alternatively, he could find a way around the wall.
Diego was never known to settle.
Thus the arrival of spring announced not only the return of fair weather, but also the debutante balls of the pretty up-and-comings.
Most took place in the grand halls of one mansion or another, old families of old wealth lining the halls. The girls in attendance were beautiful but vapid. He danced with a few, all of whom were charmed by his smile; always he grew bored well before the end of the song. The shallowness of the girls and observing families irked him, and each time he attended the he was disappointed with the selection. Now that he had the fortune behind him, he could afford to be picky with his prize; after all, at this point he needed nothing more than a revered family name and a partner brought up with the appropriate social graces.
Spring soon drew to an end, as did one spontaneously engagement to a girl he realized he couldn't stand.
Heat simmered the earth and flowers swayed in the fresh summer breeze as the seasons changed. The mornings, at least, were pleasant enough, and so it was that Diego found himself reading the paper on the front porch with the rising sun.
He had skimmed the fourth page and was poised to flip to the next when the print suddenly registered. There, two columns over and on the bottom half of the paper, was a short article announcing the For Sale status of a prominant farmhouse and ranch in Yorkshire.
While the suggested price of the sale had certainly caught his attention, what really piqued his curiosity was the current ownership. He reread the article again, then neatly folded the paper back into a square and tossed it carelessly onto the table.
The rest of the day was business as usual. After discarding the paper he'd determined investigating the matter further to be a waste of time; yet, in the following days, the article failed to fade to the back of his mind.
It came to him three dusks later. His hand, holding a soft brush to Silver Bullet's flank, suddenly stopped, provoking a nicker of irritation. But Diego was only half-present; the bolt of excitement at his epiphany jolting his soft strokes back into rythym and immediately set his mind racing a hundred meters a minute.
While Diego had been preoccupied the past several years with earning himself reputation and respectability, it appeared the Joestars had fallen out of favor with good fortune. Diego was quite familiar with the prestige and favor the Joestar name garnered. That they had been reduced to advertising in the newspaper instead of completing the sale privately told Diego all he needed to know.
Logically he knew there were more important things that demanded his attention. The Joestars could sell the old property to any number of wealthy buyers; Diego knew first-hand how impressive the faculties were, could point out and explain where each and every dent in the farmhouse walls had come from. Though he'd never been permitted near the family home - of course not. The very thought of the bastard son of a peasant stepping into such a place was laughable.
Ironically, ten years later, he still couldn't get the thought out of his mind.
It's just a look, Diego assured as the quill scratched out ink letters onto the paper.
Just a quick look, he promised himself. Just to see how far I've come. That's all.
Two weeks later he recieved a return letter from George Joestar anticipating his arrival.
Diego smiled, read it again, then tore the note to pieces and tossed it in the trash.
**
Having spent the past hour meticulously cultivating his appearance into that of a naive young heir, Diego at last slid his arms into the sleeves of the dark overcoat and called for a coach. It arrived shortly, a sleek thing with neatly-crafted wheels and well-trained horses at the front. He supposed some would call the design a remarkable work of the modern age, though it carried no such significance for him. That was fine; he'd chosen it according to the tastes of the Joestars, anyway.
Diego observed the coachman load his bags, alert for sticky fingers. No such slips occurred. The coachman smoothly opened the door, eyes lowered respectfully to the grime-encrusted street. Diego hummed to himself, entering the cushioned interior in three smooth steps and reclining into one of the cushioned seats. The coachman closed the door and returned to his post, and a moment later they were off.
Diego stared blankly at the velvet wall before him, relaxed as if on the back of Silver Bullet. Though his heart was calm, his mind was not, and he found himself pondering uselessly over the upcoming visit.
Would George Joestar recognize him? It had been many years since he'd last seen the man, and even longer since he'd last spoken to him. While the memory of the man's face still brought a tinge of bitterness to the back of his throat, now it was accompanied by a twist of derisive amusement. The death of his eldest had left the Joestar family in quite a state, if the rumors were to be believed.
Diego would be lying if he said he felt sorry for them. It was nothing less than what George Joestar deserved.
Remembering the death of Nicholas Joestar returned him to the sight of that bloody racetrack, to the pounding hooves of Black Rose and pointless shouting of the farmhands.
There had been someone else on the track that day, too. Another child, memorable only because of the flicker of surprise their prescence had sparked. After all, Diego had been quite used to being the youngest person on the farm.
Yes, he was sure there had been someone there around his age - though he couldn't recall if the child had been male or female. Surely that child had been the second of the Joestar children. If there had been any more after the accident, Diego had never known them. Shortly after the death of Nicholas Joestar he'd made his jockeying debut and thereafter removed himself from the Joestar farm with prejudice.
Before reading the article, he'd only fantasized about returning to take his revenge. The first thing he'd do was humiliate the head farmhand. Drinking shoe out of a stew was elementary compared to what Diego wanted to do to him. Perhaps eating the horses' shit for a month would teach the waste of air some manners.
If the man was even still around.
As for the rest of the farmhands, those useless peasants, he'd put them to work until they died. It seemed fair enough, after what they'd done to his mother. As for the Joestars… well, perhaps in another time they would be leaving England in disgrace with not a penny to their name. Here and now, however, compromises had to be made.
Overall it was a fine scheme, and Diego entertained himself with all the ways he could go about bringing it to fruition for the rest of the ride.
**
The coachman graciously opened the door, eyes fixed on the filth of the gravel road as Diego stepped out from the coach. The horses whinnied, but nothing responded.
In fact it was the silence that gave Diego pause, drawing him from his thoughts and back to reality. Now he took the chance to look around, to finally register the scale of disrepair and neglect surrounding him on all sides.
To his right were the sprawling pastures he'd so deeply admired in his youth, now overgrown by creeping buttercup and parsnip. Standing tall beside the field was the old stable house, and forty meters from that was the barn. Though time and termites had eaten away at its proud complexion the sight still stung like a mother's slap to the cheek.
"Will that be all, sir?"
"… Indeed."
Diego proffered the stack of pounds, barely holding back a sneer when they were snatched from his hand.
The coachman tipped his hat and left without another word. Diego watched the polished box bob away down the gravel road; then, he swiftly turned on his heel and started towards the Joestar mansion, eyes fixed to the broad shape of it in the distance.
It wasn't a long walk, nonetheless made more pleasant by the cool morning air and the excitement burbling in his gut. The image of George Joestar's pitiful face when he realized the bastard farmhand with a talent for horses had returned to swipe his legacy from under him proved endlessly entertaining. Diego's footsteps remained steady as he approached the carved double doors at the top of the chiseled stairs. He gave two sharp knocks to the beechwood then stepped back, plastering on a friendly expression for whoever opened the door.
To his amusement, it was Joestar himself who opened the door, hair curled to his forehead with sweat and cheeks reddened. He must have hurried to the door - how pathetic, to have fallen so far so as to not even be able to retain a maid. Unfortunately, his fantasies would have to remain as such - George Joestar gave no sign of recognition at his face. Perhaps it was better that way.
Diego bid Joestar a cordial greeting and stepped past the man into the interior of the home, discretely taking in the sight that had been kept from him for so long. Pricately, he had to admit it was impressive. Decorative marble columns spiraled to the ceiling, complimented by polished flooring and dark wall. At the base of the stairs a large statue of Nike sprouted from the curl of the banister, laurels brandished in one hand and the cup of champions in the other.
"Welcome, welcome," Joestar greeted, stepping around Diego to regain his attention. The smile on his wrinkled face was strained. "You must be the young man I've been corresponding with. Mr. Brando, was it?"
"Indeed," Diego tipped his head politely.
Though he had given the enormous room a thorough scan there was no sign of the Joestar's second child. Perhaps they had already been married off, in which case dedicating the thought any more time was useless.
He had important matters to attend to, after all.
"Then you're George Joestar? Of the great Joestar family, yes?" Diego returned, smiling with his teeth.
Joestar looked uncomfortable, but all he did was clear his throat.
"Yes, the American branch. My great-grandfather struck oil, the money of which my grandfather invested in the steel business. Right before they built the transcontinental railroad. My father continued his work. I'd always had a passion for horse racing, as I'm sure you know, hence why we came to England… invested in breeding and races. But it seems England's hit a bit of dry spell, recently. I'm sure you know, Mr. Brando. My wife and I have decided returning to the States would be best. Yes," George patted his forehead with a kerchif, "For the best. So we're looking to sell."
"Quite the history," Diego praised. "And it's very understandable, you're wanting to leave. I myself was lucky enough to inherit a great fortune from my late wife, but I'm very sympathetic. I know hard times well."
Diego paused, taking a moment to move closer to the main staircase to examine the statue of Nike. He traced the laurel wreath with a fingertip, just to see how Joestar would react. Predictably, he fidgeted at the sight of a stranger inspecting his home.
"I too have a passion for racing," Diego told him casually. "And I know your name well enough, Mr. Joestar. From what I understand you used to be quite the jockey."
Joestar chuckled, dabbing again at his forehead, though now it seemed less sweaty. Good, he was getting more comfortable.
"I suppose I made something of a name for myself in the circuits back in the day. But that was many years ago. Nevermind the glory days," Joestar let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, "We have business to discuss. Would you like some tea? Though I'm afraid we only have local product…"
"Certainly," Diego said carelessly, sauntering further into the house. He made a show of looking around, then asked innocently, "Will the maid be by shortly?"
"Ah," Joestar's face flushed with the tint of humiliation, "I'm afraid we've let go our house staff, what with the impending move… you won't mind if my son prepares it?"
"… Of course not," Diego replied after a moment. So, the other child was here… not that it mattered. He just wanted a look, that's all - to stomp on the sands of memory to watch them settle again.
Joestar tugged at his white collar, clearing his throat. After a moment he did it again, louder this time.
An odd sound caught Diego's attention, a sort of scuffle against the wooden floor, out of place in the empty manor. It came from the east wing corridor behind him. Joestar's eyes were fixed for a moment over his shoulder and Diego resisted the urge to turn around. He'd rather not seem overzealous. Acting too excitable would likely be a detrimental to his bargaining power.
The source of the noise came into view a moment later. Diego's breath left him in a quick exhale; the sight of the young man before him must have surprised him more than he realized, for the tension in his muscles seemed to rush out of him all at once, like a wave going out to sea.
"Jonathan, this is Mr. Brando," Joestar said. In a different situation, Diego might have raised a brow at the coolness in his voice. "Mr. Brando, my son. Jonathan Joestar."
His tone struck Diego as strange, though he failed to pinpoint why. Jonathan, on the other hand, seemed to understand completely, and within seconds had gone from wary to bristling. The silent communication was irritating, but Diego maintained the polite smile on his lips.
Joestar gave the order for tea to Jonathan, who took the chance to glance up at Diego from beneath his lashes, as though he couldn't be bothered to lift his gaze. Though his expression was neutral, his burning gaze was not, and Diego got the distinct sense he was being sized up. He flashed Jonathan a charming smile. Jonathan looked away.
Diego suppressed a frown. He always earned a swoon or four with it, so the simple lack of reaction was annoying. Jonathan turned to wheel to the kitchen; once he went in Diego realized his own posture had slackened significantly. He hurriedly straightened his back and squared his shoulders before Joestar could notice.
"Stubborn brat," Joestar mumbled, so quietly Diego wondered if he was supposed to hear it. "He ought to know better than to come out like that; polite folk get uncomfortable seeing contraptions like that chair… but he's a willful boy. My sincerest apologies, Mr. Brando."
"Think nothing if it," Diego dismissed. He wanted to ask whether Jonathan had raced like his brother, but that would be giving himself away prematurely. His foggy memory of the child on the fence post had clarified somewhat, now that he had a fresh image of Jonathan's face to compare it to. The years had matured that round, boyish face into the picture of youthful beauty, evidence of aristocratic breeding clearly visible in his pale cheeks and upturned, unbroken nose. Those burning blue eyes must have been from his mother. Yes… Diego understood now why the child's prescence that day had remained with him. He'd always coveted that which was kept from of his reach.
They soon reached a small sitting room, situated next to the west wing and what might have once been the servent's quarters.
"Please, please," Joestar said, gesturing toward a plush couch. Diego eyed it for a moment and, finding no fault, deigned to take a seat. Joestar putzed around for two minutes longer, glancing impatiently towards the kitchen, before hefting an irritated sigh and resigning himself to a seat across from Diego.
"My apologies, Mr. Brando," He huffed, dabbing at his forehead with a kerchief, "My son is…"
"No offense taken," Diego dismissed with a wave. His mouth was dry when he asked, "Will he be departing with you and your wife to the States?"
Joestar's expression tightened, lips pressed into a thin line. Had he struck a nerve?
"… Jonathan will be remaining in England," Joestar muttered.
He then cleared his throat and said more loudly, "Unfortunately, Kentucky does not agree with his constitution… and bringing someone like him aboard a trans-Atlantic ship, well, it's asking for trouble - in my opinion, of course. Wouldn't want him to fall ill, not after-"
Joestar shut his mouth, thick brows drawn heavy over his dark eyes. Diego allowed an appropriate amount of time to pass before adjusting in his seat, prompting the old man to suddenly return to attention.
"… My apologies," Joestar said, giving a small shake of the head as though to clear his thoughts. "Now, onto matters of business - are you sure of your offer, Mr. Brando? The number in the letter was-"
"There's no mistake," Diego assured sharply. "While it's true your ranch was once one of the proudest in the sport, I feel it's fair to say that is no longer the case. I will have to hire new staff, purchase materials for repairs, and transport my own horses to here. While I can afford the cost, I am not willing to purchase property for more than it's worth. I am interested, Mr. Joestar, but I'd like to be clear that the room for negotiations is narrow."
For a moment it seemed as though Joestar would argue; then came a sudden clatter of broken glass from the kitchen, immediately followed by low cursing. Diego tilted his head towards the sound, amused.
George Joestar reddened, and with a muttered, "Excuse me," abruptly rose to his feet.
Diego's quirked lips fell when a pained cry soon followed, along with the sound of a tea kettle hitting the floor. George Joestar emerged a minute or so later, two teacups in hand, and settled one gently in front of Diego. The aroma wafted towards him pleasantly but Diego found it difficult to pull his eyes from the kitchen entryway.
"He's spilled some hot water, that's all," Joestar explained breathlessly when he noticed his gaze. "Not to worry, Mr. Brando. He's quite old enough to clean it up himself."
"… Of course," Diego replied. No need to get distracted. Joestar clearly didn't have many options, and it seemed he was favoring speed over semantics. Fine by him.
Joestar, seemingly distracted by cooling down his tea, didn't reply.
"Have you any qualms or questions, Mr. Joestar?" Diego finally prodded. "If this deal is acceptable to you, I can wire the money by tomorrow morning."
Joestar took a long sip of his tea. It didn't appear to be to his liking. On a whim, Diego brought his lips to the rim of the cup and drank. He didn't see what the problem was - though he had always had a preference for the bittersweet.
Joestar took another sip, apparently deep in contemplation. Diego waited patiently, occasionally shooting discrete glances at his watch. If Joestar failed to come to a decision today, he had no issue stepping away. The whole venture might (generously) be called something of an investment, though Diego wasn't truly considering moving his horses from their well-equipped ranch to this rotting place. Truthfully, it was closer to a mere whim. He had nothing to lose - but Joestar did.
The old man seemed to realize this, as his pensive expression grew slowly stormier. He glanced back towards the kitchen with a sagging frown. It was quiet; perhaps Jonathan had made his escape while they were distracted.
"… Mr. Brando," Joestar started. Diego's attention snapped back to his aged face.
Still staring down at his teacup, Joestar continued, "There is… a matter of some importance when it comes to the sale of this property. You should know that I have recieved generous offers before yours, but this final condition… gave the other prospects some hesitence."
Diego wanted to shake him to force him to spit it out, but instead he smiled amicably.
"Is there perhaps some structural defect I need to know?" He joked. "A hole in the roof is fixable, Mr. Joestar - though I should tell you I'll need to adjust the price-"
"Nothing like that!" Joestar said swiftly. "The matter concerns... my second son."
Despite himself, Diego blinked in surprise.
"… What about him?"
"He's staying," Joestar said forcefully. At another time Diego may have taken offense at the tone, but he was intrigued by the old man's attitude. "Yes, he's staying here. But he cannot live on his own."
"You'll need to make arrangements for him, then?" Diego guessed. Perhaps he had assumed wrongly. Such arrangements usually took at least a month or two, which was far longer than the timeline he had suspected Joestar to be following.
But Joestar shook his head.
"He will be staying in this home," Joestar told him firmly. "He is not to leave the premises unaccompanied. Whoever purchases this property will become his caretaker."
Diego stared at him. Forced his eyes not to flick to the kitchen.
"I… see."
Such circumstances were doable, though not optimal. Perhaps he could leave Jonathan in charge of running the affairs of the restored estate to keep him busy and out of the way.
"Mr. Brando," George Joestar urged, setting his teacup down and leaning forward in his seat, "I understand that this is an unusual request. As the last condition of sale, I would require legal documentation to solidify that his wellbeing is no longer the responsibility of myself or my wife, and to clarify from the time of the transfer of ownership for this property that you will assume the burden of attending to him."
After he'd finished speaking he promptly leaned back in the plush chair, the sudden burst of energy gone as quickly as it came. His expression was somewhere between a frown and a sneer, as though the very thought of Jonathan made him shudder.
Diego stared blankly somewhere over Joestar's shoulder. He hadn't expected an obstacle of this sort. Satisfying a passing whim was hardly worth such a contrived headache.
But this, too, was an opportunity.
Yes, he realized as the pieces slid together to form one wonderful, simple picture. This was exactly what he'd been waiting for.
"Mr. Joestar, your son, Jonathan, is…" Diego smiled, perhaps with too much teeth. "Charming. I have no issue with fulfilling the conditions. I assume you're familiar with the laws regarding of coverture…?"
**
Ten days later marks the departure of the Joestars to the new world. George Joestar and Mrs. Joestar leave without fanfare, forgoing a farewell party on the basis that none of their acquaintances dared to be seen with them.
Even with George Joestar's numerous blunders and the current reputation of the family among the jockeying world, the Joestar name still carries significant weight. Enough, certainly, to get Diego through those jealousy guarded gates. Jonathan - or Johnny, as he'd spat at Diego upon thier first real introduction - was his golden ticket, and willing or not Diego would make use of his investment.
His new spouse is certainly better looking than the old crone, at least. Even if his attitude would put a stubborn mule to shame. Still, Diego's not worried; he's broken plenty of those before.
Johnny Joestar will be no different.