Chapter Text
The rain had not stopped for three days.
It dragged across the windows of Johnny Joestar’s cabin like fingernails scraping against a coffin lid, endless and cold and accusing. The fire in the corner had almost died, leaving only dull orange embers that painted the room in weak light. Johnny sat motionless in his chair, his hands trembling slightly against the armrests while Slow Dancer rested outside beneath the storm. The silence felt wrong now. Too large. Too empty. Ever since the end of the Steel Ball Run, silence had become unbearable to him. Because every quiet moment gave space for memories. Gyro Zeppeli laughing with that stupid grin under the desert sun. Hot Pants narrowing her eyes before disappearing into blood and chaos. Wekapipo collapsing. Mountain Tim. Sandman. Diego Brando. All dead because of one man. Funny Valentine had twisted the world apart with his filthy hands, and Johnny could still hear the screams from that final battlefield whenever he closed his eyes. Sometimes he thought he could still smell blood on his clothes no matter how many times he washed them.
Johnny lowered his head into his hands. His chest hurt again. Not from injury. Worse than injury. The kind of pain that sat inside your ribs and refused to leave. He hated himself for surviving. Gyro should have survived. Gyro had dreams. Gyro had purpose. Johnny? Johnny had spent most of his life crawling through bitterness like an animal dragging broken legs through mud. Even now, after everything, after obtaining power greater than he ever imagined, he still felt hollow. His fingers curled tighter as another memory surfaced—Diego Brando standing across from him beneath that black sky, smirking like a devil who already knew the ending of the story. God, Johnny had hated him. Hated the arrogance in his voice. Hated the way Diego looked at people like they were stepping stones beneath his boots. But hate had never been simple between them. Diego understood him in a way others never could. Two crippled animals raised in cruelty, clawing toward victory because losing meant becoming nothing. Johnny remembered the insults, the threats, the fights soaked in blood and dust. Yet somehow Diego’s death still carved a wound into him that refused to heal.
The cabin creaked as the storm outside grew louder. Johnny finally forced himself to stand, dragging his exhausted body toward the storage room near the back wall. He had spent weeks avoiding it. The remnants of the race were buried there—maps, ruined saddles, old newspapers, broken gear stained with dirt from America’s deserts. Relics of ghosts. He pushed the door open slowly. Dust swirled through the dim air. The smell of old paper and wet wood struck him immediately. Johnny’s eyes wandered across the shelves until they stopped on a small leather bag shoved deep into the corner beneath a torn blanket. His breathing slowed. He recognized it instantly. Black leather. Gold buckle. A scratch across the side from when a horse kicked it during the race near Kansas. Diego’s bag. Johnny felt something cold slide down his spine. It should not have been there. He thought everything belonging to Diego had vanished after the chaos surrounding the corpse and the train. For a long moment he simply stared at it, unable to move, as though touching the thing might summon the dead themselves.
His hand reached for the bag almost against his will. The leather felt stiff with age when he lifted it onto the table. Rain hammered the roof harder now, drowning the world outside while Johnny slowly undid the buckle. His pulse quickened. Why the hell had Diego kept this hidden? The inside smelled faintly of smoke, ink, and something else he could not describe—something painfully familiar. Beneath folded clothes and old documents sat a bundle wrapped carefully in cloth. Johnny frowned. Diego had never treated anything carefully. Not money. Not people. Not even himself. Yet this bundle had been protected like treasure. Johnny unwrapped it slowly, and the moment the papers beneath were revealed, his breath caught in his throat. Letters. Thirteen of them. Bound together with worn string. His name written across the first envelope in sharp black ink.
Johnny Joestar.
The sight alone nearly stopped his heart.
For several seconds he could only stare. Diego’s handwriting was unmistakable—aggressive strokes pressed hard enough to nearly tear the paper. Johnny’s fingers trembled as he picked up the first letter. There were stains along the edges like Diego had carried them everywhere during the race. Some corners were bent. Others looked damaged by water. Johnny swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. “What the hell were you thinking…?” he whispered into the empty cabin. His voice sounded broken. Diego Brando writing letters felt impossible. Absurd. The same Diego who mocked weakness, who manipulated people with that predator smile, who would rather die than expose anything honest inside himself. Johnny remembered every cruel word between them. Every moment Diego treated him like filth. Every time Johnny aimed Tusk at his head with genuine murderous intent. Yet here, hidden from the world, were thirteen letters addressed only to him. Not Valentine. Not the government. Not some lover. Him.
The storm outside cracked with thunder powerful enough to shake the windows. Johnny sat back down slowly, unable to take his eyes off the papers. His mind wandered unwillingly through old memories again. Diego standing atop his horse with wind tearing through his blond hair. Diego glaring at him with savage fury during battles that felt more personal than war. Diego laughing after nearly dying because pain meant nothing to him anymore. Johnny had always believed Diego would survive anything simply through hatred alone. Men like Diego Brando did not disappear quietly. They burned through the world like wildfire. Yet now he was gone. Buried somewhere beneath cold earth while Johnny remained behind carrying the weight of every death. Gyro’s final smile haunted him most, but Diego haunted him differently. Like an unfinished argument. Like words neither of them had managed to say before the end came crashing down around them.
Johnny slowly loosened the string around the letters. Thirteen. Exactly thirteen. His thumb brushed over the first envelope again before he shut his eyes tightly. Part of him wanted to throw them into the fire without reading a single word. Diego was poison. Diego had always been poison. But another part of him—a deeper, uglier part—needed to know. Needed to understand why a man like Diego Brando would leave behind thirteen letters for the person he hated most. Or perhaps… the person he understood best. The fire cracked softly beside him as Johnny finally opened the first envelope with unsteady hands, while rain and thunder swallowed the night whole.
Johnny held the letter near the firelight, watching the shadows tremble across the paper before finally unfolding it. The cabin had fallen deathly quiet now except for the storm beyond the walls and the occasional crackle from dying embers. His fingers tightened unconsciously at the sight of Diego’s handwriting crawling across the page like claw marks. Sharp. Violent. Proud. It already sounded like him before Johnny had even read a single sentence. For a moment he hesitated. His stomach twisted strangely, as though opening this letter meant opening an old wound that had barely stopped bleeding. Then, slowly, Johnny exhaled through his nose and began to read.
“If you’re reading this, Joestar, then it means I’m dead.
Not wounded. Not missing. Dead.
You always did survive things you shouldn’t survive, so I suppose it makes sense you’d be the one left standing in the end. That pisses me off more than you can imagine. I can already picture your expression while reading this too. That stupid serious look you make whenever something actually matters to you. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I wrote these because I suddenly grew sentimental before dying. I’m not Gyro Zeppeli. I don’t spill my heart out like some priest begging forgiveness. I’m writing because there are things I refuse to let rot in silence.”
Johnny’s eyes narrowed slightly. Even dead, Diego sounded insufferably arrogant. Yet beneath the venom there was something else. Something restrained. Johnny leaned closer to the fire and continued.
“You and I are the same animal, whether you admit it or not. I realized that during the race long before either of us gained those cursed powers. Men looked at us and saw monsters crawling upward from the dirt. The crippled jockey desperate to matter again. The starving rat clawing through England’s gutters trying to become untouchable. The difference between us is simple: you still wanted someone to save you. I never believed anybody would. Not my mother. Not God. Certainly not you. That’s why I despised you from the moment I saw your face. You had that same hunger in your eyes that I saw every morning in the mirror. I hated that I understood it.”
Johnny’s throat tightened slightly at the words. Outside, thunder rolled low across the sky like distant cannon fire. Diego’s voice felt alive inside the letter—cold and sharp enough to cut flesh even now.
“When we fought, I meant every second of it. Don’t misunderstand me. I wanted to crush you beneath my heel more times than I can count. Watching you drag yourself back onto your horse after every beating irritated me beyond reason. Most people stay broken after life destroys them once. You didn’t. You kept crawling forward like some damned corpse refusing burial. I respected that. God, even writing those words disgusts me. But it’s true. You earned my respect long before the end of the race, and that may be the ugliest truth I’ve ever had to swallow.”
Johnny stared silently at the page. The firelight reflected weakly in his eyes while memories clawed back into him one after another—Diego’s smirk before battle, the fury in his voice, the endless competition between them. Respect had never once appeared in those moments. Only teeth and blood and hatred. Yet somehow this felt more honest than anything Diego had ever said aloud.
“The world belonged to monsters like Valentine. Men who smile while piling corpses beneath their feet and call it patriotism. In the end we were all dragged into his madness—Gyro, Hot Pants, you, me… everyone. Funny thing is, I used to think surviving was all that mattered. But standing in that chaos, watching bodies fall around us, I realized survival alone is worthless if there’s nobody left who remembers your name after you vanish. That realization terrified me more than death itself. Can you believe that, Joestar? Diego Brando admitting fear.”
Johnny swallowed hard.
The last paragraph was written darker than the others, the ink pressed so heavily it nearly tore through the paper.
“So if I’m truly dead by the time you read this, then listen carefully. Do not waste your life mourning ghosts. Gyro chose his path. Hot Pants chose hers. And I chose mine long ago the moment I decided the world would never own me again. Don’t carry us like chains around your throat. Especially not me. I’d rather rot forgotten than become one more tragedy inside your miserable conscience. But if you ever speak my name again… then do it honestly. Don’t call me a villian. Don’t call me your enemy. Just say Diego Brando fought until the very end of this rotten world… and refused to kneel before anyone.”
Johnny lowered the letter slowly.
For a long time, he said nothing at all. The rain battered the cabin roof while the fire cracked softly beside him, but all Johnny could hear was Diego’s voice echoing inside his skull like the ghost of a man too stubborn to disappear quietly.
The second letter remained untouched for nearly an hour.
Johnny had left it beside the fire while the storm slowly weakened outside, but no matter how hard he tried to look away, his eyes always drifted back toward the stack resting on the table. Thirteen letters. Thirteen pieces of a dead man that should not exist. His hand finally moved toward another envelope almost unconsciously, fingertips rough against worn paper. The seal had already loosened with age. Johnny stared at Diego’s handwriting across the front for a long moment before opening it carefully. He could already hear Diego’s voice in his head before reading a single line—that mocking tone soaked in arrogance and poison. Yet now there was something heavier beneath it. Something tired. Johnny leaned back in the chair, shadows flickering across his exhausted face as he unfolded the next letter.
“You probably think I planned these letters carefully.
I didn’t.
Truthfully, half the time I wrote them I wasn’t even certain why I bothered. Maybe because speaking honestly to another person always felt impossible. The moment people hear truth in your voice, they start looking at you differently. Pity. Sympathy. Disgust. I hate all three equally. Ever since childhood, people only looked at me one of two ways: fear… or pity. Especially after my mother died. I remember standing beside her body while strangers whispered about me like I was some starving dog left alone in the street. They looked at me with those miserable eyes full of sorrow, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to smash their faces into the ground.”
Johnny’s expression darkened slightly as he continued reading. The words felt sharp and ugly, but painfully human in a way Diego never allowed himself to appear during the race.
“Loneliness becomes unbearable after enough years. Not because silence hurts, but because eventually you realize nobody has ever truly seen you. They see the filth you crawled out from. They see the violence. The ambition. The cruelty. But never the person underneath. So I stopped allowing anyone close enough to try. It was easier that way. Safer. I convinced myself I didn’t need anyone at all. Then the Steel Ball Run began, and somehow I ended up crossing paths with you.”
Johnny let out a slow breath through his nose. Memories surfaced immediately against his will. Diego sneering across campfires. Diego’s horse racing beside Slow Dancer through endless deserts. The sound of his voice during arguments that nearly became murder. Their relationship had always been war disguised as conversation.
“We never had anything resembling friendship, so don’t misunderstand me now. You hated me almost immediately. I noticed it before you even spoke to me properly. The way your eyes narrowed whenever I opened my mouth. The way your hand twitched toward your gun during our arguments. Honestly, Joestar, you were terrible at hiding your emotions back then. But I understood your hatred because I felt it too. Men like us learn to hate early in life. We grow up resenting people who stand taller, smile easier, breathe easier. Every kindness feels fake. Every act of compassion feels insulting. You especially… you carried hatred inside yourself like it was stitched directly into your skin.”
Johnny’s fingers tightened slightly around the letter. He remembered it too clearly. The bitterness after losing his career. The resentment poisoning every thought. Meeting Diego had felt like staring into a mirror that mocked him relentlessly.
“But beneath all that hatred, I recognized something else in you. Loneliness. The exact same kind I spent my entire life pretending didn’t exist inside me. You hid it beneath anger. I hid it beneath pride. Different methods. Same disease. That’s probably why we kept crashing into each other over and over during the race. Two miserable bastards trying to prove they were stronger than the world that abandoned them. Every fight between us felt less like battle and more like revenge against ourselves.”
Johnny closed his eyes briefly as memories struck harder now. Diego grabbing his collar during one argument near the mountains, both of them seconds away from drawing blood. Diego laughing mockingly after surviving impossible injuries. The fury in Diego’s face whenever Johnny refused to stay down. Their rivalry had been vicious from beginning to end, yet Johnny suddenly realized how often Diego had looked at him—not with simple hatred, but recognition.
“There were moments I wanted to kill you, Joestar. Genuine moments. I imagined crushing that stubborn look off your face more times than I can count. But strangely enough, you also became the only person I could never completely lie to. You saw the ugliest parts of me immediately. The greed. The violence. The desperation. And you despised me for them openly instead of pretending otherwise. That honesty was rare. Ugly, but rare. Most people wear masks their entire lives. You barely had the strength to wear one at all.”
The final paragraph looked messier than the others, as though Diego had paused several times while writing it.
“So if you’re reading this now after my death, then understand one thing clearly: I never expected you to forgive me. I never even wanted forgiveness. But somewhere during that damned race, I stopped seeing you as just another obstacle in my path. You became proof that someone else in this rotten world understood what it meant to wake up angry at life itself. Maybe that’s why I kept writing these ridiculous letters. Because whether I liked it or not… you were the only person who ever looked as lonely as I felt.”
Morning arrived quietly.
Not beautifully. Not peacefully. Just quietly.
A pale gray light slipped through the cabin windows and spread across the wooden floorboards while Johnny Joestar sat motionless beside the table, one elbow resting near the dying remains of last night’s fire. He had not slept at all. Every time he closed his eyes, Diego’s words returned to him like ghosts scratching against the inside of his skull. The letters remained stacked beside him exactly where he left them, thirteen pieces of a dead man scattered across the table like fragments of a life nobody was ever supposed to witness. Outside, the rain had finally stopped, but the world still looked cold. Empty fields stretched endlessly beneath the cloudy sky while damp wind brushed softly against the cabin walls.
Johnny stared at the third envelope for a very long time before touching it.
Something about this one unsettled him immediately.
Maybe instinct.
Maybe fear.
Diego’s handwriting across the front looked rougher than the others somehow, the ink darker in certain places like the pen had pressed too hard against the paper. Johnny swallowed slowly before opening it. The envelope crackled softly in his hands. For a brief second he considered putting it back without reading another word. Diego was already inside his head too much. Every memory felt louder now. Sharper. The way Diego smirked during fights. The way his voice always sounded amused even when threatening someone. The unbearable intensity in his eyes whenever they argued.
Johnny exhaled slowly and unfolded the letter.
Immediately, Diego’s voice crawled back into existence.
“I nearly destroyed this letter three separate times.
The first time, I burned half of it and spent an hour cursing myself afterward for acting like some pathetic schoolboy writing poetry in secret. The second time, I tore it apart because I convinced myself exhaustion was making me irrational. The third time… I stopped halfway through and realized something humiliating.
No matter how much I tried to kill these thoughts, they kept returning to you.”
Johnny’s brow furrowed slightly.
A strange unease settled deep in his chest.
He kept reading.
“You probably cannot imagine me struggling with emotions like this. Frankly, neither can I. Most of my life has been built around survival. Hunger. Pride. Violence. Every day was another fight to become stronger than the filth I came from. Men like me do not waste time wondering about love. We use people. Manipulate them. Step over them. That is how the world works. That is how I survived long enough to become Diego Brando instead of dying nameless in some gutter beside my mother.”
Johnny’s eyes lowered slowly across the page.
The cabin felt strangely smaller now.
Too quiet.
Too still.
“But then you appeared.
At first, I hated everything about you. Your arrogance irritated me immediately. The way you carried yourself despite your injuries. The bitterness in your voice whenever someone mentioned your past. I could see the rot inside you instantly, Joestar. You looked like a man trying to outrun his own corpse. Honestly, I thought you were pathetic during those first weeks of the race. Weak. Angry. Self-destructive. But the more I watched you, the harder it became to look away.”
Johnny blinked slowly.
His fingers tightened slightly around the paper.
He remembered almost every fight between them vividly now. Diego riding dangerously close beside Slow Dancer just to provoke him. Their arguments exploding over insignificant things. Harsh insults traded beneath desert skies while Gyro rolled his eyes nearby. Most of the time Johnny assumed Diego only enjoyed getting under his skin because cruelty entertained him.
But now those memories felt different somehow.
Uncomfortable.
Like hidden meaning had existed beneath every glance and Johnny had been too blind to notice it.
The next paragraph was messier than the others.
The handwriting tilted harder to the side.
“As much as I despise admitting this, you fascinated me.
Not because you were kind. You weren’t. Not really. You lashed out at people constantly during the race, especially when your pride got wounded. Half the conversations we had ended with one of us threatening violence. But beneath all that anger, there was something painfully honest about you. You wore loneliness openly without realizing it. I think that’s what destroyed me in the end. Every time I looked at you, I saw another man who had been abandoned by life so many times he no longer knew how to trust anyone properly.”
Johnny looked away from the page for a moment.
His chest hurt.
He suddenly remembered a night near Arizona where he and Diego had nearly started shooting each other beside the campfire after an argument became too personal. Gyro had stepped between them laughing nervously while Diego stared directly at Johnny with that sharp predator smile.
At the time, Johnny thought Diego looked at him like prey.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“You probably do not even remember half the moments I’m talking about. Before the accident, your life was full of noise, crowds, applause, women, fame. Then suddenly everything disappeared. Maybe that’s why your memories seem fragmented sometimes. Maybe part of you buried the old Johnny Joestar alongside your legs. But I remember you clearly. More clearly than I should. I remember the exact sound of your voice when you got angry. I remember how your expression changed whenever someone mentioned your father. I remember how fiercely you looked at people whenever you thought they pitied you.”
Johnny’s throat tightened painfully.
Because Diego was right.
Large portions of his old life before the shooting felt distant now. Like blurry photographs left too long in sunlight. Faces faded. Emotions dulled. But the Steel Ball Run remained vivid. Every mile. Every wound.
And Diego had always existed somewhere inside those memories like fire burning through dry grass.
The letter continued.
“The moment I realized what I felt for you was somewhere near the desert.
You were screaming at me over something ridiculous—I honestly cannot even remember what caused the argument anymore. But while you stood there glaring at me with murder in your eyes, sunlight caught your face for a second. Your hair was filthy from sand and sweat. Your hands were shaking from exhaustion. You looked absolutely miserable.
And somehow, despite all of it, I thought you were beautiful.
That realization horrified me.”
Johnny’s breath caught in his throat.
The sentence struck him harder this time.
Beautiful.
Diego Brando had looked at him during all those ugly, violent moments and still seen something beautiful.
Johnny lowered the letter slightly, staring blankly ahead while memories flooded back uncontrollably now. Diego leaning close enough during arguments that Johnny could feel his breath. Diego watching him silently across campsites when he thought nobody noticed. The strange tension between them that always felt too intense to simply be hatred. Back then Johnny never questioned it because hatred was easier to understand. Easier to survive.
But now…
Now every memory carried a different weight.
The final paragraphs looked rushed, almost desperate.
“I loved you, Joestar.
There is no clever way to soften that sentence, so I won’t bother trying.
I loved you in the ugliest way possible. Violently. Quietly. Like a starving animal protecting the last piece of food it will ever see. Every time someone stood too close to you, I noticed immediately. Every time another man made you laugh, I felt irrationally angry afterward. Watching you nearly die during the race made me feel sick in ways I cannot properly explain. And that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
Because loving someone means they gain the ability to destroy you completely.”
Johnny’s hands trembled now.
Not violently.
Just enough.
Enough for the paper to shake faintly in the morning light.
“I think part of me always knew this would end badly. Men like us were never built for soft endings. We are selfish. Broken. Cruel. Too damaged to become something gentle. Maybe that’s why we kept hurting each other every time we spoke. It was easier to fight you than admit I wanted to stay near you. Easier to insult you than tell you the truth. And perhaps you hated me because some part of you understood it too.”
Johnny closed his eyes tightly for a moment.
His heart felt unbearably loud inside the silence of the cabin.
Then he forced himself to finish the final lines.
“So if death truly took me before I ever said any of this aloud, then let this letter carry the shame for me instead.
I loved you, Johnny Joestar.
Even at my cruelest.
Even when we were tearing each other apart.
Even when you looked at me with hatred in your eyes.
And if I had been born a better man… perhaps I would have loved you gently instead.”
The night stretched endlessly around Johnny Joestar’s cabin, heavy and airless like the entire world had stopped breathing alongside him. Moonlight spilled faintly through the window beside his bed, pale silver cutting across the wooden floorboards while the fire in the hearth had long since died into cold black ash. Johnny lay awake on top of the blankets with one arm resting across his forehead, staring blankly at the ceiling beams overhead while exhaustion hollowed him out from the inside. He should have slept hours ago. His body ached for rest after days of barely closing his eyes. But every single time silence settled around him, Diego’s voice returned immediately. Sharp. Arrogant. Mocking. Alive in ways that felt cruel now. Johnny turned onto his side with frustration tightening in his chest, but it changed nothing. The letters remained on the nearby table, untouched for the last several hours, yet their presence filled the entire room like ghosts refusing to leave him alone.
He hated how vividly he could hear Diego in his mind now.
Not just the important moments either.
Not the battles.
Not the bloodshed.
Small things.
Pointless things.
The exact sound of Diego scoffing whenever someone annoyed him. The way his British accent sharpened whenever he became genuinely angry. The unbearable confidence in his voice whenever he said Johnny’s name like it personally irritated him to even pronounce it aloud. Johnny shut his eyes tightly, but memories only grew worse in darkness. Somewhere deep inside his head, he could still see endless desert roads beneath burning sunlight. Still hear horses thundering across dry earth while Diego rode beside him wearing that infuriating smirk like he owned the world already.
Then another memory surfaced unexpectedly.
Older.
Smaller.
Almost ridiculous compared to everything else.
Johnny remembered one afternoon near the beginning of the race when Diego had left some small metal horse figurine sitting near camp while speaking to another racer nearby. Johnny never even learned where Diego got the thing. Maybe England. Maybe childhood. It looked old enough to matter. And because Diego had irritated him earlier that day beyond reason, Johnny decided stealing it would be funny.
At the time, it absolutely had been.
The memory returned painfully clear now.
Diego turning around sharply the second he noticed the missing figure.
“Where the hell is it?” Diego snapped immediately, eyes narrowing as he looked around camp.
Johnny had been sitting lazily against a crate nearby trying—and failing—to hide his grin.
“Ain’t seen nothin’, Brando.”
Diego’s gaze immediately locked onto him with pure suspicion. “Oh, don’t give me that ridiculous expression, Joestar. You’ve got the intelligence of a child whenever you think you’re being clever.”
Johnny pulled the little horse from his coat pocket slowly, spinning it loosely between his fingers while Diego’s expression darkened instantly.
“Well now,” Johnny drawled lazily, “this what you’re lookin’ fer? Didn’t know ya carried toys around with ya.”
“It isn’t a toy,” Diego snapped sharply, stepping closer. “Give it back.”
Johnny remembered laughing.
Actually laughing.
Not bitterly.
Not cruelly.
Just genuinely amused because Diego looked so furious over something so small.
“Well damn,” Johnny had said with a crooked grin, “didn’t realize ya’d get all emotional over a tiny horse.”
Diego’s jaw tightened visibly. “Johnny.”
“Oh, c’mon now, don’t tell me little Diego Brando used ta play with this thing as a kid.”
“I said give it back.”
The dangerous tone in Diego’s voice should have warned him to stop. Instead Johnny only leaned farther back against the crate, holding the figurine above his head mockingly.
“Y’know,” Johnny laughed, “I think this might actually be the saddest thing I ever seen.”
And then Diego had moved.
Fast.
Johnny still remembered the sudden violence of it vividly even now. Diego grabbing the front of his shirt and slamming him hard against the crate before ripping the figurine from his hand with furious eyes burning beneath messy blond hair.
“You ignorant bastard,” Diego hissed inches from his face. “You think everything is a joke because you grew up surrounded by people handing you applause and affection no matter how pathetic you became afterward. Some of us didn’t have that luxury.”
Johnny had shoved him away immediately afterward, anger exploding before thought could catch up.
“The hell’s that supposed ta mean?!”
“It means,” Diego spat coldly, “that unlike you, I actually remember what it feels like to lose the few things I cared about.”
The memory twisted painfully in Johnny’s chest now.
Because back then he had only rolled his eyes afterward. Thought Diego was being dramatic. Overprotective. Insane, honestly. The argument escalated into another screaming match like always until Gyro eventually stepped between them laughing nervously while calling both of them idiots. By nighttime, the fight had become just another ugly moment buried beneath dozens of others during the Steel Ball Run.
But now…
Now Johnny understood things he hadn’t before.
That little horse probably mattered.
Maybe it belonged to Diego’s mother.
Maybe it was the only object he carried from childhood.
And Johnny had laughed at it without hesitation because hurting Diego had felt easy back then.
Johnny pressed one hand slowly against his eyes as guilt settled heavily inside him. God. Him and Diego had spent almost the entire race tearing pieces out of each other. Every conversation became a fight. Every glance turned sharp eventually. They barely knew how to exist peacefully in the same space for longer than five minutes. Yet beneath all of it, Diego had apparently carried feelings Johnny never even imagined possible. That realization hurt worse than the letters themselves somehow. Because Johnny kept replaying every memory now wondering how blind he must have been not to notice.
Outside, wind brushed softly against the cabin while the moon climbed higher across the sky.
Johnny sat up slowly on the bed, exhaustion weighing visibly across his face now. He looked toward the table again where Diego’s letters rested silently beneath weak moonlight. The cabin suddenly felt unbearably lonely. Bigger than before. Colder. Diego had always filled every room with noise during the race whether Johnny wanted him there or not. Sharp remarks. Smug laughter. Arrogant comments muttered beneath his breath whenever Johnny irritated him—which was constantly.
And now there was nothing.
No voice.
No arguments.
No furious blue eyes glaring across campfires.
Just silence.
Johnny lowered his head into his hands slowly, shoulders tightening as grief finally settled properly into his chest for the first time since reading the letters. Not loud grief. Not dramatic. Something quieter. More painful than that. The kind that crept into empty spaces and refused to leave. He realized suddenly that he would give almost anything just to hear Diego insult him one more time. One more argument. One more bitter laugh. One more stupid fight beneath those endless desert skies.
But dead men stayed dead.
And Johnny Joestar was left alone with memories far too heavy to carry quietly anymore.