Chapter Text
Joseph Joestar had made the sudden resolution to spend a month and a half in Italy after hearing, during an insufferably long dinner organized by one of his grandfather’s business partners, that Rome served the best pasta in Europe. The man who had said it was half-drunk, his face completely flushed red from the wine, and he had delivered an emotional, nearly fifteen-minute speech about a sauce whose name Joseph could no longer remember. But that had been enough to spark his curiosity—an immediate, capricious, and rather superficial whim that had prompted him to pack his bags.
Thinking back on it now, the decision had been an absolute, monumental mistake.
Not because Italy was disappointing. Quite the contrary. Even now, with blistered feet and his pride thoroughly crushed, Joseph had to admit that Rome looked like it had been pulled straight out of an oil painting: narrow streets bathed in a thick, golden light; weathered buildings with balconies overflowing with ivy; and tiny cafes packed with people who seemed to possess the secret to eternal tranquility. There was beauty everywhere—an almost offensive kind of beauty—which he would have appreciated much more if he hadn't spent the last miserable hour walking aimlessly, feeling his sweat glue his shirt to his back like a second skin.
The problem was that Italy, apparently, had declared a personal war against him the exact moment he stepped off the godforsaken airplane.
His primary suitcase had vanished from the baggage carousel without a trace; the taxi driver had charged him an obscene amount of liras while smiling with criminal politeness; and the "central" hotel he booked turned out to be hidden in a labyrinth of identical alleyways where he got lost within five minutes of stepping outside.
To make matters worse, there was the humiliating detail that he didn’t speak a single word of Italian.
Well, maybe three. “Grazie,” “ciao,” and “buongiorno,” all pronounced with an accent so atrocious that the locals preferred to ignore him out of sheer cultural mercy.
He stopped under the shade of a wall covered in old, torn theater posters. He pulled out his phone with a hostility that bordered on personal. The Google Maps screen flickered, froze, and with agonizing slowness, displayed the dreaded message: recalculating route.
For the third consecutive time.
Joseph stared at the screen, clenching his jaw.
"You could at least pretend you know what you’re doing, you piece of junk," he muttered through his teeth.
An elderly woman passing by with a market bag glanced at him sideways, muttered something that sounded either like a blessing or a curse, and quickened her pace. Joseph shoved the device away with a frustrated sigh. Yeah, he was definitely losing his mind if he was already arguing with satellites in public.
The Roman air was a noisy beehive: the deafening roar of scooters passing within millimeters of his knees, and bursts of rapid, musical Italian conversations that were entirely impossible to catch. Everyone seemed to have a damn destination in mind.
Except him.
To crown the whole situation, his stomach growled with a violence that actually hurt.
Excellent. Hunger had just officially ascended to the number one spot on his list of existential crises.
It was in that exact moment of pure desperation that the aroma saved him. Or so he thought.
A thick, wonderful waft of golden garlic, freshly baked bread, freshly brewed espresso, and a tomato sauce simmering slowly over a low flame. The scent drifted down the alleyway and dragged him, practically by the nose, toward a small trattoria wedged tightly between two stone buildings. The wooden windows were wide open, and from the sidewalk, he could see a chaotic interior packed with diners, steaming plates, and constant movement.
For the first time all day, Joseph felt a flash of triumph.
Excited, he crossed the street abruptly, completely forgetting Italian traffic laws. The screech of a motorcycle's brakes made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The vehicle skidded mere inches from his boot, and the driver, a guy in a leather jacket, turned around to hurl a litany of insults while gesturing frantically with his hand.
Joseph, far from startled, planted his fists on his hips and yelled right back:
"That sounds like a problem with your brakes and your damn attitude!"
An old man smoking at a terrace table let out a hoarse laugh, choking on his own coffee. Joseph shot him a scathing look. Traidor. Without looking back, he pushed the door open and walked into the restaurant.
The shift in temperature made him sigh. The air conditioning, though gentle, welcomed him like a celestial blessing.
The restaurant was a sanctuary of noise and warmth. Conversations crisscrossed in the air, glasses clinked, laughter boomed, and waiters rushed past, dodging tables in a perfect choreography. Joseph stood by the entrance, blinking to adjust his eyes to the dim, cozy light inside.
—Buon pomeriggio. Desidera pranzare?
The voice caught him off guard. Joseph blinked, looking down.
The waiter blocking his path was a blond young man, impeccably coiffed, with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows and a silver tray resting with effortless arrogance under his arm. He moved with a confidence that immediately annoyed Joseph; it was as if the entire restaurant operated under his specific rules, and the rest of the world was just an audience.
Joseph wrinkled his nose, completely lost.
"Look, buddy, whatever you just said sounded very important and very pretty, but I didn't understand a single syllable."
The blond evaluated him from head to toe with an analytical gaze, lingering on his wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and obvious shipwrecked expression. A small, controlled sigh escaped his lips.
—Turista americano? —he asked in fluent English, tinged with a distinct, elegant Italian accent.
Joseph felt his soul return to his body, even if the guy’s attitude rubbed him entirely the wrong way.
"Yes, thank heaven. And before you use that condescending tone with me, let me tell you I'm well aware I look like a lost vagrant."
A shadow of haughty amusement crossed the blond's light eyes.
—Si nota a leguas. It shows.
"Wow, incredible hospitality," Joseph retorted, narrowing his eyes. "Do you get tipped extra for being a pain in the ass?"
—E tu parli troppo for someone who has only been in this place for ten seconds.
Joseph opened his mouth, indignant and ready to spark a debate, but the blond had already turned around, pointing two fingers toward a small table at the back, right by the window.
—Cammina, American. I don't have all day.
Joseph followed him, grumbling under his breath. It deeply irritated him how easily this guy navigated the crowded room; people instinctively moved aside to let him pass, as if he owned the floor. He decided, right then and there, that he absolutely loathed this blond waiter.
Once seated, the blond dropped the leather menu onto the table with a sharp thud.
—Do you need me to translate every single word, or are we sticking to basic survival?
Joseph opened the menu and felt the characters blur before his eyes. It looked like ancient Latin.
"If I pick something from here, there's a fifty-percent chance I'm ordering a plate of pasta and a fifty-percent chance I'm summoning a medieval demon. I don't get any of it."
—That explains the state of your hair, —the blond commented, pulling out a small notepad.
Joseph, his pride stung, jabbed his finger at the first line he saw that included the word pasta.
"This one. Bring me this one."
The waiter looked at the indicated spot and then raised an eyebrow, incredulous.
—You don't have the slightest idea what that is, do you?
"I trust in destiny, Goldilocks."
—Destiny usually has terrible taste when it comes to idiots.
"Well, I like to live dangerously. It's part of my natural charm."
For a fraction of a second, the corners of the blond's lips twitched upward in what looked like the ghost of a genuine smile. But the expression vanished as quickly as it came. He jotted down the order with a swift, elegant stroke.
—That also explains a lot of things, —he murmured to himself.
Joseph watched him walk away with that flawless posture and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Well, he thought, at least the guy has some personality. Maybe lunch wouldn't be a total disaster after all.
Ten minutes later, the dish arrived at the table.
Joseph leaned forward, expecting to see a mountain of steaming spaghetti smothered in a glorious red sauce. Instead, he met a vision that froze the smile right off his face.
The plate was covered in black shells, tiny tentacles, crab claws, and minuscule eyes that seemed to judge him from the bottom of an oily broth.
Joseph recoiled, horrified.
"What in the hell is this monstrosity supposed to be?"
—Your food, —the blond replied, setting the plate down with absolute calm.— What you ordered.
"I asked for pasta! This is a damn marine biology department!"
—It is pasta. It's underneath the seafood. It is called Frutti di mare.
Joseph frowned, feeling thoroughly cheated, as he poked a tentacle with his fork like he was afraid it might bite him back. The accumulated exhaustion, the suffocating heat of the day, and his roaring hunger swirled in his chest, mutating into a childish, explosive frustration.
"Don't speak to me in code! This isn't food, it's a damn aquarium with noodles!" Joseph protested. His voice, naturally loud, boomed over the ambient chatter of the restaurant.
The blond’s gaze hardened, taking a step closer to the table.
—Abbassa la voce, American. You are insulting one of the house specialties. If you don't know how to read a menu, that is not my problem.
"It is your problem because you're the one serving it!" Joseph exclaimed, half-rising from his chair, gesturing wildly with the fork in his hand. "I can't believe people pay actual money to eat river monsters! This whole city is a scam! It's like you guys just invent fancy names to rip off people who actually work for a living!"
The shift in the restaurant's atmosphere was instantaneous and freezing.
The clinking of silverware ceased. The laughter died down. Joseph, trapped in his own tantrum, didn't realize the weight of his words until the silence in the room became absolute. Several Italian families at the neighboring tables were staring at him with a mix of indignation and deep contempt.
And then, the figure of the manager emerged from the counter. He was a short man with a thick mustache and a stern face, his eyes flashing with a suppressed fury.
—Che cosa succede qui? —the manager asked, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.
The blond tensed immediately. He lost all the playful arrogance he had shown before; his posture went rigid, and his fists clenched at his sides.
—Niente di grave, signore, —the waiter tried to mediate, stepping between the manager and Joseph, attempting to defuse the situation.— È solo un turista estúpido who doesn't know what he ordered. I'll handle it—
—Non gestisci un bel niente! —the manager interrupted, raising his voice in rapid, furious Italian, jabbing his index finger into the blond’s chest.— Ti ho detto mille volte that this place has prestige! I will not tolerate your foreign clients throwing a tantrum and denigrating our cuisine in my own establishment! This is the third time this week your section has been a mess!
Joseph blinked, a sudden lump forming in his throat. He didn't understand the exact words, but the tone was universal. The manager was dumping days of built-up frustration onto the waiter’s shoulders, all because of him.
"Hey, wait a second..." Joseph intervened, finally dropping his tone. "It's my fault, I was just joking, the food is fine, I—"
—Silenzio! —the manager snapped at Joseph in broken English, before turning back to the blond with a corporate coldness that echoed through the restaurant.— You are fired. Take off the apron and get out of my sight before I call the police for disturbing the peace.
A chill ran down Joseph's spine.
The blond didn't yell. He didn't beg. He stood completely motionless for three endless seconds, staring at the floor as the color drained from his cheeks, exposing an expression of pure humiliation and a suppressed rage so intense it made his shoulders tremble. There was a wounded pride in him, something deep and painful, which Joseph had just carelessly trampled on.
The waiter looked up. His light eyes, now completely stripped of any trace of amusement, locked onto Joseph. It wasn't a standard look of hatred; it was the look of someone who had just lost something important because of a stranger’s antics.
With ceremonial slowness, the blond reached his hands behind his back. He untied the knot of his white apron. The rustle of the fabric coming loose sounded like a gunshot in the silent restaurant.
He folded it with obsessive care and laid it on Joseph’s table, right next to the untouched plate of seafood.
—Enjoy your dinner, American, —the blond said. His voice no longer carried a cocky lilt; it was a cold, flat, cutting whisper.
"Wait... dude, seriously, I didn't mean for this to happen, let me talk to your boss," Joseph pleaded, reaching a hand out toward him, feeling his stomach drop into a bottomless black pit. The guilt hit his chest like a physical blow.
But the blond didn't even glance at his hand. He turned on his heel, walked with firm strides toward the restaurant's exit, pushed open the wooden doors, and disappeared into the blistering heat of the Roman afternoon without looking back a single time.
The manager let out a dismissive scoff and walked back to the counter. Slowly, as if a switch had been flipped, the noise of the restaurant surged back to life: the murmur of voices, the clinking of plates, distant laughter. The world kept spinning.
But Joseph couldn't move.
He slumped into his chair, suddenly feeling like the smallest, most miserable guy in all of Europe. He stared at the cold plate of pasta and the perfectly folded white apron on the table. His big mouth, his damn habit of treating everything like a joke, had just cost a stranger his job in a country where he didn't even know how to say I'm sorry.
His hunger had vanished completely, replaced by a suffocating weight in the center of his chest. He had just learned, in the worst way possible, that in the real world, actions had consequences that couldn't be fixed with a smile or a dumb joke.