threads of an old life

The cool night air clung to your skin as you and Hal waited in line for the carousel, it’s mechanized whirlwind streaming past as you both idly stood by for your turn at the prancing colors and melodic tunes and merry life found at this corner of the Coast City pier. Despite the chilling breeze that reached out from the depths of the rolling waves just steps away, massive crowds flocked to the pier’s annual summer carnival as if in attempt to welcome in the season while standing at the cusp of some new season lodged between spring and summer, some invented time frame that only existed when you stood next to Hal.

It was Hal, of course, that dragged you out here, the world still damp from the early morning spring showers that clouded the sky for most of the day. If you had it your way, you would’ve both been at your apartment, watching some B-tier movie, laughing and catching up over Chinese takeaway; but Hal insisted on this: on wanting to do something—almost desperately, really—in how he begged you for a night out on the town. A date, as he kept calling it.

Yet, here you were now, both awkward and unsure what to say to one another in a space as crowded and cramped and clattered as the carnival. What does one say to someone whom you haven’t seen in months? You went through cycles of this, where Hal would be away, traveling and saving the galaxy somewhere far out there that you couldn’t quite imagine—even if he would tell you stories after stories about the sights, and worlds, and adventures he embarked on—and you would be in Coast City, living each day, pretending like you weren’t waiting for him to come back. Hal was your friend, one of your closest, but whatever you two have had for the past few years has been much more than the word could contain; somewhere between on-again-off-again lovers and some weird, undefined liminal space that tethered you to one another, but naming it anything other than friendship—anything other than the name by which you gently call each other—would feel wrong, dishonest. All you knew, all that either of you were ever willing to admit was that whatever it was that tied you together, love was there.

You and Hal leaned against the metal railing leading towards the attraction’s entrance, arms crossed and eyes trained on the rhythmic waves of the bobbing embellished horses, you almost mimicking his stance, or him yours. Although it had been months since you had last seen him, every time you came into each other’s orbit it was as if you had never left—traces of him appearing in your life and mannerisms as if embedded deep into your being.

Despite your initial protests coming to the pier, you admitted that Hal looked dreamlike in a setting as lively and bright as this. Under the dancing glow of the carousel’s movements, and the warming lights of red and yellows, and the occasional excitement of popping blues and greens from neighboring stalls and attractions, Hal’s eyes glistened as he peered around, taking in the surroundings of the carnival as you took him in. The way the lights landed on him were as if he was crowned with some fairy-kissed starlight, dying streaks of his honey-brown hair with magic and his eyes golden with light. You were drinking in every angle of this sight before you, holding it close to your memory for the next time you’d wait wondering and dreaming for him to come back.

Though you found it odd that he was avoiding eye contact with you, keeping his eyes trained anywhere and everywhere, even the occasional glances he tossed your way and caught were quickly turned towards the more interesting abandoned popcorn kernels littering the pier’s dampened wood or the colorful stalls of carnival games beckoning passersby. He looked the same, maybe made even more divine under the decorated spectacle of the carnival and more lovely from the distance spent apart, but there was something different about him, but you couldn’t quite name it. Maybe it was the slight change in how his hair parted, the gently tussled like it refused to be tamed now that it’s returned to familiar atmospheres, or the constant fidgeting of his fingers against the metal railing to his flight jacket’s sleeve to his jeans’ pockets.

Before you were able to contemplate more on his odd behavior, you were pulled from your thoughts by Hal grabbing your arm, almost towing you with him onto the carousel that had stopped and cleared while you were lost in memorizing the image of him before you. He dragged you through the carousel’s symphony of waiting horses and seats, searching through the unmoving crowd for what you imagined to be a set of cool horses neighboring one another with his hand holding yours through his hunt. You would’ve helped in finding a corner to settle on for this brief ride, but you yourself were far too distracted by the view you had of his back; the bright golden lights of the carousel drowned him in a choir of heaven, it’s gilded vision catching delicately on the leather of his worn jacket and tucking its threads into the softly folded and bent movement of Hal’s moving form. It was witnessing Adonis in a staged glory of light and sound.

 After what felt like minutes of running in circles, Hal eventually settled on a two-seat bench, decorated as if a carriage being pulled by highly decorated horses in their plastic paints of vibrant reds and astonishing golden memorabilia. Beckoning you to climb into the seat first, Hal slid in after you, flashing a smile that never failed to bring forth one of your own just as the carousel started its cyclone movement at the welling of cheery melodic rhythm singing in the air.

The world quickly blurred into a hypnotic vortex as the carousel picked up speed, blending together the golden world of the decorated ride with the darkened, damp, yet still distantly colorful portal to the one you left behind. You turned to Hal, offering him confused glances as the wind lightly tossed your hair with his in this merry-go-round that, for some reason, moved faster than it should. You noticed how tense his jaw was as he faced forward, continuing his earlier mission of avoiding your gaze when at any other time he never shied away from such contact. Hal, then, peered at you from the corner of his eyes, the movement cautious as if not wanting you to see him looking your way; at the feeling of his eyes attempting to reach your form, you turned your gaze to his hands, not wanting him to catch you in the act of stealing looks.

Why were you both being so awkward all of a sudden? Hadn’t years of knowing one another chipped away at any shame you had in the art of looking and memorizing each other?

Your eyes now trained on his hands, you saw how he tightly gripped at the available bar, his knuckles almost white with how he held onto the cool metal probably burned to a warmth under his touch. Something clearly was bothering Hal, even if he refused to make it known in the whirlwind you both trapped yourself in. Your head was spinning with the possibilities of what could be wrong—between the leaps he was taking to avoid eye contact with you to the near-metal bending grip he has on the carousel’s seat, whatever plagued his mind and body was worrying you.

Your moved your hand to rest on top of his, feeling the brief jolt of contact that froze him still to the railing; you hoped the gesture was comforting, but you feared it was only doing the opposite.

“Hal,” you started, wanting to ask if everything was okay despite the circular melody of the carousel repeating itself into loud dizzying patterns over your voice.

“Let’s go to another spot,” he quickly interjected, his words stumbling boldly over yours. He climbed out of the benched seat and made his way forward through the gently moving fantasies of the merry-go-round.           

“Wait- Hal!” You called after him, shuffling out of the seat and staggered after him trying to maintain your balance.

Where you stumbled and whipped into embellished decor of painted plastic horses, pillars, and mythologized golds and creams and reds, Hal swung effortlessly through the somewhat crowded carousel, passing the straggling children and standing parents, the giggling teenagers and slightly inebriated young adults, as if they only added gales to his windy path.

Standing a great distance ahead—seeming as if he was miles and miles away from you, waves stretched into an orbit around unfamiliar galaxies—he turned towards you to see where you were, hands gripping the lone pole amongst the sea of brightly colored mechanized, galloping horses. Just as he turned towards you, his head moving just enough to toss a watchful glance over the expanse of his broad shoulder, extended further by his hold on the nearby pole, flashing lights of deep, rich red flickered by, dousing the merry-go-round world in a violent blood bath.

And you swear you saw something: a flash of fangs and a burning shade of darkened eyes; glints of piercing red, unnatural to his kind browns, staring directly past your desperate hold onto whatever your hands could reach to stay afloat and, like bone-chiseled daggers, into your soul. Something that drained the warmth from the man you knew. Some thing that moved with the same familiar grace but sharper, jagged, and precise as his hold on the carousel’s pole dropped for him to fully turn towards you.

You don’t know what to think of it, you don’t know what to make of what you saw—or what you think you saw. Maybe it was the passing emergency glow of the red lights that drowned him and confused you. Maybe it was some elaborate trick of the mind and light, some imagined spectacle that left Hal different. Fanged.

Maybe it was just the dizzying world on display that blurred him into some strange shadow—that it was just a momentary lapse in your mind’s running wild after him on the ever-moving symphony of machine and music and merry laughter and miring sound whirring into one ensnaring web of overwhelmed vertigo. Maybe it was just all in your head.

But why, then, do you feel unable to move, frozen into a petrified paralysis as panic courses through your veins Hal makes his way back towards you, all but a look of concern and worry sitting transparent on his features—unmistakably his features? Why do you feel this pressured push, this primal need, to run? Even if you could run, your feet refused movement, almost glued to the gilded platform of the carousel as the world dizzied into a frenzy.              

“Are you okay?” Hal asked as he approached you, concern flaking his furrowed brows as he looked down at you, your knuckles protruding into a razor sharpness as you gripped onto the pole for stability.

Trying to speak, you opened your mouth to mutter something—anything willing to free itself from your frozen rigidity at your mind’s trick—before he leaned closer, his words meeting your ears clearly against the loud music.

“You look pale,” he noted, worry marking his tone. “Here, sit on this—we can stay here.” He moved you to sit on the sole empty plastic horse, letting the world spin around your new place on the brightly colored steed. Hal held onto the pole emerging from the horse, his hand gingerly above yours to where you could feel the edge of his skin brushing against the edge of yours.

Your eyes were trained on him, head titled just enough to look up at him despite the blinding lights silhouetting and waving through much of his form above yours. Even in this obscuring light path, you needed to check his face again, needed, desperately, to confirm that it was you that saw wrong. You studied his features as the world of light and merry spun around you; your gaze like hands caressing a path from his mouth—the impossibly soft curve of his lips barely parted—up to his eyes—the encapsulating warmth brewed at the pigment of his deep brown eyes—searching for any inkling of the piercing fear that struck you just moments before. Whatever it was that you saw had to have been your imagination playing cruel games with your eyes, and that the person before you was Hal. Your Hal.

He noticed your gaze pointed up at him, flashing a gentle smile—not all too different from his usual brazen, cocky grins, just now joined together with some softer worry—before his free hand came up to rest on your head, shifting your attention from looking up at him to looking down at his slightly scuffed shoes at the ground.

“Keep your head down,” he said softly. “Don’t want you getting dizzy.”

The world, somehow, felt still now at this new angle. Even as the hypnotic carnival music turned on and on, even as the carousel bobbed up and down on its whirlwind journey, it was as if his hand placed gingerly at your head was enough to calm you from the overwhelm you walked yourself into. It was a sudden overwhelm too in how quickly it descended your spirit the moment your eyes tricked you into seeing some grievously hungry monster that was never there, drowning you in instantaneous crashing waves of fear. Whatever it was you saw—some creature of haunting planes of existence, fanged and peering—couldn’t have been real: Hal stood right before you, completely himself. Your mind was simply leaping into imagined conclusions of fear, the way a deer frozen at the headlights of an oncoming car must think they’re meeting some unnamed angel of a thousand wings and a thousand sighs. Your fear—sudden and striking and unwarranted as you rationed it to be—was a lapse in reality and nothing more.

You continue to ground yourself from the risen emotions that drove stakes through your heart, focusing your sights on Hal’s shoes. They must be new, you thought, having never seen him wear this pair before. Yet, they were scuffed in their edges, so he must have worn them more than a few times. Perhaps you just failed to notice or had forgotten after so many months apart.

Another, sharper piercing cold strike shivers its lightning path down your spine, this time more frightening of a thought than the last: Were you forgetting Hal?

Were you, after just months apart, forgetting key aspects of the person whose voice caresses your waking dreams? Did it only take mere months to forget someone as quintessential as Hal Jordan from the sinews of your life and memory? You had known the finer details of him over years of friendship and casual grey areas of unnamed relationships, enough to know him tired by the way he stood and walked, enough to know him hungry by the way his arms animated his airspace and words tumbled from his mouth like expectant waterfalls.

Hal’s feet started to shift, almost as if he could sense the waves of confusion and fear rolling off you. The hand on your head moved away, only to enter your space again by sneaking around your shoulders, gently lifting you up off your borrowed steed and guiding you off the now stilled platform of the carousel.

As he escorted you off the carousel and out the gates surrounding the attraction, a voice called out: “You’re not allowed to move around once the ride star-“

“Yeah, yeah,” Hal waved off the ride’s attendant as you both walked past them. Your hold remained on his torso as his arm stayed tightly wrapped around your shoulders, walking further and further into the lively carnival of cascading crowds clouded with laughter, joyous screams, and comical rings and dings running into the night’s air from the various booths littered about the dampened pier. Hal walked you over to the nearest bench, one that overlooked the blackening sea as its waves chopped through the night.

The moment you sat down, Hal questioned as he took the seat right next to you, watching you carefully as you avoided connecting your gaze to his: “What the hell happened back there?”

“I-I don’t know. I thought I saw,” you trailed off, your eyes returning to his features, still clearly marked with his earlier worry, only now away from the bold and bright lights of the moving carousel’s coming-to-life. Under this star-kissed oceanic light, he looked so much like your friend, so much like the Hal you know and love—the one whose face has greeted you on lazy weekend mornings and kissed you into a slumber many sleepless nights. The softening glow of the moonlight finds home against the warm hue of the carnival’s reds and oranges and yellows painting his face; under this bravely kind composition, he looked tired. The lines at the edge of his eyes creased more, the bags underneath slightly greyer, the sides of his hair peppered with revealing silver streaks he worked to keep hidden, the curve of his shoulders slightly more inward that usual making his posture as if he carried some insurmountable weight at the kiss of his blades—his features, undeniably, had been chiseled into a deepened hour of exhaustion you could only dream of comprehending. Nonetheless, these subtle soft changes of a man tired from traveling and protecting and readying himself for the next fist to throw was still the man your tongue had memorized the shape of his name. You must have just imagined things—you must have.

You pulled your mind from your thoughts, not able to be honest in telling him what you saw: “Maybe it was my blood sugar levels or something, I don’t know.”

“Blood sugar? Since when did you start tracking that?

“I don’t know, Hallie; I’m getting old.”

He stiffened slightly at your words, a momentary flash of worry, guilt, or some other confused combination of emotions you couldn't place quite right furrowed at his brows as he looked at you. As quickly as it came, that minute blend of emotions melted as he scoffed into a light chuckle, “You’re not that old, yet. At least not as old as you keep acting.”

You glared back at him and before you could throw pointed words at him, he asked, tone much softer and kinder this time like the calm water bobbing kisses at the legs of the pier: “When was the last time you ate?”

You shrugged in response, unsure when exactly you last had a meal, let alone something to snack on.

“Dude,” he sighed exasperated. “Doctors must really love you.”

You playfully swatted his thigh as you got up from the bench; it was so easy how Hal was able to bring a smile to your features. As you stood, you noticed Hal sat up too, straightening his posture from his relaxed one-shoulder lean against the metallic cool of the bench’s back, preemptively holding his arm out behind you, as if ready to catch you if you were dizzy.

“I’ll just get some funnel cake or something,” you said.

“Will that even help?”

“It’s funnel cake—it always helps.”

Eyes set on the nearest vendor selling the overly sweet dessert, you felt Hal—in some hurried fashion, beating with the chilling breeze rolling off the rounded edges of the darkened sea—rush up to place his arm over the stretch of your shoulders. It was the simplest of gestures, but one you’ve come to love, come to expect, and come to love to expect.

At least the wait to reach the funnel cake was much shorter than for the carousel, but the close hold Hal held you by as you both inched your way through the line, the smell of burning sugar and bursting popcorn flooding your senses with each step forward, left no room for far-wandering thoughts. The gentle presence of his larger arm kindly wrapped around the turn of your shoulder with the rest of his forearm and hand falling into its practiced swing of ease dropping down the length of your arm and torso was enough to keep your body and mind locked near the radius of his beating heart.

It was these gestured moments that filled you with immense love; simply being around Hal, being in his arms, made the world fall away into something easy and wholly uncomplicated. The world seemed to open into new possibilities with his presence, that being graced with the insurmountable kindness of his heart made it so the weight of any agony and pain slid off into some void beyond your sights. Even in the barrage of pokes and jokes tossed your way, it never felt like you weren’t cared for under this caring gaze.

You reached your hand up to hold his dangling off your shoulder, the ritual of tethering him to you and you to him that has long been practiced by the both of you; but, this time, instead of the warmth that greets your fingers as they brush up against his before sliding further along the cartography of his hand—a galaxy in its own right—you were met with biting cold kissing up along the pads of your fingertips. It could be that his hand was simply cold from the ocean’s reach blanketing the early spring air, yet the prickly itch of fear gnawed at you again: something is terribly wrong.

You knew he was holding something back from you, not indulging in the larger truth of what had been aching at him, what other bitter chill had left his hand cold like this in yours. Behind the jokes and smiles, the attempts to make you feel better and cared for, Hal hid the bite and scratch marks of something heavy. Maybe you were overthinking, maybe you were overstepping, but you wanted to help him with whatever it was that haunted him. You wanted to be there the same way he has always been there for you.

Before the words of worry could extend into care off your tongue, before you could even ask him again what hidden pinched nerve was bothering him into silence, he handed you the warm, freshly dusted funnel cake before reaching to grab one for himself.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, you voice carrying the traces of anxious worry over figuring how to bring up the conversation again.

“Don’t sound so bummed. S’not like I was going to let you pay,”

“Hal,” you looked at him, ready to say more.

“Eat the damn funnel cake before you almost pass out again,” he eyed you as he took a bite of his own. You followed suit, letting the sweet confection melt on your tongue. You tried not to savor too long on the sweetened dough, chewing quickly through your small bite so you can ask Hal once more.

“Hal, I wanted to ask: is everything-,” you hesitated with your words, wanting to soften the question as much as possible before letting them free for his ears to find. “Is everything okay? I can’t help but think something’s been bothering you.”

“Where’s that coming from?” he chuckled but it sounded more like a scoff, more uneasy.

“You seem tense, is all.”

“I’m tense because you almost passed out.” You watched as his smile faltered slightly; the conversation was stringing him into a corner he didn’t want to be in.

“No, I mean before that. You’ve just- If something happened while you were away-”

“Nothing happened,” he said sharply, the words like fighter jets flying from his tongue.

“You know you can talk to me-”

“There’s nothing to talk about because nothing happened.”

You saw his furrowed brows recoil into something close to regret at his venom-laced words seething off of his tongue. You knew he didn’t mean to snap at you, and he must’ve seen the slight shock on your face at this.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you.”

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have,” he trailed off like shadows meeting light. His thumb moved to delicately press against his upper lip, hovering over the soft skin above his canines: “I- it’s just that-”

He let his words die there, looking deep in thought—contemplative and lost on the sea-like waves of his mind’s landscapes. It was as if he was searching for some way to say it, say anything; his honesty yearning to burst free from him at every corner, but his tongue stopping him at the pressing weight of some unnamable truth he forced himself to swallow raw and scarred.

Within the span of a blink, the greatly yearned distance between the space of his lashes, it was as if his demeanor changed completely: his posture slightly straightening as his lips curve into the familiar smile, but not quite reaching the expanse of his eyes as they do after sharing some belly-clutching joke with the kind of sincerity that blinds the unsuspecting in need of his halo. His words, lighter, softer, airy with a newfound tone of suave ease he always put on, as if now to backtrack his line of thinking, to push you further away from the gaping hole you both just discovered at the edge of your feet, carried forth a new message: “You know space is pretty huge, and things are always happening in my line of work. S’nothing I can’t handle.”

He offered a smile, wide and teeth exposed as if the gesture alone would be enough to change the subject. On any other day, his charming smile would’ve worked, would’ve left you disarmed and at ease enough to move onto new points in conversation, even if there was a gnawing, biting, clawing at the back of your mind. But this time, your eyes fell towards his canine teeth: the unnaturally sharp and bright daggers, menacing in their pearlescent presence as they hang in natural company of his smile.

Your tongue had explored his mouth countless times before, but this—this sharpness unlike the softened and hemmed edges of his bite you’ve known for years—was not his, was not Hal.

You felt a chill rush through you, a breeze beyond that of the sea’s blackened waters chopping through your hair—one that reached forth and touched the very bones that kept you frozen before him. Your eyes didn’t deceive you then, you know what you saw.

As if recognizing your prolonged gaze at his mouth, Hal quickly rushed his hand over his lips, as if to wipe away at the non-existent crumbs and powdered sugar left behind by rogue funnel cake.

“Come on, lighten up!” He laughed soon after. “We’re here to have fun.”

“Y-yeah,” you responded, weakly.

He grabbed your free hand and tangled his fingers in between yours—the familiar feeling of his calloused and firm hands in yours never failed to quicken your heart—as he lazily walked you through the crowded carnival.

The lights and sounds that surrounded you were distractingly bright: the ringing of prizes being won, the clamoring of children as they escaped the hall of mirrors, the blending cacophony of people talking to one another about their prizes, about their days, about their worries, about the things they changed towards.

Despite the world vibrant in sound and life, your hand in his felt cold along with the paired silence that stretched with each step you both took deeper into the boardwalk. You tried not to toss glances in his direction as you walked forward, afraid of what you’d see again, afraid you’d be right again.

You knew now, though, that your eyes didn’t lie to you the first time: Something had happened to him, and the proof was undeniable as his fangs were sharp.         

But what happened? What was it that left his hands rougher than before, that left his greys poking through his honey brown box-dye, that left his teeth sharp and wholly unlike him?

Your eyes stayed glued on the world wafting around you, focusing on the blurring warmth radiating from life surrounding you as cheery music flooded your senses instead of the chilling fear that threatened to burrow itself in your mind. Whatever this something was—the something holding your hand as if he’d done so for years, as if he’d developed a muscle memory around this gestured ritual—was it truly Hal?

Was the Hal you knew, the Hal you loved and laughed and cried with, simply gone, some blip in the vastness of the universe, some speck of matter floating through unnamed and unheard galaxies alone and bruised and so far away from you? Was this Hal who stood before you, his hand moving from the comforting yet chilled hold on yours to snake behind your back and around your shoulders, the one from your memories, the one that kissed your dreams far too often?

“Let’s go on the Ferris wheel,” said Hal—or not Hal?—breaking you free from your whirring thoughts.

You looked at him, your eyes peering into his searching for any lighthouse beaconing towards your notice, any lantern illuminating the darkening of the world. The shape of his eyes, the intoxicating brown pull that locked you into his orbit.

“What? You’re afraid of heights now?” He chuckled at your silence.

You flashed a glance down towards his mouth knowing what lay behind the soft lips you’ve known and loved. Whatever you saw, whatever your eyes made you believe into a petrified panic: this man standing next to you, this man whose attentive brown eyes were on you right now, was still your Hal—somewhere, somehow.

“No,” you responded with a sudden burst of confidence. “Let’s go.”

Waiting through the line and climbing into the enclosed gondola, the two of you slowly inched your way up towards the peak, watching as the night and the bustling world quiet into a distant hum below you. As you peered through the glass down at the shrinking world, you felt Hal move closer, sliding his hand up your back to rest comfortably on your waist as he, too, joined in gazing at the carnival you both left behind.

His breath softly fanned the edge of your face that if you turned one breath towards him you would collide into his cheek. Being this close, you noticed from the corner of your eye how Hal eased into a relaxed hold that carried an edge almost all night, as if the closer you climbed towards the vast clouded skies, the more at home he found himself. He looked so much like himself like this, almost boyish in how his eyes glimmered with the shining world below and his brown hair met the expecting kiss of the moon’s light peeking through the gliding clouds.

Seeing him like this inflicted a soft pang of want through you, a crashing wave of brutal yearning lulling you into spaces you didn’t believe were imaginable. As you both ascended to new heights, this feeling of missing Hal pinched at you sharply, of wanting Hal—your Hal—to be this close to you, to chuckle softly in your ears as you pointed his attention towards random corners of the pier, to kiss your cheek and jaw and lips in the manner that left you breathless as he always did. You wanted and yearned and grieved for him as his stray hairs tickled your ear.

And yet, how can you yearn for someone who was right in front of you, only inches away from touch?

If he has changed, if he has transformed into something fanged and unspeakable, could you love him back to you? Could you love him back to a before where nothing truly did happen, back to a before where the universe wasn’t so cruel and unkind to him?

Could you love him back to himself?

The Ferris wheel halted to an abrupt stop, causing Hal’s body to—as gently as he could—crash into yours from where he half-stood half-sat behind you and shaking the gondola enough to where your hand instinctively grabbed his arm that pressed against the glass.

“Hate when they do that,” he chuckled, softening into a smile against your hair.

You hummed in response, a sudden wave of nervousness descending upon you. You’re not even sure where this coy anxiety welled from—the entire night being its own act of betrayal with the tumultuous wading and washing of varying emotions over you at any given time—but you felt shy at the closeness of Hal’s lips to your ear hidden by your hair. It’s not like you haven’t been this close to him before, having spent multiple nights and mornings wrapped in his arms no different than this; but, right now, at the crossroads of his skin and yours where your breath mingled and mixed into some newfound atmosphere with his, there felt some charged want—some desperate need to prove—carrying more meaning than any time before.

You turned your face towards him, trying to catch a spare glimpse at his features this close to yours. At your subtle move, Hal made his by bringing his hand that had rested near your waist up to your hair and gingerly tucked your rogue strands behind your ear, giving him a better view of your features profiled delicately in the fading light of the world. He leaned briefly forward, pressing a kind kiss to your cheek, his soft, wet lips meeting the fire of your skin.

His chest hugged your back, making it difficult to fully see him in the soft darkening of the world; you didn’t think yourself strong enough to face him just yet anyway. The nerves bit you into a near-frozen state of want and need, merging with the fear that wanted you to move. This was Hal, you had to remind yourself, and you loved him regardless of his changes into some transformed, fanged being. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be up here.

Almost hearing your thoughts and hesitations, his hand pressed against the glass moved towards your chin, guiding your face to turn towards him, urging your body to follow into this new position. This way, you couldn’t avoid him anymore, trapped in his gentle arms—one rubbing soft circles into your waist and the other now resting at your neck, his thumb cold to the touch finding home at the junction of your ear meeting your jaw.

Under this barely illuminated world, with only the moon’s light from the world above and the warm golden glow of the world below peering through the Ferris wheel’s enclosed gondola and joining in unison on Hal’s features, he looked soft. Not the brazen and bold and cocky hero who defends with his ring and heart, not the pilot who loves the feeling of the sky more than his shoes love the dirt—the man before you was just Hal: edges softened over years of unspoken stories and daring adventures you could never truly know the extent of the toll it scarred him. The silver and gold lights of heaven and earth marry at the chocolate hue of his eyes, glistening with a desperation, a begging for you to see him as he is now. Yes, Hal had changed, but he is still yours. You could push down the fear and worry and still love him all the same.

Your fingers climbed up to his hair, carding through the tousled waves of brown and peppered silver. He still felt the same under your fingers.

“Hal,” you sighed, not as a question or a statement—just a calling for him.

At that, he leaned across the minute gap that barely kept him apart from you, joining his lips with yours like it was the most natural phenomena to occur in the length of existence. The ran your fingers through his scalp, eliciting a soft moan from him as the hand on your waist came to join his other in cupping your jaw, as if the action would bring you closer than he already was.

He titled his head, deepening the kiss even more than what you felt was possible as he swiped his tongue between your lips, almost pleading with you for more. Without hesitation, without thinking too far into the dizzying hold you have around his biceps tensed against his jacket, you parted your lips welcoming his tongue with yours.

His tongue circled yours in this ritual dance you both have performed countless times before but tonight was different. Desperation was clinging to his slick tongue as he explored your mouth with expert ease; it was like he, too, was trying to convince you he was the same man you’ve known for years with every press, prod, and whimper that escaped one another.

You softly tugged at his hair as you pushed your tongue past his, allowing yourself to explore his mouth as he had done yours. He let you dominate his tongue, swirling around his muscle, sliding your tongue over his teeth. The familiar softer, flatter edges of his teeth were quickly met with the sharper, piercing fang—longer and extended slightly beyond the normal but tapered and curved near the gums. You whimpered at the sensation, panic once again finding its way to your heart. Your other hand clutched his bicep, unsure what to do with the feel of his sharpened blades against your tongue.   

Breaking for air, you let out a shuddering breath as Hal, seemingly famished from the brief lack of contact—as if trying to continue in some desperate want in hopes to ignore the stilling pause that was your tongue meeting his teeth slowly turning you to stone—continued a path of panting, needy kisses along your cheek and jaw until he littered his way further down to your neck.

You flinched slightly at the feeling of his kiss on your neck; his lips gingerly pressed against your sensitive jugular as if memorizing the now rapid beating of your heart paralyzing your throat. There was no way he didn’t hear the violent thrashing of your heart against your beating blood.

Out of fear or familiarity, your hands grasped at his flight jacket, the feeling of its cool material grounding you. This was Hal, you reminded yourself: this was Hal, this was Hal, this was Hal. This was your Hal.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked quietly, his words panted soft like starred whispers along the column of your exposed neck. His lips stayed caressing your skin as if he was unwilling to let go of this closeness just yet.

A bit of your heart breaking with each word uttered into the confined compartment of the Ferris wheel, you softly whispered into his impossibly soft brown hair, catching the brief warm lights of the illuminated world below: “I don’t know.”   

Your words hung heavy in the air. The truth was you truly didn’t know if you were afraid: you didn’t know the sensation of his fangs so close to your skin would petrify your spirit, you didn’t know that the feel of their sharpness would spiral you into cycles of panic, you didn’t know the thundering thoughts and beating heartbeat threatened worries of not a Hal changed, but a Hal gone.

He adjusted himself to rest his head against your shoulder, his nose still leaning on the length of your neck, his breath still tickling. Your hand was still in his hair, almost unwilling to let go or stop the gentle ministrations of gliding your fingers through his scalp, a gesture he always loved.

This was still Hal, you knew. And he wasn’t gone.

He was here, breath caressing your skin in the moon glow of the evening, the world loud and boisterous below as you held his secret close.

Through the silence, as if saying his name in the most world-shattering, quiet tone would bring him back to you—however and whatever he may come to you as—you whispered: “Hallie?”

He shifted, lifting himself off your shoulder to face you directly. His eyes, their unrelenting warmth overwhelming, bored into you, telling you histories and secrets and failures his tongue couldn’t yet muscle the verbiage of, stories which he didn’t know the endings for. You looked into his eyes, reading it all anyway.

“Yeah,” he said, as if understanding your question in the shape of his name. “I’m still me.”

—

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Jason sighed, staring down at his phone. The screen slightly blurred from fingerprints slicked in gun oil. Brightness dimmed. Cracks fenestrating at the edges from carelessness on patrol and otherwise. 

Over the course of your… whatever this was, he was used to staring at unanswered messages and a glaring read receipt. It was usually his fault, he couldn’t deny that. But tonight, just when he needed the confirmation most, the nine-letter word burned back in his face. 

D-E-L-I-V-E-R-E-D. 

He threw his head back in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe you were home, on the couch, curled up in front of one of your trashy television shows. Better yet, maybe you were finally tucked into bed at a reasonable hour, your chest pulling with gentle tidal respirations as your soft skin melted into the sheets. That, he could live with. 

Hell, even if you were out - somewhere, anywhere - and choosing to ignore him, that would be alright. Anything but at work. Anything but the Emergency Room. 

It was one of those rare occasions where Bruce had roped him into a mission, claiming he needed all hands on deck for the takedown of the century, that brought you to Jason. Even rarer, it had resulted in Bruce sustaining grave injuries. He remembered leaning against the cool metal railing of the Batcave, arms crossed over his chest, observing Bruce’s breathing become labored as he laid flat on the table. Alfred was peeling pieces of the suit off one by one, as hastily yet gently as possible, to reveal Bruce’s injuries while preventing him from enduring more. 

The Batman, foreboding and terrible, scrunched up on a makeshift gurney, splinting, with his Robins of past and present perched in the periphery observing their leader fight for his life. Jason watched through the lens of the Red Hood at Dick shifting his weight from foot to foot. Nightwing dancing uncomfortably in place, unable to stay still. The prodigal son. Twitching like he had ants in his pants. Beneath the Hood, Jason rolled his eyes. 

Tim’s fingers clipped away at the Batcomputer keyboard, but Jason noticed the way his scowl deepened when Bruce would groan. His eyebrows would twitch, imperceptible to anyone else, before he forced them to stay in place. Typing away to distract himself. 

“Call the doctor.” Bruce huffed. The admission in itself was enough to raise a chill down the spine of anyone who knew him. 

“Already on the way, sir.” Alfred confirmed. 

The butler pried away a piece of the chestplate, releasing blood that instantly stained the cuffs of his white shirt, to reveal a deep, spreading bruise at the fringes of a gash. His right hand clasped around a stack of gauze without his eyes leaving Bruce, pressing the linen against the cut with deep pressure that drew another gasp from the Batman’s lips. The tension among the room grew palpably, before it instantly dissipated at the sound of one of the Cave doors sliding open. 

Footsteps, carefully plodding down the metal staircase at an unbothered pace, echoed in the expanse of the room. 

“Well, you’re still breathing on your own.” A voice, strangely youthful, tone light despite the situation. “Color me impressed.”

It was clear that Jason wasn’t the only one surprised by the delicate timbre that rang out into space. Tim’s neck could have snapped from the torque he generated, twisting his gaze from the computer screen to the source of the voice at once. Dick’s feet finally stopped their restless tapping and he planted himself, somewhat defensively, reaching slowly but noticeably for the weapons slung over his back. Jason remained composed. Fuckin’ amateurs, he thought to himself.

As the footsteps drew closer, you came into view, Jason’s eyes sweeping your figure for the first time. Bulky, crossbody bag slung across your torso to rest on your hip. Clad in dingy, ill-fitting unisex scrubs that looked like they had been through the hospital laundromat thousands of times until they were thin and papery. Your face bore a curious expression: concerned - hidden, but noticeable by the glint in your eyes - yet calm. 

“You’re not Dr. Thompkins.” Dick announced. 

Brilliant observation, Captain Obvious. Jason’s internal monologue again. 

No, you weren’t Dr. Thompkins. Jason knew that from the moment you entered the cave, by your gait as you clipped down the stairs. Your initial comment confirmed his theory: tone decades younger than Leslie’s dry vocalizations, without as many years of exhaustion dampening your inflection. 

“No, I’m not Dr. Thompkins.” You replied. “I’m her relief.”

As you entered the makeshift trauma bay, you ignored the audience observing your every move, setting your bag down on the side table. As you pulled a small tablet from the luggage, you placed a gentle hand on Alfred’s shoulder, ushering him aside politely so that you could begin your work. A packet of gel torn by the edge of your teeth. You pasted it over his ribs, Robins watching the clear substance tinge pink from the blood. 

“Well, that’s what I thought, based on your call.” You said, clicking your tongue in disapproval. “Popped a lung.”

“Is it fixable, Doctor?” Alfred asked, his concern gently bleeding into his typically articulate speech. It seemed that no matter how many times he had seen Bruce on death’s door, it still had the same effect on him.

“Definitely fixable.” You replied. You set your ultrasound down by your bag, the wand dangling from the table uselessly with gravity. “I can re-inflate the lung, no problem. But the chest tube should stay in for a couple of days and you should avoid any strenuous activity for four to six weeks.”

“That,” Your eyes flickered up to meet Jason’s gaze, the unexpected confrontation jolting him internally before you finished your recommendation. “I bet is not going to happen.”

The shimmer in your gaze, nearly mischievous, stuck to Jason like an adhesive he couldn’t rid himself of for the next couple of weeks. You finished the procedure, stated your precautions, and slunk out of the Batcave like it was any other Tuesday. It left him transfixed, unable to shake the encounter out of his mind as he replayed it involuntarily, over and over. 

Months later, he was pulling himself through your window frame in the dead of night - address obtained from the full scale investigation that Tim had obviously conducted over you after your meeting. Jason didn’t know why, but he was drawn to your apartment like spiritual possession, covered in dozens of deep lacerations that would raise the eyebrows of any practitioner, even in broad daylight. He could have tugged a blunt needle and thread through each and every one of them himself, but his exhaustion and the thought of seeing the look in your eyes again - subtle but nearly amused - heightened the pull to your doorstep. Er, window sill. 

As his huge body plunked gracelessly onto your living room carpet, you let out a reflexive shriek. Hands whipped themselves to your chest to clutch your metaphorical pearls. As soon as watched him writhe to get to his knees, like a trampled bug, and realized you were not at the mercy of a home intruder, you were at his side easing him to sit and bleed all over your armchair. 

You had exchanged so little words, if any, but Jason memorized the way your hands ghosted over his skin as you pulled his shirt over his head. The way you patiently anesthetized each cut with generous lidocaine, despite his insistence he didn’t need it, and waited for the skin to blanch before wrenching the suture from the packaging with your needle driver. You diligently sewed him until the sun peaked over the horizon, working from the notch of his hip up to his collar bone, paying each wound more attention than Jason had ever received in his lifetime. 

And by the time that you had gotten to the cut on his forehead, unknown if it had been thirty minutes or three hours since you started working on him, you were so painfully aware of the way his sleepy green eyes still picked you apart to pieces. The bundle of collagen as scar tissue over the cupid’s bow of his lip and how his tongue darted out to wet it when you dug the suture in slightly too deep or hit a flap of skin that wasn’t as numbed as the rest. 

When you perched your hand against his cheekbone, fingers trembling slightly with the suture poised to repair the last wound, you gave in entirely to want and leaned forward, capturing his dry lips with your own. You savored the way he pressed back on you before your professionalism returned and you pulled back.

“I’m sorry.” You said, eyes cast to the ground. You shook your head ever so slightly with self-disappointment. 

In that moment, Jason waged a war with himself. Digging into his internal pressure points and telling himself that you were too pure and he didn’t want to ruin someone like you to prevent something stupid from happening. But as his eyes fixed on your pink lower lip, a small, insistent voice inside of him nagged: why don’t I deserve something nice for once?

And his thick fingers found the nape of your neck, pulling you back in for more. 

That was the inciting event that set off a chain reaction. 

The beginning was wonderful, Jason feeling so high off of your embrace that it finally occurred to him that maybe he could have a normal life with you. He could take you out on dates, to dinner, to the movies, like normal people. Bring you flowers and eat the home-cooked meals you had made for him so that he was “eating something with nutrition for once.” Fall asleep nestled into your chest, feeling your fingers pull through the strands of his hair and card along his scalp, feeling truly comfortable for once. 

But that was exactly the problem. It was too nice. Too comfortable. Too perfect. He starved off the self-sabotage for as long as he could - mere weeks - before letting it run buck wild. He pushed you away, shoved with all of his might in the form of hurtful remarks that he didn’t mean at all and avoidance that left you feeling perplexed and stung. 

At night, pitched against some grimy alleyway, he yo-yoed with himself. Torn between crawling back to apologize and make amends, and digging in further to assure you’d leave him be. Some nights, the angel on his shoulder won and he was crooning apologies into the bend of your neck. Other times, the devil left your messages on read with tear-stained cheeks. 

That’s where he had found himself tonight, looking at that dim phone screen and urging you to message him back. A “don’t text me Jason”, “leave me alone”, or even “fuck you”, he prayed for desperately. The letters in his hastily written texts, no care that he had broken the silence first, mocking him. 

Jason had woke that evening from a shitty nap on a worn cot to a missed call from the person he wanted to talk to least: Batman. They had enough screaming matches to where Bruce got the gist that Jason didn’t want to hear from him, so seeing the notification stirred concern among annoyance in his chest. 

Bruce picked up on the first ring. 

“What?” Jason barked, more a perturbed statement than a question. He scrubbed a hand down his face to rub the sleep (or lack thereof) from his eyes. 

“Zsasz is holding up six hostages in Gotham General ER.” Bruce returned, his voice steady. “PD has the place surrounded, but impenetrable so far.”

It made Jason seethe when his heart clenched at the statement. How immediately his thoughts turned directly to you. How you threw him a shy smile when you realized he was staring, the two of you cuddled up on the couch, each silently reading your own book with tangled legs. Your gentle eyes, always with a slightly impish glint. At Bruce’s words, his mind immediately flashed to the terrified look on your face, Zsasz holding a blade to the junction of your neck where weeks ago, Jason had been softly pressing kisses.

“Why are you telling me this?” He barked into the phone. Bruce always had a way of being obnoxiously all-knowing, which bothered him as a teenager but even more as an estranged adult.

“All PD units are gathering eastbound and down. Robin and I are heading to the intersection of North and Pine.”

Bruce hung up on him, further stoking Jason’s fire. Who the fuck was he to be implicating Jason in his mission plans?

That’s when Jason sent the texts, that fateful word - “delivered” - haunting him into action. 

Jason continued to stew, but before he knew it, your radio silence had him slinging a thick thigh over his bike as the motorcycle growled to life. His ear tuned into the motor to drown out the memory of when he first had you as his passenger on the Harley, when he called you his “little backpack” and smirked as he revved the engine on purpose to make you cling harder. He wove through traffic recklessly, begging an officer to attempt to pull him over, racing towards the hospital with his mind swimming with thoughts and fears.

Batman and Robin were on North and Pine? Perfect. He would be staying the fuck away from there, then. 

Jason threw down the kickstand of the motorcycle three blocks away from the Emergency Department, throwing a fresh clip into his pistol as he moved through the shadows. He quickly came upon the barricade that Gotham’s useless PD formed, dodging their officers easily with all of their attention focused on the hospital building. 

Bruce’s voice echoed through his Hood - Tim must have hacked into his comms - but before he could make out what he was saying, Jason shoved a finger into the seam of his helmet and plucked out the earpiece, crunching it beneath his boot. It nearly made him smirk, but he forced the brief delight down to focus on the mission at hand. 

It was almost too easy the way he slipped into the building from an auxiliary vent connected to the elevator shaft. Dozens of Gotham’s finest perched in a perimeter for the last hour and a half and he was in the building within fifteen minutes of arrival. Typical. 

Jason held his position behind a blind corner, listening intently into the department, which was eerily silent. Not filled with the alarms and clamor that you had described to him after long shifts, tucked under his bicep as he brushed his fingertips back and forth along your skin. He crept along the hospital walls until he heard the torturous voice of Victor Zsasz, crowing his usual psychopathic drabble which Jason tuned out in his efforts of surveilling the department for your form. As he pushed forward through the hallway, Zsasz finally fell within his sight. Gesticulating like a madman, with one arm wrapped around the neck of a hostage and the other motioning wildly in the air, an eight inch buck knife within his grasp. 

Jason strained, desperately trying to identify if the figure behind tossed in his grip was you, but there was a damned pillar in the way. He didn’t think it was, but that wasn’t enough to convince him, and his hand was steady as he raised his pistol, aligned directly to the back of Zsasz’s occiput. As his index put pressure on the trigger, images of you flashed through his mind. Shrieking in terror as you were coated in Zsasz’s brain matter, not in peril any longer, but god, at what cost. He had held you after nights where the worst of humanity reared itself through the trauma bay doors. He couldn’t stomach being the reason you woke up from sleep in a deep sweat. 

At the last instant, he changed his trajectory, squeezing the trigger and firing a bullet through Zsasz’s wavering hand. He dropped the knife, clutching his destroyed palm, which is when Jason moved in, swiftly sending the butt of the pistol down on Zsasz’s skull and knocking him unconscious. As he kicked Victor’s body to the side, aiming directly for his ribcage for good measure, he turned to the newly freed hostage. 

An elderly man, hair down to his shoulders, shaking visibly at the sight of Jason towering over him. White font, reading “XR Technician”, at the bottom of his badge. By the look in his eyes, Jason knew he feared that he was next. 

All of a sudden, there was a flurry of bodies: a nurse picking up the corded phone to call 911, two security guards carding Zsasz off to an isolated room by the arms, the pharmacist bursting through the front doors to wave in police. Chaos erupted back into its natural order in the Emergency Room as if nothing had changed.

“Red Hood?” A small voice, shaky but ringing clearly out into the silence. Jason recognized it instantly from moments of permanent replay in his head. 

He pivoted to the side, something taut in his chest releasing slightly as he saw you. You were crouched underneath the counter of the nurses station, arms spread, with at least three pairs of eyes peering from behind you. Children, he recognized, at once. Clad in hospital gowns. One hiding behind a splint covering their arm, another with a bandage wrapped around their head. Your wingspan was spread in protection, sheltering them from harm. 

Jason’s bootsteps fell heavy on the department floor, and he tried to ignore the whimpers that came from the children gathered behind you. He holstered his pistol as he came to a stop, holding out a gloved hand, which you hesitantly accepted, pulling you to your feet. On the countertop behind you, he noticed your phone, abandoned and plugged into the wall. If he clicked it on, he bet he would see his unread notifications on your lock screen. 

“Your shift’s over.” He said, his voice deepened by the helmet modulator. 

Clasping your hand to where you felt like your fingers would get crushed, he led you out of the building, through one of the back doors that had been unlocked now that lockdown was lifted as he didn’t feel like dealing with Gotham’s police. His large legs moved quickly, striding yards in seconds, and you struggled to keep up with him, firmly in tow whether you liked it or not. 

When you made it to his bike, your heart skipped at the familiarity. Without waiting for refusal, he slipped the bike helmet over your shoulders, tucking in the chin strap, and kicked the motorcycle to a start. You threw yourself over the hulking machine, arms snug around Jason’s torso with your eyes squeezed shut, thankful prayers cascading in your thoughts that he was taking you away from that horrible scene, no matter where you were going.

Before you knew it, adrenaline caught up to you. Terror, flooding your vasculature as Jason dodged and wove through Gotham traffic, causing your body to shake and your bottom lip to wobble. The tears started to flow in rough sobs as you cried against Jason’s muscular back, the what-if’s and bad endings drowning you in the aftermath now that you were speeding away from harm. Jason’s brow furrowed as he felt you convulse against him, your cries loud enough that he could hear even over the motor. He sped up, racing to get you home, in a locked apartment, where he was assured of your safety. 

After what felt like eternity, the bike veered into the lot of your apartment complex. Jason dismounted the cycle, instantly turning to pull the helmet from your frame. His gut churned at the sight of your broken, red-rimmed eyes and the string of clear discharge stringing from your nose to the helmet. You were wrecked: devastated in a way that he had never seen before. It nearly brought him to his knees. 

Without exchange of words, he wrapped his arms around you, snatching you into a grinding embrace. He held you tightly as if it was the last time he would ever have contact with you. Like his arms were in disbelief that you were actually safe. When he finally reared back, observing your shattered countenance once again, he placed a large palm on the small of your back and pushed you to the entrance of your front door. 

Your hands were shaking so badly that you couldn’t thread the key into the lock. With gentleness in such shocking juxtaposition to his actions in the ER that evening, Jason took them from your hands, clicking open the deadbolt, and leading you inside. 

For his own sanity, he made you stay in the entryway while he did a quick sweep of the apartment, and once he deemed it safe, he guided you further inside to rest on your armchair. The same one that he had been bleeding in half a dozen fights ago. Discarding the Red Hood on your kitchen countertop, he poured you a glass of ice water, thrusting it into your hands with insistence. 

He took a seat across from you on the coffee table, watching the tears trickle down your face as you continued to drink. You tried to ignore the pain in your chest at the sight of him: his hair, tousled from the Hood and the softness in his mossy eyes scrutinizing your face. His palm reached out, finding your knee, and his thumb stroked back and forth to calm you as you finished the glass. 

The two of you sat together in near silence, broken only by your occasional sniffle. It wasn’t necessarily comfortable, but having Jason back in your home placated a tortured part of you that had been hurting since the last time he stormed out. After God knows how long, Jason stood from his seated position, stalking over to the countertop to palm his discarded headpiece. 

Just as he was about to pull it over his head and walk out of your life forever, a weak warble of your voice stopped him motionless. 

“Jay…” You croaked, voice shredded with distress from the evening. 

He let the helmet fall to his hip, returning to your side at an instant. Without thinking, his thick, gloved finger found its way underneath your chin, scrubbing at the skin soothingly with delicious texture. You took in every detail of his expression, burning the tenderness that he had for you into your mind’s memory. 

“Yes?” He asked, his own voice so subdued it was barely audible. That gentleness that he had only reserved for you. 

“Will you please stay?” You questioned, a begging undertone to your voice. 

Whether it was for the night or for eternity, Jason had no idea, but hearing those words broke chains that had been coiling around his chest. The permission to wrap you in his arms, snug and slightly constricting, all night - permission granted not only by you, but by himself. 

“Of course” was his soft reply, as he let the helmet fall to the carpet.

Dividers by: toxisyddy

Texts made with: chat tales app

Johnny Joestar’s stomach feels unwell. a heavy, foreboding sensation sits stubbornly in the pit of his tummy, the kind that can’t be alleviated with medicine or a trip to the bathroom. it’s been churning and twisting nonstop ever since earlier today, when your group of three unceremoniously–and through no choice of his own–gained a fourth member. 

neither he nor Gyro were particularly happy about the addition but your unprecedented excitement upon stumbling across the new arrival left little room for them to voice their displeasure in fear that they would upset you somehow.

now, however, as he listens to the two of you chatting from a short distance behind him, about a topic he can’t quite catch, Johnny wishes he’d just been honest from the very start. sure, you might’ve not liked his crudeness but, at the very least, seeking your forgiveness sounds like a much easier task than what he’s stuck with currently–a potent bitterness festering deep in his chest. 

it had been ten days since the beginning of the stage and pretty good progress was being made by your team. while none of you would ever complain about a smooth journey, there had been a noticeable lack in obstacles–both terrain and enemy-wise–thus far that had gradually begun to weigh on your collective shoulders.

it came as no surprise that suspicions would be high when something inevitably did happen. it certainly didn’t help that the ‘something’ occurred whilst you were crouching by a river to refill your water canister. 

“(y/n)!” a mildly familiar voice called your name from seemingly out of nowhere. by the time you’d risen to your feet and turned around, Johnny and Gyro were already prepped for battle–the former had his nails pointed in the direction of the unwanted visitor whilst the latter had a steel ball gripped firmly in his hand, ready to deploy it at any moment.

“what’re you doing here?” Johnny’s tone oozed with suspicion as he eyed the approaching individual.

the pink-haired racer’s posture as he sat atop his horse gave off a distinct aura of pride, although his face showed less arrogance and more indifference.

up until he’d gotten his first place finish snatched from right under his nose by the mysterious racer, Hot Pants hadn’t made much of an impression on Johnny. all the ex-jockey knew was that he was a lone wolf who had neither friends nor enemies, which is why it felt all the more unsettling that he’d appeared out of nowhere and expressed an interest in you.

Johnny clicked his tongue in frustration when Hot Pants merely responded to his question with a look of utter disinterest. but his annoyance was quickly replaced by genuine surprise when you brushed past Slow Dancer with a spring in your step, waving your hand. 

“are you taking the river route, too?” you asked, gazing upward at the pink-haired man without a care in the world, completely unaware of the aching pang shooting through Johnny’s chest. 

when did you become friends? why didn’t you tell me?

Johnny’s pupils darted between the two of you as the conversation flowed without so much of a hiccup, even when Hot Pants dismounted his horse in the midst of a sentence. where one would usually find cold, uncaring eyes and a condescending scowl, the expression on the mysterious jockey’s face looked distinctly unusual as he spoke to you. 

Hot Pants’ gaze was softer, a hint warmer, and the ends of his painted lips were quirked ever so slightly upward. he looked at you with a tenderness not usually found between simple acquaintances.

it was an expression that seemed wholly unnatural on Hot Pant’s face. despite having never personally interacted up until this point, Johnny had seen the man around enough to know that he’d never shown any emotion aside from utter disinterest and indifference–until now. 

“you look like you’re ready to kill someone.” Gyro had somehow shuffled up beside him without Johnny noticing.

“oh, i’m sorry.” Johnny rolled his eyes. “i didn’t realise you were a fan of whatever this is.” he gestured meaninglessly in your direction

“don’t get me wrong, Johnny.” Gyro chuckled humourlessly as he idly adjusted the brim of his hat. “i hate it almost as much as you do.”

“tell him to fuck off then.” the ex-jockey crossed his arms over his chest with a brief huff. 

“why’s that my job?” Gyro retorted seamlessly, clearly more amused by Johnny’s reaction than anything.

a beat of silence passed by.

“... whatever.”

it’s been hours since Hot Pants weaved his way into your group, evading both Johnny and Gyro’s more subtle attempts at telling him to go away by engaging in an endless conversation with you. even though you’ve long run out of things to talk about, the pink-haired racer still remains by your side, the rhythmic striking of his horse’s hooves melding into one with the others. 

as per usual, Gyro leads the way at the very front whilst Johnny trails closely behind. normally you would be beside him, making little comments here and there about the scenery, smiling at him even when the best response he can come up with is a hum. it feels especially quiet now that you’re no longer by his side, having long strayed to the back of the pack to ride beside Hot Pants instead

Johnny sneaks a glance over his shoulder every now and then, the excuse of ‘just checking up on you’ ready on the tip of his tongue in case he ever gets called out for it, but he hadn’t. he’s stopped looking behind him entirely, though, once it had struck him how much like a pair you looked together–like two puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into place. 

he wonders if other people feel the same when they see him with you.

or rather, if they felt the same when they saw him with you. 

Johnny digs his nails deeper into Slow Dancer’s leather reins. the spots along the equipment where there would naturally be signs of wear-and-tear, now also sport two areas of significant damage–one for each hand. 

those weren’t there in the morning.

now that you’re no longer making random observations by his side to occupy his mind, Johnny can’t help but stew in his discomfort. it certainly doesn’t help that hints of dusk have begun to brush across the sky, tinting it a faint orange that grows more saturated with every second–a signal of how long he’d been procrastinating telling Hot Pants to leave, as well as a warning sign that if he doesn’t do so soon, your overnight camp could very well include the very person he wants gone. 

he decides to seize the opportunity to speak with you when the group makes a final stop for water. if he can convince you to tell Hot Pants to leave, this is the perfect place to not only part ways but also build some distance in the between for the journey ahead.

just as he’s thinking about how to bring the topic up in the most nonchalant way possible, the sudden sound of your voice jolts him out of his thoughts and his head snaps instantly in your direction, his body acting on pure instinct. 

rather than being greeted by your smiling face like he’s grown used to, he has to grapple with the revelation that, this time, you aren’t trying to get his attention. instead, he finds you talking animatedly with Hot Pants, unaware of the new pair of eyes staring intently your way. 

somehow you’d discovered something new to talk about.

Johnny can’t help but wonder if it’s something you’ve told him before, or if this is an entirely new thing he no longer has the privilege of hearing about before anyone else. 

the expression on your face makes his stomach sink to the ground, it’s one that he used to be on the receiving end of countless times in his past life. from your dilated pupils to the way you hold your hands behind your back as you gently sway side-to-side, all the while keeping your full attention on the androgynous-looking competitor who easily towers over you in height–every detail screams your budding attraction to this… stranger.

a bitter taste pollutes the back of Johnny’s mouth when he’s hit with the sudden realisation that you could easily do so much better than him; that he’s just a man with legs that don’t work who’s chasing after an impossible dream at the end of a deadly cross-country race; that his confession in the bathhouse, and the bout of intimacy that followed, can so easily mean nothing to you when you find someone so much more capable of giving you what you deserve. 

perhaps someone like Hot Pants. 

or Gyro. 

or maybe even Diego if he manages to find a way to redeem himself in your eyes.

have i lost my chance? so easily, too? the moment someone you find attractive demands your attention, you’re giving it away just like that? what about me?

Johnny wonders if he’s just been lying to himself this entire time. maybe he’d never stood a chance to begin with, and that he’d squandered his only opportunity like an idiot all those years ago when you presented your heart to him on a silver platter. 

he wonders if he’s just been limiting your choices this entire time–that if he hadn’t attached himself to you from the very start of the Steel Ball Run, you would’ve long forgotten he even existed.

if i didn’t stake my claim to you since day one, you could’ve met so many new people. you could’ve fallen in love with any one of them. 

he wonders if you'll ever grow to hate him for it.

“JoJo?” your gentle voice effortlessly cuts through the cacophonous noise of his intrusive thoughts. his bright blue eyes, sparkling with unshed tears, snap in your direction. you rest a hand against Slow Dancer’s neck as you gaze up at her rider with a worried expression on your face. 

his aching heart stutters. 

finally he has your attention, the one thing he’s been silently pining for the entire day. and yet, the longer you spend staring up at him, the harder it feels to speak. hours of mulling over what to say, and how to say it, rendered useless in a matter of seconds because for the first time in years, Johnny’s completely unsure what your response will be. 

you, the person he grew up with; his best friend who’s stuck by him thick and thin; the girl his heart has utterly surrendered itself to. Johnny used to believe he knows you well enough that he’s able to speak his mind without fear of being misunderstood but now he isn’t so sure anymore.

“JoJo?” you repeat, your other hand now reaching up to grasp his wrist gently. it’s only when your fingers make contact with his skin does he realise he’d started subconsciously digging his nails into Slow Dancer’s reins again. he loosens his fingers and swallows thickly as he takes in the tangible relief spreading through his fingers. 

“we can’t keep travelling with Hot Pants.” Johnny’s harsh tone leaves no room for negotiation. your eyes widen slightly in surprise, clearly caught off guard by the suddenness of the topic.

“why not?” you tilt your head, keeping your eyes locked to his.

Johnny feels a sudden chill drape over his skin as a bout of anxiety begins to creep its way towards his heart. 

“there’s just something off about him. Gyro and i don’t think it’s worth the risk.” he tries to sound nonchalant, like it’s nothing personal–a purely objective observation.

“well, our alliance with Gyro began right after the first stage. how’d you know we could trust him back then?” you push, stubbornly unwilling to accept the vagueness of his accusation. to be honest, you’d had a lot of fun talking with Hot Pants throughout the entire uneventful day. it would be a shame to chase him away just like that when he’s given you no reason to distrust him thus far–not to mention, you’re not a fan of how decisively he’s speaking, like his word is final no matter what you may think. 

“it’s different.” Johnny snaps, regretting it immediately when your hand draws away from his wrist in response. the movement is so automatic, so instinctual, that it registers in his head as something far, far worse than just a mere response to the harshness of his tone. “i needed him to teach me how to use the spin, you know that.” he tries softens his words. “what can Hot Pants contribute to the team? you barely know him.”

your eyebrows furrow incredulously as you huff out a harsh sigh of disbelief. meanwhile, a debilitating concoction of anxiety and guilt begins to slosh around in his twisting stomach. it’s clear that he’s upset you, and he hates himself for it already. 

“following that logic, i don’t contribute much either, do i? if anything, i’ve been doing nothing but holding you two back.” your eyes begin to glisten with tears of frustration. months’ worth of frustration that you’ve been painstakingly pushing to the back of your mind comes rushing out in waves now that you’ve gotten the confirmation you so dreaded ever receiving–that you’re being kept around out of pity rather than competence. “so why keep me around?”

behind you, Hot Pants and Gyro don’t even try to hide the fact that they’re listening to every word. if you were aware of their eavesdropping, you wouldn’t even hold it against them. you’d be curious too if your friends started yelling at each other out of nowhere. 

“that’s not true.” Johnny’s heart pounds faster and faster as panic rapidly begins to cloud his mind, and he starts speaking without thinking. “you have your Stand–”

“you and Gyro won’t even let me use it to heal your papercuts!” you cut him off with an incredulous look on your face. “i’ve only ever used it to save myself after nearly dying from my own incompetence!” you’ve backed away entirely from Johnny now, leaving a good metre of distance between the both of you. 

is that how you see yourself? 

Johnny’s so accustomed to viewing you as his lifeline that he’s completely unable to wrap his head around such a concept. you’ve always been so competent, so smart and courageous. no number of ‘failures’ has or will ever taint his impression of you.

i’d take a bullet to the head for you if it means keeping you safe. why can’t you see that?

and he tries, god knows he tries, to tell you that. 

he tries to tell you everything on his mind, no matter how embarrassing it might sound spoken aloud in front of others. but the frustration he feels inside quickly boils over into a nauseating concoction of anger, jealousy and helplessness when it suddenly dawns on Johnny that, in all your years of friendship, you’ve never had a falling out like this… not until–

“you’re really gonna let Hot Pants ruin what we have?!” he snaps. 

his mind feels fuzzy and his hearing’s suddenly muffled, obscuring every sound except for the rapid pounding of his own heart. although he misses the sharp gasp escaping your lips, he fully catches the way your face contorts into… into… 

“Johnny… what’re you trying to say?” your voice just barely registers in his head that feels like it’s about to explode at any second. 

no, don’t call me that. i’m JoJo to you. only you.

the world around him begins to spin as the raspy sounds of his uneven breaths join the thump thump thumping of his heart. there’s even a faint ringing noise coming from somewhere he can’t quite put his finger on. no matter how hard he tries, he’s unable to stop the sounds from mixing together into an unbearable cacophony that’s beginning to drive him insane. 

through his blurring vision, Johnny’s able to make out the movement of your lips but he can’t hear you. he can see you’re getting upset–the tears on your face–and he hates that it’s all his fault but he just needs the noises to stop for a bit please i just need a second to get a grip stop looking at me like that i’m sorry i’m hurting you please just let me think give me a second to think–

“this is your chance to leave me, isn’t it?! stop pretending like you care and just fuck off already!” his throat stings from how forcefully he’d yelled. 

for a split second, Johnny’s unable to grapple with the fact that he’s the one who’d just spoken to you in such a manner. he doesn’t even believe in the accusation he’d spewed so hatefully toward you–even if it did just come out from his own mouth. 

he knows your care for him is sincere. 

he knows you aren’t like the people who’ve discarded him like trash the moment he lost his worth as a human being. 

he also knows that he’d spoken on impulse with the intention of hurting you. driven by an intrusive thought that’s been idly hanging around in his head for years, for the briefest moment, Johnny had wanted to hurt you the same way he felt you had hurt him. 

i don’t think of you that way. 

but it’s too late for that revelation. 

all at once, the noises in his head cease to exist and he’s nearly thrown off by the sudden silence that engulfs him. a part of him wishes the sounds would come back. if it means he gets to take back the vitriol he’d just spewed your way, Johnny will accept any punishment with open arms. 

he realises, as well, that in spite of the deep ache still lingering in his chest, all of the bitterness that had been building up has disappeared, like it’d never even been there to begin with; leaving behind a gaping hole that something else wastes no time settling itself into. 

guilt.

it eats at Johnny from the inside out, growing more aggressive the longer you stand there in complete silence, rooted to the ground. you can’t even bear to look at him, your tearful eyes glancing off to the side at nothing in particular, as if looking at him would cause more hurt than he’s worth–like you’ve only just realised how worthless he actually is as a human being.

it had taken you a while, Johnny supposes, but everyone inevitably reaches that point eventually. it just hurts more coming from you.

“let’s make camp for the night… shall we?” Gyro suggests as he alights from Valkyrie’s saddle, his voice shattering the palpable tension in the air. “i think we all need to rest.”

“i…” Hot Pants speaks up with a solemn look on his face. “i can go. i’d never meant to cause any harm.”

“stay,” you reply before he can speak any further. the single syllable manages to somehow sound wobbly yet firm at the same time. “if you leave then i’ll go with you–” both Johnny and Gyro’s widened eyes snap toward you “–because it’s clear that i’m… i’m not wel–” you take in a shaky breath as fresh hot tears begin welling up in your swollen eyes once again.

“don’t be silly, cucciola.” Gyro’s warm hand lands atop your head, the simple gesture sending a wave of comfort all the way down to your toes. “the three of us will always be a team. even if that means having an extra person with us tonight.” his green eyes flicker briefly in Johnny’s direction before he leans over to hover his mouth near your ear.

“we both know he didn’t mean it. get some rest and we’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay?” Gyro smiles and exhales softly from his nose when you nod despondently in response. without another word, he strokes his hand along the back of your head, brushing his fingers through your hair, before stepping aside to begin setting up camp.

you learn fairly quickly that your mind contains much more intrusive thoughts than you initially would’ve guessed. the Steel Ball Run turned out to be such a struggle between life-and-death that, perhaps, your brain had been taking mercy on its poor host this whole time. now, though, it feels as though all mental defenses have utterly crumbled, and no amount of freshly cooked rabbit in your tummy or staring at your shoes can steer your mind away from its self-destruction. 

the fire that Gyro had built crackles gently a short distance away from you but it does little to stave off the natural frigidness of the night air. the coldness has long seeped into your very bones, making it difficult for sleep to claim you. so, instead, you sit, hugging your knees, staring at nothing in particular as you listen idly to the sound of Gyro sharpening his dagger and the flipping of pages from the book in Hot Pants’ hands. you can tell they’re both poorly pretending to not be glancing at you every few minutes after you turned down their offers to keep you company.

from right across you, you can feel Johnny staring at you as well but you’ve neglected to check. you’re not sure how your body would physically react if you accidentally make eye contact with him. 

even without looking at him, the aching in your chest has not subsided in the slightest despite the two whole hours that have long passed since your fight. if anything, the feeling has only gotten stronger over time–as though with every actual second that passes, the wound inflicted on your heart continues to fester and rot. 

the last time you’ve ever felt close to something like this was also because of Johnny Joestar–the strange sorrow that’s not anything like grief or fear. instead it’s something you can’t quite name, composed of the humiliation that spreads from your chest and burns at your cheeks and the nauseating sensation that comes from a bitter rejection. 

you can’t help but smile humourlessly to yourself at the unfortunate realisation.

even the incident at the hotel with Diego hadn’t cut as deep–and by that point you were so sure you could’ve had a future with him. 

‘maybe Dio was right.’ you think to yourself, remembering the words he spat at you from across the threshold that very night.

“what do you know about unconditional love? it’s a pointless concept.” 

perhaps love really is just a series of mutual exchanges until either party falls short or dies.

maybe Johnny’s realising what i can offer isn’t worth the trouble of keeping me around anymore.

you feel the familiar sensation of pressure building up behind your eyes as your lips begin to quiver. you quickly prop your crossed arms atop your bent knees so that you can hide the bottom half of your face from view under the guise of resting your head.

he’s riding again. he’s gaining back his fans. he’s found a reliable companion in Gyro. he’s gonna learn how to walk again.

you should feel happy for him, shouldn’t you? the person you care for the most is regaining his sense of self and purpose in life. you should be so happy.

so why are you so sad? 

‘it’s because… maybe…’ a voice eerily similar to your own whispers in your head ‘... maybe you were never destined to find love in this life.’ 

a shiver runs up your spine as something begins weighing down your heart. 

maybe your parents were right all along. you should’ve just let them arrange whatever marriage they pleased, with a man decent enough that you could hand him both your future and your heart, and hope that he wouldn’t drop the latter as many times as you’ve allowed it to be thus far.

joining the first ever cross-continental horse race just so i won’t have to get married. how stupid. 

you scoff under your breath as fresh hot tears begin streaming down your face. as though your brain can’t ge enough of its own self-loathing, you recall yet another thing Diego had said to you a while ago.

“how naive can you be? do you really think Joestar loves you unconditionally? he only loves you because you dropped everything just for him. if he never got shot, if he was still some big shot American jockey with endless women fighting to dribble over his fucking cock, do you really think he would even bat an eye at you? he never even loved you before, you said so yourself—”

ah… in all honesty, you’d neatly forgotten all about that one. it had helped that not long after, you’d found yourself sitting barely clothed on top of said Joestar’s lap as he moaned and whimpered about how much he loves you. 

looking back on it now, you’re pretty sure Johnny had just been caught up in the heat of the moment.

he doesn’t love m–

“hey.” a different voice derails your train of thought. beside you, Hot Pants plops down before stretching out his legs in front of him, nonchalantly getting his shoes dangerously close to the fire. “it’s getting late. you should sleep.”

you hum softly in response, keeping your swollen wet eyes pinned to your shoes but making no move to lay down or rest. it would take too much energy that you don’t feel like you can afford to spend right now.

the pink-haired man beside you sighs gently, as though making an active effort not to sound frustrated or impatient. from the corner of your eye, you catch him leaning closer whilst unabashedly staring at your face. it goes on for almost a few minutes until you’re too curious not to see what he’s up to. the moment you glance over and your eyes meet, Hot Pants shoots you a faint smile. 

“so i haven’t turned invisible. good to know.” his deadpanned delivery lightens the heaviness in your chest ever so slightly. “go to sleep. you’ll feel better when you wake up. not totally better but at least not as terrible as you do now.”

“how’d you know that?” you whisper. Hot Pants shrugs.

“‘s how it’s always worked for me at least.” a solemn look flashes across his face, disappearing as quickly as it came. “even if you don’t believe me, there’s no harm trying.”

you nod before pulling your eyes away from him and stretching out your legs, mirroring his posture. you let out a heavy sigh and glance at the unrolled sleeping bag laid out beside you. it’s terribly wrinkled from nights of disuse on account of your habit of sleeping beside Johnny in his.

“i’ll leave you to it.” Hot Pants stands up and stretches. “if you really can’t sleep, you know where to find me.” he taps the crown of your head before starting to head off in the direction of his own resting spot, not too far away.

“i won’t be a bother?” you pipe up without thinking. “if i wake you up in the middle of the night?”

“of course not.” he shakes his head. “why would you be?”

Johnny Joestar doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he opens his eyes and finds himself sitting in a room he hasn’t seen in years. it’s day time–not even noon yet, judging by the way the sky looks out the window to his right. Johnny looks down and notices that he’s seated on the edge of a bed he used to see all the time when he was younger. and then he realises he’s able to move his legs with almost zero effort but weirdly enough he doesn’t feel the excitement he always thought he would if he ever regained his ability to walk.

he also realises that he’s not alone. 

beside him is you–or at least, a version of your sixteen-year-old self. 

the scene feels familiar to him but not in any nostalgic way despite the setting that surrounds him. instead, he feels an immense dread tugging at his heart, though he’s not quite sure why until younger-you begins to speak. 

“it’s whatever.”

“no, i’m genuinely really sorry. i came here as soon as i woke up. you have something important to tell me right? well… now i do, too, but you can go first.” he responds automatically, his mouth and tongue moving completely against his will, like he’s no more than a soul inhabiting a shell he’s completely unable to pilot.

“oh, i mean, it’s not really that important…” you say while idly fumbling with your fingers.

an immense coldness washes over Johnny when he finally recognises exactly where this memory is from.

“it’s okay, you can tell me. mine’s kinda embarrassing, too. it’s super personal… i don’t think i can tell anyone else yet.”

“well…”

“hey, why don’t we say our things at the same time? that way it’s less awkward for the both of us.” he suggests, leaning so close to you that your noses nearly touch.

internally, Johnny braces himself for the inevitable, reminding himself over and over that this is nothing but a dream, and that he’ll wake up eventually no matter how much it hurts to relive this scene.

“do you love me?” you ask instead, your breath gently brushing against his cheeks as neither of you take the initiative of moving away. your question knocks the wind straight out of Johnny’s chest. 

that’s not how this memory goes.

“i do. i do love you,” he replies breathlessly as the soreness in his chest intensifies tenfold. his eyes begin watering with hot tears and his throat starts to tighten up. “i love you so much, please believe me.” 

“why?” you ask, seemingly completely unmoved by his glistening eyes and whimpering tone.

“wh… what’d you mean why?” he responds, eyebrows furrowing deeply.

“why do you think you love me?” you begin pulling away.

“do i need a reason to?” Johnny tries to will his body into leaning forward, to chase after you, but to no avail.

“if nothing bad ever happened to you,” you reply, inching further and further away. “you would’ve forgotten i ever existed.” you speak with such conviction that Johnny nearly finds himself believing you.

“that’s not true.” he stares intensely up at you, body still leaning in your direction but not moving in the slightest, no matter how hard he tries. “i would’ve still fallen in love with you. i’ll fall in love with you in every life.”

“i don’t believe you, Johnny.” you shake your head. 

“stop calling me that.” he begins to sniffle as tears flow freely down his face whilst his heart twists and aches within his ribcage. “i’m JoJo to you. i’m your JoJo.”

you rise to your feet and begin turning around, towards the door and away from him. 

“wait. don’t go. please.” he only realises he’s finally able to move when his body lunges itself forward, throwing him onto the ground like a ragdoll. 

you don’t bother turning around as your hand curls around the doorknob. 

“(y/n), wait!” Johnny cries out while he desperately tries to stand up but his legs have stopped working once again. for some inexplicable reason, he’s lost his ability to walk even in his own dreams. “(y/n)! will you just look at me?!”

your hand falls from the doorknob before you turn your head around ever so slightly, just enough that he can see your expression. it’s one that seems completely foreign to your face. you remain silent as it dawns upon Johnny that he’s gotten this same look from countless people before–pure disgust disguised as a gut-wrenching mix of pity and indifference.

he’s just never received it from you. until now.

a choked sob forces its way out of his throat when you swiftly make your exit shortly after. he calls out your name as he desperately tries to drag himself toward the door. but it feels as though the force of gravity acting solely upon him has increased tenfold, rendering all his attempts to move completely fruitless. 

Johnny begins to cry helplessly, pleading in between hurried breaths for you to return so that he can apologise. he begs for you to not leave him behind because he can’t imagine a future without you in it. he feels his face burn hot with shame with every pathetic syllable that stumbles out past his tear-stained lips but he’s in such sheer distress that his wounded pride is the least of his worries.

in the midst of it all, he realises he doesn’t even understand why it all feels so devastating–especially since he knows he’s dreaming–but somehow, for some reason, it all feels so real.

Johnny Joestar wakes up with a start, face drenched in tears as he gasps for air. his head instinctively snaps left and right, eyes frantically scanning his surroundings; his rapidly beating heart only begins to calm itself once he realises he recognises it all. he’d been in such distress in his sleep that his body woke up automatically in fight-or-flight mode.

he notices, with mild relief, that everyone else is still sound asleep, an indication that he wasn’t as noisy in real life as he was in his nightmare. but then, as he catches his breath and looks around once more, his eyes meet yours from across the dying embers of the fire Gyro had made hours ago. 

you watch silently as Johnny heaves and sniffles, his heart still pounding painfully in his chest as he gazes yearnfully in your direction. you stare at him back unflinchingly, your body remaining still except for the faint rising and falling of your sleeping bag. the bottom half of your face remains hidden from view, tucked tightly into the crumpled fabric.

he wants so badly to crawl over to you, to climb his way clumsily into your sleeping bag and feel your firm arms enclose him in a comforting embrace. he wants to rest his ear on your chest and listen to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. he wants you to kiss the crown of his head and bury your nose in his tousled hair.

“(y/n)–” the sound comes out as barely a whimper but Johnny knows you hear him because your only reaction is to close your eyes and turn over, facing your back in his direction. he feels his mouth go bone dry as an extreme coldness begins running through his veins.

for years, ever since the incident that robbed him of everything, his life had been nothing but a series of rejections–by his own family, girlfriends-turned-exes, friends and fans. but being unwanted by the entire world never felt too bad when he had you by his side; and yet Johnny’s always been fully aware of the possibility that you, too, might leave him behind some day. 

that fear lives constantly in the back of his mind. it had latched onto his subconscious since the day you carried him out of the hospital and refused to leave, no matter how hard he tried. it didn’t matter how many times he’s received your support and affection, he’s always been ready for the day you decide he isn’t worth it any more.

now, though, Johnny realises it has not only clawed its way into the very forefront of his mind but has also long sunk its venomous fangs into his frazzled brain. he just hadn’t noticed until this very moment. 

even though he knows it’s all his fault–that he’d allowed himself to behave far too childishly earlier and he’s simply experiencing the consequences dealt to him by fate–a tiny part of Johnny holds onto the hope that he’ll be able to mend the relationship he so ruthlessly tore into. even though he’s still sniffling and hiccuping by his lonesome, he knows there’s still a sliver of a chance you’ll be able to forgive him eventually. 

Johnny Joestar goes back to sleep, trying his best to rehearse what he’ll say to you in the morning and how he’ll say it–woefully unaware that in less than half a day from now, he will be shot through the head.

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You can feel her heartbeat against you, fast and needy. You slide your hand through her hair, slow strokes that make her sigh. “Jean,” you whisper, but she just shakes her head and wraps her leg tighter around yours.

“No. Don’t say it like that.” She lifts her head just enough to look at you, blue eyes glassy and stubborn. “It’s not fair. We barely get you and then you’re gone again. I hate it. I hate waking up to an empty bed after this.”

Avdol sits propped against the headboard on your other side, quiet but watching everything. Her hand rests heavy on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles trying to memorize the feel of your skin. She looks at you with her deep eyes full of worry she tries to hide. “You do look exhausted,” she says softly. Her voice is calm, but you hear the undercurrent. “The places they send you… I wish I could go with you sometimes. Or at least know you are safe. Where are they sending you next? Do you even know yet?”

You shake your head and reach for her hand. She laces her fingers with yours immediately, squeezing once. She never has the time to tell you out loud the devotion she has for you, but you feel it in the way she looks at you, like you are something precious she can’t quite keep.

Jean sits up on her knees behind you, her hands already reaching for the brush on the nightstand. “Come on, let me fix your hair before bed,” she says, trying to sound brighter. “It always helps me feel better.” She starts working through the knots with careful strokes, every few passes her fingers linger, tracing the back of your neck or the line of your shoulder. “Remember last time? I braided it so nicely and you said it lasted the whole train ride.”

You lean back into her touch, eyes closed. The brush feels good, soothing after everything. “It did last,” you tell her. “I kept touching it on the way and thinking about you two.”

Avdol lights a cigarette and takes a slow drag before passing it to you. The smoke curls between you as you share it, fingers brushing each time. It tastes like comfort and the ache of goodbye all mixed together. “We both think about you constantly,” she says after a moment. “Jean talks about you every day. I try to stay practical, but it’s hard. This life you lead leaves us with scraps of time. I wish we could give you more than this room and these nights.”

Jean leans forward, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “Yeah. Scraps. But they’re the best scraps.” Her voice drops, whiny again but softer. “Stay longer next time. Or take us with you on one mission. I can fight, you know that. Avdol too. We could be useful instead of just waiting here like this.”

You take another pull from the cigarette and hand it back to Avdol. “I wish it worked like that. But it’s not safe. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to either of you because of me.”

Avdol nods, but her hand tightens on your thigh. “We know. Still doesn’t make it easier.” She watches Jean brushing your hair, a small smile tugging at her lips even though her eyes stay sad. “Look at us. Clinging like this every time. You’d think we have all the time in the world.”

Jean finishes one side and starts on the other, humming a little tune under her breath. It’s the same one she always does when she is trying not to cry. “I traced your freckles again tonight,” you say quietly, glancing back at her. “I think I could do it blind next time.”

She laughs, soft and watery. “Hm, I’m adding more just to mess with you.” Her arms slip around your shoulders from behind, hugging you close. “I love you. Both of you. Even if we only get these stupid short visits. It’s enough. It has to be enough.”

The words hang there, heavy with everything unsaid. Avdol leans in and presses her forehead to yours for a moment, sharing the last of the cigarette. “We love you more than we say,” she adds. “More than we probably should, given how little time we have. But it’s true.”

You close your eyes and let them hold you, you always find yourself holding back tears. Jean’s fingers keep moving through your hair, Avdol’s hand stays warm on your skin. Morning will come soon enough, dragging you back to trains and missions and lonely hotel beds.

When you feel the tears filling your eyes, you yawn, trying to disguise your sadness with tiredness, Avdol sees it in your eyes and takes her own fingers to clean your tears. “We should sleep now,” 

Jean pouts, resting her chin on your shoulder, opening her mouth and closing it when she sees your tear stained cheeks. She nods then, freeing you from her embrace and letting you lay back in the pillows. Both of them hug you in their nakedness, pressing their bodies to be as close as possible to you. Jean hides in your neck while Avdol lets you snuggle between her breasts, keeping you warm. 

“Wake us up when you have to leave, okay?” She tells you before turning off the lights and kissing your lips one more time.