diver down!!!

All lyrics are taken from songs listed in character sheets by the same beloved author.

Diego Brando x fem!reader- Chapter 8

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WC: 6191 words

Tags: angst, angst and more angst. swearing, mentions of death. a little comfort at the end

Notes: Hi friends! I can't believe this series came to an end. It will always be the work I'm most attached to, as it got me into writing, and meet all of you wonderful people. I love writing for Diego and will absolutely do more in the future, especially with the new series. It took me a lifetime to write this final chapter because I wasn't happy with anything. At last, I think I got it how I wanted it to be. Thank you for your support, I love you all so much!!

Inspired by Aces- The Something Specials and Taylor Olin. If you wanna get in your feels I recommend listening to it while reading because I think it really captures the vibe, or im just sappy.

dividers by @sturniolohohoho

Taglist: @impossessedbyjeongyeon @vikkus-main ❤️

Litchfield, Connecticut. 10 years after the Race.

What a fantastic day to hang sheets outside.

Your life was filled with these thoughts about convenience now.

Which day was the best to do laundry. The right time to water plants. Practical ways of sweeping without hurting your back.The

And of course, a thousand ways to make stew.

One was with carrots, another with cayenne pepper, to give it a kick. There was another one including celery. A lady in town told you about that. After that exchange, you decided not to leave the ranch for another few weeks.

Thinking your life revolved around conversations about recipes, and waiting for a man to come back home from work to have some entertainment, was not just a fall from grace. It was a whole loud, and heavy punishment.

You groaned, took the pristine, freshly washed linen sheet from the washing line, and unceremoniously threw it on the ground. 

Then you stepped on it. Got on your knees, and rubbed it further down in the dirt.

A bit sweaty, you looked down at the results. It was pretty, if you squinted. Like one of those pretentious new wave paintings. 

Getting up, you cleared your hands on your apron. At least, you filled the next few hours with something to do.

How did that happen, even?

Not the dirty sheet, but everything else leading to this?

Was it really your mother’s fault, who insisted on you finding a good catch, after miserably losing the race?

It had been ten years, since it was over. Ten long, disappointing, unappealing years. So many months that always felt the same.

You had a couple wrinkles. Smile lines, some on your forehead that were noticeable only under the sun. Nothing major, you liked to believe you aged pretty damn well, all things considered.

But the dark eye-bags under your eyes? 

Weren’t the consequences of the little hours of sleep you got in the past years.

It was the tears. That’s what you told yourself once, while looking at the mirror. You were the sad protagonist of a novel doomed from the start.

Or just tired of waking up at dawn to make breakfast for someone.

That was why you resented your mother. If she lived one hellish life, for so long, why would she subject you to the same fate? Her darling daughter?

Well, she had been pretty clear. If you came back from the race, all battered and bruised, without a single penny to your name, you could find accommodation elsewhere.

She repeated the same exact thing at dinner, on your first day back from the race.

New York City, Manhattan. Final Stage of the Steel Ball Run. 

You waited for Diego on the last day. Waited and waited and waited. You were camping, biting your nails, expecting a sign. Night came, and you were restless. That was the beginning of the sleepless nights that followed you for years to come.

At dawn, you spotted a few racers. Not a single sight of him. Not even of the other two, Joestar and his friend. But you couldn’t believe something badhad happened. Technically, some weaker fuckers were on the way to cross the finish line.

Maybe Diego got the stupid corpse, and was celebrating. He might’ve ditched you and the race all together. Or expected you to find him, this time.

By the time afternoon came, you begrudgingly decided to push one last time, towards the finish line. At this point, you were nowhere near close to the podium. Not a winner, only because you decided to stall. Victory could’ve been yours, if you didn't.

Was that what Diego meant, all along? By his actions, by shifting his focus on a new objective? 

That wins are not always validated by someone else, or by a prize. Winning means you’re in charge of your destiny. However stupid your decision-making process could come across.

10th place. No flowers, not much cheering. Well, okay, whatever then.

You were still looking for Diego. Rushing through the crowd, you ran towards the score sheet, who had been freshly published. Skimming through it, Diego was at the very bottom.

Disqualified. 342 points. Two bonus hours.

With a bunch of others.

They surely would have written ‘Deceased’, or something, if he was, right?

Or was that too creepy of a wording for the masses?

You were pushed away by some random guy who wanted to have a closer look. 

Not even one of your limbs charged for attack. 

Saddened, you rented a motel room. It was overpriced because of course, Manhattan, and patrons were looking at the lucrative side of the deal, instead of cutting you some slack. What the hell did they know, anyway.

You couldn’t afford to stay longer than a day. So you headed back home. Where everything started.

San Diego, three months after the race ended. 

Your sister was ecstatic. To her, you were a shining star. You wondered how that could be, and thanked the universe she was there. 

That overwhelming joy lasted very little. She told you she met a boy, and he was so sweet, and she wanted to marry him. 

Probably the result of your mother’s pushy nature while you were gone.

Oh, mother dearest. Didn’t utter a word, even when you flamboyantly stretched your arms out for a hug. She invited you inside. Cooked dinner in complete silence. Listened to you and your sister talk about this good for nothing boy she wanted to marry so badly.

You kept throwing looks at your mom. How does one concentrate so hard on eating soup?

What did you do, that was so bad? Lost some months, learned so many things. Came back empty handed, yeah. But you were going to find a hustle, something to bring home the bread. Especially now that it was just going to be the two of you, once little sister signed up for prison.

Turns out, the clever old fox was charging up for the conversation she started as soon as your sister left to do some washing up.

‘Are you satisfied?’

She muttered, elbows resting on the table, hands crossed, looking like a businessman waiting for you to come up with the wrong answer before they could gesture to their goons to shoot you dead.

You pressed your lips, considering she was going to hit you with a scolding regardless.

She didn’t falter. Kept staring, not a tinge of compassion in her gaze.

Opting for radio silence, you started fiddling with the table cloth. Even if you were grown, now, she was still your mother. Scary as hell.

Huffing, she stood up and retreated to her room.

You lost.

Days went by, filled by your sister’s love declarations for her boy, and random people coming to your house, bringing gifts and fruit baskets for your mother. 

You found out your father had died, recently. 

How did that feel? Strange. Sad, surely. But what was even more upsetting, were the condolences. So fake, even if they were good custom. 

Apparently, he died alone. The mistress left him as soon as he got sick. So your mother was the only valid recipient of empathy after such loss.

You admired how she was able to portray the perfect grieving ex-wife in front of the neighbours. Her mourning looked very different behind closed doors. A bottle of whiskey, and cigarettes she would put out on your father’s favourite side table.

Petty, but justifiable.

You tried to rekindle your relationship, but she wasn’t having it. It felt like you died to her, alongside your father.

On a sweet summer day, you got back home from running errands in town, to find it completely empty. Just a letter.

Few words. Your mother and sister left. You were forbidden from contacting them again. She sold the house. Good luck.

You cried more tears than the entire population on Earth combined. That was when grief hit you.

What about your sister? What did your mother say to her? She was going to be looking for you for a lifetime. And so would you. As soon as you got back on your feet, that is.

New York looked nice. You went back there.

Your last hope to find Diego mingling in the crowd. At least, that place was big enough for you to find a job. Someone would recognise you as one of the racers, there were good chances you could bask in some glory, instead of rotting away in your home village.

This shoemaker recognised you as one of the infamous participants. Slightly older than you, a little unkempt, but offered you some reassurance. 

Clearly, wanting something in exchange.

You promised yourself it was just going to be for a little while. 

It was far beyond your initial intentions, to stay with the guy for more than a month. The harsh reality of life struck you down to earth’s core. You got burnt, at last.

He wasn’t all that bad. Stern, with his advances. Not gentle, or cheesy, but provided you with food and shelter. When you were sick, he would leave some medicine, a shot of brandy, and a cloth. Which wasn’t even damp, but at least, he tried.

The limbo between resenting him for treating you like a cute pet, and being somehow grateful he didn’t leave you begging on the street, made you restless. More than you were before.

You tried being playful with the dude. To regain dignity, at least. One thing that was unshakable, was your character. Even when you were lonely, disliked by most, and abandoned. A little banter made everyone feel younger.

He wasn’t responsive. 

When you told him you had been so lucky lately, if you decided to open a hat shop, people would be born headless, he didn’t get it. Just looked right through you and kept reading his newspaper.

Ugh.

Diego would have told you, headless folks were your close relatives. And then you would argue, one of you would storm off, and you’d regroup for dinner. That was the usual scenario during the race. In your current setting? Maybe you’d end up making love.

You shook those thoughts away. Since when did you think of Diego that way?

Since the guy you were…With, strictly because of circumstances, was so underwhelming in every aspect? Or because indulging in your imagination was the only thing that didn’t cost money?

Have you always thought about Diego that way? Hence why you followed him at the very beginning?

No, you were different back then. Or always the same. Too hopeless, and too stubborn.

You made a vow to your future self: you’d stop being both cocky and insecure at the same time; that mix didn’t work one bit.

Still, when the glorified bootlicker of your, current companion, drowned himself in unpaired shoes, you’d wander around the city. Every short and blonde guy in your proximity made you jump. 

It was obvious Diego would have made his presence known, if he was there. Without a doubt. You still hoped he decided to go incognito, and could find him under a box in an alleyway.

By chance, you found the answer to your game of clues in a newspaper your 'partner' left unattended on the kitchen counter.

A small segment, almost imperceptible, but you figured some bits of that damn corpse made you retain superhuman vision, because you ignored the huge front page titles talking about motor vehicles being the progress society needed, for this small piece of information, written in black and white.

‘British Star Jockey, Diego Brando, still missing. Potential victim of a crime.’

You burnt yourself with coffee.

Everyday after that, you avoided newspapers in their entirety. Ran away from them. 

Who cares about the news? If the world was going to crumble, you didn’t need a warning. There was nothing you could do anyway.

Just like you couldn’t go around and keep looking for Diego. That chapter had to be over at some point. So you put it in the back of your mind, during the day.

However, you latched onto the word ‘still’, for hope. Because that ‘still’, meant someone better than you was still looking for him. Your partner asked you what the bandages on your hands were for. You said you were terrible in the kitchen. He tossed some ointment your way later on that day.

Litchfield, Connecticut. 7 years after the race.

You had a husband now. Officially, because he insisted on a proper ceremony, priest and all. It was small and quiet, in a tiny church in the countryside. He saved enough money to buy a ranch, and move you both over there. In exchange, you were going to be his darling wife.

Ew.

But you accepted because there was nothing left waiting for you.

The benches on your side of the chapel were empty. One of your husband’s family members sat there for pity, or to make everything look more aesthetically pleasing.

The ring on your finger was bland. Just like the rest of your life. You took it off whenever your husband went to work, to free your finger from the constriction.

It was during a silent, and painfully uneventful dinner, that your husband mentioned the terrible awful.

‘You know, that British jockey, Brando?’

The two of you rarely made small talk. You learned he must’ve liked the idea of owning a ranch so much, because he was very much genetically closer to a mule, than a human being.

Still, those extra years of living, gave him an advantage when it came to reading people.

That, or you became a total shell of a person, so much so people could see right through you.

Careful not to spit bread all over the table, you pondered if he actually did this on purpose to make you choke tonight.

‘Heard of him.’ You responded with more bluntness than needed. And didn’t bother asking why the fuck would he ever, ever bring that name up.

He kept slurping, barely looking at you.

You were fidgeting with your wedding ring. The mere mention of Diego brought back some fire in you, because you considered throwing the object in your husband’s face.

Wiping the corners of his mouth, and throwing the napkin on the plate, he announced.

‘They found him dead, apparently.’

Now, now you had really lost. Screw the race and everything in between.

Your husband stood up, and circled your frozen body.

‘Thought you oughta know.’

He left. You didn’t join him in bed until you made sure all the tears you had to let out, fell on your half-eaten soup.

If it wasn’t for your heart being ripped out of your chest, put back in, and ripped out again a thousand times, you would question how your husband knew you were linked to Diego Brando. Wise old bastard.

Unfortunately, still Litchfield, still Connecticut. 10 days after the dreadful discovery.

How long can the human body sustain itself on small pieces of bread and some milk?

You were just about to find out, because everytime you cooked that stupid, greasy stew, you felt like being sick.

Grief is so strange. You were grieving so many people, in so many different ways.

Curiosity about your father, for example. You wanted to be able to see him for a few minutes to ask him some things. Like what bourbon and cheating tasted like.

Anger towards your mother. Again, how could she abandon you? Did she ever think of you at all?

Heartache over your sister. Oh how you missed her. Was she happy with that loser? Maybe yes, maybe life gave them a chance.

And Diego? Absolute denial.

To you, he was alive, and they found the wrong person to not waste anymore state funds on his disappearance. If you ignored what your husband said, it was like he never said anything in the first place. Also, he could have lied because he was jealous or resentful or something.

Anyhow, Diego was alive in your mind, and in your writing. Even if, you didn’t dare write his name down anywhere. Some old lady in the city told you tales of bad luck, superstition and omens. You reinterpreted the whole thing to give your delusions a stable thriving ground.

A sane person, would have asked her husband for a piece of paper that stated Diego Brando was, in fact, deceased. You weren’t sane because you saw dinosaurs in real life.

So screw it. Frankly, it could’ve been some magic trick involving the President, or someone else. Could you tell your husband that, just to spite him?

Was asylum food better than your cooking?

Fair enough, you’d go out in the bleakest way possible. Starving yourself. You wanted to disappear before someone knocked on your door and told you, everything was real: dinosaurs, magic corpses, flying horses, and the reason why Diego left you was because he was dead.

Your front porch. 10 years after the Race, 3 years after Diego’s death, 20 minutes before your cake would burn up to smithereens.

In the end, you didn’t starve, only lost some weight. Your husband came in clutches. After spending his money and efforts on you, he couldn’t let you perish, could he?

He force-fed you, bathed you, took care of you in his own rough way. You started being just grateful for him. Resentment washed away, as well as anger, and pain. You entered a whole new scope of human emotions, something very much undefined, that didn’t feel like much. Like playing a chess game, but the King disappeared right before checkmate.

Sometimes, you created chaos to spice up your isolation. Interacting with others, even if it was the right thing to do, made you want to curl up in a corner and rip all of your hair off.

Your husband was the only one you’d speak to. No jokes, no banter. Just lists: of groceries, things to do, things to buy.

The cattle in your ranch was the closest thing to innocent stupor in your life.

Gosh, you must have looked a mess. All polished, hair tied up, some flour on your trusty apron that accompanied you everywhere.

Your mother would be proud. Your father would be more interested in your booze cupboard.

There you were, an old fleeting memory of a soldier, a woman that was upset over things she never had, moving back and forth on this swinging chair your husband enjoyed so much. For which reason, you never understood. It made an unbearable noise, and was indented because of his weight.

It was past the point of being comfortable, just like you.

Also, you started smoking. Because it cured some of the restlessness. Or added onto it, but new habits die harder than old ones.

Last week, you smashed part of the barn. The reason? Wanted to spend some time watching your husband fix it. You wondered why, instead of communicating, you retorted to ambushes or tricks. Another habit, maybe.

You baked a cake. Never did it before, saw it on a book. Looked fancy. If it came out bad, you’d smash it all over the kitchen counter. Or give it to the pigs.

You turned into the carbon copy of your mother. But if your husband cheated on you, you’d kill him. You promised yourself that.

Speaking of which, you saw a figure in the distance. He came home early today, so he probably didn’t cheat yet.

Why was he dressed so… Unusual? You didn’t remember him leaving the house dressed like that.

The squeaky chair stopped moving. The only sound was that of hooves, and your heart beating again, after a very long time.

‘Nice spot you got for yourself, missy.’

You dropped your cigarette, and almost passed out. 

Your heart wasn’t just beating, you were having a cardiac arrest. 

Diego stopped his horse, resting one hand on his hip. Still smug, still unphased. Still alive.

You knew that damn ‘still’ had to mean something.

Noticing you weren’t even close to whispering a single greeting, he got down, and stepped towards you.

He looked older, a little tired, too. Not as sharp as back in the day. Dusting his pants off, he leaned towards you.

‘Can you see me, or did you get blinded by the smoke?’ He waved his gloved hand in your face. From this distance, you could see he was unsure, but still went for it, for proximity, for contact.

You flinched, mouth agape, acting like you saw the grim reaper. Maybe the house caught fire and this was your imagination creating something joyful before burning alive.

He didn’t move. Your husband would have, but he didn’t.

‘…The cake.’ That was all you had to say. If this was a dream, his ghost would vanish because you found the link to come back to the real world.

Diego squinted, concerning himself whether he let too much time pass before coming back, that your latent insanity finally won over your rationality.

Then, he smelled it.

Smoke.

He stood up hastily, and ran into your house. After some clattering, silence.

You didn’t leave your spot.

This couldn’t be true. Just when you found a routine in your loneliness, when you accepted that your life was going to be that way, he comes back and prevents your whole house from burning down to a crisp.

Few moments later, he comes back triumphant.

‘You should keep living solely on canned food. You know, for everyone’s sake.’

How was he so… Not bothered?

Could it be this was just… A one-sided despair, this whole time?

You wanted to go back to this morning, and never wake up.

He took a seat in the chair next to you, with a small table in between the two of you, and rested his forearms on his thighs, looking at the beauty and serenity of your ranch.

You curled up a little, not too comfortable with him being in your space after so long.

He better say something now, or that was going to be your last straw, for good. You were so done with everyone hiding, running away, taking something from you and never giving it back, lying, deceiving—

‘Whose boots are those?’

...The uh?

Oh. Well, your husband’s work boots. Who could they belong to? Was he dense? Why couldn’t you bring yourself to say it?

Again, you pursed your lips, and hugged your body close. Best psychological response to this attack.

‘Got any kids?’

Wh—No, no you didn’t. Maybe something was wrong with you, or your husband, but you couldn’t. And right this very second, it seemed the universe had much more foresight than you could give it credit for.

You were looking around, waiting for someone to interrupt and smack him in the head. This is not the right way to greet… an old friend.

He took your packet of cigarettes, rolled it in his hands for a second, and then crushed it.

‘Smokers are not great horse riders.’

You thought about what he said for a second. He seemed a little… Uneasy. Discouraged. He probably didn’t like what he saw.

‘Plus, if you can’t ride a horse, and clearly can’t cook, what do you think—’

‘Why are you here, Diego?’

Finally. Words came out. Tense, and fighting the nausea in your stomach, but you spilled them.

He raised both of his eyebrows.

His own physical response, to finding out you were alive, and well.

You stared at each other. From the outside, one could see you were both fighting the urge to jump on the other. Because you were both prideful, stubborn, practical, willing to give up everything for survival. Two similar people, who don’t know how to deal with the same emotions at the same time.

He moved first. Of course.

Grabbed your hand, and squeezed it. Then let it fall back on your lap. Even the almighty Diego, could be overwhelmed for once.

‘Came to pick you up, what else?’

And smiled, like a damn reptile. A predator. A small one, like a ferocious lizard. 

He couldn’t be fucking serious.

‘…I have a husband.’

Great. Your brain decided to respond to his questions with a two hours delay. Damn cigarettes.

He blinked, not understanding if that was rejection, or you were a little mad. He could explain to you the lengths he had to go to in order to reach you over here, if you asked. But it seemed that now, when he was finally ready to tell you everything, you weren’t willing to listen.

Well, of course you’d get a man. After the race fiasco, he hoped you’d use your brain and make the best out of the situation. Still, it should’ve been a temporary solution.

‘Sweet.’ He replied in a monotone voice.

You felt like you were the one cheating. Just not on your husband.

All you had to do now, was stand up, grab a broom and shove him off of your property. Then, you could go back to stitching a centrepiece. 

As if. Your sewing skills were reserved for dire situations, like mending the blonde idiot in front of you after a shooting.

How much of your current life still revolved around him? Even if the setting had changed, everything you did, or said, was influenced by the memories you spent together.

That’s what the older women in your village warned you about, all the time. Young love.

It just never disappears, even if what you currently had was more convenient and bearable.

You laughed, then. Hiding your face in your hands, and pushing your hair back a little.

Nothing in your life ever worked out.

He didn’t move a muscle. Just this once, you could react however you pleased. Only on this occasion, he felt like he made a silly mistake. Leaving you like that. There’s only so much a person can bear.

‘Why’d you destroy my cigarettes?’

He tightened his jaw. You could’ve asked him something else, for example, if he was doing alright. He swallowed his irritation. If some parts of who you were back then, buried underneath years of pretending to be a good civilian were still alive, you should have appreciated his effort.

Just then, you noticed he didn’t have Silver Bullet anymore.

The realisation gave you chills. No way that poor animal got caught up in this storm. 

Seemingly, Diego was able to leave pretty much anyone behind.

‘How are you not dead?’

When you asked him, it wasn’t to snap you out of this melancholic haze you carried for the past three years. You wondered how he got to be alive, when his horse perished, and whatever you were doing was beyond just surviving. It was a complete downfall and hitting the ground so hard, you could feel your ribcage pierce your lungs.

He sighed deeply. Well, he had to fully disclose the narrative, if he wished you’d stop being so defiant.

‘Someone else took the fall.’

You snickered. Yeah, they sure did.

He gave you a sideways look, with a tinge of concern. You weren’t just upset this time. He knew that, but he still wished you’d share the same excitement he was feeling upon seeing you.

You were correct. Men are stupid.

‘Don’t think I—’ ‘Shut it.’

Diego immediately stopped talking at your command.

He observed your pensive expression, staring at his new horse.

He could keep his mouth shut, but it wasn’t what you needed right now. You needed to know, he went through hell and back. Just because he didn’t look miserable, it didn’t mean the only one who felt loneliness and their stomach turning was you.

You stood up abruptly, and headed inside. 

Shortly after, he followed.

Your house was… Modest. Very woody. Impeccably clean.

Shit, you had nothing else going on, besides sweeping?

You sat down at the dinner table, waiting for him to take a seat. 

If your husband barged right in, would he shoot you or him first?

Before he could get himself comfortable, you raised one hand.

‘There’s some alcohol in that cabinet behind you.’

‘I don’t drink.’

With a pointed look from you, he turned his back and fetched the liquor.

Damn, being a wife turned you into a sergeant.

Pouring a small amount in a glass, he handed you what he thought could at least soften your hardened shell, even if he wasn’t a fan of you having all these vices.

You were so off-putting right now.

Finishing your drink in a gulp — to be fair, to put on a show— you decided to speak.

‘How did you find me over here?’

Sitting down, thinking you must’ve been calm enough by now, he took his hat off and placed it on the table.

‘Went back to San Diego. Asked your villager friends. Told me you moved to Manhattan. Then, I just got lucky.’

Oh, so that was one of those instances where he found you as soon as you stopped looking for him? Like when you lose a hair clip?

You weren’t impressed. Took him a while to get to Connecticut, unless he was thrown into the ocean by the President himself and swam all the way back up shore.

‘Did you lose your compass ten years ago? That’s why you didn’t show up in San Diego earlier?’ 

Diego looked offended, puzzled. For all he knew, you came all the way over here to hide and he let you…settle, and adjust. Until it was safe for him to come out.

‘If this is about that letter, I clearly stated I needed to lay low for a while, you cannot hold that against me.’ He pointed one finger at you. His composure started to falter.

What mattered was that he was here. You were there. He didn’t believe he was the only one who wanted to set this silly reconciliation aside, squeeze you, and take you away from this humble abode.

You looked around, waiting for the punchline.

What letter?

‘You didn’t write a damn thing. The only thing in writing I have from you is an article stating you went missing. And some rumours you were dead. Which, can’t be true because, corpses don’t retain the ability to lie.’

He leaned back on his chair, raising his hands in perturbed confusion.

‘I sent you some money and a letter. I thought you could read!’

Your heart skipped a beat, which made you turn a deaf ear to his witty little remark.

Your mother.

‘Where’d you send it to?’

‘San Diego, obviously. You think I’d send money for you and your dear husband to spend in my honour?’ 

Oh, your mother.

‘…When?’

The defeated look on your face, crumbled his almost ten-year long assumptions that you disregarded his letter, took the money he felt he owed you, and ran away to marry some country bumpkin.

That’s what he believed, when he went back to your hometown, and the hostile villagers told him you vanished. The reason why he found you is because he made the right guess, thinking you’d be in New York.

You mimicked him, leaning back with a thud, looking to the side. Your pristine kitchen, the oven door still open. Everything smelling like you started a bonfire in the middle of the living room to celebrate the reunion.

Now that you think about it, your mother had been so shifty, few days before disappearing. As one would, when they decide to disown their kid. Because that’s what you do when your kid is all talk, and always falls back on square one.

You started crying again, silently.

Diego always hated people crying. He too, felt the familiar feeling of his throat closing up at times, but never lost himself into it. 

To hell all of his beliefs. There was a fifty percent chance they weren’t true anyway.

So he walked over to you, got down on your level, and did the only thing he believed could be right. With a fifty percent chance, at least.

Cupping your cheeks, he collected some of your tears with his thumbs.

The pain in your chest was so piercing, you couldn’t even be upset with him for rubbing your face too roughly.

‘You’ll be fine. My father wanted to throw me in a river.’

Sniffing, and sighing loudly, you wondered how could some parents hate someone they brought into this world, unbeknownst to their knowledge, so much. A question worth 50 million dollars.

How did he always figure you out, without you needing to speak? How were you still two young fools, who never knew any better?

‘…I thought you died.’

He lifted the corner of his mouth.

‘Presumed death after seven years of going missing. It was better for me to keep it that way.’

You nodded, because you always wished to be presumably dead.

Good. A clear picture at last. Maybe you’d get some sleep tonight.

Next to your oblivious husband.

At the thought of the latter, you put your hand on Diego’s forearm.

He needed to leave. If not that very second, in a couple of hours.

Because fine, yes, now you had your closure, and you were glad he was still alive, and you could stop feeling guilty about being a failure, and he came back to see you.

But realistically, life doesn’t work out that way. You weren’t going to crush everything you so strongly held together for the past years.

You understood why your mother stayed with your father for so long. 

There are some duties one has to fulfil. Your duty was to keep fighting for your spot in life, not being stopped by the ghost of a man, not letting him decide your fate.

‘I can’t come with you.’

Diego resembled a statue. He froze so dramatically, lips parted, you fought the urge to close his mouth back up with your finger.

Now, both of you had lost.

‘I can’t because… This is my life. I built it without your help, even if you tried to get involved. I can’t let you have that satisfaction.’

Final. Decisive. A little unbelievable now that you said it out loud.

Diego took the hit. Moved after a good minute. 

Then stood up, and walked towards the front door.

He left his hat behind.

You watched him walk away. To answer your mother’s question back then, you were now a little satisfied.

But your body still moved to get a hold of the hat, and bring it over to him.

He was stomping, not minding the fact that he looked very emotional.

You opened your mouth to wish him well, at least, a civil farewell.

He turned around, vexed.

‘Do you really want to stay here making pies? For an idiot?’

What the hell did he know. To you, Diego was not much less of an idiot than your husband.

‘He is good to me! He stayed this whole time and look—’ you indicated the small vase on the cupboard next to the main entrance. ‘Gets me… Flowers.’

Both you and Diego didn’t buy your loyal spouse act for a second.

Shit. You should’ve said a roof, he put a roof over your head.

Fuck.

Diego snatched his hat out of your hands, and put it on to cover half of his face.

Resting his hands on his hips, he asked you one last question.

‘You’re staying here because he got you your favourite flowers?’

Who the fuck even has a favourite flower? Flowers are flowers! It’s the gesture that counts!

Besides, you couldn’t keep a plant alive for longer than an afternoon.

‘Wh—You know, you have some guts talking about what I should and shouldn’t do! How about you get back on your horse and write your wise little advice on a letter instead? Oh, make sure you don’t send it to my grandmother this time.’

You were puffing, since you delivered that last speech in a single breath. To get it out of your system. 

What were you fighting against, exactly?

Diego shrugged.

‘If you jump on my horse now, the only thing you will have to worry about from now on, is not making any more of those pies, if your wish is for me to stay alive.’

Incredible. No, actually. Insane. 

He left you to decide. 

Instead of doing everything for you, without giving you the opportunity to object, he gave you that freedom. A chance.

The chance that not a single being on this planet since you were born, had the courtesy to offer.

It had been 10 years since you rode with him.

Diego offered his hand to you. And his understanding, his apologies, all that was left of him.

You gave one last look at the wilted flowers.

They could come back to life in better hands.

It took you ten years to realise that you could have different spots in the world. That you didn’t have to choose a storyline to live in for the rest of your life. Some people don’t have that luxury.

Finally, this time, not holding him straight on his horse because he had been wounded, you circled his waist.

You just needed one final bit of reassurance, before crossing the fence.

‘What are my favourite flowers, Diego?’

He gave you a smug look, and tightened his grip on your hand resting on his stomach.

‘Haven’t got a clue.’

Hello friends! I try to update as often as I can but I have this annoying thing to do called living so sometimes updates might be delayed but I promise you I'll get there x

If you like my writing and want to request anything for jjba or jjk please do ask! I would love to write for you! I am ok with anything apart from smut because first my little sister is on here and second I like to draw inspiration from my own experiences when I write; when it comes to smut, I wouldn't be able to write more than two sentences, for how underwhelming my sex life has been.

That said, the only warnings in pretty much all of my fics are usually mentions of blood and canon violence, nothing too dark but if you are not comfortable with that, just be aware I mention these things quite a lot. I hope you enjoy! And as always, I am extremely grateful for anyone who interacts, or doesn't but still reads!

Have a great day/week/year and always take care of yourselves! <3

I am on AO3 as well under the same username :)

>> JJBA

Series

Diego Brando x fem!reader- Lord knows I can't change- ONGOING! Chapters:

Lord knows I can’t change

If I had to do the same again, I would my friend

I ain’t no senator’s son

Letters I’ve written never meaning to send

Until the day that you are me and I am you

War, children, is just a shot away

Do what you want but save the last dance for me

Oneshots

Diego Brando x fem!reader

if you go you know you'll grieve me

‘Cause we’re living in a world of fools breaking us down

Diego Brando x fem!reader head canons:

here

Johnny Joestar x gn!reader

here

Gyro Zeppeli x fem!reader

I'm an early morning lover and I must be moving on

I saw her again last night, and you know that I shouldn't

Caesar Zeppeli x fem!reader

E senza dire parole, nel mio cuore ti porterò

>> JJK

Oneshots

Gojo Satoru x Geto Suguru

Safe in your skin

Hiromi Higuruma x fem!reader

Gyro Zeppeli x fem!reader

oneshot, fluff and angst; based on this request by my beloved 🫐 anon xx hope it's what you were looking for! Inspired by I saw her again- The Mamas & the Papas

some Italian for ya:

fiorellino- little flower, extremely corny term of endearment

perfetta-perfect

bellissima-beautiful

professoressa- fem professor

bambola- doll

Grazie- thank you

Summary: Pre SBR. Gyro and reader are not supposed to be together, but two idiots in love can't be stopped.

divider by @dollywons

Gyro took it upon himself to make an intricate flower crown design that would win first place in a competition of that kind, if some idiot ever came up with the idea.

You watched him passionately twisting and weaving the stems together, with such careful precision, one would think somebody’s life was at stake. 

‘Voilà!’ He exclaimed, gently holding his creation in both hands, prouder than ever. ‘The only crown worth of your beauty, fiorellino.’

You snickered at the nickname. The way he was so incredibly serious when attributing to you any sort of appellative related to the task at end, washed away the tinge of embarrassment he inevitably stirred in you.

‘You’re so corny, why am I with you again?’ You attempted to snatch the flower crown out of his hands but he quickly retreated, wary of your roughness.

‘Nuh-uh, let me put it on your big head, amore. If you grab it the same way you grab onto me, you’ll mangle it.’ Unamused by his lack of tact, you crossed your arms, waiting for a sincere apology before this lovely encounter turned into him begging on his knees for forgiveness.

Gyro gave you a half-smile, visibly terrified, and placed his masterpiece on your head, lovingly pushing a few hairs away from your face. Despite his usually indelicate expressions, only a fool wouldn’t notice how deeply enamoured he was.

‘Perfetta. Bellissima.’ 

You softly smiled at him. Even if you had to keep him in check most days, you felt deeper in love with every passing day.

And not being able to be together in the open, and scream it at the top of your lungs, made you appreciate these small moments even more.

You held his hands, staring into his eyes like a lovesick idiot. ‘Am I the flower queen, then?’ You jokingly asked, as an attempt to minimise the surge of emotions flowing through your body.

‘Not just a queen, an empress. With the way you boss me around and everything.’ He leaned in to peck your lips, adjusting his position to sit even closer to you.

The sweet moment escalated into a full make out session, courtesy of your young age and the absence of quiet moments together lately.

The intensity of the moment made you grab onto him and pull him impossibly closer, which he took it a sign to push you down on the ground, and lay on top of you. You could hear birds chirping, wind rustling, and every natural element in the surroundings creating a blissful stillness around you.

All but one.

‘Ahem.’

The booming voice of a man echoed in your ears. 

Gyro jumped away from you faster than a kid caught stealing from his mother’s purse, while you were hoping this was a love-induced hallucination.

‘There you go, all fixed!' Gyro clapped his hands together, putting on his best professional tone.

'Just remember to take some cough syrup every morning and every night, after meals.’

Of course, he tried to save the day with the least believable excuse. You could sense Gregorio Zeppeli seething. Every bone in your body stood completely still, refusing to turn even the slightest bit.

The older Zeppeli, clearly not having any of it, scowled at Gyro. ‘Get out of here.’

Nothing else needed to be added. Gyro looked at you for a split second, enough to be considered rebellious by his father. And took his leave.

You couldn’t even hold it against him this time. Sure, you had been on the verge of getting caught several times during the past couple of months, and most of his family noticed Gyro lingering around you way longer than he was permitted; this degree of indecency was enough to grant you the death penalty, in his father’s eyes.

Before you could muster something, anything, he addressed you.

‘Your father was shown mercy, I won’t be as lenient if you keep hanging around my son. And try to act more decent.’

Right. Your father had been pardoned, after a burglary gone wrong. For all the wrong things he did, at least he was good enough at establishing connections that could get him out of trouble. Gregorio Zeppeli abided by the orders, but the verdict never sat right with his sense of justice and morality.

Habitual offenders should get punishment.

Well, you already weren’t particularly fond of the man, but hearing disgust and shame in his voice, made you question how on earth Gyro could be related to someone of the sort.

‘Whatever I do, you’ll dislike me anyway, am I correct?’ Talking back to the unforgiving Zeppeli was something Gyro advised you not to do. His father was not exactly a chatty guy. More ‘I’ll slap you and lock you inside a room for as long as I see fit’ type of fellow.

And as predicted, Mr Zeppeli grew even more furious. You could tell he was restraining himself from acting up, possibly to protect his image, or maybe for his son’s sake.

Definitely the first.

‘You have no business with my family. Keep that in mind, lady.’

When you assured he had gained some distance, you let out some sobs. You wished Gyro would be there to comfort you, and cried even harder when you imagined what his father could was going to say to him.

A few days had passed; you got a hold of a note Gyro had one newspaper boy deliver to you.

He mentioned he loved you and everything was going to be okay, but the air needed to clear for a little, before you could see each other again. 

You left the note on your dresser, next to the flower crown, and a pair of earrings he gifted to you, which were worth more than your whole house. You never wore them for this reason. It would have been proof of you being together, or a sign you followed your father’s footsteps.

Just when you were about to fall asleep on a cold, lonely night, you heard a loud bang at your window. A debt collector, Gregorio Zeppeli finally coming for your head, or that reckless idiot of a boyfriend you cared for so much.

‘Amore!’ He whisper-shouted. And then another bang. You scooted closer to the source of the ruckus, thinking how could someone as brilliant as him, who bribed an errand boy just to communicate with you, be so inherently stupid at times.

Right before he could take you out with another badly aimed stone, you stepped into his line of sight.

You spotted his dumb smile even in the darkness.

‘Amore!’

‘Shut up dummy!’

He mimicked a shot to his heart and gestured for you to come down.

You would lie if you said you didn’t run down the flight of stairs like the King personally summoned you.

As soon as he saw you, he swept you into his arms and spun you around, like you were a little kid.

The excitement of seeing him again overshadowed the miserable secrecy of it all.

‘Hey stranger.’ A hint of sorrow could be intercepted in his words. You could go and find anyone else who wasn’t part of such a complicated family dynamic, but Gyro knew that he wouldn’t be able to recover if that were to happen.

‘Hey, you. Have you decided to piss your father off on this lovely evening?’ 

At the mention of his dad, he put you down and shifted his expression to an enigmatic one.

The Zeppeli family’s secrets went beyond the speculations on their wealth.

‘Yeah, about that.’ He cleared his throat and took a few minutes before continuing. His behaviour threw you off. Surely, he wouldn’t go out of his way to seek you out late at night, just to end things. Right?

‘I have been thinking and, before you interrupt me, professoressa.’ There it was, his relentless banter. You sighed in relief.

‘There is no way we can…Continue this.’

You felt like you had been stabbed, and were losing gallons of blood by the second. 

‘If! If – Okay amore don’t die on me just yet.’ He instantly spoke up and held you in his arms, cursing himself internally for taking the short pause that was costing him your life.

‘I meant, I need to find a way to get into everyone’s good graces. They don’t trust me as is, and believe me, this has more to do with me than it has to do with your dear old crook of a father.’

In any other instance, you would have given him hell for referring to your father that way. Yes, he had his… questionable past, but he still put a roof over your head. Since you were still coming down from a principle of heart attack, you allowed him to continue. His fate would be decided subsequently.

He stroked the side of your arms, and took a pause. Looking down at the ground. You had never seen him so preoccupied.

‘I found a way, because as you know, I am a problem-solver.’

You wanted to point out that he was the one causing the problems he allegedly solved, but nevermind.

‘There's this thing, very simple, really. It’s a race.’ Again, he took a moment to assess your reaction. So far, he deciphered an array of emotions in your eyes. Hurt, confusion, anxiety. Maybe, starting slow, would have been the right thing to do. But he was convinced you would be on board, as soon as he told you all about his genius plan.

‘Stay with me, bambola. This is so good, you’ll get mad at me for not thinking of it earlier.’

Now, every time Gyro came up with something ‘brilliant’, it ended up with the two of you running away, clothes half-unbuttoned, and dread filling your veins.

A race sounded way too manageable; there had to be catch.

Regardless, you nodded, urging him to go on.

Gyro widened his eyes, clearly pleased that you were willing to hear him out.

‘Right, listen. I win this race, get fifty million dollars, come back here, get an amnesty for an innocent kid that is destined to die, everybody loves me. No one would be able to question me ever again, because I’m a hero. We buy a small house somewhere, have a lot of kids. How’s that sound?’

He was grinning from ear-to-ear. 

You felt a pang in your chest. 

‘Wh—Wait, what kid?’ 

Where did the kid come from?

Oh, he forgot about that. He couldn’t really involve you in certain matters. But you needed to know, where the idea came from, and how he merged everything together. Just like a mastermind.

‘It’s, uhm, complicated. Unfairness of the system. Anyway,’ you wanted to stop him and ask him what the hell was going on, but you knew Gyro carried the burden of a thousand lives sometimes, and if he got to save one, for a good reason, there was no legitimate reason to stop him. Partly the reason why you loved him so much. He was so unexpectedly profound.

‘I thought...Since I am doing this… Well not many people know I am. Only you for now.’

This started to sound sketchier by the second.

‘There is a fair chance some people will be… unhappy. But don’t worry! I’ll win, and everything else just won’t matter, to anyone. This world revolves around prestige, amore mio.’

Was he wrong? No. But talking like a man who had nothing left to lose, upset you a little.

You looked at him. So powerful, so bright. Full of tenacity. His flaws only made him more human. You cursed yourself for not choosing to stay in bed tonight.

‘Sounds… Dangerous. And a little unattainable.’ You tried to ground him back to reality. If the prize was so high, anyone would participate. Anyone who would be ready to destroy other people, for money. Life's true meaning, for some.

He squinted, and gently cupped your cheeks. ‘I have a few tricks up my sleeve, bella. You don’t have to worry about a thing.’

Gyro wasn’t a liar, but he had his way with words, often omitting important things, such as his father’s disapproval of your dad's pardon; he also loved to speak in riddles, waiting for others to figure things out by themselves. A tough love kind of approach.

And in that moment, you knew he wasn’t telling you all of it. You had the feeling he was leaving out something of crucial importance.

Stepping away from him and crossing your arms, you waited for him to spill the beans. He couldn’t keep you in the dark any longer.

Gyro flicked through his exhaustive mental study on your patterns, and realised you were one second away from chewing him out.

‘Amore, trust me. Don’t you trust me?’ He dramatically flaunted his arms. You were having none of it.

He groaned, and wondered if humour could ease you up a little right now. It always did.

‘Listen, I got this. You don’t think I’m going to leave that pretty face of yours for an American woman, do you?’

And then, his whole body went still.

Little detail he forgot to mention. The race was overseas.

You gasped. ‘America??’ 

There was no way. He had lost his mind. Or he was breaking up with you, and came up with something ridiculous to try and hurt you less.

You stepped further away from him, while he tried to approach you like one would a wild hungry lion in the wilderness.

‘No no no, hey, I know you’re upset, but it would only be for a few months! Just a couple! I promise!’ Still walking over to you, he noticed how some tears started deliberately falling down your cheeks. What a fucking moron he was.

‘No, Gyro, upset is not it. I want to kill you!’

You tried to keep it together but come on, what the hell? So far away, for so long, doing something so reckless, leaving you behind? He knew better than that.

What followed was a very awkward wrestling match, where he tried to hug and comfort you, and you slapping his hands away, hoping he would give up and just let you drown in your sorrows.

He finally succeeded in stopping your attacks, and knelt right in front of you.

‘Amore.. ' He spoke in a sombre tone, not able to pretend he was taking this lightly. 'I know it sounds.. Not ideal, but I can’t keep giving you this kind of life. Sneaking away, my family hurting you… I’d rather not give you anything at all, than seeing you suffer like that.’

Honesty, at last. Could he understand that you preferred having him like that a million times, rather than sending him away to another continent to do God knows what?

You were sniffing, on the verge of bawling your eyes out. You thought heartbreak happened when two people went their separate ways, not while they were still together.

He let you have your moment, being the collected young man he was.

Realising he must have thought this through, and there likely wasn’t a much better option, you accepted defeat. He was going to do this anyway. Best to give him something worth living for.

You grabbed his hands, and helped him up on his feet.

‘Not a scratch.’ You said solemnly. ‘And I mean it.’

He beamed, and squeezed you tight. No one could understand him like you did. Hell, if you had some sense of self-preservation, you wouldn’t have accepted his courting in the first place.

‘Grazie, amore. I will engrave your initials on my trophy.’

Too soon to joke about this. You glared at him, and he fell into a laughter that felt more like relief. You could feel his hands shaking. 

You decided the scolding and warnings could be postponed, for now.

And as any other night, where you carefully made sure no one could hear you tiptoe towards the front door, you let him in, and laid together in your bed. He was too big and tall to fit in it, and imagined it must have felt like a cot compared to his king-sized accommodation. Not that you’d ever seen it anyway.

Whispering a few jokes, a few sweet nothings, and a good variety of silly nicknames, you spent the night Gyro broke a bit of your heart, together.

‘I will never be okay with you doing this, you know that, right?’  

You softly spoke, with your head resting on his chest.

He sighed, caressing your back. Of course he knew that. But you didn’t know about the Spin, and that he had a very compelling reason to come back alive. Only your unhappiness could be his cause of death. Like a sharp cut, straight to his heart.

| johnny joestar x gn!reader

'I feel like... The worst type of death must be drownin'.'

Johnny felt as if some parts of him lived things he had never even considered an option, sometimes. The inexplicable pressure of being suffocated underwater, could be translated into the hopelessness he was engulfed by on most days, when simple things were a matter or resilience and perseverance.

'Say Johnny, burning alive is not at the top of your list?' You laid further down on your horse, observing Gyro animatedly trying to convince a salon host to give you all three rooms at the price of two.

By the looks of it, and your humble experience with his negotiation skills, you figured you'd end up paying quadruple.

Johnny looked over at you. He wondered how, you always presented an opposite scenario to whatever came across his mind. If he thought about pushing through, you'd pull back. When something seemed clearly wrong, you'd find a reason to believe it was right.

He smirked. 'I got chances of putting out a fire, not much luck when it comes to swimming.'

You gasped at the audacity of his statement. Closeness between the three of you, eased him up to find humour in the unquestionable reality of his situation.

'That's unfair! I can't come up with anything more tragic than that!' You raised up from your horse, observing how Johnny stood straight, not fazed by the reality of his own comment.

'Guess I'm privileged in my own disgrace, then.'

Johnny liked to think his troubles all came down to one simple explanation: missing something.

'Johnny, I believe if you ever fell in the middle of the ocean, you'd find a way to drink up all the water.' You smiled; you deemed stubbornness his strongest quality.

He snapped his eyes back at you. 'You're starting to sound like that big idiot over there.'

He pointed at Gyro, furiously showing three fingers to the salon host, definitely muttering something along the lines of two paying costumers are better than none.

'Jonathan Joestar, please don't compare me to the man who's going to make us sleep on the ground tonight.'

Johnny laughed, and you jumped off your horse, walking towards him.

He thought as to why he could stitch you into every one of his memories, and you would still fit perfectly. In every scenario he could think of, you never looked out of place.

Johnny extended one hand in your direction. You rushed in his aid, assuming he wished to get off his horse.

Instead, he grabbed your wrist.

He eyed you intently. 'You got a lot of beliefs, except me walking again.'

You felt the weight of his words, and the pressure of his fingers on you.

Then, he waited for something that could make him withdraw completely. A look of pity, or contempt. He studied the softness in your features, to find out if there was a hint of what he wouldn't blame you for thinking, but would still hate if it came from you.

'It really doesn't matter to me.'

He couldn't figure out what you could possibly mean; to him, it mattered. It meant everything.

You sighed, shaking off the intensity of his silent enquiry.

'I can't swim, Johnny. We'd both drown.'

In that moment, the young, vengeful Johnny Joestar considered that parts of him, would always be cut in half. The turmoil in his mind, the heaviness of his body when he stood on his forearms. And parts of his heart, that would sink down to the bottom of the ocean, if it meant that's where he could find you. In another one of his lives.

So he held your hand. And you squeezed it back, thinking that if he could focus less on walking, and more on living with himself as a whole, some good things wouldn't need the excuse of a horse race to have a meaning.

| johnny joestar x gn!reader

'I feel like... The worst type of death must be drownin'.'

Johnny felt as if some parts of him lived things he had never even considered an option, sometimes. The inexplicable pressure of being suffocated underwater, could be translated into the hopelessness he was engulfed by on most days, when simple things were a matter or resilience and perseverance.

'Say Johnny, burning alive is not at the top of your list?' You laid further down on your horse, observing Gyro animatedly trying to convince a salon host to give you all three rooms at the price of two.

By the looks of it, and your humble experience with his negotiation skills, you figured you'd end up paying quadruple.

Johnny looked over at you. He wondered how, you always presented an opposite scenario to whatever came across his mind. If he thought about pushing through, you'd pull back. When something seemed clearly wrong, you'd find a reason to believe it was right.

He smirked. 'I got chances of putting out a fire, not much luck when it comes to swimming.'

You gasped at the audacity of his statement. Closeness between the three of you, eased him up to find humour in the unquestionable reality of his situation.

'That's unfair! I can't come up with anything more tragic than that!' You raised up from your horse, observing how Johnny stood straight, not fazed by the reality of his own comment.

'Guess I'm privileged in my own disgrace, then.'

Johnny liked to think his troubles all came down to one simple explanation: missing something.

'Johnny, I believe if you ever fell in the middle of the ocean, you'd find a way to drink up all the water.' You smiled; you deemed stubbornness his strongest quality.

He snapped his eyes back at you. 'You're starting to sound like that big idiot over there.'

He pointed at Gyro, furiously showing three fingers to the salon host, definitely muttering something along the lines of two paying costumers are better than none.

'Jonathan Joestar, please don't compare me to the man who's going to make us sleep on the ground tonight.'

Johnny laughed, and you jumped off your horse, walking towards him.

He thought as to why he could stitch you into every one of his memories, and you would still fit perfectly. In every scenario he could think of, you never looked out of place.

Johnny extended one hand in your direction. You rushed in his aid, assuming he wished to get off his horse.

Instead, he grabbed your wrist.

He eyed you intently. 'You got a lot of beliefs, except me walking again.'

You felt the weight of his words, and the pressure of his fingers on you.

Then, he waited for something that could make him withdraw completely. A look of pity, or contempt. He studied the softness in your features, to find out if there was a hint of what he wouldn't blame you for thinking, but would still hate if it came from you.

'It really doesn't matter to me.'

He couldn't figure out what you could possibly mean; to him, it mattered. It meant everything.

You sighed, shaking off the intensity of his silent enquiry.

'I can't swim, Johnny. We'd both drown.'

In that moment, the young, vengeful Johnny Joestar considered that parts of him, would always be cut in half. The turmoil in his mind, the heaviness of his body when he stood on his forearms. And parts of his heart, that would sink down to the bottom of the ocean, if it meant that's where he could find you. In another one of his lives.

So he held your hand. And you squeezed it back, thinking that if he could focus less on walking, and more on living with himself as a whole, some good things wouldn't need the excuse of a horse race to have a meaning.

Diego Brando x fem!reader- Chapter 7

<<prev_next>>

WC: 5000

Tags: angst, fluff, crack, angst again, some cursing and some mentions of violence and injuries. Diego and reader go through the final stages of the race.

Notes: My friends!! Sorry for the long wait, I think the AO3 curse is real cuz all sorts of shit happened to me. anyhow, I think I am almost finished with this fic. I loved writing it and will surely write more for Diego, but yeah, I think one more chapter and that's it. Even if I grew attached to Diego in this so I hope I will be able to end it on a not so catastrophic note. In honour of Ep1 coming out, I finally finished this one. Hope you enjoy xxx

The song is Be like a woman by Chris Rainbow! Kind of sappy I know

Dividers @sweetestpeacreates

Cañon City, Colorado. 16th November 1890.

The weather had gone down by several degrees.

You started missing the warmth of the Arizona sun on your skin. Even if you bitched about if for days on end. Even if you thought about ripping your skin off and throwing it in a lake to cool down just a little bit.

Every shiver of your body accentuated the sharp stings of pain in your shoulder. You were breathing heavily, and Diego had reprimanded you multiple times, telling you to be quiet; perhaps he was trying to focus on the road, or on his injuries. Or, considering he was still butthurt from the whole situation, your silence could make him forget you were just right behind him on Silver Bullet.

At some point, his strength started dissipating, so you grabbed the reins with one hand, and steadied him on the horse with the other one.

By all means, it felt like a blind-leading-the-blind situation, but you were doing better than that Ringo hotshot lying dead on the ground, a significant number of miles ago. And better than any other person who pledged their allegiance to the President.

You thought Diego was a total nutcase to go and even think he could get some reward out of that dude; but a little voice in your head whispered that no, he was going to retreat and realise that was all a bunch of bullshit. 

This ability you gained, or –according to Diego, stole from him –, led you to realise how far the depths of one’s mind can reach; feeling so powerful, above others, invincible if you used it right… certainly can get to someone’s head.

Not you, though. Yeah. Just a bit, maybe.

Not to cause havoc or anything! To make the world a better place. For yourself.

‘Darling, I don’t mean to be a killjoy, but this horse date has been going on for too long. May we get dessert?’ You slightly nudged Diego’s hip, to highlight the discontentment in your sentence.

He scoffed, and stiffened up. It was obvious he had reached a state where even an insignificant movement would enhance the pain from his injuries. To the point he couldn’t even respond. 

You remembered something, how people would call him Dio, as a nickname. So unusual, had nothing to do with his name. A nickname is supposed to be something you use to show people you are acquainted enough with someone, or you’re so busy you need to save some letters, when you can. And who cares that much about people’s names, anyway?

He had it engraved on his little helmet, with a fancy little bow on it. It was crazy how you paid such extreme attention to his behaviour, but failed to consider certain obvious aspects of his character, that seeped through the way he dressed: practical, but distinguished.

His choice of keeping his hair so unruly, which you didn’t expect from a guy like him, wanting to be respected and revered wherever he went.

You realised Diego was just another lost person, portraying the best character he could find, to get him out of the mud.

Same as when he helped you during your first fight with Ferdinand, and how he didn’t take the chance to obliterate you when you were in danger a few hours ago. 

If he truly was this ruthless, cold-hearted bastard he believed to be, why was most of your weight resting on his back, to the point he was struggling to breathe?

‘The hell you want me to do about that, missy? You’re the powerful one now, make a mansion appear.’ He spat out, not trying to hide how bothered he was.

To express how endearing he came across, and how much you appreciated he couldn’t let this damn bullshit slide for a single second in order to focus on the matters at hand, you nudged him again, a little heavier, which he enjoyed so much, he considered throwing you off the horse.

You were only being conscious of your situation, and wanted him to get off the horse and rest before you both passed out and became food for worms.

Putting too much energy in convincing a man of something can only result in one possible outcome: you blacked out.

Next thing you knew, you were in a doctor’s office in some town. The room smelled like rubbing alcohol, and some nauseous thing you hoped you didn’t have to ingest at any point in time.

You moved your fingers just to make sure you were not in purgatory.

Then you heard the clicking of boots coming from your bedside.

Diego was constrained by an infinite amount of gauze on his side, and some more on the side of his face. Arms crossed, one leg resting on top of the other, watching you intently.

You side-eyed him, because what the hell? He looked like he was waiting for you to kick the bucket and pull out your intestines.

‘…If you wanna act like the angel of death, put a cloak on at least. Makes the performance more immersive.’ You pointed out.

‘Doctor said you’re as good as gone, so I suggested getting rid of your tongue first.’

He seemed proud of his joke, but this time it felt like some part of him was irate with you.

You didn’t have a clue what you did wrong. Besides the magical eye thing. No chance he was still going to be alive if it weren’t for your stealth skills.

Blinking at him, you decided not to push the conversation any further. He was going to come around.

By day two of your hospital holiday, he was pacing back and forth in the room.

‘We are so far behind, I wouldn’t be surprised if those two useless fucks got to the corpse before me. But they could be dead. Yes, for sure! They don’t stand a chance against Valentine. Though, if they get rid of him first, then getting the parts from them will be child’s play. This can turn in my favour, at the end of the day. That’s good.’

He had been monologuing all the possibilities of a world conflict happening outside the hospital window for at least twenty minutes.

You were ingesting the gruel the lovely nurse brought you for lunch. It tasted like something they were testing on people before they decided it was okay for rats.

You entertained yourself by playing a game of ‘a spoonful for every time Diego says that's good’.

It’s not like he was even including you in the whole narrative, anyways.

‘Can you tell me more about how you’re gonna rule the world in front of a bowl of porridge?’ You decided to interrupt him because it felt like you were secluded in an asylum with the most complicated patient in history.

He turned around swiftly, and you didn’t miss how he winced in pain.

‘Are you even listening? I’m making plans.’

You let a spoonful of slop fall back into the bowl miserably. Maybe the bits of oats were as much of a prisoner of the pretentiousness of British people as you were.

With one hand dramatically falling on your face, you exhaled a long breath.

‘How about you sit the fuck down please? If you sleep on it, the corpse might talk to you in your dreams.’

He scowled at that, and reached your bedside in two quick strides. 

‘That’s the reason why you shouldn’t have this power.’ He pointed an injured finger at you. ‘You’re not serious, ever. Ever!’

How many times was he going to bring this up? Could you ask the doctor to remove this stupid eye from you and stick it down his throat?

You stared at the ceiling. Diego’s insanity was that even if he was bleeding out at the beginning of the week, by the end of it he was going to try and overtake a state.

Sitting up a little on your bed, you grabbed the piece of bread from your tray, and offered it to him.

‘Eat this, and we’ll get going. I will help you, on one condition: neither of us ends up here again. I can’t stand anymore porridge.’

His expression faltered for a second, assessing the truth behind your words.

Then, he grabbed the bread, turned around and started munching.

That ought to do it. His food tray was completely untouched.

He always liked your things better, anyway.

Kansas City, Missouri. 5th December 1890.

Diego tried over and over again to retrieve the corpse’s eye from you. 

Sometimes, he tried to convince you with his charms. Failed miserably.

Other times, he tried some psychological tricks, describing horrible instances where you ended up limbless for the rest of your life. And giving you some apples, or pieces of chocolate to create some sort of dependency. Once again, he failed. But you liked this gift-giving tactic.

He also tried to win it back in a game of cards. You politely declined, because last time you played cards together it almost ended in a bloodbath.

He was relentless.

You both felt significantly better after the last fight, went back into the race, and surpassed some poor souls that you manage to mislead into unruly and dark paths.

But a scar is a scar, and whenever the rain started pouring, and felt surges of pain in multiple parts of your bodies, you both slowed down your trot and camped somewhere for the night.

It was during one of these nights, that you looked back into your whole life up until now.

What would you truly miss if tomorrow was your last day?

Your sister, for sure.

The idea of being the rich stranger that shows up in a random American city, making people in town whisper and gossip about your past.

Saltwater Taffy.

The short idiot sharpening his blade by the fire. 

When he was so concentrated, you wondered what he would miss.

If someone had ever waited for him.

‘Chicken feed or Taffy?’ It seemed very important to start the quest of digging into his inner demons by finding cultural similarities.

He didn’t respond, just accentuated his movements on the blade.

‘Mmmm I think if you choose anything besides Taffy, you’re a sad loser.’

He glanced up at you, and went back to his ministrations.

‘You know what my mom was best at? Corn pone and fried catfish. We had it almost at every single one of my birthdays.’ You wiggled a wheat spike you were fiddling with, pretending it was some tool of wisdom.

‘Can never go wrong with those. You get a little used to it after sixteen years though.’

Again, no response, but a feeble sigh.

‘Was your mom a good cook?’

You were going to attempt getting information about his past as many times as he tried to regain the eye of despair from you.

He dropped the knife on his lap, and gave you a look of contempt. By now, you should have known to mind your business, to never ask things, to act like a nice interior plant. 

But if Diego became part of the list of things you’d miss if fate came to collect his payment, he had to give you something to remember him by during your last living seconds.

Preferably not a bruise.

The only time someone asked him something about his mother, was back when he lived in that shitty farm and was the errand boy. One of the other kids, was the culprit.

It was a very innocent question, too. The kid overheard something his parents said, and probably wondered why Diego was all alone.

He punched the kid, and got punished for it.

Word spread, and no one ever mentioned her again.

But it didn’t spread far enough, because somewhere, a young thief in the shape of a woman was testing him once again.

How bad could it be, if for once, he shared something with you?

Considering the odds, you both could be gone anytime. He hoped if that happened, neither of you would be present at the scene at least.

What if sharing this part of his life with you, was going to curse you even more than you already had been, if he died?

‘She didn’t cook much. It was a different situation.’

You tried to not show how taken aback you were from the revelation, but he picked up on it by your eyes becoming as wide as saucers. He smirked at your nosiness.

‘I’ll tell you all you’d like, if you—’ ‘Give me the eye back, duh!’ You interrupted his sentence.

‘Can you converse for once, without asking for something in exchange? I feel like this conversation is more beneficial for you than it is for me, you know, let it all out trooper!’

You wiggled the spike at his face. He grabbed it and tossed it away, much to your dismay.

‘I don’t feel like I have ever gained anything from our interactions, besides murderous tendencies.’ He laid back on his forearms, challenging you for the umpteenth time that week.

No no, you couldn’t lose leverage just yet.

‘Was it a kind of situation where… you cooked, like a good boy? Or you had servants do that for you?’ How clever, he tried to shift the focus of the conversation. But you had crazy people-reading abilities and a super eye now.

He grimaced, not sure if he disliked the appellative or the idea of not actually having servants more. Both things brought him back to the reality of his childhood.

‘What servants, idiot. You really don’t know my story?’ It felt like he was offended than you weren’t one of his fangirls, framing articles about him all around the house.

You shrugged. ‘Nope, had better things to do I guess than reading about a British jockey that acts like a descendant of Henry VIII.’ 

‘Too bad then, grab a newspaper and circle the parts you like most.’

You crossed your legs, and moved closer to him. 

‘How about you tell me yourself? This could be your legacy! I will share your story with the masses, and I can even leave out the parts where you ate rocks and tripped on the ground, because I’m just so nice.’

Diego thought it would have been better to just spill out the stuff you wanted to hear, so you would quit pestering him. A part of him, wanted you to know the reason why he was like this. Not because he was getting soft, but you needed to understand why this whole thing mattered to him more than it did to you. He didn’t think of a Plan B, because he was so confident in this working out in his favour.

‘I am not some spoiled rich brat. Everything I am, I built myself. My mother died because of those circumstances. I need to honour her memory, and my own, by standing above all. People suck, so do I. Happy?’

You didn’t say much after that. Sure, you had hundreds of question, but did they matter?

The picture was pretty clear.

Fate. You’re born in the right place, at the right time, or you’re not. What you do with it, is only up to you.

That night, you shared a blanket. Even if he took a bigger chunk of it.

Mackinaw City, Michigan. 20th of December. Or 23rd? Was it Christmas already?

Snow only looked good. It felt terrible. Wet, annoying. Covered everything in its path.

Some more of Valentine’s people attacked the two of you. 

You got away with a few struggles. They didn’t seem like they had an ability, they were just soldiers.

Seeing their blood stain the patches of snow resembled art, somehow.

The guy that made the itinerary for the race needed to be put into jail. This jump of temperatures was going to kill horses, people, most likely you.

Looking back, what the hell did you think this was going to be? That was what Diego told you when you entered a snowstorm. His words bounced back and forth in your mind.

You stopped by Mackinaw to buy a couple of winter coats. Courtesy of Diego.

You had no more money, and looked derelict. You promised to pay him back, to which he responded he wasn’t going to need it because once he obtained superhuman powers, money would mean nothing to him. You scoffed, and kept the receipt in your pocket anyways.

You didn’t want to owe anyone, ever. Even the emperor of the Universe.

Diego told you to push through. You were near the end, and most likely anyone interested in the corpse parts was nearby. 

You hoped an avalanche would cover you both for at least three days, so someone else would take the damn corpse burden and you could move on with your lives.

He mentioned that sooner or later, someone was going to snatch the eye from you. Possibly Valentine. By this point, he stopped trying to trick you or reason with you: he didn’t expect the end would be so near either. 

You did make up a plan in your head. As far as you knew, you could see some time into the future, or something like that. So, if anyone super strong and ruthless came to take the light away from your eyes, you could predict just enough to make a run for it. Attack, if necessary, praying your luck didn’t abandon you. Shoving the blonde idiot out of the way, because he no longer had an advantage.

Best to keep all this to yourself, or Diego would have scrapped your plan and stated you were useless and he was going to take care of it.

By now, you knew he wasn’t trying to prove something anymore. He was trying to survive, and you liked to think, he included you in this picture, at last.

You remembered he put something in your coat pocket, and said he was going to cut your hand off if you dared look into what it was any time before reaching the finish line. 

He seemed uneasy about it, and despite every fibre of your being screamed to just have a little peek, you respected his wish. Maybe it was a love letter. Kind of expected, anyone would have fallen for you -- especially after everything you did for him.

In some ways, it was something to look forward to. Sort of a surprise, a trinket your favourite uncle brings from abroad.

You thought about leaving something for him too, to keep.

But your fantasies were interrupted by the direness of reality.

The last time you camped together, you were back again in an old shack, like you were on your first encounter.

Freezing, and hugging each other awkwardly to retain some warmth, laying against the horses.

Your teeth were chattering, and this time you wished you could implode into yourself because your insides were warmer than the coats and blanket covering you.

Diego was ever the strategist. He saved energy by regulating his breathing.

You didn’t have it in you to bother him this time. You would have rather died back then in Ringo’s flowery bushes, or even before the whole race. Facing the sun.

You laid your head on his shoulder, and he brought you closer to him.

His heartbeat was a bit fast, and possibly because of your heightened sense, you felt as if you were holding his heart near your ear. Like a seashell.

A testament of his life. A heartbeat that was never quiet, but not fast enough to indicate fear.

You could write a book about him with all this information. He probably would have bought all the copies to make it look like it was a best seller.

Bad weather always brings out the worst in people. Makes you think it really is the end.

The sun comes out, and everyone realises they were just being nothing but animals, led by the rules of Mother Nature.

Animals with intent, pride, motives and resentment.

Weird animals.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Sometime after Christmas, you were not sure.

As expected, your mood shifted as soon as you got out of the snowy kingdom. Diego was fidgety, always looking in every direction, preparing for the worst.

You didn’t fully understand why he would be so much on edge, when the bearer of one of the corpse parts was you. In the end, yes he would miss you, of course, if you were gone, but he could survive. 

Frankly, you were hopeful enough to believe this would turn out in a good way. Some injury or a missing limb, but nothing too tragic.

‘Hey, no one is around, can you relax?’ You exclaimed, attempting to dissipate his nervousness.

He obviously redirected his frustration at you.

‘Why don’t you go and take a nap, relax for the both of us.’

‘Diego, enjoy the sun! You shared blood with reptiles, you’re supposed to be loving this.’

He waved you off, more preoccupied in assessing threats and a sniper that he claimed could be anywhere.

The day before, you asked him what he truly wanted, after you made a quick stop at a salon, and got a room to rest a few hours.

He looked ahead. No insults, no sharp words. Just didn’t say anything.

You told him to rest, and you were going to keep watch because well, out of the two of you, you had better sight.

He obliged. Didn’t comment on your jab either.

In that moment, when he seemed asleep, you let out some tears. Not out of despair. You just didn’t like when people started acting differently. It felt like he knew something you didn’t. But after that, you realised you had to be the rational one, and he could continue being a bundle of nerves.

After some more careful trotting, you spotted some figures in the distance.

‘Hey, there’s people there.’ You grabbed his arm to gain his attention, and pointed towards a field in the distance.

He stiffened, and slowed down imperceptibly.

Why did he have to jump to conclusions? 

Nonetheless, he lingered next to you for a second.

‘…Okay, here is the thing. We need to work together.  Which means, I tell you what to do and you do it, without questioning. Understood?’

Sergeant Brando made an appearance on a sunny day in Philadelphia.

You scowled, because all the plans he crafted so far sounded like psychopath rambling.

‘…Yessir. In which part do I polish your shoes and your medals? Why the fuck do you think those guys are ruthless assassins?’

He turned around, with a stern expression. 

‘One of those people is Valentine, shithead.’

A breath got stuck in your throat. Well, the President kind of looked imposing, for sure. But the implications of him being there meant Diego was not descending into madness all along. This was real, and happening right now.

This is it, then. If you offered your eye to him, you could maybe spare Diego. Or probably not. You already knew politicians didn’t care after getting what they wanted.

‘Whatever you do, keep that eye with you. Don’t let him get it.’ He grabbed your shoulders, talking to you as if you were a kid and he was a father leaving to go to war.

Your scowling intensified. ‘Yeah, we knew that. Any other useful tips, or you’re gonna suggest I tickle him to death?’

He gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes towards the sky. Unbelievable. You really were clueless, or were coping in the strangest way he could imagine.

‘You’re not ready for this. Get away.’ He retrieved his hands, gripped the reins of Silver Bullet and gave you a look of distaste.

You threw your arms in the air. He was impersonating General Crook and clearly believed in the part very much.

‘The fuck you want me to do, Diego? Sorry if I’m… Listen, this, to me, was just a horse race! So yes, I’m not fucking ready to cut the President into pieces!’

Well, there you said it. Was it so wrong? You followed him, and he dragged you into a crazy mess. You contributed, but mildly. Truth of the matter is, you just wanted to grab him by his fancy helmet and run away, to Britain even.

He kept that stern look, but waited before sprinting away. 

He was never going to fully accept the fault of bringing you into something bigger than you, because for some bullshit reason you got too involved, and that was your decision. Stubbornness, or ambition, don’t matter when you’re facing death.

But he did think, he had multiple occasions to leave you somewhere, and do his thing.

At some point, your alliance lost the meaning of being beneficial, and became something else.

‘Don’t argue with me right now.’ He let out an exhale, and straightened his posture. It seemed more like a request, than a demand.

‘Gain some terrain, try to get away. I’ll distract him.’

Uhm.

A martyr? Yeah, no.

‘Buddy, if we’re together, we might have a chance. You? By yourself? I might as well thank you for everything and wish you well in the afterlife.’

 He gave you an unimpressed look, but one of the corners of his mouth slightly lifted.

‘How about you give me that eye now, missy?’

It was the first time you heard him speak in that tone. Not biting nor bitchy.

You weren’t ready to…whatever.

‘If you promise to throw it over at him and leave, yes.’

You sounded too hopeful.

He smirked, grabbed his helmet, and put it on your head.

‘Just do as I say.’ He patted your head, and you swore you felt like the whole scene of your father leaving you all to fend for yourselves came back to life. 

You knew he wasn’t going to budge. In his head, it was a done deal. 

Diego was no idiot, even if you still thought he sometimes was.

There was a chance he could win this. With the dinosaurs and all. What could the President do? Shoot a cannon at him?

Oh God. A cannon.

You shook those thoughts away. All you could do, is believe this unusual guy who always got you to safety at the end of the day, despite some bumps down the road.

But not without a fight.

So you gathered all of your willpower, and channelled your energy towards removing that cursed thing from your body.

Diego watched intently, extending his hand to get it back.

You felt dizzy and overwhelmed, and the eye was resting in your palm.

Then, you threw it as far as you could towards Valentine.

Diego dropped his mouth so low, it was the most expressive you’d ever seen him. He gripped the reins in an instant, but you moved faster and pulled on Silver Bullet from the other side.

‘Are you fucking stupid? Let me go or I’ll trample you.’ He pushed you away with his full body weight, attempting to release the horse from your grasp.

‘Nonono, listen, leave it there and let’s go! Diego trust me on this, I saw something in the future before doing it, believe me.’

Well, that would have been a genius thing to do, if you had thought about it before eviscerating yourself. But he didn’t have to know.

He had a flicker of worry in his eyes, but decided to ignore it, and ignoring all his instincts telling him to push you off your horse.

‘You’re going to see me strangle you in the near future, idiot! You threw it at him! Do you have any idea of what he could do?’ He sounded like you personally went over to Valentine and agreed to destroy humanity together.

‘Diego, don’t argue with me right now.’

He was caught off guard, because he couldn’t believe you could be so unpredictable and dare use his words of kindness against him after you fucked up so cosmically.

He took a breath to recollect himself, and felt something in the air shift.

‘I will join you, but I need to deal with this first. I promise I’ll be back.’

You weren’t sure if he was a genius of mind games, if he meant it, or deep down you knew that this thing had to play out this way, despite yourself.

He sounded genuine, though, and he always came back. He always found you.

So you let him go. To be honest, you truly didn’t want to argue. You didn’t know why, but you didn’t want to watch him face the whole ordeal knowing you told each other to piss off.

Like that one time, and the one after that.

He clicked his stirrups against Silver Bullet, and rode away.

You watched him for a little while, but thought it would be best to turn around, and find somewhere quiet to wait for him. The sound of hooves faded in the distance, and you heard a train about to come by.

You watched the train move towards the scene.

That was your cue. Your mother always said, if you stare at moving trains for too long, they’ll take away your dreams on their journey.

Well, your wish, or dream, was to give Diego these little pieces of paper you wrote along the way. You wrote down the city, the date, and some remarkable things that happened. Like when he got agitated by pigeons flocking around him in Kinsley. Not a proper diary, but good enough so you wouldn’t forget.

Caesar Zeppeli x fem!reader

Oneshot, 2447 words

Warnings: a lil blood and a lil violence at the beginning, Caesar was a delinquent after all. Fluff, angst if you squint at the end

Summary: reader and Ceasar were childhood friends, that life separated. They briefly meet again in Genoa.

Hellooo! I followed @lovelacesonnette ‘s suggestion and wrote for Ceasarino! I actually really enjoyed it, and it reminded me of my childhood in Italy, so thank you sweetie xx ❤️ hope I didn’t butcher him 🥲

The title is based on this beautiful italian song I grew up with, in honour of my beloved Zeppeli 🎶🎶

Also!

Bella/ bello= means pretty, but it’s more used as a term of endearment, such as dear/sweetie.

Bellissima=beautiful

Pezzo di merda=piece of shit

Dio mio= my god, but very dramatic

Signorina=miss, in a flirty way

Brav’uomo= good man

Caro mio= my dear, in a teasing way

And when reader refers to him as southerner: people from Southern Italy are very flirty and dramatic (like yours truly)

Hope you enjoy ❤️❤️

—————————————————————————

The first time you met Caesar, he was just another guy in the bunch. He dressed better than the others in the gang: his overalls were worn out, as everyone else’s were, but he took pride in looking polished, at least. His shirt’s collar was tidy, and hair pushed back.

The first time you ended up chatting, walking a bit further behind from the rest of the group, he seemed kind enough to entertain a conversation, but fairly detached. The majority of his views on life were grey, as if he could justify whatever people did.

You mentioned a friend, or more of an acquaintance, that was the talk of the town because of his booze addiction. He told you that, people get lost sometimes, and in the context you lived in, it was not the worst that could happen.

Did it matter that this guy in question stole money from his family? In Caesar’s opinion, maybe the family got it coming. Because they were not there to help him out of his misery. If he was in a bad way, family must intervene, and sacrifice everything to save a loved one.

After that, whenever he showed up, it felt like one of those well-off, cool guys that had way too many things on their plate, but took a minute out of his busy schedule to pay you a visit.

To you, he was always a nice chat, and a comforting presence somehow. Although, many others were visibly on edge when he came around. You asked yourself why. Because this guy never had a harsh opinion on anybody, and always wore a charismatic smile.

You narrowed it down to people being intimidated by someone different, and not liking when someone shines.

Caesar was a kind of friend.

The aftermath of the Great War left everyone depressed, shaken and wary of others; poverty was rampant, and social classes were more divided than ever. Caesar came from a broken family, had a lot of siblings, and his mother was the most powerful figure in the household.

You never asked him where his father was. It’s something you just didn’t figure out how to bring up, but died to know. You wanted to get through to that mind of his, understand how he developed such an intricate mindset so young.

When your father died, it felt like everyone knew it was going to happen. He had been ill for so long, you weren’t sure you could recall a time before the disease started eating him up alive. This mix of disheartening feelings led you to just bite back your tears, and move on with your life.

Caesar didn’t come to your father’s funeral, but he was there in the following days. He told you that was the way life went, for more than most; and despite his mistakes, he must have loved you. He told you not to be too resentful. He said, at least you got to know him for a while and some kids didn’t have that luxury.

No one had the right words at the time, except for him.

When you asked him to come with you when you felt ready to pay your dad a visit at the cemetery, he refused. Said he didn’t do well with some things, and that you shouldn’t be so vulnerable; he didn’t appreciate people who make grieving their whole personality.

Those words shaped your view on the matter, more than the heartfelt condolences of your close family.

It was fairly shocking when you heard commotion in an alley near your house, and the closer you got to the shouting, the more Caesar’s figure came into view.

He was holding his head, bleeding profusely and shouting at a crowd of people.

You rushed to his aid, immediately. The look on his face was the complete opposite of what you were used to when it came to him.

From your understanding, he got into a fight with a vendor over something trivial, attacked his cart that was scattered all over the pavement, got hit by a bottle on his head.

‘You broke my fucking head, pezzo di merda!’

He shouted, and lunged towards the crowd. A few older men were holding him back.

‘Caesar, hey! What happened?’

You were incredulous, but fights were not out of the ordinary in your town.

He shot his head towards you. He was breathing heavily, as if to subside the rage he was feeling inside.

One lady in the outer corner of the crowd shook her hands dramatically, and commented exasperatedly, ‘He needs to go to the hospital, Dio mio!’

Caesar grabbed your hand, and smeared some blood over you as well.

‘I am not going unless she comes with me!’

Well, the romance behind his words was hindered by the iron taste in your mouth.

‘Uhu, sure, bello, I’ll come. Let us through, please.’

You weren’t a kid, and knew that making it look like you were two young lovers, and he was your hot-tempered boyfriend, was a great way of de-escalating.

As expected, they bought it. The vendor was still muttering a colorful plethora of insults, and you squeezed Caesar’s hand in the hopes he wouldn’t jump back into it and kill everyone with his bare hands.

The second time you realised he was not as calm and composed as you thought, was when he engaged in a public argument with the police, calling them all variations of pigs.

From then on, some stories about his temper and his violent ways spread in town, and reached your ears too.

Now, you understood why everyone acted uneasy around him. And a part of you felt the same, even if he was still the insightful, observant guy from when you first met, when it was just the two of you.

He told you his father was a good for nothing asshole, and left the family, because of the responsibility. His mother did it all, and he helped out however he could.

The only person he couldn’t find an excuse for, was his own father.

You drifted apart shortly after. You stopped hanging out with those semi-delinquents of your friends, and even found a job as a seamstress.

One day, he told you he was going to leave. He was moving to Venice, he heard there were more opportunities there, less cops.

People there liked to drink, so were pretty unfazed by crime and scruffles.

He seemed way less excited than you would be. He told you not to worry, he was always going to come back, and leave, and come back again. That was what adult life looked like to him.

You weren’t so sure. A lot of people in your town were born and died in the same spot.

You still heard some stories about his endeavours, but decided it was better to not comment on it, or ask any questions.

A few years went by, and you were walking around the docks in Genoa. You never left the city, because everything you knew was there.

You spotted him sitting in a bar. Drinking some aperitif, a negroni possibly? You never personally tried it.

It was way too late to turn on your heel and pretend he was never there. He saw you, and flashed a half cheeky smile. He looked slightly embarrassed.

You did, too. Like as if you were reuniting after a break-up, even if the last time you saw each other, was more dull than emotionally charged.

‘Hey, signorina.’ He spoke first. That broke the tension.

‘Hey, Caesar.’ You gave him a wide smile. Your emotions were always on display, he knew, but never commented on it.

He stood up to greet you, with two kisses on the cheek. He made an exaggerated smacking sound. Something he did to be playful, and to ground you.

‘You grew very well, bella. I always used to think, whenever you would get older, I’d come back.’ He smiled and rubbed his hands on the side of your arms.

That kind of attention was more addicting than you cared to admit.

He pulled the chair for you, and led you to take a sit in front of him.

‘It’s been so long. I am pleased with myself, I chose the best day to come back home.’

He was swirling the glass around, and taking in your presence.

He definitely grew into even more of a charmer. Pretty eyes, strong jaw, strong body. Confidence.

You heard tales of handsome men who came from abroad, seduced girls like you, and left without a trace, only to come back in writing on the eve of your wedding.

Caesar right now, looked all kinds of wrong, from a romantic point of view.

‘Ah, well. I think I chose the worst day to hang out here. It feels like a deep dive in the past.’

It’s strange how, when you start building something of yourself, someone you knew before then comes back to remind you of who you were.

He looked down, still smiling, but leaving a silence over the table, that made you feel like you had to fill it in with anything at all.

‘I am working at a tailor’s. You know Gianni, next to the goldsmith?’ You blurted out.

‘Oh, yes. Brav’uomo. Does he pay you on time?’

Matter of fact, he didn’t. But the idea that Caesar moved somewhere, and you were working for someone who didn’t pay you, in the hopes of outliving him and inheriting the shop, stirred an anxious feeling of inadequacy inside of you.

‘Yes, yes. I’m doing well. How is Venice?’

He must have had great stories, no?

Caesar caught your discomfort, and by how introspective and biting he was, dug deeper.

‘You look out of place, bella mia. Come to Venice.’

He always had this attitude as if things were always going to work out for him. Maybe that’s what being Caesar was like.

‘Yes, and do what? It’s not easy for me. My family is here.’

At that, Caesar took a sip of his drink, and placed a hand on his heart.

‘Family is everything. You are absolutely right.’

He changed. When he talked about his family before, it was just a narration. Stagnant, devoid of any emotion. Some hints of bitterness when his father was mentioned.

Now, he sounded at peace with it. A newfound belief in his existence.

You smiled sincerely. No doubt, he was still hot headed, that was just in his blood. But a new city did wonders to him.

‘How can I deprive this city of its beauty, by taking you away?’

You didn’t also remember him being so flirty but well, people grow, change their minds and develop new traits.

‘Caesarino, your words are like wine. And I don’t even drink.’

He chuckled.

‘Women get drunk on words, men get drunk on touch. I can’t help but think you are all angels, and we are just some brutes.’

He rested his chin on his hand.

Venice was definitely the city of love, or he was a few drinks in already.

You covered your face with your hands, still smiling. His charisma always made him look like a shining star.

‘Quit it, because I will not be one of your conquests, caro mio.’

You ended up sharing more laughter, reminiscing about your turbulent teen years.

‘Caesar, were you not scared? When you left?’

In that moment, he saw the will to escape in your eyes. Your question hid another one, something you actually wanted to ask him.

If you were special and meant for something bigger.

He chose to give you the same advice he wished somebody gave him, when he was in your position.

‘You know what, bellissima? You will realise that your convictions are not sacred. All you believe in, some day, can be shattered and turn out to be the complete opposite. That’s when real fear kicks in.’

You took a moment to digest his words.

‘Are you happy with your life now?’

He took your hand, and rubbed his thumb over your palm.

‘I have no resentment. Just a couple of regrets.’

You kept quiet, to let him express himself.

He took a breath.

‘One of them is not having a beautiful seamstress by my side. The other, is not that important.’

You rolled your eyes. He always deflected.

‘What did Venice do to you? You sound like a southerner now.’ You teased, and smacked his hand away.

He laughed, and took a look at his watch.

‘I am afraid I have to leave again, bella. But I will come by your job to get a tailored suit. I trust your exquisite taste.’

He did tell you, he was always going to leave. And come back.

You thought for a minute, what leaving everything behind and running away with him would entail.

Excitement, passion, adventure. Instability? He was a boy too radiant to be stuck in just one city, whether it be here or anywhere else in the world.

And too complicated to hold a steady place in his heart for one person.

You stood up, and considered whether to hug him or not, but he beat you to it, and squeezed you tightly.

‘Ciao, bellissima. And stand your ground with your boss. You’re clever.’ He grabbed your hand, and gave it a soft kiss.

You giggled. ‘Worst comes to worst, I’ll smash a wine bottle on his head.’

He smirked, knowing well that, in your eyes, he was still the chaotic delinquent picking fights in alleyways.

‘That won’t ever happen. Those pretty hands are meant for creation, not destruction.’

You wondered if there was going to be a next time.

Or if he was one of those people that completely changes the trajectory of your life, and then disappears.

And if he had the same effect on others.

‘Ciao ciao, Caesarino. Try not to leave an enraged wife in every harbour.’

He smiled.

‘The Zeppeli dynasty has to keep going, I am afraid that is my life duty.’

He walked away, towards one of the ships at the dock. Another guy was frantically waving on top of the ship, screaming for him. There was also a gorgeous woman on board . It looked like an unusual setup. But Caesar was always surprising.

While the ship sailed, he waved in your direction.

You stayed there until he resembled a tiny dot on the boat.

When you turned around, some bubbles surrounded you. You turned to look if some children were playing in the proximity, but you stood there alone. You heard a faint clack on the ground, and saw a seashell, with a pretty halo circling it.

You picked it up, and noticed some writing on it.

C.Z.

Seashells lasted for centuries, even carried by a bubble, that could be popped by the lightest gust of wind.