What he's doing, frankly, is crazy. He's well aware of that. But for Jotaro, actions will always speak louder than words, and though he's not technically the one who created this mess, he is the one who dragged it out and into the light of day, so on some level that makes it his to accept and contend with. That's how things are. And Giorno is a special case anyway, because Giorno is always a special case. He has been since the beginning.
And this is what they do, the niche he somehow fills in Giorno's existence by providing something he doesn't have from his other sources. Someone beyond the inherent power structure and struggles that dominate his life. Someone who grabs him from the middle of it and drags him elsewhere.
Sometimes there's chocolate pudding. Tonight there'll probably be blood.
As he's leaving, with Star Platinum at his side and a backpack slung over his shoulders, he pauses outside Kakyoin's door and takes a moment to just stand there, head lowered, thinking. Before he quite realizes it, he can feel the wood of the door beneath his fingertips; he won't open it, knows better than that, but there's a familiarity and closeness in reaching for it anyway.
I'm sorry for making you wait, he thinks. Just hang on a little longer?
And then — they go.
Giorno beats him to the beach, which is expected. Giorno — at first glance in the twilight, that isn't who he sees, which isn't expected at all. The saving grace is that he's far too short to be Dio, and the clothes are wrong, and the Stand looks nothing like The World, but from a distance there's still that moment, just like the first night they met all over again.
The noise he makes to give himself and his presence away comes in the form of unshouldering his bag and tossing it onto the sand with a thump; whatever's in there, it's soft enough not to risk being damaged by being dropped, but heavy enough to make a sound when it lands. Star is at his side, at always, and his face is the one hairline crack in an otherwise stoic situation, because he's grinning in a way that can only be called loud as a contrast to the quiet twilight silence.]
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What he's doing, frankly, is crazy. He's well aware of that. But for Jotaro, actions will always speak louder than words, and though he's not technically the one who created this mess, he is the one who dragged it out and into the light of day, so on some level that makes it his to accept and contend with. That's how things are. And Giorno is a special case anyway, because Giorno is always a special case. He has been since the beginning.
And this is what they do, the niche he somehow fills in Giorno's existence by providing something he doesn't have from his other sources. Someone beyond the inherent power structure and struggles that dominate his life. Someone who grabs him from the middle of it and drags him elsewhere.
Sometimes there's chocolate pudding. Tonight there'll probably be blood.
As he's leaving, with Star Platinum at his side and a backpack slung over his shoulders, he pauses outside Kakyoin's door and takes a moment to just stand there, head lowered, thinking. Before he quite realizes it, he can feel the wood of the door beneath his fingertips; he won't open it, knows better than that, but there's a familiarity and closeness in reaching for it anyway.
I'm sorry for making you wait, he thinks. Just hang on a little longer?
And then — they go.
Giorno beats him to the beach, which is expected. Giorno — at first glance in the twilight, that isn't who he sees, which isn't expected at all. The saving grace is that he's far too short to be Dio, and the clothes are wrong, and the Stand looks nothing like The World, but from a distance there's still that moment, just like the first night they met all over again.
The noise he makes to give himself and his presence away comes in the form of unshouldering his bag and tossing it onto the sand with a thump; whatever's in there, it's soft enough not to risk being damaged by being dropped, but heavy enough to make a sound when it lands. Star is at his side, at always, and his face is the one hairline crack in an otherwise stoic situation, because he's grinning in a way that can only be called loud as a contrast to the quiet twilight silence.]