Chapter Text
Joseph stared at the letter clutched in his hands, barely able to make out the elegant slant of his grandmother’s handwriting through the tears blurring his vision. Guilt was creeping up on him, cold and bitter, and he tried to swallow around the lump growing in his throat. He knew he should contact her, knew he should have gone to her when everything had transpired and explained it all. She had always been there for him, no matter what trouble he had gotten himself into. She would have understood. Instead, he had done what he knew best—turned tail and fled. Italy, his family, the past were all behind him now. He had fled it all and ended up entirely alone.
Trembling, he smoothed out the letter and skimmed its contents. His gaze lingered on the final line.
I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home, my JoJo.
Joseph tried to picture home, but a broken assortment of images flitted through his mind. He thought of the grand estate in which he spent his early years, surrounded by luxury and wealth to which he never quite felt like he truly belonged. His time here was broken up by brief, albeit numerous stints in prison, until Speedwagon had relented and reluctantly taught him how one could evade the law (and without letting Erina get a whiff of what they were up to). Then, there was the New York apartment he had hardly any time to explore and where his Granny now awaited his return. Thinking of her made his heart ache.
The last place he had called home had been Air Supplena Island. Upon arrival, faced with the towering buildings and the stone-cold gaze of the woman who professed herself his teacher for the upcoming month, Joseph had felt nothing but pure loathing for the place.
Sour resentment welled up inside him as he pictured his mother’s face. Even in his mind, her gaze was stern and disapproving, as icy as it had been during the month of training in which he had been forced through countless gruelling challenges. What kind of a mother put her own son through that? Better yet, what kind of a mother abandoned him to fend for himself for the entirety of his life?
He knew he was being harsh. Elizabeth had her reasons, he had been assured, and he would probably be dead right now if it weren’t for her guidance, although he was reluctant to forgive and forget so soon and could not bring himself to face her just yet. Besides, he had never truly been alone. He may have grown up without a mother, but he could not deny all his Granny and Speedwagon had done for him. He had always had people to rely on—those two and then, eventually, Caesar, too.
Caesar. His heart ached as he thought of the man who had become his best friend. Their tumultuous relationship had spanned all of four weeks, yet he had never depended more on another human being. Caesar had pushed him, challenged him, and certainly annoyed the living daylights out of him. He could also keep up with him, which was no easy feat, and knew him so well it was almost frightening, as though he could read the vast maze of his mind. In the evenings on the island, when Joseph had felt pushed to his very limits, Caesar had been at his side, his presence equal parts irritating and comforting. Someone Joseph could open up to as much as he could spend hours arguing about absolutely nothing with.
He had made that awful island feel like home. And now he was dead.
It felt as though some part of him was missing, and not just because of his new prosthetic. Trying to pinpoint exactly what home was any more left him feeling empty, like he was floating, adrift, with nothing to tether him to the earth. His life was aimless, with no purpose. The Pillar Men were defeated, the world was safe, and what remained?
Heart heavy with melancholy, Joseph dropped the letter and grabbed his keys before departing the small, shabby flat he currently inhabited. With the money he had left over from his family fortune, he could probably have found somewhere a sight nicer than this, but he enjoyed the cold misery of it, in some weird, twisted way. That was why he had made his way back to England, after all.
As he wandered out into the street, he pulled his cloak tighter around him, shielding against the chill of the night. There were not many people around at this late hour, yet as he headed in the direction of the pub, he felt the familiar sensation of eyes on his back. He suppressed the urge to turn around, knowing he would see nothing, no indication of anyone staring at him. This had been happening more often, lately, bouts of paranoia that he could not shake, as though he were being watched, followed by some unseen entity.
He wondered if he was beginning to lose it and supposed that would not be entirely strange. Anyone else in his situation, who had survived what should have been certain death and suffered through the ordeals he faced, would begin to question reality. Some days he felt as though he were spiralling into insanity, certain he was being followed, his every move tracked, but there was never anyone there. He was always alone.
The newspapers did not help. It seemed as though it was every day he read about a new, gruesome murder that had shaken up the city. The visceral details rendered him nauseous, and he hoped the bloody tale the papers painted was typical sensationalism rather than rooted in fact. People were more on edge, the tension and anxiety palpably thick in the polluted London air, and Joseph swore he never knew the streets to be so quiet, practically empty when the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky fell dark. Strangely enough, the attacks were growing closer to his general location and, call him paranoid, but he could not shake the feeling he was being hunted.
That did little to deter his nightly jaunts, however. His feet were presently carrying him into the pub, the routine engrained into his brain after just a month of living here, knowing he could rely on his Hamon if need be. He would spend a couple of hours drowning his sorrows, maybe argue with some local bum if he felt particularly pissed off, then spend the better part of the next morning sleeping it off. It was by no means the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was better than moping at home with his thoughts. At least, that was what he convinced himself.
Joseph was tiredly slumped against the bar and hardly into his second beer when someone walked into the back of him, the pale yellow liquid slopping down his shirt. His fists balled. The man who had knocked him was someone he had been observing throughout the evening, watching as he flitted from woman to woman, flashing his wallet and boasting loudly before getting shooed away, after which he would search for his next mark. Clearly, he was some kind of businessman, strutting around and showing off that gaudy outfit of his, pathetic in his desperation to pull.
Joseph’s jaw clenched. “Watch where you’re going.” He did not attempt to mask the vitriolic edge to his voice.
The man who had walked into him raised an eyebrow, evidently surprised by Joseph’s anger. “Sorry, mate. Here, I’ll get you another.” He slapped a note onto the table and made to move on.
“Hold on.” Ignoring the money, Joseph rose to his feet, roughly shoving his stool to the side and stopping him in his tracks. “You ruined my shirt.”
The man fixed him with an incredulous stare. “You what? Shit happens, it’ll wash out.”
He waved a dismissive hand, unconcerned, but before he could take another step, Joseph was grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him back.
“Are you mental? Let go of me!”
The commotion drew curious stares from around the pub, but Joseph tuned out their disapproving mutterings as he glared daggers at the man. “I despise rich bastards like you,” he hissed, “Thinking they can do what they want just because they have a few bob to piss away.”
Maybe it was the guilt sparked by his grandmother’s letter eating away it him, maybe it was the stress of feeling as though he was being followed everywhere he went, or maybe it was because Caesar's memory haunted him more with each passing day, but Joseph’s patience was non-existent. This arrogant prick of a man had pushed him to the very brink.
Ignoring his outraged response, Joseph pulled his arm back and sank his fist squarely into the man’s gut.
The pained grunt that delighted his ears was gratifying, and he grinned manically as the man fell from his grip, drawing his arm back and preparing for another punch. Before it could crunch into the side of his head, the man caught his fist and was on him in an instant, shocked expression twisting into one of rage as he delivered a swift kick to Joseph, momentarily winding him. He took the opportunity to throw a few punches of his own and Joseph did not care that he was getting the shit beaten from him as he relished in the feel of violence, of pain blooming in his face as his lip was split open and blood coated his chin. He did not once think to utilise Hamon, enjoying the simple brutality of flesh on flesh.
Not long later, he was back outside, hunched over on the kerb, unsure how much time had passed. They had banned him from ever showing his face there again, but Joseph reckoned he could get away with it a week from now. He could talk his way out of any situation if he cared to do so. Caesar had told him that was his most infuriating talent.
The few stragglers that hung around shot him pitying looks but nobody was moved to offer assistance, and after a while he got to his feet and began the slow walk home. He was more buzzed than he thought, having not eaten a single thing all day, and blood was still dripping freely from his injuries. He cringed against the taste of metal, but knew it was deserved. Perhaps tomorrow, in the light of day, he would have the good sense to feel ashamed of his actions.
The wind was whistling in his ears, and he shivered, clinging onto his thin jacket. How pathetic he felt, all on his lonesome in the unfriendly London streets, having run from anyone who had ever cared about him. Bleeding, half-drunk, and feeling sorry for himself. He was a mess, and a part of him feared what his grandmother might think if she ever caught wind of what he was up to these days. He had made sure to divulge as little of his intentions to her as possible besides a postage address at which to reach him, simply letting her know that he was okay and would come to visit some day in the distant future. He had certainly not explained that he would be returning home to England to frivolously squander away his second chance at life, mired in regret and grief, succumbing to unhealthy coping mechanisms. As angry as he was at her for keeping the existence of his own mother a secret, he hated to see her upset and knew this would only push her into a spiral of worry for his wellbeing, something she did not need nor deserve in her old age.
Moonlight was spilling through the darkness, filtering through the clouds that loomed overhead. He followed the path along the Thames, absently staring out into the river that reflected speckles of silver light. It was a still, peaceful night.
Joseph froze. He had that feeling again, that awful, creeping sensation of eyes on him, following his movements. Slowly, he turned around, peering into the shadows. Nothing stared back at him, but he could not shake the thought that he was being watched.
He remained still, watching and waiting, and a flash of movement from somewhere behind him caught his eye. Joseph whirled around, anger blooming hot within his chest.
“Who’s there?” He demanded of the darkness, fists curling. “I’ll knock your fucking lights out.” A few moments of silence followed his outburst, and he began to feel stupid for his overreaction. He really ought to get a grip. Maybe wandering these streets so late at night was not such a great idea, especially with how paranoid he tended to get.
He set off once again for home when he felt the unmistakeable presence of someone at his back. This time, he did not turn around. Keeping his tone carefully even and conveying confidence he did not felt, he called out. “Well, aren’t you a creepy one, following me around?”
“Joseph.” The response was spoken directly into his ear, and he jumped, not expecting it to be so close. There was something uncomfortably familiar about that voice, but before he could dwell on it, a hand was wrapping around his neck faster than he could react and pushing him to the ground with inhuman speed. His chest collided with the concrete, forcing the air from his lungs as his attacker climbed roughly onto his back, pinning him to the floor. He tensed as he felt them lean down, breath ghosting against the back of his neck, and struggled in their hold to no avail.
“Get off me, or you’ll regret it,” he hissed through gritted teeth, rage overtaking his initial panic. When they did not relent, he turned to the one weapon they would not expect. His body thrummed with energy as he took in a deep, steadying breath, trying to channel his energy into Hamon that he could use to throw them off, but the hand around his neck suddenly tightened, restricting his airway. Eyes wide, Joseph thrashed against their hold, fear renewing his actions. It was as though the person had anticipated what he was about to do and had reacted to it.
“Stop.” The voice was dangerously calm, with a threatening edge that had Joseph stilling momentarily. His brain was accelerating into overdrive, wondering what he should do, what he could do. He had faced far worse than some street thug, and was not going to let them get away with this. Still, he was unnerved at how quickly they had reacted to his imminent use of Hamon, as though they knew just how to deal with it. Like they had experience with it. Not to mention the spark of familiarity that shot through him when he heard them speak—he was certain he knew that voice from somewhere.
The hand pinning him loosened its grip slightly, and Joseph’s defensive instincts kicked in. He writhed on the ground, managing to catch his attacker in the softness of their side with a frantically kicking leg. Taking advantage of their momentary surprise, he used what remained of his strength to shove them off him and flip onto his back, quickly shuffling away. Small rocks and pebbles embedded into his palms as he put as much distance as he could between himself and the form crouched over on the floor, but the discomfort was overpowered by the rush of adrenaline that fuelled his actions.
Panting heavily, Joseph tried to regulate his breathing, preparing to subdue them with Hamon once again. He tensed, readying himself to strike, when he caught sight of something that made his heart stop.
Dark eyes were trained on him, peering through a mess of blond hair, and as the moonlight streamed through the clouds, he noticed that it was not a trick of the light—they were a deep shade of red, twin pools of scarlet watching each movement he made. The figure was frighteningly pale, whether from the silvery glow of the moon or something more unnatural, yet what made Joseph’s blood run cold were the pair of pink birthmarks sat atop high cheekbones.
“Caesar,” Joseph breathed, arms falling limply at his side, Hamon fizzling out.
Upon hearing his name spoken, Caesar blinked, and for a moment his eyes shone a familiar shade of green. His mouth opened, and he seemed to be about to say something, expression conflicted. The two stared at each other in stunned silence, something heavy in the air between them.
Joseph fought with himself, trying to force his mouth to move, to verbalise shock, anger, relief—anything, anything to convey to Caesar the baffling swirl of emotions tearing up his psyche in that moment. His tongue was thick and useless in his mouth. He turned aside and spat blood.
Caesar growled, low and unnatural, and the sound set the hairs on the back of Joseph’s neck on end. Before he could shout out, Caesar had climbed to his feet and fled into the darkness.
All Joseph could do was stare after him and grapple with the fact that he had just been attacked by the ghost of his best friend.