Chapter Text
8:42 AM
Jotaro’s heart pounds against his ribs, double-time to the rhythm of his feet on the pavement. More than a couple bystanders leap out of the way, or find themselves knocked aside. Jotaro’s stride doesn't falter. Star Platinum’s desperation blends with his own -- time stutter-stops around him, and he flies down the street faster than his stride alone allows.
Spatial memory directs him to the nearest payphone. His Stand races through the number for the Higashikata household, but it's Jotaro who has to hold the receiver, white-knuckled, as the call connects.
One ring.
Please, Jotaro thinks. His watch reads 8:42. So much can go wrong in twelve minutes.
Two rings.
All he can think is: what if it was Jolyne. Four years old now but she won't be for long; his girl he loves so much he can't breathe -- what if it was her.
Three rings and there's a click --
“It better be important.”
Jotaro exhales. “Ms. Higashikata,” he says, his voice clipped and calm, never mind the plastic creaking in his grip. He misses his black coat. The sun doesn't soak into the white one the same way. “Josuke’s been hurt.”
There's a brief silence, and then: “What,” Tomoko snaps. “What happened? Where is he?”
“Morioh Hospital,” Jotaro says. “A gas main burst, supposedly. Josuke -- ”
“Where are you?” Tomoko cuts him off. Jotaro tells her the street. “Stay there. Explain on the way.” There's a deafening clatter as she slams the receiver back into place. Jotaro flinches, then replaces his own receiver more steadily. There are hairline fractures in the casing.
Barely a minute ticks by before Koichi catches up to him, breathless and jogging on much shorter legs. “Mr. Jotaro!”
“Koichi,” he says. Koichi stumbles to a stop, doubling over with his hands on his knees. Guilt twinges in Jotaro’s sternum: he’d bolted without telling anyone where he was going. “Ms. Higashikata is on her way,” he says, by way of explanation. “She'll take us to the hospital.”
Koichi’s eyes flicker rapidly between Jotaro and the payphone. “Oh -- that's -- ” He gasps, struggling to breathe. “You called her? That's good. She should know.” He’s got a glazed look that Jotaro recognizes, his speech rushed and inflectionless, his skin pale under the sheen of sweat. “Okuyasu’s with -- he wouldn't leave. They couldn't make him.”
“Good.” Koichi’s reliable -- he followed Jotaro, after all -- but Okuyasu is loyal. There's no one better for Josuke to have by his side.
There's silence for a while as Koichi catches his breath. The boy flops down on the curb, elbows on his knees, Echoes 3 sprawled beside him. The sun creeps out from between the clouds, turning the cool, electric damp of the brief thunderstorm into smothering humidity; steam rises from the pavement as shallow puddles evaporate, trapped under the sudden heat. Jotaro stays standing, spine stiff, shoulders square. He doubts he could bend if he wanted to.
“Do you think -- ” Koichi begins. He glances up at Jotaro, blinking through the sweaty fringe of his bangs. “Do you think Josuke will be alright?”
Jotaro heaves a sigh through his nose. He should say ‘yes’. Koichi may be reliable and thoughtful, but he's still a child turning to Jotaro’s presented surety, responsibility, competence for reassurance. But Jotaro has never been one to condescend, and he's always favored blunt honesty over lying promises, so he says, “I don't know.”
Jotaro survived his own impalement, of course, but that was with an implement designed for the job, and he'd collapsed almost immediately after. He has no idea how long Josuke fought with a chunk of staircase through his stomach. Accounting for splinters and secondary infection, the immediate danger of hypovolemic shock, the risk of sepsis from the gut wound, organ damage and all the complications that come with it … Josuke’s odds, no matter how tough the boy is, are not good.
Despite the humid heat and the sweat dripping down his back, Jotaro’s blood turns cold.
A muffled sniffle startles him out of his thoughts. Koichi’s head droops between his knees, but Echoes Act 3 glares up at Jotaro, its insectoid eyes uncomfortably familiar. Jotaro bites his tongue -- at least, at Koichi’s age, he would have violently rejected any adult trying to soft-touch his weakness. It's not like he has any idea what to say.
“Kira Yoshikage is dead,” Koichi says, his voice only slightly strangled. “But if Josuke d -- dies for it, I'm not sure Morioh is any better off.”
Jotaro flinches, remembering Cairo, and friends buried. “We all did all we could,” he says. His focus drifts into the middle distance. The rising haze renders their surroundings unreal, ghostly and oversaturated in unnatural light. “Koichi. You fought well. It's out of our hands now.”
Koichi doesn't answer, and Jotaro is saved from further damning introspection by Tomoko screeching to a halt in front of them. There's a hard line between her eyebrows; her face is drawn and bloodless, and her hair spills haphazardly around a headband. The door lurches open as she kicks it. One lip curls over her teeth. “Get in.”
Jotaro wastes no time in doing so; Koichi scrambles into the backseat. The car accelerates away before either of them has finished closing their doors. Jotaro gets a split second to reorient and catch his breath before Tomoko snaps, “What. Happened.”
“Right now they believe it was a gas main.” Jotaro repeats the lie calmly. Tomoko shoots him a glare that makes his throat close.
“Do not," Tomoko snarls, "lie to me.” Her knuckles pale on the steering wheel, her mouth a thin, hard line. “This is a Stand thing, isn't it.”
Jotaro prides himself on his poker fake, but he must betray some kind of shock. The car pulls up to a red light. Tomoko growls, slamming her palm against the wheel, and rounds on Jotaro with another venomous glare.
“I don't know how your family works,” she says, “but my son and I talk to each other. Josuke doesn't take that route to school. It's not even on the way. And you just happened to be at the scene? No. This is some Stand shit, and my son is hurt, and you -- ” Tomoko snarls -- “are going to tell me exactly what the hell is going on!”
Jotaro’s shoulders collide with the window; he realizes that he's been leaning away. The light turns green. Tomoko slams the gas, dragging a squeal from the car's tires and jolting Jotaro back against the seat. Once things have stabilized, he clears his throat, stealing a moment to adjust. He's not used to discussing Stand matters with non-users. “We met to follow a lead on the Stand user we've been pursuing for some time. The killer must have intercepted Josuke and Okuyasu on their way.”
“The killer,” Tomoko repeats.
“A serial killer. He targeted young women. He's dead.”
“You brought my son,” says Tomoko, “to fight a serial killer.”
Jotaro almost feels the sweat on his back freeze. “I didn't anticipate fighting,” he says. Feeble excuse. “We only meant to ask the man's son a few questions.” His mouth is dry. He has put Josuke in danger, more times, more seriously than he can conscience. As a Stand user, all he knows is that the faster you learn to fight, the tougher the opponents you learn to face, the better you survive. But -- as a father, he's dragged a child, a mother's son and only family, into potentially deadly combat.
And now Josuke might die because of it. God. What has he done?
He can't articulate any of that to Tomoko. He's spared from having to. Koichi stutters from the backseat, “Ms. Tomoko, we -- we didn't -- this is our home. We couldn't just let someone like that -- Ms. Tomoko, he killed our friend.”
“I don't blame you for fighting,” says Tomoko. There's less of an edge to her voice; she's gentler with Koichi. “I do blame Kujo for asking you to.”
"It's not Mr. Jotaro’s fault -- ” Koichi protests. Jotaro stops him.
“It is.” He inhales. Exhales. “I asked you to follow me into danger, when I should have done my best to protect you.” He does not look at Tomoko. “Ms. Higashikata -- I first fought for my life as a Stand user at seventeen. That’s not an excuse, but -- ”
“I don't care,” Tomoko says. Jotaro looks away, tilting his head against the window.
He doesn’t blame her.
9:17 AM
Koichi bolts from the car before it's fully stopped, Echoes’s first Act racing ahead of him. Tomoko follows at a brisk walk, her shoulders square. Jotaro is last, his movements ponderous, like his frame weighs too heavily on itself. Koichi barely notices, slowing down only so the automatic doors can open.
Echoes circles near the buzzing fluorescent lights, scanning the sparsely-populated waiting room. An exhausted adult couple slouch on each other; a worn-out graduate and a man with a restless infant curl up between cramped, mass-produced plastic armrests, but there’s no sign of Okuyasu. Then Koichi bursts through the inner doors himself, and his lower vantage point makes out a dark shape huddled under a shitty magazine-coated coffee table. Flickers of blue and white betray The Hand, summoned like a shell around its user.
Echoes drifts down, creeping across the floor. It pauses nose-to-nose with The Hand, then ghosts past, draping its tail around Okuyasu’s shoulders. Koichi approaches more cautiously, crouching to peer under the table.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Okuyasu jerks, hiccuping on a violent sob, and uncurls just enough to glare at Koichi with one bloodshot eye. Koichi can't help but recoil, hissing sympathetically: nail-scratches criss-cross Okuyasu’s face, and blunt, half-moon bite marks cover his hands and wrists. Gray-black strands of hair scatter the plastic carpet.
“Fuck off,” Okuyasu snarls, his voice shattered and hoarse.
Koichi winces and withdraws, settling with his back to the coffee table, legs crossed in cautious guard. Okuyasu doesn't seem to object to Echoes, so the scarab’s tail stays looped around his shoulders. The Hand strokes Echoes’s headplate with its left hand, just once, before retreating back to shelter.
“He'll be okay,” Koichi says, lying. “He’s tough -- ”
“Yeah? So was my brother.” Okuyasu sniffs, curling tighter into a ball. “Look where that got him. Shut up.”
Across the room, Jotaro talks rapidly into a payphone. His face is hard as ever, but pale, and his free hand flexes uneasily at his side. Tomoko has launched into a heated, frantic argument with the receptionist, who -- oh, no, is that the same lady Koichi almost dropped medicine on? She seems jaded enough. Koichi doesn't want to think about it. If he thinks too hard, he feels like his chest is going to cave in. Even if he closes his eyes, the fluorescent lights flicker behind his lids.
… Okuyasu had the right idea. “Room for me under there?” Koichi asks.
He doesn't expect an answer, but Okuyasu mumbles, “If you squish.”
“Not all of us are giants,” Koichi bats back, and it's almost normal. Then he inhales, tastes cleaning fluid in the air, and remembers.
Okuyasu alone barely fits under the tiny table, but by a fumbling game of Tetris Koichi manages to fold himself into the cramped space. They only both fit if Okuyasu sort of wraps himself around Koichi, which is -- fine. It's fine. They're fine. Claustrophobia is a funny thing: sometimes he feels more trapped in an open space than an enclosed one. The table offers comforting shadow, shelter from the buzzing lights, warmth and deep pressure from someone Koichi trusts with his life.
He dispels Echoes’s first Act and calls up its third. The humanoid perches on top of the coffee table in a delinquent’s sprawl, scowling at everyone in the room who can't see it. “Hey,” Koichi wheezes -- he can't quite get a full lungful of air -- “put The Hand away. I’ve got us.”
There’s a pause. Okuyasu lets out a breath, his chest deflating. The Hand dissipates.
“I wanted to stay with him,” he mumbles into the back of Koichi’s head. “They wouldn't let me. I know I would’ve just been in the way but I gotta, I gotta -- ” He’s shaking. Koichi’s not sure he ever actually stopped. “Who's gonna protect him? What if -- ”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Koichi says. Okuyasu flinches.
“I know,” he snarls, and then, “Sorry. Sorry. I’m not -- ” He gulps in a breath. “‘m kinda shit right now.”
“You’re hiding under a table.” Koichi leans his head back, bonking Okuyasu gently on the nose. “Everything’s shit.”
Okuyasu exhales, his breath hot and wet. A damp spot forms rapidly in Koichi’s hair. “They wouldn’ let me stay. I almost -- I almost fought a guy. What if he doesn’t -- ”
“We’ll be okay,” Koichi says. Okuyasu makes -- some kind of horrible noise, a wheezing sob-laugh that sounds like it was punched out of him.
“You don’ get it,” he says, strangled. “He saved my life. He’s -- you guys are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If I didn’t -- if I couldn’t -- it’s my fault -- ”
Okuyasu’s coherence disintegrates rapidly. Koichi scrabbles for something to anchor them both. All he can do is lie, again, “He'll be okay.”
Okuyasu goes quiet, his chest heaving. His breath ruffles Koichi’s hair.
“Nah,” he mumbles. His voice drops low, quiet, a hoarse wreck. “He was cold.”
Koichi’s throat constricts. “What?”
“He's so warm, right? He’s, like, a space heater.” Okuyasu hisses through his teeth. “But he was cold. If I wasn't holding him up, he wouldn't’ve been up.” He exhales, inhales, tightens his arm around Koichi’s ribs. “I know what a guy who's dying feels like.”
“S-H-I-T,” Echoes mutters to itself. Koichi bites his tongue against the sudden sting in his eyes. He knows he's been lying, but he's been lying to himself. It's easier to just keep thinking Josuke’s invincible like he’s always seemed, same as Tomoko and Jotaro, too bright to flicker. He can't think -- Josuke might actually die. It doesn't -- make sense.
“Shut up,” Okuyasu growls, though Koichi hasn't made a sound.
“Fuck you,” Koichi snaps back. “Sorry I'm upset that Josuke might die -- ”
Reality rips once, twice, and they're standing on opposite sides of the (much shorter) coffee table. Koichi staggers back, tripping into a row of chairs before he recovers. Okuyasu glares at him, fists bunched, teeth bared, head down like a boxer.
“So what,” he snarls. The Hand glares in his shadow. Echoes darts in front of Koichi, bristling. “People die! It just happens! There’s nothing you can fucking do about it!”
“At least I'm not okay with it,” Koichi says icily.
He regrets it as soon as it's left his mouth. Okuyasu chokes like he's been gut-punched, blood draining from his face; a heartbeat later he lunges, starting on a furious scream --
-- and then Jotaro appears between them with a rush of air pressure. Star Platinum blocks them from each other's view. One massive hand engulfs Echoes’s head; a ragged curse from its other side suggests it's grabbed the Hand as well.
“Stop,” Jotaro says, his voice pitched lower in his chest than a voice should go.
They stop.
Jotaro looks like he's about to say something more -- maybe shout at them, maybe just go clipped and quiet. Then Star Platinum slips back into his shadow. His shoulders sink, thin lines deepening around his face and mouth.
“Stop,” he says again, quietly. Koichi nods. Okuyasu does the same, rubbing his wrist.
“Need some air,” Okuyasu spits. He spins on his heel and leaves, hunched over, stride long. The automatic doors grind as the Hand swipes them open.
Koichi takes half a step, and collides with Jotaro’s hand.
“Don't,” the man says.
Koichi gulps. “But -- ”
“Give him space.”
Koichi casts a final glance through the door. “ … Okay.”