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The last few grains of sand disappear through the holes of the shower drain as Noriaki turns the silver handle on the wall, bringing the water running down his back to a stop.
He looks down, exhausted, watching the water pooling on the floor around his feet start traveling down its way to the drain. Although warm and welcoming, the shower was not enough to wash off all the weight of the day that resided on his body like dirt, even if he was clean.
As the white fabric of the towel rubbed up his right leg, it turned red. Cuts and bruises paint his body as the magnum opus of a particularly rough day.
An earlier fight with one of Dio’s underdogs crawls its way back into Noriaki’s mind, although never leaving. He closes his eyes and bites down a piece of skin off of his lips as he relives it in his head.
Not only was he thrown around and beaten up like a weak dog, the enemy stand user made sure to leave marks on his body for Noriaki to think about. His knuckles red, cuts down his legs, a swollen bit on the face, some unknown pain on his back which he couldn’t pinpoint and purple spots on his bony shoulders, which normally were kept in a 90° perfect posture, now not too concerned, dropping down as a human reflex to bring comfort to Noriaki. He indeed needed comfort, but knew better — he won’t be getting any, so deal with it.
He already knew it by core though. Ignore the melancholy, patch yourself up and carry on. Nobody is coming to help you out of your misery. Put it out yourself.
He winces as he puts on his pajama pants, the fabric dragging across the open wounds and reliving some parcel of the pain.
He doesn’t mind putting on his shirt, too careless about it. He’s alone anyway, Jotaro, his assigned roommate for the night, probably down the hall with the other crusaders.
He looks at himself in the foggy mirror. His reflection is not blurry enough, as his features are unreadable, but his wounds still visible through the fog. The ghost of a purple lump down his jaw reminds him of the disturbing fact that he is alive by a very thin line.
He can feel his back hitting the wall full on. He screams as he feels the impact force the air out of his lungs, the unmovable concrete reminding him that he is not as resistant as it is. He falls to the ground, scraping his knees in the process, barely holding himself on his arms. The stand user is fast, making use of the opportunity window to use his stand and throw a civilian’s car on his direction.
Noriaki looks up, watching the heavy SUV flying towards him, approaching fast and strong. He has a spare second to react, and even though he was already too weak to fight back, Hierophant Green makes a last effort to keep Noriaki alive. One of his green strands dashes to the side, faster than a snake, and wraps itself around exposed pipes from the building behind Noriaki’s feet.
Noriaki is thrown to the ground on his side, landing over his arm, feeling the gust of wind fly over his body and ducking his head between his shoulders as he hears the loud blast of a couple thousand pounds of metal hit the wall. He didn’t react, Hierophant did. He also covered Noriaki’s face with his tentacles, protecting his head of any of the debris flying at him.
He hears someone screaming his name but cannot pinpoint who. His eyes close as he feels something warm spill down his cheek.
He woke up in the back of Mr. Joestar’s truck, car running down the roads to the nearest hotel, tucked on Avdol’s side. Avdol was patching his arm up with emergency, Noriaki watching the man’s skillful hands remove a shard of glass from his own arm. His eyes lazily look over to his right, spotting Jotaro watching him over. The Joestar swallows as he finds the street views more interesting.
In the hotel room Mr. Joestar booked for the three older men, Avdol did his best to fix Noriaki. Hospitals weren’t an alternative right now, the group being in an unfavorable position. Noriaki learned later that, while he laid down unconscious on the ground, the other crusaders fought without success. Before Polnareff could pierce through the enemy stand user, he managed to escape, meaning that he was still alive, not as wounded as to not be considered a lurking threat.
Noriaki, thanks to Avdol, is not under risk of infection anymore, but still needs bandages all over. Avdol demanded that Noriaki showered well, not having any shards of glass sticking to him anymore but still dirty with sand and concrete dust.
Whatever healing technique Avdol did with fire over his back worked in great success, Noriaki now able to at least slump around on his feet without feeling like his spine was broken in two. The walk to his and Jotaro’s room was worst that anything he ever did, the shame of feeling weak consuming his body worst than the open wounds on his body. The last time he felt anything like this was when he had to walk in his house full of family members all dirty and scraped from his bullies at school, shirt dripping in blood and the vanilla flavored yogurt he took to class for lunch.
His mother just looked at him, and in her Russian accent over very fluent Japanese, she tells him to go clean himself up. All his aunties watch him drag his feet across the hall to the bathroom, not saying a single word. He didn’t remember that they would come over for his mother’s birthday, or else he would’ve washed the yogurt with the gardening hose outside.
He opens the bathroom door, letting the steam run to the bedroom. His hair is still wet, although not dripping water anymore.
He looks up to see Jotaro sitting on the bed nearest to the window, who looks back at him. Noriaki now resents himself for not putting his shirt on.
Jotaro eyes the purple painted on his shoulders, not saying a single word. Noriaki feels like a wounded deer in headlights, wanting to hide but too tired to do so. He opts for standing still, allowing Jotaro to look at his miserable build and decide if he wants to mock Noriaki for getting beaten up by a guy with a rose colored stand. Noriaki hears the wind whistling outside, watching the tree figures on the other side of the windows dance unevenly. It’s almost dark outside.
At last the bigger man stands up in silence, grabbing the wooden bench from the study desk of the dingy room and walk towards the red head.
Noriaki quietly watches him as he wonders if Jotaro will hit him with the bench for failing the mission.
Jotaro places the bench behind Noriaki, the wood touching the smaller man’s calves. They’re toned, not from exercise but from walking way more than the normal person does.
Jotaro points at the bench, not saying a word as he turns around and walks back to the study desk. Noriaki obeys, sitting down on the bench in the middle of the room, not having enough strength to bother asking what.
Jotaro comes back with a white bag in hand, dropping it on the bed besides them. He eyes the purple spots on his friend’s shoulders once again, pursing his lips together.
He drops down to one knee and takes Noriaki’s left leg in hand way softer than what Noriaki expected, lifting the pant leg up to his knee.
The red slash is enough to make Jotaro wince but not enough to stop him. He reaches back into the bag over the bed and takes out medicine and bandages.
Noriaki feels a shiver run down his spine, not from the cold, but from Jotaro’s warmth. His reflexes work for once and he tries to pull his leg back, but Jotaro is thrice as strong as him, keeping him in place.
Noriaki blinks rapidly as he watches the stoic, abrasive man kneeling down in front of him, dipping cotton in medicine to clean his cuts. He almost doesn’t believe at first, but the sting of the medicine touching his flesh makes sure to let him know it’s very real.
He winces loudly and puts his palm on Jotaro’s forehead, trying to push him away and failing to do so. Jotaro ignores his attempts to escape, cleaning him well.
Noriaki’s avoidance is subdued only when he watches Jotaro wrap the white bandage roll around his calf, covering the slashes down his knee to nearly his foot. As Jotaro finishes one leg, he starts the other, way more delicate than the usual abrasive but non existent touch.
Noriaki’s lip tremble as he sees what he thinks is a mirage, to see Jotaro patch his wounds up. He doesn’t say a word, although wants to say a lot.
The warmth of Jotaro’s fingers is alien, not because he is usually cold but also because he never touches anyone. Jotaro seems untouchable, unachievable, but now he’s there, craning his neck to carefully watch if he is leaving any wounds behind.
As he bandages over a bigger cut, Noriaki shakes, gripping his own pants to not cry out in pain. His white knuckle hold over his pants is loosened when Jotaro caresses his knee.
As unexpected as it is, it’s welcome. Noriaki’s lips fall apart as he watches Jotaro carefully pulls the pant legs down, now covering up his calves. He gets up again, wordlessly running his eyes over the purple bruises on Noriaki’s upper body.
Noriaki keeps his head down, cheeks red and hot. As Jotaro’s fingers touch the bruises, his lips purse together. He never felt this way, this gentle care, this warmth, this touch.
Nobody ever touched him like this. Nobody ever took care of his wounds like this, and he didn’t expect Jotaro to be the first, his feelings towards him growing every day but still holding him to the unattainable concept.
Thanks to Noriaki’s head hanging down, Jotaro sees a cut across one of Noriaki’s spine bumps, gently running his finger down the trail of poking bones down to the cut. Noriaki winces again, grabbing Jotaro’s leg and pooling his black pants around his fingers, looking for balance as he shakes.
He never felt so cared for, so loved. Even if there was no actual romance, he felt loved by Jotaro’s touch, taking care of his wounded, miserable body.
Noriaki was ashamed, of course. To be seen so fragile by Jotaro, who never seemed to have weak moments.
Jotaro’s fingers wrap slowly around Noriaki’s jaw, lifting his face for him to see. The yellow light from the lamp highlights Noriaki’s face, confused, red and shy. He eyes the lump on the boy’s jaw, and he focuses back to consuming his whole face.
Jotaro’s heart cracks as he remembers earlier in the day, when Noriaki’s limp body was help up by Polnareff, who screamed to the top of his lungs for the others to help as he wrapped Noriaki’s arm on his neck to try and lift him from the ground. Noriaki seemed like a fabric doll, easy to maneuver, not struggling against anything. Lifeless. Jotaro runs faster than he thought that he could, across the street, and kneels in front of them. Polnareff, for the first time seen by Jotaro, looks scared. His grandfather and Avdol catch up, the latter man holding back his panting breath in shock and Joseph voices his concern out loud as Jotaro lifts Noriaki’s face up.
There’s not only one strand of blood running down his nose, but two thick lines of blood from his nose to his chin, lips open as blood pools around his mouth. Another stray line of blood comes down from his hair across his left eye, both closed. Jotaro’s hand shakes heavily as he lifts Noriaki from Polnareff’s hold, asking his grandfather with wide eyes for them do to something.
Now, his fingers shake gently as he holds Noriaki’s face, clean, eyes open, chest heaving — alive. Jotaro hopes Noriaki never knows what he looked like at the moment he swore Noriaki was dead on his arms.
His eyes run from the purple mark to the redness of his cheeks to purple again, his eyes now on his. Noriaki looks up at Jotaro with the most doe eyes Jotaro has ever seen, and he tilts his head as Noriaki blinks slowly like a cat.
Jotaro and Noriaki never had any confessions, any romance, any loving words aside comradeship from their mission, but now Noriaki felt like as if Jotaro confessed. As if Jotaro confessed his burning passion, because that’s how warm and loved Noriaki felt. And Noriaki confessed back.
And maybe they did confess, albeit not a word said.