watchfob

the market is noisy.

the market is always noisy, filled with people of all shapes and sizes. children and parents. grizzled old men and weary young wives making their rounds, loud haggling between buyers and sellers, groups of boys telling lewd jokes and laughing uproariously every few minutes. the distant sound of a baby crying, the soft snorting of resting horses. the market always operates at an undulating roar.

he listens and listens and listens to their useless chatter, replies to their conversations, answers their questions. imagines their answers. oh, thanks laurent! i didn’t know that. you’re always full of information, laurent. are you working on a new project? why don’t you come with us to the pub tonight! it’ll be fun, laurent. you do know what fun is, don’t you?

he speaks all of ten words during his visit. “the usual, please.” the merchants grunt and hand their goods over, pre-made packages set aside for a faithful customer. the clinking of coins mark the end of the exchange. laurent bids his thanks, hefting the bags over his shoulder, draping them across his chest, clutching tightly to the fabric, and walks on.

-

he speaks less and less, until he finds himself not speaking at all. until he finds himself speaking all the time, inside the apartment he had once called quaint, answering the walls that screamed silence at him. every day. every day.

he talks himself hoarse. the empty air, he finds, is a very good listener.

-

the market is noisy. he makes his way quickly to his regular stalls, purse at the ready. an inclination of the head, money changing hands, the acquisition of his usual necessities. he walks.

it isn’t until he gets home that he realizes he’d forgotten to listen.

-

his sighs fill the room. they feel like company, if only for a little while.

-

laurent can only sigh so much.

tent flaps, warm summer air, the sound of insects outside. the light is fading but the lantern inside spills honey across the walls and they laugh gently, almost hushed, so as not to disturb the evening.

your hairs getting a little shaggy, she says softly, touching his head. he leans into her hand slightly, and hopes she doesnt notice.

(she does.)

is it? he says in a tone that suggests hes perfectly aware of it. i kind of like it.

do you? hers is much more amused. i suppose its… different.

he dips his head, smiling at a spot on the ground, and her breath catches for just a moment.

i think i might grow it out, he says quietly. he does not meet her eyes.

she is silent for a beat, watching. then, reaches into her pocket.

you might find this of use, then, she says, and places a ribbon in his hand. its a deep black, and silky. he wonders where she got it, and why - hes never seen her wear it herself.

he doesnt voice these thoughts.

thank you.

he tries not to savor the few seconds her fingers are on his palm, but fails miserably.







when she is no longer there to guide his sword, he ties the ribbon to the hilt of falchion, and pretends.

“How long you think we can keep this up?”

His voice is gruff, quiet in the night air, and it almost blends with the crackle of the campfire. Noriaki looks from his whittling over to Jotaro. He’s hunched forward, sitting on the log they keep for a bench, with his arms crossed around his chest.

“Keep what up?” Noriaki asks, deciding to humor him. His knife-hand stills, but he rubs the chips and etches in the piece of wood with his other thumb.

“This,” Jotaro says, as if it explains anything. He sweeps his hand in an arc in front of him, gesturing vaguely at their haphazard camp along the river.

“Well.” Noriaki digs his nail into the soft wood. “Our reputations are still salvageable in town, but, while being near the water is convenient, I’m not quite so fond of the bugs.” He slaps a mosquito freshly landed on his leg almost for emphasis. “I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery whenever it may come.”

Jotaro snorts softly.

“No,” he says. Noriaki figured as much. “I mean... all of this.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to use more words than that, Jotaro.” Nori turns back to his carving and scrapes the knife across the top of the piece. A shaving falls to the ground, landing silently on top of the pile of curls and wood dust at his feet.

Jotaro sighs. He’s quiet, but Noriaki can feel his movement, rather than see it. He’s witnessed Jotaro’s start-stop method of working out his thoughts before speaking too many times before.

“‘m not built for killing,” he finally decides upon. He mutters the words, tucking his arms even further into himself. His boot scuffs at the dirt.

“Ah.”

It’s almost funny, Noriaki thinks. 6’5” and solid muscle and he says he’s not built for killing. But it’s less a physical complaint than it is a mental one, Noriaki knows. He’s intimately familiar with the bags under Jotaro’s eyes, the way he tosses in his sleep.

Jotaro is a deadly shot, when he needs to be. His hands are steady and his gaze is razor sharp and he’s whip-quick on the draw. But Jotaro’s getting slower. He takes longer to engage. He’s thinking.

Noriaki thinks about how Jotaro soft-talks his horse whenever he thinks no one’s looking, and how he makes promises to the local runts in town, taking on quests for penny dreadfuls and harmonicas. How he tosses fish back into the lake when they come up too small. How he reaches for the locket that holds his mother’s portrait just before a firefight.

Noriaki knicks his finger with his knife. He hasn’t realized he was holding it that tightly.

“What do you want to do?” Nori asks. He brings his hand to his lips and sucks on the wound. “Run from the law? Gallop into the wilderness never to return?” Jotaro looks at him from the corners of his eyes, tipping his head to see him from beneath his hat. “I’m afraid we’re already doing that.”

Jotaro’s mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Settling wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Wouldn’t it.”

Jotaro makes a noise halfway between a groan and a whine.

“Don’t you miss it?” he asks. “Solid ground, a roof over your head?”

“No.” Nori’s answer is sharp and immediate. He wouldn’t go back to the city if he were paid. If he were threatened.

Jotaro lets out a breath through his nose.

“Calm down,” he says. “I’m not askin’ you to hitch up in New York or anything.”

“You better not be.”

A few moments pass. Noriaki thinks the conversation might be over. He doesn’t relax, though, on the off chance that Jotaro isn’t done with the subject, but rather, is just taking his time.

“‘s not like I don’t like it out here,” Jotaro says, validating Noriaki’s caution. “Like it better than town, anyway.”

“The abundance of people has never fared well for either of us.”

“Yeah.” Jotaro slides off his perch and rests his back on the log. “I think gramps misses it, though. ‘s why we’re always on the outskirts. Scammin’ people’s the only way he knows how to keep in touch, with everything that’s happened.”

“Unfortunate for Mr. Joestar, I suppose. Even more so for everyone else.”

Jotaro lets out another snort.

“You got that right.”

Nori throws a glance towards Joseph’s tent. Even at this distance, he can hear the old man snoring. He feels something close to pity, rattling somewhere in his chest.

“We could make it, you know,” Jotaro continues, voice lowered. “Just… find some spot out west. Further. Set up somewhere quiet, away from trouble.”

Noriaki turns back to Jotaro, who is looking steadily into the fire. Nori’s breathing slows — artificially, in response to the strange stutter of his heart at the shift in tone.

He licks his lips.

“Maybe,” he says. He keeps his voice even. “But like you said. Your grandfather needs to be around people. Things won’t change, no matter where we go.”

Jotaro shakes his head.

“‘s not what I meant.”

Noriaki puts his whittling down.

“What did you mean?” he asks.

“I meant.” Jotaro tugs the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “Just you ‘n me.”

Noriaki counts his breaths — one, two, three, before speaking. He forces his lips into a smirk, one that reads amused, perhaps slightly sardonic.

“Are you proposing an elopement, Jojo?” he asks, ignoring the way the question sets his blood rushing through his veins.

Jotaro looks at him.

“Maybe.”

The fire crackles between them.

“Oh.”

The word sinks in the air for a moment.

Noriaki gets up and dusts himself off. He sheaths his knife and tosses a “follow me” over his shoulder, turning on his heel without waiting to see if Jotaro actually does. He walks over to his tent and lights the lantern hanging at the edge of it before pulling out a notebook from one of his bags.

He feels Jotaro walk up behind him.

“What’s this?” Jotaro asks from above Noriaki’s shoulder. Nori holds the book a little higher, closer to the lantern.

“I’ve mapped all the places we’ve been so far,” he says. He traces one of the pathways with his finger. “This is the road that leads into Rhodes.” He shifts to another line. “This is the rabbit run a little ways to the south, about a ten minute walk from camp.” Another. “A deer trail running from south New Hanover to Lemoyne.”

“What are these?” Jotaro asks, pointing to one of the star markings dotting the page. His arm wraps around Noriaki to do it, and he leans in closer to see.

He’s very close. The skin on the back of Noriaki’s neck prickles with the heat of him.

“Points of interest,” Noriaki says. He flips through the following pages to reveal drawings of wildlife and lists upon lists, printed in a painstaking hand. “I’ve taken extensive notes.”

“So you have,” Jotaro murmurs.

Jotaro leans in further, dropping his chin on Noriaki’s shoulder. His arms circle around Nori’s waist in slow motion. Slow enough for him to step away if he wanted to. Slow enough to ask.

Noriaki stands very still.

When Jotaro’s arms have snaked their way completely around and settled, Noriaki leans back into his chest. They stay that way for several heartbeats.

“You never answered my question,” Jotaro says.

“Technically, you never asked one,” Nori responds.

“Let’s do it.”

“That’s also not a question.”

Noriaki feels Jotaro’s arms loosen around his waist as he uncurls himself. Noriaki places a hand on Jotaro’s forearm, stilling it.

“What are we going to tell the others?” Noriaki asks.

“Is that a yes?”

Noriaki twists himself to face Jotaro. The warmth of the lantern light softens his hard edges, smooths out the grooves in his face. He brings his free hand to Jotaro’s cheek and cups it, trailing his thumb across his cheekbone. Jotaro shifts a fraction of an inch, leaning into Noriaki’s touch.

Noriaki feels something warm bloom in his chest that struggles to escape it.

He’s moving before he really registers it. The slight rise onto his toes, the minute pitch forward. His lips meeting Jotaro’s. Jotaro sighs into him, his whole body relaxing.

They fit together like a matching set. Noriaki doesn’t know why they haven’t done this sooner.

“Yes,” he says when they finally pull apart.

Jotaro’s quiet smile burns brighter than the campfire and the lantern combined.

“the train station’s a weird place,” ryuji says. he’s tapping his toe against the sidewalk, hands restless in his pockets. “like, it’s fine during the day, yeah? i commute and all, and there are tons of people around, it’s whatever.”

he chews his lip and looks out across the station square. an ad lights up the night, streets shiny with rain reflecting back the image of an LED soda bottle.

“but sometimes. i go at night. wait on the platform for the last train.”

akira inclines his head to show that he’s listening, but ryuji isn’t looking at him. he’s not looking anywhere.

“it’s weird, man,” he continues. “shops closed, nobody’s there, ‘cept a couple other people if you’re lucky. didn’t use to bother me, until – ”

he stops short. his shoulders, already rolled, hunch forward even more.

“you know.”

akira nods.

“the lights are all on, but man. those tunnels? past the platform? those tunnels are dark. it feels like…” ryuji licks his lips. “like i’m bein’ pulled in.”

a car drives by. akira curls his fingers into fists, then flexes them. the soda ad switches to one for potato chips.

“i don’t like goin’ down there alone.” ryuji’s voice is low.

“do you do it often?” akira asks, not wanting to know the answer. already knowing the answer. “go down there alone?”

ryuji lets out a dry laugh.

“i only go alone.”