❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐎𝐎𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐔𝐆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄, the combination of rain leaking from the drab skies of a normally sunny Morioh and sticky humidity doing nothing to help the loose strands of hair falling into the pompadoured school-boy's face, let alone the fact his grandpa was sitting in the open casket a few feet before him. Rain continued to beat upon the aluminum frame of the outdoor canopy, and Josuke Higashikata truly felt he would explode any second as his mother began to weep at the front of the room, going on about how good of a man he had been, and how he had been taken from this world oh-too-soon due to a common stroke.
But that was just it.
The amalgamation of weeping from the sweet old lady who had been a close friend of Ryohei Higashikata, and the unblinking eyes of his official portrait from the police department was quickly becoming all too much for him, a peach pit of guilty bile growing within the bottom of his stomach. It refused to go away no matter how hard he tried to reason with himself, reminding the logical half of his brain that there was no way he could've known, that bastard Angelo had been too smart, too vile. Josuke hadn't ever faced another person with a 'stand' in a fight, except for his nephew, and even Jotaro had managed to knock him out without using his insanely muscular, purple ghost man. The multitude of excuses that filled his head only managed to make the poor boy feel an even deeper sense of despair. He was truly pathetic.
Row upon row of matte, cushioned folding chairs sat unmovingly, the stiff bottoms making minuscule, rounded indents in the moist grass. The entire makeshift outdoor funeral parlor reeked of lusterless, washed out . To be fair, most funerals did. At least the ones Josuke had observed upon the small box television set were; he hadn't ever attended one in person, so perhaps his feelings could be justified. Perhaps not.
He was careless. It was his fault. And his nephew didn't even seem to care, dipping his freak of nature cap low over his face with an utterance of 'good grief,' locking himself in that dumbass hotel room and answering dumbass phone calls from some dumbass foundation. Tch. If Jotaro Kujo could run away from his problems... why couldn't he? Sweat pooled in the grooves of his clenched fists as he realized there was nothing to obstruct him from reaching his goal. The pit in the bottom of his stomach only worsened as the bile finally began to rise up his throat as one of his grandfather's colleagues arose to give the eulogy, and he stood up immediately, the small crowd of close friends and family quickly hushing.
