Expression

Chapter Eighteen

Back in the Joestar home, Jotaro was unpacking. All of these clothes still felt strange to him now that he no longer had the gakuran. He'd bought a few long wool coats and matching hats, but he hadn't really settled into any of them yet. It had taken him a few months to get used to that uniform, after all, and now his skin kept prickling as if something were wrong now that he wasn't wearing it. On the back of his door, there was a full-length mirror, something he'd never had at home in Japan. With something of an amused smirk, he dug through his suitcase bit by bit, trying on various outfits and posing like he was in an action movie.

There was an irony in him imitating these film stars who had only played at what he'd been through that made him chuckle, it bitterly. If he could go back to his life before then, would he have? Had everything he'd experienced, everything he'd learned, been worth it? It was such a naïve innocence that would have looked like bliss to this empty existence now if it hadn't been so lonely.

At the bottom of the suitcase, his hand brushed against something silky and unexpected. He didn't remember packing anything like this. He pulled it out from a pile of socks to see that scarf Noriaki had given months ago now. When did I...? No. He remembered feeling as if his hand felt odd that day when he packed his things, as if it were grabbing something smooth even though it was fully empty, thought he'd caught a glimpse of Star Platinum out of the corner of his eye. So that's how it is. His stand had done this. He didn't really know how to feel about it.

Shrugging stiffly with an "oh, what the hell," that tried too hard to be flippant, he took the scarf and wrapped it around his neck, standing in front of the mirror again. He couldn't bring himself to laugh this time. It just stung. His face almost reflected back as Noriaki's, an image of their two visages melded superimposed on his mind. Tearing the fabric from his neck, the fabric that still had the faint scent of cherries, he flung it into his closet where he hoped it would stay buried.

It took a while for Kakyoin to adjust his sleeping schedule for New York City. He spent long nights alone in his apartment, pacing back and forth, opening and closing the window until he wondered that it hadn't completely worn out yet. Too hot, too stifling inside, making it impossible to sleep. Too loud the noise that broke in through the open window, keeping him awake. Endless repetition of this lit by a flickering lamp until the creeping light of dawn broke in and he was finally exhausted enough to sleep.

Not tonight. Might as well take a walk. Even at night, the air was still warm out. Such was summer in New York. If only things were quiet, he could almost clear his mind.

Following no direction in particular, he set off. The constant noise of cars threatened to drive him mad. If he'd lived in a busier area, he probably wouldn't have been able to handle it. Even now, he barely survived by listening to music at a volume sufficient for ear damage in order to drown out the busy city sounds. Ah—did I forget? He rummaged through his pockets, not finding his Walkman. I'm not going to go back and get it now.

How long until it starts getting colder here? He liked the cooler months, when he could hide his form under layers of clothing without overheating. Once he turned eighteen this month, he'd probably have a better chance of getting top surgery as long it was in America; in Japan, eighteen was still a minor. While he had been able to obtain hormones as a minor, it wasn't exactly by following "proper" practice. At sixteen, he started taking illegal steroids until the effects became noticeable. This began a whole ordeal of moving from doctor to doctor until finally one, worried about the effects of self-prescribed steroids but recognizing how much this meant to Kakyoin, eventually prescribed him testosterone, and then only after months with a counsellor.