Expression

Chapter Thirty

A week had passed. Kakyoin no longer bothered taking the subway early in order to avoid Jotaro. If they passed each other, so be it. Whatever lay between Jotaro and himself could only be fixed by direct confrontation. He wasn't yet for that yet, but the least he could do was not to avoid it.

Kakyoin had, a couple times, seen Jotaro, offering him a brisk wave that Jotaro returned with a nod. One couldn't really say that they were getting along well, but they were existing together. Shoving his hands in his pockets after another time greeting Jotaro, his fingers brushed the crumpled up paper with Elise's information. He still hadn't talked to her. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it; his circular ruminations about this subject occupying most of his time while he avoided his schoolwork. But he could only think through so much on his own.

His own—that was it. There was someone else who knew her. Polnareff. He, too, had been broken down for DIO through her stand. If there were anyone he could talk to about it, that would be him. There was that number Polnareff had left in his letter... it couldn't hurt to call, could it? It was much later in France, and he didn't want to be rude. If he called, it would have to be right after he got home from his university. Until then, he was a student.

Thinking about it, he still didn't know what to do for that final painting of Marco, and he needed to have his idea fairly soon. The middle of the semester was not so far away. It was difficult... very difficult for him to think of something with little prompting, and yet the simplest of suggestions allowed his mind to leap from connection to connection. But this project was very open-ended. He was lost. He drifted along, trying to dream up some idea, anything, met with intolerable mental silence. No good. Maybe I should quit art. It was so damn difficult to stay on top of everything, especially projects like these. How the hell was he stupid enough to think that he could make a career out of this? He was far too lazy, wasting his time away rather than spending it on his craft.

Actually, he wasn't good for anything. He'd get stuck working some minimum-wage job that paid just enough for him to get by, if that, spending his time staring at the wall while every empty moment grated at his mind, because he wasn't able to put in the effort to get any further. Wouldn't he? Some other part of him whispered that this wasn't right. It wasn't how things worked.

Mental struggle, too, was struggle. He fought against his own self. Couldn't he believe that? ...Could he? And he couldn't accept that to be stuck in some dead-end job was a punishment. He wouldn't like it. He would hate it. But why the hell he he have to act like he was evil or stupid or lazy for that? If that was where he ended up... that was where he ended up. He had never wanted some business work, even if that gave him security. His own life was to be lived on his own terms. That was how he'd always done things; that was why he had never given in, why he had pushed to be treated as a boy and started taking testosterone. He couldn't judge people who did otherwise, no matter what it was about—life was difficult, a constant pressure pushing in on one from all sides and one wasn't lesser for doing anything to make that easier—but it was unbearable for him. It was all one endless series of sacrificing one thing to gain another.

It was during sculpture class that he realized why it was so difficult for him to know what to do for his final painting of Marco. He knew barely anything about them. There were those bookshelves... Mostly textbooks, but a few others as well. "Marco, tell me," he said after class was over, "what are you interested in? Besides art, I mean. I saw that there were a few books on your shelves."

"Psychology. It's fascinating, isn't it? Trying to figure out people, understand why they act the way that they do."

"I... suppose so."

Marco laughed, as if amused by something. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm still trying to figure out what to do for my final painting. Well, if I can't think of anything else I may as well do one of you reading."