#mwah @ ok-jjba-writings who has my favorite iteration of Jotaro

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

damnit ok retyped bcos i dont save shit, f to me 😔 i know ur nge trash so u know the song, butttttt did you know it has a SUPER DOPE preamble in some versions? google 'poets often use many words' and ull find it ANYWAY imagine if like. reader chan *thinks* theyre alone idk stuck w cleaning duty by themselves cos jotaro never does shit, so they sing to make the chore faster but. gasp surprise he was listening and thinks theyre singing to him! (or yan of ur choice) dun dunduuunnn

You are a singer.  This is not to say that you are known for your voice, or that you take special pride in songs, or even that you’re particularly good--that you have a place on the stage outside your own private fantasies.  You are a singer because it is a function of the soul.  It is what human beings do, in the same way birds make nests and bees dance.

You are also a student.  Coincidentally: today is your day to clean the classroom.  It’s a solitary and cumbersome hassle, made moreso by the fact that it shouldn’t be solitary or cumbersome, but that’s the natural consequence of being partnered with the perpetual absence of Jotaro Kujo.  It’s something you have to learn to ignore, papering over misplaced anger and indignation with empty assurances, with ‘I’m-fine’s and spiteful diligence.  Their absence exposes an unsettling silence, however.  A plaintive loneliness.  You have to create a new companion to take its place. 

The shape it takes is song.  It wobbles, crackly and out of tune, malnourished of confidence, uneven in meter and lack of practice--alright.  It's ugly.  There, I said it.  A weed in the cracks of a sidewalk except it’s a voice.  But it's yours.  And as the weeks pass, it blooms into something, and with its help your work is lighter and time goes quicker.  There’s a certain joy in the transformation, where you are no longer alone with an absence but together with yourself.  A grandness in humble passion, in articulating something from the depths of your heart: “But just to be sure that you know what I’m saying, I’ll translate as I go along--”

Today, you had even brought a cassette player, a backing track for your little solo.  That might be why you have to fight down something sour, as your friend insists on helping you finish up early, and no amount of ‘Oh it’s fine’ or ‘Really, don’t wait for me’ will dissuade them.  The idea puzzles you, as the two of you empty wastebaskets and sweep floors and wipe down the blackboard; fifteen minutes in a high school classroom can’t possibly mean that much to you, that you’re resenting its absence this deeply.  You’re going to the arcade after this!  Please be normal for a change.  Enough of this weird aloofness.  Let your tapes of Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald languish in your pocket for a day--their grand landscapes of love and feeling will be where you left them.

...your friend’s been saying something.  Your broom pauses in its mindless shuffle so the words can reach your ears.

“Your English isn’t bad, y’know?  Is that how you practice, with American songs?”

Oh.  Your voice shrivels on itself, withering in the heat of another’s attention, and your reply comes out as a pathetic raspy croak.  “Um.  No, I just--.” 

Your friend laughs and playfully hits your shoulder.  “We should try karaoke or something sometime!  Let you really belt it out, it’ll be great.”

Drinking poison would hurt you less.  You say: “Perhaps”, and leave it at that.  When you finish making the classroom spotless, it’s in dead silence--not even your footsteps make noise.  It’s a silly thing, to be mortified to this extreme, but you can’t make yourself make any noise.  When you walk out the door only to bump into a wall of muscle, you can barely find it in you to make a squeak of surprise.

Jotaro.  Your obdurately truant helper.  Somehow his presence is even worse than his absence, especially with the way he silently stares you down.  What’s that glimmer in his eyes?  Are you sure you’re not just imagining it?

“Finally felt like coming to help out, Kujo?” You ask.  There’s an accusation in your voice, peeking out from the artificial indifference.  You try not to wince when you realize he definitely noticed it.

Your friend snickers.  “Figures he’d pick the one day someone else decided to you me do his work.  Well, we’re done here, but thanks for showing up, I guess.”  

What is he even doing here?  You figured he’d quit campus the second the last bell rang, vanishing to parts unknown and deaf to everyone’s protests and whispers.

Jotaro doesn’t immediately reply.  He’s still standing there, filling the doorway with his overlarge frame.  Blocking you in here, and the worst part is that he’s probably not even conscious of doing it.  Jotaro’s just...horribly inconsiderate like that.  You're apprehensive--like approaching a strange dog--but nonetheless make to move past him, knowing that he won’t move an inch unless he decides he wants to.  To your (quickly swallowed; it’s not like he scares you) relief, he does, and you don’t even brush against him as you step into the hallway.  Your friend is quick to follow behind you, flipping their hair in obvious contempt, and ushers you down the hallway.  No, that’s not right--away from him.

“You know, I heard he’s been hanging around campus more than usual.” They whisper, leaning in.  It’s harsh, loud enough that he could easily pick it up even from where he’s standing, and he’s obviously meant to.  “Weird, right?  Everyone knows he doesn’t care about school.”  They throw an exaggerated, suspicious glance over their shoulder at him.  A warning rises in your throat--surely they’re smarter than to actively provoke Jotaro--but you don’t have the courage to voice it.  Just what is it that you’re afraid of?

“I bet he’s blackmailing someone.  Or stealing,” they continue offhandedly, counting on their fingers.  “Or stalking.  Really, I bet he’ll do anything.  I don’t get why he hasn’t just dropped out already.  Might be for the best that you don’t stay in a room alone with him, you could be next.  I wonder--”

“Don’t joke about it, please,” you interrupt, and your voice is back--as wobbly and shaky and ugly as it was when you first started singing.  “I don’t want to think about that stuff.”

“I feel you,” they nod sagely, apparently oblivious to the fact that they’re the source of your distress, “maybe we can talk to the teacher and get you a new cleaning partner?”

The cozy solitude of your classroom is stripped away.  You’re back in an ugly, chaotic world full of people who aren’t safe, and your voice can’t protect you from them.  It’s a horrible thought, one that sours your overpriced soda and throws you off your game.  When you say good-bye and part ways as you head home, your tapes are still forgotten in your pocket; all you can think about is the look on Jotaro’s face when you turned back to look at him.

Your friend doesn’t come to school the next day.  Apparently they got into an accident on their way home.  They broke both legs.