Chapter Text
July, 1989
The airport terminal ceiling washes out in Noriaki’s vision. It is infused with a greenish, sickly sort of light, not too dissimilar from the mood of a hospital ward.
In his clammy fist, he guards his paper boarding pass and his passport. Fine black dots begin to fizz in his waterline, like tiny ants running over his eyeballs. Up on the wall, the board of departures flickers to a second screen, switching from Mandarin to English. Noriaki cranes his neck, then winces.
A sharper wave of pain intrudes every one of his abdominal muscles. And pain, that old persistent friend, is winning. Any attempt to move is futile, courtesy of extreme dizziness.
As Noriaki squints, the lettering on the departure board streaks into a linear blur. Searching frantically down the list of destinations, he forces himself to find the ‘T’ for Tokyo, just to stay awake. Alas, his head is already lulling back to hit his leather seat.
A concerned, rough hand jolts his shoulder. Voices scramble in every language except his native tongue. Noriaki tightens his brow with discomfort, troubled perhaps more by the embarrassment of passing out in a waiting lounge than the agony of his stomach flare up.
Multiple people are talking right at him. A crowd is forming. The intonation patterns of each foreign speaker definitely sound like worried questions, probably a chorus of ‘Are you okay, sir?’s, though he can’t translate anything, not even a single word. Eventually, one lady, an American he assumes from her accent, begins to fuss and wave a hand in front of his face.
“Sir?” she enunciates, “Hello, sir? Do you need assistance?"
“I’m…yes…” Noriaki mutters in rushed sloppy English. This is certainly not his finest hour to be showing off his lifetime of advanced second-language education. He is in such a horrendous state that he’d be lucky to remember how to count to ten. “Yes. Please.”
“He has a Japanese passport,” a different English person announces. “Does anybody here speak Japanese?”
Turning away from the commotion, Noriaki buries his face into his shoulder, stifling the urge to grimace against all the hell that his body is putting him through. The soft wool of his emerald green sweater caresses his cheek. A member of airport staff comes over to tap Noriaki’s face, mumbling in Mandarin. Noriaki’s mouth has turned so dry that he opts for silence. If he really does black out, at least it would grant him a moment of silence.
Using an intercom, the staff calls out to the entire waiting area, which is spanning over multiple unopened gates. Unluckily for him, the gate for the Tokyo flight has not been announced yet, so it wasn’t as if he was surrounded by other Japanese people potentially going home too. Instead, somehow, it was proving to be very much the opposite.
Missing his flight wouldn’t be the end of the world. Plenty of flights go between Hong Kong and Tokyo daily, but where would they take him if he collapsed? What if they lose his bag, or worse, his Gameboy? What if -
“Let us repeat,” the announcement booms, switching to English, “We have a passenger almost unconscious outside the entry to Gates 13-19. Are there any Japanese speakers who can assist?”
With what little strength he has left, Noriaki stashes his valuables deep into his trouser pockets. The sensible thing to do would be to take off his sweater and let some air cool his body down, though he doubts that he’s coordinated enough, and what if he accidentally rips out one of his cherry earrings when lifting it up over his head?
A pair of new, rapid footsteps squeak against the floor. Noriaki still has his eyes firmly closed, not wanting to risk any more awkward exchanges. However, if he isn’t mistaken, someone seems to be approaching him with haste.
In what can only be described as a miracle, a Japanese man then suddenly speaks in a low, gorgeous voice. It’s mumbly and restrained, a little biting… and a little out of breath.
“Is this him?” the man queries to the staff in smooth, Japanese-accented English.
“Yes,” the staff member says, relieved, “Please ask him what’s wrong, sir.”
The man grunts in understanding. Noriaki senses movement, right in front of him. First, he smells cigarettes. Then, he smells a strong, spiced cologne. A shiver runs down his back. He struggles through his ongoing pain, gradually blinking to acknowledge whoever has come to help him out.
A man, the man, is kneeling on the floor to be level with Noriaki’s seat. Through hazy vision, Noriaki makes out a tan, some black curly hair, a dark grey turtleneck (fitted, very fitted…) biceps, tight abs (tighter abs), a belt (two belts?) and white trousers…
“Are you fainting?”
The relief of hearing Japanese snaps Noriaki’s wandering gaze back up to the man’s face, which does not help much for his state of disorientation. The man is scowling, with tight jet-black brows furrowing against piercing blue eyes. He must be young, though the sheer size of him is throwing Noriaki off. Noriaki squints harder, concentrating… no, but his face is angular and anxious… he must be young, unless he has somehow found the elixir of immortal life…
“Oi.” The man snaps his fingers by Noriaki’s nose. “You. Awake?”
“Mhmm, yes.” Noriaki attempts to straighten out his posture. “Health condition. I just - I need - to lie down somewhere. My specialist pain meds are in my bag, but I'll need to swallow them with water.”
“Good grief.” The man mutters, turning to gesture at the airport staff. “Get him some water,” he then barks in English. “Quickly.”
After mumbling some words of incoherent gratitude, Noriaki steadies himself with the arm of his seat and tries to reach down into his bag. His balance wobbles and there’s a sudden rush of nausea in his head, though he manages to bend over just enough to feel a zip on his fingertips.
“What are you doing?” the man snaps.
He sounds immensely fed up, which irritates Noriaki so much that he makes a point of unzipping his front compartment with urgency. So much for a knight in shining armour. There isn’t so much of a shred of empathy in this man’s tone. He speaks like he’s swimming through glass shards.
“Getting my bag,” Noriaki grits through his teeth, pissed off, “For my pain meds.”
“Don’t,” the man orders, trying to push Noriaki back into his seat. “You’ll fall, I’ll get them-”
“I can do it myself,” Noriaki interrupts, shoving the entire bag towards him.
To no avail. The man slams the entire rucksack down to the floor, before gently pinning Noriaki to his seat with the flat of his large, strong palm.
“Just sit still,” he demands, grumbling under his breath, “Good fucking grief.”
It’s too bad. Noriaki is strong enough, would be strong enough on a non-flare-up day, to smack this man’s arm away and deck him in his pretty face. He’d quite like to storm off and show this righteous hero-complexed prick a piece of his mind, but all he can do in his rapidly worsening state is catch his breath and slump in his chair.
Surrendered to the confines of his seat, Noriaki exhales deeply. Each rise and fall of his chest is tinged with the pressure of the man who’s still keeping him upright: long, flexed fingers splay right between his pecks. Noriaki smirks and narrows his gaze.
“Get the fuck off me,” Noriaki rasps, panting between waves of pain.
Puffing out and sucking on his teeth, the man obeys and whisks his touch away. Annoyingly, Noriaki does topple a bit without the added stability, but he catches himself on the armrests.
“Whatever,” the man grunts. A smaller, huffier grunt follows. “Ungrateful.”
Noriaki is so mad that he wants to laugh, but his vision is threatening to quit on him. The edges of his sight are turning a dark, cloudy colour, framing every moving shape in view. The man, now no more than a blob of shadow, is pulling a black cap over his face.
“Suit yourself,” the man grimaces, turning away to stare daggers at the floor. “Was just trying to help.”
Silence. Noriaki wraps his arms around his stomach and winces quietly, feeling a deep, aching spasm in his gut.
“I know what I’m doing.” The man is still grumbling, still shrugging, still defensive and still not paying attention. His posture is all scrunched up and his hat covers almost his entire face. In the biting silence, he sheepishly adds, “Do you still want those meds? I see someone coming with water.”
Unable to respond, Noriaki’s hand falls, limp in his lap.
As a child, Noriaki used to fight the process of fainting with all his will, crying and bawling until his body hit the floor or the school desk or whatever was near. After over twenty years in this body however, he now knows that like all periods of discomfort, this will pass. He extends one final glare to his grumpy assistant, before his ears ring and noise fades.
“Hm?” The man suddenly catches on to what’s happening. “Oi, you, stay awake.”
The slight raise of his stupid, aloof voice twitches Noriaki’s lips to an amused smile.
“Fuck,” the man mutters, so quietly that Noriaki assumes he isn’t supposed to be hearing it. “Fucking idiot, should’ve just stayed put, good grief, why does everything have to be so annoying…”
After the man argues with someone else about getting proper medical assistance, he comes back and leans right over Noriaki in one last attempt to keep him awake.
“Can you still hear me?”
“Not very well, asshole,” Noriaki groans.
Then, he falls unconscious.
—
Noriaki opens his eyes to a white, low ceiling. Where his head is resting to one side, his red-brown hair splays all over his face. He blows it away, groggily trying to scope out the room. It’s a small medical area, entirely closed off, with nine other empty hospital beds. It takes him trying to roll over to realise that his left arm is hooked up to an IV, which he exasperates quietly at because he is left handed and this means it’ll ache if he fancies sketching on the plane later…
…If he even makes it to his flight, that is. The pain in his stomach has mostly passed, though he feels downright disgusting, sweaty and drowsy. There are no windows. He searches for a clock on the wall, slowly turning his neck on the pillow so that he can see the other side of the room.
There is a chair, pulled right up at his bedside. On that chair is none other than the same black haired, grumpy man from earlier.
Asleep.
Noriaki hitches the urge to call out in surprise. His voice catches in his throat, scratchy and bewildered. He can see the man properly now. Prior events aside, he is certainly a sight to behold.
The bulk of his build looks hilarious crammed in the plastic seat. He is snoring lightly, with his head propped back on the pale blue wall, his hat once again covering most of his face. A slither of his lips peek out from over the rim of the cap. His jawline, turned sideways on straight in Noriaki’s view, looks like it’s been sculpted out of tan brown marble.
“Hey,” Noriaki calls out. No response. “Hey,” he calls again, louder, “Do you know what the time is?”
“Hm?” the man twitches, jolting himself awake.
His black hat falls onto the floor. He curses under his breath, picks it up, then shoves it properly onto his head. For the first time, Noriaki is granted a clear picture of his face.
Yes, Noriaki’s earlier judgement was correct: he is young. Very young, likely the same age as Noriaki, somewhere in his early twenties. The clothes he wears gives it away, as does the rucksack that falls at his feet, which has clearly come straight off a college campus. Although the way he moves, speaks and sits ages him about thirty years. The melancholic glint in his eyes, transfixed to his empty cup of coffee, unsettles Noriaki greatly.
Everything about him suggests a life of comfort. His watch is Tag Heuer, his clothes are tailored and his mannerisms are painfully confident. However, with the trembling clench of his posture, and those dark bags under his eyes, you would guess he’d just fought in a decade long war.
“The time?” the man mumbles, squinting at his stupid fancy watch. “7:06PM.”
“Fuck,” Noriaki whispers.
“You were on the 5:35 to Tokyo, I assume,” the man says, in that distinct flat voice.
Noriaki closes his eyes in frustration. God, that man’s cologne is headache inducing. It must have been layered on to drown out the stench of stale tobacco. If that’s the case, then it sure as hell isn’t working.
“Correct.”
Noriaki tries to rationalise a plan but prolonging his eventual trip home makes his nerves turn to a puddle. Hesitating in this limbo, with no valid ticket and a spell of poor health, is making him wish he’d extended his hotel stay for another week or two.
He’d take anything to escape the inevitable descent back into Morioh’s bleak, memory soaked hole, where he would be forced back into his strained family home. This ‘holiday’ escape had been just that - another one of his whims - and though he’s already been dreading the end of it, that dread hadn’t quite sickened him until right now.
Scrunching up his nose, Noriaki sneezes into the crook of his non-IV’d elbow. He gives his strange companion a long look up and down. There’s still a noticeable temper on him, even though he’s just sitting there, quietly, waiting…well, waiting for him. Which brings Noriaki to his next burning dilemma.
“Why are you still here? It’s been, what, two hours?”
The man’s brows tighten into an even grumpier scowl, like he’s just been kicked in the shin.
“Hmph,” the man exhales through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest like a stroppy teenager, “Didn’t have anything better to do.”
Noriaki laughs to himself.
“Okay,” he sings. “Weird.”
When the man refuses to play along, or even crack a smile for God’s sake, Noriaki persists with a teasing glare. It’s only then that he realises a very tidy selection of things has appeared on his bedside table: a cup of water, a cup of juice, tissues that have clearly been bought from the duty-free section and the pain meds from his bag, with the correct dose popped out of the silver packaging.
“Quit looking at me like that,” the man says breathily, averting eye contact.
“I’m not,” Noriaki laughs between words, “It’s just, um, did you put all this here?”
“Yes,” his companion snaps, folding in on himself. “So what?”
“That’s…” Noriaki stifles his amusement. “Thoughtful.”
“Shut up.”
The edges of the man’s lips are coming together in a slight pout. His attention, unwavering, is glued to the adjacent wall and nothing else. Occasionally, he sneaks a glance in Noriaki’s direction, though it’s not a particularly warm gesture. At least, it doesn’t feel like one.
However.
Noriaki can’t help but smile as he continues to admire him. This brooding, handsome stranger is definitely Japanese, though he’s quite obviously mixed with something else, perhaps Spanish or Italian or South Asian, given his complexion. Whatever combination it is, it has unlocked a very striking level of beauty. Noriaki can safely say he’s never seen anyone who looks even remotely similar to this in his life, and he’s used a lot of reference models in his artwork over the years.
“What’s your name?” Noriaki prompts.
The man lingers his gaze on Noriaki to hold a polite fleeting moment of eye contact. If he weren’t such a hulking and snarky bastard, it would come across as…well, shy.
The man’s voice goes quiet.
“Jotaro.”
So, Noriaki wasn’t getting all ahead of himself. One thing is certain: this is a Japanese man, with a Japanese name, who attends a Japanese university, given all the pins on his bag. Which means…
“I’m Noriaki. You weren’t also meant to be on that Tokyo flight, were you?”
“Pfft,” Jotaro exhales, a glimmer of amusement in his expression. “No.”
“Oh.” Noriaki tilts his head, furrowing his brow in curiosity. He’s never been great at suppressing his nosiness. “Where are you going?”
Jotaro, once again speaking with his eyebrows and not his lips, tenses his face up. He takes his precious time answering such a simple, inoffensive question.
“Singapore.”
“Whereabouts in Japan are you from?”
Jotaro scratches his acne-scarred cheek.
“Tokyo.”
“Oh, I see. So what are you doing in Singapore, then?”
Jotaro hesitates, closing down to almost a worrying degree. He swings one leg over his thigh. His black sneaker hits the frame of the bed. He exhales, clearly annoyed.
“...nothing.”
“Riveting,” Noriaki teases, rolling his eyes and reaching for his water. “Sounds like a lot of fun, I’m so jealous.”
Jotaro doesn’t respond.
Noriaki shrugs off Jotaro’s rudeness and busies himself with his pain meds, taking them anyway even though a doctor isn’t present. He knows the drill, he knows what’s probably in that IV, he knows that a standard dose won’t hurt him. The water tastes heavenly as it coats the inside of his dry, tired mouth.
He has half a mind to use the call button and ask a nurse or doctor what exactly they’ve done with him, though the room is suddenly occupied with a third unknown guest.
Noriaki doesn’t know what’s in the air today, because yet another alarmingly handsome stranger waltzes into the medical office.
This man is wearing sandals, beige loose trousers and a deep red shawl, which is pinned at the shoulder. His hair, fully dreadlocked, is up in half a bun, with the rest of it hanging down his back. White-gold earrings swing by his jaw, contrasting his dark, rich complexion. He must be around his mid-forties, judging by the lines by his cheeks and eyes, though he radiates a fiery, youthful glow.
“Ah, JoJo, there you are!” The man exhales in relief. His voice is deep, but calm. “Your old man is getting restless. He’s gone straight into the business lounge - said he needed a glass of champagne to pass the time.”
“Good grief,” Jotaro mumbles, “Jiji hasn’t been looking for me, has he?”
“No,” the older man laughs, “But Jean and I have been on the case for longer than I’d like to admit. Are you coming with us? You haven’t eaten properly since this morning- oh!”
He realises that Noriaki is awake.
“Oh, hello,” he attempts some slow, careful, Japanese. “How are you feeling?”
“I can speak English, contrary to all the drama earlier,” Noriaki smiles politely, “But I’m feeling better, thank you. And by the way, your Japanese is excellent.”
“Thank you!” The older man bows slightly, “I’ve had a bit of practice here and there, admittedly I can’t get past the basics though.”
“That’s still very impressive, it’s rare to meet learners. Do you speak many languages?”
“A few,” The man shrugs modestly, “Arabic, English, a slither of Japanese and some French, but that’s only because I’m dating a Frenchman.”
Noriaki is fascinated, giddy and intrigued. The -man is a casual throwaway but it wasn’t lost on him at all. He peers at Jotaro, who is silent, and he doesn’t know why he’s beginning to feel himself blush in the face. Is this Jotaro’s dad? Jotaro has dads, plural? No, that’s not legal in Japan. Two uncles, perhaps? But…
“It’s good that you’re awake now,” the kind older man says, “You look well. Have you missed your flight?”
“Yes,” Noriaki shrugs, “But it’s okay. I’m sure I can sort something out.”
“Sure. Has JoJo been fun company? He’s a big-time chatterbox, we can never get him to shut up usually.”
“Fuck off,” Jotaro snaps, but under his cap he’s smiling.
Noriaki is too overwhelmed to respond. He looks between Jotaro (or JoJo, rather, …how cute) and the other mystery man, trying to figure out how they must know each other. Family friends? Actual family? Colleagues? No, that can’t be it…
“Is our flight still delayed?” Jotaro asks the older man, checking his watch again.
“Yup,” the other man replies, “Looks like it’s going to be another few hours at least.”
Then, suddenly, a different voice interrupts from right outside the door.
“Moooohammed! Moooohammed? Où es-tu? Are you in here…? Ah! Finally, there you are, mon amour! And you found JoJo! Look at that!”
For a third fucking time, yet another handsome stranger appears.
“I thought I’d lost you both,” the Frenchman calls out, with puppy dog eyes.
He has white-silvery hair, which is quiffed up at the front and long down the back, like a mullet. He’s sporting a tight black vest, light baggy jeans and black boots. He’s very pale, very freckly and abnormally muscular, even more muscular than Jotaro. Noriaki assumes that he must be a bodybuilder.
“C’mon JoJo,” the Frenchman whines, “Your grandpa wants to buy you a beer. Let’s get some food too, that hotel breakfast is not going to keep me going for much longer. They have steaks in the lounge, I know they’re your favourite - oh! The sick man is awake!”
All three handsome gazes snap towards the makeshift hospital bed. Noriaki watches this reunion unfold, stuck and bashful as the new centre of attention. He connects the dots of who he’s dealing with: so, there’s Jotaro, Mohammed and Mohammed’s lover, the ‘Jean’ he mentioned earlier. And a… grandpa?
What the hell is going on?
“Hello,” Noriaki waves at Jean.
“This is Noriaki,” Mohammed says, gesturing between them. “Noriaki, this is my Jean-Pierre.”
“Ah! Hello, hello!” Jean beams back at him, with a slight gap in his two front teeth, “Salut! Koni-chi-wa! How are you?”
“Better, thank you,” Noriaki repeats.
“I hope our JoJo hasn’t been causing you too much trouble,” Jean taunts.
“I was fucking helping him,” Jotaro grumbles, fed up with the double bout of teasing. He glares playfully in Jean’s direction, “God forbid I do anything nice. I’m never doing anything nice again, not in front of you guys.”
“Oh lalala! Blah blah blah!” Jean guffaws, slinging a rough arm around Jotaro’s shoulders and wobbling him back and forth. Surprisingly, Jotaro lets him and doesn’t object beyond pulling a childish, sulking expression. “Don’t mind monsieur grumpy-guts, Noriaki. JoJo’s just hungry… and he hasn’t had a cigarette in a few hours.”
“That’s not true,” Jotaro says, deadpan. “I went to the smoking area not long ago.”
“Without MEEEE?” Jean sulks, pretending to cry.
“Snooze you lose, old man.”
“Please excuse these two idiots,” Mohammed says to Noriaki, just as Jotaro and Jean begin to roughly play fight and argue in the background. “We are not completely disfunctional, I promise. Would you like me to call a doctor over? Has anyone checked on you since you’ve been awake?”
Mohammed’s calm, practical nature puts Noriaki at ease, which is much appreciated. In truth, he has been thrust into a situation completely and utterly out of his depth. It is not often that Noriaki meets so many new people at once. Especially not people who take any interest in him or are even half as cool as this trio.
“That would be great, thank you.” Noriaki responds, “No one’s come over yet. I mean, there is a call button here but…”
He trails off, slightly distracted by the fact that Jotaro currently has Jean in a headlock. They’re being very loud. Jean is squealing in pain and pretending to beg for his life, reciting lines from an old movie as Jotaro points a finger gun to his temple.
“No worries,” Mohammed smiles. “I’m sure I can find someone on my way out. By the way, if you do make a miraculous recovery, feel free to come and sit with us in the business lounge. Our flight is being consistently delayed, so it looks like we’ll be stuck here for a while.”
“Yes, please do come, Noriaki!” Jean calls, still in his headlock. “It’s all on the old man’s card!”
“He’s referring to JoJo’s grandfather,” Mohammed explains to Noriaki, chuckling at the other two’s antics. “Most of our trip is on his company credit.”
“Oh, I see,” Noriaki laughs. “Are you guys on a work trip together?”
Mohammed glances at Jotaro, then sighs for some reason.
“Not quite,” he says.
Noriaki resists the urge to pry further, even though one thousand more questions lay right on the tip of his tongue. Was that too far? Noriaki is not exactly accustomed to making small talk, let alone judging boundaries. Was that an unfair judgement? He doesn’t know. In a sudden rush, he blurts out the most inoffensive conversation starter that he can think of.
“Jotaro told me you’re going to Singapore. Have you ever visited before?”
“I haven’t!” Mohammed’s tone is back to being breezy. “I’m very excited, I must say. Have you?”
“No, this is my first time out of Japan, actually.”
“Ah, I see. Are you travelling solo? Excuse my assumption, aren’t you a bit young for that?”
Noriaki knows that Mohammed meant no harm by asking that, though it still opens up his deepest, festering emotional wound. His loneliness really is so glaringly obvious, as well as alarming. He watches the group in front of him, envious and wrecked at how easily they fit together, how comfortable they seem with each other. It’s only a reminder of how abnormal Noriaki’s current situation is. Oh, what he would give for a place in such a tight-knit circle.
What he would give for a fun group to travel with.
What he would give for a single friend.
“Um,” Noriaki swallows, attempting to match Mohammed’s laid-back energy, “Well, I-”
A doctor comes in. Jotaro and Jean freeze, then pull off each other. Mohammed speaks with the doctor for a second, explaining that himself, Jotaro and Jean are not friends or family, just some other passengers who are checking in. The doctor comes over to Noriaki’s bedside and begins to ask him standard questions, questions he’s heard one hundred times before. Noriaki answers each one absent mindedly, far more invested (and distraught) at the eclectic trio who are filtering out of the room.
“Remember our invitation!” Mohammed waves, “Tell them you’re there to see Mohammed Avdol and co, on table 32.”
“Or Jean-Pierre Polnareff and co!” Jean pouts, “Has a better ring to it!”
In silence, Jotaro dusts himself off and slings his college backpack over his shoulder. He stretches his back out and all the muscles around his shoulders shift, once as he flexes an arm over head, then again as he arches. After this, he shoves his hands into his pockets.
Before he follows Mohammed and Jean out of the room, he hesitates and lingers by Noriaki’s bedside. His cheeks are slightly red from the physical exhaustion of roughhousing. There’s a slight dent in his hat from where he dropped it earlier. He waits for the doctor to pause and focus on a clipboard. Only then, in the silence, does Jotaro clear his throat.
“I’m… glad you’re better,” Jotaro says, barely audible.
He walks away, sandwiched between Mohammed and Jean as they pass through the exit. Even though Jotaro is just as tall as the other two, he seems strangely small. Mohammed’s hand falls on Jotaro’s back, and Jean’s hand goes to ruffle the top of Jotaro’s hat.
Jotaro dares to brave one tame glance back at Noriaki’s bed. The door swings closed. The room feels stiff without the bickering and laughter. Noriaki is alone again. As always.