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Rohan woke up caressed by the moonlight. He lazily layed his eyes on the man besides him and shuffled closer. There was a kind of safety in Jotaro's arms, in the way his chest rose quietly. He wondered if it had always been this way. In all the vulnerability that came with the sight, there was incredible strength, a trust thicker than blood and more fragile than glass. Jotaro, the man who saved the world from itself, and who died in the process, escaped from the reality of Florida in a small japanese town. Rohan never read him. He knew some pains were better left unshared, but when he woke up, and saw next to him the living contradiction of muscle and weakness, sleeping undisturbed but by himself, he knew something wrong had happened somewhere along the line. Trauma was a bitch. He knew it, they both knew it, but neither understood fully that most things were overwhelming, and that distractions and denial made it better for a while but they weren't healthy, and that in their brokenness they didn't become puzzle pieces looking for "the one". Life had come and wrecked them, and somewhere it felt like a punishment for breaking its rules, for owning a power such as stands, something nobody should have ever obtained. But neither had wanted it; they weren't to blame, it was neither fair nor for the better good. They'd deserved safe childhoods and it had been robbed from them. They were left feeling barely corporeal, and they had been taught to think that at least, they could be ghosts together. The truth was, as Rohan saw it in the idle moonlight, that there was nothing romantic about this. There wasn't any beauty in their scars, or gold between their cracks, only puke and tears and nightmares. If Rohan had been a more selfish man, or one prone to more physical ways of self-harm, he would erase those memories from Jotaro's mind. He would read it all, make it his burden to bear, and then erase Egypt, erase Morioh, even erase the stories of Napoli and Switzerland and space. He'd rewrite the biggest chunks, and maybe lock Star Platinum away, and then he'd erase himself and leave the hotel room and blend into the background of Jotaro's life. It'd be an ordeal to perfect the edits. He'd have to open the Morioh teens, and every Joestar, and every Speedwagon employee, and probably every stand user on Earth, everyone who had ever heard of him, of them. Maybe then Jotaro would have a quiet life, albeit as a brand new person; the bags under his eyes would take the shape of his research, he'd spend time with his wife and daughter, as someone else but someone fixed. Someone who had a shot at happiness. Rohan would be left to his own work, and maybe he could use Jotaro's hardships as inspiration, even though the thought made him sick right now, he could learn to accept it. Hopefully this wouldn't reverse Heaven's Door's effect, or hopefully it would, and then Jotaro would come to Morioh in an even worse shape, broken by this new knife in his back, and he'd kill Rohan on the spot. Maybe then Rohan would have a quiet death, albeit as a deeply rotten person; the tremor in his hands carrying the guilt of such an act, he'd die alone, as someone he hates but someone who chose to be hated, someone who yearned for the worst possible end.

Jotaro brought him closer. Rohan didn't always understand himself. As much as he obsessed over knowledge and grasping the very truth of the universe and putting it down on a page, trapping it in there for all to see, there were some things even him couldn't answer. Still, in this moment and draped by the moonlight, Rohan knew he could never bring himself to such a thing. If what they had was to crumble one day, if it would all be gone once the sun would rise, then he wanted it to collapse by itself. If he meddled, if he let the urge to isolate, to be hated rather than known win, he'd never forgive himself for wasting everyone's precious time. There was more to life than his flaws, as deep as they ran and as unfair as they were, rooted in mental illness or not, it wouldn't be true to anything to let those dictate his actions. He'd enjoy what peace he was let to indulge in and if, somewhere, Jotaro found safety in the artist's arms, a kind of tranquility perhaps, then he knew that, as slow as healing could be, it'd be okay.