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If there was anything Caesar Zeppeli hated, it was New York traffic. He’d moved to the city a few months ago—bitterly, angrily, resentfully, and only somewhat willingly—but of all the things he despised about America and Americans, it had to be at the top of the list. He’d had a long day of classes, only to be rewarded with an even longer shift at the lab he worked at, and he was running late. He mumbles a barely audible string of curses under his breath and drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, his eyes trained on the red light in front of him with a degree of concentration that suggests it might attack him if he looks away.
Red turns to green; Caesar slams on the gas; a motorcycle cuts him off, accelerating and speeding into the intersection ahead of him without signaling. He hits the horn first and the brakes second. What he said earlier was a lie; the thing he hates most about New York is the drivers.
That thought only manages to last for a fraction of a second, though, because in hindsight he really should’ve hit the brakes first. The motorcycle hits his car, or he hits it. Again, he may be going about this in the wrong order, because his first thought is worry for his car. He doesn’t own many valuable things, but his car is first on that short list: silver, Italian made, and more expensive than he can really justify. He washes the thing every week and takes care of it religiously, and his first thought is, I just had it repainted—
His second thought is a belated realization that he should worry for himself, as his head snaps back with the force of his braking and bangs against the back of the seat with a dull thud. His third thought is that now he’s going to be even later for work. His fourth thought is that there’s a person rolling across his windshield, and that’s when it really all goes to shit.
“Holy fuck,” is all he manages, rubbing the back of his head as he slams on the brakes and his car skids to a halt in the middle of the intersection. Is the guy okay? To be fair, it wasn’t his fault, he’s confident in that much, but nearly committing a vehicular homicide was not really on his to-do list for the evening. The guy’s sprawled face-down across the hood of his car—a really big guy, actually, a huge mass of muscle that Caesar wouldn’t be surprised to find had left a dent in his bumper—and he’s not moving, and Caesar’s just really about to freak out when the dark-haired stranger lifts his head up and rubs the back of his head, making eye contact with Caesar through the windshield and giving him a shit-eating grin and mouthing something that looks like the word “Sorry!”
Caesar breathes out in relief, thanking God and Jesus above that he wasn’t going that fast yet since the light had just changed, and puts the car in park. The guy has now picked himself up off the hood of Caesar’s car, and is dusting himself off, rubbing his shoulder with a wince. Caesar grabs his phone and wallet, turns the engine off, and gets out of the car. Tall, dark, and stupid turns towards him—looking remarkably unhurt and unfazed by all of this, and he guesses being that musclebound really does have its advantages—and grins somewhat abashedly again. “Whoo boy, that was a doozy! Sorry about that, I think it was actually my fault—“
The main thing, really the only thing, that’s going through Caesar’s head is to yell at this idiot for swerving in front of his car and ask him what the hell he was thinking, and to check that he’s really alright, probably. But when he makes eye contact with said idiot, somehow all that comes out of his mouth is “Do I know you?”
The idiot blinks in confusion. “Uh—I don’t think so. You’re not concussed or something, right?”
Caesar shakes his head. “No, sorry, I don’t know why I—you looked familiar for a moment, but—“ The other guy is staring at him, looking increasingly confused, and Caesar has to ask himself again why his priorities seem to be so out of order in this situation. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” The stranger gives him a thumbs up with the arm he’d been rubbing earlier and immediately winces. “Ow. No, I actually am fine, don’t worry about it. I think I just bruised my shoulder a little.”
“Let me see,” Caesar finds himself saying to his own surprise, and bridges the gap between them with a few steps to look at the other man’s shoulder more closely, lifting his arm up and examining it.
Motorcycle guy eyes him with a certain degree of interest as he makes his rather amateur examination. “You a doctor or something, dude?”
“No,” Caesar responds rather cursorily, and lets go of his arm. “But a lot of my family are. I’ve taken a few nursing classes, but that’s all. I’m a chemistry student.”
“Is that an introduction?” The guy grins—again, looking disproportionately cheerful about the situation—and sticks out his other hand. “I’m Joseph Joestar, by the way. Nice to meetcha, uh—?”
Caesar ignores the proffered hand. Joseph—who he now has a name for besides “idiot”—pouts. “Caesar Zeppeli. I think your shoulder’s just pretty bruised, like you said, but like I said, I’m no expert. You should probably go to the hospital just in case—“ and he cuts himself off as he turns to look at his car, finally, and sees the massive dent in the front of it. “Oh, merda, you can’t be serious—“
Joseph’s eyes follow his gaze, and he grimaces. “Ah, right… um, sorry about that. I thought there was enough space, y’know…”
Caesar presses the tips of his fingers to his forehead, counts to ten, and breathes. “It’s—it’s fine,” he says, somewhat forced. “You are injured, after all, and it all happened quite fast. Anyway, listen, I have to get to work, so let’s go ahead and exchange our insurance information, and I’ll call you a taxi so you can get to the hospital, since you probably can’t take your bike with your arm like that…”
He turns to meet Joseph’s gaze mid-sentence and is both irritated and dismayed to see that Joseph is seemingly not listening to what he’s saying at all, but instead is staring at Caesar with a contemplative expression on his face. “Are you listening to me?”
“Ah, sorry!” But Joseph doesn’t stop staring, looking at Caesar with an expression that’s somehow knowing in a way a stranger’s shouldn’t be—couldn’t be—and Caesar feels something like a shiver run down his back. “Listen—what was that you were saying earlier about how I seemed familiar?”
“Nothing,” Caesar replies shortly, and opens his wallet, searching for his license and insurance card. “It was just a slip of the tongue. As I was saying—“
“No, c’mon,” and Joseph catches his arm, making Caesar start. “I think you’re right—I mean, I don’t know how we could’ve met, and I definitely didn’t know your name, but you look really familiar—“
“I don’t,” Caesar says, with less conviction in his voice than he wishes there was.
Joseph looks contemplative again. “Sorry, what were you saying before?”
“Your insurance number,” Caesar says, wrenching his arm out of Joseph’s grasp and turning towards his car. “I’ll get a pen. And like I said, I’ll call you a taxi to the hospital.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Joseph says, and Caesar turns back towards him because there is definitely something in Joseph’s voice that should not be there. To his dismay, Joseph’s face is covered by another wide, somehow knowing grin, and Caesar already knows he isn’t going to like what comes next. Joseph doesn’t disappoint: “Could I get a different number instead?”
“Absolutely not,” Caesar says, and opens his car door, leaning inside to get to the glovebox.
Joseph follows him, leaning against the side of the hood in an incredibly irritating way as Caesar rummages through the contents of the glovebox in search of a pen and paper. “What, c’mon—are you not into guys or something, little Caesarino? I have to say I wouldn’t find that answer believable, but I’ll try and suspend my disbelief if you—“
“Shut up, ” Caesar says. There’s no pen to be found, and he slams the glove compartment shut in frustration and pulls out his phone. “Listen, I’m late for work as it is, I don’t have time for this. Give me your insurance number and we can both be on our way.”
Joseph frowns, and raises an eyebrow. “If you say so… but, I mean, you did hit me. And injure me. I’m just saying. I just think you should be a little nicer—“
It wasn’t Caesar’s fault, and Caesar knows it wasn’t his fault, and he’s late for work, and he most definitely does not know and has never met this idiot Joseph Joestar before (despite his earlier slip of the tongue), and he has even less of an interest in knowing him any better. But he looks over at Joseph rubbing his shoulder again and at the small cut on Joseph’s cheek and the purple bruise which is beginning to develop on the side of his forehead, and can’t help but swallow at the lump of guilt that forms in his throat.
“Well?” Joseph asks, sounding inordinately hopeful.
“I’ll drive you to the hospital where my cousin works,” Caesar snaps, relenting, “and give you my insurance information, and that is absolutely all. ”
It’s not what Joseph wants, but he seems willing to take what he can get. They move Joseph’s motorcycle to a curb nearby, and Caesar calls his boss to tell him that he’s going to be seriously late, and that in fact he may not make it in at all, apologizing profusely all the while. He slides back into his (formerly beautiful, now tragically disfigured) car, as Joseph takes the passenger seat, and starts up the car, finally moving out of the intersection to drive towards the hospital.
“So, are you straight?” Joseph asks, as they hit another red light.
Caesar grips the steering wheel, counts to ten, and thinks about how much he hates Americans.
---
By the time they reach the hospital, park, and make their way into the ER, Caesar’s had to put up with increasingly obvious pick-up lines that are honestly starting to border on harassment for the last thirty minutes, not to mention the traffic. Joseph seems to think they’re best friends, and has apparently forgotten about damaging Caesar’s car. To put it frankly, he’s never been happier to see another Zeppeli.
“Gyro,” he calls, making his way past the front desk with a wave to the receptionist—Suzie’s seen him enough times that she knows who he is, and thank god for that, because he doesn’t think that he could handle a longer wait than this—with Joseph in tow. “Can you take a look at this guy?”
“This the cousin you mentioned?” Joseph asks, plopping down on a seat and kicking his feet like an overgrown child. Caesar would almost be tempted to call it cute if he weren’t so goddamn annoying.
“Yeah,” Caesar replies with a sigh as said cousin makes his way over to them, brushing his long hair out of his face and saying something quickly to another doctor. “His name’s Gyro, he’s a few years older than me. He’ll make sure that you’re fine.”
“Big family, then?” Joseph asks, eagerly, and Caesar thanks God that Gyro manages to reach them at that point; he doesn’t think he can handle any more invasive questions.
“Caesar,” Gyro says with a wide grin—he’s left off the flashy gold grills like he usually does at work, Caesar notes—and they hug briefly. “Come va?”
“Car accident,” Caesar explains briefly, jerking his thumb towards Joseph. The latter gives a cheeky wave hello, which Gyro returns agreeably.
“I see,” Gyro says, giving that weirdly distinctive chuckle of his. “Your fault?”
“No, his,” Caesar replies, crossing his arms with a sigh. “My car’s all—anyway, can you take a look at him?”
“No problem.” Gyro steps closer to Joseph, glancing him over. “What seems to be the problem?”
“My shoulder,” Joseph explains, rotating the offending joint with a wince. “And my head, a bit. You don’t really look like a doctor.”
Gyro laughs and bends down to look at Joseph’s shoulder. “Well, I’m a medical student, actually, so you’re partly right. But don’t worry, I can handle something like this easily. Sorry, can you take your shirt off so I can have a better look?”
“Of course,” Joseph says innocently, with a less innocent wink in Caesar’s direction as he sheds the garment.
Caesar pointedly ignores him and turns to Gyro instead as the latter makes his examination, choosing to ask instead, “How’s Johnny?”
Gyro glances up at him, a small, soft smile crossing his face like it does whenever his boyfriend is mentioned. “He’s good, thanks for asking. We got another cat to keep Valkyrie company. He’s thinking about going back to college this fall.”
“Congratulations,” Caesar says with a smile, and looks back to Joseph, who’s listening interestedly as Gyro lets his arm go. “So, what’s wrong with him?”
“Just some pretty bad bruising,” Gyro explains, pulling a small flashlight out of the pocket of his coat. “It’ll be fine, he just needs to rest it for a few days. I need to check for a concussion. You said you hit him?”
“He’s right here,” Joseph complains, putting his shirt back on.
“He hit me,” Caesar responds, ignoring Joseph still, who’s looking increasingly distressed by this with each passing minute.
Gyro laughs, and turns towards Joseph again. “I just have to check that you don’t have a concussion, since you’ve got some bruising on your head. Can you follow the light with your eyes?”
Joseph follows his instructions reasonably willingly, and Caesar has to admit he’s grateful that the other man is at least going along with all of this fairly easily; it’s making his life somewhat easier. He lets his mind drift off as Gyro continues his examination, asking Joseph various questions presumably to check that his brain is still working (Caesar would hazard a no to that). He checks his watch and swears internally; definitely no way he’s making it to work, and although his boss was understanding, Caesar himself isn’t very happy about it.
“No concussion,” Gyro announces, and Caesar turns back to see Joseph grinning broadly and stretching his shoulder again.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Caesar says, ignoring Joseph’s dismayed howl in response. “Thanks, Gyro, I owe you one. I’ll drive him home. Say hi to Johnny for me, yeah?”
“Will do,” Gyro says affably, gathering up his clipboard. “Nice meetin’ you, Joseph. Ciao, Caesar.”
“He’s much friendlier than you,” Joseph remarks, standing up. “So your family’s Italian, then?”
“Come on,” Caesar says with a short, defeated sigh. “I’ll drive you home. Where to?”
---
Joseph’s apartment isn’t too far away; it’s in a reasonably nice part of town, only about another fifteen minutes’ drive from the hospital. It’s late when Caesar pulls up to his street; even though they didn’t have to deal with a wait in the ER, their time dealing with everything added up. It’s long past dark, and he’s been with Joseph for several hours at this point. To put it simply, he’s tired, hungry, and ready to drive home and eat dinner and go to sleep, and so he’s less than pleased when he pulls up to the given address and Joseph doesn’t immediately vacate the car.
Caesar gives him a pointed look and unlocks the doors with an audible click, and yet Joseph still isn’t moving; he’s giving Caesar that look again, the thoughtful one that makes Caesar uneasy in an entirely different way than the way Joseph’s poorly-delivered attempts at flirting do.
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave in a second,” Joseph says, hand on the door handle in a promise of following through. “It’s just—“
“We don’t know each other,” Caesar tells him, and yet, somehow, he can feel it too. Something in the air, a sense of familiarity, of comfort, of knowing. It practically buzzes between them, and as much as the voice in the back of his mind is telling him to kick Joseph out and leave as quickly as possible and never see him again, when Joseph keeps staring at him, he can’t quite manage to tear his eyes away.
“I thought—“ Joseph’s voice is a little hoarse, and he clears his throat. “I thought we could get coffee. Can we? Not in a gay way, if that’s what you want, I’ll stop being so—but you know, we can deal with all the insurance stuff when we’re less tired, and…” He trails off helplessly.
Caesar doesn’t know him; doesn’t want to know him; wants to go home, and yet he finds himself giving a short, sharp, nod.
Joseph grins in relief, the expression washing over his face like a tide reclaiming a beach, and pulls a pen out of his pocket to scribble on the back of a receipt from the hospital coffee shop from earlier. “Great, that’s—great! Okay, here’s my number—“ He thrusts the paper at Caesar, and Caesar takes it, albeit somewhat unwillingly. “You can text me, or, uh, I’ll text you—does tomorrow sound okay?”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” Caesar says quietly.
“Okay! Okay.” Joseph opens the car door and steps out, then leans back in to wiggle his fingers at Caesar with a cheeky, obnoxious grin. “Ciao, Caesarino!”
His accent is horrible beyond belief. “Don’t call me that,” Caesar responds, and Joseph laughs and slams the door shut loudly, and heads for the door to his apartment complex, searching in his jacket pocket for his keys.
As Caesar drives home, he can only wonder at what he’s gotten himself into.
---
As promised, they meet for coffee the next day: a small, unobtrusive place with sunflower-yellow walls, roughly halfway between their places, that Joseph swears by. Caesar arrives first, which he feels like he should be unsurprised by, and orders a macchiato as he waits, claiming a table by the window. It arrives quickly, and he takes a tentative sip as he checks his email on his phone. It’s not bad—the coffee, that is. It’s made in a passably Italian style, and while it doesn’t compare to anything from home, it’s the closest he’s found in New York so far. Say what he will about Joseph, the American knows his coffee places well enough. Caesar takes another sip, wonders if Joseph picked this place on purpose—in addition to the coffee, the walls are his favorite color, could he have known somehow?—and dismisses the thought, waving it aside.
Speak of the devil and he will appear, and Joseph bursts through the door at that moment, a cold blast of wintry air trailing in his wake. He waves to the owner—so he’s a regular here, apparently—and glances around, looking for Caesar. He spots the Italian and grins, a bright, infectious smile, as he sits down across from him. “Hey!”
“Hey,” Caesar says, and manages to succeed in not smiling, but just barely. Joseph’s still an unwelcome sight, don’t get him wrong, but it’s hard to be annoyed when someone looks so genuinely delighted to see you. Besides, the coffee’s put him in a good mood.
“Sorry I’m late,” Joseph says, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck and pulling off his woolen hat, stuffing it into his coat pocket. His nose is red with the cold; the temperature had dropped suddenly and unexpectedly today. “Had to take the subway, since I still can’t take my bike. I have to go and pick it up sometime soon, actually...”
“It’s fine,” Caesar replies, and motions towards the coffee. “I ordered for myself already, I hope that’s alright. How’s your shoulder?”
“Oh, that’s okay! How’d you like the coffee?” Joseph asks. “Oh, and my shoulder’s okay, thanks. Just kinda sore still. Gyro said I can drive and stuff in a few days but to rest it until then.”
“That’s good to hear,” Caesar says, and means it; it’s not like he wishes injury on the man, annoying as he may be, after all. “The coffee’s good, actually. You have better taste than I expected.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Joseph demands, only to be distracted by the waitress coming over. He orders—a large caramel latte with extra whipped cream and extra caramel—as Caesar stares absently out the window. He turns back towards Caesar to find him looking towards him with raised eyebrows. “What?”
“Nothing,” Caesar says with a shrug. “It’s an unexpected order, is all. Big guy like you, I assumed it would be espresso or something.”
Joseph’s ears go a little red. “H-hey! Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it, okay?”
Caesar laughs a little and takes another sip of his coffee, as Joseph leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. There it is, again—the feeling of familiarity, and yet it unnerves him less than it did before.
---
An hour and another coffee each later, Caesar knows enough about Joseph to possibly no longer categorize him as a “stranger”. He’s eighteen: two years younger than Caesar, which is a little surprising considering his appearance. He’s in college already, though, because he skipped a grade (third). He’s a business major, and wants to go into real estate, which is also surprising. Despite sounding very American, he’s actually British; he moved to New York as a child to stay with a family friend after his parents died. He played football in high school, but quit in college. He’s never been to Italy. He doesn’t speak any language other than English. And after comparing outlines of their entire life histories, it’s been concluded: they most definitely have never met before.
Caesar glances out the window and then at his watch. It’s past three, and afternoon is bordering on the edge of evening; the days are shorter lately, and the sun’s been setting early. He interrupts Joseph in the middle of the other’s rendition of a story about a prank he played on a classmate which he’d only been vaguely listening to. “Right, Joseph—sorry, but I have to get going soon. Should we discuss the insurance stuff?”
Joseph’s face falls a little, but he nods, pulling out his wallet. “Yeah, okay. Um—“ There’s a pause as they both locate the relevant cards and swap them, copying down the other’s information and then passing them back, and then—that’s it. It barely takes thirty seconds.
They’re silent for a moment.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Caesar says.
“I guess so,” Joseph responds quietly, and after another few moments of silence, stands and puts his jacket and scarf back on. He turns towards Caesar, hesitates, turns away, turns back. “Uh—well, you’ve got my number if you need it. Give me a text if there’s any problems with the insurance stuff or anything. Or, you know, whatever.”
Caesar nods wordlessly, and Joseph turns and heads for the door with a tinkle of bells that chimes as he leaves, only glancing over his shoulder once. Caesar remains seated, empty coffee cups littering the table in front of him along with crumpled napkins and some spilled sugar. It’s dealt with, finally. He’ll call the insurance company tomorrow, get it dealt with, and never have to see Joseph Joestar again. And so—
So—
He catches up with Joseph as he’s halfway down the street and taps him on the shoulder, out of breath.
Joseph turns. “Caesar—?” He asks, sounding surprised.
“I—I can drive you home, so you don’t have to take the subway,” Caesar offers, mentally berating himself. “But just this once.”
A grin spreads across Joseph’s face, and Caesar curses his own stupidity in every language he knows.
---
JJ: good morning!!! :*
CZ: It’s 7 AM.
JJ: oh sry did I wake u?
CZ: Go fuck off.
JJ: :(
---
JJ: hey what r u wearing ;)
JJ: hey
JJ: ok im sorry pls stop ignoring me
CZ: I’ll literally kill you
JJ: haha and then what ;)
JJ: ok sorry!!!! sorry don’t ignore me
CZ: Joseph, I’m at work. You’re seriously trying my patience
JJ: jojo!!
CZ: What?
JJ: call me jojo!! i forgot to tell you that before
JJ: all my friends call me that
CZ: And you’d call us friends?
JJ: caesar ur breaking my heart here
JJ: hit me with ur car and won’t even call me ur friend
CZ: Fine. Jojo, then
JJ: :) !!!!
CZ: No need to be so excited over it.
---
JJ: anyway so get this then speedwagon yells at me
CZ: Speedwagon?
JJ: my guardian i guess. i think i mentioned him before.
JJ: i call him uncle but he’s not my uncle rly. hes a total babe v nice
CZ: The name’s weirdly familiar.
JJ: well i mean hes famous kind of
CZ: ??
JJ: robert e o speedwagon. hes the oil guy
CZ: Wait. What?
JJ: have u heard of him?
CZ: Well, first of all, in the normal sense, yes
CZ: And I’m kind of surprised that you neglected to mention you have an oil tycoon for an adoptive parent
CZ: But also, I think my grandfather knew him.
JJ: wait what???
CZ: William Zeppeli. I think they were in the army together or something?
JJ: what ooooh my gooood
CZ: I know. This is bizarre
JJ: and ur SURE we haven’t met???
JJ: youre right i knew the name zeppeli sounded familiar somehow
CZ: Yeah. But also, yes, I’m sure.
CZ: I swear we haven’t met. Like I said, I’d have remembered you.
JJ: sigh i guess ur right
JJ: but this is crazy!!
CZ: It really is
JJ: its like we’re connected by fate!!!
CZ: …
JJ: omg ok im sorry dont ignore me again
JJ: caesar pls
---
It’s been about a month since the accident when Caesar drops by the hospital again; Christmas is coming up, and he needs to ask Gyro about their family’s plans, and figures he might as well do it in person and say hi to Suzie while he’s at it. Conveniently, Gyro’s leaning on the front desk and chatting amiably with her when he comes in the front door.
“Caesar!” They exclaim, more or less in unison. Caesar laughs despite himself and gives them each a hug in turn.
“Hey, guys,” he says. “How’s the holiday season at the hospital?”
“It’s alright,” Suzie chirps happily. “Busy, but not incredibly so. How’s the lab? And school?”
“Also fine,” he replies. “My break starts in about a week, so I’ve got finals now.”
They groan sympathetically, and Gyro begins telling Caesar various ridiculous, probably fake anecdotes about hospital events and what he and Johnny have been up to that have Caesar chuckling and Suzie bursting out in peals of infectious laughter that are loud enough to turn a few heads.
Gyro’s halfway through a story that definitely has to be fake about their annoying British neighbor dressing up as a dinosaur and shoveling snow, when Caesar feels his phone buzz in his pocket and pulls it out to check.
JJ: studying is hard i cant do it :((( caesar save me
There’s a notification on snapchat as well—he’d let Joseph add him with the absolute, unnegotiable condition of no unsolicited dick pics, ever. Joseph had agreed with only minimal whining. Caesar opens the image; it’s a picture of Joseph sprawled face-down across a couch in a study lounge, with open textbooks and several takeout coffee cups surrounding him. The caption reads “he’s dying”.
Caesar laughs before he can stop himself, and glances up to see that Gyro and Suzie have stopped talking and are both staring at him interestedly. His face heats up. “What?”
“Who is it?” Suzie asks innocently.
“No one. It’s just Joseph.” He stuffs the phone back into his pocket. “Anyway—“
“Joseph? The guy who you brought in here with the messed up shoulder?” Gyro asks, a glint sparkling in his eye. He’s clearly not going to let it go. “I’ve never heard of, uh, meeting a guy by hitting him with your car before—“
Suzie laughs, and Caesar sighs. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what?” Suzie asks, trying to hide her smile behind her hand. “Normally, in these situations, you don’t keep in contact once you’ve got your car fixed—“
“That’s not it,” Caesar protests. “It’s—it’s really stupid, actually. He’s convinced we know each other from somewhere, but we’ve never met before. For some reason, he won’t let it go.”
Gyro gives that typical laugh of his. “Nyo ho~? What, maybe you know each other from a past life, or something!”
He laughs, and Suzie joins in.
“Yeah, stupid, isn’t it?” Caesar laughs, but his voice is somehow more thoughtful than it has any right to be.
---
JJ: so caesar
JJ: i think we should get dinner sometime
JJ: your next line is “why would i get dinner with you”
CZ: Why would I get dinner with you?
CZ: Hey!
JJ: B)
CZ: How do you do that?
JJ: secrets of the trade babe
JJ: so anyway
CZ: The point’s the same
CZ: Why should we get dinner?
JJ: uhhhh
JJ: as my apology for the accident
CZ: Jojo, your insurance already paid for it. It’s fine
CZ: It’s kind of a stretch at this point, don’t you think?
JJ: caesar cmon
JJ: please
He wants to say no—should say no, really. He knows what’s on Joseph’s mind, and even if they’re getting along better lately, he doesn’t want to lead the guy on. Just because they’ve gotten coffee once and texted back and forth a few times doesn’t mean anything.
He’s going to say no, to cut things off before they go too far, but it’s the last message from Joseph that does it. It’s the same feeling that led him to drive Joseph to the hospital, to agree to coffee, to follow him out the door after that; a push or a pull, something nameless and overpowering, strong and magnetic and overwhelmingly familiar. Even through a text message, Caesar can tell—Joseph’s being genuine, not like the stupid flirting or any of that. “Please.” He can almost hear Joseph say it, and—
CZ: fine
It’s already past midnight, and he doesn’t stop to check for Joseph’s reply, simply plugging his phone in to charge and turning off the lights, climbing into bed hurriedly. He’ll deal with his bad decisions tomorrow.
---
In his dream, Joseph is there.
His fists crackle with some strange sort of electricity; bright gold sparks and a warm heat like sunlight fly off of him. A shadowy figure bends towards him, and another; the first reaches for his throat, the second for his chest. They plunge their hands through his skin, inside his body, simultaneously. Joseph screams, before it’s choked off by something closing around his windpipe, and Caesar wants to move, to help, but he looks down and he’s surrounded by a puddle of blood—his own—and he—
He wakes up to sweat soaking through his shirt and the loud ringing of his phone.
“Hello?” He mumbles, his throat scratchy with tiredness and the remnants of the fear—it had felt so real, and—
“Caesar? Caesar, are you okay?”
He barely registers that it’s Joseph; his brain is still fuzzy around the edges with sleep and what thoughts he has are still focused on his dream. “Wha—Joseph? ‘M fine… God, what time is it—?”
“Thank God,” Joseph breathes, and only then does Caesar start to register a strange edge in Joseph’s voice—panic, or desperation, or a tenderness that truly doesn’t fit the situation.
He struggles to sit up, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Joseph, it’s—it’s 3 AM, and of course I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
“I know, sorry,” Joseph admits, the sleepiness audible in his own voice too. “It’s really stupid, so don’t get mad at me, but—uh, I had this dream about you.”
Now that Caesar wasn’t expecting.
“You were—um, we fought,” Joseph continues, all at once in a rushed outpouring of words. “And you went off somewhere, and then you—Caesar, you died. And I just—“
“This is,” Caesar interrupts, searching for the correct word, “weird.”
“I know, God. I’m sorry, it just seemed so real. Sorry for waking you up, I just wanted to check that you were okay. I don’t know. I—“
“No,” Caesar cuts him off again. “I had a dream about you too.” He admits it more readily than he normally would do with such a thing, partly because he’s tired, partly because this is really weird, and partly for something else he can’t really put his finger on.
“Oh. Wait, what?”
“It wasn’t the same one, but it sounds. Similar. Both of us were hurt, and you were—“ Caesar pauses, tries to remember, but the details are already slipping away as dreams tend to do when you wake up. “I can’t remember.”
There’s a long moment of silence.
“Caesar,” Joseph says suddenly, “I know what you’re gonna say, but can I come over? I, uh. I want to see you.”
If his heart leaps into his throat and makes it suddenly hard to breathe at those words, Caesar won’t admit it to anyone.
“We made plans for dinner already. Won’t you see me then?” he responds, his voice kept forcibly calm.
“I know, but I—“ Joseph pauses, his voice scratchy through the bad connection. “I wanna see you. Can I see you? Caesar—“
And as usual, Caesar can’t say no—can never say no to Joseph when he’s like this.
---
They meet in a tiny park just outside Caesar’s apartment, so tiny that it barely deserves the title; at the moment, it’s nothing but a single swing set and slide structure half-buried in snow. Joseph bikes over, and texts Caesar when he arrives. Caesar stops to lock the door behind him and grab his coat and hat, and heads down the stairs out into the cold night air.
Joseph has no hat or scarf, and Caesar can’t help but sigh at his stupidity. At least he has a coat. He must be absolutely freezing.
Joseph visibly relaxes when he sees Caesar, and the Italian can’t help but laugh. “I’m not actually dead, Joseph. I think you might need a reminder of the difference between dreams and reality.”
Joseph pouts. “I know, I just—“ He shoves his hands in his pockets and toes at the snow with a worn leather boot. “I know. It just seemed so real, okay? It kinda shook me up. When I woke up, I was—don’t laugh, okay? But I was sort of crying. In my dream—Caesar, I think in my dream we were really good friends, best friends, and, um. I think you died for me. So I…”
“Don’t tell me this is confirmation of your stupid theory,” Caesar tries to say, but the words stick in his throat and they’re barely a whisper. He can’t help but remember his own dream.
“I’m just. Kind of scared,” Joseph says with a grimace, still staring down at the snow at his feet.
“Of?”
Joseph doesn’t reply, but Caesar knows, somehow, the words that are going through his mind.
“Jojo, you barely know me,” he says, his voice weak.
“I know! I know,” Joseph runs a hand through his hair frustratedly. “I know it’s stupid, but I feel like I’ve known you so much longer.” Caesar tries to protest, but he cuts him off. “I know, we haven’t met before. I get it. But I just feel like—I mean, the first time we met, it was a car accident, you know? I just feel like—it was fine, but what if it hadn’t been? Shit like that happens, and it could’ve been worse. What if I had died? What if you had died?”
Caesar tries to reply, tries to tell him he’s being stupid, tries to tell him he’s worrying over nothing, but his voice dies in his throat before the words can make it out.
Joseph looks up, and moves a little closer. Caesar is so still that he’s barely sure if he’s breathing. Joseph’s just staring at him—quiet, for once in his life, with that same look, the same contemplation, and Caesar just can’t move, is held in place by something completely beyond his control.
“Caesar,” Joseph says, quietly, and Caesar’s pretty sure he could predict his next line after this.
“You’re so needy,” Caesar chokes out, his heart beating uncontrollably somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. “Couldn’t you have waited until we had a normal date? It’s four in the morning, why is it always like this with you—?”
Joseph’s only a few inches from him now; Caesar can see the redness of his cheeks and the tip of his nose, could probably count his eyelashes, if he tried. “Let me be a little needy,” Joseph whispers, and Caesar can feel the hotness of his breath, and he—gives in, of course he does—gives in, and closes the gap between them and leans forward to kiss him.
The air around them is cold, but Joseph’s lips are unexpectedly warm. He’s not very experienced with things like this, Caesar realizes; despite all his insistence up until this point, he’s surprisingly hesitant, kissing Caesar back enthusiastically but somewhat uncertainly, and—
And, well, of course, Caesar shouldn’t be surprised by this, but it’s overwhelmingly familiar. It feels like he’s been kissing Joseph all his life. It’s far too easy, far too comfortable, and as Joseph’s hands twine through his hair, Caesar feels like he’s finally remembered something he’d been forgetting for years. Kissing Joseph feels, in this unfamiliar city, like coming home.
They break apart, Joseph’s hands ice-cold against his skin as he cups the sides of Caesar's face, and Caesar’s hands fisted in the fabric of the front of Joseph’s coat. Joseph’s lips are red and he’s just a little breathless as he smiles, and then grins, and then laughs. “I swear I know you from somewhere.”
“As I’ve said before, Jojo,” Caesar snaps back, “I’d remember someone as annoying as you anywhere.” But his heart isn’t really in it, and when Joseph leans in again, Caesar gives in—as before, as always, as ever.