If you act as god be prepared to answer to those who came before you. JJBA X SMR

Chapter 8

(You get one old Joseph drawing for this chapter.)

Title: I no longer know what I say, or what I do! And yet it's necessary. Force yourself!

-

"Robert, get up. I need to get you back up." He...he knew that voice. Forcing his eyes open, he pushed himself into a sitting position, barely aware that his hair was falling past his shoulders, or how his body didn't carry the same soreness age had brought with it. "There you go. Take it slow."

"M/n...?" He's the same age as when they had last seen each other, but M/n doesn't seem bothered, instead he's lax, willingly offering the other a smile. "Is...is that you?"

"Yes...I mean, perhaps. I might be a figment of your imagination, or just someone appearing in your dreams to bring you solace," he snickered, reaching out and taking one of Speedwagon's hands, his skin warm. It feels solid. Real. He relaxes ever so slightly. "Or maybe I'm real? We don't know."

"...if you're real, then Straights was right...you haven't aged."

"Oh Robert, you haven't aged as well in this dream." Leaning back, M/n held up a small circular mirror, and the reflection showed him...looking as if he was twenty-five. "Though...that's not good."

"What...what do you mean by that?"

"My mother once told me that people who died would appear in the afterlife as the age they were happiest, and here you are in your twenties despite living to seventy-five. That's...upsetting, to say the least."

"But then why are you...? No! Am I dead or...or dying?"

"Touch your throat." He did, feeling an open gash that wasn't bleeding, and with a gasp he watched M/n look away as if the sight pained him.

"...?"

"To answer your question...not yet. Or at least not completely." M/n sighed. "That's actually why I'm here, Robert. I don't want this to be your end. Especially not at your own hand."

"My hand, but Straights..."

"He's been handled." The reply was quick, the wound still raw, and Speedwagon swallowed down a thousand questions. "I can't imagine what you're going through right now, but I'm coming to help you. Please don't do anything till I get there. I can help you...and I know I haven't been a good friend to you...especially after leaving you that night...but I'm coming to save you. Just hold out till I get there."

"I...I will."

"Thank you."

-

You've always loved working with textiles. Taking the rough scraps, then making something beautiful, with your hands, and your hands alone.

Your favorite technique is batik. Using a tool called a canting to pour wax on the fabric. Submerging it in dye. And pulling away to see the white space, loving the things that slipped through the gaps.

Making martyrs of mistakes.

But lately; you grip the canting, and where once you embraced the pitfalls of your craft, your hands now shake. Too much to be callous kindly. And Icarus's wings are melting, then drying again. And so wax floats on water.

The story is out of your control now.

Perhaps there is still space for creation in these hands. Though now the problem lies in your canvas where you've drawn over it with wax. Again and again and again...until there's nowhere left to go. And once comforting designs are drowning. The wax can't keep Icarus up any longer. And yet, you preserve in your craft. Until it crumbles in your grip. Torn and tattered by the world. Then put together with rough hands. And even rougher methods.