kappachyun's Zine Portfolio

Below are all of the zines I have been involved in and zine pieces I have created under the credited name, AKnightOfAGoodKing. The list will update as I go. Zine pieces will be public after the zine organizers have given the okay. Edits may have been made from the original printing of the zine(s). Thank you for reading!

Contribution Pieces

*contains content warning / °art collaboration

A Knight Like Any Other

It was a harmless comment. Well, perhaps it was also an arrogant one too, but Robin never meant to be taken seriously. However, while giggling, Nightwing and Hood decided that the older man was going out on patrol tonight. The man didn’t say a word as he was asked to put on a protective nanotech suit and to don a white domino mask, a black top hat, and a black cape with a red interior. Bat-ler, they named him on the spot and then booted Robin—and Orphan—out of the cave with their “visiting” Bat associate in tow.

The moment they stepped out of the cave, Oracle came through the mic, and that was how they ended up in the middle of a weapons trade-off in one of the pier warehouses, busting through a high window. Glass shattered, scattering like snow, and the three of them landed on their feet, right between Two-Face, Penguin, and two dozen grunts between the two.

“It’s Robin!” Penguin shouted. “And Orphan! When will your brood leave me in peace!”

“But who the hell is that?” Two-Face said incredulously, pointing at the newcomer. He growled. “A Bat butler? Oh, c’mon! Get ‘em, boys!”

As always, a fight broke out, three versus a small army. Typical, Robin thought to himself with a small chuckle, and he kicked in a grunt’s knee from the front, grabbing the man by the shoulders to give himself a lift. The next second, he was flipping into the air and shooting a grappling hook into the ceiling, gaining an overview of the whole warehouse as he swung above.

As expected, most of the grunts went after Bat-ler, coming after fresh meat in hopes of getting a kill for the first time, but the man was in no trouble, staff in hand. On the other side, Orphan was knocking enemies out from left to right, every move final, and like a storm, she came towards Penguin who cocked his umbrella pistol with a quacking laugh. The stout villain couldn’t compare; a master and a dancer, Orphan leaped gracefully and made her mark, hard.

One down, one to go; Robin released his hook.

However, the corrupted Janus was no fool. Actually, he was rather skilled himself, and the man easily grabbed Robin by the ankle. Two-Face laughed as he threw the boy, but Robin caught himself in a roll, getting back on his feet. By then, however, the villain had a gun in one hand, his signature coin resting on the other.

“Heads, I aim for your heart,” he said with a smirk.

“I’ll get to you before it falls,” Robin replied, and he pulled out his sword, coin rising.

It was a tight fight, metal clashing loud and clear like bells, and their movements were a blur. All the while, the coin continued to climb in height. In a breath, in two, it lost momentum, and time stilled, blade at Two-Face’s neck and gun at Robin’s head.

When time resumed, the winner was decided; a rose with thorns cut through the air, knocking the gun out of the villain’s hands. “Go, Master Robin!” Bat-ler said, surrounded by a circle of defeated grunts. By his side was an amused Orphan, Penguin tied up at their feet.

Taking the chance, the bird punched the villain square in the nose, and Two-Face fell with a thud.

Robin caught the coin before it could hit the earth. Squeezing it, he let out a soft sigh. Then, he turned to the butler, smiling somewhat proudly. “I was wrong,” he said. “You are just as capable on the field as you are in the cave. Good work, Bat-ler.”

In turn, the man smiled back. “Thank you, Robin,” he replied. “Now, I’ll take my leave. My job here is done.” And with a whip of his cape, he faded into the shadows and disappeared. Just like a Bat.

[made in collaboration with @babbilon]

To the Rest of Forever

«You're beautiful. Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. I love you. I think I always will.»

They left Rome in the morning on a jet, private and luxurious, and they arrived in Athens that afternoon. It was as if she was wrapping her arms around them, welcoming them back, and Giorno and Mista smiled at each other as they were escorted to their limo.

It would’ve been nice to be able to say that their return to Greece was a break from business, but it had never been the case, not the first time they’d come here or the second. Very few trips in and out of Italy were for pleasure, but that was easily amendable; over the years, they learned to make the best of every situation, to cherish the small moments away from the burden of duty. There was always time between meetings and missions, found in the first light of day and in darkest hours of night, and though it wasn’t much, perhaps insignificant to others, it was enough.

They arrived at their hotel without any trouble, quietly talking over their plans for the next few days. Two nights from now, they were going to the engagement party of the eldest daughter of one Mister Chronis, an old ally of Passione. The native Greek had remained a valuable and reliable source about the happenings in his country’s underworld, and friendship with the man came naturally, the crime lord both charming and wise. Sadly, many of Diavolo’s associates did not meet this standard, and all of them had long been replaced.

The engagement party, however, wasn’t the only thing on their itinerary, just the one the don and his gunman looked forward to most. At Polnareff's council, they were to make and remake pleasantries over expensive dinners and careful conversations, all of which Fugo arranged. While they were there, they were to check in with their other allies and connections, and to ensure that nothing was stirring in the land where the Pantheon once ruled. Though Passione had a good hold in Greece with the successful chain of casinos they owned there, amongst other things, they could never be too careful about overly ambitious—greedy—characters who cropped up, dreaming too big and too inconsequentially about getting rich quick, about garnering power. None had yet to cause any real problems, Mista made sure of that.

By midday, the don and his gunman finished confirming their schedule for the rest of the week, and they were already preparing for one of those obligatory dinners. There was no immediate rest time on their first day in Athens, but the morning of the engagement party, there was a small window.

«Any ideas on what we should do?» Giorno asked as he entered their limo again but not for the last time that day. Mista followed suit as always, closing the door behind him. Their ride began quietly and not a minute late. «We can’t waste a trip to such a lovely country in our hotel bed.»

The gunman hummed in thought, thumbing at the scruff on his chin. He smiled when an idea struck him. «What about going to that island town?» he suggested. «The one I said was like Capri.»

«Aegina?»

«That’s the one. We went there, what, ten, fifteen years ago?»

«About that long, yes. Are you getting nostalgic, Guido?»

Mista’s smile turned playful. «Consider it late anniversary plans. Let’s pretend we came back to that small town on the exact day the first time we went there ten, fifteen years ago.»

A smile graced the don’s handsome face, and he placed a hand on his lover’s thigh. «It was one of the few places we managed a date soon after Rome. Something tells me you didn’t forget that little detail.»

«Maybe. Maybe not. Wouldn’t you like to know?»

«I’m sure I know enough.»

Together, they shared a small laugh, and slowly, their gazes caught each other in the fading light of dusk. They drew apart only when they had to, Giorno putting on the persona of a god and Mista his shadow.

Two days later, when Aurora graced the sky, they left their hotel in a plain black car, warm under their coats. Giorno drove them to the dock where they'd take the ferry, and Mista took control of the radio, singing quietly along with Beck. They didn’t say much, but they didn’t need to. It was a pleasant trip, and the salty air of the sea was even more so when they arrived, the gunman gesturing that he’d get the tickets.

It was a quick transaction, though not a silent one. The ticket seller, a graying man with stormy blue eyes, could hear the accent in the gunman’s speech.

― You've been here before, but I’m guessing it’s been a while. ―

― Right on the money. Tell me, it’s a good time in the year to visit? ―

― A very good time. Not too little sun and only a bit of chill. Here are your tickets. ―

― Thank you, sir. ―

Mista gave the man a nod as he walked back to the car, proud that his conversational Greek was still good. Books and studying were never an option for him because he disliked them; he never intended to go further than compulsory school and spent the last few months before turning legal on trial and in prison. He didn’t have the patience for learning when there were other things he did better, other things that came naturally.

«Giorno,» he called out, holding up the tickets with a smile. «I got us the next ride. It leaves in ten minutes so let’s board.»

Waiting by the driver’s side, Giorno turned, the sunlight hitting him from behind, making a halo out of his golden locks and curls. The don hummed, the corners of his lips curled only in the tiniest twitch.

They got on the ferry as quietly as they arrived. As the cautious and private men they were, they found seats on the deck facing the dock, away from most of the other guests who were resting inside to stay warm. Only one other couple was in the same area, but they seemed too interested in each other to pay attention to anyone or anything else.

Though the don and his gunman weren’t allowed the same luxury, they sat just as close, their shoulders pressed together and their hands clasped over their legs. They left a few minutes before the indicated time on the tickets, Giorno’s eyes casted out into the sea as it stretched between ferry and land. All the while, his gunman finished up the songs he’d left in the car, voice low enough to be lost over the waves yet never missing a beat, and he captured this very moment, another memory just like this replaying in his head, youth and time intertwined.

All these years, and like Endymion, his beauty remains undisturbed, the gunman thought to himself, a smile dancing on his lips as he sang.

It was between an eternity and an instant when they arrived. Neither men kept track of the minutes or the hour; this morning, they had plenty to spare. They were simply two visitors out of the small crowd stepping off the ferry, everyone drifting apart into their own bubbles.

«Look, Giorno,» Mista said, the tip of his shoes right on the edge of the concrete. Even from his height, he could see a small clump of sea urchins clinging to the side of the rocks, ripples of water deforming their shape. «Do you think these ones were here the last time we were here?»

The don chuckled, standing right next to his lover, the tips of his shoes on the edge of the concrete too. «It is thought that a sea urchin can live up to thirty years,» he replied lightly, «so maybe.»

«Wouldn’t it be funny if they were?»

«It would be endearing.»

«What makes you say that?»

«I guess, I have a place in my heart for things that have endured all these years, through storms and sun, and remained so resilient.»

«Is that so?»

«They remind me of someone I know.»

«Let me guess, Sheila E?»

«I can easily push you.»

Mista wouldn’t dare continue teasing his lover because his laughter was enough, not a bit afraid of the threat but still cautious. Though Giorno may no longer look like the audacious teenager Bucciarati brought in out of the blue, he had such a childish streak, playful. Unpredictable. Besides, they didn’t bring anything to swim with. (Perhaps next time, whenever it may be.)

The town, bearing the same name as the island, was a small one. The first glance at it offered a multitude of restaurants, all with front row seatings of the water, and the cars that passed through were very few and far in between, the spacious stone road leading to the quiet homes built into the plains one way and to the touristy beach resorts the other. Behind them, the buildings and stores pressed up together like those in Rome, towering over the narrow streets better called alleyways. Pedestrians were sparse, but there was enough space everywhere to pack crowds of them. It was quiet here.

«Giorno,» Mista said, holding up a sample of pesto on a tiny wooden spoon. The stand was mainly selling pistachio, a native product, but they made even more with it.

The don turned to his way, leaning down just a bit to taste. He didn’t need to; Mista could still as easily reach his face without getting on tippy toes, unlike a certain singer they knew, but Giorno sure liked to tease, relishing in the fact that he’d impressively outgrown his slightly less than average and thin stature by the ripe age of eighteen. Just ten, fifteen years ago, when they first met, it was Mista who was the bigger and taller one. Some people just had all the luck.

«The taste hasn’t changed,» Giorno commented.

There were some giggles coming from the two young women behind the stand, whispering to each other as they stole glances at the foreign couple. They blushed embarrassingly when they noticed they’d been caught looking. Another woman, older and brunette, hushed them, a smile breaking on her lips too, and she beckoned to Giorno, who leaned in closely.

The woman looked at the don with familiarity, laughing to herself. ― I guess the angel I saw so long ago was really just a man. ―

― You flatter me. ―

― And you brought back that handsome boy with you too. It seems that some things might actually last forever. Come back again, but maybe not so far into the future. I might actually forget about you. ―

― I can’t make any promises, but it would be a shame to disappoint such a pretty woman like you, wouldn’t it? ―

Giorno gave the woman a wink and turned back around, and without a word, he pressed his lips against his lover’s, invoking even more laughter from the women who cooed at them. Mista returned in kind, a hand reaching behind his lover’s head to touch and to hold.

A light breakfast was in order; they had something to eat back at the hotel only to make sure Sex Pistols was fed, but neither men could refuse having fresh croissants, sitting out at one of the restaurants. As they waited for their food, Giorno sipped on a fresh cup of coffee, a tabby cat lounging to his right on the settee. Mista mused out loud about the other strays he’d seen since landing in Athens.

«They wander around like people,» he said in particular. «That cat, it’s out on its morning errands, which includes doing nothing next to strangers. Do you think there’s a Stand involving making animal spies?»

The don laughed. «Nothing like that has been reported yet,» Giorno replied. «You know that, but if it did exist, we’ll have to make sure its user is working for us.»

Mista wrinkled his nose. «You wouldn’t turn the manor into a zoo, would you?»

«I actually never thought about that. Hmm.»

«Giorno.»

«It wouldn’t be far-fetched. I mean we already have Polnareff.»

«Giorno.»

The don continued to tease, stating plainly that if he did turn the manor into a zoo, he’d start with the garden and slowly make his way to the rest of the estate. The only thing the gunman agreed on was adding a pond on the property, not that these plans were ever going to happen. Their discussion only paused when their plate of calamari showed up, picking back up on the topic of which animal they’d have and what the limit would be for each. Someone back home would have to put their foot down on this matter. (Nobody here would, not when their waiter who understood a little Italian contributed and suggested camels of all things.)

When they finished their meal, the tabby cat took its leave first, tail whipping behind like it had to be somewhere. It pleasantly reminded Mista of his best friend, the aforementioned singer.

Afterwards, the couple moved onto looking through the shops and sites the town offered. Trinkets of deep blue watched them almost endlessly as they passed, all in different sizes and styles. Even here, the eye colored like the sea was everywhere, looking out for any evil that may come its way.

Nothing was bought between the two of them; however, the people here were friendly to new faces, feeding Mista’s natural inclination for small talk, and Giorno easily kept along. In those moments, the don and the gunman were simple visitors, dressed a bit eccentric but overall pleasant to meet. They were even invited to come over by an older couple for dinner, which they unfortunately had to decline.

When there was only less than an hour left before they had to leave, Giorno and Mista made their way back, not to the dock but to the sandy beachfront right next to it. The sea was peaceful here as well, small waves crashing onto the shore as gently as leaves fell from trees. The water was clear, a silent siren that invited you to step in and immerse yourself.

The two held hands as they walked on the sand, Zephyr's winds brushing over their faces as morning rose into noon. Their time here was truly a small window, and it was enough.

«Guido,» the don said, standing just a few steps from wet sand, and he looked at his lover, a memory on the tip of his tongue and then rolling off. «You’re beautiful. Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. I love you. I always will.»

Mista made a choking noise, lips pressed tightly together in a growing smile. His eyes gleamed with a childish excitement, a man living and reliving his youth. «You remembered,» he said with a small laugh, face flushed. Perhaps it was because of the chill of the sea, or maybe it was another reason. «But it's different this time around.»

The gunman paused, his eyes searching into his lover's cautiously. «Are you sure, Giorno?» he then asked.

«I am,» the don returned, taking his lover by his left hand, and he revealed a gold ring, the one he'd been keeping in his pocket for a while now, waiting for the perfect moment. And that is now, Giorno thought as he slipped the ring onto Mista's finger. His own hands were shaking, not out of fear but in anticipation, in joy, in love.

«You swore your loyalty to me,» he continued, «but you have given me everything there is to receive. The dark is no longer something to be afraid of. Now, I look forward to it because I have you by my side.» Giorno knew that to be true; he was certain, his bed shared and long made theirs.

«Oi,» Mista said, voice cracking just a bit. «The engagement party tonight is supposed to be for someone else,» he joked, letting out a wet laugh as he placed his free hand over his eyes.

Giorno joined in. «We'll have our own back home. I have no intentions to share the spotlight with anyone but you.»

A sniffle. «I'm such a sucker for this stuff. And an even bigger sucker for you, Giorno.»

The gunman removed his hand, his dark eyes looking back at turquoise ones, and the don saw his feelings returned, adoring and cherishing. It needn't be spoken; to hear it still, however, was something wonderful.

«I love you,» Mista said slowly, voice diving deep into the sea and flying high in the breeze. «Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Always.»

Silence settled between them, Giorno smiling beyond repair and Mista failing to keep himself collected. The morning clouds parted way for a bit more sun, and it shone onto the waters revealing hidden gems. In the distance, there was a ferry, leisurely breaking through the currents. It was in no rush to arrive, and so it would in no rush to leave either.

«I'm going to get you one,» Mista finally said, blinking away some more tears, «and it's going to be so amazing that you'll cry too! Just you wait, Giorno!»

The don simply laughed, throwing his head back. Then, he looked down at their hands, fingers intertwined, and he caught the ring’s bright gleam as he gently tugged his lover.

«Let's go, Guido,» Giorno said, sincere and knowing, «to the rest of forever.»

[made in collaboration with @Gentenn]

I Wanted to Stay

CW: incest, twincest

Resist! I’m right here! I’m right here! Wake—

“—up, you lazy idiot!”

Groaning, Dante rolled over, trying to bury himself back to sleep, but whoever was annoying him grabbed his covers and yanked them away. Asshole. “Five more minutes!” he protested, shoving his head underneath his pillow. It was much softer than it had been last night, but he wasn’t complaining. Actually, everything felt softer; again, he wasn’t going to question it. “It’s not like we have to do anything today!”

“That’s no excuse. Mother’s waiting for us downstairs, and I won’t let you keep her waiting. Now get up!”

The younger twin huffed, shooting straight up and scowling at his brother who was— who was seventeen again, frowning with annoyance. He was dressed in a dark black sleeve and a pair of trousers, hair slicked back as always and face unmarked by the invisible scars of anger and hurt. It was as if time had moved but space remained, the manor unburnt and whole. Light didn’t stab through a broken roof but streamed through the glass windows, the painted walls rich and deep with life and care, tended carefully like a garden.

“What . . . What is this?” Dante couldn’t help but ask, touching his face. He heard himself, his voice with a clear vibrance, and he felt himself, his skin smooth. What’s going on?

“You slept so hard your brain decided to erase your memories rather than filter them,” Vergil said, rolling his eyes. He got off the bed but stole the covers as insurance. “You have five minutes to get downstairs, and if you’re not down there by then, I’ll throw your plate away.”

The younger was speechless, not by the poor threat of starvation but by the uncanniness of the world he woke up in. This seemed like a dream because he had dreamed this before, but he could have never dreamt it with such relief, peace on his mind. No ache in his heart. It couldn’t be a dream; he was living, creating memory.

Vergil frowned with scrutinizing eyes. He was not being taken seriously, but he hated to upset Mother. He’d matured from a short childish temper, but just barely. “Mother made french toast,” he baited, dropping the covers to the floor, and he turned, sweeping out of the room with his chin held up.

Dante got out of bed immediately, rushing into the bathroom. He loved Mother’s french toast, buttery with cinnamon and chocolate chips; it was a simple recipe, but it was his mother’s and that made it all the more delicious than anything in the world. Mother’s cooking, how long ago had he last had it? Was it not just last night? They had roasted lamb, and panna cotta for dessert. Mother went to bed early, and Vergil went to do some reading in the library.

When he was cleaned up, dressed almost like his brother, but his shirt was white with the top three buttons unbuttoned. Dante took in the state of his room. It was messy with a large desk right next to his plush bed, a large brown rug splaying out underneath. There were playing cards and darts scattered on the wooden surface, records and CDs stacked precariously, and a jukebox stood in the corner of the room by a worn-out couch. Magazines spilled from under his bed and desk. Yeah, it looked like his room; it was his room. As chaotic as it was, he knew where everything was.

”This isn’t real!”

Dante turned, expecting to see his brother shouting by the threshold, but he saw no one. He decided to hurry downstairs because he was sure his brother was counting down the clock, eyes watching every second. Vergil would definitely throw away his breakfast.

The hallway that led from the stairs to the dining room was filled with ornamental decor and family heirlooms. Half of them used to belong to Dante’s father before he left, gone forever. Mother never spoke about his abandon— departure. She simply smiled, both understanding and sad. Seeing it once was enough for both twins to never ask again, but Dante always wondered what would have been if the so-called legendary dark knight was still around. The two blades he had left behind were beautiful, one-of-a-kind, but they only ever did replace him when his sons had all but forgotten the sound of his voice. His presence no longer lingered in the manor. To Dante, Sparda was simply a face in the last and only family portrait, hung above in the solar.

The solar was on the way to the dining room, and Dante peered inside, half expecting the room to be in ruins, covered in ash and dust. He found the portrait, and for a second, he saw it in disrepair, all but one face scratched away by spite and time. But he blinked; it was as clear as day, well kept and cared for. It hung above the fireplace, daunting like the statue of a saint at the altar, its existence a precious relic of a past that was so distant yet not so long ago. Dante felt empty seeing it. He knew the people in the painting, and he only recognized his mother, her golden hair like a halo. He had a picture of her on his desk, and he saw it every day.

He turned away from the fireplace, and he walked away, heading into the dining room.

As Dante expected, Vergil was watching the face of the grandfather clock that stood between two large windows, morning light filling the whole room with gentle spring. The younger twin caught the barest glance his brother gave him, turning back to his breakfast without a word.

“Good morning, Dante,” a clear voice rang in the air, hallowed and near.

He turned, searching, and he saw her. She looked the same; her yellow hair she’d grown past her breast and the soft lines on her face were reminders that time existed, and yet, she smiled with a joy beyond her age, and her eyes gleamed with fire that warmed Dante with the very thought of it. That smile, those eyes, no hurt or sorrow could ever tarnish them.

“Mother,” Dante breathed out, and he smiled, taking his first steps gingerly to join his family.

There was just one more seat at the table, a plate set out just for him, and a small feast was laid out, the smell of freshly cooked food and the fragrance of freshly cut flowers mixing into a wonderful perfume. It made Dante hungry, so he sat down, feeling giddy.

“Eat up, Dante,” she said, gesturing to the morning spread, and he obliged, filling up his plate. She chuckled, looking at him gently, and she glanced at Vergil. “I’ll be heading to the university by noon. Can I trust you two to prepare dinner again?”

The older twin nodded. “Of course,” he responded like a good son.

“You say that like you’re the one cooking,” Dante teased. He ignored his brother’s glare, chuckling.

“And you are keeping up with your studies, Dante?” she asked, raising a poised eyebrow.

Dante smiled at her, innocently. “No.”

Vergil kicked him from under the table, but she was laughing, shaking her head in exasperation. “Idiot,” the older said, and as natural as breathing, they began to bicker, making offhand comments and insults which she would chide them for.

The room filled with more talking, their conversation light and playful, and Dante ate his fill, drinking in this moment. It was sweet like maple, so syrupy and thick that anyone could close their eyes and drown in it. It was a perfect morning, like how it always was at the red manor.

She placed her cup of tea down, emptied with a hint of lavender still steaming on its porcelain. “I’m going to prepare for my lecture,” she said, getting up, and before she headed out the door, she stopped, placing a hand on Dante’s shoulder. “May I suggest parfait for dessert?”

Dante nodded, and she took her leave, disappearing into the hallways like a ghost. There was a moment of silence.

“Do you think it’s a nice day outside?” Dante asked, looking out the window.

Vergil stilled, doing the same. “Can’t you tell?” he asked.

The devil hunter chuckled, throwing his brother a smile. “It was an invitation, not a question.”

They both stood up from the table, not minding the dirty plates and the leftovers. They didn’t speak as they left the room, walking the back entrance, nor did they look at each other, feeling each other’s footfall through the wooden flooring. Left foot, right foot, right foot, left foot, they kept the same pace in opposite stances. Then they reached the glass doors that led out into the meadow behind the manor, and they paused, one hand on each golden handle.

Finally, their eyes met, aligning like stars.

The glass doors opened, and the illusion shattered, their youthful makeup falling away. It was dark outside, as if it was the day that the sun died out, a bright shadow cast over an empty field where trees clawed their branches into the sky gaping like an angry wound and the rocks were made from the bones of slaughtered giants. Wails from the distance came in all directions, singing songs of decay throughout the land, and the air was stale with still time. They were the sights, the sounds, the tastes of reality.

It all came back like a bullet to the brain, shocking the heart back to life, and pain erupted in restrained screams, the demonic roots set deep into the veins poisoning and feeding on their blood. The ugly face of a fowl beast from the Inferno was no surprise, carefully unhinging its jaw. Its teeth were blunt, arranged in rows like a shark.

Dante laughed, breathless as he saw the hands on the doors holding up Ivory and Ebony in a cross, fingers on the triggers. “Jackpot,” he said, his brother’s voice intertwining, and shots ran into the abyss, two rounds piercing through. The beast fell onto the salted ground with a sickly sound.

The earth beneath them shifted like flesh, the roots in their veins hardening like nails on a coffin. Dante inhaled, filling his lungs with thin air, and he exhaled, letting the fire within him burn through his body. Agony reached his ears, but he fell deaf to it as he lost his senses.

He found them on his back, staring up through the skeleton hand of the hell tree that entrapped them. It was reaching for them, to devour them, but now, it was dead, its corpse hanging over them like a naked willow. Vergil was there with him, Ivory and Ebony laying side by side. Their fingers twitched weakly, caressing each other unintendedly.

“You were yelling,” Dante said, blinking. Just another day, another hour, another minute in Hell, and it was peaceful for this very moment. “Why did you pretend?”

Vergil was quiet at first, putting words to thought. “I wanted to stay with her,” he answered. “That night, I thought she’d abandoned me, and I scorned her, tarnishing my memories of her. I turned away from her in search of Father, but I found no one.”

Except for you, he did not say, but Dante heard it nonetheless. You followed me into the dark.

“I wanted a new memory of her, one that I made as I am now,” Vergil continued, sighing, “but it wasn’t her. It could never be her. She’s gone, and no dream or illusion could replace her.”

Dante moved, lacing their fingers, and he squeezed his brother’s hand in praise, in sympathy, in solace. “You’d rather be in the Underworld than have dinner with our mother,” he said, grinning. “Does this count as teenage rebellion?”

“We’re long past that.” Vergil chuckled softly, and he returned his brother’s gesture playfully, fondly, gently. “You knew all along,” he said, neither chiding nor mocking, “but you went along with my farce. Why?”

“You wanted to stay with her. I wanted to stay with you. I have always, Vergil, in every waking moment, in every sleepless dream.”

“As have I, Dante. Always.”

A Day in the Life of Professor Kūjō

CW: age difference, genderbend - always a different sex (Josūke), incest (aunt-nephew)

Every morning was the same; he’d wake up with the sun at the sound of his alarm, comfortable in his king size bed and cotton linen, Jōsuke’s head laying on his shoulder. He was dressed in a tank top and a pair of boxers, and she was no different in a pair of spandex. She didn’t stir, missing the alarm, and though she looked so peaceful, Jōtarō wasn’t about to let her sleep in. He had promised her mother to take care of her and make sure she didn’t slack off. That was all it took to assure Tomoko about her daughter moving to Tokyo into a nice, quiet apartment with a twenty minute commute by train to Tokyo University.

The timing was nothing less than perfect, a recent high school graduate on an educational track and a newly hired professor, involved together in ways that cannot be spoken out loud. The arrangement was something out of a dream, something they spoke about through many long, quiet phone calls, through the dozens of careful letters over the years since the older man first left Morioh. It took two days to move everything in and to put them away in the right place—two more days of sneaking under the noses of friends, family—and suddenly, it was just the two of them, settled into a place they could call theirs. Jōsuke’s things remained in the second bedroom, but every night, it was his bed that she slept on, dropping her guard like it was the most natural thing in the world.

If he thought for a moment too long, Jōtarō would ask how he was so fortunate, and so damned in the same beat. Jōsuke was a breath of fresh air when he first met her, beautiful like a sunrise and durable as diamonds. It wasn’t love at first sight; she was his aunt, of course, and a teenager. But over the summer of ‘99, it was hard to deny that their attraction towards each other was anything but appropriate between blood relatives, between a high school girl and a man nearly twice her age. However, it had never been merely physical because Jōsuke’s kindness ran deeper than skin, and it touched Jōtarō without him even knowing, pulling at his heartstrings, heartstrings he once believed died with his friends, blown away by the winds of Egypt.

Was it fortune, or misfortune, that brought him to this point in his life, content and unworried? Maybe it was a bit of both, a hint of Jōsuke’s good luck and a pinch of Jōtarō’s bad luck to concoct an epic story with inevitable heartbreak. No sand, no searing sun, but a crowded metropolis with quiet mornings to wake gently out of. For the first time in years, the man felt normal, like he was going to grow old into his tenure and come home every night.

But he knew it couldn’t last long. One day, they’ll go their separate ways again, Jōsuke back to her hometown and Jōtarō back to . . .

“Wake up, Jōsuke,” the man said, tapping his aunt on her shoulder, and he was sitting them both up. They had an hour, but knowing the morning rush, they better leave sooner than later.

“So early,” the young woman complained, but she was up, yawning into her hand and heading into the bathroom.

Jōtarō followed after her, but he was the first to go back out when he cleaned up in ten minutes, changing out of his sleepwear into a less casual dress shirt and slacks. It was not his favorite outfit, but the less attention he received, the better. His stature and his mixed blood was enough to draw everyone’s eyes, and they were only amplified on a college campus filled with hundreds of young men and women not yet used to a brave new world. They were drawn to him like bees to orchids, no different from his days in their shoes, no different from his days as a kid who called his own mother bitch.

The man knocked on the bathroom door, announcing he was leaving the bedroom. Jōsuke was still combing her pompadour into place, giving Jōtarō an innocent grin through the mirror as she hurried up but still careful. The first month into the term, they’d been late a few times because of her morning regiment. Tomoko had warned Jōtarō of that, saying the best thing to do was to kick her daughter out.

“Get dressed already,” Jōtarō said, and he headed to the kitchen, hearing Jōsuke huff.

The first thing he did was make coffee, turning on the machine for a fresh brew. It beeped quietly and began to hum, the water boiling. Jōtarō went to the fridge, grabbed bacon, ham, and eggs and put bread in the toaster. He took out two plates before he started cooking, muscle memory in play. Breakfast—having it, making it—had been a lost habit since he moved out of his parents’ house. Since then, most mornings were simply waking up, having a bite, a cup of coffee, and working. He could remember his estranged wife’s cooking and eating with his daughter, but those memories were numbered, becoming less and less every passing year.

Jōtarō didn’t hear Jōsuke come in, but he felt her presence, her arms wrapping around his waist and her breast pressing herself against his back. “Good morning, Jōtarō-san,” she said with a cheery tone, and she tilted her head to the side to give the man a smile.

“Finally awake?” Jōtarō asked with no heat.

The young woman just continued to smile, blinking her eyes twice in silent communication. Jōtarō sighed, leaning down a bit to share a kiss—the first of the day. It was soft and lingering, but it didn’t last too long because one of them had to make sure breakfast didn’t get burnt.

“Sit,” Jōtarō said, turning back to the food. He paused. “Get the coffee.”

Jōsuke laughed, pulling away. She picked out two mugs from the drying rack. Moments later, there was the quiet thuds of porcelain meeting wood and the quick scraping of chair legs on the tile floor. For a few moments, the sound of light sizzling and someone quietly humming filled the kitchen, the sound of peace and calm.

Toast was done, and so were the eggs and bacon. Jōtarō placed the plates on the table, and he sat down, automatically picking up his mug. It had a dolphin constellation, jumping in the empty whiteness. His first sip had a hint of sweetness, no milk to dilute the smoky taste of the coffee; it was just as he liked it, cooled enough to drink without hesitation.

“What do you want for dinner?” Jōsuke asked as she dug in. Today, she wore a red ribbon behind her pompadour, and as always, her signature love and peace were pinned under her shoulders, pulling back the front of her cropped denim jacket. Her yellow zipper tank was tucked into a pair of high waisted bell bottoms.

“I’m fine with anything,” Jōtarō replied.

“Curry? Hanbāgu? Maybe both.”

“Just make sure you also get vegetables.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s Tuesday, so you’ll have that department meeting, right?”

The man hummed. “Don’t wait up.”

“You say that, but you know I don’t listen.”

“Then you better be studying, not playing video games.”

Jōsuke huffed, rolling her eyes. "I know, I know. You nag like Mom." She pouted, but then she smiled, perking back up immediately.

Breakfast continued quietly, the hour running itself out slowly. Before long, dishes and cups were being rinsed off in the sink to be left until late. The earlier they left, the better, but they knew every morning, the cars would be packed with people on the morning rush hour. Both Joestars picked up the last of their things and their bags, ready to go, but they lingered right at the door, Jōsuke aiding her beloved nephew with his jacket though he didn’t need it. She wanted to though because there was a reward to receive at the end: a tender kiss before they parted and left the private space of their home.

The walk from the apartment to the station was no more than five minutes, and the city was bustling like always, the street traffic as filled as the road. Still, people parted ways when Jōtarō and Jōsuke came towards their direction, the latter comfortably holding onto the former’s arm. Again, strangers paused, taking a moment to watch them go by.

Jōtarō knew what they were thinking. What a beautiful couple, they were thinking. They must have everything in the world, how envious. Or something along those lines. It wasn’t as if Jōtarō could read minds, but he could read the expressions of the women walking past them, and of the old man beside them when they crossed the street. Of the train attendant stationed by the front entrance. They looked at Jōsuke with hesitant eyes, and she caught them with a smile, giving them a wink, and they looked to Jōtarō, hoping for the same.

He ignored them as always, ignoring the ones from yesterday, and so he will ignore the ones tomorrow. Jōtarō found no interest in humoring strangers. He did not hate them, but it was better off that Jōsuke was naturally inclined towards people, that she, with just her presence, filled up the space he had purposefully made. He had ghosts following him, she did not.

As routine, the train was packed, and Jōtarō once again found himself standing amongst the crowd, one hand holding onto the railing above. Jōsuke, as per usual, was situated between the man and the wall, clinging onto his jacket though she didn’t need to. The density of the car made their bodies press closely together, barely allowing breathing space. It was times like these that Jōtarō thought to get a car; it was quicker and wouldn’t run the risk of someone trying to touch his ass. (Not that he’d let it happen; he may have gotten older, but Star was no slacker.)

“Jōtarō-san,” Jōtarō heard, being pulled from his thoughts, and he was met with the playful gleam in his aunt’s eyes.

“What?” he asked, voice neutral.

Jōsuke didn’t reply as much as she acted, moving her hands so that they slid into his jacket and around his back, and she closed their tiny gap, resting her head on his shoulder with satisfaction.

The professor was reminded why he never fell through with a car. Moments like this, having found the smallest intimacies between the cracks and the minutes of the real world. In moments like this, Jōtarō could not help but muse with the thought of wanting this forever.

They arrived at their stop a little less than twenty minutes later, and they continued together to campus, half a foot apart. It wasn’t professionally or appropriate for a professor and a student to be so close, no matter their relations, but it was nothing like hundreds of miles and several hours. Here, they shared the same side of the sun, the stars, and moon.

“Jōsuke-chan!”

The student smiled, waving at a classmate of hers, a brunette who wore too many pins in her hair. “See you later, Jōtarō-san,” Jōsuke said, patting her nephew on the elbow, and she left Jōtarō’s side. She and her friend walked off, chatting with light smiles.

The professor went straight to his office, a straight path from the front entrance of campus past the large round stone fountain where the science buildings were all clustered together. His office was on the second floor, at the end of the hall from the stairs; it was a room as small as it was unruly, its wide window facing a secluded back area where ginkgo trees were thick and tall. Jōtarō often left the window open as he worked on lesson plans and graded papers. It should’ve been uncomfortable for him, being as large as he was, and he could’ve easily asked for something bigger, but it wasn’t and he didn’t.

Jōtarō put down his bag and sat on his creaking swivel chair. There was still some time before his first class, and he wanted to review the questions his students sent him from last week. He would go over it today, four days before their next section test. An ocean filled the room then, and fish filled Jōtarō’s mind, and sea urchins and dolphins but starfish in particular.

Time, like it did a lot these days, slipped away from him.

When he resurfaced, he didn’t gasp for air; he calmly wadded out of his seat, picking up his usual things, and stepped out of his office, heading downstairs where his first class was held. Almost every one of his students were already there, some deep in conversation and others just relaxing. They stopped whatever they were doing the moment Jōtarō entered the room, and he was greeted politely.

“Morning,” he offered in return, catching himself halfway from tilting a hat he wasn’t wearing. It was a habit he had yet to outgrow, but no one had yet noticed it and asked him about it, save for one.

Not being a true hardass of a professor, Jōtarō waited until the new hour began to start class, giving everyone their time to arrive and to finish what they were doing. All the while, sand covered the classroom floor, small seashells scattered amongst the grain, and it was warm, like summer. The minutes passed, and so did the hour and another hour. That class was over, and his students said their polite goodbyes as they walked out the room.

That was how the day passed for Jōtarō; that was how it had been passing, every day like a trip to the beach, over before it even began, and the man was enjoying himself, the responsibility of a professor and mentor no more taxing than a short drive with his favorite music playing on the radio. He returned between the ocean and the shore as morning trickled into noon, and the sun sank even lower, the blue sky turning orange with a flare of yellow and pink. There was no such thing as a hundred consecutive perfect days, but this one was just as good and that was enough. (Lunch consisted of a light snack and bottled tea from the closest vending machine.)

Soon, there were no more classes, just that department meeting. It was, perhaps, Jōtarō’s only bump on the road, on the way back. Though the professor was highly sought out in his field, a few of the older, tenured faculty who had no doubt been there since the day the university opened weren’t always the most welcoming, disliking the sense of being outclassed and outdone by a much younger, forgien blood man. They wouldn't try to start an argument out right, not that Jōtarō would rise to the bait. He was used to being surrounded by arrogant men, and he learned that he wouldn't get things done if he paid them all any mind.

Instead, they spoke almost to Jōtarō like he was just a grade schooler, sticking up their chin as they pushed tedious work on to him, but Jōtarō wasn't alone. Stopped for a flat tire, and help pulled over in the form of the department head who was older too but capable of respect unlike her colleagues. Maybe she had been in his place before, so she kept everyone in their places, making sure things were fair. She reminded Jōtarō of his grandmother.

By the time the meeting ended, the day had already ended, and it was nighttime, the sky dark with holes that twinkled faintly above the city lights. Jōtarō left the main science building, bag in hand. It was getting late, and he wanted to be on his way back to the apartment half an hour ago, riding on the train back in an nearly empty car and hanging onto the railing despite all the open seating. It was more natural to stand, close to the wall and facing the window.

What he didn't not expect, however, was someone waving at him from just outside the front entrance.

"I thought you went home," Jōtarō said. "It's late."

"I felt like going home with you," Jōsuke replied easily, wrapping her arms around the professor as they started walking. Her smile is bright even in the dim lights of the street lamps, and she leaned against him. "We can pick up groceries too and get started on dinner when we get back."

"I thought I said not to wait up for me." There was no bite to his tone. He couldn't exactly chide her, Jōsuke could do what she pleased and could take care of herself. No, he was just merely making a statement, wanting to hear what she'd say.

"But, Jōtarō-san, I've been waiting for you all day."

The young woman laughed. When they got a good distance away, in the shadow between the lamps, Jōsuke pulled on Jōtarō a little, bringing him towards her, and she pressed another kiss on his lips—not the last one tonight. It was quick, a little sneaky, and they continued on without missing a beat.

It'd take ten minutes to get to the station, another twenty on the train, and then even more when they stopped by the market on the wall back to the apartment, but already, Jōtarō was home.

Absolute King

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