It’s putting it lightly to say Jolly does not want to come here. Distinctly, disturbingly, he has been wrapped up inside himself the whole day through, wrestling with dark old thoughts and vanished people, and the sore wound of the newest of them all pried wide by one, meddling call. The grief of losing a son that was never his to begin with–ah yes, that very grief already had taken him away in some numb, pitiless wave that left him sleepless and empty eyed, and people knew. And he knows he’s back from those sorry shores, now–just barely, just about accepting that young and precious man is gone.
He doesn’t want–or need reminding of it like this, like the way he’s assuming he’s about to be. Cracking with the force of his own silence now, he mutters bitterly some wondering of why he felt driven to come here at all, and become another sorry face at some sorrier event. He shakes his head clean of that thought, knowing it makes no difference. He’s here. And he’s waiting once that bell is rung, and chatter stops, and footsteps come–
And Jolly’s heart skips to such a grinding halt in his chest that it hurts. All at once, he is made dizzy and breathless and overcome with too many thoughts to count, because he’s staring with a blind disbelief into the face of a dead man. There’s no mistaking him, even at first glance, or second, or third. The words pour out of their mouth, but they drift past him unrecognised besides the voice that is using them, or the person they are coming from. Something like a shudder winks through him, and becomes a mad, staggering tremble the very moment after.
“Kishou–?” He gasps it with no more intention than that with which he raises one sheathed, stuttering hand. This is no such dream, and no sick joke the way his mind works it out to be–he can see that blue eyed devil stood in plain sight, and doing no more but smile that damned smile, and it has never mattered less. Wailing disbelief still goes on clawing through him, begging him still to wake from this moment or fearing that he might. It can’t be true. This cannot be him. “But you…” He chokes out hoarsely, hands catching themselves on the shape of the other man’s shoulders, and no, no it cannot be–and yet it is. Ghost-pale and stricken and looking all but ready to sink to his knees, the moon instead yanks the boy forward into the wild and desperate and joyful grasp of something lost and finally found.
“You–I hope you at least…have some fine story,” he rasps out against the younger man’s shoulder, words unravelled with would-be laughter (or would-be tears, for the first time in years, years,) “about why it took you as long as all this to come home.”