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“Hey, will you go to dinner with me?”
The question catches Jotaro off guard, knocking him sideways out of his thoughts. They’ve been loitering outside a small mechanic’s shop for almost an hour now, sweating their asses off, and the only thing hotter than the current temperature is possibly his own mounting temper. Somewhere nearby, Polnareff is cursing as he chases Iggy down a nearby alleyway; his grandfather and Avdol are haggling loudly with the head mechanic. In the haze of noise and heat it takes a moment for Kakyoin’s words to sink in.
“What?” he asks, rather stupidly.
Kakyoin’s mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I asked if you’d go to dinner with me,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about it. We’ll likely be stranded here for the evening, at least until they can fix the car. And you’ve never really been abroad before, have you? So I’d like to take you to dinner. If you’ll let me, that is.”
Under normal circumstances, Jotaro would say no. He’s been trapped in a piece of shit car for four days straight; he’s nearly died twice—once from his grandfather’s terrible driving, once from near suffocation after a bout of particularly bad gas from Iggy. Polnareff is grinding on his very last nerve and Jotaro can feel himself beginning to develop a nervous twitch in his left eye. With anyone else, he could just grumble out an idle “piss off”, and head straight for the hotel, and a shower, and the first decent night’s sleep he’s had in over a week. Simple. End of discussion.
But these are not normal circumstances. And this is not just anyone. This is Kakyoin, who is still beaming up at Jotaro, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Please?” he adds, and Jotaro bites down hard on the inside of his mouth.
“Fine,” he mumbles, glaring at his shoes. He tells himself that it’s the sweltering Middle Eastern heat, and the first traces of sunburn setting in, that are the reason for the flush in his cheeks.
“Perfect. I’ll make reservations for…shall we say 8:00?”
“Sure.”
“I can’t wait,” Kakyoin says earnestly, and in spite of his very best efforts, Jotaro feels a shiver of anticipation run up along his spine.
“It sounds like a date.”
Jotaro prides himself on his composure. It’s his favorite thing about himself, and he’s spent years cultivating it, learning how to hold himself together in the worst possible situations. It’s the reason why he always wins in a fight and, at the moment, the only reason he hasn’t spewed tea all over himself, and the table, and Polnareff’s stupid grinning face.
He waits until the waiter finishes scribbling down their order and walks away. “It’s not a date,” he says flatly.
Polnareff waggles his eyebrows. “Non, bien sur. Two men alone with each other for the evening, sharing a quiet dinner. Definitely doesn’t sound like a date to me.”
Jotaro considers dumping what remains of his tea all over Polnareff’s ridiculous hair—Star Platinum stirs helpfully within him, one hand already outstretched and reaching for the cup. He’s beginning to regret saying anything in the first place, beginning to regret allowing Polnareff to drag him off for a late lunch. It would have been far better to stay back at the hotel, locked in his room where no one could pester him and he could have suffered his now skyrocketing anxiety in silence as the clock wound down to 8:00.
Polnareff is still watching him, rubbing his hands together with glee. Jotaro sighs. “It’s not a date,” he says again, firmer this time.
“You don’t think it’s a date? Do you not want it to be a date?”
“That’s…” The words don’t come. He grasps for an answer to the question, because the longer he hesitates, the more Polnareff gains the advantage, which is intolerable. But his mind is blank and buzzing and he honestly isn’t sure what to say. He can’t see Kakyoin’s intentions being anything other than friendly. As far as he can tell, there’s nothing to have ever suggested otherwise.
Not that Jotaro himself hasn’t entertained the possibility of something…more. Not that he hasn’t laid awake at night sometimes, listening to Kakyoin’s steady breathing in the next bed over; that Kakyoin hasn’t fallen asleep on his shoulder in the car and Jotaro has leaned in a little closer to catch the scent of his hair, the spice of his aftershave; that he hasn’t caught himself staring at Kakyoin on occasion, at the sharp angles of his face, at his lips, and wondered what could happen, if he was only brave enough. The very idea that tonight could be a date, that Kakyoin could ever feel the same—
“None of your business,” he snaps, cutting off that particularly dangerous train of thought. He takes a sip of tea to cover for his helplessness and promptly burns his tongue.
Polnareff looks unconvinced. “Where are you going to eat?”
“Dunno.”
“Ah, he wants to surprise you? How romantic. Are you paying?”
“You’re being rude.”
“You didn’t even offer to pay?! Honestly. What kind of gentleman are you? And what are you going to wear?”
“I’m leaving ,” Jotaro says as he gets to his feet.
“Oi, Jojo! C’mon! You’re so hopeless! I’m only trying to help!” Raucous laughter chases him out of the café. It’s only when Jotaro’s nearly a block away that it must occur to Polnareff he’s been left with the bill: an unholy screech erupts throughout the streets of the town.
Star Platinum floats into view, placing the wallet he snatched from Polnareff’s pocket into Jotaro’s open palm. That ought to keep Polnareff occupied and out of the way, for a while at least.
“Good grief,” Jotaro mutters, but he allows himself a small smile at his minor, useless victory.
7:45 finds him hunched over the sink in the hotel’s bathroom, glaring at himself in the grungy bathroom mirror. He has combed his hair twice and tried, without much luck, to scrub the faded bloodstains out of his coat and absolutely none of it has helped to calm the way his heart is currently ricocheting off his ribcage.
“You look terrible,” he informs his reflection; it scowls back at him.
There’s nothing to be done about his lackluster appearance. And anyway, it’s not like he should be trying so hard, and getting himself so worked up. It’s not a date. There’s nobody to impress. It’s just dinner. Star Platinum hovers over his shoulder, brow furrowed in concern. Jotaro waves him away, grabs his hat off the bathroom counter. “Let’s just get this over with.”
A knock at his door; the hinges squeak and Jotaro’s stomach twists into a knot.
“I’m not ready—” he says, more sharply than he means to. He’s expecting Kakyoin, and it’s almost a relief to see Joseph, peering owlishly in at him instead.
“Oh, Jotaro. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Jotaro turns away again; he pulls his cap down over his face and waits, as his heartbeat slowly returns to normal. “What do you want?” He watches his grandfather in the mirror. Joseph folds his arms across his broad chest, leans against the doorframe, studying Jotaro in a rare display of thoughtfulness.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Dinner.”
Joseph frowns. “By yourself? You know shouldn’t wander out alone when we’re so close to Cairo. I’ll get the others and—”
“Kakyoin.”
“Eh?”
Jotaro dodges Joseph’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m having dinner with Kakyoin,” he gets out from between gritted teeth.
There’s a pause. He waits for his grandfather to say something, anything. He’s not totally sure what an American would think about this sort of thing but he’s almost certain he’s about to find out. His hands curl into fists at his sides and he braces himself: for a lecture, for laughter.
Joseph moves, until they’re standing side by side. In one swift movement, he plucks Jotaro’s cap from his head, tossing carelessly to the floor.
“Oi!”
“You ought to leave that behind for the night. I think it’d be nicer if Kakyoin could actually see your face for once.”
Jotaro blinks and Joseph ruffles his hair, the way he always used to do when Jotaro was small. “Oi,” he says again, louder this time. He ducks out from under Joseph’s hand, snatches up his hat again. “You’re so annoying,” he growls.
“I suppose I can’t help it.” Joseph is smiling, but it’s an odd, crooked sort of smile, one that Jotaro’s only seen twice before. The first time, when Grandma Suzy had too much to drink one Christmas Eve and told the story of when Joseph proposed to her and Jotaro could only watch in bemusement as both of his grandparents became giggling teenagers again. The second time, at the start of this journey, when Avdol asked after his days as a younger man, about his travels in Italy so very long ago with a man named Zeppeli, and Joseph only shrugged and flexed the fingers of his metal arm.
Joseph’s eyes are a little wistful, a little sad. It’s an expression that’s out of place on his grandfather. Jotaro flounders for something to say and ends up pulling his cap back down again, until the brim blocks Joseph from sight.
“I’m going,” he says tersely. He spins on his heel and heads toward the door.
“Have a good time,” Joseph says. Jotaro risks a final glance backward and is rewarded with a hard punch to the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely date!”
Star Platinum bristles along his spine; Jotaro knocks Joseph halfway across the room, and it does absolutely nothing to deter Joseph’s cackling.
“It’s not a date,” Jotaro snaps, and slams the door behind him hard enough that the knob nearly comes off in his hand.
Kakyoin is already in the lobby when Jotaro descends the stairs. He’s curled up neatly on the sofa in the corner, poring over a well-worn paperback, one hand tugging idly at an earring. Jotaro swallows hard around a sudden lump in his throat. He shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles forward. “I’m ready,” he grunts.
Kakyoin glances up from his book and breaks into a smile. His eyes are so very purple. “You’re right on time. I found this great place, just down the street. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“Okay,” Jotaro chokes out in a brilliant display of eloquence.
Kakyoin gets to his feet. “C’mon,” he says, with a lazy grin. He tugs playfully at the front of Jotaro’s jacket; his fingers are long and nimble. “We shouldn’t be late.”
“Okay,” Jotaro says again, weakly. He lets Kakyoin pull him out into the night.
This is not a date, he reminds himself. The evening air is warm and sweet, and though there’s a hint of storm clouds on the horizon, the sky is clear for now. Kakyoin fills the conversation easily, pointing out which constellations are visible this time of the year. Jotaro does his best to follow along, to not focus on the way Kakyoin’s whole face is lit up in excitement, the way his hand has come to rest on Jotaro’s shoulder, the weight of it solid and comforting.
This is not a date.
They end up at a small, local restaurant, tucked between a bookstore and a neighborhood post office. It reminds Jotaro of a little café back home that his mother dragged him to once: the low lighting, the clutter of tiny tables, the smell of coffee and cinnamon hanging in the air. They’re the only two foreigners in the place, and the hostess takes the opportunity to pepper them with questions about Japan—winking at Jotaro all the while—before shuffling them off to a table in the farthest corner of the restaurant.
“They’re trying to keep us out of the way,” Jotaro says, throwing himself into his seat.
Kakyoin shrugs, unfazed. “I’m all right with it. Anyway,” he adds, “this way we have more privacy.” He grins; Jotaro immediately stifles any further complaints, grabbing for his menu.
It’s only halfway down the entrée list that he realizes there’s a problem: the menu is entirely in English and Arabic. Across from him, Kakyoin is flipping through the pages quickly, one finger tapping against the tabletop. Jotaro opens his mouth—closes it again. He glances back down at the menu, sweat prickling along the back of his neck. Concentrate. He’s just got to concentrate. His eyes dart about, searching for familiar phrases, even as the words begin to blur together on the page. He shouldn’t have ditched so many English classes this year.
“Do you know what you want?”
Maybe he can just repeat whatever his grandfather usually orders, some kind of sandwich on pita bread, and that way it’ll still look like he knows what the hell it is he’s reading. Unless that’s not an appropriate sort of thing to have for dinner. Unless it’s not even an item available on the menu. Jotaro shifts in his seat, his face growing hotter with each passing second.
Stupid. He’s going to look so fucking stupid.
A polite cough catches him, pulls him back into the moment. “Actually, if it’s all right, can I order for the both of us?” Kakyoin asks, a little too casually. “I want to try and guess what you might like.”
Jotaro makes himself nod. If he shuts his own menu a little too quickly, if he tosses it aside with more force than necessary, neither of them acknowledges it.
“So,” he says when he trusts himself to speak again, “what are you thinking about getting?”
“Oh, here! Let me show you.” Several diners nearby shoot them affronted looks as Kakyoin jumps to his feet, as he drags his chair to the other side of the table with a loud scraping noise. Jotaro barely registers their annoyance because now Kakyoin is right next to him and leaning in. His elbow is resting on the arm of Jotaro’s chair; their shoulders are nearly touching. “Let’s see,” Kakyoin murmurs. “Sweet or spicy?”
“What?” Jotaro asks faintly.
“Do you like sweet or spicy things?”
Sweet, Jotaro thinks, trying not to stare openly at the way Kakyoin’s cherry earrings swing each time he tilts his head, at the long, pale line of his neck. “Uh,” he stammers. He can’t breathe. Kakyoin is watching him with a slight smirk. Their faces are very close to each other now and Jotaro can’t breathe—he needs to answer soon, or else he’s going to pass out on the floor like an utter fucking moron before dinner has even started. “Uh. I don’t care.”
“Mmm. In that case, I’ll go with spicy.”
Kakyoin moves his chair back to its proper place; Jotaro slumps down in his seat, relief coursing through him. He quickly straightens up again, however, because if he slouches, it’ll seem like he’s bored and he doesn’t want that. He goes to lean on the table instead—but maybe that’s too forward, and Joseph is always hollering about how elbows on the table are bad manners anyway. He sways stiffly in his seat, fingers tightly wound together in his lap.
“Are you all right?” Kakyoin asks gently. “You seem a little…nervous.”
“I’m fine,” Jotaro mumbles.
Their waiter returns at length. Kakyoin gives their order in a fluent stream of English, leaving Jotaro trapped somewhere between jealousy and awe. It’s not an uncommon feeling on his part, at least not when it comes to Kakyoin. It’s always the little things he does that never fail to catch Jotaro off guard: the way he can calmly hold his own in a conversation, no matter the language; the calculating, careful way he takes in a problem, his need to pick apart puzzles and riddles; the way he fights, with an easy, joyful arrogance to match Jotaro’s own.
“You’re smiling.”
Jotaro’s heart skips a beat. Kakyoin’s eyes are bright with amusement.
“It’s rude to stare,” he retorts. Excellent, he tells himself. Very smooth, very charming. He wonders if he can drown himself in his water glass while Kakyoin’s not looking.
“I can’t help it. It’s a rare thing to see you smile.” Kakyoin chuckles, runs his fingers through his long bangs. “You should do it more often. It’s nice.”
It should be a minor miracle, Jotaro thinks, that he does not burst into flames right on the spot.
Their food comes quickly: the waiter prattles in English, something about wanting to know if they’ll be interested in coffee or dessert and Jotaro is barely listening, because the number of plates and bowls laid out before him is overwhelming enough as is. There’s bread—pita, he knows that much at least—along with a couple dishes of tan colored paste, a plate of crusty dumplings, and a steaming platter of what looks likes rice and noodles and an assortment of god knows what else covered in red sauce.
He looks, unbidden, to Kakyoin, who returns his bewilderment with another slight smirk. Jotaro honestly can’t decide if it’s kind of infuriating or kind of sexy.
“Bismillah,” Kakyoin says.
“What?”
“It means, ‘in the name of God.’ It’s something people in this region say as thanks before eating. Here, repeat after me: Bismillah.” Kakyoin over-enunciates; Jotaro does his absolute best to pay attention to the word itself, and not to the shape of Kakyoin’s lips.
“Bismillah,” he says clumsily.
Kakyoin beams in approval. “There you go. You’re perfect.”
You’re perfect, Jotaro very nearly says back, and it’s lucky he manages to restrain himself, or he’d have to be excused, in order to throw himself over the nearest available cliff.
This is not a date, he warns himself. Star Platinum stirs within him, skeptical—the traitor.
There isn’t much in the way of utensils, aside from a spoon for the rice and noodle dish. Kakyoin takes a piece of the bread. Jotaro goes to do the same and Kakyoin gently catches his wrist. “Your right hand only,” he says under his breath. “It’s not polite to eat with your left hand.”
“Oh,” Jotaro mutters, and wonders how the hell a fighter like Kakyoin can have such soft skin—and he shouldn’t be noticing these things, he shouldn’t, and yet he can’t make himself stop. His own palms are covered in calluses, his knuckles streaked with scars from too many brawls at school. He’s gripped by a sudden impulse to take Kakyoin’s hand in his own.
But Kakyoin lets him go, and the restaurant bustles on around them, and Jotaro yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. He grabs a piece of bread and mirrors Kakyoin, dipping it into one of the tan pastes.
“That’s baba ganoush. It’s made with eggplant.” Kakyoin explains. Jotaro shoves it in his mouth. It has a deep, smoky flavor, and he grabs another piece of bread and dunks it, and then another.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s really good.”
Kakyoin looks delighted. “Try the falafel.” He nudges the plate with the dumpling-type things on them and Jotaro obligingly takes one.
“What is it?”
“Fried chickpeas. It’s a very common dish throughout the Middle East.”
Jotaro bites in, tentatively. The falafel has a funny flavor but not an unpleasant one.
“Try it with the hummus,” Kakyoin orders, and Jotaro obeys again. The hummus is a little like the eggplant thing, but richer, and with a hint of spice and olive oil. Jotaro eagerly helps himself to another piece of falafel.
“You’re very hungry.”
“You’re barely eating,” Jotaro counters, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and then fights a cringe because that was rude, and probably more than a little disgusting. Kakyoin doesn’t seem to mind, however.
“I don’t have much of an appetite,” he explains. “Besides, the point was so that you could try all these things.”
“You didn’t have to go through all that trouble just for me.”
“Perhaps not. But I wanted to. You deserve to enjoy yourself. You deserve to have someone treat you well.”
Something heated and electric pulses through him; Jotaro nearly drops the half-eaten piece of falafel in his lap. He ducks his head, glares down at his plate. He is not blushing.
“You’re weird,” he growls, and really, he would like to know when exactly he got so good at putting his goddamn foot in his mouth.
Laughter startles him. Kakyoin stirs the plate of red noodles and rice, and Jotaro’s surprised to see that his face is flushed a light pink as well. “I’m very weird,” Kakyoin says agreeably.
“I—” Jotaro’s throat goes tight but he forces the words out anyway. “I like it, though.”
He means it more as an apology for being an asshole, but it just makes everything worse because Kakyoin is smiling at him again, in a gentle, fond sort of way that makes Jotaro feel a bit like he’s glowing, and a bit like he wants to melt into the floorboards and disappear. He casts about for a distraction, for an escape, and instead finds himself presented with a spoonful of the noodle dish.
“Here,” Kakyoin is saying, “try this next. It’s called koshary.”
“You don’t have to feed me,” Jotaro snaps. He’s glad he ignored his grandfather’s advice and kept his cap because he’s pretty sure his entire face is on fire by this point.
Kakyoin swings the spoon back and forth, undeterred. “Just a taste?”
“You’re teasing me.” It comes out more petulantly than he’d like.
“A little.”
Against his better judgment, Jotaro leans forward, heart pounding, his lips parting slightly. He lets Kakyoin press the spoonful into his mouth. It’s spicy and good and he nods with approval.
“It’s tasty.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Kakyoin says, and surrenders the spoon; Jotaro forces himself to ignore the faintest stirrings of disappointment in the pit of his stomach. He takes another couple bites of koshary, helps himself to the last piece of falafel. His eyes stray to the crowd around them. He watches, as two women at a nearby table collapse into peals of laughter.
He’s never been very good at conversation. It always comes out stilted, leaves him feeling quietly desperate and more awkward than he already normally does. But Kakyoin only sips his tea and follows Jotaro’s gaze and there is no uncertainty between them, no pressure to speak, nothing to shatter the contented silence that they share.
At the other table, one of the women drains the remainder of her tea; the other leans forward immediately, the teapot in hand, to refill her cup.
Thank God, Jotaro thinks, something familiar for once. He grabs for their teapot as well and fills Kakyoin's cup up to the brim. He bites at his lower lip, meets Kakyoin’s gaze uncertainly. “That...is the same, right?”
“It is,” Kakyoin assures him, pleased; takes the teapot from him, filling Jotaro’s cup in turn. “It's just like home: you shouldn't have to refill your own cup, but let other people do it for you." He runs his fingers through his hair again. “I've always liked that. It’s kind of poetic, in a way. It means I've always had to be aware of the person I'm with.”
“You’re great,” Jotaro says abruptly.
Kakyoin arches an eyebrow in surprise. Jotaro’s ears are burning and he really should just keep his mouth shut before he says something he regrets—and yet the words keep tumbling out of him. “I just. It’s cool. This dinner. And how you know all this stuff.”
His comment is met with shrug. “It’s not that impressive. My family travels a lot, and I just like learning new things.”
“But that’s really cool.” Jotaro summons all his courage, wills his voice not to shake: “You’re cool.” It comes out as a fierce growl but at least he doesn’t stammer, at least his hands, trembling, are hidden beneath the table. And it’s worth it because Kakyoin is blushing again.
“Stop,” he says.
“I mean it.”
For the first time all night, Kakyoin is the one who looks caught off guard. “I can’t remember the last time someone thought I was cool.”
“I always do.”
The restaurant around them fades away. Jotaro’s hands are still shaking, his fingers still a bit greasy from the falafel and he takes a breath and reaches out across the table anyway. His hand finds Kakyoin’s and he squeezes it once, briefly. Maybe for reassurance; maybe to emphasize his point; maybe just because it means that Kakyoin will keep smiling and blushing like that for a little longer.
He wants this moment to last. He wants time to stop, long enough that he can memorize the way Kakyoin’s hair falls into his eyes, the warm pressure of his hand as his fingers curl around Jotaro’s.
Don’t ruin this, a small voice at the back of Jotaro’s head says softly. This is not a date.
For the first time all night, he lets himself ignore it. He lets himself pretend.
“You didn’t have to pay,” Jotaro complains later, as they’re strolling back toward the hotel. Overhead the moon is full and bright and it lights their way in a hazy glow of white. “I was the guest. I should have paid, to thank you.”
“I was the one who invited you out to dinner in the first place. It was my idea. I didn’t want you to waste your money.” Jotaro rolls his eyes, and Kakyoin sighs. “Okay,” he says, relenting. “Fine. Next time we do this, I promise, dinner’s on you.”
“Next time?” The question slips out a little too fast.
There’s a pause, and then Kakyoin moves closer. His arm brushes against Jotaro’s. “Yeah. If you want there to be a next time.”
“I’d like that.” They both go quiet. Jotaro licks at his suddenly dry lips. “There’s this tea shop,” he begins haltingly. “It’s close to my house. It’s pretty nice. I don’t know, my mom goes there a lot.” Jotaro immediately winces—he couldn’t sound more pathetic if he tried—and he rushes to salvage the rest of the conversation. “Anyway. We could go there sometime. After we get back to Japan.”
He tries to imagine, spending a whole afternoon together. No rush—no stolen meals in the few spare hours they have before shuttling off to the next city. At home, they’d have all the time they wanted. He could take Kakyoin to the aquarium downtown, and show him the woods behind his house where he used to play as a child, and he could figure out Kakyoin, piece by piece, slowly unfolding the thousand small mysteries that make up the boy beside him.
He starts as an arm intertwines with his own. Kakyoin tucks his head against Jotaro’s shoulder. “All right then,” he says softly. “It’s a date.”
Jotaro stops short, forcing Kakyoin to stop as well.
“What’s wrong?”
A date. A date.
“Did you see something? Is there an enemy nearby?” Kakyoin pulls free, glancing at the empty street around them.
“Did you say…a date?” Jotaro asks, and his voice, mercifully, only cracks a little on the last word.
Kakyoin looks bewildered. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Was…was tonight a date?” His mind is racing, tripping over itself to catch up with the evening. A streetlamp flickers to life overhead. Kakyoin is staring at him, his hands on his hips, expression incredulous.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You didn’t know?”
A date. Jotaro blinks stupidly.
“This was a date?” he says, the only words his brain has managed to cling to in his desperation. Star Platinum flares up victoriously within him, and Jotaro can only stand there, dumbfounded, his eyes going wide.
“Jojo,” Kakyoin begins, exasperated. “I’ve been practically throwing myself at you all night. How did you not figure this out?”
“A date,” he says again, weakly.
“For someone so intelligent, you are amazingly thick when you want to be.” Kakyoin looks him up and down. He’s annoyed, but Jotaro catches the flicker of panic in his eyes. It’s the same kind of panic he’s seen when Kakyoin’s made a severe miscalculation in the middle of a fight. He’s already begun to back away from Jotaro, little by little, his face going a furious shade of red. “I can’t even tell if you’re happy about this or not. I’m sorry. I guess I should have…have said something. I shouldn’t have assumed—it’s fine, though, if you’re not interested. My mistake—”
“Happy,” Jotaro sputters.
“What?”
“I’m—I’m happy,” he says, his chest going tight. He’s terrified but he makes himself meet Kakyoin’s gaze, refuses to let himself look away because if this chance slips through his fingers, he’ll never forgive himself. “I’m…very happy you asked me out.”
“You are?”
“And I’m…really happy that tonight was a date,” Jotaro presses onward. He’s holding himself together, but just barely. “I wanted this to be a date.”
Kakyoin takes a cautious step forward, and then another. “You did?” he says and he’s smiling again, and Jotaro feels everything in him crumble. He wants to speak, but he can’t find the right words—and it doesn’t matter anymore, as Kakyoin takes his shaking hands in his own.
In this instant, Jotaro suddenly feels smaller than he has in his entire life.
They are so close to each other now. Their faces are mere centimeters apart, and if Jotaro bends down a bit, leans in a little, turns his head to one side…
Kakyoin chuckles, abruptly. “Polnareff is going to die when he hears about this.”
Jotaro blanches. “Don’t you dare tell him,” he growls and it only makes Kakyoin laugh harder.
“Then kiss me already.”
Jotaro does. Their fingers lace together and Kakyoin’s mouth is soft against his own. The kiss is slow and careful and nothing like Jotaro could have imagined, and that just makes it better. His arms move to fold around Kakyoin’s waist, pulling him closer still.
This is not a date, Jotaro thinks dizzily.
It’s the start of something more.