Work Text:
From the moment he sees him, Joaquin knows it's going to lead to something. He's not sure what kind of something, but something.
They're being loud. Not loud enough to get kicked out– not that anyone would try– but loud enough to make him turn around. He's got the presence of a wet cat when his loud shush goes ignored, but Joaquin can't help but drift his eyes over him in appreciation. The jacket, the hair, the way his hands clench over the side of the truck, all scream annoyed upper class.
His red cheeks, however, read interested. Joaquin doesn't smile– he doesn't want to start anything between them, and anyways, there might not be anything to start.
He abandons this philosophy when he sees him wander away from the truck. He's taller than Joaquin thought, and in the light of the movie, he has an excellent side profile.
Excellent enough to entice Joaquin away from his seat under the guise of getting more popcorn.
He's also getting a refill– quite a few, actually– and though Joaquin can't hear him, he doesn't seem all that happy. Hopefully, he can remedy that.
That, or make it worse.
He waits for him to turn around to speak, revelling in the shocked expression on his face.
"Not so tough without your beard, huh?" He has to look up to speak to him and it ruins the effect just enough to make him up his game.
The guy remains stunned and silent when Joaquin steps closer, straightening himself to seem broader. "Well?"
"Uh," the guy says, voice airy. "Did you need something?" He manages to say.
"Yeah. I think you could help me with it." He bites his lip.
"I could?" He squeaks, cheeks colouring, eyes darting around as if there's someone else there.
Joaquin nods. He can see over his shoulder the cautious way the cashier watches them and sends a look harsh enough to make him turn back to the popcorn machine. If this guy is as clean-cut as he seems, he doesn't want the prying eyes of the public ruining this for him.
"C'mon." He points his chin in the direction of the alley behind the building.
The guy's obvious indecision is cute. He's seemingly unaware of the way he tilts his head and squints his eyes in a caricature of confusion.
Joaquin can feel a smile– a real one, not just the one he usually uses to pick up guys– tug at the edges of his cheeks. The guy looks as if he's trying hard to detect Joaquin's motive and coming up short.
Joaquin turns on his heel, making the guy stumble backwards at the abruptness of the action, and takes a few steps towards their (hopeful) destination.
He turns, looking him over again, before speaking. "Coming?"
He seems to shake himself out of his stupor, and follows.
The alley is thankfully empty and the only noise is the rambles of the guy as Joaquin leads him further.
"Look, if you're going to beat me up, you should know that my dad is–" he says, still trailing behind, not too reluctantly.
Joaquin stops him with a hand to his chest. He steps closer, causing the guy's mouth to snap shut and eyes to widen.
"I'm not going to beat you up."
"You're not?"
"No," Joaquin says, leaning in. The guy doesn't lean away, and he counts this as a good sign. "I'm going to kiss you."
The guy squeaks again as Joaquin presses his lips to his. The popcorn and soda drop to their feet, but Joaquin doesn't stop, just kicks them further away.
Though he was surprised, the guy kisses back with a fervor. Joaquin finds his hands have found his hair and have threaded themselves into it, pulling them impossibly close together.
Joaquin's own hands have found a place at the edges of the guy's jacket. He's shorter, but he has the leverage of knowing this alley better, and maneuvers them so the guy's back is to the fence.
Kissing him is a surprise in its own. He's got an energy one wouldn't expect from someone in a button up, and his kisses are demanding in a way that feeds Joaquin's ego.
He's just as insistent in his own actions. Soft lips convince him to stand on his tiptoes, and one of his hands finds its way to the side of his face.
The guy's warm, and sort of melts into him in a way Joaquin wouldn't expect from someone of his stature, but he's not complaining. They kiss for awhile, their intensity tapering until he pulls away.
"I have to–" he says, breathless, "go. My friends..." he trails off when Joaquin plants a kiss to the space beside his mouth.
At that point, Joaquin tunes him out in favour of more kisses along his jawline. He works his way back to his mouth, silencing him again. The only time he isn't talking, it seems, is when Joaquin's mouth is on his.
Underneath the franticness of it all, there's a gentleness to the guy's actions. He's not hesitant enough to stop, and he doesn't seem to want to, but his hands are soft in Joaquin's hair, as if he's trying to commit this moment to memory.
He breaks away again, placing a placating hand on Joaquin's chest– probably to keep him from interrupting again.
"Okay, this time, I really have to go." His actions contradict his words as he stays pliant against Joaquin. And there's no urgency in his tone, only the breathlessness that comes from being kissed senseless.
Joaquin leans in, slower, testing to see if he'll really be pushed away. When he isn't, he has to tame his smile in order to kiss him. This kiss is different than the rest. There's longing– and it's not just onesided. Joaquin almost opens his eyes, not wanting to let any detail of the guy's face slip away from him. But the kiss is too promising for him to end it as quickly as it began witha faux-pas. When he's pushed away again the looming sense of finality has Joaquin scrambling to make a connection.
"I'm Joaquin, by the way." He says, hoping the low tone of his voice has some appeal. When it comes to men, he knows his strength is in playing up the silent, brooding badboy stereotype that clings to the back of his old jacket.
The guy's eyes have returned to their owl-like expression. His cheeks are red, but that's the only indicator of something less than wholesome. Joaquin can only hope his appearance is just as unruffled. There are hands still on his chest, and he prays that he cannot feel his racing heart underneath them.
This isn't going to go anywhere, he reminds himself when their eyes meet again.
"Give me your phone." The guy demands, shattering the sense of realism Joaquin is desperately trying to keep.
His retrieval of said device is delayed. He doesn't want to break away from their close-encounters just yet. They're in their own little bubble behind the concession and Joaquin doesn't want to leave,
doesn't want it to pop and collect like broken glass that's ready to be swept away.
He compensates the loss of the guy's relative attention by stepping closer, so they're almost chest to chest. He drifts closer, hinting at another kiss. He tilts his head a little, trying to get his point across when his phone hits his chest again.
The guy's got force. He's also got confidence, it seems, because while Joaquin was just going to pocket his phone quickly for a brief extension of their time together, the red heart attached to his name catches his attention.
The rest of his name gets it, too. There, in striking black text, is something that has Joaquin stepping back. His first name, Kevin, suits him. His last name makes a stone settle on Joaquin's shoulders.
He has to clarify, "Keller. As in– as in, as in Sheriff Keller?" because there could be a hundred Kellers in Riverdale, there could be no reason to panic.
But there is because Kevin (a great name, a good name, a name that sits on his tongue and begs to be said) replies with a defiant, "is that a problem?"
Joaquin senses that if he weren't still pressed up against a fence, he,
too, would've taken a step back. Which is the opposite of what he wants. They were moving forwards. His name, the heart, the way they stayed close, all moving close to what Joaquin wants.
He could still get what he wants. He could get movie dates, and sharing a milkshake, and all it would cost is a lie. But it would end quickly, with one word out of a neighbour's mouth, and then he'd have to face an angry sheriff and worse– heartbreak. His own, and Kevin's.
He could end it now, with a kiss and a promise to call, then head back to his seat and delete the number before he has a chance to memorize it. That would be the right thing to do, to spare them the trouble.
He shakes his head and tries to decide. In the end, he doesn't do either. He rolls up his sleeve tentatively. As if going slower will ease the sight of the tattoo. He doesn't look at Kevin. For the first time this night, he doesn't want to look at him. He doesn't want to see the way he's probably recoiling in disgust– rightly so– and fear.
A gang member isn't boyfriend material in the first place. Let alone good for the sheriff's son.
He pushes those thoughts down, away. He's a serpent– not some lovestruck idiot. He faces him again, trying to gauge his reaction without revealing anything. "Is this a problem?"
He watches the way Kevin's eyes trace his tattoo. There's apprehension, sure, but none of the fear Joaquin has come to expect.
The moment where they don't speak has Joaquin feeling dizzy.
Finally, Kevin breaks it. "I won't tell if you won't." He promises, swallowing around his regret.
The wave of relief sends Joaquin reeling. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding (but it makes sense why his chest was so tight now.) He can't stop his grin now, but he tries to curb it with another kiss. He pulls Kevin closer by the lapels of his jacket, and savours the way Kevin's hands immediately gravitate towards his hair.
This is something. It's soft, and familiar, a promise of sorts. Joaquin will take it. Gladly.