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Jotaro and Rohan had been … talking. That was all. Nothing more than talking. It wasn’t that they particularly liked each other; in fact, Jotaro thought nothing of Rohan and while Rohan found Jotaro respectable, his only interest in him rooted in his desire for new manga material.
At first. There was always a catch.
Then they started talking. (Again, that was all.) Jotaro spoke in quick, loose phrases while Rohan, although he cut out what he deemed ‘unnecessary,’ spoke in long run-ons and specific diction tight in his mouth. Rohan had an easily-readable face. He left nothing to be assumed, especially when it came to his agitation. His eyebrows bent particularly, the skin around them creasing slightly deeper than the last time they did, and his mouth dipped down like a wolf’s snarl. If he felt extra irritation, his nose twitched. Jotaro found himself paying attention to Rohan’s expressions more than his words, and his eyes followed the way his lips parted to bare metaphorical fangs.
“Are you listening to me at all?” Rohan asked one day. They sat closely on the porch steps outside his house. Jotaro’s cigarette sat between Rohan’s fingers, taken without permission. Their talking had become more friendly than they cared to notice. If they did, they’d have to stop for the sake of rationality. Or dignity. Or something.
Jotaro, as mentioned before, had not been paying attention, instead trying not to smile at how Rohan’s mouth molded irritably as expected. His nose pinched, patience growing thin. Jotaro wanted to see how long he’d last without an answer to satisfy him. Quickly, Rohan bit: “You could at least say no,” and Jotaro almost snorted. That wasn’t long at all.
“You’re right, I wasn’t,” he said and tore his eyes away so Rohan couldn’t catch him staring at the pretty pout he donned on his pretty green lips. Instead, he focused (or, “focused”) on something else: the cigarette in Rohan’s hand, the one he stole. He claimed he’d never had one before and that he should give it a try. For the sake of his art. He wanted to draw a character smoking, or so he said, but if that was the case he would’ve already tried a cigarette. Jotaro had read a chapter or two of Pink Dark Boy, and he remembered the tangling trail of smoke that followed one of the characters.
He didn’t say anything about it. Rohan pretending to fumble with the cigarette tempted a laugh which Jotaro had no plans to take away from himself, even if it never left his throat.
Now Rohan’s empty palm pressed against the porch step behind them as he craned his neck up to the sky. The crescent moon hung above them, bright little stars sprinkled around it. Jotaro realized how dark it had become. Didn’t they walk out here just after dinner?
“I like the nighttime in Morioh,” Rohan said. “There’s so much more to see — look.” He flicked his hand up briefly. He didn’t actually know what he was pointing to, simply intrigued by the amount of stars he could take in. “You can’t see shit in the city, and it’s too loud anyway, so there was never anything I could get even after I studied star patterns. Do you know constellations?”
Jotaro nodded. “My family and I, we’d point them out to each other. When I was younger. My mother always told me we’re made of stardust.”
Rohan didn’t seem interested in the explanation. He sat up. “Show me.”
So Jotaro did. His hand lifted, pointer finger tracing the constellations. He recalled each one by name and waited for Rohan to spot them himself. As he identified patterns he’d seen in books, he’d let out a little gasp and fling his arm up to show off his finding, much like a child. With all his cynicism, Rohan had a way of making people forget how naturally curious he could be. Even with something as simple as looking at the stars. Jotaro watched how his mouth pursed when he lost his place in the sky, and how it slung open again with each new discovery. His lipstick had faded.
“Can I kiss you?” Jotaro asked.
Rohan froze. The curiosity in his eyes disappeared, replaced with something new as his head swiveled. A silence hung between them. That was the question not to be asked. It popped whatever bubble they’d blown around themselves. Rohan could feel Jotaro’s warm breath on his skin and wondered just how long their shoulders had been touching like that. In the porchlight, Jotaro could see the faintest freckles sprinkled across Rohan’s cheeks, hidden only by his makeup. Rohan’s steely stare pulled Jotaro back a few inches.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, eyebrow arching. “Can you?”
Almost expectantly, he propped his chin up with his palm, slightly leaned forward, and continued to stare him down. Jotaro almost scoffed. Rohan certainly liked making everything easy for him and difficult for everyone else.
Rohan straightened up, covering a grin. “Do you want to try? I won’t laugh if you miss.”
Jotaro scowled as he rose to a stand. Of course Rohan would make fun of him. He started down the porch steps. So much for that, then. He supposed he’d just go home and lick his wounds and move on — if Rohan hadn’t beat him to the bottom of the steps with an indignant huff.
“What, did you get nervous?” His arms crossed. “You don’t look like someone who gets cold feet — honestly, with the way you’ve been breathing so close to me all this time, I would’ve thought you’d kiss me before now and I’ve been waiting. I guess you really do get cold feet then, huh? If it takes you that long. I could’ve done it for you then if you asked but looks like—”
His gloating cut off as Jotaro’s mouth pushed up against his, and he moved his arm around Rohan’s figure. It wasn’t a long-lasting kiss. Maybe Jotaro really did get cold feet, because he pulled away almost as soon as their lips touched. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed someone. Rohan didn’t care, because neither could he.