Chapter Text
Maybe Jotaro was a bit harsh. The man didn't seem to have any ill intent, but his staring was getting on Jotaro's nerves and he didn't think very hard on it before coming over to his table, asking him what he was looking at.
He'd merely moved his arm, to show Jotaro his sketchpad.
"I have to draw a few portraits. For an assignment. I'm an art student," he explains, before Jotaro can say anything. "I probably should've asked first. Normally no one notices."
Jotaro wants to be angry, but he can't be. The man's portrait of him feels as though he's staring into a mirror, albeit less detailed than reality is. It's probably difficult to get many details to translate over the distance of a cafe. He glances back at the man, a ginger with a funky mullet haircut, scars over his eyes. Dangly cherry earrings to go with a cream-colored, cherry printed button up. He doesn't seem like an artist, in a way, yet he's talented, something Jotaro can sense just from seeing this portrait of him. Being unable to read him makes Jotaro feel both uneasy and intrigued.
"I can sit here if you want to fill in those details," Jotaro offers, before his mind can tell him no.
The ginger smiles a little. "That'd be great. But if you have something else to do, I don't mind," he insists, nodding over at Jotaro's open laptop.
"I'm a student too," he explains. "Just working on a paper. Surely you can look at me while I do that."
The man holds out his hand. Jotaro notices the little charm bracelets adorning his wrist when he shakes it.
"Kakyoin Noriaki."
"Jotaro."
Kakyoin doesn't press for his last name. He simply waits for him to get his laptop and messenger bag and get situated in the seat across from him. Once he's settled, Kakyoin gets back to work. His intense studying of his face feels a little less intimidating now that Jotaro knows the cause.
"Sorry. Can you move your head just a little?" Kakyoin breaks the comfortable silence that's built between them. "To the left a bit."
Jotaro shifts until he gets a thumbs up. He doesn't know why he's so willing to give this man the perfect angle or whatever, but his art is mesmerizing and so are his pretty eyes, so Jotaro is content to let him distract him from his research paper.
He spends a half hour watching Kakyoin detail his portrait of him. He isn't rushing now that he knows Jotaro is going to stay put until he's finished, and the difference in the quality as he refines his lines is outstanding. Jotaro thought it was good before, but now it's stunning.
"You have a lot of skill," Jotaro says quietly, while Kakyoin finishes up.
He glances up at him, clearly pleased at the praise. "Thank you, Jotaro."
Something about hearing his rich, smooth voice say his name makes Jotaro feel at ease. He already feels more comfortable with Kakyoin than he would anyone else in this cafe, but it really brings the feeling home. "Yeah."
Kakyoin takes another moment, and then puts down his pencil to crack his knuckles. "It's done. Unless you think I've missed something," he suggests. "You know your own face best."
Jotaro studies the paper when he turns the sketchbook around to him. He's dumbfounded. The line between when Jotaro was seated at his own table, and when he sat down with Kakyoin is clear — yet the two emotions, one at unease and one more relaxed, come together flawlessly. The little freckles dotted along his jaw and neck, the hint of his birthmark above his t-shirt, even the wear and tear on his favorite old hat is perfectly placed. Jotaro isn't normally so stupiditied by art. He appreciates it, but not a lot and not often. But this...
"Holy shit. It's me," Jotaro mumbles, only realizing he's said it out loud when Kakyoin chuckles.
"You flatter me," he teases. "If you really like it, I can copy it for you."
"If you don't mind," Jotaro nods. "It's real good."
Kakyoin smiles, something much more shy behind it than before. "Thank you. Same time tomorrow, I'll be here with it."
Jotaro thanks him before he leaves, saying he has a class to be at in a few minutes. He stares at the spot where his notebook lay just minutes before, with the perfect rendition of his own face. He turns to his essay, grunts, and brings his hands to his keyboard once again. This paper is due tomorrow and he just wasted an hour watching a stranger draw him.