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One of life's most enduring mysteries, as Jean-Paul is just beginning to comprehend, is this: Why in heaven does Lucas expend so much energy and effort to draw Jean-Paul out of the Belfry? First the basketball game, and now... this. Lucas keeps joking that Jean-Paul just needs more vitamin D, which is a little ridiculous even ignoring the meticulously balanced diet Batman and Batwoman have encouraged, if not rigorously enforced, for the rest of the team. Ridiculous, mostly, because they aren't even sitting in the sun; Lucas has herded Jean-Paul towards a bench in the shade, from which they have not moved for the past ten minutes.
Except, of course, for Lucas to come out from the shop nearby with what appears to be a pair of triple-scoop waffle cones, which are rapidly losing structural integrity. Jean-Paul quickly takes hold of the cone stretched out towards him, something shifting curiously in the pit of his stomach at Lucas's crooked smile.
The ice cream is just a little easier to process, so Jean-Paul turns his attention away for now. It looks like some sort of—Jean-Paul can see at least three different kinds of chocolate tucked into one of the scoops, he can smell the mint from another (also chocolate), and the base appears at first to be simple vanilla, until he sees that here, too, are tiny balls of chocolate and cookie dough.
He hides his smile by putting his lips to the top scoop and taking a mouthful.
"Didn't know your favorites, so I made some educated guesses," Lucas says, raising his own cone, which looks to be cookie dough all the way down to its base. He chases the melting droplets with a long, flat swipe of his tongue, and Jean-Paul feels that curious twist in his stomach again, his heartbeat quickening for a second or two.
It isn't an unpleasant sensation by any means, and Jean-Paul finds himself wanting to chase it. "It looks somewhat overwhelming," Jean-Paul says, eyeing the ice cream cautiously before lapping at the base to keep it from melting all over his hand.
"In the best way possible, right?" Lucas says with a grin that causes Jean-Paul's chest to tighten until he turns back to his ice cream.
"Of course," Jean-Paul says, not quite able to bite back a smile. "Thank you, Lucas."
"No problem, buddy." Lucas folds his free arm around Jean-Paul's shoulders and gives a—a somewhat confusing squeeze, constricting that space in Jean-Paul's chest as much as his arms. It's perfectly friendly, which is admittedly part of the issue; his heart responds the same whether these actions are strictly platonic or not. The germ of a realization is starting to form somewhere in the back of Jean-Paul's mind, but— "Eat up. Your hand's gonna be a mess in a couple seconds."
Ah, so it is. Face warming, Jean-Paul quickly takes care of the steady stream of ice cream threatening to trickle onto his fingers again.
"One of these days," Lucas continues, "I'm gonna carve out a nice big time slot just to take you around town, show you all the things you've ever missed out on."
Jean-Paul laughs softly. "I wasn't completely sheltered, Lucas," he says. Certainly not so much that he hasn't had ice cream before, if that's what he's getting at.
"Of course not," Lucas says, and it occurs to Jean-Paul that he hasn't drawn his arm back yet, "but that doesn't mean there's not still some stuff you've missed, you know? There can't have been that many food trucks in Santa Prisca, and definitely not any that have Korean tacos."
Shaking his head, Jean-Paul experimentally drags his tongue up all three scoops from bottom to top, which creates an... unexpectedly enjoyable flavor mix. Lucas might be on to something there. "I suppose not," he concedes. "And I assume that's going to be what you suggest next, isn't it?"
"Hey, if you enjoy this enough for a second date, I see no reason why not," says Lucas, finally taking his arm back with that same crooked grin.
For—a length of time Jean-Paul is somewhat too embarrassed to admit, he can only blink owlishly, until he's yanked back into the moment by the cold stream of his ice cream dripping down the back of his hand. Well. That—that probably answers that question, doesn't it. (Unless it doesn't, of course, and Lucas is still being friendly, and he has a curious way of showing it.) The heat rising to Jean-Paul's cheeks is starting to get a bit ridiculous, and he can only pray that somehow the chill of the ice cream is going to alleviate it.
The issue is that Jean-Paul is just starting to understand what he wants for himself, and he isn't sure if he's willing to act upon that want, if there's a sliver of a chance that he's reading the situation incorrectly. That he might put a rift between them simply due to a lapse in judgement is not a risk he's currently willing to take. It's possible that Lucas actually means to—flirt, but it's equally possible that he's merely being familiar, that he isn't even attracted to men in the first place. (Or he assumes that Jean-Paul isn't. It would hardly be the first time.)
The ice cream is melting again. Jean-Paul clears his throat, refocuses himself on the endeavor of keeping his hands from becoming an irrevocably sticky mess. It might be too hot for this sort of... outing, Jean-Paul thinks, judging by how much effort it's taking to keep the whole of his cone from either falling apart or turning into soup. Not that Lucas appears to be having any such issue; when Jean-Paul glances sidelong towards him, the worst mess he seems to have suffered is a few droplets along the web of his thumb and forefinger, where he's currently drawing his tongue across in a single, almost lazy stroke.
Jean-Paul swallows. It doesn't quite alleviate the dryness that's suddenly overtaken his throat.
"Penny for your thoughts, JP?" Lucas says, cocking his head to one side.
Kyrie eleison , he thinks. "This is... nice," Jean-Paul says aloud. He means to continue, but first he needs to make sure the top scoop doesn't slide off and onto the pavement. "Thank you for thinking of me."
Lucas's smile is so easy, so unbearably bright, the crinkling of his eyes making Jean-Paul acutely aware of the thin, warm ring of amber around the deep, deep brown of his irises. "My pleasure," he says, while Jean-Paul glances away before simply looking turns to staring. "And I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, too. At least," he adds, his tone going wry, "I think you're enjoying yourself. Kind of hard to tell sometimes."
Jean-Paul gives a quiet chuckle that blessedly doesn't sound nearly as on-edge as he is. "I am," he promises. "I'm sorry if I seem at all unenthusiastic. I'm just a bit—distracted. That's all."
Lucas's hand is warm against Jean-Paul's forearm, which only serves to give his heart another quick jerk. "Everything okay?"
"Yes," Jean-Paul answers, too quickly. More gently, he adds: "I'm fine, Lucas. There's just quite a lot on my mind at the moment."
For a moment, Lucas doesn't respond, instead turning back to his ice cream to take the whole of the top scoop into his mouth—what's left of it, anyway. That just leaves Jean-Paul with a prickle of self-consciousness at how long it's taken him to eat his own cone, to say nothing of the quiet heat under his skin as Lucas licks his lips after.
(If Jean-Paul were to bridge that short distance between them, to chase that last droplet of sweetness still lingering on Lucas's lower lip with his own mouth—would his lips be soft, pliant? Cool, with the lingering taste of vanilla and chocolate? How would his goatee scratch at Jean-Paul's skin? Would Lucas go still, only to relax, muscle by muscle, a hand to Jean-Paul's throat to feel the racing tumult of his heart—)
Kyrie eleison, Jean-Paul thinks, taking a slow breath to steady himself. Christe eleison. "Don't let me detract from your enjoyment," he says, with a smile he hopes is reassuring. It's much more difficult to keep his composure than it should be.
Lucas waves his free hand dismissively, dimpling behind his beard. (Oh dear.) "Trust me, you'd have to work a lot harder before you'd detract anything. I'm having a great time."
Jean-Paul feels his face turn warm again, and he isn't even entirely sure why this time. Other than the spark in Lucas's eyes, the still-present dimple in his cheek, the drops of ice cream sticking to his beard, and the nagging implication that somehow, despite the fact that Jean-Paul is being utterly abysmal company, Lucas is still enjoying himself—there's no real reason for it. None whatsoever. Lucas reaches out, and for a frantic second, Jean-Paul swears his heart is about to actually stop—
—and then Lucas drags a fingertip along the edge of the cone itself, catching a rogue trickle of ice cream before putting his finger into his mouth and sucking it clean. Jean-Paul forgets to breathe.
"Sorry," says Lucas, with a grin that doesn't seem terribly sorry at all. "Couldn't help it—you were letting the best scoop melt all over you. How was I supposed to just sit back and watch that happen?"
A quiet laugh startles its way from Jean-Paul's throat. He shakes his head, forcing himself to actually eat the ice cream while he still has the faculties to do so.
"I mean," Lucas continues, "unless you're playing some kind of long game, and you actually want all your ice cream to melt all the hell over you, knowing full well I couldn't just stand by and do nothing..."
Jean-Paul isn't going to let himself dwell for any amount of time on what Lucas is saying, because he's already choking on a piece of brownie, and any further innuendo from Lucas might actually kill him at this rate. (This... can't be solely for play, can it? Jean-Paul isn't wrong to chase that sentence to its ultimate implication, to decide that no one would actually say that without meaning it in some capacity? Or is he really just that comfortable here, really just that friendly? This is absolutely maddening.)
"I'm afraid you're overestimating me somewhat, Lucas," Jean-Paul says as soon as he remembers how to speak. He pushes up his glasses. "I'm not quite that cunning. Especially not when it comes to... this sort of thing."
Lucas raises his eyebrows, leaning back as he eats what remains of his second scoop. "This sort of thing," he echoes, the side of his mouth quirking up.
Jean-Paul clears his throat, lapping at his own ice cream in an attempt to rally himself. It works, to an extent. At the very least, he feels slightly less as though he's about to spontaneously catch fire. "Interpersonal matters," he says. "It might surprise you to hear this, but I don't have a wealth of experience with..." He coughs, gesturing between the two of them.
Lucas's laugh is rich and warm and Jean-Paul was in no way prepared for it at all. "With flirting?" he supplies.
Well. At least that question can be put to rest—as well as, perhaps, the one that's been plaguing him all afternoon: Lucas keeps trying to draw him from the Belfry to... to flirt. Jean-Paul wets his lips, and—now that he knows, he can't help but catch how Lucas's eyes flit down to his mouth, before coming back to meet his gaze. His heart pounds against his ribs, and he swears he can feel a physical gust of air as his imagination starts to get away from him again. Maybe he could lean in, just so, and Lucas would lean to meet him—maybe he would chase the vanilla and cookie dough from Jean-Paul's mouth, or undo the band keeping up his hair, push his fingers through it to draw him closer—
"You're dripping again."
Jean-Paul makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, switching his cone from one hand to the other and licking the other clean. When he dares to glance over, Lucas is watching him with barely-disguised interest, one arm folded over the back of their bench while his tongue dips into the small crater he's made in his ice cream. This does absolutely nothing to help quell the storm of thought and over-thought roiling in Jean-Paul's head at the moment.
"Is that okay?" Lucas asks, his voice startlingly gentle. His eyes, too, have softened, and Jean-Paul feels just as inclined to melt as his ice cream is.
"Is—what?" Jean-Paul says, before immediately grimacing at himself for how dense he must sound.
Lucas smiles, gesturing between the two of them the same way Jean-Paul had a moment before. "This," he says. "You okay?"
"Yes," Jean-Paul says—and this time, it's somehow both too quickly and not quickly enough. "I'm just fine. But... thank you. I appreciate your concern."
Lucas stretches, and then—and then his arm is around Jean-Paul's shoulders again, he's quite close, Jean-Paul can feel the ghost of his breath on his cheek, the scratch of his beard on his skin, and—
Oh.
His lips are cool; Jean-Paul was right about that much. Chapped slightly, not that Jean-Paul cares terribly much at this particular moment. Pliant, yes, and so, so gentle as he presses closer to Jean-Paul. Lucas does cup the side of Jean-Paul's neck, and then the back of his head, always drawing him closer, closer—impossibly, wonderfully closer. A quiet sigh passes Jean-Paul's lips as he lets himself become swept up in the feeling, in the closeness, in the beautiful intimate warmth of it all.
A second, a single heartbeat, the whole lifetime of a star seems to pass before Lucas pulls back, eyes half-closed, a smile still dancing on his cool, slightly chapped lips.
"What about that?"
Jean-Paul sways slightly, breathless without reason. He draws in a long, slow breath, and then another. And then he smiles. "I think so," he murmurs, tilting his head until their foreheads touch. "You may need to try again before I can say for certain."