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He absolutely hated how naturally talented you were. You hated how naturally stubborn he was. It was mutual irritation built on mutual admiration.

As children, your arguments were dramatic. “You cheated.” “I did not.” “You looked at my line.” “That’s called strategy.” He would storm off. He would come back ten minutes later with a snack and silently hand it to you.

The first time he realized he cared about you was when another kid tried to make fun of you. Johnny didn’t say anything at first… but afterwards he proceeded to absolutely destroy that kid in the next race just to make a point. Neither of you ever said “best friend.” But you were inseparable.

When Johnny’s life begins to fracture and his pride takes blow after blow, you’re still there. And that almost makes it worse for him. He pushes you away during his darker periods. Not because he dislikes you, but because you’ve always seen him clearly, and he doesn’t like who he is in those moments.

He never wants your pity. Ever. If he even senses it, he gets angry and defensive towards you. But when you treat him the same as always, competitive, playful, unimpressed by his dramatics, it is the rock that grounds him.

The tension starts to build up. It becomes sweeter. Less loud arguments, more long looks. He starts noticing little things. The way you brush dirt off your clothes. The way your hair looks after riding. The way you still glare at him when he wins.

He gets flustered so easily once he realizes his feelings. Johnny Joestar is many things, but smooth is not one of them. If you lean too close while talking, he forgets what he was saying.

If you touch his shoulder casually, he replays it in his head for the rest of the day. He becomes weirdly protective in subtle ways. Adjusting your saddle. Checking your supplies. Acting like it’s purely practical. Sure, buddy.

The confession is not elegant. It probably happens after an argument. “Why do you always act like I’m trying to beat you?” you snap.

“Because you are!”

“Johnny, I’m on your side!”

He looks at you differently then. Vulnerable. Almost scared. “That’s the problem,” he mutters. When he finally admits it, it comes out messy and with some voice cracks. “I don’t want to lose to you anymore. I just… don’t want to lose you.”

He refuses to look at you while saying it.

If you’re dopey grin means anything, Johnny knows it’s mutual.

You still compete. That never stops. It just becomes easier to let loose. “Loser buys dinner.” “You’re going to regret saying that.” “In your dreams, Joestar.”

He absolutely melts if you praise him sincerely. He pretends he doesn’t need validation, but from you? It means everything. Quiet intimacy is his weakness. Sitting close while watching the sunset. Shoulders touching. No teasing or witty remarks just the two of you breathing the same air.

He’s not overly verbal with affection at first, but he shows it in steady loyalty. He chooses you, again and again. If someone calls you his partner in a romantic way, he freezes for half a second… then doesn’t correct them. The first time you kiss him, he’s stunned. Completely stunned. Then he kisses you back with intensity, like he’s been holding that back for years.

(He has…)

He’d absolutely brag about you but act like he’s not bragging. “Yeah, they’re good. I trained them.” (He did not train you.)

He keeps small tokens from your childhood rivalry days. Old race ribbons. A broken glove. He’d never admit it. You two still bicker in old rhythms, but it ends with shared laughter instead of wounded pride.

Underneath everything, the competitiveness was never about beating each other. It was about keeping up. About being worthy. To continue to push each other forward to best possible outcomes. And in the end, what makes it romantic isn’t that you were rivals.