Archive of Our Own

Nothing quite brings his soul ease like being back in the streets of Paris. His home welcomes him just as warmly as he welcomes Paris back into his veins. Only the freshest of pastries, only the crispest of breads. Locals nod to him politely at his courtesy. More than a few women glance in his direction, particularly the tourists. A smirk grows on his face.

Oui, it's good to be home.

The Champs-Élyées is bustling with high fashion and wandering foreigners. Polnareff sighs. Oh where to start? Many popular brands overtake their French-basef counterparts, but Polnareff sets aside his national pride for his passion. Well, he might as well start where he stands.

Stepping inside the store, he's immediately greeted by a store clerk.

Bonjour, monsieur. Welcome to our store! Is there something I can help you find today?

Polnareff waves the man off. Je suis natif. Je reviens des vacances, he explains he's back home from vacation, and the man's eyes flash with recognition.

Mais oui! Nous saluons le retour! the clerk welcomes him home. Polnareff nods, taking to the floor.

This particular store offers nothing but the latest fashion. His fingers trail along the textures of fabrics, circling the mannequin display. Perhaps he could treat himself. He is back home after a long time spent with his friends in Japan. He wouldn't have traded it for the world, but his nostalgic homesickness is making him tempted to self-indulge. Besides, he needs to keep up soon, lest he be caught out of style.

With a few revealing tops on his arm, Polnareff makes his way towards the fitting rooms. Sometimes he has to curse his attentiveness, however, when he picks up someone ranting in an eerily familiar language.

Nani? a voice Polnareff can only describe as fashionably insulted speaks. He continues to scold the taller man next to him, a deep blush already taking over the accused’s features.

Excusez-moi, excuse me, Polnareff grabs their attention. The shorter man shifts his steely glare towards Polnareff.

He may not know much about this man, but he feels a kinship immediately. His pearly white cropped jacket and whites slacks, latched by emerald green suspenders with golden clasps, must be custom designed. His cropped forest green top also seems to be velvet, and not the faux stuff he sees in generic stores.

No, this man exudes fashion, all the way up to his purple jagged headband holding back dark green hair.

Wait - purple jagged headband?

Oui? I am in the middle of something, if you do not mind, the man's silky voice cements it in Polnareff's mind. If he were a lesser man, Polnareff would swoon. He even speaks French!

Vous- vous êtes le mangaka! Rohan au Louvre! Polnareff almost shrieks in recognition. The man lifts a delicate eyebrow, crossing his arms haughty.

Oui. Et vous? Accusatory eyes rake up and down Polnareff, sizing him up. There's a glimmer of approval as he glances over the wares on his arms. It takes all that he can not to puff his chest up in pride.

Jean-Pierre Polnareff, Polnareff theatrically bows. Je suis désolé. Je suis un grand fan.

The Great Rohan Kishibe examines Polnareff with a glare, still bowed in half before him. He waves it off dismissively. But when Polnareff rises, he realizes the great artist wasn't just waving. Instead, he offers Polnareff a business card bearing not only his signature, but a quick caricature of himself!

Of course he’s used to people claiming to be his biggest fan. It still doesn’t hurt any less as his chest deflates.

Oui, oui. Maintenant, je suis en train de travailler, Rohan complains about being interrupted in the middle of his work.

Rohan? the taller man beside him finally speaks up, looking absolutely lost. The celebrity spares a softer glance over him, reassuring him with a few words that Polnareff now recognizes fully as Japanese.

It's the first time Polnareff fully sees the Great Rohan Kishibe's escort. That is, if that's what he is. He's definitely intimidating by his stature, similar to Jotaro if a bit shorter. Clearly he's foreign. And he most certainly doesn't know a thing about fashion. It's evidenced enough by his atrociously retro hairstyle.

Pardon, do you speak English? Polnareff turns to the man. He figures that he must show the man enough respect to speak in a language he understands, even if his hair hurts him.

I speak a little English, the man shrugs as he explains slowly. He dips in a traditional Japanese bow. I am Higa- Josuke Higashikata. I am pleased to meet you. He offers his hand to shake, and Polnareff takes it.

As I said, he's apparently a fan of mine, the Great Rohan explains with a frown, turning towards Polnareff. I hadn't realized I'd be so popular here. I had hoped I escaped everyone vacationing so far away in Europe.

Mais non, Rohan-sensei! Polnareff insists. Jotaro and Kakyoin had once taught Polnareff how to address superiors in Japanese, it is your work that you generously donate to fashion that I admire! I have seen your contributions. While it may seem minor, it has made a huge change in Japan, and some of your designs have even made it here! I have been nothing short of devoted since my travel abroad to Japan. All my life I never would have dreamed to meet you on le Champs-Élysées!

Genuinely surprised, Rohan presses a delicate hand over his heart, still holding his pen. Of course, just about everything on his outfit was fitted with pen nib motifs, but every designer has their symbol. It's how Rohan wears his work like a second skin that Polnareff truly admires. Rohan nods throughtfully, his dismissive scowl slowly lifting to an approving gleam.

Ah yes. I had hoped someone would appreciate my creative inspiration outside of my art.

I would wear it in a heartbeat if I thought I had the form to compliment your work! Polnareff whines before gesturing to Mr. Higashikata. Is this an apprentice of yours?

Of sorts, Rohan huffs with a spark of amusement as Mr. Higashikata hides his pout.

He is teaching me fashion, the taller man pieces together, crossing his own arms indignantly. Polnareff raises a brow.

Not to insult the Great Rohan Kishibe- Rohan tenses, ready to take any criticism, as Mr. Higashikata eyes Polnareff warily -but certainly his… outdated hairstyle is not your recommendation?

Polnareff knew his statement might find offense to someone, but he didn't expect Mr. Higashikata to fall into a fighting stance. Darkness shadows his eyes under his ridiculous pompadour, eerily similar to what Jotaro does with his hat.

Startling both fashion critics, a shimmery aura flares around Mr. Higashikata. Polnareff barely has enough time to draw his Stand's sword. A muscular pink arm launched out at him, but not to grab him by the throat.

The Stand finds its hand in Polnareff's hair as the tip of his own sword finds the other man’s throat.

In anger, the man spits something in his native language. Polnareff glances over to Rohan, who sighs.

Along with some heavy expletives, he asks what do you call this mess, then?

Better than his! Polnareff insists. The hand in his hair grips tighter, and Polnareff prods the vein bursting out of Mr. Higashikata's neck. At least mine is of my own design, and not recycled from the 80s.

Before Polnareff can react, the man retracts his Stand's arm. He stands down, backing away from the man and avoiding his gaze. Rohan glances between the two, muttering something in Japanese which actually cracks a smile across Mr. Higashikata's face.

Je suis désolé, Rohan apologizes. I hadn't thought you to be a Stand user. I should have warned you.

Nor you, Polnareff admits, sizing up his fashion idol. Does this mean the Great Rohan Kishibe is a Stand user? He wonders what sort of ability he possesses, but decides against prodding. Rohan already seems defensive over insulting his friend.

Usually I cannot stand fashion injustice, but I respect a man's commitment, Polnareff reluctantly admits.

Mr. Higashikata spares him a glance, looking up again to Polnareff's hair. A beaming smile splits his face.

Arigato Polnareff-san. I am sorry for getting defensive. Rohan is trying to get me to work on my manners in France.

My boyfriend has an awful temper when people insult his hair, Rohan sighs. Really, I'm the one cursed having to warn everyone.

Mr. Higashikata snaps a hurt glare at Rohan, but lets it go with a sigh.

Boyfriend? Polnareff tenses. He really should have kept his mouth shut. He could have ended up a lot worse than beat up for insulting the Great Rohan Kishibe's boyfriend.

Take my sincerest apologies, Great Rohan Kishibe, Polnareff bows his head. Rohan smirks as he lifts his head back up, but Polnareff doesn't dare comment.

Apology accepted, Monsieur Polnareff. I hope you can excuse my boyfriend's behavior.

Polnareff nods enthusiastically.

Mais oui, Monsieur Kishibe.

And with that, Polnareff dismisses himself for the fitting room.

He shakes the whole encounter off of his shoulders. That Rohan must be incredibly patient with a boyfriend like that. Though, as Polnareff thinks about it, he realizes it's not too different than seeing Kakyoin deal with Jotaro.

He smiles fondly as he pulls off his shirt. He idly wonders what those two have been up to since Polnareff saw them graduate years ago. A smile breaks across his face as he thinks what sort of adventure their future has been.

Trying to pull one of the tops over his head, he runs into a problem. His hair is in the way. Polnareff frowns. That's strange. His hair usually doesn't get in the way. He has adjusted to how he puts on shirts ever since he was young. How is the shirt getting caught then?

Pulling the shirt off of his arms, Polnareff turns to face the mirror, face going white in horror.

His most carefully tended hairstyle is perfectly ruined. Not that it's disheveled or undone, no. No, it's worse. It's perfectly reshaped into a hideous form.

Clutching the bulbous pompadour, Polnareff shrieks.

Enfoiré! Polnareff curses the bastard. Oh the next time he meets that arrogant pompadoured bastard - Stand user or Rohan's boyfriend or not - he'll show no mercy.