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Avdol wakes up and the first thing that goes wrong is that he can't breathe.
Well. Scratch that. Typically there is a general breathing issue, because when he wakes up, all of Polnareff’s limbs are tangled in a death lock around him. Or maybe Iggy has decided the perfect spot to curl up in the night is directly on top of Avdol’s diaphragm.
This time, though, he wakes up perfectly dogless and limbless, yet feels as though something in his chest is constricting tightly like a vice.
He has a few brain cells to knock around, though, so he knows not to panic. He forces his breathing to a normal rhythm- when did it become erratic?- and counts it slowly, in for 4 out for 8, burying his face further into the crook of Polnareff’s shoulder to ground himself.
He’s about got it when suddenly, a clumsy hand pats vaguely at his cheek. “How forward of you, Mohammed.”
Avdol laughs, relieved that he sounds normal even though he feels weak. “Maybe I just want you to get my arms for me.”
Polnareff groans theatrically, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead like a fainting maiden. “Ah, of course! You only use me for my ability to reach things.”
“That I do,” Avdol says, only a bit smugly as Polnareff shifts over and up as he rises to sit at the edge of the bed.
The sheets pool around his waist as he raises his arms far above his head, stretching to crack his back, and Avdol would have reached out to trace the lines of scars and freckles on his back if he could, for the anchor-feeling he knows it’d give him. Instead, he settles for shifting closer and knocking his forehead into Polnareff’s lower back, and revels in the low chuckle he gets for it. Polnareff’s laughs are usually booming, belly-deep, filling up the whole room- which Avdol adores, of course, but there’s something in the little ones, so soft that no one would ever believe they come from Polnareff. He hoards the sound of all of them in his mind, like an especially greedy dragon.
A click of the tongue interrupts his thoughts- another sound he’s familiar with, how Polnareff gets his attention. Avdol looks up to see Polnareff has already put on his own prosthetics, and has also… manually positioned both of Avdol’s hands to be giving the middle finger.
Avdol sighs. No wonder it took so long. Polnareff is still giggling when he helps Avdol put them on.
Avdol lets them connect, flexes his fingers once or twice, and promptly snakes his arms around Polnareff’s waist and lets his forehead drop to his shoulder.
Practically a tradition, at this point: the first thing Avdol does when he puts arms on in the morning is hold Polnareff. It does wonders for his oddly fragile state today, especially how he feels painfully tired even though he just woke up.
Polnareff’s hand tangles into Avdol’s hair (the non-prosthetic one, Avdol has had too many hairs stuck in metal), and Avdol lets his own hand toy with the hairs resting low at Polnareff’s shoulder. He doesn’t wear it up like he used to, anymore, not unless they’re visiting the others. There’s something to be said for the sentimental value of his weird column hair, but Avdol finds he likes Polnareff’s hair down as much as Polnareff likes his down.
Sighing again, this time in contentment, he pokes Polnareff in the side and props his chin on his shoulder to speak properly for the second thing he does immediately in the morning. “Can you hand me my ring?”
“ Using me,” Polnareff complains again, but by the speed with which he took Avdol’s hand and slipped his ring on, Avdol knows he already had it in his hand and was waiting for him to ask for it.
The tightness in his chest- still present, but smaller- spreads, this time in affection. Avdol brings his hand up to Polnareff’s jaw, tilts his head to the side, and kisses him.
Avdol is perfectly content to lay there and kiss him senseless all morning. He doesn’t know if he even has the energy to do otherwise, but of course Polnareff is bright and bursting at the seams. As soon as he puts on his own ring, he’s bouncing up and about and ready to start the day.
Avdol groans in response, sinking back into the increasingly inviting bed and pressing his face into a pillow. He knows he has to get up- he has a dog, a coop full of hens, and a Polnareff to feed. There’s probably a chore list they still need to get around to doing. Avdol has been meaning to practice his Japanese, too, no excuse to let it get rusty along with his textbooks. There’s just so much to do, even if right now he feels absolutely unequipped to deal with it, but he can’t feel that, because he’s supposed to be someone who can handle things and—
“Hey,” Polnareff’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, hand on his back, “Do you want me to make breakfast?”
Avdol pauses.
Avdol usually makes breakfast (and lunch, and dinner), because Polnareff has more fingers than recipes he can successfully make. Not to mention he’s missing a few fingers.
So when Polnareff offers to make it, it’s almost like some sort of unofficial code- Do you want me to make breakfast translating to I know you don’t feel well, and I’m going to take care of you.
Polnareff may be a little dumb sometimes, but he’s not stupid . Avdol figures he’s probably known since they’ve woken up.
(Whether he knows or not, Avdol knows that he’s not going to sit him down and ask him to talk about his feelings. For all that Polnareff is like a bulldozer personified, he usually steps back to let Avdol take his personal problems at his own pace instead of barging in headfirst, and trusts Avdol (or his unspoken cues) to bring it to him when he needs it.
And of course Avdol does, feeling eternally grateful each time, but how can he begin to talk about something he doesn’t quite understand? Nothing’s wrong , per say, he’s just… like this. He wakes up and everything feels tight and he has to remind himself how to put one foot in front of the other.
He’s glad Polnareff is content to let him know he’s there and then let him figure it out himself. Glad that someone knows him like that, down to each and every corner.)
So Avdol swallows thickly, and lifts his head up enough to face Polnareff and nod. “I’d like that.”
Polnareff gives him his huge smile, ear to ear, and nods back. “Alright! You want me to brush your hair, first? Real quick ‘n all?”
Avdol absently reaches for his hair at the question, pulling on a curl. It does sound nice, but there is a lot to do, and it would take up some time…
“Come onnnnn ,” Polnareff whines when he decides Avdol has taken too long to answer. “I could braid it for you!”
“That doesn’t seem ‘real quick,’ Jean Pierre.”
Polnareff wiggles his fingers mysteriously. “I am very fast.”
Faced with the temptation of Polnareff both doing his hair and making breakfast, Avdol being too tired to do either on his own, he is a weak man. He agrees with only some faux-hesitance, just for his reputation, and lets Polnareff shepherd him into the bathroom and sit him down on the chair they keep specifically for this reason.
Polnareff typically braids his own hair in the mornings as well, but now he simply ties it in a loose ponytail while he works on Avdol’s instead. Polnareff’s fingers in his hair (Avdol had broken far too many combs in his hair to bother with anything but finger combing anymore) is an ever-welcome feeling, and he lets himself loosen his shoulders that he hadn’t realized were tense. The weird chest-tightness dissipates as he relaxes, but the odd feeling that accompanied it is not. It might just sit there for the whole day, like a stone in his stomach, so Avdol does his best to ignore it, closing his eyes and letting Polnareff pull his hair around.
Sooner than expected- or maybe he fell asleep for a minute?- he opens his eyes when Polnareff gives a little tug on the end of the now-braid when he’s done with a proud ta-da!
It’s not the typical plaits Polnareff uses on his own hair, always starting from the crown. It’s just a simple braid hanging loose on his back, but it’s enough of a different style for him that Avdol feels pleasantly surprised.
Avdol reaches his arms up to catch Polnareff loosely behind the neck, tugging him down into an upside-down kiss. “Thank you.”
“Aw, shucks,” Polnareff grins, flitting around to Avdol’s front and crouching to be at eye level, “All’a that for little ol’ me?”
Avdol rolls his eyes and pulls Polnareff’s ponytail. Polnareff yelps.
“Ah! Domestic abuse!” He cries, sounding quite unconcerned.
Avdol snorts. “I’ll show you domestic abuse in a minute here if you don’t get to the kitchen.”
“Ehh, you’re so bossy,” Polnareff bounces upright on the balls of his feet, holding his arm out to Avdol. “I am but your humble servant.”
“You’re not humble anything ,” Avdol retorts, even as he loops his arm through Polnareff’s and lets him drag him to the kitchen.
Avdol instinctively starts to go towards the kitchen, but Polnareff gets all huffy when he does, staring at him pointedly with his hands on his hips.
“I can at least help,” Avdol tries.
“Sit down or else I’ll take your arms off and put them in the oven.”
Avdol sits down.
He resigns himself to propping his elbow on the table, cheek in hand, trying to prevent his eyelids from falling closed. He still feels- drained, maybe? A bit too much like glass? But despite that, it warms him, watching Polnareff bustle in and out of view. “You’re doing a lot of things for me today, Jean Pierre.”
“Cause I love you so much,” Polnareff calls back, tone teasing but words genuine. “ Mon bébé! ”
Avdol’s smile is probably oozing with the fondness that he feels, judging by the way Iggy looks at him with as much disgust as a dog can muster when he finally slinks in from the hallway to curl up under the table.
He could almost doze off here, listening to Polnareff loudly hum some old melody, if he wasn’t both he actively trying not to and still too high-strung, even underneath his tiredness. It just makes him more tired, having to deal with the grating annoyance of his brain today. Of course, he logically knows odd and bad and practically every kind of day happens. It doesn’t make it any less easy, though, so every time Polnareff glances back with bright eyes and a toothy grin, it’s much appreciated.
The prospect of food is also much appreciated, maybe more so. Avdol had been wondering if he was feeling bad enough that he had no appetite, but that was quickly remedied when the smell of whatever Polnareff was concocting wafts over to him, oddly familiar, and Polnareff chirps an excited “ done! ”
Avdol tries to stand to at least help him bring the food out, but Polnareff tuts disapprovingly as he brings the teapot out and sets it on the table first, along with his single croissant that he insists is a perfect breakfast, the psychopath.
He quickly ducks back into the kitchen and comes back out with a bowl.
Avdol’s curiosity spikes when he sees him holding the pretty large bowl. When Polnareff makes breakfast, it’s always something simple like eggs on a plate, so he’s not sure what this is, and almost steels himself for something “new-” Last time Polnareff made something “new,” Avdol got food poisoning.
However, when Polnareff sets it in front of him, he almost goes speechless.
It’s ful medames . He hasn’t had this in ages , and this certainly isn’t in Polnareff’s list of Edible Food Options. “This is… when on earth did you learn this? ”
Polnareff rubs his neck, looking bashful. “Ah, well… you know that elderly lady Fatima who lives over in the town? Remember how I said I was going over to help her move some heavy furniture around?”
Of course Avdol remembers. For a couple of days, Polnareff had departed from their cottage on the outskirts to make the small walk down the dirt path to the actual town, always reappearing after an hour or so. Avdol hadn’t questioned it at the time- even if he wasn’t socially inept by any means (like someone whose name starts with J and ends with otaro), Polnareff genuinely liked socialization, far more than Avdol. Avdol was content with his small group of mostly long-distant friends, the hens, and Iggy. It made sense that Polnareff of all people would be asked for help by the neighbors.
“Well. I lied! It was a surprise. I figured you’d like it now.”
Avdol shakes his head, laughing, and feels like his heart is about to explode everywhere. “You are…”
“Amazing?” Polnareff supplies cheekily, embarrassment gone, “Beautiful? Show-stopping? Spectacular? Fantastic?”
“I was going to say full of surprises,” Avdol smiles, “but all of those are true, I suppose.”
“Ahh, thank you, my lo- Wait, you suppose?! ”
Avdol sniffs innocently. “Eat your breakfast, dear.”
A little surprisingly- he makes a mental apology for doubting Polnareff- the ful medames tastes good, really good, exactly how he remembers it.
It makes his stomach do weird flips- both at the thoughtfulness of the gesture and the nostalgia of the dish- and after he finishes it, he tries to take a breather as subtly as he can.
First he had just felt overwhelming affection, but he should have expected that even something like this is gonna fuck with him, because he can’t catch a damn break today. He sits back and just thinks, like he often does, Wow. This is my life, peaceful and fulfilling, and I have an honest-to-God husband who learns how to make food for me for no other reason than that he genuinely really loves me.
The simplicity baffles him so strongly that he feels out of place. Like this isn’t him who should be living here, like this kind of domesticity isn’t meant for him.
The thought has him standing up so fast that his chair topples to the ground, and he’s left with his hands bracing his body up on the table.
Polnareff only blinks and stands as well, reaching out as if to steady Avdol. “Mohammed?”
“I’m going to feed the chickens,” Avdol blurts, because he desperately needs to get out and do something .
“Alright, I’ll get Iggy his food too before he starts scratching the walls again,” Polnareff agrees easily, and Avdol feels another rush of gratitude. He nods quickly, ready to go, but then Polnareff’s hand falls on Avdol’s arm.
Polnareff smiles, squeezing his bicep lightly. “Come find me when you’re ready to talk, alright? I’m always here for you.”
Then, he promptly goes stomping down the hallway, Iggy hot on his heels. “Iggy, you wench! Je vais t'empoisonner, et puis… ”
Avdol is left to compose himself alone. He does hastily, heel of his palms pressed to forehead, and then briskly walks to the backyard.
The hens are, understandably, restless. They cluck impatiently when they see him stride out, irritated at having their food delayed, even if only by a few minutes. The youngest girl of the bunch- Sunny, Polnareff had named her onsight- is brave enough to nip at the hems of his pants in retaliation.
The hens don’t care if he’s having a bad day or not, which is somehow comforting. He smiles and dutifully scatters the feed, and the hens go chasing after it instantly. With the little monsters sated, he should go back inside, but.
He watches them peck and bicker a little longer, the exhaustion he’s been fighting blessedly falling to a low prickle compared to the constant ache that it had been when he woke up. From where he’s standing, the sun shines directly on him, and he pauses to allow the thoughts that have been intrusively pounding on his skull to finally run their course.
Avdol wonders. Arms crossed, metal palms around metal forearms, standing in the sunshine. Wonders if life is predestined fate and inescapable, or if maybe one wrong move could have drastically changed the outcome. If in another universe, he wasn’t so lucky. If he was meant to die young.
Maybe tomorrow he’ll wake up and lament the loss of such a vivid dream. Maybe tomorrow he won’t wake up and turns out he actually has been dead the whole time. Maybe none of this is real and everything is going to fall apart at the seams.
“ Mohammed! ” Polnareff’s voice comes faintly from the open window, “Help, Iggy is really going for my tendons this time! En garde, you little cunt—!!”
…No, of course not. That’s silly to even think about. Polnareff reminds him at every turn that he is very real, and he’ll get in enough trouble to prove it.
He thinks under the sun for a moment longer. He didn’t narrowly avoid death by vampire just to keep all of his emotions right here and then die, did he?
(“Come find me when you’re ready to talk, alright? I’m always here for you.”)
He closes the chicken coop, dusts his hands off on his pants, and goes to find his husband.