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Somewhere in an overgrown graveyard outside Paris, a man knelt by a grave with his head in his hands. He was bandaged, silver hair falling into his eyes as he wept onto the grass and he was muttering to no one through the tears clogging his voice. “ Tu m'as manqué... I'm sorry it took me so long to come home to you mama,” Polnareff said as he sat back on his heels, scrubbing at his burning eyes with the heel of his hand as he looked at the bouquet of lilacs he'd laid on his mother's headstone. “I-I was traveling, I made friends even! You would have liked them I think.”
It only took that for him to launch into a retelling of his adventures with the Crusaders, maybe a little embellished to make himself look more impressive as he stood and jabbed the air with Silver Chariot at some parts, grinning foolishly despite the tears flooding his eyes. Everything from the fight he'd had with Avdol in Hong Kong (mostly what was told to him by the others, he couldn't remember a damned thing about it) to the last, when he'd nearly died to Vanilla Ice. That one...that one took the fire out of his gaze and Polnareff sat back down in the soft springy grass, holding the bandages that covered his severed fingers as the phantom pain of them flared at the memory.
“They all fought to the end, I was...I was saved, if you can believe that I needed saving,” Polnareff said with the ghost of a confident smirk pulling at his lips, and he produced a gold bangle from one of his pockets to squeeze between his fingers like a lifeline. If he tried hard enough he could feel the strong, steady beat of Avdol's heart in his hands. It was the only thing he'd managed to save from that godforsaken mansion and he had refused to let anyone else touch it. Not even monsieur Joestar. “It is almost good that you aren't alive to see me like this, in love with a man and a dead one at that. He was a fortune teller too, so smart! He could have killed me in Hong Kong, he had every right after what I did. What I tried to do to him and the others.”
He laughed softly then, a wounded sound that was almost a sob. Why was he telling his mother about Avdol? Would she have still loved him if she had known who he'd gone and given his heart away to? Polnareff didn't know. Not that it mattered, she was as dead as he was and her opinion couldn't reach him beyond the grave. That said...Polnareff began to talk more. Rambling on and on and on about the way Avdol's eyes were like honeyed whiskey in the sunlight, how warm and gentle his hands were when he patched him up. Even things so small as the way Avdol preferred to make the hotel beds when they were leaving rather than leaving them a mess like the rest of them did. It was almost enough to make him start sobbing again...almost.
“Oh, you and Sherry would have loved him I think. I hope you meet in the afterlife. He is a good man, mama. One of the best in fact. He died saving me from my own foolishness and I don't know whether to thank him or hate him sometimes...I should have died instead of him,” he said softly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. “He could have saved Noriaki and killed that vampire bastard before he could hurt anyone else.”
Polnareff spit the last part of that with a little more venom than was maybe necessary and shook his head, running his free hand through the silver strands that were down and framing his face. Being angry wouldn't change anything, he told himself. So instead he just leaned forward and pressed his lips to the cool dew-damp granite, imagining it was his mother's warm cheek instead. It was getting late and he'd have to go soon...but there was still some time. Not much, but a little.
The bouquet of lilacs filled the air around him with their perfume and he could only smile, it was so like the perfume she and Sherry had always worn when he was a child, when Sherry was growing up she'd taken a liking for it and he'd done whatever jobs he could do to get it for her. But...well, the time for memories like this had passed, no? Jean sighed and pulled one stem from the bunch to press to his nose for one last, deep smell of them. These women that had shaped him and made him into the man he was, had become through the blood and sweat and tears. And then he stood. He walked away from the grave, hands in his pockets and the heavy gold bangle weighing comfortingly on his own wrist. Being stuck in the past wouldn't do him any good anymore, there was only forward to go. He had a flight to Rome the next morning that he hadn't told anyone about, a job offer had been given to him by the Speedwagon foundation and he wasn't going to turn that down for anything, but saying goodbye had been more important. Now that that was done, all there was to do was go find a hotel for the night. But as Jean walked away from the grave site, he turned and lifted his hand in a wave and could've sworn for a moment that he saw four figures bathed in gold watching him from above.
There were no more words, all Jean could do was smile into the sunset as he walked away from them. Off to Rome, to find a purpose and protect as many people as possible while he was still able. He secretly hoped that he might die on the job, might be able to see his family again. But there was no use in hoping for such dreary things...it was better to look to the future.