Chapter Text
Lies tripped off of Avdol's tongue easily, more of a habit than a choice. He wasn’t sure if he should even consider this excuse a lie - for all the guilt he felt, his words were factually true. He wasn’t even sure why this was an excuse. Even with the impressive medical intervention of the Speedwagon Foundation, Ebony Devil had left its mark on Polnareff. He wouldn’t be able to hold his own in a stand battle with his ankle in the state it was in, and given that he’d sustained the wound as a direct result of being left in his own hotel room it made sense. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling a strange guilt when he suggested to the group that they share a room that night. Polnareff had made some comment about not needing to be babysat, but all Avdol had to do was make a decisive gesture to the crutches he was still using. Polnareff couldn’t really argue with that, though he insisted on trying anyway.
They were in the room now, Avdol exiting the shower with that guilt sitting firmly in the pit of his stomach. The mirror in front of him was foggy, and he curbed the instinct to wipe it down. It wasn’t wrong to share a room with a friend. Could you consider someone you’ve known for just over a week a friend? The close quarters of the journey had already blurred those lines. Either way, it seemed duplicitous to have the other man so close when he didn’t know. He couldn’t know, and would never know, but that wasn’t the point. The point would always be that Avdol felt something for Polnareff that was unfair to the him.
He left the safety of the bathroom, physically clean, entering into the main room. Polnareff was sat of the floor, surrounded by … wood shavings? The man looked up from his work, a slight blush colouring his face. Neither of them spoke for a moment, until Avdol broke the silence.
“I didn’t know you carve.”
“It’s something to do, keeps me busy, I guess. Chariot’s faster at it than I am, but it’s nice to sit for a few hours and make something.” The Frenchman was quieter than usual, his regular arrogance lost. Avdol remembered the statue he’d carved of Magician’s Red in the Tiger Balm Gardens, the skill of which had been lost in the commotion of the battle. What Polnareff held in his hands now was a small chisel (far more suited to the task than Chariot’s rapier) and a wooden block that was growing ever closer to what Avdol guessed may have been a dolphin. It was only half finished, the surface still rough but the form was clear.
“What is it going to be?”
“A shark – I’m making something for the kid. I figured she’d think any of my usual stuff was too girly, so I borrowed one of Jotaro’s ocean magazines as a reference. I haven’t done anything new in a while, the challenge is nice.”
Avdol made his way to sit on his bed, hiding his surprise. He hadn’t expected this from Polnareff and he felt foolish for his dismissive assumption. He knew the Frenchman to be a dedicated swordsman, and it made sense that his dedication led him to other skills. He had assumed that Polnareff didn’t like the child though – they seemed to rub each other the wrong way.
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the effort. What do you usually carve?”
“Teddy bears and dolls – maybe a unicorn if I’m feeling like a sadist. My sister liked that sort of thing, fairies and princesses. I thought she’d grow out of it when she got to her teens, but she doubled down. Her room’s full of them.” Polnareff paused, his mind elsewhere. He probably hadn’t meant to say that, tricked into memory by association. It made sense now, why Polnareff behaved the way he did around Anne. What Avdol had interpreted as genuine irration was closer to a sibling’s playful frustration. Polnareff continued, brushing past whatever thought he was avoiding.
“These days I’ll just carve whatever and leave it in a shopping center or something.”
“Why?”
“It’s too much effort to sell them, and it’s pretty suspicious to just give out kid’s toys. Plus I don’t have room in my bag to keep ‘em. This way if someone finds it they can keep it, and I don’t have to do anything. But I figured since I make them anyway, I’d try and carve something for the kid. Not sure how to give it to her yet, but I’ve got a couple of evenings until I’m finished.”
“I can’t fault your logic there – but I wish I could see them.”
Polnareff hummed in half agreement, focusing back on his work. Content to work in mutual silence, Avdol retrieved his journal from his own bag. He’d kept a diary in one form or another since he was a small boy, originally keeping the hobby to practice his writing. He still technically did, writing each entry in a different language so he didn’t lose fluency between opportunities to speak it. It was beyond a logical practicality though, because what he wrote was less of an academic exercise and more of an emotional one. Experience had taught him the dangers of his strong emotions, his temperament combined with his stand had led to a number of childhood accidents, but writing through those feelings made them easier to cope with. The advantage of keeping his entries in a number of languages was then clear, minimizing the risk of it being read in full by any one person. The individual entries would be damning, but he hoped the overall structure would be confusing enough to discourage prying eyes.
Today’s entry would be… difficult.
He preferred solitude when he wrote, finding it difficult to let his guard down otherwise. That luxury hadn’t presented itself to him in the past two weeks, so many of his entries had been written in the room he shared with Mr Joestar. He’d stopped writing in English, not because he didn’t trust the old man but because it gave him distance. Avdol couldn’t be the person he needed to be without that distance from reality, even if it was purely a symbolic distance.
It was harder to find that distance when the subject of those feelings was sat halfway across the room, eyes trained on his chisel. Avdol had recognized that Polnareff was an attractive man from that first meeting in Hong Kong, attractive but strange. Fighting the man had been exillharating, the difference in their strength not great enough to make his victory sure. It would have been for the best if the fight had been a chance encounter, if Jotaro had freed Polnareff from Dio’s control and he’d gone his own way. The Frenchman was too honorable for that, which was of course was half of the problem. It would have been bad enough if his feelings for the man were simply a passing fancy, but he was growing to care for the man. That itself felt wrong, that he couldn’t distinguish between platonic affection and … the other kind.
It wasn't that Avdol believed homosexuality to be haram or morally wrong - though the same could not be said for much of his youth. He’d moved on from the devoted self-hatred of years prior, and then the subsequent angry rejection of the culture and beliefs that gave him that self-hatred. He'd mellowed out some in the past few years, settling comfortably into his own personal relationship with Allah. He hadn't quite figured out how to shake the fear of himself though, unsure that he ever really would. Sometimes Avdol got the feeling that he'd been born that way, that his personality was so uniquely suited to self-hatred that the feeling would always be part of him. He was still trying though, not content with the quiet melancholy he was so predisposed to. It was slow going, limited to acknowledging himself in the privacy of his diary. He couldn't really do much more, or would atleast rarely risk it. The past few years had not been kind, and Avdol had left Egypt too late to truly experience the openness of major cities. His early university years had been another story, but the as the rumblings of a sickness grew louder, he drew in on himself, focusing on his studies instead. He supposed it was a blessing, that he hadn’t been caught in the horror of the epidemic, or the great mourning that came after. But even then, he was only spared from the loss by isolating himslf, denying the connections that would bring inevitable pain.
“I’ve got a question – don’t laugh at me if it’s stupid though.” Avdol looked up, his stream of consciousness interrupted.
“I can’t promise that.”
“Fine. So, like … I was thinking. Stands are a thing, and so are vampires and apparently the old man uses ancient breathing techniques to stay young, but I think he was fucking with me. Point is clearly some things that seem like magic are real right? And you’re a fortune teller. So is tarot real? Like, more real than people who believe in tarot think it is? Wait shit, if you’re a fortune teller surely you believe in it? Never mind then.” Avdol wanted to laugh, not because the question was stupid, but only from the way the man explained it. He forced himself not too, not wishing to reward vulnerability with scorn.
“It is real, but not like that. Truth is a complicated thing – what one person perceives as the reality of a situation can be the total opposite of another’s. But you can’t say either person is completely wrong, because then you end up ignoring both ideas of the truth. The cards can’t give you a full answer because there isn’t one. But interpreting the cards themselves is also a difficulty, they’re closer to feelings that facts. Tarot, when performed correctly is real, but it’s not good for details. I don’t know how or why it works. My personal theory is that it’s like prayer – except Allah has a clearer way to answer.” It wasn’t an easy answer, but an easy answer would only be untrue.
“Huh. Never had much use for prayer growing up. The sisters insisted on it before every meal and bedtime, but I don’t think I ever got an answer.”
“I don’t feel I need one a lot of the time. The reassurance of believing there is something greater than me, and that that presence is good is enough. Prayer is a connection to both Allah and my culture – it’s a peaceful space.”
“That sounds nice. I don’t think I can believe though – something about being raised by nuns does that to you.” That was a surprise – but then Polnareff was full of surprises.
“You were raised by nuns?”
“Kinda – my mother died when I was 3 and after a while my dad left us with the sisters whenever he had work trips outside of the village. The older we got the more time he spent away from home, and up until I was 13 ish we spent most of the time he was away being looked after by the nuns. They were nice enough, kind of strict though.” That was… a lot. Avdol marveled at the man sat across from him. Polnareff made it so easy to forget what he’d been through with his constant stupid jokes, so every casual detail felt like a punch to the gut.
“I’m sorry for your loss – I…I can’t quite imagine what that must have been like, only that it must have been difficult.”
“Ehhh. It is what it is I guess. Sherry and I had a good time on our own – Dad sent us enough money to live on, and Sister Marie taught me how to cook and clean. They did a pretty good job of keeping an eye on us considering that none of them wanted kids. They were kind of distant, but they were practical. They looked after us until I was old enough to be taught how to look after myself. And Sherry.”
“You sound like you were a good big brother – I’m an only child, but I would have liked a sibling.” It was hard, listening to this and replying, but Polnareff made him want to. Whatever this was was worth the effort.
“Yeah, you strike me as an only child. It’s nice, having a sibling. I think growing up together shapes your brains together or something. Means you’ve always got someone who’ll understand whatever dumb shit you say. Sherry used to put up with my stupid jokes, and I’d listen to her talk about her flowers. She used to grow them – her roses were the bane of my life. Every week she’d ask me to keep a record of the rain when she was at school, trying to see how it affected them. She loved those roses so much – fought like tooth and nail to keep ‘em alive.” Polnareff paused, deep in memories.
“They died a couple of weeks after she did. I kept some of the petals and dried them – I keep one in my bag, but the rest are back home.” He added quietly.
“I’m glad you can keep something of hers with you – especially something she cared about so much.”
“I miss her. God, do I miss her. All I can do now is kill the man with two right hands.”
“What will you do after?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really considered that there’d be an ‘after’. I hadn’t thought about it before but… I think I planned to die in that fight. Like I was supposed to die with her, and I’m only sticking around to avenge her.” That hurt to hear, not just because of what he said, but the acceptance with which he said it. Avdol wished desperately to close the space between them, to offer some kind of comfort. But his fear betrayed him.
“There could be an after. From what you’ve told me I think she’d want you to start living for yourself.” Polnareff laughed at that, shaking his head.
“She would. But I don’t know how.”
“I think you just start treating things like they’re permanent. Making the world around you a bit nicer for yourself.” The advice felt worthless coming from him of all people, but Polareff nodded anyway.
“Huh. That kinda makes sense. What about you then? What’ll you do after all this is over?”
“Most likely the same thing I was doing before. Working in my shop, sometimes travelling when Mr. Joestar needs a favour.” The words felt hollow in his chest, safe but dully painful.
“Seems like you need to take your own advice.”
That made Avdol laugh, because he knew he would never. He tried, of course he tried, but there was always to much fear holding him back. Besides, he didn't really know where to start. He could play make believe right now though, come up with something to tell Polnareff.
“You make a point. I think I’d like to own chickens.”
“Chickens?”
“In the backgarden. I hear they take a fair bit of looking after, but I’ve always liked birds.”
“A neighbour of mine had chickens once – they always had fresh eggs in the morning. Used to have to give them away when the hens laid too many. It was nice – chickens seems a wise path to take.”
“If we make it out of this maybe you can have some of my leftover eggs.” That was the bravest he’d been in some time – it was, in it’s own way, an invitation.
“Finally, an incentive to hurry up and kill that vampire. In return I’ll make you my famous omelet – known throughout Provence for being pretty okay.”
Avdol didn’t quite know what to make of that, but the evening had left him with a terrible hope. Simple familiarity had been replaced by a quiet intimacy; one he couldn’t quite keep himself from feeling. He had a feeling Polnareff would be his undoing, that his desire for closeness would drive him to distraction. But maybe that was just overdramatic, a symptom of his unbridled sentimentality.