Chapter Text
The morning sky was gray and dark, covering up the bright sun that Egypt was known for. Rain trickled down in gentle waves, gravity draping the city of Alexandria as a curtain would with its droplets. The masses did not stop to contemplate the weather, rushing to their respective trains and masking the outside world with their determined marching. Intercoms rang throughout the train station, echoing off the vast space of a local and tourist-filled ballroom.
A quick look at the watch pulled from a robe would indicate 8:47 a.m. The train for Cairo was supposed to leave around forty minutes ago, but Muhammad Abdul opted to ignore it for the time being, regarding the backs of people climbing a locomotive adjacent to his. A warm-hearted smile tugged on his plump lips as a little girl hopped on the steps before disappearing into the cart.
Where was she headed?
Where was anyone headed?
He entertained the string of thoughts that weaved in his mind. Everyone had lives as vivid and complex as his own, maybe even more so. They had experiences that belonged to only each individual, characters of their stories.
Beautiful in their own right.
He dropped his attention back to the book in his lap, deciding it would be best to end that thought there. It was a luxurious shade of ivory from the years it had remained with him, the hundred pages gentle to calloused fingertips, overflowing with his mother’s tongue. He reread the page he believed he left on and tuned to the next, returning to a steady pace. It brought warmth and comfort to his amber eyes, watching the Arabic letters come to life with his imagination. He could remain like this for eternity with nothing more.
Of course, on this Earth, there was no such thing as forever.
From the youthful, lively footsteps as he slid open the door and entered the booth, to the way he leisurely reclined on the worn, uncomfortable seats, draping one leg over the other in a swift motion, he made his presence more than simply seen.
An interesting character of some sort.
“How was the toilet?” Abdul asked, not looking up from the book.
“It wasn’t the dirtiest thing I’ve seen all day,” There was a hint of disgust that laced his accented voice as he rummaged through his travel sack, retrieving a small box. It was most likely filled with pastries he picked up from the bakery on the way to the train station. The way he tried to communicate to the poor baker with his extremely broken Arabic was as amusing as it was hard to watch. He wasted no time noshing, filling the booth with his chewing.
“mph. Sure, it’s not anything French, but this is a close second. I really like this one—y’know, the one with the cheese—what was it called again?”
Abdul eventually looked up, regarding the crumbs covering the sides of his lips with amusement before shifting his focus to the Arabic treat.
“That would be Halloumi, Polnareff.”
“Halloumi,” Polnareff repeated, trying to get the pronunciation right before plopping the rest into his mouth.
Jean-Pierre Polnareff, an interesting character indeed; one that demanded attention—not crudely, Abdul would add, it felt rather sincere. He had graced the city as if he had become a sort of visual question, with his silvery hair that defied gravity, frankly questionable fashion choices, and electric blue eyes that made the dark clouds feel a little brighter.
Abdul was no exception to his influence, drawn to this question.
“Once we get to Cairo, our food will topple anything you will have to offer,” He grinned, planning his mirth when he heard the exaggerated scoff from across the booth.
“I will have you know, Monsieur Muhammad, nothing beats my famous gratin, but I will take you up on that offer if this train gets moving! Why is it still here!”
“Patience, perhaps people are still boarding.” He only received a long groan in reply. The conversation fell into abrupt silence. Abdul continued reading, trying to keep his mind off the idea of Polnareff cooking and somehow not setting anything on fire. The thought was amusing, but he knew better. He was more mature than people often gave him credit for.
Humming at a particularly interesting sentence, he underlined it with his finger and glanced at the page number. It would be easier and much more effective to use a pencil, but he didn’t want to taint the pristine pages with his quick handwriting.
He felt the sudden shift of weight and there Polnareff was, pastry box open and long forgotten, just like the habitable silence.
“So, what’re you reading?” He squinted at a page like if he did it long enough he could instantly understand the written language.
“The Prophet. Khalil Gibran, a poet, and writer from Lebanon,” He tapped the drawing on the cover twice. “He is a prolific artist as well, has a museum there.”
“Lebanon?”
“Yes, have you been there? It’s quite beautiful.”
“Haven’t had the time, because, y’know…” He purposely trailed off. “After all of this—like all of it—who knows?” He punctuated the sentence with a sigh, one that told Abdul that he wanted—no, needed a cigarette, even though they both knew he couldn’t smoke on the cart. The gentle tone of his voice, mixed with the faint smell of his flowery cologne swirled around his emotions as their willing cocoon. Not for the first time, he didn’t want to ponder the grim future that awaited them in Cairo. He just wanted to be here, in the now, with Polnareff. He could feel butterflies fluttering about within his abdomen, coloring his thoughts in warm tones. It reminded him of grass, football and the neighbor’s boy. The transitory evocation ended with passing strangers outside his window. Abdul looked down to his shoes, the once torn sneakers were dull boots. He drowned it out, ignoring the pleas of the stories that begged to leave the cramped confines of his memories. He looked away from Polnareff’s profile to stare ahead at nothing, threatening to claw at his cheeks if they so much as try to redden.
What was this feeling?
A hostess slid open the door to their booth, muttering her quick apologies and a switch clicked. One from reflection to reaction. Abdul nodded as the woman spoke, putting away the book in his robes. She left as swiftly as she came, leaving them both to process what she had said.
“Our train has been canceled,” He said, standing up.
“Why? What happened?” Polnareff gave him a raised eyebrow look, but he stood up as well, packing up the box and slinging the sack onto his back.
“The rain corroded the tracks.”
“Yikes, Mr. Joestar isn’t going to be happy about this.” They walked down the halls, waiting behind other passengers that made their way through the exit. Their frustrated grumbling fell onto helpless ears.
“Understandably so.” As they exited the cart, they could already catch the distinct yelling of the old Joestar, hearing him complain to a host, along with Jotaro and Kakyoin. Iggy was assisting Joseph to complain, barking.
“What do you mean two days! I need to get to Cairo now!”
“I-I deeply apologize for the delay, but the tracks have been severely damaged. Our workers are doing everything they can to resolve this as quickly as possible.” The host sputtered, accent thick. Jotaro muttered under his breath, perhaps his iconic good grief, and sat next to Kakyoin, who was resting on a bench.
Joseph knew that he wasn’t going to win this argument. No amount of “get me your manager”s would fix the issue. He apologized to the boy and turned to the group; a look of great bitterness swept across his face.
“Okay, I guess we have to rent a car,”
“Mr. Joestar,” Kakyoin interjected, twining his fingers around each other. “The whole reason we chose to travel by train was due to the immense traffic. It would arguably take longer to get to Cairo. Plus, the probability of Stand users attacking us while we are moving slowly is high. We are in the enemy’s territory after all. It could risk losing even more days.”
The group, save for Iggy, grunted in their agreement. Joseph let out a deep sigh. Kakyoin was right, of course, he was.
“Fine,” He started. “We will remain here until everything is fixed. That doesn’t mean it’s a free vacation! You four—scout the area for any enemy Stand users, while Iggy and I will find a hotel.” He whistled at the dog, whipping out some coffee gum. That seemed to make Iggy more willing to follow the old man. Kakyoin rose and nudged Jotaro, who followed without question.
With that, each pair went their separate ways, their mission clear.