Chapter Text
There were three times Hol Horse had ever had his hat taken off of him by someone else. All by the same person, but all meaning different things.
The first time, it wasn’t so friendly. To purposefully knock off a cowboy’s hat was a fighting offense. Hol knew Polnareff couldn’t have possibly known that, but it’d started off with a fight, so he took it at face value. Or, at least, his perceived notion of face value when it came to his beloved hat and what it represented.
It was shortly after he’d tagged along with the Crusaders, and he'd gotten into yet another spat with Polnareff. He hadn’t started it, but he'd be damned if he let Polnareff of all people get the last laugh.
The group was exhausted, hungry, and worn out by the unrelenting heat of the sun. Hol could excuse just a bit of bitchiness, considering his actions against the group before he’d joined. He had some level of sympathy towards them, and no right to judge them too harshly, but he wasn’t a doormat either. A certain loudmouthed frenchman had started to get on his nerves. For a little while, soon after Hol joined the party, Polnareff got annoyed by every little thing Hol did. He put up with it for a bit, figuring ignoring him was the best option, otherwise his short fuse would get the best of him. But Polnareff kept pushing his buttons, and Hol was losing his cool faster than he could calm himself down
“Those spurs of yours are so annoying.” Polnareff jeered, even though he was walking side by side with the cowboy. He was hangry, tired, and taking it out on anybody who had the misfortune of catching his attention. It wasn't exclusive to Hol, but it sure felt like it.
“The fuck is your problem?” Hol snapped right back at him. “You’re complainin’ about everything I do. You think just because I put up with your shit for a little while, it means I can be your personal punchin’ bag? I don’t think so.”
Polnareff didn't dignify his defiance with a verbal response. Instead, he knocked Hol’s hat off with Silver Chariot and picked up the pace, figuring it'd distract him. He knew he was being annoying, and that he didn't really have any good reason to complain so much. But in his mind, it wasn't his fault he found himself noticing more small details about Hol and feeling things about those details that he wasn't exactly prepared to unpack. He was deeply confused. In reality, he needed to think, but thinking about Hol Horse was the last thing he wanted to do.
He was angry. Angry that the man who worked with J. Geil, his sister's murderer, was now a part of the team. Angry that the man who shot his friend was now a part of the team. Angry that the man who did all of that got him so flustered with minimal effort. Angry that the sound of his spurs were becoming attractive to him. Angry that the cowboy had come to save him like some knight in shining armor, and it had paid off. Polnareff knew deep down that Hol Horse had no idea who J. Geil truly was, but it still bothered him. He wrestled with the thought of telling him why he'd been so cold, other than the most obvious reason. But either way, he couldn't dump all of that on him right now. The consequences of his actions came first.
Hol's eyebrows furrowed, and he picked his hat right up off the ground and sprinted to catch up to Polnareff. He could only take so much of this before it became entirely unbearable. He knew all of these guys had issues, but he figured it wouldn't be so bad. He thought it'd be like breaking in new boots. Apparently, with Polnareff, it wouldn't be so easy. Or at the very least, it wouldn't be so difficult to understand. “You think you're so goddamn funny, don't you?” Hol put a hand in front of the Frenchman's chest, stopping him right in his tracks.
“Just leave me alone.” Polnareff didn't even turn to look at Hol.
“You want me to leave you alone? That's rich.” Hol shook his head. “You won't even look at me.”
“Just shut up and leave me alone, asshole!” Polnareff hadn't felt bad about insulting him before, but this time it felt different. It felt wrong. He felt wrong.
Hol pulled Polnareff right up to his face by the strap of his shirt, staring him down with an iron grip. “Back off, jackass.” Their eyes were locked on eachother, and they both got lost in each other's gaze for much longer than they should’ve. Polnareff wished he hadn’t noticed the sun giving a warm glow to Hol’s brown eyes. Hol wished he hadn’t noticed the freckles that adorned Polnareff’s face. Hol let him go, they both continued walking, and Polnareff never really said much to insult or annoy him after that.
Hol figured it was just because of Avdol, which he couldn’t necessarily get upset about, at least not without looking and feeling like an insensitive jerk, but it still nagged at him nonetheless.
All he knew was that he wasn't going to be the one to bring it up again.