Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The submarine wasn’t particularly large; the main area was taken up by the shared living quarters, which included the steering wheel and all the navigation instruments. There was also a small bunk room with a cramped bathroom stall that was barely bigger than a broom closet, and an open space at the back that had a hatch leading to the ocean. That was it.

And all of it was very, very silent, which was something Avdol didn’t appreciate right now. Sure, his companions could be loud and rowdy, but he had been bored out of his mind for two weeks and had been looking forward to—

Well.

Fun, perhaps. Companionship. Adventures. He wasn’t entirely sure himself. This was out of character for Muhammad Avdol, who was known for keeping his nose buried in a book for most of his waking hours.

He excelled in studying. Reading tarot cards was second nature to him, as was using Magician’s Red. He had always been reclusive and serious by nature, and this newfound longing for something different confused him. It made him itchy, so to speak.

And it was annoying, because when it got too quiet, like it was now, that itch distracted him from his tasks and made him wonder and drift back in time—to Egypt, to his shop, and to the last fortnight in India.

Especially India. And that only added another layer of worry to his already preoccupied mind.

While he had been resting, his cards had been his only company. And so he talked to them— better yet, he asked them questions. He hadn’t liked some of the answers very much. He had seen trouble ahead and difficult choices. Rewards, too, perhaps, if he was brave enough to accept the challenge.

For someone who played everything as safe as possible, betting on the odds was never a welcome change.

“All right. I can even hear my own thoughts right now,” Mr. Joestar complained, echoing Avdol’s discomfort. “What’s up? Did Polnareff fall asleep under the table?”

“He’s not back yet,” Kakyoin said, though Avdol imagined him looking just in case.

“Oh no. Did the toilet get him again?”

There was no malice in Mr. Joestar’s voice, just lighthearted amusement that drew a chuckle or two from the teenagers.

“I’m out of smoke, going to grab a pack,” Jotaro said, getting up with his usual nonchalance and heading for the door. “I’ll take a look while I’m at it.”

****

Jotaro didn’t take long to come back, and he was already smoking when he got there.

“Well? What’s up?” Mr. Joestar asked, amusement and trepidation mingling in his tone. “Are we under attack, or is there a toilet situation?”

“Neither. He’s, uh—“

Avdol pushed the autopilot button and turned his seat around to face Jotaro, who seemed at a loss for words. In someone else that could be normal, but for him… No. Something wasn’t right, even if he was hiding under his hat like usual.

“Yeah?”

The teenager dropped into his seat and propped his feet up on the table. It took him a moment to continue, as if he was measuring his words.

“He’s still doing his thing. Cleaning up,” he said, finishing the cigarette and lighting another one immediately afterwards. “Avdol, what was the enemy stand like? Did you see it?”

Ah. So that was it.

Blood and grime had covered the nature of Polnareff’s wounds earlier, but Jotaro must have seen the bite marks clearly now. Avdol couldn’t fault him for being apprehensive, but he was unsure how much information to provide. Dwelling into details seemed too personal and inappropriate— perhaps that was why Jotaro was reluctant to speak, too.

“It was the Judgement card,” he finally answered. “One of the worst matches for Polnareff.”

Jotaro’s expression said he wasn’t enthused by the vague answer, and neither was Kakyoin.

“What’s the worst match for a swordsman?” The red-haired asked, stretching in his seat like a large cat before letting his arms drop at the sides.

“Well,” Avdol looked back at the submarine controls to ensure everything was still fine. Then, he turned towards the teenagers and raised a finger. “It’s one that can decide the outcome of battle before the sword is even drawn, obviously.”

“You’re being mysterious on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Avdol shrugged, offering Jotaro a tiny smile. “Some things are best left unsaid.”

“It sounds to me like you’re covering up for some state-of-art Polnareffness” Mr. Joestar chimed in without looking up from his map. “What did he do this time? Come on, don’t keep the laughs to yourself.”

“It was nothing to write home about, I assure you.”

“Then why the secrecy?” Mr. Joestar locked eyes with him for a moment that felt painfully long before lowering his gaze again. Which was a relief, because Avdol was starting to sweat under his scrutiny. “Oh. He screwed up so badly this time that it’s not even funny, is it?”

Avdol shrugged, trying to keep his face neutral so as not to give away any further details.

“Our little magnet for trouble,” Mr. Joestar chuckled softly. After a brief pause he continued, a smile evident in his voice. “Honestly, I’m glad we picked him up along the way. He is a ton of fun, specially when he doesn’t want to be.”

“You mean he’s annoying as hell,” Jotaro scoffed.

“That too!”

The two youngsters sighed in despair at Mr. Joestar’s hearty laugh, but Kakyoin eventually joined in, laughing as well. Avdol schooled in a smile, pleased. Their little group seemed to have bonded somewhat during the days he had been away— Good. Cheesy as it might sound, a group of friends had better odds to defeat DIO than a bunch of strangers.

He couldn’t help but feel a little jealous about everything he had missed.

“You fought then, Avdol?” Jotaro asked, clearly annoyed by all the snickering.

“And won, yes.”

“Hm,” he nodded, touching the rim of his hat, but didn’t push the matter further.

Silence settled over them again, this time more companionable— and yet just it was silence, punctuated only by the humming of the submarine’s engine.

As Avdol gazed out at the vast ocean, his thoughts drifted back to their earlier conversation about Judgement and Polnareff. And inevitably, about everything he hadn’t shared. The creatures, the wishes. Peeing on the stand user.

Ridiculous as it was, in the heat of the moment it had been the only thing that came to mind to make Polnareff laugh. And Avdol only obliged because the Frenchman had needed that laugh more than he needed to breathe.

Instead of feeling intense embarrassment at the memory, Avdol experienced a sense of fuzzy relief and contentment. Did he really—? Yes, he did. While it wasn’t all that uncommon in Egypt, it had been a long time since he had people to goof around with.

The goddamn distracting yearning, heavy in the pit of his stomach, came back full force and tasted vaguely of loneliness and dissatisfaction. It was a strange feeling; he lived alone, but was always surrounded by clients and others in his community— and that had always been enough.

It must be the concussion’s fault, surely. And almost dying probably had something to do with it, as well.

“Enough. That’s four in a row,” Mr. Joestar said suddenly, derailing his thoughts. Avdol looked over his shoulder and saw Hermit Purple taking a cigarette away from Jotaro. “If I didn’t know you I’d think you’re nervous, Jotaro.”

The young man hid under his hat, looking incredibly uncomfortable for someone so stoic.

“Fuck you.”

“Wow, wow. Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?”

“I’m gonna show you exactly what I kiss—”

“Peace, peace, please,” Kakyoin sighed deeply and leaned forward toward his fellow student. “What’s up, Jotaro? You seem distracted.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and legs in a tightly clamped up posture. “Was thinking, that’s all.”

“Wanna share?”

Silence hung in the air. Then, Jotaro made a vague gesture with his hand that revealed nothing about his thoughts. To Avdol, it seemed like he was contemplating everything and nothing at the same time.

“Right. Sometimes it’d be like that,” Kakyoin nodded solemnly and patted the other teenager on the shoulder. “Sucks, though.”

“Yeah.”

The red-haired tossed a Japanese comic issue Jotaro’s way, which landed loudly on his thighs. He held another one in his hand, a faint smile crossing his face. Jotaro took his hat off for a moment to ruffle his hair, inhaled deeply, and then put it back on before checking out the comic.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll make some tea. It might help,” Avdol offered. He didn’t fully understand what was going on in the teenager’s mind, but he figured some warm comfort could do him good. Nothing beat a warm drink to clear the mind, as his grandfather used to say. “Mr. Joestar, take over the wheel for a while, please. I won’t be long.”

The shared living room featured a kitchenette located near the phone booth, equipped with all the necessary cutlery and crockery for preparing quick meals and hot beverages. Mr. Joestar had requested a fully stocked bar too, but Avdol managed to secure a minibar and a bunker room where they could rest instead.

Having a proper bathroom was a welcome addition, even though it was unfortunate that a shower couldn’t be installed. Their submarine ride wouldn’t take very long, but they could have all used the comfort of getting squeaky clean after traveling through strange lands for days and fighting nonstop. Ah, well.

The kettle hissed and gurgled as it heated up, reminding him that tea would have to do for the time being.

“Green tea or black tea?”

Two greens and two blacks it was. A good choice. Unfortunately, he couldn’t boil the water the traditional way with an electrical kettle, but that only meant he would have to treat them once they reached Egypt.

“Hey Avdol, what’s this light for?” Mr. Joestar called out. A moment later, a short beeping sound came from the control panel.

Tea momentarily forgotten, Avdol rushed to the front of the submarine and scanned all the lights and gauges. Fortunately, there was nothing to worry about.

“That's the pressure gauge alert. Didn’t you say you knew how to drive the submarine?”

“I know how to drive anything.” Mr. Joestar rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I know what every light and switch does.”

Avdol let out a long sigh.

“Just steer us above this mark here and it’ll stop. I’ll finish preparing the tea and come back.”

And he better be quick about it, or a submarine will add to the list of crashes associated with Mr. Joestar’s name. To be honest, sometimes he was worse than two teenagers and a young adult. Plenty of times, in fact.

Back at the kettle, Avdol was about to pour the hot water when he realised there were five cups in total. He didn’t remember adding one for Polnareff, but since the Frenchman kept popping up both on his thoughts and their general conversation, Avdol supposed it wasn’t all that strange.

But then, a silvery spoon on the floor caught his attention; that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“I’m sure you’re bored, but you don’t want to mess with me,” Avdol said aloud, picking up the spoon and placing it on the counter. “I’ll poison your tea and you will never know until you’re stuck in the toilet for hours.”

“Wow.”

“Who’s messing with you, Mr. Avdol?”

“Who indeed? Only two of you have the range to pull it off,” he snorted, leaving a couple of cups in front of the teenagers while eyeing Kakyoin suspiciously. The red-haired looked up from his comics and raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

“I’m not very fond of pranks. And I’m even less fond of unexpected toilet runs.”

Avdol set Mr. Joestar’s cup down with a bit more force than necessary, causing him to jump slightly.

“Chill! It wasn’t me. My pranks are way more cunning and fun than leaving a spoon lying around, believe me,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. Then his eyebrows shot up. “Wait. If it wasn’t either Kakyoin or me…”

“You don’t think— The spoon? An enemy stand? No, I’m sure it wasn’t. But maybe one dropped it?”

“Let’s check everything again. Just in case. We’ll move room to room.”

With the autopilot engaged, they all rose to their feet, eyeing everything around them with suspicion. Mr. Joestar stepped away from the table and tapped one of the pipes running along the walls as he made his way toward the back of the room.

Suddenly, the door connecting to the rest of the submarine opened slightly, and all four of them turned simultaneously at the sound. A guy with his hair hanging lankly over his face stared at them, eyes wide at the display of fists and stands ready to go.

A moment later he slammed the door shut. The metallic echo rang in their ears as they stared at the now-empty space.

Definitely not a stand. No shirt. Freckles. Bloodied bandages. Sunburn marks. Dishevelled silver wet hair.

“Was that… Polnareff?” Kakyoin voiced what Avdol and probably everyone else was thinking.

Jotaro sighed, then pushed his hat down to his nose.

“Can’t be," Mr. Joestar frowned. "Can it? But his hair…?”

“Did he slam the door on us?”

“We almost punched him into next week…”

“He looked distraught. More than usual, I mean.”

“He usually looks deranged, not distraught.”

“Ah. Sorry, my English…”

Avdol took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had found silence boring a moment ago, but having everyone talk at the same time was driving him to another level of annoyance.

“Wait a moment—” Mr. Joestar turned away from the door and noticed his grandson slowly retreating towards his seat. “Jotaro! Did you see him like that in the bunk room and didn’t say a word?”

The teenager looked away with a particularly sour expression.

“Good grief, old man. There was nothing to tell. He washes his hair every other day if we’re at a hotel. And he’s always crying over something, what’s the big deal?”

“Well, he left without saying a word,” Kakyoin said, gesturing with his hands. Then started counting with his fingers. “No ‘one versus four’ cheeky comments, no Chariot. And most importantly, no drama. That’s unlike him.”

“That’s exactly it.”

“He seemed fine when he left to clean up.” Avdol crossed his arms and tapped his fingers on his forearm, a hint of a frown between his eyes. “I wonder if anything else happened.”

“You don’t think it’s because of our deception, right?” Kakyoin asked, sounding a bit worried. “I didn’t think he would take it that badly at the beach.”

“No.”

“Actually,” Mr. Joestar interjected, ignoring his grandson for the moment. “On a scale from one to ten, how big was that screw-up you were talking about, Avdol?”

“Eleven.”

“Of course it is.” He took his hat off for a moment and twirled it in his hand. “Do you—?”

“Leave him alone,” Jotaro interrupted before Avdol could respond. “He’s a big boy. He will come back when he feels like it.”

“You only say that because he won’t cling to you whining because we don’t care about him,” Kakyoin retorted.

“I wish that were true.”

“Maybe we should talk to him. See if he wants something and—“

“Whatever he wanted, he won’t want it anymore,” Jotaro insisted, talking over Kakyoin. “You’re gonna— ah, whatever.” He turned around and walked to his seat, where he plopped down. “Do whatever the fuck you want. I don’t know why I’m even bothering with this.”

“Because you’re worried?”

“Hell no.”

He grabbed his tea cup and stared at it with such intensity that Avdol thought it might shatter. Thankfully, he could control Star Platinum pretty well, even when he was upset.

Because it was clear he was still upset, and the reason remained what he had seen in the bunker room. Thinking about it, Polnareff’s wounds likely weren’t enough to provoke such a strong reaction from someone like Jotaro, who was known for putting his teachers in the hospital after a beating.

No. It must be something else. Maybe they had a chat? Maybe…

Mr. Joestar moved closer to Avdol as the students continued bickering like siblings. He didn’t like the look on the old man’s face at all.

“I think Kakyoin is right. We should have a chat with him. And when I say we...”

He didn’t have to finish the sentence for Avdol to realize what he meant.

“You are much more on a similar wavelength, Mr. Joestar.“

“Ouch.”

“Polnareff will be more comfortable talking to you, if he wishes to talk at all.”

“Give yourself more credit. He missed you a lot.”

That made Avdol burst into laughter. It had been quite the miracle that the afternoon went so smoothly. If Polnareff hadn’t been so happy to see him and in such a rough state, he would probably have been angry about being saved again.

“Please. He always thinks I’m patronising him. Never listens to a word I say. If he’s upset, it’s likely we’ll end up fighting over something.”

“Don’t make it weird then.” Mr. Joestar raised an eyebrow and a finger at the same time. “You can talk to him without looking down your nose, you know. Sometimes a little finesse goes a long way.”

“I don’t— That’s—”

“Now you’re thinking, ‘That’s unfair! I only speak from my experience and give advice. That’s why you called me on this trip.”

“That’s unfair. I only speak from my experience and— Mr. Joestar!”

The older man put some distance between them, grinning like the cat that ate the canary, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Go. He was genuinely happy to see you alive and well,” he continued. “Besides, you two need to have a chat.”

“Do we?” Avdol’s eyebrows almost hid underneath his scarf. “How so? We talked at the beach already, everything is—”

“Just go already, Avdol.” Mr. Joestar clapped him on the back. “Better now that we have a breather than later when we’re chased by another stand user.”

“What are you not telling me?” Avdol asked, but the older man had already turned around and was walking towards the submarine’s controls. “Hey…”

Of course, he completely ignored Avdol. And not only that, Kakyoin and Jotaro were conveniently looking away as well.

Chapter Text

Finding the missing Frenchman in the small submarine had been easy; Avdol only had to follow the trail of watermarks towards the bunk room. The door was wide open, just like the door of the tiny ensuite bathroom, and Polnareff…

He was holding onto the cold steel basin with an arm, wearing only his wrinkled cotton pyjama bottoms and a considerable amount of sticky dressings, bandages, and band-aids. From where Avdol stood he couldn't see Polnareff’s face well, but the hitching of his breath was impossible to miss.

That wasn’t good— and despite the old man’s scheming, Avdol was glad they had decided to check on the Frenchman.

He was about to clear his throat to announce himself when he realized that Polnareff’s other hand was pressed against the side of his neck. Blood oozed from a soaked cloth down to his collarbone, where it dripped slowly into the basin. A ball of soiled bandages had already been discarded on the counter, alongside more medical supplies.

That was even worse.

“Hey, Polnareff.”

The Frenchman jumped in such a panic that he tripped on his own feet and fell backwards in a flurry of limbs. The bathroom was so small that he couldn’t land anywhere else but on the toilet, which fortunately was closed.

From his new vantage point, Polnareff looked up at Avdol and grimaced as if he had licked a lemon. His dripping wet hair stuck to his face, and nothing could hide the redness in his eyes or the sniffling. Especially the sniffling.

“I wasn’t expecting a welcome party, but you surely seem unhappy to see me,” Avdol said, raising an eyebrow. “Has the novelty of my resurrection worn off already?”

“You— That’s not—” Polnareff’s voice trembled, and the congestion made his accent thicker than ever. He swallowed, then wiped his runny nose on the back of his free hand. “Haven’t you heard of privacy in Egypt?”

His eyes were now glued to the ground, and Avdol’s gaze lowered unconsciously to the tiled floor. Water puddles, dried blood droplets and smears, along with the curled backing of various sticky dressings, were scattered everywhere, creating a messy trail from the pedestal of the basin to the toilet. Even the walls bore smudges, which wasn’t difficult considering the stains on Polnareff’s hands.

Avdol glanced at the medical supplies over the basin countertop.

“The door is wide open.”

“So??”

Polnareff scrambled to his feet, with pain and bandages hampering his movements. Stance wide, chin high, he was very obviously trying to restore some normalcy to the situation.

“You’re right. Apologies for barging in,” Avdol nodded curtly and knocked on the door. “Let me see that wound of yours. And tell me what’s troubling you. Can I be of help?”

“Non.” That didn’t even take a heartbeat. “It’s alright. I’m just… Everything’s great.”

“Of course it is," Avdol sighed. "Sit, I’ll have you patched up in no time.”

He stepped into the tiny room, effectively blocking the exit, and the Frenchman backed away. He didn’t go far, though; one step was as much distance as there was from the basin to the toilet, and he broke into a cold sweat the moment he hit the tiled wall.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his shoulders trembling.

He didn’t look scared so much as desperate, but before Avdol could ask any questions, Polnareff rushed forward with Silver Chariot hovering behind him.

Avdol had to decide what to do in a split second— and he chose to squeeze himself against the wall to let Polnareff through. Once the danger of being trampled had passed, he stormed out of the bathroom as well.

“Are you so keen to burn? Because I could have turned you to ashes and melted half the submarine.”

“I’d have cut your flames,” he replied tightly, walking towards the bag with his belongings and plopping on the lower bunk bed next to it.

“You can’t cut a sheet of paper right now.”

The Frenchman ignored him. After gingerly stretching his legs forward, he grabbed a t-shirt from the bag without looking and cleaned the mess on his chest somewhat before replacing the one he was keeping squeezed against his neck. He hissed, but quickly clenched his jaw and looked to the side, trying as much as possible to hide his expression.

“Polnareff—”

“Stop it.” His voice sounded strained, but annoyance seeped through it nevertheless. “I’m a big boy. Don’t need any help.”

“Yes, you do.”

Polnareff shook his head—or tried to, because the pain in his neck froze him halfway. He cursed and grumbled, looking miserable. That was the thing with him; all his emotions and his thoughts showed on his face. He couldn’t lie to save his life, nor could he stay quiet for more than a couple of minutes at a time, either.

And yet, he wasn’t rambling or complaining, and he wasn’t even being half as confrontational as usual. This clearly wasn’t one of his bratty mood swings; those involved far more anger, whining, and drama, as Kakyoin put it. Instead, he was merely bouncing his leg restlessly. And trembling. And sniffling.

“Let me patch you up,” Avdol tried again, noticing that a stain was starting to show on the clean t-shirt already. “We are in a submarine, deep beneath the sea. As far as we possibly can from civilization. Losing too much blood out right now is not smart. And you will feel better afterwards, I’m sure.”

“I’ll feel better when you leave.”

The fortune-teller snorted, then paced near the bathroom door to give himself something to do other than grabbing Polnareff by the shoulders and shaking him until he released all the nonsense clogging his brain. Yet, devoid of the symbolic armour of his hair and over-the-top demeanour, the Frenchman looked as young as he really was. And vulnerable, and upset. And Avdol just couldn’t help but genuinely want to assist him—even if that meant putting up with his attitude for a while.

“I can ask Mr. Joestar to come around instead.”

“Non.”

“Jotaro? Kakyoin?”

“I don’t need any of you, shit,” he sniffled somewhat angrily. “Just leave me alone already.”

As he considered his options, Avdol tapped his fingers on his forearms and unintentionally hit the tarot deck he always carried hidden in one of his sleeves. No, the cards wouldn’t help them now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t put his fortune-telling skills to good use.

“No, I'm not leaving.”

“I don’t fucking—”

“Yes, you do,” Avdol interjected, raising his voice slightly above Polnareff’s to drown his indignation. “But since you’re being this difficult, let’s make a deal. If I find out what’s wrong in three guesses, I will patch you up. But if I’m wrong, I’ll leave you alone.”

Polnareff bit his lower lip as he considered the proposal.

“You won’t bullshit out of this, will you?”

“No. I’ll leave if I cannot guess it.”

It was endearing that Polnareff wouldn’t consider simply not playing. Avdol had no leverage over him apart from not leaving the room, which, best case scenario, would result in a stalemate. He felt bad about taking advantage of the Frenchman’s naivety, but definitely not enough to forfeit the chance to help him.

“All right, I’ll start. One,” he said, raising a finger. “This is about our reaction in the common room.”

“Fuck no,” The Frenchman snorted, looking both smug and relieved. However, the way the corner of his mouth twitched nervously gave Avdol pause. What happened wasn’t a big deal, and Polnareff would have laughed it off any other time— But this wasn’t any other time, and he likely went to ask them for help only to be shut down.

“We didn’t mean to snap at you,” Avdol continued, hoping to clarify things at least. “We were discussing enemy stands when you showed up looking like— Well. Looking unlike yourself.”

“Seeing a guy out of the shower is such a shock…”

“The submarine has no shower. And you absolutely go nowhere without your hair up.”

“Whatever,” Polnareff snorted. “One out of three. Keep going.”

“Fine, then. Two,” Avdol nodded, considering his clues and choosing his next words carefully. “You’re still upset about us hiding the truth from you.”

“Wrong.”

“Is it, though?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m not upset. I’m angry. And that’s two out of three.”

“Not so fast.” The fortune-teller made a gesture with a hand. “You seem determined to keep us at bay, that’s true, but you also came to the common room. So either you aren’t as angry as you claim, or... Maybe you wanted our help?”

He just dropped that casually to see if Polnareff would take the bait—and he certainly did.

“I am angry," he snorted, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose. "And I did want some help. Not anymore though, I’ve—I’ve figured it out myself. I told you, I’m a big boy.”

Jotaro was absolutely right.

“I apologize, we didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, yeah, you said that already,” he scoffed, but his scowl softened somewhat. “Shit happens.”

And, while that would end the conversation in an almost civil manner for their standards, it didn’t give Avdol enough information to land his third guess. Polnareff might be feeling left out by their lack of trust so to speak, but that would not cause him to have a meltdown. No, there was more to it. The anger must be a mask for something else. And Avdol was going to trick Polnareff into telling him exactly what he was trying to keep to himself.

“So, are you sure I cannot help you with whatever you needed?” He said casually, changing his weight from one leg to another.

“Positive.”

“And... I'm thinking. You said you’re not upset about the common room. So, is it just about the lie, then?”

“Just.” As Avdol expected, Polnareff snapped his head at him, blanching out of sheer indignation. “Just, you said.”

“Well, yes? Unless there’s anything—?”

“We fucking buried you, Avdol,” he said, his eyes ice cold. But when their gazes crossed, all that anger melted into guilt, and Polnareff looked away. “Mr. Joestar even put a cross on your grave. You bunch of dickheads.”

“Oh.”

That was unexpected. Avdol didn’t take offence, having given up religion a long time ago, but Mr. Joestar’s antics never failed to amuse him. For someone that had traveled far and wide, it was almost outrageous how wrong he could still get some thing—

“It's not funny!” The Frenchman slammed his open palm against the bunker bed frame, but it was Chariot’s that hit it. A metallic clank echoed in the small room and filled the void left after his words, but it didn’t last enough to mask the trembling that racked his breath.

Thank goodness he is just angry and not upset.

“I worried like an idiot that it wouldn’t be good for your faith. That maybe your soul wouldn’t rest like that. So I made plans to return to you after DIO, you know, to find you a better place or whatever you needed.”

Avdol raised his eyebrows in surprise at this new development, but he couldn’t interject again; Polnareff was talking like a river without floodgates.

“But digging your grave, you know—Maybe I would make things worse? I was so stressed out about it I asked Mr. Joestar, but he told me shit. And I didn’t have the heart to ask the kids.

Then I saw your father, and I thought he would know what to do— but I wanted to make it up for him somehow first. Like, that was the least I could do. So I wracked my brain as I wandered around, and I couldn’t think of anything, not in a million years, because I couldn’t bring your stupid arse back and that would be the only thing he would want from me.

It was absolutely depressing. Fucking awful. But who cares? You weren’t dead, and he wasn’t your father, so…”

He made a wild gesture with his free hand and got on his feet, perhaps to put more space between them—and he moved so quickly and with such emotion that he didn't remember to duck the metal frame of the bunk bed. The whole structure shook on impact, and he recoiled with a strangled groan, clutching his poor head with both hands.

“P u t a i n~~”

Avdol winced in both sympathy and guilt; when he decided to provoke a reaction from Polnareff, this wasn’t the outcome he was expecting. Not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that he would worry to this extent. That he would care. And that they could actually hurt him as a result.

Just like he would have never imagined his sheer joy at the beach.

He watched Polnareff hunch forward with a grimace, his fingers messing his hair to a whole new level. He would definitely get a nice bump for his troubles, but at least he hadn’t split his head open.

“Are you alright, Polnareff?”

Silence.

It was a stupid question, anyway. Avdol crossed his arms inside the long sleeves of his robe, his heart racing uncomfortably. He took a step closer, unsure what to do next other than apologize. But his usual eloquence seemed to have evaporated; the more he looked at the other man, the more words seemed to slip through his fingers.

“I didn’t think you’d— It was… It was very thoughtful of you,” he managed to say, his voice a bit softer than he intended. “Unexpected, too. We parted ways in anger, and yet you wanted to make it right with me.”

More silence.

“Posing as my father was silly, you’re right. We came out with it in the spur of the moment, didn’t really think it through… He— I doubt he looked anything like my crude disguise anyway.”

Avdol didn’t remember much about him, but the feelings of dejection at his passing, the hurt, the helplessness— those came back at a snap of his fingers since they oozed from the Frenchman as well.

“Sorry, I’m rambling,” Avdol cleared his throat, trying to sort his thoughts and anchor them in the present. “What I mean to say is that…”

A pit-pattering sound coming from the vinyl floor distracted him. And then he heard Polnareff’s breath hitching painfully. The Frenchman lowered his left arm gingerly and slid a shaking right hand over his neck to squeeze the t-shirt in place. It was only then that Avdol realized a fresh red stain seeping through it, staining the pale fingers.

The hitching became strangled sobs, and the paper-thin facade he had been maintaining crumbled down completely.

Avdol raised his eyebrows, realization dawning on him. Polnareff was angry and hurt—but that despair on his face? No, that wasn’t about the lie at all. There was pure grief spilling down his cheeks. Grief.

Ah, goddamn it. How could he have been so shortsighted? An eleven on the screw-up scale; how did he miss it?

Because he was fine. He wasn’t pretending at the beach, he can’t lie to save his life— it’s not that.

With a sigh, Avdol crossed the space between them in a couple of strides and knelt by Polnareff’s side, leaving some free space between them to accommodate for his impulsive nature.

“Hey.”

“Fuck you,” Polnareff sniffled, trying to contain the tears with the back of his hand. “Are you happy now? I knew this would— this would happen, you’re like a fucking dog with a bone. I was— I was doing fine and you—”

“Yes, you were doing just great,” Avdol sighed, and prepared to deliver his final guess. This time, however, being right didn’t bring him any satisfaction. “You have the attention span of a kitten on the best of days, but the wounds remind you of the creatures. Of your sister.”

The sister he had in his arms again after years of grieving, and…

We fucking buried you, Avdol.

He swallowed, feeling his throat dry as bone.

Before Avdol could say anything else, Polnareff got up avoiding the bed frame by the breadth of a hair and disappeared into the bathroom. By the time the fortune-teller followed him there, he had already turned the faucet on and was dunking his head under the stream of water.

It didn’t do much other than make him look like a drowned cat again, wet all over and shivering. He choked back a sob, bending over the basin as if he were about to snap in half. Another sob. And another, his tears mingling with the water. He was trying so hard not to break down that it hurt to watch. It hurt to listen.

Avdol bit inside his mouth, his compassionate nature screaming at him to do something— but what?

The only reason he found Polnareff amid the vegetation was because of his desperate sobs. The fortune-teller couldn’t understand what he was saying from afar, but he didn’t need to. He didn’t ask about the creatures or the wishes, that wasn’t important. Fighting the stand user and snapping the Frenchman out of his stupor was.

When they laughed together, Avdol thought his job was done. He was back, Polnareff would forget about the nightmarish fight like he always forgot about what he had for breakfast ten minutes later, and all would be good.

Alas, it wasn’t. And now he felt really stupid for believing it would be.

Avdol didn’t have all the time in the world to ponder about any of this, though. The sounds coming from the Polnareff were more and more distressed, and he found himself sweating under the pressure.

What should he do? Was there anything he could do to make things better?

Ah, of course. He closed the couple of steps between them and placed a hand on Polnareff’s shoulder, hoping his closeness would provide some comfort. It didn’t. Alright, next, ah… As a kid, his grandfather used to wrap him in his robes when he was upset, but that might be too much, right?

Then what?

He knew many platitudes— he had lived through many cases of stand illnesses and had seen death too close in the eyes not to, but he doubted any of that would do any good right now. It rarely did, anyway, being more like the polite thing to say.

And Polnareff didn’t need politeness right now. What he needed was—

Oh no. Nonononono.

But it would probably work. He was a tactile person, after all.

One that will punch me to the moon and back. A fight is the last thing we need, I can’t risk it.

No. Looking at him, he couldn’t harm a fly right now. He would not fight. And in any case, what else was there to do?

Stand by?

That was a possibility, of course. But could he stand by and do nothing when he was so desperately needed? Could he? Really?

Defeated by his own conscience, Avdol cursed himself internally and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

Fine. Alright. We peed on a guy to make him laugh, this cannot be more difficult. Just don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t—

Trying his best to keep a neutral face, Avdol squeezed Polnareff’s shoulder firmly enough to turn him away from the basin.

A mess of tears and snot, the Frenchman snapped his head up and locked eyes with him. That alone almost made Avdol skitter away in a bout of self-consciousness, but Polnareff’s desolated expression stopped him in his tracks. No, he was right. This was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

Without a word, Avdol closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Polnareff, pulling him so close that his chin bumped into the fortune-teller’s shoulder.

One heartbeat. Six. Punches didn’t fly. Stands weren’t summoned. The Frenchman remained frozen under the long sleeves, his silver wet hair sticking against the side of Avdol’s face.

“A-Alright. We’ll talk later, but now I’ve got you. I promise.”

Polnareff’s breath hitched, breaking whatever he was trying to say into a wet, sorrowful sound. Then he clung to Avdol as if he were drowning, squeezing him so tightly that it constricted his breath, his fingers digging through Avdol's robe and even the clothes underneath until they found his skin.

The fortune-teller held him close as he cried his heart out, careful with the bandages and the t-shirt that miraculously was holding on pressed between both of them. It was as if Polnareff never had the chance to vent or confront what happened to his sister. Focusing on finding her killer was probably easier; it gave him purpose. A reason to survive, to keep going.

The fool barely cared whether he lived or died. He was so naïve, to wish for the dead to return to life. To cross paths with DIO willingly…

So misguided. So lonely. So self-destructive, and so lost. Such a prick, yet so surprisingly considerate when he wanted to be. And fun, and lighthearted. A walking contradiction.

Stifling a sigh before it could form, Avdol looked up and around, his eyes taking in the tiny bathroom in just a moment until they found their reflection in the mirror. And upon confronting his own gaze and the bundle of sadness he was holding, his mind flew back to Egypt again. To his shop, to his parents’ graves… and to his life ever since he buried them.

He quickly had to learn that acquaintances and friends didn’t feed him or keep him warm at night. Paying clients, people like Mr. Joestar with their fancy lives and fat wallets, did.

Becoming useful became paramount for survival— and Magician’s Red played a significant role in that. Fire magic tricks and sleight of hand, first. Tarot readings later. Being of service, friendly yet serious and dependable— but never getting personal. That was bad for business. And bad business meant going hungry and living on the streets again.

Not that he had time for banalities or chitchat, anyway. There was always something to do, money to be made. Books to study, stands to learn about.

Keeping a healthy distance became second nature, not something he thought about consciously when meeting someone new. It was a defense mechanism, a three-foot wall around his heart that he didn’t even know he had.

Still, despite everything, Avdol strived to be kind when given the choice. To teach others to fish so that they could survive on their own. To help, whenever possible. Because that was the legacy of his parents, who died so that others could live. Their sacrifice became imprinted in his mind, becoming a beacon of light to help Avdol walk straight in a world full of shadows.

Feeling a surge of protectiveness that he would never admit, he tightened the grip he had on Polnareff for an instant. In India, he had tried to help him out of duty to Mr. Joestar and impelled by his moral compass, but the truth was Avdol saw himself in him.

Or, to be more precise, he saw in Polnareff the kind of person he could have become under different circumstances. Seeking revenge with his stand would have been so easy… And then killing, extorting, and controlling parts of Cairo would have been the next step. He wouldn’t have become a thug, that was too lame. Why settle for mediocrity, when he could rule the slums? And why stop there, when the whole country was up for grabs?

It was terrifying.

And Polnareff’s sobs were heartbreaking. Avdol closed his eyes, feeling his throat tightening up to the point of discomfort. He patted the Frenchman, keeping a gentle hold on him much as if he were an old, cherished book. Giving him space to push away if he wanted to.

He didn’t. If anything, Polnareff clung to him even harder.

Chapter Text

“Fuck,” Polnareff groaned a hundred years later, give or take. The sobbing had finally subsided, and his breathing had become steadier. The sniffling hadn’t gone away and wouldn’t for a good while, but he had relaxed enough to loosen his vice grip on Avdol’s clothes.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“I feel awful,” he whined in a thick, congested accent, tilting his head and tickling Avdol with his hair. “Worse than awful.”

Avdol patted him in sympathy, then looked around, wondering silently what he should do next. Should he continue holding him? Pulling away felt rude, and pushing him aside was out of the question. What was the right move? Should he simply wait for the awkward situation to resolve itself somehow?

Fortunately, Polnareff wasn’t nearly as self-conscious about physical touch as Avdol was. He slowly peeled himself away and stepped toward the basin, limping slightly as he did so. If he felt awkward or embarrassed about what happened, he didn’t show it. Sadness was the only feeling stubbornly wrapped around him.

For a moment it looked like Polnareff was about to say something but, instead, he turned on the faucet and dunked his head under the stream of water, splashing it everywhere. Avdol had already opened his mouth to ask if he was doing alright when the Frenchman cupped his hands to wash his face.

When he continued cleaning and refreshing himself rather than dwelling in his sorrow, Avdol sighed softly and nodded to himself.

“I’ll be outside,” he said, and left the bathroom for the bunker room.

There, he emptied the pockets of his robe and took it off, leaving it folded on one of the beds. It was a mess of tears and snot, wrinkled, and reeking of blood, sweat, and antiseptic. It was gross, but it couldn’t be helped; he would burn it later. Or the next day, perhaps. He was too tired to care right now, both physically and emotionally.

It was surprising, considering his grief was more than a decade old already and not easily stirred.

With a tired sigh, Avdol raised his arms towards the ceiling before holding on to the bunk frame for support and lowering himself with a straight back. His upper back ached, the pain echoing on the still-healing stab wound.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable stretching, a bout of sniffles followed by a terrible nose-blowing honk snapped him out of his head, making him snort at the loudness and ridiculousness of it all.

“Are you still here?” Polnareff asked a moment later, his head popping out from the bathroom doorway.

“I am,” he replied, taking a seat by his robe. “I’ll stay here for a moment if you don’t mind. I still tire easily.”

The Frenchman snorted. Or hummed. It was difficult to tell given how congested he sounded. Soon enough, he stumbled out and leaned against the bunk bed before settling beside Avdol.

He was dripping wet once again; his hair, bandages, and even the waistline of his pajamas were soaked, and he was carrying a roll of toilet paper that he placed on top of Avdol’s robe. Scrunching his nose at the sight, he leaned forward and pinched his eyes shut with his free hand. Hunched over as he was, he needed his other hand to keep the t-shirt squeezed over the wound.

“I’ll clean it, I promise,” he sniffled. “When my head isn’t splitting in half.”

They fell into a thick silence after that. To Polnareff’s defence, he looked —and likely felt— like a road roller had run over him, yet he was still bouncing his leg nervously, as if they had merely experienced the calm before the storm. It made Avdol itch internally; he wasn't sure either of them would survive another sobbing session.

“The sooner you get patched up, the sooner it will get better."

Polnareff let his head drop with a shaky groan and reached out for the pile of medical supplies on the mattress without even looking. He didn’t manage to grab anything, so Avdol handed him a packet of gauze.

He looked at it for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then he bumped their shoulders together. It was clearly to get Avdol’s attention, but the Frenchman’s gaze was glued to the ground.

“Yes?”

“You’ve gotten involved in my problems again,” he said, his voice laced more with petulance than anger. “You’re such a nosy person, it’s unbelievable.”

“Oh? You didn’t complain when you wiped your nose on my robe,” Avdol scoffed. “You didn’t shove me away, either.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, throwing the packet over his shoulder without any care. Then, he grabbed the knee that kept bouncing and dug his fingers into the thin fabric of his pyjamas. That did nothing to stop the movement; if anything, it just made his restlessness more apparent.

His reluctance to say anything else made Avdol feel the weight of their unfinished conversation, so he decided to restart it— with such luck that both of them started talking at the same time.

“Ah, you go first,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just in case I need to apologize for something else.”

“What are you talking about?” Polnaref sounded scandalized for a second. “I should be the one apologizing. I almost got you killed, and— and now you’re fucked up.”

“I— Excuse me?”

“The bullet that hit your head has fucked you up,” Polnareff elaborated. In other circumstances, he would have been as loud as a box of fireworks, but he could barely steady his voice. “Helping me out against a stand is one thing. But making me laugh? Being there for me? After I screwed up for not listening to your lectures, of all things? You would have never done that before.”

“Of course I would have. I always try to help everybody.”

“That’s… No. Not like that. There’s what you consider helping, and then there is actually helping.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Shit, I’ve already told you. It’s— Okay. You’re being friendly, not just a sanctimonious prick. Friendlier, at least. It’s different.”

“I’m always friendly.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Polnareff—”

“Any other time you would have lectured me for hours, nonstop. About what happened, what I did. What I didn’t do. The stand. The wishes. My sister. Everything. But instead, you…” He made a gesture with his hand that would have made Jotaro proud, and then looked at him. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. Let me make it up to you somehow.”

Avdol couldn’t help but feel mildly annoyed —he was friendly!— but that feeling faded when he realized Polnareff was as serious as he could get. That alone made him swallow his words and control his temper in favour of some introspection.

The Frenchman was right in that he wasn’t used to comforting people, and that what he did today was extremely rare, but extraordinary situations required extraordinary measures. That didn’t mean he was fucked up. It only meant that…

…that something in his brain had short-circuited at the beach.

Avdol didn’t understand it, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. But the way Polnareff looked at him, the sheer joy in his face— nobody had ever looked at Avdol like that. Like he was precious. Like he mattered.

It was so absolutely disconcerting and terrifying that he had tried to push it out of his mind completely... And yet he knew it was what fueled him to reach out beyond his comfort zone. That, and the persistent itching feeling that was gnawing at him—both then and now—demanding to be acknowledged.

Connect. Make friends. Have fun. Jump in with both feet and live, because we might not have another chance.

Alright. Perhaps almost dying had fucked him up a tiny bit, but he wasn't alone in that department. That was the only reason Avdol could find to explain Polnareff's going from hating his guts to beaming at him like the sun.

Was this what Mr. Joestar had been hinting at? They must have chatted while Avdol was recovering; the older man seemed to have warmed up to Polnareff quite a bit in his absence. He would ask him when the chance presented itself, but—

“I'm not exactly a patient guy...” Polnareff ended the sentence with a sigh. "Just name something. Anything. I'll do it."

The fortune-teller raised his hands to his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Then, he ran his palms over his eyes and cheeks before joining them in prayer in front of his mouth.

“Polnareff, there’s no need to make it up to me,” he said slowly, hoping he wouldn’t regret trying to befriend the brass, loud, potty-mouthed, air-headed~~ clueless, sometimes considerate, ridiculous Frenchman. “I had a concussion, yes, but I’m pretty much myself.”

“Bullshit,” he sniffled.

“It’s not the bullet. Let me—” Avdol cleared his throat. “Listen. If I came across as cold or uncaring it’s because you’re always on a short fuse with me. I assumed we just didn’t get along and ah, acted accordingly.”

The look on the Frenchman’s face shifted to one of priceless, almost cross-eyed confusion.

“Eh?”

Avdol would never admit the smile business to anyone, ever, let alone to Polnareff. But he could give him the second— alright, third best explanation for his behaviour and hope it would be good enough.

“You get in my face all the time,” He said, figuring that the best way to convey his point was to try and be as plain and honest as possible. “You never listen to a word I say, always disagree with my proposals, and purposely ignore me. So yes, I get irritated.”

“You get–?” Polnareff took a big breath. “Stop treating me like a child and I won’t have to talk back to you!”

“It’s hardly my fault you always need direction…”

“I do not.” The Frenchman was now almost nose-to-nose with Avdol. His hair was starting to dry again in dishevelled locks, giving him a fun boyish look that completely diluted his intimidation power. Not that he could scare anyone while sniffling as much as he still was, anyway. “Geez, you are so fucking infuriating. I’m almost convinced you’re fine, eh? Almost.”

He pulled back and leaned against the bunker bed frame, rubbing his eyes with a wince.

You can talk to him without looking down your nose, you know…

Just how much had he talked to Mr. Joestar?

“I don’t mean to patronize you— usually, at least. When you’re particularly bratty and difficult, then I really do.”

“You can’t stand me then, because you do it all the fucking time.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” he waved a hand dismissively. Polnareff was probably right about this too, but Avdol wouldn’t hear the end of it if he conceded. Instead, he redirected the conversation. “But you never know when to take advice. Mr. Joestar brought me in to provide information and to guide us to DIO as safely as possible, yet you are literally unable to listen even when it is for your own good.”

“I’m working on it,” Polnareff protested weakly. “I haven’t— I didn’t have many people to listen to. I became the family's full-time adult at fourteen,” he mumbled, then looked at Avdol askance. There was a curious mixture of apprehension and hope in his gaze, but his leg still bounced.

“You’re still not convinced, are you?”

“No. Because you should be giving me a beating or an earful at the very least, not going all Mother Theresa on me.”

Again, Avdol joined his hands in prayer posture in front of his mouth.

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make it weird.

“While I’m not delighted about my injuries, I don’t hold a grudge against you. You’re sorry, and trying to be better. That is— Polnareff, this has nothing to do with the bullet either,” he sighed when his words were met by a very guilty-looking, quivering gaze. “Listen. I was furious when I went after you. I wanted nothing more than to punch you in the face and pull you back into the group by the ear.”

He wasn’t very proud of what happened, but he had to be honest if he wanted to settle the issue before they got to Egypt.

“But then, I woke up at the doctor’s with nothing but a scribble from Mr. Joestar. I had no inkling about what happened, just the promise of a phone call,” he continued. “I couldn’t help but think about how stupid you had been, how reckless and stubborn. And then I wondered if you survived. If the others found you in time. And the more I thought about all of it, the angrier I became at both of us.”

“Oh?”

“I followed you against your will, out of my own stubbornness and anger,” Avdol said, raising his index finger. “I had no plan and no backup. I was stupid. Reckless. I let my temper get the best of me. In short, I wasn’t any better than you.”

“Oh.”

“But if I can forgive myself, I can certainly forgive you, too.”

“That's—” Polnareff swallowed hard, his eyes flickering around. “You can't— But—this can’t be right. You can’t actually be like this. Anyone else would punch the lights out of me. Hell, Kakyoin almost broke my nose. And with good reason, too.”

Avdol didn’t know whether to smile, facepalm, or just sigh, so he settled for rubbing his eyes tiredly. Polnareff surely held his grudges close to his heart, even those directed at himself.

“Didn’t I spare your life when we fought? Before the bullet and before the concussion. Before I even knew you.”

“Yeah…”

“So my point stands. You should have listened to me, yes, but you didn’t ‘get me killed’, and you definitely didn’t ‘fuck me up’ as you so kindly put it. I don’t hold a grudge against you and I don’t hate you, either, in case it isn’t cle—”

Before Avdol knew it, he found himself pulled into a bear hug.

“A-Alright,” he stammered, trying not to freak out at the sudden invasion of his personal space. “I guess you really don’t hate me, either…”

“I hate your endless lectures though,” Polnareff snorted. “And I don’t get you at all. It’s not just this— I never know if you’re insulting me or trying to help with your big words and that stupid way of talking you have. Why are you so weird?”

Avdol winced at his honesty, but also felt the Frenchman’s words taking a weight off his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around him the best he could, feeling oddly warm inside.

“I’m not weird. But regardless, being misunderstood is way better than being misconstrued. I can work with that.”

Polnareff squeezed him tightly for a moment and pulled back.

“Are you sure I can’t do anything—?”

“No. I don’t need reparations,” Avdol shook his head. “But please, listen to me every now and then.”

“Only if you stop nagging me about everything.”

“Fine.” He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “For better or worse, I’ll do my best.”

“Okay. Me too.”

There was something soft about the way Polnareff exhaled, and that calmness transferred to the rest of his body. Even though his leg still bounced somewhat, his shoulders had visibly relaxed.

“So… Are you going to patch me up, or what?”

The nerve.

But the calm, collected way he shifted so that Avdol could reach the wounds on his neck told him it was a gesture of trust. A way to make amends even if he was being the little shit he was with everybody.

“I sure am. I won our little game, after all,” he replied, picking a packet of gauze and staring at it for a moment. “But before that, I want to apologize for today. We didn’t mean to—”

Avdol stopped himself before a lie could come out, and sighed. All this honesty was giving him grey hairs.

“It’s alright,” Polnareff rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. “I deserved it. I shouldn't even be angry in the first place, I’m really lucky you made it.”

“No, you’re right to be angry. We were unnecessarily cruel, I apologize for that,” Avdol said, crossing his arms and missing the long, comforting sleeves of his robe. “We should have found a better way to deal with all of this," he elaborated, the words heavy. “I won't deny I'm glad that you learned a thing or two, but I’m sorry, too. You didn’t deserve the hard time we gave you. And also...”

He had to stop again; the words just refused to come out. It was ridiculous. He, being the adult he was, struggling with sharing his feelings… And yet, it wasn’t. He had been clamped up behind the tall walls of his heavy robes for so long that he had absolutely forgotten how to connect with somebody. How to be vulnerable.

No wonder he never made friends.

"Many years back, my family should have buried my father following Muslim customs, but we couldn't," he finally managed. He wasn't looking at Polnareff directly, as if catching his gaze right now would stump his words for good, but even so he noticed the Frenchman going very still. "He died, ah... There was a bombing. We didn't have a body left for us to wash or grieve over, nothing whatsoever. My mother was inconsolable, thinking his soul would never know Allah’s peace."

A Hafiz explained to them that wasn’t the case, months later, but still…

Still.

“I'm not really religious, though. And my family has all passed already. But thanks for caring about me,” he said, his tone lower. Softer. “I appreciate it. It was kind of you.”

“I-It was the least I could do.”

Avdol took a deep breath and finally relaxed, ripping a gauze packet open and leaving it on his knee. He was about to assess the best way of removing the t-shirt from Polnareff’s neck when he noticed his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

Oh.

“I can’t believe you can still, somehow, cry some more.”

“Shut it.” Polnareff pushed Avdol without any real strength and then tried to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks with his hand. It absolutely didn’t work, and so he tore off a ridiculously long stretch of the toilet roll to blow his nose.

“I’m impressed. Really.”

“Fuck you.”

Chapter Text

Gently, Avdol peeled the t-shirt off Polnareff’s neck. It had taken a trip to the bathroom to get it damp first, but that had been worth it: most of the fresh scabbing was intact and barely bleeding.

Brow furrowed, Avdol rubbed more antiseptic into his hands and began inspecting a patch of torn flesh. The skin around it was bruised, jagged, and covered in bite marks, as if the creatures had been feasting on— alright, don’t think about it.

He then prodded around a puncture wound just above the collarbone. The whole area was tender, indicating the wound was deeper than it appeared. That was most likely the primary cause of the bleeding.

Pouring more antiseptic on both his hands and a clean gauze, he began wiping away some coagulated blood to clean the grime trapped underneath. The raw, torn flesh started bleeding again almost immediately, causing Polnareff to hiss and flinch away.

“Owowowow! Give a man a warning!“

“Sorry, sorry. Here, warning,” Avdol sighed, pressing a clean gauze against the wound to staunch it. “Some of the damage is quite deep. It’s going to be unpleasant.”

“You don’t say.” Polnareff made a face that probably was an attempt to roll his eyes and a wince all together. When it seemed like the passive-aggressive growl was all he was going to offer, he surprised Avdol by elaborating. “You were being so quiet that it caught me off guard.”

“I see.” he nodded, noting that perhaps he was genuinely trying to be less abrasive. “I’ll start again, let me know if you want me to stop.”

Polnareff said nothing else, but he turned his head to the side to avoid direct eye contact, his hands set on top of his knees. He was probably as ready as he was ever going to be, so Avdol started cleaning the area again. There wasn’t as much dirt and grime as he had been expecting, but then he remembered Polnareff had already made an attempt to clean up before he arrived. Good, that would make the whole process faster.

Avdol worked for several minutes straight without interruption, but at some point the trembling on the Frenchman's breath was impossible to ignore, and he decided to take a break.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, preparing a new batch of gauzes for the next round.

“I’m pissed.”

“Oh?”

“Sherry would have killed me for making a monster out of her,” he admitted, his voice cracking slightly. His fingers curled over his knees. “I hate that I keep seeing that thing’s face when I think of her.”

Avdol made a humming noise and continued cleaning the jagged edge closer to the dangling earring at a slower pace.

“Don’t you have a picture of her with you?”

“I know what she looks like. It’s just…” Polnareff looked away rather abruptly, and it took him a moment to continue. “It sucks. It was so real.”

“It will pass.” Avdol cupped the nape of his neck for a moment to ground him. “Tell me about her. Remembering with purpose might help you reorder your memories. What was she like?”

“She…” He started, not sounding very convinced with the idea, but then stopped to clear his throat. Making a face, he produced a damp cigarette that he had tucked behind his hair and his ear. “Would you mind?” He asked, reaching out to Avdol with a tired expression.

"Fine." The fortune-teller snapped his fingers and Magician’s Red hand phased through his, a small flame hovering over the talon of his index finger. “But special occasions only."

“Merci.” Polnareff put the cigarette between his lips and leaned a bit closer to Avdol to light it up. “If every special occasion is going to be like this, I hope I’m never asking you for light again…”

“Agree,” Avdol sighed, willing his stand back inside. “Now, start talking.”

“She was—She loved reading,” Polnareff said in a low voice. “And she was always chatting and humming songs to herself, which annoyed the hell out of me most of the time. But she was also fun to be around. Had the craziest ideas sometimes, I don’t know where she got them from.”

“Not from you?”

“Of course not.” Preoccupied as he was, Avdol couldn’t see the frown on his face, but the indignation came through in his voice. “One day I woke up and she was sticking cat fur to my face. She was wondering what I would look like with eyebrows. I almost strangled her!”

Avdol barely suppressed a laugh.

“I see,” he managed to say after a moment, switching to a cotton swab. “What else?”

“Her hair was truly something else,” the Frenchman continued, taking a long drag and making circles of smoke. Avdol didn't mind the smell of tobacco that much, but he was glad Polnareff was puffing the smoke away from him. “Thick, raven-dark. Loooong and curly. So unlike mine. But I learned all I know about hair care from her. We spent whole afternoons brushing it into shape, geez.”

“Ah, that’s why I wear mine in knots. Makes my life easier.”

“What does it look like? When not in knots, I mean.”

“Curly. Very curly.”

“Like Prince’s?”

“Ehh…”

“Jimi Hendrix? No? The Jackson Five?” Polnareff would have been absolutely dismayed on a regular day but alas, he only managed to raise a nonexistent eyebrow this time. “Do you live under a rock or something? They’re on the radio all day long.”

“I’m not a big on music bands,” he shrugged, staunching the bleeding again. “And I don’t know how to better define the texture of my hair. I’ll show you next time I make the knots.”

“Sure. Let’s exchange notes on hair care like teenagers, why not? After peeing on that guy I guess we can do anything…”

“Keep talking.” Avdol cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation away from any embarrassing moments he might have to elaborate on. “Did she have a stand, too?”

“Not that I know of,” Polnareff said, hissing at the next couple of swabs. “She couldn’t see Chariot, so I used that to my advantage to trick her.”

“Behold! Jean-Pierre Polnareff, magician extraordinaire…”

“She loved it. It was almost a free pass to get her in good spirits.”

“There’s nothing like the awe of people who can’t understand,” Avdol chuckled.

“Oh? Has monsieur Avdol ever used Magician’s Red for fun?”

“A long time ago, yes. But he was still difficult to control, and I usually had more pressing matters to attend to,” he continued, sensing the question that was coming, “so not for long.”

“That sucks. I played a lot with Chariot.” Polnareff shifted on the bed, then held on to the bunk frame with his right hand. Leaning his forehead on his forearm, he let out a sigh before he took another drag from the cigarette. “I didn’t train him seriously until I left home but, before that, I tried to carve some time before cooking for the day to—”

“Wait. You can cook?”

“Why’s that such a shock? I learned a thing or two while working in kitchens. I’m also very skilled at drying dishes.” He said this with such conviction that Avdol couldn’t hold back his laughter this time. “And with a knife, but that can’t be surprising.”

“That makes more sense, at least.”

“Well, we couldn’t eat out every day. I’m not made of francs, you know,” he snorted, but the sound was soft, almost like a sigh. “I was saving to send her to uni. I wanted her to learn a good trade. She was a clever little thing, had a knack for studying.”

Unlike me, Avdol heard between lines, and almost clicked his tongue in disapproval. Polnareff must have left school quite young if he had to work to support the two of them—something uncommon in Europe, from what he had heard. There must be quite more about his story, but Avdol knew better than to ask. He wanted the Frenchman to remember good things, and he could feel him sliding into sad territory instead. That wouldn’t do. They had enough sadness that afternoon to last a lifetime already.

“Not everybody would have provided for a little sister. It was kind of you,” he said instead.

“Do you think so? It doesn’t— It doesn’t really feel like that. I loved her, of course, but she really knew how to drive me insane. More often than not I just wanted to…” He made another of those famous, wordless gestures with his hand, the almost-finished cigarette in tow, and surprisingly Avdol understood what he meant.

“It’s pretty normal to love someone and still want to throw them off a window sometimes,” he said in his best lecturing tone but, in fact, he was only repeating what most of his clients usually said. He didn’t have a great deal of experience in these matters, but he figured Polnareff might find some comfort in the thought. “Ah, hold this, please.”

Polnareff stubbed out the cigarette against the bunk frame and pressed the gauze preventing the bleeding from running down his collarbone. Avdol stood up and stretched again, compartmentalizing his discomfort somewhere far away from the present, and sat down behind the Frenchman. From this angle, he had a better view of the puncture wound, as he suspected.

“Your house must have been lively, though” he said, drenching the corner of a new cotton swab with antiseptic. He couldn’t help but wince as well; cleaning the deepest part was going to sting. “Twice the Polnareff shenanigans.”

“Non non, I’m a pretty serious guy,” Polnareff snorted, “but Sherry was, oh my god. My place was hell on Earth. A teenager girl with teenager friennnngggghh—"

The words dissolved in a groan of pain, and Polnareff’s free hand flew to his neck. It stopped mere inches from the wound and turned into a shaking fist before Avdol could swat it away. A moment. Two. He tilted his head up, his neck bobbing as he forced himself to swallow.

“Are you sure this isn’t payback?” He whined, looking briefly over his shoulder.

“Why would I resort to this if I can burn you alive anytime I want?”

Silence.

“Jesus, Avdol.”

He chuckled softly and patted the Frenchman on the arm.

“I’m almost done,” he said, then handed him the bottle of antiseptic. “Hold this for me too, if you don’t mind. Careful, it’s open.”

It wasn’t actually open, but the Frenchman just complied without looking. Hopefully, keeping his hands busy would distract him a bit from the last stretch.

“Ow. Owowow fuck, I swear to— Avdol—”

“I’m done. I’m done.”

A handful of stitches would help the wound close faster, but that would have to wait until they reached Egypt; Avdol couldn’t sew to save his life. Maybe he should pick it up as a New Year’s resolution— yes, learning more first aid might be useful for when he continued researching the arrows. Not for himself, of course, but…

Polnareff interrupted his thoughts with a pained, exhausted, unhappy groan.

“You better let me drive the bloody submarine after this.”

“We’ll see about that.” Still pressing a pile of gauze against Polnareff’s neck to control any residual bleeding, Avdol sorted through the different adhesive patches they had to see if anything would work size-wise. “How did you deal with your other wounds, I wonder? You’re so dramatic…”

“I am not,” Polnareff protested, rubbing the back of his hand on his nose. Or tried to, because he somehow missed and ended up rubbing his brow instead. “And I managed. It was shit, though.”

Polnareff said nothing else and went still, which made Avdol pause his fruitless search to look up. He couldn’t see the other man’s face from behind his shoulder, but he had a good amount of bandaids and adhesive dressings on display in front of him, plus some scabbing scrapes that clearly the Frenchman couldn’t reach.

He wasn’t complaining. And he certainly wasn’t blaming him, either. Yet, all Avdol could hear in the silence was an echo of his voice. It was shit. And he had to do it alone.

“Do you want me to check them when we’re done with this?”

“Hell no,” he blurted, turning his head away and giving Avdol a clear view of his ruffled silver hair. A moment later, he mumbled, “Later. The one on the leg was bad…”

If it was anything like the one on his neck, Avdol should— No. No. It wasn’t bleeding, and Polnareff had already agreed to deal with it later. He wasn’t helpless and he definitely wasn’t a kid. Avdol shouldn’t —couldn’t— do it now, no matter how much he itched to.

“Sure.”

He rummaged through the dressings for a while longer, but no patch was large enough to cover both wounds properly. He would have to create his own using gauze and tape— or combine both options. It was fine either way, as long as he could keep the bleeding controlled by applying pressure for a while.

After some minutes, Avdol executed his plan to cover as much of the wounds as possible with a sticky patch, using gauze to protect the uncovered areas and securing everything with bandages and tape. It might not be pretty, but it would be functional and comfortable.

That should please Polnareff, he thought idly, and just then he noticed that the Frenchman was still holding onto the bed and leaning on his forearm, very quiet and still.

“Is anything the matter?” Avdol asked, leaving the supplies he was holding on the bed. “Polnareff?” He tried again, squeezing his shoulder when there was no response.

“Hn?”

When he finally turned his head, his eyes were still closed.

“You dozed off?” Avdol chuckled, and the other man only mumbled something unintelligible. “You sure look tired. Alright, I’m just going to stick this here, like so, and… it’s done.”

“M’ci.”

Polnareff dropped onto his side like a bag of potatoes—his head landing just inches away from the wall, with half of his legs still dangling off the mattress. He hadn’t even waited for Avdol to move, and he didn’t mind landing on the pile of his robes.

“That cannot possibly be comfortable.”

“Hnnnn…”

He obviously didn’t care. With a sigh, Avdol collected what was left of their first aid kit and sorted it for storage. However, without his robe’s infinite pockets he had no easy way to carry the stickers and gauzes, the bandaids, rolls, and antiseptic bottles— so he left them on the bed above.

There would be time later to deal with them. The only thing he picked up for safekeeping were his cards.

Then, he looked back at Polnareff. Watching him in this helpless state reminded Avdol of Hong Kong, of their battle, and the memory gave him pause. When he spared Polnareff he wanted to believe, he hoped, that there was something worth saving in the brass Frenchman— just to squash that notion as he ran away on his own.

But his happiness upon seeing Avdol alive and well, his wish to bring him back, and now their whole conversation— it was heartwarming, like finding a green sprout in an otherwise ruined plant pot.

Avdol had been right all along. There was good in him. There was kindness. The path was rocky, but Polnareff could change into someone better. He already was.

****

When Avdol opened the door to the common room, everyone turned around as one. Even Jotaro, who then tried to hide it by stretching lazily.

“Oh? Are you alone?” Mr. Joestar asked, tilting his head as if that allowed him to gaze deeper into the corridor.

“Yes. Polnareff is—”

“Wait, where’s your robe? Did you guys fuck?”

“MR. JOESTAR.”

The teenagers tried —and failed— to stifle their laughter, but then went completely silent when Avdol slammed the door shut with murderous intent. He was contemplating using Magician’s Red to give Mr. Joestar a close shave for that comment when Kakyoin interrupted his thoughts.

“Mr. Avdol, Is Polnareff alright?”

“No.” Avdol dropped onto the sofa that half-encircled the table in the center of the room. He was exhausted, and his back appreciated the extra support. “But he will feel better after he sleeps for a while.”

There was a moment of thick silence, and surprisingly, Jotaro was the first to break it.

“Did he…?” He looked at the fortune-teller and made a gesture with his hand.

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He pursed his mouth, then hid under his hat. “And did he find the cig?”

Avdol frowned in confusion, but the relative embarrassment the teenager was showing made it all click in his mind. He must have seen Polnareff crying in the bathroom and thought to leave something behind that could help.

“Yes, he smoked it after…” Avdol made a similar gesture with his hand, and Jotaro nodded.

“I see,” Kakyoin said, making a concerned face and looking down. “I’m feeling guilty. When I proposed to keep your recovery from him, I didn’t think he would…”

“Enough with the weird hand stuff, I can’t understand any of you!” Mr. Joestar whined, holding his face between his hands.

“I should have known better,” Kakyoin continued, crossing his arms. “I was there with him when you were shot, after all. I’ll apologize to him.”

“It wasn’t just that, Kakyoin,” Avdol said with a long breath, stretching his neck from side to side. “The enemy stand user played him like a violin and he… he didn’t take it well. In any case, you all promise me we’re never going to do this to him again. He might be a jerk sometimes, but letting him grieve was unnecessarily cruel of us.”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

“Scout’s honour,” Mr. Joestar tapped his chest, looking sheepishly at him. “I assume everything went well between you two, then?”

“Yes. But you could have given me a heads up,” Avdol glared at the older man. “It was intense.”

“He is intense. What were you expecting?”

Chapter Text

A good four hours later, the door connecting the common room to the rest of the submarine opened just a crack.

“I’m coming in, don’t break my nose. I’m looking at you, Kakyoin~~” Polnareff sing-songed the last part and pushed the door open completely with his shoulder; in his hands he was juggling gauzes, patches, and the bottle of antiseptic.

“Oh, please, that was just one time.” Kakyoin gave him a very long eye roll, but he was barely keeping his face straight. “And you more than deserved it.”

Jotaro hummed and nodded in approval, and Avdol raised his eyebrows to his scalp. He thought Polnareff had been exaggerating but, apparently, the fortune-teller still had to learn a thing or two about all of them.

“Oui, oui. That, I did. Still! I’d like to keep my face intact for now, if possible. My head hurts bad enough.”

Limping slightly, Ponareff made his way to the group. He was still wearing his pyjama pants, which were damp again, just like his hair—but instead of styling it as usual, he had tied it into a messy ponytail. The fact that he had chosen to appear like this again told Avdol that he was feeling better already, even though he still looked exhausted.

He plopped down on the sofa by the table, almost dropping half of the supplies as he did. Fortunately, Star Platinum snatched them before they reached the floor.

“Good grief. You’re fucked up,” Jotaro scoffed, not even looking up from the manga he was reading. “What on earth did you do, or not do, to end up like that?”

“I cut myself shaving. Not that you’d understand with that baby face….”

The teenager cracked a smile. Star dropped everything on Polnareff’s lap unceremoniously, and the Frenchman managed to fumble with more items than he managed to rescue.

“Jotaro, you punk!”

“I’m going to make coffee,” Kakyoin sighed, leaving the comic book he was reading on the table far away from Jotaro and Polnareff. “Does anyone want a cup?”

There was a chorus of enthusiastic ayes, and a request for tea.

“Thanks, Kakyoin,” Mr. Joestar patted him on the shoulder and grabbed the map he had been checking hours ago. Then, he sat just by Polnareff and placed the map so that it was resting half on the table, half on their legs.

“Hey.” Polnareff tried to shake the paper off, but Mr. Joestar wouldn’t have any of it. “I’m wet all over— In a clean way!” He quickly clarified, which made Jotaro kick him under the table. “Mr. Joestar, this rubbish submarine has no shower, they scammed you. You don’t know what I had to do to get passably clean in there.”

“You’re gonna have nightmares about it, I’m sure,” Mr. Joestar tapped the map with a pencil, looking terribly bored. “Now listen. I was trying to find a landing point before and I can see shit with this light. Are these rocks?”

“I’ve already told you, you need glasses,” Polnareff sighed, then grabbed the map. “Let me see…”

Avdol watched him turn the map upside down a couple of times with a concentrated look in his face, trying to figure out if the spot was actually suitable for them to surface or not. Something Avdol himself could have done for him in a split second. Something Mr. Joestar had already determined hours ago by himself, too.

“Are the blue lines water? That doesn’t seem right…” Polnareff was all but poking the map with his nose. “Wow. it’s not you, Mr. Joestar. This map is crap! Avdol, you surely know about this, could you—?”

He tried to turn around to look for the fortune-teller, and between the large map creasing everywhere and the bandages clipping his movements, Polnareff ended up tilting his head backwards instead.

None of this was why he stopped talking mid-sentence, though.

“Why are you grinning like the cat that ate the canary?” He asked, a bare eyebrow raised in confusion.

Avdol coughed and cleared his throat, wiping the grin from his face as quickly as he could.

“Oh? I’m looking forward to Kakyoin’s return, that’s all,” he said, and then stretched slightly on his seat. “I’m tired, some tea will do me good.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie, but he would never admit that he was pleased that Polnareff had asked him for help as if it was the most natural thing to do.

“Right, you had to drive.” The Frenchman held the side of his neck with a wince, then returned to a straight position and slapped Mr. Joestar on the arm. “Oh! You didn’t crash us while we talked! Wow. I’m impressed.”

“Hey. I’ve only crashed four times. Five perhaps.”

“Five hundred,” Jotaro said, rolling his eyes.

“Thousand,” Kakyoin added with a polite smile, leaving a couple of cups of dark coffee on the table.

“How about you three swim all the way to Egypt?” Mr. Joestar raised his eyebrows. Then, he smirked. “You know what? Avdol, come here. Time to switch.”

There was a chorus of protests, but the older man had nothing of it and was already on his feet and walking towards the steering wheel. Before Avdol could blink, he was sitting at the table with his cup of tea.

“But… the map?”

“I don’t need it! In this house we drive like men! Blindly onwards!”

“Now we’re really gonna die, aren’t we?” Polnareff made a face and looked around, trying to find someone that shared his worries. Finally his gaze managed to find Kakyoin’s as the teenager was bringing him a cup of coffee.

“And you plan to go down with this hair? How very unfitting of you,” he said, pulling at his ponytail and undoing it altogether.

“Hey, you bother,” he groaned, blowing a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Don’t tell me about it. It’s Avdol’s fault, he bandaged me so tightly I can’t raise my arm high enough.”

“I’ll leave you to bleed out next time,” the fortune-teller said, sipping his tea. “You’ll be the most stylish corpse in the graveyard.”

Silence.

“You have a pretty dark humour, eh?”

“You never noticed?” Kakyoin casually leaned over Polnareff’s shoulder, his voice as serious as it can get. “Wait until he threatens to poison you.”

“Poison me?? You’re scaring me, guys. What’s the next stop of this bus? I might get off…”

Avdol chuckled and took another sip of the scalding-hot tea.

“What’s all this for?” The teenager pointed at the medical supplies on the table. “You already look like a mummy.”

Polnareff pulled the leg of his pyjamas up to show his shin and calf. He must have removed the bandages, for the scabbing wounds were out in the open for everyone to see.

“It’s no biggie. I might not have cleaned this up well enough, so I want a second opinion.”

Kakyoin’s face sobered up straight away. A moment later, he clipped Polnareff on the head— and then took a step back, surprised, when the Frenchman yelped in pain and curled into a trembling ball.

“He ran into the bunker frame,” Avdol offered. “To be honest, it’s a miracle it’s still in one piece.”

“The bed?”

“My head, you little fuck,” Polnareff whined, his eyes quivering with tears. “Must you always choose violence with me? What have I done now?”

“You walked away on your own. Got attacked. Made Mr. Avdol save your arse again. And you got all fucked up,” Kakyoin counted with his fingers in front of Polnareff’s nose.

“All fucked up indeed,” Jotaro chipped in.

“It's hardly my fault, I just went for a walk in a deserted island,” he protested, lying on the table like an oversized rag doll. “How should I have known that stupid lamp would be an enemy stand?”

“A lamp?”

“A lamp. Like in the story, what’s the name— that guy in the desert with the thieves, you know, the…”

“The Arabian Nights,” Avdol pointed out, keeping his cup warm between his hands. He didn’t know this part of the story, and wasn’t even sure the Frenchman wanted to explain what happened to the others, but he was going to watch from the sidelines. It was fascinating, the ability the man had of not shutting up when he had to.

“That’s it! And the lamp—”

“Wait,” Jotaro left the comic he was reading over his knee. “You found a lamp and— you rubbed it. Of course you did. Like in the story. And the stand was a genie?”

“Sort of, but—”

“A stand that grants wishes?” Mr. Joestar asked, turning around on the pilot’s seat to look at them. “That sounds like fun! Did you ask to become rich? No, don’t answer, I’m positive you did.” The old man’s genuine laughter boomed in the submarine. “Wait, wait—What about a girlfriend? Did you ask for one too? Or was there anything more exciting to wish for?”

If the way the Frenchman’s brow pearled with sweat was of any indication, he had finally realized that he had made his bed and now had to lie on it. He took a long sip of his coffee instead of answering— coffee he swallowed immediately while his pale cheeks turned pinkish red.

“Fuck,” he gasped with a wince. It must have been almost as hot as Avdol’s tea. “I, ah…”

Kakyoin, who had walked over the minibar and was stuffing a cloth with ice cubes, opened his mouth to speak— then closed it and locked eyes with Jotaro instead. The youngest Joestar took a deep breath and reached out for a pocket in his uniform.

“Put a sock in it already, Polnareff.” Jotaro threw a packet of cigarettes to his face. “You too, old man.”

“Noo, I’m sure he asked for something fun! I need to know!”

“Good grief, read the fucking room. Can’t you see that—?”

“It’s— Yeah, I did.” The Frenchman cleared his throat weakly, but then took a cigarette and made a flourish with his hand. “I wished to become a comic artist. A good one though! Famous. Rich, of course. With cute fans everywhere.”

“A comic artist?”

“Why not a sculptor?” Avdol asked, surprised. “You have a good hand for it already.”

Polnareff looked at him as if he had just said the most stupid thing ever, but then his expression mellowed.

“Non, non, non. How many sculptors do you know that have cute fans waiting for them, Avdol? Name one, I’m waiting,” he said. “Actually, name one sculptor. Anyone. They’re the most underrated people ever.”

“Are you sure comic artists fulfil your requirements, though?” Kakyoin walked back to the Frenchman and placed the makeshift ice bag on top of his head for him to grab. “For fans and fortune, you’d be better off joining a music band, to be honest…”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Oh my god, yes, that’d be perfect for you,” Mr. Joestar’s voice carried over to them. “Can you sign, Polnareff?”

“In the shower. Does that count?”

Avdol snorted in laughter and took another sip of his tea while the animated conversation continued around him. Their chatter and laughter drowned out the dull hum of the submarine, along with the yearning that had been gnawing at him for the past few days.

Polnareff was right: that bullet had changed Avdol. But it had also given him a sense of peace and contentment as he hadn’t been in a long time. He was done surviving Cairo and life in general.

Before he could make any meaningful changes, though, they must deal with DIO. But at the very least he was going to start finding time for those little things he always dismissed as too silly or unimportant. He was going to try and have some fun as they travelled. And at some point he would like to find a hobby too, and perhaps join a group of people to do an activity for leisure. Wow. Even the word sounded foreign to his ears.

He briefly glanced at Polnareff, who was holding the bag of ice against his head and trying to follow a long-winded explanation about videogames that Kakyoin was enthusiastically providing. Then, he looked over at Jotaro, who was reading and seemed to have finally relaxed.

Mr. Joestar was still at the helm, mumbling something about a yellow submarine and humming a tune. In good spirits too, anyway.

It was strange. Their journey was filled with peril, DIO was a force to be reckoned with, and the cards surely didn't prepare him for any of this. And yet, he didn't regret a single moment spent with these men.

His friends.

Not his clients, or people seeking his services in the community, and certainly not those acquaintances who only tried to take advantage of him.

As he looked into his tea, Avdol couldn't help but smile.

Chapter Text

Avdol had settled onto the comfy sofa, arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed, as the rumbling, monotonous sound of the engine lulled him into a light doze. There were still some hours until they reached Egypt, and it was as good a time as any to take a nap.

However, despite feeling safe in good company, and despite the effort the others made to keep their voices low, he couldn’t help but keep a portion of his mind half-engaged. Too much could go wrong inside a submarine for him to fully commit to restful sleep.

“You really don’t want to do that,” Jotaro said in a low, grumbly tone, and Avdol was almost tempted to look. Almost. “I’m warning you.”

“He is going to kill you…” Kakyoin pitched in, but there was mischief and excitement in his voice.

“Hush now~~”

There was a swooshing sound, and the familiar tension from the knots securing Avdol's hair dissipated instantly, as if all the hairbands had been removed at once on their own—No. not on their own. Obviously not on their own.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to recognize the touch of Silver Chariot fading away before a handful of tightly curled, bouncy locks flopped onto his face. Oh. OH. Avdol broke into a cold sweat at the thought of his poor hair being mangled, but before he could storm up he remembered Polnareff had excellent control of his sword.

His hair should be just fine, and Avdol would only have to lecture him about leaving sleeping people alone without pulling at his ear. Probably.

“Oh my—” Polnareff’s delighted gasp derailed his thoughts. “Wait. Wait. I know what to do.”

He picked one of the locks, and Avdol half-opened an eye to watch him delicately unwrap it further into additional curls. It wasn’t a prank, then, not really. Avdol felt an irrational pull to play along, so he remained still for the moment, his peeking eye concealed under his hair.

“I didn’t expect it to be that long… or curly,” Kakyoin observed as he used Hierophant Green to gather the scattered hairbands and pile them neatly in front of Avdol. “I had no idea hair could shrink so much.”

“I told you,” Jotaro snorted, clearly amused. “Time to pay up.”

Now, Jotaro and Kakyoin being involved was definitely unexpected.

“There’s your ten.” He opened up his wallet and gave him the money. “I’m impressed you got this right, you know.”

“My mom has friends from America with that kind of hair. They come to visit sometimes.”

Meanwhile, Polnareff was still carefully unwrapping locks of hair with the deft fingers of someone who had done it a million times, a huge grin on his face that washed away all the misery of the previous hours. It made Avdol consider forgetting about payback.

“Man, these are some beautiful curls! Look at them," Polnareff said, picking a lock with exquisite care and pulling at it just enough to make it bounce. "He looks like a completely different guy like this. Less stern. Even approachable. Nice, for a change.”

Nope. Payback it was.

With a head full of bouncy curls that almost reached his shoulders, Avdol tightened the grip on his cup and cleared his throat.

“Are you having fun, Polnareff?” he asked, looking at him through the curtain of his hair and trying to maintain the serious demeanor of an adult about to start World War III.

The silence that followed was deafening and entirely satisfying.

“Uh, hey… did you ah, have a good nap?”

“Do you know what creates impressive curls?”

“No?”

“Heat does.”

“Yeah? But ah— We’re in a submarine, remember?” Polnareff let go of the last curl he had unwrapped and tried to distance himself as much as he could on the sofa, edging toward the opposite side—side Kakyoin was blocking absolutely intentionally. “It’s not clever to... How was it? Do stuff in a submarine underwater and all, eh?”

“I wonder how your hair would look if we curled it…”

“Avdol—”

“MAGICIAN’S RED~~”