Archive of Our Own

Thud.

Thud thud.

Thud thud.

Thud thud thud…

Blood pulsed steadily somewhere in his head, flowing through vessels and veins toward a restless heart.

Thud thud…

It pushed through as if through fluff, that, it suddenly seemed, had been stuffed into his body like into a toy. Gutted, the organs pulled out and neatly piled on the table, carefully enough so the blood wouldn’t spread into an unpleasant stain, and through the remaining seam someone shoved glass wool inside.

Thud… Thud.

It kept beating.

Quietly.

Relentlessly…

Thud thud.

At some point it seemed to begin squealing shrilly, more like a heart monitor…

Thud!

Polnareff flinched and barely drew air into his lungs, which until then had been working at only a third of their capacity. It was as if he tore himself out of the trance he had been in for several minutes, completely focused on that disgusting rhythm, and found himself not in some shapeless void, but halfway down a blindingly white corridor. The floor in front of him was lined with linoleum polished almost to a shine by astonishingly meticulous cleaners, and only near two neighboring doors were there visible footprints.

The sudden sharpness of awareness was somewhat overwhelming. Somewhere in his chest flickered the thought that he really should have put on shoe covers.

The cool surface of the pitcher felt good against his sweaty palms, while the characteristic hospital smell gnawed at his nerves, reminding him once again why he wasn’t too eager to breathe deeply. But along with all that came the realisation of a sobering weight settling on his shoulder.

“…You okay?”

Blinking the haze fully from his eyes, Polnareff turned over his shoulder.

“You okay?” Still dressed in the same outfit he’d worn since the adventure, only now washed and smelling of detergent, Jotaro stood right behind him. He had recovered surprisingly quickly, though more likely he simply didn’t want to be stuck in a hospital room, just like Polnareff himself. He had ignored even broken ribs and internal bleeding and crawled out of the ward as soon as he was allowed, even though he had been hurt far worse. Reading exactly what he was thinking from his expression was impossible for Polnareff right now, but the furrow of his brows and the slight press of his lips made him look concerned.

“Yeah, completely!” The answer came out a little too cheerfully, without a second thought. The phrase felt rehearsed by now. Brushing Jotaro’s hand off his shoulder, Polnareff turned to face him fully and even gestured vaguely to the side, as if to underline his words. “I heal like a dog, you know that! Even the nurses have already stopped fussing over me… And they’re quite the ladies, too. Kinda disappointing.”

Truth be told, things really weren’t bad here. The nurses, however, were strictly professional and “fussed” over him only with medically approved methods, responding to his flirting with noticeable reluctance. Maybe it was because he wasn’t exactly at his best right now. Or maybe he’d lost his charm while lying around here. More likely, though, he simply hadn’t tried that hard.

Jotaro’s gaze lingered on his relaxed smile with clear skepticism, but he only gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, deciding not to press the matter.

“Want one?” With the hand he’d kept in his pocket, he offered a crumpled pack of Seven Stars. Smoking wasn’t allowed in the hospital, but Jotaro somehow managed to get cigarettes without even leaving the wing. No matter how many were confiscated, a new pack always appeared in its place. He’d been heading for the open window at the end of the corridor when he spotted Polnareff carrying a pitcher of water and not responding the first time he called out.

“Nah. Women don’t like guys who smell like smoke, and unlike you, I’ve got plans. Don’t need my teeth turning yellow, either…” He huffed lightly and waved his hand in the air, waved a hand dismissively, first brushing off the offered cigarette and then as if fanning away imaginary smoke. Maybe he wouldn’t have minded one, but their views on smoking differed too much, and it was easier to decline politely. Though, truthfully, that wasn’t entirely it. He wasn’t even sure why he refused. Everyone knows that feeling: you sort of want to do something, yet the very thought of it makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste. That was exactly how Polnareff felt.

Jotaro didn’t insist. One corner of his mouth lifted faintly as he replied with a dry, “Suit yourself,” stepping past Polnareff and heading steadily toward the window. It was often opened to air out the corridor, and since the nurses had removed the handle from the window in his room on the very first day— because out of spite, or perhaps revenge for being forced to stay put, he’d kept it open constantly — he came here to smoke instead.

Reaching the windowsill, he adjusted his cap and pulled a cigarette from the half-empty pack.

A hand-rolled one, apparently.

For a second Polnareff wondered if Jotaro had run out of Seven Stars, but quickly dismissed the thought. It was pointless to dwell on it.

Maybe he regretted refusing the offer a little. Not because it was hand-rolled, of course. Sometimes you change your mind at the last second, and the idea of sharing a smoke doesn’t seem so unpleasant anymore… But it didn’t matter now. It would be foolish to go back and ask after he’d just bragged about “women” and smoke-soaked guys just moments ago.

Letting out an empty huff, Polnareff took a few more steps and approached one of the doors ahead. His hand closed around the plastic handle out of habit, pressing it down with a soft click.

Glancing once more at the pitcher in his hand for no particular reason, he hesitated, as though he didn’t quite want to go inside. In the end, he snorted quietly and pushed the door open, stepping into the room in one long stride.

Not his own, of course.

***

A sharp beeping sliced into his ears at once, and his eyes darted involuntarily to the figure drowning in pillows on the bed. Avdol didn’t look like himself at all.

His hair wasn’t gathered into its usual style and now puffed out wildly in every direction. They’d had to undo it for hygiene reasons. He couldn’t exactly lie there for weeks without care, with greasy hair, until he woke up. And yet Polnareff couldn’t shake the feeling that he was looking at a complete stranger, that he had simply mixed up the rooms and walked into someone else’s — a thought he immediately scolded himself for. He wasn’t often seen without styling either. Almost never, in fact.

He would have liked to see Avdol without his hairstyle under different circumstances…

Swallowing, Polnareff deliberately looked away. Even after nearly two weeks, it hadn’t become any easier to look at his friend. With each passing day, it only grew harder.

His earrings had been removed as well, now resting on the nightstand by the head of the bed, bathing in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window. The gold glimmered beautifully in the light, but unfortunately, they were still too bulky and were simply getting in the doctors’ way. Back when they had first met, Polnareff had been convinced they were some kind of necklace — that was how enormous and ridiculous they had seemed to him at the time.

Stepping further away from the doorway, Polnareff approached the nightstand and, without taking his eyes off the earrings, set the pitcher down beside the empty glass. It knocked softly against the wood, and the water inside shifted faintly.

The nightstand itself wasn’t very large, but there was room on the edge for one more thing — his comb. One of the few items Polnareff carried everywhere in the bag slung over his shoulder. Even though a few of its teeth were missing, and the edge had once chipped and been glued back together with superglue, and even though a new comb wouldn’t have cost much at all, he still used this one out of some foolish sentimentality.

He liked to keep his hair in order and always devoted proper time to styling it; most of his savings probably went to hair gel. Even if some people thought his hairstyle ridiculous, he liked it for some reason.

Once, he and Avdol had gotten into a minor spat and jokingly begun tossing increasingly creative insults at each other. Nothing harsh or offensive, really, both of them recalled it with amusement… At least, Polnareff hoped so. But personally, he loved that memory and sometimes chuckled at the mirror when he remembered Avdol calling his hairstyle a toothbrush or a broom, or pale French fries. Even then, Avdol had played the more restrained one, while Polnareff fired off utterly absurd phrases just to fill the silence and claim the last word. He had desperately wanted to repay the jab about his hair, staring at the back of Avdol’s head the entire way, trying to come up with something fitting — but nothing had come to mind.

It still hadn’t.

Gripping the comb between his fingers, he turned his back to Avdol and grabbed the chair that obligingly stood in the corner, dragging it closer to the bed. The chair was sturdy and didn’t creak at all when he sat down, taking his usual posture, the one he spent most of his time in. He leaned slightly forward, elbows resting on his knees.

This room had become much more familiar to him, even though in reality it was no different.  He couldn’t even remember how many times he’d gone back to his in these ten days — maybe just once to gather his things and move them here, maybe a few more when the nurses shoved him inside with encouragements to sleep. But the walls here were the same pale color, half-painted in soft blue, the same warm lamp he switched on in the evenings, the same nightstand — and besides those, the machines. And the thrice-damned heart monitor. That was the real difference.

The comb’s teeth dug unpleasantly into his palm when he deliberately pressed them into his skin.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Oh, that sound drove him insane with astonishing speed.

He heard it in the morning, in the afternoon, at night. He woke to it and fell asleep in that same chair to it. Yes, it was a good sound — it meant Avdol was alive — but at the same time it filled Polnareff with anxious anticipation. A steady fear had taken root in his chest: the fear of not hearing the next awful, drawn-out “beeeeeep.” And so, most of the time, he simply sat and listened to it.

Maybe he was reacting too sharply. He knew that himself. But he had lost too many people to now walk out and simply leave the room. They had already cleared him to go — actually, his injuries weren’t nearly as serious as Jotaro’s or Kakyoin’s — but he had flatly refused and returned to his usual spot. He had already thought he’d lost Avdol forever once, and even though his condition had stabilized, he was scared.

Scared to lose someone again because of his own foolishness.

Scared to bear the weight of someone’s death on his shoulders again.

Scared to live knowing that he was alive while someone else no longer had that chance.

Because someone had made their life a bargaining chip and exchanged it for his.

He would never forgive himself for Iggy’s death.

When he pulled the comb away from his palm, a dozen shallow indentations remained, already beginning to fade.

Polnareff had never considered dogs particularly proud, had never seen one chew coffee-flavored gum, and didn’t even know if dogs were allowed to have it — but it had always seemed like Iggy was allowed anything. He lived exactly as he pleased, not hating cats because they had more lives than him — rather hating them simply for being cats. He treasured his life, and Polnareff sincerely believed that one day he would just flee from the battlefield, disappear at night while they were sleeping, or just ignorantly walk away mid-day. So he had never truly counted on him.

He was a dog.

And yet Iggy saved him.

That realization settled bitterly on his tongue.

It would have been much easier if Iggy had truly done that, followed his instinct for self-preservation instead of his own pride and stubborn self-sacrifice. And first and foremost, it would have been easier not even for Iggy — who could have gone on to chew plenty more gum and rip out more clumps of hair — but for Polnareff. Yes, he was obviously a selfish bastard to think of his friend’s death that way, but he was angry at Iggy for placing yet another burden of guilt on him. How was he supposed to live calmly after feeling someone else’s life slip like literal sand through his fingers, knowing it had slipped away because of him, that he was to blame? Knowing he had been weak and pathetic enough to end up in that situation, small and helpless enough that a dog had stepped in for him. It wasn’t even that he was trying to diminish Iggy’s importance by calling him that. It was just… What kind of sniveling weakling did he have to be if he couldn’t protect others, let alone himself? Polnareff was angry. Furious at everyone and at himself, because he was simply exhausted. Exhausted from regretting that he had been saved, tired of mourning everything he had lost and everything he was responsible for.

His gaze drifted upward against his will, skimming over the clean sheets and stopping at the bandaged stumps. That was what he’d mostly been looking at all this time, as if mesmerized, constantly imagining the charred, cleanly severed flesh beneath the wrappings. They hadn’t allowed him to be present during the dressings, but he had caught a glimpse once and that had been more than enough for his mind. The piercing, sudden scream still rang in his ears. One moment everything had been fine, and the next he and Iggy had been shoved aside. When he turned back, confused and, truthfully, scared out of his mind, he saw Avdol standing only a few meters away, holding out what remained of his arms in front of him. He saw the mix of fear and shock twist into a grimace as pain hit, saw blood spill from his forearms like water from fountains. And if Avdol hadn’t managed to jump back then, if he had hesitated even for a second — what would have been left of him? If the blood had kept dripping, flooding the floor, instead of being sealed inside the vessels by a burst of flame? Polnareff wasn’t sure he would have reacted quickly enough to cauterize himself the way Avdol had, even if it meant saving his own life. Maybe he would have had the willpower, but he might have faltered, lost a few seconds, or simply failed to think of it fast enough.

Unable to bear it, he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, dropping the comb onto the bed, and with a sudden movement yanked the thin sheets higher, as if hiding the bandaged stumps might magically heal them. In the process, he accidentally knocked the comb to the floor.

For some reason, everything was always decided for him, even when it concerned his own life. During the journey he had asked himself “why wasn’t it me?” far too many times — and it wasn’t even out of jealousy of Jotaro, constantly surrounded by girls. Was he asking for so much when he simply wanted them to stop saving him? What was the point of any of it if he had to live like this, constantly remembering everything he was responsible for, even if he had never asked to be saved? And he, Jean-Pierre Polnareff, was entirely responsible for the fact that Avdol had lost his arms, even if it was Avdol who made the choice to save him. He hadn’t been fast enough. He hadn’t noticed the danger in time. He was the one who forced him to jump in. He had almost killed him. It was his fault.

Polnareff wasn’t afraid of death. Or rather, he didn’t crave it and he did value  his life. But the value of his own life and the lives of his friends, whom he valued far more, was vastly different in his eyes. He didn’t see his own life built upon someone else’s grave. He wanted to keep living, to fight for his life, if it meant he wouldn’t owe it to anyone. That he and only he would be responsible for his life and for the lives of his friends.

He hated Avdol more than anyone, because saving him seemed to have become a habit. He hated Avdol for saving him too many times, for suffering because of him and his foolish attempts to compensate for his inferiority complex with stupid heroics and forced bravado. Back in Kolkata, his desire to finish everything alone hadn’t come from nowhere; there had been several reasons. He wanted to end it properly, like a knight — it was his revenge and his reason for living. He had been ready to die if it meant not disgracing Sherry’s death and paying her killer in kind. It would have been wrong to drag the others into it, especially if they might have been hurt as well. That was why he hadn’t wanted the group involved — from any angle, it was wrong. But in some way, he had also wanted to prove to them and to himself that he could handle it alone. Without anyone’s help.

With an unreadable look, he stared at the comb lying on the floor, irritating him for no real reason. Bending slightly, he tried to hook it with his fingers, but it only slid faintly across the linoleum — how was it even sliding? It was a damn linoleum!

Muttering a quiet curse under his breath, Polnareff tried again, but once more he only brushed it. The comb seemed to slip from his grasp and at the same time stick to the floor. Whenever he managed to catch it, he couldn’t lift it with his fingertips. Only on the third attempt did he succeed, prying up one side first, then the other. For a moment he stared at it with faint, muted confusion, trying to understand what was wrong, but there was nothing strange about the comb. The first and third teeth were still missing, it was still glued together with superglue, and it obviously hadn’t cracked again from such a minor fall. The problem wasn’t the comb. It was his hands.

Without Jean-Pierre even noticing, they had begun to tremble.

“So dumb…”

Bitterly snorting, he set — or rather tossed — the comb back onto the bedside table and this time sat up straighter, placing his palms on his thighs.

It was so stupid. He thought he had calmed down, steadied himself, because even he was starting to feel ashamed of how badly he’d fallen apart. He tried not to show his anxiety in front of the others, not so much to hide something from them, but to put himself in order, to convince himself that he was fine, that there was nothing to worry about, that Avdol would definitely recover. Self-suggestion, damn it. Rationally, he understood that the worst was over, that now they just had to wait for Avdol’s body to do its work. But he couldn’t stop being afraid. At first, the self-convincing had worked. Yet the fear seemed stronger. That irrational parasite had settled inside him long ago, yet never before had fear for someone else been so obsessive and repulsive. When he remembered the grief, the pain of thinking his friend had died for him, taken a bullet meant for him — the relief when he realized he was alive, and had come back to save him again and again…

For some reason, he felt like laughing.

After that moment, even though Avdol was alive, he was still afraid he would disappear. That he would die again. That he would step in front of danger again. Polnareff could brush the fear aside as much as he liked, but until the journey was over, he lived with the awareness that they were in danger, that Avdol might die for him again. He could think, yes, I’m not his nanny. He could accept the danger they faced with steady regularity. He could tell himself that Avdol was strong and could manage without him. But even after the journey ended and all Avdol needed to recover was time, Polnareff was still afraid. He worried about Avdol too much for it to be explained only by fear and guilt, which coiled inside him like a nest of snakes. And he worried about that, too.

Because even though he hated Avdol for all the times he had saved him, it seemed that he fell in love with him like a fool.

He had thought he was brave, but faced with that fact he only grew more afraid. He didn’t know how to react to the realization — maybe it had been circling in his head for a long time, uncertain and immature, something he hadn’t paid attention to. But now, having struck him from behind so treacherously, it demanded thought. He had never truly loved before — he’d had girls, romance too — he was French, for God’s sake — even that fleeting crush on the girl from Luxor. But nothing had ever lingered this long. It wasn’t even about Avdol being a man; it was the feeling itself — deep loyalty and devotion toward someone — that left behind a restless, uneasy anticipation. The journey was over. Where would they all go now? Kakyoin would likely return to his parents, Jotaro and Joseph would go back to Japan to Holy, and he would walk his own road, probably back to France, to the starting point of his path.

Perhaps it was better not to stir up something you were not even sure about.

His palms, which Polnareff had dug nervously into his knees, bunching the fabric of his trousers between his fingers, suddenly clenched into fists in a pitiful attempt to grab onto something, anything, and break free from the swarm of intrusive thoughts buzzing inside his skull. It felt as though an entire hive had taken up residence in his head — bees, wasps, hornets that could not coexist, thrashing in agony, colliding with one another and with the walls of the cramped box they had been trapped in. They kept circling and stinging him from the inside, droning endlessly, filling his ears with the whir of wings, bleeping and beeping.

Beep.

And once again he returned to that sound.

With an incoherent noise that sounded like a groan, he suddenly bent forward again, sharply covering his face with his hands.

Beep…

For a moment it seemed to him that time was dragging unbearably slowly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself.

Beep.

A trembling breath slipped from his parted lips.

Beep.

He tried to focus on what, in his mind, Avdol would do next when he left for France.

Beep. Beep.

He could not think. His hands slid higher, burying themselves in the roots of his hair and slightly disturbing the careful styling.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He-…

“Jean-Pierre?”

The hoarse voice suddenly cut through his thoughts, ringing clearly in the quiet of the room, breaking the beeping — and with it, the obsessive rush of thoughts.

Polnareff jolted as if scalded, instantly tearing his hands away from his face. His eyes flew wide and locked onto Avdol, who, squinting slightly against the sunlight, looked back at him. His gaze hadn’t even focused yet; he kept blinking, thick brows faintly drawn together — but Polnareff felt as if something had slammed straight through him, and without noticing he let out a thin, whistling breath.

Beep.

“Turn off… that thing…”

Polnareff snorted, unable to stop a nervous laugh. The first thing Avdol asked after regaining consciousness wasn’t for a glass of water, nor a bewildered “Where am I?” — which almost any normal person would ask. No. He wanted the damn heart monitor turned off — the same one that had been grinding on Polnareff’s nerves for so long. He’d wanted to smash it with the chair more than once, only he couldn’t. And most likely, if he had given in and ignored the rational thought of “it’s hospital equipment,” he would’ve gone insane without at least some proof that Avdol was still alive. His eyes stung, but he blinked the feeling away irritably and shot up from the chair so abruptly it clattered backward.

The beeping faded into the background for now, though it was still there.

“You’ve been lying around long enough. How much longer, huh? My ass has gone square from sitting here waiting for you!” His lips stretched into a familiar grin as he immediately began fussing around the bed. Avdol shifted slightly on the pillow, trying to push himself higher, half-sitting up, but Polnareff was already there, carefully steadying him by the shoulder and sliding a pillow behind his back and head. “Were you comfortable at least? Ah, no, don’t answer that. Of course you were, lying on a mattress like this…” Cutting himself off mid-word, he grabbed the jug of water that remained on the nightstand and poured some into the glass beside him, bringing it to Avdol's lips in a hurried but no less careful manner. 

Avdol took a slow sip, as if afraid of choking, and instinctively tried to raise a hand to steady the glass. Then he almost did choke, coughing when pain shot through him. He jerked, his teeth clinking against the rim, and stared at what lay before him in stunned confusion. His arm had indeed moved, brushing the sheets aside that Polnareff had just pulled up over him, but he could not hold the glass. There was nothing below the elbows. His arms ended there, though the pain still seemed to pulse in places where there was nothing left to hurt.

Polnareff pulled the glass back, still awkwardly holding it in case Avdol wanted more, though in truth he just didn’t know what else to do with himself. He watched him as if glued in place, silently waiting for some kind of reaction. Even if he wanted to say something reassuring, a lump had formed in his throat, making it impossible to speak properly. Avdol frowned faintly again, staring at the stumps as if slowly reconstructing the chain of events in his mind — then glanced at the other arm, partially hidden beneath the blanket. That one was bandaged too.

A few moments later, Avdol only gave an indistinct hum and the slightest nod, as if agreeing with something in his own thoughts, and then looked back at Polnareff.

“Could you hold it?” His voice was still hoarse; no wonder he hadn’t managed to quench his thirst properly.

The calmness hit Polnareff harder than anything else, but he said nothing, lifting the half-empty glass back to Avdol’s lips. He took a few more small sips until it was empty, then waited until Polnareff set it back on the bedside table and returned to the chair before asking:

“How are you and the others? Has Mrs. Holy woken up?”

“Yeah. Dio’s ashes were scattered to the wind and she got better right away. Mr. Joestar’s doing great, and Jotaro’s almost fully recovered too. Last time I saw him he was smoking at the end of the corridor. If you’ve missed him, I can call him right now…” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “Kakyoin wasn’t as lucky… He’ll be eating a spoon-like portions for the rest of his life. And Iggy…” He stumbled for a second, then forced himself to continue as if nothing had happened. “He didn’t make it.”

He chose not to go into details about who exactly in this room Iggy had failed to survive for.

The second room down the corridor, the one with trampled footprints gathered in front of the door, belonged to Kakyoin. He still hadn’t regained consciousness and lay on the bed like a pale doll, while the silence of the room was broken by another heart monitor’s symphony. His parents hadn’t been informed yet. The doctors had warned that waking up would most likely take three weeks, maybe four. It all depended on his body. Polnareff hadn’t forgotten about him too. He came often, sat by his bedside for hours as if keeping him company. Though he had never dared to lift the sheets, even knowing perfectly well that Kakyoin’s intestines wouldn’t spill out cause of that. Just the knowledge that doctors had had to piece his abdomen together from what was left — and what wasn’t — was enough. Still, he had to admit he spent less time there. Doctors were constantly coming in and out of Kakyoin’s room. They had stopped taking him into surgery, but the supervision was much stricter, and Polnareff simply felt… superfluous. Like some gaudy vase left in a doorway that everyone keeps stumbling over but no one dares to move just in case it’s part of the interior design. Doctors visited Avdol too, of course, but mostly for bandage changes.

For a while, Avdol simply looked at him in silence. It wasn’t an accusing look. He just seemed to be waiting for Polnareff to add something more. When nothing came, he prompted him gently.

“And you?”

It wasn’t that he had deliberately left himself off that list…

“Fine, as you can see.” Polnareff snorted and leaned back in the chair, spreading his arms in an attempt at ease. A strained smile tugged at his lips. “What could possibly happen to me? Though I don’t exactly enjoy being stuck here. The food’s decent… but it’s no bouillabaisse or tartiflette.”

“Then why didn’t you leave?”

“A hotel would probably make more sense, since I’m in one piece, but I don’t want to rush off too soon. I’m waiting for all of you to stop lying around so I can properly treat everyone to a meal before I go. Then we’ll see.”

“Hah. I’ll come too. I’ll look. Taste everything with my eyes.” A sly grin spread across Avdol’s face, as if losing his arms hadn’t shattered him at all — as if he had accepted it within minutes and was already making jokes about it.

Polnareff nearly choked on air.

“Are you serious?”

“Why not?” It seemed to him that the smile only widened.

“And you’re planning to drink with your eyes too? Won’t you need an ophthalmologist after that?”

“If I do, I’ll go.”

Silence settled for a few minutes. A droplet of water slowly slid down the side of the glass while Polnareff stared at it, as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. The conversation felt as if it had hit an awkward pause, though not quite.

“We’re still in Cairo?”

“Yes.” Polnareff answered at once, casting a brief glance at Avdol before fixing his eyes back on the glass. “You and Kakyoin needed to be stabilized urgently, so they did it on the move and rushed you to the nearest hospital. The Foundation’s doctors took over and swarmed the place like ants. After the fight ended, Jotaro, Mr. Joestar, and I made it here. They insisted on flying to Japan the very next day to check on Mrs. Holy, but no one listened and kept them here. Mr. Joestar also wanted to transfer you both to Japan, but it was too risky. So yes. We’re in Cairo.”

“I see.”

Polnareff hadn’t been there when doctors fought for his friends’ lives — none of them physically could be, not until Dio was defeated — so they had all been forced to cast sentiment aside and keep fighting, silently entrusting Avdol and Kakyoin to the doctors. But he couldn’t forget two moments: the first time he saw Avdol after the battle, and the fourth night afterward, when Avdol suddenly spiked a fever.

It had felt as if something was burning inside him — his fire had slipped out of control and was consuming him from within. Sweat kept forming on his forehead no matter how many times Polnareff wiped it away. His loose hair had grown damp and clung to his skin as though he had just stepped out of the shower. Polnareff remembered the fear, how he had jumped to his feet without any idea what to do when Avdol suddenly cracked his eyes open and began whispering something. He remembered the irrational surge of joy laced with fear at the thought that he had woken up — but it had only been delirium. He had sat there the entire night with a bowl of cold water on the nightstand and a damp cloth in his hands, trying to ignore the meaningless murmuring. Avdol shivered, then burned again, until morning. Only then did the fever subside slightly, leaving behind nothing but soaked sheets the nurses later replaced. The fever returned for several days after that, and again he wiped sticky sweat from a face twisted in pain. He hadn’t complained.

“You look terrible.”

“So do you.” Polnareff snapped, almost involuntarily, then, unable to hold back, asked, “Did you really come to terms with it so quickly? Or are you pretending?” — and immediately regretted the question.

Avdol’s expression grew slightly more serious.

“If not the lesser, then certainly not the worst price I could have paid. I won’t say I’m not saddened, yes, it deprives me of many possibilities…” His eyes caught Polnareff’s, who had been carefully avoiding them throughout the conversation. “The ability to lay out cards. To pour myself a glass of water. But I haven’t lost all possibilities. So I consider this outcome quite acceptable.”

He paused. In truth, back at the mansion, when he had read the prediction of his own death, he had been ready for it. That was why he accepted the absence of his hands now with such composure.

“I can’t change what happened with regrets. That’s not how it works.”

Polnareff listened in silence, biting his lower lip, mostly as an effort to keep his expression steady. As much as he wanted to stare at the glass of water instead of holding eye contact, he endured until the end. But as soon as Avdol finished, he burst out, his voice cracking into an awkward shout:

“Acceptable? You call this acceptable?!” The illusion of calm and composure had cracked. In Polnareff’s mind, this outcome was anything but acceptable. “You’re talking like there was nothing you could’ve done, but you’re the one who made it happen in the first place!”

He paused to catch his breath.

“Who was it that said he wouldn’t save anyone, huh?… Who made me promise the same?! Who shook my hand at the entrance to the mansion? Huh?!”

Avdol frowned.

“Polnareff—”

“No, don’t! Let me finally speak for myself. You’re the one who rushed after me. You didn’t give me any choice… You didn’t even try to shout, ‘Hey, Polnareff, move!’ ‘Watch out!’ Anything! Anything, damn it, Avdol!” He jabbed a finger accusingly in his direction, then immediately folded his arms defensively across his chest when he noticed the tremor returning. “You jumped in where no one asked you to. You think I need your help? You think I need that self-sacrifice?! Like hell I do. I hate all of it, got it?!”

“And would you have managed to react if I had warned you?”

“What does it matter?! The point is, you’re the one who told me not to rush in to save you if something happened. So why didn’t you listen to your own words, huh, hypocrite?!” Polnareff spat, blinking angrily and scowling. He was truly angry, not pretending, but he was forcing himself to hold onto that anger with everything he had, because beneath it there was grief. It felt like the moment his outburst ended, he would break down crying like some pathetic fool.

“Vanilla Ice wasn't attacking you! Who asked you to interfere?! If I didn’t make it in time, then I didn’t. It wouldn’t have been your problem! Do you enjoy saving me that much? Is that your hobby or something? Have you ever thought about what it’s like for me to always be the one who gets saved, like some princess in distress? None of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for you! What, did you get a pebble in your shoe back then or something? Then why couldn’t you just stand still?!”

It was as if everything that had built up over the past few days was pouring out of him at once. Somewhere at the edge of his mind, a stray thought flickered — could Jotaro hear him shouting, or had he already finished his cigarette and gone back to his room? But the thought felt too sharp, too out of place in the flood of everything else. Like suddenly thinking about pepperoni and pineapple pizza while realizing your house is on fire.

Polnareff didn’t even notice himself springing to his feet again, his hands curling into trembling fists. Avdol’s silence began to irritate him, even though he had just told him to be quiet — that stoic calm with which he endured everything only seemed to enrage him more, especially the fact that he had actually fallen silent the moment Polnareff barked at him. Inside, it felt like a storm was rising again the second he looked into those eyes. Not a storm that merely tore a few stray leaves from trees, but one that ripped entire crowns away in a roar, wrenching the trees out of the ground as well — as if without their leaves there was no reason for them to stand at all. There was still so much left unsaid on his tongue, so much he wanted to throw at him...

“Do you know how Iggy died?” The words slipped out on his last breath. He didn’t manage to bite them back and was startled himself at how strained and weak they sounded. He faltered, unsure whether to continue. But then he couldn’t stop when Avdol silently shook his head. Who was he trying to fool?

“He died saving me.” He choked on the words, his voice trembling unpleasantly. “Right after… after you—. Barely ten minutes later. I told him not to…”

“Come here.”

“Where?” Polnareff scoffed, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as he stared somewhere beneath the bed, as if he had suddenly spotted a cockroach there and was searching for it. Something warm slid down his cheek, but he only sniffed and rubbed his eye irritably with the back of his hand.

“Stop playing dumb. Come here.”

Polnareff had already opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t. Avdol looked like, if he had hands, he would first clap on the bed to call Polnareff over — like calling a dog — and then spread his arms, inviting him into a hug. So Polnareff silently stepped closer to the bed and sat on the edge, trying not to crowd Avdol, which was tricky since neither of them could exactly be called slim.

“I thought I already told you to stop playing dumb” Avdol looked like he was about to roll his eyes.

“So what do you want from me?”

“For you to stop acting like a lady and hug me.”

“For what reason?! I’m supposed to be arguing with you here.” Polnareff tried to protest, but it came out weak and without much enthusiasm.

“Right now you’re crying.”

“I—…!”

“Tsk!” Avdol clicked his tongue sharply and smirked as Polnareff faltered and stared at him. No matter how hard he tried to put on a brave front, Avdol wasn’t blind: he saw the tremor, the glistening eyes from tears, and the way the Frenchman kept sniffing — all of it, clearly.

After that, Polnareff stopped arguing and, as carefully as he could, crawled toward Avdol. He tried not to disturb his wounds, which meant climbing almost entirely on top of him, so his head rested at the bend of Avdol’s neck, his hair brushing against Avdol’s face, and his arms awkwardly resting on his chest. No matter how much he protested or how embarrassed he felt, it felt truly good to hug him after everything that had happened — it was another proof that he was alive, even if he smelled like medicine, like the whole room.

“Yes, I’m selfish and a hypocrite. I broke my own promise. But if I had kept it which of us would be better off right now? Tell me honestly, do you really think you would’ve managed to react if I’d shouted to you?”

“Maybe I would have!”

“Maybe. Maybe, Polnareff! Or maybe not. Personally, I wasn’t willing to gamble on a maybe. Not then, not now. The two of you were attacked from behind. It wasn’t just you…”

Avdol paused briefly and cleared his throat. There had been a faint rasp in his voice throughout the entire conversation. Polnareff was already about to carefully slide off him and reach for the water pitcher when he was immediately stopped with a stern tone.

“Stay. God, I’m not made of glass.”

For several minutes, they were both silent. Polnareff could feel the steady rise and fall of Avdol’s chest beneath his hand.

“I could say I did it purely out of logic that two survivors are more useful than one. But you know as well as I do that I simply can’t stand aside… If I had to, I would do it again.”

“How many more times can you keep doing that?! Polnareff cried out, the words breaking into a sob at the end. Avdol felt a hot tear fall onto his neck, cooling almost immediately, and the silver hair brushed against his chin.  “How many more… Is it never enough for you? You always— You always do this…”

“Polnareff, understand, I don’t trail after you just to save your life. Lower that ego of yours, or whatever it is.” Avdol sighed tiredly. “Did I ever think about what it was like for you? And what would it have been like for me if you had been killed in front of me? Call me a hypocrite and a selfish man all you want, but I’d rather be a hypocrite and a selfish man without arms, with a living friend.”

“And how am I supposed to…” Polnareff didn’t finish again, feeling the image before his eyes blur more and more. How was he supposed to look at Avdol? Before, he had still managed, because the bullet mark on his forehead was hidden by the headband he constantly wore. Even though he knew the scar hadn’t gone anywhere and was only covered, it was much easier that way. But the absence of arms couldn’t be hidden, no matter how much you pulled the sheets over the stumps. “How am I…”

And the headband had been removed now, too. He had already seen the scar on Avdol’s forehead.

In an attempt to finish his thought, he broke into a cough. Damn it, why do people start coughing the moment they begin to cry? Are they really that fragile, that a few tears are enough to make them convulse like this?

Avdol probably, for the first time, truly regretted that he had no arms. He couldn’t even hold Polnareff.

After coughing, Polnareff couldn’t suppress the childish urge to clutch at Avdol’s hospital gown with his fingers and press his nose deeper into the crook of his neck, hiding his entire face there. Avdol wanted him to cry it out? Fine. He didn’t have the strength left to stop himself anymore. He went soft like plasticine left stuck to a radiator. Avdol was warm. Not burning hot like when fever had tossed him across the bed. Now the warmth coming from him was gentle, comforting, like a blanket Polnareff would gladly wrap himself in.

“I’m selfish too… You’re selfish. God, I hate you.” His fingers tightened, clutching the poor piece of clothing harder. “Hate you.”

Avdol stayed silent. Listened, his cheek resting against the top of Polnareff’s head. It felt like trying to hide inside a bush of dried grass.

“I sat here the whole time… I hated seeing you like that. Je déteste toujours ça.” He drew in a shaky breath, slipping into French without meaning to. “Do you know how hard that is? You keep doing this… I didn’t see you in the hospital last time… when you—” Right. They hadn’t told him then. He had seen a living Avdol only on that damned island. “But this time—… I’ve really had enough. Juste assez!” For a fleeting, grief-blurred second, he felt the urge to punch Avdol in the chest, to drive those words into his ribcage, but instead he only released the fabric and clenched his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms.

Enough. Enough.

It turned into a feverish whisper while the tears kept streaming and streaming in an endless flow, sliding down wet cheeks to parted lips that greedily dragged in air. His nose was stuffed, snot probably smeared all over his face, but Polnareff didn’t feel a single drop of embarrassment. He hid his face in the curve of Avdol’s neck not because he was ashamed, he was trying to be closer, clinging and clinging for as long as he could, like someone who had spent his whole life in prison and was suddenly allowed a taste of freedom.

“Maybe you should be the one to see me in a hospital bed for once. Maybe then you would understand…”

And just when the sobs seemed to grow rarer, when the tremor running through his entire body and being began to fade, when grief, sadness, and anger ebbed into the background — back to that damned beeping — the words that had been sitting on his tongue all along finally slipped from his dry lips without thought or fear.

“Je laisserais tout tomber pour toi, je te le jure, je laisserais tout tomber… Au diable la France, au diable les ‘au revoir’. Je resterais avec toi dans cette maudite Égypte, si seulement c'était avec toi. Putain, je t’aime!”

Speaking in his native French was easier. The feeling that no one would understand you anyway, no matter what you said, was intoxicating. It loosened his tongue better than any alcohol ever could.

But then he felt Avdol press his lips to his forehead, leaving there a fleeting kiss that could barely be called a kiss. And then he spoke again.

In French.

In French, with that damn accent.

“Je serais bien plus flatté que je ne veux bien l'admettre. Je t'aime aussi, idiot.”

Polnareff felt the blood drain from his face in an instant and jerked away from Avdol as if scalded. He awkwardly wiped away the remnants of tears and snot from his face with his hand. His mouth opened comically, then closed, and did so several times in a row. His first instinctive reaction was fear — all-consuming horror mixed with shame — as if he were a teenage boy caught with his hand down his pants. That was about how humiliating it felt for a second — as though the sheets he had always hidden naked beneath had been ripped away, as though he had been exposed and turned inside out, all the stuffing and glass wool that had filled him spilling out onto the floor.

And then confusion set in.

“Tu peux… répéter ?” He said slowly, not taking his eyes off Avdol. As if he might have been mistaken. As if he might have misheard.

Avdol looked astonishingly gentle. Fine lines rested at the corners of his eyes, and a soft, unobtrusive smile played on his lips. He looked at Polnareff almost indulgently, the way people look at children. Or at those they love.

“Pourquoi me regardes-tu comme ça ? Vas-tu vraiment retirer tes paroles ?”

“No!” Polnareff blurted out far too quickly, and Avdol only huffed softly. “No, that’s not what I meant—” He repeated more calmly, even somewhat embarrassed, though at that moment confusion still dominated him. “But… But that means— How did you—”

Slowly, he leaned down onto Avdol again, this time shifting slightly and resting his chin against his chest so he could still look him in the eyes. Once more that day, he left the sentence unfinished, hoping he would be understood anyway.

“Most educated people in Egypt know two languages. Arabic, and either English or French. It depends on what they choose in school.”

“And you chose French?”

“No. English.”

Polnareff grew even more confused. Avdol was definitely not speaking sarcastically. Or perhaps he simply didn’t grasp sarcasm very well.

But then he continued, explaining:

“I learned French on my own. At the same time.”

“And you understood everything?”

“Yes.”

“And you wouldn’t mind what I said?” Polnareff asked carefully.

“Yes.”

“With me?”

“Yes.”

Silence followed.

“…With a man?” Polnareff asked again. Truthfully, he hadn’t expected it to go this smoothly, and the whole thing felt surreal.

“Aren’t you a man? Was I mistaken? Pardon, it’s just that back on the island with Cameo, I only got a brief look and thought I saw enough to be sure—”

“Avdol!” Polnareff shoved him lightly.

“Jean-Pierre, just stop talking nonsense for once. I don’t care about your gender. I agree to everything you proposed.”

“So I’m not going back to France? To hell with it, huh?” Polnareff tilted his head to the side.

“You’re asking me?”

For several minutes Jean-Pierre Polnareff, great swordsman and native Frenchman, thought. He remembered his homeland, the village where he grew up and spent his childhood with his sister... Then he looked at the thick eyebrows, the plump lips and brown eyes, at the the curly dark hair.

And, closing his eyes, he lunged forward, crashing into Avdol’s lips in a messy kiss and accidentally knocking their teeth together.

To hell with France. It didn’t have what he had now. There was nothing left for him there except a hollow attachment to the place where he’d been born — here, he had carte blanche.

Avdol’s lips were yielding and, after a second of confusion, parted easily under his insistence. Polnareff nearly suffocated from the realization of complete permissiveness. His head was spinning, and a dull ache shot through his neck from how sharply and forcefully he had strained it, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when he could feel Avdol slowly responding to his tangled kiss. He felt his own fingers trembling, felt Avdol’s steady breathing against his face, felt the warmth of his mouth and the saliva that dampened his own dry lips — and he couldn’t even draw a breath. For some reason, in that moment he lost all his skills entirely, completely forgetting how to kiss and how to breathe. This kiss wasn’t like anything he’d had before; it was almost completely tasteless, with only a faint hint of salt at the tips of their tongues, but that was enough for him. The taste of tears and the taste of Avdol — alive, kissing him back — Avdol, whom he had fallen for irreversibly, and the taste of Avdol, Avdol, Avdol…

When they finally pulled apart, a trembling breath tore out of Polnareff, and his eyes, clouded with haze, darted across the face before him, trying to memorize everything, every smallest detail. He didn’t even notice that Avdol was doing the same: greedily tracing the sharp cheekbones, the silvery locks slightly tousled and fallen out of place around his face, and the reddened eyes that, for some reason, had begun to glisten again.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The heart monitor squealed sharply in the background, giving him away completely. Even his heart couldn’t remain uninvolved; it beat restlessly in his chest, right beneath Polnareff’s hand. It pounded and strained toward his touch, as if it wanted to be torn out and held in hands. But not just anyone’s.

Jean-Pierre’s.

“Muhammad…” It was the first time during their entire journey that someone had addressed him like that. It wasn’t only the use of his name, but the way it was spoken — breathless, on the very last fragment of air left in his lungs. Polnareff truly couldn’t breathe properly during the kiss, and not only because his breath had been stolen. His nose was still clogged. “Promise me you’ll stop saving me.”

He would have liked to promise that. But he couldn’t.

“Jean, it’s over.”

Polnareff blinked furiously several times, but couldn’t stop the single tear that treacherously slid down his cheek. Avdol leaned forward — which, truthfully, cost him tremendous effort — and kissed it away.

“If you promise not to be reckless, I won’t have to save you.”

“Pfft—” he snorted irritably, frowning slightly and staring at Avdol’s chin. “You outplayed me…”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“Oui.”

Polnareff didn’t like it, but he understood he wouldn’t be able to make him change his mind. So he simply pushed himself up and, this time bracing his hands against the pillow, kissed him again.

This time he was far less forceful, but that didn’t make the kiss any worse. On the contrary, now that he wasn’t afraid of wrenching his neck to hell, he tilted his head and pressed his tongue inside, deepening it. He was still greedy, still trying to memorize every second, to taste it fully, but Avdol quickly took the initiative.

Only then did he realize that Avdol could kiss just as well as he could, and while he gently nipped at his lips, Polnareff found himself wondering: with whom had he learned that? How many girls had Avdol been with before him?

For some reason, he even opened his eyes, as if wanting to see him from a new angle — only to discover that Avdol hadn’t closed his at all and had been looking at him the entire time. A faint blush rose to his pale cheeks at that realization, and the moment they pulled apart, Polnareff instinctively licked his lips and asked,

“You do know that all normal people kiss with their eyes closed?”

“Never really thought about it.”

“Liar.”

At that, Avdol had nothing to say, so he changed the subject.

“Do you want to help me put my earrings back on?”

Now it was Polnareff who didn’t know what to say.

“Why?”

“I’m not used to being without them.”

The answer was short. Maybe Avdol chose not to remind him that he couldn’t put them on himself anymore. Fortunately, Polnareff didn’t notice his gaze flicker toward the bandages, because he looked there too and felt his mood darken, but he wasn’t allowed to start circling back to “It’s my fault” again.

“So?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll help!” Polnareff answered a little too sharply, though without anger, carefully sliding off him and hopping down from the bed.

Neither of them mentioned the loss of contact, but both regretted it. Still, Polnareff couldn’t help feeling a fleeting sense of relief. Even when he was crying or kissing him, he tried to make himself as compact as possible, not to take up too much space — God forbid he brush against his arms. When he accidentally did — or maybe only imagined he had — he stopped crying for a second and held his breath, waiting for the slightest sign of pain: a quiet hiss, a flinch, a groan. Only after convincing himself everything was fine did he continue, as if someone had flipped a switch from “off” to “on.”

He didn’t need to know that Avdol had bitten his lip and was doing everything he could not to show it.

Polnareff carelessly swept the earrings off the nightstand into his hand. The gold felt cool against his palm but slowly warmed the longer he held it.

“Why are they so big? Aren’t they heavy?” he muttered, stepping closer and leaning over him. He didn’t dare sit on the edge of the bed.

“No. I’m used to it. And why do you wear heart-shaped earrings? Are you a romantic?”

“Well… yeah, actually. If I didn’t know better, I’d think those were a necklace.”

“Only idiots think that.”

Polnareff felt a flicker of embarrassment. He had thought exactly that before.

“Only idiots wear something like that…”

“I can stop.”

“God, just shut up…”

“I’m quiet.”

“Good. Stay that way.”

Avdol tilted his head to the side to make it easier for him. The stiff curls tickled Polnareff’s fingers as he carefully brushed them back behind Avdol’s ear, then touched the ear itself.

“Did you know that for paralyzed people, say, from the neck down, the ears are a very sensitive area? That’s often how they’re given pleasure.” Avdol suddenly said.

For some reason, that sounded embarrassing.

“I hope you get paralyzed.”

“In a good way or a bad way?”

No answer followed. Polnareff simply slid the stud of the earring into the slightly stretched ear hole and fastened it on the other side. He truly wondered how, under that weight, his ears still hadn’t torn.

And just as he was about to walk around the bed to the other side, Avdol shifted again against the pillows and turned his head toward him, granting him eye contact and easier access to the other ear. For some reason he seemed thoughtful to Polnareff, and for a second he wondered whether Avdol was actually considering whether Polnareff had wished paralysis on him in a good or bad way — but then Avdol suddenly spoke, watching his hands as they tried to fix the earring in place. It tickled a little.

“You know... Mr. Joestar has a mechanical arm. Did the Foundation make it for him?”

Polnareff nearly pierced an additional hole in Avdols ear when he heard that. His hands jerked and he dropped the earring onto Avdol’s chest. He had completely forgotten about prosthetics and the Speedwagon Foundation, too wrapped up in guilt and the realization that Avdol might never even be able to go to the bathroom properly on his own because of him. And now, to suddenly feel a rush of hope and even a flicker of relief, was shocking.

“You think they could make the same for you?” he asked immediately, picking up the earring again and trying to hide the excitement creeping into his voice.

“Possibly. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s only an assumption.”

“I’m sure they’ll make you prosthetics too! You helped us!”

“But I did that selflessly. I have enough money and I can pay for prosthetics if needed. I don’t need payment for what I do for my fri—”

“No, wait!” With a click of the earring — which he finally managed to put back on Avdol — Polnareff exclaimed and stepped away from the bed, pacing around the room and gesturing animatedly. “That counts as medical assistance. I’m sure with prosthetics you won’t even notice the difference. You’ll be able to put your earrings on yourself soon, without my help…”

“It’s not that simple. A prosthetic still won’t replace a living arm. Even if they make one for me, I’ll need more than a few weeks to adjust…”

“What am I here for then? While you’re adjusting, I’ll help. After that, you’ll manage on your own! You’ve seen how Mr. Joestar handles his arm. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it wasn’t his real one!”

“We’ll see.”

Maybe it was still very uncertain. He didn’t want to give Polnareff false hope, so he tried not to encourage him too much, yet inwardly he couldn’t help but feel a quiet joy watching him pace the room, nearly flailing his arms. In his reddened eyes, a spark of his former ease and cheer had returned. It became noticeably easier for him to breathe knowing Avdol wouldn’t remain entirely without hands — even if they were prosthetics, even if he would still sometimes feel phantom limbs as if they were still there, living flesh rather than cold metal — he wouldn’t be helpless because of Polnareff. Of course, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He didn’t consider Avdol helpless even without his hands, only deprived of certain abilities. And that was enough to make him feel guilty for having taken them, for not being the one who had suffered. But the thought that those abilities might at least partially be restored… that was what made the worm of guilt finally fall silent for a while and crawl back into a dark corner, at least until nightfall.

Speaking of night.

“When was the last time you actually slept? I wasn’t exaggerating when I said you look terrible.”

Polnareff straightened, glancing at Avdol. Now he looked far more familiar. Even though it still unsettled him — his gaze still drifted to the bullet scar whenever he looked too long — he liked how full his hair looked, how carelessly it curled into beautiful spirals. He wanted to squeeze it in his hand like a wet sponge — though that comparison probably wasn’t the best, just the closest that came to mind. It wasn’t soft or smooth like his own, but that only made him want to run his fingers through it more…

He had no idea how Avdol braided his hair, but he had to bite his tongue to keep from asking him to do it right now. Not yet. Maybe another time…

“Polnareff?”

Back to the question…

In truth, Polnareff barely slept, aside from the few nights he had genuinely tried to spend in his own room. The second and third nights, to be exact. Most of the time he just tossed and turned, trying to sleep because nighttime was meant for sleeping. At night, normal people slept, or at least tried to, even if they didn’t feel like it, because that was how it was supposed to be. Polnareff was one of those people, or tried to be, for those two nights. Then Avdol developed a fever, and he gave up trying. Sleep became a few hours of shallow dozing in the chair that didn’t even creak, as if trying not to wake him.

“Today.”

“Liar.”

Polnareff snorted softly. Avdol turned out to be vengeful…

“Not a liar.”

“It’s written all over you.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Come here.”

“Again?” It sounded far more indignant than he actually felt.

“Yes.”

“But I’m not crying anymore. See?”

“Oh, of course, forgive me. I thought hugs and kisses would be a regular thing for us, not only when you’re teary and sniffling.”

Polnareff silently stepped closer.

“Maybe they will be a regular thing when you’ve healed,” he muttered. In truth, he wanted to climb back onto the bed, but he lingered beside it without a second invitation.

“Come here,” Avdol said, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes.

And Polnareff awkwardly climbed on top of him again, draping himself over Avdol’s chest. This time one hand settled near his shoulder, catching the edge of the medical shirt and brushing bare skin at his neck. The other he carefully slipped beneath Avdol’s arm, trying not to disturb it too much. His head rested on his chest, so that beneath his ear he clearly heard the steady beat of his heart, and his temple was cooled by the gold earring he had accidentally pressed against.

Holding Avdol in his arms, even if he couldn’t feel him holding him back, was maddeningly pleasant. For the first time in all this time, he finally felt truly calm. Avdol was better than any sedatives or herbal teas; when he was near, Polnareff’s restless heart seemed to try to match his steady rhythm. He could slow him down with a single “Jean, wait,” and Jean would wait — Avdol was calmness itself, and only now did he fully understand that. No matter how Polnareff lashed out, panicked, or rushed headlong into danger, Avdol met it with an expression that made it clear he had always known it would be so.

Pressing his nose into the fabric of his shirt, he thought and felt the depth of everything happening inside him, breathing in the scent of detergent and the musk of his body — his scent, already woven into the freshly washed clothes. A scent unlike any of those cloying women’s perfumes.

“Je t’aime…” he exhaled, suddenly filled with inexplicable joy.

Muhammad Avdol was alive. He, Jean-Pierre Polnareff, was alive. And, setting aside guilt and all worries, if only for this second, he felt happy at the thought that they could simply lie together. And then stay in Egypt together. Or travel somewhere… Or even fly to France — which he had mentally damned earlier in the heat of the moment, forgetting that he could show it to Avdol. The country was far more than tourists believed and did not end with the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the streets of Paris. And he wanted Avdol to see his homeland differently.

“I know. I love you too.”

“You know… Have you ever been to France?”

“Before I met Mr. Joseph, I traveled a lot… But France, no, I haven’t.”

Polnareff felt a childlike joy and broke into a wide smile. With the faint jingle of earrings he had accidentally disturbed, he lifted his head again and, resting his chin on Avdol’s chest, looked into his eyes.

“Then once you’re back on your feet, how about the two of us go there?”

“I thought you’d changed your mind about going back.”

“Ah, the French are always drawn to their homeland… But I’m not planning to stay there. I’ll go wherever you go, but nothing’s stopping me from taking you there on vacation.”

“Almost like a honeymoon.”

Polnareff snorted again and lay back down on his chest, in truth hiding the faint blush.

“If that’s what you prefer to call it, I don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind France either. Before this whole journey and the mess with Dio, I was thinking of going there next. Everyone wants to see the Eiffel Tower…”

“God, forget it, I hate you… You foreigners only ever think about the Tower. What about the Cascades du Hérisson? What about Lac d’Oô?”

Avdol couldn’t suppress his smile, listening to Polnareff’s muttering that vibrated faintly against his chest. God, he loved him too. And if he had to save him again just to keep listening to this nonsense, he would lose his legs, his sight, even his life — if he died knowing that somewhere in this world that relentless rambling about French food, nature, and landmarks would continue, he would die in peace. But for now, that wasn’t necessary. And while Polnareff and he were alive, he could simply close his eyes and rest his head back against the pillows, just enjoying the sound of his voice.

They talked and tossed words back and forth for a few more minutes, until Polnareff’s replies grew lazier and his stories began to break off with yawns. His breathing became quieter and more even, and in the end, with a soft “mm-hm,” he drifted off somewhere in the middle of a talk about that little house with the chicks on the island. Maybe someday they would return there together, settle down, and like a real married couple, feed those chicks until they burst.

Though he himself felt no less exhausted, Avdol opened his eyes again and took the opportunity to look at Polnareff a little longer: at the lashes fluttering in sleep, the slightly parted lips, the peaceful expression on his face, free of any trace of worry. He didn’t even realize he was being watched and slept soundly — apparently completely worn out, to have fallen asleep so quickly.

And just as Avdol closed his eyes again, about to rest himself, the door suddenly opened slightly without a knock and Jotaro peeked inside, scanning the room for Polnareff. His eyes immediately flicked to the, as it turned out, empty chair, and confusion flashed across his face for a second, quickly replaced by a frown when he didn’t see his friend in his usual spot. Today he had been acting strange, and it hadn’t left his mind no matter how much he smoked. For his own peace of mind, he had decided to find him and drag him outside at least for a bit, even if he wasn’t entirely sure they’d be allowed out without a fight.

But as soon as he opened the door fully, all the worry vanished, and a restrained smile slid onto his lips, threatening to turn into an unrestrained one.

A sleeping Polnareff sprawled on top of a conscious Avdol had not been on his list of expectations. But it wasn’t a bad sight.

Seeing his friend rather than a nurse in the doorway, Avdol honestly felt relieved. He wasn’t in the mood to summon his Stand just to slam the door in her face before she could gather a council of doctors and ruin the moment. Jotaro clearly wasn’t a nurse, and he wasn’t the type to make a scene.

A simple greeting nod from Avdol was enough, and Jotaro nodded back before adjusting his cap and quietly closing the door behind him, turning and heading down the corridor toward his own room.

“Yare Yare Daze…” slipped from him involuntarily as the smile finally became unrestrained.

He was glad Avdol had come to, and that the two of them were finally all right.