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“Jotaro, can you join me?”
A pair of tired sea green eyes avert from the setting sun to his miniature companion. Sitting together at a sleek glass table in Don Giovanna's botanical garden, Jotaro smokes a dying cigarette with Polnareff peeking out from Coco Jumbo, wearing a tiny thick sweater that Giorno had knitted him for cold nights. (Even if he is just a soul that cannot feel physical discomfort.)
“Sure.”
Putting out his third cigarette into the ash tray, Jotaro then reaches out to set his broad forefinger in Polnareff's small extended hand. It barely wraps around the tip of it. Then Jotaro fades from reality, into the Stand of the turtle.
Looking up, Jotaro sees Polnareff sitting on the couch. His prosthesis are lacking from his wrapped up thighs, his pink eye patch held in a thin hand. His long ragged scar is exposed to Jotaro's appreciative gaze. Jotaro takes a seat beside him and then notices the empty wine glass on the coffee table, with a telltale bottle of wine. He wonders how long ago that night of drinking was, or if it's occurring right now.
“I sought your touch,” Polnareff explains blankly, his one blue eye lidded and filled with exhaustion. Nodding, Jotaro searches in his gaze and says, “Then you can have it. Come here, Jean.”
Smiling softly, Polnareff drapes the eye patch on the arm rest of the couch and then crawls over to plop against Jotaro's side. Jotaro draws a warm arm around him, pulling him closer. He rubs his hand up and down on his bicep, across the soft yarn of the knitted sweater. Polnareff melts against him and closes his eyes. His silver hair had begun to fall apart; some locks flop against Jotaro's neck and collarbone.
“I'm so tired,” Polnareff murmurs, resting his partially metal hand on Jotaro's thigh. Jotaro says nothing, only draws the blanket that had been resting on the back of the couch around Polnareff's shoulders.
“Then sleep.”
“I wish I could,” Polnareff whispers, heavy eyes fixed down on their legs pressed together, “But I am only a soul. I do not need rest if I'm not stuck in a body that requires energy.”
“You can sleep still, Jean,” Jotaro says, setting his broad hand over Polnareff's on his thigh, “Close your eyes, and dream.”
Polnareff closes his eyes.
It comes slow and gentle at first, like a building tempo of a classical piece he listens to these days. A flowing song of voices, memories, thoughts, feelings, loved ones.
He hears the creaks in the floorboards at his childhood home in the countryside of France. He feels the texture of Sherry's curly, soft locks running between his fingers. Remembers how they would sit in fields and make flower crowns for Silver Chariot to reluctantly wear. He recalls the pain when he was first told that his little sister was raped and murdered. Feels the teeth of Abdul and Sherry tearing into his flesh and granting him the acceptance of upcoming death. He hears Kakyoin's obnoxious laughter. Recalls the scent of the warm tea his mother would make him after they came home from school. Hears the last shout of Abdul's deep voice before he died. The ache in his chest when he stood at two separate funerals, one in Egypt and one in Japan. And then he hears his little sister saying his name with a laugh in her voice, announcing that she is going out with a friend and will come back shortly. He remembers the suffocating worry when she didn't.
Then Jotaro is turning his head in towards Polnareff's and pressing his plump lips to the Frenchman's temple—which is unlike him and has Polnareff startling out of the dream.
“What are you dreaming about?” Jotaro asks, lips moving against his skin as he spoke. Polnareff smiles weakly. He lets out a deep breath, silent at first, before speaking in a low murmur.
“I'm dreaming of sleeping under the stars with you and the others... When I fell asleep on the couch during Christmas time, with little Jolyne in my arms. When Sherry would come running into my bedroom, asking to sleep with me when she had a nightmare. And I'm dreaming of... of the time I slept naked under the covers with you when we were in Morioh.”
“All good dreams,” Jotaro comments, voice rough with an equal amount of exhaustion as Polnareff's.
“What do you usually dream about, Jotaro?” Polnareff asks.
“Jolyne,” Jotaro answers in a low murmur, “They're often bad dreams. And... I also dream of Kakyoin and Abdul, but it's not like a dream.”
“I remember you telling me about that,” Polnareff says softly, “How it's like they're having a conversation with you, that they're not just figments of your subconscious. I've had dreams like that, too. When I was still alive.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, tell them next time that I sorta died so I can't catch up anymore.”
Jotaro snorts. Polnareff grins weakly, keeping his eyes closed.
“Unfortunately, your sense of humor didn't die with you.”
“You love my sense of humor.”