Archive of Our Own

“Hey, Abdul... What do you think of people who... are gay?”

Biting at his broken fingernails with a cigarette caught between two broad fingers, Polnareff watches the Egyptian's every motion. The shifting of his hands as he sorted his books on the desk of their shared hotel room, to the pausing of them and the gradual shift of his gaze to the Frenchman. A curious arch of one thick brow, followed by a contemplative hum.

“Are you asking my opinion of homosexuality?”

“Well... yeah. Just curious, y'know? 'Cause I know it varies, not just person to person but, um, like cultures, y'know?”

If Abdul notices his nervous blabbing, he doesn't comment on it. Wordlessly, he searches Polnareff's blushing face as a thoughtful, faint perk of a smile comes to his full lips. Any man of his age that shares the same religion as he does would've sputtered and demanded why he would bring up such a topic (at least this is what Polnareff expected), but he just smooths a broad, dark hand over the weathered cover of the book on the stack atop the desk, glancing down to watch as he does.

Meanwhile, Polnareff shifts restlessly on the chair he sat on, straddling it and facing the back of it with his arms folded atop it. He's well aware it can be a sensitive subject, especially considering Abdul is Egyptian and Muslim. But Polnareff has been dying to know since he found himself attracted to the other man.

He's been attracted to only women his entire life before meeting Abdul, so Polnareff is hoping to find answers by directly asking the source of his confusion. It could just be a strange sort of respect or affection that isn't quite romantic (though what Polnareff thinks when he sees Abdul's smile could hardly be friendly).

“It is considered a grave sin within the religion I practice,” Abdul begins, settling his gaze on Polnareff's once more. Polnareff swallows hard and nods a little. Abdul takes his hand from the book to fix his robes, stepping a little closer to the other. Polnareff's cigarette continues to waste away to the filter, nearly burning his fingers. But even so he is enchanted by Abdul's low voice, by his deep amber eyes that look into his with faint amusement laced in the gold of his irises. He continues lowly, almost a whisper, “But, love is love. Love should not be shamed, and a person who loves purely should not be punished.”

A pause, with Abdul searching Polnareff's face.

“Even so, keep these words between us, Polnareff. Such topics as this aren't as acceptable here as they must be in France.”

With that, Abdul sets a hand on his tense shoulder, saying warmly with a smile, “Excuse me.”

When he departs from the hotel room, most likely in search of Mr. Joestar to discuss future plans, Polnareff lets out a deep sigh, both out of frustration and relief. Frustration, because now he knows he's at least a little gay, which he figured out simply because during that entire conversation he's been blushing, his heart hammering, and he's been staring at Abdul's mouth. Relief, because now he knows he won't be scowled at in disgust if he decided to confess or act out on his emotions, which he tends to do.

“Ah... Merde,” Polnareff mutters, dragging his hands up over the front of his hair as he drops his head into his arms. He can't believe he's gay. Of all things? What was he thinking? He can't be relieved about Abdul's answer. Because he should never even bring it up. Abdul is a Muslim and Polnareff is not. Not only that, but they're both men and it would just never work out. Sighing again, Polnareff sags in the chair, a cloak of depression draping over him. Then his fingers feel hot.

A pained hiss later, he jumps out of the chair to put his spent cigarette out in the ash tray.

One morning a week later, Polnareff wakes up groggily in a mess of blankets. The sun is filtering in through the open drapes of the hotel room window and washes over his half-naked body, as well as Abdul's noticeably empty bed. What time is it? Rolling over sluggishly, Polnareff brushes back his floppy locks and squints at the clock. Ten minutes before the alarm goes off for 6:30.

It's no longer surprising that Abdul is an early riser. What's surprising is that after lazily propping up on a hand and scanning the room, Polnareff spots Abdul kneeling on a beautiful, intricately designed rug of some sorts, resting on the balls of his feet with his forehead pressed to said rug. He's facing the window, towards the sun. Polnareff feels like there's meaning behind that (something about a holy building?), but he can't put his finger on it. He's somewhat ignorant when it comes to religion other than the one he was raised in.

He has never seen him in the midst of prayer before. It takes him off-guard at first, making him panic and wonder if he should get up and leave or just stay still and quiet. What would be the polite thing to do?

Well, if Abdul is fine with praying while Polnareff is in the room, he may as well just stay where he was... He would feel awkward moving about while Abdul does his thing, anyways. Like maybe he's disrupting the peace of the moment. So instead, he watches him as he speaks in smooth Arabic in a soft murmur, before shifting and rising into a different kneeling position.

It's like this for the next few minutes. With Abdul shifting on his mat and speaking in charming Arabic (which sounds soothing to Polnareff, who's starting to feel a tinge of guilt from just watching), before bringing his prayer to an end and rising from his position. Abdul doesn't acknowledge him as he puts away the mat. He enters the bathroom and then Polnareff hears the sound of the sink running.

Sighing, Polnareff rubs at his face and then flops back onto the bed, burying himself in the pillows and blankets with intention to obtain a few more minutes of sleep.

The next time he wakes up, it's to a hand on his shoulder and a deep voice speaking his name, rather than the shrill beeping of the alarm clock.

“Merde,” a muttered curse tumbles clumsily from Polnareff's lips as an annoying amount of juice sprays from the orange he bites into, rolling off his chin to land on his bared chest and spandex top. He flicks it off his skin with a scowl, brow furrowing as he licks his lips.

The unrelenting sun beats down on the pair walking down the sidewalk, gravel crunching underfoot as they meander through a sizable town the group agreed to stop at.

“I imagine it's less messy to eat it the traditional way,” Abdul comments coolly, watching Polnareff struggle with the juice that slid between his pecs and left a sticky trail behind. Polnareff huffs and took another chunk out of the orange, ignoring the splattering of juice that clung to his chin and joined the mess on his chest.

“May as well commit to it now, right?” Polnareff says bitterly, glancing over at the other man as he took another big bite. Abdul snorts at the small spray of juice that followed the motion.

“Now it's in your eyelashes,” Abdul informs him, arching a thick brow with amusement. Polnareff, in the midst of rubbing at his eye, huffs and mutters, “Thanks. I definitely didn't feel it when it sprayed into my eyeball.”

With a subtle smirk, Abdul lifts his gaze from the Frenchman, scanning the signs of the stores they pass, in hopes of finding what he came to look for. When he'd informed the group where he was off to, Polnareff insisted in coming along, saying he just wanted to stretch his legs and enjoy the scenery. Apparently, that consists of him grotesquely eating an orange. As Polnareff whines in French about some more getting between his thick pecs, Abdul finally spots a sign displaying that they've arrived.

“We're here,” Abdul announces, casting a look towards the other. Polnareff is pulling at the top of his shirt, chin tucked as he stares down between his pecs with a disgruntled face. The sun added an additional shimmer to the juice clinging to his chest. Abdul nearly laughs again, but holds it when Polnareff looks up at him with frustration. Then glancing up, Polnareff furrows his brow at the sign.

“I can't read that,” Polnareff says, pointing at it with a juicy finger as Abdul turns and begins to make his way towards the door. Holding it open for the other man, Abdul remarks with a smile, “I didn't expect you to. Look in, and you'll figure it out eventually.”

As soon as he does, Polnareff does take note of the shelves full of books. He says nothing, just rolls his eyes. Abdul chuckles and waits for Polnareff to step through before letting the door slide shut. When Abdul sets a broad, warm hand on the small of Polnareff's back without realizing, to guide him in, Polnareff chokes on the bite of orange in his mouth and ends up coughing with small bits of the fruit flying out from his lips to land on the carpet and on his shoes.

Startled, Abdul pulls his hand away and worriedly asks, “Are you alright?”

Blushing up to his ears, Polnareff waves a hand wildly, embarrassed both by his blatantly gay reaction and the way he spit fruit all over his shoes. He swallows a few times before saying in a harsh whisper, blue eyes narrowed, “Yeah, I'm fine! Just g-go look at books or something! I'm—I'm gonna try and clean this up.”

An arch of a brow later and then Abdul is nodding and leaving him to approach the selection of books.

A few hurriedly snatched up bits of orange later and a Band-aid slapped over an ego, then Polnareff is joining his side again after tossing out the orange pieces. He's scrubbing at his sticky face with a (not very clean) hand as he asks, voice muffled, “What you lookin' for?”

Glancing up from the book he was scrutinizing, Abdul hums thoughtfully, watching as the other man wiped fruitlessly at his face.

“Something interesting. I have no particular genre in mind.”

“Gotcha,” Polnareff says, stepping closer to the other to nudge his shoulder against the Egyptian's without thinking. A playful, friendly touch that has Abdul arching a thick brow and smirking faintly. Polnareff realizes that was pretty bold and coughs from behind a fist, cheeks heating up. He turns to the books to preoccupy himself, if only to avoid embarrassing himself further. He plucks out one of them and looks down at the Arabic script written across the front.

“What's this say?” He asks, shoving the book over the one Abdul is currently looking at.

“Zuqāq al-Midaq,” Abdul reads, the language sharp on his tongue. He meets Polnareff's curious gaze, “'Midaq Alley.' It's a somewhat interesting read.”

Pulling the book back to himself, Polnareff eyes the cover and hums, low and with a hint of weak interest. He pushes it back into the bookshelf and instead of pestering Abdul further, he leaves to seek a bathroom.

It goes fairly well, without incident, and so he's back in the shelves, glancing through them until he realizes Abdul is at the cash register. He hurries over to him and like a child waiting for a parent, lingers by his side as he watches him purchase three books. Once it's dealt with and said books are held in broad, weathered hands, they make their way out of the bookstore—Polnareff with a hopping step and hands in his pockets, while Abdul followed along with a calm stride.

On their way back to the Jeep, Polnareff pipes up again, amongst the tweeting of birds and the rumbling of passing cars, “Hey, now that I think about it... You've never talked about a girlfriend or nothin'.”

“...Yes?”

“So... Do you not have one or? I'm just wondering.”

Polnareff rubs at the back of his neck and glances over to meet Abdul's calm, amber eyes. He blushes. His face needs to chill out with the blushing stuff. He's trying to be smooth and the stark red on his pale skin isn't helping. Abdul has a contemplative expression on his handsome face as he considers his answer.

“No... It's been years since I was last in a relationship.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He wants to ask who, when, where but that would be too much. He just huffs quietly to himself and kicks at a rock with his black boot.

“I imagine seeking revenge has kept you from romance as well,” Abdul muses, light and friendly. Polnareff grunts a little, nodding.

“Yeah.. I mean, nothing lasting. Like, a fling once or twice, y'know? I mean... I.. couldn't be totally alone for all these years, right?”

He's blabbing. He wants to stick his goddamn foot in his mouth. He frowns, frustrated. Now Abdul's going to think he's easy, or doesn't take preserving one's self seriously, or that, worse, he's taking advantage of other people just for his own benefit. Throwing them aside after he gets his fill, just to battle that loneliness, that darkness. He nearly smacks himself on the forehead at his own stupidity when Abdul speaks up.

“Everyone has different ways to cope with loss or loneliness. Seeking intimacy is understandable.”

Peeking over at him, he sees that familiar look on Abdul's face. That expression that tells Polnareff he knows just what he was thinking, that he was beating himself up for something that was easily acceptable. Abdul knows he's a man with fault. Polnareff weakly smiles, though his heart clenches at the sudden bitter topic that he would rather not tread within.

“I guess,” is all he says, his smile now in vain. He kicks at another rock.

“Do you still feel lonely?”

Pausing, Polnareff peeks at him once more, looking into his warm eyes. Abdul waits patiently for his reply, continuing to maintain eye contact as they pace down the sidewalk. Polnareff does glance away though, a bashfulness coming to him.

“Not so much, anymore. You make it—” He begins, before he catches himself with a darkening blush, “You guys make it easier. Not that loneliness really matters. What matters is honoring Sherry by killing that son of a bitch. If I feel lonely along the way, that's the least I deserve to suffer.”

Now he feels pathetic. Only a weak man would say something self-depreciating like that. He sounds like a whiny brat. He just sucks at talking, especially when it's with a man he loves. No—Admires. What? What is he even thinking right now.

His thoughts are spinning out of control just from this suddenly deep conversation. It's throwing him off. He shakes his head a little at himself. A warm hand grabs his bicep, though it's gentle and only to gain his attention. They stop walking and Polnareff glances over to meet Abdul's firm gaze.

Abdul speaks, low and meaningful, searching in Polnareff's sapphire eyes, “Don't convince yourself that you deserve to suffer. The blame isn't yours.”

A moment of tense silence passes, with Polnareff gazing at him in awe and Abdul releasing his bicep. Then Abdul sighs, readjusts the books in his arm, and says, “Though you are a brash, emotion-driven man... You shouldn't let the weight of your guilt crush you.”

Then Abdul continues walking.

Stunned, Polnareff remains silent and watches as he goes, before he swallows hard and walks after him. Unsure of what to say to that, Polnareff says nothing and walks beside him, eyes downcast thoughtfully to his feet. Only when a minute of silence passes does Polnareff remove a hand from his pants pocket to curl a broad arm around Abdul's shoulders, tugging him in for an awkward half-hug that has the Egyptian stumbling and barely catching his footing. A complaint is on his tongue, but Polnareff speaks before he could, low and sincere.

“Thanks, Abdul. You're a good guy.”

The slow thud, thud, thud of heavy camel footsteps on warm sand lulls Polnareff into a distant, vulnerable state. His thoughts wander, far, so far, until he finds himself lost in a pit of longing. The shawl around him protects his sunburned shoulders from the burning star, the call of Joseph's boisterous voice announcing they should take a break in an hour or so, the groans of the camels—a mixture of sensations and sounds that blends into a blur when he thinks of the time he walked with Abdul through a nearby market.

You Spin Me 'Round (Like a Record) had been playing on a radio nearby, though it was mostly static. Polnareff appreciated it regardless at the time and had belt out the lyrics while dancing like an idiot—throwing his hip repeatedly against Abdul's, jumping around and kicking up dust and rocks while thrusting his hands up. Eventually they walked out of range of the music so Polnareff had to resort to shamelessly singing the rest of the song without any back-up instrumental.

“I take it you like that song,” Abdul had said with a raised brow as soon as Polnareff finished, who was now panting with a dumb grin on his sunburned, freckled face. After throwing an obnoxious arm around Abdul's shoulders while they walked among the market stalls, Polnareff says with a grin in his voice, “What makes you say that, Abdul?”

“Let's stop here,” Mr. Joestar's low voice cuts in through the memory, instructing firmly, “Set up camp for the night, let the camels rest.”

Tightening his hands on the reins, the leather squeaking in his grasp, Polnareff shakes off the creeping guilt and grief that comes hand in hand with thoughts of Abdul. He follows suit when the others bring their camels to a stop.

An hour later he sits by the campfire on a sandy rock, his canteen loosely clutched in a calloused hand. His tired sapphire eyes linger on the fire, motionless and distant with his thoughts. Again and again, he recalls the memory of witnessing Abdul getting shot in the head.

First comes the initial rage directed mostly at himself and Hol Horse, his hand squeezing around his half-empty canteen. Then the suffocating longing that squeezes at his heavy heart like an unrelenting fist, giving him an unpleasant, burdening sensation in his chest. A tight feeling, wringing the breath from him. He grits his teeth, bringing his other hand up to rub his fingers roughly into his closed eyes until they hurt from the pressure.

Images flash through his mind: Abdul throwing himself against him to knock him to the ground, telling him he was worried, his own foolishness and hot temper, Abdul summoning Magician's Red with confidence, the way his body lurched when he was stabbed in the back. How helpless Polnareff felt when Abdul fell back onto the dusty road in a heap, bleeding so much, so much, so much. It was everywhere and Polnareff's entire being and core felt like stone. He couldn't move, could only stare with wide eyes as Kakyoin fell to Abdul's side and clutched at him, taking the spot that Polnareff should have been in. Clutching at him with tears in his eyes and shaking him, calling his name desperately.

Polnareff feels a hot hand grip his wrist and pull his hand from his face. It yanks him away from the thoughts that slowly drowned him. He has stars in his vision when he opens his eyes to look up. He sees Jotaro standing over him, cool sea green eyes fixed down on his face. Polnareff's heart pounds in his chest, induced by the anxiety of being caught in this bad place of his own thoughts. He tries to grin to sweep it under the rug, but all that comes out is an awkward, strained smile.

“Jo—Jotaro, what's up?”

Jotaro lets his wrist go and slides his hand into his pants pocket again, staring down at Polnareff silently, scrutinizing his face. Then he gestures towards the laid out sleeping bags with a tilt of his head.

“Get some sleep. You look really tired, Pol.”

“I, uh...” Polnareff begins, clumsily screwing the cap back onto the canteen. He shrugs and turns the canteen around in his broad hands. “I guess so. You can go ahead, Jotaro. I'm just going to sit by the fire for a little while. It's too cold to sleep.”

He tenses up. That was so obviously not like him. He wants to hide his sadness to prevent Jotaro from worrying, but he's laying it out for him. Sighing, he hangs his head a little. Like he hoped for, Jotaro doesn't walk away. He continues to stand beside him, though once Polnareff peeks up at him again he finds him staring at the fire, too.

“Do you want to... talk.” Jotaro mutters, glancing down at him from the corner of his eye, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his face. Polnareff arches a naked brow. Jotaro, offering to talk? Now Jotaro is the one acting unlike himself.

“Uh, sure!” Polnareff agrees with faux enthusiasm, scooting over to pat the sandy rock beside him. He would rather be alone but maybe Jotaro has something on his mind, something he wants to talk about to relieve some of the weight on his (amazingly broad) shoulders. Polnareff clears his throat as he watches Jotaro situate himself beside him, though his long legs and generously large body take up a lot of the room. The teenager has to awkwardly adjust himself so his limbs aren't all over the place. Polnareff snorts as he watches, his hand flying up to cover his smirking mouth. Jotaro makes sure to elbow him in the ribs, which has the Frenchman clutching at his side dramatically, mortally wounded.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Polnareff speaks up after dropping the injured facade, resting his side comfortably against Jotaro's, their shoulders pressed together. Jotaro, awkwardly hunched over with his hands nestled in his pockets, shrugs.

“You seem bothered by something,” Jotaro offers, spoken lowly and in a reluctant mutter. Mr. Joestar snores boisterously in his own sleeping bag and Kakyoin is nose-deep in a book, so their privacy isn't really threatened, but he speaks quietly regardless. Polnareff huffs and rubs at the back of his neck, face heating up with embarrassment. Jotaro remains still and silent, while Polnareff collects his thoughts rapidly and considers what he should say.

“I... Well...” He begins, unsure with his brow furrowing and heavy blue eyes narrowing at the crackling fire. He swallows hard once his throat tightens up just a little bit. Thoughts and memories and nightmares flicker through his mind. An overbearing mountain of various issues that bother him. Things that wear down on him. Beating on him and beating on him until he can barely force himself to act like he's okay, like he isn't falling apart from the inside out. He sucks in a shuddering breath, stomach twisted up in a choke hold of fear and apprehension.

Should he open up to this kid? This teenager who hardly knows a thing about him, aside from the fact he can do an amazing handstand and make his pectorals jump up and down when he flexes? That's the guy he should tell about his never-ending roller coaster of guilt and self-loathing. Truthfully, he trusts Jotaro. Jotaro comes to him, offering to talk when he knows he's hurting. Jotaro is here for him, giving him this chance to spill it out from within, to relieve some of that burden the teenager knows he's drowning in.

“I just...” Polnareff croaks, his voice thick as his throat tightens and tightens until he can't breathe. He sucks in a few sharp breaths, shaking his head and bringing a hand up to cover his face with it. Why can't he ever talk about how he feels without getting choked up and eventually brought to tears?

He remains silent, twisted up face hidden behind a broad hand. The guilt that he has been building a wall against immediately smashes through and rushes through his core. Flashes of Sherry, of Abdul, of his mother. He couldn't heal his mother of her illness, he couldn't protect Sherry from the evil of this world like he had promised her, and he caused the death of the man he loves.

The man he loves.

Polnareff bites hard at his bottom lip, digging his dirty, blunt fingernails into his forehead. Of course he only comes to this realization once he's gone. It should have been obvious. He should have recognized his feelings long before.

Constantly finding himself staring for far too long, or thinking about him endlessly, or wanting to know more about him. Frequently battling that itching feeling to take his warm hand in his own. Staring at his plump lips when he thought the Egyptian wasn't looking. Having conversations with the man that he hardly shares with anyone else; conversations about love and death and religion and intimate memories. Finding happiness just in his presence.

“Merde...” He groans, slowly curling the hand on his face into a tight, shaking fist. An audible shift of clothing and then a hand is settling on his broad, freckled back.

“You don't have to force yourself to tell me,” Jotaro says. He keeps his hand there and it's like a breath of wonderful air after choking on guilt for hours. Hours of suffocating and now Polnareff can breathe. Physical touch laced with love is all it takes to have him slump forward a bit and let out a deep breath, his eyes burning as tears well up in them. He feels a weight lift off his shoulders but his hands clench into fists regardless.

“I want to,” Polnareff mutters, eyes squeezed shut and voice wobbling, “But if I start, I don't know if I can stop myself. I don't want you to put up with that shit.”

A moment of silence passes. Polnareff opens his eyes and stares into the fire, taking in a few deep breaths in attempt to rid of the tightness in his throat. It doesn't go away. He swallows hard and peeks over at the teenager. Jotaro is looking at the fire as well, silent and pensive. Polnareff lets out a shuddering breath. Jotaro averts his gaze to him, looks into his shaky cerulean blue eyes and says lowly, “You deserve to have someone there for you.”

Searching in Jotaro's eyes, Polnareff says nothing. Touched, he gives him a soft smile, his vision becoming blurry with the tears building in his eyes. He brings a hand up to rub at them. Dropping his wet hand down onto his lap, he looks back at the rippling fire. He takes a breath before saying lowly, voice controlled and steady despite his reddened eyes and sniffling, “I fucked up, Jotaro. I killed Abdul. I killed him and I—I can't live with myself. Not a moment goes by that I think about how he tried to protect me and all I did to repay him was... Was...”

He presses the same tear-wet hand against his trembling mouth and narrows his eyes at the fire. They burn with repressed tears that spill past his eyelashes despite his effort to hold them back. His throat clenches up once he actually starts to talk about it and he can't breathe.

“He cared about me and I took it for granted,” he whispers hoarsely, ignoring the tears that glisten under the flare of the fire as they glide down his face, only to disappear on his shaking lower lip or drip off his chin. Jotaro's hand moves up from his back, his arm gently hooking around his neck and tugging him closer into this weird attempt at a comforting hug. It does help. Polnareff lets out a shaky exhale and closes his burning eyes, face pressed against Jotaro's shoulder.

Jotaro stares at the fire, face hardening. Polnareff lets himself lean against the other, comforted by his touch and warmth that battles the cold emptiness of the desert night. He shakily sucks in a few breaths, hands in tight fists on his thighs, unaware of Jotaro's inner turmoil about the truth.

It's strange, walking through the winding brush of the Red Sea island with Abdul. The true, flesh and blood Abdul. The confident, wise, caring Abdul. Polnareff is silent, feeling that itch again. That itch to hold his hand. Hanging invitingly beside him as they pace side by side, stepping over rocks and foliage along the way. In the direction of the other three, to regroup. That scares Polnareff. More than being consumed alive by his dead sister and (at the time, supposedly) dead love interest.

He wants to be alone with Abdul, for as long as he can manage. He wants to tell him so many things. He wants to apologize until the words “I'm sorry” feel like gibberish on his tongue. He reaches out and grabs Abdul by the thick, soft sleeve of his red robe. Abdul pauses and glances back at him with an arched brow.

Limping to a stop beside him, Polnareff continues to grasp his sleeve, his other hand clutching at his profusely bleeding shoulder. He does need medical attention, but... But.

“A-Abdul.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“I need to tell you something,” Polnareff whispers, unusually soft and afraid. He hobbles closer, which Abdul notices with a frown on his full lips.

“Can this wait, Polnareff? You're severely hurt, we need to tend to your wounds,” he says, firm and laced with concern. He reaches out for Polnareff, but pauses when Polnareff snaps a panicked, “No!”

His hand tightens around Abdul's sleeve. His stomach twists and his fear rises and rises, but the need to say what needs to be said overrules the hesitation. He looks up into Abdul's alarmed eyes, heart pounding away as he shuffles closer, until his chest is pressing against Abdul's bicep. His desire to get closer, to feel his warmth and comfort, has him moving without thinking but he hardly attempts to control himself.

“I... I know I'm hurt. But...” Polnareff mutters, softer this time. He looks away with a turn of his head, his half-heart earring smacking against his jawline. Eyes downcast, he says softly, “I'm so sorry. I was a fool, I was too brash and you were just trying to protect me. I'm... I'm sorry. I never meant for you to get hurt.”

“Polnareff—” Abdul begins, voice soft and eyes gentle, but Polnareff shakes his head. He releases his sleeve to instead curl shaking, confident fingers around Abdul's wrist. His skin is so hot against his fingers. Polnareff sweeps his fingers down over the soft inside of his hand, his own face beginning to burn up.

He may be bleeding at an alarming rate in some parts of his body, but he can't let this moment go to waste.

“It hurt, every moment. When you weren't there, I... I was so lost, I never realized how much you meant to me until you were gone,” Polnareff whispers, voice shaking a bit. He rests his fingers in the palm of Abdul's hand. He sucks in a breath when Abdul's hand closes around those few fingers. Abdul remains silent though, his firm gaze fixed on the other man's face. Polnareff swallows hard. He forces himself to meet his stare, though his embarrassment attempted to convince him to shy away. He doesn't look away.

“I,” he begins, blinking rapidly a few times to clear up the blurring in his vision. His body feels heavy. He swallows thickly and opens his mouth, his tongue barely moving enough for him to slur, “I lo...”

He trails off, head lolling and hand slipping from Abdul's. His vision spins and he feels light-headed, incredibly so. Everything is a disoriented blur. His eyes roll in their sockets. A sluggish glance down has him noticing the small pool of blood at his feet. He's bleeding. A lot. He hears the call of his name as his whole world shifts, the oranges and pinks of the setting sun rushing past him, and then the brush and rocks are suddenly surging up towards his face.

When he comes to, he finds himself laying on a bed, a cot, in a white room with metal walls. All that's in this small, unfamiliar room is a couple cabinets on the walls, a shelf beside the bed, a metal side table, and a chair.

The light isn't on, thankfully, though some sort of illumination comes filtering in through a circular window. With bleary, heavy eyes he squints at the window. Everything out past the glass looks murky and... tinted a blue. Where the hell is he?

He moves his legs a bit under the light blanket with a furrowed brow. They feel heavy, but at least he can move them at all. Then he sets his elbow on the bed and wearily, slowly, lifts himself up onto it, bringing his other hand up to clutch at his head. He moans and blinks a few times, feeling a bit light-headed and drowsy.

When he glances down, he realizes he's wearing only his blood-stained pants. His top is noticeably missing. Replacing it is gauze, wrapped tightly around his shoulder and chest area. Extending his arm out, he stares at the bloodied gauze around it. Did someone give him stitches or something? Because there's no way he was getting out of that without requiring something more than just having a Band-aid slapped on it. Sighing, he drops his arm and looks over towards the door, squinting through the poor lighting of the room.

It takes a minute of him regaining his senses and strength before he successfully moves out from under the blanket, plants his bare feet on the cold metal of the floor and attempts to stand, hands gripping at the shelf for stability. He manages to rise, but his legs feel all prickly and weak. Silver Chariot flickers to life to provide assistance, but he ignores it.

His knees abruptly give out on him; his feet slide uselessly across the floor as his legs curl. Grasping at the shelf has his body swiveling against it with a noisy clang of metal and the rattle of its contents. Gritting his teeth, he clutches at the shelf and readjusts his feet on the cold floor, body swaying and shaking as he struggles, until his legs actually start to work. They support his weight enough for him to lean against the shelf without risk of collapsing in a heap of pain, his thick arms flexing and straining with the difficult task to remain standing.

The crashing of his body against the shelf must have been loud enough to alert the others, because soon he hears a heavy, metal handle turning with a grind. The door is pushed open, spilling light into the dim room. Squinting, Polnareff lifts a hand to shield the rays of light.

“Polnareff, you shouldn't be moving!”

Kakyoin. He drops his hand and squints through the light to see Kakyoin rushing into the room, Abdul following after him with a quick pace and a furrowed brow. Suddenly Hierophant's soft tentacles are curling around his limbs and the clawed hands of Magician's Red are hooking under his arms. He's carefully, gingerly, lifted up and set back down on the bed by the effort of two Stands. He wiggles a little bit in protest, but he really has no upperhand here. He's pinned down to the bed by a rather intense Magician's Red, its piercing eyes fixed down on him. He stares up at it with apprehension and a racing heart before a sudden touch to his clammy face redirects his attention to Kakyoin.

Standing at his bedside, Kakyoin gauges his temperature to determine if he has a fever with the touch of his cool, slender hand to his broad forehead. He then sighs, drawing it away from under Polnareff's limp silver hair. Abdul steps up beside Kakyoin, arms folded with a hard expression on his face. Looking between the pair, Polnareff swallows hard and says in a thick, unused voice, “I feel fine guys, really.”

“Drink some water—here,” Kakyoin insists, magically producing a glass of water (he's using Hierophant, Polnareff realizes, the cheater) that he presses into Polnareff's hand, grasping him by the wrist. Smiling weakly, Polnareff gazes up into Kakyoin's focused violet eyes and murmurs lowly, “You caaare about me, Kakyoiiin.”

He barely notices when Magician's Red flickers away, though he does notice when Kakyoin frowns and demands firmly, ignoring his teasing, “Drink.”

Polnareff nods sluggishly as he rises up onto an elbow. He flicks his gaze over to watch Abdul's thoughtful, though frustrated, face as he brought the rim of the glass to his mouth. He slowly began to drink from it, soothing the dryness of his tongue.

Abdul's (dazzling, beautiful, handsome, charming) eyes fix on his. Polnareff stares. Abdul offers a faint, reassuring smile. It stretches across his (pretty, sexy, plump) lips—Blinking, Polnareff realizes he's thinking pretty gay things. He returns the gesture around the rim of the glass, though his own smile is weak and kind of strained. Gazing into his heavy blue eyes, Abdul speaks for the first time since he entered the room, voice soft, “You should be fine, Polnareff. Just rest for another evening, and then you can come out and see the submarine.”

“Sub—Submarine?!” Polnareff sputters, pulling the glass of water from his mouth. Some of the water slips past the rim to splash against his neck and pool in the dip of his collarbone. Kakyoin takes the glass from his hand, satisfied that it's nearly empty. Now that Polnareff is back in bed, and seemingly okay, he finds no reason to be here and after offering Abdul an unseen glance, he turns and makes his leave. Abdul casts him a glance before turning back to the other man.

“Yes, we had gone to some lengths to acquire a submarine for travel across the Red Sea,” Abdul answers, taking Kakyoin's place beside Polnareff. He reaches out to gently pat him on the freckled shoulder. It's a hot touch that has Polnareff tensing up and glancing down to stare at the sight of his broad hand on his skin. Then he recalls what he had been attempting to tell the Egyptian man before he passed out from blood loss.

Reaching up, he clutches at Abdul's wrist with a confident hand, taking it from his shoulder to simply hold it. Abdul blinks, surprised. Gazing up into Abdul's deep honey eyes, his own filled with determination, Polnareff says lowly, “Abdul... Stay with me for a while. If that's okay.”

“Of course,” Abdul replies, easy and in a murmur. He reaches behind himself and pulls up the chair to take a seat in it, keeping his wrist within Polnareff's grasp as he does. Polnareff notices that he makes no effort to pull away. His face begins to heat up, a little flustered by that realization.

He rests Abdul's hand down on the bed beside him, palm facing up. He cautiously, gently sets his hand flatly atop Abdul's. His fingers curl over the heel of Abdul's palm. Staring down at their hands, Polnareff can't help but notice the stark contrast in the color. It's charming to look at.

He glances up, hoping that the other man didn't mind the touch. Abdul is watching him, knowing eyes fixed on his face.

“Are you lonely?” Abdul asks quietly, curling his fingers in slightly, enough to brush his rough fingertips along the inside of Polnareff's wrist. Polnareff blushes, embarrassed by the question.

Abdul must have noticed, because he then adds, “Is that why you want me to stay? Do you want my company?”

“Yeah,” Polnareff mutters, glancing down to their hands, “I'm just glad you're here. I still feel like I'm dreaming. If you leave my sight... You might not come back, y'know?”

A moment of silence passes, with Abdul gazing down at the other man, glancing across his melancholic expression and his loose silver locks that rests about his head on the pillow. Polnareff flicks his eyes up to meet his gaze. He searches in the fire of his eyes before he glances at his full lips, his strong jaw, his intricately done up hair, his scars. Traits of him that he wants to remember. Traits of him that he admires, appreciates, adores.

Clearing his throat quietly, Abdul then speaks, low and a touch awed.

“Truthfully, Polnareff... I did not think you would miss me quite this much.”

“Jean,” Polnareff says quickly with his gaze snapping back up to meet Abdul's, “Calling me by my surname seems so... formal. Distant. I don't want to be on surname terms...”

He's being so painfully honest, but he doesn't want to hold back how he feels anymore. Not when he could lose Abdul within the time of a second. Abdul smiles, soft and understanding.

“Okay. Jean, then. You may call me Mohammad if you would like to.”

Nodding, Polnareff looks back down to their hands.

“Of course I would miss you,” he says in a hushed voice, his cheeks heating up again, “You might be an argumentative jerk—”

“As are you,” Abdul casually adds with an arched brow.

“Hey, I'm trying to be nice here!” Polnareff huffs, face hot. He squeezes his hand around Abdul's, afraid that this small hiccup in the moment would convince the other man to pull away. But he doesn't. Polnareff sighs and relaxes his hand atop Abdul's again.

“What I was saying is that well, we have our differences but... I, uh. I care about you. And I consider you my friend. I don't want to lose you.”

And I love you.

Say it, Jean. Just say it, get it over with.

Polnareff, frustrated, mentally repeats those words to himself over and over. Just do it. Spill it out to end this pointless repression of your feelings. It will hurt to be rejected, but at least then he can move on. He wants to say it, the words are on his tongue. It's the perfect moment to say such a thing, but... He doesn't want to push Abdul further away with the brutal truth when right now he's gradually pulling him in closer and closer with smaller confessions.

He's pulled from his inner argument when Abdul scoots closer to the bed with a squeak of the chair legs on the metal of the floor. It's casual and subtle, but Polnareff notices. Abdul leans in, closer and more intimate. Polnareff stares up at him with still eyes, fixed intently on his handsome face. Abdul's gaze is calm, piercing. Looking straight into his eyes, without a word. Polnareff swallows hard. He glances down fleetingly when he spots Abdul's long ponytail begin to slip past his broad shoulder to hang in front of his chest.

“You won't,” Abdul promises. Polnareff's heart leaps into his throat when Abdul's warm, weathered hand moves out from under his to lock their hands together, curling his broad fingers around Polnareff's. He's holding his hand like they're about to arm-wrestle which isn't very romantic but at least he's holding his hand at all. Polnareff lets out a shuddering breath and searches in his eyes.

“How can you be so sure?”

An easy smile curls at Abdul's plump lips and Polnareff stares, enamored, until Abdul speaks again, hushed.

“I'm not. But, if you ever feel like you will lose me again, think of what I've said: You won't lose me. I will do my best to make sure of it.”

The marine life glows below them. Mesmerized by it, Polnareff finds himself drifting fingertips through the plant life as they gradually swim their way to the distant shore. Jotaro's broad arm is hooked around his side, holding him steadily close to his side to share the oxygen of his tank. As he's paddling alongside the teenager, Polnareff lets his gaze wander. He admires the small schools of fish that pass them; following their trail with his stare until he's looking over his shoulder, towards the other three. He watches as Kakyoin brushes his floating long bang out of his vision. Abdul pulls down on his thick robe sleeve, a slow, gradual motion under the weight of the water. He shields the view of his exposed, muscular arm before Polnareff could eat it up like eye candy.

Abdul glances his way and Polnareff pauses, before he takes the chance to wave like a giddy child. Abdul's face shows no shift—not that Polnareff could really see it behind the eye/nose mask and the piece in his mouth. But he does lift a hand and wave, curling his fingers in a few times. The gold bands around his arm shift slowly with the motion of the water. Polnareff's heart leaps and his stomach twists pleasantly. He smiles around what's in his mouth and looks forward again, peddling a little faster beside Jotaro now that they're ascending towards the rippling water overhead.

It's truly comforting to have Abdul with them again. Driving past an endless canvas of sand and desert life with having the other man beside him like this. At first he was bitching and moaning about Iggy having the front row to himself, but being pressed close to Abdul's side isn't so bad. He's so warm and even if that makes him sweat even more considering they're in the Egyptian desert, it's nice. 'Nice' is such a simple word to use, but it perfectly summarizes Polnareff's total content and happiness with this scenario.

He lets the pouting facade linger with his cheek propped in a hand, elbow set on the Jeep door. Meanwhile, his heart continues to race wildly with anticipation and giddiness, his stomach filled with butterflies. Their sides are aligned, pressed snugly together, and Polnareff can feel it when Abdul inhales a breath. He gnaws nervously at his bottom lip, cheeks flushed a red—not from a sunburn this time.

Occasionally Polnareff does peek over, only to glance at Abdul's face and figure. The other man seems to be interested in a book, clutching it open with one hand, his other resting flatly on his wide thigh. Polnareff eyes him up and down, charmed by his looks as always, before settling his stare on his face again. He notices his eyelashes are long, which is easier to notice with his eyes downcast. His ponytail runs messily down over his arm and shoulder. Polnareff could easily reach out and touch it.

In the front seat, Mr. Joestar is thoughtfully silent for once. Jotaro sits in the passenger seat, watching as the passing rolls of sand go by. Glancing past Abdul's shoulder, Polnareff notices that Kakyoin is resting his head against the side of the car, eyes closed. Biting at his lip again, Polnareff tries to repress a nervous smile.

Turning away, he faces the window again, propping his chin in his hand. Beside him, Abdul turns a page. Stomach flipping and lips curling into a hidden smile, Polnareff reaches his other hand out towards Abdul. He peeks back, just enough to watch where he's reaching. He hooks his fingers around the palm of Abdul's limp hand atop his thigh. Beside him, Abdul stills.

A moment of silent surprise passes and then without a word spoken, Abdul slowly guides their hands down between their hips, effectively hiding it among the bunched up fabric of his red robe. Polnareff grins behind his hand, fleetingly peeking over towards the other man. Abdul continues to gaze down at his book, but his mouth is in a soft smile. Polnareff boldly slides his hand down over Abdul's between their hips and slowly, cautiously, threads their fingers together.

It's no longer platonic and he hopes Abdul won't pull away. Instead of yanking his hand away in disgust, Abdul's smile falls, his eyes widening just slightly. He glances over towards Polnareff, a thick brow subtly arched. Polnareff swallows hard, his stomach twisting with something nervous. He stares into Abdul's charming eyes, biting his bottom lip with his own hairless brow arching in a silent question of “Is this okay?”. Abdul offers him a slight smile, so faint that Polnareff barely catches it.

Polnareff sucks in a breath and sits a little straighter against the seat when Abdul's fingers curl tightly around his and squeeze, reassuring and reciprocating.

The roaring of blood in his ears drowns out his own panicked, desperate screaming and the yells of the others. His hands shake so uncontrollably as he clutches tightly at Kakyoin's blood-splattered gakuran. He feels so helpless. So useless, useless, useless. How could he have not seen this coming? Why did he have to yell at the kid right before this happened?

“Kakyoin!” He sobs, gathering the limp teen in his muscular arms, tears blurring his vision. Only when he hears the hiss of rushing water through the deafening pounding of his heart does he look up to see the animated water come racing towards them underneath the sand of the desert.

He never thought he would ever feel truly grateful of a watch. But he does, as he's carrying an unconscious Kakyoin in his broad arms, balancing on the upturned Jeep with the other three. In the panic of survival he has little opportunity to check on Kakyoin's condition, especially considering they're being thrown to the hot sand regardless of his intentions, the Jeep sinking into the collapsing dune.

In that intense, silent moment of wait, the five of them placed in different locations, Polnareff gnaws at his bottom lip and glances over to Kakyoin, who had fallen from his arms on their way down. He lays on his back, thankfully, so sand isn't clinging to his slashed eyes. Polnareff wants to reach out and touch at his bloodied face, but he knows better than to carelessly move.

The soft thunk, thunk, thunk of Abdul's golden bands meeting the sand earns his startled gaze. From a distance he watches Abdul toss his bangles further and further and it does take him a moment to process what the hell he's doing, but once he does, he grins. Abdul can be so clever. He loves that about him.

In tense wait, Polnareff watches, anxious. Then out of nowhere, in an abrupt whirlwind of motions, Magician's Red is withdrawn with Abdul on his knees. But then a flash of glistening blue has Magician's Red fading to nothing. What just happened?

It becomes apparent when a spray of blood flies from Abdul's slit throat.

A sharp, sucked in breath, a pause, and then Polnareff's legs tense with intention to rise and run towards his fallen figure, but as he begins to move with the crunch of sand underfoot, Mr. Joestar throws out a gloved hand in his direction and shouts, “Don't move, Polnareff!”

“Abdul!” Polnareff shouts at the top of his lungs with a grimacing face, falling to his knees beside Kakyoin with a hand clenching up so hard his nails cut into his skin. His yell fades into the dry air and he can only watch as the menacing water swells and swells before Abdul's wheezing, shaking body. Readying to strike and deliver the fatal blow.

What is he doing? Why is he just kneeling here, watching helplessly as Abdul's life is dangled before him on a delicate string that can easily be cut with a single slash of living water? A raw sob is ready to crawl from his dry lips but then Jotaro is suddenly sprinting out over the dune, coat whipping around him as he sets off with the heavy thud, thud, thud of his feet on the thick sand.

“I will be alright... Just one more day, and then I can walk among you again,” Abdul says in a reassuring murmur, reaching out to pat a teary-eyed Polnareff on the wrist. Polnareff twists his hand around to clutch at Abdul's, so eagerly soaking up the offered touch. Abdul's lips curl into a soft smile at the gesture. He lets the Frenchman hold his hand atop the blankets of the hospital bed.

“It should have been me,” Polnareff whispers. He sits at Abdul's bedside, looking so small and insignificant in the plastic chair he sits in, hunched over with his head ducked down. He brings his other hand up, fingers shaking with fear, anxiety, lingering guilt. He sets that hand on Abdul's muscular forearm, across exposed warm skin. Now that he's wearing only a hospital gown, Polnareff can admire his toned, broad arm without the robe concealing it. As ill-timed as it is, he can't help but stare at the exposure.

“No, I would not prefer you in my place, Jean. It is fine how it turned out. Kakyoin is fine, and I am as well,” Abdul insists, clutching tighter at Polnareff's broad hand. Sighing, Polnareff runs his exploratory touch down his arm to grasp at the back of Abdul's hand, cupping it in his own and bringing it up to rest his forehead against their joined hands.

“No, I shouldn't have been a coward,” he whispers, hands squeezing around Abdul's, “I should have drawn Geb away like Jotaro did. I should have been the one running. I didn't even think... I just didn't think.”

Abdul's face softens, though unseen by Polnareff, and then he gently says, “Jean... It's understandable. N'doul's Geb was a frightening enemy.”

Lifting his head, Polnareff looks into his concerned amber eyes. His own eyes burn with vexation and tears.

“I wasn't scared of his Stand. I was scared of you dying in front of me, again. I couldn't breathe, much less think,” Polnareff spits, brow furrowed deeply and reddened eyes filled with boiling, uncapped anger directed only at himself, “Do you know how terrified I was, watching you bleed out on the ground in front of me? For the second time? And once again, I was helpless. I couldn't do anything.”

Polnareff shakes his head as he lowers it, his hands clenching around Abdul's, nails biting into the Egyptian's dark skin, “I can never save you, Abdul. I'm... J-Je ne suis qu'un lâche bon à rien. Je ne le supporte pas, Mohammad. Je ne me supporte pas. Je suis désolé. Je suis pitoyable.—”

“Stop, Jean. Look at me.”

Lifting his head up, Polnareff gazes through the blurry film of his forming tears, into the impatience of Abdul's beautiful eyes. Is he mad at him for saying these things? Polnareff's heart drops into his stomach and his hands flex around Abdul's.

“You are not pitiful. It is not your fault and you are not a coward,” Abdul insists in a low murmur, nearly a growl. He lets it sink in, searching in Polnareff's watery blue eyes for a long moment.

Then he sits himself up slowly, brow furrowing at the strain. After shifting towards Polnareff, he leans in towards the other man, his long messy ponytail sliding past his broad shoulder to hang in front of his chest. Polnareff stares up at him with wide, dripping eyes, his mouth hanging open as Abdul looks into his eyes with an intensity that takes his breath away. Abdul takes his hand out from between Polnareff's to firmly grip his wrist.

“Don't plant these ideas in your head. You're nothing that you say. You're a brave man fighting for justice, and instead of leaving once you avenged your sister, you came with us. You could have returned to France and left us with one less man, but no,” Abdul says, voice lowered with gravity, his warm golden eyes searching in Polnareff's, “You are courageous for deciding to face Dio with us. You are not a coward. Do you understand me?”

Polnareff is speechless at first, blown away with awe and disbelief. He watches as Abdul slowly leans back into his pillows again. He lets go of his wrist and runs his warm, weathered hand down over Polnareff's. He hooks his fingers around Polnareff's. Easily, willingly.

“I...” Polnareff whispers, blinking hard enough that the tears clinging to his eyelashes break free and stain his cheeks. He brings his hand up to roughly wipe them away, his eyes squeezing shut. He hangs his head, weighed down by the newborn frustration with himself. For saying such foolish things and troubling Abdul like this.

“I care about you,” the other man murmurs, stroking his thumb over the back of Polnareff's hand, “Don't say such cruel things about my friend.”

When Mr. Joestar comes to the decision they were to stay overnight in Luxor at a hotel with beautiful, wonderful beds and bathrooms and running water, Polnareff could nearly dance into the lobby of the hotel and kiss the attendant at the front desk.

He could also kiss someone else, now that he thinks about it. Once it comes to mind, he throws himself at Mr. Joestar, yelling about how he wants to room with Abdul.

“Do you plan to go to sleep, Mohammad?” Polnareff pipes up, watching from his bed, legs crossed, as Abdul went about undoing his intricate hairstyle, standing before the hotel room vanity. Glancing over his shoulder towards the other man, Abdul removes a tie from one of the tight knots of hair. A few thick locks spring out and cascade down his shoulder.

Polnareff swallows hard, watching. He's entirely hypnotized by the shifting of muscles in Abdul's forearms as he removed knot after knot of hair. Enamored by the tight curls of his locks, Polnareff stares with a slightly agape mouth, cheeks flaring up with a blush.

“Not immediately,” Abdul answers, turning away again to face the mirror. Polnareff barely processes what's been said. He lets out a breath and says, “Oh, okay.”

“And you?”

“I, uh. I'm kind of restless, y'know?” Polnareff answers, truthfully. He twists his fingers in his lap anxiously and watches as Abdul runs his fingers through his hair a few times.

“How come?” Abdul asks his reflection, reaching out to take the brush from the surface of the vanity.

“I have s-something on my mind. Something that's been bothering me for a while,” Polnareff says as he scratches at the back of his neck, bashful and reluctant. Abdul arches a thick brow and glances towards Polnareff through the mirror as he gently glides the brush through his locks.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Polnareff remains silent for a moment. He feels his heart pound rapidly in his chest, beating and beating away against his ribcage and threatening to break free. His cheeks burn with a hot blush and he sincerely hopes the red doesn't show on his pale skin.

“...Sure. When you're done.”

Nodding, Abdul goes back to brushing his hair. As he does that, Polnareff gets up and grabs his bag from the floor. He needs to brush his teeth beforehand. Just in case.

When he comes back out a few minutes later (after checking up on his hair, brushing his teeth, chewing on a breath mint, running through a thousand different possibilities and words and scenarios and outcomes), he finds Abdul sitting on his bed, lacking his maroon robe. His broad shoulders show, now that he's only wearing the beige undershirt, noticeably missing his scarf as well. Abdul glances up and offers an inviting arch of a brow. Polnareff swallows hard and sucks in a breath before pacing up to him and the bed. He plops down beside him and rubs nervously at his forearm.

“So, what's troubling you? Unless you've changed your mind, of course,” Abdul says kindly, prompting him to talk. Polnareff shyly flicks his gaze over to meet his, before looking back down at his knees.

Why is he so nervous? (They're both men.) He's done this many times before. He considers himself smooth when it comes to romance. (When it involves a woman.) It should be fine, right? Abdul wouldn't hate him, would he? (He's Muslim, this is sin in his religion.) Abdul said he was fine with homosexual men, right? (People just say that. Everyone knows being gay is weird or wrong.)

But he's not gay. Polnareff has thought about it late at night as he watched the desert stars and he'd come to the conclusion he can't be gay. He's never felt for a man like this before in his life. Sexual attraction, yes. Definitely. But... love? Truly intimate feelings that he could only feel for women? Those feelings were strictly for women. Why now, and why Abdul?

Will Abdul hate him for saying this?

“I...” Polnareff whispers, pausing to shakily drift his tongue along his bottom lip. He sucks in a breath and peeks over at Abdul again. He's watching him with those patient, kind eyes of his. Waiting for him to open up to him and speak his mind. How could Abdul be so... wonderful? He's so breath-takingly beautiful, so understanding, so caring, so confident that Polnareff wouldn't destroy their current friendship with three little words. Polnareff doesn't have the right to even say this to him. Abdul deserves someone better.

“I love you,” Polnareff forces out of himself in a weak whisper before he could convince himself otherwise. It rushes from his larynx and lungs like a wheeze of words. It comes out terribly wrong. He tightens his hands into fists on his lap, face burning up. His heart is light and flying away in his chest, his stomach in knots, his toes curling in his boots.

The moment of silence that follows lingers far too long and has him peeking over at the other. Abdul is staring at him with blatant astonishment in his eyes. He looks entirely blown away with dumbfounded surprise.

But then he blinks once, twice, before his face relaxes a fraction. He lets out a breath, sets a careful (faintly trembling) hand on Polnareff's thigh, and asks in a nearly hopeful voice, “Do you mean platonically, Jean?”

When Polnareff meets his gaze, he finds apprehension and worry. Polnareff's heart dives headfirst into his stomach. Swallowing hard, Polnareff tries to battle the increasing anxiety that's wringing the breath from his lungs. His cheeks heat up so much he can feel them burn.

“No,” he mutters, clumsily reaching down and grabbing hard onto Abdul's hand, his fingers curling around his tightly. He looks down, like a coward. Face alight with a red tint, he shakily exhales and whispers, “I love you as I would love a woman, Mohammad. I dream of holding you, of kissing you, of sleeping with you at night and sharing intimacy unlike friendship.”

Peeking up at the other man, Polnareff's hopeful sapphire eyes meet Abdul's. Abdul searches in his eyes with his thick eyebrows furrowed, his lips set in a firm frown. Polnareff bites his lip and slowly lets go of Abdul's hand.

“Sorry. I know you're not... into men, but I just wanted to get it off my chest.”

Abdul removes his hand from Polnareff's thigh but instead of setting it in his own lap like Polnareff expected, he places it over Polnareff's on the bed, between their thighs like in the car before.

“Don't apologize,” Abdul says, voice calm and displaying very little emotion. Polnareff couldn't tell whether he was disturbed or shaken. The returning touch to his hand is promising, though. It makes Polnareff's heart leap to a start. He swallows hard, again, and glances up at the other man.

Abdul is gazing down at their hands, seemingly in thought. He strokes his thumb along the back of Polnareff's hand, brow remaining furrowed. Polnareff waits for him to say something, anything. Abdul sighs, quietly, before speaking in a low murmur.

“I suspected this, truthfully...”

Looking up to meet Polnareff's shaky gaze, Abdul searches in his eyes as he goes on, voice collected and somber, “I feel something for you, Jean. I... have felt the same, when it comes to wanting to embrace you. To share intimacy with you. But I—I cannot love you.”

Breath hitching, Polnareff says nothing at first, only looks into his eyes with confusion in his own.

“Why?” Polnareff breathes, his heart already beginning to ache. He isn't sure he wants to hear it. Regardless, the desire for an intimate connection has him turning his hand around slowly as an invitation. Without speaking, Abdul glances down, his long eyelashes standing out and earning an appreciative stare from the other man. Abdul's rough, broad fingers slide between his, a back and forth, before touching at his palm.

“I cannot love you because it is not what is to become of me,” Abdul says lowly, his golden eyes flicking up to meet Polnareff's. He threads his fingers through the Frenchman's and murmurs, “I need you to understand, Jean. I cannot love you.”

“Is it because of your religion?” Polnareff spits out shakily with an expression of desperation flickering across his face. He shifts closer towards Abdul, fingers squeezing tightly around his, “If it is, I—I wouldn't tell a soul, Mohammad. Sins are forgiven, are they not? Please, just give it a chance.”

“I can't,” Abdul murmurs, jaw tensing, his intense amber eyes searching in Polnareff's, “You need to understand. I can't.”

Polnareff wants more answers. Why can't you? Do you feel for me as I feel for you?

But, Abdul then sets his other hand on the back of his neck over long silver locks, rendering him speechless and weakening his desperation. Abdul's burning gaze fixed intently on his says more words than what's already been spoken.

Sucking in a breath, Polnareff pauses, waiting. He doesn't let Abdul's denial crush him when it's not quite over just yet. He lets it happen when Abdul slides his broad hand around to the side of his pale neck, his broad fingers fanning out over his skin. His touch electrifies Polnareff; he's trembling, breathing a little harder, face burning up with a deep blush. The simple glide of his warm, calloused hand across the muscle of his neck has him so worked up already.

Abdul's gaze continues to bore into his, his mane of curly locks surrounding his face. Seeing the other man like this—so close to him with his hair down and eyes filled with intimate desire—takes Polnareff's breath away. Staring into his fiery eyes with his heart pounding away gives him this sort of anticipation he hasn't felt in so long. He feels like a teenager again—Desperately eager for more. For touch, for a kiss, for anything. Whatever it is, he wants more of Abdul.

His gaze flicks between Abdul's beautiful eyes, his dark wavy locks, and his full lips. He wants to kiss him. Abdul's hand rises up over the expanse of his neck, touching softly, tenderly. His calloused fingers then rest along the curve of his strong jaw. Polnareff shivers at the touch, panting now with his pupils blown wide and hand squeezing tightly around Abdul's on the bed.

Kiss him, Polnareff thinks rapidly, eyes wide and eager lips fallen open. Kiss him, kiss him, kiss him—

“K—Kiss me,” Polnareff whispers, his fingers squeezing around Abdul's. Abdul glances down to his mouth. Polnareff sucks in a breath and tenses up as Abdul leans in, head angled, and kisses him. Polnareff brings his hand up and slowly curls it around the back of Abdul's neck, his curly black locks bunching up under the touch. Polnareff's eyes flutter shut as he melts into the heat of his plump lips.

It takes a few experimental purses of their mouths before they find a slow, gentle tempo. Abdul's hand is like fire on his skin, running up over his jaw to hold the side of his head with his thumb placed on his cheek. The intimacy of the touch mends with that of the kiss, effectively melting Polnareff's entire core and leaving him a shaky, blushing mess. His hand curls into a loose fist in Abdul's thick locks, his breathless pants slipping in between the back and forth of their mouths.

When Abdul pulls away, slow and careful, Polnareff licks his sore, kissed lips and cracks his eyes open to meet his gaze. A smile pulls across his mouth when he notices how the other man is flushed too.

Bringing his hand back from Abdul's hair, he instead cups his scarred cheek and sets a thumb on his plump bottom lip. Abdul blinks and watches Polnareff's blushing face as the Frenchman murmurs shyly, “Can you sleep with me tonight, Mohammad? I mean, as in a—actually sleeping.”

He slides his thumb down over Abdul's lip, to his chin. His bottom lip drags with it, the Egyptian's dilated eyes widening a bit. That was kinda cute. Polnareff grins.

Clearing his throat quietly, Abdul raises his hand to grip Polnareff's, taking it from his face to press a simple kiss to his curled fingers. Polnareff lets out a deep breath at that, eyes becoming lidded with adoration. Abdul smiles gently.

“Alright.”

The long rays of warm sunlight peering in through the ajar drapes spills across Polnareff's upper half and his face, gradually waking him up the longer the light burns through his eyelids. He groggily cracks open his eyes and then immediately squints, blinded by the light. He sluggishly props up on an elbow and moves to sit up, but then he processes the heavy weight on his waist and looks down to see a broad arm around him.

Oh, right.

He glances behind himself to see a sleeping Abdul, his curly hair surrounding him and splaying across the pillow. His eyelashes are long, resting high over his cheeks. Polnareff wants to touch at them, but better not disturb the other man. So instead he flops back down and shyly scoots back, closer to Abdul. Once his back meets a broad chest, he sighs and grabs his pillow to smack it over his face, shielding the sun from his eyes. A smile crawls across his lips. He thinks to himself that he likes the weight of Abdul's warm arm around his bare midsection.

He falls back to sleep within five minutes, but only after his hand crawled down to rest over Abdul's on the bed.

The soft call of his name and a warm sensation pressing again and again to his shoulder and neck stirs Polnareff back to consciousness. Only when he drowsily cracks his eyes open does he realize that sensation is Abdul's lips, pressing to his skin gently. Eyes widening, he slowly turns onto his back, looking up at Abdul with an appalled expression.

“Were you under the impression I wouldn't express affection after what's been said?” Abdul muses softly, a grin easing across his full lips once he lays gentle eyes on Polnareff's face. He reaches up and brushes back a few stray locks of silver from Polnareff's rumpled hairstyle with careful, blunt fingertips. Polnareff swallows hard and glances down to Abdul's smiling lips fleetingly.

“Well... oui,” Polnareff admits, meeting his gaze again. Abdul's grin softens a bit and he hums, before saying quietly, “I assume you were afraid of my response being less than understanding.”

“Yes, again.”

“Why?” Abdul whispers, cupping Polnareff's jaw now and resting a broad thumb over the dip of his chin.

“You know why,” he murmurs, shifting a bit on the bed. Though he didn't dare move too much; he didn't want to break the moment, and much less their position. He liked having the other man leaning over him. “It's normal of me to expect you to be disgusted. Man should not love man.”

“So society preaches,” Abdul remarks, arching a thick brow. “But I am not society.”

“No, you're only Mohammad. Whom, might I add, is Muslim. Considering homosexuality is punishable by death in Isla—”

Pressing the same finger to Polnareff's mouth, Abdul shushes him with his face becoming stern. Polnareff furrows his brow, annoyed he's been silenced, but before he could go on, Abdul speaks.

“A man isn't defined by his religion,” he says.

Pushing Abdul's hand away, now frowning, Polnareff huffs. He moves to sit up, the other man politely moving aside to let him.

“And yet you won't tell me why you can't love me? I can only assume it's because you're Muslim, Mohammad!”

“Jean, you said it yourself,” Abdul cuts in, frustrated now. He sits up and crosses his arms loosely, wild locks falling about his shoulders and face in a mess of curls.

“It is punishable by death, or time in prison. Do you truly think I would risk your life and freedom for a fleeting relationship?”

“Fleeting?” Polnareff repeats, baffled with an offended expression blooming on his face. Entirely missing the point. Abdul presses his lips firmly together, face setting into a stoney look. Polnareff stands from the bed, noticeably upset.

“I had no intention that it would be fleeting! I didn't think it would be limited to the remainder of the trip, Mohammad!” Polnareff snaps, voice raised with a hand thrown up. Then he presses that hand to his forehead, shadowing his frustrated face. Abdul remains where he sits, watching the other man silently. Polnareff sighs, drops the hand and mutters, “I meant it when I said I love you. I don't mean I love you for the next few weeks, I meant I love you for as long as that feeling persists. Which, I feel, would last longer than a relatively small number of days. I want to stay with you, even after we kill Dio.”

“Jean... Can you not see why that would be foolish?” Abdul says gently, his hardened face softened to something pleading, “It would heighten the risk. Both of us would be at risk, if our relationship lasted. Unless you had the willpower to refrain from doing anything remotely suggestive in public, which I sincerely doubt, I couldn't stay with you in Cairo.”

“Why does it have to be Cairo?” Polnareff retorts petulantly, riled up again with a displeased frown on his face. He crosses his muscular arms and huffs, “It would have to be in France, Mohammad. I couldn't live in Cairo, no way. And I sincerely doubt that we would be hung in France for holding hands in public.”

“Why are you discussing it like our relationship is sure to happen? Jean, I have a reason to stay in Cairo myself,” Abdul says, voice careful and low, his cautious amber eyes fixed up on Polnareff's flushed, frustrated face. Polnareff, again, looks startled and then hurt flashes fleetingly in his eyes like a crack of lightning—its there a second, but gone the next. All that replaces it is disbelief. He swallows hard and then speaks again, voice tense.

“I guess discussing it is pointless if you see it that way.”

For a moment, Abdul is stunned. Appalled that Polnareff isn't looking at this from a practical point of view. That maybe this isn't the best time in either of their lives to discuss romance. That maybe Abdul has loose ends to tie in his city. That maybe it isn't only about how he feels, it's also about how Abdul feels. That maybe having a life together isn't meant for them; at least not yet. Not when there's so much uncertainty, so much fate that has yet to fall upon them.

That momentary silence is lengthy enough for Polnareff to suck in a sharp breath and then leave the room, striding into the adjoined bathroom before firmly shutting the door behind himself. Rather childishly, Abdul thinks tiredly. He supposes that maybe he should give Polnareff some time to think. But then again, Polnareff could overthink it if Abdul doesn't knock on the door. That maybe he doesn't care enough to console him. Sighing, Abdul gets up from the bed and approaches the closed bathroom door.

“Jean,” he calls gently, tapping a knuckle once against the wood. He rests his shoulder against the door and waits. He hears sniffling and then a surprisingly inviting, “Come in... If you want.”

Gripping the doorknob, Abdul enters slowly and peeks in to see Polnareff at the sink, taking out his earrings to set them on the counter of it. Through his reflection, Abdul could see his nose and eye area were tinted red, but those are the only indications that he had been upset.

“I know I'm being childish. I am just eager to love you,” Polnareff admits with a shaky tone of voice, his head lowering to hide his trembling lip. Abdul notices it though, like he notices most things. He steps up behind the other man and draws his arms around him in a warm embrace that has Polnareff shuddering. Abdul rests his scarred cheek on his freckled shoulder and exhales deeply, troubled by how he had upset Polnareff.

“I never said I don't love you. I am only trying to keep you safe, Jean. Love is no excuse for suffering. I will not let you suffer. As for Cairo or France... It will take time.”

Polnareff remains silent for a moment, tense, before he turns in Abdul's embrace to face him. Abdul's face is a little guarded, though Polnareff can see the sincerity and softness in his golden eyes. It makes him smile, faintly.

“I know... I just don't want to wait.”

“I understand,” Abdul murmurs, drifting his weathered hands up over Polnareff's bare sides, across pale freckled skin. Polnareff shivers again and bites his lip. Abdul brings his hands up to cup his jaw, holding his face gingerly.

He leans in to place one soft kiss to Polnareff's freckled cheek. That simple peck swoons Polnareff and has his face burning up with a blush, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. He bites his lip, hands raising to shyly clutch at Abdul's back, fingers spreading out over the wrinkled fabric of Abdul's sleeping shirt. Abdul meets his gaze again and says firmly, “We cannot be together. I cannot love you as I would love my partner. But... behind doors, I can kiss you. I can hold you, as often as you may want. That is what I meant to convey.”

Hearing Abdul say this has Polnareff exhaling shakily, his hands curling into fists on his back, clutching at his shirt tightly. Just a day before he had no hope that Abdul returned even a portion of his feelings, but apparently he does, and it's very much a reality. His face burns with a deep blush that reaches his ears. He nods.

“If you think that's best, I guess I won't argue...”

Abdul presses a loving kiss to his forehead, between his furrowed eyebrows, and then pulls away to gaze at him with gentle eyes and an even gentler smile.

“Now, we should shower if we plan to meet up with the others for breakfast downstairs.”

An alarmed look flashes across Polnareff's face at that. Abdul pauses, and then laughs when he realizes what Polnareff has in mind.

“Separately.”

“Aw, man.”

Laughing, Abdul fleetingly places a hand on Polnareff's freckled, flushed cheek and then shortly leaves to give him the privacy of the bathroom.

At breakfast, Polnareff and Abdul sit beside each other at the table in the dining area. While Abdul speaks to Mr. Joestar about their traveling plans that evening, Polnareff brushes his finger down the back of the Egyptian's hand under the table. Abdul pauses momentarily mid-sentence and then pulls his hand away before casually setting both hands on the table top. Polnareff swallows hard and from then on keeps his hands to himself.

Later that day around 19:00, following the incidents involving Bastet and Set, Mr. Joestar cracked under the weight of group exhaustion and booked at least one more night to give them time to rest before hitting Cairo. He arranged for them to meet up, all packed and ready to go, at three in the morning—if only to reach Cairo at 11:00, giving them the full day to discover Dio's whereabouts.

So, when Abdul enters the hotel room, he expects to find a worn down Polnareff lost in the sea of blankets, snoring away. Instead, he walks in (after a lengthy discussion with Joseph in the next room) with intention to get ready for a long nap to find Polnareff at the radio, fingers on the dial turning it up.

The melody of REO Speedwagon's Can't Fight This Feeling suddenly bursts through the room and Polnareff is already on it, belting out enthusiastically with a raised hand, “And I can't fight this feeling anymoreee!”

Once the initial surprise passes, Abdul just slips into the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind himself. The song filters in regardless, chasing after him, as well as Polnareff's obnoxious singing. He doesn't mind it though; it even makes him smile.

As he goes about undoing his hair and washing his face, he hears the other passionately sing along, as well as the thump, thump, thump of his feet—he's, no doubt, dancing around obnoxiously. By the time he finishes up and exits the bathroom, he walks into the room to see Polnareff with a hand placed upon his chest, his other hand raised high and clenched into a fist. He sings the final line with a soft tone and clenched eyes, “Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymooore.... Ooooh...”

“Much more charming than your attempt at Hold Me Now,” Abdul muses as he steps up to his bag he previously set on the hotel room desk. He stuffs his things into their respective pockets as Polnareff gasps, entirely offended. Glancing over towards the panting Frenchman, Abdul finds disbelief on his face, his fist slowly lowering.

“How dare you! I sung that perfectly!”

“Maybe, but then again you almost ran over a man leading three cows.”

“Hey! At least I hit the high notes! No one was willing to sing the backup vocals, so I had to do it!”

Amongst the babbling of the radio host, Abdul gives him an amused look and then with a sweep of his hands he pulls back his red robe and lets it fall into the crooks of his elbows. Turning to approach his bed, he removes it entirely and drapes it over the bed. Polnareff watches silently, his argument forgotten now that Abdul's broad back and muscular arms are exposed to his gaze. His long, curly mane of hair billows around him as he moves about, like eye candy for Polnareff to eat up. That is, until the foreign radio host stops yammering and puts on the next song that Polnareff instantly recognizes.

He grins and claps his hands together enthusiastically, shouting, “Yes! This station knows what I like!”

Abdul glances over at the other excited man as he takes out his heavy earrings and drapes the necklace over the nightstand. Even he recognizes this one. It's much slower and gentler than the last. He smiles, watching as Polnareff dances; sways of his hips, rolls of his head, hands clapping together. He's in his own world and it makes Abdul chuckle. He approaches him and when he reaches out to take him by the wrist, Polnareff opens his eyes and looks at the other with surprise. When Abdul hooks a hand around his broad side and pulls him closer, Polnareff grins and realizes what he's up to.

“You're so cheesy,” he laughs as Abdul clutches at his hand and begins to sway him side to side. Abdul's lips curl into a grin. He slides his hand further around Polnareff's back, his hair swinging along with the slow rocking of their bodies.

“You like it,” he retorts, gazing into his bright blue eyes fondly, stroking his thumb over the back of his hand. Polnareff gives a shrug with a tilt of his head, grinning widely with his dimples appearing.

Then the soft melody and lyrics of the song claim the silence as Abdul leads him around in slow looping circles, hand fanning out over the small of the Frenchman's back. In return, with the hand on his shoulder, Polnareff runs exploratory fingers through his thick curls, lips softened into something gentle. Abdul's fiery eyes are intense, burning brightly with a passion Polnareff notices when he gazes into them.

Sparks of gold and brown are scattered throughout the amber of his irises, Polnareff notices. His eyes are sharp and simply gorgeous. Polnareff can gaze into them forever, admiring and losing himself in them. It's such a cliché thing for him to think, but it's true. Abdul's eyes are the most breath-taking he's ever seen. He swallows hard and can't help but glance down at their bodies—he's getting really flustered and it's throwing him off, even if they're just effortlessly rocking side to side. Abdul, unlike him, seems calm.

This started out silly and fun but now Polnareff is feeling that familiar crush of something much more meaningful and romantic. Daryl Hall's soothing, soft voice speaks for the both of them as they sway side to side: “Oh, there's nothing else but you and me.... I want no one else, I don't want no one else—”

With flushed cheeks, Polnareff bites his lips and then leans in closer to the other, to boldly rest his head down against his shoulder. Abdul's warm, rough fingers curled around his squeeze and then slowly thread their fingers together, lazily and comfortably. Polnareff closes his eyes, face hot and heart hammering away.

Dancing with Abdul like this makes him feel like he's floating; his heart is light and his stomach is filled with butterflies. He feels content.

Abdul is silent, sliding his broad hand up slowly and firmly over the center of his back, across tight spandex. And then down again. Polnareff's ears begin to burn with his gradually expanding blush. He slowly, shyly slides his hand in from Abdul's shoulder to rest his fingers along the curve of his warm neck.

The song begins to drift off, the last few softly spoken words curling around their rocking bodies: “Just you and me, you and me, you and me...”

As the melodic notes trailed off into the swiftly spoken foreign language of the radio host, they gradually came to a stop, hands lowering as Polnareff lifted his head from Abdul's shoulder. They regarded each other with faint smiles. Abdul reached up and briefly cupped his freckled cheek.

“Let's get some sleep, mon doux amour. We have an early morning tomorrow.”

Polnareff waits, seated on the far end of the bed with a jiggling foot and crossed arms as Abdul showers. A quick shower before bed, he had claimed. But Polnareff has grown impatient. Sitting out here alone had gotten him thinking about what occurred earlier in the day with Alessi.

He wants Abdul out here now. He wants to kiss him now. After nearly being strangled to death in a bathtub full of water, he's found each moment with Abdul more precious than the last. When they could be killed within the hour, he doesn't want to waste time being apart from Abdul. Well, if he could join Abdul... Then that would be different.

Actually, thinking that has Polnareff's foot pausing mid-jiggle. Standing from the bed, he approaches the bathroom door and leans against it, hearing only the running of the water. He knocks on the door and in return Abdul calls out, “Yes?”

“Can I come in?” Polnareff asks, blushing a little. Usually he would just parade right in and do whatever it is he intended to do (to piss, to fix his hair) but he wants to be careful this time. Abdul lets out a confirmation and then Polnareff is entering the steamy room.

He hesitates, hands clenching up by his sides, and then he lets out a deep breath. Leaning against the wall beside the shower curtain, Polnareff bites his lip and crosses his arms loosely. Abdul must have sensed something's up because he then asks, “Was there something you came here for, Jean?”

“Can I join you?”

Spitting it out always saved him from hesitation and embarrassment.

There's a long moment of consideration before he hears Abdul say past the rushing of the water, “Alright.”

Polnareff immediately grins and then begins to undress.

Seeing Abdul when he first steps in past the curtain makes his heart swell. Abdul's body is more broad than muscular. Though his legs and arms are definitely muscled—tense with fit muscle and power as water rushes over them tantalizingly. Polnareff nearly squeaks when he notices how Abdul's stomach is not only a cute amount of hairy, but soft. Not rock hard abs like himself or Jotaro. He's tempted to reach out and squeeze his tum. How cute! Not in an emasculating way, though. No, definitely not. It really suits him.

Polnareff presses a hand to his cheek and looks him up and down, mouth agape and face heating up considerably. If Abdul notices his staring, he doesn't laugh or make a teasing comment.

Polnareff's own nudity is forgotten as he eyes up the hair across Abdul's arms and legs, as well as the bit on his chest. His curly body hair is thickest right above—Polnareff blushes even harder and slaps his hands over his face. Abdul had been eating up the sight of his nakedness as well but paused and then chuckled, amused by his bashfulness.

“Come now, you've seen me nearly this nude before, Jean.”

“Not as nude!” He squawks, still standing rather flustered in the corner of the shower with his styled hair gradually flopping over from the weight of the building water.

With a soft laugh, Abdul steps closer. When he begins to run his fingers through Polnareff's stiff locks, Polnareff reluctantly, slowly, draws his hands away from his face and peeks up at the other shyly. Abdul smiles at him and continues unraveling his hair until it falls limply against the sides of his face and neck.

“There,” Abdul says softly, running his hands down over his long locks before cupping his face. Polnareff's heart jumps into his throat when Abdul confidently stepped forward and connected their lips with a firm pressing of his mouth to Polnareff's. Melting, Polnareff closes his eyes and sets his hands on Abdul's sides. Feeling Abdul's hot skin, so very bare like this, has him eagerly sliding his hands up over his sides, fingers beginning to shake as he eats up the skin on skin contact. Abdul's curly locks brush over his hands when he rests them on his shoulder blades, arms hooked lazily around his torso.

Polnareff feels Abdul's broad hand cup the side of his face, thumb resting over his freckled cheek. A shudder passes through him upon feeling Abdul's plump lips messily kiss at his bottom lip and chin, his mouth wandering a bit off target.

When the Egyptian plants one last smooch to his forehead and pulls away, Polnareff retracts his hands from embracing the other man and instead clutched at Abdul's face. Blinking widely at Polnareff, Abdul holds still, waiting for whatever Polnareff intended to do.

And apparently he intends to plant a soft kiss between Abdul's thick, messy brows, against the rugged scar. A warm smile graces Abdul's lips when Polnareff slowly pulls back and looks at him with tender blue eyes.

As they're both toweling off in the small space of the bathroom, Polnareff peeks back at the other. Abdul is squeezing the water from his voluminous hair, leaning over to do so. Sweeping his gaze down over Abdul's body, he stares at his broad torso, his thick thighs, his ass. Polnareff feels blood rush into his face—and southwards.

He looks away and with a blushing face he vigorously shakes his hair out with his hands, sending a flurry of droplets onto the other man without realizing. Abdul pauses at first, and then in retaliation he swats him on the thigh with his towel, a faint smile spreading across his mouth. Polnareff jumps in surprise and looks at him, seemingly offended with his hands still in his hair. But when Abdul laughs, he drops the scandalized look and then grins widely in return. They share a laugh before Polnareff mischievously grabs his own towel. He smacks it lightly against Abdul's laughing face and in return Abdul calls forth Magician's Red, who then lets out a shrill shriek that drowns out Polnareff's own startled yell.

Sharing intimacy through sex has always been one of Polnareff's greatest enjoyments, but really, simply laying with someone in bed, skin on skin, is a close second.

Their legs are tangled, and Polnareff is resting his forehead against Abdul's collarbone. Abdul has a hand on his bare side. With his other hand, he threads wide fingers through damp locks of silver. Polnareff can hear the beating of Abdul's heart this close.

While the pleasure of sex is addictive, so is the simple sharing of warmth. Polnareff always enjoyed laying nude with someone, without the anticipation of upcoming lovemaking. He sighs softly, happily, and turns his head to rest his cheek to Abdul's chest. It puts a stiffness in his neck, but it's worth it, hearing the pronounced thump, thump, thump of Abdul's heart.

Sensing Polnareff's physical discomfort, Abdul curls his arm around his side and rolls onto his back, pulling the other man along so he's resting atop his chest, their legs wound together. Polnareff's hot blush crawls up from his freckled face to his ears, eyes wide and fixed on Abdul's caramel skin. His half-hard dick presses against Abdul's hip with their change of position and if Abdul is bothered by it, Polnareff can't tell. For the first few minutes of silence, it runs through Polnareff's thoughts.

Will he subtly, wordlessly, push him away to prevent the contact? Does it even matter to Abdul? So what, it's just genitalia, right? But in this position and circumstance, Polnareff can only think of it leading up to something else. So he wonders if Abdul will act on the realization that Polnareff is half-hard. Maybe not. Probably not. But he shouldn't be so wound up about it. This is supposed to just be nice and warm and chaste. No sex, no sex, no sex—

Polnareff gnaws on his bottom lip, face alight with a deep blush. Abdul curls his arm around his shoulders to reach up and begin playing with his hair again.

“Relax. You're tense,” he murmurs.

And shaking, Polnareff mentally adds with annoyance. Why is he shaking? What is he, fifteen? Jesus. Why is he so damn focused on sex all the time? He doesn't need to make love with Abdul. It doesn't have to happen. He squeezes his eyes shut and forcefully shoves the thought away. He sighs and nods against Abdul's chest and closes his eyes. He instead focuses on the beating of his heart.

“I was thinking...” Polnareff speaks a few minutes later after a wordless silence, peeking up at Abdul who tucks his chin in to meet the glance, “I want to call you something other than 'Mohammad'. Something cute.”

“Do you have anything in mind?” Abdul asks, resting his warm hand on Polnareff's bicep in favor of stroking his hair. Polnareff smiles faintly, eyes closed and hand fanning out over Abdul's hairy belly. He mindlessly twirls his fingers around the curls and then shrugs weakly.

“I could only think of one good one...”

“And that is?”

“Don't laugh... Momo.”

Abdul's abrupt stillness, which no doubt is brought on by his bafflement, has Polnareff nearly laughing himself. When an amused snort slips from Abdul, Polnareff pinches his soft belly in revenge, frowning.

“Hey. What did I say!”

“I—I'm sorry but that makes me sound like—like a ten year old. Or perhaps a cat.”

“But it's cute! I wouldn't say it around the others!”

Polnareff rises up onto his elbow and frowns bitterly down at the smiling Abdul. Though his frown doesn't last long. Seeing Abdul with his curly hair strewn about, eyes soft and full lips in a warm smile clenches at Polnareff's heart and has him biting his lip. If they were in a cartoon, Polnareff knows his eyes would be in the shape of hearts right about now.

A grin splits across his face before he leans in, head angled and silver hair caressing Abdul's face. He kisses him firmly. Abdul chuckles against his mouth, a vibration running between their pursed lips, and cups a gentle hand around the side of Polnareff's neck. Polnareff runs his hand down over Abdul's forearm and then once he finds his hand among the covers of the hotel bed, he threads their fingers together and kisses him a little harder, with a little more love stitched into every purse of his lips.

“Alright,” Abdul breathlessly says after a lengthy five minutes of kissing, grinning up at the other with flushed, bitten lips, “You may call me Momo, when it is just us.”

He catches him singing one day, back in Singapore. The first time he's heard him sing since he joined their group, even if he's only known him for barely a week. He stands at the mirror of the hotel room, hands raised to his hair. He's fixing up his hair; he slides two fingers through his curly dark locks, grasps a few of said locks, twists them up and ties them into an intricate knot with a tiny hairband. Over and over again, and that in itself should mesmerize Polnareff.

But upon entering Abdul hotel room, unnoticed by the Egyptian, he's enamored mostly by his singing. He can hear the song. It plays past the open window of the room, from the radio a floor down in the outside cafe. Polnareff smiles, watching as Abdul's hips cock in time with the melody as his low, deep voice flows through the room—albeit quietly.

“I want to break free from your lies,” Abdul sings—though he isn't very passionate, it's very casual and half-spoken, but that's what charms Polnareff the most, “You're so self satisfied, I don't need you.”

As Abdul goes about winding up the rest of his locks with practiced motions and twists of his fingers, he drifts closer and closer to the window to gain a better hearing of the song. He continues, along with Freddie: “I've fallen in love—I've fallen in love for the first time... And this time I know it's for real.”

That brief pause that comes before the next line has Polnareff grinning and stepping into the room. Abdul doesn't hear his footsteps.

“God knows!” Polnareff bellows the next lyric, throwing himself closer to the other with a raise of an energetic hand. Jumping out of his skin, Abdul whirls around to look at him with wide, alarmed eyes, hands still raised to his hair. Laughing, Polnareff belts out passionately with a sweep of his arm, “God knows I've fallen in love! It's strange but it's true, hey! I can't get over the way you love me like you do!”

Pumping a fist, Polnareff finishes triumphantly with a wide grin on his face, “But I have to be sure, when I walk out that door! Oh, how I want to be free, baby!”

“Polnareff,” Abdul scolds him with a huff, finishing up the last few knots of his hairstyle before crossing his arms. Snickering, Polnareff waggles his hairless eyebrows and like a dork, dances on over to the other man.

“Hey, hey, don't let me stop you! I love that song, Abdul! Keep it going!”

“I think not.”

“Aw! Don't leave me and Freddie hanging!”

Despite Abdul's blatant annoyance, Polnareff does notice the faint smile on his full lips and the (embarrassed) blush that began to fill his cheeks. Polnareff lets it go, but only because the fluttering of his heart distracts him from the lack of his charming singing.

“Hey, Momo?”

Glancing up from the newspaper in his hands, Abdul pauses upon seeing Silver Chariot drawn, hovering behind Polnareff with its doe-like eyes fixed on the Egyptian.

“Why are we speaking through our Stands, Jean?” Abdul arches a brow at the other man.

“I wanted to ask something that I know you wouldn't want others to hear,” Silver Chariot relays to Abdul, its user biting his lip and crossing his muscular arms. At this, Abdul sets the newspaper down and prompts him to ask with a raise of a hand.

Polnareff sighs audibly and readjusts himself on the creaky wooden chair that is much too small for him. He fiddles with his cup of tea atop the dinky little table of the Cairo cafe they sat in, eyes downcast. Obviously nervous. He peeks up at Abdul and speaks through his meek Stand.

“I wanted to know where we stand. Like, just lay it out. I don't want to have empty hope for something that may never happen, y'know?”

The clinking of silverware and the buzz of bugs fill the silence that follows, thoughtful on Abdul's part. He lets out a deep exhale and takes a moment to gather his words. He searches in Polnareff's hopeful eyes, his own hard and calculating. Then he says what's on his mind, repeating them verbally through his Stand, “I love you. Being with you makes me happy. I would say it puts me at peace, but that's not very true. Our opinions clash quite often.”

Polnareff pouts at him and Abdul smirks a little, teasing. Then it fades to a stern frown.

“Regardless, I won't start an official relationship with you. We aren't meant to be as one and that is only our fate,” Abdul says lowly through Magician's Red, his golden eyes trained on Polnareff's. He leans back into his chair and loosely crosses his arms. A softer expression comes to his face. He continues, honest, “I want to be with you. I want to love you as much as I am able in the privacy and brevity of this trip. But it won't last. Once this trip ends, we will go our ways and maybe as years pass, we may meet again. As reuniting friends... Not lovers.”

A long pause passes, consisting of Polnareff's attempts to look unperturbed by what's been said and to restrain the tightening of his throat. He fails in both aspects and swallows hard, in attempt to force down the rock in his throat.

“Okay. I guess as long as it's not one-sided,” Polnareff says, voice schooled. He looks down to his tea and sulks a little bit, eyes stinging and heart clenching up. He's not rejecting you, he's just keeping his distance, Polnareff tries to convince himself.

But it still hurts. He wants all of Abdul, not just the occasional kiss or cuddle. He wants to be Abdul's other half, in and out of public. He wants Abdul to want it too. Abdul speaks, this time in his own low voice, tone calm and gentle.

“And you? Where do you stand, Jean.”

Abdul glances up when Silver Chariot hovers closer. He pauses when the Stand stares straight at him, big blue eyes soft. Meeting Polnareff's gaze, he sees a firm emotion in them; a mixture of sincerity, determination, adoration. Abdul finds himself hypnotized by the dazzling sapphire.

“Soon we'll find Dio,” Polnareff says quietly, shifting closer and setting a broad forearm on the tiny table. Searching in Abdul's eyes, he continues, caring very little if he's overheard, though he does keep his voice low, “And I am scared of the day when we separate... I want this to last longer than the upcoming week that will surely put an end to our efforts. It took some time, but... I—I eventually came to the realization that I...”

He trails off, and lets Silver Chariot speak for him with a softened expression on its face, “Je t'aime. I have never fallen for a man before.”

“Are you so sure that it's love?” Abdul asks in return with an arched brow, using Magician's Red. His bulky, feathered Stand opens its elongated bill, breathing a bit of fire as it spoke.

It's a bit belated to ask, but he still asks it. Polnareff blinks, taken by surprise. He lets out a deep breath and searches in Abdul's hard eyes.

“Oui,” Polnareff murmurs, almost solemnly, reaching up to clutch at his chest, spandex top bunching up under his white-knuckled grasp, “Seeing you every day fills this gaping hole in my heart. Hearing your voice soothes my soul. I dream of you. I think of you every moment of every day. I cannot imagine losing you, Momo. It... It hurts, thinking about it—not having you.”

Abdul's expression softens at that, his eyes stripped of any doubt or firmness. He first drifts his tongue over his bottom lip, then glances towards the entrance of the cafe.

“Come with me,” Abdul murmurs, uncrossing his arms to reach out and set a gentle, warm hand on Polnareff's sunburned forearm atop the table. Polnareff swallows hard, heart pounding, and nods. After they quickly slap some money on the table, Abdul begins to stride between the tables and shortly out the door, robe flowing from the motion with his long ponytail bouncing with each step. Polnareff hurries after him.

It takes a five minute walk, but eventually they reach the lobby of the hotel they're soon to check out of. Luckily, Abdul hadn't turned in his key yet so with a glance back towards the anxious Frenchman, he gestures to the elevator with a tilt of his head.

Once the door shuts behind them with a confirming click, Abdul turns to him, gives him a tired, tender smile, and then draws him closely into a warm hug. This isn't what Polnareff exactly had in mind. The last few times he's hurried into a hotel room with someone he's into, he ends up in an aggressive make out session against the door or wall that leads up to the inviting bed. But no, instead he finds himself in a tight (bordering on bone-crushing) embrace that has him staring into the room past Abdul's shoulder with wide eyes. When he does lock his arms tightly around Abdul's broad torso, he hides his face in the fabric of his robe and squeezes. Abdul smells like the sun and faint incense. It has Polnareff letting out a shuddering breath and nuzzling even closer.

The desperate hug lasts, though not long enough. When Abdul pulls back, it's slow and with hesitation, his hands running down Polnareff's forearms to clutch his hands in his own.

“Listen, Jean,” Abdul speaks in hushed French, searching in his startled blue eyes. “We... don't have much time left.”

Silent, Polnareff glances across Abdul's face, finding a desperation behind the amber in his eyes. It's an unusual sight. Abdul is rarely uncouth. And it seems like he comes to that realization, that he is acting rather unsettled. So he takes a deep breath, rubs at his brow with agitated fingers, and then levels Polnareff with a calmer gaze.

“Please, forgive me if I am being far too bold,” Abdul murmurs, reaching out to place a (trembling) hand on Polnareff's bicep, “But before we come upon Dio's mansion, which is very soon... I want to make love to you.”

Just like that, a swift punch to the gut and Polnareff is left breathless. He sucks in a breath and looks at the other with widened eyes, heart hammering away. Despite Polnareff's shocked response, Abdul continues with a firm expression, “I swore to Allah I would not touch you in that way. That I shall honor myself and my future wife, but I cannot wait for that. I don't have that opportunity, not anymore.”

“Wh—what, why?” Polnareff sputtered, finally stepping closer to the other and gripping him by the sleeve of his robe, “If you value your beliefs, you don't have to bring it up if it's because of what I said...!”

“No,” Abdul murmurs, smiling faintly now. He brings his hand up, slow and gentle, and brushes a broad, warm thumb down over Polnareff's cheek, across his jaw and then rests it over his chin in an intimate caress. Polnareff swallows hard, face hot and stomach twisting. Abdul exhales, long and deep.

“Like I said, we don't have much time. What you said, Jean, only made me come to the realization that I cannot repress our mutual desires when only regret may follow fate.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Polnareff demands, clutching at Abdul's hand, pulling it from his face and squeezing it tightly. “'Fate'? 'Not much time'? If you want me, Momo, it doesn't have to be limited to our trip! You're talking like this is our last chance.”

“I am only worried,” Abdul says, so soft it's nearly a whisper. He closes the distance between them and rests his forehead against Polnareff's. Polnareff gazes silently at his face, at his long, black eyelashes when he closes his eyes.

He can't help but think Abdul is acting so unlike himself. Something is truly bothering him. It isn't often that he opens up so emotionally to him. Hearing this, witnessing a subtly frightened Abdul, shakes Polnareff up to a point where he wants to just hold Abdul and never let go, promising things will turn out okay, in the end. He doesn't have to worry, he'll always be there for him.

Abdul speaks again, hushed, with his eyes remaining closed.

“I am worried that when we go our ways... When I am no longer near you, that the hole in your heart will re-open, but this time with a greater width. When I cannot be with you, I don't want you to live with 'if only' and 'I should have'... Or 'I wish we could have'. I won't—I...”

He trails off, quietly. After a brief pause of tense silence, Polnareff slowly angles his head and presses a loving, comforting kiss to Abdul's bottom lip. Then, pulling back slightly to gain a better look at his face, he searches in his shaken eyes.

“You're freaking out, Momo. Neither of us will die. I will make sure I won't lose you. I promise you that.”

The weak, unconvinced smile that graces Abdul's full lips scares Polnareff more than anything he's said yet.

“I have seen my fate, Jean. It isn't with you.”

“Fate, later in time, may guide us together again, mon cher.”

A moment of silence passes, with Abdul gazing at him with a fondness in his beautiful eyes. He glances over Polnareff's determined expression; his persistently furrowed eyebrows, his insistent, charming blue eyes, his freckles and strong jaw. Abdul, hand still clutched in Polnareff's, guides their hands to his face and kisses the back of Polnareff's tense hand, eyes falling shut. Then he glances up towards the other man and speaks quietly, a lack of force in his voice.

“Do you want to make love with me, Jean?”

With his ears beginning to burn with a growing blush, Polnareff lets out a shaky exhale and tries to keep his eagerness at bay, giving only a little nod that earns him a wide, warm smile from the Egyptian. Polnareff swallows hard and readjusts his hand around Abdul's so they're holding hands more comfortably, biting his bottom lip meanwhile.

“Can we... Move to the bed. I want to undress you on the bed.”

“Of course.”

Soon Polnareff finds himself on his knees, straddling Abdul's thigh atop the bed. His wide, rough hands are hooking into the long collar of Abdul's deep red robe and slowly drawing it down his back and arms, exposing his sleeveless beige tunic underneath as well as his muscular, dark arms. Polnareff seems already breathless, his chest shuddering with his shaken exhales as he runs his calloused hands down over Abdul's exposed arms. His heart pounds away and his face burns with his deep blush, but despite his body's obvious anxiety, he feels so comforted, kneeling atop Abdul like this.

After gently pulling Abdul's scarf from his neck and then carefully sliding off his head wrap, Polnareff pauses, setting his hands down on the bed on both sides of Abdul's hips. A slight smirk is on Abdul's full lips, growing gradually into a pleased grin as Polnareff eyes him up and then eventually meets his gaze.

When Polnareff leans in to kiss him, their lips meet lightly at first. Polnareff kisses him gently, soft purses of his lips before they become deeper, insistent, hungry. Abdul lets him mouth eagerly at his lips, returning it himself, the wet noises of their kissing filling the overbearing silence of the room. When Polnareff pulls away, Abdul gazes at his flushed face, admiring his wet, kissed lips and dilated eyes.

“You're shaking,” he notices, voice soft and filled with a fondness.

Laughing a little, Polnareff nods.

“I've wanted this... Dreamt of it. Being you with like this gives me this anticipation like nothing else. I can barely contain myself.”

“Then don't,” Abdul murmurs. With a curl of a hand around Polnareff's side, he softly encourages, “Come here. Let me undress you as well.”

Nodding again, Polnareff bites his lip and scoots closer, tensing up with anticipation when Abdul curls broad fingers under the spandex of his top to draw it up over his trembling torso, exposing pale skin and tensing abs. A bashful grin plays at Polnareff's mouth, shivering at the feeling of Abdul's wide, hot hands on his sides, sliding down over pale skin to settle in the dip of his back.

Polnareff presses a brief kiss to Abdul's forehead before he rises from his lap. Abdul watches as the other man kicked off his boots and stepped out of his pants. After tossing the article of clothing aside, Polnareff glances at Abdul and raises a brow, beckoning him forward with a curl of a finger, a grin on his face. Abdul moves to the edge of the bed and leans over to remove his boots as well before rising from the bed, stepping up to Polnareff. Polnareff curls two fingers around the waistband of his pants and tugs him closer.

“Should we be rushing?” Polnareff asks as he glances down to eye Abdul's lower half. “And what even is your pants? I don't know where to start!”

“Mr. Joestar estimated our departure to be in two hours. We have time,” Abdul answers, and then laughs.

“Let me handle it. Sit down, ya amar.”

“You what?”

As Polnareff moves to take a seat on the bed again, Abdul goes about removing his weird pants. Polnareff watches intently, with intention to learn the secrets of his bizarre pants. He unhooks a few things on the side... And then the metal codpiece splits in two and Abdul can pull it off effortlessly. (Why he even wears that to begin with is beyond Polnareff's comprehension.) Abdul smiles at him as he steps out of the cloth part of his pants and lets them fall beside Polnareff's onto the carpet.

“It means 'my moon'.”

Then he grabs onto his beige undershirt and pulls it off of himself with an attractive shift of the muscles in his torso, further exposing his handsome dark skin for Polnareff's appreciative stare. He's too distracted to really process what's been said, eying up Abdul's muscular arms and wide torso, as well as the thick curls of hair that lead down from his chest to the V of his hips. Abdul smirks when he realizes he's not even paying attention. He steps closer, nudging himself between Polnareff's knees to stand before him. Polnareff swallows hard and opens his knees for him, glancing up to meet his gaze. Abdul's amber eyes are heated and heavy with intent, which has Polnareff letting out a deep breath.

Unlike Abdul expected, Polnareff gently rests his hands over the backs of his thighs and leans in to rest his forehead against his belly. His gelled hair bunches against his chest. Polnareff sighs and then draws back to gaze up at him with a flushed face, blue eyes soft.

“Je t'aime tellement,” he says, quiet and sincere. He squeezes the back of Abdul's thighs gently. Heart swelling, Abdul smiles down at him, sharp eyes losing their intensity and replacing it with tenderness. He raises a hand, cupping the side of Polnareff's head. He places his broad thumb between his eyebrows and strokes it down over the bridge of his nose. Polnareff closes his eyes. Abdul gazes down at him as he whispers in return, “Je t'aime aussi.”

The tense ten minutes pass long and slow, no words spoken but the click, click, click of an empty lighter and then the gracious snap of igniting fingers. As Polnareff stands with Abdul by the open entrance of the mansion, nursing anxiously at his last cigarette, he contemplates what to say here. Jotaro barely took five steps into the hall and he was already snatched up by the reaper. Couldn't the same happen to either of them? Why couldn't he think of something meaningful to say, when it's most important?

In the end, he only lets out wobbly exhales of smoke and beads of sweat on his brow. Abdul, meanwhile, stands motionless a foot from him, arms crossed and face tense. Polnareff sighs and then a minute later, after he's stomped out his cigarette on Dio's front step, Abdul speaks.

“The ten minutes we promised them have passed.”

Tensing up, Polnareff glances at him and then into the open ominous doorway. Abdul's stance tenses up as well and Polnareff isn't sure what his intentions are. His brow furrows and his nervous eyes flick between the other man and the waiting hallway. Abdul speaks again, low and careful.

“Mr. Joestar said to set fire to the place, but let us enter the mansion instead.”

Polnareff is not a coward, but he fears for Abdul's well-being.

“Yeah,” is all he can say, only promising to himself that he will try his best to keep the other man safe, no matter what happens. With intention to face his fears, Polnareff readies himself and steps up towards the menacing doorway, but Abdul stops him again with his words.

“Jean, before we go in, there's something I'd like to say.”

Pausing, Polnareff glances back at him. Abdul's face is hard and his eyes are sincere.

“Even if you were to get lost or severely injured within this mansion, I do not plan to help you.”

At first it strikes something in his heart. He lets out a quiet noise, momentarily taken off-guard. Abdul continues, taking a step forward with his hands clenched into determined fists.

“The same goes for you, Iggy. It might sound cold, but we are on this journey to defeat Dio,” he says, stare unrelenting, fixed on Polnareff's hardened, shaken blue eyes, “Promise me that even if I am defeated or become separated from you, you will not stop to help me. You must think of your own safety first. We cannot allow all of us to be defeated as we try to save one another.”

The three of them share a tense moment of silence. Abdul's expression is still set, sure of his decision and of what he's said. Polnareff keeps his face hard but he can't help but feel conflicted. What Abdul says is wise but he knows, truly, that his unrelenting urge to protect the ones he cares for will overcome any promise he makes. Heart pounding and stomach clenching, he just nods, brow furrowed and blue eyes hard and hiding any uncertainty he may have.

“Yeah, I got it, Mohammad.”

He turns away from the mansion and steps up to Abdul, raising an offered hand that the other man readily takes, with a tight, promising squeeze. Polnareff jaw tenses, teeth grit from behind closed lips, and clenches Abdul's weathered, warm hand, nearly painfully so.

“If we get out of here alive, you'd better treat me to a fancy dinner,” he insists, firmly and with a faint, fond smile growing on his face. Abdul returns it, full lips curling up slightly. Seeing that smile comforts him, dissipating the anxiety from his core that wrung the breath from his lungs.

“And Iggy, too,” Abdul answers and now more than ever, his deep voice soothes Polnareff and has his resolve strengthening.

They can do this. They'll make it out of this and he will go on his first public date with the man he loves. No one will get in the way of that. Polnareff gives one last tight clench of Abdul's hand, gazing into his beautiful eyes with love in his own, one last time, before he lets go and turns to face their fate: the gaping gates of Dio's mansion.

“Tell me, Momo. Do you really plan to find a wife someday? To settle down with?”

Propped up on an elbow, Polnareff glances over at the other man, the pages of a foreign magazine held open by one hand.

Abdul smiles, softly. He traces his blunt fingertips down over the curve of Polnareff's spine, across freckled, pale skin. He teasingly slides his leg across Polnareff's and hums, low and thoughtfully.

“I've planned for that life since my father told stories of his marriage with my mother. I want to please myself with that life, as well as my father's expectations. But, as you may tell, so far my only true relationship—until now—has been with my work.”

Searching in Abdul's fire-like eyes, Polnareff says nothing at first. He nods a little and looks back down at the pages of the magazine, though he doesn't flip through them like he had before. He rubs a finger over some text of a language he can't read and then exhales, long and slow. Abdul continues to trace out his spine and tense back muscles with exploratory fingers, until the other man speaks again.

“I've fantasized about our lives after this.”

“Oh?”

“About you coming with me... Back to France,” Polnareff mutters, reluctant and shy. Abdul continues painting over his skin with the touch of his warm fingertips. Polnareff goes on, softer.

“Living with me in a simple, comfortable flat. Sharing things. Cooking together. Sleeping in tangles of blankets and waking up to shower together. Hell, maybe even Iggy can be there. Pissing everywhere, making the house stink. But the place would also smell like us.”

Abdul smiles. He keeps tracing his freckles and pale skin. Polnareff laughs a little, back jumping under Abdul's touch.

“You, your incense. And, believe it or not, I used to burn through scented candles like crazy when I lived with Sherry and my mom's parents. So maybe I would start doing that again. The scent of lilac and artificial rain filling the house.”

Abdul nods. Polnareff gazes up at the streaks of sunlight splashing across the ceiling of the hotel room.

“We'd dance. To our favorite 80's love songs. I would paint. I would paint while you worked a new shop, one only a walk away,” Polnareff murmurs, wistfully, before he thinks about it and continues, “During the holidays we'd visit Jotaro and Kakyoin... Or maybe just stay home and make all these desserts just for the occasion. We'd eat them by the fire, drink my mother's very special cidre chaud à la cannelle and then make out, for like, an hour. With Iggy in another room.”

“Oh? That sounds like fun.”

Laughing, Polnareff rolls over onto his side to face the other man and grins at him, his gelled hair becoming disheveled, a few locks splaying out against the pillows. The magazine is left forgotten as Polnareff shuffles closer to the other man among the mess of blankets and once they're nose to nose, he nods.

“Oui, très amusant,” he agrees, cerulean blue eyes soft and glowing with love.

“And what else?” Abdul prompts quietly, reaching out to gently brush some stray locks behind Polnareff's ear. Polnareff grins.

“We would take Iggy on walks through the park. He would steal food and chase other dogs and be a general nuisance. I would get mad and chase him around and then once I finally drag him back to you, we laugh and then I'd take you to the nearby river and we'd walk around in it. Then we'd go home, take a bath together, and...”

He trails off, blushes and looks down, away from Abdul's amused amber eyes. He goes on, softer.

“And then make love.”

Meeting Abdul's gaze again, his boyish blue eyes are firm now, intense and sincere with raw desire, “We'd glow with love in the covers, Momo. I'd give you my everything.”

“I know,” Abdul murmurs, hushing him. He draws a warm, muscular arm around him and pulls him closer. Polnareff nuzzles into him gratefully. Abdul splays a wide hand over his shoulder blade.

“I know,” he says in a deep murmur, “And you would be my everything.”

The suffocating grief that he had been beating back in favor of focusing on battle comes rushing back once Vanilla Ice momentarily disappears. His breathing hitches, a tight, pained noise coming from deep within his throat. And then he takes a step back, back meeting the cold stone of the wall. Beside him Iggy is alert and shaking, but his presence becomes unimportant when all at once the weight of his sudden grief and guilt falls upon his chest, bearing down on him and making it hard to breathe. He stares with wide eyes and grit teeth at the dusty floor, hands clenched and shaking.

The last moment with Abdul comes flickering back: his screaming words of warning, the shove that draws blood from his lips, finding Abdul gone when he recovers from the blow to the stone floor.

What about their promise? What about what he said, that they were to think only of themselves, to prevent foolish casualty? Why had Abdul gotten himself involved, again? Why always for him? Ever since the incident with Hol Horse in India, he's always been so stubborn, involving himself with other people's problems. Always caring for others, and not for himself when it's most important.

He said he wouldn't save him.

He's a liar. He's a goddamn liar.

Face twisting up further, eyes clenched shut, Polnareff feels tremors run up and down his body and he isn't sure if it's from his fear, the adrenaline, or the poison-like mixture of anger and grief that flows through his entire core. His eyes burn and he can barely breathe. White-knuckled fist clenched and raised chest-level in vexation, Polnareff growls, “Mohammad, you should have just left me alone!”

He falls to his knees and then in an instant the wall he had been leaning against disappears in a spherical blur.

Whipping around, Polnareff stares with shocked disbelief at the gaping hole in the stone. The realization that he would've been killed if he hadn't crouched just then comes to him, wringing the last of his breath from his lungs. He shudders, hands shaking and heart hammering despite how shriveled up it feels.

What Abdul had been saying all comes flooding back to him. Speaking many times of fate, how things may end up as they may, no matter what Polnareff does.

(“Why are you so convinced you can't change anything?”

Abdul's thigh keeps knocking against his as they cross rocky roads in the Jeep, but Polnareff doesn't mind at all. They're sitting in the far back seat, where the others don't glance.

“I don't have that power,” Abdul answers, searching in frustrated blue irises, “Though I do have the power to determine one thing about fate.”

“What's that?”

“That no matter what happens, I know that I will bear through it with the knowledge that things will work out how they may. For good or bad, I know I would have been a strong man, willing to face anything that destiny throws at me.”

Polnareff raises a skeptical brow. Abdul smiles and reaches out to clutch at Polnareff's wrist.

“You should think the same, Polnareff. Because accompanying that resolve will be my promise. That regardless of the outcome, I will always be with you. Whether in spirit, or in the flesh.”)

Is fate telling him to live on? Is Abdul telling him to fight? Was it truly himself that decided to lower onto his knees, or was that Abdul knocking him down once again?

He can't dwell on it any longer. Vanilla Ice comes rocketing around the room towards him and the last thing that flickers through his thoughts before he grabs Iggy and runs is that he'll fight for Momo, if not for himself. He won't give up on Momo so easily.

The rushing of adrenaline through his body and the relentless pounding of his aching heart sends tremors through his limbs, amplifying the shaking of his body in addition to the blood loss and dizziness. All of these discomforts become background noise, unimportant and unnoticeable when he comes to realize that the wisps of gold he's been following with his gaze are more than just shaken dust of the destroyed room.

The forms of Abdul and Iggy slowly swirl into appearance within the sun-bathed, yellow sky. Polnareff's breath stops and his eyes widen. The burning amber of Abdul's eyes are just as intense as they've always been, looking down upon him with unspoken words: “I believe in you.”

Then with a final nod, both Abdul and Iggy rise up into the golden clouds and Polnareff reaches out with a shaking, bloody hand.

His throat is dry and his voice catches slightly as he calls out breathlessly, desperately, “M—Momo! Iggy!”

He lurches up to follow them into the sky but the pain of bearing weight on his injured, half-missing foot sends rocketing needles of pain up his leg and he tumbles forward onto his shoulder instead.

As he turns his gaze back up to the gaping wall, the ocean of his eyes beading with tears, he can't help but pleadingly think, “Take me with you to heaven, Momo.”

Sweat dots his flushed, overheated skin like glistening jewels. When he leans up to mouth at Abdul's neck, he can taste it on his skin, too. Abdul's hands are like fire on his sides, sliding up over his heaving ribcage to cup the back of his head in both broad hands.

“Momo,” Polnareff breathes, head tipping back into his hold. Atop him, Abdul's weight is more comforting than arousing. Having Abdul on him like this, so close with very little parts of their bodies lacking connection, makes him feel weightless. Like he's floating far above the tangled, warm sheets, lost in Abdul's body and touch.

“Momo,” he whispers again, face and chest flushed a deep red, his mouth falling open with his eyelids fluttering shut. Abdul makes no sound; he only leans in against the other man and kisses him. He lets their swollen, kissed lips mend together slowly and lazily before leaving a trail of firm kisses down across his jaw and neck.

“We should get up soon,” Abdul murmurs against his throat, his deep voice vibrating from his lips to run through Polnareff's skin. Polnareff trembles and then sighs.

“Pas encore,” he groans, sliding his feet down across Abdul's tense calves. Abdul chuckles and then begins to kiss his way down his neck to his collarbone, and then to his heaving chest.

“Notre temps est court,” he says, lips moving against his flushed chest.

Polnareff abruptly wraps his muscular arms around Abdul's head and holds him closely, intimately. Abdul would have laughed from having his face smushed between his pecs, if it wouldn't ruin the moment.

“Can't we lay like this forever?” Polnareff whispers, setting a broad hand down on Abdul's broad back, resting over his tangled, curly ponytail. Abdul sets his hands down on the bed and reluctantly rises from Polnareff's embrace, to meet his gaze (and to gain some room to breathe).

“Unfortunately, no. Soon Mr. Joestar will come knocking and I imagine you would like some time to shower. I would rather not hurry to get dressed, covered in sweat like we are.”

Huffing, Polnareff juts out his bottom lip, pouting. Abdul smiles faintly down at him, eyes becoming fond. Polnareff reaches up and thumbs at the ragged scar between Abdul's thick eyebrows.

“Alright. If we get up now, would we have time for another round in the shower?”

Laughing lowly, Abdul grins down at him. He leans in, head tilting to meet Polnareff's smiling lips with his own. He kisses him fleetingly and then pulls back to look into his dilated sapphire eyes again.

“I'm sure we can squeeze it in among washing our backs.”

Nodding, Polnareff grins widely, his dimples appearing. Abdul presses one kiss to the Frenchman's forehead and then sets his knees on the bed to rise, but then Polnareff locks his muscled legs around his hips, petulantly. He lets a few laughs slip when Abdul eyes him with a raised brow. Abdul's displeased face cracks and a bit-back smile tugs at his full lips.

“Come now, Jean. Will I have to pry you off?”

“Maybe. Who knows?”

Abdul grins and instead of struggling to get out from the ring of his legs like Polnareff expected, Abdul slides a mischievous hand down his back to firmly grope at his ass. Polnareff snickers and lazily sets a hand on Abdul's broad side.

“And what about our little time, Momo?”

“If we have five minutes to shower in the end, that will be enough,” Abdul murmurs with a widening grin as his hand wanders to places that has Polnareff jerking against the other and sputtering out a surprised laugh.

“You perv!”

Instead of retorting, Abdul just chuckles and leans in to sweetly kiss him on the mouth again. Polnareff's eyes become lidded. He hums into it, melting back into the pillows and letting his legs splay open for Abdul. He's disappointed when their kiss is short-lived, but his disappointment is soon replaced by delight and anticipation when the other man begins to kiss his way down his heaving chest, across his sweat-slicked abs, to shaking, tensed thighs.

“Ah... Je t'aime, Momo,” Polnareff says softly, affectionately as he gazes down with a blush at the sight of having Abdul between his open legs. Abdul looks up at him, golden eyes burning with desire and equal intense adoration. A few of his curly locks fall across his forehead and the sides of his face, escaped from the disheveled knots of hair atop his head.

“I love you too, Jean.Tu es tout pour moi."

Cheer Down plays softly from the radio he keeps on the edge of the kitchen counter, neglected and rarely touched. He doesn't care about music anymore, not really. The only times he fiddles with it is when he can barely stand listening to the news anymore.

He sits motionless in his wheelchair, facing the open door of the once abandoned countryside building. Years ago he might have refused to open the door during the daytime due to ridiculous paranoia, but now he wants the sun on his skin. The rays of light spill past the door frame and washes over his still body. The shadow of the house keeps him shrouded from any gaze that may fall upon the building, though that would be rare in itself.

Silver Chariot is restless today. It hovers by his shoulder, rapier missing from its hands. Polnareff only casts an uninterested, one-eyed glance towards it when its silver, metal body floats into his peripheral vision, though he soon glances back out towards the sun and sky.

This particular song had struck a chord deep in his heart when he first heard it a few months back. Its message seemed so familiar, so similar to what he had been told years ago. No matter what happens, things will fall where they may. Things will be okay.

The song had made him shed tears when it first played on the old, neglected radio. But now, it strikes nothing in him and he continues to sit there, weighed down. His heart feels so still, so heavy. He is breathing with a slow rise and fall of his chest, but it feels like nothing is filling his lungs. His fingers twitch from restlessness; he hasn't moved any of them in so long, since he perched himself here. All these motions of his body seem so wrong. So strange, so unwanted.

Is this what it's like to be truly empty?

Is that what he is? Is he empty? Or has his time alone numbed him down to the very core?

Will he truly be okay, in the end? No matter what happens?

There is one thing he wonders, most of all. A question he had asked himself over and over and over, ever since he saw Abdul's golden, cloudy figure ascend into the sky.

Is Abdul watching him now, from Heaven?

What would he think of him? Seeing him now, blank and waiting for nothing. He hadn't even put on his prosthesis today. Is his will to live gradually diminishing? Is this what he had come to?

The scar on his face itches. (He wants to sink his nails into the raised, pink skin and claw into his skull like Diavolo had done to him before.)

His eyes burn, his body heavy with exhaustion. (He can't sleep at night. He dreams of Diavolo, dominating him—digging evil hands into his belly and ripping out parts of him that he will never get back. He dreams of Diavolo laughing wickedly as he tears him limb from limb in a pit of blackness. He can't sleep at night.)

He's so lonely. (Where is Jotaro? Where is Mr. Joestar? Where is Sherry, his mother, Kakyoin, Momo?)

He's so foolish. (Why are you still here? Why were you too stubborn to follow Momo's spirit? You have failed everyone else thus far, why won't you just give in?)

“I want you around, cheer down,” George's voice carries out from the kitchen, filtering into his ears and pinching at the dying flame in his core.

Polnareff's hand clenches around the handle of his wheelchair, the leather squeaking under the drag of his metal fingers.

Stop being pathetic. Go eat, Jean-Pierre. Put on your prosthesis. Wash your ragged, pallid face. Acknowledge your Stand, or else the last person that cares about you will fade into nothing, just like your spirit.

At last, Polnareff turns his head and looks up to see Silver Chariot hovering close to him, its big blue eyes saddened and concerned.

“ Je suis ici,” Polnareff says. His voice is raw from lack of speaking and his throat clenches from the odd, sudden use of his larynx. Silver Chariot's eyes shift from so very worried to hopeful and relieved. Polnareff reaches out and touches his Stand on its cold, metal cheek. Silver Chariot turns its head into the touch, eyes becoming lidded. It has wanted his touch like a starving man. That realization has Polnareff bringing his other hand up, cupping its face comfortably in his weakened hands. The flickering, weak fire glows and blooms, just a bit. Polnareff lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Tout ira bien, mon petit amour. Now, let's go eat.”

Following the defeat of Daniel D'arby, the four of them are left exhausted and with dire need of rest. The hotel they check into isn't the fanciest, but it has clean water and made beds, which is enough. There's plenty of rooms for each individual, but after a quick shower and going through the motion of drying and styling his hair, Abdul leaves his room with full intention to join Polnareff, as per the Frenchman's request (and his own desire).

A few doors down, Polnareff sits cross-legged on the bed, hunched over with his elbows set on his knees, chin propped on his curled fists. His stomach flips with an assortment of sensations (excitement, anticipation, nervousness) as he waits for the knock that was bound to come. Sighing, Polnareff considers jumping in the shower so he doesn't stink like sweat, but the idea is cut short when he hears a few polite, quiet knocks on the door. Leaping up, Polnareff quickly peeks into the bathroom to check his hair, running his broad hands up over the gelled locks. After checking his teeth and his spandex top for wrinkles, he strides up to the door and pulls it open.

Before him stood Abdul, his arms crossed with the sleeves of his robe overlapping. His face is set into a firm expression, which surprises Polnareff and has his grin softening to something concerned. Without a word, Abdul looks at him, his thick brow slightly furrowed with his plump lips pressed together. Heart hammering, Polnareff wonders what's bothering him, but then the Egyptian is slowly pacing into the room, stepping past the door.

Polnareff searches in his eyes as he enters, and realizes that he wants to kiss Abdul. He will kiss him. He doesn't care that the door is still open. He reaches out, curls a fist into Abdul's robe, and pulls him closer as he leans in towards him, his pretty blue eyes searching his for consent. He spots the softened look on Abdul's face before he lets his eyes flutter shut, pale eyelashes resting against his freckled cheeks.

And then the Egyptian meets him half-way, his jewelry jingling a bit with the motion. Their lips connect softly and then Polnareff feels okay again. Abdul reaches back, sets a hand on the door, and then gently pushes it shut with a finishing click. With the same hand, he brings it up to cup Polnareff's flushed cheek, thumb resting on his chin.

Their mouths move together in a slow dance—a back and forth that has Polnareff feeling lighter and lighter with each overlapping purse of Abdul's full lips. Then the other man is slowly pulling away, prompting Polnareff to open his eyes and meet his gaze. Smiling softly, Polnareff reaches up to grasp him gently by the hand. He brings it from his cheek to his mouth to lay a loving kiss to his weathered, curled fingers with his eyes falling shut once again. He kisses across each knuckle, each callous. Across his warm palm to the heel of his hand, and then to his wrist. When he opens his eyes again, he sees the soft, awe-struck look on Abdul's beautiful face. Polnareff smiles against his skin, sapphire eyes glowing with adoration and tenderness.

It's 1991 and they're on the road.

Being with Jotaro again is better than Polnareff had hoped for. He was stuck, chained down in the doldrums with no light at the end of the tunnel; suffocated by depression and guilt until Jotaro reached in with a cracked stability of his own to grab him by the neck and tug him out. Jotaro knew him, trusted him, understood him. Polnareff could really talk to him. Could spill out the slimy darkness from within his chest until all that's left is weightlessness. Jotaro made him feel that content, with few to no words spoken.

At least, for the first week or so. It was a reprieve, though not quite as long as Polnareff would have preferred.

The first two weeks they had bounced from Cairo, to England, to Greece, and then to Italy in search of the arrows. The privilege of air travel made that easier than the last time.

But, the first night in Cairo, Polnareff feels hollowed out. As if wind could pass through his freckled skin like wind chimes. Being with Jotaro had its wonderful benefits, but Jotaro doesn't have the effect to battle off all his demons (if that many, at all).

He stands at the shop—stares up blankly at the dusty outside wall where a familiar sign once hung. Now, it's empty. Why is emptiness reflected on so many things lately? He's come to notice that.

He steps up to the unwashed window and with a broad hand, wipes away a long line of dust to peer inside. He sees nothing, save for a glimpse of that familiar mural of tarot cards and constellations on the far back wall he had once marveled over. The sun illuminates it just barely through the windows—but it hardly reveals the magic of it. No, the magic that once accompanied it is long gone. Polnareff leans back from the window, stares down at his feet (his black boots are dusty from the dirt of the poorly swept roads), and then turns to walk away.

He enters the first place that serves alcohol and takes a seat at the bar. After his order is taken, he stares at his fingernails (notices the concave dip in every one of them—a telltale sign of how poorly he's feeding himself lately), before the creak of another stool earns his attention. Looking up, he sees a woman wearing a long, modest dress with the color of the navy blue evening sky. A red shawl decorated with gold is swept tightly around her head and shoulders. Her curly hair is like chocolate, melting down her torso in waves. She's shaped like a pretty pear. He stares. Then he rises, and approaches.

It's not the same. It's not the same, it's not the same, it's not what he wants.

His skin may be dotted with sweat and he may feel the familiar hammering of his heart, but he doesn't feel the sun spreading through his skin, he doesn't feel the wholesome sensation of love swelling in his heart.

Above him, the woman with chocolate hair rolls her body in a dance he once enjoyed. A dance he once participated in, savored, put effort into. He barely has the energy to run his broad, calloused hands up over her sides, across the soft, round rolls of her body. She's beautiful and he would have the desire to embrace her if he was still the man he once was years ago. Thankfully, he managed to orgasm before his rotten, plummeting mood extended to his erection. That is a humiliation he would rather not experience.

As she rolls off him and flops back against the pillows of the cheap hotel bed, Polnareff sluggishly pulls up the thin covers to rest it over their naked bodies. He settles back against the pillows and headboard, with no intention to rest. He stares down at the ugly pattern of the top blanket with a tired gaze until he hears her sigh and speak to him in a language he doesn't even understand. A language that strikes him in the heart regardless and earns his shaky gaze.

When she slides a hand out under the blanket to clutch at his limp hand and offer him a gentle smile, Polnareff blinks. A glimmer of gold and warmth peeks in through the black. He squeezes her hand, gestures to the bathroom with a tilt of his head, and then gets out of bed.

He hates how cliché and pathetic it is when he turns on the shower at full blast to mask the breathless sobs that spill from his insides after he looks at his ragged self in the mirror.

In the morning, he finds Jotaro where he left him: at a public library, scribbling in a notebook. Right. College and all that bullshit that Polnareff never bothered with.

When Jotaro looks up and sees his face, he arches a thick brow and sets down his pencil. He stands to greet him, and isn't very surprised when Polnareff pulls him into a crushing hug. Jotaro pats him on the back as Polnareff sighs heavily and states in his full voice, without shame as if it was the most casual, easy-going thing to say in the world, “I just had one of the worst nights of my life, Jotaro.”

He's dying. Laying here, on the cold, solid concrete. Blood trickles from his chapped lips and pours from his gaping chest. He can't breathe. When he attempts to draw in a breath, his mouth produces bloody bubbles and his throat clenches uselessly. It feels like knives are twisting around in his chest. Eyes staring out blankly, he sees nothing but tunnel vision and impending black. A foot is on his back, nudging him, but he doesn't respond.

His life flashes before his eyes, though he remains motionless, silent, breathless. He sees Abdul, Sherry, Jotaro, Joseph, Kakyoin, his mother, Cairo. He sees the bookstore, the orange juice clinging to his skin, the smile on Abdul's face. The smell of silky, curly locks, the taste of caramel skin, the sound of deep, silky laughter.

It's finally here.

Death.

Polnareff's clenched hand unfurls, becoming limp in front of him.

“Jean-Pierre, I've missed you so much.”

He materializes as a wispy gathering of various colors. A swirl of his being, slowly forming into something more distinguishable, recognizable. He blinks when he looks down at his hands. Curls of something much like fog dance among his fingers, mesmerizing him before he comes to realize that the voice speaking to him is far too familiar. Looking up, he sees Sherry standing before him with a smile on her freckled face. Her hands are laced behind her, her long kinky locks falling like a curtain to frame her face. That's when Polnareff realizes he's sitting on nothing. He stands.

“Sherry,” he says, voice soft and sapphire eyes gentle. He reaches out for her and instead of feeling her warm cheek, his fingers slide through her face, which has him jerking his touch back in alarm. Sherry exhales deeply and gives him a tired smile.

“Some of your spirit remains in your body, so you can't touch me yet. You're not completely dead.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because your soul ascended; just not your spirit.”

“Okay,” Polnareff says with a lack of understanding, voice unusually calm and collected. He steps closer and with steady hands, he cups her cheeks, just barely. Enough to pretend he really is touching her. Sherry closes her eyes and her smile softens—saddens. Polnareff feels his heart clench and he lets out a soft, weak laugh.

“Sherry... I... I want to stay so badly but I can only assume that I'll be leaving you once again. If a part of me is still lingering in my body, then... Then I'm not done.”

“You're not,” Sherry agrees with her pretty caramel eyes flicking open again to meet his gaze. Polnareff shudders, suddenly weighed down with something... heavy. He's not sad. He's not sure if he could be sad, here.

“I love you,” Polnareff whispers, “I think about you every single day.”

When he sees a tear bead in her eye, clinging to her eyelashes, Polnareff attempts to wipe it away with a broad thumb, but his touch just ghosts through her long eyelashes. Sherry's mouth wobbles noticeably—something he recognizes. He smiles weakly, strangely happy to see that again. It was always so easy to tell when she's about to cry. Sherry nods into his hands, her cheeks slipping past his fingers with each dip of her head.

“I am so selfish. I want you to stay, Jean. I don't want you to go, but that is so cruel of me.”

“I want to stay, too,” Polnareff whispers, voice hoarse, and then suddenly everything is spilling out as he feels his eyes burn, “I don't want to abandon you again. I'm so sorry, Sherry. I should have been there. I can't believe—I—I failed as your older brother. I didn't protect you like I promised.”

“That was so long ago. You were only eighteen, Jean,” Sherry murmurs softly, eyes flashing with a faint hurt, “You didn't deserve that burden. I wish I could've been there, Jean. When you were in pain...”

She trails off, looking down again. Polnareff bites his bottom lip, trying so hard not to cry. He needs to be strong for her.

“Jean-Pierre...” Sherry continues, reaching out. He's surprised to find that she can touch him. Sherry sets her hand on his strong jaw, slender fingers fanning across his freckled cheek. He feels like flowers are blooming inside him at the touch. A soft, tender smile appears on her lips.

“I couldn't bear to watch what you went through. But you will see him soon, I promise you that.”

Before he could respond, he begins to vanish. The curling fog at the tips of his fingers extend, growing and growing, until he's become that same swirl of colors that have yet to become a being. Panic rises like a fire in his chest and he looks at Sherry with desperation before his vision spins, and spins, before he's seeing through the eyes of something other than himself. He's slumped against what seems to be a ledge of a pillar. He's entirely disoriented, his vision wobbling and his lungs sucking in quick breaths that don't seem quite deep enough. Then once he realizes where he is and what he is, his intentions and plans all come back to him:

He has to find Giorno.

The mornings are the nicest. Perched in the padded bed meant just for Coco Jumbo, Polnareff can emerge partially from within its Stand to bask in the rising sun peeking in through the rich drapes of the window. It's not quite a fate he fancied himself; being stuck, as a spirit, within a turtle that has a Stand. Sitting in sunlight, within the confines of the lavish sitting room of Don Giovanna's manor. Strange, unexpected. But not lonely. No, not anymore.

If the sun grows too hot and he seeks better comfort, Polnareff can return to the room within Coco Jumbo. He can find a man he once missed, sitting on the red velvet couch with legs crossed. His crimson robe lays draped over the arm rest of the couch, leaving his muscular arms and broad torso exposed. Earning Polnareff's appreciate gaze.

When Polnareff glances up to look at his face, he sees softly smiling lips and soothing amber eyes that remain on him, waiting. Polnareff grips the wheels of his wheelchair and rolls himself closer to the couch. He reaches out, hand outstretched in an unimposing gesture. A hopeful offer.

Abdul's smile extends to a teeth-baring grin. Crow's feet appear at the corners of his eyes. Polnareff stares, his face heating up a bit. Abdul reaches out and with a gentle grasp, clutches his hand. He angles it to get a sufficient view of his palm. Eying it with an arched brow, Abdul then meets his curious gaze and smirks.

“I'm afraid your fate from here on out is rather uneventful. Your palm tells me your life will now only have love.”

“Love is far from uneventful,” Polnareff says, a smile reaching his own tired, scarred face. Hearing Abdul's deep voice has a familiar contentment flowing through his core, leaving him warm with the simplest form of adoration. Now is his turn to clutch Abdul's broad hand in his own. The metal of his pinky contrasts with the charming dark of Abdul's hand, Polnareff notices (not for the first time).

Closing his heavy eyes, he leans forward, his wheelchair squeaking in protest, and presses his lips to the back of it. Abdul chuckles, a smooth sound that has Polnareff smiling against his hand. Abdul speaks to him, love threading through his deeply spoken words, extending straight into Polnareff's heart.

“Come, lay with me, حبيبي. We have been apart far too long.”