Chapter Text
It was just past four in the afternoon, and Polnareff had a stiffness in his hand that just wouldn’t go away.
The dull ache was normally something that would drive him mad, but this afternoon there was another ache occupying his attention.
He lay on top of the pristine hotel duvet, crystalline gaze boring into the rough-textured whiteness above. His fingers, streaked with the rosy ridges of healing cuts, twitched and flexed where they rested on his chest.
Avdol sat cross-legged on the floor near the foot of the bed. His coat pooled in a neat semicircle around him like a puddle of blood. And the room was silent but for the traffic far below and sliding of tarot card against tarot card.
It was a day of rest for all of them. They had been in Singapore for less than a day before they encountered Devo and Rubber Soul, and Polnareff, although recovering quickly, was still in tougher shape than Jotaro after their respective battles. And while he was used to fighting with previously obtained injuries, it was always nice to have some time to breathe. However, it made the Frenchman anxious, being stationary, when his perpetual hunt for the man with two right hands was finally gaining traction.
“Of everyone else, I had not expected you to be the quietest,” Avdol muttered with a hint of a smile in his voice.
He had knocked on Polnareff’s door some time ago looking for a more peaceful setting. Joseph had gotten a call from one of the Speedwagon Foundation doctors informing him of a rather serious change in his daughter’s condition, and the room he shared with Avdol had become host to an intense family meeting. Kakyoin had stayed with them as a sort of catalyst of calm—a good counterweight against the passionate Joestars. Avdol could have contributed another voice of reason, but the fortuneteller had sensed a change of events and left to investigate. He’d spent the last hour laying out his tarot cards in different configurations on one of the mismatched rugs. This is the first time he had spoken since he thanked Polnareff for allowing him the use of his room.
The Egyptian’s words were true—Polnareff had not said much since they had returned from lunch at the little café across the street.
“Shall I give you a reading?”
“Hm?” Polnareff propped himself up a little to look down at Avdol.
He gestured to the cards before him—five, arranged in a sort of sideways T. “I don’t normally read for free.”
His silver-haired comrade gave a little half-hearted laugh and slumped back down to continue his staring match with the ceiling. “Non, merci. It scares me, knowing what comes next.”
“What troubles you?”
“Rien.”
“I don’t believe you.” Soft shuffling as Avdol collected his cards.
Polnareff sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I… it’s stupid, really.”
“It seems significant enough, if it has pacified you for this long.”
Distant Beatles below and a warm breeze carrying the salt of the sea through the cracked balcony door. Muffled rustling as Polnareff shifted his legs.
He took a minute to answer, and all the while he could feel amber eyes upon him. “I… saw a girl earlier who looked like my sister.”
“A tourist?”
“Non, she was Singaporean.” He exhaled heavily. “Maybe not so much resembled Sherry, but… she had dropped her bag and I picked it up for her, and… just the look she gave me, her eyes… they shone just like my sister’s.” He covered his eyes with stinging palms. “And that fucker is still on the loose, and God knows how many other girls have been murdered, and she may be next, and—and my fucking hand!”
It had spasmed again from the rough treatment and he slammed it on the bed in frustration.
“Relax, Jean,” Avdol said gently. He stood and moved to sit next to Polnareff. “Let me see.”
“Why?” Polnareff snapped.
“Just do it.”
Reluctantly, Polnareff obliged.
Avdol took his battered hand in both of his, sandwiching it between his own. Polnareff nearly jumped; Avdol’s palms and fingers were unnaturally warm, hot even.
“What’s this Mr. Miyagi shit?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Karate Kid.” Avdol still looked quizzical. “Never mind. How are you doing that?”
“Magician’s Red. Now be quiet.”
Now that he’d said it, Polnareff noticed a faint yellowish shimmer radiating from his hands. The Frenchman watched as the dark fingers softly kneaded at the tense tendons. The squeezing and prodding gradually became firmer, and soon his muscles relaxed and loosened. He, too, felt the prior frustration dissipate, as if heavy stones were being lifted from his body. He sighed and let himself recline further into his pillow.
It was several minutes before Avdol stopped, and Polnareff was a little disappointed when he did. But his hand was not yet freed, and the warmth was almost as good as the massaging.
“Is it better?” Avdol murmured, and the normally harsh slant of his brows seemed to have softened a little.
“Yeah… It feels great, thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He returned his gaze absently to Polnareff’s hand, uncovering his palm and examining it carefully. He traced a finger slowly along a line in the pale skin, and Polnareff felt tingles that began in his hand and moved up his arms as the digit made its path. Avdol’s lips pursed slightly. “You’ll meet him soon,” he said distractedly.
The abnormal heat was receding from Avdol’s hands, and Polnareff felt tendrils of agitation creep back as it did. There was a strange and fleeting sensation of panic, and without thinking, he grabbed the other’s wrist. Even his normal temperature, this contact, was soothing, and he didn’t want it to stop.
Avdol smiled his normal knowing smile. “Don’t worry, Jean. You will be fine.”
Polnareff looked up at him, his naked brow furrowed slightly. “I know… but I’m still worried.”
“Of course you are, the weeks ahead won’t be easy.”
“I fear less for myself and more for the rest of you.”
“You’re a compassionate man, Jean-Pierre Polnareff. I’d expect nothing less from a Frenchman.” Avdol grinned. He gently pulled his hand from his friend’s grip. “Now, I’m going to see about getting something to eat. Would you like to come?”
Polnareff sighed and laid back again. “Non, merci. Don’t think I really feel up to it. I’ll get some room service later.”
“As you wish.” Avdol stood from the bed.
“Avdol.”
“Yes?”
Polnareff looked back and their eyes met, aquamarine and topaz. “Thank you. For everything. You’re good company.”
“I’m aware,” Avdol said with a wry smile. “I’m glad I could help. And if you need anything, just ask. I know you’re under a fair bit of stress.”
A rather French snort. “Aren’t we all?”
A short laugh. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll come get you if Mr. Joestar wants a meeting with the rest of us.”
“D’accord, merci.”
Avdol made his way to the door and turned before he exited. “Meditate or something, you need it.”
“Goodbye, Avdol.”
Avdol smiled and strode out, closing the door behind him.
Polnareff returned to his ceiling staredown. The girl with Sherry’s eyes had been pushed to the back burner of his mind.
He thought instead of the events of minutes prior. What Avdol and Magician’s Red had done, that heat… It had felt amazing, nearly intoxicating, and he wished that particular interaction had gone on much longer. His hand twitched with residual tingles and he flexed it, impressed with Avdol’s handiwork.
Perhaps he could come up with an excuse to get the fortuneteller to do it again. And perhaps to his back, it had been rather sore lately…
He felt a small churning sensation in his stomach with which he was all too familiar. Today had shown him a part of Avdol he hadn’t expected—of course, he’d always been quiet and kind and collected, but now he was just… more. Polnareff wondered if the others had seen it too.
Jean… It had been the first time Avdol had addressed him by his first name, and despite his excellent English his pronunciation still held a trace of an Arabic accent.
And Jean-Pierre Polnareff wanted to hear it some more.