Chapter Text
The evening is heavy and warm, a welcome change from the endless deserts and harsh winds you've all faced day after day. Tonight, for once, there's laughter instead of tension, smiles rather than weary frowns. You and the Crusaders have found a quiet little restaurant, tucked inconspicuously down a side street just a short walk from the hotel—dim lighting, worn wooden tables, music just soft enough to underscore the conversations swirling between you all. Honestly, it’s a much-needed respite from the weary journey you've all endured; a brief moment of lighthearted normalcy amidst the chaos that has become your lives.
Tonight, it's just you and your boys crowded around a round wooden table, drinks steadily flowing. Even Kakyoin and Jotaro, the youngest and most reserved among you, have indulged, sneaking sips from your and Joseph's glasses when they thought no one was looking.
You sit tucked between Jotaro and Avdol, a comfortable position you've grown accustomed to over the weeks of travel. From here, you can observe everyone with ease—Kakyoin's quiet but tipsy laughter, Joseph’s boisterous storytelling punctuated with hand gestures, Avdol’s amused yet patient tolerance for his companion’s antics.
And then there's Polnareff.
Jean Pierre Polnareff, sitting directly across from you, the warm amber light flickering gently against the silver of his hair. The Frenchman is loud tonight, drunk on more than just alcohol. He’s animated, charmingly boyish as he banters and jests, trading insults and mock outrage with Kakyoin and Avdol. You watch as he laughs openly, eyes sparkling brilliantly even from across the table, his grin infectious and carefree.
He’s beautiful—always has been, but tonight especially so. Perhaps it's the alcohol, perhaps it's the relaxed, gentle ease of a moment not clouded by fear and danger. Your gaze lingers on him shamelessly as he leans forward, muscles tensing under his shirt in ways that send warmth cascading through you. The way his biceps bulge slightly as he points teasingly at Kakyoin makes your breath hitch softly, hidden behind the glass pressed gently to your lips.
Jotaro—stoic as ever—has his cap pulled low, and you lean slightly towards him, nudging the teen gently with your elbow. His dark eyes meet yours, a quiet understanding passing between you. His brow lifts. Yours furrows. It’s almost comforting as you share a silent, amused look at the spectacle across the table and to the source of most of the noise surrounding you.
Polnareff is red-faced and radiant under the low lighting, his silver hair catching the glow of the hanging lanterns above like strands of polished moonlight. His laughter is full-bodied and unguarded—teeth flashing, hands animated as he gestures wildly while Kakyoin and Avdol badger him about his life before the trip you’re all currently braving.
Avdol's voice cuts through, playful yet authoritative, his tone hinting at genuine curiosity beneath the humor. "So, Polnareff—tell us more about your mysterious life back in France. You've been rather tight-lipped about it."
Polnareff scoffs theatrically, waving his hand in exaggerated dismissal. "Mysterious? Moi? Please, Avdol, I’m an open book! I tell you anything, and you accuse me of hiding secrets!"
"Open book?" Kakyoin snickers, leaning forward slightly, flushed cheeks betraying his inebriation. "We don't even know which part of France you're from!"
Polnareff leans back with a mock wounded expression, hand pressed to his chest dramatically. "Have I seriously never told you? Bayeux, mes amis! It’s very beautiful—much nicer than the desert, I promise you that."
You snort quietly into your glass, unable to help the grin spreading over your lips at his theatrical defensiveness. His gaze flicks to you immediately, blue eyes locking with yours. Your heart trips lightly in your chest as his gaze lingers, softening around the edges, warmth pooling in the depths of his expression. You swallow slowly, feeling suddenly very seen, before Polnareff's eyes are pulled away by Joseph's teasing laughter.
You lean forward slightly, the rim of your glass hovering at your lips as you watch the table and laugh under your breath. The alcohol—a local Egyptian spirit called arak—spills warmth into your belly and burns on your tongue, milky-white in the glass and stronger than you expected when Avdol passed it your way with a knowing smile. You’d only meant to take a sip. You’re on your second glass now.
Polnareff is on his fourth.
You try not to look at him too much. It’s hard.
You can't tear your eyes away from him. The low lighting catches in his silver hair, highlighting his strong jaw, tracing shadows beneath his sculpted cheekbones. His blue eyes shine even brighter tonight, sparkling from laughter or perhaps the drinks, you can't quite decide which. Each time he leans across the table, arms flexing, shirt tightening around his chest, you feel your breath hitch, your heartbeat quicken just slightly. You're almost annoyed at how easily Polnareff can capture your attention, even now, simply by being himself.
“What did you even do there?” Kakyoin asks, voice slurred just enough to betray his own lightweight tolerance. "I bet you were running some kind of shady French business."
Polnareff bristles, scandalized. "Shady business! Kakyoin, you wound me! I'll have you know, I worked in a perfectly respectable bakery."
The table erupts in laughter at that—Polnareff, of all people, serving pastries and breads. You grin widely, giggling into your palm, heart fluttering as Polnareff’s eyes snap immediately back to your face, drawn by your laughter. His own smile widens, becoming impossibly softer, something warm and vulnerable flickering briefly beneath his confident exterior.
"Pastries," you finally manage, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Now that’s a mental image."
"Oui, chaton?" He raises an eyebrow teasingly, his voice dropping into that playful tone that always sends heat swirling through your chest. "I'd be happy to bake you something sweet sometime."
Your cheeks flush darker, but you meet his gaze steadily, leaning forward slightly, propping your chin in your hand. "I might just hold you to that."
Polnareff swallows, eyes widening just slightly, something intense flashing behind his eyes before Joseph, watching with delighted amusement, decides it’s his turn to prod at the Frenchman. He raises an eyebrow, grinning widely.
“Alright, enough dodging, Polnareff!” he declares loudly. “Tell us the real secret: Is there a special lady waiting for you back home?”
The table practically howls in unison.
Polnareff stiffens like someone poured a bucket of ice water over his head. “What—? Hey, that’s not fair!”
“Ah-ha! He’s blushing!” Kakyoin accuses, jabbing him with the end of his fork.
“I always blush when I drink!” he protests, eyes darting to yours like he’s been caught doing something wrong.
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. You watch the way his chest rises and falls, fast and shallow, like he’s struggling to keep up. He’s still trying to laugh it off, stumbling over his words and tossing the question aside like a hot coal, but that dreamy, wounded look in his eyes has your pulse stumbling.
He does have someone, you think. He must. The thought makes your gut twist—and you hate the way it feels.
Joseph keeps ribbing him, pushing for an answer, but Polnareff only laughs and swats at the air. “I’m not kissing and telling, old man!”
“Which means he is!” Joseph cackles.
You laugh quietly, nose wrinkling as you swirl the last of your arak, but your eyes don’t leave him. The moment Joseph said it—a special lady back home—you felt something twist. A knot. Low and slow and hot. You try to blame it on the alcohol. The buzz. But your stomach flips when Polnareff’s gaze flickers to you and stays, just for a second too long. He looks away just as quick. Smiles crookedly. Teases back. Changes the subject.
But that blush? It’s still climbing his ears.
You tip back the rest of your drink, and something bitter lingers in your throat.
You cut yourself off after that. Something tightens in your chest, even as the conversation lurches back to who’s been spiking Jotaro’s cola and why Kakyoin can’t sit up straight anymore. You keep your laugh soft. Shoulders loose. Chin in your palm as you watch them all unwind. But you’re watching him most of all.
You’re still sitting with that unspoken feeling in your chest. You know you’ve been crushing on the silver-haired idiot for weeks—ever since he threw himself between you and a high-speed hunk of scrap metal in Pakistan. Ever since he took a hit for you that nearly ended him. Ever since he pulled you from the dust and grinned at you through bloodied teeth and called you beautiful like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
‘You’re safe. Told you I’d catch you, mon amour.'
You never stood a chance.
By the time the check comes, the table is three-quarters useless. Kakyoin’s giggling at everything. Joseph is slurring Japanese, English, and something that might be German all at once. Jotaro looks entirely done with everything. And Polnareff? Polnareff is singing something under his breath, swaying slightly with one hand on your shoulder as you try to herd the chaos back toward the hotel.
You’ve somehow been nominated the responsible one.
You fish Joseph’s wallet from his inner jacket pocket, roll your eyes, and hand the waitress a fistful of cash. “Keep the change.”
Avdol, still mostly intact, claps you on the back. “You’re a saint.”
“Tell me that after we get these jackasses back to the hotel,” you mutter, hoisting Polnareff up by his arm.
He sags against you immediately.
His body is solid and warm against yours, heavier than you expected. Your hand rests on the small of his back to keep him from slipping. His weight makes your steps uneven, but he keeps mumbling apologies that soften the stumble of it—“Désolé, chaton... I didn’t mean to drink so much—”
You grit your teeth.
“Shut up and walk, you giant pain in the ass.”
He just laughs, slumping more of his weight into you, the press of your fingers into his waist feels far too intimate for the casual way he leans into your side. You can feel the muscles of his back flexing through the thin cotton of his shirt. Every staggered step he takes nudges his hip against yours. It’s a wonder you’re upright at all.
He smells like soap, spice, and liquor.
And it’s driving you insane.
He mumbles, his breath hot against the curve of your ear as he shifts his weight to press closer. "Je suis désolé, mon cœur… I am—ah, too heavy for you."
You grip him tighter, fingers clutching at his waist to keep him steady, pulse racing as you breathe in the warm scent of his fruity cologne and sweat. "You're fine," you murmur softly, unable to hide the tenderness slipping into your voice. "I've got you."
He sighs deeply, melting against your side, murmuring incoherently. Your cheeks flush hotter as his warmth seeps through you, mingling with the lingering effects of the alcohol.
Behind you, Avdol is corralling Joseph through the elevator door with a deep sigh and an admirable amount of patience. The older man is babbling something about “Aztec sex gods” and “shoulda' taken that waitress home,” his words slurred into nonsense as he half-stumbles over his own shoes. Kakyoin, still hiccuping with laughter, is hanging off Jotaro’s arm like a drunken scarf, whispering something into the younger boy’s ear that earns him a low, exasperated ‘good grief’, dragging the redhead up the lobby stairs, not even bothering to take the elevator.
You share a look with Avdol—equal parts sympathy and amusement—and he raises a brow at you with a subtle smirk.
“Good luck with that one,” he says in a low murmur, nodding toward the man currently melting against your side.
You shrug, shifting your weight to keep Polnareff upright. “Good luck with Mr. Joestar.” Your smirk grows as you nod toward Joseph, now trying to pry off the emergency call button on the elevator panel with a toothpick.
Avdol barks out a quiet laugh as the elevator doors slide shut on them. That leaves you alone—with a very heavy, very drunk, very clingy Frenchman.
Polnareff exhales dramatically into your hair. “Mon cœur... are we still in Egypt? This hotel smells like... sandalwood and sadness.”
“You smell like alcohol and sweat,” you mutter, fishing the room key out of your back pocket as you drag him down the hall. “And cologne. How do you still smell like cologne?”
“‘s my natural scent,” he replies proudly. “I am très irrésistible. ”
“You’re certainly something,” you say under your breath, barely able to suppress your laugh.
Your hotel room is at the far end of the third floor corridor—of course it is—and by the time you fumble the door open, you’re both breathing a little harder than normal. The arak you drank just an hour ago still lingers in your system, warming your cheeks and making everything feel just slightly more intense. The hallway lights seem dimmer than before. Polnareff’s arm around your shoulder feels heavier. The smell of his skin, faint cologne mixing with sand and salt, is impossible to ignore.
The door closes with a soft click, sealing the two of you in a warm hush that feels heavier than it should. Polnareff wobbles beside you, arm still draped across your shoulders like a weighted sash of heat and pressure and aching awareness. His breath smells faintly of sugar and spice from the arak, and his body leans unconsciously toward yours—like he’s forgotten how to stand without your anchor.
It isn't until you finally help Polnareff lean against the wall that the two of you flick the lights on and actually take a second look at the room Joseph had booked for you.
It hits you both at the same time.
The bed.
One bed.
You and he both stare at it, and the soft, breathy little “ah...” that slips from him is somehow the most bashful sound you’ve ever heard come out of that man's mouth.
"Well, chaton,” he mumbles, voice thick and low, fingers rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. “I suppose I’ll take the floor, non?”
You blink, heart hammering in your chest as you turn slowly toward him, trying your best to look unaffected. You aren't. You’re absolutely not.
And he looks so—
Drunk. Warm. Vulnerable. His hair is mussed and the (already scandalously low) neckline of his shirt is askew, collarbone catching the low light and glistening faintly from the heat of the evening. His cheeks are flushed and pink, and his lips part as he breathes slowly through the haze. He looks... soft. And somehow yours for just a moment, standing here with nowhere else to go.
You stumble over your words, a soft, flustered sound falling from your lips as Polnareff sways unsteadily beside you. Your body moves instinctively, grabbing onto his strong arm to keep him balanced—though, truthfully, you're not sure who needs the balance more, him or you. Heat blooms instantly beneath your fingertips, seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, the muscles of his bicep taut and smooth beneath your touch.
He jolts slightly, more in surprise than resistance, and you swear you can feel the heat of his skin under your fingers before you’ve even consciously registered how thick his bicep is beneath your hand. Soft. Firm. Solid warmth under silky skin and lean muscle, and for a split second, your drunken brain can't help but scream about how dangerous that is—how unfair it is that he’s this soft and strong at once. You blame the way your stomach flips on the alcohol, forcing yourself to push down any of those surfacing feelings in order to keep Polnareff from falling face-first into the wooden flooring.
"Whoa—nope, nope, nope—" you smile at him playfully, gently guiding him toward the bed. “You’re way drunker than me. Sit down before you hurt yourself.”
He sits with a surprised little grunt, blinking at you wide-eyed.
His arm is solid beneath your fingers—ridiculously buff. Heat radiates off him in waves, muscle taut and relaxed in equal parts. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the instant warmth that curls through your core at the contact. You blame the arak. It has to be the arak.
“I really don’t mind, chaton,” he protests weakly, an adorable mixture of embarrassment and bashful amusement dancing in his bright eyes as you push him down onto the mattress. Immediately, he attempts to rise again, shaking his head as a hand rises to grasp at your own arm. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”
“Polnareff.” You fix him with a pointed look, nudging his hip until he sits down with a slight bounce, his name on your tongue makes his whole body still.
“I’m not waking up in the middle of the night again to find you on the floor crying about how your back hurts. You’re way too much of a drama queen when you’re hungover,” you say, trying to tease but unable to hide the affection laced under the jab. Your grip on his arm shifts until you're gently pushing him down instead. “So sit. Bed. Now.”
He stares up at you like you’ve just offered him the moon. Still flushed. Still too stunned to move on his own.
"But—"
"Uh uh," you interrupt, narrowing your eyes. When he tries to get up, you push him gently back down with a finger pressed against his lips.
His eyes go very wide.
You feel the soft heat of his breath against your fingertip. The warmth of his skin beneath your palm. The split second of stillness that wraps around both of you like a held breath.
“Sit, Jean.”
That does it. His knees give out under your light pressure and he lets himself be guided down to the bed, legs parting slightly as he sinks into the mattress. He stares up at you like you’re made of stars, lips parted slightly, breathing slower now as he blinks up, completely smitten and struggling to hide it.
You ignore the way your chest tightens at that expression, pulling your hand away and turning on your heel, trying to ignore the burn of your face. “Just—get comfy. I’m gonna change.”
You barely take a step before you gasp, feeling fingers wrap delicately, yet firmly, around your wrist.
“Don’t go.”
The words are breathless. Soft. Pleading.
You turn your head slowly, heart thudding, and find him staring up at you like you’re already halfway out the door and he’s terrified you’ll disappear. His fingers tremble faintly around your wrist, but his gaze doesn’t waver.
“Mon cœur… don’t leave me yet.”
You freeze, completely ensnared. His ocean blue eyes glisten under the soft hotel light—heavy-lidded, glassy from drink and exhaustion and something else. You see it clearly in that moment: if you stepped away now, if you left him alone to sit in this room with his thoughts and silence, he'd fall apart.
"Polnareff," you murmur, cheeks burning as you try to laugh it off. "I’m not leaving leaving—I’m literally just going to the bathroom. Two feet away. So I don’t, y’know, strip in front of you or something."
But before you can move again, Polnareff shifts with surprising grace for someone so drunk. He leans back—and with one smooth pull, brings you with him. You stumble, balance stolen completely as you fall forward with a gasp—
And land right in his lap.
Your legs straddle his thick thighs as you instinctively catch yourself on his shoulders, the warmth of his body engulfing you. He’s solid beneath you, a furnace of muscle and heat, and when his arms wrap gently around your back to steady you, your breath stutters completely.
“P-Polnareff!” you exclaim, half mortified and half breathless, struggling to find a place to put your hands that isn’t his broad chest. "Wha—what the hell are you doing?"
His face is right there, inches away. His silver hair is slightly mussed, strands brushing against your cheek, and his eyes are looking up at you like you’ve hung the moon. His arms wrap slowly, gently, around you in a tight, clumsy hug, pulling you flush to his chest.
"Stop squirming," he mumbles, voice muffled against your neck, hot breath skating over your skin. He sounds petulant, like a child denied his favorite toy.
You stiffen instinctively, fingers pressing against the firm planes of his chest, feeling the definition beneath his thin shirt. You try—god, you try—to push yourself away, even just enough to get your balance back, but one of his palms slides up your back in a lazy, sensual line. His touch is so gentle it’s almost reverent, sending a shiver rippling through your spine.
“Pol—”
“Just for a minute,” he breathes. “Let me hold you, mon amour… You're so warm…”
“Polnareff, I need to change!” you insist, trying to shift, but the movement only makes things worse. Your thighs flex uncomfortably around him, trapped in this compromising position with so much of him beneath you. His hair brushes your cheek, ticklish and soft, silver strands fraying from it's usual perfect updo due to the walk back. You feel the slow, hot rhythm of his breathing against your throat. One of his hands strokes up your spine with devastating gentleness, the calloused pads of his fingers tracing lightly over the fabric of your shirt until you can feel it through the fabric. Your breath hitches sharply, every nerve in your body lighting up like fireworks.
He guides you to sit up straighter—forces your spine to arch subtly with a palm against the small of your back. You feel the muscles of his thighs flex under you, and you’re keenly aware of how wide you have to spread your legs just to sit like this. The fabric of your shorts rides up high on your thighs. You swear you can feel every inch of him beneath you.
And you’re dizzy. From him. From the drink. From this.
“Jesus,” you breathe, pushing lightly at his chest with trembling hands. “You—You’re drunk, and this is way too much—”
You try to look anywhere but his face, but it’s impossible. His eyes drag you in. His lashes are low, lids heavy, but his gaze is focused entirely on you. Dreamy and molten and warm. He looks like he’s staring at a goddess. Your resolve almost melts on the spot.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper.
“Like what?” he murmurs, tilting his head, still holding you so gently.
“Like…” You blink hard, cheeks blazing. “Like that. Like you are right now.”
There’s a beat of silence. And then, softly, you add, “You shouldn’t be touching me like this. Especially not if you’ve got someone waiting for you back in France.”
He stares at you blankly for a moment. And then—
He pouts.
Actually pouts.
You gape at him.
His brows furrow, lips parting in quiet protest as he exhales in a deep, frustrated sigh. “Chérie… I was telling the truth. There’s no one.”
You blink. “What?”
“There’s no one waiting for me.” His voice is soft, hoarse with something that trembles in it. His words begin to slip again—slurring, shifting lazily between English and French. “Je n'ai jamais… I never had time for someone like that. Not back home. Not with the way my life is.”
He leans in closer, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw gently as he speaks, and you can see the tears pricking the corners of his beautiful blue eyes—glassy and wet with adoration. “But you… ever since that day in Pakistan. When I pulled you away from that damn car… mon Dieu, the way you looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I was… worth something. Do you know what that did to me?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I thought you were gonna die.” His thumb brushes along your cheek, eyes half-lidded and full of regret. “And then you looked up at me with those eyes, all wide and worried and beautiful. And you were so scared—but not for yourself. For me. Me. I thought, ‘Shit. I’d let myself die if it meant she could keep looking at me like that.’”
You feel dizzy. You’re hyperaware of how close he is, of every point of contact between your bodies. His thigh shifts under you, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His nose nudges against your neck, his lips brushing your skin. The confession is too much. Too open. Too real.
“Polnareff…” you whisper, hardly able to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your collarbone. “For saying it all like this. For kissing you.”
You blink. “Kissing—?”
But his lips are already on yours.
It happens before you can think. It’s warm and sudden and soft, not the sloppy mess of a drunken impulse but something real. His mouth molds to yours slowly, reverently, and your eyes flutter closed the moment your brain catches up. Your heart is a war drum in your chest. You feel his breath stutter against your cheek, and one of his hands curls up to cup the back of your neck.
He moans—moans—into your mouth like he’s been starving for it. Like this kiss is the first breath after drowning. His arms cage you tighter against him, fingers splaying along the arch of your back.
You kiss him back without thinking, lost in it, lost in him. The scent of his cologne, the faint burn of liquor still on his tongue, the tremble in his hands as they hold you like you’re something sacred.
When you finally pull back, you’re panting, flushed, dazed, still only a mere inch away from his face. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy, lips parted, breathing hard as he stares up at you from under his thick silver lashes—warm tears rolling softly down his cheeks.
"We shouldn’t do this," you whisper, but it comes out unsure. Weak. Unconvincing.
He blinks slowly, the smile on his face melting into something shy and mournful. “I know," he murmurs, breathless. "I just—I wouldn’t have had the courage without the drink, mon amour. But I meant it. I mean it. You—you’re the one I want."
The words hit you like a truck. You look down at him—his beautiful, flushed face, the earnestness in every line of it, the soft sheen in his watery eyes as he waits for your answer like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
"I feel the same," you say quietly, barely able to get the words past the lump in your throat.
He stares at you.
Then blinks.
"Pour de vrai?" he stammers. "You—y-you’re serious?"
"Polnareff," you say dryly, cheeks burning. "Do you think I’d still be in your lap if I wasn’t?"
His smile splits wide across his face, goofy and brilliant. He laughs—actually laughs, full-bodied and relieved—and shakes his head like he’s trying to reorient himself.
“Putain, you’re killing me,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “You mean that? You’re not messing with me, chaton?”
You shake your head quickly, embarrassed and giddy and absolutely swimming in adrenaline. “Not messing. I’ve liked you for a long time.”
He laughs again, the sound bright and giddy, and rubs at his face with one hand before fixing his eyes back on you.
"Chérie…" His voice is soft again, reverent. "Can I... Non—may I kiss you again?"
“Yes,” you whisper breathily. “Please.”