Boy boy boy I'm in Jojo Hell now. A friend roped me into watching this show with her and we just finished Stardust Crusaders. Predictably, being the Angst Machine I am, Polnareff is my favorite. It's about that sweet sweet survivor's guilt.

Trigger warnings: mentions of canonical character death, suicidal thoughts and interrupted suicide. It's Angst with a happy ending, but it gets a bit dodgy...

There is a dichotomy in life and death.

The thought hits him on the plane back home – back to France. And it is a strange thing, but barely two months ago Polnareff wouldn't even have known that word. He picked it up from Kakyoin of all people.

Kakyoin, who had somehow managed to bring three whole books on their long journey and had used whatever peaceful moment in between to bury himself in them. Polnareff had laughed about it, because there was just something innately funny about those books which had against all odds managed to make it all the way to Egypt – and had laughed even harder when he had found out at least one of those books was a collection of English poems.

But that didn't mean he hadn't taken a peek at them, just for curiosity's sake. And then for that same reason (and when nobody else was listening), he had asked Kakyoin to explain the words he did not understand because English was not his first language. Dichotomy had been one of them, meaning two things which are intricately linked but opposite of each other, a contradiction. Like day and night. That was the example Kakyoin had given in a gloomy hotel room in Cairo.

Or life and death, he realizes now.

As the familiar shape of Beauvais–Tillé Airport solidifies in the distance, Polnareff can't help but wonder what happened to those books.

He was twenty-one years old when Sherry died.

He remembers that week like an open wound, fresh and painful and not at all softened by time passed. It was early in spring, the rain had barely let up for days on end and it was making the roads into town soggy and hard to traverse, even with an umbrella. Polnareff soon came to recognize his sister's annoyed huff in the hallway as an indication she had come home in the evenings, going out to meet her and seeing her glancing at the mud reaching halfway up her ankles with a worried expression.

"You should take your bike to school," he told her like he had done every night for a week now.

She glanced out the window, perhaps hoping that her mere exasperation could break the clouds apart and bring the sun back. If anybody could manage such a feat, it would definitely be her. "The weather isn't suited for it."

"Right, a small girl like you would be blown off her bicycle by these winds."

Sherry slapped his shoulder lightly on her way into the kitchen, but her smile was proof enough she didn't mind his teasing. She was like that, good-natured in every way. In winter she would make soup for elderly neighbors who couldn't brave the cold themselves and in summer she would play with the children on the town square, drawing on ancient cobblestone with bright crayons before washing her fingers clean at the rusty water pump around the corner.

Polnareff recalled her coming home with cupped hands once when they were younger and their mother had just passed away. He could still see in his memories her chest heaving with suppressed sobs and the tears threatening to spill over as she revealed the frail baby bird clasped between her palms, grasp loose enough to not harm it any further. Sherry was gentle in everything she did. He stood leaning against the doorframe and watched her fuss over the hem of her skirt, caked with dirt. "Once we have a car, I'll drive you," he said.

The corner of her mouth pulled up slightly, the way she threw her dark hair over one shoulder was mesmerizing. "Of course you will, Jean." They both knew it was a pipe dream. Between him working odd jobs wherever possible and her still going to school, there was barely enough money to keep the electricity turned on and food in the fridge. But they were saving up, slowly and surely, and it was daydreaming like this that kept them going.

With a flick of her wrist Sherry opened the tap and started to wet a towel, apparently resigning to the disheveled state of her lower garment but determined to do something about her shoes at least. He stalked over, leaning back on the wooden-topped counters to throw her a broad grin. "Which color was it going to be again? Your favorite, right?" he wondered out loud, holding his chin in thought for comedic purposes.

"You know which one," she laughed softly and started to scrub at one of the loafers she usually wore to school, throwing an amused glance in his direction.

Pretending to have a sudden revelation, he nodded. "Silver?"

It wasn't hard to dodge the handful of water she splashed his way. Turning on one heel and circling around her back to stand on his sister's other side, Polnareff put one hand on her shoulder and laughed. "Blue," Sherry clarified, wasting no time in flicking her fingers at him again, sending some droplets into his face with the motion, "My favorite color is blue."

He nodded, but threw her a sideways look and put his other hand on her shoulder too. "Well I distinctly remember it being silver. You did call me your knight in shining armor once, I think. Or maybe all the time."

With an indignant huff, she closed the tap again, but she was still smiling. "Yeah, when we were kids. You were running around the backyard with a stick for a sword and your fencing form was horrible."

"My fencing form was great," Polnareff protested, "Still is actually."

But the thing about them being kids was definitely true. He probably couldn't count how many afternoons the two of them spent in the garden of their home or the wheat fields beyond, chasing each other and seeking adventure. Their favorite games had involved plenty of imagination. With the sunset descending on country roads, Sherry was a princess in a foreign land and Brave Jean her trusty knight. He was well aware of the irony in the title, but since Sherry didn't know about his secret it was the kind of thing he would privately laugh about but never mention out loud.

He only ever told one person after all - their father - and the old man had made his stance on such things very clear. Polnareff remembered the sharp sting of a smack against his cheek, the sour stench of alcohol on their father's breath as he hissed his disappointment from between gritted teeth. "Boys your age shouldn't have imaginary friends, Jean." For three weeks afterward, he hadn't dared to bring silver chariot into existence, too afraid of being caught despite knowing nobody else could see it. Then he woke up to their father gone and mama sobbing at the kitchen table and he realized it didn't matter anymore.

Six months later their mother was buried and it had been just the two of them ever since.

"Blue then." He confirmed, maneuvering around her to get the plates from a cupboard. "And then I'll ride you to school and wherever else you'd like."

Sherry hummed in response, putting her shoes in the corner so they could dry properly before making her way back over. "Wherever I'd like?"

"All the way to Paris, if you so want." He helped her reach for the glasses before she could ask, as accustomed to this routine as one could be. "I heard the girls are very cute there." Sherry made a point of stepping on his right foot quite heavily as she turned around to set them on the table, though her lithe stature meant he barely noticed. "The boys too, they say. I'm sure I'll be busy fending them off you the entire time."

"Jean-" She sputtered. The red shade that made its way onto her cheeks because of the comment only made him laugh harder. Sherry pouted at him and it was still just as cute as when she was little, making big eyes at him across the table to get him to share his desserts with her. He always did, saying no to her was simply impossible. "It's not like that."

"Not yet." He bounded across the room, patting her head in passing. "You're almost an adult and then you won't need your big brother to look after you anymore." He dropped down on the nearest chair with an exaggerated sigh, peeking at her through his eyelashes. "You'll probably leave me for some handsome city boy."

Sherry's light laughter was music to his ears. She put the quiche she had prepared yesterday on the table, batting his hand away when he tried to grab a piece immediately. "You're terrible."

"I know," he answered, waiting for her to finish setting the table, "You won't find any men more handsome than me anyways."

"Of course not." Sherry agreed, though her tone made it clear she was just playing along. Polnareff didn't mind either way. "And if I ever did, I still wouldn't leave." A more serious statement as she sat down, hand reaching out and gracing the back of his own, lingering for just a moment. Then she lifted it again to brush some dark curls out of her face and smiled. "Not until you take me to Paris, at least."

"Soon," he promised her.

The following night there were no exclamations in the hallway or playful banter over muddy clothes, only a loud banging at the door barely audible over the rain.

Polnareff had to go over to the doctor's office to identify the body. It wasn't needed, the town they lived in was so small everybody was a familiar face so it wasn't like they could have been mistaken about it being her, but it was procedure. A family member had to confirm before they could commence the necessary preparations and they didn't have any other next of kin.

They had put a blanket over most of her body and a smaller one on her face, but he couldn't help but notice one of her shoes was missing. He had already been told what happened and swallowed quickly, trying to ignore the swelling rage in his gut. He didn't want to see her face, only lifted the covering enough to confirm a well-known earring and the soft halo made by her long hair on the table. He perceived the finger-shaped marks around her throat, the small welts where nails had dug into flesh and drawn blood and he knew it was something he'd never be able to forget.

Less than a week after that Sherry had been buried too and he left for Paris alone.

He has to use almost his entire weight to get the door to the house open, pushing his shoulder into the wood twice before the rusted hinges give way. The movement immediately allows fresh air to rush into the house, blowing up dust and Polnareff covers his nose and mouth to avoid breathing it in. He flips the light-switch against better judgment, but sure enough, nothing happens. Figures, he hasn't been here in three years after all. While the electricity should still be connected – he never stopped paying the bills - the bulbs would have fused after years of disuse. The layout is familiar to him, even in the dark of dusk settling in the French countryside, and he closes the door behind him.

There are a few frames on the walls with yellowed photographs and he tries not to look at them. It's harder than he thought it would be. He went to the graveyard first thing upon arriving, but left just as quickly, faced with Sherry's simple gravestone and the blue toy car he had left her years prior, color faded by wind and weather but somehow still there. He had told himself he couldn't come back before he had killed her murderer - would be unable to face her with pride otherwise - but in hindsight that was probably just an excuse not to feel the heavy pull of mourning.

The man with two right arms is dead now but he still can't face her as he should.

But he can face her memory, drifting one hand along the wall to feel the old creases in the hideous floral wallpaper they grew up with. Ascending the stairs and avoiding the fifth step because it creaks like it did when they were younger and alive. Opening her bedroom door.

It's just like he left it, untouched since her passing. Sherry's bed is made, the cover pulled back slightly like it's just waiting for her to return and fall into it again, exhausted from a long day. She used to sit on it cross-legged, watching him practice his stance, clapping as if it was some grand performance worthy of theaters. She always was his biggest fan. Her desk is still littered with schoolwork, half-open notebooks and scribbled pages. There are doodles in the margins, his fingers wander the traces of pencil, follow the lines into oblivion.

He sits down on the ground, underneath the mirror she probably used to brush her hair in the mornings. On the opposite wall are the markings they made to track her height, first the ones their mother made and then those he did. The last one dates from when Sherry was twelve, after that she felt too grown up, but still stood on her tiptoes whenever somebody tried to measure her. From his bag he pulls out the bottle he got at the airport, using one hand to unscrew the cap. The alcohol was way too cheap to be any good and it burns as it goes down, leaving a bitter aftertaste on his tongue, but he swallows mouthfuls until one third is gone and his rapid pulse slowed to a steady beat.

Polnareff isn't scared to die. He never was, not once during all the shit they've been through. But he is scared they will be angry at him, and the liquor haze calms down that nervous thrumming until it's nearly nothing.

Maybe it's not the honorable way to go about it, but it's the only way he has left.

Avdol asked him if his revenge was meant to be a suicide mission.

For a few seconds they just stood there, the rush of pure adrenaline in Polnareff's veins and the blood loss probably making it hard for him to understand. But as the waves of the red sea lapped at the beach in soothing gestures and they watched the others load their luggage in a submarine, he felt like his heart had dropped clear through his chest.

"W-well-" He muttered, then stopped and the hesitation just hung in the air between them, probably speaking more than words ever could. The threads in his head were still coming to terms with Avdol being here, being alive, approaching this subject felt like a bad idea. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Maybe. Will you stop putting yourself in danger until then?"

Grasping on to something he could get rightfully upset about, Polnareff turned around and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Anger was good, because it was the one thing he could hold on to. When Avdol had saved him in the fight with Hol Horse, Polnareff had been angry. When Avdol was shot – died – for his sake, it was fury that had consumed him, willing his movements and spurring him into action. After Sherry, anger was the one thing that kept him going, swearing that he could not stop before he avenged her. "It's not like I do it on purpose. Dio wants us all dead," he said.

Avdol seemed to consider his answer, even if just for a moment. When he took a step closer, Polnareff could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a curious thing, and something he didn't know he had missed so much until now, when it felt obnoxiously clear why. Or maybe he was just dead fucking tired. Yeah, that sounded more likely.

"You don't have to die, Polnareff," Avdol said, his voice had a strange edge to it he couldn't even begin to decipher. It cut into him deeper than the clay version of this same man had done earlier tonight, tearing pieces off chunk by chunk. "There will be balance in life, as is natural."

He chocked on a laugh, shook his head. "I have no fucking clue what you're talking about, Avdol."

"I'm saying," Avdol continued, and put a hand on his shoulder that made him want to break down and scream. He didn't, but bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood in the back of his throat. "You can rectify a wrong by destroying those who brought it about. But you won't do any good destroying those you mistakingly blame for what happened. Especially if that is yourself."

There were a lot of things Polnareff couldn't handle tonight, added to the nightmare he already went through, and this was one of them. His entire body felt like it was shutting down and he blinked away the unsteadiness in his vision, rubbing at his eyes with one wrist. "Can we talk about this later?" he repeated softly.

The sheer exhaustion in his voice must have been apparent, because he merely got an affirmative sound in response. The subject was dropped for the rest of the journey, though Avdol made it clear it wasn't forgotten in many little ways.

When they shook their hands on an agreement of having dinner sometime after when all was well and done with, he could see in Avdol's eyes this was one of the things they would talk about. Polnareff didn't care – as long as they got through this he'd talk about anything, for hours if need be. In that fragile blink of time, he would consider the truth of the words spoken on the beach that night and live with them.

In hindsight, he should have never trusted such a thing to last.

"You were wrong," he says into the unbearable silence of the house, hearing it reverberate off every wall. "Avdol, you were fucking wrong, it's not-" There's no answer, but he doesn't need one.

Polnareff isn't afraid. He accepted it that night, lifting up a cloth to confirm his sister was dead, raped and murdered. She died miserably because he wasn't there to protect her, wasn't there in time, wasn't good enough. She died and he didn't and it wasn't fair.

Because it should have been him instead. It always should have been him.

On a country road in rural french. On the sandy streets of India. On that island in the red sea. In the maze of rooms in Dio's mansion. Who could have thought a person could be so bad at dying?

"It should have been me-" He tells them. The stillness is crushing him- choking him. He didn't get to say it to Sherry, he didn't get to tell Avdol or Iggy. He wasn't even there when Kakyoin-

Avdol was wrong. There is only one way to make this right. And if he could he would die four times over, once for each person that he failed to save.

Silver chariot blinks into existence, its form hunched and miserable now that Polnareff doesn't care about keeping up a proper fencing stance. He has wondered before if this will work. If a stand can be sentient enough to refuse to kill its user. With one hand he grabs the blade. Blood immediately wells up and slides down his wrist and it's a sharp pain that almost brings his mind back to full awareness.

Exhaling shakily, he pulls - and chariot obeys - moving the sword in stuttering jerks over his body until it is in the right position. If he does this properly, he won't even need to suffer, though he's sure he'll be able to atone sufficiently in the next life. He just needs to make sure not to hesitate.

The sound of the phone ringing breaks the silence and the abruptness is jarring enough to make him falter. It takes him a few seconds to come to his senses, and realize it's the one in the downstairs hallways on the side table. He gets up slowly, stumbling out of the room again. Polnareff isn't sure he will make it, the phone has rung three times now and that's usually when people get impatient and hang up. But he has no clue who would be calling either so-

"H-hello?" His speech is slightly slurred when he finally manages to grabs the receiver. The line isn't very clear and he braces one hand against the wall, tries to concentrate so he can comprehend what the person on the other end is saying.

"Polnareff?"

Fuck-

He holds back the curses threatening to escape and breathes in sharply instead. "Jotaro?" His brain is playing catch up, trying to add two and two together. He drags his hand down and notices he leaves a dark smear of blood on the wallpaper.

They don't say anything - just listen to the other's ragged breathing through the phone – and it's so surreal Polnareff wonders if he's going to faint or puke or (if he's truly as unlucky as people usually say he is) maybe both at the same time.

"Wait, where are you calling from?" he asks after a moment, reality seeping back in slowly, trickles of sweat on the back of his neck and blood along his arm. "Are you-"

"Home," Jotaro finishes the sentence for him, Polnareff can hear the faint sounds of people talking in the background and the roaring of car engines, if he tries really hard. "Or Japan, at least. We're waiting on a cab."

"Ah," he answers faintly, then doesn't say anything else. He sits down on the floor instead, the cable is long enough to allow it while still keeping the receiver to his ear.

"I wanted to call-" Jotaro says, but seems to grasp how transparent that statement is and changes course mid-sentence, "I wanted to check how you were doing."

Polnareff laughs quietly. "How did you know I would be home already? You have some insane timing, Jojo." He hopes that Jotaro won't be able to hear the bitter humor in those words.

"Actually, I called a few times. Just to be sure," Jotaro admits abjectly, under his breath, "I'm almost out of change."

He can hear the slight smile in that voice, but can't bring himself to return the favor. "Well, no need to waste any more money then. I'm fine."

"I also wanted to know if you were willing to come to Japan?"

Whatever retort he might have thought up got stuck halfway up his throat. He leans back against the wall, tries to find comfort in the solid shape. Every part of him wants to refuse, wants to hang up and finish what he started. But the slight pull of reluctance in his gut is hard to disregard completely. Polnareff isn't sure if he believes in fate anymore.

"I don't know-" He says, but before he can finish there's a commotion on the other end of the line. He can hear Joseph asking Jotaro something – "have you finally got hold of him" maybe? - and he has to pull the phone away from his ear in order not to be deafened by the elder Joestar's yelling.

"Polnareff, I changed my mind about you refusing my invite! You gotta get over here and meet my beautiful daugh-"

"What?" He tries to answer at least, though Jotaro quickly grapples the phone back from his grandfather, probably resorting to bodily violence to do it. Polnareff could easily imagine such a thing.

"Ignore the old man," Jotaro's voice returns, "What he's trying to say is, we would really like you to come to Japan, at least for a little while. It occurred to us you've never been."

Refusing such an offer hurts more than the cut did. The voice in his head telling him to go isn't his own, he knows this, but Polnareff doesn't want to dwell on who it sounds like instead. "That's not a good idea."

"Tell him that if he doesn't come we'll be very disappointed" he distantly hears Joseph say, followed by a quick "I'm not saying that" from Jotaro. He closes his eyes again, the banter taking him back to Egypt and the sandy deserts they crossed, taking turns driving or cramped into the backseat, falling asleep while leaning onto each other or keeping awake by cracking awful jokes. Now half the people there were gone.

It's funny how you can miss something that also hurts so damn much.

"Please?" Jotaro says into the phone, shaking him out of the thought. When he blinks his eyes open it's still the same cold, empty house in France he came home to.

"I'll consider it." It's not a no or a yes but it's the best he can do, the only thing he will allow himself.

"That's fine," Jotaro says evenly as if maybe he knows why. As if maybe he understands.

The line cuts out immediately after. Payphones aren't suited for international calls so it makes sense, but the ensuing quiet pierces right through Polnareff. He leaves the receiver dangling, not caring that this means he won't be able to know if Jotaro calls back. Pushing himself upright, hissing at the sting of his cut palm, he decides not to brave the staircase another time and staggers to the living room instead.

When they were children, Sherry and he would fall asleep on the couch often, but now it's barely big enough for him to fit on by himself. Still, the softness of the cushions is a relief and he shifts until he's comfortable, letting his eyes drift close again.

Maybe he'll dream and he can go back to before. To when everybody was alive and together and he didn't have to feel as broken.

And in the morning, he will look into getting himself a plane ticket to Japan.

I promise I have another Jojo thing in mind that is way happier...

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