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The sheet is pooled around Mohammed’s waist and he’s lost track at this point of what town it is they’re in; always running from place to place. After a while, the sounds wafting in through open windows in hostels and hotels all seem to run together. The echoes of wooden wheels groaning under the weight of carriages as they tumble along rutted roads, a squawk of a chicken, a distant cow lowing, different dialects and accents, a horn honking. Some shouts make their way up the side of the stucco building, he doesn’t understand the words, but they aren’t angry shouts, they’re just the kind of talking that happens in cities and towns to get heard over the general cacophony of day-to-day life.
It’s comforting in a way, Mohammed thinks, that no matter where they are, some things are constant. The scenery might change but, in the end, people are people and they go about their lives in very similar manners.
It's early; the sun is just starting its graceful rise from the eastern horizon and shards of yellowish light filter easily through the light gauze curtains that flutter gently in the almost non-existent breeze. And it’s hot. It’s always hot where they are. Even the sheets are too much at times, the airy fabric clinging to sweaty skin. And beside him, yet another source of heat: Jean Pierre.
Mohammed’s ruminations are interrupted after a few moments when Jean Pierre starts talking.
“Je voudrais un sandwich au jambon et un cornichon, sil vous plait,” Jean Pierre mutters in his sleep, smacking his lips before letting out a small humming noise followed by a loud snore. “Magnifique!”
Mohammed lays on his back trying to stifle a low chuckle—Jean Pierre has the strangest dreams.
“J'ai dit pas de mayonnaise!” A frown settles across Jean Pierre’s forehead and Mohammed wants to reach out to smooth the small wrinkles with his thumb, but he doesn’t. He lets Jean Pierre sleep. Lord knows they all could use it. Jean Pierre lets out another groan and quickly flops over on to his back which only serves to increase the volume of his snores. Mohammed bites back another chuckle—even while he’s sleeping, Jean Pierre has a flair for the dramatic.
He must have dozed off again, because when Mohammed opens his eyes again, the sun is higher in the sky, and the yellowish shards of sunlight from before are now piercing and finding their way directly through the gaps in the curtains. They highlight the silver of Jean Pierre’s hair, reflecting in little golden glows. His hair is currently not molded up in to his over-the-top pompadour style, but instead, down loose, spread across the white of the pillowcase. Mohammed wonders idly why Jean Pierre never wears it down like this; it’s becoming.
“Merde!” Jean Pierre throws his arm up to cover his eyes, “turn off the sun, please!”
“You’re awake,” Mohammed comments and Jean Pierre grumbles in return.
“Barely.”
“You know,” Mohammed starts after another moment or two of Jean Pierre’s abhorrence of the bright sunlight, quirking his mouth in to a half-smile as he rolls over on to his side so he can face Jean Pierre, “you talk in your sleep.”
He’s met with raised eyebrows and a look of mild panic that slightly widens Jean Pierre’s sleepy eyes. “Non,” Jean Pierre retorts with a yawn, matching Mohammed’s pose, resting his elbow in to his pillow and cradling his face in his open palm. His silver hair dangles down, brushing over his fingers. “No, I don’t.” There’s a hint of indignation in his tone.
“You do,” Mohammed answers in an almost conspiratorial whisper, “in French.”
The mild panic lingering in Jean Pierre’s features smooths quicky out at Mohammed’s words in to an expression that holds a touch of relief. “Well,” Jean Pierre says as he reaches out and starts tracing small indiscriminate patterns along Mohammed’s chest with his fingertip, “then it’s a good thing you don’t understand francais, oui?”
Mohammed thinks for a moment before answering; this could be good, a little fun, telling Jean Pierre he doesn’t understand what’s being said instead of being truthful and letting him know that yes, he actually does speak French. It’s not something any of the others know, with the exception of Joseph, but that’s only because they’ve known one another for ages at this point. It’s harmless, right? A little white lie. It’s not like Jean Pierre ever says anything damning or secret or surreptitious in his sleep—at least not to Mohammed’s knowledge. Jean Pierre talks mostly about food anyway.
He likes hearing Jean Pierre speak French and in Mohammed’s mind, if Jean Pierre knew he understood what was being said, he might grow self-conscious about it. Although on the whole, Jean Pierre is loud and brash and any other number of qualifiers in the same vein, in the time Mohammed has gotten to know him, he’s found Jean Pierre can also be sensitive and a little self-doubting at times: Mohammed feels part of Jean Pierre’s big personality is a way to cover up those little insecurities. It’s somewhat endearing.
So, Mohammed confirms what Jean Pierre has said, agreeing that he doesn’t understand.
~-~
The thing between the two of them, between Mohammed and Jean Pierre, is relatively new. And while they danced around one another for weeks before they both ended up in the same bed after indulging in way too many spirits, there was still so much they had to learn about each other. On the surface, they know each other’s fighting techniques, the intricacies of their stands, and how together they can benefit one another. But underneath the surface, the deeply personal aspects still remain to be discovered.
Joseph asked him one night, when everyone else had gone off to bed and they were left sitting out on the small balcony that hung precariously off the front of the building where they were staying, if what Mohammed and Jean Pierre shared went deeper than simply finding pleasure in each other amidst the chaos that surrounds them daily.
“This thing,” Joseph waves his hand as he talks, as much to lend a cooling breeze to his face as to swat away an errant bug, “between you and Polnareff. Is it…” Joseph pauses while trying to find a way to ask tactfully.
Mohammed shrugs, understanding what it is Joseph is angling at. “I’m not sure,” Mohammed answers honestly, “I think we both know something is there, physically at least, some spark, some fire that draws us like a moth to a flame, but more?” Mohammed strokes his chin thoughtfully before continuing, “it’s complicated, I think.”
Joseph raises an eyebrow, “complicated?”
“He’s younger,” Mohammed starts and Joseph’s laugh interrupts his comments.
“He’s not that much younger than you, Mohammed,” Joseph points out with a chuckle. “Just because you act like an old man doesn’t mean you are one.”
Mohammed purses his lips although a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “As I was saying,” he continues, “he’s brash, over-confident, pig-headed. Everything I’m not!”
Joseph nods as Mohammed speaks; what’s being said is all true, Joseph thinks, but he also notices the soft look in Mohammed’s eyes as he talks and the way he has trouble holding back his smile. “That doesn’t make it complicated, Mohammed,” Joseph interjects, “you’re the one making it complicated. I see that look in your eyes,” Joseph waves his hand again, “you’re making excuses.”
Mohammed resists rolling his eyes, mostly because what Joseph is saying holds a good amount of truth to it even though he’s loathe to admit it. It’s just. Well. It hasn’t been easy in the past for Mohammed to open up and give himself over to someone else. Fighting he knows. Having to do what it takes to keep himself alive? He can do that in his sleep (mostly successfully). But letting down his carefully built exterior of coolness and practicality and levelheadedness? That’s another story. Allowing himself to be vulnerable runs counter to his nature. He tells Joseph as much.
“You’ve done it before,” Joseph says softly with a hint of regret tinging his words as he turns away from Mohammed and looks out in to the inky darkness that surrounds them, “just because it didn’t work out in the end doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth doing.”
Mohammed shakes his head. “I wasn’t referring to us,” Mohammed explains quietly, “I meant in general. What we had…” Mohammed trails off, there’s no use in rehashing something that happened long ago in a different place and time in their lives. “I don’t regret any of that.”
Silence settles between the two of them for a few moments before Joseph clears his throat and begins to speak again. “So, what’s stopping you with Jean Pierre?” he asks, “and no excuses, Mohammed, the truth.”
“I told you,” Mohammed answers sounding a bit frustrated, “letting down—”
“No.” Joseph interrupts, “I get that part, but that’s normal, not wanting to open up. What is it really?”
Mohammed stares off at the night sky for a few moments before finally admitting, “I’m scared.” He pauses, waiting to see if Joseph has any rebuttal but Joseph stays silent, listening. “You see what we’re doing; you’re a part of it too,” Mohammed explains, “the danger—hell, we don’t go two days without someone almost getting killed, Joseph.” Mohammed’s voice rises a bit as he continues, “I couldn’t take it if…” Mohammed lets the implication hang, “I didn’t mean to fall for him so hard,” he finishes, lowering his voice to an almost-whisper.
Joseph reaches over the space between them and rests his hand on Mohammed’s shoulder and gives it a small, reassuring squeeze, “we never do, do we?”
Mohammed shakes his head in answer. “I don’t think he feels the same way, either,” he admits quietly after another few moments of silence.
Joseph chuckles softly and gives Mohammed’s shoulder another squeeze before pulling his hand back, “don’t be too sure about that.”
Mohammed turns, slightly startled by Joseph’s words and he draws his eyebrows together in puzzlement. Joseph only purses his lips and pretends he’s locking his mouth shut but his eyes twinkle in the dim light.
“Fine,” Mohammed says with mock exasperation, “keep your secrets. If you really have one.”
~-~
“J'aime ton grand frigo,” Jean Pierre practically shouts out and a smile creeps across his lips before he rolls over on to his side and keeps sleeping.
‘I love your big refrigerator???’ Mohammed definitely has to bite back the laugh that threatens to bark out in the relative silence of their shared room. To date, this ranks as one of the most bizarre yet comical things to come out of Jean Pierre’s mouth, unbidden, while he sleeps. He wishes he could rib Jean Pierre about it, ask him what on earth he was dreaming about, other than kitchen appliances apparently, that would make that unique phrase be something he felt was important to say, but he can’t—Jean Pierre still has no idea that he understands what’s being said.
~-~
It keeps happening.
Jean Pierre, in the dead of night or in the early dawn when the sun is just breaking over the horizon, mumbling, or sometimes almost shouting, increasingly ridiculous statements, in French, while he’s sleeping. It’s getting hard for Mohammed to pretend he doesn’t understand because the things Jean Pierre says really, really beg for an explanation. But Mohammed stays mum about it. Although they’re absurd, he very much enjoys hearing Jean Pierre speaking in his native tongue. Even if it is about appliances and lately, five-speed gear boxes, bottled water, and service charges.
~-~
“You know,” Mohammed starts, early one morning when they’re in some other town that he’s lost track of but carries the same familiar sounds as all the other places they’ve passed through, “you rarely speak French when you’re not sleeping.”
Jean Pierre shrugs as much as he can while laying on his back with his head turned to face Mohammed. “I do, sometimes.”
Mohammed nods but points out, “you use words, here and there, but never full sentences.”
Jean Pierre cocks an eyebrow as a sly smile and amused expression creeps across his face. He flips himself over on to his stomach and rests his chin in his hands, “why? Do you like hearing me speak French? Tu aimes quand je parle français?”
“Um,” Mohammed falters and he feels his cheeks pink slightly with embarrassment; he should have seen the question coming when he’d started the conversation. “Oui?” Mohammed answers a bit awkwardly.
Jean Pierre leans in, closing the distance between them and kisses Mohammed softly, “pour toi, je parlerai tout le français que je peux.”
Mohammed has to bite back the fond smile that threatens to break at Jean Pierre’s words so he doesn’t give away his secret. “I don’t know what you said,” Mohammed claims, feigning innocence, “but it sounds…sexy.”
“Sexy?” Jean Pierre practically snorts, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that word before. But I like it.” Jean Pierre kisses Mohammed a bit more insistently, “especially when it’s about me.”
Mohammed rolls his eyes and gives Jean Pierre a playful shove, breaking out of his usually reserved and collected self. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he gently taps his fingertips against Jean Pierre’s forehead before softening his touch, allowing his fingers to rake lightly through Jean Pierre’s silvery hair.
“Too late,” Jean Pierre retorts as he closes the space between them and presses Mohammed down against the mattress.
~-~
Jean Pierre starts speaking more and more French, especially to Mohammed, after Mohammed’s impromptu admission when they were laying together in bed, and it’s getting even harder for him to play dumb and not react to the things Jean Pierre says.
For the most part, it’s utter nonsense. Words and phrases that make literally no sense within the context of when they’re being spoken; whether they’re running at breakneck speed away from another threat or when they’re behind closed doors and their arms and legs are wrapped around one another, oblivious to the oppressive heat that always seems to be surrounding them these days. Jean Pierre talks about the weather, talks about himself, espouses the merits of pineapples versus pomegranates. But it doesn’t matter to Mohammed, Jean Pierre could read a phone book, if there was one handy, as long as he did it in French.
“Did he just say something about rabbit food?” Kakyoin leans in and whispers a bit too loudly to Jotaro when Jean Pierre is rambling on while they’re all stuffed in to a far too small off-terrain vehicle when they’re crossing more desert.
“Non,” Jean Pierre swings his head around while he’s driving to glare in to the back seat, “I was talking about carrots.”
“So,” Jotaro retorts flatly, “rabbit food.”
“Watch out!” Mohammed grabs the wheel and urges it back to the left, straightening out the vehicle that had started drifting precariously towards probably the only cactus within a one-hundred-mile radius when Jean Pierre had turned around to correct Kakyoin, “careful!”
“Ah, sorry, mon petit lapin,” Jean Pierre replies and its all Mohammed can do to not blush at the ridiculous moniker.
“Why’s he keep talking about rabbits?” Kakyoin questions from the back, but this time much quieter so only Jotaro can hear.
Jotaro shrugs. “He’s thick,” he states plainly.
They’ve been going for about two hours, Jean Pierre’s mouth running for about as long as they’ve been driving and every so often Kakyoin chimes in and Jotaro offers something wry and sardonic in return.
“Did you ask him to do this?” Joseph leans in and asks Mohammed quietly.
Mohammed shakes his head then nods, sending a very mixed answer back to Joseph. “Maybe,” Mohammed admits a bit sheepishly.
“How can you sit there and not react at all to his gibberish?” Joseph asks, “it’s complete nonsense. Worse than his normal nonsense.”
“I know,” Mohammed answers with a hushed tone, “you see…” Mohammed pauses and rubs his hand across the back of his neck guiltily. “I might have told him I don’t speak French.”
“You what?!” Joseph exclaims and Mohammed narrows his eyes and wills Joseph to lower his voice so Jean Pierre doesn’t notice their near silent conversation. “You what?!” Joseph repeats much more quietly.
Mohammed shrugs, again, quite sheepishly, “I might have—”
“I heard you,” Joseph shakes his head in disbelief.
“I didn’t want him to be self-conscious about it,” Mohammed explains, “you know how he can be.”
Joseph rolls his eyes, “you created a monster.”
“Ce serait bizarre si la tour eiffel était dans le desert?” Jean Pierre questions as part of his rambling non-sequitur, completely oblivious to the conversation taking place just to his right.
‘A monster’ Joseph mouths at Mohammed.
~-~
Although Mohammed wants to open his eyes when the yellowish shards of early-morning sunlight start filtering through the gauze curtains in their room, he doesn’t, he’s too relaxed at the moment. Jean Pierre’s woken up before him, a rarity, and he’s currently rolled on to his side with his silver hair flopping down in to his face while he gently runs the backs of his knuckles across Mohammed’s hair. It feels delightfully tender.
“Tu es magnifique comme ça,” Jean Pierre mutters quietly, careful not to wake Mohammed who he thinks is still sleeping. “Je pourrais te regarder pour toujours.” Mohammed hears Jean Pierre sighing softly. “Si je n'étais pas si lâche…” Jean Pierre trails off momentarily, stalling the movements of his fingers before starting his gentle stroking again, “je te dirais que je t'aime.”
“You love me?” The words slip out of Mohammed’s mouth unbidden as a whisper and he instantly realizes what he’s said.
So does Jean Pierre.
“You—” Jean Pierre’s fingers falter in Mohammed’s hair, and he goes completely still. “You understood that?”
Mohammed opens his eyes and looks up to see the creases of worry lining Jean Pierre’s forehead. He reaches up smooths his thumb between Jean Pierre’s eyes before speaking. “Um,” Mohammed averts his eyes away from Jean Pierre, he can’t look at him while admitting that he’s understood every single word Jean Pierre has said in French since this all first started. “Oui, j'ai compris tout ce que tu as dit.”
“All of it?” Jean Pierre repeats quietly.
“Oui.” Mohammed answers.
“I—I didn’t” Jean Pierre reverts back to English, dropping his native tongue, “I thought—” Jean Pierre stutters, confused and sounding hurt. “I never would have—”
“Je t'aime aussi, Jean Pierre, tout à fait,” Mohammed tells him softly, “and I’m sorry, I was just having a little fun. I didn’t know you’d say anything like that. I didn’t know you felt anything like that for me. I wouldn’t have…if I knew.”
The creases reappear on Jean Pierre’s forehead and it makes Mohammed feel extremely regretful that he’d lied about not being able to understand. But truthfully, he’d never imagined Jean Pierre would profess his love. If he’d had known… but after a moment, the creases diminish and instead they’re replaced with the small wrinkles at the edges of Jean Pierre’s eyes when he starts to smile. “You—you love me too?” Jean Pierre asks, smile breaking in to a wide grin.
Mohammed nods, “I do.”
“Magnifique!” Jean Pierre exclaims and is met with a loud pounding on the wall that separates their room from the one where Kakyoin and Jotaro are staying. “Magnifique,” Jean Pierre repeats at a more respectable volume, “mon petit lapin.”
Mohammed shakes his head, “no. Just no.”