It's easy to kill. He's known that for years now; it's so ridiculously easy to end a life, especially when you're as quick as him. When you've got a Stand that moves faster than the eye can see, that wields a weapon specifically designed to cut through flesh-- well, god, it's almost too easy.

His previous victims lay before him, bloody and mutilated, taken down far too easily. Kakyoin lies, eyes open and blank, blood staining his school uniform an ugly black, his face so mutilated he's barely recognizable. Joseph was easier: one thrust of Chariot's sword, right through his heart, so neatly done so as not to spill any blood. And Jotaro--

Jotaro kneels, breath ragged, knives sticking out of him. He's bloody, cut in a thousand different places. He stares up at Polnareff, expression beseeching. Desperate. "Please," he says, and reaches a hand out. "Polnareff, please, you have to--"

Do it. Cold and clear-- a command not spoken aloud, but rather whispered directly into his brain. Do it, and there's no choice, there's never been any choice-- that voice directs him, gives him life, gives him purpose. Disobeying is beyond him; he'd do anything to please that voice.

"Polnareff--" Jotaro says again, and tries to stumble to his feet, and it's then Polnareff acts. Chariot sweeps forward, one broad stroke that cuts into Jotaro's throat. Blood sprays over him; Jotaro chokes, falls to the ground. The pounding of his heart will be his doom; it means he'll bleed out all the faster. A minute, maybe, and Polnareff stares coldly down at his friend even as in the back of his mind he's screaming. Just stares and does nothing at all as Jotaro presses his hands to his throat, helplessly trying to stop the flow of blood, dying right in front of his former friend.

They hear him, of course. They live only a bathroom's width apart; there's no way Jotaro and Kakyoin don't hear when he wakes up yelling from another nightmare. It's only out of politeness they never bring it up, and for that Polnareff is grateful. He's not ashamed, exactly, because they're all fucked up from Egypt in their own ways-- but it's stupid, a month later, to still be wailing like a child over it. Jotaro was the one who landed the killing blow; if anyone, it ought to be him having nightmares, not Polnareff, who barely did anything at all--

But it's not about actions. It's about what he saw that night-- how he'd watched as his friends were picked off, one by one. Avdol, Iggy, and then Kakyoin-- Joseph, until finally there'd just been Jotaro left. Jotaro, strong and clever, always thinking of a way out of things, always so cool and in control. Jotaro-- who had somehow failed, who Polnareff had watched fall to the ground and stop breathing. Blood smeared over his shirt, his face, and all those knives sticking out of him-- and some nights Polnareff thinks he'll never get that image out of his head, that he'll always look at his friend and think, you shouldn't be here either.

But it doesn't do to dwell on such thoughts. With a groan Polnareff throws off the sheets and goes to open the window. It's a little too cold to have it open, but anything that reminds him he isn't in Egypt is a welcome reminder. A breeze. The feeling of the window beneath his fingers. The sound of Jotaro and Kakyoin next door, murmuring in their sleep. It's the little things.

Ten minutes later, and the bathroom door opens.

Jotaro comes in, hair mussed, pajamas still on. His eyes are still a little tired, but he doesn't complain, doesn't say anything at all. Just comes to the bed, shoving and bullying Polnareff until there's room enough for him to lie there too.

For a long while, neither of them say anything. Just lie there in the dark, staring at one another. By all rights it ought to be uncomfortable, but Polnareff finds the steady rise and fall of Jotaro's chest soothing. Still alive, that's what each breath means, and he stares at him, watches each flicker in his expression, each blink, each little sign that means not dead.

" . . . you know about dolphins?" Jotaro eventually offers, and it's so stupid, it's so stupid, and Polnareff has to bite on his bottom lip not to bark out a laugh. If he starts laughing, he'll end up veering off into other things, and that's no good, can't have that, tears have no place here-- so he bites his lip and shakes his head.

"Dolphins," Jotaro says, and his eyes are trained on Polnareff's face, "they actually have names for each other. And they use them-- there's dolphins who can call out to each other, individually. They're the only animals who can do it, besides us."

"Yeah?" It's not much of a response, but Jotaro takes it.

"Yeah. They can identify themselves in a mirror, too, if they see themselves." Jotaro shifts, rolling onto his stomach, folding his arms over the pillow so he can rest on it. "They'll spend a ton of time staring at themselves sometimes."

"Huh." Again, it isn't much of a response-- but tonight, he senses, he isn't required to give a whole lot in return. Just listen, and he can do that. Tonight, that's about all he can do.

Jotaro goes on and on. From dolphins he shifts to whales, talking about their eating habits, their songs, their family units and how the parents teach the children to hunt. After whales come deep sea fish, disgusting and awesome all at once, and Jotaro lingers at the disgusting details, knowing his friend's interests. It's more words strung together than Jotaro usually ever gives, but Polnareff doesn't comment on it. They've switched places tonight, with Jotaro talking to fill the air and Polnareff simply taking it in. It's nice. It's soothing.

Because each word is a confirmation. It means: here I am. It means: here you are. It means: here we are, and will always be; here we are, alive, and I am here if you need me. And most of all, tonight, lying here with Jotaro, it means: you're not alone.