CL0UDUSTS come get your terrible, no-good, really poorly cooked food 🌚

✓ : 16/8/20 (wait it hasn't even been a week since i last updated this?? felt like ages ago wth)
✎ : 604
✿ : fluff
ϟ : none

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"This is really nice."

Polnareff turns to his partner. They're sitting on the beach, in the sand, with a blanket draped over both their shoulders and a sleeping chicken cradled in Avdol's arms. It's a hen, tan with dark spots scattered all over its plump body, mostly because Avdol keeps insisting the chickens don't get fed enough. (They do, but because Polnareff is too smitten to argue back, all their chickens are overweight now. Hopefully they don't start crushing eggs once they incubate them — there's virtually nothing else to eat on this tiny island. Oh, the throes of being in love.)

"What is?" He asks. Stars reflect in Avdol's crystal-clear eyes when he looks over to him:

"This. Sitting with you on the beach at night. Building a campfire. Stargazing with our chickens. Wouldn't you agree?"

Being French, Polnareff feels legally obliged to be the sap, but surprisingly Avdol can give people diabetes with how sweet he is sometimes. On the other hand, the impulsive thoughts in Polnareff's head never gives him a rest. Yeah this is nice, but they had dinner at 6 and now it's past 11, and all he can think about is some delicious rotisserie chicken.

"Uh, yeah." He says, scratching the back of his neck. A chilly wind blows past, and he feels Avdol shiver next to him before he stands up, the hen cooing softly against his broad chest:

"It's getting cold. We should probably head back."

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"I told you you'd get a cold from that."

Avdol shoots Polnareff a weak glare. After their little adventure yesterday night, this morning he woke up sick. Turns out the temperature can drop pretty fast even somewhere as tropical as this island.

"Oh yeah. I made you some soup." Polnareff continues, placing the tray in his hand down on their bedside table. "Chickens looked delicious."

Wait, what?

"You killed one of my chickens?!" Avdol springs up on the bed, all the blood rushing to his face making him look even more feverish. "Jean, what the hell? I told you the chickens are off-limits! Why did you kill them?! Oh god... who was it? Please tell me not Dani? Talib? Kamilah? Oh my god, if you got Feyruz from yesterday night I swear—"

"Calm down! I never said I cooked any of them!" Polnareff cuts him off, shooing Magician's Red away from himself. "How could I? You treasure them like your own children. If I touched any of those chickens you'd probably turn me into a rotisserie. I made you egg soup, for god's sake."

"Oh! Oh." Avdol exclaims. He feels lightheaded after that (uncalled-for) shouting fit. "Yikes. Sorry for that."

"It's fine." Polnareff rolls his eyes, before ladling some soup into a small bowl. It does smell like egg, actually — Avdol thinks he must have missed that due to being so damn congested. "Your chickens are fat as hell, anyway. Would make terrible soups."

"They're not that fat! And they would make amazing soups, thank you very much." Avdol huffs as he sits back on the bed, stuffing another pillow behind himself to get more comfortable. "Theoretically."

"Hmm, yeah. Theoretically." Polnareff feeds him a warm spoon of soup, wriggling his non-existent eyebrows. Avdol almost spits the food back into his face:

"You stop making me laugh. And don't you even think about my chickens in anything but their beautiful coops."

"Oven-roasted. Buttermilk-fried. Diced up into little pieces for some delicious caesar salad."

"Jean Pierre Polnareff...."

"Or maybe braised on a bed of shallots and mushrooms and fragrant white wine—"

"I'm going to burn you alive!"

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avpol is good™️ but i cannot write them for my life. one thing i've always disliked abt p3 is how little character building there was. it sacrificed a lot of that for quantity & plot tbh.

anyway,,, chimnkens 🐣