requested by @barbieznwine on AO3
word count: 1365
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Jean stepped out of his drawn carriage, legs aching due to the long drive from the port. The Queen of Egypt had him shipped in from France to instruct her son in sword fighting, who he had never met. He bowed to the beautiful Queen when she stepped outside to greet him.
"Hello my beautiful Queen! Have you missed my presence?"
The Queen laughed, pigment coated lips parting to reveal two rows of straight white teeth. "I don't believe so," she giggled.
Jean threw his head back, laughing loudly. "Oh, don't sell me a dog! Grace me with an embrace, will you?"
The Queen eagerly stepped forward, pulling the French man into her arms, kissing him once on each cheek, leaning into his much taller frame.
"Have you grown since we last met, Jean?" She studied his buff, pale figure, barely hidden in a soft green cotton dress shirt and pants. His white hair slicked back, face powdered and kept cool with his fan.
"I am afraid not," he snickered, placing his hands on the Queen's shoulders. "Do you mind showing me around your new palace, mademoiselle?"
The Queen giggled, blushing. "You make me feel so young Jean! I would be honored to show you around, but first, I would like you to meet your student," she said through a bright smile, leading Polnareff through the towering, arched, polished Senegal Ebony doors. The sculptures in the foyer of the palace had been made long ago in Ancient Egypt by masters of the craft. They were set on pedestals amid the water of the fountains and the perfectly manicured flower planters that resembled splatters of neon gouache upon dark, eco green fabric.
"Abasi, fetch Muhammad for me, could you?" The Queen's assistant nodded and rushed off, returning with a young Prince. He was clothed in a beautiful crimson Egyptian cotton suit, and draped with a white wool robe, both with matte finishes that deflected the golden desert sun onto the decorative mass of jewelry and his glowing, flawless warm sepia skin and facial markings, spattered with deep golden highlights and undertones. His black hair, newly and carefully styled into Bantu knots, shone out from under his wrapped cotton headband, and glinted in the sunlight. The Prince took pride in how he looked, easily the most attractive man in his kingdom, because he worked for it. He never spent his mother's money, nor asked his father for his way. Each piece of pure gold jewelry decorating his shoulders, arms, and face were paid for with money he made off the local market for selling eggs, and were hand crafted by the kingdom's wisest woman, blessed with her mental clarity and wisdom.
"Good afternoon, Mama. Who is this?"
"Good afternoon son, this is your new fencing instructor. You do not have to be formal with him, he and I have been friends since I visited France a few years back."
Polnareff bowed quickly, freezing in his tracks upon coming up. His porcelain skin began to heat up as the blood rushed to his cheeks. "I-It is an honor, Prince Avdol."
"Please," Avdol chuckled, his deep, sweet sorghum voice seeping into the French man's chest and sending his heart into his throat. "Call me Muhammad. You are...?"
"Jean Pierre Polnareff, your highness," the French man said, placing his open red fan over his heart and bowing once more.
"Do you mind if I call you Jean?"
"That would be just as ideal as my last name, sir."
"Now then," Avdol flashed a smile. "Shall we begin our lessons?"
Polnareff nodded and followed behind the Prince to a ballroom. He gave Avdol his uniform and shrugged himself into his own. The French man provided the Prince with a weapon, and took his stance opposite him.
Avdol hefted his own weapon, studying Polnareff's pose. His feet were splayed at right angles, his left arm sticking out behind him like the handle of a teacup. His fencing armor made him look like a walking quilt. Even with his sword pointed straight at him, Polnareff looked more than silly. Still, it was quite adorable on the man.
"More weight on your back foot," he said, breaking his stance to place his sword on the polished lapis lazuli floor and nudge Avdol's boots further apart. "So you can push off when you attack... And always keep sideways to your opponent," he said, placing his hands upon the Egyptian's waist and gently turning him to the side. "That way, your chest presents the smallest possible target," Polnareff finished with a smile before shuffling back over to his sword.
"Thank you Pol- Jean," the Prince stuttered, heart fluttering from the unexpected contact.
"Of course. Now show me how you would begin..."
For the next three hours, Avdol only did the motions he saw Polnareff do and stare. He couldn't stop staring. What was it that made him so obsessed with a French man rather than the beautiful Egyptian women lined up to be his wife? They had dinner and bid one another farewell for the night, and still, Avdol had the man on his mind. No matter what he did, he couldn't get the sun-spotted milky skin and blue eyes out of his head. He sighed out loud, throwing himself and his silk sleepwear onto the plush bed. Pulling a pillow up against his chest, the Prince held it tightly and closed his earthy brown eyes, imagining his instructor unwillingly as he fell asleep.
Morning after morning came, and once again the Prince was sharing breakfast with his instructor before their lesson. He had improved quite a bit in the month Polnareff has been teaching him, but it wasn't because he was listening. He wanted to impress the French man, and so far, he had succeeded.
"Can I ask you something, Jean?"
Polnareff glanced up from his book and smiled. "Of course."
"How long will you be instructing me?"
"Well," the French man stopped to run a hand through his slicked-back silver hair. "At the rate you're learning, I shouldn't need to stay long."
"I suppose that's true, yes," Avdol muttered, face dropping.
"What's the matter, mon amie?"
The Prince's heart fluttered, Polnareff's French made his stomach fill with large, restless butterflies. "It is nothing, I just assumed you would be here longer than one month."
"I can if you would like me to be, Muhammad. I am in no hurry to return to France."
Avdol's face darkened with an influx of blood to his cheeks. "I am going to prepare for the less-"
"There is not a lesson for today your majesty, I would like to talk to you, if that is acceptable."
Sitting on the stage in the ballroom, the two conversed for hours.
"I have come to enjoy your company extremely, Jean..."
Polnareff blushed softly, looking over his shoulder as he hid the left half of his face briefly with an open fan. "I have come to enjoy yours as well, so much so that I-... ah, forgive me." He closed the fan and slowly drew it across his cheek, then half opened, placed it against his lips before closing it and placing it back into his lap.
Avdol froze, fighting himself over whether to kiss the instructor or not. He grabbed the other's dusty pink cheeks and placed his lips upon Polnareff's. On pulling back, he began to furiously apologize, only to be interrupted by another kiss.
"So you do understand fan language?"
The Prince nodded and glanced at the floor. "I love you too... I know it's early, but I'm not sure I want to give this chance up. Will you stay here?"
"Of course I will, mon cherie. Always."
Nearly a year later, Polnareff still had a place in the palace, yet now beside Avdol in his own bed and on the throne. The French man was set to become the second Prince of Egypt by marriage. The two enjoyed each day together, working in the garden, taking care of livestock, and running the kingdom. They slept cuddled together as if their lives depended on it, and the Queen praised herself each day for introducing the two.
