To my Dearest Friend

We are friends, right?

Cyril Courtenay

I light his cigarette with a tender gesture. A gesture not unknown by him. I see his lip trembling, altough he seems to wish to hide it. I do not understand everything about this whole situation. I did not understand his reaction to my question yesterday night. The only thing I truly understand that even when I want to deny I love him I cannot. It's like we're bonded to eachother, melted into one another. With hi every move he movse me, with every light of wonder in his eyes he seems to light up the dark. I forgot the little habits he has, the little things that I cannot replace, that Émile does not come close to. Those little gestures he has remind me how well I truly know him. His habit of moving your signet ring up and down in slight motions when he is nervous, the little scoff when he doesn't believe something or thinks you are utterly stupid, the little dimples when you smile with wonder. All these things I missed, without being aware of missing them. It's like I look at lips, every time he smiles they are crooked but when he is serious they are utterly perfect, just like the rest of his face. I feel guilty about missing him, but deep down I know I can't deny something that has been branded into me.

I look at the statue, to be frank I do not look at her the same as Yves does. The only thing I can think of when seeing him stare at the statue is that I wish to kiss him. That wonder, that appreciation, that conncection with something so foreign as art. He looks like a figure in the sixtene chapel that has been painted there to show us the appreciation of the world we humans are supposed to have. It looks like his hard is struggling to understand the mere beauty of this world. But perhaps he doesn't wish to understand. I wish to kiss him but I know he would probably hate me for it, no not probably, he would hate me for it. I need to be his friend, I should not be thinking about kissing him, I should only think about.. what should I think about? I am not even sure. I don't think I see him as a friend....I think I still see him as my Yves.

Emile puts his hand on my shoulder, it startles me. 'I found them' he says with a rather loud voice. Malachi approaches us, I still hate Malachi, I absolutely despise him. Why does he think he even has the right to be close to Yves. And they aren't even romantically involved, what does Yves see in him? I see a Jew. Well, to be honest I do not see anytning different when I see Akiva than any other human. I don't hate him because h'-s jewish, I never hated jew all that much. I'm rather indifferent to them. But what I really hate is the fact that he is something I wish I was. He is everything I wish I had, he is a proper doctor, he has a strong unshattered bond with Yves, he has so much. He is quite wealthy and if not Yves takes him on trips likes this. I only now realise I do not hate him for being a Jew, I hate him because the whole system is against him and he still manages to come out on top. Why wasn't that possible for Yves and I. Don't we deserve that too?

Not much later we are all laughing about a stupid joke Émile told. We are back home at Émile's apartement this time. We are sitting in the sitting room. Telling jokes and mocking other people. Yves never liked that much, I guess that's why he is so deadly silent. He sighs and excuses himself again, he walks ins the garden and starts smoking. I decided to follow him. He looks lonely I think as I smile.

I approach him and he chuckles sarcasticly, 'Do you need to follow me everywhere Cyril? I laugh as I light my cigarette. 'Smoking is and always was supposed to be a social affair' I answer, he scoffs. 'If that is what you want to believe that's your choice. I am sorry about yesterday. You could not have known I would break down, it was rude of me and I promise I will not do it again.' He says with an expression on his face that resembles the same emotionless stone as some of th statues back in the Louvre. 'I am genuinel sorry' He continues. I look down.

I clear my burning throat. 'I won't ask again but I am not sure what your reaction meant, Yves. Would it be rude to ask for a bit more clarity?' he blows the smoke into the cold evening air that is trying to hide our freezing loneliness. The strange distance between us can be felt by the trees and the weather. He takes a deep breath and says, his mouth barely moving 'Why do you want to know?' I try to smile but it looks forced. He doesn't look at me, he looks slightly up at the sky, I begin to bargain. 'Darling, sunlight. I want you to be happy that's why.' he turns around looking at me his greenish-brown eyes black for the first time ever.

'Oh walk to the blazes, you pretentious, pigeon-liver livered meater (coward) you leave me behing in the damned prison of the life I live in, than you write letters about how great it is to have gotten rid of me. You act like this is all you have ever wanted, bur we had plans, we had our dreams. But no you elect to leave me behind in good old England and find yourself another damn version of me, a newer one, a french one.' The tears flood his eyes. I am taken aback by how he talks, it's muffled, silent even, as if somebody is suffocating him but the anger, disdain and utter saddness seeps through every crack in his broken heart. 'Yes, dont think I haven't  noticed. He acts like me, you treat him like me. And than you have the nerve, the absolute nerve to say you want ME to be happy. YOU left ME, without even thinking twice, I was alone there, utterly alone, I died the day you left. Constantly worried whether you'd miss me or forget me. Do you even know how the nights without you felt like? Not for you, for me. And every time those same dammned letter... the letters letting me know how I held you back! how much better your life is without me. You were so happy to be finally free from my evidently sickening hold. and now I need to believe you care for me?! Are you serious?' I do not know how to respond.

He smiles. 'Forget it Cyril, we are friends, as we always were. Don't you think?' He pats me on the shoulder and walks away. I look at the trees with tears in my eyes, the grey sky is the only thing I can focus on. This echo of these utterly true words are destroying half of my soul. I do not know what I am feeling. I look down, Yves was always on my side. It feels strange now that he isn't. I am so utterly confused I do not know how to feel. I feel sad, guilty and I wish I would have done so many things so differently. I'm overwhelmed by emotions I am not familiar with. I'm drowning in everything from emotions to guilt. I want to hug Yves, I want him to know how sorry I am.

That last sentence, the same arrogance as his father, that same look of superiority, exactely like his father does with eveyone he considers beneath him. Yves was terrified of becoming like his father, evidently he has learned how to be like that regardless. I sigh, but can I really blame for it? I throw the cigarete down and stump on it to stop the burning just like I've done to Yves heart.