November 12, 3644

I've read in our history books that, a long time ago, when someone died, they used to wait for seven days before doing a funeral in our country. It was a very curious rite of passage to deal with death. People brought food to the house of whoever had lost a love done, it had a religious connotation (a Christian one, in particular, at least in the Old America). I always enjoyed reading about the old world, how things worked thousand years before. But most of these habits were lost, along with religion. With the war and the great decline of our population, it was hard enough to be able to bury every person who passed away. During the war, the bodies were burned in piles, I once read. I wondered if they did the same with the fatalities in the Canadian war. I think it turned out to be an unholy habit for some, because of the war, while others still believed that cremation was the only and inevitable way.

Kenny suggested that Butters was burned instead of buried, but Stan looked at him with a certain sorrow in his eyes. In the end, we decided that this wasn't even a viable option. Making a fire big enough to burn a body would certainly attract unnecessary attention from the outside world.

It's a very weird conversation to have; deciding, along with your best friends, what to do with the dead body of one of ours. Until then, I had been crying. It's a surreal conversation too, it didn't feel like it had actually happened. That's why I consider the death rite of passage so important. You need to see the body taking its course to start believing it, to start understanding it.

Until then, I the only person I had ever buried was my grandmother and I was too young to understand what was really going on. I remember my mother holding me close, giving me this suffocating hug with her chubby arms, her strong perfume invading my nostrils, and she said "it's okay, Bubby, Grandma will rest now."

Butters' death was the first major loss of my adult life. It marked the beginning of all the losses that I would still go through, all the people I'd still need to bury. And there would be quite a lot of them. I could feel it as I stood over the hole on the ground, the ditch, the grave where Butters would rest. I sniffled a bit because of the cold, or maybe a cry that wanted to come out. I didn't let it.

My heart ached. Not metaphorically, not as a silly expression, it really hurt in the physical sense, like a claw was trying to tear it off my chest.

I squinted and let out a low moan to keep the tears from coming. Then, I felt a warm hand reaching for mine, which made me look at my side and there was Kenny, trying to smile at me, but I could see that his heart ached too. I squeezed his hand so hard that I could have broken it. At least that's the feeling I had with Kenny's bony fingers tight between mine. Stan was right beside me too; or rather, behind me, close enough so that his chest lightly touched my back. I glanced at him. His pale skin contrasted so beautifully with his black hair. His eyes were slightly reddened, moist, just like his nose. He didn't take his eyes off Gregory, both hands together in front of his groin.

Gregory cleared his throat, folding his hands in front of body.

We were in the backyard, as unkempt as the front one. Well, there was no clear boundaries between the land of the house and the forest. There were borders in that land. The ground was covered with dry leaves that produced the idea of an orange carpet, so beautiful to look at. The whole scenery was beautiful and sad. The bare trees, the red sky full of clouds. Dusk was about to begin.

Stan, Cartman, Clyde and Token had dug most of the grave. Digging a hole in the ground proved to be a surprisingly complex task; I tried to help, as well as many others, but in the end it seemed better that there weren't to many people in that space. People get anesthetized in burials, seeking any stupid activities that made them able to keep their heads and hands busy.

Butters' body was lying right next to the hole, wrapped in a dirty white sheet, only his blond hair sticking out. It was for the best, since there was no color in his face that had once been so rosy and happy. He looked beautiful, he really did, I saw him just before he was wrapped in the sheet. The image remained fixed in my brain, his listless gray face, straight lips, his lacerated eyes. It is the last image you want to have of a friend. Despite all that, he looked peaceful, like he was sleeping. He wasn't in pain anymore. Where he was now, nobody could ever hurt him again.

That day, it became very clear how much people looked up to Gregory as a strong figure, seeking for his leadership, but mostly support. They asked him to do the initial speech, even though he wasn't one of Butters' closest friends. The truth was that no one, not even Gregory, knew what to say. Even those who didn't know Butters were present for the funeral because he represented all bodies that we could never bury.

"Butters was..." Gregory said, sucking the air through his mouth. He showed no desire to cry, he just seemed uncomfortable. He looked at all the people around that grave, his eyes filled with compassion, no matter what his pose remained intact and his expression remained hard as stone. It was very clear that he was about to say something out of what he had planned. This time, his voice was much more honest. "Listen, I know many of you had your spirit broken yesterday. I know many of you aren't even here for Butters, but for those who you'll never have a chance to bury. I want to tell you something, Butters would be honored for that. For… Being the person who, although in a very small way, warms the heart of every single one of you. And makes this horrible day a little bit easier."

He paused, closing his eyes. Mine got filled with tears before I could even realize it, so I brought my free hand to my mouth – I wore gray gloves that Stan had taken off and given to me, even though I told him not to - and, with it, I firmly held in everything that threatened to explode. Kenny wiped his own eyes, crying softly, trembling, and that's what held me together. Kenny crying. I couldn't fall apart. Not again, not anymore.

"It's okay to suffer." Gregory said in a much gentler tone. "It's your right. Here, you're with family. Lick your wounds, heal your bodies, take good care of each other, because you will need your strength to make sure that Butters, like all the others, didn't die for nothing. Honor this kid we're about to bury. Don't think of revenge. Don't lose focus. Remember fondly of your companions who are gone, but let them go. They're better now. They'll be watching over you."

I could feel Stan's nose against the nape of my neck, his forehead touching the back of my head. He leaned against me. I didn't need to turn around to know that his eyes were closed and he was crying silently, the tears never stopped coming. He wrapped his arm around my waist in a nurturing embrace, a shy one even, but it was all I needed to keep standing. I grabbed his arm with my left hand and tightened my grip around Kenny's hand with my right one. Cartman remained close to us, but not touching. I couldn't see him from where I was standing, since he was a little behind Kenny, but I couldn't avoid my concern. Cartman could be compared to a pressure cooker. If he opened up just a little at that state, he would completely burst. So he stood there, hands in his pockets, tall as a mountain. Nothing could take him down.

"I would like to propose that we remember traces of Butters we thought to be admirable and remarkable. Whoever wants to share it with us." Gregory finally said.

Then, my eyes met with Christophe's. He was on the other side of the grave, much further back than everyone else, so I hadn't seen until now. Trent, the giant blond man, was holding his arm like he was afraid Christophe would fall down. He shouldn't be out of bed, but no one convinces Christophe DeLorne of anything. He also relied on a stick to keep standing, the end tip stuck in the ground, like it was a cane. His expression was unreadable. There was no attempt of comfort in his eyes, he just stared at me.

"I can start." Wendy said, clearing her throat, and I was immediately grateful for her initiative. She had those big empty eyes, her lips trembling, looking so haggard and exhausted. She certainly hadn't slept, or even dozed. The whole time, she was awake right next to Butters, or by the side of those who needed healing, or supplying any other needs. That's how she dealt with the pain. Annie was right behind her. Any familiar face that I found around Butters' grave was a small relief. Annie had a hand placed over Wendy's shoulder. For a few seconds, she said nothing. But her lips remained open, sucking the air with a low moan of sorrow, so low that it could have been a figment of my head. Finally, with her eyes to the ground, she continued. "He's... He was one of the bravest people I've ever met. People always underestimated him, but he was so much braver than most people will ever be."

They said he was tortured. A redheaded girl named Lexus was the one who found him. I only knew her as a friend of Butters, and always heard many jokes about how he had been in love with her since childhood and never had the balls to do anything about it. Maybe it was just the old habit that our friends had of making fun of him because Butters was skinny and shy, the girls liked him mostly as a cute little doll than anything else. Lexus had that kind of strong beauty, an air of dominatrix, always with showing her cleavage and wearing dark red lipstick. Well, except for now. Now she wore a large male shirt, way too big for her, and had no makeup on. Her hands covered her mouth the whole time and the tears wouldn't stop running; she had swollen small eyes, completely undone of that femme fatale composure. She just looked like a fragile young girl. She trembled so much.

What Lexus had told us was that the men in tortured him in broad daylight, in an alley. They pierced his eyes and demanded information, and when he said nothing, they threw him to the curb like trash, thinking he was on the verge of death and letting him suffer a little would be good for him. "I thought they were gonna kill me," Lexus told us that those were Butters' first words when she found him. Like he would be alright now. Like he could survive this, because she was there and he could go home and everything would be fine. She had told us that an hour before the funeral. Stan went to the bathroom to throw up, as quietly as he could, after hearing the story. I almost resented her for telling that to his friends, but somehow, I also felt like we needed to know.

Wendy was right. Butters was a lot braver than all of us. How many of that group wouldn't have given any of their companions' names in an attempt to break free? Who wouldn't have said whatever the fuck they wanted to hear just to make them stop? We all want to believe that we would be faithful to the death, but if they did to me what they had done to Butters... I couldn't tell what my answer would have been. At least at that time, when I still didn't know torture in the flesh.

"You could say anything to that moron and he always laughed." Cartman spoke next. "He never took offense on anything. He didn't pick a fight with anyone. Idiot."

As much as Cartman tried to hide it, he sniffled softly, wincing. He was holding his hat in his right hand, squeezing it between his fat fingers so hard to keep himself together.

"My day always got better after meeting him." Lexus said, and for the first time, there was some light in her face, her eyes. Remembering is a very powerful thing. She nearly smiled, forgetting for a second that she would never receive a compliment from Butters again.

"He would give someone the clothes off his back if he had nothing else to give." Stan spoke in a quiet voice, so tender. "I've never met such a selfless person. He wasn't a single drop of selfishness in his bones. He was so generous."

"And so reliable." Kenny whispered, so low that maybe only me and Stan could have heard. Then, in a bit stronger voice. "He'd give his life for the ones he loved."

And he did. Surely, I wasn't the only one thinking that.

"Butters was incapable of judging someone." I finally said, almost without thinking. I closed my eyes for a moment, and the flow of tears threatened to pour again, warming my face under the cold late autumn air. I tried to continue, but my voice failed, falling short and tight into a contained groan while I covered my eyes with my hands, lowering my head. Stan almost immediately wrapped his arms around my body, holding me against him. Kenny brought his hand down my arm and made stroked it affectionately. "He... He accepted every person exactly as they were. He was too good for this shit."

After long seconds of silence, a bird began to sing. It was beautiful, more like a mating song. The sound was shrill and short. During that time, it felt like no one would ever talk again. I turned sideways to lay my head on Stan's shoulder, keeping my eyes closed, my hand squeezing hard the fabric of his coat without realizing it. His heat was so familiar, so comforting. Almost a minute of silence was made without anyone asking for it.

Then I heard the familiar voice, the French accent. "His hair was very yellow. It was nice."

And without meaning to, I smiled. Kenny did too. We weren't the only ones, but I didn't want to raise my head from the comfort of Stan's warmth to find out who else let out a soft laugh while weeping.

After that, we buried our friend. Unlike the digging of the hole, the process of laying a body in the grave and throwing earth on it was a collective process. It took us about an hour to finish it.

Cartman, Stan, Kenny and I stayed until the end. But soon, the small crowd began to disperse. Some people went to eat, or sleep, or just get away from the cold. Others continued to hang around, strolling the grounds, chatting in small groups about what would be of the next day or the people they had lost.

I saw Christophe sitting on the grass in this small hill. I only peeked out of the corner of my eye, without looking directly at him. I could also hear Token arguing with him about the how fucking irresponsible it was of him to already be out of bed after the trauma his body had gone through. I found it kind of cute that Token still took the time to argue with him. He looked extremely worried. Trent was Christophe's side, but standing up. Christophe almost looked small beside that guy, especially since he was injured and shrunken like that. Anyway, Gregory also tried to convince him to go back to the room a few times, but Christophe just sat there in silence. I also wish he was indoors, lying down, resting. But I didn't speak to him, mostly because mourning Butters was all I could think about. I could feel his eyes on my back a few times as night fell, perhaps Stan felt it too.

Finally, my attention turned to something else. When we realized, Cartman had isolated himself from us. The grave wasn't yet completely filled with earth, but Butters' body was no longer visible. I felt a terrible tightness in my stomach to think of him down there, though I knew that corpse was no longer Butters. It was just flesh.

Kenny licked his lips, sending us a question look like he was asking 'what should we do?' when he saw Cartman sitting too far away from the rest of us, with his back against a huge tree of thick trunk, almost completely dry. Kenny then made a sign of 'leave it to me', but it didn't take long for Stan and I to follow behind him. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Cartman was not crying. The whole thing might be less worrying if he were at least showing some emotion, but he was just lethargic, sitting with his legs spread apart and the hands resting on his thighs, staring at the ground covered in dry leaves, his eyes so empty. The leaves were breaking under our feet when we came closer to sit beside him.

No one said anything for a few minutes. We only observed the flow of things. The distance was enough to give us a panoramic view of the burial. Clyde and Token were still throwing dirt on the grave; Clyde crying compulsively and Token telling him to just keep working. Craig was close to them, but he didn't take a shovel, not even once. He smoked. Suddenly, Cartman said. "Clyde wasn't even close friends with Butters, why the hell can't this fag stop crying? He's so fucking dramatic, always needs attention."

"I don't think this is about Butters." Kenny said before I had a chance to say exactly the same thing. "It's about Tweek."

"Hmm." Cartman said, but he didn't look pleased.

When we fall silent again, I looked up to see the forms that the branches made over our heads, so horrifyingly cool. It looked like several thick deformed arms trying to reach for something. The sun was almost completely set, but there was still enough natural light. When I straightened my neck, Stan was looking at me closely. He had his legs bent, tearing apart a leaf he had picked up from the ground, the back slightly crooked, his shoulders leaning forward. I put my hand on his leg.

"Look at Craig." Stan observed, as if talking to himself. "I'm worried about him."

"Yeah, this whole thing really fucked with his head, it seems." Kenny agreed, nodding. He had his legs crossed and his feet together, his worn shoes falling apart. He held his own heels, looking like a little boy. "It changed him."

"At Least Clyde cries, you know?" Stan said. "I think it's worse when you get apathetic like that."

I could see exactly what they were talking about. There was nothing absurdly peculiar about Craig's behavior, but something seemed… Off. It didn't feel like the kind of temporary change, because of the shock, something he would get used to and then he'd go back to normal. There was an emptiness inside his opaque eyes, an oddity in the way he acted, quieter than usual. Something in Craig had changed. But at the time, I didn't think it was anything serious. We were all deformed by everything we'd seen.

"I know that what I'm about to say is horrible, and I don't even wanna say it, but..." Kenny spoke, and our three heads turned in his direction. But his eyes were still focused on Clyde, Token and Craig. "What they must be going through right now... Man, I don't know what I would do. If it had been one of you guys, I don't... I don't know, I'd lose my shit."

What Kenny was trying to say, but couldn't, not after burying a friend and not being able to bury so many others, was: "I'm glad it wasn't one of you." This became very clear by the guilt he carried in his eyes for even thinking about something like that. The worst part is that I understood what he was saying. It's not about giving more value to one life than another, but it's different when something happens to one of your people. Especially now that we didn't know when or if we would be able to see our families again, our parents, our brothers and sisters. Thinking of Ike made my eyes started burning again, but I didn't cry anymore. Now, I had a strange taste of relief after a cry that had been stuck. I was able to breathe better.

Then I noticed Stan's hand covering mine.

"It is a bit horrible, yeah." Stan said, but the corners of his lips almost raised. Subtly, of course. It was hardly a smile. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I'm so relieved you're all here." He added softly, watching the dry leaves beneath us, the carpet of leaves that stretched for miles and covered the damp earth.

Cartman crossed his arms and bit his lower lip thoughtfully. I watched him for a few seconds, remembering the night before, the things he told me when he thought Kenny wouldn't return. I also didn't think he'd come back. I kept staring at Kenny just to make sure he was really alive and well. On the other hand, the fears of the night before felt so far away. It was the longest night of my life, but still, it felt like it had been so long ago.

"How can you think that we wouldn't jump off a van for you?" I asked, looking directly at Cartman.

He didn't understand my question, just like Stan and Kenny didn't either. The three of them looked at me, frowning, their faces slightly aside, a questioning look on each of them. But soon, Cartman's doubt fell away, and he lifted his chin, pressing his tongue inside his cheek. He had been too drunk the night before, but certainly remembered our brief conversation.

"You treat us like shit most of the time and no one said we like you." I continued, and Stan raised his eyebrows with that expression that always said 'wow, Kyle, easy there', but nothing came out of his lips. Cartman was still staring at me, his face like a white wall, unattainable. "But you're family. Any of us would jump off a moving van for you, asshole."

"Wait, what?" Kenny asked, confused, but understanding that it had something to do with the fact that he went back to look for us that day, giving up on his own safety.

"I think your question shouldn't be whether or not we would jump off a van for you. Your question is if you would do the same for us."

"You think I wasn't looking for you dickheads?! But I had a job to do. I had to bring as many assholes as I could over here. I went back to look for you and that dirty French, didn't I?! I risked my ass to find you."

He should be very hurting a whole fucking lot with the loss of Butters to make such an honest statement, without trying to disguise the concern with rudeness. Well, maybe he did it a little bit, but within Cartman's limitations, it warmed my heart. In other circumstances, it would have made me want to smile. But on that day, it didn't. I just nodded slowly, relaxing my shoulders.

"I'm just saying that loyalty has never been as important as now. No one can survive this alone." I concluded, and that seemed to end the conversation.

And to be there with my three best friends from childhood, watching over Butters as he should also have been watching over us from some other place... It was comforting.

Being alone is perhaps the most frightening thing in the world. And at that moment, we weren't. No matter what.

After a few seconds, Kenny and Cartman started talking about something else. Stan let go of my hand, stretched and lay on the ground, his head resting on my thigh. I stroked his hair with a light touch for a while, before realizing something was happening near the house.

Christophe said something to Gregory, something that sounded very rude from where I could see. But I couldn't hear them from that distance. Gregory probably said something about how he shouldn't be walking around by himself in his condition, holding the stick he should be using, offering it to him. Christophe told him to stick it up his ass, that much I could understand very well. I didn't have to hear the words to know. So, Christophe began to march to the house on a much more rigorous walk than he seemed to realize, at a speed that could rip off the stitches in his stomach. Gregory didn't do anything about it. He had PHD in Christophe DeLorne, enough to know when not to push his limits. I didn't.

"Hey, I'll be right back." I told Stan, and he lifted his head so I could get up. He saw the direction I was heading to (three of them did), but didn't say anything about it.

As I approached, Trent tried to hold Christophe's arm to help him walk, but Christophe pushed him with disgust, telling him to fuck off in French. You don't need to speak the language to know when someone is saying that. Instinctively, I realized that Trent had no intention to insist on helping, so I followed Christophe. For a man who had just been shot, he was still extraordinarily fast. I tried to call his name, but he kept trotting like a wounded horse, pretending not to listen to me. Or openly ignoring me. And I was very aware of what it meant, I'd have to be stupid not to know: he wanted to be alone, or at least he didn't want to talk to me specifically. But that was no longer important when he put his weakened body at risk. Trent was able to respect this decision, but I wasn't. God, I was stupid back then. Or maybe I just loved him too damn much to leave him alone.

He walked dipping his feet in the mud puddles without a care, making a straight path to the house's back door. I tried to dodge the puddles, but when the distance between us began to grow - because I didn't want to literally chase him - I stopped caring about my fucking shoes that were already filthy as fuck and the hem of those pants that weren't even mine. When we entered the house, Christophe was still a few feet in front of me. I called his name more emphatically, almost aggressive, breathing erratically. The four walls surrounding us made the sound of my voice much stronger. The echo reverberating in the kitchen tiles almost hurt my ears, but he was already entering the living room. I didn't want to talk to him like a grown up fighting with a child, but to see him trotting like that scared the shit out of me. Until the day before, I was so sure I'd lose him. And now he was standing there, so pale, so shaky, with dark circles, looking in so much pain. And yet, still moving so abruptly. I was afraid that he'd passed out and I couldn't handle it. We were now alone.

"Jesus fuck, Christophe! Stop!"

"What?!" He shouted, turning toward me. I hadn't expected him to stop walking so suddenly. For a moment, I didn't even know what to say.

"At least… Just let me help you." I asked earnestly, reaching out to touch his arm, finally close enough to do it.

But his immediate response was to shrink like an erratic beast, pushing my hand away like it was going to hurt him, apparently using all the strength he had left. Only then I realized just how physically weak he was. In his normal conditions, if he pushed me with such anger, I would have wobbled back.

"Don't fucking touch me." He whispered hoarsely, but full of hatred.

At any other time, maybe I would have been afraid of him. Christophe was usually intimidating, but when there was this angry glow in his eyes, it was so much worse. I had never been the one to get this kind of look from him before. I had seen him with so much hatred in his expression on the day we were cornered by those two men in white who Tweek had shot, and even in that situation, Christophe seemed much calmer. This one was more personal. Being the reason of his disturbance made my knees go weak, and not in that delicious way it used to be with him.

But I wasn't afraid. Not with him so shrunken, so hurt, with no color in the face, covered in cold sweat. He barely had the strength to push my hand away, he had been gelded of that physical force that used to intimidate any sane person. And it was fucking painful to see him that way. Looking back, I see that this moment was when my relationship with Christophe began to change. Ever since I had met him, from that first exchange of glances in the cafeteria, what fascinated me about Christophe DeLorne was his strength. It seemed like that being was almost non-human, so wild and tough, but above all, indestructible. The day before, I discovered that he wasn't. Well, I rationally knew that anyone could die if they were shot in the belly, but he was different. Through my eyes, he was different. Because he was not afraid when someone pointed a gun at him. And because he never, ever missed a shot. Because he had such a hard shell that protected him from the world and, at least for a few months, insistently, I felt that he had let me into his shell. At least a little bit.

At that moment, I began to take down the image of this idealized man, The Mole, The Strong, The Guerrilla. I believe I had loved him for a long time, but didn't know it fully back then. Taking down this ideal was the first step towards this, perhaps, to know him and to love him in his peculiar way. I stopped desiring the fantasy to see, actually see him as the flawed man made of flesh and bone that he was, in all his weaknesses. You can only love a person after you've seen the ugliest in them, or at least that's what I believed. But with Christophe, I rediscover this "ugliest" several times. Every time I thought I had seen all his facets, he surprised me.

Well, I don't even consider this an ugly aspect, this glittering anger within his irises. On the contrary, it's so beautiful to see him overflowing genuine hurt like any other person, to see him allowing himself to show feelings. To show that he was hurt.

Hurt.

And I was responsible for it. I somehow unwittingly crawled under his thick skin and hurt him more dishonestly than sappers and blades were able to do. It disturbed me to realize that.

When he entered the room, I stopped at the door. It was as if the area was prohibited, too intimate to be invaded. The room was stuffy, the curtains closed. The mattress where we had laid together a few hours before was still there, with a rolled blanket and a pillow out of place, looking strangely warm in this dark room. The lamp on the floor was off, of course. My eyes scanned the mattress while Christophe walked through the room limping, getting to the opposite wall. It was as if he felt the need to be as far away from me as possible. I knew it was selfish to feel that tightness in my chest for thinking that he wouldn't hold me like that again, not anytime soon. But it saddened me so fucking much. It shouldn't. That was my choice.

So I swallowed any possible feeling that could try to overflow inside me and I was there, standing, respecting his limits. Or maybe it was just cowardice on my part.

"Christophe..." I called softly, touching the door frame.

"You know." He said suddenly, to my surprise. He turned around to look at me with his blunt way, the movements limited by the extension of that wound in the abdomen. His feet gave in, or perhaps it was lack of leg strength to support his own weight. He had to lean on the wall, his back slightly curved, heavy breathing. "I don't know if you're so used to Stan's blindness or what, but I see shit exactly as it is. So you can get the fuck out of my room, I get it. Don't say anything."

"Please..." I asked, not even understanding what I was asking of him. And I didn't have that right. I could have sworn that my cheeks were burning with shame. "Let's not get into this now. We just buried a friend... Christophe, you should be in bed, it's too early for you to be walking." I could hear the fear in my own voice.

He leaned his forehead against the wall as he heard my voice, and I thought the two were related, that my voice was mistreating him almost physically, but no. When he knelt down, wrapping his arm around the stomach area, I understood that his physical pain, literally physical, must have been unbearable. It was so hard to see the expression on his face, his entire face was frowning, writhing, looking vulnerable to the pain. He growled. Respecting any barrier became unimportant; I just stepped into the room without thinking and ran up to him, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. When I knelt beside him, Christophe put both hands on the dirty floor and leaned forward, spewing only liquid. It looked more like stomach acid and water, as if he had nothing in his stomach to put out. My heart was pounding in my throat as I looked for some sign of bleeding in his abdomen, the area where the bullet had entered. It was hard to see anything with him bent over that way and under the low light. Christophe snarled again, sucking air through the mouth before throwing up again. Vomit spread across the wooden floor, splattered on my leg, but I didn't realize it nor would I have given a shit at the time. Tears flowed from his eyes and nose, but it wasn't from crying, it was the burning feeling of vomiting. At least so it seemed.

"Shh. It's all right." I whispered, stroking his back. For a solid minute, he held my wrist as if he would die if he let go of me. Anger, pride, sorrow, all this was diluted until he had poured out everything that his body was rejecting. "Let's put you on the mattress. Can we do that?"

Christophe would never admit it, but I felt it in his body that he was relieved to have someone with him at that moment. That was precisely why I followed him, to be with him at the moment he fell apart and his body couldn't take it anymore. It was a matter of time, given the way he had pushed his violated body. Instinctively, I used my own palm to clean the rest of vomit trickling from his mouth. He tried to pull away with a short move, turning his head to the other side. He seemed groggy, it wasn't even violent. He didn't even have the strength to be at that point.

Dealing with Christophe was very similar to dealing with a wild animal sometimes. I don't say that pejoratively, quite the contrary. It's the subtlety of movement, their ability to smell fear in someone and build trust with those who knew how to, calmly and without forcing anything, offer some kind of comfort, not pulling away when they tried to bite. I may have crossed the line by cleaning up his vomit with my hand, but despite the setback, he seemed to relax then.

It's funny. Vomit was always one of the things that truly bothered me, but not now. I didn't feel sick, nor reluctant to touch it, the smell didn't make me want to throw up. Nothing. Because none of this was more important than holding him.

When I tried to get him up, as gently as I could, he didn't move. Christophe just kept his head down, hands on the floor, his breath uneasy.

"Are you bleeding?" I asked in a small voice, trying not to sound scared.

He did not answer me.

We may have spent at least ten minutes in silent, Christophe trying to gradually recover and I was just there with him, ensuring that he wasn't alone without having to say a word.

"Kyle." He murmured softly, turning his face to look at me, but his hair was already long enough to fall over his eyes. All I could see were those eyes, brighter than usual, almost yellowish, tired and dull, staring at me closely. "Please. Leave me alone."

There was a hint of pleading in his weak voice. It wasn't an order, an easily ignorable coarse bark. He was asking me. A request, looking into my eyes, so close to me, coming from a man who could barely stand up alone. But there was no response to that request. There was no way to deny it, to impose my presence more than I already had. Because for such a proud man like him to ask, so quietly, that I gave him the necessary space to breathe... Maybe only then I could really feel the weight of what I had done to him.

The last thing I wanted was to get up and leave him alone, sitting on his own vomit, unable to get to the mattress. But it was what he wanted. I could see it in his eyes, for the first time he looked me straight: having me there close to him was much worse than the physical pain. The humiliation was worse.

I couldn't be the person he called for when he woke up scared from a nightmare or just a horrible feeling. It couldn't be me holding him by the arm, helping him, I could no longer be his companion, his friend, we could no longer be intimate. Because now, we were something else. And I didn't know what that was. I did know that it fucking hurt. Not only him, it also hurt me too fucking bad to realize that, if we were to live in the same house and not be able to touch, we couldn't even be... Friends? Were we ever friends at some point? I couldn't tell.

No, I think we've always been something else. Something else that none of us had the opportunity to fully understand, and now it was over, because I chose Stan. I didn't have to say it out loud, he knew. Christophe knew before even I did. I didn't realize I was making my choice while I gravitated towards Stan because that was where I belonged, that's the only place I could be, he was my home. My family. I didn't know how to exist without him. I knew what we were. I was sure of it.

I removed my hand from his shoulder and slowly stood up, rubbing my palm on the side of my thigh over the fabric of my pants. I felt my eyes tearing rehearsing when I looked at him one last time, my heart beating so tight in my chest that it could very well explode. I didn't allow myself to cry because that was not my right.

"I get it." I spoke softly. "I'm sorry."

I didn't know if I was asking for forgiveness for imposing myself on him, for forcing him or simply for not being his. For not being able to be his. He did not respond.

I left the room and went to get Gregory. He was the right person to collect Christophe from the ground, he'd always been.