"If you cannot love me, I will die.
Before you came I wanted to die,
I have told you many times.
It is cruel to have made me want to live
only to make my death more bloody."

-James Baldwin

Biting his tongue, Alan put the finishing touch to the drawing. Back at Sherborne, he did not know what to do; without Chris, there was little fun to be had. It brought him some comfort that the boy would return from Cambridge this night.

To compensate for his absence, Alan had made a drawing of him. He stared critically at the result, which was an utter insult to Chris' beauty. Gum marks carved cracks in his smiling face. He would never be able to correct the jawline.

Shaking his head, he turned the page. Mrs Morcom would most likely be proud of him, even if the drawings were far from perfect. She had given him the sketchbook to grow, so he would try to make progress.

He partially blamed his lack of attention. In his mind, he was still at Trinity College. Caught in the moment when Chris lay in his arms and spoke encouraging words to him. You have to fight for what you want. You can get anything, if you want it hard enough. He wanted to believe those words so badly. Looking back, he realised that the trip was the happiest time of his life. The freedom he had had with Chris made him wistful for the previous night. He had carried his sleeping friend to their room and forgotten all his worries every time he glanced at the dreaming face.

In a headlong moment, Alan had decided he would fight for Chris. He would no longer hide the truth. Chris might wear a mask by default to hide his sadness or fear, but so did Alan. No, enough. He would drop his mask, and allow every emotion to reach his face. If Chris couldn't deal with that, he just had to find a way to accept it. Because Alan would still be the same person, this time with the face of truth.

A deep voice jerked him away from that liberating thought. "What are you drawing there?" Blamey looked over his shoulder. A sketch of daisies could be seen in the dim candlelight.

He had swapped the clock tower for his room. For the sole reason that it was drafty in the tower and the clock made a hell of a noise.

When Blamey encouragingly declared that his sketch of the flowers looked lifelike, he realised that was not the only reason.

The boy was clearly holding back, giving Alan room to breathe. His apology had been weak but sincere. This allowed him to be in the same room as Blamey and even enjoy his presence. This way, he was not completely alone after all.

As if by some miracle, there was a knock on the door. The more souls, the more joy, his mother would have said. But only one brought Alan joy. Perhaps Chris took an earlier train in order to arrive before midnight.

He put down his pencil and jumped up as Blamey opened the door. Alan's hopeful smile vanished like snow in the sun.

To his great surprise, Mr Davis stood on the other side of the door. Had his math teacher come here to reprimand him for his poor score in the Trinity exam?

With a grim face, he stepped forward, totally ignoring Blamey. The red-haired boy continued to stare at the note in Davis was carrying, the door handle still in his hand.

"I'm sorry." With those words, he handed the note to Alan. His moustache moved restlessly back and forth.

Alarmed, Alan unfolded the piece of paper. The cursive handwriting belonged to Ms Morcom's. In her paintings, however, the letters were controlled, this note had been written in a hurry.

The message was indirectly addressed to him. It read "to the boys", as if she had again forgotten his name. He could not blame her, Ms Morcom's name still eluded him. His eyes ran over the words, he could not grasp them.

"No," he said to no one in particular. Blamey looked enigmatically at the note, only Davis understood the bubbling tears burning in his eyes.

Again he looked at the yellow stationery. It simply said that Christopher had fallen ill on the evening train, he was now undergoing surgery. His eyes remained fixed on the last words. Expect the worst.

"No," Alan repeated, this time it sounded like a savage sob. He lowered himself onto the chair, fighting back tears.

It couldn't be true. Yesterday he had seemed so healthy. Chris had smiled, he had had a blush on his cheeks. His illness was getting better, he always told Alan. Then you didn't suddenly get sick, did you?

His whole body shook, he let the tears run their course. But Chris had always been sick, he could simply hide it well by smiling. The thought of his smiling face hurt more than ever. The message had most likely been sent a long time ago. Could it be that Chris was no longer there? Alan had not stayed by his side, as he had promised, he would never forgive himself.

He didn't want to accept. No, Chris could step through the door of the school at any moment, bragging about having been allowed to use Trinity's advanced stargazer. Alan fixed his gaze hopefully on the door, around which students gathered. No blond boy.

Blamey hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder, which for once he did not shake off. Nothing mattered.

Davis clapped his hands to drown out his sobbing and the murmurs in the hall. He apparently thought this was the appropriate time to give a speech. Boys from adjoining rooms had gathered in the corridor. Davis addressed them, "We cannot say why Christopher Morcom had to suffer such a death, but there is a reason. Perhaps it was to save him from a life of pain or illness. Perhaps to help some of you in some way, for such a friend can often do more to influence others through his death than through his life." He cast a meaningful glance at Alan, who stared back angrily through his tears.

How dare Davis speak about Chris as if he were no longer there? He is strong, he will get through this. Yet he said nothing. Somehow he knew it wasn't true, not this time. Why else would Mrs Morcom send such an urgent message.

"My deepest condolences." Two brown eyes cast a mixture of pity and sadness on him. Even Blamey – who somewhat understood how much Chris meant to him – seemed to be aghast.

Chris did not want pity, so Alan turned away from the staring faces.

Preferably, he wanted to throw himself against the ground. Rant and roar that it was not true and then take his bike and rush to London. Holding the boy in his arms, whether he was alive or not. Look at the stars Chris, he would whisper. Like the night before, he would open his eyes.

It should have been him. Those words haunted his mind. Alan should have drunk the tainted milk, not Chris. What could he give the world, beyond sloppy notes and an awkward smile? Whereas Chris, with his charisma and intellect, could make the world a better place. Was there really no justice? He shook his head.

He did not know how long he had been sitting in the chair as if petrified, but the murmurs of the other students seemed to calm down.

Alan would take his maths teacher's words to heart. He had to be strong for Chris now. The mixture of anger, sadness and helplessness was reduced to one feeling. Pain.

With trembling hands, he wiped his cheeks dry. It was of no use, the tears would continue to flow. The pencil he was now picking up had not been laid down so long ago, but in that little time he had changed terribly. Playtime was over, he was convinced he would never smile again. How could he, without the enchanting charm of his best friend.

Doggedly, Alan began to write. In the note to his mother, he asked for flowers to be sent to the Morcoms. He closed his eyes for a second and pressed the pencil so hard it almost broke. He ended the letter with words he could not grasp. For the funeral.