Did I ruin a budding friendship just by hiding? The chance is half and half from the scanty evidence I've collected, most of which is just simple logic. For the part that argues that he's gone forever, the evidence is that he assumed I wouldn't want to see him anymore, despite what I said in the note, for whatever reason. I'll leave it to Olivier to decide. For the part that argues that he will be coming back at some point, the evidence is that he used common sense and realized that I was gone for a moment and the moment happened to be when Olivier delivered the bread to where he thought I would be but wasn't. Although the second approach is more logical and what I want to believe, I still feel wary calling the odds anything other than an equal probability.

The thing is, Anatole's words drive deeper and deeper into me, and I'm not even sure that I want to see Olivier again. I'm too distrusting, both of new people and new ideas, especially if my old ideas were the complete opposite of the new. But I can't be so prudent, can't be so scared of change and fresh opportunities to do something with my life, maybe even something important.

I settle on this: if I run into him, that's fine, but I'm not going to go out of my way just to see him. Anatole would be upset, I would feel guilty, and I wouldn't be able to blame it on how small the world is. From my current position in the graveyard, I probably won't be located, despite the fact that I'm not very deep in the property and can be seen from the street. It's far enough from my normal dwelling area that Olivier will miss me here -- that is assuming, however, that he is only out on the street to see me; I don't know his schedule.

For the time being, I'm safe to mourn the people I miss every day and can never forget. It's quiet in this cemetery. Somehow the bustle of the streets doesn't carry to this sacred place. The only noise is the rustling of trees when there's wind and the sobbing of relatives whose love is printed on all these tombstones that surround me. The grieving have a way of maintaining the right amount of silence. I have no distractions. I can cry in peace and continue to remind myself that my baby sister is dead because of my own selfishness.

I've been lugging this burden around for a few years now, yet it has not lessened with each day like the burdens of some other people. Perhaps I'm still so fixated on it because of my frequent visits to the cemetery, but it's not like I want to forget what I've done, even if it is so painful to remember. I can't make the same mistake twice. Neglecting an error increases the chance of it happening again, and I've had enough misery from just one.

"Alexei!" I hear, a somewhat distant voice from the street, loud enough to crack the barrier between the living and the dead in the cemetery and loud enough to jolt me from my solemnity.

I turn to find a smiling Olivier waving at me enthusiastically from behind the cemetery gate while advancing onto the grounds to talk to me.

I don't know how he stumbled across me, considering my regular hiding spot is a bit far from here. Concluding that he was looking for me, I find myself dreading the point when he reaches me, but I remind myself of my plan of accepting him when I see him by chance, so I just let him proceed all the way until he sits down next to me.

"I got your note, but I didn't expect the 'you know where to find me' portion to be referencing the graveyard, but I found you nevertheless. I left some bread where I first saw you because I didn't know if you were just busy at the moment, so I hope it doesn't get stolen."

"Yeah, about that..." I attach my eyes to the ground to avoid looking at Olivier, and I fiddle with my hands as I speak. "My friend Anatole -- you might have heard his name dropped when you were debating that kid yesterday -- has really strong opinions about rich people, and let's just say he doesn't like them very much."

Olivier shrugs. "Neither do I, to be honest. They're all so fake and care too much about trivial matters. You're lucky you don't have to be around them all the time. If I hear one more word about politics from them, I think I'm gonna go mad."

That's something I've also heard about rich people. The aristocrats aren't just screwing the poorer people to a life of suffering or sending people to war with their hot headed decisions born from the power they can puppet around. The aristocrats are apparently annoying, too!

"So this morning Anatole was wondering why I looked so nice when I got back, and I had to tell him, because there's no other possible explanation. Then he started ranting about how all rich people are evil and that I should stay away from you."

"And you listened to him?"

I finally meet Olivier's eyes. "Yeah, because he's my best friend. He's always been there for me, while I met you just yesterday. I'm sorry to say it, but I have more history with Anatole, and I don't want him to leave me because of this."

"That's a tough situation, my friend. But I thoroughly believe that following your heart will bring you the best results, and if it means losing Anatole for something better, so be it. Follow your heart, Alexei. We can continue to be friends, or you can tell me to get lost and never return, and I'll leave with no words of protest." Olivier is awaiting my immediate response, but he isn't aware that it's more complicated than that. However, his original advice is to follow my heart, and my heart beats faster when I'm with Olivier than with Anatole, and my heart reaches out to someone I don't know but would like to know better. It's him. Olivier Renaud.

In my pensiveness, I neglected the passing of time, and I now realize that it's been far longer than I anticipated. Olivier sits with his chin resting on his knee, bored from the silence and still attending my answer.

"You."

Olivier's chin detaches from his knee, and a sheet of surprise falls over his face. "Well I'm glad to hear that." Satisfied with my explanation, Olivier dyes the conversation a different hue. "Never mind Anatole. What brings you here?"

"My sister's grave is right here in front of us."

Apparently he hadn't been expecting that, and is quite shocked to find that, indeed, my sister's grave stands before him.

"After my parents died, it was just me and my six year-old sister left. It was my job to take care of her, and I always fulfilled the duty, because I loved her with my whole heart. She was sick and starving, and one day I stole bread for myself and none for her, and she died. She just fucking died, and now I have to live with it, so I'm sorry if you find me in the cemetery far too often, because I need a way to repent for my crime."

Gravity darkens the man I think of as full of light. Death changes everyone's mood, I suppose, to any of our abundant emotions. He does not speak, only studies every indent and color change in the tombstone. It's a way to keep him connected with the unfortunate circumstance of my sister's death but also occupy him to escape having to talk. Not only does he hate death -- he is afraid of it. He is afraid of discussing it. He is afraid of how those who are two degrees of separation from death will react. He is afraid of eventually meeting it himself. And really who can blame him?

"Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone else's blood on your hands?" I ask him.

"I can't imagine, no."

"Then you're lucky."

"But it wasn't your fault, really," Olivier claims, tearing himself from his study to look me in my now tear-stained eyes.

Now that he's focused on me, I find it fitting to wipe away my tears. I can't cry in front of him yet. "And how do you know that?"

I find this to be a preposterous claim, and frankly I'm beyond offended. He can't just come in here and completely alter my way of thinking. At least not again. He has no right. I came here to silently do what I need to do, and he waltzed right in and started digging through my life to answer his burning questions. Just because he's always gotten everything that he's ever wanted doesn't mean that I'm playing by his rules, too.

"Yes, you stole the bread, but it's not like you stole bread from your sister. And you said she was sick, too! Disease is a rampant murderer, as I'm sure you know."

"Can we just...stop?"

I'm tired of fighting about what I've been telling myself for years. I'm in distress, and Olivier can recognize that. He stops as well.

Still a bit disoriented, Olivier rises to his feet. He lingers for the briefest of moments, fidgeting with his hat and debating whether or not he should voice his apology, but he decides against it in favor of a quick, "I should go."

And just like that, I'm alone again.

~~~~~

A/N: gotdam why can't they just be friends

(because I have an outline)

~Dankota