I awake in a chamber of light. The sun tumbles in from the windows, and not even the curtain can stop the early morning dances of May. Rays bounce off of the gold decorations that line Olivier's bedroom, off of the mirrors and the other metals found here. Everything is truly bright, and I want to stay in here forever, but I know that I can't, because this was a one time thing from a rare stroke of luck. This doesn't mean anything except for a night without hunger and dirt. I can't expect anything more from rich people. If they made steps to help people, they wouldn't be rich anymore -- but it's still nice to enjoy what I've been given at the moment.

The clean sheets remind me of how much I've improved my appearance since yesterday evening. I shed no dirt during the night. My hair isn't as raggedy as it has been for a while. I feel completely refreshed thanks to Olivier's kind deed.

Speaking of Olivier, I find that he is still asleep, turned on his stomach with his head towards my side of the bed, his shoulders and neck exposed from the lack of covers there. His golden curls fall over his forehead, while the hair stemming from his eyelids sleeps undisturbed along with him. Olivier himself is a portion of the immense pool of light surrounding me.

Although this scene is very nice and I would like to remain in it, I don't know how to proceed. I'm sure it would be something about meeting his parents at breakfast, and I'm not ready for that at all. I've been living on the streets for a few years now, and I don't speak French, so the entire circumstance would be disastrous. It's better to just leave now without a spoken word or a familial interaction.

Deciding that Olivier is too beautiful in this way to be woken and told about my plan, I carefully slip out of bed and search for something to write with and something to write on so that I can write a letter to him explaining why I must now depart, especially so early in the morning. After maybe half a minute of searching, I stumble upon both of my desired items, and I pen the letter.

Dear Olivier,

I thank you very much for welcoming me into your home for the night, giving me a place to sleep, feeding me, and finding a solution to your remark about my being dirty and in need of a bath. I am very grateful to you, but I am afraid that I must leave or else be discovered by your parents, and I don't want to land you in a sticky situation when all you wanted to do was help me. I hope you find pleasure in knowing that your amicable feelings are reciprocated, and if you want to meet with me again, you know where to find me.

Your first Russian friend,

Alexei

I leave the letter in my vacant space on the bed for him to find when he wakes up, and I sneak out of the house. It's early enough to achieve, and within several minutes I find myself back on the streets of Saint Petersburg. Several minutes after that, I find myself sitting myself next to Anatole and feeling quite amused by his gaping stare.

"What the hell did you do?" he cries. "You look so...so..." He can't even finish his sentence because of how shocked he is by the change.

"Hot?" I offer. I receive a smack to the head for that comment, but I think it holds a little bit of verity that Anatole doesn't want to admit.

"No, but if you spoke French instead of Russian, I might think you were a noble."

"Well I happened to meet a French-speaking noble who made this adjustment to my appearance last night."

Anatole's expression collapses from one of amazement and wonder to one of disappointment in me. "Alexei, please tell me you're joking."

"You know I don't lie to you."

Instantly Anatole is taken to anger. Years of accumulated hatred towards rich people comes flying out towards me, and it must really fucking hurt for him, because he now has to yell at his best friend -- not at the problem itself this time, but at an enabler who isn't someone he ever thought would be an enabler. In some way, I feel bad for him, even though he's on the opposite side of opinions currently.

"Alexei, you know how I feel about those damn aristocrats!" His tone makes me retract into myself, makes me ashamed of myself and what I've done, and what I've done is something I thought would be beneficial to me and something that I enjoyed while it lasted. Now it feels like nothing.

"Yes, I know very well how you feel, considering you always throw a fit whenever you see one of them, but I can assure you that this guy that I met doesn't fit the archetype that you have in your head."

Before yesterday evening, I would be completely in agreement with Anatole on his stance. I would help him shout it from the rooftops that capitalism is unethical and that wealthy people perpetuate the suffering of those below them financially. I have struggled for my entire life because of this system, and I know perfectly well how it works. Hearing nobles chatter in their upper class language imported from France filled me with ineffable rage. But that was before I met someone whose views contradicted what I knew about rich people.

"And how can you be certain that he's not like the rest of the bourgeoisie scum, as those French-speaking Russian traitors would say?" Anatole's brow arches accusingly.

"I can't, but what he's already done counters what you think all rich people are like. I understand that the majority of rich people that I've encountered are absolute shit, but why can't you accept the possibility that there will always be some outliers? This guy is one of those outliers."

Not even responding to the undeniably sound point I just made, Anatole throws into the mix a comment revealing how disenchanted he is with my recent epiphany. "I thought you moved beyond your days of naivety. Apparently I was wrong."

"Anatole, you're not listening to me! This man took me in for a night, fed me, cleaned me up, gave me the best night's sleep I've had in a long time. After all of that, so what if he's rich?"

Finished with me and my offensive ideas, Anatole rises to his feet and prepares to leave me in favor of another task. "Fine. Whatever. I'll let you doom yourself if that's what you want for your life. Listen, I gotta go deal with that boneheaded fool, the one I always tell you is trouble -- long story short, he's pissy again -- but if that spoiled rich kid comes back, don't you dare talk to him." Anatole turns to leave but concludes that I need another warning. He points his finger at me to drive it in. "And I'm serious about that."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever you say, Anatole."

Anatole parts to take care of business, and I spend the following minutes ranting about him in my head. At first I think there's no way that his ideology could ever poison my pleasant disposition towards Olivier, but when I see my new friend walking down the street in search of me with a loaf of bread swaddled in cloth to give in another act of generosity, my feet don't scramble towards him, rather towards a hiding spot.

Olivier's demeanor is forever so buoyant, and it glimmers from him as he nears where I told him I would be but diminishes when he realizes that I'm not there. I hate to do this to him. I hate to be the reason why the sun gives way to the dark night within him. But I am all too fearing of losing Anatole over this. So I allow him to look deeper into the alley and return with nothing. I allow him to place the bread down in case I locate it later. I allow him to take another look into the alley just to make sure, and I allow him to depart with melancholy cradled in his arms instead of bread.

I'm so moronic to have hid from a person who only wants to be my friend and to help out -- or, if we're thinking about it on a basic human instinct level, a person with food to give me -- but Anatole's words got to me, though I thought they never would.

I suppose it's because Anatole has always been there for me in my time of need, and vice versa. We've stuck together throughout the years, have never lied to each other, never ratted each other out to people who could land us in trouble, never questioned our connection. We've always worked together smoothly. We share the same opinions about the topics that matter and the topics that don't. As much as I want to trust Olivier, my inclination is to consult what Anatole thinks first.

I let him go, and with him goes many opportunities that I could've taken. He walks back to his cave of wealth, and I stay bitter in my solitude.

~~~~~

A/N: lowkey I like Anatole but highkey he can suck my ass through a straw

i hate that Olivier is sad??? literally fucking kill me ???

~Dickota