Olivier promised me that the next time he would see me would be to tell me of the decision that his parents have reached about whether or not I can accompany him to France after his summer journey in Russia. I've been anxiously waiting for him to return to me with the news, and so far it's been a little under a day. I expected him to come back in an instant with the final decision, but it seems as though he took his merry time and ate some dinner, slept at his house, ate some breakfast, and is now doing who knows what in lieu of soothing my restless spirit like I guessed that he would. Except I shouldn't guess that his reason for taking so long is that straightforward. He could be doing something imperative to the survival of mankind, and maybe I just don't know it as a result of how busy he is completing his mission. Maybe I should cut him some slack and be patient.

Soon enough, Olivier arrives in my line of sight, but his expression indicates that the news I attended isn't so pleasant. He looks as though he's on a frantic hunt for me. His head switches back and forth, while his eyes are blocked by a film of fright. He should know exactly where I am located, but his fear seems to be obstructing his sensibility, and it has the same effect on me. I am suddenly clogged with apprehension for what Olivier has to tell me, and I find myself fearing the point when he reaches me. But it is inevitable, and he is soon by my side. I can see clearly into his eyes and develop a new sense of just how terrified he is.

"So what did your parents say about my coming back to France with you?" Despite my anxiety, my expression harbors a large portion of prospect that the answer is a positive one -- though, judging from how Olivier looks, I doubt it is.

Olivier is silent, not because he has nothing to say, but because he can't push the words out, no matter how hard he tries. Tears hinder his ability to speak precisely, or speak at all. He can't even meet my eyes, instead focusing on wiping his own eyes and his tears. I allot him a few moments to compose himself before he begins by informing me, "I'm afraid I'll be leaving sooner than I thought."

A subtle word in what Olivier just said changes the fear that I'm experiencing from secondhand to a personal manifestation. "Wait, Olivier -- why didn't you say 'we'?"

"Alexei...," he draws out to stall time, complimented by fiddling with his hands, as I've never seen him do.

He's usually so confident. He's Olivier Renaud, a rich French aristocrat with lots of power and years of accumulating confidence. I saw the way the girls looked at him at the ball -- they were all absolutely smitten with him, yet he always remains collected around them. He is sure of himself, but not too much so, which earns him the title of confident and not the title of arrogant.

But this Olivier that I see before me...this is not the one I know. The Olivier that I know can always speak clearly, which he demonstrates with everyone that he talks to. The Olivier that I know can force his words out of his mouth. Who is this person that weeps before me? Is it the state of Olivier Renaud captured by the darker points of the human psyche? Whatever it is, it pains me to behold it.

"What is it? Did your parents say no?"

"No, not directly, but..."

The more he buys time, the more nervous I become. I don't want to explode from a lack of patience, so I prompt him. "Olivier, just say it."

Now he weaves a connection between both of our pairs of eyes, and he blurts out, "I'm not sure that we'll ever see each other again."

The bluntness of the statement hits me full force. He spent so much time stalling, and now as compensation he spends no time making it sound all sugary, and I am faced with the harsh, bitter reality that I am going to lose the only person I truly love.

"And why is that? Olivier, you can't just leave me like this."

"It's not my choice, Alexei," he laments. "It's my parents' choice."

"And what have they decided?" My hands find a place on my hips, and my feet arrange themselves in an accusing stance like an impatient mother scolding her child.

"My father, as you don't know, is very respected in the military, and he wants me to continue his legacy by joining myself, but I have no say in it, so I guess this is goodbye."

"Goodbye?" I exclaim, a bit too loud to be inconspicuous, but I don't give a shit, because I'm enraged by how unfair this entire thing is. "We barely just said hello for the first time!"

"I have to meet my father at ten o'clock, so just let me do what I need to do, and let's not waste time arguing what can't be changed."

I shake my head, not wanting to believe that he's giving up so easy, not after everything he claims to have learned from me. "I thought I taught you a thing or two about not being complacent with the state of things."

"Alexei..." he starts with the intention of calming me down, but I passed calm a long time ago.

"No! I demand to speak with your father!"

"Alexei, please," he pleads, and I eventually agree to settle down for a moment, though I still retain my slightly angered expression.

"Fine."

"I want you to know that somehow I will find you again. Hope is not all lost, my love."

My dissatisfaction forces me to scowl. "You'd better make good on that promise, Olivier Renaud."

The snoring of the bell from the church rumbles throughout this section of Saint Petersburg, signaling that we only have a quarter of an hour before Olivier is shipped back to France to be killed along with thousands of other boys his age.

Olivier's eyes jump to his pocketwatch then back up to me. "It's fifteen minutes until my father wants me to be standing by his side at the train station, and factoring in the walking time, I have to leave within the next minute in order to make it on time, so we must quickly say our goodbyes and part ways."

I know by saying this it will only serve to make him want to stay with me even more, but I feel that it's necessary to express. "Olivier Renaud, I love you so--"

But Olivier does not care for how I end that sentence, because he already knows. He voices his goodbyes with a passionate dance upon my lips, and it says all that he needs it to say. I understand. I follow in his footsteps by exploiting the method of increasing the level of passion to convey how strong my emotions are. We're desperate, the both of us. This is our sign to each other.

To conserve time so as to not be late to his very important rendez-vous, he pulls away, breathless. "I will find you soon, my love," he assures me with a frantic nod. Olivier then takes one last silent look at me before running back into the main portion of the Saint Petersburg streets. And just like that, he's gone for who knows how long. I should've cherished him more, but I didn't, and now he's on the way to a potential death. What a fool I have been.

"All this time, you've been in love with that guy?" says a voice that I had no idea was there before, a voice belonging to none other than Anatole, who I knew would rip me to shreds if he found out and has therefore been shielded from my relationship with Olivier to protect us all. "If so, that really sucks ass now that he's leaving you for the military. I would say we should join him if you weren't such a scrawny rat boy."

I'm used to when Anatole insults me like this, but I only let him get away with it if it's true. If it's not, I make sure to remind him that he isn't so hot either. Even in times of distress, Anatole is always there to switch the conversation to an alternate emotion.

"You're not so different yourself," I counter, but Anatole is already pondering a new topic.

"You know, maybe we should actually join," he suggests, catching me completely off guard.

"Why on earth would we do that? Military enlistment might as well be called walking towards death."

That's the reason why I am so terrified for what might happen to Olivier. I can never know when a conflict may strike. War comes at the unexpected times when either the entire force of people involved are approaching the boiling point or when the world finally reposes, and it tears everything apart in its wake. I'm just worried that Olivier will be left in the rubble. It's more likely than one may think, actually, which means that Olivier might end up dead from his service in the military, and I don't have to worry about missing his return that way. I can join the army with no obligations, and it'll do more to occupy me than sitting alone back in Saint Petersburg where all our memories hang as ghosts in the air. I'll do it. I'll enlist.

"Yeah, but think of the food that we don't have to steal in order to eat. Think of the shelter. Think of the girls." Anatole's brows form waves up and down, implying that I, someone who just displayed a massive amount of affection for a man, am interested in girls to the best of his knowledge. He must be missing a lot.

"I thought my kissing Olivier would make it pretty clear that girls are the last thing on my mind."

Anatole rolls his eyes while probably cursing me in his head for getting so technical about this. "But still. What do you say?"

Having already made up my mind, I vocally express my disposition towards the idea so that we can commence with the first steps to fulfill it. "If it keeps us off the streets, why not?"

"Well look how quickly you changed your mind! I'm the master of persuasion, am I not?" How typical of Anatole to shift a victory that I created to one that makes him seem like he created it. Olivier is the right amount of confident, but Anatole crosses the line sometimes, and it is my duty to set him straight.

"Don't flatter yourself."

~~~~~

A/N: goddamn why are they all so stupid

maybe it's because I outlined for this to happen ??? lmao

~Dakoots