Work Text:
…je me raconte des histoires, pour m'endormir,
pour endormir ma peine, et pour sourire.
J'ai des conversations imaginaires
avec des gens qui ne sont pas sur la terre…
Your first podium, mate. It was powerful.
This is what i said.
I'm so proud of you. You did the impossible thing. Pierre, you are... amazing, incredible, just mind-blowing...
And this is what i wanted to say. But have to choose expressions.
For some reason, i don't always allow myself to say everything. The simple words of friendly support may seem like something more if i say them to you. You will understand everything... The stakes are too high.
After all... who am i in essence? The godfather who assembled our gang, who cannot show his weakness for someone, or rather D’Artagnan with his musketeers-racers. And one we lost in battle...
I remember that evening. You couldn't stop crying, although no one noticed this later, even when you were so unusually calm the next morning.
I recall all this as a waking dream. Just like my troubled sleep four years ago, and even later. When i shuddered in tears on your lap.
I always seemed to be more sensitive. But at one moment you were unsettled.
When you appeared at my room, in a minute i already lost track of my questions that arose at that moment. To be honest, i didn't see any reason to answer them. As soon as our views met, you immediately silently made it clear why you came. It seemed to me that something was torn in you, some kind of thin thread that held you for so long, and now it cracked with a thin click, and tears poured from your eyes like a rainfall. You are a bewitchingly beautiful sight, but then it was unbearably painful to look at these beautiful eyes filled with tears. Part of the crystal blue disappeared, sliding down the cheeks along with tears. The tsunami that rushed at you with a pearl azure killer wave.
I couldn't restrain my tears. You fell into my arms and wept, and wept, and wept. Shuddered, sighing and sobbing, resting your head on my legs and clinging tightly to my torso, while i sat and looked somewhere up, tilting my head back. So less noticeable that I cried. Tears, hot droplets, ran down on temples and lost in hair.
I've lost the sense of time. I still don’t know how much then passed. Outside it was already dark, only on the horizon with a light stripe did the sun mark the boundaries of the territory on which nights were still not allowed to enter. Your breathing evened out, my hand rested peacefully on your back and heaved to the beat of your breaths. But they were still heavy. I ran a palm across your shoulder blades, lower back, desperately hoping that this would calm you down a little more. I really want you to feel better. Even when you manage it yourself. You are so strong. I'm feeling it. In every sense: and then, stroking your back through the cloth of a t-shirt, and always, your entire conscious life, following you. Everything that you do, how you relate to everything and everyone, how you perceive what is happening — all this delights me.
I fell exhausted on the bed; my leg fluttered a little and i felt that the jeans on my knees were soaking wet.
People often talk about you, but what do they know, Pierre? Who knows you better than i do? And you know me better than anyone does. Even better than i. And i stopped recognizing myself lately. But when i am with you, i am me again, that same little Charlie, and you are monsieur Pierre.
I swear to keep all these memories forever.
Je suis ton monsieur pour toujours.*
And only touches of your lips were hotter than tears. Your kisses on the cheeks. You tried your best to reassure me whenever things went wrong. But when we were losing someone, when it was just as unbearably bad for you, without any words and actions, you were just here and absorbed every bit of my pain, every drop of bitter salt water flowing down my face in the gleam of one light on my room. And then, in august, the light was not turned on. We dissolved in the darkness, the fading light from the windows and our own tears, dividing them into two.
We deserve to be where we are. We achieved everything with sweat and blood, tears of joy and immense grief. And we keep going.
Dear diary, or whatever the hell it says... I could only talk about it now. Nothing more obscures my eyes and doesn't interfere with writing. I have something to say, but so far only to this white sheet. The rest is either said without words (which is much more important), or will be said later. Not now, later. Time will come.
The main thing is that he is here with me.
… est-ce que tu m'entends?
Est-ce que tu me vois?
Qu'est-ce que tu dirais, toi, si t'étais là?
Est-ce que ce sont des signes que tu m'envois?
Qu'est-ce que tu ferais, toi, si t'étais là?..