“He’s a boy!” Monsieur Fache had never been so proud. His wife despite being exhausted sat up and admired her son. The middle-aged couple had been trying for so long without success. Thierry was finally the reward of stressful years spent with gynaecologists and doctors. What his parents didn’t know was that twenty-two years later they would bury their only child.

Thousands of kilometres away, while Thierry was being delivered, four-year old Serge was on his way to school. When the teacher asked the boy what profession he’d like to do, Serge replied with confidence: “A doctor.” Fourteen years later, after obtaining his baccalauréat with honours in 1989, he enrolled for medical school in Lille where his uncle Eric lived.

At four, Thierry was sent to a catholic school. His mother would wait at the gate making sure he was in all right. She would pick him up too. His parents would not let him go with his classmates to various trips. Thierry felt lonely and spent most of his time immersed in books. He would dream of freedom like any ordinary prisoner. He told his teacher he would be a poet like Rimbaud.

Rock Hudson died of Aids in 1985. Thierry’s mother said over dinner: “Good riddance.” Thierry was 10. Why was his mother relieved to know someone was dead? He had heard of the actor and had seen him on the news. “Was he a criminal?” His dad shut him up.

Serge at fifteen learnt about the Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, about Kaposi’s sarcoma, about the new drug azidothymidine called AZT. He would impress his own parents and younger sister with his thorough knowledge and passion while other children his age discussed the televised explosion of Challenger, the new Rambo movie and Diego Maradona.

In 1987, Thierry and Serge both happened to listen to the radio when France Inter played a song called Sid’amour à mort by the French singer Barbara. Separately the two boys were deeply moved; Thierry always listened to Barbara when he wrote poetry, and Serge started his own campaign.

At Thierry’s school his friends agreed with Le Pen, the nationalist leader, who said that all gay men infected with HIV should be locked away, a necessary measure to ensure the protection of the respectable heterosexual society. What about love? What about life? No one mentioned those words except Barbara. When Thierry heard his parents call Aids the gay cancer, he wished he’d be old enough to run away from them.

Serge was well into his second year of medical school and every Tuesday night, he joined a small group of students. They gave out leaflets to passers-by to inform them about the disease. The virus had no sexual tendencies. Serge had a boyfriend. His parents knew and they were supportive. His uncle was glad to be no longer the only one in the family.

In 1991, Freddie Mercury died.

In 1992, Rudolf Nureyev died.

In 1993, Thierry came of age. His parents offered him an envelope. His dad with receding grey hair and shaking hands said: “it’s for you when you get married. We thought a trust fund would become useful.” His mother had suffered from a stroke and was in a wheel chair. Thierry lowered himself and she planted a wet kiss on his forehead. She whispered: “Get your degree first but I want to see my grand-child before I die.” Two weeks later he was on the train to Lille where he would start French Literature. He would stay at the hall of residence. Serge was twenty-two and in his fourth grade. He would not meet Thierry for another year.

The World Health Organization knew about 307,000 cases of Aids throughout the world in the early 1990’s and estimated the number close to a million. They also estimated that 9 million people were infected with HIV worldwide. There was no cure.

Thierry had just read those figures when he felt a hand rest on his arm. He looked up and saw a tall man with striking blue eyes, thin blond hair and a round, smiley face. He was wearing a navy blue bandana around his neck. It was Serge.

When Serge noticed the bohemian-looking guy with curly fair hair and blue eyes reading the leaflet, his heart pounded wildly. They stood in the lobby of Lille III, the literature and Art College, where Serge with his friends from Sid’Action was campaigning. Serge had split up with his boyfriend a few months before and Thierry was still a virgin.

Serge chose a quiet restaurant in the old town. Thierry fiddled with his paper napkin while Serge talked about HIV and his new project of prevention amongst the gay community of Lille. He ordered some wine and recommended the rabbit stew. Thierry felt inadequate and ignorant. He had heard of the disease but realised he knew so little about it, about life in general. During the meal, he thought he had turned into a huge white corpuscle being invaded by an army of scientific terms. His love was immune but his date was deficient. Before the tarte tatin was brought in, Thierry left the table to go to the lavatories. In the only cubicle, he sat on his knees and bent over the bowl into which he regurgitated his main course. When Thierry came back, Serge had bought him a single red rose from a gypsy woman who was selling them in a bucket. The date was on the mend. They shared the dessert although Serge, too busy talking, held the fork. Thierry didn’t mind, as he felt sick. The pain at the core of his body gnawed at his liver like a rat.

Serge gave Thierry a lift and walked him to his room. Thierry blamed the wine. He said it happened when he drank a bit. He’d be all right in the morning. They’d call each other.

A few months later, Thierry moved into Serge’s council flat near Lambersart. Uncle Eric had helped his nephew furnish the place. It was not trendy but clean and cosy. Thierry felt at home for the first time. His parents came to visit. Once. At first, they referred to Serge as the flatmate. Then, they commented on the place being too small for two young men. When his mother inquired about the second bedroom, Thierry pointed out there was only one. His dad immediately asked who was sleeping on the sofa and looked at his wife for help. Before she opened her mouth, Thierry told them he was sleeping in Serge’s bed - with Serge beside him.

When Serge came back from work late that evening, he found his boyfriend alone in the living room reeking of cigarettes.

When Thierry felt his boyfriend’s hands on his shoulder, he simply shed all the tears he had been fighting for the last twenty years. Serge understood what happened and from that moment, he never mentioned Thierry’s parents ever again.

They often had friends around for dinner. Serge cooked and Thierry took charge of the music. He played L’Aigle Noir by Barbara, Les Vieux by Brel or sometimes The Queens. Before going to bed, Thierry would clear away the dishes while Serge would try to lure him into bed. They were simply happy.

When someone you love is dying, it doesn’t matter how many thousands of people are dying. The world shrinks from vast continents into a hospital room into a bed into blue eyes.

Thierry was diagnosed with liver cancer. From that moment onwards, Serge’s campaign was to save his lover’s life. “Fuck the rest” he cried one night. Thierry underwent chemotherapy and lost his hair. The bedroom, once a haven of true love and intimacy, was turned into the antechamber of death. Serge looked after Thierry full time.

When I got a phone call late that evening, I knew Thierry had died. He had wished to say good-bye to us all, his friends, his real family a few hours before. He said: “Don’t be sad. Be happy because I’m ready.”

Serge was not allowed to attend his funeral – Thierry’s family barred him. Instead, he held a private service with Thierry’s closest friends. Thierry had chosen the music, the way to go to heaven in harmony with the living.

Serge held onto his lover till the very end. He tapped the coffin where Thierry’s head was resting and whispered a few words I will not try to guess.

To the music of Barbara, Thierry flew over us like a bird, not a black eagle, but a dove.

To this day, 42 million people have contracted Aids. There is still no cure.

Richard Hennebert was born in 1971 near Lille in France. Richard studied French and English literature. He moved to England in 1993. He now works as a tutor in adult education in London where he lives with his boyfriend, Alan. In parallel to his career, he has chosen to further his prior interest in literature by taking up some creative writing studies. “Dying to love” is one of his first short stories.