"What are you going to do about the ARVs? I hope you're not going to keep biting me and stealing."

"That wouldn't work even if I tried," I reply easily. It's a poor cover for "I have no idea". I still have a few pills left, but I can't save them since treatment compliance is essential to prevent resistance. There are no magical new solutions that I didn't have before. The only way to fall even deeper is if I become completely dependent, if I grovel and beg. I don't know if I can, but that's probably my only hope. Maybe I should show more trust, more faith in Emile's honesty and fairness, his forgiveness.

"I know that I don't deserve it, but the thefts were acts of desperation. Those days when I was sick, were ..." I want to say "hell", but I've survived hell and even though I had to relive it through my nightmares, nothing since has come close. "I couldn't function. I don't want to go through that again." I don't think I could. I've only ever wished to die, but I fear that'd be enough to make me try. "I know I've done you a tremendous injustice, but would you please consider giving them to me when I need it? I don't want to skip a day. I'm begging you."

Emile laughs incredulously. "Begging? That's a bit strong, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what else to do."

"Could you really not go see a doctor and get a prescription? Are you so sure they would discover anomalies?"

"I don't want to risk it. They take blood, right?" And under my breath: "I'm afraid."

Emile pauses but mercifully ignores my last words. "Well, when push comes to shove, I could always prescribe you the right ARVs. I do have a medical license."

"You'd do that?"

"Would you allow me to formally test you? It is standard practice to perform the test twice."

My stomach contracts and I don't know what to think. That'd be less horrifying than a stranger I can't trust at all, but still. "Is that necessary?"

"We never prescribe anything purely based on a self-test because they are less reliable than the lab test. Also, do you have an idea when you got infected?"

"I fell ill in the first half of February, I think."

"And after that, it stopped, even before the ARVs?"

"Yes, though I still suffered from a mild cold, nothing serious. I read that was the asymptomatic phase."

"That's right. In that case, we can reasonably assume you contracted the virus at the end of January or beginning of February. When did you test?"

"Around the 21st, if I remember it right."

"Hm, that's not too bad, but the test is more reliable after four to six weeks since it looks for HIV antibodies."

"Wouldn't the medication change the results then? I thought HIV became undetectable below a certain number."

"That's true. You've been taking ARVs for two months now?"

"Almost."

"The test might turn out negative in that case, but I still prefer to follow the correct procedures if I'm going to prescribe you anything. Have you been taking the pills every day at the same time? Only one a day."

"Yes."

"And you haven't experienced any symptoms?"

"No. Everything is like before."

"Alright. Good. I suggest I take a blood sample now, so I can take it with me to the lab on Monday. I'll call you when I have the results. Sounds good?"

"Okay." My voice is steadier than my heart. Needles are not the same as knives or whips or potions, but I am letting someone draw blood from my body. I am trusting Emile not to abuse his power. But maybe I owe him that trust since I abused and violated his. He has only given me reasons to trust him: he cares about my well-being, he asks genuine questions, he's my friend, he helped me through my panic yesterday despite his shock. He will give me a prescription, a way to regain some of my independence, a way to release me of my guilt that I treated him as nothing more than cattle. Overcoming this silly fear is a small sacrifice.

Emile returns with a briefcase. I don't know whether to close my eyes and ignore what's happening or to keep them open to remind myself that I'm not living in the past. Emile inhales a long, slow breath, and exhales much the same way. I mimic him while he disinfects my arm. The needle pricks and it's weird, but it doesn't really hurt. I don't look at my arm and focus on Emile's face. He has a lot of wrinkles. Are they caused by worries over his wife and daughter? He has thick glasses too, and dark brown eyes.

"Is there something on my face?"

"Sorry?"

Emile chuckles. "I'm done." I look down and indeed, there's nothing in my arm anymore, though there is a neat little Band-Aid. "I'll take that with me on Monday and have a look as soon as I can. Do you still have enough ARVs?"

"A few."

"A few as in three or a few as in ten?"

"Three."

"I'll give you some of Aurélie's then to tie you over until you have your own prescription."

***

Throughout the weekend, I try to read and finish the translation of the last few of Bacchylides' poems. I fluctuate between elated relief and anxious worry. If I have a prescription, I will have more than I ever had before: independence, health, a job I like, a friend. If I still have a friend. I think so, but shouldn't I earn his forgiveness instead of it being gifted like I'm not a monster, I've never done anything wrong and Emile has already forgotten my deception?

He calls me on Tuesday. I expect it to be a salesperson, but when I hear "Dante?" and not "Mister Ossani", I feel that rush of elation again.

"Sorry it's a little later, but I didn't have time yesterday. Either your ... condition or the medication made the virus undetectable. So I'm going to trust that you do have HIV and you can come over for your prescription."

"Today?"

"If you want."

"Thank you."

A few hours later, after dinner, I finally have the paper that gives me a renewed sense of freedom. I remember how I thought of Sartre back in February. Condemned to life and liberty. But maybe I do want to live, do want to be free. Maybe I only want to not suffer. I don't want to die if I have to go through a multitude of pain. At this particular moment, looking at the scraggly signature that reads 'Pinoy', it seems worth it to face another day. To talk with Emile, and Aurélie, to finish my translation, to read another book, to teach my students and see them succeed. I look forward to going back to school, even though the third trimester has already started and I've missed so much.

"I don't know how to thank you. This means so much to me and you owed me nothing."

"I didn't do it because I owe you. I do it because Aids has affected the people I love and even if I can't defeat it, I want to soften the blow." Emile's heavy gaze is solemn.

"You mean your wife?"

"And Aurélie. She'll have a pretty normal life, but she still has to swallow pills every day and there's the stigma and the eternal worry that something will happen. It's so stupid too, because we could have prevented that if we had known."

"Prevented? But there's no cure or vaccine! Not in the nineties."

"There still isn't. Nothing definitive, at least. But there were working treatments, also for pregnant women, so the baby wouldn't ..."

"But you didn't know she was ... positive?"

Emile sighs and slumps in his chair. "You want the full story?"

I put out carefully: "If you want to tell me." Although I know this is a sad story, I am thrilled to see this part of Emile's life, to feel closer to him. A drop of guilt climbs up my throat, but it is dispersed before I can make sense of it. It'll be back later, I'm sure.

"Céline, she was a drug addict. Before we met. She shared needles with other people and ... Gay men were not the only ones disproportionately affected, but drug users too. The ones that injected their drugs. She didn't really think about it, that she could get infected, because it's so highly associated with sex. It's an STD, but not just an STD, you know?" I nod, but Emile is already continuing his explanation. "Her parents helped her to detox, be clean, so we thought she was healthy. She used for three years and she looked healthy when we met, while she had probably had HIV for at least two years at that point. That was in '95. She was only diagnosed in 2000 and Aurélie was two then. She got also diagnosed." Emile smirks bitterly.

"But you didn't?"

"No, I – I never slept with Céline."

"Is Aurélie not your biological daughter?"

"No, she is. I'm ... Have you heard of asexuality?"

I frown. What have plants and the like to do with it? "Yes?"

Emile chuckles. "I don't think you know what I mean. It's a sexual orientation. Kind of."

"Like ... homosexuality, but no-one?"

"More or less. It's complicated because of course, gender and sexuality can't be simple." He snorts. "You don't have some antiquated belief that homosexuality is a choice and a sin, right? If you do, my explanation probably won't make much sense to you. Or maybe it will because abstinence? I don't know."

"I think I have adapted my beliefs ... adequately over time. I've had students who were ..." And I remember nights in a bed and a face close to mine, but the memory is gone before I can touch it.

"Right. So ..." Emile goes on about romantic and sexual attraction and how he experiences the former, but not the latter. Because they don't have to match and there's actually a whole spectrum where everything is possible.

"Why would I want to sleep with people when I can also just ... not do it? Modern medicine was advanced enough for artificial insemination. I only wonder why they didn't test her blood or nobody noticed anything, but it's a bit late to sue those doctors now."

I ponder that. Maybe I'm not so unique. A little less broken than I thought. "I think I'm like that too. No attraction."

"You are?" Emile exclaims. "I didn't expect that."

"I didn't either. I was a priest for most of my life, so I didn't think about it. It was just convenient. I knew about sodomy, but those were acts, not an ... an identity. And when they invented homosexuality, it was an illness. I never understood it, but maybe that was because I don't feel anything?"

Emile purses his lips. "It might be. Asexuality can be confusing when you don't know what it is or you're trying to figure out if what you feel is platonic or not. Are you also aromantic?"

"I don't know. I think so. I've never felt anything, but I've ... thought about it." Or rather, wished for someone to talk to, to laugh with, to live with, but that will never be true, if only because I'd outlive them.

"Well, I'm glad that I could help you with more than a piece of paper and a signature."

"It means so much more than that. Really." Trust, and forgiveness, chances, hope. "Thank you for telling me about ..."

"Don't mention it." Emile stands up. "Let's talk about something lighter and put on the news."