I knew what had happened when I read the subject line of the email from Stas: “Chon”.

I had met Chon about four years ago when he and Stas began dating. Well-traveled, fluent in English, British educated, funny and sarcastic, we all liked Chon immediately. Witty and vulgar, he never really cared who he offended and we would spend long nights at Stas’s kitchen table or at the local Kazakhstani gay club drinking and stirring up drama. He worked at a law firm and was one of their top attorneys, even though he was only in his mid-twenties. Successful and determined, he moved from Almaty to Astana to further his career and then returned back to Almaty at the beginning of the year.

Upon returning to Almaty he bought an unfinished apartment and moved onto Stas’s couch in the interim. Two weeks turned into months, and when I visited Almaty in February the strain in their now platonic relationship was beginning to show. One night, after being out at the club until 4am, Stas and I dragged our vodka-soaked asses back to his apartment on Masanchi. Stas brought a guy home which clearly displeased Chon. At 8am Chon was up, coughing, singing and strutting around the apartment in his high-cut black bikini briefs and tight black tank top. Chon never was one to let someone else have a good time at his expense.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but Chon was really sick then. He was such a damn queen I thought it was an act. He died yesterday.

I will never meet another friend quite like him. I can just see Chon now, in his bikini briefs and tank top with a set of matching black angel wings.