"Maybe I'm in love with the concept of death," Ferran said as he sat in the rattan chair on his balcony.

Smoke wafted into the air from his cigarette, held between his dainty fingers. He sat with one of his legs over the other, his cerulean eyes looking out into the garden below. He had a glass of iced water in front of him, to save himself from the summer heat.

We had gone back to his family mansion just outside of Perpignan, not too far away from the cemetery. It was lined by a cypress grove, cloaking the compound with a sense of privacy. I had been there countless of times when Rafel would bring me over, to either play tennis or swim in the pool. Ferran's bedroom faced the west, where there was a nicely manicured garden, adorned with bluebells, foxgloves and peonies. I have been on the balcony a few times before, since it offered the nicest view, but this time I noticed something different. 

The garden had been stripped, the old flowers removed. They had been replaced with faded pink oleander and the cream-coloured trumpets of datura. A bougainvillea plant crept up the side of the building, its papery fuchsia flowers poking through the wrought iron railings of the balcony.

I had stayed at the cemetery with Ferran. I watched him in silence as he sat by his brother, placing the bouquet on the cold marble. I felt like I was intruding, standing there watching him clasp his hands. He had always been the more religious one among the two. He made it a quick one, and he got up with a sense of urgency. I had a feeling it was because I was there.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," I began, breaking the awkward silence.

"Not in front of him," Ferran muttered under his breath.

He suggested we go back to his place, a suggestion which I accepted. Besides, his family knew me so it wasn't like I was a total stranger. Though admittedly my only connection to the vast grounds of the family mansion were severed when Rafel passed. I had no business being there – until today.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, as I picked up my cup of coffee that was on the table between us.

Ferran sighed.

"Sorry if it doesn't make sense," he muttered as he fidgeted with his fingers in front of him. "I don't make sense."

"No, no," I assured him. "I just want to know what you're thinking."

"Sometimes I just say the thoughts that come to me," he mumbled, resting his cheek against his hand as he stared out into the garden.

I had asked him about his garden, and he only answered in such a cryptic way. Ferran was like that, always sibylline. He was almost like an esoteric tome, and only Rafel knew how to read him.

Unfortunately, the interpreter was dead, and now I was left to my own devices. Through the arctic blue of his eyes, I just knew he wanted to be understood. But I simply couldn't comprehend him.

His words were like jumbled up symbols, his movements like the soft strokes of a foreign brush. There was meaning to everything he did, I just couldn't tell what they were. And it was frustrating. Both for me, and for the poor boy himself.

"I was asking about why you dug up all the old flowers," I tried redirecting him.

"Oh," he muttered, as if suddenly remembering what we were talking about. "And why I replaced them with poisonous ones."

I grunted.

His gaze fell to the ground. He seemed like a lost little lamb.

"There's just something about them that makes them beautiful, you know?" he began, somewhat unsure of himself. "This. . . ethereal quality to them. It makes you think, how could something so beautiful be so cruel?"

"Maybe it's just cruelty hidden within beauty," I replied.

"Or beauty hidden within cruelty."

Ferran looked at me with those blue eyes of his. They seemed so distant, so empty. We were only a few feet apart, but I felt like he was an ocean away. That was the thing about Ferran, he always had a way of distancing himself from others no matter how close the actual physical distance between us was. He made me feel like a total stranger. I've always thought of myself as more aloof, but Ferran was even more so. I suppose it took a hell lot of talent to achieve that feat.

He rested his head against his knuckles, but his eyes still locked against mine. I noticed him inching forward, moving towards the end of his seat. I felt his gaze slowly move down, sliding from my face, dripping down my neck, tracing itself onto my chest. His lips slightly parted, I watched as he tugged on the collar of his shirt, before he undid the topmost button, unhooking it with his little finger. A wry, awkward smile appeared on his lips as his shaking hand went down to work on the next button, revealing his chest.

He slowly stood up from the chair and stretched his arms in front of him. He let out a deep sigh. I stood up as well, still maintaining eye contact. We were about as tall as each other now, and when I took a few steps in, our noses were nearly touching.

It felt like it was the most natural thing in the world. What else could I possibly have done, truly.

His lips tasted just as sweet as before. Just as soft as before. Just as moist as before. I felt him shiver, letting out a shaky breath as I moved from his lips to his jaw, and from his jaw to the soft skin of his neck. He had slipped his hands underneath my shirt, and I could feel the light touch of his dainty fingers crawling down my chest to my stomach, tracing the thin line between my abs. Almost in reflex, I slipped my hands under his shirt as well, feeling the warmth of his smooth skin as I ran my hand up his back.

It was then when I felt him push himself against me, and I felt his grip on me tighten. I pulled him towards me and squeezed. I felt him rest his head on my shoulder, anticipating his soft lips on my neck. But instead, he just held on to me. So there we were, clinging onto each other as we both stood on the balcony, not even saying a word to one another. For a brief moment, the carnal atmosphere had all but evaporated, replaced with this feeling of raw longing.

Of course, we were nothing but two lonely, desperate souls holding onto each other. Perhaps it was the hope that it could make the sorrow dissipate like the blossoms in the wind. For the pain to thin away and bubble out like the crested waves ebbing away from the shore. But for now, all we had was the comforting warmth of our bodies to take us away from the suffering. To help us forget everything we've lost and everything that had been taken from us. To deliver us from the emptiness that had no reprieve. And perhaps, for that moment it was more than enough.

I slept with Ferran again that afternoon. Just like the evening that he had appeared on my doorstep, that evening when I held him as his tears fell down his cheeks.

I tried not to think about what happened that night, how he had reached his climax softly whimpering his brother's name. It wasn't really something that I planned on talking to him about. No matter how I approached it, it was an awkward subject matter.

It was just best left forgotten.

He brought me back inside his bedroom, leaving the sliding door to his balcony ajar. A gentle breeze wafted in, bringing with it the soft apricot scent of oleanders from the garden. 

I sat on the edge of his bed as he made quick work of my zipper. He brought his soft lips to my head, dabbling slowly at first, before swallowing me whole. I let myself be swept away by the sensations and sights of the moment, his soft hair clutching between my fingers, the wetness of his mouth, the pleasurable pressure of his sucking. He had pulled my trousers and briefs down, and nuzzled himself against my inner thigh as he worked me with his dainty fingers.

I let out a moan which I could barely contain, the pleasure coursing through my body. My fingers clutched the bedsheets underneath me, my toes curling under my socks. Maybe it was because he had touched a sensitive area I never even knew existed, or perhaps because I haven't felt the warmth of another human being in almost a year. Whatever it was, it took every fibre of my being not to spill myself all over his pretty face.

It would be a shame, he was far too beautiful. Like a Boucher painting on a frescoed roof - soft curls of gold, dreamy eyes of blue, and rosy cherubic cheeks of pink.

He must've seen how excited I had gotten, how dangerously close I was to my limit, as he stopped and pulled away. A part of me could even be said to be a bit disappointed that he did so, but I knew what it meant.

Ferran stood up before leaning over against his bed, stretching his slender legs behind him. On cue, I approached from behind.

And that was the magic with Ferran, from his enchanting eyes to his soft hair to his smooth, porcelain skin. But was truly elevated the whole experience was the wordless silence. It was almost as if our bodies knew exactly what we sought, playing out the steps of this ritualistic waltz.

I brought him closer to me, pulling him closer before planting a few kisses on his neck. While I tugged at his pants with one hand, my other found its way into his mouth. He opened up wide, letting out a slight gasp as I slowly pushed his tongue down, tracing circles around. I heard the clink of his buckle as he let go of his belt and pulled down his trousers. I helped him finish the job by yanking his briefs down his thighs.

I took him then and there, pushing myself deep within him after loosening him up with my fingers and plenty of spit. He was warm and tight, just like I remembered him last summer in my bed. As his breathy whimpers filled the room, I thrust myself inside him and pounded him faster and faster. I could see his fingers clutching onto the bedsheets as I ran my hand up his smooth back, truly a sight to behold.

Closing my eyes, I leaned against the nape of his neck as I held on to him. My own breathing heavy, I let myself be carried away by the current of carnal pleasure. With his muffled moans in my ear and my hands squeezing against his chest, I found myself being brought back to a familiar time. The feeling the warm golden sun on my skin, the breeze flowing through my hair, surrounded by vineyards as far as I could see. It was only with Ferran did these memories locked away in my mind felt truly alive. I planted wet kisses on his shoulder blade - kisses for him, kisses for me, and kisses for the time I knew would never return. 

Feeling the familiar pressure build up, I felt my legs shiver as I reached the point of no return. With one final thrust I felt the wave of pleasure rush through me as I emptied myself inside him. I had to pause to catch my breath, still holding onto his bare ass. I traced circles around his cheeks, still enjoying the last few drops of pleasure that lingered behind.

When I finally pulled myself out, I clumsily pulled up my briefs and trousers, and Ferran did the same, slowly standing up. He didn't say a word, and I couldn't really read his expression. I could only notice the slight redness of his eyes and the faint sticky trace of tears on his cheeks.

"Are you alright?" I asked him, concerned.

His lips quivered, almost as if he was trying his best to contain his emotions.

"Yeah," he muttered, but his body betrayed him.

As if overtaken by emotion, I noticed his knees buckling, and I quickly stepped in. He clung onto me with such intensity that almost sent me a few steps backwards. His tears flew freely now, and his sobs filled the air.

"It's alright," I whispered as I held him, stroking his beautiful blond hair. "You're going to be okay."

He said nothing and continued to sob. I only stood there, holding him. I never really knew what to do in situations like that.

"The pain," he mumbled as he finally pulled away from me, sniffing. "It never goes away now, does it?"

He looked at me with those blue eyes of his, marred red from the tears.

"I don't know," I replied, feeling guilty that I didn't have the answer.

But it was then when I realised that in this confusing journey of guilt and sorrow, I was no longer alone. And as selfish it sounds, when one was trapped in a field of pain that seemed to spread out as far as the eye could see, that fact by itself was a small comfort.