We spent all afternoon lazing around, enjoying each other's company. And by enjoying each other's company, I meant mostly fucking. I couldn't get enough of him, and so did Ferran. Was it to make up for lost time, or was I just that into him? I would never know.

Ferran loved it too, obviously. By the time we were done, he was covered in a glimmering sheen of sweat. He collapsed on my chest at the end of our third round as I cradled him with my arms. I held him close to me as the afternoon sun streamed in from the balcony, his soft hair brushing against my jaw.

"You okay?" I asked him, planting a kiss on his forehead.

"A bit sore," he giggled. "But it felt good."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I couldn't help but chuckle. He was such a sweet little thing.

"We should probably clean up," I suggested.

"Can't we stay like this a little longer?" he said.

He pleaded, but there wasn't even a slight hint of playfulness in his tone, or the flirtatious teasing that I had grew accustomed to from Momo. No, it was that ironically familiar yet distant cool tone of his, that I have grown to be mesmerised by.

So I just cradled him in my arms as I closed my eyes, feeling the warm rays of the sun pour onto my bare skin, listening to the boy's soft breathing against my chest. I couldn't tell how long I held him like that. It could've been a few minutes. It could've been forever.

"It has been a while since someone made me feel like this," Ferran remarked as he finally got off me.

"When was the last time?" I asked him.

The boy was silent for a while, and I sat myself up beside him.

"It was you actually," he said, looking at me with those pretty eyes of his.

Now it was my turn to fall silent.

"All this months. . . you've never?"

He just shook his head.

"No," he muttered. "Yes, but not exactly."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Ferran sighed as he stood up.

"You know how I am," he said as he walked across the living room. "Boys don't like to play with broken toys."

"You're not broken," I replied.

Ferran only remained silent. We showered and cleaned up together, scrubbing each other, our hands all over our bodies once more. Ferran had always been difficult to understand, back then in school, and back then in summer. Why would now be any exception?

"They either think I'm weird and don't want to have anything to do with me," Ferran began as we dried off with the towels he had in the bathroom. "Or they try to fix me."

I let the boy speak.

"They don't get it," he continued. "Nobody does. I can't be saved. No – that's not the correct way to say it. I don't want to be saved."

"Do you mind if I ask why?"

There was a slight sad smile on his lips.

"This is what I like about you, at least you try to understand," he said. "But. . . it's difficult to say. I know why, but the words just don't come to me easily. You know how I am."

I brought him into a tight hug, and I felt him relax as he rested his head on my shoulder. He let out a sigh.

"You're the closest thing to him I've ever had."

I slowly let go of him, taking a step back. Perhaps I was a bit too sudden, because the boy immediately looked at me, with eyes that looked like he had done something wrong. I remembered that night when we first slept together and he moaned out his brother's name as he climaxed, I remembered all the times back in school when he would sneak into our bedroom and they shared the same bed.

No, no, no. I tried to shake the thoughts of my head. It can't be. It couldn't be. But at the same time, it wasn't like I could just ignore it. It had always been the elephant in the room, and we never talked about it. But how could you blame me? How does one even possibly begin to talk about something like that?

"We should get dressed," I said.

I quickly picked up my clothes and got into them, while Ferran picked out a pair of sweatpants from his armoire. I was planning to leave almost immediately, but Ferran stopped me.

I felt his hand wrap around mine.

"It's been a very lonely few months," he said as he nuzzled up to me. "Won't you stay for a bit? For dinner. . . at least?"

He seemed so happy today. Genuinely happy. Distant, cold, but still happy. It was a muted kind of happiness, one that you could paint in soft strokes of a brush, and I suppose that was what made it so precious.

"Of course," I muttered.

How could I say no to him? I wouldn't want to take away that happiness and bliss from him by just abruptly leaving. Having freshly showered, we just spent the afternoon relaxing, enjoying each other's presence. We didn't talk much, probably because we were both exhausted, but it was still nice. I finally managed to sit in and soak in the view, the boy had kept me preoccupied before that. I just sat there on the sofa, Ferran lying down beside me, resting his head on my lap.

The living room opened up to a balcony overlooking the marina and the endless rows of yacht moored in the old harbour. Across the harbour and beyond the rows of apartments on the other side stood a large hill, with the basilica crowning its peak. The plants on the balcony, all lush and green framed the entire view. It almost felt like it was taken out of a painting. The camelias in full winter bloom were joined by the last few faded bougainvillea flowers, together with the amaranths and oleanders, all in different shades of pink. Ferran did have a penchant for flowers.

"You planted all those yourself?" I asked.

"Well, I got some of them from the nursery," he said as I stroked his soft hair.

"What about the oleanders?"

Ferran was silent for a while as he sat back up.

"I got those from home," he finally replied.

Of course he had to bring the oleanders with him. It wasn't enough that this city had hundreds of thousands of oleander bushes, he needed the ones from home. They all seemed the same to me, but I guess it must've held special meaning to him – I knew him too well. He wanted a piece of Rafel with him, always. It wasn't such a fresh start after all, Ferran would never let his brother go.

After some time, Ferran got up, saying that he wanted to get me something to show me. As he went into the bedroom, I stepped outside into the balcony, sliding the glass door open. I could catch the faint scent of the oleanders reminiscent of apricot carried along by the ocean breeze.

I guess I just needed some time by myself, even just for a while. The past few hours have been rather overwhelming, even for me. A rush of euphoria clouded my mind, but I knew the crash would come eventually. There was always that nagging rational part of me that was always a killjoy. But I guess maybe that's what kept me together for so long, that rabat-joie voice at the back of my head always keeping me in line, anchoring me in reality while another part of me entertained unrealistic romantic reveries in the wispy, feathery clouds above.

I tried to remember why I even agreed to meet Ferran in the first place. Sure, it was to reconcile, but was it really just about that? We've expressed how much we miss each other. Ferran indirectly admitted that he loves me. But now what? Ferran was never the type to admit anything out loud. Then, there was also the question about his brother.

Ferran told me at the train station the last time we spoke in summer that he had blamed me, and he refused to elaborate. I had always thought it was because of me and Amélie, but somehow, a part of me wasn't so sure anymore.

But I suppose the biggest question that I wanted to avoid was about us. The two of us, Ferran and I.

But when I heard the glass door slide behind me, the feelings of bliss and euphoria washed over me again, drowning out that nagging voice in my head. Ferran peeped out from behind the glass.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Just wanted to get some fresh air," I replied. "And enjoy the view."

"You look deep in thought," Ferran said as he walked up next to me.

"Oh you know," I shrugged as I flashed him a smile. "Just reflecting amongst the pretty flowers."

"I do that too sometimes," he said.

Ferran sat down on the wrought iron chair flushed to the side of the balcony, one leg over another. Taking out a cigarette from the box in his pocket, he lit it up. He leaned forward, leaning against the railing as he blew out a thin plume of white smoke, the light casting a shadow on his face. Ferran had changed into a beige shirt with a pair of grey sweatpants, but he still looked as pretty as ever.

I remembered the first time we ever had a serious conversation, when I returned to Perpignan after the end of my first year. We were seated at the balcony of his bedroom, overlooking the gardens. I remembered him there, smoking as he told me about how beautiful poisonous flowers were.

Ferran seemed different now, but at the same time he still felt like the poor vulnerable boy I knew him to be. Perhaps he had changed. For the better or for worse, I didn't know.

But there was just something so picturesque as he sat there – that timeless melancholy of his, smoking amongst the beautiful blooms, straight out of a grainy, muted arthouse film. We were like that in silence for a bit, Ferran resting his face against his palm as he held the cigarette between the fingers of his other hand, and me just staring out to nothing to particular, looking at the marina with its endless boats and their empty masts, to the buildings and basilica beyond, with its iconic silhouette on the limestone outcrop dominating the skyline of the old port.

I suppose there was some serenity that comes with the silences between the both of us. They never felt empty – in fact, they felt like the most meaningful moments of the times we spent. That was his magic I suppose, he just drew me in just by being himself.

"What are you thinking about?" Ferran suddenly asked.

I turned to look at him. The boy had stubbed out his cigarette on the ash tray, looking at me with curious eyes. It was the first time he had ever asked me about anything regarding me. I was right, maybe Ferran had changed after all.

"Oh," I muttered in response, having been caught off-guard. "I was just thinking about. . . things, how things could've better, how things could've been so much different."

"I don't know," Ferran shrugged. "My therapist says it's a useless endeavour."

"Well do you believe her?"

Ferran shrugged.

"I let my thoughts trail sometime," the boy said. "And they go to places I don't want to go, but most of the time I try not to."

The boy slowly stood up as he walked to the glass door. We shared a glance, and I followed him back into the apartment.

"I told you I wanted to show you something," he said as he walked up to his dining table.

There was a black sketchbook on the table. I picked it up and flipped through. They were page after page of sketches – from delicate flowers to the familiar mountains of the Pyreenes that I grew up surrounded by. They were also sketches of people too, some whom I recognised, and others I didn't.

"Oh," I said with a chuckle of amusement. "Is this what you wanted to show me?"

I turned the sketchbook around to show it to him. He giggled.

It was a drawing of me, sitting on a bench fidgeting with my fingers. It was how I looked exactly that day on the marina. I looked so shrunken, leaning forward. I looked so. . . small.

"Were you sketching me while I was there?" I asked, trying to brush it off with a laugh.

"Sort of," he replied. "But a lot of it was from memory too."

But the truth was I was just a bit taken aback. Did I really look that pathetic that day? Maybe I really did. I guess that was the effect he had on me. Or maybe I was already that miserable looking to begin with. I handed the sketchbook back to Ferran.

"I guess you really are in love with me," I teased him jokingly.

Ferran said nothing as he took the sketchbook back, the smile disappearing from his lips. He turned away as he returned to his bedroom. I immediately knew something was wrong. Didn't he just confess his love to me earlier?

"Did I say something wrong?" I asked, as I followed him.

"It's nothing," Ferran muttered, as he put his sketchbook away into the drawer.

"No, there is something wrong," I said. "Ferran you know you can just tell me."

The boy looked at me from across the room, but I could see that his eyes were glassy.

"Do you not love me?" I asked.

Ferran was silent, but I couldn't let this go on. It was tearing me apart. I walked up to him, closing the gap between us. The boy was trembling, and I reached out to caress him, his soft cheek brushing against the back of my hand. The tears begin to fall, and I wiped them away one by one.

"It's just," he began. "It's just so difficult to put everything into words. I think and I try, but sometimes. . ."

Ferran shook his head.

"I don't make sense," he mumbled. "Don't listen to me."

I drew him in closer and wrapped my arms around him. Ferran rested his head on my shoulder, his soft hair brushing against my neck.

"I know it's difficult," I said, trying to comfort the poor boy. "But I want you to remember that I want to be here for you."

Ferran was silent as he clung on to me, before he finally spoke, his soft voice barely louder than a whimper.

"Always?"

"Always."