I stood there in the hallway, taking a deep breath. It had certainly been a long while. After much hesitation, I finally rang the doorbell. Then I stood there and simply waited.

I couldn't help but think about the tears in Momo's eyes, the pain in his cracking voice. But I had to do this. I had to settle things once and for all, or I would never know peace.

But no answer came. I rang the doorbell once more, yet the door remained unopened. I waited for a while, before I just gave up. Perhaps he was outside, I did come here unannounced anyway, without checking whether he was home or not. I was about to leave, when finally there was a buzz coming from the intercom.

"Why are you here?" his soft, familiar voice breaking the silence.

I stopped in my tracks, turning slowly towards the small metallic panel by the door. I closed the distance between us, my lips hovering near the microphone.

"I came to talk to you," I said.

There was a brief silence, but I could still feel his presence lingering. I felt like it was those familiar silences that grounded him to the earth, lest he float away carried by the ethereal winds.

"You can talk to me right here," he muttered.

"Ferran. . ." I replied. "Please."

I was met with more silence.

"I just wanted to see you again."

When that too was met without a word, I closed my eyes, resting my forehead on my arm pressed against the wall. I let my shoulders fall as I let out a deep sigh. Well, what was I to do if the dear prince did not want to see me – yet at the same time my feet were heavy, refusing to leave. I didn't know how long I waited there, but eventually I heard the heavy door slowly open.

Ferran appeared before me in his usual outfit - his favourite white linen shirt, his silver crucifix resting on his chest. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for me to come in.

Walking up to him, I wrapped my arms around him. I felt his soft hair brush against my cheeks, engulfed in the scent of his sweet perfume. When I finally let him go, I found myself looking into those familiar blue eyes of his. There was a tinge of sadness in his eyes, his lips parting slightly as he searched for the words he needed.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Ferran finally spoke, his soft voice wisping through the air.

"You thought I'd just leave you?" I asked. "How could I?"

We ended up seated at the balcony, just like we always did, facing the marina and the old port. The peonies, camelias and oleanders were in full bloom, surrounding us in an orchestra of pink – each blossom singing a melody of melancholy in a different shade.

I had told him that I couldn't spend too long, that I needed to be with Momo to see his grandmother. But as usual Ferran didn't even seem to respond, so I couldn't tell whether he even heard me.

Ferran was never good at small talk – so all we did in each other's company was just sit amongst the silence of his flowers, cigarettes in hand. I couldn't tell if he was sad or happy to see me – he just looked as unsanguine as ever. I helped light up the cigarette on his lips with his lighter as he leaned slowly towards the flame.

But prolonging conversations with Ferran only lead to more awkwardness.

"When you told me the other day that there was only one man you've ever loved. . ." I began. "You meant. . . me, didn't you?"

Ferran as usual, was silent. He took another puff from his cigarette, blowing out a thin line of white smoke from his lips. Without a word, he got up, walking to his plants growing by the railings.

"What is love in this temporal life," Ferran said, his fingers tracing the soft petals of the peonies, grazing his thumb in between the folds. "If not just a distraction from the pain that doesn't seem to end."

He turned to look out at the marina, before taking another huff from the cigarette still held daintily between his fingers.

"Is that what I am then?" I asked him. "A distraction?"

"Everything is."

The Mediterranean sun bathed him in a soft light, baptising his golden curls and smooth, peach skin in its nurturing warmth. He was distant and avoidant as usual, with his cryptic answers and empty gazes. But as endearing as Ferran was, there were still many questions that remain unanswered, and he wasn't really being helpful. I knew I couldn't be too direct if I wanted to get anything useful out of him, but my patience was running thin. Besides, I already told myself that I had to be quick – I had to be there for Momo in his time of need. I couldn't be wasting my time on this balcony surrounded by the blooming flowers.

I got up from my seat and walked over to him.

"Even after all this while, you know I still love you," I muttered.

"I never doubted that," Ferran replied.

"I guess I just wanted to say that I've been thinking about it a lot," I blurted out. "About how unclear you've been about your feelings for me."

Ferran said nothing, walking up to a wooden box full of gardening supplies tucked away in the corner of the balcony and picking up a pair of small pruning shears.

"You said you loved me like a brother," I continued. "I just wanted to clarify what you meant by that."

Ferran reached his hand out, gently inspecting a few stalks of pink carnations, running his fingers through their stems and leaves.

"Did Mohamed tell you that?"

"Yes."

Technically, Momo did tell me. I just felt like Ferran didn't need to know that I also heard everything with my own two ears as well. I didn't want to complicate things further.

"You're like a brother to me," Ferran finally muttered. "The brother I never had."

His words felt like the nail to my coffin. So I suppose my initial hunch was right. Momo had been right all along. Ferran never loved me. To think, to ponder about that possibility was one thing, but to hear it from Ferran's own lips was something else.

A silence fell upon us, as Ferran began to snip a few flowers with his shears – carnations, camelias and peonies. Only the sound of the metallic blades pierced the air, loudly.

It hurt, it truly did. But I suppose a part of me had known all along, expected it even.

"People don't usually have sex with their brothers," I blurted out.

Ferran stopped cutting the flowers. I didn't know whether it was because of me or it just happened to be so. On the floor the cut flowers had been placed side by side – the lengths of their stalks varying, but their petals were all shades of pink, from the deep magenta camellias to the frail, pale pink of the peonies.

The boy had said nothing in response, but this time his cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue.

"Yes," he muttered, turning to face me. "They usually don't."

I noticed his hands trembling.

"Did you and Rafel. . ." I said, knowing that I could never turn back from this. "Did you and Rafel do anything of that sort?"

Ferran only stared at the ground between us, fidgeting with his dainty fingers.

"Please tell me my hunch isn't true," I said, my voice trembling.

Ferran shook his head.

"We never did anything," he replied. "But I really wanted to."

He could finally look at me in the eye. He took in a deep, shaky breath as his blue eyes turned glassy. Hearing it in his own words was both a shock and a relief to me – shocked that my suspicions were true, but relieved that Rafel didn't want to do anything of the sort. Nonetheless, I let out a deep sigh. It was still too much for me to process.

"Rafel knew," Ferran continued. "He knew. But he stopped me and told me that it was wrong. That he doesn't want to do anything of that sort."

I should've done it earlier since all the evidence was blatantly staring at my face, but I had been in denial. It couldn't possibly be true. To think of Ferran and Rafel's relationship in that way would only tarnish my memory of him. But Ferran's confession exonerated Rafel somewhat – and the only small comfort I got from all this was that my best friend was innocent.

But hearing Ferran admit that he did indeed saw Rafel that way put everything in perspective. How he smiled when he was near Rafel, how he would rest his head on Rafel's shoulder as he rode behind him on his bicycle, how he would wrap his arms around his brother any chance that he'd get. Ferran's visits to our room in the middle of the night suddenly took on a whole new meaning. To think that I was just a stone's throw away from all this made me realise how blissfully unaware I was of everything happening right before my eyes.

When I thought of the winding country roads, our little boarding school and the sun that bathed everything in its golden light, I thought about days filled with innocence, youth and bliss. But looking back I suppose even back in those times we weren't innocent as we thought we were.

Maybe we all needed to think that we were innocent to convince ourselves that we were good people. That there had been a time we were once pure, before we became tainted and miserable. That we were worth saving. The whole journey of growing up, to become an adult – perhaps that was nothing more than an adulteration.

"I don't know how to describe it," Ferran said. "But it just felt natural to me to feel that way. He was my heart and soul, so wouldn't it be natural for me to want him to be the first person I've ever done anything with?"

I suppose I could understand him. His bond with Rafel was so strong that he didn't need anyone else. Or perhaps it was the other way – he clung on to Rafel with all his might precisely because he had no one else in this world. In a way, I could see how the manifestation of sexual feelings towards his own brother could be seen as a mere continuation of that trajectory. I still didn't know how to feel about it – it was just too much to process.

"But you never got that wish," I muttered. "You got me instead."

Ferran didn't respond. He remained silent as the thoughts began to rush through my head, as I began to pick up the pieces and put things together. Ferran appearing at my doorstep the week after Rafel died, him missing the bus, him appearing before me in nothing but a towel. Since Rafel was no longer there, I was good enough.

He wanted his brother, but he got me.

I was nothing but a replacement.

Ferran couldn't look me in the eye. Instead, he turned around and bent down to collect the flowers he had left on the ground, gathering them into a bunch. He returned to his flowers, surrounded by their ethereal beauty. Momo was right – as ironic as it was, Ferran had the least problems of us three. His life was so comfortable, so beautiful, so serene. Perhaps the sadness was the only thing that made it interesting.

My hands were trembling as I felt a wave of emotion course through me. I suppose I never mattered to him. I never mattered to him at all. As much as I loved him, he never saw me for who I was. I was just a replacement for his fucking dead brother.

With all my strength, I grabbed his shoulder and spun him towards me. His eyes widened in shock, but he had no time to react before I yanked him by the collar and pulled him close.

"You used me." I muttered, clenching my fist hard into his shirt. "I loved you, I would've done anything for you – and you used me. I loved you and you treat like I'm nothing."

His blue eyes widened, and for the first time I saw an emotion I have never seen in him before – fear.

"Of course I love you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You were like my brother."

I let go of him as I took a few steps back. Like a brother. There it was again.

I would never be him. I could never be him.

Rafel was kind. Rafel was handsome. Rafel was loved by everyone. In short – he was perfect. He was everything I ever wanted to be. He was everything I would never be.

I could hear Ferran's pitiful cries in the background, but I didn't care. My heart was thumping through my chest, my blood pumping in my veins, my fists throbbing. My eyes were seeing nothing but red.

"Stop!" Ferran cried out, the poor boy's voice the only thing grounding me to this earth. "What are you doing?"

I hated how he kind he was, how handsome he was, how well-liked he was. I hated how perfect he was. I hated how I wasn't him. He could've been me. He should've been me. He should've been.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

He beat me in everything in this world – he even tied the rope around his own neck. It should've been me. He killed himself to rob me of the chance of killing him first. He cut things off to rob me of the chance of cutting things off first.

"Mateu, please!"

I was always second to him. I was never his equal. I would always remain in his long shadow for as long as I remained on this wretched earth, with its harsh, unforgiving sun and the flowers that reeked of death and corpses.

Ferran tried to grab my arm, but I instinctively elbowed him in the face, sending him backwards onto the floor with a crash. It was only then did I realise what I had done.

The poor boy just sat there, leaning against the wall, his sobs filling the air. Slowly, he looked up at me, his face sticky with tears, his eyes red and swollen. A dark stream of bright crimson dripped from his nose, staining his white linen shirt with red blooms. He looked pitiful, like a stray dog on its last legs.

I was panting and sweating, my breaths shallow and loud. As the adrenaline began to retreat, I could finally process my surroundings. I could finally process what I had done.

I looked down at my trembling hands. They were bruised, with a few cuts and grazes, but somehow I couldn't feel the pain. Instead, the pain was in my throbbing chest.

In front of me lay Rafel's shrine – the small nook that his poor brother had painstakingly curated in his remembrance. Well, whatever was left of it that is. The shelf was smashed in, the books all torn and thrown around, the photo frames all smashed with shards of glass scattered like snow.

"Ferran. . ." I muttered, as a wave of guilt began to wash over me. "That wasn't me. You know that's not me. You know that."

But the poor boy couldn't even look at me. Slumped up against the wall, I could see him shivering. His palms covering his bloodied face, all he could do was sob and whimper.

I knelt down beside him, slowly reaching out and placing my hand over his shoulder in a vain attempt to comfort him. But as soon as I touched him he pushed me away.

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. Those arctic blue eyes of his that used to be full of melancholic sorrow now looked so empty and blank.

"It should've been you on that rope," he muttered, his soft, breathy voice barely a whisper. "It should've been you dangling from that tree."