Rafel sat opposite me, his hands busy working with the branches and twine, his fingers nimble and delicate. The sparks from the fire were jumping about, the song of the cicadas filling the heavy summer air. The campfire casted a strong shadow on his features, and it didn't help that he looked so determined and focused. When he set his mind to something, he seemed stern, intimidating even. But that was the Rafel I had known and loved.

Ferran was beside him, leaning against his haversack as he stretched his legs in front of him. Staring straight into the fire, his eyes seemed so distant and faraway. His fingers fidgeted with the cross dangling from his chest, glistening in the light. Letting out a sigh, he leaned to his right, resting on Rafel's shoulders. Even though he was busy working, I couldn't help but notice the warm smile on his lips. The love he had for his brother was no secret.

Ferran seemed as perfect as ever that hot summer night, the fire's warmth driving away the icy distant coolness in his features, brightening his angelic Boucheresque airs with the dramatic, bold and passionate crimson and orange hues of Caravaggio.

It was the last summer we had together. Rafel had gotten his driver's license – finally, and he insisted on bringing us camping deep in the forested Pyreenes. We had booked a cabin for ourselves at a campsite just a stone's throw away from the Canigou, under the shadow of its domineering peak.

Ferran's eyes were fluttering, the poor boy struggling to keep them open. Yet his arctic blue eyes still stared into the flames, gazing intently as if the orange licks dancing around were telling him a message only he could understand. At times he seemed to have begun to nod off, but almost immediately he would shake himself awake.

Rafel finally held his handiwork up, as if to show me. He had taken and fashioned the laurel branches he had gathered earlier into a wreath crown. It was pretty, if I were being honest. I wouldn't think Rafel would've been capable of something like that, but my boy was full of surprises.

Gently, he placed the finished crown of leaves on Ferran's golden curls. Turning to face his brother, Ferran flashed him a smile, showing his perfect white teeth. His eyes were bright, and for as long as I could remember, it was the first – and the last – time I ever saw Ferran free from the faint aura of melancholy that always seemed to have haunted him. In that brief moment, he truly seemed to be in a state of pure bliss.

Crowned with a wreath of laurels - couronne de Laurier - he never seemed more alive.

He was a prince in his brother's eyes. He was a prince too in mine, but I never got to tell him that.

It was a memory that I don't think I could ever forget. Moments like that, cherished close to my heart reminded me how beautiful life could be. That even the saddest boy I had ever known could experience a brief, fleeting moment of pure bliss – then I knew I deserved that much.

A chilly wind blew down the street as I left the police station, sending a shiver down my spine. My mind was blank, my heart heavy. People were everywhere, but I felt ever so desolate.

Momo was sitting on a streetside bench, and he immediately got up when he saw me. He looked at me with those warm hazel eyes of his, but I could barely muster a smile. It took me nearly all my energy to speak to him, the strength sapping from my veins.

"Thanks for coming," was all I could mutter.

Momo pulled me close into his tight embrace. His warmth, the scent of his cologne, his rough hair brushing against my cheek – all those familiar comforts was exactly what I needed then.

"I came as soon as I heard," he said, still holding on to me tightly. "I'm so sorry."

I only shrugged as he let me go, taking a step back.

"It is what it is," I muttered, my voice weak and breaking.

Shoving my hands in my pocket, I began to walk. To where? I didn't know. I just wanted to get moving, somewhere, anywhere – it didn't matter to me. I picked up my pace, walking faster and faster, walking past throngs of people in the alfresco cafes, walking past the limestone façades of the buildings lining the street, walking past flocks of pigeons that gathered at the doorsteps. I didn't know how long I was walking, I just did. At the very least it helped to take my mind off things. I walked until my thighs ached and my feet went sore. I just walked, with no destination in mind as poor Momo struggled to keep up.

It was all I could do. It was all I could do to take my mind off the impending wave of pain that I know would hit. But time would still let me have this.

Everything was a blur to me as I ventured further and further, from the faces on the street, to the cars, to the shopfronts. I barely registered Momo beside me. But something stood out in the corner of my eye, stopping me in my tracks.

I found myself in a non-descript garden between a few residential buildings. A row of plants growing against the sandstone wall, their leaves broad and long, the petals of their flowers a soft peony pink, drew me to them. I stood there, reaching out to feel the waxy, lancelike leaves with my shaking hands, my fingers tracing circles on the soft petals.

I never understood why those flowers had captured the imaginations of the Dubreuilh brothers so vividly, so passionately. I never understood, until I leaned in close and took a whiff of the faintly sweet blooms. The faint scent of ripe apricots in the summer heat, of golden sunshine down country lanes, of innocence, hopelessness and deep sorrow in the dying light of the evening.

They were the flowers of death. Death, desolation and eternal separation.

I couldn't help but feel the tears welling in my eyes, before they dripped down my cheek. I tried to control myself, but I couldn't hold it in any longer. A singular tear soon turned into many, and my sobs, soft and muffled at first gave way to wails as I slowly dropped to my knees. My chest hurt. It was a sharp, constricting pain as if someone had hit my ribcage with a sledgehammer, and all I could do was bear its brunt as I buried my face in my palms.

I wanted to tell myself that it wasn't true, that it was all just a bad dream, that when I woke up it would all go away. But that would just be delusional. As much as I wished for that, it would never come true. It simply couldn't.

Those darned flowers. Damn them all to hell.

A wave of emotion hit me, overpowering me and dragging me underneath the waves, threatening to drown me in a sea of sorrow and an ocean of guilt. I could feel Momo's strong arms propping me up, shaking me, but I couldn't bring myself to get up. How could I? The blame, the fault of all of it - was mine.

I couldn't shake off a strong feeling of dread as we went home after meeting his brother. I was truly happy for him, for the both of them – but I couldn't explain the terrible, terrible feeling rising from my stomach to the back of my throat threatening to suffocate me.

I could barely sleep, and the feeling was still there when I woke up the next day. I finally mustered the courage to return Ferran's call, sneaking away to the balcony while Momo was in the bathroom. Yet, there was no answer. His phone just rang endlessly, with no one picking it up.

I didn't want Momo to know about it, especially in the wake of what Ferran did to him. It was unforgivable, and Momo had every right to resent him. In fact, I did so as well. I never wanted to have anything to do with him ever again.

If outing Momo was his way of getting back at me for destroying Rafel's shrine, then there was nothing left to say. I had nothing to apologise for. But Momo, being Momo, of course knew something was troubling me, and I had no choice but to eventually tell him.

"I have a very bad feeling," I began. "About Ferran. Something's very wrong."

I had expected Momo to sigh, or maybe just glare at me disapprovingly. It was what I deserved, if I were to be honest. But Momo only looked at me with nothing but concern in his hazel eyes.

"Last evening he had called me – multiple times," I explained. "But I didn't pick up. Out of respect for you. Because whenever I think of him I can't help think of how evil could he be, how spiteful could he be to put you through something like that. Something horrible could've happened to you. He wanted me to lose you like how he had lost his brother. But now I can't help but feel that something bad has happened. Something really, really terrible. I can't stop thinking about it."

"Have you tried calling him back?"

"I have," I replied. "But there's no answer."

Momo was silent for a brief moment.

"Why don't you go check on him?" Momo suggested. "If it puts your heart at ease."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I can't do that. Not after what he did to you."

"And if you don't go you'll be worried sick for the rest of the week," Momo stated, as-a-matter-of-fact. "I'm letting you do this for your own sake. I don't want you to worry yourself to death, it's not a good look on you."

"But what about Ferran?" I asked him.

Momo paused for a moment.

"Frankly, he could be dead for all I care," Momo said. "I just want you to go there to put your mind at ease."

I headed over to the seaside apartment with a heavy heart. Out of guilt to both the boys whom I had loved. It was only out of his love for me that Momo had allowed me to do this, and a part of me, deep down inside was grateful to him.

Momo had told me once – something that his late mother had told him as she lay dying in her bed– that God Almighty listens to the prayers of the suffering. The prayers of the weathered souls, the souls that have gone through so much misery and pain in this ephemeral, temporal life. He hears them, and with His everlasting mercy He grants those prayers when the time is right.

Perhaps after all this while, God had finally heard Momo's prayers.

I knocked on the door, buzzed the intercom, rang the doorbell – but there was no answer. I shouted for him, calling out his name as I slammed my palm against the wooden door, only to be met with silence. As I called his number again, I could hear the unmistakable soft hum of his ringtone coming from inside.

"Ferran!" I cried out as I knocked again. "Please. Please open the door."

A part of me expected him to saunter over, slowly opening it. The shadow would pull back, revealing his face to the morning light. His soft golden curls, his pale smooth skin, his beautiful arctic eyes that drew me into his sea of sorrow that never seemed to end. He would be stark naked, the shadows playing with the definition of his chest and abs. I would take in every detail of his perfect form, from the faint freckles on his collarbone to the dark blonde trail of hair leading from his belly to his groin. He was flawless, an angel sculpted by the hands of God himself. His thin, pink lips would be slightly parted, his crucifix dangling on his chest as he drew in a shaky breath before uttering my name.

"Mateu," he would say, his voice, almost whisper-like would caress my cheek like soft velvet.

But of course, it was just wishful thinking. Ferran never did.

As my hands touched the cold metal of the door handle, I braced myself to force it open. Instead, I found the door opening with ease – the door was never locked. I paused as I took a step back. A mixture of dread and fear filled me, resonating to my very core.

Perhaps by then I had known. Perhaps I had always known that it would come to this.

How could a delicate angel with his wings bent and broken survive in a world like this?

As I slowly stepped inside the silent apartment, only the whistling of the sea breeze could be heard, rustling through the windchimes, welcoming me to a scene that would forever be etched in my mind. The intoxicating smell of sweet wine and apricot filled the air, together with the putrid odour of acid and rot.

There was an empty wine glass on the table, together with a bottle of Romanee-Conti knocked over on its side, leaning against a vase of fresh oleander cuttings. The pale pink flowers and deep green leaves were scattered all over – from the table, to the sofa, to the floor. The wine had spilled down the table, cascading towards the floor in a river of crimson red, staining the carpet like blood on a sheet of snow. To its side, the broken shards of a ceramic mug lay around. It was truly a grotesque mess.

Ferran was in the living room, dressed in his white linen shirt and brown chinos. The white fabric on his chest were stained with deep red splotches. I couldn't tell whether it was wine or something else.

I stood rooted to the spot – I didn't know what to do. All I could do was stare, as my palms began to shake, my heart thumping in my chest as the blood rushed to my head. As the pain dug deep into my chest and my eyes filled with tears.

The poor boy was sprawled on the floor, his chin pointing upwards towards the empty ceiling, his empty eyes staring into the emptiness. A pool of vile, yellow vomit stained the floor of white marble, forming a putrid halo around his crown of golden curls. The strong scent of bile and apricot hit me like a wall as I rushed to kneel beside him. Streaks of red, all dry and crusted flowed from both his nostrils, tracing his purple lips, trickling down his jaw. His right hand clutched onto the crucifix on his chest, while the other lay limp on his side, his phone – its screen shattered – on the floor beside him.

He seemed almost like a porcelain angel who had fallen from the heavens, tumbling through the stars and soaring past the clouds. Meeting its demise in a realm it was too good for, shattering into a thousand precious pieces in an unworthy world.

My heavenly angel. My arctic sky. My poor, sweet prince.

Cradling him in my arms, I rested his head on my lap gently. I brushed my hand against his smooth locks as I traced his perfect features, all frozen now, from the hard ridge of his brow to the smooth bridge of his nose to the softness of his pale, cold cheeks. His lips, those lush pink lips which were so soft and delicate have turned a bloodied purple. I tried to hold his hand, but his fingers were locked solid, clutching at his chest. The coldness of his touch was sickeningly heavy, like a rot that couldn't be washed away.

I would never forget those empty, unblinking eyes staring right at me. Those eyes of arctic blue, so frigid and cold and faraway. Eyes that would never see again. His pupils were large and dilated, but as I looked into that void, I couldn't help but sense in those eyes the last traces of innocence the poor boy ever had.

It was the same innocence I remembered in his eyes as he sat behind Rafel, holding onto him tightly as we raced down the winding country lanes. His thin lips curling into a shy smile. The evening breeze flowing through his golden hair. The rare sound of his sweet laughter filling the air, carried along by the wind.

As my tears fell, they dripped onto his face, trickling down his pale, grey cheeks and tracing his jaw. With his wordless, silent lips parting ever so slightly, it was almost as if he was crying too.

"I'm so sorry," was all that I could mutter, my hoarse breaking voice piercing the heavy silence.

My prince was gone from this wretched, unforgiving world, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing at all.