Young Writers Society

In Nice, France, two young men lay in mutual embrace beneath the sprawling, gnarled branches of the ancient olive tree. It was not a comfortable position for one of them - whilst they were shaded from the glare of the sun, small twigs and grit in the soil jutted into his back. The other was content, with his arms drawn lazily and his head resting upon the former's taught torso.

The two young men had strolled up the Castle Hill after a mid-afternoon swim. The water had been tumultuous, and occasionally dragged the two apart if they stopped fighting it. Each time they looked to the shore, they found that the current had taken them a few hundred metres from their starting point.

"I could lounge about here forever..." the latter mused.

"Mhm... This summer was incredible. I can't believe we'll be gone in a week." And who knows when we'll meet again. Their angle on the edge of the hill allowed Clément the perfect view of the Bay of Angels. He breathed in the warm and sweet sea breeze. Antonio did not move his gaze from Clément, rather, he hooked his arms around his neck and rolled upon his chest.

He pressed his lips to his, tasting the salt of the sea, inhaling his essence, his odour, and he reciprocated. They rolled in the dry earth, unobserved in front of the most marvellous view.

"How long do we have?" Clément pondered, almost without expecting a verbal response.

"Long enough," his lover answered. "And if that doesn't satisfy you, we have tomorrow, and the day after, and the after that-"

"Until I have to go back to Chicago." Clément paused, inhaling more of salty air, infused with the bittersweet odour of Antonio's sweat. "How will I stand being so far from you?" I will not.

"And I'll be back in Milan. But don't worry, Clém, we'll be together soon enough." Antonio forced another kiss onto his doubting lips. "Thank God we live in the generation of instant messaging and FaceTime."

"But that's not the same at all-"

"So enjoy what we're doing right now." Antonio grabbed his arm and pulled it between his legs.

***

Antonio stubbed out a cigarette as Clément took his last sip of coffee. Black, like my skin. Black, like my mother's heart. And her skin, too. Antonio reached for Clément's hand and stroked it. He could see that Clément's eyes were a little teary, unsure quite as to what he was feeling.

In some cases the couple might have been wary of performing even minor public displays of affection, but on the Riviera, filled with tourists from all over Europe, nobody particularly gave a damn.

The little open-front café wasn't particularly busy, with just a few local women chatting amongst themselves and an apathetic server mindlessly scrolling through her phone behind the counter. The tables were made of plastic, white and cheap, the kind that stains and breaks easily. Of course, they were only dragged out during the summer months and people didn't tend to sit at them for too long - the heat was stifling and the water was so inviting.

Clément first discovered his attraction towards his own sex when he was around twelve or thirteen. His middle-class upbringing in the 'Chicagoland' suburbs did not offer him many opportunities to explore his sexuality, the absolute height of it being fleeting games of "show me yours and I'll show you mine" in church storerooms. That was until he met Jaime, an exchange student who arrived during his freshman year of high school. Fleeting glances in sociology class turned into murmured heys in the hallways, to walking to class together, to sitting together, to studying together at the library, then in each others' bedrooms... Although they never went the whole way, they shared their first romantic and sexual experiences together and were totally in love. That was, until, his mother got a banking job in Paris and whisked him away for good. Jaime kept in touch for a couple months after, but it soon fizzled out as they discovered they had nothing to talk about. Clément discovered a couple years later that he and his family had gone back to Honduras.

Clément tensed his hand around Antonio's.

"Who was your first love?" The question was spontaneous, reckless, naive. Don't let me be your first. Don't let me be your first.

Antonio smirked. "Jeez, that's a big question. Let me see..." Clément could tell he was reading his face for the best way to mess with him. "Does Zac Efron count? No? How about Daniel Radcliffe? I remember the first time I watched High School Musical much more vividly than the first time I watched Harry Potter..."

"Be serious." Please.

"Oh, okay... Hm..." He thought for a few minutes. His thick eyebrows gave him a quizzical look, all scrunched up like that. "I'm not sure, to be honest. I love my mother, my friends... But I know I love you, too. Why do you ask?" Whilst Antonio's eyes had probably never shown anything that could be deemed 'concern', they were sympathetic.

"I love you too." It was a reflexive and mechanical response. But did that in any way diminish the feeling behind it? He shook his head. "Just wondering. I've been thinking a lot. What if I just said no? And came to Milan with you? I'm eighteen, my mom can't stop me."

Antonio snorted, and pulled his hand from Clément's grasp. "She can cut off your funding, though. And you know that I don't earn enough here to support the both of us. It's a nice thought, though."

Clément looked hurt.

"Oh, look." Antonio clapped his bare foot onto Clément's sandal-ed one beneath the table. "You still have another year of high school to finish. Get your qualifications and then you can meet me in the sunny University of Milan. That's a promise." He flipped down his shades and threw himself back into his chair.

Clément groaned. "You make that year sound easy. International school isn't easy. Can you imagine being surrounded by entitled tourists, people who barely speak the same language as you - making friends for a few weeks before they get dragged off to the other side of the world?"

Antonio did not respond.

"I'm fucking fed up with it! Being taken away from everyone I give a damn about!" He leaned forward and banged the table. It shook. "Even the friends I made last year are gone - Egypt, Lebanon, China, Liberia - where the hell even is that? I don't even like Paris.."

Antonio chuckled, amused at his spoilt little boyfriend's outburst. He couldn't help but find it funny. He'd become accustomed to the fact that his lover had a very different upbringing to his own. He never had to worry about rent, his mother's boyfriends, what he was going to eat... Humour was the best way not to get frustrated.

"Oh boo-hoo, Paris is hardly slumming it. And sure, the people might be difficult, but they're also fucking hilarious. Think of the possibilities! Where else are you gonna get the chance to shag a Finnish prince? Or the future Prime Minister of Timbuktu? It'll be stories for the grandkids, if nothing else."

"You know I've never liked anyone there." Glaring, Clément crossed his arms. "I only want you."

The server, compelled by some deep-seated sense of duty, looked up from her phone and strode over. She sweeped up their utensils and sauntered back behind the bar.

***

Clément woke with a start. Illuminating the room from the hostel's bedside table, his iPhone buzzed. Antonio grunted, stirring, only fully waking when Clément accidentally elbowed him in the stomach whilst reaching for his cell. Always was a heavy sleeper.

He picked up the phone and answered in English. Initially his tone of voice was annoyed, and then it went quiet, the kind of tone that only arises in moments of fear or surprise.

"Yes, yes, oh God. Call me again quickly." He hung up, his face drawn taught, too much in disbelief to display any other form of emotion.

"What's happening?" Antonio asked in French.

"It's my Grampa... He died. My mom is flying back to Chicago tonight to sort out his affairs."

"Aw, I'm so sorry, baby..." He hugged him.

"It's not just that. I mean, we weren't close. I never even met him. It's - fuck. My mom's sending me to start the school year somewhere else!"

"So you'll go to a different school, isn't that what you wanted?"

"No! No, Antonio! She's sending me to live with my dad!"

"What's wrong with that?"

"He's a prick! But aside from that - he lives in fucking Belgium. His town doesn't have the same school system and they don't offer my classes. I'll have to restart my entire higher qualifications. I'll never get to see you in fucking Milan! What the fuck am I gonna do?"

"There's no way you can stay in Paris?"

"She said it was impossible. Too complicated without her in the country, legally, whatever the fuck that means. I'm screwed. She says I'd be better off with the little family I have left."

The two didn't say anything for a few moments.

"And - Antonio. Antonio. Tony. I'm to get the train there tomorrow to register in time. Tonight is our last night."