Kids at Lowell's always turned out strange. Or at least, that was what Joshua had been told. He hadn't been proven wrong yet, so he assumed the truth in it. Lowell's was all he ever had. Though it took a long time to come to terms with his rootless beginnings, he found that it was as decent a home as any. Gratitude was something that didn't come easy to him, but he could cobble together some for his home of eighteen years.

Even if he wasn't inclined to feel gratitude, he knew his debts and paid them accordingly. He had originally bought the kid – and Garry was still a kid, no matter that he was eighteen and just like him – a few packs of cigarettes and condoms. All perfect for his introduction into manhood. But Garry was determined to quit, so he replaced the cigarettes with a few cough drops. And Garry was a ridiculously shy and reserved guy, so he pocketed the condoms and bought more cough drops. It was sacrilegious.

Lowell's was a short walk from the corner store. He always bought cigarettes here with some pocket money he earned from chores. Garry was smart for wanting to quit. But he had been smoking since he could work and walk. It was too late for him. It was almost too bad; they had bonded over deliberately deep drags of the cancer sticks, acting as cool and uncaring as the rest of the world. Garry never did manage to get the act right.

How was Garry these days? He stole a cough drop out of Garry's gift and made a face. Lemon. It still wasn't as bad as cherry. Just the smell of it made him sick. He hoped Garry still liked lemon. It was strange to be walking up this path once again.

He had been kicked out of Lowell's when he turned eighteen. It wasn't a very traumatic or interesting ordeal, only expected. He packed his things and left before they could call a cab. It was nice of them to take him to the city – nice, but completely insincere. It was almost like an apology for him getting too old to take state money. They'd offered to drop him in front of a homeless shelter, like that was all he would ever get to have. So instead, he walked out of there with a backpack of trinkets and his head held high.

He wished he could say he never looked back, but he had Garry – Garry, who was only fourteen and still dependent on love like all the other well adjusted children. Garry who lost his mother and had nothing left but love and longing because damn Shakespeare, it was better to never know love than to have it ripped from you. And when they thought he was calling to beg for money or a place to sleep, he really was just calling for Garry. And he'd talk all about how he was alright, and the city wasn't as big as the stories make it seem but it sure is bigger than Lowell's. He was alright, he found a job. He met a girl, he broke her heart. He's sick to death of the noise at night when he just wants a lick of sleep. He wanders the city a lot. He likes to talk to strangers. Strangers like ignoring him.

Then he'd listen to Garry – Garry, who talked politely without ever saying anything, Garry who failed to finish the bottle of cough syrup when he was tired of dreaming of what used to be. The same Garry he punched and punched until the kid threw up most of the syrup and laid there with the most pathetic expression he had ever seen. He didn't know if you could O.D. on cough syrup, but he had seen others die in stranger ways so he didn't chance it that day. And he still doesn't regret it.

What he does regret is not buying that pack for Garry. With a heavy sigh, Joshua kicked his now empty cigarette pack into the street. It really was a good idea for Garry to try to quit. But, what could he say? Old habits die hard? You can't teach an old dog new tricks? Suicide by cancer stick?

Whatever the saying goes, he managed to find his way to the out-of-the-way foster home known as Lowell's. Each home has its ghosts, and Lowell's was no different. It was the same as he remembered. If in a certain mood, he might call it decrepit, lonely, or desolate. But the truth was that Lowell's was nothing of the sort. It was an average house that, while a bit worn, was kept nicely with the help of the patron's staff and a few children who wanted pocket change. Sure, the outer gate still squeaked regardless of the amount of oiling it received, and the paint always chipped every couple of years, and sometimes the garden would be over run and other times it was neatly trimmed, but overall, Lowell's hadn't changed. He wasn't sure it he felt depressed or relieved.

"Joshua," he glanced at his best – only – friend. Garry was a fascinating subject. Dressed like a street urchin with the posture of a prince. They were in the same group – ratty, thinning jackets, holed jeans, and torn up shoes. But whereas he had held himself in the same group as a cat – a crouch, a defensive position put to ease by his off center grin – Garry was a the complete opposite. Perhaps they shared a sort of animalistic look – he'd hoped so, after all, he bought that jacket for Garry – but he was the embodiment of wild and Garry was a decent guy. A bit of a sissy, perhaps but Garry was a good guy.

"Get your ass kicked to the curb yet?" He scratched at his jaw to keep the tone light. But Garry still gave a half-grimace. "'Thought I told you not to smile like that. Makes you look sad and pathetic – more than you usually do."

"Ms. Sally said that I have until curfew to gather my possessions."

"Still polite as fuck; you'd think that I'd have more of a bad influence on you."

"You don't have to throw curses around like candy," Garry made a face,

"Hah," Joshua threw his head back with the sharp sound, "you sound like my ex. Speaking of which; crash at my place."

"Excuse me?"

"Trust me; it's better than a homeless shelter. Well, not by much. I've got a shitty place, but it can fit two."

Because in the end, the only reason he even looked back at Lowell's was because of Garry. No one, not a single person, even took a second look at him. He was the lowest of the low, even at the foster home. Some kids were angry and misunderstood. He was half of them. Some kids learned to be decent people, and went on earning scholarships and degrees and repaying their dues to Lowell's. He wasn't one of them. They thought he mellowed out with age, but he only learned to stop caring. They didn't expect to make anything out of him, so he didn't expect them to help him at all. In the end, the world could burn and all he would care about was if he could light another cigarette. But Garry treated him like a decent human being, not a delinquent. Garry treated everyone with the same polite distance, so he made it a challenge to get under his skin.

Instead, Garry was the one who got under his skin, burned his veins, and let him feel the most basic of concerns for another human's wellbeing.

-x-x-x-

He has always loved with a passion. But they never stuck around once they learned that passion burned cold and short. A night, a week, a month – he could pretend to be wildly passionate. That was all he could offer to these women. He lived in a crummy apartment and worked long hours as a construction worker. But every woman he seduced was a romantic. They were princesses who fell for the street rat who had nothing but his heart to give. Until they learned that his heart wasn't crystal but only hard plastic and they left. But to be fair, he has left his fair share as well – left them as the day begun with the excuse of work mumbled on his dry lips.

Living with a woman was impossible. Luckily, Garry didn't act too much like a woman. He found himself unwittingly falling into a routine – eating breakfast at the table and late dinners at the couch with only annoying reruns and infomercials on the television. He was out almost all day with the construction work and Garry insisted on completing his education at a local community college.

The women stopped coming and going. They always seemed to like Garry – his quiet, polite roommate – over the wildly passionate and crazy plans he could conjure. It almost wasn't fair. It made him sick to see these scarlet women throw themselves at Garry. He was a person with ambitions, plans, and respect for the other gender. It made him sick. And who was Joshua? He was a sleazy, sexist pig under a pile of red roses. He might have been a bit jealous.

And he might have been a bit of an opportunist. Garry didn't say anything when he brought twins to meet his "shy" roommate. And if he used Garry's gentlemanly ways to do ungentlemanly things to the two, well, it was only a good opportunity.

He had unwittingly fallen into a routine with his best friend over the years. So to shake it up, he dragged the man into an art gallery he had worked on. They had worked several days to bring in the delicate pieces and heavy sculptures and as a result, he had free tickets for the opening week.

Garry was studying art in college. He wondered, with a crooked smile, if he would have done the same. If he had a steady home, would he also complete his education? He could have been one of those Lowell's kids, the ones who actually become contributing members to society. Or at least, he thinks he could have. Whatever the case, art was a fruitless effort. He knew that he could make more money as a laborer than by scraping by as an artist. It was only common sense.

And yet, he was enabling a hopeless dream by dragging his friend to a new art exhibit. Well, Garry didn't need to be dragged. Instead, Joshua listened with half an ear as Garry rattled on about shading or form or whatever artsy terms came pouring out of his lips. He hadn't paid much attention when they moved the still covered pieces into the gallery, but now, being surrounded by these images, he felt uncomfortable. Whoever this "Guertena" was, he didn't need to know. All of these pieces were strange. Mannequins without heads, a hanged man, the lady in red – it was all a very strange look into something that didn't feel like the real world. Guertena, the poor bastard, was very, very strange.

And Garry's enthusiasm for them was even stranger. He spent the time flitting amongst the paintings, looking far too comfortable in the world of art than any man should. When asked to return the next day, he gave the excuse of work mumbled upon dry lips.