It is with a blunt detachment that he clears the coffee table and finds the well-hidden ash tray. It wouldn't be the first time he broke an agreement, but he still has to crush the lingering feelings of guilt from his mind. There is a cool breeze now that the sun has left. It is petty of him to shut the window and let the scent sink in. But that has never been a concern of his. Instead, he slowly blows smoke rings into the ceiling to amuse himself. It is a skill he has always been particularly proud of.

He holds out the cigarette between limp fingers. But it is already too late. Her raspy voice whispers nonsensical lullabies, little tidbits that he can't help but recall. Lowell's was the house of the strange, but she seemed oddly normal. Perhaps that was why he felt he could trust her. But she was the cracked gateway that led to a devastating and decimating flood.

Flood cannot be an apt description. A flood is a rebirth, a new beginning. Yes, she was the beginning of the quickly spiraling shit hole he dug and dug until his fingers – long nail-less and bloody – were just as torn and rotten as the rest of him. Horrid woman.

The door opens, startling him from his revere. The cigarette falls onto his jeans, off his jeans, onto the couch. He is quick to pick it up and shove it into the ash tray.

"I thought we agreed not to smoke indoors," Garry remains standing, remains with his coat on. The aggressive stance Garry tries to take is cute, but ineffective.

"Think I deserve a smoke," he pulls out another cigarette from his pack.

"Did you forget to buy cigarettes on the way back?" The pack he holds is still half-full. He takes a long drag, drawing out the silence.

"Guess I didn't," the fact that he doesn't bother to lie further upsets Garry.

"What do you want from me?"

"Answers. Who's the brat?"

"Her name is Ib. And she isn't a brat."

"Is she yours?"

"No!" Garry's fervent denial is enough to prove his sincerity, "I'm much too young to be her father."

"Really?" he fakes insincere belief. Just like that, Garry continues to talk.

"She's nine. If I was her father, I would have been eleven years old. I don't think I was even in puberty at eleven. And Mother-"

Garry cuts himself off. For that, Joshua is grateful. He knows of the woman that Garry calls "Mother". She was a pathetic shell of a person, hardly worth the grief Garry associates with her. When recollecting the memories of his mother, all Garry could focus on was how hard she struggled to keep the two of them going. All Joshua could focus on was the fact that she was clinically depressed and unable to take care of herself, let alone a child.

It is a vicious, unrelenting thought that he doesn't bother to stop: Garry would have been better off if she died sooner. He thinks of sweet little Garry – still fourteen and pathetically longing for love like a normal kid – and thinks of all the couples who would have loved a little four or five year old Garry. She should have killed herself sooner.

"You shouldn't smoke so much," Garry frowns as he opens the pack once more.

"I don't,"

"You're chain smoking. I thought you were trying to quit."

"I told you I'm too old to quit."

"Since when was twenty-four 'too old' for anything?"

"Since they invented student discounts. Stop with the deflecting," He pauses to clear his throat. breathing in too quickly has always made his throat itch. "I invented that one."

"And I perfected it."

"And I taught it to an ungrateful, cheeky brat. Quit the horseplay."

But still, Garry mumbles, "I was fourteen," before finally giving up the pretense. He sinks into the couch with a deep sigh. "I don't know what you want."

"When did you two meet?"

"At the Guertena exhibit."

"I didn't see her."

"I went alone the second day, remember? You had work?" If he could kick his past self's rear end, he'd do it.

"Why her?"

"Is this an interrogation?" Garry grimaces as Joshua smiles, "I don't know. She was just… there." Vague.

"How'd you help her?"

"I helped her read the names and descriptions of the artwork." Vague.

"Why were you two at the bakery?"

"It's more like a shop for baked goods. I promised to buy her macaroons." Deflection. Vague.

"At the gallery?"

"Yeah,"

"Do her parents know?"

"Of course! I didn't kidnap her."

"And they're okay with this?"

"With what?" Garry closes off, crossing his arms. Aggression is something he can deal with. It's easy to get under people's skin. All he has to do is be himself.

"With a twenty year old man taking out their nine year old daughter?"

"Are you suggesting that I would hurt her?"

"No. I'm suggesting something else altogether." Garry goes completely still. He doesn't finish his cigarette, but snuffs it out in the ash tray anyways. It's only a precaution. How much blood will they draw this time?

"That's disgusting."

"And illegal," he flashes Garry one of the widest smiles he is still able to give. He practices this one in the mirror, originally attempting to pull off some sort of genuine joy. But you can't fake what you have never experienced. This smile lies between demented and demonic. He is an animal, and this expression doesn't convey joy.

"I'm not attracted to her."

"Aren't you?" He twists the metaphorical knife, "Those school uniforms sure do show all her pale, white skin. Can't you imagine what she'll look like in a few years? Hell, imagine her in a year or two – with that same uniform. You might catch a glance at her flat little stomach as she lifts her arms around your neck and-"

"Quit it! Talking about ladies in such a crude fashion… Are you sure you aren't attracted to her?" It is a weak argument, and Garry knows it.

"I like my women with actual curves. You've always liked them young. Picking up those little college freshmen all the time. Wasn't one a sophmore in high school?"

"She was very mature."

"She was a twig. As were the rest,"

"Your judgment is skewed. You're attracted to," Garry stammers for a moment, "to older women!"

"Cougars, you mean? Or are you talking about that MILF from the park? 'Older women' suggests that I enjoy wrinkles and dried pussy. I happen to like experienced women. Age doesn't matter, as long as they're legal."

"I'm not a pedophile! Ib and I are friends. Nothing more." He wonders when in their argument they began to stand and face one another. It is a brief reprieve, but he notices that Garry is around his height. When did this happen? He feels like he notices less and less.

"Didn't seem like it to me." With the right words, anyone can fall. He knows, and he still abuses this knowledge. It doesn't take hindsight to make Joshua regret the unrelenting stabs he spews from his silver tongue. It never has.

He has a habit of memorizing their arguments. In his sleepless daze, he likes to dissect every hateful word thrown. He likes to know when his argument changes from the logical to the emotional, and just how emotional he gets. He likes to replay the insults Garry throws – and be surprised because Garry's silver is just as sharp as his – over and over and over again in his mind.

It may have been his inherent masochistic tendencies, to enjoy the sound of Garry's flustered voice screaming at him. It may repentance for the equally horrid words he let loose. It may have just been that he always found emotions, especially stoic Garry's emotions, to be fascinating. Whatever the reason, he always found reason to hold onto those passion-filled words.

But the rest of their argument is not to be shared. He would rather hold this argument close. It is of no pertinent value. It is just a slow, torturous crawl into the past. There is much of the past that he revisits, but the weapons they point are all too much. The rest of their argument is something that all good friends go through, where each mistake, each demon rises from the crevices. Things that were shared out of misery, out of anger, out of fear – all these things are weapons.

Garry holds the weapons pointed on a hair trigger at his heart – hard plastic that he has molded and shaped to replace the fleshy organ others covet. They are not all the weapons for there are many things he cares not to share with Garry. Perhaps that is the issue: unequal trade. For all he knows of Garry, the kid knows half of him. He was always bad at sharing.

So he keeps their words between them. Only when he is alone does Joshua immerses himself in the past. He lies in bed and twists beneath the covers and tries not to imagine Garry being the same. He lies in bed and ignores the urge to creep into the hall and listen for the sound of soft snores. If he heard them, would he be able to fall asleep? If he couldn't hear them, would he be able to apologize? Dilemmas are never solved, only avoided.

He lies in bed but does not dream. He remembers.