Nate's POV

After dropping Ariana off, I spent another hour driving around with no real destination in mind, yet not completely pointlessly, driving down the length of . Aside from enjoying some quiet, obnoxious radio music turned off the moment she had left, I took the time to savour my triumph, and most importantly, relish in how utterly foolish and influenceable Ariana and Gage have turned out to be. Never had I felt before like such a masterful puppeteer, nudging my marionettes along with no visible strings but an entanglement of sheer mindpower and determination.

A match truly made by the divine, as Gage used to sometimes say, staring dreamily in the middle distance while gushing over a decidedly average girl in a manner I could only describe as pathetic and unjustifiable. Thank you, god, for bending the odds in my favour, at least for once.

The sly smile that had been slowly spreading across my face like oil on a blank canvas waned as another person wormed their way into my thoughts. That girl, Kaylah, who was too inquisitive for her own good. Some people never take to heart some of the more ancient proverbs, not stopping to think that they might have been kept alive for a well-founded reason. In particular, one consecrated phrase known by every kindergartener, had always rung much too accurate for most people's comfort, yet always seemed to fit most situations I was involved in. Curiosity killed the cat.

For a moment, I wondered how the situation would have progressed if their roles were reversed. At that, my smile only spread wider, turning maniacal, to the detriment of the women who just so happened to be crossing the street right in front of my car, who after glimpsing my face made a considerable effort to walk faster, dragging her toddler along in long strides.

Had the roles been reversed, Ariana would have probably not been so inquisitive, too caught up in her jealousy towards Kaylah to notice anything amiss. However, in this given situation, how I could exploit that lovely seed of conflict was something I had yet to work on.

Until then, however, I would have to be careful, much more careful that I had been before. Most importantly, I must be careful who she speaks to, and what she finds out. Because I'm not certain I would be able to get rid of her if need be.

Honking from behind made me realise I had been staring forward for much too long, the light now green, and I changed course, heading home, my little drive having served its intended purpose.

The apartment smelled exactly the same as three hours ago, despite the fact that I had pulled open every window. Of sweat and faint perfume. Scrunching my nose against the disconcerting smell, I began to change the sheets with quick and swift movements, replacing them with an identical set of pristinely white sheets, before promptly collapsing on top of them. Well, gingerly sitting would most likely be a more fitting description, as I was careful to sit in such way as to minimize crinkles, which of course proved futile nonetheless.

Nate, you're slipping again. Knowing the voice (which sounded awfully like Gage's, mind you) was right, I leaned over to the side, pulling open my bedside drawer. Obviously, laying down in the stark middle of the bed then stretching over to open your bedside table isn't the most practical, as I pulled a tad too hard, spilling the contents of the drawer onto the floor, the pill bottle making an reverberating clank as it hit the granite floor, rolling under the bed.

Now annoyed, I pulled myself up roughly, sheets crinkling uncomfortably and moved so I could reach my hand under the bed without getting up. However, my hand stalled as I lay my eyes on a photograph, crinkled by the amount of times I had pulled it out and balled it up, only to carefully lay it smooth again.

Gage and I, the summer before freshman year. Before everything went to shit. I was smiling, a genuine smile, and his arms was thrown around my shoulders casually, camera he had given me as a gift that day held aloft.

"Tell me again why exactly you need a gym subscription?" I crossed my arms over my chest, puffing out an annoyed sigh. I watched as his shoulders slumped, giving away his exasperation. He knew me well enough to tell that I wasn't just going to drop it.

"How many times do you want to go ever this Nate? I told you, I've got to make the football team this year! Don't you see how much this would benefit our social lives?," he paused for a second, a little crease forming between his eyebrows, seemingly thinking hard "How do you call it again? Improve our state of queue?"

I couldn't help it. I rolled my eyes, fighting a losing battle against the slight smile gracing my lips at his inexplicable ability to butcher Latin so harshly. How endearing. My smile slipped.

"Status quo. And I still don't see the point in slaving away for hours in a small, windowless, sweaty room alongside multiple other deluded teenagers for minimal to no results" I said it smoothly, almost tiredly, refraining from saying what I actually yearned to point out. It would mean spending considerably less time with me. I tried a different technique.

"You know, statistically, exercising can lead to a higher resting heart rate- "

"Overworking yourself can lead to that, N. You know I'm only trying to slim down a little for the Arsenal preselection. C'mon, don't be a total buzzkill" although he sounded slightly annoyed, his words were fond and eyes pleading, making the hairs on the back of neck stand up from his intense stare.

Although he'd always been obsessed with football, I'd never seen if as determined about anything as he was about making the newly established junior branch of one of the biggest football clubs in the country. I was about to say something, when he suddenly brightened up, making an odd fumbling hand single I had come to associate with "I'll be right back" and then he turned around, running to the far end of the patio towards his school bag.

I took the time to take him in. With an inch or so and a couple pounds on me, he resembled what you'd call chubby, but in a decidedly attractive way. Shoulders in a constant slump, which had eventually given way to a mild scoliosis, and military style cropped hair, he often got mistaken for someone much older, despite being merely fourteen.

I pictured him in my head, cheeks rosy and chest heaving, running on a treadmill illuminated by the shitty neons from the downtown gym, sweat running down his shirt, sharp collarbones standing out in the harsh lighting. At least if he'd allow me to help him pay for a more upscale place. It's not like my parents ever lacked in the financial department.

Although my clothing might not reflect it, worn out converse and plain white tees blending in with the bleak, grey world, our two-story house, decked in ceramic wall tiles imported from Italy, definitely stand out as proof.

I could almost see him impatiently pushing misshapen strands away from his eyes (he was planning to grow it out slightly), frowning at the soreness in his legs, but pushing on, lifting a corner of his shirt to wipe off the sweat off his brow, tanned skin sporting steadily forming abs.....

I was quickly pulled out of my little revelry by him turning back around, a small gift box in his hand. "Happy birthday Nate," he practically shoved it into my hand, prompting me to open it with yet another set of confusing hand gestures, accompanied by his signature foot tapping. I tugged on the bow, and the whole box unravelled, opening up like a flower in the gentle heat of dawn.

"You probably have a much better camera, but I saw this in a shop the other day and I'd thought it'd make a cool gift. It's an instant camera so the pictures you take get automatically printed as soon as they're taken," he seemed quite pleased with his little explanation, and stood back, trying to gage my reaction.

He was right about one thing. I did have a much better camera. Multiple actually. I was typically much more old-fashioned, preferring the process of developing pictures on my own. Yet this one might just become my favourite, if only because he gave it to me. Because he remembered.

"That doesn't make me any less sceptical about your sudden choice to pick up gym, you know."

He only smiled, grabbing the camera from my open hand and angling it upwards. "Try not to look like Biscuit just kicked the bucket for once alright?" I startled myself with a short laugh, while the camera went off with a small click,flash momentarily blinding us both.

I had been looking at the picture lying on the floor for my position to become uncomfortable, neck craned in such way it was starting to become painful, hand hanging motionless, not quite touching the floor.

I picked it up as I have so many times before, but this time, instead of balling it up, I opted to tear it down the middle with a sharp twitch of my right hand and then, for good measure, rip the two pieces up again, and once more after that, until all was left was a pile of scraps.

Now sitting up straight, breathing harder than I should be, I pulled open my second drawer, pulling out a rectangular box. The metal glinted in the soft afternoon light, as I took it in my palm, trying to adjust to its foreign weight. I had bought the Glock 9mm the day I turned 18, but hadn't had the courage to take it out ever since. Now, a bit over two years later, I realised I had never even taken it to a shooting polygon, although I intended to multiple times. But the timing had never seemed right. There's a first for everything.