A light breeze ruffled the hair of the evening crowd as they poured into various buildings. The sun had only just sunk beneath the horizon, throwing the world into darkness as clouds covered the sky, preventing the stars from shining tonight and only allowing slivers of moonlight on occasion. But the night was only the shroud; the characters within it were the subjects, save for one: Daniel Deringer.

The sullen young man walked into the small cafe that so many frequented at the dinner hour and beyond for dates, supper, and conversation and walked up to a waiter. The manager was brought out, and he spoke with him briefly. Finally, the manager nodded.

Daniel had been called The Sparrow by people who unkindly disliked his sullen appearance, but no one was paying attention to his clothes or his hair, or to his dirt-streaked face - not tonight. Tonight, there was only the music, the kind that everyone noticed right away - and they did. Soon, the room was dead quiet save for the flowing river of sparkling notes, flattering waves of music pouring out of Daniel's very soul as his bow slid smoothly, effortlessly, beautifully across each string on the violin his mother had given to him.

Outside the cafe, the notes of the violin seemed to shake the very ground; it was an earthquake, at least a four-pointer. But inside, not a thing was felt. Only the music, and that seemed to pour into every soul for hour after hour as Daniel played. The earthquake was only brief, but the rainstorm came and the electrical storm followed soon after; the lights flickered, there were problems with the oven and other equipment, but no one seemed to care. For six long hours that seemed to go by in no time at all, Daniel wasn't even there; it was only his music, for they were one and the same.

When at last he put the violin away, he did it tenderly, like one would lie a baby in its crib - and indeed, to Daniel, the violin was his baby, his pride and joy, the only thing that had ever had real meaning for him. People were disappointed that the music had come to an end, but someone seemed to be watching him more than the others as he picked up his locked violin case and started to walk away. He collected his fee from the manager, who'd started to close up and shut things down, and then he walked slowly toward the door.

His steps echoed almost eerily down the street as he headed back to his apartment. The night was cold, but he hardly felt it. He did feel that someone was watching him, though, and he didn't like the feeling one bit. Twice he turned to look, but no one was there. He kept walking, holding his precious violin to him like a mother would hold a child to her breasts.

Arthur was late.

He wasn't supposed to be out this late. In fact, he'd been expressly forbidden to be out this late. But it wasn't his fault, oh no. He just lost track of time, that's all. That's his excuse, and he'd be sticking to it when he got home.

Considering how fast the boy was going, he'd be there before too long. He was pelting down the sidewalk - he was late enough already, why waste another minute? - with hardly a glance as to where he was going. His ginger hair was a tangled mess, blowing in the breeze and flopping over his eyes whenever it got the chance.
It was given such a chance as he slowed slightly to turn a corner.
Now, even if he'd had perfect vision, at the speed he was going it's extremely doubtful he'd be able to slow down in time to avoid colliding with the young man and his violin.
Unfortunately, not having the time or reflexes to slow himself, the boy plows into Daniel, headfirst.

Fortunately, the vastly expensive violin was saved - just barely. Once he'd gotten his feet under him again, he checked his violin to make certain that it was completely unharmed. Breathing a sigh of relief that would have caused a hurricane if it had been made by anyone else, he then put it away again very, very carefully and glared up at the one that had plowed into him. He didn't say a word. He just stood there, staring at the man, a deadly glare.

Despite having been the one to cause the accident, Arty doesn't think of apologizing. Not even for a second.
He gets to his knees first, hissing softly as he examines the scrapes on his palms. Then he gets to his feet, brushing his hands gently together to try and get any remaining gravel-bits out of the scrapes.
He returns Daniel's glare, plus interest.
"Why don't'cha watch where you're going, dumbass?" he demands. "Jesus..."

"You ran into me. From behind. You could have destroyed my violin. And I should watch where I'm going? Fuck you."

He said all this in a flat voice, but there was nonetheless irritation there. And the glare said it all, besides. Again, he held his violin tight to him in its case.

"You think I give a shit about your violin?" Arty replied, wrinkling his nose.
He crossed his arms, but kept the palms of his hands from touching anything.
"I wish you had broken it," he huffed. "Maybe it'd teach you to watch where you're going. God. You must've heard me coming - why didn't you move? Huh?"

"Heard you coming? Your shoes aren't exactly equipped with noisemakers. And are you the one that's been watching me?"

Problably not the smartest thing to say. But then, Daniel was more focused on the fact that his violin had almost been destroyed than anything else. His violin - the only thing he cared about in this fucking world - had nearly been lost to him.

"Me? Watching you?"

Arty's annoyance was put on the back burner momentarily, startled as he was by the question.
Why would anyone think he'd be watching anyone? He was just a scruffy kid - nothing strange about him besides that kids his (apparent) age ought to be at home at this time of night. And Arty, as proven by his previous remarks, had all the subtlety of a train wreck. Watching somoene without being seen requires quite a bit more finesse than he had.

"Why would I do that?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "You're not much to look at."

"And yet you didn't mind running into me without looking where you were going."

There. Threw it right back at him. Not everyone has the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox, after all.

He blinks... frowns,... puzzles for a moment or two.
"...'scuse me? Was that supposed to be an insult?"

Now, Arty might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but still...

"I've heard better comebacks from the kids on the short bus."

It was his turn to be confused.

"What the hell is a short bus?"

For, you see, he had never been to school. He didn't know what a short bus was because he'd never seen one. Oh, he'd seen the long buses; but no short buses had ever come to his neighborhood.

"Duh," Arty replies, rolling his eyes. "The short bus. The one the retarded kids ride on."

A more politically correct term would be 'handicapped', I believe. Unfortunately, Arthur is not very much inclined towards political correctness when no one's around to keep him in check.

"Fine. Whatever. Just watch where you're going next time."

Still hugging his violin, Daniel turned and started to walk away.

"You should watch where you're going," Arty retorts.

He looks at the ground, suddenly having the very young-boyish urge to throw a rock. No rocks - perhaps luckily for Daniel - present themselves, this being a city street and not a playground. Arty settles for aiming a kick at the pavement.

"Jackass," he mutters, and then he's on his way.

God. How childish can you be?

"I was," was all he said as he continued walking. He meandered past several alleyways and a couple of side streets before turning onto his own street. It was dark, as usual, but it didn't bother Daniel.