Snippet #2459314

Nestled in New York's Upper West Side, there lies a quiet little street, somehow removed from the typical hustle and bustle that painted most impressions of the city that never sleeps. Yes, you can still faintly hear the call of New York City's traffic-filled streets, the constant noise of people making their way from point A to point B or just wandering whether they be tourists taking in the sights or residents content to be lost amongst the throngs of people. The point remains that the street filled with mid-rise apartment buildings is relatively quieter, the roar of the city dulled almost to a murmur of background noise. And, on today of all days, if you were to find yourself on that street, you could also hear the musical strains of "The Sparrow" wafting into the crisp Autumn air from the open window of a penthouse apartment. Inside said apartment was eighteen-year-old Dorian Roberts, his attention firmly on the cello in his hands as the bow danced across the strings.

Unlike most people his age, Dorian wasn't spending his free time running amuck in the big city that he'd grown up in, window shopping to their hearts content, hanging around in the many hot spots that littered the city or grabbing a bite in the hundreds of restaurants and bistros dotting across the map. That kind of life of careless frivolity, of just doing whatever, consequences be damned didn't fit in his so carefully structured life. Really, he avoided it unless he was invited out and even that was only under extreme duress from his few friends. Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but the point remains that Dorian was never more comfortable(or we could assume that he was happier) than when he was in one of his happy, structured places places. That could mean his weekly class at the dojo, orchestra practice, or, as in this case, simply lazing around his house. It was a boring life, admittedly, but Dorian didn't have much of a desire for adventure. He much preferred the predictability that his life had gained over the past few years. It was safe, it was structured, it was comforting, and, most of all, it was home.

Dorian's concentration was broken mid bow-stroke by the soft chime of his ringtone. He paused for a moment before setting his cello gently down and snatching his smartphone off of the table next to him, answer the call with a flick of his index finger.

"Hello?"

"Dorian!" The voice on the other end of the phone was warm but harried.

"Hey, Dad." Dorian couldn't help the little smile that wormed its way onto his taciturn expression, unconsciously fiddling with the simple, silver bracelet wrapped around his right wrist with a simple aquamarine as decoration. A bit feminine, perhaps, but it was a gift from his father, and who was going to get the courage together to infer that Dorian was feminine? "What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing much," The tone was forcefully nonchalant and Dorian felt the smile drop off of his face. "It's just…"

"You're working late again." It wasn't a question, just a barely restrained statement.

"I'm so sorry, Dory, but the other chef caught the flu, and they couldn't find anyone else at such short notice. Is that okay?" Dorian held back a frustrated sigh. Of course he'd be missing dinner. Again. His lips twitched into a frown, breaking his taciturn expression into one of unmistakable disappointment mixed in with a bit of irritation. Yes, where he lived was a home, but it hadn't felt like it lately with his father so busy. So was the woes of the son of now famous chef Avery Roberts. He tried not to resent it- really, he did. His father was so happy that his career had taken off, they were firmly secure in their finances, but there were some days when he didn't see his father at all and that didn't sit well with him, not to mention the fact that they'd been planning to go out to dinner tonight for at least a month now, and now... And now… But his father was working so hard, and he sounded genuinely sorry. Yes, Dorian was upset, but he couldn't let on, he couldn't burden his father like that.

"That's fine, dad. It's not your fault," The joviality in his own voice was forced, but he'd been faking it for some time now that it was almost an art. "We can just do it another time."

"Thank you, sweetie," Avery sighed with such relief evident in his voice that Dorian felt a little victorious. Yes, he'd lied, but it had obviously been for the best. "I'll see you later, okay? I love you!"

"Love you too." Even after hanging up, Dorian simply stared down at his phone for a minute, the little victory slowly receding and leaving pure disappointment. Suddenly, the room didn't feel comforting anymore; too stuffy and empty all at the same time. He had to get out of here, clear his head for a while. It wasn't like, he noted bitterly, he would be missed if he stepped out for a while. With a practiced ease, he packed his cello away, still taking the time to loosen the bow and wipe away the white rosin stains despite his rush. In only a few moments time, he'd grabbed a charcoal gray coat with a dark blue scarf, sliding it over a blue shirt and black slacks, slipped on a pair of black shoes, tucked his wallet and phone away in a pocket, and, after grabbing his keys and locking the door behind him, was off.

Central Park was only a hop, skip and jump away from the apartment he shared with his father(Avery Robert's excited words, not his to absolutely no one's surprise), so it didn't take much time at all until apartments and busy streets were replaced by grass and trees that had already begun to change into pretty fall hues of red, orange, and yellow. He just walked for a while, eyes straight ahead and pace kept constant as if he actually had some idea of where he was going. The chill in the air was more brisk than cold; pleasant, unlike the previous awful heat of the summer months.

He came to a halt in one of the quieter places in the park, only a few people scattered around, all of them, surprisingly enough, rather young. Well, around his own age. Some were simply wandering about, enjoying the bit of greenery in the metal jungle that was New York, others seated on the few park benches, and, finally, there was a little scene playing out in front of a tree. A girl with long, blonde hair came suddenly tumbling out of the many trees dotting the park, tumbling to the Earth with a splash of dead leaves in her wake. He blinked, only giving it a slightly longer glance. This was Central Park, after all, and it wasn't immune to the strangeness that was New York. Still, he wasn't a complete monster, and even if she was stoned out of her mind, he could be content with the fact that he checked at least.

He didn't run, but did pick up his pace a bit as he crunched through the leaves until he was about a yard away. She looked dazed in her bed of leaves, and now he could see how she was dressed. No shoes in Central Park? Maybe he wasn't very far off the mark with his drug explanation. Either that or a tourist who mistook the green bit of land within the city for a park like those found in more rural surroundings.

"Hey, are you alright?" He didn't sound particularly worried or friendly, more curious in a blunt sort of way.