Quincy had a lot of interests. He was about 70% sure that green-haired classmates were not one of them. He was slightly frightened that it was only 70%, but he supposed he could deal with it. It could be worse, after all. That night, when his father came home, he realized that it could also be much, much better.
"Hello, son," he said through gritted teeth. Quincy only nodded. Arnold Mavrics had obviously had a rather unpleasant day at work, and Quincy had long since learned to let his mother deal with him when he's like this. Before he could get another angry word out, Quincy dashed up to his room. He snatched up his phone and sat on his small bed. He checked the time. It was almost ten o'clock. It wasn't too terribly late, in his opinion, so he decided to mess around on his phone until he was tired, which turned out to be around 1:00 A.M.

*~*~*

Bruce woke up at 5:30. As expected, he couldn't sleep to save his life. When he was younger, he would wake up early to watch the early morning stars, and the habit sort of stuck. He loved stars, and was obsessed with Astrology. At least, that's what he told people. Honestly, he just thought they were pretty. Unfortunately, it had been a very cloudy night, and no stars were visible. It was also extremely humid from the recent rainstorm. Mornings like this were one of the few things that got on Bruce's nerves. His mother knew this, and to make up for it, would take him to his favorite breakfast joint. It wasn't terribly expensive, and they made some very nice hash browns. His uncle once owned the restaurant. Bruce sighed and smiled at the thought of his uncle. He missed Uncle George. Reminiscing all the while, he made his way to the kitchen of his one story house, where his mother, keys in hand, was smiling happily at him.

*~*~*

Quincy arrived at school at 8:16 that morning. He always arrived at about eight. What didn't always happen, however, is a boy, all decked out in green and black (two colors that just didn't go well together, in Quincy's opinion) coming up to him out of nowhere, snatching his hand, quickly scrawling his number on the palm, and running away, face a deep shade of crimson all the while. Quincy just stood there, hand sill slightly outstretched, gaping in the direction he dashed off in. He eventually glanced at his hand, and it took him almost a minute to realize that the boy had written on his red, fingerless glove. In sharpie.