Slouching alone on a snow-dusted park bench and frowning into space for several minutes on end is not, for the most part, a common pastime for young teenagers. This particular kid doesn't consider himself a teenager, so it's alright.

However, he looks just like one. He's on the verge of losing the babyfat that makes his face so round and, well, babyish -- at which point there won't be a trace of extra weight on him. He's a twiggy thing, seemingly stretched from a growth spurt despite being rather short for his (apparent) age. Everything down to his fingers is overly thin, even fragile. The only thing in excess about him is his hair. It's a gingery mop (which is an insult to mops), long enough that it needs tying back.
(Because, y'know, he can't have it getting in the way when he's frowning into space for no apparent reason.)
At the corner of his mouth is a thin trickle of dried blood, and underlying that, a fresh bruise.
He's poking at it ever so gently, absently testing to see if it'll hurt.
And he's thinking.
It seems to him he's had a lot of thinking to do, lately.

Keye sits.
Before that, he approached, slouched and with his hands in his pockets, but there was nothing particularly interesting about that.

He sits next to Arty, looking outwards at the snow-sprinkled landscape, hands on his knees, head tipped slightly back.
"You need a haircut." he informs Arty.
Keye needs a haircut, come to that.

Arty blinks up at him, eyebrows raised.

"No I don't," he grumbles, and crosses his arms. "I'll get it cut when I feel like it."
Huff.
"And hello to you, too."

Keye chuckles--same old Arty--and turns his head to grin at the kid.
"Hey, Art--"
Frown!
"What happened to your face?"

"Huh?" Arty lifts a hand to his cheek -- is there food there, or,... wait.
He rediscovers the bruise with his fingertips. He doesn't make an effort to hide it, just feels around it again, wondering if it's really all that obvious.
"Oh. Nothing."

"You been fighting?"
...or did someone just haul off and slap you silly?

He's worried. He reaches out to draw Arty's hand away from the bruise.

The boy doesn't attempt to shake him off. He just continues the examination with his other hand. It doesn't feel all that bad -- surely it can't look too much worse.

"A little," he admits.

"Quit pokin' it."
He knows from experience that it...well, hurts.
"It's turnin' purple. Who were ya fighting with?"

"Just some kids from school."
Arty lets his hand drop, and gives a listless shrug.
"It's nothing much." He looks up, mustering a please-believe-me look. "Honest."

"How come?"
He bites his lip, a chipped tooth snagging on skin already chapped from the cold.

"Because," Arty scowls. "One of them keeps calling me names, and he won't quit it."
This is not the whole story, obviously.
It starts with Arty hitting the kid who keeps calling him names. The kid hit back.
It just escalates from there.

"Well, shit."
Keye sits back and ponders this for a moment. Obviously Arty can't just take being made fun of...but fighting isn't good, but...
"What kinda names he callin' you?"

"All kinds," Arty growls, hoping for sympathy. "Mostly 'retard' and 'fag' and - anyway, he won't stop."
See? It's not his fault, for once! This other kid started it.
"I got tired of it and I hit him and almost got suspended, and then today he 'n his friends got me behind the school." Pause while he takes a breath, and points to the mark on his face. "An' that's where I got this."

"They ganged up on you?" Keye's voice lowers to a growl, heavy with the twang of his accent.
"That's fuckin' low."
He takes a deep breath, because when he was in school, his solution would have been to come back with a knife.
And that...probably isn't the best advice.
"Have you talked to an adult?"

"No."
He scowls, just a mite offended. He doesn't trust adults, in general.
He's also starting to be less trusting of children - they were much nicer when he was a seemingly helpless fairytale creature.
"I'd just get in more trouble."

"Nah, gangin' up ain't cool. They can't just let it go on. This ain't that kinda town."
He scratches thoughtfully at the back of his head, trying to think of alternative solutions that don't involve excessive violence.
"Who swung first, kid?"

"There were just two others," he says defensively. Just because one kid had two others hold him while he got punched in the stomach and then the face? That's no reason to get adults involved. That's nothing.
"...You mean today?"

"Nevermind." he shakes his head once, quickly. "Three's still bad, trust me. I mean--about that--that's somethin' else. But like the first time...can't ya just ignore the name-calling? He'll get bored of it."

"I tried that."
For about two days, he tried it.
"It doesn't work, he just keeps doing it. If I don't answer, it's like agreeing with him."

"Nuh uh. That depends."
Keye sticks his feet languidly out in front of him, because as we all know, he's the expert on nonviolence.
"I mean, it's like this. If you look down and scuttle away, sure, that's like agreeing with him. But you can give him the 'fuck you' look without punching him."

Arty grimaces, not entirely convinced.
"But he'll think I'm afraid of him."
Being able to continue on without getting hurt again would be nice, though, and he's ready to seriously consider anythng that will help him do that.

"Punching somebody doesn't mean you're not scared of 'em. If you can give 'em the mean look without having to punch 'em, that means you're really not scared."
This all makes perfect sense in his head. Sort of. Admittedly, he's never tried, but...

"You sure about that?"
He's doubtful, and it shows.
Since when has looking at someone ever fixed anything, right?
"It doesn't really,...I mean, I don't know if that'd work."

"Nah." he looks down, a pained expression on his face. "But I think it's worth tryin'."

Arty winces - what good is that supposed to do? Try it and maybe it'll work?
Sigh.
"I could... do that. Maybe," he says grudgingly. "Can't hurt to try."
...Well, hopefully it can't hurt.

"Yeah."
Keye grips his shoulder briefly with one hand.
"You try that, and if anybody hurts you again, you let me know."

"What'll you do?" Arty inquires, frowning.
The idea of Keye acting like an adult is new and, frankly, not all that reassuring.

"I, uh..."
Well he could probably scare them into stopping, but then...
"Dunno. I'll do somethin' though."

"But you're not gonna tell anyone, right?" Arty asks earnestly.
This is very important.
Telling would mean telling an adult (Keye doesn't count) which in turn would mean more trouble. He's trying his best to avoid that.
...Okay, maybe not his best. But he's trying.

"I, uh..." he's flushed a little with discomfort. "Well, that depends, Arty..."

"On what?" the boy asks sharply.
That doesn't sound good.

"On...on how I reassess the situation." He swallows. He feels a bit like he's taking too much responsibility on.
"I mean, if it's real serious..."
An uncomfortable shrug.
"Have you talked to Vi or Dave 'bout any of this?"

"Well, sorta." He shrugs. "I mean, the school called them, I kind of had to..."
It definitely wasn't fun. He minds making trouble for Vi and Dave a lot more than he minds making trouble for himself.

"Well, what'd they say you should do?"
Surely they know better. They're...more responsible. More adult, for all that Violet is younger than he.

He just shrugs.
(There was some scolding. He tuned out for most of it.)
"Vi said not to let him get to me." That much, he remembers.

"Yeah." he nods, eye wide. "That's kinda what I was saying. Kinda."

"But it's hard to do," Arty protests, with just the faintest hint of a whine. "If I don't do anything, I might 's well be agreeing with him. Heck, even hitting him didn't really work 'cause he went on about how if I wasn't any of - those names he called me, it wouldn't make me mad."
Huff.
"He's such a jerk."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit he'd very nearly given up, from back in the days of his sunglasses.
"I couldn't tell ya, kid. I...there's a million...well, I dunno this other guy. He's not me, so I couldn't tell his reason."

"He's a jerk," Arty reiterates.
He slouches in his seat and crosses his arms, making one of those little growling noises he does so well before falling silent.

Gods, he hates school.
Some days, he wonders why he even bothers.

"He's a jerk," Keye agrees, sighing. "Don't worry too much about it. He's a jerk and you're not, so that makes you better than him. So no big deal."