What are Friends For [part 1]

The door shuts with a sharp bang as Daaron Flinn tromps with heavy steps down the stone steps that lead to his house.
"You best get back here, boy!" His father's voice is loud behind him, but he ignores it, pulling the hood of his dark sweatshirt up around his head to hide his face from curious onlookers.
Daaron shoves his hands into his pockets, curling his bruised fingers into fists and ignoring the pain that shoots up through his index finger. It's probably broken, or at least sprained, but he's had worse so the incessant throbbing doesn't phase him.
The moon hangs low and full in the sky, like giving off so much light is taxing on it, making it hardly able to keep itself up above the horizon, and the freshly blooming trees in the park beside his house give off a sweet scent that carries on the gentle breezes that make the night cold. He has absolutely no idea where he's going to go, he just knows that he doesn't care, as long as it's away from that house. He never should've come back. Never shouldve-
Daaron's thoughts are cut short as his tall body collides with someone walking the opposite direction, and both crash to the ground in an ungraceful show of limbs and papers and books.
"Watch where you're going" The other person snaps as he crawls to his knees, hands shaking slightly as he moves to pick up his spilled things.
"I'm sorry" Daaron mumbles in response, his slender artist's fingers joining the others in a futile attempt to help.
In the fall, Daaron's hood had been pushed back, and now it falls about his shoulders, revealing his silvery hair that falls too long into his eyes and around his collar. What people find the most surprising about it isn't the colour of it, but the fact that it's naturally that colour.
"Storm?" The other's voice is incredulous as he sits back on his haunches, using a nickname Daaron hadn't heard in years. The last person to call him Storm was-no. It couldn't be him. There's no way he'd be so lucky to run into
"Emmit?" he says the name tentatively as his crimson eyes flick up to meet the gaze of the male.
In front of him with wide green eyes covered by the bangs of hair so dark it gives a raven's wings a run for its money, sits the boy who used to be his best friend, Emmit Jasick.