Chapter Text
STAN GASPS as his back hits the snow, its icy shards puncturing through his hoodie and into his bare skin. He loses his breath, hisses, glares at the boy above who is the stuck-up Gregory Yardale.
Gregory laughs, pushes his pure leather shoes down onto Stan's hand, the very same one that held a confession letter only mere minutes before—no, moments before the former jumps at him, ripping at him like he was some sort of a rabid animal.
At this he flicks his hand in the air, his grin faltering into a frown for only just a moment. He removes any semblance of ever touching Stan—of ever colliding his fist with Stan's face.
Stan coughs. Iron quickly pools on his tongue; in his mouth. His cheek throbs painfully, almost as if it was going to burst. He leans to the side, spits something—a tooth, he found. Gregory son of a bitch.
Said boy digs the sole of his shoe deeper into Stan's wrist. He chokes and writhes and howls in pain. He hears something cracking—snapping. He feels as if his arm was going to split off. A sadistic light glints in Gregory's eyes, and he lets out a malicious grin:
"No boy shall come near my love," He announces, "Or else there shall be horrible consequences."