Take This To Heart |Stan X Kyle|

22: Your Choices

Gregory's POV

At a time well past midnight, one should expect their experiencing of boisterous weather to be limited to the sound of rain pattering against a closed window; a window separating the warm, comfortable residence of a peacefully sleeping individual from the freezing elements taking any semblance of comfort hostage. This, unfortunately, is well below my expectations as I approach an unfamiliar house described to me only in the vaguest descriptions. But, this is a tight-knit town, and it would be incredibly difficult to find myself barking up the wrong tree under these circumstances. Well, I suppose I should rephrase that to indicate that I absolutely cannot afford to be mistaken. Afterall, I have led myself, and unfortunately others, into this curfuffle, so it is only right that I be the one who attempts a resolution.

At least, that is why I have convinced myself that it would be a good idea to be standing outside the Marsh residence during a torrential downpour.

An absence of vehicles in the paved driveway indicates the Marsh parents have yet to return home tonight; although, perhaps that was never their intention. I might be lucky enough to indulge in some personal one-on-one conversation with Stan alone, seeing as Kyle has not yet made his way here. Although my first instinct was to be surprised, I am sure if Kyle had any intention to visit Stan tonight it would've been his door he rushed to in the pouring rain; not mine.

Yet, as if intending to re-enact partial excerpts from Kyle's perspective of tonight, I carefully unsheath a soaked burgandy glove and make contact with the cool metal doorbell. I wonder if this is how he felt outside of my doorway? The subsequent delightful chime is incontestable proof that the bell works, prompting an unfortunate sense of dissonance after a few passing minutes with no response. Again, my repeated push sends another identical melody throughout the house's inside, only to be met with further identical silence.

A verbal acknowledgement of my arrival would be the next logical step, however I fail believe I'd be remotely successful in competing with the brash rain against his tin roof. It is only then that my eyes can't help but be drawn to my feet, where my nervous shifting has created an acute awareness of a particular bumpy spot right in the doormat's centre. Surely... no, do people still keep their spare keys in such an obvious hiding spot? My disbelief aside, I take a haste step backwards off the wicker mat before dropping to my knees. Removing my other glove, I reach-,

Oh,

Oh!

Reach, I do not, as my attention is quickly stolen upwards at the slow opening of the door.

"Well," comes a familiar voice, "there were uh, many things I wasn't expecting to happen tonight." The door continues to slowly swing inwards, before my peripheral vision indicates a tall figure replacing the initial looming darkness. "And... this," a gesture is sent my way, as my eyes slowly reach well above their line of sight to make contact with the male in front of me, "a soaking wet Gregory of fucking Yardale, on his hands and knees at my front door in the middle of the night."

Notably... without a shirt, my eyes catch Stanley Marsh's, and all feels frozen for a split second.

"Um, do forgive my unexpected arrival, I wasn't entirely sure you were even home tonight, but I've come to talk-, in person this time." Is what I manage to stutter out without even thinking of recuperating myself. "To be, um, quite honest... I should've came here instead of taking your call the other day. I... I um. I know you had questions, and I do hope I sufficiently answered them, but it was quite ungentlemanly of me to leave you alone after revealing quite an excess of information to you in your emotional state."

Stan's face is unchanging. Instead, he only sniffles and wipes his nose. "Are you coming in or not?" he mumbles. If I didn't know any better, it could easily be described as a neutral request, yet, I cannot help but detect a node of sadness hidden away somewhere in that scratchy voice of his. Has he been crying? That would certainly explain the sniffles.