What Happened in Winter [boyxboy]

Chapter Three

Craft POV

Craft heard the gasp and loud crash of metal and plastic hitting the linoleum floor before he could think to react. A few girls in class screamed in surprise and a boy with a nasty sneer chuckled in the back of the class. Craft shot red-hot daggers at the boy and he looked the other way, but continued laughing to himself.

Craft shook his head and sighed, getting out of his seat and braced a hand on his best friend's sweaty back.

"Hey, Grey. You okay?" Craft asked softly. Greyson had tears streaming down his face, a helpless look in his stormy slate-grey eyes that Craft had seen too many times since Jayson died. "Let's get you off the floor."

Craft lifted his small best friend up and Mr. Stevens rushed over. "He needs to go to the office and call his parents so he can go home," Mr. Steven's said breathlessly. He was always like this when a student got sick in class.

"No, no. I'm okay. Really, it was just a dream," Greyson said at the same moment his knees gave out. Mr. Stevens was surprisingly nimble, even more swift than the athletic Craft, and caught Greyson. Greyson didn't even try to brace himself for the fall. He just shut his eyes tight, covered his face with his hands, and hoped for the best.

"I'll take him up to the nurse's office. You stay here and keep an eye on the class," Stevens said. He already was walking with Greyson out the classroom door. Craft sat back in his seat and started his math homework, trying to push the memory of Grey's terrified face out of his mind. What could he have been dreaming about? Of course, Greyson would wake up from his class naps panicked sometimes, but it had never been this bad. Maybe this new kid was right. Maybe Craft was being a bad friend.

"God, what a little faggot," the boy that had laughed earlier said, leaning back in his chair, his legs propped up on his desk. "He can't even sleep right."

Craft sucked in a breath to reprimand this loser, but River started chuckling. Craft whipped around to look at the boy next to him. River had paused his music, listening to the entire ordeal. 'What a nosey guy,' Craft thought.

Obviously, the loser kid didn't take too kindly to River's laughing. "What are you laughing at, kid? You don't even know me. You're nobody here," the guy said, pushing his long red sleeves up.

River covered his mouth to hide his smile. The loser got up and slammed his hands on River's desk, knocking his pen off and making River jump. 'This kid is about to die. First day here and he's already painting a target on his back,' Craft mourned in his head.

"Hey, you two, knock it o-," Craft started, but what came next was something he never would have expected. River shot up like lightening and decked the loser in the face, knocking him on his ass. Craft was starting to think his reflexes were off today.

"You guys can't fight in here! We're in the middle of class!" Craft put his arms out to keep them distanced from each other. Craft looked at the kid on the floor. His nose was trickling blood and his jaw was so tightly clenched, Craft thought it was a miracle he didn't break his teeth. Craft didn't have to be privy to violence to recognize when one wanted to kill another. And Craft knew this kid wanted to take the life right out of River. 'This is really bad...,' Craft thought to himself.

River smirked, his eyes filled with something more along the lines of curiosity. What was with this kid? Why was everything so amusing to him? River pushed Craft's arm out of the way and stood over the bully, a quizzical tilt to his lips. "What's your name?" River asked. It was like he was a completely different person. Craft had seen the same look on his face when he called Craft a bad friend. Was he a bully, too?

Kyle POV

Kyle flared his nostrils, his lips pressed together in rage. 'Nobody does this to me. Nobody,' Kyle screamed in his head. 'I'm the one to be feared. Not him.'

Kyle knew he was born a fighter. His biological father was one of the leaders of the Mexican Mafia. When he had the time, Kyle's father would teach him how to fight, so that one day Kyle Sánchez would be the leader of the Mexican Mafia. Violence ran through their blood.

When Kyle turned five, Social Services came and took him away. At the orphanage, Kyle overheard some rumors about his mother. He had never met his mother, didn't even know he had one. His whole world had been his father and learning to fight. He didn't even attend school or leave the house.

"I heard his mom is a drug addict and gave birth to him on coke!"

"Well, I heard she's a hooker who will give it up if anyone asks!"

"Kyle's mommy's a whore! Kyle's mommy's a whore!"

Kyle wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and glared at this new piece of shit with a smirk on his face. What Kyle would give to see his face broken right now. He picked himself up and spit on the floor next to the kid's tattered Vans.

"Meet me after school and I'll tell you. Bus loading zone. Four o'clock," Kyle growled. "Don't be late, faggot." He hated that word, but it made people mad. And he liked pissing people off. Kyle knocked into the kid's shoulder for a final 'fuck you' before this afternoon, but the kid had other things in mind. He easily caught Kyle by the arm and pulled him close.

"We aren't that different. You and I," he said, only loud enough for Kyle to hear, "Someone else turned you into an animal. Not you."

Kyle's vision swam. 'How does he... know?' he wondered, absolutely horrified. The kid released him and began walking away.

"Four o'clock. Bus loading zone. I won't forget. I know how to be on time," he said as he reached the door, turning around and winking on that last line, as if Kyle and him shared some type of inside joke.

The bell rang, dismissing class for the day.