Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. I've technically borrowed the title for this from a Sublime song, but no lyrics have been used. The song really has nothing to do with the story - the title just happens to fit.
A/N: This one-shot ties into both Sway and Like Causes Without Rebels. Not in a huge way, but this scene was briefly mentioned in both. Requested, and somewhat inspired (with her knowledge), by K. Nefertiti. All deds go to her and her awesomeness. Rated T for language and a teenage boy's dirty mind.
Girls have been on your mind a lot lately. Especially Anita Mort. There's not much special about her, but shoot, you've been stuck on her for a while. Ever since she let you borrow her pencil in fifth grade, you haven't been able to stop thinking about her soft skin. You only got to touch her for a moment then, and she had blushed and shyly looked away when your fingertips grazed the back of her hand, but it was enough.
After that, girls were on your mind constantly. You'd wake up and you would have been dreaming about girls; you'd go to school and spend your time daydreaming about the girls in your class; you'd go home and go to bed, thinking about girls before falling asleep and dreaming about them all over again. It was a vicious cycle; especially when you were still learning your way around how to get a girl to talk to you, let alone go out with you.
Watching the other guys in the gang helped. Henry had a way with broads without having to do much more than smile and tell a few jokes, and Danny seemed to have pretty blondes falling over themselves to go out with him. People think you're stupid, but you wouldn't have made out with as many girls as you have without being smart enough to learn a thing or two from your buddies.
Flirting, small touches on soft parts of skin, and compliment after compliment after goddamn compliment. Christ, girls sure like to hear nice things about themselves.
Of course, losing your virginity to Anita at Steve Randle's birthday party last April had been worth the every single compliment you had given her that night. You hadn't thought much about her since discovering how fucking great girls in general were, but her legs hooked you that night and you were gone. And when you scored with her, it was worth every bit of effort you put into it.
Fucking hell, lips and hands didn't even compare to the feel of actually having sex … and with Anita at that. It had been hot and amazing and, well, a little quick, but you convinced her to do it in the back of some pickup truck - you think it might have been Ricky Bolton's - parked down the road from the party; you hadn't exactly had the chance to take your time.
But she sure had smelled nice, and - drunk as you both were - had let you do more than feel her up. It was just bullshit that she had never let you do it again.
Not much has changed since that first touch of your fingertips to Anita's hand; you still want her, you still try to find new ways to score with girls, and you still think about girls all the fucking time. It's like there's some fucking brain cell in your head that converts every thought you have to fit with the image of a naked broad, the smell of girl's perfume, or the softness of their skin.
And it's not always Anita you think about. Maria Phillips has really pretty lips, Beth Travis has a huge rack, and that Sylvia broad Winston dated and Tim fooled around with sure is a looker. You'd give anything for a go with her.
Being in juvie doesn't change any of that. If anything, you think about chicks even more. Living in a block full of guys is making you crazy and you thank fucking Christ that you've only got a five weeks to go. You need to see a girl, you need to get laid … fuck, you just need to get out of here.
It's not what you thought it would be, that's for sure. You've done your time before - a few weeks here, a night in the cells there - but nothing like this. Six months is a fucking long time when you're on your own. No Tim, no Danny, no one at all. There are a couple of guys here that you like well enough, but for the most part, you ignore everyone. They all think of you as Tim's kid brother, and you don't care enough to make your own name for yourself. Not when all it will do is get you into more trouble.
You want out. You've wanted out since the day you got here, but it really hit you a few weeks in when you mouthed off to some guy twice your height and he broke his lunch tray over your head. Asshole fucking deserves the beating of a lifetime for that kind of bullshit. Too bad the bump it caused wasn't enough to change the fact that you still had five months of that kind of crap to go. You've managed to keep your trap shut pretty damn good since then.
You wouldn't have wanted out even if it was offered to you, though. You're Tim's kid brother; that might mean younger, smaller, and stupider, but still a Shepard and still able to do your time without taking the pussy's way out.
Angel writes occasionally. She doesn't say much of anything important; mostly babbles on about Mary Margaret, who made out with Jimmy Douglas, who was dating Beth Travis until she started screwing Ricky Bolton, who, by the way, is still a complete tool - oh and don't you just love Mick Jagger? You've reread that letter a few times, and the last bit about Bolton makes you glad you fucked Anita in the back of his pickup.
It surprises you that you actually miss your sister. She's a pain in the ass - especially your ass because she'll do anything she fucking can to piss you off - but you actually miss her. She'd deny it until she was blue in the face, but she has an almost nice side to her sometimes. When she's not pounding on the bathroom door, or interrupting you the few times you manage to get a date inside, or telling on you to Tim, that is.
In fact, two days before you tried to knock off that liquor store, you and Angela shared a bottle of cheap wine she had stolen from a friend's mom. You didn't bother asking which friend - that would have invited the kind of conversation you couldn't be bothered with then but now read and reread what she wrote about them in her letters - and you might have poured a little unevenly so you got more, but that wasn't the point. The point was that you hadn't been fighting and yelling at each other for once. Tim would've been proud.
Even though Angela writes, you never hear from Tim. Every now and then you'll get your phone call and he'll be around for once. You've learned that it's easier to get a hold of him downtown than it is at home. But even then he doesn't like talking to you much. It's nothing more than a quick catch up and a snappy goodbye. Sure, neither of you are much for deep and meaningful conversations, but it's not just that; you can tell he's pissed at you. He seemed almost proud to begin with - smirking when he came to see you in the cells the day after you got caught, and telling you to ride out whatever sentence they gave you like a man.
But now he's just annoyed. You can't blame him anymore, not really. You don't know the full story - because you're you and no one tells you shit most of the time - but you know Tim's having trouble with a rival gang and needs every guy he can get. You had automatically thought The Tiber Street Tigers because they're known for picking fights with anyone they can, but when you found out it was the River Kings and something to do with that shooting at the Dingo … that's when you understood Tim's attitude and you started to get pretty fucking pissed off at yourself, too.
There are two River Kings in reform school with you. You don't know them personally, but the bigger one is known as Bull, and the other's name is Leon. Though 'bigger' is really only an inch or two because Leon is just as fucking huge and you're beginning to wish like hell you'd had at least one more growth spurt before going into that fucking liquor store.
You pause on your way from the bathroom back toward your room, heart thumping wildly. Bull's heading your way down the narrow corridor, and you can hear heavy footsteps behind you, and all those sweet thoughts and memories about Anita disappear completely. You know it's Leon behind you; the glint in Bull's eye is enough to make you realise you're in serious shit, and you start thinking that maybe you should have made more than two fucking friends in this joint. A little backup sure would be nice.
But no one's got your back. You're alone with these two guys - both bigger than you, both meaner than you, and both pissed off with Tim just because their leader is. And that's why you're about to get jumped, you know that. It has nothing to do with you or anything you've done; it's because you're Tim's brother and Tim's pissed off Rex Hamilton enough for him to order his boys to kick the shit out of you.
This has never happened before; you've never been without backup in a fight you couldn't win, you've never been jumped, and you've very rarely come off worse in a fight. This time is different and you'd never admit it, but you're a little bit scared shitless. You wish Tim was with you. You wish Danny was with you. Hell, you even wish Angel was with you because Lord fucking knows she can scratch like a bitch.
You consider making a run for it, but where the fuck can you go? Back to your room, sure, but they'll just find you again tomorrow. You could go to the rec room that will be full at this time of evening, but these fuckers will just come after you again when you're alone. You could go to the guards, but you're not a fucking wimp and you'll take what's coming because there's no fucking way you're about to tattle on a couple of guys who want to beat you up.
So you stop mid-corridor, shove your hands in your pockets, and slouch, making yourself look tough. You learned more than just how to talk to girls from the guys you hang around with.
But how you look doesn't matter, neither does the fact that you've only lost a few fights in your life. What matters is that these guys are huge and you'd have a rough time of it with just one of them. You could probably hold your own pretty well if there weren't two, but you're not even sure you'd win that fight. You know you won't win this one, and you can't believe you spent the last few minutes thinking about Tim and Angel when your mind could have stayed on broads.
That's not going to stop you from putting up some kind of fight, though.
Bull's still a good six feet away when your hands are yanked out of your pockets and your arms are jerked behind you. You wince, wondering if the bastard behind you managed to dislocate your shoulder. It hurts enough that your knees go a little weak, but you manage to keep yourself upright.
"Hey, Shepard," Bull drawls when he reaches you.
You raise an eyebrow. "Do I know you?"
"Maybe not personally, but that's about to change."
"Wonderful."
"You've got a bit of a smart mouth on ya, don't ya?" Leon hisses in your ear.
Instead of replying, you grin. Bull's eyes narrow and it just makes his head look even bigger.
"I reckon I might be able to fix that," he says, cracking his knuckles. "And have no fuckin' doubt about it, Shepard; I'm gonna take my time doin' it."
Oh, you don't doubt it - not at all. The hatred in his eyes is crazy considering you don't even know him. He's only doing this because you're Tim's brother; other than that, he has no fucking clue about you.
You don't get much time to dwell on that, though, because Bull's fat fist connects with your jaw and you swear you've never been hit so hard in your life. Blood fills your mouth, choking you, making you feel nauseous.
Leon is laughing in your ear, a loud cackle that you want to punch right out of him, and Bull leans toward you, smiling.
"How's that smart mouth of your now, shithead?" he asks.
You grin again - a crazy, bloody grin - before spitting in his face. You know right away it's a bad idea, but maybe you are as stupid people think and maybe you're not doing as good a job at keeping your mouth shut as you think. But shit, Leon's holding you in such a tight grip that you can't fight back, and spitting blood all over Bull's face sure felt good. And it looks fucking sick.
Still grinning, you let out a half-moan half-laugh when he punches you again, this time in the stomach. Your knees don't stand a chance this time and you start to double over, but Leon holds you upright - ready and waiting for whatever Bull's got next. Eyeing his fist, you silently hope he doesn't have much.
But of course he does, because he's huge and he's got both hands free and he follows directions from a crazy fucker like Rex Hamilton. You don't know Rex - you're not even sure you've seen him before - but you've heard the rumours. Including the one about him causing that ugly bruise you saw on Sylvia's pretty face one morning after she spent the night with Tim. She hadn't said anything to you, but the smile she gave you when you poured her some juice made you a little crazy.
You'd give both your currently useless arms to be with her right now, rather than getting the shit beaten out of you.
Bull hits you again and again and again. He hits that same spot on your jaw, he throws a right hook into your eye, he goes for your nose, and - just for good measure - he punches your jaw again. And all you can think is that you wish someone was there to help you because he really wants to shut you up - even though you've only said five words since he got there - and if you're as unlucky as you're beginning to think you might be, then you might just end up with a broken jaw.
Stretching his reddened fingers - that poor bastard - Bull steps back. You're slightly doubled over and your legs are ready to give out on you - the only thing keeping you up is Leon holding your arms behind you. You watch Bull, your jaw feeling like it's about it fall off, and one eye barely open. He grins at you, leans down to your height, and spits in your face. Of course he fucking does.
Leon lets you go then, and you drop to your hands and knees. Your knees are still a little wobbly, but the only damage to anything below the neck was one punch to the gut; if your head wasn't in such a fucking fog, you could stand yourself back up and at least have a little self-respect. But your head is in such a fucking fog that you can't even think straight.
Bull crouches down until his face is level with yours. "You know what this is about, don't ya?"
Wiping blood and spit from your chin, you stare at him. "Somethin' to do with Tim, right?"
"That's right. You be sure to tell him that Rex is willin' to do whatever it takes and wait as long as it takes for Timmy to make his move … that is, if you can talk by the time I'm finished with you."
He stands, and you have a front-row seat to the boot heading toward your ribs. You grunt, taking the kicks that follow, hoping like hell enough of them will numb you so that you just can't feel anymore. It doesn't happen that way, and the more they kick you, the more it fucking hurts. Your body jerks with the force of their legs, you can barely see, and your whole head is thumping and pounding and aching like hell.
Finally, as a couple of guards come running down the hall, Bull and Leon stop kicking you. You don't know how long it's been since they started in on your ribs - probably not very - but it feels like forever. With your head still foggy, you look up at a guard you don't think you've seen before and your eyes begin to droop.
As you start to pass out, you can't help but think that at least Tim can't be too pissed at you now; you're not about to tell him how bad it really was, but surely this beating is enough to make up for not being on the outside and helping out the gang. You snort, even in your half-passed out state. It's not fucking likely, but maybe, just maybe one of those pretty girls at school will feel bad for you when you get out and offer to look after you.
A/N: Thanks to samaryley for beta-reading. Any feedback is appreciated.