Disclaimer: The Outsiders is property of S.E. Hinton. "You're Going Down" is by Sick Puppies. I own nothing :)
You just don't know what to do with yourself. You've been dumped before, and you've been dumped by Kathy before. It's not any kind of big deal. If anything, it was to be expected; it's always to be expected because you're sure she just doesn't get you. Not the way a girlfriend should.
But then, most people don't get you. Kathy's not the only one. The people who understand where you're coming from are few and far between, and you kind of like it that way. It might piss Kathy off and have her dumping you every couple of months, but you don't mind.
"See ya in a few weeks, baby." It's all you need to say because even if she doesn't get you, you get her and you know she'll be back. She always comes back. If it's because she's weak, because she has no self-respect, you don't know. But she always comes back to you even though you always end up treating her like shit.
But when that thought runs through your mind - she always comes back - it sounds bad and it makes you feel bad. Not for thinking less of Kathy, but because you're no fucking better. You always go back, you can't stay away, you have no fucking self-respect to be doing the things you're doing.
Kathy would never come back if she knew the truth.
Because it's wrong. Not in the kind of way that makes it better, hotter, but in the kind of way that really is just wrong. Wrong and dirty and so fucking painful.
Soda doesn't see it, though. He just gives you that easy grin, brown eyes bright with whatever gases he's been breathing in at work that day, and all you can do is stare back, fighting the urge to rip his head off. You want to rip it off, but even more so, you want to rip your own off. Rip it off and throw it to the dogs.
He's looking at you right now, and you raise an eyebrow, wishing for all the world that Stevie had never left. This would never have started if Steve was still around. But Steve isn't around and you don't want to think about it because it's tough, it's depressing, it's war. And it makes you sick.
You have a sick feeling that Steve's war is nothing compared to the one going on inside your head, your heart, your whole fucking life.
"Where ya been, buddy?" Soda asks you, and you shrug, not saying anything.
Sitting on the porch with him, you pull out your smokes and light up, inhaling deeply and not exhaling until the smoke begins to hurt your lungs. Only then do you huff out a breath, shoulders sagging. You want to go home. You want to go beg Kathy to take you back. You want to be able to look at your friend without thinking about how his lips taste.
But you can't do any of those things. All you can do is look at him and remember. No wondering, just remembering, because there's no need to wonder how Soda's lips taste when you already know. It's burned into your mind and you wouldn't have it any other way, really.
Soda's pretending like he doesn't know you're watching him, but he does. How can he not? You're sitting right next to him, head turned toward him, staring openly. Soda's used to people staring, though, and you suppose it doesn't bother him anymore.
The screen door behind you is shoved open before you can find anything worthy to say and you look out toward the road, pretending that the silence between you - the most talkative guy in the gang - and Soda - the most outgoing - is normal. It's not, but neither is anything else the two of you do.
"Hey, Two-Bit," the kid says.
You look up and watch Pony and Curly Shepard step around you and down the stairs.
"Where ya headin', kid?"
Hands shoved in pockets, Pony looks at you. "Drive-in. Wanna come?"
Yes, yes, yes!
You shake your head and take another drag of your cigarette, noticing how much of it you've wasted and let burn through. You flick, letting the string of ashes fall to the ground.
"Have fun, Pone," Soda says quietly, and you can practically hear the sex in his voice as he urges his brother to leave him alone in your company.
Not that there will actually be any sex. Everything but; them's the rules and you're not complaining. Sex is sex and sex isn't where you're willing to go. Gasping moans, bucking hips, and sweaty sheets on the other hand …
Ponyboy and Curly take off down the street, and you watch them, feeling more than a little sick. If the kid knew - if anyone knew - it'd be the end of your existence. This kind of thing doesn't happen and that thought alone makes you fight the urge to throw up last night's dinner every time you have it. Which is often.
But really, you always feel sick because it is sick. It's sick when your lips crash quietly together in the bathroom at Buck's. It's sick when he's sitting between you and Pony on the couch and you get hot just from the feel of his denim-clad thigh against yours. And it's so fucking sick when you drop your girlfriend off after a heavy make-out session before coming around here to see Soda.
It's sick and it's wrong and it hurts because you can't stop. You need it like you need air and it scares the shit out of you.
It's not a habit or a routine, but it's something you can't stop. There's no set time or date for when it happens, it just does. When you leave his bedroom, sickened yet satisfied, you don't know when it's going to happen again. All you know is that once that ache begins in your chest, growing until your whole body is in pain, burning and screaming for him, you have to see him, you have to have him.
You've never met a girl who wasn't taken by Soda in some way, but you always figured you'd be immune.
That turned out to be bullshit when Soda found himself in the starring role of your shower fantasies one night. Though found himself isn't quite the right phrase when you placed him front and center yourself. Blame it on the alcohol, blame it on Steve having left only hours before - fuck, blame it on the storm that had been closing in on you or that fucking dog across the street that wouldn't shut up. All you know is that you did what needed to be done to relieve that ache. And you were thinking about your buddy the whole time.
The taste of bile you've had in your throat ever since isn't something you can pretend isn't there.
The sky's turning a strange purple color and some idiot down the street's started playing an old Chuck Berry song that, unsurprisingly, has you thinking about Johnny. And if something has you thinking about Johnny, then you start thinking about Dallas and you half wish he was around just so he could kick your damn head in.
If anyone could've kicked the sick pervert out of you, it would have been Dally.
"Two-Bit?"
You blink, look at the cigarette in your hand, and toss away the butt. It's basically a waste of a whole damn smoke when you only got a couple of drags out of it, but those few drags had helped. Your mind is still a mess of Soda and filth and everything but sex, but you feel better. Slightly less sick.
Soda's staring at you, and you slowly meet his gaze.
"Wanna come inside, man?" he asks.
Icy fingers grab at your insides. There's no secret code in that one. He wants you to go inside. He wants you to kiss him, touch him, taste him. He wants you to be with him. And you want to. You especially want to be with him, and that's why it hurts. And that's why it scares you. That's why you need it.
It's sick. Soda's sick. But you need them both.
A/N: Thanks to the other half of this penname for her amazing help.