Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.
Author's Note: Another short, stand-alone Curly/Tim fic told in second-person POV (like I don't write enough of them already, lol). What can I say, these boys are so complex and fun to mess around with.
When the Storm Ends
There's something wrong with you, and you know it. You love it. You hope to God that it's true.
Surprisingly, the vomit comes up easier this time than the last.
You like how, after, you're left shaking and exhausted; throat raw and burning, mouth tasting bitter and acidic. You're not sick, it's just another hangover, but this takes your mind off all the other things you can't think about, won't even dare to. Tim's hovering in the doorway, judging you, and for once you don't care. If you had the strength, you'd tell him to fuck off, go find something else to do, but you don't.
His footsteps have always been heavy – without looking away from the red and yellow in the toilet bowl, you can feel him behind you.
He takes out a cigarette and lights it, the smoke pushing all the stale air out of the bathroom, and you wish he'd just stop fucking around with you already and open the goddamned window to let in a breeze. When he's around, you can't breathe - something always gets stuck in your throat and stays there no matter how many times you try to swallow it down. He knows this, and he likes it, having control – it's when things get messy that the words have more of an edge, the hits a little harder. The scars are still there, having faded over time, and you both know where to look to find them, but he doesn't.
He says your name around the edge of the cigarette and puts a hand on your shoulder, and you grip the edge of the toilet bowl to keep from swinging out at him. Anger pulses through your bloodstream and your vision turns red. Of course the bastard won't come down to your level, he's too selfish for this shit, too much like every other person in this town, and you hate him for that. So then why is he here?
"I gotta job for you, Curls." He hasn't called you this since the time before your father left, and the wound deep inside you is reopened. You want to throw up again, maybe on his shoes, although there's nothing left in the pit of your stomach and you'd end up dry-heaving, anyway, which will make you feel a hell of a lot worse and your throat sorer.
You inhale for air and instead taste smoke in your mouth. He's close to you, closer than you'd like him to be, and suddenly you're glad you're wearing a short-sleeved shirt because that means he won't hit you when you refuse the job. No matter how pissed off he gets, he wouldn't lay a hand on you, at least not today. Only God knows about tomorrow.
The tip of his boot pokes you in the side of your abdomen. "What are you, fuckin' deaf?"
He's annoyed, and before you can turn away, fight him off, do something, his fingers are gripping your chin, tilting your head up so far your neck aches. He blows a smoke ring into your face and offers you the cigarette, like always, and you take it, put it between your numb lips and inhale like he taught you to all those years ago.
You used to think he was a saint, looked up to him because there was no one else around – and even when there was, you'd go crawling back with your tail between your legs, ashamed that you thought someone could repair the damage your father left. After all, he was your brother in some shape or form, almost a whole four years older than you, and you respected him like none other.
But when he started to stay out later during the night and eventually stopped coming home altogether, you'd lost most of the dignity you had for him; and then one morning you'd go downstairs and find him at the kitchen table, eating toast and pretending like nothing had happened, or he'd be crouching on the roof, throwing pebbles at the bedroom window to wake you up, to let him back inside. And you would, you always would, because the longing wasn't there if he was, the ache easier to ignore.
Now, he's nothing to you but the puke in the toilet bowl, something to flush down and forget about. Taking the butt of the cigarette between your fingers, you toss it into the puke and mumble the first words you've said in two days:
"I'm not gonna do it."
"What?"
"I said, I'm not gonna do it."
"What the fuck for?"
"Don't want to."
Hate's flashing in his eyes, and his fingers, still clamped around your jaw, tighten. You'd tell him to let you go, but you're nervous of what will happen when he finally does, and you hate yourself for thinking like this.
"Fine," he growls, shoving you away, "I'll just find someone else to do it."
And then you're rubbing your neck because there's a knot in it from being tilted up for so long and he's lighting up another cigarette, taking a drag and handing it to you, cursing at you for making such a fucking mess while you inhale and inhale and inhale and inhale, because as much as you hate it, hate him, you can't get enough.