A/N: Hey there – this is my first fanfic. It's going to be a pre-book series of one-shots about the different lives of The Outsiders characters during the 12 days of the holiday season. A new section will be added every day until Christmas. I just wrote this first one kind of hastily during school, so please excuse the shortness and any mistakes. Also, the writing styles may be different between each one; I tend to switch often, and besides, I want this to be a diverse story. Rated T for our lovely greasers' potty mouths. Reviews are appreciated, critique even more.
Lyrics are by Frederic Austin.
Enjoy.
Partridges
xxx
On the first day of Christmas,
my true love gave to me;
A partridge in a pear tree.
xxx
For the first time in two years, it is snowing.
In 1963 they had pardoned the lack of icy downfall with the warm weather; last time, they blamed the Western blizzard for particularly avoiding the state of Oklahoma. Not that it mattered to you, anyway. Snow's minor – just something that means goddamn road detours and having to wear warmer clothes. If you have any.
You don't need warm clothes, though. You have a cool fire of your own burning right next to you.
His arm is slung carelessly around your shoulder; his blue eyes, frozen like the gutters you tread beneath, wander around aimlessly. He is the definition of a contradictory statement – a blazing inferno, frozen to the core.
Dallas Winston is an ice statue, ready to melt or be shattered at any moment.
"Cold?" His snort is lightly derisive.
You freeze – no pun intended – and quickly try to banish all of the symptoms of the chill digging its way into your skin. You clamp your jittering teeth shut, still your shivering arms, and run your tongue quickly over your bluish lips. The only thing you can't suppress are the damn goosebumps risen on your arms like little scales. They serve as a reminder that there's still a bit of those ancient animal instincts running through our blood. None of us are still entirely human.
You won't let him see your weakness, even if it's just natural. To own Dallas, you have to own his satisfaction. You can only occasionally give it to him. Dose him with pleasure – just enough to satisfy – and then coyly take it away. He'll always come back, thirsty for more. The only catch; Dallas knows this applies to you as well. He's beaten you at your own game.
Maybe that's why he's so fascinating.
"Here."
Suddenly it's not the heated skin of his arm around you, but the gritty-smooth texture of leather. You breathe in spice, tobacco, curls of smoke, reveling in the scent of him.
And that's when you're sure you've both lost your minds.
Crazy, insane, ridiculous. That's what love is. Because you can feel something even long after you thought you had lost the youthful gift of sense. The snow on the ground is melting the snow encasing your heart. The same for Dally's. The things you expected to burn the ice, like your three favorite B's – blood, beds, and beer – just add to the nonfeeling, because all they leave is emptiness. Empty veins, empty beds, and empty bottles, just like the ones lining the floor in your house.
You'd never think that, of all people, fucking Dallas Winston would be the one to finally understand you. Yet here you are. Standing in the snow, wrapped in the jacket of a no-good JD, a hoodlum, a criminal, and kissing him underneath the bleach-blue sky.
His lips taste of iron and paper, wreathed in that everlasting flavor of spice that never seems to fade away. Instead of his usual heated, passionate kisses that ended up with both of you in bed, this time he takes your face in his calloused hands and pours himself into you. This is slow, deep, like thick flames flickering in the darkness.
You stand on your toes, even in high heels, to lean up and kiss him back. His head tilts forward almost unconsciously, his fingers twining in the strands of your brown hair. What you lack in hair color, you make up for in bodily beauty - what else would first attract Dally to you than legs, lips and lashes? But although that may have been what initially had him chasing after you like a hound, you knew better now. There was something else about you that allured him; and something about him that captivated you. You just couldn't quite tell what it was yet.
But the mystery was part of the enthrallment.
A/N: Tell me what you think, s'il vous plait. Like it? Hate it? Want to slash it apart violently with a Mickey Mouse toothbrush? Let me know. In case you didn't realize, this is in Sylvia's POV. I hope I got her down pat. I think Dally was OOC, so critique on that is helpful. Also, keep in mind that this is pre-book. No "JOHNNY AND DALLY ARE DEAD" hate, please. Sorry for the shortness, but thanks for reading!