Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I'm making no profit from this.

Note: This fic was originally written for a contest for the 731 Forum.

Summary: Once upon a time, Darry had a handle on his place in the world; but little boys grow up, nothing lasts forever, and age is relative.

A Kid His Age

"He fights good for a kid his age."

"Yeah, he does," I agree, following Jake's gaze and wondering how on earth he knows that.

Ponyboy is only thirteen, but when it comes to fighting, he's all Curtis – the drive, the agility, and the raw energy. Him and Soda are skulking warily by the edges of the building, looking lean and tough and lanky.

I turn back to Jake. "So you sure they're not using anything? No weapons?" Last thing I need is to be hauling my little brother home all cut to shreds and explaining to Mom what happened. "It'll be your head if you're wrong." I'm not sure whether or not I mean that – I've known Jake since grade school, and what he lacks in brains, he makes up for in loyalty – but I figure I'll know pretty quick if I have one of my brothers cut down in front of me.

Jake holds up his hands. "Hey, I just know what they tell me, and that's what they tell me. No weapons."

I nod. "Fine. Just past the tracks by the old mill, tomorrow night." I grab his arm when he turns to walk away. "Tell them Frank better damn well be there. He's the one who started this whole mess, so I swear, if he doesn't show up tomorrow night, I will personally hunt him down."

Jake's gaze lingers on mine for a moment before he nods and turns to leave.

I go in the opposite direction, where my brothers are waiting for me. "Let's go, you jokers. It'll be dark soon."

Soda and Ponyboy fall into step next to me and let their guard down completely as they bounce along, slapping at each other and knocking each other to the ground.

"So what's the deal, Darry?" Soda finally asks. "We havin' a rumble?"

"Tomorrow night."

Soda's excitement level rockets about twenty notches, and I swear I can feel it straight through to my bones. Sometimes it feels like Soda's more connected to me than my own arms.

"They bringing weapons?" Ponyboy asks.

"They said no." I glance at him. "Don't worry. If they pull anything, I'll be taking some heads off."

Pony looks mildly insulted. "I ain't worried."

I bite back a proud grin. I'd seen him fight with a kid in his class who was giving him problems a few months ago, and it was pretty obvious we'd done a good job teaching him how to land a punch. Makes me wish I'd had a big brother growing up. Rumbles, though, they're different.

I reach over, grip a handful of Ponyboy's hair, and pull him over to me. "Don't get cocky. You stick by me and Soda, and you get out of there if it gets too rough. You hear?"

"Ow! Yeah, I hear. Let go of my hair."

I give his hair enough of a squeeze to make him yelp before I let go. "That ain't hair, far as I'm concerned. It's a handle."

Sodapop laughs and gives Pony a shove, and then the two of them are back to acting like pups out for a romp.

Wolf pups.

#

I give my brothers a quick looking-over before our little pack heads out from the park the next night. Soda looks about ready to burst. Him and Steve are getting wilder and wilder, bouncing and whooping and doing everything they can to make sure the whole neighborhood knows they're there. Those guys love a good fight. It's alright with me – the more ramped up they get, the better they'll fight.

I'm feeling it, too, but something like age or experience has dulled it down to controlled electricity. The start of the rumble will snap that wire, though, and God help anybody within my striking distance.

I'm not arrogant, but I know what I'm capable of.

Ponyboy is standing at the outer edge watching Two-Bit, Johnny, and Dally toss twigs at each other as they all have one last smoke before we go. When he glances at me, I motion him over.

He jogs past the sliding board toward me, hands rammed deep into his pockets, and lets out a steamy breath.

"Take off the jacket," I tell him.

"But it's cold out."

"It'll get in your way. Take it off. We'll come back and get it later."

He doesn't argue, just slides himself out of the jacket and drops it off by the swings. His spindly arms look too long for his body, but I notice that there's enough muscle bulge that he doesn't look so much like a little kid anymore.

"Stick by me," I tell him again.

I wasn't any older than him when I started fighting, but without warning, even as he stands there in the dim glow of the corner streetlight with his t-shirt tight against his chest and his hair all greased back and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Ponyboy looks just like a baby to me. No, not a baby, exactly. Just . . . young. Younger than a kid his age should, based on how old I think I must have looked when I was thirteen. It may just be because he's small, like Mom, but he doesn't use his head as good as he should, either. Not that he isn't smart. He just doesn't always think about the right things at the right time.

All of a sudden, I'm fighting back the urge to change my mind and send him home to wait for Mom and Dad. As soon as they get back from the Bartholomew's place, Mom will be sitting in the chair by the table lamp working on her embroidery, and Dad will start a fire in the fireplace before getting back to fixing the radio at the dining room table. Ponyboy should be back there with them, I think wildly – back where he'll stay warm and safe and innocent. He's too young for the rumble. He's too young to be doing anything except building puzzles and playing with toy soldiers and putting his drawings up on the refrigerator with the magnets Mom ordered for free from the back of the cereal box. A kid his age shouldn't be meeting up with a bunch of thugs and getting himself beat up over something that has nothing to do with him.

And then, just as rapidly, I'm back to my senses – he's no younger than I was. He's tough. He's strong. He's thirteen. Kids even younger than him are out wandering the streets every day. He needs this. He needs to get tough so he's ready for the real world, where moms aren't there to kiss your bruises and dads can't fix everything that breaks.

"We headin' out?" Dally asks, flipping his cigarette butt into the grass.

His question is followed by a series of whoops and hollers. "Hell yeah," Steve cries out. "We are gonna kick some ass."

Soda and Steve high-five as the group of us begins our trek.

#

There's already a crowd gathered by the time we arrive. It's like walking into a pool of tension as we close in, and I clench my jaw and flex my biceps almost without realizing I'm doing it.

The warehouses and the old mill that tower around us in the misty darkness make it feel like we're getting ready for battle in the middle of some futuristic city.

Is this what the future looks like?

My gaze rests on Ponyboy for a second, and then I shake off the philosophical bullshit and get back to what we're there for. "Where's Shepard?" I ask the nearest greasy hoodlum.

He gives me a sharp look at first, but tempers it down when he realizes who he's talking to. "Over there," he says.

Before I head over to talk to Shepard, I turn and take the front of Ponyboy's shirt in my fist so I can pull him up close to my face. His arm, icy cold, brushes against mine. "It's just like running," I tell him. "You just keep going through the hurt until you don't feel anything anymore."

It's the only way I can think to describe what he'll be going through soon. He nods.

I let go of his shirt and give him a pat on the cheek, and then Dallas trails me through the crowd while Ponyboy and Johnny follow Soda and Steve over to some kid Steve knows.

One of Tim's buddies gestures toward me, and Tim turns around just as I step up to him.

"How many you got?" I ask.

"Twelve," he says. "You want a cigarette?"

"No. We got seven tonight, counting me."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Brought my youngest brother," I tell him.

Tim nods. "Curly's here, too. He told me your kid brother beat the crap outta that Meyer kid a while back."

"Yeah," I agree. I'm not sure that Pony exactly beat the crap out of the kid, but he sure didn't lose the fight. All the better to let people inflate things a little. Reputation's got at least as much pull as truth, and a quiet kid like Pony can use all the reputation he can get in a neighborhood like ours.

By the time I'm making my way back toward my brothers, the kids from the river show up and everything slows down to a still hush.

Estimation has all kinds of practical applications, Ms. Terrance used to tell us in algebra class. Keeping track of your grocery bill as you move through the store, deciding whether you need to get more nails, figuring how many birds are coming to the feeder every day . . .

. . . knowing whether or not the opposing side has the upper hand before a rumble. With barely a glance,I figure there's just over twenty of them.

"I count twenty-one," Soda says a few seconds later.

You'd be proud of me, Ms. Terrance. All kinds of practical applications.

Steve leans toward me and lowers his voice. "Somebody's got a pipe."

I follow his gaze until I see the guy – a tough-looking greaser wearing a black leather jacket is swinging a long metal pipe next to his leg. Coward. But at least now I've got my start point. Everybody is staring each other down now, waiting for somebody to make a move.

I lock my eyes on Pipe Guy and walk straight to him. He sees me coming and looks around, waiting for some cue from his leader; I can see on his face that he's not sure what I'm up to. It only takes me a couple of seconds to get to him. If I'm not fast enough, he'll have time to think and react.

He takes half a step back when I invade his personal space.

I don't even pause to let him size me up. "No weapons," I say, and land my fist so hard onto the side of his head, he's down before he knows what hit him.

With something like a roar, the rumble starts.

I've been through them before, but no matter how many times you do it, you forget how fast everything happens. It's like you slow it all down later when you remember it, and it isn't until the next one comes along that you realize again what a spinning blur it all is. I barely have time to keep track of who I'm hitting and getting hit by, much less look out for Ponyboy, but I catch a glimpse of him at one point and see that he's helping Johnny. That's good – Johnny knows how to fight real good. He'll keep an eye on Pony.

After somewhere between a minute and forever, it's over. They're running, we're staying, and everybody loses one last burst of adrenaline to a victory shout.

Then, I sift through the wreckage for my brothers and our buddies.

Soda's got a bruise on his cheek and he's holding his arm, but he's got a smile on his face.

Steve looks about the same, but with a darker look in his eyes.

"The kid okay?" Two-Bit asks, falling into step next to me.

"Don't know," I say, holding back the surge of panic that's boiling up. Where is Ponyboy? "You see him anywhere?"

"There," Two-Bit says, pointing, just as I spot them. Johnny is squatting on the ground with his hand on Ponyboy's shoulder. Pony's lying curled up on his side, writhing.

I pick up the pace. How did we get this spread out? I shove somebody out of my way and barrel forward.

Ponyboy is rolling to his back just as I get to him.

"You okay, Pony?" Soda asks from right next to me. He keeps walking when I stop, and squats down next to Ponyboy to help him sit up.

He's too young for this, I think for the second time tonight. I shouldn't have brought him. He's got blood on his chin and he's holding his side and he's taking quick shallow breaths. I shouldn't have brought him with us. What if more of those guys had brought weapons? What if . . .

"You alright?" I ask, pressing the fear so deep inside of me, there's not even a hint of it in my voice.

Ponyboy squints up at me. He looks like he wants to cry, but I know he won't. Maybe some other kids his age would be bawling their eyes out, but not Ponyboy. He takes a quick breath, shakes it off, and smiles up at me. Neither one of my brothers is a pansy.

"He's okay," Soda says. "Just needs to catch his breath."

Pony takes the hand that I offer to pull him up.

"He did real good," Johnny offers, like he thinks maybe I'm disappointed with Ponyboy. Or maybe he can read my mind. Maybe Johnny Cade can see right through to my insides, still shaking apart from the image of my little brother curled up in a beaten heap on the ground.

Dally wanders over with two cigarettes hanging from his mouth and hands one to Johnny. All at once, the tension is gone; it's like we all know we're all okay, so now it's time to feel good about ourselves as we head back to our corner of the world.

"Did you see that bastard who tried to take me out with the board?" Two-Bit asks.

"How about the guy with the pipe?" Soda says, and pounds me on the shoulder.

"Showed him what happens when you mess with the best," Steve says, and everybody hoots and hollers.

Pretty soon we're all racing and jumping and laughing – even Ponyboy, though he's still got one arm wrapped around his side.

"Nice fighting," I tell him when we've slowed down and spread out some. I barely saw two seconds of him fighting, but I figure it'll give him even more confidence next time. Sometimes, with my brothers, I feel like Coach Rogers from high school football – breaking them down and then building them back up. You need to know when to push so hard they hurt, and when to be the rod that props them up.

Soda, he doesn't need me so much anymore. I'm not sure whether it's that he can take care of himself, or that the world will take care of him, but he's tough and he's the kind of guy who will always get himself out of trouble, so I'm not worried about him.

Ponyboy, though, I'm just starting with. He's got a lot to learn before I'll feel like he's ready to make a move without me more than a few steps behind.

"I guess you did okay, too," Ponyboy says with a grin, so I pull him into a headlock and hold on until he's begging me to let him go.

I set him free just before we turn the corner onto our road; just before we see the flashing lights up ahead.

It's not unusual to see cop cars pulled over on our street. Cold fear sweeps through me, though, when I realize it's parked in front of our house.

#

My throat's so tight and swollen, I'm not sure how I'm still talking. "That's right," I tell the officer. "No living relatives." Not any who can take care of us, anyway.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Twenty." The birthday cake's still in the icebox. With a detached feeling, I wonder if I should offer him some. Mom would.

Mom.

I'm suffocating. I swear, it feels just like I can't breathe. Can't speak, can't think, can't breathe. Maybe it's just as well, I think, because God help me, I want to go with them. I don't want to be left here without them.

With that thought, I look at my brothers. Ponyboy's not holding back now. He's crying openly, and Soda's holding him up, and I have to stop looking at the two of them. Just when I'm wondering why on earth they don't just sit down already, Ponyboy does exactly what I'm afraid is about to happen to me – he sinks to his knees and sobs into his hands.

". . . when you talk to Family Services tomorrow. Mr. Curtis?"

I blink at the officer when he calls me by my dad's name. "What?"

He sighs and puts a hand on my arm. "Somebody will come by tomorrow morning to help you out. You can stay here tonight? With your brothers?"

I nod. "I . . . I have an apartment. With a friend." It was only last month that Dad was helping me haul my junk over there. "I still have stuff here, though." It didn't all fit in the car, and then it started raining, so me and Dad decided to go for coffee instead of another load. Gaudy Christmas decorations hung all over inside of the diner, and the waitress asked if me and Dad were brothers. We laughed.

Then Dad told me he was proud of me.

". . . as they get everything figured out. Darrel?"

I stare at the officer again. "What?" It's all I can do to keep track of what he's asking me and what I'm was supposed to be saying.

He's older, like maybe in his fifties, and he's not looking at us like we're low-life scum. Maybe he came from our neighborhood, I think, and though I don't really care in the least where he came from or who he is, I'm already aware that I will never in my life forget either his face, or his voice.

He clips his papers together and gives me another pat on the arm. "We'll head out now. I'm sorry for your loss."

Our loss. They're gone. Oh, God.

The police officers leave, and I turn to my brothers. Ponyboy is just shaking and sniffling now, and he's holding tight to Mom's embroidery hoop. The needle, looped onto an attached piece of thread, dangles in the shadow of Mom's latest effort. I resist the urge to rip the thing out of Ponyboy's hands, still dirty from the rumble.

"We forgot your jacket," I say instead, and my brothers both look at me. "I'll go get it. I'll be right back."

Mom spent a lot of money on that jacket.

The door is barely closed behind me when the tightness in my chest erupts in a strangled sob. God Almighty, why is this happening? I barely even remember why we were so happy just a little while ago. Mom and Dad are gone. Mom and Dad are gone. Mom and Dad . . .

Now I'm shaking. Jesus Christ, this isn't supposed to be happening. They're not supposed to leave this soon. Not until I'm old, not until I'm ready. Another gasping sob breaks through, and I don't even try to fight it.

I hold the railing so I won't fall down the stairs, barely visible through my blurred vision. My legs feel like they'll give out any second, and all I can do is take another step, another step . . . just keep going through the hurt until you don't feel anything anymore.

Somebody coughs. I wipe my shirt across my face, take a quivering breath, and stand up straight; the cop car is still sitting there, lights off now, with the two officers leaning against it finishing their paperwork. The older one, the one who patted my arm, keeps his eyes steadily on the clipboard, and neither of them speaks as I walk through the front gate and turn toward the park.

"Damn shame," one of them says when they think I'm out of earshot.

"Yeah," the other one agrees. "It's a hell of a thing to have to carry this kind of load with no other family to help out. Hell of a thing, for a kid his age."