Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders or their characters.

You could see that he was watching you out of the corner of your eye. It made you terribly uncomfortable, though you'd never dare to admit it. It made it worse that he wasn't even thinking to hide how is eyes were drawn to you, how they were scrutinizing your skin and your hands and the sweat dripping off your face as you tinker with the car's engine. The light coming from the porch attracted moths and beetles, but he never lifted a hand to wave them away.

Damn this heat. It shouldn't be this fucking hot at eleven o'clock at night. Sometimes you wished you could move up north to Michigan or New York or whatever goddamn states they got up there that get colder.

He shakes his head but doesn't tear his eyes away from you. "I don't wanna go, Steve. I really fuckin' don't. But I can't stay." His voice isn't nearly as strong as it should be.

You work on the car, pretend you didn't hear him, hold your breath to keep from screaming, crying. He doesn't buy it. He won't play with you. Not tonight. Not after that motherfucking letter those assholes from the military sent him.

He clears his throat, begins to speak. "Stevie . . ."

But it's too much.

"Shit, Sodapop!" Your wrench goes flying and disappears in the darkness. "Why the hell are you lettin' 'em take you away, huh? I mean, your brothers need you!" You're sure everyone on the street can hear you, just like they could hear Johnny's mama when she wailed at him. "You help pay the bills! And what about Ponyboy, huh? What if y-" Your voice falters. No more words will come from your mouth.

He smiles slightly, his jaw quivering. Pushing himself off the fence, he makes his way over to you. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery. Goddamn.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste metal. It mixes with your saliva and fills your mouth but you don't dare swallow in fear of vomiting on your shoes.

He reaches up and cups your face in his hand, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. A tear slips out of the corners of his eye and you can see the reflection of the moon in the little bubble of salty liquid.

He can't leave. Especially not now. For fuck's sake, you just lost two of your gang members only six months ago! He can't go off to you-don't-know-where and do you-don't-know-what and kill and be killed. He just can't. You won't let him.

Instantly, you grab his shoulders and pull him into you and he buries his face in your shoulder. His body shakes as he cries and you wonder what in the world is keeping you from bawling right along with him.

But instead of wasting your time thinking, you lower yourselves to the ground and sit, pulling him into your lap. Inside, you can hear his younger brother screaming and his older one talking over him to try and calm him down. Your curious about why he's out here with you and not in there with them.

He pulls away but keeps a grip on your shoulders as he looks into your eyes. He's way more good-looking than you, even with red eyes and a puffy face.

"Goddamn it, Steve," he whispers. You close your eyes, unable to look at him when he's like this. Your breathing is rocky and uneven.

Lips crash against yours, surprising you so much that you topple backwards, laying on your back with a body straddling your hips. The lips pull away, though you wish they hadn't. When you open your eyes, he's the only one there. He shakes his head again.

"I'm sorry, Stevie," he whispers. He leans down, kisses your forehead, then stands up and goes inside.

Your head spins, your eyes water, and you realize that you can't fucking live without him.

Tomorrow you'll tell him that he's not going alone.