Disclaimer: The Outsiders is property of S.E. Hinton. "Bad Moon Rising" is property of Creedence Clearwater Revival.

A/N: This fic contains slash (nothing graphic) and plenty of language.

Bad Moon Rising
an endless summer

You like girls. You like them a lot. They're pretty and they smell good and they look real nice in short skirts. And sure, they talk a lot, but some of them—not many, but a few—know when to stop yammering and complaining and put their mouths to better use.

Girls are great ... fantastic, even. So it makes no sense that you're standing on Ponyboy Curtis's doorstep at some ungodly hour of the morning, halfway crocked and wanting his company more than anyone else's. It doesn't make a bit of sense that you're here instead of at Donna's, when you know her folks are away and she'd put out for you any day of the week. You're a guy, she's a chick, and that's the way things are. You dig her because she has a nice rack and really soft hair. The fact that Pony is Pony and gets you better than any broad ever will doesn't change that.

But it does explain what you're doing here. Maybe.

The Curtises never lock up, not even at night, so there's no need to knock. You pull aside the screen door and reach for the cold metal handle in front of you. Sure enough, the front door swings open. The hinges creak a little, and the noise startles you, makes you stumble over the threshold. Or maybe you would've tripped anyway. Maybe you're more than halfway crocked—you're not really sure how much you drank, but it must have been a lot because you can hold alcohol like a champ.

You should be quiet, you know. Pony's brother Darry doesn't like you as it is—hell, you know you're not the best influence—and he sure won't be thrilled if he finds out you've shown up at his house in the middle of the night to further corrupt his little brother. And nobody in their right mind would want to tangle with a pissed-off Darrel Curtis.

The couch isn't empty like you'd expected; someone's already claimed it. That means you'll be sleeping on the floor tonight. You don't mind. It's better than your other option.

It's not until you trip over a discarded paperback book that you realize it's Pony on the couch.

You have to lean closer to make sure. Pony's fast asleep. One arm dangles off the edge of the couch; his head and torso seem dangerously close to following. His T-shirt is gradually riding up his abdomen, and his expression is peaceful. You almost don't want to wake him, but you need him—you need someone there.

"Curtis," you hiss, because Darry is probably asleep down the hall.

You should have known it'd be a wasted effort. Pony sleeps like he's dead, and it'd take a lot of shaking before he'd begin to stir. But you have a real nice buzz from that whiskey you drank, and you don't feel much like keeping your voice down.

So you try again, louder this time, and give Pony a good hard shove. There's a solid thud and suddenly the kid is muttering curse words into the carpet. He finally rolls over onto his back and blinks, bleary-eyed, up at you.

"Shepard? What the hell ..."

You snicker. "Good to see you, buddy."

"Hey." Pony is on his feet in an instant, feeling around the room for a light source. "You said you were comin' over."

You think about this for a minute. "I guess I did, huh? Well, here I am." Stupidly, you spread your arms wide like you're expecting a hug or something.

Pony finds a lamp and clicks it on. "You said you were coming around seven," he clarifies, those damned sharp eyes of his narrowing in suspicion. "I been waiting for you, man."

Most people wouldn't be dumb enough to wait for you if you don't show up when you say you will; Pony is. You hate that. "Why would you do that?"

Pony rubs his jaw and looks right at you in that way he has until you finally turn away, feeling uncomfortable. "I heard about Tim, Curly," he says to you. "I heard the cops dragged him in tonight." The pause he makes is short and painful, and the word he's not saying hangs in the air between the two of you.

Manslaughter.

Something takes hold of your stomach and squeezes it tight. "What do I care, huh?" you say to no one in particular. "What the fuck do I care if Tim's too fucking stupid to cover his tracks?" Your voice is getting louder, but you don't care. This can't happen. Tim isn't stupid. He can't be arrested, not for something like this. This isn't like stealing hubcaps—you can get years in the pen for killing someone. And Tim never loses control. Never. He's fucking invincible.

You swear under your breath and turn away. What sort of candyass are you, anyway, running to Curtis 'cause your big brother isn't around? You're a Shepard. Shepards take care of themselves, because they know no one else will. They don't have to depend on anyone. No. You don't need anyone.

Even though you're not sure when it happened, you realize that Pony's beside you and his hand is on your shoulder, and it shouldn't be a comfort, but it is.

"I think you should stay here tonight." He speaks in that low, steady way of his. You feel like he's aged ten years since he was fourteen. "You smell like the inside of a liquor cabinet."

That should've pissed you off, but you're pretty sure it's true. And you're too tired to argue, so you don't say anything. Pony seems to take this as a sign of agreement and claps you on the shoulder. "Make yourself comfortable."

He's talking about the couch. You ignore this. When he moves to leave the room, you follow without really realizing it.

"For chrissakes, keep it down, would ya?" Pony says, even though you didn't know you were making noise. You don't even know what you're doing, but following is easier than standing still sometimes. "Darry already thinks you're a bad influence on me." He grins at you, and you have to stare. "Remember that time you got me drunk? Back when I was thirteen?"

You smirk a little. For some reason or other, you can talk Pony into pretty much anything.

When Pony reaches the bathroom, he gives you this look before closing the door in your face, and you think in momentary raw panic that he must know. He must. He knows everything you've thought about him since ... Well, since you're not sure when. All you know is that one Tuesday during a lunch of candy bars and Pepsi, as Pony detailed his date with some chick you didn't care about, you caught yourself looking at him and wondering what it would be like to kiss him. And then one night the next week, after a frustrating evening that ended with Debbie something-or-other leaving your house before you could get past second base, you found yourself thinking about him—and not her—before you fell asleep.

It came out of nowhere, and you're still not sure what it means, but you know enough to realize you shouldn't ever think of a buddy of yours like that. Especially not one who's willing to wait up for you all night and is the only reason you're not failing history (yet) and who once played cigarette chicken with you just because you said it would be fun. Not Pony, who still gives a shit.

Tim always told you you cared too much. The nagging thought comes up even though you don't want it to.

You punch the wall in front of you. It's halfhearted.

A second later, Pony opens the bathroom door with a toothbrush in one hand. He glares at you, but you have a hard time taking him seriously when he's wiping toothpaste from his mouth.

"Are you trying to wake the whole damn neighborhood?" Pony asks in a low voice.

You try to formulate an answer, but nothing really comes out.

Pony looks at you for a long time, glances over his shoulder at his bedroom door, then sighs and puts his hand on your shoulder again. Warmth seeps through your thin T-shirt (you don't know when you lost your jacket), and you realize you're shaking and will yourself to stop. Shaking is weakness, and you are not weak.

Still, you let him guide you through the living room and out the front door into the cold night air and think that maybe he gets more than you give him credit for. The chill immediately stings your cheeks, pierces through that layer of warmth. Every cell of your skin tingles, and you're not really sure why.

And goddamn it, you're still shaking.

After a minute of just standing there, you all but collapse against the house and let it hold you upright as you slide to the ground. Some part of your brain registers when Pony sits down next to you, but you don't move. Half of you wants to shove him away from you, tell him to lay off, let him go to bed. But you know he won't go away, he won't leave you alone; you can try all you want, but you started this when you came over here and he's not about to end it.

You put your head in your hands. They ache to hit something—you can feel it around the dull throbbing in the rest of your body. Usually you'd give in because you're an act-first-think-later type of guy. But for some reason, you can't seem to move.

That's how Tim got in trouble. He lost control. He acted first and thought later.

Christ ... and he called you stupid ...

When you close your eyes, you see Tim; he's sweating and slicked with blood that isn't his. You hear the wail of police sirens; it's more like a dull roar because your ears are ringing. You feel your hands shaking; your fingernails dig into your palms.

You smell death; it chokes your tongue, and you hate yourself for that. You hate yourself for getting all shook up. So someone got killed. So maybe you didn't know Tim had a heater. So maybe you saw it happen—big fucking deal. You always were trying to convince Tim to stop treating you like a tagalong, to let you do something, to stop leaving you out of gang business because you're not a kid anymore. Well, he showed you what could happen and you couldn't handle it.

You hate yourself for that, too.

Pony shifts beside you, and then his arm comes across your shoulders and he's saying, "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," and you're lifting your head to look at him even though he's right; you don't want to talk about it. You wish you'd gone to someone else, anyone else. Anyone in the gang would probably kick your ass out of their house for being there so late, and you almost wish Pony would. Almost, but not quite.

"I don't." You push a hand through your mop of curls and wish for a cigarette. Pony says he's trying to quit, but you'd bet he has one. Still, you don't ask.

"Okay." Pony makes no move to get up. Even though you wish he would, you're still sort of glad he doesn't.

What you really want is for him to stop fucking touching you. He doesn't know anything. He can read you like one of his books, but he doesn't know a thing. Not really. But his arm is still across your shoulders and his body is warm next to yours and you know why you came. Because Pony knows when to keep his trap shut, and when he does talk, he tends to say the right thing entirely on accident.

And damn him, you like that. And that makes you hate him.

The two of you sit there and listen to crickets chirping and the sound of someone hollering in one of the houses down the road until you can't take it anymore. You can't stand silence.

"I don't know," you say, and you can hear the thickness in your voice, the heaviness from the whiskey. "I don' know what's gonna happen to the gang now."

Pony says nothing, just rubs his jaw again and watches you with intent green eyes.

Tim's been arrested before, sure, and sometimes for a few months at a time. And it was hell at home. Sure, y'all never really got along great to begin with, and sure, Tim was hardly ever home as it was. But he's the only one who can handle your stepfather, the only one who can look Frank in the eyes and make him back down. And everything's worse when Tim's gone, and now it could be years ... years. And what the hell is the gang supposed to do without him?

"And, fuck, Pony, I don' know what's gonna happen to me an' Angel." Now that your mouth's going, you can't stop it. "I hate him for leavin'. I hate him!"

Hot tears well in your eyes for the first time in years, and by this time you're sure you're more than a little crocked. You never cry, not ever. And you'll be damned if you let those tears show. It doesn't matter how fucking scared you are. Nothing matters. You keep your cool no matter what.

Christ, you want to hit something. You finally shrug away from Pony's arm.

"Hey, hey, whoa." Pony can keep his head when you're going crazy. It's one of the reasons you like him. And now it's one of the reasons you want to hit him. How can he just sit there, thinking he's so smart when he doesn't know anything at all? He doesn't even realize how much you hate him right now. He doesn't know what you want to do when you look at him—

"Damn it!" you spit, and it's not as harsh as you intended. "Don't talk to me like I'm crazy. Christ on a cracker ..." You're babbling now, talking nonsense. You don't even care. He can't be this stupid. He can't just sit there looking like he does and— You swear furiously.

"Curly." Pony squints in confusion, and he's so damned innocent that you want to punch something. At sixteen, he seems to be getting taller and stronger every day, but he'll always be the same kid—doe-eyed and clueless about anything that really matters. He sees things two ways—black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. Some people call you dumb, but you know things are never black and white. You know about stuff that matters.

But you can't help it. He's so damned stupid and so damned beautiful that it hurts. And you have to do this.

So you lean over and kiss him and it's all toothpaste and innocence. He's stunned—you can almost taste it—but he doesn't shove you away or punch you in the face or do anything else any other guy would do in the same situation. And you don't know what made you think this would get it out of your system, because when he begins to respond, the world stops moving and starts to crumble around you. Then it's just the two of you, because you're both young and good-looking and a little reckless and that's enough to get away with a whole hell of a lot.

His lips slide over yours, and they're rougher than a girl's but almost gentle. He kisses slowly, curiously, and the inside of his mouth is hot and wet and foreign to your tongue. And somehow this mess is perfect in the most ridiculous way. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pull on it until he gasps a little. It's as soft as any girl's. And you think maybe you could sit here forever, just sit on the Curtises' front porch feeling like this.

It might be the alcohol talking, but you don't think so.

Pony finally pushes you away. You're both gasping, gulping in ragged breaths of air, and as your head clears, part of you thinks he's going to hit you now, punch you and run. You've ruined everything and you know it, even if he won't say it. Because you can tell when he looks at you that he won't ever see you the same way again.

"Curly—" he starts to say.

"Don't say anything, Curtis," you interject, and there's venom in your voice, so much venom he recoils for a second. And that's all you need. You have to get out of there. You can't sit here with him for a second longer—your mind's reeling and you feel like your head might explode. And nothing's better because you've made it all worse.

You do the only thing you can think of. You stand up, clench your teeth against a rush of dizziness, and walk away.

You're kidding yourself, though. You know he'll come after you, and you can try to run, but he'll catch up in a second anyway. So you don't even bother. You place one foot in front of the other and will yourself not to stumble. You can do a lot with willpower; you don't trip.

It's only a few seconds before he catches you, grips your arm firmly with a strong hand, turns you around. He won't look you in the eyes, but he speaks in a quick, low voice. He blames the alcohol and the shock and tells you it's okay and that you should still stay here tonight. There's a dull ache in your chest, but when he tries to grin at you, you have to try to grin in return. You know then that if he wants to pretend whatever just happened didn't happen, to play it off as nothing, you'll go along with it. You'd probably go along with any damn thing he wanted, and that makes you weak, but you're just too tired to care.

Pony follows you back into the house like he's expecting you to run off or something. You can't muster the energy to feel annoyed. And when you're inside, he waits for you to settle down on the couch and brings you a blanket from the hall closet. You take it without a word and wait for him to leave. After a minute's hesitation, he does.

He comes back a few minutes later, as you knew he would, clad only in a pair of pajama pants and shuffling his feet like a little kid. You make a point of not looking at him.

The silence between you is deafening.

It takes a minute, but he comes closer. A smell of soap and pine and something uniquely him permeates the barrier between you, the one you managed to put up through sheer willpower. You can almost see it crash to the ground. Still, you say nothing. You knew he would come back in—he's predictable, goddamned predictable.

"You're gonna be okay without him."

You knew he would say that—he's too smart and too dumb not to. And you realize he's telling you the truth. He really thinks everything's going to be okay without Tim. He thinks you'll be okay. For some reason, he believes that. And for some ridiculous reason, that makes you believe that. Just for a second, you let yourself believe everything will be okay. Even though Tim's gone. Even though you might have gone and fucked up the most stable friendship—or whatever the hell it is—that you've ever had. Even though things are falling apart.

Still, you believe him. Because, damn him, that's just what he does to you.

A/N 2: A million thanks to the other half of this pen name for her infinite patience and for her help with this. :)