Ponyboy wonders how they got here, he and Two-bit; lying still on the ground, limbs sprawled, eyes shut. He can taste blood in his mouth. There is a puddle spreading out from under him, warm. Much warmer than he ever thought it'd be. Red, or black, he doesn't know. Somewhere in between death and life, floating, he lies, weak with misery and pain.
"Kid, kid, kid," Two-bit keeps saying. Ponyboy wants to tell him to shut up, but the effort to move his mouth is too much work, and all he does is stare up at the sky, mustering no strength at all.
Awareness flows through him. Thoughts speeding by and whipping across his mind like lightning.
They used to be walking on the side of the road, and now they're not. He thinks of screeching tires and the way that the socs had screamed, "Oh my God!" There was a flash of lights, and then identical thuds - Two-bit, and one from him, he wonders? Ponyboy can feel hands on his, telling him to hold the fuck on, holy shit, you're bleeding - and then there is nothing.
When Ponyboy wakes, he has regained some of his strength. He moves each limb once, at one point biting down on a scream. His legs are broken, his collarbone is shattered, there's glass in his hair, and the gravel from the side of the road has scraped his cheek. It burns, he muses, eyelids heavy. The world is black, he knows, folding in on itself, the universe non-existent at the moment because the feeling in his body is ten-fold, screaming and breaking and tearing of sack-cloth, wounds and scabs on skin, the heart literally bleeding because the valve doesn't shut properly, his mind like cracked glass. Red washes over his eyes and he blinks it away.
"Kid, you gotta stay awake," Two-bit says, voice broken, and Ponyboy lets his head loll to the side, so their eyes can meet. "God, thank God, you're alive. I thought you were dead." The words are choked, and Ponyboy shifts his fingers so that his brush his friend's the smallest bit. The simple movement is excruciating.
Two-bit coughs, and something red dribbles down his chin miserably. "You okay, Pone?"
"You're askin' me.." Pony manages, choking on the feeling of pennies rising in the back of his throat. He tries to hide the growing alarm inside of him, but fails. The sixteen year old connects their fingers once more. He doesn't wanna die alone.
Two-bit starts to take smaller breaths, each one frantic and garbled, as if he were inhaling liquid. He doesn't want Two-bit to die either.
"'ey, you keep your eyes open." He tells him, and Two-bit tries to smile, but the look is lost.
Ponyboy wonders how long they've been out here. If he were to scream, would they survive?
"I wish I 'ad a beer 'fore now." Two-bit slurs, eyelids slipping shut. He makes a sound that bubbles up inside of him strangely, as if he were breaking in two, and Ponyboy keeps their hands together as if he held on, he would never fall apart. He knows that there is nothing he can do. "... you think your brothers are lookin' for you?"
"Sure," Pony says, his own eyes now angled towards the starlit sky. He can see Heaven from here, he thinks. A mass of color and sound and light, right up in the middle of it all, swirling and rotating and breathing with laughter and love. He wonders what it's like, up there. "Darry an' Soda are prob'ly doin' it now. Lookin'."
"...that's nice," Two-bit muses, eyebrow quirked awkwardly, grinning feebly. "..I wish I said goodbye to my ma..." He admits. "I ain't ready to die yet... I know it sounds like a fool thing to say, but I didn't tell her goodbye this mornin', 'fore she went to work. She's always workin'." He pauses, inhaling. "I guess I ain't such a hood after all, huh, Pony?"
"Nah," Ponyboy breathes, but smiles. "You ain't never been a hood." At Two-bit's indignant expression, he attempts laughter, but fails. "You're too good."
He is glad that they are friends - Two-bit is unlike any other. Johnny was brave; he was always quiet and never a big fan of attacking those around him. He didn't steal, or rob liquor stores like Two-bit, but he did other things, like save Ponyboy's life. Two-bit's never done that, but that's okay. He doesn't exactly need to be saved.
Well, now he does, but where would that get them? Lying here, the ground cold and blood growing in puddles beneath them. He remembers what Johnny said, about there being a lot of blood in people. God, he was right. Ponyboy sobs but he can't wipe away his tears with his hands. He can't move his limbs.
Who will find them, he wonders, if they die? Will it be some stranger, driving down the road and hitting an unexpected bump in the road, the body twisted and gnarled and hands, still connected with another corpse. Or will it be Soda, or Darry, or Steve? Who will cry and duck their head and say, not the kid, not Two-bit.
"Do you ever miss your mom and dad, Pone?" Two-bit asks suddenly, words harsh from lack of use. So much time has passed but maybe not - maybe it just feels like it, after all: his brain is shutting down.
"All the time," Ponyboy admits, and Two-bit squeezes his fingers in assurance; it's okay, the words unspoken. "Your dad?"
"No, not really." Two-bit says, then, "he was never around when he was here, so I ain't really thought of 'im often. If he loved my Ma, he had a funny way 'a showin' it." There is a long moment of silence, only broken by wet coughs and labored breathing. Two-bit's hand falls out his grasp, and he struggles to grasp it back.
"I'm tired," Two-bit finally states, eyelids closed, curled up on himself. Ponyboy has forgotten about his pain until now, and it comes rushing back; if screaming were a feeling, it'd be this, and maybe he does scream. Maybe he is already dead.
"Kid, kid," when he's back into reality, he can't stop thinking about his crooked legs, or the puddle that had seeped through his clothes, red and black at the same time.
It begins to rain.
"Are you ready?" Two-bit asks, voice wobbling with uncontained fear. He reconnects their hands and seems to deflate a little, as if all the air suddenly rushes out of his chest. "I'll see you there, Pone. Where ever the hell we end up."
Ponyboy can only nod. He memorizes the sound of his voice, and hopes that wherever he ends up next, is somewhere better than this. Somewhere without socs or greasers, somewhere with laughter and joy, and god, he's gonna die alone, he isn't ready, so many things he will never do; Two-bit's hand goes limp in his as the older male lets go, thrown into some reality. Perhaps somewhere, as this breath is released, someone else will take that breath and exhale, and inhale, and exhale. He wonders who will mourn for him.
His eyes open, close, and then do not open again.