I am drowning.
There is no sign of land.
You are coming down with me
Hand in unlovable hand.
Jail was hard on him, and part of you wants to laugh at him and call him a pansy. He's almost seventeen fucking years old, for Christ's sake. He only got thirty days to begin with, and then that got knocked down to two weeks because of crowding. Hell, you went to jail when you weren't even ten yet. But you remember how that first time locked up got under your skin.
So you keep your trap shut. You let him brag and accept the praise about how tough he is. It makes you want to puke when he starts acting all cocky and smug, and you're this close to outing him. But you see the fear and hurt in his eyes that no one else does. You remember seeing that look in your own eyes, and you remember what Benji Bailey said back in New York. You never trash your buddy's reputation, not unless he really deserves it. You never know when you might need him to come through for you. It's something that these fuckers in Tulsa haven't gotten the hang of, and it makes knowing who to trust a real chore. That asshole Shepard over in the factory district is especially quick to hold a grudge. He and his outfit wouldn't have lasted a month in New York.
XXX
You get your moment alone with Mathews at Buck Merril's later that night. He's beyond half-crocked and leaning against the rickety back porch railing, smoking a cigarette, and swaying slightly from side to side. You clap your hand on his shoulder, and he jumps and screams like a little bitch. You can't help laughing as you hop up on the railing.
"Fuck you, Winston," he snarls.
"Yeah? That a threat or an offer?" you ask. "But, oh, guess I forgot. Mr. Tough Guy here did two whole weeks in the city jail for the incredibly heinous crime of petty theft. He can't possibly be a fag."
"Shut up, Dallas. You just shut up," Two-Bit says. He tosses his lit cigarette at you but misses by a mile because he's so drunk. "I don't recall you complainin' when I sucked your dick."
"And soon enough, all the petty criminals in the greater Tulsa area will know that Keith Mathews has the best mouth around."
He stares daggers at you, and you just smirk back at him. He slaps you open-palmed across the face like a girl would do, and then his lips crash against yours and his tongue forces its way into your mouth. It's only been two weeks, but he's kissing you like it's been a lifetime. You should've known he would. You've learned that he gets clingy.
He pulls out of the kiss and presses his forehead against yours. "Got a room?"
"You sure you're drunk enough to ask me that?"
"You drunk enough to answer?"
You respond by kissing him, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Upstairs. Third door on the left. Wait a couple minutes before you come up," you say before turning and going back inside.
XXX
He waits until it's over to start crying. Again, you should've known he would. But you still roll your eyes and sigh an exasperated sigh before wrapping your arms around him.
Your first instinct is to tease him or say something totally insensitive. But he's already crying, and you're in no mood to deal with it. So you just mumble, "shit, Mathews. Just don't."
It's as close to comforting him as you're going to get, and you think he probably knows it. But he still lays sniffling next to you as you nip at his shoulder blades.
"The other guys there…" he starts.
"I know it," you say. It was that way in New York, and it's that way here. You figure it must be a jail thing.
"I'm turnin' into my dad."
"Everybody does."
He pulls away from you and leans off the side of the bed. You rest your hand on the small of his back as he retches and coughs before falling back on his pillow and immediately passing out. You think getting all the extra alcohol out of his system was for his own good. But, when you wake up in the morning, your brand new boots are full of stale whiskey and bile. It takes all your willpower to keep from dumping the mess on his face. You figure waking up alone is punishment enough.
XXX
He spends the next few weeks avoiding you while trying to act like he isn't. It's annoying, and if you could get a few minutes alone with him, you'd shatter his jaw. That's what you tell yourself, at least, even though at night all you can think about is how his blow jobs are better than Sylvia's.
That's what you have in mind when you find him at the school that night in February. Things have been weird with the whole gang ever since Mr. and Mrs. Curtis passed last month. Everyone is taking it hard and poorly handling it in their own ways. You knew Two-Bit would do something stupid. But drunkenly throwing rocks at the high school windows while cursing at the top of his lungs is a whole new level. And he just won't shut the fuck up, even when the cops show.
All you've done is drink and feel a hollowness that you didn't feel even when your own ma left. You know it doesn't make any sense, but you feel like you need to try to break even with the universe. Maybe if you do something halfway decent for somebody, you'll quit being punished. It's really getting old.
You push Mathews into the bushes, grab his empty bottle of Jack and a rock off the ground, and start staggering toward the cops. They've got you cuffed and in the back of the squad car in under a minute.
XXX
It's only a six-week sentence, and you get it knocked down to four because you keep your nose clean. The first night you're out of jail is Steve Randle's birthday party, and he doesn't talk to you all night. But you're both drinking at Lone Goose the following night, and he throws a game of Snooker just to talk to you quicker.
"Well, well. There's my knight in shining leather."
"Just when I thought you couldn't be any more queer, you go and say something like that."
"Shut it. You fucking shut your goddamn mouth," he growls.
"I seem to recall you preferring my mouth when it was open. That's how I like yours, anyway. Long as you ain't yammering on about some bullshit."
He looks disgusted and then rolls his eyes.
"Wanna go to Buck's?" he asks.
You shake your head. "I owe him money. Don't wanna show up until he forgets. But my pa is out for the night. Maybe for the rest of his life. I don't fucking care."
"I'll meet you," he says. He gives you a long, deep kiss.
"Don't get too smashed," he purrs before he swaggers off.
"Ain't me I'm worried about," you mutter under your breath. You know he didn't hear you.
XXX
It's all over. The Socs are running scared to their Mustangs and their Sting Rays, and all your fellow greasers are jumping up and down and screaming. You won. You fucking won.
You tackle Mathews into a mud puddle and quickly kiss him on the lips.
"Gonna check on Johnnycake," you say. "I'll see you."
"I'm comin' with," he protests.
"You wanna get caught? 'Sides, your face looks like shit. Go let your girl play nurse. I'll see you later tonight, and we'll have some fun."
He bites down on his bottom lip and reluctantly nods. "Ok."
You give him another kiss before you push yourself off of him, grab the youngest Curtis, and take off in Buck's car. There's an awful sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You don't know why, but you don't think you'll ever see Mathews again.
I hope you die.
I hope we both die.
S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I only listen to The Mountain Goats, and they own No Children.
I'd love some feedback! :)