I do not own The Outsiders.
You know him as Two-Bit Mathews, rusty sideburns, black-handled switchblade, drooling over blondes like a freaking dog Greaser who's a worse gossip than a girl Soc. You know him as the wise-cracking, never back down from a fight, shop-lifting, eighteen and still a junior, can't ever keep his mouth shut, no good hood. He's the guy who never cries, but can't help but make other people laugh. He can charm the pants off anyone and I'm pretty sure has, and is always grinning. He's a real good buddy to his gang and known all around Tulsa. The cops have him on their radar and he thinks it's a reason to brag.
To me, though, he ain't some big tough hood stalking the streets of Tulsa. He's nothing but Keith Mathews who don't give two-shits. He's the get drunk, disappear to hunt action with his greasy gang, start a fight, get in trouble, come in at three in the goddamn morning, waking up the entire neighborhood, lazy ass that's passed out on the couch right now. My nose scrunches at the sour stench and my stomach twists at some far away memory I don't want to think about.
I push those unwelcomed thoughts aside and wonder what in the almighty god forsaken universe all those girls he goes through sees in a guy like my brother. I always want to tell them he ain't worth it. They'll find a hundred guys like him if they go stand on some street corner. I would feel kind of bad, the way he tosses them aside like a dirty rag, but they got to know what they're getting into. He is notorious Two-Bit Mathews, after all.
This thought makes me sicker to my stomach. I can't look at him anymore. My eyes dart around the house, instead. The place is a mess, always is. And it don't help that he and sometimes his friends come tramping through, make it worse, than leave. I feel bad for Ma, working till she can hardly stand, and then coming home to the pig sty. I try to help out, I do, but it gets frustrating when it's mostly his drunk sorry ass and I'm the only one cleaning it all up. Lately, it all is a result of the old Mathews stubbornness. He won't do nothing, so I won't do nothing and we'll see who can last longer. The problem is he could live in a freaking dumpster and be content and my impatience will win out over my stubbornness. It always does.
What's worse is he's ma's golden-boy. As far as she's concerned, he can do no wrong. She thinks I can do no wrong either, but I actually don't do nothing wrong, well at least not as wrong as him. And it ain't like she ain't appreciative, she is, but it's frustrating as hell when she thinks he wears a halo no matter what.
I swear my mother is a saint. The only good thing about my brother is he says the same thing. But, see, she's gotta be a saint to put up with him and her life. I try not to be too much trouble for her, and I succeed for the most part, but Keith's always causing problems. Like when she has to use her paycheck on his bail for talking back to cops. She don't raise her voice or nothing to him, just gives him this real tired smile and he thanks her by running off with his buds. I think she should let him rot in jail, then maybe we'd actually be able to afford a decent meal and the house wouldn't be such a mess.
" 'Ey little sis," Keith slurs as he unsteadily sits up.
"Two." I nod a greeting. He don't answer to Keith no more and I ain't gonna call him Two-Bit. No matter what. Two, like Two-shits, I think, as in you don't give any. When we were really young, I would've grinned at him at told him 'careful, Two, people might start calling you two-by-four.' Thinking of that awful schoolyard chant that haunted many a student and teacher alike in elementary school and the early years of junior high, calling him Two-by-Four might be a more accurate description of him now. I bet he'll develop a beer gut in a year or two and go bald and no blonde will ever want to hang all over him again.
I hate that he looks so much like ma. Ma says it ain't her he looks like, and I wonder if that's why she'd let him get away with murder. But he's got the same red hair. I'd give anything for that. Then maybe I wouldn't mind so much looking at my own reflection. People say they got the same sense of humor, too, but I don't think he's that funny. And for a long time Ma's been too tired for things like cracking jokes.
He flashes a toothy grin. "Why don't you be nice and get me a beer?"
I snort and turn on my heel to the kitchen. "I ain't your damn maid." Truth is we don't got any beer. We don't got nothing in the fridge, except the final egg in a carton, but even if we did he's got two arms and legs that are functional, so screw him and his lazy ass. And, frankly, I ain't about to be nice to him in the least.
He follows me into the kitchen, rummages through the cabinets and fridge, discovers what he'd know if he ever cared to stay home long enough, and heads out, slamming the door behind him, with no word.
The truth is I'm just waiting for the day he walks out that door and never comes back.
AN: So, for some reason I have been very nervous about posting this story. I already have several chapter written out, but I think part of my nervousness has to do with just how many OCs there are in this story, as well as the style and everything. The characters from the book I'm trying really hard to keep in character, but keep in mind this is also from Two-bit's sister's perspective. This story sort of came about because of another fanfiction I was writing where Steve's dad and Two-bit's mother gets together. In the midst of writing that, the character I made for Two-bit's sister sort of stole the spotlight and her character wouldn't leave me alone. I started writing this, but then some OCs just sort of randomly walked on and I wasn't really planning on the direction this story took, but yeah. Sometimes characters have a mind of their own, if you know what I mean.
