A/N: This chapter is rated M for adult content.


How do I end up this way?
A constant knot in my gut
tied with uncertainty and lust
a classic case, I suppose
a haunted man who can't outrun his ghosts
they're in my skin, in my bones.

For the next three days, Curly did nothing but go to school and eat what little food there was in the house. He was developing insomnia - he couldn't sleep next to Tim anymore, trading the comfort of their bed for the lumpy cushions of the couch in the den. The last time he'd talked to his brother was Sunday night, after he'd taken the bullets out of Pete MacIntosh's gun and was standing at the bottom of the staircase, eyes distant, voice cold and detached.

There're a lot of things you won't understand, he'd said, and Curly'd gone from feeling hopeful to hopeless. His own brother was shoving him away just when they needed each other the most, into a neat little box in the back of his mind where it could stay there, feelings disregarded. This was Tim's way of dealing with the world, and when the spiraling mess with Wade got too complicated, too bloody, he'd run away before it could catch up to him.

Curly was reminded of what he'd said to Ponyboy at school, only two weeks ago, when they were talking about Tim, how he'd take care of himself. Always have, always will, he'd answered, and Ponyboy shifted at this, like he didn't believe him.

Now, he thought, could his friend have seen through the lie? Seen how each time Tim went away, the sentences got longer, the phone calls and letters rarer? How Angela got moodier, wearing her clothes a size too small, her makeup heavier? How the hole in Curly's chest grew and grew, until he was sure his heart and lungs should've fallen through it? And then, on those long days when he'd sit outside the penitentiary in McAlester in the Charger, waiting for his brother to walk out as a free man, he'd get so nervous that he'd roll down the car window because he couldn't breathe? How, once they'd come home, Tim'd act like he'd never left it, like things were the same, when they really weren't; and the hole in Curly would get so small, so foolishly small, like it wasn't there at all, until Tim said or did something that made him realize that the hole would never go away, that sinking feeling that made him wake up in the middle of the night, wanting to vomit?

It seemed like months had passed since he'd last seen his friend, so he made a point of stopping Ponyboy in the hallway on Thursday. Curly had to raise his voice over the drone of slamming lockers and after-school chatter, but it worked - he informed Pony of the party Tim was going to that Friday, on the West side. Where? he'd asked, and Curly said, Randy Adderson's, and at this Ponyboy's face paled, his mouth twisted. He'd stammered out an excuse of how he had to go and left the building without another word, something Curly was - more often than not - getting used to.

On Friday night, Curly - rummaging in a kitchen cabinet for a water glass - didn't hear the throat being cleared behind him or the scraping of the chair legs as one was dragged out from the table. He was too preoccupied to see his brother's face reflected in the windowpane as he stood over the sink, water rushing from the tap and into the glass.

"Goin' out tonight?"

Curly turned the tap off and shrugged, a shrug that said so what if I am. He leaned against the counter, eying his brother coolly, who had placed his pack of cigarettes on the table and was spinning it around with his fingers. Slouched over in his chair, he looked like a little kid who hadn't gotten what he wanted for Christmas and was pouting about it.

"The party's gonna be huge."

"Really."

Curly was trying to sound as disinterested as possible. The air felt thick and it was uncomfortable; their conversation was another thing being forced these days, and to be honest, he'd been looking forward to the copious amounts of alcohol and girls he'd snag, but Tim was ruining his night just like he ruined everything else.

With anger building in his veins, Curly tightened his fingers around the glass and breathed in, wanting to confront Tim and say all the words he couldn't to before, stand up for himself for once, though he knew that somewhere inside of him deep, deep down, he didn't have the strength to do it, at least not now.

"Is Curtis coming?"

"I doubt it."

"You want a ride, then?"

Tim got up from his seat, took out his car keys from his jacket pocket, and passed his cigarettes off to Curly on the way out of the room. The sound of his footsteps drifted from the dark hallway and back to where Curly stood in the yellow light of the kitchen, the distance between them having never felt so far away.

xxx

As usual, Tim was right; by the time they'd parked the car a ways down from Randy Adderson's house, people were everywhere, highlighted by the glowing red tip of cigarettes on the front porch or the soft rays of inside light moving across the front lawn.

Once inside, Tim moved his way straight through the crowd and into the kitchen for a beer, while Curly stood in the foyer, unable to move his gaze from the elaborate furnishings pushed against the walls - presumably to make more room for the guests - and expensive paintings just waiting to be ruined by a spilt drink or stolen. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a large crystal vase on the coffee table in the next room, and he felt that familiar itch in his fingers to taint it, to wrap it under his jacket and keep it there, against his burning skin. To have something finally belong to himself that hadn't already been used and then thrown aside by his brother: girls, cars, money.

But for all his faults, there was one thing that Tim Shepard wasn't, and that was stupid. Breaking into that liquor store a year ago was all Curly's doing, and his responsibility to own up to it. That was why he'd told Wade Hamilton where Tim was, why he'd - involuntarily - started the war. Because nothing ever changed, nothing ever would change, and he was tired of sitting on the sidelines, waiting for something to happen that didn't.

xxx

He was sure he'd mistaken her for someone else. Surely she wouldn't be sitting at the top of the stairs, fingers shaking to keep the cup pressed to her mouth, a long red line that dragged down her face at a crooked angle, as if she was trying not to frown.

He hadn't seen much of her after the funeral and hadn't planned a grand reunion since he'd been home from McAlester simply because he didn't want to interact with his past, enter another mess he wouldn't be able to get out of, cope with all the hurt he felt inside each and every day. She'd written him a few times while he was away, letters he'd never opened until it was dark enough in his cell that he wasn't able to make out the words clearly, until those three words, thinking of you, didn't matter. It was easier, then, to push the emotions away, to pretend they weren't there, but now, in the light, it was nearly impossible to run.

There was a hallway to his left, and he walked down it, ignoring the pull at the bottom of his jeans as she tugged at the material, the calling of his name. Her heels clicked on the hardwood as she followed him like they both knew she would, and when he stopped at the farthest door, he turned to her.

"What the hell're you doing here, Sylvie?" he asked, his voice low. He was the only one that called her that, Sylvie; Dally had preferred Sylvia, but Tim had always liked the way it sounded on his tongue as the letters rolled off, how it was uncomplicated and sweet and nothing like her.

She crossed her arms over her chest, ignorant or pissed, he could never tell with her. "I'd like to ask you the same, Timothy."

He smirked in the darkness, reached out to play with the hem of her shirt. It was low-cut, one he hadn't seen before, and one he'd especially love to toss onto the floor. "You know you're not supposed to wear white after Labor Day, right?"

"Like I care."

His fingers skimmed over the lower part of her stomach, a barely-there touch, but it got the reaction he wanted out of her: She tensed, confidence faltering, her breath hitched.

"Fuck you," she hissed, though her voice trembled out through her teeth, and his smirk transformed into a smile, an expression that didn't fit his face. She was being hostile, and he fucking loved it, wanted more of it, wanted nothing, not even air, between her body and his.

He snaked his other hand around her waist, pulling her into him so his mouth was in her hair, hers resting on his chest, right where his heart would be if what all that shit people said was true, if he really had one. Their bodies fit together in a way that her's and Dallas' never did - easily - and he ran his thumb over her cheekbone, brushing away a stray piece of hair that had fallen into her face.

"You're such a dirty girl, Sylvie," he said, his lips at her earlobe, his teeth nibbling at the sensitive skin there. "It's a goddamn shame you'll have to settle for little ol' me." And then his mouth was on hers, his tongue pressing her lips open, and she gasped at the contact, pressed her hips into his for more. She tasted familiar - all smoke and no fire - and he moved his hands up her shirt.

She arched her back, exhaling his name, and then it was no longer a name, it was a plea, a beg. "We can't… not here…"

He ignored her, his lips trailing down her neck and into the hollow of her clavicle, his teeth tugging down her shirtsleeves to expose her naked shoulders, bite marks left on her flushed skin. Just as he was about to pop open the first button on her blouse - knowing her, there weren't many she'd closed in the first place - she pulled away.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Tim complained, leaning his head against the cold wall behind him. He clenched his jaw, suddenly hating her and how she fucked with his head, how she made it harder for him to breathe when he already couldn't, and he was tired, so, so tired of it all.

"I still love him, Tim."

She said this as if she were confessing her sins, and he was reminded of all those hours spent at the church up the street from his house when he'd done the same - when he'd sat in a small, dark room and lied to the priest, giving the vaguest details of whatever trouble he'd gotten into that weekend, and been told to pray for his soul to not be damned, to repent for all the crimes he'd committed.

But he never gave a fuck about you, I did. The words were on the backs of his teeth, fighting their way onto his tongue and through the small space of his parted lips, and he knew that he should've said them, and if he wasn't a coward then he would've said them, but all that came out was, "Jesus Christ, it's been more than a goddamn year, Syl! When're you going to get it through your skull that he's fucking dead?"

Her cheeks burned, and she made a noise at the back of her throat, a whimpering sound, as if she'd just been slapped, and he immediately regretted it. Her eyes were glistening, and then it all happened very fast.

One second her hands were on his chest, shoving him away, and in the next he was up against the wall and once again her lips were on his and she was saying that she was sorry, so sorry, but didn't he understand that she couldn't do this to Dally, she just couldn't? And he heard himself say yeah, he understood, even though he didn't, he never would, and she gave him a peck the cheek, squeezed his hand, told him to take care. And then her heels were clicking on the hardwood, carrying her away from him, and he slid down the wall and onto the floor with his heart stuck halfway up his throat.

xxx

The cigarette in Curly's mouth tasted stale, though he lit it anyway, wanting to get the grassy taste of the whiskey out of his throat. It was a little after midnight, and he'd slipped outside to have a second to himself, the night cold and silent. Most of the party had dwindled down to a few guests that were either all over each other in the upstairs bedrooms or passed out on armchairs or couches. He guessed that Tim was of the former; the host, Randy, was of the latter.

Large Oak trees were plotted around the patio in the backyard, and between their branches he could see the faintest pattern of stars scattered across the black sky. It was a peculiar sight, considering that the only thing he could see from his bedroom window was the faint glow of the streetlamp on the corner.

If Ponyboy were here, he would've said something poetic about how beautiful it was, not caring how stupid or frilly it sounded, and Curly would've mumbled in agreement. But his friend was at his own house, sleeping away the darkest hour of the night, and as his second cigarette died out, the door behind him opened and a shadow stepped onto the deck.

Even in the dim light, he could tell it was Sylvia. Her hair was mussed; she had flakes of mascara on her cheeks, the buttons of her shirt were in the wrong holes, and she looked at Curly with pure disgust. "You're brother's a fucking asshole," she said, her voice cracking on the last syllable, and he grinned.

"So I've heard. What'd he do this time?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Alright." He shook out two more Marlboros from his pack - fuck it if they tasted bad - and lit them both, passing one to her, his hanging from the corner of his mouth, the paper soggy on his tongue. That was the thing about brothers: it killed you if you had one, and killed you if you didn't.