Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. The Lumineers own "My Eyes."

Oh, the devil's inside

You opened the door

You gave him a ride

Too young to know, too old to admit

That you couldn't see how it ends

December 10, 1966

"You sure you're alright?" Evie's brown eyes searched Ella's face, her lips pressed down. Her friend had spent practically every hour that she could at the hospital the past two days due to her mother's rapidly declining health. Evie was concerned, more than concerned, and not just for Mrs. Mitchell, who she had grown quite fond of, but for Ella. The older girl hadn't looked well, circles under her eyes and a seemingly permanent frown on her mouth. Evie could see the worry etched about her face, hear the strain in her voice from how often she cried, but still, she continued to remain strong, saying that she didn't need help with anything, and that she was fine. But Evie knew better. Her eyes drifted across the room where Mrs. Mitchell rested, her face almost looking peaceful. "I could bring you something up from the cafeteria if you're hungry," came the following offer.

Ella shook her head. "Thank you, Evie, but I'm not feeling hungry right now."

Evie wanted to tell her that that was part of her problem—the fact that she wasn't eating. On the other hand, she rationalized that perhaps, with how upset she'd been, eating might not bring her as much comfort as it normally would. Evie knew that the rumble that night was only harboring more brooding thoughts for Ella, for part of her worry rested with Dallas, who—of course—would be participating beside the Curtis brothers, their friends, which meant Steve, the Shepard gang, and a few boys from Brumly. Evie usually didn't involve herself in the gang wars, but when it came to Steve, she worried desperately. Hell, she could remember that one time he'd gotten picked up and had to spend the night in jail . . . She had bawled her eyes out until the following morning when she saw him. Evie didn't want to think about that, though, didn't want to imagine what Ella was feeling. What she wanted was to change the subject, but as those thoughts crossed her mind, she felt a sharp pain in her stomach, a hiss escaping her mouth as she clutched her middle, teeth pressed hardly together.

"Evie," Ella called, her attention turning to her friend. "Are you—"

Evie shook her off, though. "It's . . . it's nothing, Ella." She took a breath, standing up straight and trying to ignore the cramping sensation in her lower belly. She told herself that she was worrying herself sick . . . and too much stress wasn't good for . . . wasn't good for her, or the baby. That thought alone caused her to rub at her forehead. She and Steve were planning to tell her parents the next day, a Sunday, because it would be easier to tell them together. Evie's father worked during the evening and into the night while her mother worked mornings to late afternoons at the salon, unless she took special appointments, but that was only for special occasions. Evie shook her thoughts off, blinking once, as she turned back to Ella. "You sure you're not hungry?"

A nod. "I'm sure."

The brunette sighed. "I know it's a lousy time to ask, but I was thinkin' about your birthday, and well, I don't know how you feel about doin' anything—"

Ella's soft voice sounded dry as she spoke. "I can't, Evie," she interrupted, though not to be snarky or cold. Her shoulders dropped as she leaned against the wall just outside the room. "I really haven't been thinking about my birthday." Her lips pursed. "It feels so strange, don't it?" At Evie's bewildered look, she continued. "How different things were a year ago, I mean."

"Oh, yeah," Evie immediately agreed. "And look at all of us now."

"I know."

A brief silence engulfed them for a moment, and Evie found herself wondering if she ought to tell Ella the truth about herself. But then she instantaneously felt guilty for doing so. Her parents didn't know, her sister didn't know, she had made Two-Bit Mathews swear to keep his trap shut, especially to Bee Stevens, because she was too afraid of what people would say, and furthermore, she was half afraid to even admit the truth to herself. Most of the time, she found herself thinking that she was just imagining the situation, that it wasn't real, that it was all in her head. Hell, honestly, she had been surprised to learn that Steve was going to stick with her through everything—for as long as he was able to, that is, which neither of them knew. It wasn't that Evie didn't trust Steve, she knew that he loved her, that he cared about her, but it was just the realistic revelation of what happened with most girls when they ended up pregnant. The guy was either slacking off, or cheating, or . . . Evie was terrified of any of those possibilities coming into play. Even worse, she was afraid that Steve wouldn't want to be with her once she started to show, once people knew the truth. There were only five and a half months of school left and then she would be free. She no longer would have to worry about that aspect of things, though that wasn't the least of her concerns.

She shook her head, eyeing the clock. "You're not gonna be sittin' here all day by yourself, are you?"

Ella made a face. "Dally is supposed to stop by this afternoon." She crossed her arms beneath her chest, head tilting to one side just a little. "He said he was stopping by Ponyboy's beforehand, so . . ."

"He ever finish that book?"

The older girl nearly snorted. "I don't think he's touched it in . . . months?" A sigh. "I know Ponyboy needs his name on the consent form by the end of this month, or else he loses the contract, which means that he'll have to start all over again." Her gaze shifted to the floor. "I really wish he would just finish it. It would be good for him . . . and Ponyboy."

Evie nodded in agreement. "I guess some things just take time." She nodded toward her. "Has he been okay with those nightmares?"

Hell, Ella had nearly forgotten that she told Evie about Dallas's issue. She figured he'd probably knock her head against a brick wall if he found out that she'd mentioned it to someone, not that he really even knew that she was aware of it in the first place. Ella had done a pretty good job at keeping things to herself that way, not letting on that she knew about her boyfriend suffering night terrors that were all stemming back to the events of September 24, 1965. A shiver crept up her spine as she remembered reading Ponyboy's book, and she could only hope that Dallas would benefit positively from reading it, too.

"Yeah," she answered Evie in solemn voice as she turned to peer into the room to eye her sleeping mother. "He's been okay."

Evie wasn't sure if she believed her.

There was a newfound confidence surrounding Ponyboy as he told Dallas that he'd been meaning to talk to him for a while now. His eyes were swarming with a look of sheer determination—no longer was he cowering back, no longer was his voice low and unsure sounding. In fact, his exterior was collected and straight, the tone of his voice directed and firm. Dally merely stared at him, one eye slightly more narrowed than the other. His head was tilted just a little, his chin raised as smoke billowed out of his mouth, circling the two of them for a moment before dissipating into the air. Hell, but it was chilly out, the blond thought, but he didn't mind none. He hadn't meant to stay all that long at the Curtis's place anyway, only dropping by to talk to Darry about the rumble that night. Unfortunately, Darry was picking up some groceries, leaving Ponyboy to clean up the house before the social worker stopped in. Luckily for Soda, he was eighteen, so him being present didn't really matter as much as it did for Ponyboy, who still had two and a half years left until he was free of the state's harassment.

Well, either way, Dally had gotten stuck with the kid until Darry got back, and then he would swing by the hospital to see his girl. He'd been a bit worried about her recent behavior as of late, not that he would ever bother saying that shit to anyone—hell, he wasn't no blasted pansy ass. Fuck. He shook his head of those thoughts, turning his attention back to Ponyboy, expression fixed.

"Yeah?" he said, flicking his ashes. "What about?"

Ponyboy looked ever calm, though. "About my book." His eyes drifted over to his older buddy, taking in the look plastering his face. "Have you finished it?"

Now Dallas scowled bitterly. "How many times are we gon' go over this, kid?" His ability to keep cool was threatening to crack. The damn book reminded him of Johnny Cade, and Johnny Cade reminded him of his fucking nightmares. His jaw clenched. "Told you the score already."

The younger teen's brows raised. "Dal, I gave you the book to read five months ago, and I'm gonna need you to let me know whether it's okay or not if I use your name in the published edition." He lit his own cigarette, inhaling deeply. He wasn't really annoyed with Dallas so much as he was upset with him, and it was only because he just simply wished that he would finish the book. He had thought long and hard about the initial publication, how different things would be if Dally didn't give his consent for his name to be used . . . But Ponyboy had decided that, even if Dally didn't let him, he would go back and change his name to something fictional. It wouldn't matter that way. There had been a point, back in the Summer, when he had actually reconsidered even going through with it at all, but speaking to Ella Mitchell had provided him with the insight that offered him the courage to go through with it, and that was the fact that there were others who needed to hear his story. He knew that now. And golly, but it wasn't just his story, either. A sigh fell from his lips as he glanced at his friend. "Look, Dally, you don't have to agree to let me use your name," he continued coolly. "I can change yours to something else if you're not okay with your own."

Dallas figured Ponyboy was feeling awfully brazen that day to be talking to him like that. But he found that he wasn't all that angry, not then at least. No. Honestly, Dallas was split in his own decision. He hadn't bothered to touch the book since he'd learned that Ponyboy had killed him off, and for what? To offer some kind of sympathy to guys like them? To draw the parallel of the circle of light or some weird shit? Hell, he didn't know, and he wasn't sure that he really wanted to. There had been so many things running through the hood's head, so many emotions that he felt like he was about to explode. He had wanted to die that night, didn't have the desire to live anymore. He was sick and tired of running, tired of caring, sick of . . . everything. Reading his own fictional death in the kid's book made him question too many things, wonder too many scenarios and possibilities . . . and thinking too much was something that Dallas Winston didn't like doing.

Fuckin' Ponyboy. Stupid kid.

Crushing the end of his cancer stick, he looked at the younger teen, an exasperated expression on his hardened face. "Do what you gotta do, kid," he responded with. "I don't care." The words were spoken with such casualty that Ponyboy merely stared. He was surprised that Dally hadn't come at him ready to beat his head in or something. But Dally continued after a second, a nervousness settling in Ponyboy's gut at how calm he was being. "Just don't . . . I don't wanna know nothin'."

There was a brief pause as Dallas turned to head back inside the house, but Ponyboy's voice caused him to stop, his body stiffening at the words that he'd said. Usually, Dallas wasn't one to get too heated over something so mediocre and ridiculous, especially when it came to Ponyboy, but something inside of him clenched—maybe it was his iced over heart after all—and he froze just by the door. He wasn't sure what to say or do, or even what to think, but glory hallelujah did he just want to beat it out of there before he could actually whack the kid.

"You know something, Dally," he'd began, eerily relaxed, "you're never going to get any closure if you keep holding onto the anger." When he didn't get any type of response, he merely continued. "None of us wish that you had died that night, either, and that ain't why I wrote it that way." His form was still at ease, but his shoulders dropped. "I can't tell you what to do, Dallas, but I wish, or hope, that you finish the book one day . . . even if it's not this year or the next, or even the one after that." His voice dropped an octave as he lowered it, eyes focused. "And it's not for my benefit, either." Flicking his ashes, an almost forlorn look took over his features, and for the first time, Dallas could really see just how much the kid had grown up. Hell, he didn't look no different, but the expression in his eyes had hinted at how much maturity was lurking there—he'd experienced far too much for one so young. Still, his voice carried on, a somber sound indeed. "I used to think that I only wrote the book because I had nothing else to tell my English teacher last year, but that ain't it, and it took me a while to really figure it all out, because I reckon I didn't really know myself. It ain't just guys like us here . . . it's people like us out there and everywhere. Some things don't get told at all, Dal . . . but each of us"—His nostrils wrinkled a bit—"including Bob Sheldon has got a chance to share their story and make others understand." His voice had become earnest. "And if they do understand, maybe others will start to listen . . . because then it won't be too late for them."

The older teen was breathing a little heavy, his reflection staring back at him through the window as he stood just by the door. His hands were held in fists at his sides, his jaw turning white from how much his teeth were pressing together, grinding against one another. He swallowed the building saliva in his throat, shoving his own thoughts aside. He could see Johnny Cade in his mind, remember his screams like it was yesterday . . . and he could remember going down beneath the streetlight as his body was jerked around from the impact of the bullets . . . His heart was beating hardly against his rib cage, eyes icy and bitter, but before he could think to do anything irrational, he forced himself to leave, Ponyboy's words echoing in his head like a broken record.

Ella wasn't sure how she knew when Dallas was near her, but it was like her entire body would perk up, and her heart would accelerate a little quicker whenever she became aware of his presence. She was already standing by the time he entered the room, his eyes falling to her own, before he stole a quick glance at her mother. Frances had barely moved or communicated all afternoon, instead the sound of nurses and visitors out in the hall being Ella's only company—beside Evie—throughout the day, so she was glad when Dallas finally arrived, a small, barely noticeable smile ghosting her lips. She looked as tired as she felt, her eyes dull and not as bright as usual. Dallas picked up on it immediately, but he chose not to acknowledge it vocally. What he didn't know was that Ella's mind was filled to the brim with various thoughts, and they weren't the good kind. There was a feeling lurking in the pit of her stomach, one that she didn't like but didn't know how to explain. It made her feel sick, like she was suffocating and couldn't call out for help.

"Here," Dallas said lowly, his voice somewhat gruff as he broke the girl's thoughts. "Swiped somethin' for you." It was only a blueberry muffin, but he figured Ella hadn't eaten—something she usually refused to do when she was upset or worried. She placed it on the table beside the chair she'd been previously occupying, her eyes downcast. "Evie said you might be hungry." He licked his lips, looking down his nose at her as he wondered why she was so quiet. "Hey, you gon' eat that or what?"

Ella nodded slowly. "In a little," she replied. "I'm just not feeling all that hungry right now." A long and deep sigh fell from her lips as she sat back down, hand running through her thick locks. "You saw Evie?"

"Only for a minute," came the response. "She's leaving soon. Might stop in or somethin' . . ."

"Oh."

Dallas wished that he had a cigarette right then, but he'd smoked his last one on the way to visit Ella, something he was regretting he'd done. It wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with her and all that jazz, but he didn't dig seeing her like this, like she was then. He was used to her being fiery and sassy, but now she was distant and somber, traits that didn't fit her at all. Hell, he wouldn't ever relay that to her, though, but he almost missed her witty remarks and sarcastic tongue. He understood her dilemma, knew why she was upset, but he couldn't bring himself to grasp it fully. Dallas had always been good at shutting off his emotions and remaining aloof, and he certainly wasn't any good at comforting anyone, so being with Ella in this predicament was leaving him feeling antsy and restless. Glory, he was real thankful for the rumble that night—he could finally blow off some steam. Plus, he was going to pummel Dylan Jones, so that was a prodigious bonus for him.

The teen placed his hands in his jacket pockets, moving so that he was standing beside the chair Ella was seated in. "So . . . how is she?" he asked, nodding toward Mrs. Mitchell. "Good? Bad? What's the deal?" He tried to keep his tone level, but it had come out more harder than he'd meant it to. What he really meant to ask was if there were any hopeful updates for the woman. "Ella," he called when she didn't respond right away.

She leaned forward in the seat as he squatted down in front of her, his arms sliding around her legs as his fingers lightly rubbed at her thighs. Despite the act, his eyes still looked cold and unfeeling, his expression slightly rigid. Wisps of white-blond hair fell over his forehead, pale brows practically disappearing behind them. Ella almost chuckled, figuring that he ought to get a haircut, but she had come to learn just how much Dallas hated seeing a barber, and how much he despised people touching his hair in general. He liked it long, with no hair oil or grease in it, and he hardly ever bothered to do anything with it—and there had been times when Ella would rake her fingers through it and attempt to detangle it when he'd let her, which was usually after they'd been intimate.

Her elbows rested on her knees as she stared at the floor. "She seems fine . . . I suppose." Her heart sank at her own words. "I just don't feel right."

"About what?"

A shrug. "I don't know," she replied exasperatedly. And then her shoulders deflated completely. "I just wish you . . . could stay with me tonight." Her voice had gotten lower as she spoke the last few words, an almost hopeful sound in it, even though it was pointless to even consider the idea. Dallas wouldn't stay with her, because he was too concerned about fighting in that stupid rumble. Of course Ella was hacked off about the whole thing, including Chris Marmo and his two cronies nearly jumping her the other night after her shift at the laundromat, but at this particular moment, she just didn't care, or she didn't care to care. Before Dallas could begin to protest, Ella continued first. "I wasn't asking you to, I just wish that you could."

Dallas gave her left thigh a quick pat before he stood up straight. "I'll stop by after the rumble." His lips pursed for a moment. "Unless you want me to swing by your place."

"It doesn't matter," she said lamely. Hell, she didn't even know when the rumble would end, or if she really wanted to go to her house later . . . or what. What she did know, however, is that she felt very off, her stomach twisted up in knots and her head feeling rather light. "If it's real late, I'll probably just head home or something."

Glory, but she remembered the other night when Dallas had stayed. She remembered the way she had kissed him, how desperate she had been to forget everything. And forget she had. She had let him take her right there on the bathroom counter, her nails digging into his skin as she latched onto him and begged him for more, to go harder. The sound of his breathless grunts and husky voice in her ear surrounded by her own moans of innate pleasure had been enough to drown out her thoughts for the time being . . . before they had moved to her bedroom where he'd ravished her animalistically. It was a whole new experience for them—for her—and for a while, guilt had welled up in her chest, making her question if she was merely using her boyfriend as a means to cloud out reality. But she also loved Dallas, she was certain of that. She knew that he cared for her, at least to some degree, even though his way of expressing that was coldly and harshly.

Dallas was quiet for moment, before he nodded to the muffin he'd gotten her. "Eat that, would ya?"

The corners of her mouth twisted up. "Sure."

She followed him to the door a few minutes later, a feeling of dread lingering in her mind. But Dallas turned back, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to her forehead, his lips dwelling against her skin for an extra second. Ella's eyes closed for that second, though, her hand reaching out to brush against his own instinctively.

"I'll see ya later, yeah?"

She watched him go, a terrible feeling creeping up her spine.

Soda wasn't as pumped as he usually would be for a rumble. He was excited, sure, but he didn't feel the enthusiasm he'd once felt for fighting. Golly, but a year ago he had admitted to his own kid brother that he liked fighting because it was like a contest, and Soda had always been rather competitive. But this particular evening, he found that he didn't really care all that much. Perhaps it was because the last rumble he had participated in had been the same night they had lost one member of their makeshift gang, and when another had nearly been killed right before his eyes. He would never be able to remove the memory of Dallas Winston being shot down in a blaze of bullets out of his mind. Something in him had changed that night, he was sure, and recalling his little brother collapsing at his and Darry's feet, the week he had spent in bed . . . none of it brought back any pleasant memories for him. But other than that, he didn't like the concerned look Mary had been giving him, either. When he'd told her about the rumble that night, she hadn't scolded him or told him that he shouldn't fight in it, she had merely told him to be careful . . . but the expression in her eyes was something that had been eating away at him all afternoon—he didn't like seeing Mary upset.

He checked the mail on his way inside, rolling his eyes at the fact that neither Darry or Ponyboy had gotten it. Okay, Darry he could understand . . . sometimes his older brother liked to take afternoon naps, especially when he had the weekend off. Soda was glad that he was catching up on sleep, unsure if he had ever slept a whole night through after the death of their parents. He flipped through the envelopes, yawning as he did, his heart nearly beating straight through his rib cage at the very last one. It was addressed to him, and as he read the return label, his brown eyes widened immensely.

It couldn't be, could it? But he knew, and his hands nearly shook as he tore the envelope open, eyes scanning the words that were punched onto the paper. He wanted to tell himself that this wasn't real, that it couldn't be happening, but it was, and there was nothing that he could do about it. The reality of the situation only began to set in when he'd reread the words, his body internally becoming cold.

You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States of America, and to report at . . .

He blinked once . . . twice. There was also an order to report for a physical examination, and it took the teen a moment to even out his breathing. He wasn't going to tell either Darry or Ponyboy about his draft, not yet at least, for he didn't have the heart to tell them that his number had been picked. Hell, he knew what happened to young men his age that went to fight in the war—either they came back but weren't the same, or they never made it back at all. Soda didn't want to think about which one was going to happen to him. He'd be lying if he said the thought of hightailing it to Mexico or Canada didn't cross his mind for a brief second, but he knew he wouldn't do it. No, there was no way out of this, and Soda figured that he was going to face it like a man . . . like the man his father raised him to be.

Glancing down at the letter once more, he read the date. One month—January 12, 1967—he would be reporting for his physical examination and induction. What was he going to say to his brothers? Or to Mary? Or to Steve? His heart seemed to sink a little as he considered his future, the future he had so vividly pictured sharing with Mary, the future that was beginning to turn bleak now. But he couldn't think like that, he couldn't. He had to be strong for himself, his brothers, his girl, and his friends. He had to believe that he would come back. For now, though, he wasn't going to let on about anything . . . there was a rumble to worry about that night . . . something that seemed so mediocre and so ridiculous to even stress over now.

Ella remained still, her heart erratic in her chest. She could feel how hard it was pounding, her nerves clinging to the surface as she watched the nurses shift around her mother desperately trying to find a pulse. It had all happened so suddenly that Ella could hardly recall the events leading up to this point, her mind rushed and her thoughts all jumbled up. Frances and she had been talking, but Frances had been so weak, having spent the majority of the day sleeping. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Ella knew that this moment would happen, that it was oncoming and unavoidable—she had known that since Dr. Andrews divulged that there was nothing left to do—but she hadn't expected it to be this soon, not now, not while . . . Ella didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think about anything, but she couldn't stop the thoughts plaguing her mind, either. Her mother had known that her time was short, that had become more apparent to the teen now. They had spoken for only a short while, Frances telling Ella things she had never spoke of before, like her past, Dwayne Mitchell, and how she had spoke to Dallas a few days back, apologizing to her daughter for how she never cared to listen to her. She had encouraged Ella to go to Berkeley, to live her life to the fullest . . . but most importantly, Frances had told her that she was proud of her, so very proud of the woman she had become.

But to Ella, she felt nothing but lost and confused and downright numb.

She had already known before one of the nurses shook her head, her eyes filled with sorrow as she turned to face the woman's only child. Ella hardly felt the tears prickling her own eyes, her unfocused gaze fixed on her mother's still form. She could only stare. She was unable to think straight or move, instead staying put in the spot she was standing in, her body in shock. It was all too quick, all too surreal, and the girl felt nothing short of disbelief. She could still hear her mother's soft and weak voice telling her how much she loved her only a few minutes ago . . . How was it possible?

Perhaps it was all a nightmare. Maybe she would wake up soon and realize that it was nothing but a bad dream, that none of it was real, that she and her mother were both okay.

They had wanted her to leave the room, but Ella refused. She wanted to be there until the very end, to see things through. So she waited and watched as they covered her mother's face, time seeming to move slowly as she stayed seated in the corner. Her throat was tight, her eyes watery, but she couldn't bring herself to cry or react in any way. It was as if she had completely shut down. She wished more than anything that she wasn't alone, that maybe Dallas could have been there with her. She thought about him, figuring that he was probably fighting in the rumble against Dylan Jones and his gang, and whoever else—Ella couldn't be bothered to care. But still, she yearned for him to be there with her, a silent but desperate plea playing at the forefront of her thoughts. But the reality was too certain to be ignored, and Ella knew that she was, in fact, all alone.

She retrieved her mother's belongings, filled out all of the forms and papers at the front desk, ignored the sympathetic expressions and looks of pity that were sent her way, and did what she had to do before leaving. It was late, the sky dark overhead, the air chilly. Ella decided that she would just head home, even though she inwardly dreaded going there. Maybe she would call Evie . . .

Her only company on the way to her house had been the glow of the streetlights passing her by in a blur.

Dylan Jones had overestimated his brother's former gang. Between Dallas and the boys, the Shepard gang, and a few of the Brumly Boys who had shown up, what was left of the Kings and their five paid off members of the Tigers went down easily. Dallas and Dylan had initiated the fight, and then it was an all out brawl, guys getting punched left and right. Things had been going quite smoothly, too, and Dally figured that it wouldn't take long before the leftover Kings decided to split. He took Dylan down, the prick not much of a fighter to begin with. Hell, but Dallas wondered how in the hell the kid had ever survived jail time—he was nothing like his big brother, and this particular night had done nothing but prove that fact to everyone who was there to witness it. The Tigers had beat it out of there, once they realized they didn't stand a chance, but things hadn't died down there.

It was supposed to be a skin on skin rumble, but one of the Kings, real messed up lookin' guy, pulled a blade out and got one good swipe across Ponyboy's forearm. The kid, already taking a beating from a real brute fellow, went down like a sack of potatoes. Now, Dallas would give credit where it was due; Ponyboy Curtis was a good fighter, he was, but taking on two guys that were huskier and bigger than him all around by himself wasn't the smartest thing to do. Then again, Ponyboy Curtis also never really used his head for common sense to begin with. Dallas had seen the whole thing, but Darry had come running over and went after the guy, Dally following suit. By the time he'd gotten to them, though, Ponyboy had been knocked out cold, his body dead weight as Dally tried to lift him. There was a trail of blood soaking through his jacket where he was knifed, and the blond's teeth pressed together hardly as he took in his lethargic form. It was then that he heard the howls of excitement coming from their side, the Kings leaving with their tails between their legs. Darry was squatting beside him, though, his features twisted into a panicked expression as he desperately tried to wake his kid brother.

"C'mon, Pony," Darry said, tapping his face. It was all but a minute or so before the kid's eyes opened, and boy howdy, but Dally would be lying if he said didn't look bad. Darry shot him a look, one that wasn't exactly pleasant, but the hood blew it off. Darry wasn't going to say it, not then at least, but he was silently blaming Dally for this. But Dally didn't care none, or that's what he told himself, because Ponyboy was fifteen . . . he should've been able to take care of himself in a rumble, should have been able to handle himself, should have . . . should have— ". . . taking him home," Darry was saying, his voice cold as Dallas was pulled from his thoughts. He nodded toward Soda. "He's got a pretty good bump on his head, but he's coherent."

Ponyboy was mumbling. ". . . not his fault." A shaky breath. "He . . . doesn't . . . realize."

Soda's brows were laced together, worry etched about his face. "It's okay, Ponyboy," he replied in an attempt to reassure his brothers and himself, one hand reaching up to brush the kid's hair out of his face. "Darry's taking you home, you hear? We're going home . . ."

"Glory," Two-Bit mumbled, moving to stand beside Dallas. "That was a nasty hit he took alright." He shook his head, lighting a cigarette. "I would've taken that scumbag myself, but I was clear across the lot." Inhale. "'Sides, I saw Darry dart over to him anyway, and then you." He paused for a moment, brushing his fingers over his nose, which was pissing blood everywhere. "Man, Bee's gonna have a field day with this," he drawled, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

Dallas scowled, watching Darry carry Ponyboy out of the lot, Sodapop hot on his heels with Steve a few steps behind. He looked around, realizing that most of the guys were gone, save for Tim Shepard and a few of his men. He nodded once to Dallas when the two caught eyes, and Dallas nodded back, a quick expression of gratitude for his assistance in the rumble.

"You headin' back to the Curtis's?" Two-Bit inquired suddenly, flicking his ashes. "I might crash on their couch tonight, if I'm feelin' too lazy to head home." He chuckled once.

The white-haired teen shrugged. "Yeah . . . for a minute or so . . . see how the kid is."

Soda was sitting on the steps when Dallas and Two-Bit arrived, his chin resting in his hands, a tired expression blanketing his face. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow, taking in their buddy's miserable face, wondering if Ponyboy had a concussion or something. Inside, the phone rang, and Steve's voice drifted out the door as he answered it. Dallas barely registered him saying Evie's name in stark surprise, but figured it was nothing more than her checking in. Evie was like that, though. Whenever Steve was in some kind of fight or something, or participated in a rumble, she called the Curtis house to check in on him, because she knew that he would be there. The blond shook his head at the thought as Soda bummed a cigarette from Two-Bit, his voice low and practically inaudible as he said Ponyboy did, in fact, have a concussion, and that Darry was looking after him, and cleaning his wounds.

The screen door creaked as Steve stepped outside, his eyes downcast, countenance deadpan. "That was Evie," he said, voice distant. "Ella's mother passed away."

The Mitchell house was dark, and Dallas wondered if Ella was awake or not. There was a part of him, a part that had been long buried and concealed, that had come crawling up to the surface—guilt. He had tried to ignore it, to shove it away and forget about it, but every time he thought about Ella, every time her fucking face crossed his mind, he couldn't help but think of her in that hospital with her mother, the emotional toll it must have taken on her. She had wanted him to stay, indirectly asked him to, but he hadn't. It wasn't so much that he cared about that particular thing, but just thinking about Ella . . . First her father—not that Dallas even gave the man a second thought—but now her mother. He knew she had never been overly close with the woman, their relationship somewhat estranged emotionally, but still . . . He'd had a chance to speak with Frances Mitchell for a while only a few days ago, and even though she didn't really care for him, she had spoken to him, and she didn't look down at him or talk down to him while she did. She had been decent and fair and even kind. The fact that she was dead wasn't settling in all that well, and Dallas could hardly imagine how Ella was feeling.

He made his way to the side of the house, tapping once . . . twice on her window before just deciding to let himself in. Ella kept the window unlocked intentionally for these occasions . . . or rather because she always looked forward to him spending the nights with her. Pushing the window up, the teen pulled himself over the ledge, swinging his legs around and stepping down into Ella's bedroom. The first thing he noticed was that the house was oddly cold. The second thing he noticed was that Ella was laying on top of her bed, still in the clothes she had worn that day. And the third thing he noticed was that the air in her room was . . . still. He maneuvered around her bed, cocking an eyebrow at the cigarette butts piled up in the ashtray, and gently sat down beside her. She was laying on her right side facing the wall, her body rising and falling with each breath she took.

Dallas rested his arm over her so that she was between it and his side, his hand flat on the mattress. He shook her a little with the other, fingers curling around her shoulder as her eyes opened ever so slowly, the washed out expression in them seemingly permanent. She turned her head a little, her eyes meeting his as she merely stared at him. She didn't look surprised to see him there, but she didn't look relieved, either. If anything, Ella appeared numb, as if every feeling, every emotion, was absent from her body, her face stony and apathetic, completely out of sorts for her usual personality.

"Hey, dollface," he half-whispered, voice gruff but almost gentle, or as gentle as a guy like Dallas could make his voice.

Ella blinked. "Evie told you." It wasn't exactly a question, but the tone she'd used made it sound as if she'd guessed her assumption. A sigh. "I just . . ." She paused, brows pressing together. "I don't want to talk about it, Dally."

He wouldn't tell her, but Dallas was relieved to hear that. He had never done well dealing with emotions or any of that jazz. Hell, he could hardly deal with his own, and whenever he felt like he was getting too much into his own head, he bailed as quickly as he could and found something to either numb the pain, or make him forget entirely. He just wasn't good with that shit, so Ella admitting that she didn't want to talk about her mother made the situation feel less . . . awkward.

Licking his lips, Dallas changed the conversation. "We won tonight," he said, hardly sounding proud, but rather, more drab. "Beat Jones and his cronies right off our turf." His fingers tightened around her shoulder for only a second until he pulled away, patting his pockets for his cigarettes. (He'd bummed a pack from Steve earlier.) "Reckon we won't be havin' no more trouble with the Kings." He lit up, then, as Ella sat up, only to lean back against her headboard. Dallas debated on telling her about Ponyboy, but ultimately decided that he'd better not—it wasn't a good time. He turned to the side to face her, taking a few more drags of his cigarette in silence.

Ella's eyes were closed, but she could feel Dallas watching her. "I'm fine," she uttered out, a crease forming on her forehead. "Just tired."

"You gon' ask me to stay tonight?"

She looked at him, taking in his expression and digesting his words. He was leaving the choice up to her—if she asked him to stay, he would. If she asked him to leave, he would. Usually, Dallas did as he pleased, did as he wanted. There were times when he would humor her, if she asked him to stay the night at her place, he would, but he was always gone in the morning. Her gaze remained on his, though, dark blue against pale blue, like ice freezing a body of water beneath a night sky. A thousand thoughts passed through the girl's mind, a thousand scenarios playing out repetitively. A sinking feeling filled her gut as she considered this moment, herself, and her future. She had known for a long time now that it would come to this . . . that nothing lasted forever.

Her smile didn't reach her eyes, but she was internally grateful for the company.

"Will you still be here when I wake up?"

He stubbed his cigarette out, adding it the pile in the ashtray and shifted so that he was beside her, his arm curling around her frame as her back pressed against his chest. He ignored the pain in his cheek—where he'd gotten socked good—as he rested his face on the pillow, his jaw clenching a little. Ella's fingers enclosed around his as her head moved beneath his chin, and then her breathing evened out as she fell into a restless sleep, her breaths fanning his hand where she held it almost in front of her face.

Dallas hardly slept that night.

What did you do to my eyes?

What did you sing to that lonely child?

Promised it all but you lied

You better slow down baby soon

It's all or nothing to you

We're only a few chapters shy of the end!

A tremendous Thank You for all of the wonderful feedback on this story. Y'all are amazing! :3