I do not own The Outsiders. All characters used from the book are borrowed with much respect to S.E. Hinton.

A big thank you to all that still follow this rubbish. I'm sorry that I made y'all cry.

And I'm suddenly there again in that goddamned uncomfortable excuse for a chair that's probably given me more problems with my back than years of haulin' roofing up a ladder ever did. It's pushed up against his bed, and I stare blankly at the differences in our hands as I hold his.

The skin on my hands is dry and calloused; nicks and tears here and there making them look like they belong to an old man. They're my dad's hands; no doubt in my mind. They're the hands of a man who's worked hard to do everything he can to keep his family together. They're the hands of a man that held on for too long, and too hard, and now is about to lose it all; everything slipping through and in between his rough and worn fingers.

The whooshing of the respirator is familiar but not in a comforting way. I'm still staring as I hold Pony's hand, trying to focus on just how delicate it is. Even with his left hand contorted and stiff, I realize that my brother has artist's hands, and the thought makes me want to cry along with a hundred different other things Soda always tried so hard to tell me.

Soda…

"Darry?"

The styrofoam cup full of coffee is hot as it's placed in my empty hand, and I don't even have the strength to bring it up to my lips to take a drink. I keep my eyes on where my brother and I are connected, and marvel at the differences.

"Darry, you've been here before. If it were somebody else…but it's Ponyboy. He's a fighter. Once the seizures stop we can cut back on the sedation."

"He stopped breathing again." I commented absently as I felt my gut churn with a cold sickness and my hands started that old needy tremble.

"That's why he's on the machine, Darry."

I looked over to Greg and nodded. The good Doctor Greg. Who else would be looking after my brother? I suddenly felt such shame for the way I'd carried on before; so jealous of Greg that Soda would somehow need him more than he needed me.

Soda…

"Soda's gone, Greg."

And his eyes portrayed a sadness that I could feel in my bones.

"Beth told me. I don't know what to say. I…I…" but he couldn't finish.

There was nothing to say. His eyes said it all.

He pulled up a chair and sat with me for a while; silent at first, and I wondered how different it must've felt for him. We weren't just patients to him anymore. He was more invested now than when he'd first met us. When and why had he let the line blur between patient and friend?

"You brothers have something very special. We're all drawn to it." Greg spoke like he was reading my thoughts.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do." I said truthfully, and desperately.

"I can't pretend to know what this is doing to you, Darry. I think you're quite possibly the strongest man I know, but I also know it's been because of your brothers—for your brothers. You're not alone, Darry. We're with you."

Pony's hand and mine started to blur as I fought the tears back enough that they simply started to clump around my eyelashes. I let go of my brother to hastily wipe my eyes dry. I just didn't want to cry anymore. I was done with it.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"I'd tell you to go home and get some rest, but I remember how those conversations always end."

Greg reminisces with a sad sort of grin, and if the circumstances were different, I'd probably ease him with a laugh or a chuckle, but I'm fighting to steady my hands, and I just can't tell him I'm about to crash; that I need someone to hold me down before I rail myself into that brick wall that's been at the end of the line waiting for me since the night my parents died.

"Maybe you're right." My lips are moving, but I have no real grasp on what I've just said.

Greg looks on at me with an odd expression as I squeeze my brother's hand before bringing it to my mouth where I hold it to my lips. I feel the shame as I slowly settle it back to the hospital bed. I stand from the chair and toss the untouched coffee into the trash, and I head for the glass door.

"Darry?" Greg questions, like he knows I can't be trusted, but he's just too polite to say anything and I walk away.

I'm immune to the fact I've slipped out; abandoning both Beth and Two-Bit somewhere in that hospital while I'm practically sprinting out to the truck, hell bent on numbing everything that hasn't even hit me yet.

The snow is heavy and wet; the air cold when I'm halfway to the truck and I hear him call me. Before I can even blink he has me spun around facing him.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin'?"

Two-Bit's face showed concern, but there's no hiding the anger that's weaved into that expression, and I can't hide from him. He knows exactly what's rolling around in my head.

"Christ, you can't be this selfish, can you?" His eyes narrow as he challenges me.

"Get outta my way."

My voice is so low that I barely recognize it; I barely recognize myself as I'm about to fall headfirst into my own unraveling.

"We still need you, Darry. Ponyboy still needs you."

I stopped, suddenly consumed by my despair and bitterness; letting the rage of shitty luck and circumstances lash out at its unsuspecting target, Two-Bit.

"What the fuck do you know? It wasn't your parents that left you to raise two Goddamned teenagers! It wasn't your fault that one of them got hauled off and was given to the hands of someone that fucked him up so bad he still can't walk a year later! And it ain't your brother that got his head blown off in Vietnam! So what the fuck do you know Keith? 'Cause last time I checked, your mama was still around and still giving a shit about your sorry ass!"

"Don't do this, Darry." Two-Bit managed to stay calm; so unlike the guy I'd known him to be before we were all forced to grow up too soon.

That guy would've decked me already; no questions asked, but life had done nothing but kick dirt in the face of us both, and we were both so tired of fighting.

"Don't do what?" I snarled.

"You don't think this is killing me? I fuckin' loved Sodapop too, you selfish prick! This ain't just happenin' to you! And I swear to God if you run out now and take that drink…I swear to God, Darry Curtis! You still got a brother and don't you fucking dare do that to him!"

"Or what? You gonna gimme a beatdown? You think you'd win?" I glared.

"It came, Darry. My draft letter; came about twenty minutes before them soldiers showed up to tell us Sodapop's gone."

The revelation was like getting socked in the gut; it took the breath and the fight right out of me. I suddenly noticed the winter air, and I started to shudder from more than just my desire to get drunk and forget. The whole world was seeping coldly into my veins. There was nowhere left to seek shelter from it.

"I need you to tell me what to do, Darry." Two-Bit pleaded, and you would've thought that I was his big brother too. "I don't know what to do. I ain't goin', but I don't wanna end up in jail. Darry, what do I do?"

"I can't do this anymore, Keith." I looked at him defeated. "I give up. What the fuck do I know anyways? The decisions I've made haven't done anything but get my brothers killed."

"Pony ain't dead, Darry! And what about your girl? What about Steve for fuck's sake? You don't think he's gonna need you when he comes home? We all need you! You leave here to get shitfaced, you really are going to lose everything!"

"Then so be it." I replied stubbornly.

The truth was, after Two-Bit's bombshell I didn't know what the hell I wanted; I just needed to run.

I left him standing there in the heavy, wet parking lot of the hospital while I started up the truck; the tires spinning on a patch of ice as the tail-end slid left and successfully completed a shit-hook.

With a lead foot, I bulleted through town. I was fast approaching that familiar watering hole when I heard him as clear as day.

"Son, it's going to be okay."

My head whipped right as though my father were a passenger in the truck beside me, but the seat remained cold and empty.

"C'mon, son. Think about what you're doing."

"Like you and mom did? Everything I do is wrong! Can't you see that? I shouldn'ta stayed. It's my fault! Why'd you leave me with this?"

I'd never let myself be angry at my father before, but it all came pouring out as I quickly passed the busy lot to "Checkers", knowing that I was not going to have that drink, but that I was going to go home to calm down before heading back to Pony, Two-Bit, and Beth—what was left of my family.

"I'm sorry for that, son. It's going to be okay."

"You don't know that!" I spit out as the wipers smeared the frozen sleet across the windshield and the road became a white, frozen blur.

"Darrel, I need you to hold on and listen to me. It's going to be okay."

His voice was loud, calm, and firm and I was sure that I was going crazy as I realized I'd been arguing with the voice of my dead father. I shook my head; trying to clear the hallucination, but the voice persisted.

"Whatever happens, you're going to be okay, Darry."

The snow and ice were piling up despite the fact I had the truck's heater on high; the wipers continuing to make a wet mess of my field of vision. The snow blanketed down heavily, making it nearly impossible to see anything that was more than a few inches away.

I didn't see the light at first and by the time I heard the train's lonely horn, I'd forgotten all about that broken rail guard. My foot stomped on the brake pedal all the way to the floor of the truck, but I should've known better. I knew dad's old truck would slip and spin out before I lost complete control of it.

I clenched my eyes and braced myself as blinding light flashed in my head and I heard the crunch of metal around me as the train ran through the bed of dad's truck. I felt hot, searing pain shoot through me from my toes to my shoulders; my head colliding with the steering wheel before the truck flipped, and then there was nothing but my dad's voice.

"It's going to be okay, son. Hold on."