Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Matt Stell owns "Everywhere But On."

Put some days, put some miles in the rear view

A few state lines between me and you

Just a little space and time and I'd be fine

December 14, 1969

Soda's head was throbbing, and he could barely stand straight. He wasn't sure how in the hell he had even made it back on base in one piece, let alone make it back to his and Steve's shared room. His teeth were grinding together, jaw clenched in agony, and the more he walked, the dizzier he began to feel. Holy hell, but Soda wasn't even sure how in the almighty hell he had driven a car, surprised that he hadn't ran off the fucking road, or wrapped it around a pole, good Lord. His breathing was becoming more ragged as he stepped into the room, and he knew that something was wrong, well, more wrong than what he'd originally assumed. Never before had the drugs made him feel like he was right then—like he was about to be sick all over himself. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he thought, and he couldn't even remember what the hell had actually happened.

Lori.

He blinked, resting his hand against the frame, the door closing behind him. Jesus, it's a wonder he had made it inside without making a sound, or else he would have been in some serious trouble. Really, there were times when Soda didn't even care, didn't care if he got in trouble for being out too late and sneaking back in, but at that particular moment, he was more than grateful that he hadn't been caught. The last thing he fucking needed was to be pulled for a random, but the twenty-one year old figured that anyone with half a functioning brain would be able to figure out that he was having one hell of a bad trip by taking one measly look at him.

But Lori had been there, he remembered her in bed beside him. They had gone out . . . hours before, as they usually did every Saturday night, and when they got back to her place, she offered him something to help with his oncoming headache, and the next thing he recalled was fucking her, her cries of pleasure still ringing in his eardrums before he dropped off. He'd woken up shortly after, though, feeling downright sick, the room around him going in and out of focus . . . and he could see Lori sleeping soundly beside him. He must have fallen back asleep, because he recalled waking up again, but this time, the space next to him was vacant . . . and Lori's car was gone—he could see the lot from her bedroom window—and he had felt worse than he had earlier. His breathing was hampered, he couldn't focus his vision, and when he had stood up to walk for the first time, he nearly collapsed, a grunt falling from his lips as he tried to steady himself by holding onto anything he could get his hands on to help support his weight.

Water.

Soda remembered downing multiple glasses of water, before he gave up and stuck his head under the faucet. It had been ice cold, but it jolted him enough to somewhat clear his head from the fuzziness of the drugs. And then he had gotten into his own vehicle, practically driving like an elderly person back to base.

But now he stood inside the room, feeling worse than ever, his eyes landing on the makeshift trash bin by the table, before he heaved. His body seemed to jerk forward on its own, and Soda went down, his knees cracking against the floor as he pressed a hand hardly against his chest. He was barely able to register Steve jumping out of bed, his figure moving across the room in front of him, and then the light was nearly blinding him. Steve was calling his name, his own expression a combination of shock and being practically dumbstruck, and when he saw that his friend was about to throw his guts up, he kicked the bin over in his direction, following after to awkwardly rub his upper back.

"Easy, buddy," Steve said, nose scrunching a little at the sight of vomit splashing up against the side of the bin. Only when Soda settled back did he speak again. "What in the hell happened?" he asked, but despite his words, his voice was almost gentle.

Soda's chest was rising and falling quickly, sweat beads on his forehead and neck. "Lori . . ." he barely managed to get out. "She gave me somethin' . . . I don't remember."

The dark-haired man made a face, something like a sneer. He had never been a fan of Lori's, didn't care for her all that much—and ever since Soda got with her, making it official between them, the less he liked her. Soda had been different since she came into his life, and even though he had been happy and more upbeat in the beginning, which Steve was glad for, it was obvious that there was something else going on in the background. Steve wasn't exactly sure what that something was, but what he did know was that his best buddy had gotten mixed up with drugs prior to meeting Lori, and now he was getting more fucked up than before . . . and Steve was sick of it.

(And now this bullshit.)

He pressed the back of his hand against Soda's forehead, and either he was too weak to object, or he was really feeling that lousy, because Steve received zero reaction from him. His eyes broadened at the heat emitting from his skin, though, all previous thoughts forgotten.

"Christ almighty," he bit out. "You're burning up."

Soda nodded, instantly wishing he hadn't. "I feel sick." He groaned, and grabbed a hold of Steve's arm to keep from falling over, his body becoming lethargic. "It was Lori," he said again, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. "She gave me somethin', some pills, and then she . . . she took off. I woke up . . . she was gone . . . I don't know."

If Steve had been pissed before, he was livid now. He didn't want to express any anger at that moment, though, because he knew if he did, Soda wouldn't talk, and that's exactly what he needed to do right then. He needed to stay awake and talk . . . and Steve knew that pissing him off, especially while he was sick, would only make things worse for the both of them, especially since this was the first time that they had really spoken to one another, the last being during their fight. It almost felt surreal to Steve in a sense, almost as if so much had happened between then and the present. Lordy, but there were things going on in Steve's life that Soda didn't even know about, and he was pretty sure that there was a lot going on with Soda that he really didn't know . . . well, that one was obvious. In some ways, after all they had been through together, Soda almost felt like a complete stranger to Steve. They had lived through so much shit together, been through so much and then some, and in the end, drugs . . . of all fucking things, had torn them apart. Steve's bitter resentment over everything was only boiling all the more, and he was angry, though it wasn't directed at his friend this time, but instead, he was pissed off at Lori—stupid chick.

He squatted down in front of Soda. "You know where she went?"

"No," came the honest answer. "She left . . . took a good amount of shit, 'cause the room was almost empty . . . and—"

"Alright, easy," Steve interrupted. "You said she gave you some pills . . ."

Soda's expression shifted. He was coherent, but he felt weak, and even more than that, now he felt a little humiliated. He had been made a fool of, and he sure felt dumb for it, for letting himself believe, if but for a moment, that Lori was a decent person. He knew that she didn't love him, and he damn well knew that he didn't love her . . . but still. She had loved him and left him, most likely with high hopes that whatever she had given him would keep him knocked out until morning. Too late for that, though.

His eyes met Steve's. "Yeah, I don't remember," he replied, tone distant. "Must've fucked me up with—" He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Steve nodded, though. "Yeah."

Neither one of them spoke for a few minutes, an eerie silence engulfing the room. Steve had known for a long time that Soda hadn't quit taking those pills . . . and the thought of not opening his own mouth haunted him since the moment he had found out about them. There was a mediocre part of him that was starting to blame himself for this, but internally, he directed his anger toward Lori. Deep down, he felt just as responsible for Soda's well-being, because he had known . . . he had fucking known. And he hadn't done a thing . . . hadn't tried harder . . . all because the first (and only) time he did had left him with a shiner from Soda's fist. But now things were different, and Steve was beginning to see just how serious the situation was—not that he hadn't before, but there was a stark realization settling in the pool of his gut, a certain awareness that hadn't been there before. Maybe it was because he was too angry, maybe he should have tried to be more understanding . . .

"Soda—"

"Don't," came the harsh interception. "Don't lecture me, Steve."

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his temper at bay. "I wasn't going to lecture you, Soda." A sigh. "I was just going to say that—"

"I know I need help."

The older of the two blinked, surprise taking over his countenance. Looking at Soda right then, he was able to see just how withdrawn he was, how weak, and how . . . different he had become. Somewhere, underneath his exterior, Steve knew his old friend remained. But if Soda could admit that he needed help, at least he was consciously aware that he wasn't okay . . . and that might have been the first step for him. Steve was, by no means, a saint of any sort, but his concern had always been with his friends, because they had always been his family—his real family—and more than anything, he thought they deserved better than what any of them had been dealt. He just wanted everyone to be okay . . . even the stupid kid, who he never hated anymore than he hated Soda.

It took all of a few minutes for Steve to cleanup, and then to help his friend to bed. Neither one of them were going to sleep for the remainder of that night, and they were both keenly aware of that fact. Steve wanted to tell Soda about proposing to Evie, about speaking to her father just that afternoon to get his permission . . . because he was going home in a week and wanted to have the ring . . . and he wanted to tell him that Mr. Martin had given his blessing . . .

But now wasn't the time, and Steve knew that. Instead, his mind wandered to other things, and there was a certain question that had been brewing in his thoughts for a good, long time. It was one that he never bothered to ask, never bothered to bring up . . . but it was a now or never situation, and Steve knew that it was the very pinnacle to Soda's issues, the core to everything he had gone through from then up until this moment. Part of him was actually . . . edgy about bringing it up, but he knew he had to, and not only for Soda's sake, but for his own as well.

Because, on the inside, he was suffering, too.

"What happened back in Vietnam . . . after we all got separated?"

Dallas blinked, the faint rays of the sun peering through the makeshift curtains as they touched the horizon. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he knew it was early, and quite frankly, he really didn't want to be awake just then. Well, he had plans of getting out of the joint he was currently taking up residence in, figuring that he had definitely overstayed his welcome—not that he gave a shit. He didn't really, but he just didn't dig staying in one area for too long. He didn't want to make any attachments, didn't want to have the burden of anyone lingering on his conscious, or have the weight of their luggage resting on his shoulders. No, he had enough with his own shit, and he didn't need to add anyone else's to the pile.

Sitting up, the blond reached for his pack of smokes, sticking one between his lips as he stood up to pull his jeans on. Jesus, but it was fucking cold, he thought, and slid his feet into his boots. He leaned forward on the bed to tie them, not caring that the soles were resting against the sheets or the quilt—it's not like they weren't spoiled already. The broad he had been shacking up with made a sound like a light moan, her eyes fluttering open to meet his own blank stare. She watched him for a minute or two while he finished getting dressed, and only when he lit the cigarette, taking a seat in the chair beside the night table, did she speak.

"Heading out?"

He inhaled slowly. "Somethin' like that."

She nodded wearily, her expression distant. Dallas watched her, though, wishing that he had never met her. It wasn't that she was horrible or anything like that, but she clinged to him, and he was getting sick of it. He never liked being around girls that clung onto him, or tried to change him, or any of that shit, and Joanne, the broad he was staying with, was one of them. It wasn't that she was trying to get her hooks in him, but . . . she clung, and it irked the former delinquent more than anything. Sure, she was good company, and she was great when he needed to get his rocks off, but he didn't care for her, and he was ready—had been for a while—to get away from her. She talked too much, wanted to get to know him, figure him out, and he just wasn't about that, never had been. Well, there had been a time when he let one chick ever get that close to him, but he shoved that thought aside, attempting to dissolve her memory as quickly as she had popped up in his mind.

Joanne sat up a moment later, pulling the sheet with her to cover her bare chest. Her lips were curved down, the sun on her face making the faint lines around her eyes look more prominent. Dallas knew that she was a good few years older than his mere twenty-two, figuring that she was older than Darry, too, probably closer to thirty. Like him, though, she was a loner, but whereas he didn't want to establish connections, she was trying to build them. For Dallas, however, there were no hellos or goodbyes on the road, no relationships, no . . . nothing. There was just the moment you were in, whatever time you had on your side, and that was it. He didn't plan on getting attached to Joanne, and he hadn't. He had made a mistake by staying the time that he had—which wasn't all that long—because Joanne was like a leech, one that he was going to have to toss back into the water. She knew the score, though—he had told her plenty of times that he wasn't looking for anything, didn't want anything from anyone, and she seemed to understand that all just fine.

But she remained hopeful.

"Where are you going?" she asked, a quietness to her voice. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he thought that she was about to start crying. "I just figured I'd ask, you know . . . I know that—" She paused, her shoulders sagging a little. He already knew what she was going to say—they both knew that he never planned to stay. "This ain't for you . . ."

He merely stared at her, the tip of the cigarette burning cherry red as he inhaled again.

He wouldn't be coming back this time.

Joanne nodded, mostly to herself, the realization officially setting in. "Can I ask you something?" she questioned, and turned to fully face him, her legs crossing beneath the blankets as she pulled them around the entirety of her body, like a cocoon. "Who is she?"

"Who's who?"

Her eyes remained fixed on his, a knowing look in them. "Her . . . the girl you're in love with." The inquiry hadn't been asked with displeasure, or dislike, but rather a genuine curiosity. Joanne might have been only a few years older than Dallas, but she had her own past experiences, and even though Dallas Winston was a hard man to read, she knew that there was another woman in his life, or at least, there had been. "You're runnin' away," she continued when he didn't respond. "You think of her when you look at me, you see her when we're making love . . ." She took a breath, brows furrowing. "I see it in your eyes . . . and I can see it now . . ." And suddenly, she sniffled, a lone tear rolling down her cheek like a droplet of rain on a window pane. "You're gonna keep runnin'."

The cigarette was pressed into the ashtray, Dallas's eyes slightly narrowed as he stood up slowly. It was high time he got the fuck out of there . . . he didn't need to hear anymore of this nonsense. Joanne didn't know what in the hell she was talking about, and Dallas assumed that she had a little too much to drink the night before—she was getting all emotional, a hangover in the blues. He didn't want to stick around for it, either, and more than that, he didn't want to listen to anything else she had to say. She didn't know him, didn't know a fucking thing about his past, or any of that shit.

He wasn't running from anything, especially not from—

Especially not from any broad.

Grabbing his brown leather jacket—the one Ella Mitchell had gotten him for his birthday a few years before—he took one last look at Joanne, only telling her to take care of herself before taking his final leave. He didn't bother to look back, either, and as he stepped outside into the cold and brisk December air, he slipped the jacket on, telling himself that Joanne was wrong while wondering where in the hell he would end up next.

A few more miles in the rear view would do him a world of good.

Yeah, it was time to get the fuck out of there.

Ponyboy wasn't sure what to think right then. His green eyes were big and round, his lips parted, but no words coming out. There were a million things going through his mind, and he couldn't seem to focus on any one of them. Julia was looking down at her shoes, as if they were suddenly interesting, and she refused to meet his eyes. It was their last week before Winter break, and Ponyboy planned to leave on Wednesday morning to head home, having asked Julia that afternoon if, perhaps, she would like to come by at some point, meet his brother and friends . . .

But Julia . . . her answer had stunned him speechless, and the more he attempted to digest her words, the more agonizing the situation became. Well, it wasn't so much as agony or disappointment than it was shock and . . . confusion. They had been careful, made sure of it, but Julia telling him that she couldn't see him because she was pregnant seemed . . . well, it seemed strange. Of course, he could understand that maybe she was embarrassed or ashamed, because they weren't married, or because she was still nineteen going on twenty in a few months, and she wasn't ready to be a mother. Honestly, Ponyboy couldn't exactly say that he was able to picture Julia as a mother—she was too . . . wild, too independent, but either way, she was pregnant, and she looked incredibly lost. The words had come tumbling out of her mouth right after he'd mentioned meeting Darry and his friends over the holidays, and a silence enveloped them, both teens unsure of what to do or say.

A moment later, after Ponyboy was able to collect himself, he took a seat on his bed. "I, uh—" Another pause. "What do you want to do?" He wanted to mentally punch himself, his voice coming out a little on the shaky side. "I mean . . ."

"No, Ponyboy," Julia interrupted, and sighed almost dramatically. She looked up, and he realized that she was crying. "I messed up, Pony . . . I messed up big time."

Now he was confused. "I don't understand, Julia." He wanted to comfort her in some way, tell her that things would be okay, they would figure something out . . . whatever it took. He figured that he was in it just as much as she was, and he wasn't about to just walk away from her. Not like that. "Whatever you want to do, I'm okay with," he continued on, trying to sound as reassuring as he could. "I'm not gonna leave you or anything."

She shook her head. "No, it's not that, it's not you," she breathed. "I messed up, Ponyboy, don't you see that?" Her voice was raising with every word, and then the tears came. "I am so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, Ponyboy. I don't even remember it, but . . . it happened, and I'm sorry. I just—"

And suddenly, it clicked. She was pregnant with another man's child. Not his.

"Oh," he replied. It sounded stupid to his own ears, but he wasn't even sure what to say to that, and the sounds of Julia's sobs were drowning out his own emotions. Well, scratch all of his previous thoughts, as they were irrelevant now. Still, Ponyboy felt somewhat . . . sorry for Julia, and not just because she had stooped so low to cheating on him and ending up pregnant, but because . . . well, he really did like her, loved her, and it made him feel worse that she could possibly throw them away so easily. Well, he supposed, she had done it once already. "Julia, I'm not real sure what to say."

"Don't, please," she said, her face blotchy and streaked with black mascara. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I really . . . I really love you."

Her words caused him to feel like he had just been slapped in the face. He wanted to believe her, some part of him really did, but this time, he simply couldn't allow himself to. He decided that he didn't hate her, either—he loved her too much to really ever feel a negative emotion toward her, but he knew that he needed to let her go. He assumed that was what she wanted, too. In fact, he didn't want to know a thing, didn't want to hear her apologies, excuses, didn't want to know who she had cheated with, or when, or how . . . nothing. His heart stung in his chest, and for a moment, he felt as though he, too, was about shed some tears, but he wasn't going to—not in front of a girl, no less.

Ponyboy nodded slowly. "I love you, too, Julia . . ." He looked back at her, her eyes all bloodshot and puffy. "I did."

Julia bit her lip for a second, her eyes on his. The underlying message had come through, though, and neither one of them said another word to each other, the only sound being Julia's footsteps across the floor, and then the door closing behind her a moment later.

Ella felt sluggish, as if she allowed herself to move, she would simply fall over. The neck of the bottle was held loosely in her right hand, a withdrawn expression on her pale face. Tomorrow she would be twenty-two years old, another year without her mother, who had passed three years ago on the tenth, her father's three year anniversary having already passed back in October. Ella hadn't planned on doing anything for her birthday that year, and she was pretty sure that everyone forgot, or had other things to attend to, not that she minded. In fact, she was honestly glad that nobody seemed to remember that year, because she really didn't want to think about it herself.

There were a lot of emotions the young woman was feeling right then . . . between inner turmoil, a lot of regrets, and remorse. Of course, she wasn't just feeling any of these emotions about herself, but there were a lot of things bugging her, things that she kept to herself. Ella never thought that she would return to Tulsa, and when she had all those months ago, she never thought that she would stay so long. Her mind drifted off to Pete Rhodes, her ex-boyfriend, and she wondered what he was up to these days. Lord, it had been almost seven months since she'd last seen him, and sometimes she wondered who he had decided to replace her with. She almost laughed at the thought alone, remembering a time when she was just Ella Mitchell, plain and reserved, and then Lydia Belle, the Playboy beauty that was daring and bold, and now . . . she was simply Ella Mitchell again . . . and she felt more alone than ever.

Of course, the alcohol pumping beneath her skin and through her veins wasn't doing much to help with her negative emotions, only encourage them. Ella wasn't really a drinker to begin with, but right then, on that particular Sunday night, she felt in good need of a drink. Perhaps she was celebrating after all, a morbid way to do so, but it was something.

"Ella?" a voice rang out in the distance, causing the girl to blink, seemingly coming back to life. "Ella Mitchell, is that you?"

A moment later, she was staring into the gray eyes of Two-Bit Mathews, someone she never really expected to see walking around the cemetery this time of night. He looked the same as always, though he apparently had cut his hair a little, and his sideburns weren't so prevalent on his face anymore. He looked as tired as she felt, but he did look better, more alive, than the last time she had seen him. For a moment, Ella felt a little irritated that she had been noticed, but in a way, she was also glad for some company—she was happy to get out of her head for a while.

"Hi, Two-Bit," she greeted, voice low. "I didn't recognize your voice."

He shrugged, blowing it off. "Shoot, I hardly recognized you, kid. What are you doing out here on a night like this anyway?" His gaze shifted toward the bottle of vodka in her hand, and he made a face, not ever thinking Ella to be the drinking type, well, not hard liquor. Then again, she had managed to date the likes of Dallas Winston for several months solid, so . . . Anyway, he nodded to the beverage, before looking back at her, studying her face. "You okay?"

There was a beat of silence before she answered. "I'm okay, I was just . . . visiting my mom." A small smile registered on her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "What about you?"

"Me?" he asked lightly, and grinned. "I just came by, figured I'd see Johnny Cade. Haven't done so in a while, you know?" And then he chuckled. "Thought maybe I could scare off a few kids bumming around the area for kicks, but then I spotted you over here by your lonesome . . ."

A nod. "I'm glad you did."

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all."

The two of them sat in a comfortable silence for a while, and even though it was chilly, Ella barely seemed to notice. Two-Bit, however, was getting pretty cold, but in the back of his mind, he didn't exactly want to leave Ella there by herself. He had spent a few minutes watching her, before actually approaching her, but she didn't need to know that. Something was off about her, that was for certain, but Two-Bit wasn't dumb, and he knew it had everything to do with Dallas. He had never been all that close to Ella, only heard things about her from his ex-girlfriend, Bridget Stevens. She and Ella were friends, and for a brief second, Two-Bit considered on asking Ella if she still spoke to her or not—maybe he could find out how she was doing. But then again, he figured he ought to leave things alone, assuming it would be better that way. Hell, Ella seemed a little emotional for the two of them just by herself, and he didn't need to mix his own mess to her problems, especially not in the romance department, no sirree bub.

He lit a cigarette, offering one to Ella, who eagerly accepted. "So, Miss Ella-Lou-Who, what's with the booze?" he asked, deciding to make some small-talk. He had never been one to sit in silence for too long—it just wasn't his style. "You becoming the town's new drunk or somethin'?"

She laughed. "Wouldn't that be something to talk about . . ." And then she sighed, beginning to sober up a little, her body not as lethargic as it had been. "I guess I just wanted to feel something. Pretty stupid of me, I guess."

Two-Bit frowned. "I wouldn't say stupid, but maybe human." His eyes met hers, an all too knowing look in them, before he cocked an eyebrow. "But yeah, kid, stupid is as stupid does." He breathed in, taking another drag of the cigarette. "I ain't touched a bottle in . . . a pretty decent amount of time, and I don't plan on it any time soon."

"That's good," came the quiet response, and Ella's chin lowered. "I usually don't drink . . . but I just—" She paused, trying to find the right words to say. "I don't know. Like I said, I just wanted to feel something other than what I have been."

"Yeah, I hear that." He nodded to her a minute later, before standing up and offering his hand to her in a friendly gesture. "C'mon," he said, "I'll take you home. It's too cold to be sitting around out here like this." A smile. "Besides, you wouldn't want to wake up tomorrow morning with pneumonia for your birthday, would ya?"

Ella's jaw practically dropped. "How—"

"Hey, now," he replied, and helped her up. "Give me some credit. I ain't around all that much, but I can remember a thing or two . . ." A chuckle. "So, that was your gift this year . . . from me to you."

"What?" she asked, good-naturedly. "You remembering my date of birth?"

He shook his head. "No. My company!"

And for the first time in what felt like a long time, she genuinely grinned, all of her previous thoughts from earlier gone from her mind for the time being.

I could add another push pin to the map

But that don't stop me from missing you or looking back

Guess there's just one place I haven't gone

I've moved everywhere but on

Thank you for reading! :3