A/N Not the first Outsiders fic I've done, but the rest I deleted because they were, like, embarrasingly awful, so...

This is a oneshot

One Cold Night

By: A Quick Death Will Never Come

It was a normal night.

As normal a night as any, really, when you were at the very bottom of a food chain seemingly made to make your life as horrible as possible.

You ventured off to the movies after dinner, a simple grunt the only reply he'd gotten from Darry, telling him half-heartidly to come home before eleven.

Soda was out, a football game with Sandy and Steve. They'd be out late, doing what, you'd rather not know.

Johnny tags along, purely for the sake of something to do. He has a new bruise, you notice grimly, right at the jaw. A left hook, probably. He'd come back to your house tonight.

The walk to the movie is uneventful, as the sun still peaked from behind the smoking buildings, creating just enough light so you felt somewhat safe. Somewhat.

The movie plays, you watch. Quick and easy. Too quick, as far as you were concerned. Because as soon as the lights of the theatre went out, you were left to the cold, harsh reality of the streets outside, now blanketed by the unforgiving darkness. To the mercy of whoever happened to come your way. Or lack thereof.

You and Johnny trudge out the doors, the only light to be seen being the dim street lights, flickering every other beat, threatening to go out any second. You walk the cracked pavement, venturing farther and farther from the safety of the movie theatre. You regret coming so late as the buzz of happy couples and students diminishes, leaving an eery silence, a feeling of dread rising in your throat like bile.

"Hurry up." you mumble to Johnny, who's slacking behind your brisk walk. It's cold. You can see your breath.

"Where you rushin' to, Ponyboy?" he mutters back, the usual wide eyed fear glistening in his dark brown eyes as he glances around the dark streets carefully.

They hear the bristling of leaves, rubber on asphalt, drunken snickering. Someone's following you.

"Let's go," you say more persistently, grabbing Johnny by the sleeve and pushing him forward, looking cautiously behind you, "you gotta blade?"

Johnny nods, his hand--shaking--patting his back pocket.

Pitter patter.

You walk fast, as quick as your legs will carry you without breaking into a run. You can see the glow of your porch light glowing somberly over the roof of another house.

"Come on!" you call to Johnny, who's still lagging behind. The laughs get closer.

Before you know what's happening, a rough hand grabs the back of your neck in a quick flash, making you stumble blindly on your feet, throwing your head back in protest.

"Where you off too, Greaser?" a slithery voice says. You feel his hot breath at your ear, the stench of alcohal so strong you gag. Your thrown to the ground, your head thumping agains the cold cement. Your vision flickers at the impact.

A foot comes down on your leg, slamming it against the ground. You hear something crack. Your not sure what.

The laughter continues. Something wet is poured on your face, the stink burning your nostrils, bringing tears to your eyes. You thrash wildly, arms like vices hold you down. You try to scream. The sound hardly gets out before a knee is jabbed in your stomach, knocking whatever air you have left right back out with a whoosh.

You don't know if there talkin to you or each other, but you can scarcely make out the slurred words. Lot's of laughing, that much you can tell.

You feel a hard blow to your chin, sending the back of your head crashing against the ground, your teeth coming down on your tongue. The warm copper taste spreads down your throat.

Someone kicks the side of your ribs. Hard. You yelp.

It goes on like this. They laugh at some joke only they understand, sending a kick your way every few minutes. Mostly taunting you, spilling beer on your face. You wonder if Johnny is enduring the same treatment, though you can't hear much beyond the incessent ringing.

You should be grateful, really. It could be worse.

"Ahh!" you cry as you feel a sharp stinging in your closed fist, the sound of glass shattering drowned out by more snickers.

"Whoops, sorry." you hear a gravely voice laugh.

You cry out, thrashing wildly under the iron grip. The laughter fades into irritated commands.

"Shut that kid up, for God's sake!"

You realize your screaming. Something is shoved down your throat. You bite down. Someone yelps. More blood pours down your throat, dribbling down your sweat soaked cheeks. A roar of fury sounds liek a bullhorn, cutting through your head like a knife.

"The little prick bit me!" someone bellows. Your heads thrown back, a foot stomping down on your arm.

Your not sure what happens next. You scream again, though it's cut off by something. Your not sure what it is. A feeling of metal on your skin. Half-hearted protest, obviously going ignored. A sharp pain like nothing else you've experienced cutting into your gut, making it hard ot breathe. It allows a strangled cry, more like the gurgle of someone drowning. More blood, rising from your throat and spilling down your chin, sputtering like a fountain as you cough, your lungs reaching desperatly for a breath of air. Your eyes bug out, and you instinctivley try to sit up, using the last of your adreneline on the single act.

It's like your drowing in a red haze of water, searching for air where there is none, unable to see anything but the waters that pull you down. Your ears ring like someone's blowing a whistle directly in your head, and your brain sloshes like metled snow, splattering against the inside of your skull.

"Wha--Idiot!" someone cries, horrified. Fearful. Not for you, though, for them.

"What'd you do!" another yells. The grips on his arms and legs loosen, allowing you to freely writhe against the painful current.

"Man, this is crazy!" someone snaps. You hear the sound of running, shoes splashing in puddles left over from the rain the day before.

"I-I..." the voice stutters. You can't see where he is. Everythings red, fading to grey.

"What're we gonna do, man!"

"Let's get outta hear!"

"Whata' 'bout the kid!"

"Man, leave 'em!"

"We can't just..."

"You wanna go down fer murder, go righ' on ahead, but you ain't pullin' me down with you!"

"I..I.."

"Come on!"

And the last footsteps start running, fading away into the night, leaving you to the unmerciful pull of the current, wanting nothing more then to pull you under.

"...Johnny..." you croak, your voice a choked gasp to your own ears. No one answers, no one makes a sound. Your shaking hands clutch your stomach, as though you can push the air back in. You cough, wasting more precious oxygen. It hurts.

"Johnny!" you gasp again. How long had you been there, you wonder. Probably past eleven.

Nothing.

God.

You want to call for him. For Darry. Soda. Anyone. The words don't come, and you focus on breathing, once an easy task, now a labor.

Black edges in the corners. He turns his head. A lump lays next to him, unmoving. Red surrounds it, creating a puddle of it's own. So much. You want to throw up.

"Johnny!" you cry hopelessly. It's fading darker now, until it's set in a deep grey, inching closer and closer until your vision is a tiny circle. Johnny remains motionless, and your throat bunches up in your neck.

The world goes dark, like someone flipped off a switch. Your alone, with only the soft blow of the wind to comfort you.

Your name is Ponyboy Curtis, and tonight was the night you died.

A/N This is a little OOC, and pretty rushed, and...like...probably bad. Whatever. It's like...late enough for TMZ to be on. Hm...

Maybe dark. I don't know.