disclaim: I do not own the Outsiders or the song.
a/n: It was something just off the top of my head that took me forever to write.
Flames are welcome.

"I remember the time you sat and told me about your Jesus
and how not to look back even if no one believes us."
- FM Static

It’s all the things he doesn’t like about him – the color of his hair, and the wideness of his grin, and how he can’t take anything seriously. How he holds his cigarette like he doesn’t want it, and that makes him lose his taste for his own. It’s the way he makes his stomach flighty now as he chuckles, and he knows that he is mad, but won’t tell him what about because to him, he’s just a kid. And it’s how he says, “You don’t get it,” like him not understanding is killing him inside. It is; he knows it is.

But why is it all these things? Why does the color of his eyes make him want to reach up and smack that smirk from his face? He doesn’t know, so he grinds his cigarette into the kitchen table and hopes that Darry won’t notice when he gets home. He doesn’t think he’ll care if Darry does – he has other stuff on his mind.

“I hate you,” he says, and he means it like he’s never meant anything in his life. “Jesus, Two-Bit, I hate you.”

He scratches the back of his head, watching the cigarette eat away at itself. “You ain’t old enough to know what hate is,” he tells him, and he’s calm about it.

“I’m almost sixteen,” the “kid” mutters. His birthday is in a few months – he’s old enough to know what hate is. He’s more than old enough.

Two-Bit grits his teeth. He wants to tell the kid to shut up because he doesn’t know anything. “You’ve gotta know love to know hate, kid, and you don’t know what that is, either.”

Kid. He wishes Two-Bit would stop calling him that. He’s not a kid. He’ll be eighteen soon enough, for crying out loud! And he knows what love is. At least, he thinks he does. All the nights he’s spent awake, wanting to see those eyes – Two-Bit’s eyes – that love him, and feel those hands that hold him. Love. Wasn’t it waking up and missing those lips – that body – on yours, and acting like a love-struck teenager every time he’s around? He knows love. He knows hate.

This is the only time he’s seen Two-Bit so serious – almost severe – about something. It scares him – he hates it. He wants that stupid grin, and those eyes that dance. He wants to hit him, too. He could do it, and Two-Bit would hit him back. But Darry would ask questions. Soda would ask questions. Fucking Steve Randle would ask questions, and he’d have to lie to all three of them. He lies to Two-Bit enough – he doesn’t want to make a habit out of it.

“So this is it?” he asks, and he puts up these walls because if he doesn’t, and Two-Bit says yes, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. What he could do. What he would do.

Two-Bit takes a breath, and it’s steady, calm, like he already knows the answer that breath – that air – is going to be turned into. A “yes”, or a “no”, or something in between.

“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I don’t know, Pone.”

He’s had it; Two-Bit never knows. “I wish you’d know something for once,” he spits, and he really knows what hate is now.

Hate is Two-Bit, and his smile, and his grin, and his laugh, and his swagger. It’s his voice – his words – and how he always makes Pony think with his moments – or hours – of sobriety. It’s his habit, and even his taste in broads he uses as a cover up – a façade – and how he’s so ashamed of the way he is.

Hate. Pony knows what that is.

“I wish,” Pony starts, but he can’t talk through the lump in his throat. He hates Two-Bit’s face, and he doesn’t want it around anymore.

Two-Bit dumps the butt of his cigarette in the sink. “I wish I knew,” he says, and his eyes are almost glazed over, they’re so distant.

Pony shoots up from his chair. He doesn’t want this anymore. He doesn’t want the headache, the problems he can’t stomach, and feeling like he’s about to explode. He doesn’t even know what they argue about anymore – it’s everything and nothing.

“Lemme know when you figure it out,” he snaps, and he has to force himself to look at Two-Bit and not at the floor.

“You don’t think I’m as confused as you are?” Two-Bit asks, and it takes a lot not to yell at the kid. He wants to, but Darry yells at him enough, and half the time it’s his fault because he never brings Pony home on time.

“How are you confused?” Pony shoots. His knuckles are white, clenched in too-tight fists that make his finger scream. “You’re the one callin’ all the shots!”

Two-Bit’s in front of him suddenly, twisting the hell out of Pony’s collar. He doesn’t know what to say because for once in his life he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to tell Pony that he doesn’t want to be calling all the shots, all the time, and he glares at Pony. He can hear him breathe, and he watches him think. He wants to say something to Pony – tell him to grow up – but he can’t.

So he kisses him. It’s fast, and hard, and greedy, and goes against everything he’s been telling himself for the last three days. But Pony melts into him, opening his mouth so Two-Bit can slide his tongue inside. He wants to bite down on it and make Two-Bit feel how he’s been feeling for the past week, but something all too familiar starts pooling in the bottom of his stomach. He can feel Two-Bit through the denim, and he lets Two-Bit run a hand under his shirt, pressing him against a wall.

Pony pulls back first, his head dizzy, and gasps for air, and he hates what Two-Bit does to him. He hates his rough hands that wrap his legs around his waist, and squeeze down on a thigh like he owns him. But he doesn’t do anything about it because deep, deep down – deeper than Two-Bit has ever been – he wants it. He hates that he wants it, but he crashes their lips together, grinding his hips against Two-Bit’s, and wants more than he can feel right now.

The kid drives him crazy. He makes him hard, and needy, and impatient. He makes him uneasy, and unsure. But that’s not important. What’s important is the body under his, grinding their hips together, and making these sounds that could never manage to be a full-blown scream. He wants to make the kid scream.

He slides his arms under Pony, legs wound tightly around him, and damn near falls into Pony’s room. They crash into the bed, and Two-Bit collapses on top of Pony in a way that makes the kid moan and arch against him. He doesn’t have patience for difficult buttons, snaps, and zippers, so he pulls his own jacket off, and pulls his shirt over his head.

Pony has his own shirt off, and his eyes are half lidded. He bites down on his bottom lip, looking up at Two-Bit because his breathing is already labored, and he shudders as Two-Bit stoops over him, brushing his tongue over a nipple. He tugs at the button of his jeans, and it gives with the ripping of a zipper, hot with friction. He doesn’t have time to think, or breathe, or move before Two-Bit slides Pony’s boxers from his hips, and takes him in.

Lips cover teeth that pull, tug, and push over contours and veins. It makes Pony fist at the sheets and squirm because he wants Two-Bit to move faster – suck harder – but he can’t manage more than a muffled moan or pathetic squeak when he opens his mouth.

It’s slow torture, and when Two-Bit lets Pony's cock fall from his mouth, he’s almost glad because he still hates Two-Bit. He hates him now more than ever, he thinks as Two-Bit unbuttons his own jeans, slides them from his hips.

Pony knows what’s coming, and he wants to scream at Two-Bit to hurry up because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s anxious, and he wants it more than he should. He pulls Two-Bit into him and kisses him roughly, splitting their lips and banging their heads together. Neither of them care – it distracts Pony from thinking about how this could be the last time he’ll ever be with Two-Bit.

He reaches under his pillow and pulls out a tiny bottle of lube. He gives it to Two-Bit, thinking he’ll explode if the guy goes any slower, and nearly screams when Two-Bit squeezes it onto his chest and stomach. It’s cold as ice, and he shivers, feeling the bottom of his stomach tingle and burn with something a million times better – or worse – than anything he’s ever felt with Two-Bit.

Two-Bit spreads the clear gunk all over Pony’s chest and stomach, and on himself because as much as he wants to make the kid scream, he doesn’t want to hurt him. He dives in for another kiss, and Pony’s arms wrap around his neck as he snakes a leg around his waist. Two-Bit doesn’t need to ask if Pony’s ready because it’s the same answer every time. Instead, he slides in without a word of warning.

Pony digs his nails in between Two-Bit’s shoulder blades, his eyes squeezed shut, and his heart races. He writhers, and squirms, and he thinks he might cry or yell at Two-Bit to get the fuck out of him. But Two-Bit kisses along his collar bone and tells him to calm down – he can feel Pony’s pulse in his lips.

“Move,” Pony almost begs, and Two-Bit isn’t sure if he heard him right. “Jesus, Two-Bit, move!”

Two-Bit smirks against Pony’s shoulder and pushes up into him. It’s a guilty sound that gets pulled from Pony – those deep-chested moans the kid sometimes makes when he’s sleeping – and it makes him swell with arousal. It won’t take much – it never does – so he draws out slowly and pushes in quickly, picking up a rhythm that Pony’s body has trouble keeping up with.

“Pone. . .”

He feels that heavy familiarity of Pony’s lips on his, keeping him quiet, not letting him ask questions. Their hips bump, twist, and fingers curl in greasy hair that Two-Bit knows better than his own. There’s something like purpose in Pony’s kiss, with too much tongue and anger, like he’s trying to convince himself of something.

Without thinking, Two-Bit moves his lips to Pony’s shoulder, sucking on a patch of fair skin as he draws in and out, listen to the kid moan deep and low. He’s gonna make him scream though, and thinking about it makes Two-Bit pick up his rhythm, arch his hips, and move in a way that makes Pony throw his head back and bite his lip, holding in something that’s somewhere between a growl and groan.

A trickle of sweat runs down Two-Bit’s spine – the friction between them is almost unbearable, and he slips a hand between him and Pony, wrapping it around Pony’s cock. Pony sucks in a breath when he thrusts into Two-Bit’s hand, and he swallows back the moan pushing last his lips.

Two-Bit unhooks his lips from Pony’s shoulder, sinking his teeth into the red mark, making it bleed. He can feel Pony’s heart skip a beat, jerking his hips up roughly with a shudder. Two-Bit lets out a low groan – he likes the way Pony felt around him just then.

He doesn’t want to drag it out anymore, and he connects their lips roughly, hot and callous, digging fingers into Pony’s hips as he thrusts up, trying to hit some imaginary spot at the back of the kid. White starts biting at the edges of his vision, and he can tell Pony is on edge by how much noise he’s making – a bunch of low groans, and growls, and moans.

Two-Bit digs his fingers into Pony further, bruising skin, biting at his neck, and thrusting up again, harder than the last. He hits that spot – Pony lets out an ear-splitting scream and digs his fingers into Two-Bit’s sides.

Two-Bit feels something inside him swell and burst like someone stepping on a water balloon, and he comes in a swirl of ecstasy, mauling Pony’s shoulder. He pulls out slowly, shaking as he pulls Pony into his chest.

“Fuck, Two-Bit,” Pony groans, and he buries his face in Two-Bit’s shoulder.

Two-Bit runs his fingers through the kid’s hair, trying to choke back as much air as possible because his chest is heaving.

Eventually, their breathing and hearts ensue a normal rate, and Pony’s still enough to be asleep. Two-Bit didn’t realize it before, but the radio’s playing quietly, and it’s nothing but static, but Two-Bit thinks it could be a Beatles’ song. He doesn’t care. He’s tired, and spent, and Pony’s body is so damn warm against his. The sinewy arms wrapped around him, and the muscled legs tangled between his own and the bed-sheets.

He likes the way Pony smells, too. Like earth and whatnot. Earth, cigarettes, and spicy soap. It’s a real tuff smell. He’s a tuff kid . . .

A lighter flicks open, and there’s a cloud of smoke swirling under Two-Bit’s nose. He cracks an eye open, looking at Pony, and smirks.

“C’mere,” he says, sitting up.

Pony tucks himself into Two-Bit’s side, taking a drag before Two-Bit takes his jaw in a bruising grip, fuses their lips together, and sucks the smoke out of Pony’s lungs like a vacuum. He chuckles, blowing the smoke back in Pony’s face, and kisses him quickly. There’s a damp heat shared between the two.

“I didn’t know you were a screamer, Pone,” he chuckles.

Pony looks away, embarrassed, and he can hear the static of the radio. It’s just white noise – nothing that could ever come close to being a song.

“I didn’t know you were so good at saying goodbye,” he snaps, eyes glazed and red. “You really gotta make things hard, don’t you?”

Two-Bit plucks the smoke from Pony’s fingers and takes a drag before stubbing it out against the wall. The kid puts his head on Two-Bit’s chest, scowling at the wall.

“Maybe it ain’t the right time to say goodbye,” Two-Bit says, but they both know it’s the afterglow of the sex talking.

“Maybe it is an’ we just keep fuckin’ it up,” Pony counters. He traces an imaginary pattern on Two-Bit’s chest, and he knows it’s over.

“So then what was tonight?” Two-Bit asks, and for once in his life he doesn’t think he’ll have a smart remark to counter whatever Pony says.

The kid throws an arm around Two-Bit and says, “It was somethin’ else.” He kisses Two-Bit’s chest. “Radio static.”

For once, Two-Bit doesn’t need to ask questions. He knows what Pony is talking about. Radio static – there, but no one wants it. It’ll always be there, too. He rubs a small circle on Pony’s back. It’ll be a million different things.

“I’m sorry,” Two-Bit says, and he wonders if he’ll really ever be the same.

“Whatever,” Pony bites, closing his eyes. “You ain’t gone yet.”

It doesn’t matter; he’s leaving eventually. Sooner rather than later because Pony hates him and wants him gone.

“Yeah, well, don’t hate me when I do,” Two-Bit shoots, and he thinks that he’s probably fucking up one of the best things he’s ever had.

He couldn’t hate him anyways because he’s never known love, and he has to know love to know hate.

He’s just a kid, after all.

Two-Bit listens to the static again, knowing Pony can hear it too, and wonders if he can hear himself scream.

Because he’s not just a kid.