disclaim: I don't own; I borrow.
a/n: Flames are welcome. This was written for Kris, who is just so amazing. Big thanks to everyone who helped. I’m not impressed with a majority of the reviewers, however, for not pointing out the anachronism issue. Also, FF likes to eat my words. And, Al, you're made of nothing but win.

"Loving you isn't the right thing to do/ if I could/ maybe I'd give you my world."

xxxxx

Randy’s waiting in the parking lot, blue mustang idling in its space. The cab is warm – today’s been unusually cold. There’s a lit cigarette burning away in the ashtray, swirls of grey that fill the inside of his car with nicotine and a million other things that’ll kill him one day. Hopefully one day soon because he’s fed up with everyone and everything. He hates society and how everything is so stiff—all the rules, and the expectations that people have of him like he’s going to live up to the image that his dad and grandfather had created for him. Everyone thinks that he’ll take either take over the company, or become some sort of accountant over at Lucky Strikes. But he’s never been good with numbers; that ain’t his bag. He has his own ideas, though. It’s not like he doesn’t. He was a lot of ideas.

To him, becoming a lawyer up in Summerland is probably the best idea he’s ever had. A doctor in Florida doesn’t seem too bad, either, but it doesn’t matter what he does or where he goes because it’s the same everywhere. He’ll still have everything because he has money, and he always will. When he moves, he’ll live in the same sort of neighborhood that he does now. Pristine, upstate and clean. He’ll have the green lawn, the nice house with the white-picket fence. He’ll have the wife, the kids and the job. What he does doesn’t matter because he’s stuck, and he’s got it made.

Randy has his grandfather and his dad to thank for that. His grandfather makes a fortune killing people, and his dad makes another fortune punching numbers into a calculator, marketing on how much each life must cost. The best things in life aren’t free; they never have been.

The empty flask on the seat next to Randy stares at him, and he wishes it were at least half full. Half full, half empty, it doesn’t matter; he’d drink it anyways. He’d drown himself in it if he could. If it’d let him get out – get away – he’d do it. He’d do just about anything.

He watches kids scramble in the parking lot, running past his car like he doesn’t exist, and he knows he shouldn’t be here, waiting. But he likes the kid too much to leave. He likes the kid enough to wait around after school and drive him all over the countryside. One day, he’s going to take him away, to the country, and show him that not everywhere is like this. That’s why he likes Summerland so much. It might be way up North, in a completely different country, but it’s secluded enough that he could live incognito if he wanted to. Just him and the kid, and the pictures he’s always drawing. They’re real nice pictures, but if anyone else ever saw them…

Greasers don’t draw.

Greasers don’t do anything, really. They take up space, and air and wreck whatever they can get their hands on. They’re people – Randy understands that – but they’re not the sort of people the world needs.

But the kid is different. He’s smart, and literate, and even though his head is in the clouds all the time, he can use it when he has to. That kid is going somewhere; everyone knows that. Maybe the places he’s going aren’t as prestigious, or they don’t pay as well, but they’re better places than the ones that Randy is going to end up in. It doesn’t bug him, though; he likes the kid too much to let something like that get under his skin. It could be love… It could be.

The cab is too warm, and the cigarette is almost gone. It feels like he’s been waiting forever, sticking to the leather seats and letting the engine run. He understands why he’s taking so long, though. No one can see him get in; they’ve reps to protect and images to preserve. While Randy doesn’t care – he’d tell the entire world if he could – he knows that he doesn’t need that. They’ve both seen what people do to queers – they’d kill them both. He’d hate himself if he got the kid into that sort of trouble. Pony has a chance, and he can’t fuck that up. Randy knows that, and that’s why he’ll be okay if Pony ever decides to leave him – if he decides that he doesn’t want to stick around any longer.

But Randy doesn’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon. Pony won’t be the one doing the leaving, Randy will. Sure, they’ve got something, but it’s not going to be enough to keep them together for very long. It’s hardly enough to keep them together every other night, afternoon and weekend, pretending like everything is okay. It’s barely enough to make them take whatever time they can get and spend it together because Lord knows, they don’t get enough as is. Forget that Pony’s always at track, or Darry has him under house arrest, or he’s hanging around the rest of his pomade-slick buddies, especially that Two-Bit character that Randy can’t even look at. He’s an idiot.

“Randy?” Pony slips into the car quickly, scowling as he shuts the door behind him.

Randy sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What took you so long?” he asks, reaching for the cigarette. He crushes the butt between his fingers and says, “I mean, I ain’t got all day.” He dumps the ashes out the window, and places the ashtray back in the cup holder.

Pony tugs at his sweater, pulling it up under his ears because there’s a mark on his neck that he doesn’t want Randy to see. It’s red and purple, bruise-like against his collar bone. It was a lapse in judgment, he’d swear his life on it, but the mark shouldn’t be there, and he doesn’t want the argument. He doesn’t want to try and explain himself to Randy because Randy won’t want to hear it. He’s done something stupid – he’ll admit that – but Randy will just press, and press and press...

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Mrs. Mann held me up after class. I didn’t mean to make you wait so long, Randy.” He shifts in his seat, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Randy clears his throat like he knows Pony’s lying. He rolls his eyes, rubbing his palms against the steering wheel, and something about the way Pony disappears into his sweater almost makes his blood boil. The way he’s hugging the door, and sinking into this seat makes Randy wonder if he really wants to be here. He’s got enough free will – no one is a holding a gun to his head making him stay.

He pulls at his sweater again, eyes intent on the floor, the top of his shoes – anywhere and everywhere that isn’t Randy. It’s all this goddamn guilt like he isn’t supposed to be keeping secrets, making up excuses and stories. He shouldn’t have let Mark put this damn hickey on him. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair because it’s no one’s fault except Bryon’s, and how he’s so hell-bent on getting back at Mark for fucking around with Pony. Bryon’s looking at broads he isn’t even interested in, using them to screw around with Mark’s head. He doesn’t even want Mark anymore, and he doesn’t need to keep pulling these stunts because Mark pulls them, too. Mark comes to school with marks that he doesn’t even bother covering up, making sure that Bryon and Pony see them like it’s his license to put them through all this bullshit.

Mark’s just doing this to himself. He makes things complicated because he’s so hung up on Bryon. He can’t let go because he doesn’t know how, and even if he did, he wouldn’t. Mark is letting Bryon mess everything up for everyone. He has since May – the middleof May.

“Is there somethin’ real interesting about your sweater that you gotta keep tuggin’ at it?” Randy asks, rhetorical. He’s half joking and half serious. He’s half tired and half ecstatic. He’s half annoyed, and half… He didn’t know he had so many halves.

“It’s itchy,” Pony snaps automatically. “We switched out laundry detergent.” He scowls at himself, mentally kicking his own ass for sounding so lame. He’d like to bite off his own tongue and choke on it…

Randy shakes his head, and Pony shifts again. He scratches under his collar, face distant, and he feels bad. Randy’s never done a damn thing to him, and Pony knows that if he tells Randy about Mark, he won’t even get yelled at. Randy won’t do anything because he doesn’t believe in getting angry about stupid things. He doesn’t believe in getting violent, either, because he’s got some goddamn hippie complex that’s driving Pony insane. Randy is nothing like Mark.

Not even close.

The silence is making him sick. The guilt, it’s such an ugly thing. But if Randy would talk – if he’d saying something– Pony wouldn’t feel so guilty. They could talk about anything – how dumb Nancy is being, or how his teacher still won’t get off his case. He wants to tell them that he’s fine. He’s always been fine.

There’s a crack in the dashboard, and Pony catches himself scrutinizing it. Like him, it shouldn’t be in Randy’s car because it doesn’t fit. The rest of the car is perfect, and it still smells new. He’s afraid he’s going to leave some sort of a grease stain on Randy’s perfect leather seats – on his perfect life.

“Is there somethin’ going on, Pone?” Randy asks, taking his eyes off the road. He gives Pony a knowing look. He does know. He knows all about Mark, and how the guy couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Randy knows – sees – how people look at Pony, and it bugs him. Things like love and sex don’t know gender, and it’s not a big deal. No one chooses to be like this, but it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. To him, it’s as normal – natural– as breathing.

Pony doesn’t say anything, like he’s tuning Randy out, trying to figure out what to say because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He thinks that he might let it slip – let everything slip. He says, “Nothin’s going on, Randy,” and swallows so hard, he thinks he’ll swallow his words back down his throat. There’s a lot going on, but what’s one more lie? He’s lied so much that if he were to keel over like he wishes he would, he’d end up in hell. But he’s so good at it, he could probably lie his way out of that, too. The thought makes him sick.

“Do you want me to take you home?” Randy asks, looking at him again. He doesn’t want Pony to feel uncomfortable. “I’ll take you home, Pone…”

But Pony tells him not to. No one is going to be there, and he doesn’t want to be alone because he’ll drive himself crazy if he is. But if he says the wrong thing… It wouldn’t be so bad if Randy would yell at him, but he won’t. He just doesn’t have it in him.

Randy doesn’t have an angry bone in his body, and for once, Pony finds it hard to think of Randy as a Soc. Socs are angry – all of them – because they don’t want what they have. And they have everything.

“Can I take you to my place then?” Randy asks. He’s hopeful, but guarded. It almost makes Pony chuckle.

“Weren’t we goin’ there already?” He goes to fiddle with his sweater, but pushes his hair back instead.

He left his pomade in the bathroom.

xxxxx

Randy’s house is nice. The kind of house Pony sees on the fronts of magazines in the corner stores and gas stations. He’s always looking at them, always wishing he lived somewhere decent. He thinks about it too much, but he never says anything. At least he isn’t a tramp. Darry and Soda make sure of that.

He throws his stuff on Randy’s floor, thinking about how much bigger Randy’s room is than the one he shares with Soda. Randy has all these neat things – some real fancy radio and a lava lamp – and Pony wishes that he had things like that, too. He might not feel so lousy if he did. If he was like Randy – this calm, copasetic Randy – things wouldn’t be so complicated. Randy doesn’t make things complicated – he never has. It’s everyone else, including himself. He could stop things, he just doesn’t know how. Cheating on someone would do it, but if he tells Randy, it’ll stop the wrong things.

Pony shakes his head. Randy’s room always makes him think about things that don’t need to be thought about. If he ignores them long enough, they’ll go away, but this room makes his thoughts race. He’ll never get used to it, even if he’s been in here a million times.

“Hungry?” Randy asks. He offers Pony a sliced apple, grinning.

Something about it makes him queasy, but he takes the apple, shifting from foot to foot. When he bites into a slice, it’s sour, and it screws his face up. Randy just chuckles.

“I guess they aren’t exactly ripe yet,” he says. He bites into one anyways.

Pony shakes his head, nervous. Randy’s close enough to see the hickey and the start of new bruises that Pony can feel on his shoulder. Bruises that Mark’s digits fit into perfectly…

He couldn’t even lie and say that Randy left them because Randy is too careful. He’s never left a bruise – he makes sure he doesn’t. But sometimes Pony wishes that he would. He wants Randy to leave the same sort of marks that Two-Bit and Mark did – all the contusions and scratches just to prove to the other that it was only ever physical. There were never any real emotional ties, and all the anger and cheap, rough fucks were some sort of a tourniquet – they killed everything else. But there’s emotion in this. Pony’s never felt so guilty, and he isn’t used to it. He’s not used to Randy; he’s used to Two-Bit and Mark.

He needs to get out. He follows Randy through the living room, into the kitchen, and he feels so fucking alienated that he wants to throw up.

“Darla made cake,” Randy tells him, smirking. “It ain’t half bad, either.”

Of course it isn’t. Randy’s mom can cook and bake better than anyone Pony’s ever met other than Two-Bit’s mom. No one in his house can cook. They try, but it always tastes like cardboard.

Pony slaps his pockets nervously as Randy opens the balcony door. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, holding up a joint.

That’s what’s making Pony’s head spin – the smell is everywhere.

“If I did, I would’a said something,” he snaps. He rakes a hand through his hair, his knee bouncing as he chews on his bottom lip.

“’Cause you’ve been sayin’ so much already,” Randy scoffs. He sticks the joint between his lips and strikes a match on his watch.

“Don’t start with me,” Pony growls. He doesn’t mean to sound so harsh, but he feels like he’s about to explode. A part of him wants to stay, and the other wants him to throw himself from the balcony.

But Randy just looks so goddamn alluring, bare chest rising as he inhales. His stomach’s flat, toned and tanned like the rest of him. Pony thinks about how they feel together, Randy’s digits on his skin, humming.

Pony leans against the door frame, and Randy smirks. He blows smoke through his nose and tugs at Pony’s sweater playfully. “You oughta take that off,” Randy tells him, “get comfortable, man.”

Comfortable. Pony rolls his shoulders and pushes up his sleeves. Comfortable would be a million miles away from Randy. Comfortable would be anywhere except with Randy. Comfortable – Pony hasn’t been comfortable for a long time.

“I’m alright, man,” Pony says. He rakes a hand through his hair again, and huffs a sigh as Randy tugs at the sweater’s strings with one hand.

He puffs on his joint, pulling Pony into him too quickly. “Relax, baby,” he breathes, a cloud of sickeningly sweet smoke swirling under Pony’s nose.

Every muscle in Pony’s body goes rigid. He’s pressed tight against Randy, fingers splayed over warm skin and muscles. He breathes evenly, but if he moves the wrong way, Randy’s going to see that damn mark. He wishes he could smoke grass and relax like Randy does. He’d do it if Darry wouldn’t kill him.

“Randy, c’mon,” Pony whines quietly, “lemme go.”

Randy runs a thumb along Pony’s jaw. “Whatever you say, Pone,” he chuckles and takes another drag. He steps back, lungs burning, and a sly grin on his face as he exhales slowly. “Why so tense, baby?”

Pony shrugs, indifferent. “Stressed out, I guess,” he replies. “I’ve got a lot goin’ on, Randy.” He rubs a hand over his face, huffing a sigh. “Sorry.”

Randy shakes his head. “Here,” he says, holding out the joint for Pony to take. “It’ll take the edge off.”

It’s a stupid idea – he knows it is – but he tells himself that it doesn’t matter. He already reeks like weed, anyways, and he figures he might as well reek for a reason. His stomach tightens, nerves hissing, and he takes a hit. It burns his throat and lungs, and he thinks he might throw up because he’s so goddamn nervous. Darry really will kill him when he gets home.

“I don’t feel anything,” Pony says, a little thankful.

Randy shrugs, running a tongue over his teeth. “So smoke more,” he tells him, indifferent.

He doesn’t protest. He presses the joint to his lips, inhales deeply and holds it.

“Way to go, kid,” Randy jeers. “You’re a real natural, man.” He chuckles, looking at the sky with a smirk. Pony’s a natural at a lot more than smoking marijuana. He makes Randy too hard, and the kid doesn’t even know that he does it. When he licks his lips or moves his hips a certain way, Randy swells, and he swears he’ll lose it. He starts thinking about the kid’s body, bent under his, fair skin stretched across bones and muscles that move under his like no one else ever has.

“Randy,” Pony coughs, holding out the last of the joint. “I think I took too much.” He coughs again, grinning, and Randy tries not to laugh. Instead, he tells Pony to finish it off because he’s done.

Pony looks at him like he’s stupid as he inhales, and Randy is too impatient. He takes Pony’s jaw in a rough, vice-like grip and fuses their mouths together. He sucks the air out of Pony’s lungs, slipping his other hand up under the front of Pony’s sweater. Randy exhales quickly, pushing the kid up against the side of the house with a hungry look in his eyes. Pony fists at Randy’s chest, groaning.

He opens his mouth, letting Randy’s tongue slip past a defensive wall of teeth as he presses himself further into the vinyl siding, Randy grinding against him impatiently.

The motions all seem so lazy, his body buzzing and numb as Randy pulls him through the door, stopping only to hoist him up and wrap legs around his waist. He grabs Randy’s shoulders, connecting them with needy swirls of tongue and spit that taste like weed and apple. His mind whirs, spinning around in circles that might make him sick, but he doesn’t tell Randy to put him down or to cut it out because he wants this. He shouldn’t, but he does, and Randy wants it, too.

He half expects Randy to start preaching about righteousness, evil want and evil intentions, but he’s not the type to be doing the preaching. He’s sick of Randy’s preaching, but at the moment, he’s so in love that it hurts. He’s glad that he’s never listened to what anyone has told him about love, letting them suppose and suppose, doing his supposing for him when they know that he can do it for himself. He supposes that this is about as wrong as something can get – no one had to suppose that for him. He figured it out on his own. But if something that feels so right is so wrong, then he just wants to be wrong for the rest of his life. What’s right to someone else isn’t right to him. Doesn’t feel right – never has, never will.

Randy lowers Pony onto the bed. He turns the kid’s head to the side, pressing lips to his jaw as he reaches for the sweater’s zipper. The metal is cool against his fingers, the sound like iron tearing as he unzips it, pushing fabric from shoulders.

Pony hooks his fingers in the front of Randy’s jeans, knocking hips together too fast and too hard as Randy pushes his shirt up over his chest and stomach. The material bunches under his armpits as Randy kisses down his neck, sinking teeth carelessly into warm skin. He drags them over his throat, collar bone, missing that mark. Pony squirms under him, fiddling with the button on his jeans, wanting him to hurry up.

Randy sinks his teeth into Pony’s chest, tearing skin and drawing blood as he reaches between them, flicking open Pony’s belt with nimble, knowing fingers. The button follows, and Randy lifts Pony’s hips from the bed, tugging too-old jeans to the floor like they’re nothing. He bends at the waist, mashing their lips together as he struggles out of his own jeans. Pony pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it backward, and he chuckles as the lava lamp topples over. Randy doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t care. He can buy a new one if it’s broken.

He reaches over, pulling a drawer from its casing and gropes around for the right bottle. He sucks on an erect nipple, grazing teeth over it before blowing a cold breath down his chest. Pony shudders, fingers bruising into Randy’s shoulder as he stretches, pressing them together.

It’s all slow, hips knocking together, hurting too much, but Pony can’t wrap his head around it. He knows it hurts, Randy’s fingers digging into every inch of skin, tearing and clawing like he’s made of paper and not flesh, blood and bones, but he can’t feel it. Every scratch is numb, every bite mark cold, all of his blood humming. He wants it to hurt, so he mangles their hips together, his cock pressing into Randy’s lower stomach, and he groans, pulling their faces close. He locks them together with a rough kiss, Randy biting on his bottom lip as he slips lube-slick fingers inside, twisting too quickly and too fucking hard.

Pony writhes, arching against Randy. He lets out a low moan, something shared between fused lips. Randy’s skilled, hooking in the right places, digging in the right spots. It makes him think that maybe they do this too much, but as he clenches, feeling Randy swell against him, he doesn’t care. There’s no feeling like this, Randy’s fingers quick with friction that makes the bottom of his stomach start to tug as soon as he runs digits over his cock, swirling a thumb around the tip.

“Randy…” Pony moans, his face flushed.

They’re a tangle of limbs and bed sheets, kissing too hard and too fast. They can taste the blood, covering everything else. It’s just blood, spit, lube, sweat and pre-cum between them, slick against their stomachs.

Randy hooks his fingers, and Pony bucks against him, moaning. He inhales sharply, clawing at Randy’s chest, clenching around his fingers again. Randy presses his lips to Pony’s throat and bites down, feeling the vibration against his lips as the kid tries not to scream.

He pulls his fingers out and pushes Pony’s legs apart, hovering over him with dark eyes and tussled hair. Pony pulls them together, and Randy kisses him deep enough to make him dizzy.

“Tell me, Pony,” he whispers, mouth by the other’s ear.

Pony fists at the sheets, head rolled back against the bed. “What…?” he manages, writhing.

Randy nips at his earlobe, laughing. “Tell me you love me.”

Pony wraps a leg around Randy’s waist, scratching at his back as his head spins. “Jesus, Randy, I love you,” he breathes.

Randy kisses his jaw, smirking. “You mean it?” he asks, and he kisses Pony’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he nearly squeaks, fisting at Randy’s back.

Randy mashes their lips together, thrusting in without a word of warning. He muffles Pony’s groan, shuddering as the kid anchors his nails into his back.

Randy flicks his hips quick, and Pony latches onto him, letting out a low moan.

“Fuck, Randy,” he growls, breathing heavily as Randy picks up a sporadic rhythm. He grips Pony’s hips, holding him to the mattress as he thrusts up, hard.

He bites at Randy’s shoulder as he twists, holding back a scream, trying to match every flick and every twist. He fists at the sheets, eyes rolled to the back of his head as Randy bites at his jaw, holding him tighter and thrusting harder. He hits that spot that makes Pony see stars, and he groans, biting down on his lip.

Randy’s going to make him scream. He twists again, rougher, knocking into Pony. He picks up the pace; he’s creating more friction, more reason for Pony to cling to him and dig nails into his spine. He likes how the kid can’t keep up, his bucks and flicks too erratic. Everything is erratic, sporadic and spinning, and he bruises their lips together, digging, hitting the back of Pony.

When he slows down, Pony’s almost grateful. He feels like he’s about to break in half as he jerks his hips. Randy sinks his teeth into his collar bone, drawing in and out with slow succession. There’s nothing to it – they work off each other too easily. They fit too well, move too good together. They have a natural rhythm.

He looks down at Pony. The kid’s eyes are clamped shut, his lips parted and head tilted back in pain or gratification, Randy doesn’t know. But he thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. It makes him sick.

“Jesus…” Pony wraps an arm around the back of Randy’s neck holding them together, telling him to move faster, harder. He’d say something if he could, but he can’t manage more than a few strangled moans, and when Randy groans in his ear, he damn near looses it.

He doesn’t want to drag it out any longer. He wraps Pony’s legs around his waist and thrusts up. He twists, flicks, bucks, listening to the kid try and keep back too-loud moans as he tries to keep up. He challenges him with needier bucks, harder twists and quicker flicks, legs slipping as he fists at the bed. His stomach pulls and tugs, tingling worse than he’s ever felt. White starts biting at his vision, and he can tell that they’re close… so close.

It’s all a blur of words: “Stop,” “Don’t stop,” “Move,” “Right there.”

Pony clamps his eyes shut, white washing over the inside of his eyelids. He buries his face in Randy’s shoulder, screaming loud enough to make his throat hurt. He feels like he’s spinning, Randy’s teeth pressed against his shoulder as he growls.

Even after Randy rolls off him and pulls him into his chest, he’s still spinning. The room won’t stay still, and he feels too spacey. He thinks he might be sick, but he doesn’t know. He presses himself further into Randy and inhales deeply. He’s sure he’s going to be sick.

“Randy,” he pants, “I don’t feel too hot.” He wriggles out from under Randy’s arm and sits up, but he wishes he hadn’t.

“I thought you could take it, kid,” he says, pulling out a pack of Lucky’s from under his pillow.

Pony glares at Randy, moving too fast. He puts his head in his hands and groans. “I ain’t kiddin’ around, Randy,” he bites. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Randy shrugs. “Ain’t you ever had an orgasm before?” He digs around in his nightstand for a lighter. “I guess Mark ain’t so good after all, huh, Pone?”

Pony stiffens. He thinks about the stupid hickey on his neck, and stupid Mark who’s fucked everything up. He thought he had something with Randy. He really, really thought so.

“Get off it, Randy,” he snaps, rubbing his face. “It ain’t any of your business.”

Randy shrugs. “Whatever, kid, you’re the one that’s gonna be stuck with him, not me.” He lights up his cigarette, and he thinks about how he should quit smoking. It won’t look too good if he’s a doctor.

“Stuck,” Pony repeats. “What do you mean, ‘stuck’?”

Randy throws his legs over the side of the bed, opening a dresser drawer. “Jesus, kid, are you stupid?” he asks, and pulls on a pair of sweats. “I’m leaving.”

The bottom of his stomach falls away, and his breath catches in his throat. He’s feels spacey, like he’s not really there. “Leaving? What?” He looks at Randy, absolutely dumbfounded.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” he growls, slamming the drawer shut. “Leaving, you know? Like I ain’t gonna be around anymore.”

“I call bullshit,” Pony snaps. “You’re lying. Jesus Christ, Randy, what the hell am I to you?”

Randy doesn’t say anything, and Pony realizes that his body is starting to smart. Every rip, scratch and bite mark is throbbing. The bruises are on fire, and his blood is too hot. He knows the answer. It’s the same answer Two-Bit and Mark gave him.

“You oughta leave,” Randy tells him. He doesn’t turn around – he can’t. He’s probably just killed Pony. He’s probably killed whatever hopes – delusions – he had about this being different than the way it was with Mark and Two-Bit, as if the outcome was going to be any better.

“How the fuck am I supposed to do that, Randy?” Pony almost yells. He wishes that Randy would yell back. “I can’t walk home, you know that.”

“Call someone!” Randy snaps. “Don’t you ever use your goddamn head?” He stalks up to Pony and hoists up from the bed carelessly. As he shoves Pony out into the hallway, he has to take deeper breaths to keep from hitting the kid. His fingers are digging into Pony’s arm, and he shoves him toward the phone roughly.

Pony knows exactly who he’s going to call. “Fine!” He swats Randy’s hand away—jerks his arm out of his grip. “For fuck sakes, all right! Would’ja quit shovin’ me?”

Randy does. He shoves Pony again, wishing the kid would have cracked his head against it or something. “Make it quick,” he barks.

Pony dials the number, receiver pressed to his ear. It rings, and rings, and he’s half convinced that no one is going to pick up. He’ll be stuck, stranded, have to walk home…

“Yeah?” someone says, their voice groggy.

Pony huffs a relieved sigh. He just wants to get out of here. “Hey, Two-Bit, it’s Pony.” He glares at Randy, wishing he’d’ve just gone home. “Can you come get me?”

“Where are you?”he asks, yawning.

“Just… come get me on Commercial, alright?” He rubs his face, cringing because every inch of his body hurts in ways he never thought possible.

He’s glad that Two-Bit doesn’t ask questions, but he can probably figure it out. When he hears the phone click on Two-Bit’s end, the dial tone buzzing, he sighs. He owes Two-Bit big time.

“You know, Randy,” he starts, “realgreat timing. All the bullshit andthis…” He shakes his head, this sick reality bringing him back to Earth. Randy – it was stupid, but he thought he’d never leave. He thought he was better than Mark and Two-Bit.

“Jesus, kid, it ain’t like I’m leaving right away, alright!”

“Quit callin’ me kid!” he yells and tries throwing the receiver at Randy. It hits him between the eyes, and Pony’s eyes bug slightly before he scowls. “What the fuckwas I to you, huh?!”

“Nothing!” Randy shouts, and his hand is pressed to his forehead. He glares at the kid, and bends down to pick the phone up. He wants to chuck it back just as bad as Pony wants to hit him. “You need to leave.”

Pony’s taken aback. “W-why?” he stammers. He wants to hit Randy. He’s worse than Two-Bit and Mark; he’s worse because he’s leaving. He’s worse because he’s left bigger, bolder marks than they ever had. His entire body aches, and when he looks down, he can see every purple bruise, every red streak of blood and every green-tinged welt. At least the other two had the decency to stick around after. At least they’re still here after all the bite marks and scratches.

Randy looks at him carefully, eyes narrowed and searing. “Because if I haven’t made myself perfectly fuckingclear, I don’t want you hangin’ around anymore,” he growls. He’s lucky he’s such a good liar.

“And it’s always what you want, huh?!” Pony challenges. “What about what Iwant?”

“I don’t care, alright! I never have!” Randy rakes a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath. Nobody said this was going to be easy. He thought it would. He should’ve known better.

Pony breathes deeply, shaking his head. “You’re lying, Randy,” he says. “You’re a fucking liar!”

“Are you fucking stupid?” he asks. He slams the receiver down on the hook, and shoves Pony back into his room. Pony trips over something and scrambles on the bed. “I ain’t the liar.” Randy takes Pony’s jaw in a rough grip, fingers pressing into fresh, purpling bruises. “You are.”

“Y’ don’t know what you’re talking about, Randy,” Pony spits. He sneers at him, disgusted.

Randy runs a finger over Pony’s collar bone, pressing down on a dark purple mark he knows he didn’t leave. After all, he’s never bruised the kid.

He’s never left a goddamn mark.