Disclaimer: I do not own The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, or "Teardrop" by Massive Attack.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
March 1970

You're stumbling into it all

You're back in your own place, but you still crash at Shelley's three or four times a week. And when you're not there, she's with you at your own place. But only during the day and into the early evening. She never sleeps over, but you get it - you've got one bed and a couch that's too far away from your bed for her to feel comfortable. It makes things hard, not being with her at night, but she seems to think she needs to get used to sleeping alone again, so you do what you have to do.

It's not just that, though. Everything's become hard and you're pretty sure Shelley blames you for that, as well as everything else. Sometimes she looks at you like she hates you, and you can't even blame her. You still hate yourself, and you know it's entirely your fault that Hamilton did what he did to her.

You know it's entirely your fault that you can't even sleep in the same bed as your girl.

And it's not the lack of sex that bothers you. You miss being able to touch her, kiss her, simply tug at a loose strand of hair without her whole body tensing up. You can live without the sex - you hate living without the go-ahead to just kiss her every once and a while.

You don't say anything, though - you never say anything. Shelley being okay matters more than your longing to kiss her, and if not giving her more than a peck on the lips is going to make her okay, then that's what you will continue to do. Because she means that fucking much to you.

But you don't know how to do this. You don't know how to have a relationship without sex, and the fact that every so-called relationship you've ever had was based on sex sure doesn't help. It's different with Shelley - it's always been different with Shelley - but, once you got her, the sex was a pretty big part of the relationship. Now it's gone and you don't know what to do - you don't know how to treat her.

Not that you knew anyway. After what happened to her, you've started acting different toward her and you cringe every time you catch yourself doing it. You don't joke, you don't tease, you don't speak. You never talked all that much to begin with, but now you're down to one word answers because you're just waiting for the moment conversation turns to her kicking you the hell out of her house.

You can see that conversation clearly: you won't have to say fuck-all, but Shelley will yell and scream and it will be one of those few moments where it actually feels like you're around a living person again. She'll tell you everything you already know - it's your fault, she hates you, just the idea of you touching her repulses you …

Every time you put your arm around her shoulders, say something a little too carelessly, go in for a quick kiss, your heart seizes and you wait. But it never comes. Not yet, anyway.

xxxxx

She's kissing your neck and no one else is home. Sitting on her bed, back pressed against her wall, your hands hover in mid-air as you try to figure out exactly where to place them. On her thighs or hips as she straddles you seems like the most natural position, but something strange is going on and you don't know what to do.

She's kissing your neck and that in itself is strange.

This is the most physical contact you've had with her in months, and you're not complaining - Christ, you're doing all you can to not push against her and show her how much you want this - but you're unsure, worried. She's acting weird and wonderful and just plain wrong, because, sure, it's been months since Hamilton attacked her, but … it's only been months. Months with no heavy petting, no making out, and definitely no wriggling on your lap.

You stifle a groan and grab her shoulders to pull her away. There's a wild look in her eyes when she looks at you, and you're not sure this is going to end well no matter what goes down.

"What're you doin, kid?"

She looks hurt. "Kid?"

"C'mon, Shelley, this … somethin's goin' on. What is it?"

"Nothin's goin' on. I just wanna be with my boyfriend." She pauses, watching you carefully. "You are still my boyfriend, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you stop?"

You don't know how to answer that. Slowly, you run your hands down her back, and the way her eyes close makes you think maybe she really does want this. But then she looks at you again and you're just not sure.

"You want me, don't ya?"

You sigh. "Yeah."

"You sure, Tim? 'Cause you haven't touched me in months."

"Shelley, I -"

She kisses you, full on the mouth, and her hands tangle in your hair. And you have to kiss her back - it's impossible for you to not kiss her back. Her tongue is in your mouth, and this time you don't hesitate to gently squeeze her hips. She moans into your mouth before pulling back to breath against your lips.

"Yes, Tim, I want this. I do."

She sounds so sure and she looks so sure and, goddamn it, she feels so sure. You kiss her again, and flip her so she's on her back and you're balanced above her. She doesn't stop you - not when you thumb the skin beneath her blouse, not when you leave her lips and attach your mouth to her neck, not when your fingers brush against the side of her covered breast.

But when you can't stop yourself from resting between her open legs, she says your name.

"Tim."

"Mmm." You murmur against the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling it with your nose. You had forgotten how good she smelled. You kiss a little lower, just reaching her collarbone.

"Tim, stop."

"What is it, baby?"

This time when she says your name, her voice cracks. "Tim, please, you have to stop."

You stop. She's rigid beneath you, her hands no longer in your hair, and when you look up, her eyes are full of unshed tears. She hasn't cried in weeks. You climb off the bed immediately.

"Oh hell. Oh fuck."

Tears fall, and she begins to cry in earnest. "You need to go," she sobs. "Please, just go."

"Okay. Okay." You grab your jacket, but stop at the door. "Kid, I … sorry."

xxxxx

April 1970

You didn't go back for four days, and when you did, Shelley smiled at you like nothing happened. But wasn't that smile, and it's not even remotely warm or light. It's just a smile to pretend that everything's okay when, really, everything's falling to fucking pieces.

You didn't know how to treat her before, and now you have no fucking clue. It's been weeks since you've touched her, and you're pretty sure that's just going to last. You can't bring yourself to hold her hand, to kiss her cheek, to wrap a strand of her hair around your finger. The most you can do is sit next to her on the couch when you watch TV, and try not to tense when she rests her head on your shoulder.

What happened in her bedroom that day isn't going to happen again, and you can't tell if you're happy or disappointed about that. You sure don't want her to start crying like she did, but, fuck, being able to kiss and touch her again sure had been something. Looking at your hand and her hand - resting only inches apart on the old couch - you decide you're glad it won't be happening again. You'll take no more tears over kissing and touching any day.

The movie on TV isn't halfway done, but Shelley looks at you and shuffles away.

"I'm tired. I think I might head to bed."

"Yeah, okay. I oughtta get goin' anyway. Said I'd meet up with Danny and Henry tonight." Not only do you no longer touch your girlfriend, but you now lie to her, too.

She walks you to the door, just like she does nearly every night. Nearly, because you don't see her every day now. You stayed away for four days after what happened in her bedroom, and now you will go one or two days before coming back. You wouldn't do it if she seem to care.

"G'night," she says, closing and locking the door behind her.

It's only eight-thirty, but she never lets you stay late anymore, and always makes sure you're gone before she goes to bed.

xxxxx

You don't even officially break up, but it still hurts more than you care to admit. You haven't seen her in a month, and it's not because you don't know how to treat her, it's not because you can't touch her, and it's not because you're not getting laid. It's because every time you go to her house, she's busy, or isn't home, or doesn't feel up to company.

It's all bullshit, but you just don't understand why she does it. At least, you didn't, not for a while.

You thought maybe you had said or done something, maybe you had upset her in some way, but you know it's not the case. You've been nothing but the perfect boyfriend no one ever expected you could be.

Except once, and the fact that she had to tell you more than once to stop still makes your fucking skin crawl. You can't blame her for pushing you away after the way you had kissed and touched her when she obviously wasn't ready, and you can't even blame her for not dumping your ass properly. Or sooner.

In fact, you're surprised it lasted this long. Three months since she was hurt, and she's only just realising what a fuck-up of a boyfriend she's got. You might have acted like the perfect boyfriend in that time, but, the truth is, you were just useless. You didn't know how to help, and now you don't even have the chance to help.

You've been let go, and you can't help the small bit of relief you feel.

But you miss her. Christ, you fucking miss her like crazy, and nothing helps. Not the whiskey you've got stored in your apartment, not the fight you get into with Robbie Riley, not the rumour you hear that Shelley's back at work now. That's improvement - she's improving - but it does nothing but make you miss her.

You're so fucking pathetic, and over a fucking girl, that you can't even deal. Drinking until you pass out seems to work better.

But one morning, six weeks after the last time you actually got to see Shelley, and ever longer since you made a promise you clearly no longer need to keep, you wake up and know exactly what will help. Lying in bed, trying to ignore the pounding hangover, you think through your list of contacts and wonder who will be the most hush-hush about what you need.

Because if there's one thing that will make you feel better, it's killing Rex Hamilton.

To be continued ...

A/N: Thanks for reading. Keep an eye out for Until the Sun Comes Up, my next fic :)