Now his room is on fire since he painted it red.
There are a stranger's silk sequins at the foot of the bed.
He's been to weddings and funerals but still never wept.
Now sorrow is pleasure when you want it instead.

You couldn't bring yourself to go to the funeral. You haven't been to one since you were a little kid, but funerals aren't exactly something you remember fondly. Wear black, look at the body and listen while everyone coos about how the deceased looks "so peaceful" or "like she's sleeping". Keep your opinion that looking at a dead person is fucking creepy to yourself. Put up with everyone crying. Look sad. Say a bunch of prayers.

It's a hell of a way to be remembered, and Dallas Winston would have thought it was bullshit. You know that if Dally could have planned his own funeral, people would take shots instead of saying prayers, there would be a game of poker, and then everyone would go home with a girl. None of this sad, crying shit. You don't think you ever saw him cry. And he didn't get sad. He just got angry. A funeral isn't right for Dallas, and you feel like you would have disrespected his memory if you went to one.

Not that the motherfucker deserved your respect anyway. You still can't drive your car because of how he slashed your tires.

So you're stuck walking. You steal a bottle of whiskey from a liquor store and then head toward the cemetery. It's better this way. You don't have to put up with a fucking funeral, and you get time alone to pay your respects or whatever to Dallas. It's a win-win, really.

But you find yourself almost wishing you had some company once you get there. You're just standing in front of the headstone like an idiot, and you're not quite sure what you're supposed to do. Talk to him? Fuck that, he can't hear you. You just take another swig of the whiskey and then light up a cigarette.

In the end, you just stand there in silence. You drink about half the bottle, smoke your Kools, and remember Dallas.

He was a pain in your ass from the day he came down from New York. But fuck, you miss him.

You sigh and turn the bottle upside-down. The brown liquid flows out and splashes on the ground. What a waste. That was Crown fucking Royal.

But it's almost worth it for Dally.

"You were always a thorn in my side, Dal," you say. "But damn it if I didn't like you. Rest in peace, you crazy bastard."

You turn to walk away and almost crash into the big Curtis brother. Danny? No, Darrel. Darry.

"Glory, sneak up on a guy…" you say. The irritation in your voice comes through loud and clear.

He's got his hands in his jacket pockets and a weird look on his face. You notice the large scab across his forehead, and figure he must have got cut in the rumble. It makes him look tough, and with any luck it'll scar.

"Sorry, Tim," he says. "You doin' all right?"

"Soc bastard broke my fuckin' nose," you say. "Took a good two days for the swelling to go down good enough for me to see. But looks like you got off easy enough."

He absently reaches up to touch the cut.

"Easy enough," he repeats.

He looks tired, and then you remember his brother.

"Shit, man. How's your brother? The youngest one."

He sighs. "He's home, but he ain't awake much. Don't think he knows where he is or anything when he is awake. He had a concussion."

"That's rough," you say. "Shoulda' been Curly. I don't think a knock on the head would've hurt him none."

Curtis laughs bitterly, and you can't help feeling kind of bad. Curly's a real idiot, but you'd feel bad if he was hurt as bad as the youngest Curtis.

The wind picks up, and you zip your jacket. The cemetery is giving you the creeps now that the sun is mostly down, but you're not in any hurry to go home.

"You done payin' your respects?" you ask. "Wanna' get a beer or somethin'?"

He looks like he's about to make an excuse, but then he nods instead.

"Ok," he says. "Let's get a drink."

He leads the way out of the cemetery. Maybe it's all those years of playing football, but damn, he's got a nice ass.

XXX

It's cool outside, but the inside of Buck's is packed, and he's got Hank Williams on so loud that you can't even hear yourself think. Besides, being inside makes you think of Dally, and that's just not something that you care to do right now. You take a sip of your beer and notice that Darry is drinking bourbon neat. You never took him for a drinker, but he's downing it like a champ. You just got out onto the porch, and he's already almost drained the glass.

"Should've just asked to take the bottle," you say.

He shakes his head. "I've got work early in the morning. Can't be up on a roof and hungover."

"So, just drink enough that you'll still be drunk," you say.

He smirks, and you light up a cigarette. He finishes off his drink. You've hardly touched your beer.

"Guess one more round can't hurt," Curtis says.

You blame it on too much time in jail. Being surrounded by all those other guys, no women, and jacking off only cuts it for so long. It's disgusting and it's sinful and you're going to hell for it, but it's almost second nature to you. You were going to hell anyway, and the alcohol is making you brave. You want him, and Tim Shepard always gets what he wants.

You grab his glass before he has a chance to go back inside.

"I'll get it," you say. "Gotta piss anyway."

You get him another bourbon and tell Marylou behind the bar to let you keep the bottle.

He laughs and says, "no fuckin' way," when you come back out with the almost full bottle of bourbon.

"Fine. You don't drink it, I will."

You pour him a glass and hand it to him. He's gonna have a lot more than that one glass. You'll make damn sure of that.

XXX

You're sitting next to each other on the back porch steps. You've sweet-talked him into three more glasses of bourbon, and you've had some of it yourself. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glassy from the booze, but he's not so gone that he's going to pass out on you. This is the time to make your move.

He looks over at you. It turns your stomach a bit how his rosy cheeks turn you on. But you put it out of mind. You always do.

"I should go," he slurs. He starts to stand up, but you push him back down.

"You ain't goin' nowhere," you say.

And the two of you stare at each other. At first, you think he's trying to look intimidating so that you'll let him go. But the longer you look at each other, the more his gaze softens. You start slowly moving closer, tilting your head a little to the side.

If he's so busy with work and his brothers, it's probably been a while since he's had a girl. He's gotta' be desperate for just about anything. And you, well, you don't really know why you want this. You don't know if you're bored or horny or curious or if all that time locked up has finally turned you queer. But it doesn't matter much. All that matters is that you're gonna get what you want, whether he likes it or not.

His lips are warm and rough against yours. But the kiss is also tentative, like he doesn't think he should be doing this. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth, and he breathes in sharply through his nose. You're gonna' convince him.

He slips his tongue into your mouth, and you're pleasantly surprised. This is easier than you thought it would be. You let him kiss you a bit longer and get more comfortable before you pull back and start kissing on his neck. He moans softly. And god, it's so fucking sexy.

"Tim," he pants.

"Upstairs," you say.

The two of you stumble up the stairs and into the first empty room you can find. You're grateful for the crowd, because you're sure the two of you went unnoticed.

You lock the door and turn to him. He's already getting undressed, and it's all you can do to keep yourself from laughing. He's just like a liquored-up girl, all turned on and ready to jump into bed with you.

And why shouldn't he be? You're Tim Shepard for Christ's sake.

You get into the bed next to him, turn off the light, and then he's on top of you in nothing flat.

It's all a warm blur, but fuck it feels good. All you remember in the morning is that he came first, but he stayed awake long enough to get you off.

XXX

You wake up alone, and you think that maybe it was some weird, drunken dream. But then you notice the jacket on the back of the chair. It definitely isn't yours, and last night definitely wasn't a dream.

The door opens not long after you've come to this realization, and Curtis steps in and quickly shuts and locks the door behind him.

He flops down on the bed next to you. You want a cigarette, but they're all the way across the room on the dresser.

"Worried my brothers sick and missed out on a day's pay because of you, Shepard."

"Well, I got you off. So let's call it even, huh?"

He snickers. "Think you gotta' go another round for that."

You've still got a bit of a buzz going. Maybe that's what makes you purr, "careful what you wish for, Curtis. Just might come true."

XXX

You don't leave together so you won't arouse suspicion. He goes out first, and then you leave a few minutes later. You shouldn't have been surprised that he's not waiting for you on the porch, but you are. No matter, though. You got what you wanted.

Something in your gut tells you that he'll be back for more.

Yes, Tim and Darry are definitely an odd couple. Call it AU if you want. The inspiration came from the terrible Outsiders TV show that aired in the '90s. Thanks to Nefertiti and the 731 Board. You all get the joke ;)

SE Hinton owns The Outsiders. Bright Eyes owns Soul Singer in a Session Band.