This is Today

Prologue

As a little disclaimer, I started writing this story over three years ago as a middle schooler. I just picked it back up earlier this week, so if the writing seems to change style or anything halfway through the story, that's why. I also originally wrote this on Fanfiction.net, but the Crossover fandom on there for The Outsiders is kind of dead, so I decided to bring it here. This is a crossover between That Was Then, This is Now and The Outsiders, focusing mostly on the dysfunctional relationship between Bryon and Ponyboy.

Ya know, it's real weird to think that just a year ago, so many things were different. Mark and I were like brothers, I was hung up on Angela Shepard, I hated the youngest Curtis boy, and M&M was just a weird little kid who kinda freaked me out. It's strange to think about that. It's even more strange to think about how things are now. Mark's in jail, I'm completely over Angela (and Cathy for that matter), I don't think Curtis is all that bad (just a little quiet), and I try to avoid M&M at all costs.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to the before days. Back when me and Mark were hustling people at Charlie's bar and drinking triple as much Pepsi as we could afford. And other times, I'm glad things turned out this way; I'm glad that I don't have to worry about caring about people or their feelings or their problems or anything else anymore. And it was just one of those days following the latter.
I was walking down some road I didn't recognize, passing by houses I didn't notice, seeing some people I didn't care about. At least, that is until I heard a shrill shriek of a string of curses, causing my whole body to tense. I recognized the voice, but I had no idea whose it was. Just someone's I had heard before. And brother, did they ever know how to curse a whole lot of colors.
I took off toward the sound of the scream. I don't know why, I didn't know why then, either. Maybe I was hoping to see a fight. Maybe I wanted to get in on a fight. I don't know. All I do know is that I took running down that road, cutting through people's backyards until I didn't have the slightest clue where to go. My confusion was short lived though as another string of curses was thrown into the air as if they were a prize to the ears of everyone who heard and that needed to be shared. I ran toward the scream, feet slamming hard against the ground as I did, and a couple moments later found myself staring at a strange sight. There were five or so big guys, clearly Socs, with giant, wild grins on their faces. They each had on different colored decorative shirts and navy blue jeans. I noticed that they surrounding one small, skinny body. One of the guys, some burly blond, had the trapped person's bicep in a death grip. He squeezing so hard I could already see the purple and blue bruise blooming atop the skin under his fingers like a darkly colored flower with finger-shaped petals.
"Don't think we forgot about what your friend did to Bob, ya little shit." The blond spat out each word, like he was disgusted by his own sentence. He yanked the arm roughly and I could finally see the face of the kid he was holding. I almost gasped, I was so surprised. There, in the death grip of some Socy asshole, was none other than the one and only Ponyboy Curtis. His usually shy, quiet, and embarrassed eyes were fiery. They had a glint I knew my eyes had possessed on many occasions prior to this year.
The blonde chuckled mockingly at Curtis' sharp glare. "What? Ain't got nothin' to say? You had plenty to say the night Bob died, now didn't 'cha? After all, that's what got your friend beat and turned him into a killer, huh? You just had to go and run your pretty little mouth," he began to raise one large hand and at first I thought he was going to hit Ponyboy. Instead he just cupped his cheek (rather roughly if I may say so) and ran his thumb over Curtis' lip, keeping his other hand clenched firmly around his arm. "It's too bad you're trash, Kid. Really, it is. You could've been real pretty."
Before then, I'd always saw Ponyboy Curtis as this harmless, sweet little pacifist. However, in that moment, I could see the pure rage and hatred flowing through him as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. "Let go," he said each word slowly and sternly, balling and unballing his fists. He quickly proved me, and anyone else, wrong for thinking he was harmless. Just about two seconds after he finished speaking, his fist was slammed into the blond's face, sending the blond falling to the ground with wide eyes and a bloody nose.
I wanted to snort at how fast the Soc had just hit the ground, but my attention was drawn somewhere else as another one of the guys– some muscley brunette with freckles– grabbed Pony by his hair, gripping it in a tight fistful in the back of the greaser's head. Curtis let out a loud yelp, most likely accidentally, and squeezed his eyes shut. His hands went flying up to try and tear the hand from his hair. He let out another loud string of cusses when he couldn't break the brunette's grip.
"Damn it!" Pony screamed, thrashing his legs violently, probably trying to kick the brunette behind him. "Let go!" The Soc just chuckled.
I was just about ready to step out from where I was "hiding" and kick some uptown ass when Ponyboy bent his arm and thrust it back violently, his elbow connecting hard with the brunette's gut. It sent him collapsing to the ground alongside the blond, winded and shocked and rasping for air.
Ponyboy was on his feet in a flash and running away from the group, and right for me. I wouldn't know until later that he had known I was there the whole time and that he thought I was a total asshole for just watching him get jumped but, hey, at the time I guess I found it semi-entertaining. He grabbed my hand as he ran by and my body jerked around. I began to move my feet in an awkward jog until he began to pick up the pace and I had to full blown run with all my might to keep up with a pace that was probably slow to him.
"Where we going?" I half-yelled-half-panted, lungs burning.
"As far away from here as we can get," he stated and kept running at a steady pace, never letting go of my hand. "Unless you want to stop and here and get beat."
I shook my head. As much as I didn't care that much about stuff anymore, I still cared about getting the hell beaten out of me. And from what they did to little newly-fifteen-year-old Ponyboy Curtis, I didn't have a doubt in my mind I'd most likely be killed.
"Who were those guys?" I asked, swallowing down saliva as a way to hydrate myself, my throat abused from all my ragged breathing. Ponyboy shrugged, appearing to be back to his normal quiet self. "They said your friend killed someone," I began, and my first thought of anyone he was friends with that could have committed a murder immediately went to Mark. So, that's what I said. "Was it Mark? Did he kill someone?"
Pony let out a mixture between a snort and a scoff. "No, Douglas, it wasn't Mark. And you ought to mind your own business, 'cause the stuff they said ain't any of yours to be getting into."
I wanted to roll my eyes, but didn't. Curtis was right, after all. It wasn't any of my business. However, that didn't stop me from being curious. Now I know that I probably should've just listened to the younger boy, left him and his business alone and saved myself a hell of a lot of trouble, but, of course, I didn't do that. I had to do things the hard way. Like always.
We ran for what felt like hours. My leg muscles were sore and stinging violently. My throat hurt, my voice was hoarse, and my lungs burned more than they ever had before. We finally stopped running somewhere I'd only been to a handful of times before. A  bad part of town across the tracks that was infamously known for being home to all the hardcore, stereotypical, hoody greasers. The Shepard's lived there.
"What're we doin' here?" I asked as he walked down the sidewalk. Pony had his hands shoved in his pants pockets (he wasn't wearing a jacket, I've got no clue why not), obviously relaxed and comfortable. "Curtis," I began, looking around the streets with suspicious eyes. "This is a real bad part of town, in case ya didn't notice. We should probably leave, get you home and all that. You're old man and old lady are probably worried something awful."
This time, Pony did snort. "I live here, Genius," he flung his hand out toward the house we'd stopped in front of. It had only one story, just like my house, and there were two doors, one screen door, which was open, and one wood. The front yard was blocked off from the sidewalk with a chain-link fence with little gate in the middle. It had a latch, but it was clearly broken. This was definitely not the type of house I pictured the Curtis' to live in.
He walked over to the gate and pushed it open, walking into the front yard. He sent me a look over his shoulder as he spoke. "By the way," he began, "my parents are dead." And with that, he just trotted to the porch before shoving the door open and stepping aside without so much as a glance back.
I was shocked to say the least. I had no idea his parents were dead or he lived on such a bad side of town. He seemed like one of those kids who lives in middle class. I live in upper-lower-class, pretty close to middle class. I always thought he was like that too.
But, I guess I really should learn not to judge a book by its cover. Especially not one as interesting as Ponyboy Curtis.