Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something irreplaceable had broken inside Ponyboy, something pivotal, secure. His once pure mind was now drowning in a fog so dense, there was little room left to dream.

Johnny always called him a dreamer, with a heart of gold and clear sight. He’d look him in the eyes with such conviction that Pony would just about cry.

Now Johnny’s gone, and he took those pieces with him. Pony doesn’t cry much anymore.

He repeats, he follows routine, he walks through every day like a two-time zombie with little will left to feed. He’s fading away slowly, but he doesn’t mind.

The abyss is calling, and he wants to sink into it.

He hopes it’s painful.

——

Quiet, that’s the only descriptive word for their once lively house. Just quiet.

Everything remains in its place, a hollow memory of a once full garden, now dead come winter.

The house by all means, is the exact same. The same walls with burn marks from cigarette butts, the same furniture torn up by years of misuse, the same uneven floorboards that trip him up when he’s had a little too much to drink.

The house hadn’t changed one bit, and yet—

Were you to ask Soda to explain, he’d say it don’t feel much like a home no more. Just a place to go, a place to leave, not a place to stay.

He’s lost a lot of pieces in his life. He lost his parents, he lost his security, he lost his dreams—while they may have been minuscule, they were still his—this piece though, hurt the most to lose.

He ain’t talking about Johnny.

Of course Soda misses him, of course Soda’d bring him back if he could, of course Soda grieves like no tomorrow for the child whose life was cut way too short.

But it’s hard to grieve a friend, when his entire reason for living seems to be fading away and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Ponyboy, his sweet little brother, has known the pain of loss since he was too young to face it properly. He held himself together with sticks and glue, and somehow the skin and muscle regrew and he put himself back together.

This time though, he doesn’t know if glue will be enough.

Soda’d never met a kid as strong as Pony—no Greaser, no Hood, no Soc could hold a candle to him. Pony was truly incredible.

Maybe that’s why he missed all the signs. Maybe that’s why he never saw it coming till it already tore through his home.

Pony’d lost his mind, after losing his heart and Soda—

Soda needs him to come back.

Cause Johnny, Johnny might’ve been Pony’s heart and soul. Might’ve known his mind more than Pony himself. Might’ve intertwined himself so deep within Pony’s skin, that removing him would remove everything.

Johnny might’ve been Pony’s entire life, but Pony was his—was Soda’s—entire life.

He’d give up all of his limbs and his soul sooner than he’d give up Pony. He’d break himself into pieces, to keep Pony together. He’d do anything to keep his little brother whole.

And yet.

There’s nothing he can do but watch.

Watch as he talks less and less.

Darry sat in front of the telly, with a confused expression on his face. All twisted up.

Soda laughed at him, tapping his shoulder gently much to Darry’s annoyance.

“I just don’t understand the appeal,” he said with a grimace, which made Soda laugh even more.

They were watching one of those movies that Pony’d sneak out to go see. The ones with long sections of dialogue, followed by sequences of imagery.

“Pony sure is an enigma,” Soda said, smiling brighter than he had in ages.

For a second, it felt almost normal. Almost like nothing had happened.

He turned around to catch the eye of his current amusement—only for his wide smile to disappear entirely.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe that Pony’s face would twist up, and he’d sarcastically quip back with poorly hidden amusement dancing across his expression. That he’d tell them to stop talking so he could enjoy the movie. That he’d tackle Soda and they’d have one of those tickle fights that end in merciless laughter.

He doesn’t know what he thought he’d be met with. But he wasn’t prepared for this.

He wasn’t prepared for Pony’s tired, dull eyes looking right through him instead of at him. It was like being seen by a stranger who just happened to know his name.

He wasn’t expecting the ramrod straight composure. He wasn’t expecting silence.

Pony was a lot of things, but quiet was not one of them. He always had something to say.

And yet, he said nothing.

Watch as he wakes up with darker and more prominent eye bags each day.

“Pony! Soda! Breakfast is ready!” Darry hollered from the kitchen, causing Soda to trip as he was halfway through pulling his jeans up.

He grunted in annoyance, gripping the fabric once again and tugging them the rest of the way up, still lying on the floor.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, contemplating the day to come, when a shadow fell over his prone form and a foot came into view.

He curled his hands over his stomach, expecting his little brother to stomp down, or drop on top of him. But the foot just stepped over.

Soda sighed in relief—maybe Pony was feeling merciful today. He chuckled to himself, finally standing up and going to meet his brothers in the kitchen.

He walked out with a pep in his step, humming a tune and a soft smile on his face. Today was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

He pulled out a chair and plopped down next to Pony, snatching a piece of toast from his plate.

Darry whacked him on the shoulder. “Soda, there’s enough to go around.”

Soda just smiled at him, grinning much too wide to be an apology.

Darry just shook his head, turning back around.

Soda looked over at Pony, finding him already staring back at him.

He flinched.

Pony had almost black circles right under his eyes, sunken in so deep and so prominent. The way the dark colours clashed against his much too pale skin made him look sickly—like a ghost sitting in his chair.

Soda’s chest panged with guilt.

They must’ve been from days of sleep deprivation, and Soda doesn’t know how he missed it. They share a bed—he should have noticed.

He should have.

Soda opened his mouth to say something, but before the words could pass his lips, Pony turned back around and started picking at his plate.

When was the last time he slept?

Watch as he moves around as if on autopilot, completing the same tasks at the same times each day.

Soda remembers when those mornings used to be chaos. Pony darting around the kitchen with a pen still stuck behind his ear, muttering lines from whatever book he was on that week. Grabbing the wrong mug, spilling milk, laughing so hard he’d forget what he was looking for in the first place. Even the way he’d hum off-key while brushing crumbs off the counter used to fill the house with something warm.

Now, Pony sets his cup down in the exact same place. Stirs his coffee twice. Takes one sip. No humming. No rushing. Just… steps in order, like he’s working from some invisible list.

Watch as Pony becomes a shell of the boy he once knew.

The one with a golden hue so bright, and a mind so profound. The dreamer, the poet, the muse all in one body.

Watch as the light dims.

Soda can feel it draining, each passing day. He only hopes it doesn’t disappear forever.

Right then, at that moment, Soda decides it’s all bullshit.

He refuses to stand by as his brother disappears.

He refuses.

His new found conviction though, it’s empty.

Soda and Pony have always been in two separate worlds, slowly drifting away from each other. This fire though, this fire has sped up the inevitable.

Because while Soda’s still reaching out, Ponyboy’s already drifted too far. In his mind, the only thing left is the silence—and the company of an old, familiar ache.

Chapter Text

Grief is a fickle thing. He’s heard that line enough.

Ponyboy knows, he knows it more than most and he damn sure knows it more then the people who recite it to him through clenched teeth, and empty eyes. He and Grief are old friends.

The weight of its presence sticks onto every part of who he is, and who he will ever be. Every decision he’s made since he was thirteen has been defined by the fallout, by the storm that rages.

He made it through his first brush with grief, he held his head up and he kept going but this time, he just doesn’t know anymore.

The first time– it was easier. Because the first time he had Johnny to fall on. Now, he has no one but himself.

His brothers, his friends, they’re all there but they’re not. Because they don’t understand Pony’s mind, they don’t understand his heart or how he sees the world. Johnny saw him, saw the golden skies through his eyes and felt his thoughts.

The skies are no longer golden and there’s no one left to know that they ever were.

This time around, the anger has settled in so deep that it’s festered into something ugly and loathing. A wreathing snake hissing at his collarbone, tempting him to do something rash, something final.

He’s hanging on by a thread so frayed, he’d sooner snap then crawl out of this hell he’d built for himself.

The quiet of the house in the morning feels hollow. Feels like the realization that he no longer has anything to look forward to and yet he has to get up anyway. His head feels heavy as he picks it up off the pillow. His legs fill with pins and needles as they hover over the edge of the bed.

He stands up despite the pain, without even knowing why. Maybe it’s a form of torture he enacts on himself. Maybe it makes him feel real. He doesn’t know, he just stands and moves through the motions he’s used to.

He pulls on the same outfit he wore yesterday, he combs his hair with the same amount of expired gel, in the same way as everyday before today. He eats one piece of toast and pours himself a cup of black coffee that’ll sit on the table until it’s cold.

He sees the look Soda gives him, the hopeless pleading look. He sees the way Darry has lost all the strength that used to make Pony wide-eyed and safe. He sees the way the remaining members of his family collapse around him and he can’t even muster up enough energy to speak.

He shakes his head free of the thoughts and gets up to leave for school.

The coffee cup stays where he left it—full, untouched, already cold.

—

School is the same as always, dull and hazy. He never remembers anything from his classes now, he never cares to do school work. He’s gotten used to the talks with teachers, and the pats on the back from greasers who used to barely tolerate him.

His once solace has become a punishment, a reminder of what he’s lost.

The final bell rings and he gets up in a daze as always. The sidelong glances and hushed whispers fade into the background.

He walks on autopilot through the hoard of bustling and loud kids who don’t know anything about personal space and straight out the front door. Not bothering to acknowledge the people he’d once talked to.

He just keeps going straight. Over the dirt path. And to the gate.

He walks, head staring at the floor without a single care for those around him.

The person he used to be seems so far away.

A loud whistle rings out, overtaking all the background noise, causing Ponyboy to raise his head and look. His eyes meet those of Dallas Winston and Ponyboy’s heart drops in his chest. The last person he wants to see these days is Dally.

His face, his voice, the way he carries himself. It’s all a reminder. The way he broke, torn in two and fell into a void all too similar to his own.

Let’s just say, Ponyboy doesn’t like being faced with who he has become. Doesn’t like looking in the mirror.

He walks, too slow, slow enough that Dally definitely notices he’s stalling but he doesn’t say a word. Pony doesn’t know how Dally can stand to look at him, much less seek him out. He doesn’t know why he’s here.

Dally tilts his head, examining him as he opens the door to the passenger side, allowing Pony to climb in. He still doesn’t say a word.

Pony just stares straight ahead. Listens as the driver door slams closed, and feels as the engine starts and the car begins to move. They don’t acknowledge each other. The silence is suffocating.

Pony flinches at every bump in the road, flinches as Dally flicks his cigarette and sparks fly out the window, flinches as they pass by a Dairy Queen. He stays stuck in his head, so far in the dark that he doesn’t even notice they’re going the wrong way until Dally pulls over into some run down parking lot, not a single other car in sight.

Dally doesn’t say anything, doesn’t explain why they’re here, why he didn’t take Pony home, why he showed up in the first place. He just lights a cigarette and kicks his feet up on the dash as if this is normal, as if this is routine.

Ponyboy grits his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists.

He’s dealing with enough as is, he doesn’t have time for these mind games.

He breathes out deeply, shakily.

“Why are we here Dally?”

Dally passes him his lit cigarette prompting Pony to take a puff.

He breathes the smoke in deeply, relishing in the way his lungs burn, in the way his mind smooths over at the familiarity of it all.

He takes another hit and another one, until the fire’s licking at his finger tips and he can’t extend the feeling any longer. He tosses it out the window, wordlessly.

He looks back over to Dally and finds him staring back at him, eyes intense, filled with something he can’t place– something that makes nausea well up in his throat– something that makes him feel so bare and exposed that Pony wants to run, far away.

Dally looks away, smacking his hands against the steering wheel.

“Damn it” he whispers, under his breath.

Pony looks down at his feet, the air feels too heavy, charged with something he’s not ready to face.

“Kid–” Dally starts, face twisting putting his discomfort on full display.

“Don’t” Ponyboy interrupts.

Dally grips the steering wheel harder, knuckles turning white.

Silence falls over them once again, but this time, it’s not just heavy, it’s loud.

Ponyboy grips his pants between his hands, body shaking, face tense. He can’t do this right now, he can’t do this ever.

“Shit” Ponyboy curses underneath his breath, throwing the door open and walking away like the coward he is. He has no idea how to get home from here, he has no idea how far he’ll have to walk, but anything is better than sitting in that car for a minute longer.

He can hear Dally cursing behind him, and running after him, but he doesn’t stop. He picks up his pace and begins to run.

Tears prick his eyes, his lungs scream and his body protests but he doesn’t stop. Not until he feels a hand grab his arm and pull him to a stop. Not until he collapses to his knees and sobs all over the pavement.

Dally doesn’t let go of his arm, just stands there and lets him cry.

He cries until he has no tears left, until his chest settles, and his body stops shaking. He cries until he can pretend he forgets, until he can pretend it’s all okay.

Dally just watches as he falls apart.

Pony knows Dally’s falling apart too, but it’s quieter, it’s internal. He learned how to keep it in, unlike Pony.

Pony’s the first to speak, to break the quiet comfort.

“What do you want from me Dally?” His eyes probably look crazy, desperation etched into every corner of his blotchy face. He doesn’t care though, he can’t care.

Dally grips his arm harder, pulling him to his feet.

“I want you to stop lookin’ like me,” he says, face carefully blank.

Pony stares at him for a moment, maybe two before he breaks into hysterical laughter. He clutches his hair between his fingers and tugs until the pain is too much to bear but he doesn’t let go.

Dally stares at him with sad, sad eyes that make him sick. Dally doesn’t do sympathy, Dally doesn’t do comfort. So why start now?

Ponyboy rips his arm away from Dally’s grasp, staring at him, eyes cold as ice.

“You can’t ask that of me,” he spits out, “you can’t, not when i’m barely hanging on as is”

Dally sucks in a breath.

“Let me drive you home”

Pony stares at the car behind Dally, thinks of sitting on the torn up leather. Thinks of the last time he did so and turns the opposite way.

“Bye Dally” He says, voice carefully even.

Dally doesn’t say anything else, he lets him go this time.

Ponyboy’s not sure why that seems to hurt more than anything else. Isn’t that what he wanted?

Chapter Text

Some people are born with a lot, and others are born with less than nothing. That’s just the way things are. The way they’ve always been. The way they always will be.

Dallas Winston thinks it’s all a sack of shit.

He’s more familiar with bruised knuckles than unmarred skin. More familiar with loud music and angry drunks than quiet. And yet, he doesn’t think he’s owed any kind of sympathy for the hand he’s been dealt.

’Cause this hand—while there might not be a hell of a lot it can beat—he can pull a damn good bluff. He ain’t got nothin’ if no one thinks he’s got nothin’.

Sure, he grew up with a mother too out of it to remember her own name half the time, and a father who beat the crap out of him every chance he got. But he still got here.

Dallas might be so full of anger and fear there’s no room for anything else, but he’s damn sure not gonna complain.

That anger—it’s who he is. It’s how he gets by. It’s how he copes. He wouldn’t exist without it.

Sometimes, though, things break through the cracks. Settle somewhere deep, where only he can feel ‘em.

The first to ever do that was a blubbering, frail little boy who looked halfway to death but kept pushing anyway. A kid who knew even less of unmarred skin, but carried less than half the anger Dallas lives off of.

Johnny Cade was the toughest greaser there ever was.

Then Johnny Cade died.

And the world ain’t been right since.

He remembers that night too well. The look on Johnny’s face. The words he said. How none of it matched the fear in his eyes. Johnny hadn’t wanted to die. But he did anyway.

How could that be right?

Dally felt more rage than ever before. He wanted to scream, break something, do something so stupid and destructive that it would surely put him right there with Johnny.

And maybe he would’ve. On any other night, if he’d been there with anyone else.

Dallas Winston would’ve been dead. But through the haze, his eyes locked with the only other person who’d ever managed to burrow under his skin.

Ponyboy looked shattered. Desperate. Staring at him like he had all the answers. Like he could make it okay.

And he couldn’t leave. Not like that. Not now.

He remembers the way Pony gripped Johnny’s hand, even as the nurses rushed in like they didn’t exist.

He remembers holding Pony back when they dragged Johnny out like he was nothin’.

Like he wasn’t everything.

He remembers when Pony turned to him, face broken in two, voice cracking.

“Dally—Dally, what do we do now?”

He opened his mouth to answer.

And nothing came out.

What could he say? Nothing was okay. Nothing ever would be.

He turned his head away. Gritted his teeth. Stayed silent.

God, how he wishes now he’d said something.

After that day, Dally did a lot of things.

A whole lot of nothing.

He left Pony at the hospital. Drove home in a blind rage. He doesn’t even remember making it back. Doesn’t remember much of anything else. Just booze. Blood. A busted wall.

Then waking up in a cell.

Darry bailed him out.

They didn’t say a single word to each other. But the understanding was there.

Darry didn’t say anything because he knew there was nothing to say. Dallas didn’t say anything cause he couldn’t remember how to speak without rage. And Darry didn’t deserve his rage.

Dallas hasn’t seen Darry since.

Weeks followed after. Weeks filled with more stupid decisions, with him barely managing to avoid the cops, with him drinking more beer than water.

He didn’t care though, the more bad decisions he made, the less he could think.

He was content to live like that.

He was fine.

Until he overheard a conversation that sobered him up almost instantly.

He was deep into the same old routine—knocking back a pint like water, then slamming the glass down hard enough to crack.

Buck looked at him with something akin to frustration but Dallas paid no mind to it, he just focused on the blissful buzz.

Then two greasers—Tim’s guys, maybe—sat down next to him.

It irked Dallas, and he was seconds away from starting something when the guy on the left spoke.

“Hey, you seen that Curtis kid round’ school lately?” he chirped, voice scratchy from the cigarette he nursed between his thumb and index finger.

The other guy huffed.

“I haven’t been to school in ages, man. What about him?"

Dallas perked his ears, not even daring to breathe lest they noticed him and stopped talkin’.

Guy on the left took another drag from his cig before grinning– an uncomfortable sort of grin.

“He been lookin’ more and more like Winston each day”

Dallas nearly shot to his feet, ready to knock the guy flat—
But he froze.

Cause what?

That don’t even make sense.

One of the guys started laughing like mad, he didn’t know who, he couldn’t keep track.

“You gotta be shitting me,” one said

The other waved his hand around.

“Dude i’m serious, kids been looking scary lately.”

Dallas wanted to throw up.

“Like Ponyboy Curtis? That one?”

“Yeah man. The other day someone bumped him, and he pulled a blade on them. The thing was already covered in blood too– it was intense”

One of the guys whistled.

“I’ll make sure to steer clear of him from now on”

The guys went back to laughing, and Dallas, Dallas left the bar with all the grace of a multi-car pile up.

Buck was shouting something in the background, but he couldn’t hear.

He hopped into Buck’s car, despite the alcohol coursing through his system and sped off toward the Curtis house.

As he drove, his brain for the first time was perfectly clear.

He parked down the block, and walked over with a plan to start banging on the door and asking what was up but he stopped short.

Because Ponyboy was already on the balcony.

His lip was split, pressed around a lit cigarette, and he had a nice shiner that took up a quarter of his face. But that’s not what stopped Dallas.

No.

What stopped Dallas was his eyes, his cold dead eyes that looked so damn tired– so damn familiar that they made Dallas shudder.

He should’ve said something then, but he didn’t.

Instead he turned away and left. Walked down the street, got back in the car and just sat there gripping the wheel as if it were a lifeline.

Dallas is a full-blown greaser, more hood-like than not. People cross the road to avoid him. People gain street cred just for knowing him. There’s not a soul out there that would call him weak. And yet– ain’t he?

Cause Dallas could handle any problem with a right hook. Someone talking shit? They’d eat it instead. Someone threatening what’s his, knock 'em down a peg.

Battles like that are easy to fight, easy to win.

What’s he supposed to do when there's nothing to hit?

Dallas is the guy people go to to deal with their shit, to fix things that have been causing problems. Dallas is supposed to be the guy who fixes everything. But this—this he don’t know how to fix.

He slammed his palms hard against the steering wheel, cursing.

Why did everything have to get so fucked?

He drove home in complete silence. Anger sizzling in the back of his mind with an unclear target. His jaw tensed so tight, soreness already crept up his face.

He pulled back into the lot and stormed through Buck’s, straight through a crowd of people, not bothering to weave around them. He knew they’d move.

“Hey Dallas, Next time ask before taking my car man!” Buck’s voice rang out over the chatter.

Dallas just huffed, sticking up a middle finger over his head as he marched up the stairs and into his room. He’s sick of people telling him what to do.

His door slammed open so hard that it left a dent in his wall but he couldn’t care less. Dallas had never been one for ‘aesthetic’

He paced around his room for what felt like hours. He listened as the bustle downstairs slowed, and the music went quiet. He listened as Buck called out for the stragglers to leave, followed by angry grumbles of folks too wasted to be sensible. He couldn’t sit still.

Something was eating at him, pressing at the edges of his conscience in a way that had him spiraling.

Dallas doesn’t spiral. Dallas doesn’t have a conscience.

Bullshit. All of it. Stupid. Fucking. Bullshit.

Ponyboy was supposed to be the one he didn’t have to worry about. The one he was okay letting in because he knew that he’d be okay. Pony was supposed to be the best of them, the one who’d leave this shitty town behind and never look back.

Dallas doesn’t understand.

He’d like to pretend that he never saw this coming. That there were no warnings, but he’d be lying to himself.

He heard the whispers, he heard the worry in Two-bits tone whenever he stopped by bucks, he knew how Ponyboy was when he all but abandoned him on the worst night of their lives. He knew. He just never had it thrown in his face like tonight, and he doesn’t know where to go from here.

He could tell Darry, rid himself of the responsibility and go back to ignoring the ache in his gut but then he’d have to talk to Darry, who he hasn’t seen since he broke him out of the cooler.

Not his proudest moment.

He could talk to Sodapop, or Two-bit or literally anyone else but– but he can’t.

He can’t because he knows that none of them could ever understand Ponyboy like he does. Could never understand what’s going on in that brilliant brain of his and ease the sorrow. They’d probably make things worse if anything.

Dallas lit a cigarette and fell back onto his bed.

He knew he had to do something but that doesn’t mean he’d like it.

—

He sleeps like shit.

If he even slept at all.

The sun rises whether he’s ready or not, searing in through the slats of the blinds, slicing across his face like a knife. He groans. Doesn’t move. Just lays there in the stale stink of sweat, cigarettes, and regret.

He could pretend it didn’t happen. Could pretend he didn’t hear those guys run their mouths at the bar. Didn’t see what he saw on that damn balcony. But he ain’t a coward—not like that.

So he rolls out of bed. Washes his face in the cracked sink. Ignores his reflection.

He grabs a smoke, sticks it between his teeth, and heads for the door.

Buck grunts from the kitchen table as he walks past. “You look like hell.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

But he doesn’t mean it. Not really.

Buck just shakes his head. “If this is about that Curtis kid—”

“Drop it.”

Dallas is already out the door.

The school looks the same as it always does. Square. Ugly. Full of kids who talk too loud and think they’re smarter than they are.

Dallas hates it.

He leans against the chain-link fence like he belongs there, like this ain’t the dumbest thing he’s ever done. The sun’s too bright. His boots are too loud against the concrete. His nerves are all shot to hell.

He’s not supposed to be here. He knows it. Knows he’s got no business showing up like this, acting like he can fix something when he’s already failed once before.

But he stays.

And it pisses him off.

He stays because Ponyboy looked too much like him.

He stays because nobody else saw it.

He stays because someone fucking has to.

Kids pour in through the front doors, laughing, shoving each other, slamming lockers. Dallas doesn’t see Pony at first. Just the crowd.

He thinks about leaving.

Thinks about it real hard.

But his feet won’t move.

Not this time.

And when he finally spots that messy blond hair down the hall—shoulders hunched, eyes dead again—something hard twists in his chest.

He’s too late.

He always is.

But not this time.

Not if he can help it.

Ponyboy doesn’t seem to notice him, locked up in his head but not in the way he used to be. His mind used to be an escape, a place where he could dream without the consequence of reality. Now it’s filled with the thrum of consequence, of what could– of what did happen. His escape has become a jail.

Dallas doesn’t feel sick to his stomach. He doesn’t.

He watches as Pony walks up to the gate and finally decides to grab his attention as he’s about to exit.

He places two fingers against his lips and rips out a loud whistle that rings across the clearing.

Pony’s eyes shoot up toward him, wild and laced with something else he can’t quite place. Time seems to freeze for a moment, as their eyes lock across the schoolyard but eventually Pony seems to snap out of it and makes his way over.

Much too slow, but he's coming so Dallas can’t complain.
He opens the door for him and watches as he reluctantly crawls in the vehicle like it’s the last thing he wants to do. Dallas wants to make a snide remark about how he won’t bite but he holds his tongue for once, it’s not the time.

The drive is slow and suffocating. He’s never been so tense in his life and based on the way Pony seems to jump at every little thing, he can feel it too.

It takes all his resolve to not drive him home and pretend this never happened.

He drives to this old parking lot that no one ever goes to, just in case there's fallout. He can’t have his rep soured by some emotional kid.

He puts the car in park and just sits there, fists balled, cigarette between his teeth– his seventh one today. He decides that the best course of action is too pretend nothing’s wrong, that this is totally normal.

He lights the stick, carefully taking a breath in and kicking his feet up on the dash.

He still doesn’t say anything, he’d never admit it but he’s not really sure what to say.

There’s a few awkward minutes where they both sit in the loudest silence before Ponyboy coughs awkwardly. Dallas turns to look at him.

“Why are we here Dally?” he says, voice small, not holding the grit it once used too.

Dallas takes a deep breath in and opens his mouth a few times, the words spinning around his mind threatening to spill out, but they don’t. He shuts his jaw tight, keeping them locked up tight.

He passes him a cigarette, something of a buffer. To give himself a moment to get his thoughts straight.

Pony takes it wordlessly and lights it with careful precision. He knows Pony smokes, Darry’s always getting on him for it– but this precision– this comes with habit, habit that he shouldn’t have yet.

Dallas still doesn’t say a word.

He watches as Pony basically hangs halfway out the window, boredly sucking on the object between his fingers and spitting smoke into the open air. He looks like the poster child for every burnt out greaser from the eastside.

He ain’t supposed to fit into this crowd.

Eventually the cigarette fizzles down to embers and Pony tosses the rest out the window. He looks back over at him with such a hollow expression all the air gets sucked out of his lungs.

“Damn it!” he curses, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel, again and again and again.

He ain’t supposed to look like that, he ain’t supposed to look like him.

“Kid–” he starts, practically chewing on the words but Ponyboy cuts him off.

“Don’t” is all he says, voice firm and heavy.

Dallas stops, gripping the wheel in a white-knuckles grip. He’s not sure where to go from here, how to break out of this standstill they built for eachother.

Pony boy grips his jeans between his hands, clearly trying to clamp down on any emotions threatening to spill out. He wishes he wouldn’t.

“Shit” spills out of Ponyboy’s lips so suddenly that, in any other moment, any other conversation, Dallas might’ve laughed.

Then he throws the door open and bolts in a random direction and Dallas definitely doesn’t feel like laughing.

He yells profanities as he quickly gets out and chases after him but Ponyboy just runs faster.

He keeps running for what feels like forever until eventually Dallas catches up to him and yanks his arm backwards forcing Pony to face him. Their eyes meet for a split second before Pony collapses to his knees, whaling out as if the grief they share is fresh.

And it might just be.

He doesn’t let go of Pony’s arm as the boy breaks down, he doesn’t say anything. He fights back his own tears as the pain in his heart seems to fester but he stays right where he is, he ain’t gonna leave this time.

Pony’s heart-wrenching sobs eventually settle and he looks back up at him with red rimmed eyes. Dallas pulls him to his feet and they face each other, so many unsaid things pass between them that’ll remain that way.

Pony lets out a shuddering breath, body shaking, worn out from the explosion of emotion he just felt.

“What do you want from me, Dally?” he asks.

And Dallas– he stops.

He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s breaking all over again, or why he feels responsible for Pony. He doesn’t know why his chest hurts, why he cares.

He doesn’t have a good answer.

But he knows something is eating at him all the same so he speaks. He says the one thing that hasn’t left his brain since last night, since all the pieces clicked into place.

“I want you to stop Lookin’ like me,” he says, carefully controlled.

Pony looks at him, eyes wide as if he just spoke total nonsense, as if Dallas had no right to utter those words. Then he does something that scares the crap out of him.

He breaks into hysterical laughter.

Pony hiccups, and tears run down his face but he keeps laughing. He looks like he just got tipped over the edge, like he realized there’s nothing in this world that can fix how he’s feeling and Dallas–

Dallas feels like he’s drowning.

For the first time, his face betrays his thoughts and he can see Pony recognize his expression in the split second it was there.

He stares helplessly as anger seems to take over the hysteria Pony had been feeling and he rips his hand away from his grasp as if he’d been burned.

He spits fire off his tongue, to really make it stick.

“You can’t ask that of me” he says, eyes so hardened Dallas can’t look “You can’t, not when I'm barely hanging on as is.”

Dallas sucks in a breath but he doesn’t dare to try and respond to that.

This was a mistake, he realizes, much too late.

“Let me drive you home” he grits out because that’s the only card he has left.

Pony looks over his shoulder, seemingly at the car behind him and he sees as a thousand thoughts pass behind his eyes in a second.

“Bye Dally” he says, and walks away leaving him standing there.

Dallas doesn’t respond.

He stays in the same spot until the sun dips below the horizon and guilt settles ever so slightly.

Dallas should’ve known he’d fuck it up.

That’s all he seems to do these days.

Chapter Text

Cold seeps deep into his skin as the sun sinks below the horizon and darkness settles across the city. His legs ache from walking, his chest burns from crying, and he’s exhausted—but he keeps going.

Because he’s sure that if he stops, he’ll never start again.

He didn’t mean to blow up at Dally. Didn’t mean to make everything about him and his grief. But he just... he couldn’t bear the conversation. Couldn’t bear the reminder of all the ways he’s messing up.

When he was younger—still wide-eyed and filled with so much want—he used to follow Dallas around like a lost puppy. He remembers how everyone, except Dally, found his antics adorable. Endearing, even.

He followed him because he wanted to be just like him. Thought Dallas Winston was the coolest person in the world.

He still thinks that.

But the thought no longer comes with the warm, fuzzy feeling.

Now it just feels cold.

Dallas thinks Pony’s turning into him—something that, at one point, would’ve made him ecstatic. Something he would’ve celebrated.

But he can’t feel joy. Can’t even feel pride in the acknowledgment. Because Dallas didn’t mean it in the way he wishes he had. Didn’t mean it in the way Pony wishes he could be.

Dally didn’t mean he had his courage, or his sharp mind. Didn’t mean he had his strength or his protectiveness. Didn’t mean he had his instincts.

Dally looked at him and saw his anger. Saw his recklessness.

He saw the worst parts of himself in Ponyboy.

And that makes Pony sick.

Sick—because he knows Dally was right. About everything.

The path he’s going down doesn’t have a clean ending. Doesn’t have an ending at all. Just a trail of carnage and blood. A path of self-destruction. A slow erasure of the person he used to be.

The person Johnny loved.

He wipes at his eyes again—this time not letting the tears fall.

He doesn’t deserve sorrow. Doesn’t deserve anything.

He did this to himself.

He’s the reason Johnny ran into the fire. The reason they were at the church in the first place.

And now—

Now, he’s the reason for his own downfall.

He chose this.

His legs feel so weak they might give out at any moment.

He lifts his head and sees a familiar park through the trees. Relief flutters faintly in his chest. He needs a break.

He stumbles up to the old structure and settles onto a rusted swingset, the chains groaning quietly beneath him.

He swings back and forth, mindlessly. Losing himself in the sound of the wind as it moves through the leaves. In the harsh, rhythmic squeak of old metal grinding on itself. He lets himself fall away from the world for a moment.

He gets so lost in himself that he doesn’t notice the presence beside him. Doesn’t notice as the swing to his left dips down when someone sits.

Doesn’t notice anything at all—until he does.

“Hey, Curtis,” a familiar voice says beside him.

Ponyboy jumps, nearly slipping off the swing but catching himself on the chains.

“Wha—Curly? What the hell are you doing here?” he blurts, exasperated.

Curly clutches his stomach and bursts into laughter—full body, shaking laughter that borders on obnoxious. Pony scrunches up his face in annoyance.

Eventually, Curly collects himself, pulls a joint from his pocket, and lights it with practiced ease. That same sly smirk plastered across his face.

“I should ask you the same thing,” he says, taking a hit and blowing smoke directly into Pony’s face.

Pony scoffs, rolling his eyes—which seems to amuse Curly more.

Curly takes the joint out from between his lips and passes it over, wordless.

Pony stares at it for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. He’s never smoked anything but cigarettes, which are bad enough. But he’s heard weed brings peace. He could use some peace.

Maybe the old Ponyboy would’ve refused. Would’ve turned up his nose and walked away.

But the old Ponyboy wouldn’t even be here in the first place.

So he takes it.

He breathes in. His lungs burn. But the burn feels almost like bliss.

Curly stares at him, astonished—clearly expecting to be blown off. But he doesn’t comment. Just pulls out another joint and lights it.

They sit in silence for a long time. No words exchanged. Just smoke and space.

Eventually, once the haze starts to settle in, Curly speaks.

“Heard about that fight you had with that Soc on Wednesday. Badass as hell.”

Ponyboy hums.

Curly keeps going.

“Is it true you pulled a blade on him?”

Ponyboy nods, eyes down. He’s not proud.

Curly whistles. “Damn, Curtis. Didn’t know you had it in you. Where’d you even get the blade?”

Pony freezes, fists tight on the chains. Curly knows he doesn’t carry a blade. Didn’t carry one.

He digs into his pocket and pulls it out. Tosses it to Curly.

Curly eyes the dried blood on the blade, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth as if to say something but he stops short as his eyes widen in recognition.

“Ain’t this Cade’s? The one he—”

“Yeah,” Pony cuts in.

Silence.

Then Curly chuckles, tossing it back. Pony catches it and shoves it into his pocket.

“You really are something else, Curtis,” he says, like this is all normal. Like they’re talking about nothing. Like it’s not the middle of the night. Like Johnny isn’t dead.

And for a second, Pony can almost pretend too.

Until Curly says:

“I like this new version of you. He’s entertaining.”

Pony stops cold.

People aren’t supposed to like the new him. They’re supposed to be repulsed. To fear him. To walk away.

They’re supposed to look at him and think, what a shame. What a shame the bright-eyed boy is gone. What a shame his brothers gotta deal with him. What a shame Johnny died and not him.

He stands up too fast. The world spins—he doesn’t know if it’s the weed or the resonant echo of Curly’s words. He stumbles, but doesn’t fall.

“Gotta go, Curly,” he mutters, turning toward home.

Curly waves him off, not even noticing the shift. Not even noticing the storm he just left in Pony’s chest.

He walks home, ice coursing through his veins—though not from the cold, or the breeze.

He doesn’t know how it got to this. Doesn’t know how he brought himself to yell at Dally, who was only worried. Doesn’t know how he stayed out this late, despite Darry’s warnings. Doesn’t know how he smoked weed with Curly Shepard of all people.

He doesn’t know how he fell this deep.

He doesn’t know how to pull himself out of it. How to face reality again.

He’s not sure he even wants to.

He takes a deep breath as he walks up to his house. His hand rests on the handle far too long before he finally pulls it open.

He squints as the light from the living room overwhelms his senses.

He steps in. His eyes adjust. He wishes they didn’t.

Staring back at him is Darry, eyes blazing with a different kind of anger.

Ponyboy gulps but doesn’t say anything. Just remains locked in a silent standoff with his older brother.

Darry crosses his arms.

“Where the hell have you been!?”