Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November rolls in chilly, and Ponyboy sends off the last of his college letters with the last bit of money he has before Darry can breathe down his neck. He doesn't grease his hair, and as Thanksgiving approaches, he and Dallas begin to circle the rest of their conversation together.

He'd woken up the next morning after more jumbled up dreams and memories, of his mother, of New York streets, of places he couldn't quite name. Dallas stuck around long enough to get through a quick breakfast, then had materialized in full on the track during morning practice. The weather was cold, his presence making it even colder even if, for once, he didn't mean for it to be.

Ponyboy doesn't say anything as he finishes up on the track, steadying his breaths as he does so. Dallas watches with what he thinks of as careful amusement; most of the kids here are either just above middle class to full on Socs. He's the only greaser, a fact that he's never forgotten, yet feels heightened with Dallas' gaze sweeping over them all, clearly not pleased at the presence of the Socs.

A year ago, he would have been more annoyed. That had been the worst of it, enough that Ponyboy considered it almost worth being thrown off the team to throw a punch. In the end it was moot, as the Soc fucked up his knee on his own. His friends weren't interested anymore and Ponyboy lowered his guards just enough to get by.

Now though, things are calm. When the practice is over, Dallas flickers out again, clearly giving Ponyboy enough privacy to get showered and into the first period study hall. It's still an awkward thought that he doesn't like to focus on too much, that at any moment, Dallas could materialize at his own will — and that in the interim, he had no idea what Dallas did.

His ears burned at the thought.

Rushing through the showers, avoiding his teammates was simple enough, and in study hall, it felt as if the thoughts on where Dallas was had quelled enough to make Ponyboy comfortable enough to pick out his place in the very back, keeping his head down as he opened a book, pretending to work on homework he'd already finished. His hand came up to push his ungreased hair from his face, running along the chain of the pendant he still wore.

In no less than two minutes, Dallas materializes beside him, that flush of cold on Ponyboy's neck warning him before Dallas talks, voice not as disembodied as usual, "I don't know how the hell you ain't bored of this." There's no real heat there, just mild amusement. "You stay here for lunch, too?"

"Not today," Ponyboy replies, pretending to look at the equations on his sheet as he kept his voice low, "Going out to see Soda for lunch." Risking a glance up, he can see Dallas has that normal mild disinterest on his face. Truth be told… Pony didn't want to talk about all of the things they needed to. Not now. He can sense Dallas doesn't want to either. "So, how was it? Last night?"

Feels awkward on his tongue to say it like that.

Dallas doesn't seem to care, his face lighting up as much as it could for a dead guy. In fact, for the first time in weeks, Dallas looks much, much more solid. Before, Ponyboy could usually see clear through him to the wall. Now, it's fuzzy, harder to see right through him. "Curly Shepard ain't change, tell you that. That asshole knows how to tell a story." There's a half sneer of amusement on his face, "Ducked out before the dishes, too. Just like a Shepard. Tim wouldn't know how to clean a kitchen if you gave him a book on it."

"Tim can read?" Ponyboy smothers a laugh as well as he can, not bothering to defend either as Dally's mouth splits into a savage grin. "Darry made Curly do it once. Marched him right back inside to clean up," the visual of it, of Darry politely and firmly making the younger hood come back inside had Pony trying to stifle the laugh even more. "I think that's the first time in a long time someone who wasn't the fuzz made him do something he didn't want to."

Dallas lets out a bark of a laugh, which only sets Pony off, smothering the laugh in his palm. Desperate not to be caught, Ponyboy turns it into a half cough, finishing with, "Curly doesn't change much, no." He has to keep from another laugh, trying to pretend to be working again, yet drags his eyes back up to Dally. "He always shows up for those when he can, though. Just for the food he can get."

"Pie wasn't half bad for store bought," Dallas looks almost wistful talking about it. "Didn't even know I missed it until I had that bite, glory." The Dallas Ponyboy knew two years ago wouldn't talk like this, wouldn't really shoot the shit with him. Then again, was it shooting the shit if this was what was left? If he wasn't alive, if that was his first bite of food in two years, was it nothing?

No.

Ponyboy keeps his voice low as they talk about the dinner, about the small changes, about the big things. They're still walking carefully around what really needs to be talked about, about how to do things, how to go forward.

That's okay, he thinks. They'd get there, one way or another.

The longer and longer this lasts, the more and more comfortable Ponyboy finds himself. The more he realizes that in all this time, Dallas' presence is something he wants, something creeping into a need. There was no one with him at school anymore, no one who might share sunsets or anything like that — not even with Dallas now could he get that.

Dallas was something and someone else. And the comfort kept growing.

To think that all it took was death to get closer to the hood.

The rest of the day runs normally. Dallas lurking at the edge, like a sentry. Ponyboy pushing his hair from his face, making himself just present enough in his honors classes to do what he needed to, but invisible enough where he didn't have to get in the way of any Socs. It's under their gaze, in their classes that his guard feels up, more than usual.

For the first time in weeks though, Ponyboy realizes something: he hasn't seen the boy that Dallas touched in weeks. The boy's name was James, last name eluding him. Ponyboy checked surreptitiously for him as classes changed near the end of the day, looking for him. His pack of friends still remained in a shifting pack of expensive shirts and slacks, expensive colognes and suspicious glances.

James did not.

Normally, a hunk of ice would have lodged itself in him. He would have felt guilty, or concerned.

Instead, a sense of grim satisfaction hits him as he makes his way to his very last class. His thumb runs up the side of Dally's ring as he considers it, and doesn't give it anymore thought that day.

Chapter Text

Mentioning the apple pie wasn't a good idea. In fact, the dinner itself might not have been a good idea. Not for regret, really. It was because of how it stuck with Dallas.

Being dead took the edge off of most things now. Worrying about where to go at night, worrying about money, none of that was anything to occupy himself with anymore. It wasn't necessarily a relief to not worry about; what it does leave though, are other things, more material things that Dallas had started to forget.

Dallas thinks about the dinner through the day, about the sensation of beer sliding down his throat, about the taste of apple pie on his tongue, about the feel of the table beneath his fingers. He thinks about what it had been like to be slapped on the back, to bump shoulders, to smack Curly on the back. Human touch, human feeling that he had always taken for granted before, in both the positive and negative.

In all the time he had been a ghost (a word he was starting to come around to, if not outright resent), there had always been a sense of loss for certain things: alcohol, for a pretty dame, cigarettes. It wasn't until he actually took over Ponyboy's body for one dinner that the real measure of loss came to him, that a real need to have those simple, ordinary things came over him. Before, simply being back was shocking enough, adjusting to an altered state where nothing was exactly the same.

Not anymore, though. Taking over Ponyboy once out of defense, he hadn't considered much at all. Protecting him from the other greaser was more of an immediate, violent priority. Interacting with others, with boys he'd known before, in a home he'd used to occupy, threw everything into a new spin of things to adjust to, to consider.

Sitting here now, watching as Ponyboy talked with Steve and Soda, biting into what he normally had considered to be a shitty gas station sandwich, he'd never craved something like that shitty sandwich in his life. Even sitting in jail for ninety days without a smoke didn't leave such an ache this strong in Dallas. Saying it was like a hunger wasn't quite correct, as the feeling didn't necessarily live in his stomach, didn't have the same wringing tautness and urgency to it that it had in life. It felt almost like an echo of it, a memory of hunger, and it was strong.

The temptation to reach out for a simple sandwich that he hadn't even enjoyed before felt alien in its insistence. The need to have taste enough to deem it a shitty sandwich was a strange need to have, in an already strange situation.

It was driving him crazy thinking about it so intently for the first time, really missing it. Everything else had happened so fast, had been something to settle into, and now it was starting to nitpick at him with every passing thought in a way it hadn't weeks ago.

Maybe he'd been too distracted with the situation at hand. Or maybe it had slipped his mind. Not anymore.

The conversation didn't much matter to him. Ponyboy's eyes tracked him every so often he could, as Dallas worked his way across the DX station, looking around at it, clocking for subtle little changes. He'd come here when he could, stealing at times when he thought he could get away with it and a few times where he couldn't. Maybe it looked a little more yellow than before; otherwise, it hadn't changed very much.

The more he circled it though, the more he started to catalogue the things he couldn't feel: the stupid floor, the yellowing walls, the counter. Couldn't smell the gasoline, something he used to always complain about before and one of the strongest smells he'd ever encountered.

The lights begin to flicker in the station.

"Can we get the fuck out of here?" Dallas turns on his heel, frustrated, unable to vent it anywhere else. Ponyboy flicks his eyes toward him, taking another bite of the sandwich as he does it.

The lights flicker again. For a moment, Dallas can taste it, the sandwich: the cheap white bread, the tuna used to make it—

It feels like a shock runs through him, realizing that the taste is there on his tongue. A look of surprised revulsion shows on his face, and Dallas tries to push the taste away.

He does not catch, for a moment, the expression mirrored on Ponyboy's face. It flickers out, and Ponyboy goes back to finishing off the sandwich, like normal.

Chapter Text

The apartment is grimy, cold. The woman in front of him is barely dressed, the shirt on her just as bad as the rest of the apartment, her arms thin. For her, this a good day. He knows that — but a good day doesn't necessarily put food in his stomach, and it doesn't make up for the lost time between them. She smiles at him in a way that should be motherly, comforting; instead it makes him feel angry, almost melancholic in response.

She is trying. It only makes him resent her that much more, an emotion he shouldn't have at this age, yet it's more substantial than love. It burns in his throat, and soon he will learn to savor the bitterness, the anger.

"Your daddy is gonna be here soon, Dallas," her voice sounds rough in her throat, her hands running through his hair, her nails a little too sharp than he liked. He's been the one washing his own hair for as long as he's been able to, and cutting it on his own, too. "Just a few more days."

"No he isn't," Hunger curls in his belly. The need to believe her that used to be there, isn't here now. He's so young, too young to know that no matter what she says, it won't actually happen. "You said that yesterday. He ain't comin', Momma."

Her face contorts, the skin too thin, too malnourished. The make up on her face is cracked, and for a moment, he can smell the cigarette smoke, thick as ever. She tries to speak again,

and this time, her nail taps against the table, painted a bright yellow. "You really want to leave tonight, Dallas? We have room." Her smile widens, her brown hair pulled in a half ponytail, squinting at Dallas from across the table. There's nothing mocking; just good natured, trying to appeal to him gently.

There's never been a mother he's met that's this nice, or accommodating in his life. It makes him uncomfortable, with the sincerity of it all. "I don't got nowhere else to go, I guess." He drawls out, half shrugging, able to see the invitation in front of him when offered. Behind her, he can see Soda and Pony talking in low voices, neither of them self conscious at all with their mother at all, no hesitation that whatever they wanted, they could get from her. He feels… jealous.

Mrs. Curtis beams wider. "We have just enough room for you, honey. We always do!"

She reaches across, and it's Ponyboy's hand who she touches. He's thirteen and he doesn't know that in a few weeks time, she's going to die. He looks up at his mother's face, at how young she is. How vibrant, how kind. His throat feels like it's going to close in on itself with grief, with need. There are so, so many things he wants to say, needs to say. Has to say. His voice shakes, "Mom—

get up. Get up," he shakes her shoulder, harder, harder than before.
She just lies in bed. She doesn't move from her bed, beyond pulling the pillow up over her more.

Asking for food is useless. He wants to shove her out of bed, beat his fists against her, make her do something, anything. Feel anything. It's useless, and he hears his father call out for him.

He turns his head, and his father rounds the corner, eyes blazing. "Get away from

there," Strong hands grasp his middle, and pulls him down from the cabinet. His father smiles down at him, bouncing him a little bit. "Come on, Ponyboy. You need to be more careful! You'll fall like that." He pulls down the necessary dishes with one hand, using his leg to push the wobbly chair out of the way.

"Sorry," Dallas says the words as if he were Ponyboy, shy and a little ashamed at being caught. "I just wanted to get it myself."

"I know," his father ruffles his hair, voice lowering, "We can say you did, huh, kiddo?"

Ponyboy grins up at his father. "Sure!"

He's put down on the floor, and his father pushes him out. Ponyboy takes off at a run,

turning the corner as fast as he can. He's panting, crouched behind the door. It's that apartment again, and the door keeps him hidden well enough. He's eight years old, and knows that he has to be quiet here while his dad and his mother argue. His heart pounds, but his father is reaching out to grasp his mother's wrist again.

He breathes out the word, don't one more time, and still, his father grabs his mother's wrists, pulls her to him, his other hand

going around her waist as the music plays out. The furniture is moved around, and watching his parents dance around the living room makes him happier than anything. He claps along with the music, the grin across his face spreading more and more.

His father twirls around his mother, her hair flying in her face. He grips her by the waist, leans down,

and it's the perfect time to dart out. Only once does he trip, his father's yells furious, his footsteps scrambling to catch up. He's running, racing out of the apartment despite that, desperate to hit the streets.

He'd rather live there, rather live and starve with the gangs than live here any fucking longer—

The dream shifts one more time. It's Johnny, in the car. Johnny who's just said that he doesn't want to be on the run anymore, Johnny who wants to turn himself in. Cold shock washes over him, and his mind goes, stretches into two different—

"Pony! Pony!" Soda's hand shakes his shoulder, and before Soda can stop him, Ponyboy falls right out of the bed. He bangs his shoulder into the carpet hard, and grunts with the pain. He swears up a blue streak that has Soda half laughing into his hand, shaking his head. "You better put that energy towards getting ready, kiddo. You've only got a couple minutes before you're late!"

"Thanks, Soda," Ponyboy huffs out, shoulder stinging as he sits up. He rubs at his side, shivering in the cold. He glances to his left, and Dallas' face is as stormy as ever. It's a indication he won't be around much today, even if the dreams weren't.

Staggering to his feet, Ponyboy untangles himself from the covers, makes his way to his bathroom, and decides that the dreams will lie there, where they belong.

When he brushes his teeth, finally gets out of the door, he can't help himself though, glancing at the photos of his smiling parents, thinking of the way his mother had smiled so gently at Dally, and the memory of the pit of jealousy Dallas had felt.

There's an agitated pinch of cold against his neck, and it's all he needs to know that he's going to be late. A flicker of Dallas' face catches the edge of his sight — then he's off at a run.

His head feels foggy for the rest of the day from the dreams. The tests in front of him feel jumbled, it takes time to concentrate, to get the woman — Dally's mother — out of his head. It feels as if a phantom pain has taken up residence in his arm, as if his father was grasping his forearm again.

When was the last time he dreamed so clearly of his parents faces and remembered them? When was the last time a nightmare happened, and he had been able to still recall it so vividly the next day?

Ponyboy tries to focus through the day, allows Dallas to drift at the edge of his vision. He feels alternately, that freezing cold Dallas has given off for weeks now, intermingled with the feeling of a strange wash of heat. Both of them emit from Dallas, and both of them feel so different from each other.

Art class is where he can stop feeling as if he has to have some kind of control. He sits in the back of the class, with a piece of charcoal, and allows his mind to shut off, let his hand do the work. The feeling he'd had back when they had died, of sinking into something formless, without time, comes over him in waves.

He doesn't struggle against it. It's soothing, to let it guide his hand over the paper, moving and moving until the end of the day bell shatters it all.

When he looks down at the sketches, they're all variations, blending into each other just like the dreams. Darrel Curtis Sr., creative and smiling. Dallas' mother, her face taut and gaunt. The pattern of her clothes, the way her bed looked mixing with his mother's legs as she danced, with the way her hands looked tapping on the table absently.

And there, at the very bottom of the page, is the ghost of Johnny's face, wrecked with nervousness and resolution.