Archive of Our Own ^beta

Johnny’s dad hadn’t even sprung for a proper funeral. He thought an unmarked grave in the pauper’s field was all his son deserved.

Darry had been the one to scrape together enough money for that stupid pine box they’d put him in but it was the priest who took pity on a couple of grieving boys and paid for the headstone.

On a glorious, golden morning, they huddle around the hole in the dirt where Johnny’s gonna spend eternity.

And all Ponyboy can think about is how Johnny hated dark places.

Soda’s got one arm around his shoulder, keeping his brother from running. That’s what Pony always did when he was upset - he ran. But right now, his feet feel like they’ve grown roots. Like he’s going to be stuck in this horrible memory forever.

The priest says something that makes the gang murmur amen softly. None of them were the church-going type, not anymore. There ain’t much time for God when you’re working your skin off just to eat. But listening to the prayers in silence is worse. So they’ll say the words when prompted, even just for Johnny’s sake.

Darry echoes it, voice rough as gravel but trying to keep it together. It’s a familiar tone, reminding Pony of a stone a few sections over with the name Curtis at the top.

He looks up from the hole to see the robed man let a handful of dirt fall onto the casket. And then the rest of the gang all reach out, hands blackened by soil, ready to copy him.

“No, don’t!” The words escape him before he realizes, lurching out of his brother’s hold, “Johnny don’t like the dark!”

Everyone freezes to look at him. It’s the first thing he’s said in three days. Ever since he woke up from that horrible sickness and found out Darry had insisted they wait to bury Johnny until he was better.

He lowers his arm awkwardly, but he’s trembling like that night with the fountain, all soakin’ wet.

“Pony,” Soda murmurs, “we have to let them do this.”

He spins on him, eyes wide and desperate and pleading, “He hates the dark, we can’t, we can’t!”

Darry’s creeping closer to reach his distraught brother but Pony turns to him first, “Darry, please! Please, please, he don’t like the dark!”

His voice cracks and his knees meet sun-warmed soil as the last fragments of his guard crumble.

Darry swoops in like Superman to pick him up and Soda’s saying something about getting out of sight of the grave.

There’s a soft conversation between Two-Bit and the priest further away and as Pony desperately squirms in his brother’s arms, he sees the dirt start to fill that hole in the ground.
---

“Pony, baby, can you hear us?” A thumb brushes his cheek.

He blinks and sees the grave, the grave, the grave. He sees Johnny in that hospital bed, unmoving, cold, dead.

I don’t like the dark, Pony. It makes me think too hard, my brain starts panickin’.

He’s under the ground now, cold and dark. It’s so dark, like the lot was, like the church was.

It’s so dark down here, Pony. It’s so dark.

Darry’s heart nearly stops when his baby brother screams a horrible, raw wail that sounds like he’s the one dying. What happened to the innocence he once saw in those eyes? Where has it gone?

Soda tugs the boy’s face into his shoulder, trying to muffle the sound that’s like gunfire in the quiet cemetery, “Pony, Pony, it’s okay. Let it out, it ain’t doing no good stuck inside your ribs.”

“He don’t like the dark! Johnny don’t like the dark!”

Darry folds himself down onto the grass and hugs Ponyboy from the other side, sandwiching him between his brothers, “Shh, Pon’. It’s not dark where he is. Nowhere Johnny’s at could be dark.”

The body between them starts shaking violently and Soda’s hand strokes those bleached locks frantically, “Honey, honey, breathe.”

But Pony’s not listening. All he hears is Johnny’s voice from under the ground, muffled by all that dirt.

Stay gold, stay gold, stay gold.

It makes his mouth taste bitter, like the ash from the fire is still clinging to his tongue. He gives a burst of energy and shoves free of the hold to spit up sour bile.

“Glory!” Darry gasps from right beside him, horrified.

His last ounce of fight, of Greaser Toughness, of Dally’s strength, lets go.

“I miss him, Dar.” He chokes.

“I know ya do. We all do.”

“Yeah, Pon’,” Soda’s hand curls around his neck, “The gang ain’t the same without them. But we’ll get through this, okay?”

“Do you ever think-” He starts but cuts himself off with a wince smothered by a sob.

His brothers just wait for him, patiently like they always do, for the words to form proper.

“Do you ever think that maybe he’s, he’s better off this way?”

They share a terrified glance over Ponyboy’s head but he keeps going.

“‘Cuz he went off doing good and all. And what kind of life was waiting for him anyway? Beaten by his dad ‘til he could escape, then a lifetime of fighting to stay afloat like every greaser? He wasn’t gonna get anywhere with that but now-”

He’s rambling hurriedly by now, breath speeding up like a train downhill. Darry tightens his grip to coax his brother into calming.

“Now maybe he’s got something we ain’t.”

“What’s that?” Soda asks nervously, like he’s not sure he wants to know.

“A chance to be somethin’ more than we are. More than just greasers.”

Soda’s lips tremble as he kisses Pony’s forehead.

“Hey, hey, Pon’,” Darry lifts his chin with a hand, “We ain’t just greasers, ya hear? There’s nothing you can’t be. Get out of this neighborhood, this town, whatever you gotta do.”

He nods, though he doesn’t quite believe it. Who in this world is going to look at him and not see a poor kid from a poor neighborhood?

The sunlight’s too bright - Johnny ain’t never gonna see that light again, or the stars, or Pony.

And Pony’s never gonna see him either.

All they’ve got left is that damn blue jean jacket - rust still on the collar - and a picture of the gang in the lot, arms thrown around each other. Johnny’s up on Dally’s shoulders, a football held victoriously over his head.

But now Dally’s gone, Johnny’s gone, Mom and Dad.

When are his brothers gonna leave too?

Darry can’t stay in this town forever, he’s dying every day here. And Soda? Soda needs bigger things than the East Side of Tulsa can give him. A ranch out west, horses, and wide open spaces.

But everything Pony’s got is here. Half of it’s laying in this graveyard.

“Little colt?” Darry asks softly, a rough hand settling on his cheek.

The sunlight’s too bright.

His eyes dodge his brother’s to gaze back the way they came. Back towards that hole where-

“Hey now, none of that.” Darry shifts to be between them as the ache that’s been twisting deeper into his head flares.

The sunlight’s too bright, the sunlight’s too bright.

Johnny was too bright.

Pony’s shaking again and Soda pries his hands away from his forehead, where he’d been trying to claw at his skull. He tries to stand up, to be strong for just a little longer, but he’s too sick and hurting. Darry catches him and hoists him back up into his arms.

He hears the briefest chuckle beneath him, “When’d you get so bony, Pon’? What happened to ya?”

This town, Dar, this town.

The sunlight’s too bright but he only feels cold.
---

There’s something cool and wet on his forehead next time his body feels like his own. His brow scrunches with displeasure and someone nearby soothes.

“Hey honey, it’s alright. We’re home, you can go back to sleep.”

He cracks open his eyes just a sliver. They’re in his room, the Paul Newman poster from the movie house on the wall and three weeks of homework stacked up on his desk.

The blinds are drawn but a few stray shafts streak through, dust dancing within them.

And Ponyboy starts crying. The cloth on his brow disappears, a thumb stroking it gently instead. He feels so fragile. He doesn’t feel like a greaser.

The funeral’s over now, the last step done.

Guilt floods him. Johnny was his best friend and he couldn’t even keep it together long enough to say a proper goodbye.

Don’t think that, Pony, he can hear Johnny say, I ain’t worth your tears anyways.

“Whatever you’re thinking, Ponyboy, it ain’t true.” Soda guesses too easily.

“I don’t wanna be a greaser anymore.” He mumbles without thinking.

“You never had to be. All you’ve ever needed to be was my kid brother. And you’re ten out of ten for that one. You think you’re up for some water? Dar could make you some toast too.”

“What happened?”

His brother’s eyes flick nervously aside, “At the cemetery, you just sorta collapsed. Didn’t know the last time you’d eaten something so we took you straight home. The fever came that night. You were so delirious, Pon’. I thought you hadn’t healed from before, I thought-” His voice cracks and he quickly clears his throat, “Enough of that. You’re out of the woods now.”

Through the cracked door, they can hear Darry talking to someone at the front of the house.

“No, he’s fine. Think he just got overwhelmed with everything. Fever broke this morning - a short one at least, yeah. Thank you for the food, and thanks for checkin’ in too.”

His brother sounds so exhausted. Like he’s been clawing for each word for years. When’s the last time he had a good rest?

“Soda?”

“Yeah, Pony?”

“Do we have any juice?”

Sodapop smiles and adjusts his brother’s shirt, “Sure thing. Orange alright?”

He nods, tiredness creeping back.

“I’ll getchu some. Try to stay awake just a little longer.”

The bedroom door opens and shuts and then the icebox does too with its familiar rattling of Pepsi bottles.

“He’s awake?” He hears Darry gasp before he’s shushed, “Two-Bit dropped off some chicken and potatoes, think he’d want any?”

“How about some jam toast? If he’s still hungry, we can try the potatoes.”

Ponyboy’s attention drifts from the hallway to the dust motes in the window again. He watches them flutter in the still air like little flecks of gold.

Stay-

“Hey little colt.” Darry pins on a rickety grin, “Heard you were up. How ya feeling?”

His head aches and he’s freezing and tired and hurt and, “Fine.”

“You don’t always gotta be fine, Pony.” Darry murmurs, “Most of the time, none of us are fine.”

It’s like an electric shock, too near, too sharp. Soda’s always been the one to see through him but Darry can too now.

Of course he could. He always could. He’s your big brother, you couldn’t ever hide from him.

“I brought orange juice but if your head’s hurtin’, I brought water and aspirin too.”

It does hurt but he can still taste the soot of the church fire on his tongue.

“Juice,” he croaks, taking the cup in trembling hands. Maybe it’ll be strong enough to not taste like baloney. It’s sour and he winces at how bright and sharp it is after so long with nothing. Only a mouthful makes it down before his hands are shoving it away into another’s.

He wishes he’d picked the aspirin.

Darry holds out a plate with a piece of toast on it. Smothered with raspberry jam and cut into triangles.

Exactly the way he liked it.

How many times had he had that for breakfast without realizing? How many times had his brother’s love been served on a plate right under his oblivious nose? How could he have ever thought Darry resented him when he cut toast into triangles everyday just for him?

He’d been so blind and he’d ruined so much for it. His brothers' lives, Bob’s, Dally’s, Johnny’s.

Tears must be running down his face again because someone makes a choked noise and a hand, warm but calloused, cups his chin.

“You gotta get out of that head, Pon’.” Darry murmurs, “Whatever’s goin’ on in there ain’t right for you.”

But all he can see is the bright red of the raspberries as Johnny makes them peanut butter and jelly sandwiches after school, watching him spend a few seconds cutting the crusts off his. The afternoon light pouring in through the kitchen window as he leans against the counter. There’s a splotch of jam on his cheek when he smiles. As he goes to wipe it, his thumb smears crimson.

The blood pouring into the grass. The blade, a streak of moonlight in the dark.

A cool pressure meets his forehead again and he sucks in a shuddering gasp. His back slams into the headboard with a burst of pain.

“Shh, shh, it’s just me. Ain’t no fountain ‘round here.”

He looks down. The toast is gone, Soda is too.

Darry tracks his gaze, “You just sorta froze. Like someone had ripped your soul clean out. Soda, he couldn’t stand to see you like that. He’s in the kitchen.”

And once again, it’s his oldest brother left to pick up the crumbling bricks of their family.

It shouldn’t always have to be you, Dar, he thinks.

The other freezes, “It shouldn’t. But it’s always going to be. I’m not going anywhere, little buddy, this is where I belong.”

Pony’s nostrils flare as he realizes his thoughts have slipped so easily out of his mouth.

“Will you tell me about what you were thinking?” Darry expertly steers the subject away from himself.

Isn’t that how this all started before?

“Baloney.” He mumbles, his headache returning fierce.

“What?”

“Everything tastes like baloney.”

A hand smoothes his bleached hair back, “Is that why you haven’t been eating, honey?”

It feels too much like defeat to speak so he only nods, dropping his eyes to the quilt on his lap. It’s Soda’s, he realizes absentmindedly, thumbing over the faded print of cowboys and quarter horses.

“Do you remember how Mom always put raisins in her chicken salad?”

Pony tears his gaze up, confused at his brother’s tone. Like nostalgia and grief swirled together.

“I always hated it. Whenever I’d open my lunchbox at school to see a chicken salad sandwich, I would be so mad. After a while, she started making me my own bowl without the raisins. Then after they died…” He pauses, straightening out a crease in his jeans, “no matter what I ate, I could taste raisins in it. Even Two-Bit’s mashed potatoes tasted like there were raisins in it.”

Ponyboy’s eyes widen as he realizes the depth of what his brother is sharing.

A burden shared is a burden halved.

“Two months later, I finally worked up enough courage to try it again. I dug out Mom’s recipe and made it, raisins and all. It was like a little piece of me was stitchin’ itself back together as I ate it. Everything stopped tastin’ like raisins. Ponyboy,” Darry takes his brother’s head between his hands, “Someday, it’ll stop tasting like baloney.”

Pony could see the metaphor for what it truly meant.

Someday it’ll stop hurting so bad.

It scares him a little, despite it all. Hurting means Johnny’s still near. That it’s only been a few hours, days, weeks, since he was last playing poker with them.

Not hurting - healing - means letting go of parts of Johnny. Pony selfishly wants to cling to them, to clutch so tightly to the last remaining fragments of his best friend and not let them go.

It hadn’t even been a year since Mom and Dad. How had he already forgotten how this grief all works?

His dad would have sat him down and said, “Because, son, everybody’s a little different. And every experience, even if it’s exactly the same, feels different.”

He would have been right. Pony wishes he could tell him - Hey Dad, you were right all along. But he can’t, and that’s the reason they’re all here.

The water pipes squeal through the wall and Darry turns confused.

“Is Soda takin’ a shower?” Pony asks softly.

“Weird time of day for it. I’ll check on him. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

The mention of sleep pulls on Ponyboy’s already exhausted body and he shuffles himself back under the covers. His brother’s lips are dry as they kiss his forehead.

He closes his eyes and tries to dream about anything but sandwiches.
---

There’s a clattering through the wall and he sits bolt upright. The clock reads just a few minutes later than when he had laid down and for a horrible moment, he thinks he slept for an entire day.

But the bathroom pipes are still squealing. Before he can wonder much beyond that, Darry’s voice, tinged with horror, echoes through the wall.

“Soda, what are you-”

Whatever response he gets is covered up by yet another clamor, this one with the distinct sounds of a struggle.

Pony surges out of bed, wobbling dangerously at the sudden change and then darts for the bathroom.

Had someone broken in? It’s rare on greaser turf but not unheard of. Did Soda hurt himself on something?

The door’s partly open and he peers around its edge.

Soda’s curled over the edge of the tub, madly scrubbing at something as Darry is leaning on his brother’s back trying to stop him.

“Soda, stop, please, you have to, that’s not helping-”

“It won’t come out, it won’t come out!” His brother’s voice shatters like a dropped plate. He drops his head to rest against the porcelain, “It won’t come out, Dar, it won’t come out.”

Darry tugs him backwards into his arms, ignoring how wet they both now are, “I know, baby, but it won’t do any good.”

Soda’s shoulders, taut as a bowstring, snap free of their tension. It’s his turn to cry into his brother’s chest, gathered into his lap like they were still kids.

They still are.

The door creaks and Darry looks up sharply. His alarm fades upon seeing his brother and he pats the toilet lid invitingly.

Pony sits down, stepping carefully around Soda who doesn’t notice his presence. From here, he can see inside the tub.

There’s a drenched denim jacket laying at the bottom - with a rust stain on the collar.

“I just wanted it to be clean for ‘im,” Soda wails, “He deserves that much!”

In the fading amber light through the bathroom window, Pony sees a glittering tear snake down Darry’s face. He places a hand on his big brother’s shoulder, an anchor in this swirling riptide. He hopes his meaning is clear.

And when Darry’s own hand comes up to grip his, he knows it is. Johnny’s under the ground now, the sun has set, and the house has darkened.

But the gold stays.
---

Within a year, Ponyboy’s been to three funerals.

Well, two and Dally’s.

They all knew Dally didn’t want none of that church and lilies and prayers nonsense. Though he would've loved to see a pretty broad cryin’ over him. Darry had managed to convince the coroner’s office to turn over Dally’s ashes to him along with Johnny. His family out east wouldn’t want him anyway.

And besides, Darry was a familiar face to the workers at the morgue. If he wanted to give some poor boys a funeral, nobody was gonna stop him.

So on a hot Saturday evening in the midst of June, Two-Bit filled a firework cartridge with ashes and they sent Dally off the way he’d want to go-

With a bang and a beer.

Darry’d even let Pony have one. The gang sat watching those brilliant bursts of color in the dark twilight sky as they toasted him one last time.
---

September comes and the fall semester begins anew. Lunches are a lot quieter without Johnny and Pony’s brothers can tell that the hurtin’ is starting fresh.

On the first Sunday after school starts, they go back to the cemetery. Darry’s brought a picnic for them and Soda’s got a cigarette to leave for the little jar of Dally’s ashes they’d snuck in with Johnny.

The grass has all filled in now, just like Mom and Dad’s. Pony sits right beside the stone, leaning on it like he did Johnny’s shoulder for so many years.

They eat and he gives Johnny and Dally all the latest news from school. Darry tells them the Yankees lost to the Red Sox again and they all laugh imagining how Dally must be groanin’ wherever he is. Soda reads the Sunday funnies aloud, making ridiculous voices for each character.

When it comes time to leave, Ponyboy reaches down to set a napkin in front of the headstone. On it is a peanut butter and raspberry jelly sandwich.

With the crusts cut off.