Chapter Text
Johnny didn’t cry at the funeral.
None of the gang did, except for Soda and Ponyboy. It just hadn't seemed right to let themselves fall apart like that when the boys most needed them to be strong. But that didn’t mean they weren’t all feeling the loss of the closest thing to loving parents most of them had ever known.
With how sudden losing Mr. and Mrs. Curtis had been, Johnny expected that the pain would be sudden too—like the sting of a slap or the shock of a punch to the jaw, something sharp and blinding in the moment, but fading steadily over time until all that’s left is the bruise. He never thought it would feel the way it actually does: an ache that's dull enough to push to the background on most days, but flaring up so bad on others that it takes his very breath away. This pain is chronic. It’s a part of him now.
“You in or out, Cade?” Dallas hollers across the yard. The gang is splitting off into teams, Two-Bit and Darry already tossing the football back and forth over Ponyboy’s head, monkey-in-the-middle style.
“Out,” Johnny replies, taking another drag of his cigarette. He barely made it through his classes today; there’s no way he has the energy for a game right now.
As the gang gets into formation and Darry makes the first snap, Johnny sits there flicking the ash off his cigarette and thinking back to that time he had the flu when he was nine. He'd been laid up in Pony's room for three days straight—long enough that Mr. Curtis wheeled the TV set into the bedroom and spent an entire Sunday sitting next to him watching Honeymooners reruns. Mrs. Curtis cooked up a vat of chicken soup deep enough to feed half the neighborhood—which turned out to be for the best, since that flu ended up making the rounds through pretty much the entire gang. Johnny remembers feeling awfully guilty about it, but Mrs. Curtis said it wasn’t his fault.
“Families share,” she told him simply, her nose rubbed raw and a folded handkerchief poking out from under the sleeve of her cardigan.
Maybe it’s just the fever he’s pretty sure he’s sporting that’s making him so emotional, but recalling the way the two of them dropped everything to spend that weekend taking care of him is making his nose sting and his throat go tight. He wasn't their kid—not a single person would have blamed them for sending him back home—but they'd taken that burden upon themselves without a second thought.
Why did it have to be them? he wonders. Why couldn’t it have been Johnny’s folks, or Steve’s old man, or Two-Bit's deadbeat drunk of a father that got hit by that train? Tulsa is teeming with shitty parents—the universe could have taken its pick! Why'd it have to go with the two adults in this town who made him feel like he was actually worth something?
"Need help warming the bench?"
Startled back to the present, Johnny glances up to see Soda has abandoned the game and is now making his way to the porch, limping slightly with each step.
Johnny frowns as he scoots over to one side of the step to make room. "You good, man?"
“Yeah, fine.” Soda shrugs off his concern, plopping himself down next to Johnny. “Just tweaked my knee a little. Figured I oughta take a breather.”
Johnny nods, taking another drag from his cigarette. Ever since Soda tore a ligament in that rodeo back when he was twelve, his knee’s been real finicky. This is far from the first time he’s re-injured it horsing around with the gang.
“Say, what’s the deal with Joanne Summers?” Soda asks, seemingly out of the blue. “Is she still going with Mark?”
“Nah, they broke up weeks ago,” Johnny informs him. “She’s with Billy Keegan now.”
“She’s dating Bird-Poop Billy?!” He looks aghast.
“That was fifth grade, man. When are you gonna let that go?”
“A bird shit on his corndog at the fair and this freak just ate around it!”
This launches Soda into an impassioned rant of all of Billy's grade school transgressions, which eventually morphs into Johnny catching Soda up on all the high school gossip he’s missed out on since dropping out. Steve keeps him updated as much as he can, but the two of them didn't share many classes (on account of Steve actually getting decent grades), so Johnny’s his best source for who’s dating who and which of their remedial English classmates got suspended for slashing the teacher's tires.
“Can’t believe ol' Miss Johnson's still working there, she's gotta be like eighty by now,” Soda says with a snort. He stretches his leg out experimentally, causing him to hiss through his teeth.
Johnny raises an eyebrow. “You want some ice for that?” he asks, nodding toward the knee.
Soda waves him off, wincing as he bends and straightens the leg a couple more times. “It’s just stiff.” His gaze falls on the weed held between Johnny’s fingers. “I’ll take a few puffs, though?”
Sodapop hardly ever smokes—only when he really needs a distraction—so Johnny figures the pain must be worse than he’s letting on. He starts to hand the cigarette over, then catches himself at the last second and jerks it back.
Soda gives him a weird look. "What?"
“Sorry,” Johnny says, feeling his cheeks heat up. “I just… uh, I don’t wanna get you sick or nothin’...” He rubs a hand awkwardly along the back of his neck.
Soda's brow creases with concern. “You’re not feeling good?” When Johnny doesn’t say anything, he presses the back of his hand to his friend's forehead.
“Aw,” he murmurs after a second, “you’re burning up, Johnnycake.”
He sounds so much like his mama when he says it that it makes Johnny’s eyes sting.
"What all feels bad?" Soda presses on. “Head? Stomach? Throat?”
Johnny ducks his head, embarrassed by the sudden attention. “I’m just tired, mostly," he admits. "Got a headache."
That's the main reason he hadn't gone straight home after school, despite spending the whole day feeling like shit. His dad just lost his latest job at the factory, and his ma won’t stop giving him grief about it. Johnny had wanted to soak up every last moment of peace he could get before listening to them holler all night.
Reaching up for the porch rail, Soda pulls himself to standing. “C’mon,” he says, holding a hand out to Johnny. “Let’s go see if Darry remembered to pick up more aspirin.”
“You don't gotta bother with all that,” Johnny protests weakly, even as he lets himself be hoisted to his feet. His head rushes with the movement and he has to blink a few times to clear his vision. "It's prolly just a cold or somethin'..."
Soda gives him a skeptical look. "I'm pretty sure if we cracked an egg on your head right now, we could fry it."
Johnny snorts weakly. “Don’t tell Two-Bit. He’ll wanna try it.”
“Yeah,” Soda laughs. “He probably will.”
Guiding Johnny to the couch, Soda makes him sit, then pulls the throw blanket down from the back of the sofa to wrap around him. Johnny hadn't even realized how much he was shivering until his body suddenly goes still.
"Get comfy, okay?" Soda instructs. "I'm gonna go grab some stuff."
"Really, you don't have to bother—" Johnny starts, but Soda's already limping out of the room.
He returns a couple minutes later with a bottle of aspirin, two glasses of water, a cold rag, and the bag of frozen lima beans that the family’s been using as an ice pack ever since Ponyboy was in kindergarten (which has been thawed and refrozen so many times that it’s probably some kind of biohazard by now). The boys down two pills each, then Soda folds the washcloth into thirds and makes Johnny lie back so he can drape it across his forehead.
Soda grins when Johnny lets out a contented hum. "Feels nice, huh?" he says. “That's what Mama always did when we were sick. Well, that and slather our feet with vapor rub and make us wear really thick socks, but I never really got why that was supposed to help…" His face twists up in thought.
"My ma usually just gave me a shot of whisky,” Johnny admits.
Soda blinks at him. "Seriously?"
He nods.
"That's nuts, man." Flipping the TV on, Soda plops himself down on the remaining couch cushion. He props his foot up on the coffee table and tosses the bag of lima beans over his bad knee. "Mama didn't even like giving us cough syrup if she could avoid it. Said it was too strong for kids."
“That’s why Ma liked it,” Johnny mumbles tiredly. “Can’t whine about feeling bad when you’re out cold.”
On screen, Dick Van Dyke trips theatrically over a cardboard box and dives into a somersault, eliciting a round of laughter from the audience.
"Shoot," Johnny suddenly remembers. "It's trash night. I gotta take the bins out or she’ll be hollering all week."
"Don't worry about it," Soda says. "I'll make Steve do it on his way home."
Johnny wants to point out that his folks aren’t all that fond of Steve and won't take kindly to him showing up in their house, even if it's to do them a favor. But explaining all that seems like a lot of effort, and Johnny's eyelids are quickly growing heavy.
He drifts off before the rest of the gang even makes it back inside.
Johnny is kneeling on the floor, mid-gag, when the bathroom light flips on. For a split second, he panics, convinced that Mr. Curtis' ghost has just appeared in the doorway. But then the ghost yawns and Johnny catches a glimpse of the incisor Darry chipped in his championship football game junior year and his feverish brain reorients itself.
"S-Sorry," he gets out.
"Don’t be." Darry moves to the sink, flipping on the faucet. “Soda mentioned you weren't feeling too hot earlier. I was sort of expecting something like this."
Thinking back, Johnny can vaguely recall hearing the gang all pile inside after their game—the usual ruckus, Soda shushing everyone, lowered voices, a hand on his forehead—but he'd been so exhausted that he hadn't even managed to open his eyes, much less make his way back to his own place. He'd slept straight through whatever antics they'd gotten up to that evening, coming to again only once the house was pitch dark and silent and the back of his jaw was tingling in that way it only does right before tragedy strikes.
His only consolation is that at least he made it to the toilet this time.
In contrast to his father, Darry doesn't rub his back, nor does he have a constant stream of comforting words and jokes to dispense while Johnny heaves. Still, he’s present in his own way—cracking the window to let the cool breeze in, wetting a washcloth for Johnny to wipe his face, fetching him a pair of clean pajamas to change into once his stomach’s finished turning itself inside out.
"Feel any better?" Darry asks once it seems the worst is over.
Johnny shrugs. "I guess so." He's achy and shivering and the back of his t-shirt’s sticking to him with sweat, but at least he doesn't feel like ralphing anymore. Darry pulls him shakily to his feet, which makes his head rush so much that he has to grip the sink to stay upright.
“You alright?” Darry’s hands hover just behind Johnny’s elbows.
“Uh huh,” Johnny breathes out as his vision slowly returns. “Fine.”
“I think you and I have different definitions of that word, kiddo,” he says dryly, giving Johnny another brief glimpse beyond the grave.
"…Dar?" Ponyboy appears in the doorway. He’s rubbing at his eyes, his hair mussed with sleep. "What's goin' on?"
Darry snorts. "I'll give you three guesses."
Johnny can practically see the gears turning in the thirteen-year-old’s sleep-addled brain. "Oh," Pony says when it clicks, turning to head towards the kitchen. "I'll go get him something to drink."
"Check the pantry," Darry calls after him, closing the toilet lid and guiding Johnny down to sit on it. "I think we've still got a couple cans of ginger ale."
"Got it!"
"I don't need nothin' special," Johnny protests as Darry opens the medicine cabinet. "Just water's fine."
"It'll help get your blood sugar back up too. You look like a ghost.” He roots through the boys’ supply of hair grease, band-aids, razor blades, and athlete's foot powder. "Now, where's the dang thermometer…"
It ends up being on the top shelf, hiding behind a jar of cold cream. Johnny lets him stick it under his tongue, then waits the requisite two minutes for the verdict.
"102.5," Darry reports grimly. "I think you got the flu, buddy."
Johnny's cheeks flush with shame. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I shoulda just gone home."
All he's managed to do this evening is hog their couch and get his germs everywhere. He's gonna feel awful if the others come down with this too.
"Don't be stupid, Johnny." Darry rolls his eyes fondly as he passes him his toothbrush. "You're already home."
Johnny's curled up in Soda’s old bed, drifting in that halfway space between sleeping and waking, when he hears the creak of the front door opening. Footsteps make their way down the hall, stopping right in the doorway.
"Hey, Pone."
"Hey." The steady sound of pencil rubbing against paper pauses momentarily. "How was your shift?"
"Kinda slow for a Saturday. Only had three cars in the shop and two of 'em just needed oil changes. Steve was going nuts."
"Steve's always nuts."
"Hey!”
"Shhh, Johnny's sleeping."
"I can see that." The wooden floor creaks as Sodapop's footsteps pad across the bedroom. "How's he been?"
"Alright, I guess. Hasn't really woken up much, just sorta rolls over and moans sometimes."
Slightly offended at this, Johnny attempts to pry his eyelids open, but all he manages is another faint groan. He's so tired.
"Poor kid." Fingers brush against his forehead, pushing his hair back from his eyes. "Have you been giving him aspirin?"
"Darry gave him some before he left for work. He can't have more for another half-hour."
"Y'all had lunch yet?"
"He ate a couple crackers with the pills and I had the leftover spaghetti. Nothing since then."
"I picked up a chicken. I'll see about making some soup for dinner."
"Cool."
The only sound for the next few moments is Pony's pencil shading.
"…Is that a snake?"
"Yeah."
"Why you drawing that?"
"I dunno." The pencil scratches against the page. "Just felt like it, I guess."