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The bell above the door gave a lazy jingle as Ponyboy and Johnny stepped into the department store. The cold air from the vents that blew recycled air hit them all at once. Pony rubbed his arms through the thin sleeves of his shirt as he followed Johnny through the store.
They didn't talk at first. Johnny was already veering off towards a rack that said “Mens Denim – 25% off,” his eyes scanning the stacks of folded jeans. Pony just trailed behind, slower, distracted by the row of mannequins propped up by the front windows.
They always looked wrong to him with those bent plastic elbows and frozen grins, hands posed like they were in the middle of waving goodbye. They were dressed in clothes no one he knew could actually afford.
He stuck his hands in his back pockets and kept his head down as he walked, glancing around in that casual, paranoid way you learn when you grow up in the kind of place where you're always assumed to be doing something wrong.
The store was nearly empty except for some woman fussing over clearance shirts and a tired-looking man flipping through slacks with all the enthusiasm of a corpse.
Johnny stopped near a tall display of Levi’s, looking through them. Pony stood beside him, thumbing through the jeans with him, pretending to read the tags like he had any idea what they meant. Slim fit, boot cut, straight leg— none of it meant much when every pair was stuff and heavy and weird to wear until they got broken in.
All he knew was his jeans didn't fit anymore. His mom used to buy his clothes a size too big, saying he'd grow into them, and for a while that had worked. But now his waistband was tight in the mornings, and his ankles stuck out more than they should, and he figured maybe it was time.
Johnny pulled a pair from the shelf and handed them to him without saying anything, then grabbed another pair for himself.
“Hand me those, too,” Pony said, pointing to a pair right beside Johnny. It wasn't too different, just a bit more blue.
Johnny threw him the pair and turned towards the changing rooms in the back. Pony followed again, quieter this time. The sound of their shoes on the tile echoed a little, loud in the otherwise still store. They didn't have to say anything. They never really did when they were together.
Johnny pushed the curtain aside and stepped in, Pony ducking in after him, the curtain swaying back into place behind them.
The room was bigger than the other ones, being accessible for wheelchair users and people with kids, Johnny plopped down on the bench while Pony changed into the other jeans. The denim was stiff, colder than he expected, and it fought him a little when he tried to tug it up over his hips. He got them on, mostly, but the waistband pinched tight, and the button wouldn't close all the way.
He stood there for a second longer than he meant to, staring down at it.
They don't fit.
“You good?” Johnny asked, not looking up from where he was sorting through his pair.
“These pants don't fit,” Pony muttered, voice low.
Johnny looked over, “did I grab the wrong size?”
“No,” Pony didn't move, “the other pair are that size.”
Johnny didn't say anything at first. Just watched him for a second, then stood up and grabbed the dark blue pair of jeans and held his hand out for the pair Pony had on.
Pony took them off and handed them back.
“I'll get a size up,” he said, already sliding past the curtain, “hold on.”
And then Pony was alone. Still standing in the middle of the room in a shirt that suddenly felt too warm. He turned slowly towards the mirror, eyes dragging upward until they met his own.
He looked the same. Maybe a little taller. Maybe not. His face might be a little rounder.
He frowned and, without really thinking, peeled off his shirt too.
He looked at his reflection like it would give him a different answer. But all he saw was a kid who didn't look any different.
Didn't look stronger or bigger or older or anything. Just the same bones, the same skin, the same narrow shoulders and bruises that hadn't faded yet.
Nothing looked new.
So why didn't it fit?
The curtain rustled, and Johnny stepped back in, a fresh stack of jeans under one arm. He paused when he saw Pony standing there, shirtless and barefoot, staring at himself like he didn't know what he was looking at.
Johnny didn't say anything about it. Just held out the jeans and said, “it just means you're growing. You could get as tall as Dally.”
Pony didn't answer. He took the jeans and looked down at them.
28x28 is what the sticker read.
He fluffed out the jeans and tried again. They fit. Not perfect, but better. They were snug around the waist, but the button closed without a fight, and the denim didn't bite into his thighs when he bent his knees. They felt stiff. New clothes always did.
He kept tugging at the legs, trying to get the fabric to sit right, but Johnny told him to stop fussing and that they looked fine.
At the checkout, Pony unfolded the ten-dollar bill Soda had given him that morning. It had been ironed flat and tucked into his back pocket like it was something important. Which, to him, it was.
Soda had handed it over with a grin and a, “don't let Johnny talk you into anything ugly,” before ruffling his hair and walking out the door.
The jeans rang up at 6.12 with tax. Pony handed over the bill and pocketed the change without looking at it too closely. It felt strange. Using money on himself.
Johnny's pair came out to just over three bucks, but when he dug into his pocket for change, he came up short by a dime. He blinked at the cashier, awkward, already starting to put the jeans back on the counter, but Ponyboy stepped forward and dropped a dime beside the register without saying anything.
Johnny looked at him. Pony didn't look back.
They walked outside with their paper bags tucked under their arms, the sun setting, painting the sky in a watercolor of clouds and oranges and purples. They made their way to the bus stop down the block, the bench sitting there like it had been waiting for them, the streetlight above it already turned on.
Someone had left a newspaper on the bench, the pages fluttering a little in the breeze. Pony reached over and held it down before it could blow away, folding it open on his lap.
Johnny leaned back, face tilted towards the sun like he was trying to soak in what little warmth it had left. He didn't ask what Pony was reading. He never did.
The first page was boring. Politics, business, things Soda told him he shouldn't worry about right now. The second had a crime blotter, a few updates about new construction on the edge of town, and a small article near the corner that caught his eye.
The headline was short: “Unidentified Man Found Dead in Yahola Lake.”
He read the whole thing.
The body of an unidentified man was discovered Wednesday morning in Yahola Lake by a local fisherman. Authorities believe the man drowned sometime overnight.
No identification was found on the body. Police are asking for the public's help in identifying the man, described as white, approximately 30-40 years old, of average build. He was wearing a brown work shirt and dark pants.
Foul play is not suspected at this time.
“It's possible he slipped,” said Officer Gerald Morton, “we've had a few cases like this over the years. Folks are wandering too close to the docks. It's a tragic accident.”
The county coroner's office is awaiting toxicology results. The investigation is ongoing.
Johnny didn't notice the way his eyes stopped moving.
Pony flipped the page, a picture of a local doctor on the side next to the heading.
Adolescent Functional Decline Linked to Emerging “School Slump” Phenomenon
A growing number of educators across the state have reported an observable pattern of cognitive and behavioral disengagement among secondary school students. This trend, referred to informally as the “school slump,” is characterized by a marked decrease in academic performance, attendance, and motivation…
Pony started glancing through the article instead, the words mixed together not making much sense to him.
… students are increasingly failing to complete assignments… or exiting the education system entirely…
… analysis by a clinical psychologist… what is termed depressive illness.
Illness.
… associated with persistent low mood, fatigue, diminished interest in activities, and impaired executive function. While the diagnosis… adolescent populations… possible correlation warranting further investigation.
He stopped at that paragraph, folding the newspaper in half and setting it aside.
He looked up.
A woman was walking across the parking lot towards the store entrance, her husband just a step behind her, one hand on the small of her back. She was pregnant. Big, obvious, glowing in that way adults always said was beautiful.
Pony watched her open the door, watched them disappear inside, and didn't say anything for a long time.
Johnny was the first to speak.
“That lady sure did look happy,” he said, his voice low, “I wonder what it's like to be born with your whole life ahead of you.”
Pony didn't say anything at first. He was still watching the door the woman had disappeared through, like maybe she's come back out and he could ask her something. Not anything big. Just how she managed to look so sure of where she was going. How she made it look easy.
His hand was resting on the newspaper, the pages rustling a little in the breeze. The headline about the man in the lake peeked out again from the fold.
“Do you believe in that reincarnation stuff?” He asked suddenly, “that we were someone else in another time?”
Johnny shifted on the bench, his sneaker squeaking against the metal frame, “like past lives?”
“Yeah.”
He didn't answer right away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fiddling with the fraying cuff of his jeans. His brows furrowed like he was actually taking it seriously, like it wasn't just something weird Pony said to fill the silence.
“I don't know,” Johnny said eventually, “I'd like to think I was a deer, though. Big ol' buck. I'd like to be wandering deep in the woods. Deep enough for people to leave me alone.”
Pony turned to look at him. Johnny was still watching the ground, thumb rubbing the seam of his pants, like he hadn't even realized he said something real.
“A deer,” Pony repeated.
Johnny gave a small nod, “they're fast. And quiet. And you can't really catch one unless it wants you to.”
Pony looked down at the edge of the bench again. The paint was chipped there, rust coming through underneath like it had been trying to stay hidden.
“I think I'd want to be a wolf,” he said finally.
Johnny looked over at him, “why a wolf?”
Pony shrugged, but not like he didn't care, more like he didn't know how to explain it. He leaned forward and slapped a bug off his knee, “they always travel together. You always see pictures of wolves with a whole pack. They're never alone.”
Johnny didn't say anything right away, but his eyes softened a little. Just a flicker, but Pony saw it.
He kept going, like if he stopped now, he'd lose it, “I think that'd be nice. To like… always have somebody there.”
The wind picked up, flipping the edge of the newspaper again. Johnny reached out and set his hand on top of it, smoothing it back down without looking at the words.
“You got people now,” he said, “you ain't alone.”
“I know,” Pony said, “it's different…” he leaned forward, his eye catching that bug from earlier now on its back, flailing its legs around, “maybe I just miss my parents.”
Two-Bit pulled up like a cartoon character, elbow slung over the door, sunglasses halfway down his nose, even though the sun was already halfway gone. The convertible rumbled like it was trying to act tuffer than it was. He leaned over the door and grinned like he just committed a felony, which he probably had.
“Stole Dally's car,” he announced, “get in. We're gettin’ Dairy Queen.”
Johnny blinked at him, “you what?”
“Stole Dally's car,” Two-Bit repeated, like Johnny was hard of hearing, “he won't even notice. That bastard forgets where he parks, swear to God.”
Johnny shook his head with a small laugh, “nah, I can't go. My mom's makin’ dinner and she'll get offly mad if I don't eat it.”
Two-Bit waved him off like that was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, “so bring it home and let it rot in your room. Adds flavor. A little molds good for the immune system.”
Johnny gave him a look, “She'll smell it.”
“Then tell her it's incense,” Two-Bit leaned harder against the door, “C'mon, don't make me eat soft serve alone. I'm too handsome to look that pathetic.”
While Johnny hesitated, Pony opened the passenger door and slid in, silent, arms folded. He didn't say anything, staring out the windshield. Two-Bit turned in his seat to poke Pony's side with two fingers.
“You look like someone ran over your puppy,” he said, “what's with the face?”
Pony flinched and swatted at him, but it was slow and half-assed, “didn't sleep good.”
“Aw, you're a liar,” Two-Bit poked him again, “you got that tragic poet look goin’ on. You sittin’ there thinkin’ about life again? Or death? Or trees? Or all three?”
Pony didn't answer right away, but his mouth twitched the barest hint of a smirk.
“... Wolves,” he said finally.
Two-Bit turned and looked at Johnny like he needed backup, “you hearin’ this? He wants to be a wolf now.”
Pony gave a tiny shrug, "they're cool, I guess.”
Two-Bit makes a face like that's even worse, “Jesus. We gotta pump you full of grease and sugar before you start howlin’ at the damn moon.”
“You stop talking,” Pony smiled, shoving his shoulder.
“You're already violent,” Two-Bit shook his head, “next thing you know you're gonna start growin’ fangs and beggin’ for a collar,” he started hollering, smacking Pony on the back as he laughed with his whole body.
Pony rolled his eyes, letting him hit his back, “you're lucky I'm too tired to bite you.”
Two-Bit stopped dramatically, “you hear this, Johnny?” He said as he turned to better look at him, “the mutiny. The disrespect,” he turned back, slapping Pony on the shoulder again, “I raise this boy like my own, and this is what I get.”
“I feel bad for your future kids,” Pony said, getting a small laugh from the backseat.
The Dairy Queen parking lot was half-empty, the convertible sitting crooked in two spaces where Two-Bit half assed the parking.
Inside, it smelled like fryer grease, stale cone sugar, and a wet mop. The air conditioning buzzed in a way that made Pony feel like he was underwater. He didn’t mind.
Pony got a burger and fries. Johnny stuck to a small vanilla cone, his knuckles pink from the cold. Two-Bit, of course, ordered a burger with everything on it, a mountain of fries drowning in ketchup, and a Coke so large Pony thought he might need two hands to hold it.
They sat by the window, legs kicked out under the table, the neon glow from the signs outside painting everything in pinks and yellows. Two-Bit was halfway through his burger when he leaned back, licking grease off his thumb.
“I didn’t just steal Dally’s car for fun, by the way,” he said around a mouthful of fries, “I was supposed to be seeing someone.”
Pony looked up mid-bite, “what happened?”
“Flaked,” Two-Bit said simply, “I already pulled up and everything, and it was that real nice ‘somethin’ came up’ like I was born yesterday. Rude as hell.”
Johnny gave a little hum of amusement and went back to his cone, “shame,” he said, voice low and dry.
Two-Bit leaned his chair back until it groaned, “I was gonna take ‘em somewhere real classy, too. The bowling alley. Maybe even the nice Dairy Queen, the one on 10th street with the paper straws.”
Johnny squinted at him, “you don’t look completely unlucky.”
Two-Bit blinked, “what’s that supposed to mean?”
Johnny gestured casually with his spoon, “you got a hickey on your neck.”
There it was. A hickey. Bold, purple, peeking out just under his jaw. The collar must’ve slipped down sometime during the ride.
Two-Bit slapped a hand to his collar and popped it up so fast it looked like a magic trick, “woah now,” he said, his elbow hitting the table and his hand gesturing him to keep it down, “calm down. A man’s got secrets.”
Johnny snorted, head tipped back just a little, the kind of laugh that came out wheezy and real. Two-Bit followed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand.
Pony laughed too. Sort of.
He smiled because they were smiling. Let out a quiet, polite little chuckle because that’s what you were supposed to do when the people around you were joking. But something about it sat weird in his chest.
He picked at his fries, eyes flicking to the window.
It wasn’t that he cared about the hickey, not really. It just… weirded him out. The idea of Two-Bit, all loud and goofy, getting kissed like that. And not in some abstract, off-camera kind of way. Like last night, probably. That close. That recent.
He didn’t like thinking about it. Didn’t like the thought of that happening, and then this— burgers and ice cream, and jokes like it was all normal.
He didn’t know what bothered him more, the idea of someone kissing Two-Bit like that, or the quiet thought that Soda probably did the same thing. That maybe he went around doing all that and then came home and climbed into the same bed like nothing happened.
Two-Bit was still going, running his mouth as usual, “— and I’m tellin’ you, some of the best years of my life came from near-death food poisoning.”
“You’re nasty,” Johnny said, still smiling.
“Whatever,” Two-Bit scraped the rest of the ketchup on the bottom of the basket with his fries, “you’re too young to understand.”
Johnny snorted into his cone, and two of them laughed again.
Pony took another bite of his burger, chewed slowly, then asked, “is that stuff supposed to make you happy?”
Two-Bit paused, grabbing the ketchup bottle again, “what you talkin’ ‘bout, Ponyboy?”
“I don’t know,” Pony shrugged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “I just don’t get it, I guess.”
Two-Bit squeezed more ketchup on what was left of his fries, “you’re too young to get it,” he said finally, “seriously this time. You’ll grow outta it.”
Pony glanced over at him. Waited. Like maybe there’d be more to it. Something better. But Two-Bit wasn’t looking at him anymore. He’d already turned back to Johnny, cracking another joke, reaching for another fry.
Pony didn’t say anything else. Just looked down at the paper tray in his lap and went back to eating, slow and quiet, like maybe he’d lost his appetite but didn’t want to admit it.
—
The house was quiet when Ponyboy got back. Porch light flickering like it was on its last leg, buzzing faintly against the crickets. He slowly opened the front door. They always kept the door unlocked.
Inside smelled like laundry detergent and whatever Darry had cooked earlier. The TV was on low, just background noise, black and white figures moving across the screen. Darry was still awake, stretched across the couch in a tank top and jeans, socked feet propped on the coffee table. He looked over, not surprised, just watching.
“Hey,” Darry said, voice low, “left you a plate in the fridge.”
Pony paused near the door long enough to toe off his shoes, one thunking over the other, “I already ate.”
Darry tilted his head a little, “yeah?”
“Yeah. Two-Bit picked up me and Johnny. Took us to Dairy Queen,” Pony didn’t look at him when he said that, just headed for the hallway, “something about his date flaked.”
There was a pause behind him, the kind that wasn’t heavy, just thoughtful. Then, “huh.”
That was all Darry said. Not “what were you doing with Two-Bit this late,” not “did you spend any money,” not “who paid.” Just that one sound. Pony didn’t stop to think about what it meant.
He could feel Darry’s eyes on him as he walked past the couch, hands shoved in his pockets like they were trying to hold something in.
“You look upset,” Darry said.
It wasn’t accusing. Didn’t sound much of worried either. It sounded like something he had noticed and put into words.
Pony stopped in the hallway. He turned his head halfway, like maybe he’d respond, but he didn’t. He stood there with his shoulders stiff and his hands still buried in his pockets. He glanced at the floor, then up at the ceiling, then away from everything.
Finally, he turned around, slowly, like it was hard to get the words out.
“A man drowned yesterday.”
Darry blinked, not expecting that, “did you know him?”
“No.”
Pony shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The hallway light buzzed overhead like it was nervous for him.
Darry frowned a little, “then why’s it bothering you?”
Pony looked down at his socks on the wood floor and gave a quick, aimless kick at the baseboard like it might help him think. He was quiet long enough that Darry almost repeated the question, but then he finally said, soft:
“I don’t like that we die.”
It wasn’t the kind of line meant to start a deep talk. It just fell out of him, real and kind of clumsy, like it’d been hanging on his ribs all day and finally slipped loose.
Darry didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked back to the TV, then to Pony again. He sat forward a little, elbows on his knees.
“Look at it this way,” he said eventually, “if we didn’t die, the world’d be overpopulated.”
It was the kind of thing someone says when they don’t know what else to say but still want to offer something. Something practical. Something that sounded like an answer.
Pony rubbed at his arm, fingers tightening a little on the fabric of his shirt, “well, yeah… but to die like that…”
He didn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t.
Darry didn’t speak again. Not because he didn't care, but because what else was there to say?
Pony let the silence sit for a second before turning back down the hallway. His socked feet made no sound, but the door to his room gave the faintest creak when he shut it behind him.
He dropped the bag from the store beside his desk like it was nothing special and flicked on the lamp. He sat down and opened Fahrenheit 451, the cover curling slightly from how many hands had flipped through it before him. He found his page and started reading.
The words hit differently at night. There was something about fire and silence that always got to him. The way Montag moved through a world set to burn, the way no one around him seemed to notice.
The waistband of his jeans pinched when he leaned forward.
It wasn’t sharp. Not even really painful. But it was tight across his stomach. Not how his jeans used to feel.
Pony blinked and leaned back slowly, resting the book in his lap.
Johnny had handed him a 28x28 earlier at the store without saying a word about it, except for the “you could get as tall as Dally” bullshit.
His old ones were a 26x28. He didn’t even grow.
He looked back down at the book and forced himself to keep reading. Montag stepped deeper into the smoke.
But the pressure across his belly didn’t go away.
He shifted. Hitched the waistband down a little with one hand. Read another line.
Then shifted again.
He hated how aware he suddenly was of his whole body. The way it sat. The way it folded. The way it felt.
Pony set the book aside with a sigh that was barely even a sound and stood up. He unbuttoned the jeans and stepped out of them.
They landed in a heap on the floor.
He pulled on his pajama pants, the soft, old cotton loose in all the right places. He grabbed a fresh tee from the dresser, not even realizing how much tension had knotted up in his shoulder until it started to ease.
Back in bed, he lay on his side, the book propped open against the pillow. The jeans were still on the floor.
He didn’t pick them up. Didn’t fold them. Didn’t look at the tag again.
He turned a page.
Montag stepped deeper into the smoke.
—
The front door clicked shut slowly and quietly, like it was trying not to wake the floorboards. Soda didn’t bother turning on any lights. He knew the path by heart.
He peeled off his work shirt by the couch, draped it over the armrest, and tiptoed into the bathroom, changed into an old t-shirt and boxers, and his boots thumped faintly against the tile when he took them off.
Everything smelled like detergent and faint grease from the station. His hands were still stained around the nails.
When he stepped into the bedroom, Pony was already out. Dead asleep, one leg half off the bed, arm slung over a pillow. On the floor was Fahrenheit 451, spine cracked, pages fanned like it had slipped mid-thought.
Soda smiled a little and shook his head. He climbed into the bed slowly, careful not to shift the mattress too much. Pony didn’t even twitch.
But the second Soda settled, Pony moved.
He rolled over groggily, half-lidded eyes blinking once; slow, heavy, unfocused. Soda looked back, pausing for a beat, then opened one arm without saying anything.
Pony scooted closer, curled against Soda’s chest, and let out a long, tired sigh. His head rested just under Soda’s chin, body warm and soft like a kid who hadn’t grown out of it yet. Because he hadn’t. Soda rubbed his back, small and steady.
Then, barely louder than the sheets rustling:
“... Soda?”
“Yeah?”
Pony went quiet again, his side rising and falling slowly. Soda almost thought he went right back to sleep.
“Are you sick?”
Soda blinked, a small chuckle coming out, “what? Who told you that?”
“I read it in the papers,” Pony mumbled, like it made perfect sense, “it said kids are gettin’ sick. Droppin’ outta school.”
Soda was quiet. Too quiet. His hand stilled on Pony’s back.
He stared at the ceiling for a long second, thinking how to lie without it sounding like one.
Then he kissed the top of Pony’s head and said:
“... No. I ain’t sick.”
Another pause.
“I dropped out ‘cause I was stupid.”
Pony didn’t say anything, nestling in closer and letting his eyes fall shut again.
And Soda held him tighter like it might fix something.