Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Poor little Johnny Cade was born two months early and three pounds too small; it’s a miracle he survived the genesis.

It’s too damn bad being a miracle didn’t last very long.

Poor little Johnny Cade was taught to stop asking for things before he could even speak. Granted, he didn’t talk much until he started going to school, and even then, the poor kid learned not to speak unless he was spoken to, ‘cause nobody listened to him anyway.

The needy kid has known hunger pangs since he was in utero, quenched only by cigarette after cigarette that his mama would smoke while he kicked at her ribs to not have to eat so she could stay small. The odd times she did, it tended to be days old food; Johnny could probably count on two hands the amount of fresh vegetables he’d eaten by the time he reached teenagehood.

Man, if anyone ever bothered to ask Johnny why he started smoking before he even hit double digits, he’d’a told them it’s ‘cause he’d always thought it looked real tuff, plain and simple, and he’d say it with a smile on his face. He’d’a said it’s ‘cause he wanted to be cool like all the big kid greasers down his block who’d hang around the parks he’d wander to and each smoke a pack a day since they didn’t give a damn about what their parents said, or ‘cause he was an overactive problem child and drugs calmed him down, or ‘cause his parents didn’t give a damn what he got himself up to and haven’t since before he could walk, or ‘cause he got his little nine-year-old grubby hands on one of Pa’s smokes once that he hadn’t all the way put out when he carelessly threw it onto the porch — surely it could’a caused a fire if Johnny hadn’t gotten ahold of it — and he was addicted from that day on.

None of that shit would be the truth, though. Not really. The real reason was that somehow, all the smoke and nicotine and guilt he’d ingest half a dozen times a day were the only things Johnny could find that would finally fill the gaping chasm that being a starving, growing kid left in his cavernous, gaping belly; the little belly of his that ceaselessly ached with hunger pangs and straight bile from sun up to sun down.

The smoke suffocates the rapacious void inside.

Johnny’s best friend Ponyboy is about to turn eleven, and he knows not to go to the West Side alone.

This is a rule that Johnny knows Ponyboy has had since he turned double digits nearly a year ago, ‘cause sometimes his best friend just don’t listen right; it’s like his ears don’t work sometimes. Johnny doesn’t really get why he’s so fascinated with the other side of those tracks — the boys over there are mean, they don’t play nice, the girls look at Johnny in the halls at school like he’s some kind of wounded animal, and they all seem to talk with this lull to their voices as if they’re better than the East side kids.

They’re not. Johnny knows they’re not, but he still doesn’t understand Ponyboy’s enthrallment with ‘em. He loves his best friend, but shit, the movies over there ain’t even that good! They’re all oaters and rom-coms and the odd Bond rerun. Johnny just don’t see the appeal of the West Side or their stupid movies.

Johnny knows not to go to the West Side alone either, but it’s never been a rule of his, not like Mrs. Curtis gave Pony. It’s an unspoken one maybe, one the big Sheldon and Holden kids have hung over his head since he wasn’t even double digits yet, but it was never one his mama had to give him, ‘cause his mama’s never given him any good rules in the first place.

All Johnny’s dang Mama has ever been good for was giving him an aching belly and tattered clothes and a goddang cig addiction.

Look… Johnny never thought he’d ever have to go this low. Sure, he’s an East side hood, a greaser, and that’s all he’s ever gonna be good for, but he never thought he’d be willingly dragging his ass over the tracks after sundown in search of something, anything to ease the pain behind his eyes and seeped deep behind his ribcage.

The clock hanging on the wall in the living room of the Cade home has been broken for at least a year now. Johnny remembers what happened — Johnny remembers everything, like an elephant plagued — but he doesn’t like thinking about that much, or any day here, really. Pa threw a half-empty beer bottle at the TV Mama had been watching ‘cause she wasn’t answering him when he spoke to her, but he was drunk off his ass and missed, and it shattered the clock on the wall instead. All the broken pieces had fallen to the ground — Johnny would bet there’s still shards in the carpet, it’s why he makes sure not to walk around this place barefoot no more — but the clock stayed where it was bolted. The hands don’t tick the same now; it’s like time moves slower in this house than everywhere else, like he’ll be stuck here forever.

Like he’ll drown here. Or burn here, in some epic cacophony of smoke and ember and flame and ash.

The clock is reading 9:27, but it’s read nine o’clock for at least an hour, maybe longer, so Johnny guesses it must be past ten since the sun has long past set, since time moves slower in here than out there. Their living room window faces west, where opportunity and riches and full bellies live, but all the West has ever meant for Johnny is the end of another day trapped in darkness and haze.

Johnny’s curled up on the edge of the couch. It had bedbugs in it a few summers ago, and his mama had been terrified of ‘em, just like those little bugs in the pantry they used to have, and she had spent all the little savings she had on a chemical treatment that seemed to make them go away. Johnny hasn’t seen them since, but he knows she blames him for it, and how she had to spend all her money to get them out.

It hadn’t even been Johnny’s fault. Johnny thinks it was Pa’s fault, or maybe Mama's from her job and all those sleazy guys she meets, but on days they’re getting along, they seem to like to gang up on him. Hell knows why.

The TV lulls on in the background, but Johnny can’t really hear it over his huffing and rumbly belly. “Mama?”

She don’t answer him. She don’t even look up from her crossword.

Johnny doesn’t know why he even bothers anymore, ‘cause he knows what the answer is gonna be, but for a reason God mustn’t even know why, he tries again. “Ma, my tummy hurts.”

She’s never cared about his belly aches before, not even before he was born. He was born into the defensive. Why the hell would she start to care now?

Why the hell does Johnny delude himself into thinkin’ she might start to care one of these days?

She never will. He needs to get it through his stupid head. She ain’t never gonna care about him. Never, never, never.

“Ma, please.”

“Christ, then find some food, Johnny.”

Johnny doesn’t let himself cry anymore, not around her and especially not around Pa, but something about the utter contempt in her tone makes Johnny’s eyes all wet. He’s just newly thirteen — he can’t help it. He’s a crybaby at heart who’s never been allowed to show it. His voice wavers a little when he asks, “Did y’all get groceries?”

“Did ya win the lottery? We ain’t got money for no groceries.”

“What about savings?”

For the first time in a long time, Ma actually laughs at Johnny, but it’s not ‘cause she finds him funny. Johnny knows it’s cause she finds him downright pitiful. “We ain’t got shit for savings, remember? You brought bugs home.”

Again with the damn bugs. Shit, if she wants bugs…

“Yeah, I know.”

“So quit askin’. You oughta get a damn job if you want food ‘round here, kid.” Johnny doesn’t know if anyone would hire a greasy, hungry kid who was held back a year ‘cause he’s so dumb with dirty clothes and can’t barely read, but… maybe it’s worth a shot someday. He ain’t exactly got much to lose. Ma sighs. “We pro’lly got some old soup cans in the cupboard. Still half a loaf of bread from last grocery trip. Maybe some milk.”

“Aight,” Johnny breathes, stretching out his legs like a little cat curled up a little too long. Mama doesn’t say another word back, so Johnny passes by her in a breeze toward the kitchen. Thankfully, Pa ain’t home, or else Johnny would’a been curled up in his room instead — or better yet, not here at all.

He feels bad, though. He knows Ma can’t handle him all on her own. Sometimes he’s gotta step in, even though he’s tinier than the average pre-teen. He can’t fight his dad off, but he can hold him off on her sometimes. Distract him long enough so she can make a run for it, even though Johnny knows she’d probably never do the same for him.

There’s a half-eaten loaf of white bread sitting open on the kitchen counter. The tab isn’t anywhere to be found and the opening is untucked; it probably hasn’t been touched in days. Johnny hasn’t been home in three; he remembers it sitting open like this when he left on the weekend.

Johnny can tell there are little patches of green and white and black speckling the outermost piece, but he reaches in and grabs it anyway.

It’s stale to the touch; Johnny bets be could knock on the damn thing.

His stomach churns. He picks a few pieces out with his fingernails, the most mouldy bits he can see, and they fall to the floor. Cringing, he brings the piece of bread up to his lips, and his mouth begins to water. He can hear his belly rumbling just like the walls of his house when the last earthquake here shook him to his core, but something about the unrelenting, raging guilt, and the smell, and the stale, crumbly piece of Wonder Bread makes him put the mouldy piece of bread back down.

He knows better. He knows he knows better than to eat mouldy food — he’s known better all his life. He’s learned the hard way what you can cut mould out of — cheese, carrots, salami, canned shit way past the expirey date — and what you can’t — milk, bologna, potatoes, yogurt — but that doesn’t stop him from having to pinch his nose and down whatever it is in one big bite anyway ‘cause sometimes something is better than nothing, even if it makes him sick.

Johnny’s belly grumbles again, and he knows he knows better, but he picks it back up again anyway.

He plugs his nose and folds the stale piece of bread in half, stuffs half of that into his mouth, and chews with his nose plugged until he swallows it.

Greaser tip: you can’t taste it if you plug up your nose.

Johnny nearly retches it back up, but he doesn’t stop — he finishes the piece in two bites, takes a deep breath, and lets go of his nose. He can taste how off it was and it makes his belly churn — maybe even worse than the hunger, but something is better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing.

Ma was right, Johnny notes, as he wanders over the pantry — there’s a few cans of Campbell’s soup and a handful of old Chef Boyardee cans of ravioli but the microwave don’t work well no more, some stale Cheerios, some white rice that Johnny doesn’t touch ‘cause there’s been little weevils crawling around in it for probably months now.

He ain’t exactly hankering for any more mouldy toast or cold soup or rice and weevil delight, that’s for dang sure.

Johnny taps the front of his thigh and sighs as he pulls out his pack of Camels and his lighter.

They always work best on a raging appetite.

“Did you find somethin’?”

“Yeah,” Johnny lies.

He never finds nothin’, Mama. He hasn’t eaten at home in months.

“Good. Maybe you’ll quit bein’ a pest now that you’ve got a full belly.”

Johnny swallows thick and he shifts from side to side on his feet. His belly hasn’t been full in months.

He brings his cig up to his lips and lights the damn thing, but not before taking off out the side door into the pitch darkness of the nighttime, ‘cause he’s gotten in trouble a million too many times for smoking inside even though her and Pa both do it all the time.

She doesn’t notice him leaving.

Johnny takes off running down the pavement with his lit cigarette burning between his fingers.

Gosh, he’s gotta get away from here.

He runs and runs and runs till his lungs start hurting worse than his belly does, and he finds himself a half a block away from the tracks, hunched over his knees as he tries to catch his breath. He takes a drag off his cigarette, but it makes him cough like a motherfucker — this must be why everyone gets on Ponyboy’s ass for running track and lighting up like a chain-smoker.

For maybe the first time in Johnny’s pathetic life, he’s actually intrigued by the West Side.

Man, there probably ain’t a single soul over there hungry like he is right now. They’re probably all fast asleep in their king beds and satin sheets with their full bellies.

Johnny smushes his cigarette on the ground as he catches his breath enough to start walking again. He walks another minute until he’s face to face with the train tracks that only one gang member in his crew is dumb enough to cross, let alone alone, but…

Well, Johnny’s never been one to make the best decisions — maybe that’s why he and Ponyboy get on so well — never mind on an empty stomach.

The wind whooshes hollow in his ears, and the crickets chirp relentlessly. There’s music blaring from somewhere behind him so loud, surely Oklahoma City can hear it, but that’s typical for the East Side. Probably a bar or a club. Johnny wishes he didn’t have to hear it, but he does. He falls asleep to block parties and gunshots and fighting coming from the living room as if it's lullabies.

The West Side doesn’t smell much cleaner on the other side of the tracks, not yet, but after another quarter-hour of walking, he can’t smell the grime anymore besides the stench of his clothes and dirt-ridden skin coming from right underneath his nose. And above it, too — his hair hasn’t been washed in… he doesn’t even remember how long. Water’s been off at home for almost a week.

Johnny marches on and wanders through the blocks like a maze — he knows the East Side and all the shortcuts like the back of his hand, but he’s never been over here before. Maybe he’ll have to tell Ponyboy about his adventures tonight on the West Side someday; if he doesn’t get jumped or worse, that is.

His brain ain’t workin’ right though, ‘cause it seems like he doesn’t give a damn if he gets caught or not. Maybe getting knocked out would feel better than the ache in his stomach; he wouldn’t have to feel it at all then, right?

The streetlamps buzz above him; they sort of blend in with the crickets buzzing. He passes house after house until he stumbles upon a strip mall — a nail salon, a coffee shop, a boutique…

All of a sudden, like a needle in a haystack or some… proverbial light at the end of a tunnel, Johnny spots it: a discarded pizza box sitting on top of a trash can right outside of the new Shakey’s, like some beautiful, greasy miracle.

It must be past midnight, ‘cause Johnny sees the lights switch off inside the parlour across the street, and he stalks the back alleyway from all the way out here until—

A lightbulb goes off in Johnny’s head as he sees what must be a Soc kid with a backpack on, hauling out two big bags of trash and discarding them into the dumpster behind his workplace. Johnny bites down on his lip.

He’s never stooped this low before, but he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t find something to eat soon, he’s going to keel over and wither away into nothingness like he’s seen racoons and bunny rabbits and birds do on his side of the tracks, like they’re all one and the same.

It’s worth a shot, Johnny thinks. It’s got to be.

The Soc kid pulls out of the back alley, pulls around the front of the strip mall in a pristine red Mustang and speeds off down the block, so Johnny makes a beeline across the street for that trash bin.

He checks out the discarded pizza box first. He nearly starts salivating as he opens the box — the box is still lukewarm, and it’s heavenly greasy, and there are two full pieces and a half-eaten piece of pepperoni and cheese pizza left inside, as well as a couple pieces of discarded crusts. Shit, these Socs have it made — they eat good over here, no doubt. Johnny kneels on the ground, sure to position himself behind the trash can so nobody driving by will be able to see him, and he digs in like a scavenger.

Johnny inhales the first piece with stupid, prickly tears in his eyes.

It hardly makes a dent in his ravenous tummy, but it’s better than nothing. Practically anything is better than nothing.

He tries to savour the second one — he really, really does — but it’s gone just as fast as the first one.

Johnny hardly even notices the bite marks taken out of the remaining half-piece, ‘cause he downs that one in an instant, too, along with the bits of crust.

It mustn’t have been even two minutes, and the goldmine Johnny had found is gone.

He slumps against the trash can, setting the now-empty box aside from his lap. He feels a tear fall down his cheek, but he didn’t even realize he was crying at all. Maybe he’s crying from happiness right now — he’s not, certainly, but he’s lied to himself enough times over the years that he can maybe convince himself to believe it.

A small sigh escapes Johnny’s lips when his belly rumbles again, so he hauls himself back up onto his feet. That wasn’t good enough. Really, he thinks it only made him hungrier — he can’t even remember the last time he had pizza, and he’s certainly never had Soc side pizza before. Somebody’s half-eaten, trashed deep-dish tastes like it was made with gold and sunshine and laughter.

He kicks the box aside and takes a deep breath, turning his body towards the trash can again.

He can write off eating that, but he ain’t so sure he can write himself off digging through a trash can like this.

He does anyway.

Most greasers ain’t even worthy of dignity or shame, surely not Johnny.

Look, bein’ a greaser means growing up having to learn shit for yourself that nobody should ever have to know. Or do, really. Growin’ up a greaser means getting blamed for bringing bugs home when it wasn’t even you. It means failing a grade at school ‘cause nobody wants to help you, and broken clocks, and Mama’s who don’t care, and Daddy’s who hate your guts, and being addicted to the burn of cigarettes as a kid ‘cause it stifles your hungry little belly.

Bein’ a greaser means digging through West Side Soc pizza joint trash just to find food that ain’t riddled with mould and bugs.

Bein’ a greaser means eating it.

Johnny finds a box of half-eaten garlic knots near the top of the bin, so he chows down on those, too, except they’re not lukewarm like the pizza was — they’re stone cold and a little chewy, and they’ve got an aftertaste just like the piece of bread he ate earlier had. They must’ve been in here for ages by now, but he doesn’t even care. There’s a mostly-empty box of cold wedges, too, only a handful left, and Johnny eats them. He eats a wrapped-up cookie he finds, and polishes off a half-empty, flat bottle of Diet Coke. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been since this trash has been taken out, and he knows the odds of this shit making him sick are high, ‘cause there’s a reason this food got thrown out who knows how long ago, obviously, but his cloudy head doesn’t find it in him to care.

This has been more than he’s eaten at one time in probably weeks, since the last Curtis family barbecue he ate two hotdogs and some salad at, and he’s so disgusted and ashamed and relieved with himself, ‘cause the void inside his belly has finally seemed to quiet down enough he can hear his thoughts again. He’ll be able to sleep tonight without stomach cramps, hopefully, and he knows real bad carbs are heavy, like old pizza and stale bread and cold garlic knots and crumbly cookies. It’s Saturday night — Sunday morning, really — so his feast should curb his belly for another couple of days ‘till lunch on Monday, where he’ll at least get some milk and a sandwich from school.

Johnny stumbles out from behind the trash can and rubs at his eyes. Gosh, it feels like it’s way past his bedtime. He’s gotta get home — well, not home, he ain’t goin’ home, not tonight, but he’s gotta get to bed, and he ain’t about to be caught dead on this side a second longer than he has to, ‘cause his brain’s a little clearer, and he knows what happens to boys like him in areas like these — just ‘cause he’s little don’t mean people are nice.

The streets on the way back seem way more disorienting than they were the first time through, but Johnny soon hears a train whistle from far away and figures out his way back to his side of town. He crosses the tracks before the train arrives — he can see it barrelling down the tracks a couple of miles away — and takes off toward his neighbourhood.

It takes enough energy to get to the park he sleeps in that his stomach already feels like it’s grumbling something awful again, but he vows to ignore it ‘cause he doesn’t have anything else to give it besides another cigarette. That’s all he’s got, and he’s not sure why his stupid belly doesn’t seem to understand that. That’s all he’s really ever had, and it’s probably all he’s ever gonna get again, too, ‘cause there’s no way in hell he’s goin’ back over to the West Side to scrounge through their trash again like a rabid animal.

He’s gonna get better after this.

He has to.

Maybe he’ll find a job — maybe he can find somewhere to work with Ponyboy when he gets a little older, or maybe he and Dally can run off somewhere and Johnny can get a fake and work for himself even though he’s only thirteen, or maybe he could convince Soda and Steve to let him come along to their new part-time gas station jobs sometimes, or…

Johnny collapses onto sore knees right near the fence under one of the biggest oak trees the park has to offer; besides Two-Bit’s or Ponyboy’s couches, it’s his favourite place to sleep. He’s slept in here enough times there’s a little divot in the ground that perfectly fits his curled-up little body — it hasn’t really gotten much bigger over the years ‘cause he doesn’t grow much, though, but it’s nice all the same. Familiar. There are usually cats or rabbits that wander around the park at night, too; the odd time he’s even had one of the stray kitties curl up with him.

He bets their bellies are usually empty too, just like his.

It’s shit bein’ on the East Side no matter your species, he guesses, or who you come from. ‘Less you’re a Curtis, maybe — really, he loves his best friend, but they’re like the golden boys of the East Side, and sometimes the jealousy in his belly pangs harder than the hunger pains do. A nice Mama who cooks and a Daddy who ain’t drunk, who don’t lay hands on his kids, who really works for a living.

Johnny shrugs off his tattered jean jacket and neatly folds it, placing it gently onto the ground. He lies in his divot in the ground, resting his dizzy head on the mucked-up fabric, and shuts his eyes. Jealousy ain’t worth mulling over.

Gosh, his tummy hurts all over again; he just can’t seem to fall asleep.

What time is it? It’s darker than ever out here.

How long has he been lying here by now?

Johnny’s head is all foggy, like he can’t quite think straight no matter how hard he tries, and he clutches his belly real tight ‘cause all of a sudden it’s hurting even worse than it was before his feast, and it feels like he’s sweating bullets, and he feels bile come up his throat, so he snaps his eyes wide open and scrambles up, kneels over the base of the tree, and empties his guts all over the grass.

Everything he scrounged for comes right back up.

Johnny’s head gets even fuzzier, like he’s dizzy and spotty-visioned, and now his belly is empty and cavernous all over again. It’s as if it’s like magic when sort of newfound calmness washes over him and his eyes get all droopy and so, so hard to keep open; all he’s got the energy to do now is shuffle himself away from the mess he’s made, lay his head back down on the hardened ground eased only by his jean jacket, and finally fall asleep.

Chapter Text

Sixteen year old Dallas Winston finds thirteen and a half year old Johnny Cade curled up underneath an old oak tree off to the edge of Crutchfield Park on an early Sunday morning. He’s got his jean vest all folded up under his head with his arms wrapped around his knees on his side, his eyes are closed all peaceful-like along with a little whistle from his nose accompanied by every breath out, and there’s a pile of vomit a couple feet away from the back of his head behind him.

It’s not as if it’s in Dally’s blood or in his interest to care about people, serious. Dallas Winston doesn’t have a caring bone in his fucking body, he’ll tell you that much with pride.

Caring about people means weakness. It means vulnerability, and in the end, all vulnerability does is slow you down. When you care about people, you’ve gotta be damn sure they won’t stab you in the fuckin’ cback like a snake, neither; you gotta be so sure about them you’d die for their asses. And even then, you can still be wrong.

It’s just easier cutting out the middle man. No ties, no connections, no attachments, no strings when you need to split from town.

But Dally can’t help but feel some sort of ugly ache nestling itself deep in his chest when he stumbles on this child sleeping in his own puke on the ground outside. It ain’t a feeling he’s used to; he don’t like people, he doubly don’t like kids, and this kid seems weak. All he’d be is a fuckin’ liability.

And yet Dally crouches down anyway.

He thinks he recognizes the kid from hanging around the boys Dally’s met the last couple of weeks living here in Tulsa — or at least unkempt curls, purple undereyes, and tattered clothes must run through the East Side’s veins like a plague. They’re probably equally possible, frankly, but as Dally squints his eyes a little harder, he can tell he definitely knows this kid. This guy hangs around Sodapop and Two-Bit at the Curtis place sometimes, but he always slinks away before Dally can get a good read on him. He scrounges for a name.

Jones or Jesse or Johnny or…

Whatever.

Fuck, Dally doesn’t know why he’s even lingering around here still — he’s been hovering over this kid like a fuckin’ creep for at least a handful of minutes now, watching him breathe in and out and in and out and in again, like he’s a goddamn momma. The thought sends chills through Dally’s spine. Caring for somebody. He don’t care for nobody, much less a puny li’l child.

And yet his feet stay firmly planted in the weeds under this old oak tree.

The poor kid is shivering — it’s warm enough outside, but he looks like he’s hardly more than skin and bones, so Dally squeezes his eyes shut hard as if he’s trying to convince himself this is a smaller deal or… favour or act of kindness than it really is, and he slips his leather jacket right off his shoulders and drapes it over Jones or Jesse or Johnny’s tiny little shoulders as he sleeps. Jones or Jesse or Johnny shifts around a little in his slumber, but he curls himself right into Dally’s warm leather jacket that smells just like his favourite meal, ash and dust and smoke, and continues on snoring.

It’s not goodwill or benevolence or kindness. It’s pity, Dally tells himself. He pities this poor kid who looks an awful lot like he did probably half a decade ago, and Jones or Jesse or Johnny mustn’t be any older than ten or eleven tops; Dally doesn’t think he even speaks, actually, now that he really thinks about it.

He doesn’t know why he stays so fuckin’ long. The hands on his watch read half past seven when he showed up, and it’s nearly nine when the kid finally stirs awake, and Dally’s passed practically the whole time sitting on the ground a few feet away from him, flicking his switchblade every which way to keep him entertained. It takes Johnny a minute to blink and gauge his surroundings, but once he finally comes to himself, he shoves the jacket draped over his shoulders and barrels backwards, nearly landing in the pile of throw-up he so pleasantly must’ve left for himself last night.

His breaths are coming out in short heaves like this big guy with the mean eyes and scar on his lip is gonna kill him.

“Chill the fuck out, little brother,” Dally spits, which sort of surprises both of them. Man, he don’t even call his real brother brother, so he ain’t sure where the hell that came from. “What’s your name? I’ve seen your face around.”

The kid’s voice is lower than Dally expects, and the first words he’s ever heard uttered out of his mouth are, “Are you gonna kill me?”

“What the fuck?”

Johnny’s head is spinning. God, he can’t catch a break, can he? His voice squeaks as it comes out, “You— um. Please don’t. Um, kill me.”

“Don’t what? Don’t kill you? Jesus Christ, I ain’t doin’—” Dally spits, but he traces the kids eyes with his own, down to his hands still fidgeting with his blade. Ah, shit. Yeah, that’d pro’lly do it. He drops the blade between his legs onto the misty grass and raises both hands as if in surrender. “I ain’t gon’ kill you, man. Just fidgetin’ and passin’ time. Swear on my life.”

But Dally doesn’t swear on his life for anybody.

Dally hardly even swears on his life for himself.

Johnny takes a big gulp of air, and his hands are still shaking. He even pulled tiny fists. Dally almost thinks it’s cute. “What are you doin’ then? I don’t know you.”

And, shit, huh. Ain’t that the million dollar question? What the hell is Dally doin’ here? “You, uh, looked cold.”

Johnny squints his eyes across the way at Dally. “I’m warm enough.”

“You’re shiverin’ still. Look, I put my jacket on you. Why would I hurt you if I put my jacket ontop’a you, man?”

“I dunno,” Johnny concedes. “Get me to trust you. But that ain’t gon’ happen. I don’t trust nobody ‘cept my friends.”

Dally pulls an ugly sort of grimace. “I don’t either, I ain’t lookin’ for no trust. I’m just…”

Johnny waits.

“Fuck, I don’t know, aight? You looked like dang roadkill down here surrounded by fuckin’ vomit, and I know I’ve seen you hangin’ ‘round the gang I’ve met. I recognized you. Not like you’ve ever let me talk to you, but gang backs up gang no matter, don’t we?”

Nodding slowly, Johnny’s eyes shift a little. “Sure thing.”

God, he is cold. Summer’s finally rounding the corner, but mornings are still real nippy. There’s goosebumps all up and down his arms and neck and back, and Dally’s jacket smells like home, and he wants to wrap himself up in it so bad ‘cause he ain’t slept under a nice blanket in days. Dally holds out a hand like he’s tryna pet a tiny deer, but Johnny doesn’t flinch away, so he kneels down in front of Johnny on the ground. “Can I?”

“Can you what?”

“You’re freezin’, man. Here, I ain’t gon’ touch you an inch. Lemme just…” Dally starts, crouching down a little further and picking up his jacket from where Johnny threw it off his shoulders. Dally shakes it out from the dew it’s collected on the grass and looks the kid dead in the eyes, something of trust and kinship and brotherhood, as he slowly wraps it around his shoulders. He holds true — he doesn’t touch the kid an inch. “Better?”

“Guess so,” Johnny mutters, but Dally can see the way Johnny’s eyes glaze over, like he’s really learning he ain’t about to be hurt. Dally wonders why he had to fear that in the first place — sure, Dally’s a scoundrel at the best of times, but he ain’t never gonna hurt one of his own.

“What’re you called?”

“I’m Johnny Cade.”

Dally nods. “Good to finally get a name outta you. I’ve been in Tulsa a few weeks now and all I’ve seen is you slinkin’ away like a vampire or somethin’.”

That actually makes Johnny crack a grin for the first time since last night’s feast. “I ain’t no vampire.”

“Well, what are ya then? You a Curtis boy too?”

“Sorta, I guess.”

“You look even younger than the baby.”

Johnny swallows. “No, I’m thirteen. And a half.”

Dally’s eyebrows shoot up high. “You’re thirteen?”

“Uh-huh. And a half.”

“You look about ten. Maybe eleven. No shit.”

“Everybody thinks I’m younger than Ponyboy but he’s two years younger than me.”

“I’d’a never guessed, little brother.”

“Could you stop callin’ me that? You ain’t my brother.”

Shit, but it’s been two hours and Dally already feels like coveting this kid like his stolen liquor and poker chips. He may as well be blood now — not that Dally cares about other people. It’s easier that way, he keeps trying to remind himself. It’s not seeming to work anymore. “Well, I’m friends with Sodapop and the like, aight. They’re sorta like my brothers.”

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Dallas. Dally.”

“You came from Texas?”

“Hell no.”

“But you’re called Dallas.”

“Ain’t you bright?”

Johnny grins into the collar of Dally’s jacket and Dally swears to God his heart cinches in his chest a little, like it just grew a size. Fuck. “Nah, not really. I even got held back a year this year.”

“Well, I dropped outta school two years ago, so you’re doin’ better than me.”

“I’mma drop out the day I turn sixteen.”

“I ain’t gon’ stop you, Johnny Cade.”

“Well, good, ‘cause my mama ain’t gonna neither, she don’t even care ‘bout me. Or my daddy. He’s pro’lly gonna kill her someday.”

Dally chews on his bottom lip. “Is that why you’re thirteen and a half sleepin’ outside all alone in the cold?”

“Uh-huh,” Johnny affirms again. “They don’t care if I’m alive or dead.”

Dally doesn’t really know what to say to that, except that he knows what it feels like, and it’s making him all nauseous that this must’ve been what he looked like two or three years ago, too. Did he seriously used to look this depleted and pitiful? “Mine neither,” is what Dally settles on.

“Is that why you’re still a kid but you ain’t even livin’ where you came from?”

“Who said I’m a kid?”

Johnny grins this elfish sort of grin, “You hang ‘round a bunch’a kids. Two-Bit and Soda and Steve. And you ain’t very big.”

Dally frowns. “Ain’t I helpin’ you out?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’re sassin’ me, huh?”

“Nah, just observin’.”

Dally sits back on his hands, kicking his feet out. “Can I ask you somethin’, Johnny Cade?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Huh?”

“Y’know, with the bigger kids, those Soc bastards, or maybe your family, I don’t know. You could’a been stumbled on by someone half as nice as me, and maybe they really would’a killed you. I think you oughta use your head more.”

Johnny gnaws on his lip a little. “I do use my head.”

“Clearly not. It ain’t safe for puny kids out here on their own.”

“But it’s safe for you?”

“I know how to fight.”

“I know how to fight, too. Me and Ponyboy always fight two-on-one.”

“Well, Ponyboy ain’t here right now, is he?”

Johnny concedes. “I guess not.”

How is he supposed to admit that the reason he wasn’t using his head last night was ‘cause he had no food to nourish it? How’s he supposed to tell Dally that he looks years younger than he is ‘cause he never eats? Dang, he remembers last night thinking he could’a been killed and maybe it’d’a been a kinder outcome than living another miserable day. No shit his brain ain’t workin’.

Dally rolls his eyes at the kid just as he goes to press further, but instead his eyes catch the pile of waste behind him, so Dally instead asks, “Are you hungry?”

Johnny’s belly rumbles, but it ain’t the usual kind, even though he’s hardly noticed it ‘till now ‘cause he’s so used to feeling queasy all the time. He thinks maybe some of last night’s feast is still clawing at his stomach, so he replies with a mere, “Nah,” ‘cause if he eats, he’s probably just going to throw it right back up, and he can’t afford to waste even a morsel of food like that.

Dally scans the kids face. “You wanna try again? Actually be honest with me?”

“Why should I be honest with you?”

“I’m tryna help you.”

“Why?”

Dally growls a little. “You really oughta be less difficult, Jesus Christ. ‘Cause I care about you.”

The words fall out of Dally’s mouth faster than he realizes what he’s even saying. He’s never said that before.

“You don’t even know me.”

“You’re gang, Johnny Cade.”

“You don’t know me. I’ve already got all the friends I need, and they take care of me plenty.”

“Why are you sleepin’ out here, then?”

Johnny’s eyes glaze over a little. “I ain’t talkin’ about this anymore with you.”

Dally wants to shake this damn kid by the shoulders to try and knock some dang sense into his head, but he instead says, “There’s a Hershey’s bar in the pocket.”

“And?”

“Eat it, man.”

“I told you, I ain’t—”

“Last night’s dinner is sittin’ in a pile two feet behind you. Eat the damn thing, and then I’mma take you to my place and feed you. Maybe you can have a real nap, too.”

“You just lectured me on bein’ smart, Dally. Surely you oughta know goin’ to someone’s place you ain’t never met ain’t high on the list.”

“Well, you’re real smart with your words, ain’t’cha?”

Johnny grins. “Learned it from my mama.”

“Eat the chocolate bar.”

“I ain’t doin’ that.”

“Johnny Cade, c’mon. Eat the damn thing. I can hear your belly from here.”

“You don’t need to call me that.”

“Your name?”

“My full name. I ain’t callin’ you Dallas…”

“Winston.”

“I ain’t callin’ you Dallas Winston every other second.”

“Quit deflectin’. Eat, get up, I’mma take you home.”

“No.”

Dally’s hands ball up into fists by instinct, but he releases them as soon as he realizes the kid is jumping back away from him. Right. That’s not something you can do in front of people you care about. Not like Dally knows that particular rulebook. “I’ll take you home, then.”

“Hell no.”

“You’ve got three options, Johnny Cade. Come to mine, to yours, or I’m takin’ you to the Curtis place. I ain’t leavin’ a kid out here all alone.”

“I bet you’d’a left me if I wasn’t me.”

“Pro’lly, yeah, but you ain’t no nobody. You’re my brother.”

Finally, Johnny doesn’t reject it. “Fine. I’ll come to yours.”

“Good choice. Now eat.”

“I really ain’t hungry, Dally.”

“Why not? You upchucked all your dinner. You sick?”

“I think I made myself sick.”

Dally flinches a little at that, ‘cause he ain’t too sure what the hell that’s supposed to mean. “How’s that?”

“Sometimes I gotta find my own food ‘cause Mama don’t feed me, y’know. I think I’m real good at knowin’ what’s good and not but… y’know, I was just so…”

“Desperate?”

Johnny’s voice is barely above a whisper when he says, “Yeah,” and he tucks his knees up into his chest with his arms wrapped securely around them.

Dally gets it. Johnny gets it and Dally gets it, the way little bellies on this side of town turn into chasms and empty voids and fill up with cobwebs and smoke.

“I bet that’s why you’re so damn tiny, yeah?”

“Pro’lly.”

“Well, lucky for you, I get free leftovers off’a my boss every night, and they ain’t gon’ give you food poisoning. I even got a microwave and everything.”

Johnny’s heart jackhammers in his chest. “I don’t think I could eat without…”

“Without it all comin’ back up.”

“Yeah.”

“Come with me, then. Get up. I’ll get you sorted, aight? And I’mma look out for you.”

“Why?”

‘Cause you’re exactly all the good parts of me that haven’t been crushed by the weight of the world yet.

“‘Cause I ain’t no shitty person, not like my own mama and daddy. C’mon, before it gets too hot for us to walk outside in. My place is a ways.”

There’s no amount of sunshine that can combat the ice-cold hollowness that’s clawed inside Johnny’s belly for years now. Even underneath Oklahoman sun beating down on their backs, he lives cold and he breathes empty.

Dallas was right — his place was a ways. Johnny ain’t got no wristwatch but by the sun beating down on his sore back, he guesses it’s at least a twenty minute trek, and he swears his knees nearly buckle halfway through. Dally begrudgingly offered to carry him but Johnny turned his nose up at it — he’s thirteen, damn it, not three, and he can walk his damn self, even under the scorching Tulsa morning heat with an empty stomach running on a negative amount of nutrients.

Dally’s place is pretty dingy. It’s right off the side of East 244, reading Buck Merrill's Road House in dull lettering. Johnny can’t imagine how nasty this place must be at night, ‘cause during the day it gives him chills all up his spine like he just drank curdled milk; it’s covered in cobwebs and littered with cigarette butts and beer cans all over the lot. Dally wraps Johnny up in his big leather jacket again and instructs him to make eye contact with nobody until they get up to Dally’s room. Don’t say nothin’, don’t look at no one, just pretend you don’t even exist ‘till we’re in my room. You hear me?

Yeah, Dally. Loud and clear. As if Johnny hasn’t been doin’ all’a that his whole life already; he’s practically a ghost occupying hollow bones at this point.

Johnny trips up the top few steps which Dally follows up with, “shit, sorry, kid, I should’a warned you ‘bout those steps, they’re cavin’ in,” but Johnny saw them all slanted before he tripped, man, his li’l legs and hungry brain just ain’t workin’ together no more, ‘specially not after that blazin’ hot walk all the way here.

Dally’s room inside is hardly any better than the outside of this place, too — it’s got these tattered curtains and creaky floorboards and sheets that Johnny hardly believes Dally’s ever changed before. Not that Johnny’s one to judge, though; his house ain’t no better. His is all covered in bug carcasses and empty wrappers and cigarettes and his sheets pro’lly haven’t been swapped since his bed got upgraded from a baby crib neither ‘cause their washing machine is a bust and he don’t got no coins to go to a laundromat.

It only takes a split second for Johnny to collapse onto Dally’s dingy bed in a huff of exhaustion and for Dally to hover over him like some sort of mama bear. “Are you really gon’ kick the bucket as soon as I get you home?”

“Nah,” Johnny shakes his head. He nuzzles himself into Dally’s jacket a little further. “Bed’s just comfy. Ain’t slept in one for a few days.”

“Why don’t you head ‘round to the Curtis place more, kid?”

“Dunno,” Johnny admits, shrugging a little. He twists the hem of the ratty duvet between his dusty fingers. “They’ve got enough kids to worry about, I guess. And they’re… you know. Different.”

“Huh. What about Two-Bit’s place?”

“Two’s mama can barely afford to feed her kids, nevermind me.”

“Well, what are we gonna do with you, man?”

“I ain’t your responsibility no more than I ain’t the Curtis’s or Mathew’s, Dally. Just ‘cause you took care’a me one time don’t mean—”

“Man, could you just fuckin’ stuff it?”

“Sorry.”

Dally huffs some frustrated breath and pops a hand on his hip like Johnny catches Mrs. Curtis doin’ sometimes, like he’s thinkin’ about somethin’ real hard. It makes Johnny crack a bit of a smile. “I’mma go get you some food, you hear me? You ain’t to move from this spot. Keep restin’, if I catch you outta this room I’ll kill you dead myself. Understood?”

“You told me an hour ago you ain’t gonna hurt me,” Johnny quips. “Was I wrong to trust you?”

“Don’t be a smart ass. I asked if I’m understood.”

“Yes, seargent.”

“You’re a rancid li’l thing, ain’t you?”

Johnny smiles some toothy grin, all crooked and gapped, as Dally huffs and slams the door behind him. Geez. This guy really ain’t very nice, ain’t it? Johnny doesn’t get why Dally wants to be nice to him. People usually aren’t nice to him just for the sake of bein’ nice. Usually people hate him for no real reason, wanna wreck him from the inside out like his mama and his daddy and all those social bastards from the other side of the city. Ain’t big enough, not strong enough, never good enough for any of ‘em. Pro’lly, Dally’s gon’ leave too. S’just how it is for hungry little boys like Johnny Cade.

Dally comes back with a takeaway box of lukewarm battered fries and chicken and that pro’lly real melted Hershey’s bar on the side along with a can of Pepsi in his other hand. “Usually they have better shit, sorry it ain’t too good. It’ll fill your belly up, though, ain’t it? Are you feelin’ any better?”

“Yeah, think so.”

“You gon’ try eatin’?”

Dally all but shoves the takeaway container into Johnny’s face and Johnny swears his stomach erupts into butterflies at the smell of beer batter and grease. “Uh-huh,” is all he says before snatching the box and digging in.

Johnny eats so much this morning his belly starts to hurt in the good kind of way — it ain’t a way he gets to feel very often, and it always leaves him nearly catatonic and unable to move when he does, but it’s good. It’s good in the way that it feels like that gaping chasm deep in his abdomen can maybe finally shut up for a day or two.

Geez, his brain feels quiet. It feels just like the high he gets off’a cigarettes and pot and drinks, bein’ full. It’s nearly addicting, being full.

It takes Johnny hardly a quarter of an hour to polish off the whole meal while Dally busies himself at his dresser sharpening his blade. They don’t talk ‘till Johnny pipes up with a small, “do I get more?”

“Now?”

Yes. “Nah, just…”

“Yeah, kid. Whenever you’re hungry. Buck’s always pushin’ his old food off on all of us, there’s plenty to go ‘round. You want somethin’ to take home?”

“Nah, I ain’t goin’ home today.”

Dally squeezes his eyes shut with something like defeat. “Where do you think you’re goin’ then?”

“Dunno.”

“Do you know anything?”

“I haven’t paid attention in school in a while.”

“Yeah, me neither. That place was hell on earth.”

“Mama and Daddy’s house is like that. School ain’t so bad usually. I get to eat there even if it ain’t much.”

Dally purses his lips. This kid is far too cavalier for his taste — he hardly looks nor acts his double digits, nevermind bein’ thirteen and a damn half. “I’mma talk to one of the boys mama’s about you soon, savvy?”

“I’m aight,” Johnny shrugs. He lays back and covers himself with Dally’s blanket. “They all know.”

“Do they know how bad this all is? Do they?”

Johnny just shrugs again.

“I’mma take that as a no. Lord, Jesus Almighty. This is why kids piss me off.”

“You’re a kid too, Dally.”

“Not a dumb one like you. I’mma talk to one of ‘em and we’re sortin’ this out.”

Johnny’s face twists. “Don’t. Please.”

“You ain’t got no choice here.”

“You ain’t got no reason to care about me and none of ‘em need more reasons to worry. Please.”

Dally takes a deep breath.

“Dally, I ain’t never gonna forgive you if you talk to those mamas.”

“Well, fuck your forgiveness.”