Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Paul hadn’t appeared all day. 

He was usually here. Right behind Darry. His shadow. Always lurking somewhere to his side, always sharply laughing in his ear. The whisper of nonexistent breath sending shivers down Darrys spine all the way to his fingertips.

Where was he? 

Darry was getting antsy. It was impossible to ignore the cavernous gap that Paul left behind. He was so used to the specter’s presence that the sudden shift to normality felt wrong. So very, very wrong.

It was nearly impossible to focus on his new job. Bookkeeping wasn’t the most entertaining, but it kept his hands busy and kept the weight off his sprained ankle. 

Truly, the injury was barely anything. Paul had attempted to knock Darrel off the ladder he had been descending—It was a cute attempt, really. The ghost had loosened a couple of rungs, causing them to cave beneath Darry's steps. The roofer, thankfully, had quick enough reflexes to catch himself, but his left ankle had taken the brunt of the damage. 

It wasn’t even broken! Just a sprain. But apparently too many close calls with ‘freak’ accidents almost always ending with Darry seconds away from getting severely injured—and in this case, getting injured—was enough for his boss to shuck him away to receptionist duties. 

Granted, the office with files and papers and folders was a lot less hazardous to his physical health. Paul was irreverently annoyed with this information. But, the spirit was smart. Maybe he’ll get Darry with a paper cut. 

But the entire day was normal. So disgustingly normal that Darrel felt a pit deep in his stomach—dark and cold and uneasy. 

He woke up to his alarm. Not to the cold shiver that coated his bones whenever Paul lay next to him. He got dressed in that old purple and gold Madras that Paul always craved him in without a sly comment thrown his way. Breakfast was made with no issues. Nothing was thrown his way and nothing was used to put him in harm's way. He drove to work undistracted. There was nothing amiss as he sorted through files, organizing payments and stamps. He ate lunch without choking. He went to work with no coworker passing him odd glances and stares. 

It was torturous. Maybe Darry should’ve been grateful, or hell, relieved that the calamitous leech following him for months on end was finally gone—but the vines had already grown so tightly around Darry's body and taken root. Thorns dug so deep into his skin, his mind, that the pain being relieved hurt worse.

The drive back home was just as grueling. Darry found himself speaking out loud to a ghost that just wasn’t there. No responses, no goosebumps forcibly raised on his skin, no nothing. 

His eyes constantly drifted up to the rear view mirror, hoping that eventually he’d catch a glimpse of his poltergeist. Even a flicker would put Darry's racing mind at ease. 

Driving down those winding roads, hoping for something, made the drive home feel like hours. It usually went by fast. Whether it be from the rush of adrenaline or just the passage of time being filled with alluring banter between the two men. 

Paul sure knew how to make his words sound tempting, as if weaved with the same bewitching silver tongue such as the snake and its forbidden fruit. Paul's hands were outstretched, such a delectable offering bestowed upon Darry. Whispering sweet words to the larger man, tangling his perceptions of right and wrong. Darrel was weak, a weak man, jaws open, ready to bite. 

The dance with death is a rope they tread on daily. And it’s a wonderfully addictive rush. Chasing that rhythm between them, searching for each other, yet always getting a step closer to the edge. Sometimes Darry wanted to fall. To let Paul push him into the abyss, to let the all consuming nothingness swallow him whole.

The more sane, rational part of Darry pushed those innermost thoughts deep down where nobody would find them. He had a family to take care of for goodness sake. His brothers were worth more than some… meaningless galavanting. Maybe he was losing it. 

These thoughts followed him like the plague even as he pulled into the driveway. Inhaling a steadying breath, he gently grasped the cross necklace that hung lightly around his neck. He bowed his head, whispering a small prayer. “Amen.” Darry murmured, letting out a deep breath. 

Despite the prayer, his nerves were still ablaze. He stepped out of the truck, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to see if Paul was behind him. Huffing in frustration as he saw nothing. 

As he walked up the path and hopped up steps, the numerous ways he could get injured popped into his head. The cross necklace got clutched even tighter. Voices beyond the door had him lingering there for a moment. The familiar sounds of the remaining members of their gang traveled to his ears, and his stomach did a flip. 

It had been a while since everyone in the group had gathered together in their home. After Johnny and Dallas, the memories made it difficult to get together again. The blaringly obvious downsize in their family was impossible to ignore. Darry briefly wondered what was able to break that spell between them all and finally bring them back together.

Casting one last look behind him, Darry opened the door. The moment his footsteps were heard, the conversation halted to a complete stop. The sudden whiplash from chatter to silence was a little jarring, especially since Darry was used to constant remarks in his ear that only he could hear. 

As he stepped into the house and kicked off his boots, his eyes were already darting around the house, looking for Paul. If he wasn’t following him around, was he tethered to their house? 

Stepping into the living room, Darry glanced about. Sodapop was sitting on the couch, hands clasped together with his elbows on his knees, face pinched in worry. Ponyboy was beside him, with his knees pulled up to his chin, curled up like he was trying to become smaller. Steve was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, that permanent scowl still carved onto his face. Two-bit was sporting a beer on the old armchair with his legs kicked up, eyes heavy and distant, almost afraid. 

All four sets of eyes snapped to him the moment Darry walked in, but Darry wasn’t really paying attention. That uneasy feeling in his gut only grew as the living room was also empty. Darry drew his arms up to his chest, crossing them tightly. 

“Hey y’all,” He greeted absently, already making a move towards the kitchen.

Various greetings were tossed his way, falling on deaf ears. Darry furrowed his brow, biting the inside of his cheek anxiously. Paul wasn’t in the kitchen, either. There was no reason for him to be in Ponyboy and Sodapops room. Paul had never expressed interest in the attic, he’d be trying to bust Darrel's head open with the pull down ladder if that were the case. There’s a chance he’d be in the bathroom or bedroom, but why hadn’t he come out? There was no way he was just gone.  

These thoughts cluttered his head, fogging over any reasonable explanation for the sudden disappearance. Drowning out the usual self preservation he had to ensure nothing slipped out about the specter. 

Darry's eyes narrowed in on the knife block resting innocently on the counter. 

Maybe Paul just needed a little push? 

Darry stepped closer, staring at the knives settled down, nice and neat. He slowly brought his hand up, reaching for the worn-down handle of a butcher's knife. 

“Darry?” 

His heart lurched. The sudden voice of his kid brother had Darrel jumping right out of his skin. With his heart anxiously thumping erratically he mentally slapped himself. How in the hell did he get so entranced within his own head? He whipped around, stumbling over his feet and twisting his already injured ankle. A sharp hiss escaped his lips as his ankle throbbed. 

Squinting through his eyes scrunched tight in pain, the sight of Sodapop lingering in the doorway met him. His brother's face morphed from concern to alarm in a heartbeat, already besides Darry in a few quick strides. 

“Woah, hey, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Sodapop huffed a nervous laugh. His hand gently rested on Darrel's arm. “Are you okay? Need to sit?”

Darrel shook his head just as Sodapop began to urge him towards the dining room table. 

“No, no, I’m alright.” Darry grunted, lightly pulling away. He shifted his stance, trying to avoid putting too much weight on his foot. 

Sodapop still had that look of worry on his face, his brow creased with concern. “Come on, Dar. At least come join us?” There was a hint of a plea buried beneath Soda's tone, but Darry was too scatterbrained to pick up on it. 

As much as Darry wanted to search the rest of the house for Paul, the look on his brother's face had him relenting. As they walked to the living room, Sodapop glanced over his shoulder up at Darry. 

“What were you doin’ in the kitchen?” He asked, his voice lowered slightly. 

“Thinkin’ about dinner.” He methodically answered. The same excuse he’s used when anyone catches him ‘talking to himself.’ 

“By the knives?” 

There was a pause as Darry faltered to come up with a clear answer. “….Checkin’ what was clean.” He settled on, despite how weak it was. 

Soda didn’t answer, but it was clear the flimsy excuse didn’t slip past him. His younger brother led him down to the living room, planting him in his armchair, seeing as Two-bit had migrated to the couch.

Ponyboy looked up at them both as they entered the living room, his bright green eyes burning into his soul, as if they could see things no one else could. The thought almost made Darry snort, given that he was the one who could see the unnatural, not Ponyboy. And while the corner of his mouth ticked upwards, he managed to keep his chuckles at bay. 

“You okay, Darry?” Ponyboy asked, eyeing his limp. 

“I’m fine.” Darry repeated, a bit snappier than intended. 

Getting the weight off his ankle felt great as he melted into his chair. Especially as Sodapop began to work his hands into his shoulders. Tension he didn’t know needed to be relieved eased out of him. It had been a while since Darry let himself be taken care of. Hard to, when a certain spectator was constantly keeping him distracted. If it weren't for the anxiety pulsing through him, he surely would have been asleep in record time. 

But sleep was currently the farthest thing from his mind. Glancing about the room again, frustration filled his veins. The clock ticked. Another reminder of each second he was alone. Darry scratched at his arms, a nervous habit, one that barely anchored him. 

Conversation filtered throughout the room again after a beat. Light banter and whatnot. Darry didn’t have any particular interest in following it—something about pulling a fire alarm, hotwiring a car, and blondes. The little mental energy he had left could not be bothered to keep up or listen. 

His mind drifted away again. He was never one to get lost in his own mind, but ever since Paul it just… started happening. Sometimes days would zip by in a blink with barely any recollection of what he’d done. Other times it’d be smaller moments—getting lost in thought during dinner and suddenly everyone's eaten except him. 

With everything going on, everything that’s happened, slipping away into a space with just himself and his ghost was easier. It felt safer, better. Nothing could hurt him and he couldn’t hurt anyone.

“Darry?” Sodapop spoke up, quiet enough to not draw attention away from the rest of the gang and their conversation.

Darry grunted in response, refocusing his eyes from where he had hazily been staring at the ceiling. 

“You been doing okay at work?” 

Darry mulled the question over in his head. “Been fine. Boss’ll probably clear me to get back on the roofs by the end of the week.” 

The hands kneading his shoulder stilled. “I dunno if that’s a good idea, Dar.”

“I’ve been bookkeeping for a few weeks now. It ain’t enough to support us for much longer.” Darry huffed in a short breath, trying to rein in his irritation. “Getting back up there won’t hurt me none.” 

Sodapop went silent. His hands trailed from Darry's shoulders to the base of his neck. Darry clenched his teeth at the sore spots he kneaded. 

“You’re already hurt.” Sodapop began, voice tender and troubled. “You look tired. You been sleeping?"

“What is this, an interrogation?” 

“I’m serious, Darry.”  

“So am I.” Darry strained his head to look at his younger brother. “I’m fine, Sodapop. Drop it.” 

His kid brother matched his gaze, worried eyes hardening, swirling with frustration. “So you ain’t been sleeping.” 

Darry narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say that.” 

“You didn’t have to.” Soda shot back. “I can see how dark your eye bags are. How dizzy you’ve been. I may be stupid, but I’m not blind.” 

“Pepsi, you are not—“ 

“That ain’t even counting all the times you’ve nearly dozed off standing up. Y’know, I ain’t fixin’ to haul your ass up when you faint.” 

Darrel grit his teeth, Sodapop's sardonic tone digging into his skin. “I ain’t gonna faint—“ 

“You could! Any day now you could drop like a bag of rocks because of how you’ve been behaving!”

“You’re being dramatic.” Darrel pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in another breath.

“Can’t you see I’m worried about you, Darry?” Sodapop pleaded, a hand grasping gently at Darry's upper arm. “What’s going on? Why ain’t you sleeping?” 

“I’m not having this conversation right now, not here.” His tone was final. He had made up his mind. Not here, not now. Not in front of the gang, not in front of Ponyboy. Not while his mind was a mess and Sodapop telling him how much of a piss-poor job he’s been doing at pretending everything’s normal brought out fears and worries he’s tried so hard to shove down. 

“God damnit, Darry, we’re all worried about you!” Sodapop shouted. The conversation around them froze to a halt, Steves’ mouth hung open mid-sentence. All four sets of eyes looked their way, staring. Watching. Waiting. 

“Sodapop,” Darry strained, refusing to match anyone's gaze. 

“What is it?” His brother pressed further. “The bills? I can pick up more shifts.”

“That’s not—“

“Is it the state?”

“Soda, I told you to drop it—“

“Just talk to me, Darry! I only want to help,” Sodapop pleaded. “You’re wearing yourself thin and I don’t know why.” 

Darry leaned forward in his chair, palms pressed tightly against his eyelids. “I’m not—“

“You are!” Sodapop charges, something akin to anger bursting at the seams. “You are. Something’s wrong and you won’t tell me.”

“I can’t just—“ 

“Why not?” 

“God damnit!” Darry's resolve finally snapped. He stood from his chair, resting one hand on the arm of the chair to steady himself as he faced Sodapop. “I am the oldest. I am your guardian. I don’t have to tell you shit about my personal issues. You pestering me over and over again isn’t going to make me want to tell you. I am the adult of this goddamn house, my problems are just that. My problems. You are sixteen, Sodapop. Sixteen. You know what that is? A child. I don’t appreciate you pushing my buttons out here in front of everybody, blabbering about my issues like that.” 

Sodapop's face flashed with hurt. He took a step back, mouth open but no words coming out. 

Somewhere, past the fear and the worry and the frustration and the anger, Darry knew that what he said was unfair. Unfair and cruel. Sodapop was more than just a kid, he was a glowing star bursting with constant energy. Passion was his middle name. Passion for his hobbies, interests. His friends, his family. 

This passion led him to smile through the best days, to bawl through the worst. To feel every emotion under the sun. To feel so fiercely that anyone around him can’t help but admire the dazzling boy. To feel so fiercely that he can’t help but want to fix every problem that presents itself. He’ll fix nightmares, back aches, broken hearts, anything that’s thrown his way he’ll catch and turn it into something better. 

But this is something Sodapop can’t fix. He can’t fix the fact that Darry's ex best friend is dead. He can’t fix the fact he’s being haunted by said ex. He can’t fix the fact that Darrels constantly fighting against death. He can’t fix the fact that this entire situation is all Darrels fault. If he had just stayed on that damn phone call for a minute longer— 

There’s no fixing this. It’s just something Darrel has to live with now. Something he has to keep from his brothers. From everyone. Because even if they start to resent him, at least they won’t see him as crazy. As someone who’s lost it. His mind, his sanity, his sense of self. 

Sodapop sprung from where he was frozen, bursting out the backdoor with tears already streaming down his face. Steve was hot on his heels, barely even glancing at Darrel as he sprinted after his best friend. 

Vaguely, Darry registered that he should go after Sodapop. His kid brother ran. Ran because of him. 

Panicked awareness seemed to reawaken within his bones, because he suddenly made a move after them. He only faltered when a hand forcefully drew him back. 

He whipped around, glaring at whoever was keeping him from going after his brother, only to be met with a surprisingly stern look from Two-bit. 

“Two-bit, what the hell? Let me go.” 

“No can do, big guy.” Two-bits voice held that usual light cadence, but his eyes were fierce and set, a stark contrast. 

“Two-bit, that’s my brother—“

“Steve’s got’em.” Two-bit interrupted, shrugging. His grip on Darry's arm tightened ever so slightly. “And I got you. Come on, let’s cool you off.” 

“I don’t need—“ 

“Your face is still red from all that screamin’.” 

“Would you stop interrupting me?”

Two-bit quirked up an eyebrow. “You need to calm down, and your good ol’ buddy Two-bit’s gonna help.” Two-bit then slung his arm across Darry's shoulders, effectively trapping him. If Darry was in his right mind he would’ve shoved Two-bit off of him in an instant, but his nerves were shot and his head was spinning. 

“Ponykid, let Thing-One and Thing-Two know that I’m taking Darry to get a drink. Don’t burn the house down!” Two-bit winked at Ponyboy, and began to lead Darry out of the house. 

Darry caught Pony’s gaze, the wide-eyed startled confusion swimming in his baby brother's green eyes almost made Darry crumple. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper, he just… It just happened. 

Before he could dwell on it any longer, Two-bit shoved him out the front door. 

This wasn’t necessary. Two-bit didn’t need to waste his time, his night on Darry because of what happened. Two-bit didn’t deserve that. Darry drew in a heavy breath, and spoke. 

“I don’t need to be babysat.” 

And he just about mentally slapped himself because no matter what he does, the words never come out of his mouth the way they do in his head. Maybe he should just shut up. Keep his mouth closed and his head down. 

Two-bit shot him an odd look as he swung his keys loosely around his pointer finger. “I ain’t babysittin’ you. I’m takin’ you out for a night on the town! Just a few drinks shared between friends.” 

“I ain’t got my wallet.” 

Two-bit laughed. “It’s on me, Superman.”

“You got money?” 

Two-bit laughed harder, shooting him a smirk. “These hands are good for swipin’ and winnin’ games at Bucks.” 

Much to Darrels surprise, the bar Two-bit dragged him to wasn’t Bucks. 

It was The Last Shot. An older dive bar closer to the tracks, respectfully named after the owner who had survived a bullet to the chest during his time in action. A simple pun, too. It was a fairly small building, but it attracted a fair amount of people. Easier for Greasers like them to slip by the cracks of legality. 

This bar was one that all social classes shared. Middle class people often favored it, Greasers would bounce around from time to time, and Socs showed up whenever they felt like it. 

But as Darry was forced inside by an eager Two-bit, the only thing coursing through his veins was a horrible sensation of deja vu. 

This wasn’t the first time Darry’s been to The Last Shot, no, far from it. This place was the football team's favorite spot to get wild after a game. It was far away enough from the heart of the East to not be ‘greasy’, but it was also far away enough so that none of their parents would be seen. 

Even outside of games, Darry and Paul often frequented this place whenever they were feeling risky. That dumb teenage adrenaline that felt like the wind rushing in their hair, whispering in their ears that they were invincible.

As Darry and Two-bit stepped inside, all Darry could focus on was the various spots and locations he and Paul would sit. The booth in the far back, the edge of the counter. The red stools that creaked underneath their football physiques where Paul snuck a kiss to his jaw. 

Darry was ripped out of his memories as Two-bit shoved him down into one of the booths. The dark red leather of the seats creaked unpleasantly as he stiffly shifted. Two-bit slid into his own across from Darry without a care, leaning an arm back against the backrest. The other arm had the menu flicked open. 

Darry looked down at his own menu. The onslaught of options quickly became overwhelming. Darry didn’t even like drinking. Sure, he used to have a grand ol’ time when he was younger but now there was nothing to look forward to. Darry barely even remembered how he would act when drunk if he got to that point. Lord knows he’d hate to act a fool of himself. 

Then again… He’d love to forget about the absolute mess that was today. He’d love to have the last few hours be stress-free with Two-bit, then he’ll sleep, wake up, Paul will be back and Darry’ll apologize to Sodapop and everything will go back to normal. 

Darry spared another glance at the red-head in front of him, lounging so casually as he clicked his tongue while reading the menu. Maybe Darry’ll loosen up and he and Two-bit could laugh and pal around like they used to. Two’s always been the one to draw a smile out of him when no one else could. Darry’s saddened to admit they’ve grown distant. 

“Why’d we come here?” Darry asked suddenly, breaking the silence that grew between the two men. 

Two-bit eyed him oddly again. “Memory finally leaving you, old man?” He quipped, the corner of his mouth trailing up. “Thought it was pretty clear that you needed to cool off.” 

“No, no,” Darry shook his head. “Why are we here? Bucks is closer. And cheaper.” 

Two-bit just shrugged. “Nice change of scenery, ain’t it? I’ve seen just about every good lookin’ blonde over there, I need me some new sights.” He grinned, playfully sly, but it felt half hearted.

Darry just sighed, accepting defeat, and went back to his menu. The options of Whiskey didn’t sound too bad, some of the brands sounding familiar enough. He’s sure if Paul were here he’d be telling Darry the best ones… But he’ll just have to settle on what he can remember. 

Southern Comfort didn’t sound too bad. It sounded familiar enough, Paul might’ve shown him it once upon a time. There was also Three Feathers, one of the cheaper options on the menu. Darry recognized it as one of the few drinks his father had. His father never got drunk in front of them, only ever occasionally tipsy during the holidays. His dad never was a big drinker, just wasn’t that kind of man. He saw too many families fall apart just to get to the bottom of a bottle, and swore not to fall down that same hole. Darry's father was a damn good man. Far better than Darry could ever dream of being. 

Darry couldn’t be there for the gang like his dad had. Man, his dad was the only good male role model any of them had. Johnny's old man only knew how to talk with his fists, nobody ever saw Dallas’ dad, Steve’s dad was too busy wasting away on the couch and Two-bit hasn’t seen his dad since he was a kid. Ran away once life got too hard and now it’s rare to ever see his son sober. 

The only thing that brought Darry out of his own mental spiral was the familiar sound of Two-bit snickering. 

“Speakin’ of blondes,” He grinned wide, practically licking his lips as their waitress approached. A nice enough looking girl, but Darry didn’t really care about that. He instead stepped on Two-bits shoe underneath the table, causing the red-head to yelp. 

“You’re looking like a feral alley cat with the way you’re droolin’. Cut it out.” Darry scolded, lightly rolling his eyes.

Two-bit just flashed Darry his usual Greaser smile, tongue poking through his teeth. 

The waitress stopped at their booth, her honey blonde curls bouncing lightly against her shoulders with the click of her heel. She had a small notepad flicked open, a pleasant smile on her face. “Good evenin’, darlings,” She greeted politely, “Names Donna, I’ll be takin’ care of you both tonight. What can I get started for you two today?” 

“Well, hellooo, Doll,” Two-bit purred, leaning forward in his seat, eyeing her up and down. “Plate of fries and a Budweiser if it ain’t too much of a hassle for a purdy lady like yourself.” 

“Why, not at all. I can handle a lot more than you’d think.” She replied, winking. 

Darry was used to the salacious actions of his friend, yet it never failed to make him feel put out. He’s seen countless flirting attempts, the successful and the rough. Maybe under different circumstances he’d egg his friend on, maybe even tease him, but he lacked the energy to do either.

So instead he just sighed gruffly underneath his breath, resting his chin on top of his calloused hand tiredly.  

When Donna finished scribbling down Two-bits order, she turned to Darry, who sat up straighter. “And for you?” 

“Oh. Uh, double shot of Three Feathers.” 

Two-bit whistled, looking fairly impressed. “Damn, Darry.” 

Darry ignored him, choosing instead to focus on the low hanging light fixture above them. If Paul were here he’d surely make it flicker, possibly shatter. Darry would tear him a new one if Paul got Two-bit injured. 

And as he thought about his friend getting injured, he couldn’t give himself the same amount of care. Sometimes he wished Paul would try to hurt him, given it always made the specter softer when he succeeded. With every cut or gash newly marked onto Darry's skin, soft words of comfort and consolation oozed out of Paul like a prayer. 

Darry knew it was foolish to fall for such useless words, yet every day he went without hearing them his heart craved more and more and more. Between the panic and the fear with each newfound injury, each step closer to death, there was something kindling underneath his skin. His heart was old, dry timber. Paul was a blazing flame, impossible to avoid. 

Darry was always bound to burn. 

“Alright, gentlemen,” The waitress repeated their order back to them, tucking her little notepad into the front pocket of her uniform dress. “Those’ll be out shortly.” 

As the lady walked away, Two-bit dreamily watched her go. “Ain’t she something?” He sighed. 

“Don't you got a girl, Two-bit?” Darry retorted, already bored of his friend's behavior, eyes drifting across the bar, subconsciously searching. 

Two-bit just waved him off, grinning. “Awh, lighten up, man. Maybe I’m tryna get this chick for you. Lord knows you need one!” He cackled. 

Darry stiffened. “Like hell you are. I’d rather take dating advice from Shepard before I let you play matchmaker.” 

“Shepard?!” Two-bit cried in mock-betrayal. “That hood can’t tell the difference between a wart toad and a broad! You’d win the dang lottery ‘fore you catch yourself a woman using his advice!”

Darry couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped him at Two-bits theatrics. Two-bit practically glowed at the sound. 

“Careful,” Darry added, “Don’t let him hear you say that. My couch can only handle so many broken ribs at once.” 

A humorous scoff left Two-bit. He puffed out his chest, crossing his arms as he attempted to look intimidating, coyly flexing his lackluster muscles. 

“That Grease ain’t got nothin’ on me. I’ll send him home cryin’ to his girl — oh wait, he don’t got none!” Two-bit howled at his own jab, slapping his palm on the table with a wheeze. 

It wasn’t too long before their respective drinks were slid in front of them. The waitress shooting Two-bit a playfully flirty smile. Darry doubted the woman was actually into Two-bit, probably just looking to raise an extra dollar or so. Not that Darry blamed her, he’s pushed himself further than he probably should’ve for a few extra bucks countless times. Then again, what the hell did he know? 

Two-bit shoved a handful of fries in his mouth, melting into his seat. 

“Jesus, I forgot how good the food here was,” He hummed, talking with his mouth full. 

Meanwhile, Darry stared down at the fluted whiskey glass nestled between his hands. The copper colored alcohol sitting within, generously poured a little over two shots worth. He ran his fingers along the grooved edges of the glass, soaking in the refreshing chill. 

He downed the glass, the powerful taste of the drink leaving a sharp burn in its wake, trailing all the way down his throat. He grimaced, lightly smacking his lips as it settled. 

Two-bit was staring at him, head cocked to the side. Darry couldn’t decipher the expression on his face, whether it was confusion or worry or curiosity. 

“You gonna eat something with that?” Two-bit slid his basket of fries towards Darry not-so subtly. “Given you drank it so fast n’ all, it’ll do ya some good.” 

Darry shook his head. “Ain’t hungry.” 

“Come on, Superman,” Two-bit coaxed, voice dropping to something a bit softer. “You didn’t get dinner.”

“I said I ain’t hungry, didn’t I?” 

The younger man just stared, eyes focused—if Darry didn’t know any better he’d say serious—and steady. He took a swig of his Budweizer, then sighed shortly. 

“Alright,” Two-bit started, elbows propped up onto the table, leaning in closer. “What’s up with you?”

Darry stilled, hands tightening around the empty glass still settled between his hands. What was up with him? The statement was so awfully broad, Darry couldn’t even begin to try and figure out what he had slipped up on. What part of the ever growing flame was Two-bit was concerned about? What had Darry messed up? 

So, instead, he played dumb. 

“What’s up with me?” He echoed. “I ain’t too sure what you mean.” 

“If you’re gunna lie to me, you could at least have the decency to look at me while you do it.” 

Two-bits uncharacteristically low tone had Darry instinctively looking back over to the ginger, mouth slightly agape. It was unnerving, Two-bit looked like the pinnacle of relaxed with his posture, body language easy and carefree. But he’s rarely ever heard the jokester sound so humorless before. 

Darry's mouth opened in response, but nothing escaped past his lips. No sound, no retort. He shut his jaw with a snap, gaze falling back down to the whiskey glass. 

“You know if something’s botherin’ you, you can tell me, right?” Two-bit asked. 

Darry stayed silent. 

“Right?” Two-bit gently insisted, reaching over the table and placing his hand over Darry's wrist. 

Darry twitched under the touch. Two-bit was warm. So very warm. Darry didn’t want the warmth his friend provided. He wanted the sharp brisk ice cold hands that brought lingering goosebumps to his skin. 

“Nothing’s the matter, Two.” 

“So you snappin’ at Soda was ‘nothing’?” 

Darry's eye twitched. “I had it handled.” He lied. 

“Darry, no offense, but you ain’t got the best track record with handling your…” Two-bit vaguely gestured to Darry's face. “…reactions.”

A flash of hurt washed over Darry’s face before he snuffed it down. “I was stressed. I was going to apologize to him but someone dragged me away.” 

There was a beat, a moment where neither man spoke. Two-but looked like he was gathering his thoughts to say something, but Darry took the opportunity to flag down the waitress—whatever her name was—and order himself another round. Two-bit dragged him here to cool down, so fine, he’ll have a few. He’ll repay the ginger whenever he gets the chance. For now, he wants to forget the horrible day he’s had. If it takes a few drinks to do that, then so be it. 

Darry handed her his glass, hands now clenched together tightly, as if he was holding himself together through sheer force. He intently avoided Two-bits gaze, choosing instead to look around the bar once more. Eyes flickering back and forth around everything and nothing. Various groups of people crowded about the bar, sitting on the stools and laughing loudly, undisturbed by their lack of volume control. Darry distantly wondered what went by in their lives to be so carefree, so unbothered. 

If Darry was living his life as a normal twenty year old, would he be here? Would he spend his Friday nights with Two-bit side by side on bar stools as they laughed too loudly at nothing at all? Or, maybe, it’d be him and Paul. Friday nights used to be their nights. Finally out of school, the whole weekend ahead of them. Maybe they’d be brushing shoulders, just barely feeling the warmth of one another as they drank. They’d drink because they wanted to, because they wanted a fun night. A fun night with just the two of them, free to spend it however they pleased. Maybe after the bar they’d both be tipsy, yet just sober enough to walk down the empty Tulsa streets hand in hand. The radiance of the moon above them would bask the two in gentle light. The stars would glitter above them, dancing along to the tune of their love. 

They’d walk and walk, onwards for hours, with nobody worrying about their whereabouts. They’d stumble across an abandoned bench, or car, or something just for them. Paul had always been a rough lover, his affections passionate in both definitions. There was always a hunger deep within Paul, ever growing, his appetite unrelenting. The vehemence Paul always carried with him surrounding their love was laced with perturbed desire. 

Paul was always an impatient man. This only furthered into death. Darry could barely tell if what the ghost felt was love anymore, or just twisted devotion. A sense of demoralizing infatuation. What made matters worse, was Darry already found himself attached. He always had been, ever since their relationship started, but the adulation he had for the man was simply pathetic. But then again, no one else knew about their situation. Darry could crave the carnality Paul conducted.  

A continuous tapping on his hand jerked Darry out of his own thoughts. He blinked rapidly, eyes focusing on Two-bit—who had been the one getting his attention—then moving to the waitress who had his second drink in hand. 

He moved quickly, muttering a ‘thanks’ to the woman, hand reaching for the glass, then speaking up to fill the ever growing silence between himself and Two-bit. 

“Look, Two,” Darry continued, "It's just been difficult. With my ankle and all, paperwork just don’t cover the bills as easily. I got it covered, it’s just been hard.” He confesses, giving Two-bit just enough of a half-truth to try and convince him. 

And although Two-bit looked like he was ready to protest, still unsure with Darry's answer, his attention soon shifted to the second double shot Darry just downed. “Hey… You might wanna slow down there, man.”

Darry cocked an eyebrow, setting the now emptied drink down onto the table. “You’re the one who brought me here to get drinks.” Darry retorted, tongue feeling slightly looser as a slight tingling buzz surfaced underneath his skin. 

“Yeah, an’ I’m the one who usually gets too many drinks. Not you, Superman.” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be Superman tonight.”

Two-bit seemingly didn’t have a response to that. His face shifted, softening slightly. “I get that,” He spoke slowly, like maybe he thought Darrel was an idiot. “But you’re gonna make yourself sick, man. You really wanna go up on a roof hungover?” 

“It’s my day off tomorrow.” Darry said, flatly. “I’ll deal with the consequences later. I just… Can we just have a relaxed night?” Darry asked, his voice bordering on a plea as he looked up at Two-bit. “I don’t wanna argue no more.” 

His friend sighed deeply, scrubbing his freckle-covered hands over his face. “I ain’t tryna argue with you, man.” Two-bit said. “Your brothers are worried.”

“They got no reason to be.” 

Two-bit shot him the most dead-panned, unimpressed ‘really?’ stare.

“Two-bit.” Darry grit, teeth tightly clenched.

With another long swig to his beer, Two-bit relented, shoulders dropping. “Alright, man, I can take a hint.” His grey eyes studied Darry once more, and the larger man wanted to shrink under the unrelenting gaze. 

Eventually, much to Darry's relief, the conversation shifted. No longer was it about everything going wrong in Darry’s life, his friend trying to pry answers out of him like an undercover agent, but instead a semi-relaxing night with the two of them. Tension still lingered in the air between them, but with the way the alcohol was hitting his system, Darry didn’t care. 

He was definitely feeling it now, a looseness in his body that he hadn’t felt since his high school days. His chest felt lighter, while his head fizzled out on the edges, feeling slightly dizzy. He had a few more drinks, losing count was easy. Especially after Two-bit cut him off. Which was ridiculous to Darry, he wanted to chase this feeling, to feel this relaxed more often. Two-bits voice was droning in and out, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on the ginger. Darry assumed Two-bit was tipsy. Then again, that was basically his natural state of being. Maybe he was just extra tipsy? Double tipsy? The internal thought made Darry chuckle.

“She then— You even listenin’, man?” Two-bit’s voice suddenly cut back in, and Darry could feel the smirk in his tone. 

“Mmm-hm.” He responded, like a liar, a lazy smile on his face. 

Darry wouldn't have been able to recall any part of Two-bits story, not even if he was paid. Not even for a crazy amount of money. Not even if J. Paul Getty himself was offering him hundreds of thousands. 

“You got ‘thousand dollars, Two?” Darry found himself asking before he even processed the rest of his thoughts. 

Two-bit snorted in amusement, grinning at Darry like he was a late night comedy act. “You hearin’ yourself?” He snickered. “Hell, if I had that much money, I would’ve brought you someplace nicer.” 

Darry hummed. His head was heavy from where it rested on his propped up hand. It almost slipped off before he jerked up, blinking rapidly in delayed reaction. The fit of giggles returned, shaking his shoulders. 

Gosh, he hasn’t felt this out of it in a while. The world was spinning all around him, as if the feeling of getting the ball in his hands before a big play was a constant. He could feel the beating of his heart right in his ears, a continuous thrumming. There was an attempt to maneuver his hand back, but it just jostled the glass settled on the table. Darry yelped in a short-lived panic, thinking he knocked his drink over, before remembering he already drank it. 

“Man, alcohol really messes you up, muscles! You’re flushed.” Two-bit cackled, head tilted to the side in amusement. 

“Aw, shut it,” Darry groaned, shaking his hand lightly to try and rid himself of the tingling buzz beneath his skin. He gave up on trying to keep his heavy body upright, instead slumping over onto the booth table, his head tucked nicely in between his folded arms. 

Two-bit lightly flicked the spot between his eyebrows, causing Darry to peek an eye open. He hadn’t even realized he closed them. “Don’t go fallin’ asleep on me now. Lord knows I can’t carry you, and your brothers would skin me if I had to leave you here.” 

“Hmm,” Darry turned his head, nuzzling deeper into his self-made pillow, eyes flickering back closed. “Like Paul…” He muttered, not quite following the same conversational flow Two-bit was. Every thought felt like a stumble of a step. Like his brain was a beat behind.

There was a pause. 

“What?"

Darry didn’t respond, only humming vaguely. Golly, drinking sure made him tired. 

“Darry, man,” Two-bit shook his shoulder. Christ, would he cut it out? “What’d you say?” 

A rough grumble left Darry's lips as he opened his eyes back up. “S’Money.” Darry said, rolling his eyes like it was obvious. His unfocused gaze focused on the whiskey glass and its ridges, following the light that reflected from the warm bar lights as he floated down his memories. “Always said he’d take me out to the… the fancy places, yeah?” 

The hand shaking him stilled to a slow stop, instead settling down and gently resting on his forearm. 

“Darry…” Two-bit said, soft and unsure. 

“He did. He did, once.” Darry continued, mouth running loose like it was left unsupervised. “Real nice rest’raunt… Foods I ain’t ever seen b’fore. Didn't really taste too good but I like spendin’ time with him.”  

That slow, lazy smile crept back onto his face as he recalled his good memories. 

“An’… an’ even though he can’t do that no more — given everythin’, maybe we could go again… Sneak in an’ out without paying…. D’ya think anyone would notice?” Darry asked, turning his head slightly, awaiting an answer from behind. Instead blinking in slight surprised confusion when Two-bit answered him. 

“Never thought you’d be the one suggestin’ a dine and dash.” There was a twinge of humor in his voice, but to Darry's ears it felt too high-strung. 

“Well, I ain’t got the money to afford it. And Paul can’t really do much either. You got a better idea?” 

“…. Maybe we spend our time at a diner with food you’d actually like?” 

Darry blinked owlishly like that idea hadn’t even hit him. His grin grew wider as he sat up. “That’s a— You are so smart. Ain’t he smart?” Darry cast a glance behind him, expecting to see a familiar face, but faltering upon seeing—well, nothing. Just the backrest of the booth seat. 

“Darry?” Two-bit called. 

Darry just turned his head the other way, straining his neck trying to see. “Where’d he go?” 

“Where’d who go?”

“Paul.” He answered like it was obvious. 

“Darry...” Two-bit said again, reaching out and grasping Darry's hand gently. Darry started slightly at the contact. “You been…. Thinking about him?” 

Darry snorted. Of course he was thinking of him. He basically consumed every waking thought. Coiling around his mind like a cobra. Darry tugged on the sleeves of the Madras shirt he was wearing. “Hard not to.” 

Two-bits thumb gently ran across Darry's knuckles. The soft and comforting motion felt so very foreign. “I know you’ve… I know there’s been… Gosh.” Two-bit scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to find his words. “We’ve faced a lot of losses recently—you especially, but Darry, you don’t gotta carry that alone.” 

Darry squinted at the jokester, trying to find the punchline. “Yes I do.” He answered bluntly. 

“I’m serious, Darry. This is hurtin’ ya. You don’t gotta keep it all locked inside.” Two-bits voice was serious, almost stern.

A faint giggle left Darry. “He’s bad at it.” 

“Eh?” 

“He’s. bad. at. it.” Darry repeated, obnoxiously slower. “Hurtin’ me. I’ve always healed up mighty fine. If you wanna hurt me for real, you gotta try harder!” He yelled, hoping his voice would carry over to wherever Paul was. 

The grip on his hand tightened. “He…. He was hurtin’ you?” 

Darry nodded his head, the feeling of it bobbing up and down made him dizzy. “He’s like…. He treats it like a game. A fun game. Always keepin’ me… Yeah. The thing is, though,” Darry leaned in close, an easy grin on his face, voice dropped to a not-so quiet whisper. “He’s losin’.” 

“How long was he hurtin’ you for, Dar?” The hand holding his own moved up to grasp at his shoulder. It was nice, it kept him steady. 

It was still too warm, though. He wanted the cool touch. He wanted sharp and bloodied hands. He wanted so much. He wanted and wanted. The ache and the yearning only grew, creaking a chasm in his heart. Bleeding out and spilling everywhere—for everyone to see. Paul always did say he could never keep his mouth shut. He tried, he really did. When they were together, young and dumb, Darry kept his mouth shut. He let Paul do the talking. At school, at parties, everywhere they were together. Darry wouldn’t mess it all up. Even though keeping his mouth shut ended up in everything going wrong. He was still listening to Paul, even as he died. 

Stupid tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. His bottom lip quivered with too many emotions. Vision blurring, tears slowly trickling down his face, Darry spoke. 

“I — I miss him.” He blubbered, breath hitching with a pathetic hiccup. He grasped the silver cross pendant that dangled from his neck, the silver digging into his palm. 

“Oh, Darry,” Two-bits voice turned softer, his other hand reaching up to swipe away the falling tears. “It’s alright, man.” 

“He — He hasn’t been around. He’s not here!” Darry hunched in over himself, heavy and uncoordinated hands messily reaching up to wipe his eyes. It didn't work, serving only to smear his tears across his face as more poured down. 

Two-bit ran a gentle hand up and down his arm. “Maybe we should get you home, yeah? That sound good?” 

Darry shook his head. He didn’t want to go home. Because he wasn’t at home. Home was just another place where he was alone. He hated being alone. 

But it seemed Two-bit didn’t care about Darry's ever growing loneliness, because he dragged Darry's hands away from his wet eyes, staring at him steadily. “Dar, come on, stayin’ here won’t help nothin.” 

Darry dismissed his friend with another pathetic shake of head. There were so many words that were clawing at his throat, desperately wanting to be spilled, but it was like his throat was all clogged up. Only soft sniffles and cries could be freed. He wanted to answer Two-bit—to talk to his buddy and try to explain the whirlwind of his mind but he couldn’t even bear to look him in the eyes. 

Those concerned grey eyes stared at him, waiting for his stupid mouth to open and say something that would clear everything up. Instead Darry's head turned to the side, looking away from Two-bit and out into the bar. 

It had gotten busier in the hours that passed, rowdier. More patrons lost to the throws of alcohol, laughter and shouts echoing throughout the small bar. 

Darry's eyes landed back on the corner stools that he used to occupy many years ago. Last he checked, they were empty. Now, however, there was someone there. Like the flicker of a projector, constantly shifting in and out of existence. Blood dripped all about them, yet none stained the nearby surfaces. 

“P— Paul?!” Darry practically shouted, lurching up from his spot at the booth, his heavy hands holding his weight up on the table. 

An incredulous bark of laughter bubbled up and out of his throat as the specter—his specter—turned to look at him. 

He was here. He was here! Paul was right there—just a few steps outside his reach. In all his enchanting undead glory. His golden curly hair, matted and caked with dirt and grime accompanied his wonderfully disturbed appearance—Letterman jacket torn to shreds, ink black blood seeping through the fabric. His permanently fixed yellow sweater still mangled and stained with just as much blood and muck. Those wounds that traveled along his bare chest from where the sweater was torn were just as gruesome and painful as they looked, even though Paul showed no signs of discomfort. Those golden rings still fit snugly around his calloused fingers, with the final ring proudly presented on a chain necklace wrapped around his neck. 

But most importantly, those hypnotizingly dazzling green eyes that entranced Darry time and time again. The ever flowing blood that ran from his mouth trickled down into nothingness, even as the ghost stared back at Darry, mouth agape. 

“Paul!” Darry cried again, arms trembling and struggling to keep himself upright. He beamed, a smile flourishing on his face as the pair made eye contact. 

There was a moment’s hesitation before Paul spoke. “Darry?” He echoed, looking around the surrounding area with an emotion Darry couldn’t decipher. He opened his mouth to speak, but another fit of hysterical laughter overtook Darry's frame as he turned to look at Two-bit, nodding his head in the direction of Paul. 

“Two— Two, look!” Darry grinned. 

Two-bit, however, did not share the same excited energy that Darry carried. His friend looked over his shoulder, confused, then back to Darry. “What? Darry, you look like you’re gonna fall over—“ 

Darry rapidly shook his head, ignoring the dizziness, even as he wobbled. “No, no, Two-bit, look!” He repeated, instead pointing over to Paul, who had quickly advanced closer. Darry blinked back in surprise, readjusting his blurry vision, trying to settle. 

“Darry? Darry, what are you talkin’ about?” Two-bit continued, though his voice got further and further away. 

The fuzzy form of Paul weaved through the bar-goers, floating through them all like nothing. Darry watched, damn near transfixed on him. That half-lidded, content gaze washed over Darry once more, a manic grin permanently etched on his gaze due to the sheer giddiness he felt festering deep within. 

“I’ve missed you.” He drawled, feverish, head tilted slightly to the side as he looked over every detail of his lover. “Where’d you go?” 

Paul settled right in front of him, slightly hovering just as he always did, looking troubled. “Darry,” He ushered, “You gotta quit it, you can’t be mentioning us—me—in front of others, remember?” 

“Darry!” Two-bit called, loudly, yanking Darry's eyes away from Paul. “You with me?” Two-bit had a hand dug deep into Darry's shoulder. He wanted it off. “What’s goin’ on?” He asked, panicked. 

“He’s back!” Darry cried out, gesturing at Paul with his free hand. More unrestrained laughter spilled from the edges, making his stomach cramp and his head grow light. But the pain was barely anything to him anymore. “I— I was so worried all day! But now, now it’s…” 

“Darry.” The sound of Paul speaking again cut through Darry's thoughts, his sentence trailing off. “You’ve got to breathe.” 

“Dude, hey, calm down, look at me.” The voice of Two-bit wavered in and out of his ears. Sounding so overwhelmingly close yet so, so far away. 

Huh. Darry hadn’t even realized his airways were getting clogged up. Or that his body was trembling something awful. Every part of his body he now felt hyper aware of—the way his heart was beating erratically, the shakes that overtook his hands and arms, the way his legs trembled, the lightheaded dizziness that caused his surroundings to tilt and blur. The thick fog that clouded his thoughts swept him up and away as he instinctively reached out for Paul, only for his hand to sweep right through the ghost, the rest of his body staggering forwards with the motion. 

Paul moved in a flash, both of his hands reaching out and clamping down onto Darry's shoulders, effectively pushing Darry back down onto the booth seat—the touch that usually brought chilling solace instead ensnared him with a burst of ice-cold touch, nipping at his skin from head to toe, swiftly enveloping him within a numbing cold. 

Everything that Paul consisted of shifted and stretched, the confines of being no longer following the rules. Darry was there, here, trapped beneath subconscious. Paul being the one to trap him, to wrap his ghostly arms around his heart and assure that everything will be okay. He’ll take care of it all. Cradling Darry's resistance, holding it gently, and crushing in his hands without hesitation. 

His thoughts blurred, entwined with the spirit of which he was bound to. 

The last thing Darry recalled before his mind was compelled away was a feeling of closeness—of togetherness that squeezed his very soul. He wouldn’t have to worry about loneliness any longer. 

He floated. 

Not quite awake, not quite asleep. 

No rushing or racing thoughts keeping him tense and coiled up, unable to relax or let go. 

But no peace. No long deep breaths to soothe the innermost nerves. 

There was nothing. Nothing but the long abyss that stretched out forever onwards, holding onto him with care as he floated. 

There was something. Moments within the inky black, specks of color and light attempting to break through. 

But nothing ever did. 

He was moving. He knew he was, he could feel it. He was talking, he could feel that, too. But he had no control. 

No grasp on what he was talking to. Or who. Or what he was doing. Did it really matter? Here, in the abyss that cradled him gently, nothing mattered. 

It lasted for minutes, hours, days, and eons. 

The longer he stayed below, the more the surface tried to break. 

More lights. More colors. More sounds. 

Soon the inky black wasn’t so anymore, the deep ebony washed away and a murky, muddled mess replaced it. 

He could feel another. Another within. His mind, his soul, his very state of being. 

It felt heavenly. 

It felt horrible. 

He felt horrible. Feeling returned, slowly, gradually. The chill was ever present—He wanted to shiver, but couldn’t. 

He could feel but couldn’t move. He could feel, feel, feel. 

There was absolutely nothing. 

And then there was everything. 

The very first thing that greeted Darry's eyes was the picture of his parents on their wedding day. 

The very second thing that greeted Darry’s eyes was the living room carpet as he crumpled, hunching over and ejecting everything out of his system from the last twenty-four hours. 

His ears were ringing loudly, the sounds above him were muffled and clanging about. He could feel hands, hands everywhere. His shoulders, arms, back. The tears in his eyes were making it hard to see what was in front of him. Vague blobs and shifting forms. 

His knees buckled and he was sent crashing to the ground, hands barely managing to keep himself upright and away from face-planting into his own vomit. The hands all around him helped him with it, keeping him somewhat stable. 

But apparently the war with his insides was far from over, as he was soon gagging and spitting up vomit tenfold. 

“Shhh,” A voice soothed, layered the loudest overtop the cacophony of voices in the room. A warm voice, like hot chocolate on a winter's day. Extra marshmallows. 

“Suh.. Soda?” He mumbled, feeling something wet drip down his chin as he spoke. 

Darry registered the soft hands of his brother gently rubbing circles against his shoulder blades. “I’m right here, Darry.” He reassured. “Don't worry, baby, just get it out.” 

Darry peeled his head up from the blurry carpet, slowly sitting back on his knees. He dragged a hand across his mouth, wiping it off with his sleeve. Or, what would have been his sleeve if his Madras shirt was still on. No, he was left in his undershirt. 

He pulled his hand back, blurry eyes focusing on the splotch of inky deep red—the same color as fresh blood. 

Startled, Darry spat the rest of the blood pooling in his mouth out into his pile of vomit. Vomit that, under further inspection, looked like a majority of the same dark inky blood. 

Panic started to build in his veins, breathing became difficult as his mind swirled with unanswered questions. The last he recalled, he and Two-bit headed out to a bar. Darry remembers drinking a few, maybe a small bite of conversation, but nothing after that. It’s a large blank gap where his memory should be. 

“Wha’s goin’ on?” He asks, feeling dazed. 

No clear answer is given. Voices pile on top of one another, mixing together and leaving him more confused than before. A deep thrumming behind his temples begins to pound. 

“Two-bit, I can’t believe you! Letting him get this wasted—”  

“Hey, now! I cut him off, this is— This is different from bein’ drunk, man.” 

“Different how?”

“I don’t— I can’t— Soda. I think this is a hell of a lot more serious.” 

“You ain’t thinkin…”

“I’m not sayin’ he’s on something, but, damnit, It would make a lotta things make sense.” 

“He ain’t lookin’ too good… Soda, I— I think he might pass out…” 

In a flash, hands gather underneath his armpits and haul him up to stand. His legs wobble and his head falls forward, but with the combined strength of everyone holding him, he stays upright.

“Wha’s ‘appenin’?” He tries again, trying to gain semblance over the situation at hand.

“Hush, Darry.” Sodapop says again. “You— ….. We’ll talk in the morning, okay? You need to rest. Come on, now.” 

Darry isn’t given much of a choice before he’s dragged over to the couch. They sit him down, and with his eyes finally adjusted he can see Ponyboy and Sodapop right at his side, gently pushing him by the shoulders to lay down. Steve is standing by Soda's left, staring down at Darry with an expression he can’t decipher. And in the far back corner stands Two-bit, sporting a black eye and a horrified, faraway look on his face. 

The world spins as Darry is maneuvered into laying down. A bin is placed in front of him, in case he vomits again, he supposes. Soda gently rubs his back, the gesture ever comforting, even though his face looks stoney. Ponyboy reappears—when had he left?—with a washcloth in hand. He gently wipes Darry's mouth, his tongue poking out in concentration.

“Pones,” Darry mumbles. “Still bleedin’?” He asks, eyeing the dark vomit still over on the floor. 

Ponyboy stops and looks at him in confusion, one eyebrow raised. “You’re not bleeding, Darry.” 

“He’s delirious, Pony, it’s alright. Someone just needs to rest up.” A gentle hand pats his head. 

While sleep does sound comforting, Darry's eyes drift across the room, catching the gaze of a certain man. 

“Two-bit.” Darry turns his head so he’s not so smooshed in the couch cushion. 

The red-head turns to look at him, blinking back into awareness. 

“Where’s Paul?” 

A hand is in his face, covering his eyes and obstructing his vision. “Go to sleep, Darry.” Soda says sternly. 

Darry almost has half a mind to protest, to argue that his kid brother can’t be putting him to bed like a toddler, but the exhaustion that he’s been trying to fight has been slowly creeping up his spine. The darkness that he finds himself in is comforting and calm. His eyes slip shut before he can stop them, his mind buzzing with the sweet drawl of sleep. 

Darry doesn’t want to wake up.

The moment his consciousness comes slamming back in full force, he wants to drill a hole in his pounding skull and sleep until this all goes away. The feeling of being hungover is a feeling he forgot, and one he wants to forget all over again. 

A low groan eases its way from his cracked lips, eyes slipping open despite his own internal protests.

He doesn’t even manage to read their old grandfather clock before his eyes go cross with pain, and he immediately shuts them again. He roughly turns over on the couch, lying on his back, trying to get comfortable. All he knows is it’s too damn early for him to be awake. 

“Aww, don’t go back to sleep yet.” 

Darry's eyes snap open, his stomach plummets as he feels the hairs on his arm begin to stand. The shadows in the room shift and contort, wrapping around the walls and encasing Darry in a darkened light. 

There, looming above him like a demon straight from Hell, is Paul. His grin is borderline carnivorous—Darry can feel the saliva dripping down his chin—even though it’s not saliva, it’s blood, his blood that he choked on. The very blood that Darry choked on last night—

Even transparent, there’s a slight glow that illuminates the poltergeist, making Paul the greatest point of interest in the room. Darry swallowed thickly, already lost in the swirling vortex that was Paul. He was always prone to losing track of things, although he wouldn’t have guessed that included himself. His own inhibitions. 

A bloodied hand drops down and runs along Darry's chest. Up to his neck, eventually cupping his jaw tightly. 

“Did you miss me, baby?” He purred, teeth sharp and on full display, the affection dripping from his tongue only inflamed by his ardor. 

Darry doesn’t answer with words, he doesn’t have to. He gazed up at Paul with half-lidded eyes, lips parted in a breathless sigh. He soaked in the feeling of Paul's sharp nails trailing his jaw, carelessly scratching his face up with nasty red marks.

Paul slowly takes Darry's hand, lifting it up and guiding him to the cross necklace that rests innocently on his chest. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Darry's hand wraps around the pendant, swiftly swinging it over his head, allowing it to clatter to the ground, falling aimlessly next to the couch. 

The small silver cross shines within the silver of the sun it was discarded in, a sheer light reflecting in the room as the demon succeeds in sweeping Darry into a starved kiss—tossing more kindling into the flames of their ever immoral desire.