Work Text:
1963
My eyes widened. Paul held up a gold and purple madras shirt.
At first glance, I would normally think it looked completely lousy. I would be thinking a lot of things like: Why was I at Paul’s house? Why did I actually consider taking the shirt? Why did I care so much about it? Why did I care so much about Paul?
But the thing was, it was a long day after football practice, and Coach had run the team ragged doing drills, and I was a little too tired to care. I knew I had to be back home for dinner. It was a school night, and Mom would probably have me take Soda and Pony to school the next morning. I didn’t want them waiting on me. Then again, Dad wouldn’t be back from work yet, and Mom would probably be watching the sunset while the other boys did their homework.
I shouldn’t be wasting time at Paul’s house, I thought dimly. He was my closest friend but he was still a Soc, believe it or not. And he was offering me a shirt, a west-side Soc shirt. I don’t know what I was thinking when I smiled and gently took it from his hands.
“You’re crazy, Paul Holden,” I tried to laugh. Maybe it was a joke. I ran my fingers over the shirt’s fabric, but not too much, as if being in contact with it too long would turn me into a Soc.
“I’m not, Darrel Shaynne Curtis Jr.” Paul shrugged. I regretted telling him my full name a while back. “It’s all yours.”
I thought about shoving it back at him, denying it, denying him, but I couldn’t. Instead I grinned. “Nah, I still think you’re crazy.”
“I’ll try it on,” I suggested, pretending to humor him. Some part of me wished I was just joking. Now it was Paul’s turn to be in disbelief.
“Really?” Paul asked, looking unsure if he was concerned or excited. I walked into Paul’s bathroom to quickly change. Before leaving the bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. It didn’t look like me very much. The hair grease was pretty washed out from my post-practice shower and that shirt…
I’m not a Soc, I repeated to myself. I would never be. I would never do something like this for any Soc. Except maybe Paul was the only exception.
I took a deep breath and walked out to show Paul.
“What do ya think?” I joked, cocking one eyebrow like Two-Bit did whenever he joked with the gang. “I look like a real square.”
Paul didn’t laugh, and instead his face reddened. His eyes were staring at me, but when I caught him, he chuckled. “No, you look…” His voice trailed off. “It looks good on you,” he corrected himself proudly.
“Good like the rest of your friends?”
“Maybe better.”
The silence was a little awkward for a few seconds.
Did Paul just call me good-looking? I figured Paul didn’t mean it like that. Sometimes best friends call each other good-looking. Right?
I snorted, trying to ignore the strange feeling in my stomach. “I gotta change back. I don’t imagine my buddies back home would think the same.”
Paul’s expression changed a bit when I mentioned my friends back in my neighborhood. On the football team, the others thought I was alright. I guess ‘alright’ made them forget I was still a greaser.
“Right,” Paul nodded.
I changed back into my original t-shirt in the bathroom. Once I was back in the worn-out white tee, I felt… back to normal. But part of me wanted to put the madras shirt back on to hear Paul say what he did again. It was immature, I know.
Paul walked me to the front of his house. Despite myself, I left. I waved at him, feeling the madras shirt inside of my bag. I most likely wouldn’t wear it again, but I knew I would take good care of it.
—
1965
I was tired, to say the least. But I was happy we won the rumble. Pony had run off somewhere else with Dallas, and Steve had a few broken ribs, but for the most part we were alright. Everyone lounged in the living room, examining just how hurt they were.
I wasn’t messed up too bad, just a few cuts on my face and hands – and a good amount of bruises. The worst one on my face was from when Paul did the first blow. Even though he was the one who hit first, I felt bad. I didn’t feel bad for being in the rumble, but because I fought him the most.
Not just Paul, the Soc. Paul, the boy I spent most of my time with back in high school.
I hated it, but sometimes I thought about all of our memories together. Whatever we had was over, for sure. We never really got to talk about what we were. I’m not sure I would’ve if I could go back in time. I didn’t want to be so bitter about it, though.
While Soda, Steve and Two-Bit had a conversation, I quietly slipped away to my room.
I made haste to open my bottom drawer. In the dark corner in the back sat a purple and gold madras shirt, neatly folded. I pulled it out and brushed off the dust. At the rumble, I told him I used it to clean my toilet twice a week. For all the gang knew, it was true.
But I know I could never bring myself to do it.
It was the only thing I had left of him, or of us. The only evidence of football games together, of hanging out, of the smiles we shared. Tears started to form in my eyes, but I wiped them quickly to rejoin the gang. I was trying to clean the blood off of my knuckles, but also tears. Tears over a boy who I didn’t love anymore.
I looked up immediately when I heard the door opening. It was Ponyboy, looking real sick.
“Where have you been?” I got to my feet, trying to sound as calm as possible. When Ponyboy didn’t answer, I softened my voice. “Ponyboy, what’s the matter?”
Ponyboy’s own eyes started to water as he struggled to get the words out. “Johnny… he’s dead.”