Chapter Text
Ponyboy had been sitting on his old couch for an hour at this point, nervously glancing over at his wall-mounted clock every five minutes. The clock had a brown ring of grime building around the side of it, a buildup of cigarette smoke and a tribute to its everlasting position. “Damnit,” he thought, “forgot that.” He had done his best to clean, though he was sure his soon-to-be roommate wouldn’t care much about the cleanliness of the apartment if they were choosing to live around here.
Even with that in mind, Ponyboy had taken the effort to clear a small path through the apartment.He had spent hours in the bathroom, aggressively scrubbing grout off of the tiles. His window hung open in an effort to rid the cigarette stench steeped in his carpets, even though snowflakes would wander in. He was lucky there were no classes today.
Ponyboy had always felt a kind of anxiety at the promise of someone new. He wasn’t sure if it was the residue of comments from the gang or if it stemmed from when he was young and he’d watch his mother become frantic at the idea of guests. Even when he and Sodapop shared a room he’d manage to at least attempt to cleanse the pigsty of clothing on the floor, even if that meant simply shoving the clothes under the bed or in the closet haphazardly.
At some point, around 90 minutes after his roommate was due for arrival, he lost his steam. His movements were sloppy and uncontrolled. Twice he’d knocked over previously meticulously piled books or unfinished drafts, spices off of shelves or soap off the shower ledge. He wondered how much effort the man could really be worth considering his lateness, deciding that if the roommate wouldn’t put in the effort to get there on time, Pony wouldn’t make the effort to welcome them.
The effort, however, was already present in the state of the place. Pony momentarily thought of purposefully causing a little bit of trouble, spilling water or stubbing out a cigarette on the couch fabric.
“God,” he realized, “I sound like a fucking loser.”
Looking down at his outfit, Pony began to reevaluate his outfit. One of Darrel’s old shirts and a pair of shorts he’d stolen from Soda didn’t seem like the correct attire, even for someone this late.
He made his way to his room, standing over the new hill of clothing. It had previously been sitting on the second bedframe abandoned by the previous owner, but new room had to be made. He sat on his old bedframe and remembered why the old tenant left it behind. It creaked and quaked beneath his weight, which wasn’t much. He perused through the selection and settled on a maroon sweater and a pair of jeans that were a tad too large for him. A long red thread trailed down his jeans from his sweater.
Settling on the outfit, he sat back down on his living room couch after shutting the window. The chill was becoming overwhelming. He began pulling at the thread, bunching together the bottom of the sweater. The coarse fabric of the couch was, for once, nice underneath his fingertips. The pattern somewhat soothed his concern. He ran his hands over the gaps in the fabric, holes torn from God knows what. The couch was one of Pony’s miraculous garage-sale finds.
When the door shook with the rattle of a knock, Pony shot out of his small trance. A pool of anxiety sloshed around in his gut as he stumbled through the small apartment, tripping twice over piles of newspapers. He quickly and feverishly pushed them back up against the wall, their stacks now dishevelled. He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously, pulling out a couple of knots and shoving them in his pockets to deal with later.
He inhaled sharply and opened the door slowly, as though the stranger would attack him.
The stranger was tall with a head full of strong, curly black hair. It looked as though at some point in the day it’d been greased down, but the rain had washed it out. His skin was dark and his face had as many acne scars as the sky does stars. He was littered with piercings, pieces of metal covering his ears, nose, a couple lodged in his eye brows. Ponyboy was sure there were more where he couldn’t yet see. His clothes were those of a greaser, but were a tad too shabby for one. A greaser would never have such a lack of self-respect. Pony found his face more intriguing than anything. It was familiar, a kind of anger he’d seen before in the boys on the street. Pony could’ve sworn he’d seen him somewhere, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
He was giving Pony a look, his eyebrows pointed into slopes and his eyes a mix of fear and recognition.
Wordlessly, Pony stepped aside and the man treaded inside the house. He surveyed the area, his eyes skimming over the rooms made visible to him. They paused every once in a while to examine something odd, like Pony’s newspapers or his hole-filled couch. His face was unreadable, not impressed nor disappointed. Simply neutral.
Pony peeked out of the doorframe and into the hallway. A quizzical look dawned over his face. “Uhm,” he began, “did you bring any furniture with you?”
“It looks like you have enough in here.”.
“Yeah, but I don’t have a mattress for you or anything.”
He kneeled down and began to unlace his shoes, revealing a yellowed and stained mattress behind him, propped up against a wall.
“Uh- should I grab that for you?”
“Nah, it’s cool,” said the man, now barefoot. He walked out into the hallway, raising the mattress and heaving it under his shoulder, then fitting it through the door with a strenuous effort.
Ponyboy felt strange just standing there and watching, but he wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted help. “Well,” Pony said, “I’m about to start making dinner. Would you like any? It’s just pasta and meatballs.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “And where’s the room I’ll be sleeping in?”
Pony gestured down a small hallway. He doubted both the man and the mattress could pass through at the same time. “Sorry, but we’ll be sharing a room. You’ll have space though, swear it.”
No response came from him as he awkwardly shuffled down the hallway, his bare feet rubbing against the carpet.
Pony headed to the kitchen to begin dinner and to begin his reconsideration of the whole “roommate” idea.
“Glory,” he thought, “this can’t be a good idea.” He dumped garlic, tomato sauce, and something he wasn’t looking close enough to identify into the pan. “I mean, he’s a solid foot taller than me. Goodness, he looks like a real hood.”
A thud could be heard from Pony and the mystery man’s room. Pony prayed it was just him setting down his mattress.
Pony preset the oven and as it warmed, his thoughts became more extreme.
“Oh, what if I’m harboring a criminal in my house?” The meatballs he’d made were set in the pan. The rest of the recipe became a blur through his restlessness, worries clouding up his ability to think clearly.
When Pony turned to set the large dish down on the two-person table, he yelped and nearly flew back onto the stove. Somehow silent, his roommate had settled into the room and sat down at the table, managing to get utensils for the both of them without any notice from Pony.
The stranger gave Pony a look of interest. “You good?”
Pony breathed in sharp breaths, forced a smile, then set down the dish in the center of the table and took his place on the opposite end. “Yes, yes, I’m alright. You startled me.” He began to scoop pasta onto his plate. “So,” he said between blows on the pasta, “I know you told me your name over the phone, but I’ve forgotten.” He tried to keep his tone polite as possible, but it was beginning to border on panicky.
“James.” James shoved a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. He chewed on it thoughtfully and looked about the kitchen.
Pony observed him and his familiar face, scanning for any recognizable features. GHe could've sworn he'd seen him before, but his memory was like a photograph infected with sepia. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn't James.
The dinner continued on in awkward silence, Pony biting his tongue on the questions he considered too personal for someone he’d just met and James wondering what the guy’s deal was.
“So,” James said after he set down his last forkful of pasta. “I’m going to be straight forward here, man, so be honest. ‘re you a hippie? ‘Cause I’m cool with the drugs or whatever, but don’t bring chicks around when I’m here.” He almost laughed at the face Ponyboy was making. He looked mortified.
“‘Ts cool if you are, man, I don’t really care.”
Pony dropped the expression, remembering he was trying to play it cool, and shook his head gently. “Nah, I don’t really bring anyone around.” He placed his fork and knife on the plate, picking it up and offering his hand out to take James’s as well. James placed it in his hand gently, like it was too heavy for him.
He sighed when he saw the counter and realized that in his stress, there was more than one spot Pony forgot to clean. A towering and grimy stack of unwashed plates sat next to his sink. Pony placed both of the dishes in the sink and was elbow-deep in soapy water when he opened his mouth again. “So, James,” he began, turning around to look at him directly, only to be met by his empty chair. His leather jacket was slung over the back. He exhaled heavily and continued on the dishes.
The sun had been set for a long while by the time the pile had been washed. His mismatched plates were sitting in the now-drained sink, but his arms were too heavy to put them away. They felt as though they were filled with a soda that had been left out for too long and lost most of its carbonation.
He stalked off to his now-shared bedroom, taking James’s abandoned jacket with him. When he opened the door, James laid on his bare and stained mattress, wearing the same clothes he’d arrived in. Some of his piercings had been taken out and were now resting on the carpet under him, but his ears looked strangely bare without them. His face looked younger when he was asleep, he noticed, like it had finished a great task. Almost all malice was drained from his features and now, they looked softer and kinder. He didn’t look like a James. Whoever this guy was, he was Pony’s roommate now. Without speaking, Pony draped the jacket across his sleeping body and set off to get ready for sleep.