Chapter Text
The second day off from work that Steve Randle takes in 1968 is a rainy Saturday at the end of April. Showers have been drizzling rain across Tulsa sporadically throughout the day, but the sky itself is not entirely shrouded with a thick blanket of clouds. The coverage is patchy, which allows the sun to creep through and beam down upon him. Steve rips a hand out of his pocket and pops his car door open. He ducks inside before any stray raindrops can worm their way into his car. The engine starts with a smooth growl, and Steve pulls out of his driveway.
His drive to Broken Arrow will only take about thirty minutes, as long as he doesn't get lost trying to find the high school. Steve's only ever been to Will Rogers, and he's two years out from graduation now. He worked as an apprentice with a mechanic for a year while the DX got an upgrade for a small motor shop on the side, which is entirely Steve's responsibility. It pays better than manning the pumps ever did, and Steve finds himself genuinely enjoying going to work every day, which is more than he can say for when he was coming in part time throughout school.
Steve tries to save up his sick days and vacation time for the end of the year, when he's able to cash in for a full week off between Christmas and New Year's, aside from the singular sick day he uses the morning after, which he had done on January first of this year, too. He learned from Darry and Sodapop not to take your leave for granted. A nasty stomach bug that Ponyboy had brought home from school battered the three brothers ruthlessly. Sodapop was out for five days straight and only came back to the DX to save his job. Even then, he was still slouched over behind the counter and running a low-grade fever for the entire duration of his shift. Darry was even worse, since his job was too dangerous to go in while dizzy, lest he wanted to tumble off a ladder at peak noon. He hadn't stepped foot into either of his jobs for seven days.
Ponyboy spent dinner last night picking nervously at his plate, droning on about how nervous he is for his track meet today. It's his sectionals meet, where the results decide who gets to go to states, and Ponyboy's running in three different races, two single and one relay. It's his senior year: his last chance to get his name scrawled in the records, and the track scouts who are counting on him to join the team in August are going to be watching. Ponyboy shrunk in his seat when his brothers reminded him that he'd have to take the bus to Broken Arrow, because both of them were out of time off work, and they wouldn't be able to make it.
Two-Bit, after graduating, got a job as an electrician through a business that Darry's construction company usually works with, who had only needed a receptionist at a time where Two was desperate for cash, but he eventually wormed his way into the trade. He had only been hired a few months ago, though, so he was too scared to take off during his probationary period unless it was necessary. He's gotten both more serious and more sober in the past year, which Steve admires of him. Steve hopes that it's mutual, in the way he's managed to file down his temper.
Once he left the Curtis house after dinner and chugged back to his own, Steve picked up the phone, called his boss, and said he had come down with a wretched cough, something he had easily faked through the receiver, and received a free Saturday, which he'll spend in Broken Arrow.
The weather's clearer here. The storm must've cut far enough north to just miss the track, which Steve is grateful for. The traction of Pony's shoes has worn down over the years. They're mostly too small for him now, but they haven't had enough extra cash to afford a new pair. Darry pulled him, Sodapop, and Two-Bit aside a few weeks ago and asked if they'd pitch in for a new pair before the kid speeds off to college, which Steve had agreed so fast that it scared all four of them. The kid's soles are so smooth that he slips around on the pavement when he's running in the morning dew, so if the rubbery track is dry, then Ponyboy won't have to worry about wiping out in front of the scouts.
He plasters himself to the fence once he gets there, partly because the bleachers are too packed to step upon, but mostly because Steve wants the best view he can manage. He's not content with standing amongst the small groups huddled beside the stands, even though the first couple events that have nothing to do with Ponyboy. It's not for nearly an hour that, when the next group of eight athletes flood the track, he spots Ponyboy kneeling into place, sporting his Will Rogers uniform and his beat-up sneakers. Steve can see the hole in the bottom even from this distance. He hopes Darry buys the new pair soon.
When the gun goes off, Ponyboy goes flying off the wedge. His legs flex as he tucks his chin down towards his chest and pumps his arms. He's stuck in the sixth lane, which Pony's explained in the past isn't his favorite position, but it's better than the two outside ones. There are a few kids pretty far in front of him, but Steve doesn't write Ponyboy off yet. He's running the 400-meter sprint first, which is his best event; Ponyboy consistently places first or second during the regular season, and he even broke the school record last month.
Steve almost loses sight of Ponyboy as he makes his way around the first curve. His figure gets overlapped by the five runners on the inside of the track, blurs of colored uniforms muddying Pony's body. Steve wraps his arm around the fence frame, leaning his chin over the panel. He sticks the toe of his boot in one of the holes. Ponyboy finally pulls around the bend and carries himself down the straight, maintaining a consistent pace. He's hovering around third or fourth place, depending on who around him starts to lose their steam. As Ponyboy reaches the second bend, his arms start to pump faster. Once he's through the tightest curve, Ponyboy reaches into his reserves and starts pumping his legs as fast as he can. His mouth pulls into a tight line as he clenches his jaw, passes the fourth-place runner, then the third, and by the time he's craning his neck out over the finish line, he's stolen second.
He's an entire second faster than the speed he ran at practice on Thursday. The crowd around him is clapping loudly, aside from the few unhappy parents grumbling around him. Across the field, Ponyboy's team is cheering for him, but as he slows his pace into an easy jog, his eyes scan across the bleachers as though his brothers will magically appear. His near win doesn't matter, seemingly, because his family wasn't there to see it.
Steve hates to see that look on his face, the same crushing disappointment when the gang is eating cake on Johnny or Dally's birthdays and there's two empty seats amongst them, or when Two-Bit cancelled on taking him to see the new Paul Newman movie at the west side theatre and Darry had banned him from going.
Reeling his foot back, he kicks the steel-toe into the chain-link panel repeatedly as he hollers, "Yeah!!" so loudly that it hurts his throat. Steve brings his thumb and index fingers up to his mouth, flicks them between his lips, and whistles awfully loud. Ponyboy's head snaps across the field as he searches for the source of the noise. "Go Pony!"
When Ponyboy's eyes land on him, still weighed down by crude layers of disappointment, they brighten. A smile creeps onto his face and, for a moment, he stands there staring at Steve, while the older man claps his hands and hollers like a maniac. Two of Pony's teammates- his relay partners for later- come crashing into his shoulders, jumping and hollering at him. They tug on his arms to drag him back to the bench. Ponyboy turns around, waves, and follows them.
Steve stays there for the entire meet. It takes almost an hour for Ponyboy to run again, where he places second in the 200-meter again. The last event is the four by four-hundred relay, where Ponyboy runs the closing lap, and his team finishes first. The four runners are shrouded within a group hug formed by the rest of the team, all laughing and throwing their heads back as their teammates try picking them up and wiggling them around. A few of the boys crack open their water bottles and start dumping them on each other, which has Ponyboy ducking his head and running away, despite how worn his legs must feel.
Steve ducks through the dispersing crowd and walks around the entire length of the fence. He runs his fingers gently along the chained surface, his hand bouncing with each gap that he hits, until he's only an odd twenty feet away from the Will Rogers bench. Steve sticks his two fingers back into his mouth and whistles once again. A few heads turn as Steve waves towards himself, calling out, "Pony!"
Ponyboy smiles again. He pats his teammate on the back, throws his duffle bag over his shoulder, and jogs over to the fence. His eyes are tired yet frantic, buzzing with the adrenaline that comes with winning. His smile is brighter than the sun itself. "Hey," he huffs, leaning his shoulders onto the fence. "I didn't- I didn't know you were coming."
"Didn't tell you, did I?" he teases. Ponyboy looks down at the grass sheepishly, transferring his weight to his elbows. Laughing, Steve reaches out and ruffles his hair. It's always more floppy and loose when it isn't slicked back, but the kid complains that he sweats off the grease into his eyes when he's running, so he leaves it dry. Ponyboy's too exhausted to pull away; he swats his hand above his head as though he's shooing a fly. "Don't sweat it, kid." Steve slides his hand down from Pony's head and tugs on the straps of his bag. "Go change with your team, alright? You smell worse than Keith's socks," he teases. Ponyboy looks up with a sour face. "Parkin' lot was packed when I got here, so I'm parked down the street. Meet me at the tennis courts when you're done, savvy? We'll walk over together."
"You're takin' me home with you?" Ponyboy asks, lifting his head off the post.
Steve snorts. "You think I'd drive all this way just to stick you on a bus full of sweaty kids?" he says, pointedly gagging at the thought. Ponyboy chuckles and Steve smiles again. "I'll let you stink up my car. 'Sides, I'm sure you're starvin' by now, huh, kid?" he asks. Ponyboy nods so fast Steve's scared he'll give himself whiplash. He points towards the disappearing group of Will Rogers runners. "Go get 'em, then!"
Ponyboy jogs until he crashes into the back of one of his friends. Steve waits idly at the tennis courts, watching families reunite outside their cars and peel out onto the streets. He feels jealous when he sees kids rushing to their parents with open arms. It's not fair like that in Tulsa. Maybe Broken Arrow doesn't have greasers in the same way, but that doesn't mean Tulsa should. Steve doesn't see the purpose in kids like the Curtis brothers losing their parents to a no-good railroad accident, or kids like himself and Johnny Cade having to come home to swinging fists and the smell of booze.
When Ponyboy returns, dressed in his worn, mud-stained jeans, old converse, and his purple sweatshirt, Steve ruffles his hair again, leading to a string of complaints such as "Steve, I just fixed it!" and "I hate you, Randle!". It only takes a few minutes to find and start his car, and another fifteen until they're pulling into the Dairy Queen parking lot, about an equal distance from the high school and their neighborhood. Steve pulls Ponyboy out of the car and to the front window of the joint.
"Well, what do we got here?" the woman at the window says. Her accent is thick, words curling up at the end in a sweet tone. She smiles bright, the corners of her eyes crinkling in turn, and her waving fingers points towards Ponyboy's chest. "I see quite the winner here. Do I got an Olympian at my window?" she teases.
Ponyboy's face goes as red as the neon sign and he quickly ducks his head down towards his chest, murmuring beneath his breath. Steve snorts and shakes his head. "Give him a few years, and you will," he laughs. "Could I get two cheese dogs an' some fries? An' I'll take a chocolate shake with that, if you got 'em."
"If I got 'em? Honey, we're the Dairy Queen. The day we run outta' ice cream is the day hell freezes over," she teases. Steve laughs. She's probably in her 50's, but her liveliness feels younger. Steve's not sure how she does it. She reminds him of Sodapop; his friend is great at working the pump and the counter at the DX because he has this friendliness that makes him far more sociable than Steve will ever be. The woman scratches her pen along the order pad, hollers over her shoulder, and turns back with a smile. "And?" she asks, gesturing at Ponyboy.
"And, uh- what do ya' want, kid?" Steve asks, fishing his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. He leans his elbows into the windowsill and nods his head towards the woman, jutting his thumb in her direction. "Let the nice lady know."
Ponyboy rolls his eyes but smiles at the worker. "Just a cheeseburger," he mutters shyly. He shoves his hands together inside his pockets. "With fries and a Pepsi, please."
Steve holds his finger up and interrupts, "Make that a large. And, uh- throw another cheeseburger in there, will ya'? Kid's got three medals 'round his neck, and he ain't winnin' more 'less he eats like it," he rambles.
The lady laughs. "That'll be two-seventy, sugar," she says, sliding the paper to her coworker. Steve pulls two bills out of his wallet before shaking change out of the back pocket, sliding it around in his palm. "You seem like a real good brother. I don't see boys gettin' along like you two do much these days." The lady thanks him for the money and turns to go fill their drinks but pauses to look at Ponyboy. "You say thank you to him, you hear me?"
Steve and Ponyboy have laughed away the encounter by the time their food comes, and they set up on a table just barely tucked under the extended lip of the roof overhang. Half of it is still subject to the dissipating storm, but the umbrella above it serves as a solid enough cover to provide them with the space to eat. Ponyboy complains about the damp tabletop, but Steve made it a rule the moment he purchased his car to never allow anyone to eat inside, and he's planning on keeping it that way. He's not sure he could keep being so nice to the kid if he smeared ketchup on his seats.
Their meal is mostly silent, aside from Steve asking if the food is alright, and Ponyboy mumbles a loud "Mhm!" through his overflowing mouth. Steve rolls his eyes and stuffs his own lips full, fighting a smile.
"I like it here," Ponyboy mutters behind his hand, despite the fact that he hasn't swallowed his mouthful of cheeseburger yet. Steve rolls his eyes, waiting for the kid to make himself decent before speaking again. "Darry 'n Soda always take me to the Dingo when we can eat out, 'cause it's so close 'n cheap, so I don't come here often. The last time-" he pauses, wetting his lips. "Last time I was at Dairy Queen was in Windrixville. 'N it was the last place I went with Johnny and Dally before... y'know."
Steve's quiet. He knows he should respond, logically, but he's not all-too certain of what would be appropriate for him to say in this moment. He hadn't known that before, that the last thing Johnny Cade and Dallas ever knew before all the pain they went through was a greasy meal, because even all these years later, Ponyboy rarely talks about that fateful week, never mind what happened near that abandoned church. He's never heard the kid say the word 'Windrixville,' not before this very moment.
Darry and Sodapop used to beg him to, on the nights where his nightmares echoed loud enough to wake the neighbors via the incessant barking of their dog and Ponyboy would sob with these awful, deep wails that shuddered his entire body. Sodapop thought he had gotten through to his brothers on the night he ran out, as he told Steve. While the fighting did cease, only sparking occasionally when the stress built up too much to control, Ponyboy never truly felt like he could tell his brothers about that week. Aside from what he spoke in court, which encompassed only the bare-bone basics of what would get him acquitted, Pony never shared any details of their crime.
He doesn't want to be the one that scares him away from sharing, though, not if the kid finally feels confident enough to speak. Steve clears his throat with his lips sealed. "I'm sorry," he mutters thickly, "for takin' you here. I shouldn't have- I wouldn't have, if I knew," he promises.
Ponyboy shakes his head. "No, don't. It's, uh- it's nice. Real nice."
The table is silent, aside from the bustling noises around them. Stray raindrops patter atop the umbrella and roll down the side, landing in small, isolated puddles around the perimeter. A car honks in the drive-thru, while a wonder complains in the kitchen loudly enough for Steve to hear it through the cracked window. Ponyboy shrugs, pushing his plate a few inches away from him.
"I bet they'd be here with us today, if they could," Pony says, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He smears it onto the crumpled face of his napkin. "Johnny liked comin' to my meets, and he'd always drag Dal with him, 'cause no one else would give him a ride. I think Dally always pretended to hate them more than he actually did." Ponyboy chuckles, shaking his head. The blonde tips of his hair have been gone for over a year now, but when he ducks his chin away and tips into the beam of a nearby car' headlight, he nearly looks like Dallas did, with a mane so light it almost looked like a halo in the right lighting. Steve reveled in the irony sometimes, nursing a beer at Buck's and watching Dallas Winston stir up trouble while looking almost angelic. The laughter dies from his throat and Ponyboy tightens his fingers around his cup. "I miss 'em."
Steve hums. He's still not good with emotions, even after all that has happened. Talking about them makes him feel like he's shriveling up inside, or like someone's got a crowbar to his chest and they just keep swinging. "Every day," he mutters, mouth half-full of a french fry. "Every damn day, kid."
Ponyboy's eyes flutter towards him. They're full of a mix of surprise and awe, but Steve can't place how he possibly came up with the latter. Pony's straight-line lips tip up at the corners. "Thanks for bein' there today, Steve." Pony nods. "You're a real' good bud."
He looks out towards the parking lot and wipes his finger over his nose. "Nah, kid. It ain't nothin'," he argues. His throat feels constricting, even as he swallows the last of his bite and sews his lips shut. Across the table, Ponyboy leaves the conversation there, and they finish their meal in silence. The air in the car is broken up by the hum of the radio, and Ponyboy's "thank you," as he steps out into his driveway is quiet. Steve throws the car into reverse and hollers that he'll be back tomorrow.
When stops his car, Steve finds one of Pony's medals lying alone in the passenger seat. It's the golden first-place one he got for his role in the relay. He huffs at the kid's mindlessness and scoops it up by the ribbon, causing a small slip of paper to flutter down to the floor. Steve leans over the center console with a groan, wafting his fingers around until he fixes the note between his fingers. "Keep it," Ponyboy had written, scratched into the paper with urgency proven by how jagged his letters are. "I couldn't get it without you."
The ink gets smudged by a few water droplets of an unknown source, since it's stopped raining and Steve's sat inside the safety of his car, but he hangs it up over the rearview mirror and throws the door shut behind him.